A few notes:
This story may have the tiniest chance of being a Mary-Sue, but hey. What can I say? I'm a sap!
In case of any errors, PLEASE inform me of them, but do it NICELY. Ahem.
And I forgot to include a disclaimer in the prologue, so, here goes:
Disclaimer: standard
The boat slid silently through the water as the early morning mists slowly burned away. Niamh stopped herself from looking over her shoulder towards her home; Ninian was sure to be there, waiting, watching, as she had always done. Niamh reached her hand to her forehead and traced a finger over the crescent moon that had been recently tattooed there. Would Mother be proud? Or would she scorn her own daughter's rank? Surely Morrigan would not be so cold as to do such. She had chosen a warrior's life, not the one of peace and prophetical duty that Niamh had so selflessly relinquished her precious Youth for.
The two oarsmen lifted their oaken paddles into the boat and knocked them against the shallow deck. As the bottom scraped against the bank, Niamh hopped nimbly out, and then offered a sign of peace to her two escorts who, in turn, returned the gesture. As they vanished back into the fog, Niamh faced eastwards, where she knew her destiny lay. As she approached the first tiny hillock, her sharp eyes could see a figure approaching, and at once Niamh discarded her grave priestess manners and ran towards it.
"Tormaigh! My dear brother!" As she ran, so did he, and the boy caught her midway and spun her round, laughing with his beloved sister. Yet he was a boy no longer. Already the beginnings of a beard grew on his handsome chin, and he had matured much since they'd seen each other last. Instead of a scrawny thirteen year old that was not in control of his rapidly growing limbs Tor was muscled and developed, and more likely than not, quite sought-after.
"Mo Chroí! I have missed you!" He set her back upon the ground and took her hand in his. "Tell me: how fares my aunt? Is she yet angry with my brother? That dye must have been impossible to wash out!"
Niamh laughed.
"She grows wiser and fairer as the years pass. And no, Connor is forgiven; after all, he was only six." She paused. "Yet my aunt is preoccupied with visions and dreams, as am I. I fear that much toil lies ahead."
Tor glanced at his sister from the corner of his eye.
"Do not fret, dear heart, I shall tell you later. In the meantime, as we are on the subject of family; how does my mother?"
Tor grimaced.
"She is but a fury. Tense, the woman is, and there is naught to calm her; believe you me, we've tried."
She also suspects, thought Niamh. The Earth cries out in pain. The rivers do not sing, but weep. War… But she turned this thought away, not yet willing to face the inevitability of the prospect. She smiled again and squeezed her brother's warm hand lovingly.
The Hall of the Ancients had stood in the northern lands of Eriador for many hundreds of years. Crafted of stone and of sacred woods, it stood, fearless and proud, upon the lustruous tor.The people of the Clan of the Wolf bustled in, out and around the centre of their home, laughing and chatting amongst themselves. Niamh smiled as she saw the mock-fights performed by the children, remembering the feel of the wooden sword hilt in her hand for the first time. As she passed, they stopped and smiled toothily at her, winking at the cresent on her forehead, whispering to each other behind their little hands. Some of the older girls stood in the thresholds of their homes, regarding Tor with an eye of favor, causing Niamh to sneak a sideward glance at her brother who coughed and quickened his pace.
As they reached the great ash doors of the Hall, they swung open, revealing a tall, slender woman, bedecked in armour and war-paint. To any that were not familiar with the Maelstrom, she was frightening. Her hair, dyed with both red and orange tints, appeared as if it were on fire, and her green, cat-like eyes crackled dangerously with the same ferociousness. At her side hung the sword Fioch, and in her hands was the Cup of Welcome.
"I have been awaiting your arrival for some time, my daughter. Come, drink, and be you a guest in my house." She lifted the horn in offering, and Niamh brought it to her lips, tasting with forgotten relish the mulled wine.
Morrigan led her daughter to the main hall, where the council table rested. Carved from stone in the Elder Days, it was the site of many a meeting; for war, others for peace; for famine, for abundance; for sickness, for health. To see it destroyed would doubtlessly mean generations of history lost, and Niamh could hardly bear the sorrow of the delusion.
Ahead of her walked her Mother, a woman who Niamh had not laid eyes upon since she was very young. Morrigan had given her daughter to Avalon much sooner than was customary, though none quite knew her reasoning. And so Niamh was raised amongst the highest of her race, with girls more or less her own age; women just out of maidenhood; mothers; crones who were in the twilit stages of life. Year by year, the girl had toiled, heeding her aunt's advice, minding her elders, striving to become all that she could be. Yet only once in a great while did she receive news from the home she had left so long before, and even that only came from her two brothers, who visited as often as it was allowed. But Morrigan never came. Excuses were given: pirates, clans threatening to take over, bands of robbers. And so it came as no surprise when Niamh discovered that she did not remember her Birth Mother. Ninian was forever taking her place.
"I suppose you already know of my troubled thoughts," began Morrigan in her commanding voice, startling Niamh unexpectedly from out of her reflections. "It has been brought to my attention that Orcs have been spotted in the Southern Lands."
"Orcs?" Repeated Niamh, squinting aberrantly at the harsh, alien word.
"Legend has it that they were once elves." She paused as Niamh gasped, appalled. "Yes, elves. But the Enemy tortured them until they were marred irrevocably," continued the Maelstrom, "and they became servants of Sauron himself, though they forever hate and fear him. Unlike the elves, they devastate that which is beautiful, and relish the agonies of others. Yet vice is appearing in more ways than one. Corsair vessels have been seen near our shores, bearing the crest of Southron origins. I know not who the commander of the fleet could be, but it is certain that he serves Morgoth. I fear that soon the Clan of the Wolf will see its darkest hour."
Niamh sat in silence. So it had begun. After so many years of peace, war had again crept upon the Free Peoples, piercing through the gaunt veil that shrouded all. Soon, what was left of it would be torn away, leaving a civilization exposed in the open, weak, leaderless. But where Arathorn's son could be found, no one knew. Once he had visited the North, in his wanderings, but had not stayed for long. He had been looking for something. What was it? A…Gollum? Yes, that was it! But what kind of a creature was this Gollum? Suddenly, an image flashed before Niamh's eyes. A spidery creature, lithe, and grossly fascinating, was attacking something, but what was it? As the creature struggled with the other, a small, man-like shape could be made out. It had dark hair, but a frail, thin body; something glittered in the fray…
"Niamh? Daughter, what is the matter?" With vague, unfocused eyes, daughter turned to mother. And in a low, haunting voice, daughter spoke.
"Isildur's Bane is found. Doom for all is close at hand. All will die; all will vanish into a deep, dark nothingness, if It survives, for if It falls into His hands All is lost! Gandalf! Mother! Charles!" Morrigan watched Niamh in shock. As she spoke, her voice had grown louder, dripping with anguish; the last word uttered, though strange, seemed to inflict most grief upon her daughter, and soon the girl was sobbing in torment, thrashing about in her chair until it tipped onto the ground, tears flooding down her young face, staining her blue robes a darker hue. Tormaigh burst in through the door and ran to his sister.