Author's Note: Sorry this took so long. I lost the notebook that I write all my stories in and had been in a panicked search for a month before I found it. Then I spent a day typing this up, only to lose it in one fateful misclick. Evil mouse. Okay, I'll stop making excuses. Enjoy the story!
LadyTremere: thank you for the review! Yeah, I have no idea what to do about the formatting problems. Whenever I upload stories they almost never show up perfectly. Oh well. Yes, Nauren is one of my favorites simply because what I can do with her character. I hope you like this chapter!
Aranel: my apologies, you know all the hard procrastinating I do. ;) Thanks for the compliment! When are you going to let me post up your poetry? Anyways, here's the chapter, so you can stop glaring at me whenever we meet.
Bella: oh man, thank you very much! That means a lot coming from a writer of such a terrific story. Thanks for being so understanding about the delays. Yeah, I'd like a few more reviews, but hey, I'll take what I can get.
The Other Side
2001 A. D.
It was the silence that first woke the elf. Something felt wrong, out of place. Slowly his mind stirred, eyes opening automatically from their unnatural rest. He was lying on his back, on a thin strip of brown sand that sloped into the salty water of the ocean. Nerhuine rose into a sitting position to better observe his surroundings, a curious heaviness in his limbs making the action difficult. A dark forest bordered the narrow shore, the trees immediately drawing his attention. The odd feeling seemed to emanate from them and from the sea that where he thought he would have met his end.
That musing seemed to clear the fog pervading his mind, with memories surfacing in crystal-clear flashes. Traveling to Ithilien, the sad yet joyful boarding of the ship that would lead him and his kindred to the Blessed Lands, searching, searching for...
"Earel," he said.
The name drove away the last of remnants of the haze. Leaping to his feet, he anxiously scanned the stretch of beach, finally resting on a slender figure collapsed on the sand a few lengths away. Running to her, he knelt down and gently lifted her into his arms. His sister's face was ashen, her soft features twisted in unconscious pain. His eyes widened in apprehension as he discovered a disturbing black mark scarring her temple, where before blood had flowed. He lightly traced his fingers over the mark, causing Earel to give a small, strangled moan. As soon as she had he drew his hand back, surprised and relieved to see her eyes opening.
"Earel," he said softly. "Do not move. You're safe."
She stared up at him in confusion, clutching his worn tunic.
"Earel?" she whispered. "Who is that? Who are you? Why do I-"
Suddenly her eyes pinched shut, teeth clenched against a sharp pain as she desperately reached for that which was lost, as the memories Earel tried to hold so tightly streamed through her mental fingers like water. The darkness choked her thoughts, the mark on her forehead growing deeper. Nerhuine watched helplessly as she fainted under the stress, her grip on him weakening until the hand fell limply by her side.
***************
Fourth Age, six years after the War of the Ring
The stocky figure stood on the cliff, gazing at the ocean blankly. It had been only a year ago that she had disappeared, a year to this day. Taken by the waves that now crashed mockingly against the large rocks sheltered under the overhang of the cliff. The man's face was stoic, with only his brown eyes betraying a deeply personal grief. He had been standing there since sunrise and might have remained indefinitely, were it not for a certain robust voice.
"Sergan! Come here! This might strike your interest!"
The man now identified at Sergan jerked out of his reverie. Sighing, he began to walk leisurely down a narrow path that lead to the beach where his friend now stood. Gremith was an older man with a scholarly bent who liked to frequent the shore looking for artifacts washed up from Numenor. He was always mistaking an unusually shaped piece of driftwood for a battered section of carved desk, perhaps belonging to a noble or some other similarly fantastic notion. Although his friends humored this hobby, they soon felt compelled to remind him of the probable truth of these objects. These warnings were dutifully listened to, and then ignored by the blacksmith with a good natured smile, causing the others to shrug and allow Gremith to continue in his quest.
Getting closer, Sergan's eyes widened as he saw the body on the beach. Upon seeing him arrive Gremith knelt next to it and rolled it onto it's back, revealing the figure of a young man, perhaps four and twenty years.
"A little strange, eh?" Gremith remarked.
"A little strange"Sergan though dryly.And Gondor's fight against the forces of Mordor was a minor battle. The man's hair appeared to be green, his skin a sickly pale hue, as if not exposed to much light. He was clean-shaven, and wearing an odd form of clothing, entirely black in color. What they assumed to be a sort of tunic was embossed with bold white lettering of some foreign tongue against a background of columns formed of glowing green characters. Sergan's eyes focused on a black mark on his right arm.
"What's this?" He gestured towards the scar.
Gremith shrugged and reaching out, touched it lightly. Upon the contact the youth winced.
"I would think him an escaped servant under the Dark Lord's thrall, did he not look so weak so as to be a hindrance instead of a help," he replied thoughtfully.
"He breathes yet," Sergan noted. "What's to be done with him?"
Gremith stood up.
"I've no room in my house, what with the children. Aside from that, Friyan wouldn't be pleased at the idea of taking in a stray weakling of ill-favored look."
Sergan studied the young man's face for a moment, thinking. That he had appeared on the beach on the first anniversary of his loss was uncanny to say the least. He had never held with the elven superstitions about fate, but even so...
"I'll take him to my house," he announced finally. At Gremith's curious look he continued, "It wouldn't rest easy on my heart to leave such a creature to fend for himself."
Picking up the young man, he settled him over his shoulder and headed back to the inn.
***************
2000 A. D.
Nauren opened her eyes. She knew that according to what the elves had told her, upon death her spirit would journey to the Outer Lands beyond Arda. It had been a belief that she had privately doubted, but held out a glimmer of hope for in spite of that doubt, especially after the encounter with the thief. Now as she gazed around in curiosity, half fearing what she might see.
She lay on a sort of bed, with a piece of clear, hard material over her mouth. A coarse blanket was draped over her and someone had put a needle in her arm with a clear, thick string attached to it. Cold light shone from a small, round dome on the ceiling. There was a feeling of movement, faster that Nauren was used to, and yet lacking the jostling expected.
At first she observed this from a cool, detached fog of unreality. Then suddenly waves of terror rose up from her. This wasn't right. She wasn't sure what to expect in the afterlife, but somehow this was not right! As Nauren's heart started pounding, a sound echoing it's frantic beating came from an unknown source. At this a strange man's face looked down at her, his dark face illuminated by the harsh, odd light. His skin was brown, not as the Haradrim, but a dark solid color, his hair cut closely to his head in a fashion Nauren had never seen. Upon seeing her panic he spoke some words in a comforting tone.
However, Nauren's inability to understand them caused them to only increase her distress. He kept saying a particular word "ambulance" as if it was assurance of safety and another word,"okay". Nauren struggled more strongly against her hidden bonds, not realizing that is was her own weakness staying her and not some terrible power possessed by the man. After a few moments the world seemed to slip and she sank into peaceful darkness.
***************
Five years after the War of the Ring
Cassy awoke to an assault of coughs. Deep, stinging coughs, squeezing her stomach like a vise. After the last spasm ceded, she fell back against something soft, grateful for the absence of pain. As her eyes examined the world around her, Cassy gasped shallowly. She was in a small wooden room, laying on a bed, the bedclothes stained darkly with sea water. A quick check under the covers confirmed that she was still wearing her string bikini and she pulled the top blanket up to her chin, aware of the skimpiness of her attire. This sudden modesty was brought on by the entrance of an old woman who reminded her of an aunt she had, but had never liked because she had called Cassy a spoiled brat that was ruined for life. Behind her trailed a younger girl, maybe nineteen or twenty, with a rough, pretty face. Their clothing next attracted her attention. It was like something out of the Middle Ages, skirts of some heavy fabric, a plain bodices, a white shirt of some sort under the bodices, all in drab colors. Strips of cloth bound their hair away from their faces. The old woman walked over to tend a smoky fire in a fireplace, then walked over to see the girl herself.
"Excuse me," Cassy said. "Could you please clue me in to where I am? And what's with the whole rustic motif? I didn't know there were Amish in Connecticut.
They looked confused and the girl replied in a weird language. After a moment the older woman left the room, giving the maiden a stern glance. Cassy sighed.
"Look, I don't speak German or whatever it is you're talking in. Do you have a translator? Speak English?"
The girl looked frankly spooked at this and opened her mouth to answer, but closed it at an exclamation from the old woman from outside the door. She carefully placed a bowl of steaming liquid on a table next to the bed and hurried out of the room.
"Well that was real polite," Cassy commented sarcastically.
After some inspecting of the bowl, Cassy guessed it was some kind of soup. However, she couldn't be sure and it was safer not to try it, she wasn't hungry anyway. She just wanted sleep, some nice cozy sleep. Her eyelids slowly shut as she cuddle deeper under the blankets.
____________
Author's note: reviews are still lovely things!
LadyTremere: thank you for the review! Yeah, I have no idea what to do about the formatting problems. Whenever I upload stories they almost never show up perfectly. Oh well. Yes, Nauren is one of my favorites simply because what I can do with her character. I hope you like this chapter!
Aranel: my apologies, you know all the hard procrastinating I do. ;) Thanks for the compliment! When are you going to let me post up your poetry? Anyways, here's the chapter, so you can stop glaring at me whenever we meet.
Bella: oh man, thank you very much! That means a lot coming from a writer of such a terrific story. Thanks for being so understanding about the delays. Yeah, I'd like a few more reviews, but hey, I'll take what I can get.
The Other Side
2001 A. D.
It was the silence that first woke the elf. Something felt wrong, out of place. Slowly his mind stirred, eyes opening automatically from their unnatural rest. He was lying on his back, on a thin strip of brown sand that sloped into the salty water of the ocean. Nerhuine rose into a sitting position to better observe his surroundings, a curious heaviness in his limbs making the action difficult. A dark forest bordered the narrow shore, the trees immediately drawing his attention. The odd feeling seemed to emanate from them and from the sea that where he thought he would have met his end.
That musing seemed to clear the fog pervading his mind, with memories surfacing in crystal-clear flashes. Traveling to Ithilien, the sad yet joyful boarding of the ship that would lead him and his kindred to the Blessed Lands, searching, searching for...
"Earel," he said.
The name drove away the last of remnants of the haze. Leaping to his feet, he anxiously scanned the stretch of beach, finally resting on a slender figure collapsed on the sand a few lengths away. Running to her, he knelt down and gently lifted her into his arms. His sister's face was ashen, her soft features twisted in unconscious pain. His eyes widened in apprehension as he discovered a disturbing black mark scarring her temple, where before blood had flowed. He lightly traced his fingers over the mark, causing Earel to give a small, strangled moan. As soon as she had he drew his hand back, surprised and relieved to see her eyes opening.
"Earel," he said softly. "Do not move. You're safe."
She stared up at him in confusion, clutching his worn tunic.
"Earel?" she whispered. "Who is that? Who are you? Why do I-"
Suddenly her eyes pinched shut, teeth clenched against a sharp pain as she desperately reached for that which was lost, as the memories Earel tried to hold so tightly streamed through her mental fingers like water. The darkness choked her thoughts, the mark on her forehead growing deeper. Nerhuine watched helplessly as she fainted under the stress, her grip on him weakening until the hand fell limply by her side.
***************
Fourth Age, six years after the War of the Ring
The stocky figure stood on the cliff, gazing at the ocean blankly. It had been only a year ago that she had disappeared, a year to this day. Taken by the waves that now crashed mockingly against the large rocks sheltered under the overhang of the cliff. The man's face was stoic, with only his brown eyes betraying a deeply personal grief. He had been standing there since sunrise and might have remained indefinitely, were it not for a certain robust voice.
"Sergan! Come here! This might strike your interest!"
The man now identified at Sergan jerked out of his reverie. Sighing, he began to walk leisurely down a narrow path that lead to the beach where his friend now stood. Gremith was an older man with a scholarly bent who liked to frequent the shore looking for artifacts washed up from Numenor. He was always mistaking an unusually shaped piece of driftwood for a battered section of carved desk, perhaps belonging to a noble or some other similarly fantastic notion. Although his friends humored this hobby, they soon felt compelled to remind him of the probable truth of these objects. These warnings were dutifully listened to, and then ignored by the blacksmith with a good natured smile, causing the others to shrug and allow Gremith to continue in his quest.
Getting closer, Sergan's eyes widened as he saw the body on the beach. Upon seeing him arrive Gremith knelt next to it and rolled it onto it's back, revealing the figure of a young man, perhaps four and twenty years.
"A little strange, eh?" Gremith remarked.
"A little strange"Sergan though dryly.And Gondor's fight against the forces of Mordor was a minor battle. The man's hair appeared to be green, his skin a sickly pale hue, as if not exposed to much light. He was clean-shaven, and wearing an odd form of clothing, entirely black in color. What they assumed to be a sort of tunic was embossed with bold white lettering of some foreign tongue against a background of columns formed of glowing green characters. Sergan's eyes focused on a black mark on his right arm.
"What's this?" He gestured towards the scar.
Gremith shrugged and reaching out, touched it lightly. Upon the contact the youth winced.
"I would think him an escaped servant under the Dark Lord's thrall, did he not look so weak so as to be a hindrance instead of a help," he replied thoughtfully.
"He breathes yet," Sergan noted. "What's to be done with him?"
Gremith stood up.
"I've no room in my house, what with the children. Aside from that, Friyan wouldn't be pleased at the idea of taking in a stray weakling of ill-favored look."
Sergan studied the young man's face for a moment, thinking. That he had appeared on the beach on the first anniversary of his loss was uncanny to say the least. He had never held with the elven superstitions about fate, but even so...
"I'll take him to my house," he announced finally. At Gremith's curious look he continued, "It wouldn't rest easy on my heart to leave such a creature to fend for himself."
Picking up the young man, he settled him over his shoulder and headed back to the inn.
***************
2000 A. D.
Nauren opened her eyes. She knew that according to what the elves had told her, upon death her spirit would journey to the Outer Lands beyond Arda. It had been a belief that she had privately doubted, but held out a glimmer of hope for in spite of that doubt, especially after the encounter with the thief. Now as she gazed around in curiosity, half fearing what she might see.
She lay on a sort of bed, with a piece of clear, hard material over her mouth. A coarse blanket was draped over her and someone had put a needle in her arm with a clear, thick string attached to it. Cold light shone from a small, round dome on the ceiling. There was a feeling of movement, faster that Nauren was used to, and yet lacking the jostling expected.
At first she observed this from a cool, detached fog of unreality. Then suddenly waves of terror rose up from her. This wasn't right. She wasn't sure what to expect in the afterlife, but somehow this was not right! As Nauren's heart started pounding, a sound echoing it's frantic beating came from an unknown source. At this a strange man's face looked down at her, his dark face illuminated by the harsh, odd light. His skin was brown, not as the Haradrim, but a dark solid color, his hair cut closely to his head in a fashion Nauren had never seen. Upon seeing her panic he spoke some words in a comforting tone.
However, Nauren's inability to understand them caused them to only increase her distress. He kept saying a particular word "ambulance" as if it was assurance of safety and another word,"okay". Nauren struggled more strongly against her hidden bonds, not realizing that is was her own weakness staying her and not some terrible power possessed by the man. After a few moments the world seemed to slip and she sank into peaceful darkness.
***************
Five years after the War of the Ring
Cassy awoke to an assault of coughs. Deep, stinging coughs, squeezing her stomach like a vise. After the last spasm ceded, she fell back against something soft, grateful for the absence of pain. As her eyes examined the world around her, Cassy gasped shallowly. She was in a small wooden room, laying on a bed, the bedclothes stained darkly with sea water. A quick check under the covers confirmed that she was still wearing her string bikini and she pulled the top blanket up to her chin, aware of the skimpiness of her attire. This sudden modesty was brought on by the entrance of an old woman who reminded her of an aunt she had, but had never liked because she had called Cassy a spoiled brat that was ruined for life. Behind her trailed a younger girl, maybe nineteen or twenty, with a rough, pretty face. Their clothing next attracted her attention. It was like something out of the Middle Ages, skirts of some heavy fabric, a plain bodices, a white shirt of some sort under the bodices, all in drab colors. Strips of cloth bound their hair away from their faces. The old woman walked over to tend a smoky fire in a fireplace, then walked over to see the girl herself.
"Excuse me," Cassy said. "Could you please clue me in to where I am? And what's with the whole rustic motif? I didn't know there were Amish in Connecticut.
They looked confused and the girl replied in a weird language. After a moment the older woman left the room, giving the maiden a stern glance. Cassy sighed.
"Look, I don't speak German or whatever it is you're talking in. Do you have a translator? Speak English?"
The girl looked frankly spooked at this and opened her mouth to answer, but closed it at an exclamation from the old woman from outside the door. She carefully placed a bowl of steaming liquid on a table next to the bed and hurried out of the room.
"Well that was real polite," Cassy commented sarcastically.
After some inspecting of the bowl, Cassy guessed it was some kind of soup. However, she couldn't be sure and it was safer not to try it, she wasn't hungry anyway. She just wanted sleep, some nice cozy sleep. Her eyelids slowly shut as she cuddle deeper under the blankets.
____________
Author's note: reviews are still lovely things!
