Wait for the Sunrise
by Vané Alasse
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Author's Note:
The Nimrodel poetry is taken directly from Tolkien (The Fellowship of the Ring), while Falath's lullaby is my own composition. The song in the house of healing uses the first line from Tolkien's eagle song from The Return of the King, but I made the rest.
Also, any lines or characters taken from Tolkien were deliberate. I do not claim their invention.
I would love feedback! :)
Enjoy!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Chapter One The Siege
A crash shook the floor, and a deep boom rumbled through the ground. Dust blew in acrid plumes through the street, casting an artificial blackness. Smoke and ash wafted on the air, adding to the confusion. Clashing metal could be heard below, and screams of desperation. Rhythmical stomping and a resonating beat, as of a thousand drums, pulsed all around, penetrating the gloom with its savage endurance.
Falath clutched the table as she swayed with the quaking floor beneath her feet. She did not scream; she did not speak at all. This terror must be endured like the others which had come before, and screaming would only add to her anxiety. Her face was white, brazen like stone, and her grey eyes were marbled with tense fear. Weariness traced its aging lines over her young complexion, and youth seemed to vanish in its possession. She had not had the blessing of sleep for many days now. How many she could not count. The hours, the very minutes, came so slowly and stretched for such a length of time that an exact calculation could not be given. Each heaved more weight on the growing grip of despair that pressed hard against her heart. Gondor was falling.
Soft weeping could be heard in a corner of the dimly lit room. Eerie red light flashed and flickered on the wall. By it the shadows near the base of the wall were momentarily dispersed, and a figure could be seen huddled, limp and whimpering. Falath glanced at it, knowing full well it was her mother. A throb began in her head again. Seeing her mother in this pitiable state was crushing. Was this the same mother who had cuddled her as a child and nurtured her as she grew to womanhood? Was this the same mother who had sung to her songs of long ago, under the sky of stars in the cool nights of summer?
"It is alright, Atara," said a voice. "They have not broken through. The walls still stand and the city is not taken."
The young woman who had spoken approached her mother. She reached out her hands to comfort her, and stroked the grey hairs on her mother's head.
But her mother replied with anguish, "What do you care for my suffering, Brethil? I have tasted bitterness in its most potent form, and yet a little while and I again will take up the cup. And the dregs will not be pleasurable. What do you know of my pain?"
Brethil backed away in alarm. She strode to the window, glancing at her older sister as she passed the table.
Falath was fondling one hand in the other, as she had always done when nervous. Her long, white fingers were cold and shaking.
She shook her head sadly at Brethil. "It is hopeless."
Brethil nodded. She peered out the window, into the soot and dirt. "Hopeless. Yes, Falath. For all of us."
Falath did not respond. Another crash rocked the house suddenly. The cupboard tipped and plates and bowls shattered to pieces. Brethil cowered beneath the window, and Falath covered her ears.
Thick silence then reigned in the room for a while. The stench of battle and fire rose and fell with the hot wind. Whether night or day, it could not be told. The gloom of Mordor hung over the city, black and penetrating. Footsteps thundered wildly. Cries of the dying stabbed the air and were cut short. Falath shuddered.
"Your brother?" asked her mother from the corner.
Falath trembled silently by the table. Her brow was creased, and her wet eyes were wild.
Brethil turned from her mother to her sister. "Firion will not be in open battle," she said softly.
Falath nodded silently, and Brethil returned to the window.
"Yet he is in the battle," whispered Falath.
"He is an archer, sister. Combat is not his position. Besides, he keeps the second gate. The enemy cannot even breach the first. He will not be in danger."
"Yet if the city's need is dire—"
"Do not let your mind take such a course, Falath."
Falath submitted. As long as she could remember she had looked to her younger sister for strength. Brethil was never afraid; she always had a clear mind and steady heart. Today was no different.
When the siege had begun, so many restless hours before, Brethil had been strong. When their father volunteered to accompany Captain Faramir to reclaim Osgiliath, Brethil had supported him though Falath and her mother had bid him reconsider. Falath remembered embracing her father before he left, knowing he might not come back. He had kissed her forehead and each cheek, as he had done when she was a child. He smiled, and marched willingly to the aid of his country. He did not return. When news reached them of Captain Faramir's desperate retreat with the meager two-thirds of his men, they suspected the worst. When it was confirmed that their father was not among the survivors, melancholy had settled deeply on the family. The mother became sullen and despondent. Despair reached out its painful claws, crushing and breaking their livelihood. And Firion was still in the service of Gondor, for as his livery displayed he was a guard of the city. Falath shook her head violently and brushed away her tears as she imagined for a moment what she would do if her dear brother were killed. Oh, she did not want to face it!
A little gasp escaped Brethil as she looked outside.
"What is it?" asked Falath.
Brethil motioned for her to come to the window. Quickly Falath joined her sister, and together they looked onto the darkened street.
Footfalls could be heard approaching. Two steady paces and two low voices came closer. Mail jingled with each step. The bleakness seemed to fade for a moment, and the two walkers were revealed.
One was tall and clothed all in a brilliant white. A staff he bore, and from his face hung a long, white beard. At his side strode a man of slightly lesser stature, though certainly no less dignity. His attire displayed richly an elegant swan on a deep blue backdrop. His ornate helm was silver, and from beneath it flowing hair could be seen. At his side hung a long sword.
The two men continued down the street. They spoke to one another and hardly glanced at their surroundings. Soon they vanished into the darkness. Gloom fell heavily about the house again.
"Who are they?" whispered Falath.
"You know," answered Brethil.
"Can it be?"
"Why not?"
"To think," said Falath. "I have seen Mithrandir and—"
"And the prince of Dol Amroth," finished Brethil.
They stood together in awed silence, breathing quickly.
"Did you see his face, Falath?"
"Which one?"
"Prince Imrahil's, of course."
"I did notice it, yes."
"Oh, such valour! Such might! Were that I had been born with such noble heritage as his! Did you see it? Could you tell?"
"Yes. It is as if one had sailed from Numenor to help us in our plight. He is as the kings of old."
"If tales be true, there is Elven blood in the veins of his folk. For the people of Nimrodel dwelt in that country for a time."
"Yes, Brethil."
"The light, did you see it? The glimmer in his eyes? It is of the Eldar, certainly!"
Brethil twitched with excitement while Falath leaned against the windowsill.
A voice outside of another onlooker broke softly into song.
Beside the fall of Nimrodel,
By water clear and cool,
A voice as falling silver fell
Into the shining pool.
The lonely voice seemed to quench the gloom. It rang pure and gentle over the ears of those who heard it, reviving hope.
An Elven maid was there of old,
A shining star by day:
Her mantle white was hemmed with gold,
Her shoes of silver grey.
Brethil now joined the singer.
A star was bound upon her brows,
A light was on her hair
As sun upon the golden boughs
Of Lórien the fair.
Together their voices wove the ancient lay. Harmony bound the delicate tune, and the verses slipped into the dark and melted away.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Author's Note:
The Nimrodel poetry is taken directly from Tolkien (The Fellowship of the Ring), while Falath's lullaby is my own composition. The song in the house of healing uses the first line from Tolkien's eagle song from The Return of the King, but I made the rest.
Also, any lines or characters taken from Tolkien were deliberate. I do not claim their invention.
I would love feedback! :)
Enjoy!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Chapter One The Siege
A crash shook the floor, and a deep boom rumbled through the ground. Dust blew in acrid plumes through the street, casting an artificial blackness. Smoke and ash wafted on the air, adding to the confusion. Clashing metal could be heard below, and screams of desperation. Rhythmical stomping and a resonating beat, as of a thousand drums, pulsed all around, penetrating the gloom with its savage endurance.
Falath clutched the table as she swayed with the quaking floor beneath her feet. She did not scream; she did not speak at all. This terror must be endured like the others which had come before, and screaming would only add to her anxiety. Her face was white, brazen like stone, and her grey eyes were marbled with tense fear. Weariness traced its aging lines over her young complexion, and youth seemed to vanish in its possession. She had not had the blessing of sleep for many days now. How many she could not count. The hours, the very minutes, came so slowly and stretched for such a length of time that an exact calculation could not be given. Each heaved more weight on the growing grip of despair that pressed hard against her heart. Gondor was falling.
Soft weeping could be heard in a corner of the dimly lit room. Eerie red light flashed and flickered on the wall. By it the shadows near the base of the wall were momentarily dispersed, and a figure could be seen huddled, limp and whimpering. Falath glanced at it, knowing full well it was her mother. A throb began in her head again. Seeing her mother in this pitiable state was crushing. Was this the same mother who had cuddled her as a child and nurtured her as she grew to womanhood? Was this the same mother who had sung to her songs of long ago, under the sky of stars in the cool nights of summer?
"It is alright, Atara," said a voice. "They have not broken through. The walls still stand and the city is not taken."
The young woman who had spoken approached her mother. She reached out her hands to comfort her, and stroked the grey hairs on her mother's head.
But her mother replied with anguish, "What do you care for my suffering, Brethil? I have tasted bitterness in its most potent form, and yet a little while and I again will take up the cup. And the dregs will not be pleasurable. What do you know of my pain?"
Brethil backed away in alarm. She strode to the window, glancing at her older sister as she passed the table.
Falath was fondling one hand in the other, as she had always done when nervous. Her long, white fingers were cold and shaking.
She shook her head sadly at Brethil. "It is hopeless."
Brethil nodded. She peered out the window, into the soot and dirt. "Hopeless. Yes, Falath. For all of us."
Falath did not respond. Another crash rocked the house suddenly. The cupboard tipped and plates and bowls shattered to pieces. Brethil cowered beneath the window, and Falath covered her ears.
Thick silence then reigned in the room for a while. The stench of battle and fire rose and fell with the hot wind. Whether night or day, it could not be told. The gloom of Mordor hung over the city, black and penetrating. Footsteps thundered wildly. Cries of the dying stabbed the air and were cut short. Falath shuddered.
"Your brother?" asked her mother from the corner.
Falath trembled silently by the table. Her brow was creased, and her wet eyes were wild.
Brethil turned from her mother to her sister. "Firion will not be in open battle," she said softly.
Falath nodded silently, and Brethil returned to the window.
"Yet he is in the battle," whispered Falath.
"He is an archer, sister. Combat is not his position. Besides, he keeps the second gate. The enemy cannot even breach the first. He will not be in danger."
"Yet if the city's need is dire—"
"Do not let your mind take such a course, Falath."
Falath submitted. As long as she could remember she had looked to her younger sister for strength. Brethil was never afraid; she always had a clear mind and steady heart. Today was no different.
When the siege had begun, so many restless hours before, Brethil had been strong. When their father volunteered to accompany Captain Faramir to reclaim Osgiliath, Brethil had supported him though Falath and her mother had bid him reconsider. Falath remembered embracing her father before he left, knowing he might not come back. He had kissed her forehead and each cheek, as he had done when she was a child. He smiled, and marched willingly to the aid of his country. He did not return. When news reached them of Captain Faramir's desperate retreat with the meager two-thirds of his men, they suspected the worst. When it was confirmed that their father was not among the survivors, melancholy had settled deeply on the family. The mother became sullen and despondent. Despair reached out its painful claws, crushing and breaking their livelihood. And Firion was still in the service of Gondor, for as his livery displayed he was a guard of the city. Falath shook her head violently and brushed away her tears as she imagined for a moment what she would do if her dear brother were killed. Oh, she did not want to face it!
A little gasp escaped Brethil as she looked outside.
"What is it?" asked Falath.
Brethil motioned for her to come to the window. Quickly Falath joined her sister, and together they looked onto the darkened street.
Footfalls could be heard approaching. Two steady paces and two low voices came closer. Mail jingled with each step. The bleakness seemed to fade for a moment, and the two walkers were revealed.
One was tall and clothed all in a brilliant white. A staff he bore, and from his face hung a long, white beard. At his side strode a man of slightly lesser stature, though certainly no less dignity. His attire displayed richly an elegant swan on a deep blue backdrop. His ornate helm was silver, and from beneath it flowing hair could be seen. At his side hung a long sword.
The two men continued down the street. They spoke to one another and hardly glanced at their surroundings. Soon they vanished into the darkness. Gloom fell heavily about the house again.
"Who are they?" whispered Falath.
"You know," answered Brethil.
"Can it be?"
"Why not?"
"To think," said Falath. "I have seen Mithrandir and—"
"And the prince of Dol Amroth," finished Brethil.
They stood together in awed silence, breathing quickly.
"Did you see his face, Falath?"
"Which one?"
"Prince Imrahil's, of course."
"I did notice it, yes."
"Oh, such valour! Such might! Were that I had been born with such noble heritage as his! Did you see it? Could you tell?"
"Yes. It is as if one had sailed from Numenor to help us in our plight. He is as the kings of old."
"If tales be true, there is Elven blood in the veins of his folk. For the people of Nimrodel dwelt in that country for a time."
"Yes, Brethil."
"The light, did you see it? The glimmer in his eyes? It is of the Eldar, certainly!"
Brethil twitched with excitement while Falath leaned against the windowsill.
A voice outside of another onlooker broke softly into song.
Beside the fall of Nimrodel,
By water clear and cool,
A voice as falling silver fell
Into the shining pool.
The lonely voice seemed to quench the gloom. It rang pure and gentle over the ears of those who heard it, reviving hope.
An Elven maid was there of old,
A shining star by day:
Her mantle white was hemmed with gold,
Her shoes of silver grey.
Brethil now joined the singer.
A star was bound upon her brows,
A light was on her hair
As sun upon the golden boughs
Of Lórien the fair.
Together their voices wove the ancient lay. Harmony bound the delicate tune, and the verses slipped into the dark and melted away.