~*~*~*~
Marroc's Tale
Chapter 4: Lastriel
By Hippy :) Hobbit
Dedicated to Niph (and Estie ^^)
~*~*~*~
Exactly three weeks had passed since the faithful night of Paladin and Tarroc's truce and it was the day of Marroc's sixth birthday.
He woke up rather early that morning, feeling a bit confused. Wait a second... was it his birthday? His mother had ALWAYS awoken him on all of his birthdays, but today, he got up all by his lonesome. He sat up, scratching his head ~Where's mummy?~ he thought to himself, before his conscience came up with an answer ~Maybe... maybe she doesn't think I wouldn't like being woken up by her on my birthday, 'cause I'm such a big boy now an' I can get up on my own...~. Yes, that was it. It had to be.
He yawned and climbed out of his bed, though first stumbling on the bottoms of the sleeping trousers he'd just finished sewing for himself a few days beforehand (his mother had to help him a bit, of course, as his stitches weren't quite straight yet, but they had still turned out about 3 inches too long). He stumbled into the kitchen, tripping three times along the way, and once more as he stepped in.
His father was sitting at the table, trying to figure out how to make tea. It looked rather difficult- he was holding a teacup over a candle. The teacup was stuffed with...some kind of nasty smelling herb and filled to the brim with water, which kept spilling and putting the candle out. Then, scowling, he would re-light it (nearly 20 splintered matches lay around the plate that the candle was on) and the cycle would start all over again. Marroc blinked up at his father, grabbing a hunk of bread from the plate that was on the counter and beginning to nibble on it.
"Where's mum?" he asked, suddenly, pulling the bread away from his mouth.
Tarroc, who hadn't noticed his son entering the room, looked up, spilling the whole lot of the cup over the candle, "DARN IT, MARROC!" he cursed as the grassy water spread out over the table. He smoothed his hair thick, un-ruly russet hair back and wiped sweat from his forehead, trying to calm himself down, "She's...erm... in bed right now, Marroc-Lad. Quick! Hand me that towel!"
Marroc ran to the sink and grabbed the towel off its rack. He handed it to his father and watched him mop up the mess.
"Why?"
Tarroc looked up, "She's not feeling well today," he said simply; "I had Lodo take Loch to Bywater for a healer. They should be back by this evening." He poured some more water into the cup from the pitcher, re-lit the candle, and tried again, sweat pouring from his forehead again.
"Oh..." Marroc said quietly, now remembering that his father couldn't cook to save his life, or Marroc's either, for that matter. ~Great... We're gonna starve...~, "...why isn't she feeling good?" he asked, wide eyed. Tarroc looked up, exasperated
"OI DON'T KNOW!" he yelled, giving his son a warning glare, before going back to the cup. He was in a terrible mood.
Marroc pouted. His father was hardly ever THAT stern to him, but the stupid Tookish curiosity kicked in again, "Why not?"
The cup spilled again, creating an even bigger mess then the one before. Tarroc gave an aggravated roar, before yelling, "JUS' GO OUTSIDE BEFORE YEW CAUSE ANYMORE TROUBLE!"
~*~*~*~
"Gee Butch..." Marroc muttered to his new billy, leaning on the fence of his stall, "Oi'm havin' a wotten bifhday..." he climbed up on the top bar of the fence and reached in and scratched the top of Butch's head. Pale blue goat eyes smiled up at him and Marroc gave a weak smile in return, and then flung himself into the pen. He took the rope that hung near the pen's gate and hooked it onto the clip on the collar around Butch's neck, then opened the gate and led the goat out.
They strolled out of the stable, around the pond that lay on the edge of the Took's property, and to the fence that separated their land from the Old Forest. Marroc climbed over the fence and let Butch hop over the middle bar.
"Oi think it's silly what day named yew," the little hobbit said to his companion, "Butch is a silly name. Besides, you look like a Lila then a Butch." The goat blinked up at him, before letting out a little bleat.
"Yew don't have to agree," Marroc replied, annoyed, but Butch bent his neck down to Marroc's sleeve and began chewing at his knuckles reassuringly, making the little hobbit giggle.
They walked staunchly into the mass of trees that was the Old Forest. Lichen covered the forest floor. It was squishy under their feet, and the forest itself smelled old and musky, though oddly calming to Marroc's nostrils. The smell reminded him of the elves... with their long, gleaming hair twined with flowers, green and white gems glinting on their collars and their belts, and their faces and songs so filled with mirth ...he sighed to himself. Perhaps he would see Gildor today.
A large knobby Yew stood out in a clearing about 100 yards into off the path, near a tiny babbling waterfall. Marroc smiled to himself as he approached it. It was his fairy tree. The place that always made him happy when he was sad or depressed. He trotted happily over, delighted to be by himself, with only the company of the fairly silent Butch, of course. He sat down in the shade of the old tree, feeling its long roots spreading out under his legs, and bugs crawling up his back, making him titter some more. Butch lay down next to him and set his head on Marroc's lap, allowing him to stroke his fuzzy head.
"Oi think yewr moi only fwiend, Butch," Marroc murmured sadly to the goat, "No one else seems to like me too much. 'Cept moi mummy." He sighed "I know Mewwy doesn't. Stupid... spoiled... brat..." he picked up a rock and hucked it at the pool under the tiny waterfall, watching the huge splash, and then the rings as they slowly grew larger and larger, before finally spreading into oblivion as they reached the cut-off bank. Marroc sighed again, beginning to feel a wee bit drowsy. He continued sitting in his hatred for his elder cousin for a few moments longer, before his eyelids began to droop in that annoyingly cute way, and his mouth dropped open, as he drifted off to sleep...
He awoke with a jolt some time later. Well, it was more like a pang then a jolt. Something... some airborne thing, had collided with his head. And it was wet. He opened his eyes and lifted a hand to his brow. Blood was on his fingers. Had it, whatever IT was, really hit him that hard, hard enough to make him bleed? He didn't feel very much pain, except for a bit of a dullness of where the thing had hit him. But then, his eyes caught something lying a few feet away. Something white. A dove. Bleeding from the breast. The bird had flown right into his forehead. Though perhaps his head wasn't what caused the bleeding. He stood up, and Butch, who had previously been sleeping as well, lifted his head and watched his owner run over to the dove.
Marroc picked the bird up in his hands. It was still alive, but barely. He could feel its little heart struggling to beat under his fingers. He bore it to the pool of water and set it on the ground. He sat down next to the dying bird and pulled a small knife out of his jacket pocket. He took the knife, and cut into the bottom of the right leg of his bed trousers, about 7 inches from the bottom, making a small hole. Then, he ripped the bottom of the leg off quickly, producing a nice strip of green-white plaid fabric. He dipped the fabric into the pool of water, and brought the bit of textile to the bird's breast, slowly and carefully wiping the blood off. As the redness disappeared and soaked into the cloth, the end of a thorn became visible. It had pierced the dove right above the heart.
With the greatest care, Marroc pulled the thorn out with his fingertips. The dove opened its chocolate brown eyes and struggled against the hobbit, fluttering its wings like mad, and getting Marroc's fingers covered even more with it's own blood. His stomach felt a bit squeamish at the warm liquid on his hands and a little hit his face, but he got over it quickly. He held the bird's legs down with one hand, and then took the knife up again. He went to the other leg this time, and cut once more, 7 inches from the bottom. But this time, he didn't dip it in the water. Instead, he wrapped it around the wound, tightly, to put pressure on it and stop the bleeding. The dove looked up at him, a bit bemused, as if to say 'oh...well... um... thanks, I think?'. Marroc smiled and pulled some seed that he usually saved for feeding the chickens with out of his pocket and offered it to the bird, who took it, pecking at his hand rather affectionately.
"You are a fair healer for one so young and small," came a voice. It startled Marroc so bad, that he jumped backwards, tripped over one of the spreading roots of the Yew, and fell into the pool of water. It was pretty deep, having a sharp cut-off bank, but he managed to fight his way, kicking and splashing, to the top and grabbed onto the bank.
The most beautiful elf maiden Marroc had ever seen glided out from behind the knobby Yew. Locks of thick, rich, bronzed hair fell loosely over her shoulders, their curls framing a pale, though pure and perfectly formed face. Optics of a deep gray, like the color of the sea's sky during a storm, were the same color as her swirling, silk robes. Turquoise gems, like rain drops, dotted the robe's neck line, sleeves, waist line, and the bottom hems, under of which a pair of steely gray trousers could be seen, before going into her boots. Half way up to her knees, they were also gray with turquoise gems sewn into the light, and easy-to-move-in fabric.
But the thing that caught Marroc's eyes at once was the sword. The long, slender blade wasn't in a sheath, like the one Gildor owned. It hung from a metal chain belt (probably mithril) around the elf's waist, and was made, most oddly, of wood. Paintings of green leaves ran down the length of the sword, and a green Beryl rest on the top of the handle, a spot of light hitting it, making it shadow its jade brilliance 'pon the trunk of the old Yew.
"Now..." she said, "...I think you should get out of that water. Don't you mortals get sick when you get cold?"
Marroc simply stared.
"Well?" She asked, sounding the least bit annoyed, "I am just asking. I don't know a lot about illnesses and such things."
Marroc blinked, bemused, his mouth dropping slightly open. Deciding not to wait for an answer, the elf strode forward, past the dove and the goat, and to the water's edge. She bent down and put her hands under Marroc's arms, and lifted him out of the water and set him on his feet.
"There!" She proclaimed, kneeling down next to him, "Now... why. Wont. You. talk?"
He looked up into her bright face, as she was still quite tall to him kneeling, and said with awe in his eyes, "Are yew an angel?"
The elf smiled a little confused smile, unsure of what to say.
"Err...no." She settled on saying
"Wot's yewr name?" Marroc asked her in a soft whisper.
"Lastriel Dulinwen*," she replied, equally as quiet, though her words sounded graceful and smooth where as his were his usual sort, toddler gibberish, "what's yours then? And erm...what ARE you?"
"Marroc, son of Tarroc Took," he replied, then added a bit resentfully, "and Oi'm a hobbit."
"A hobbit..." she turned the word over on her tongue, "...I have never heard of such a thing before. But..." she paused, " I haven't come to these lands in many many years..." she sighed. She really hadn't been here. For countless years.
After her parents had been killed in an orc ambush, Lastriel had been left all alone in the world, except for her younger brother, Lastrion** (who will play a major role in the future of our story). But now, Lastrion had found his soul mate, and left his sister's side as her constant companion to be with that rotten, twitty, totally un-elfish Randiriel Gil-Estel Percoi*** (who will also play a huge role), and Lastriel was, once again, alone. She sighed, then glanced back to the goat, who was staring at her, looking a spot confused.
"Your friend?" she asked Marroc, who nodded.
"An' moi only one, at dat," he said, sounding very depressed.
"What do you mean by that?" Lastriel asked quietly.
Marroc wrinkled his nose and gave a weak smile, "No one seems ta like me," he said, in a sad voice, "Oi dunno why, 'cause oi norra think oi nev-ah did nothing ta be meany ta dem..." (I don't know why because I don't think I did anything to be mean to them)
Lastriel smiled, trying to refrain herself from laughing. She could've sworn herself to be growing a little fond of the hobbit, "well, how about this then," she said, taking his little hand in her own long and graceful fingers, "I'll be your friend, if you'll be mine?"
Marroc blinked up at her, "Really?!"
Lastriel nodded.
With a tremendous spring, Marroc leapt up into the unsuspecting elf's arms. Surprised as she was, Lastriel patted his back in a nice, though rather rigid manner, before setting him on the ground.
"Now, Marroc son of Tarroc..." she tried to think of a good question,"...erm...how old are you?"
Marroc blinked, then held up five fingers for a second, before retracting them all again.
"Five?" Lastriel asked. Marroc shook his curly head,
"NO! Oi turneded sixish taday!"
"Sixty?"
"NO! Sixish!" he held up his hand again and counted out all five of his tiny fingers, before going to the next hand and holding out his index finger. Lastriel smiled.
"Oh... six, you mean."
"yep!"
Lastriel gave a weak smile. 6? She could hardly remember when she was so young!
"And where, hobbit child, are your parents?"
Now it was Marroc's turn for a weak smile, "Moi mummy is sick, an' Oi dun know why! Moi paddy norra tell me..." the smile turned upsides down, "...'ee yelled at me... so Oi came out 'ere wit moi Butch," he scratched the goat's head again, who bleated in pleasure.
Lastriel felt a bit saddened, "Your mummy is sick?" she asked, in a sympathetic voice, "Oh no!" she bent down and hugged him close, "well, at least it's your birthday. Good things always happen on special days" she gave him a sweet smile, which he sort-of returned with a sideways hopeless one.
~*~*~*~
Tarroc sat out in the parlor, nervously running his fingers through his hair as the healer, Bridle Deepdelver and his apprentice, Hildibrand Gamgee, looked over his wife. They had been in there for nearly an hour, while Tarroc waited outside, sweating and worrying. He had completely forgotten about Marroc for the time being.
Suddenly, the door of the parlor opened, and young Hildibrand walked out.
"Sir," he said, in a polite manner, "Would you like to go in and see your wife?" but Tarroc was already running past him on his way to their bedroom.
Bridle was packing away his tools in a small tote he carried under his arm. He was a tall and thin snake-like hobbit, rather unusual looking with his pale face, thinning hair and slits for eyes, whereas Hildibrand was almost exactly the opposite- young and boyish looking, with fuzzy brown hair and bright blue eyes. Both smelled strongly of a mixture of different herbs, though, and brought a sort of scary feeling into Tarroc's heart. As a lad growing up in Tookland, whenever there was a healer there, someone usually ended up dying- no one was sure if it was from the poor quality of the healer's training, or from the disease it's self.
Maggie was a state. Her beautiful curly blond Brandybuck mop was messier then ever, and the area around her closed, sleeping eyes where red, as the cough she had had hurt so badly that tears were squeezed out of their chocolate brown depths.
Tarroc sighed, and took her hand, gazing at his wife with a pained look.
"Dear..." He murmured.
"She's dying, Tarroc," Bridle said, solemnly, "There isn't yet a cure for the haze."
Tarroc's mouth dropped open, "Haze?"
"It's a disease that runs in the Old Buck family."
Tarroc sneezed, then looked worriedly back up to the healer after blowing his nose in a handkerchief he procured from his pocket.
"H-How long?" he asked, in a whisper.
"6 months, I'd reckon," Bridle replied, "I'm sorry, Tarroc."
The Took sighed, keeping in the tears; "Lodo will take you back to Bywater. But please... notify me at once if there is anything we can do to cure her...I...I can't raise Marroc on my own."
Bridle nodded, and the two healers left the room.
~*~*~*~
Just as Lodo's old cart, led by Loch the pony was rattling out the front gate of the Took's property, dusk was falling, and Marroc and Butch were returning from the Old Forest, the hobbit oblivious of the sad news that awaited him at home.
He led Butch into the stable, and locked him up for the night with a scratch on the head, then proceeded into his house.
There was a congealed air about him, as Marroc stepped into the foyer, pushing their large, brown door closed with difficulty. His father was sitting on the sofa in the entrance hall, looking off into space. Marroc tried determinedly to avoid him, still sour for the events of the hours before, but when his father called out his name sharply, he stiffened and the hair on the back of his neck became ridged at the tone of his voice.
"Yes, da?" he squeaked.
"Come an' sit by me, lad," Tarroc said, and scared, Marroc complied with his request. Tarroc sighed deeply, "Oi'm...Oi'm sorry I snapped at yew this morn'n, Marroc-Lad." He said. His voice sounded as though it hurt him to apologize, "Oi jus' been nervous 'bout yewr mum-"
"Is she feelin' betwer?" Marroc asked, a sad look in his eyes.
Tarroc knew very well that there was no way of getting around Marroc, "No...no, she isn't. Oi...Oi dun know how much longer she is going to be around..."
Marroc's eyes filled with silent tears, "She...she gonna die? Like Clementine?" Clementine had been an old milk cow that Marroc had been rather attached to, and had died shortly before the Ruby saga began. Marroc gave a little sob, before breaking out ino a crying fit. His father turned on him.
"NO MARROC! Yew dun cry!"
The lad's teary green eyes gazed up into his fathers, "Why not?"
"Because," Tarroc ran his hands through his hair again, "Yew never cry! DON'T EVER! That'll make a lass think yew're weak, and yew care ta much about yewrself ta ever care for them. No matter 'ow much it hurts."
Marroc's mouth dropped open, confused, "Okay..." he said, slowly. The words etched themselves into his brain forever
~Never cry...~
~*~*~*~
A/N:
*Lastriel Dulinwen: Listening maiden, lady of the nightingale
**Lastrion: he who listens
***Randiriel Gil-Estel Percoi: wandering maiden star of hope half-life.
VERY VERY simple elvish names. I made them up just when I was learning to speak the language. Lastriel, is also the translation of 'Samantha' into Elvish, which is my first middle name, and the name that everyone calls me.
Tarroc is...kinda...yeah... he's got some big problems. Really. The thing that he tells Marroc kind of ruins Marroc's whole life and gives him all kinds of emotional and social problems. Luckily *someone* comes and straightens Marroc out...
Erm... this chapter took so long to get up because I was in Florida for spring break. At my grandparents house. Unfortunately, there was bloody Red Tide at the beach, which sort of ruined everything.
Also, all of me and my close friends from school have hobbit names, which will come in and out of the story at odd intervals. Hildibrand Gamgee is my hommie Melissa, and Saradoc Brandybuck is my not-hommieish hommie Danielle. And of course, I am known as Marroc ^^.
Wow... I have bad English. Too lazy to change it x.X
Anyway, please review, and I am off to watch Moulin Rouge!
~Hippy :) Hobbit
Marroc's Tale
Chapter 4: Lastriel
By Hippy :) Hobbit
Dedicated to Niph (and Estie ^^)
~*~*~*~
Exactly three weeks had passed since the faithful night of Paladin and Tarroc's truce and it was the day of Marroc's sixth birthday.
He woke up rather early that morning, feeling a bit confused. Wait a second... was it his birthday? His mother had ALWAYS awoken him on all of his birthdays, but today, he got up all by his lonesome. He sat up, scratching his head ~Where's mummy?~ he thought to himself, before his conscience came up with an answer ~Maybe... maybe she doesn't think I wouldn't like being woken up by her on my birthday, 'cause I'm such a big boy now an' I can get up on my own...~. Yes, that was it. It had to be.
He yawned and climbed out of his bed, though first stumbling on the bottoms of the sleeping trousers he'd just finished sewing for himself a few days beforehand (his mother had to help him a bit, of course, as his stitches weren't quite straight yet, but they had still turned out about 3 inches too long). He stumbled into the kitchen, tripping three times along the way, and once more as he stepped in.
His father was sitting at the table, trying to figure out how to make tea. It looked rather difficult- he was holding a teacup over a candle. The teacup was stuffed with...some kind of nasty smelling herb and filled to the brim with water, which kept spilling and putting the candle out. Then, scowling, he would re-light it (nearly 20 splintered matches lay around the plate that the candle was on) and the cycle would start all over again. Marroc blinked up at his father, grabbing a hunk of bread from the plate that was on the counter and beginning to nibble on it.
"Where's mum?" he asked, suddenly, pulling the bread away from his mouth.
Tarroc, who hadn't noticed his son entering the room, looked up, spilling the whole lot of the cup over the candle, "DARN IT, MARROC!" he cursed as the grassy water spread out over the table. He smoothed his hair thick, un-ruly russet hair back and wiped sweat from his forehead, trying to calm himself down, "She's...erm... in bed right now, Marroc-Lad. Quick! Hand me that towel!"
Marroc ran to the sink and grabbed the towel off its rack. He handed it to his father and watched him mop up the mess.
"Why?"
Tarroc looked up, "She's not feeling well today," he said simply; "I had Lodo take Loch to Bywater for a healer. They should be back by this evening." He poured some more water into the cup from the pitcher, re-lit the candle, and tried again, sweat pouring from his forehead again.
"Oh..." Marroc said quietly, now remembering that his father couldn't cook to save his life, or Marroc's either, for that matter. ~Great... We're gonna starve...~, "...why isn't she feeling good?" he asked, wide eyed. Tarroc looked up, exasperated
"OI DON'T KNOW!" he yelled, giving his son a warning glare, before going back to the cup. He was in a terrible mood.
Marroc pouted. His father was hardly ever THAT stern to him, but the stupid Tookish curiosity kicked in again, "Why not?"
The cup spilled again, creating an even bigger mess then the one before. Tarroc gave an aggravated roar, before yelling, "JUS' GO OUTSIDE BEFORE YEW CAUSE ANYMORE TROUBLE!"
~*~*~*~
"Gee Butch..." Marroc muttered to his new billy, leaning on the fence of his stall, "Oi'm havin' a wotten bifhday..." he climbed up on the top bar of the fence and reached in and scratched the top of Butch's head. Pale blue goat eyes smiled up at him and Marroc gave a weak smile in return, and then flung himself into the pen. He took the rope that hung near the pen's gate and hooked it onto the clip on the collar around Butch's neck, then opened the gate and led the goat out.
They strolled out of the stable, around the pond that lay on the edge of the Took's property, and to the fence that separated their land from the Old Forest. Marroc climbed over the fence and let Butch hop over the middle bar.
"Oi think it's silly what day named yew," the little hobbit said to his companion, "Butch is a silly name. Besides, you look like a Lila then a Butch." The goat blinked up at him, before letting out a little bleat.
"Yew don't have to agree," Marroc replied, annoyed, but Butch bent his neck down to Marroc's sleeve and began chewing at his knuckles reassuringly, making the little hobbit giggle.
They walked staunchly into the mass of trees that was the Old Forest. Lichen covered the forest floor. It was squishy under their feet, and the forest itself smelled old and musky, though oddly calming to Marroc's nostrils. The smell reminded him of the elves... with their long, gleaming hair twined with flowers, green and white gems glinting on their collars and their belts, and their faces and songs so filled with mirth ...he sighed to himself. Perhaps he would see Gildor today.
A large knobby Yew stood out in a clearing about 100 yards into off the path, near a tiny babbling waterfall. Marroc smiled to himself as he approached it. It was his fairy tree. The place that always made him happy when he was sad or depressed. He trotted happily over, delighted to be by himself, with only the company of the fairly silent Butch, of course. He sat down in the shade of the old tree, feeling its long roots spreading out under his legs, and bugs crawling up his back, making him titter some more. Butch lay down next to him and set his head on Marroc's lap, allowing him to stroke his fuzzy head.
"Oi think yewr moi only fwiend, Butch," Marroc murmured sadly to the goat, "No one else seems to like me too much. 'Cept moi mummy." He sighed "I know Mewwy doesn't. Stupid... spoiled... brat..." he picked up a rock and hucked it at the pool under the tiny waterfall, watching the huge splash, and then the rings as they slowly grew larger and larger, before finally spreading into oblivion as they reached the cut-off bank. Marroc sighed again, beginning to feel a wee bit drowsy. He continued sitting in his hatred for his elder cousin for a few moments longer, before his eyelids began to droop in that annoyingly cute way, and his mouth dropped open, as he drifted off to sleep...
He awoke with a jolt some time later. Well, it was more like a pang then a jolt. Something... some airborne thing, had collided with his head. And it was wet. He opened his eyes and lifted a hand to his brow. Blood was on his fingers. Had it, whatever IT was, really hit him that hard, hard enough to make him bleed? He didn't feel very much pain, except for a bit of a dullness of where the thing had hit him. But then, his eyes caught something lying a few feet away. Something white. A dove. Bleeding from the breast. The bird had flown right into his forehead. Though perhaps his head wasn't what caused the bleeding. He stood up, and Butch, who had previously been sleeping as well, lifted his head and watched his owner run over to the dove.
Marroc picked the bird up in his hands. It was still alive, but barely. He could feel its little heart struggling to beat under his fingers. He bore it to the pool of water and set it on the ground. He sat down next to the dying bird and pulled a small knife out of his jacket pocket. He took the knife, and cut into the bottom of the right leg of his bed trousers, about 7 inches from the bottom, making a small hole. Then, he ripped the bottom of the leg off quickly, producing a nice strip of green-white plaid fabric. He dipped the fabric into the pool of water, and brought the bit of textile to the bird's breast, slowly and carefully wiping the blood off. As the redness disappeared and soaked into the cloth, the end of a thorn became visible. It had pierced the dove right above the heart.
With the greatest care, Marroc pulled the thorn out with his fingertips. The dove opened its chocolate brown eyes and struggled against the hobbit, fluttering its wings like mad, and getting Marroc's fingers covered even more with it's own blood. His stomach felt a bit squeamish at the warm liquid on his hands and a little hit his face, but he got over it quickly. He held the bird's legs down with one hand, and then took the knife up again. He went to the other leg this time, and cut once more, 7 inches from the bottom. But this time, he didn't dip it in the water. Instead, he wrapped it around the wound, tightly, to put pressure on it and stop the bleeding. The dove looked up at him, a bit bemused, as if to say 'oh...well... um... thanks, I think?'. Marroc smiled and pulled some seed that he usually saved for feeding the chickens with out of his pocket and offered it to the bird, who took it, pecking at his hand rather affectionately.
"You are a fair healer for one so young and small," came a voice. It startled Marroc so bad, that he jumped backwards, tripped over one of the spreading roots of the Yew, and fell into the pool of water. It was pretty deep, having a sharp cut-off bank, but he managed to fight his way, kicking and splashing, to the top and grabbed onto the bank.
The most beautiful elf maiden Marroc had ever seen glided out from behind the knobby Yew. Locks of thick, rich, bronzed hair fell loosely over her shoulders, their curls framing a pale, though pure and perfectly formed face. Optics of a deep gray, like the color of the sea's sky during a storm, were the same color as her swirling, silk robes. Turquoise gems, like rain drops, dotted the robe's neck line, sleeves, waist line, and the bottom hems, under of which a pair of steely gray trousers could be seen, before going into her boots. Half way up to her knees, they were also gray with turquoise gems sewn into the light, and easy-to-move-in fabric.
But the thing that caught Marroc's eyes at once was the sword. The long, slender blade wasn't in a sheath, like the one Gildor owned. It hung from a metal chain belt (probably mithril) around the elf's waist, and was made, most oddly, of wood. Paintings of green leaves ran down the length of the sword, and a green Beryl rest on the top of the handle, a spot of light hitting it, making it shadow its jade brilliance 'pon the trunk of the old Yew.
"Now..." she said, "...I think you should get out of that water. Don't you mortals get sick when you get cold?"
Marroc simply stared.
"Well?" She asked, sounding the least bit annoyed, "I am just asking. I don't know a lot about illnesses and such things."
Marroc blinked, bemused, his mouth dropping slightly open. Deciding not to wait for an answer, the elf strode forward, past the dove and the goat, and to the water's edge. She bent down and put her hands under Marroc's arms, and lifted him out of the water and set him on his feet.
"There!" She proclaimed, kneeling down next to him, "Now... why. Wont. You. talk?"
He looked up into her bright face, as she was still quite tall to him kneeling, and said with awe in his eyes, "Are yew an angel?"
The elf smiled a little confused smile, unsure of what to say.
"Err...no." She settled on saying
"Wot's yewr name?" Marroc asked her in a soft whisper.
"Lastriel Dulinwen*," she replied, equally as quiet, though her words sounded graceful and smooth where as his were his usual sort, toddler gibberish, "what's yours then? And erm...what ARE you?"
"Marroc, son of Tarroc Took," he replied, then added a bit resentfully, "and Oi'm a hobbit."
"A hobbit..." she turned the word over on her tongue, "...I have never heard of such a thing before. But..." she paused, " I haven't come to these lands in many many years..." she sighed. She really hadn't been here. For countless years.
After her parents had been killed in an orc ambush, Lastriel had been left all alone in the world, except for her younger brother, Lastrion** (who will play a major role in the future of our story). But now, Lastrion had found his soul mate, and left his sister's side as her constant companion to be with that rotten, twitty, totally un-elfish Randiriel Gil-Estel Percoi*** (who will also play a huge role), and Lastriel was, once again, alone. She sighed, then glanced back to the goat, who was staring at her, looking a spot confused.
"Your friend?" she asked Marroc, who nodded.
"An' moi only one, at dat," he said, sounding very depressed.
"What do you mean by that?" Lastriel asked quietly.
Marroc wrinkled his nose and gave a weak smile, "No one seems ta like me," he said, in a sad voice, "Oi dunno why, 'cause oi norra think oi nev-ah did nothing ta be meany ta dem..." (I don't know why because I don't think I did anything to be mean to them)
Lastriel smiled, trying to refrain herself from laughing. She could've sworn herself to be growing a little fond of the hobbit, "well, how about this then," she said, taking his little hand in her own long and graceful fingers, "I'll be your friend, if you'll be mine?"
Marroc blinked up at her, "Really?!"
Lastriel nodded.
With a tremendous spring, Marroc leapt up into the unsuspecting elf's arms. Surprised as she was, Lastriel patted his back in a nice, though rather rigid manner, before setting him on the ground.
"Now, Marroc son of Tarroc..." she tried to think of a good question,"...erm...how old are you?"
Marroc blinked, then held up five fingers for a second, before retracting them all again.
"Five?" Lastriel asked. Marroc shook his curly head,
"NO! Oi turneded sixish taday!"
"Sixty?"
"NO! Sixish!" he held up his hand again and counted out all five of his tiny fingers, before going to the next hand and holding out his index finger. Lastriel smiled.
"Oh... six, you mean."
"yep!"
Lastriel gave a weak smile. 6? She could hardly remember when she was so young!
"And where, hobbit child, are your parents?"
Now it was Marroc's turn for a weak smile, "Moi mummy is sick, an' Oi dun know why! Moi paddy norra tell me..." the smile turned upsides down, "...'ee yelled at me... so Oi came out 'ere wit moi Butch," he scratched the goat's head again, who bleated in pleasure.
Lastriel felt a bit saddened, "Your mummy is sick?" she asked, in a sympathetic voice, "Oh no!" she bent down and hugged him close, "well, at least it's your birthday. Good things always happen on special days" she gave him a sweet smile, which he sort-of returned with a sideways hopeless one.
~*~*~*~
Tarroc sat out in the parlor, nervously running his fingers through his hair as the healer, Bridle Deepdelver and his apprentice, Hildibrand Gamgee, looked over his wife. They had been in there for nearly an hour, while Tarroc waited outside, sweating and worrying. He had completely forgotten about Marroc for the time being.
Suddenly, the door of the parlor opened, and young Hildibrand walked out.
"Sir," he said, in a polite manner, "Would you like to go in and see your wife?" but Tarroc was already running past him on his way to their bedroom.
Bridle was packing away his tools in a small tote he carried under his arm. He was a tall and thin snake-like hobbit, rather unusual looking with his pale face, thinning hair and slits for eyes, whereas Hildibrand was almost exactly the opposite- young and boyish looking, with fuzzy brown hair and bright blue eyes. Both smelled strongly of a mixture of different herbs, though, and brought a sort of scary feeling into Tarroc's heart. As a lad growing up in Tookland, whenever there was a healer there, someone usually ended up dying- no one was sure if it was from the poor quality of the healer's training, or from the disease it's self.
Maggie was a state. Her beautiful curly blond Brandybuck mop was messier then ever, and the area around her closed, sleeping eyes where red, as the cough she had had hurt so badly that tears were squeezed out of their chocolate brown depths.
Tarroc sighed, and took her hand, gazing at his wife with a pained look.
"Dear..." He murmured.
"She's dying, Tarroc," Bridle said, solemnly, "There isn't yet a cure for the haze."
Tarroc's mouth dropped open, "Haze?"
"It's a disease that runs in the Old Buck family."
Tarroc sneezed, then looked worriedly back up to the healer after blowing his nose in a handkerchief he procured from his pocket.
"H-How long?" he asked, in a whisper.
"6 months, I'd reckon," Bridle replied, "I'm sorry, Tarroc."
The Took sighed, keeping in the tears; "Lodo will take you back to Bywater. But please... notify me at once if there is anything we can do to cure her...I...I can't raise Marroc on my own."
Bridle nodded, and the two healers left the room.
~*~*~*~
Just as Lodo's old cart, led by Loch the pony was rattling out the front gate of the Took's property, dusk was falling, and Marroc and Butch were returning from the Old Forest, the hobbit oblivious of the sad news that awaited him at home.
He led Butch into the stable, and locked him up for the night with a scratch on the head, then proceeded into his house.
There was a congealed air about him, as Marroc stepped into the foyer, pushing their large, brown door closed with difficulty. His father was sitting on the sofa in the entrance hall, looking off into space. Marroc tried determinedly to avoid him, still sour for the events of the hours before, but when his father called out his name sharply, he stiffened and the hair on the back of his neck became ridged at the tone of his voice.
"Yes, da?" he squeaked.
"Come an' sit by me, lad," Tarroc said, and scared, Marroc complied with his request. Tarroc sighed deeply, "Oi'm...Oi'm sorry I snapped at yew this morn'n, Marroc-Lad." He said. His voice sounded as though it hurt him to apologize, "Oi jus' been nervous 'bout yewr mum-"
"Is she feelin' betwer?" Marroc asked, a sad look in his eyes.
Tarroc knew very well that there was no way of getting around Marroc, "No...no, she isn't. Oi...Oi dun know how much longer she is going to be around..."
Marroc's eyes filled with silent tears, "She...she gonna die? Like Clementine?" Clementine had been an old milk cow that Marroc had been rather attached to, and had died shortly before the Ruby saga began. Marroc gave a little sob, before breaking out ino a crying fit. His father turned on him.
"NO MARROC! Yew dun cry!"
The lad's teary green eyes gazed up into his fathers, "Why not?"
"Because," Tarroc ran his hands through his hair again, "Yew never cry! DON'T EVER! That'll make a lass think yew're weak, and yew care ta much about yewrself ta ever care for them. No matter 'ow much it hurts."
Marroc's mouth dropped open, confused, "Okay..." he said, slowly. The words etched themselves into his brain forever
~Never cry...~
~*~*~*~
A/N:
*Lastriel Dulinwen: Listening maiden, lady of the nightingale
**Lastrion: he who listens
***Randiriel Gil-Estel Percoi: wandering maiden star of hope half-life.
VERY VERY simple elvish names. I made them up just when I was learning to speak the language. Lastriel, is also the translation of 'Samantha' into Elvish, which is my first middle name, and the name that everyone calls me.
Tarroc is...kinda...yeah... he's got some big problems. Really. The thing that he tells Marroc kind of ruins Marroc's whole life and gives him all kinds of emotional and social problems. Luckily *someone* comes and straightens Marroc out...
Erm... this chapter took so long to get up because I was in Florida for spring break. At my grandparents house. Unfortunately, there was bloody Red Tide at the beach, which sort of ruined everything.
Also, all of me and my close friends from school have hobbit names, which will come in and out of the story at odd intervals. Hildibrand Gamgee is my hommie Melissa, and Saradoc Brandybuck is my not-hommieish hommie Danielle. And of course, I am known as Marroc ^^.
Wow... I have bad English. Too lazy to change it x.X
Anyway, please review, and I am off to watch Moulin Rouge!
~Hippy :) Hobbit