Hello again! First of all, thanks to my reviewers: I love you! I am forever
grateful. So sorry this took as long as it did, my muse has been
hibernating, thanks a lot. I tried to put a more comic edge on this
chapter, thanks to my, er, ever so helpful sister's advice. ("It's good,
but to intense, ya know?") Thanks. I hope you like it, I really do.
Reviews, please!
Disclaimer: I don't own anything; it belongs to the brilliant mind of Professor Tolkien.
I am a scribe. A recorder of thoughts and words. I remember long ago, my father served the king himself as a gifted scribe. Father noticed that I could neatly and accurately write things I was told, even a rapid pace. So it began, me following in my father's footsteps. I, of course could never rival my father; he wrote with bold, quick strokes, forming beautifully shaped letters that spilled from his quill as it flew across the parchment. My own penmanship, in contrast to my fathers, which was masculine and solid, is florid and slightly slanted.
"Look, Elráwien," he would say, "see how the words dip and wave on the page?" I would nod, carefully scrutinizing the penmanship of the kingdom's various subjects, and he would continue.
"A sure sign, a sure sign child, of instability and volatility," he would whisper, leaning in as if telling me one of the universe's grand secrets.
"Volatility," I said, nodding sagely, enjoying the sound of the new, adult-sounding word rolling off my tongue. Snapping back to the present, I laugh softly to myself at the memories. I resume my task, placing a large, thick volume on a shelf just out of reach. When my services are not requested, I can be found in Mirkwood's massive library, either pouring over works or tidying. I have appointed myself the unofficial keeper of the books, since the previous one journeyed to Aman.
I stretch to my fullest extent, balancing on one foot trying to slide the tome back of the shelf. Suddenly, I'm falling backwards, and the book, as if by its own will, flies from my hand. Time seems to have slowed; I gasp and fall back on something solid-and warm. I'm so taken aback that I don't move for a moment or two from the pair of arms that hold me. Finally, when the fact I am not sprawled on the floor registers, I tilt my head up and find a pair of blue eyes staring back, twinkling with mirth.
"My Lady, it is fortunate that I stumbled upon you as soon as I did," Legolas, Prince of Eryn Lasgalen said jovially. I felt my face grow warm, silently screaming in horror at my own ungainliness. I, humiliatingly enough, had fallen directly into the arms of the Prince. The Prince! I had just made a complete fool of myself in
front of the heir to the throne. Oh, Valar, what did he think of me now?
"Indeed it is, my Lord," I said, wishing that he had missed and I was lying on the ground unconscious. Legolas up righted me, making sure I wasn't hurt. Gracefully, he bent down and retrieved the accursed volume, replacing it on the shelf with ease.
The unfairness of it all.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything; it belongs to the brilliant mind of Professor Tolkien.
I am a scribe. A recorder of thoughts and words. I remember long ago, my father served the king himself as a gifted scribe. Father noticed that I could neatly and accurately write things I was told, even a rapid pace. So it began, me following in my father's footsteps. I, of course could never rival my father; he wrote with bold, quick strokes, forming beautifully shaped letters that spilled from his quill as it flew across the parchment. My own penmanship, in contrast to my fathers, which was masculine and solid, is florid and slightly slanted.
"Look, Elráwien," he would say, "see how the words dip and wave on the page?" I would nod, carefully scrutinizing the penmanship of the kingdom's various subjects, and he would continue.
"A sure sign, a sure sign child, of instability and volatility," he would whisper, leaning in as if telling me one of the universe's grand secrets.
"Volatility," I said, nodding sagely, enjoying the sound of the new, adult-sounding word rolling off my tongue. Snapping back to the present, I laugh softly to myself at the memories. I resume my task, placing a large, thick volume on a shelf just out of reach. When my services are not requested, I can be found in Mirkwood's massive library, either pouring over works or tidying. I have appointed myself the unofficial keeper of the books, since the previous one journeyed to Aman.
I stretch to my fullest extent, balancing on one foot trying to slide the tome back of the shelf. Suddenly, I'm falling backwards, and the book, as if by its own will, flies from my hand. Time seems to have slowed; I gasp and fall back on something solid-and warm. I'm so taken aback that I don't move for a moment or two from the pair of arms that hold me. Finally, when the fact I am not sprawled on the floor registers, I tilt my head up and find a pair of blue eyes staring back, twinkling with mirth.
"My Lady, it is fortunate that I stumbled upon you as soon as I did," Legolas, Prince of Eryn Lasgalen said jovially. I felt my face grow warm, silently screaming in horror at my own ungainliness. I, humiliatingly enough, had fallen directly into the arms of the Prince. The Prince! I had just made a complete fool of myself in
front of the heir to the throne. Oh, Valar, what did he think of me now?
"Indeed it is, my Lord," I said, wishing that he had missed and I was lying on the ground unconscious. Legolas up righted me, making sure I wasn't hurt. Gracefully, he bent down and retrieved the accursed volume, replacing it on the shelf with ease.
The unfairness of it all.