Hello! This is my first LOTR fic so read it and tell me what you think about it! It is an alternate universe sort of thingie …so, um …yeah. Anyhoozles, stop paying attention to me and start paying attention to the fic! There's some O.C.s but I'll try my best not to make it into a M.S. If it is an M.S, then I'm truly sorry and you can flame me. By the way, what in the name of Mordor is a LEMON and a LIME (yeah I know they are citrus fruits, but I mean what are they in terms of fiction writing)? Okie dokie, that's about it…think I've covered everything…yeah except for the story…you're still listening to me?! Go read it already!
Oh yeah, I haven't read any of Tolkien's work, so some things in this story are made up and some completely incorrect, but they're there so the plot would work properly.
Disclaimer: Gee, these things just take the fun out of everything…*sigh* okaaaaaaaaaaaaayyy, I don't own LOTR. But I was Tolkien in my past life * Ú * ! Does that mean I own 'em ? No?! Darn it…(.)
Prologue"Young One, how you trod
The path Destiny chose
To search out those who don't die,
To warn those who don't know…"
No one saw it coming. Not the people, not the king, not the Three Mages, though they sensed a tension in the air... The King's Oracle saw signs, but the omens were indecipherable. He approached the King and warned him, but the Three Mages disregarded the omens and though they advised the people to organize escape routes and strategies as well as prepare for the worst. Still, they were all caught off guard on that fateful day, when the Mages, in their desperation and panic, turned to the Forbidden Book for help.
Of the hundreds of thousands, only a few hundred fought, fled and survived. These were the brave ones who had disobeyed the Mages' advice and decided to fight for their home and for themselves. And so, one of the greatest empires of men had fallen, and in a single day Itlanor had become the cradle and deathbed for thousands of fallen souls…
Only the bravest and, to some extent, the luckiest, survived. One of these, a young woman of about eighteen, stood on the aft of the gently rocking and swaying ship, eyes scanning the Western horizon that grew distant with each stroke of the oars, while the ocean's wind whipped mercilessly at her wild dark mane of curls. Where the Itlanor's majestic and lush hills were once visible, only a plume of dark smoke now towered into the approaching night. The liquid fires were still in the process of swallowing the remnants of the island, taking it deeper, sinking it into the seas.
She was one of the very few women who survived overall, but was one of three females onboard this ship. There was one child, a boy of no more than two years. He was Ishaq, the son of Captain Marduq and Lady Regina, who was expecting another child. With them was also their nineteen-year-old daughter, Illya. These were the lucky ones; their wealth was this ship, and more importantly, each other. The captain was of respectable position, a man, nay, a soldier and warrior who demanded discipline and respect from those around him; things that had to be displayed around him, as his mere presence commanded it. He was authoritative, majestic, a true leader, strong in his purpose.
Apart from the family and the lone woman standing at the ship's aft, there were nine men, seven of them soldiers, ranging from late teens to early forties, while one was a healer, a wise man approaching middle age, the other, a young peasant. The soldiers now came under the command of Captain Marduq, and all the men, including the Captain and the healer, took turns rowing. They could all depend on each other, they seemed to be a tightly knit company; but what of the lone woman? She was a mere stranger on this ship, and rightfully an outcast, stooping lower than even the peasant according to the castes of her society. She was barely tolerated, but allowed here nonetheless, because she had earned her right to be here, having saved one of the soldiers from death. Yes, she was a warrior in her own right. She had fought bravely in the battle; she had fought against the odds eversince the exile and dispersal of her family.
Now dusk had settled, and the restless warrior wind died down and found peace in the night's balmy embrace. The last light visible on the horizon showed desolate shifting waters, the other ships having dispersed upon the orders of Marduq, who reasoned that if they scattered there was better chance of the Itlanoreans' survival, as the enemy would have a lesser chance of destroying them all.
"Hey, you girl!"
She spun around with a scowl, to face the man addressing her.
" T'is your turn to replace me at the oars." he said as he lay down to rest.
She did as she was told. She wouldn't be able to sleep anyway; the battle would continue to haunt her, with the smell of death ever-so close by and real. She was scared by the battle beyond belief, but dared not show it in front of the others. Firstly, because the captain's presence, and secondly, she believed that if one person showed fear, then the collective spirit and bravery of a people would be broken. And with thoughts involuntarily returning to the day's events, she took up her position at the oars, along with the men.
So, do you like? I hope so. Please review, and tell me if you have any suggestions and I might consider them. I promise the next chapter won't be so boring, and it will atually be a flash-back to the battle that was mentioned in this chapter. So that means that if you like lots of action and gore and violence, then you're in for a treat in the next chapter. So please review!