The Primrose
By Peachblossom luver, a shadow of rohan.
A.n- This story came to me as I was watching the horses run in their pastures after I fed them last weekend.
~*~
There is no joy, no sensation akin to that of the thundering pounding of a horse's hooves as they gallop. Especially when you are along for the ride.
Rolling hills as far as I see, the color of a fresh loaf of bread, and as familiar as my name. As my customs.
But the war changed that. No longer are our soldiers loved in the city. No longer does our King make the decisions. Nay, that worm whispers dark things into the ears of Roan's ruler.
Walking my horse to the top of the highest hill, I slowly swung my leg over the cantle, landing with a soft thud on the grassy hill.
Loosening the leather girth, and running up my stirrups, I sat upon the knoll, gazing out across the plains.
There was much to consider and think upon these days. My brother had just left with the Third Marshal, Eomer, and they were banished from the land, by that snake, Grima Wormtounge. How I hated him.
I was a handmaiden to the lady Eowyn. A most interesting job, to be sure, but not one that I necessarily enjoy.
How I would love to be like her, fighting with the soldiers, defending my home. But I know what my mother would say, and Father backing her up.
"I cannot let my youngest, and only daughter take up the sword. It is unseemly enough that you race around with that beast of yours all day, when you should be at home; working on the proper things that young ladies should be working on.
When I myself was a young lass, there was none of this - gallivanting - about the countryside. And then it was not dangerous to do so! But this! No, 'tis not acceptable for you to be doing this."
Mother is Gondorian. She does not know the pull the earth has upon me, the calling voice of the wind, the whispering tales the streams and brooks have to tell. Father goes along with her to placate her, but I can see the same longing in his eyes. That is why he went with Anwar, to fight with Eomer.
Feeling a pounding, rushing beat below, I glance up, extracted from my thoughts. There, in all their glory, was a herd of horses, running as if to escape the dark lord himself.
Fanawy whinnied, a loud, proud sound that carried out over the plains. Answering calls floated back to her.
In the distance, far away, I saw the banner of the White Horse. There, on the boarders of our lands, was my brother and his fellows.
Being the handmaiden to the Lady of Rohan has its perks. Especially if this particular lady is as stubborn as a mule. I had learned how to fight, just to spite my mother.
Sighing, I leaned back, and felt the wind in my hair.
Seeing as I was part Gondorian, I had the dark hair of my mother's people. But that was where the likeness ended.
I was tall and had the brown eyes of my father, a light honey colored hue, and the fair skin also. It came without saying that I had the talent of all the Rohirric with the horses.
I also had the temper that went with my Father's people. My brother said that it made sense, that all roses had their thorns.
My name is Brillian, the primrose. I am not sure as to how I came to claim that name. I am not beautiful, I have an atrocious temper, and I am not meek and mild. No, I defy my parents.
Is that not why I came to this secluded area, to escape my troubles? Is that not why the world turns its face from the problems of right and wrong? Is that why this war is taking place?
I may seem over dramatic, but please forgive me. There is the slight problem of not wanting to be married.
Yes, married. Every girls dream, is it not, to be married to some rich, handsome young man? But I am only 16, and I have not seen the world, not had enough of that freedom that keeps calling me, not seen the wonders I hear of in tales and songs.
I am told that I am lucky that I have a man at my doorstep, and that 16 is plenty old enough to be married.
Once again, my Mother's words rang through my head. "I was but 15 when I was engaged to your father. I was 17 when married to him. You should think yourself lucky. You will not be married until you are 19. Plenty of time for that 'freedom' of which you lust so after."
15! My mother did not know the meaning of a life without marriage, the life of living on a whim, going where one pleases, when one pleases.
My poor father, I am sure, did not know what he was getting into.
But marriage in a time such as this? When our men are off to war, orcs rampaging through the towns, killing and destroying everything in their way?
No. I see no hope. There is a black cloud rising more and more, covering like a thick blanket, smothering and suffocating out our hope, and most importantly, our sense.
Where is the proud and magnificent personality of Rohan that we are famed for? Our robust men that fight whatever evil come their way?
Call me a pessimist, but I do not see how we will shall come out of this alive.
I am sick of watching this go by, day after day, not having a thing happening.
Getting up with a groan, I looked over at my mare, who was quietly dozing. Nudging her, I rubbed her ear.
"How about we go girl? Hmmm?" patting her rust colored neck one last time, I grabbed a fistful of mane, grabbed the cantle, and swung up onto her back.
Slightly putting pressure on my leg, and squeezing my reign, I turned her towards home. I was late, and I would certainly hear it from my Mother (does that woman ever find anything good about me?) when I got home.
Heaving what seemed like the thousandth sigh that day, I nudged Fanawy forward, and started the journey home.
By Peachblossom luver, a shadow of rohan.
A.n- This story came to me as I was watching the horses run in their pastures after I fed them last weekend.
~*~
There is no joy, no sensation akin to that of the thundering pounding of a horse's hooves as they gallop. Especially when you are along for the ride.
Rolling hills as far as I see, the color of a fresh loaf of bread, and as familiar as my name. As my customs.
But the war changed that. No longer are our soldiers loved in the city. No longer does our King make the decisions. Nay, that worm whispers dark things into the ears of Roan's ruler.
Walking my horse to the top of the highest hill, I slowly swung my leg over the cantle, landing with a soft thud on the grassy hill.
Loosening the leather girth, and running up my stirrups, I sat upon the knoll, gazing out across the plains.
There was much to consider and think upon these days. My brother had just left with the Third Marshal, Eomer, and they were banished from the land, by that snake, Grima Wormtounge. How I hated him.
I was a handmaiden to the lady Eowyn. A most interesting job, to be sure, but not one that I necessarily enjoy.
How I would love to be like her, fighting with the soldiers, defending my home. But I know what my mother would say, and Father backing her up.
"I cannot let my youngest, and only daughter take up the sword. It is unseemly enough that you race around with that beast of yours all day, when you should be at home; working on the proper things that young ladies should be working on.
When I myself was a young lass, there was none of this - gallivanting - about the countryside. And then it was not dangerous to do so! But this! No, 'tis not acceptable for you to be doing this."
Mother is Gondorian. She does not know the pull the earth has upon me, the calling voice of the wind, the whispering tales the streams and brooks have to tell. Father goes along with her to placate her, but I can see the same longing in his eyes. That is why he went with Anwar, to fight with Eomer.
Feeling a pounding, rushing beat below, I glance up, extracted from my thoughts. There, in all their glory, was a herd of horses, running as if to escape the dark lord himself.
Fanawy whinnied, a loud, proud sound that carried out over the plains. Answering calls floated back to her.
In the distance, far away, I saw the banner of the White Horse. There, on the boarders of our lands, was my brother and his fellows.
Being the handmaiden to the Lady of Rohan has its perks. Especially if this particular lady is as stubborn as a mule. I had learned how to fight, just to spite my mother.
Sighing, I leaned back, and felt the wind in my hair.
Seeing as I was part Gondorian, I had the dark hair of my mother's people. But that was where the likeness ended.
I was tall and had the brown eyes of my father, a light honey colored hue, and the fair skin also. It came without saying that I had the talent of all the Rohirric with the horses.
I also had the temper that went with my Father's people. My brother said that it made sense, that all roses had their thorns.
My name is Brillian, the primrose. I am not sure as to how I came to claim that name. I am not beautiful, I have an atrocious temper, and I am not meek and mild. No, I defy my parents.
Is that not why I came to this secluded area, to escape my troubles? Is that not why the world turns its face from the problems of right and wrong? Is that why this war is taking place?
I may seem over dramatic, but please forgive me. There is the slight problem of not wanting to be married.
Yes, married. Every girls dream, is it not, to be married to some rich, handsome young man? But I am only 16, and I have not seen the world, not had enough of that freedom that keeps calling me, not seen the wonders I hear of in tales and songs.
I am told that I am lucky that I have a man at my doorstep, and that 16 is plenty old enough to be married.
Once again, my Mother's words rang through my head. "I was but 15 when I was engaged to your father. I was 17 when married to him. You should think yourself lucky. You will not be married until you are 19. Plenty of time for that 'freedom' of which you lust so after."
15! My mother did not know the meaning of a life without marriage, the life of living on a whim, going where one pleases, when one pleases.
My poor father, I am sure, did not know what he was getting into.
But marriage in a time such as this? When our men are off to war, orcs rampaging through the towns, killing and destroying everything in their way?
No. I see no hope. There is a black cloud rising more and more, covering like a thick blanket, smothering and suffocating out our hope, and most importantly, our sense.
Where is the proud and magnificent personality of Rohan that we are famed for? Our robust men that fight whatever evil come their way?
Call me a pessimist, but I do not see how we will shall come out of this alive.
I am sick of watching this go by, day after day, not having a thing happening.
Getting up with a groan, I looked over at my mare, who was quietly dozing. Nudging her, I rubbed her ear.
"How about we go girl? Hmmm?" patting her rust colored neck one last time, I grabbed a fistful of mane, grabbed the cantle, and swung up onto her back.
Slightly putting pressure on my leg, and squeezing my reign, I turned her towards home. I was late, and I would certainly hear it from my Mother (does that woman ever find anything good about me?) when I got home.
Heaving what seemed like the thousandth sigh that day, I nudged Fanawy forward, and started the journey home.