The Call of The Wind
Summary: This is the story of a girl who came from another world. Known by many, she was known as the warrior of the wind, undefeatable, immortal, and protector of the free peoples of Middle-Earth. This is her story; her name was Vaiwa Heri, Lady of the Wind, last in her family line......
A/n: Well people, this is an old story I have decided to post on Some of you, my old readers, may recognize it as a story I took down awhile back. The original story line was a bit too mary sueish, so I've changed it around to fit the way I write now. Thanks to everyone who reads all my other stories, and you'll be happy to know I'm working on new chapters for each one. . Gomen! Thanks for being so patient! My mother's only letting me use the computer 30 minutes a day, plus I'm taking a bunch of advanced classes in my sophomore year. Vaiwa Heri is my own original character, and Lord of the Rings is (c) of the genius of J.R.R Tolkein. Note that this story is not as happy or humorous as my other fics; this is rated PG-13 for mentions of cutting, suicide, child abuse, and violence. Just warning you. Please enjoy, and R&R.
Well, let me see, what story shall I tell tonight? What? You say you want to know the story of The Lady of Wind? Hmmm. Well, all right, I suppose so. This story is quite long though. Are you certain? Oh all right, you win. Now let me see.....Ah! Now I remember.
Long ago, a young woman lived in another world, far from this one and very different. She was strong and brave, pure of heart, and a true warrior. Her mother had died when she was very young, and her father was a terrible man, full of hatred towards the girl who resembled the woman that he had loved. One day, when the autumn leaves where beginning to fall, a terrible rage came upon him, and this, my friends, is where our story begins..............
Chapter 1: Broken
Trista O'Maverick might have been pretty, if she had ever smiled. Her long red hair had a few strands of black in her bangs, and her eyes had once been a deep, intense green with golden flecks; now they were the color of one who was dead. Her skin was so pale she looked like a vampire to some people. Her voice had once been rich and full of music, before she had stopped talking. At 15, she was tall and gangly, very thin, and she moved like a ghost. She had one friend; the rest had left her long ago. She dressed like a Goth, only wearing the darkest of blacks. Yet even so, her clothes were simple and plain; black jeans, a black t-shirt that looked too small for her body, and simple leather boots. There were no dangly chains, no make-up, no jewelry, no pierced ears, no trench coats. When asked, she would just shrug and walk away. Trista had long given up caring about anything.
It was a known fact that she cut. You could see the long, thin scars caressing her body, on her wrists, on her arms, near her slender neck. Occasionally, you catch glimpses of bruises and cuts, not self-inflicted, but you would just shrug it off. Who would care?
Maybe, deep down, she did. Once, a long time ago.
All of her relatives were gone; when her mother was alive, Trista had never heard her mention any possible family at all. It was just her mother, father, and herself. There had never been anyone else. Even so, she had been happy. Those were wonderful times. Their house was full of fun and light, with delicious smells and her mother's bright, sunny smile and sweet laughter, her father's loving pride and protection, and her own childish cries of delight.
When she was 10, she and her mother were in an accident. Her mother died soon afterwards; the doctors hadn't been able to save her. Trista survived, but just barely. Leon O'Maverick, once a kind, laughing man, went insane with grief, pain and anger. He couldn't bare to see a daughter who so resembled the women he loved; when Trista finally came home, he shut himself in his room. For months on end, he wouldn't come out, sleeping, dreaming, and weeping of the love he had lost. When he finally came out, he went to a bar, got drunk, came home, and beat her until Trista had fallen unconscious. When she stood in the shower, she could still feel the long healed scars, her father's scars, under the fresh, new ones created from that hated belt and fearsome whip. Her first scars were even deeper under the second ones, and they were also embedded in her heart. Now the house was dark. No one spoke, no one smiled, no one laughed. All you could hear was screaming, and the dying silence of the dark. Sometimes, you couldn't even hear that.
Trista's room was her sanctuary, her home a house when her father was gone. But she always knew he would come back. Her room had dark blue walls, faded brown curtains waving from the white windows. Her carpet was a soft tan color. Her shelves were covered with books; fantasy, sci-fi, fiction, mythology, poetry, books of History, Wicca spell books, examinations of the Tarot and fortune-telling, mystery, and her own writings, kept in black leather journals, pieces of paper, whatever was handy at the time. An old windows 98 computer on a neat desk, an easel with her painted artwork and sketches near one window. Near the faded window seat was a dark brown dresser, and facing it was her bed. There were no posters, no stuffed animals, no bright colors; it was plain, and simple, and that was how she liked it. She avoided the rest of her house; a trashed living/dining room, the dirty kitchen, her father's room, two bathrooms, the foyer, and the basement. Trista hated the basement most of all. It was dark, and cold, filled with insects that seemed to crawl over her naked skin as she lay there, blood and bruises kissing her broken body, the only sounds her father's crazed yelling, the sounds of her body breaking, her inward, unheard screams of horror. The cold, cement floor was covered with dried blood, mixing with dirt.
Trista knew her father would not violate her; as crazed as he was, as full of grief as he was, he could not do it. She knew he slept with other women; she heard how dead females had been found, naked and raped, in deserted alleys, always choked to death, covered with bruises, their mutilated bodies barely recognizable. She often wondered how her father could call himself human.
She had two comforts in the World; one, her only friend Jessi; she understood Trista to the point where she might of called her a sister; two, her mother's ring. When they had lain together in the street, struggling as their life's blood pored out of their body, her mother's dying eyes filled with tears at her daughter's naked body, she had slipped her that ring, whispering to her, "I'm so sorry I couldn't protect you.....take my ring, and don't forget to live....live, Trista." Those were her mother's final words. Her eyes had closed forever soon afterwards. And now, aside from those two comforts, she was alone. Always cold, and so bitterly alone.
A/n: I warned you that it wouldn't be happy. That's all for chapter one; thank you for reading. This story is dedicated to my friends, in all their suffering; other people who have suffered as Trista has suffered, and the person I lost years ago, nothing more than a ghost now. Please R&R.