A/N: several people have asked me via review and private message about Anarmacil's story. Chapter 3 is up now, under the title Lornarion: Lithuin Tindu. Just an FYI because even though chapter 2 has been up for a while, people can't seem to find the fic.
Down to a Sunless Sea
They saw her passage through the Halfling township, she knew that. She could feel their eyes just as strongly as Anarmacil's hunched shoulders proclaimed he could. The Nenmarta didn't know what the golden haired youth was thinking and feeling. She was too wrapped up at first in her own pain. It seemed that each pair of eyes that lifted to stare at her, to watch her plod along on the horse's back, was a fist in her belly, a kick to her kidneys, a blow to the face, a slap. It hurt, having them look at her. Each glance was a blow that knocked the breath from her lungs. Each face bore an expression of revulsion for the Black Begetting, the putrescent creature on the fey (1) horse's back, invading their town, polluting their home as she made it to the drive in front of Bag End.
They saw her fall, but she didn't know that. They did nothing, and she didn't know that, either.
They saw the horse, which knocked over a hand-drawn cart full of porcelain crockery, smashing it all to pieces, in the stallion's headlong flight out of Hobbiton and into the forest, but she didn't know that, either.
All she did know was that her vision was swimming. Black spots danced before her eyes as the world began shimmering and melting around the edges of her sight. All she knew was, her body was one throbbing slab of pain.
All she knew was, something was wrong with Anar. He'd looked at her face for a long moment, then given a half-strangled cry of absolute agony and yelled out, "I'm not a murderer!" He'd turned away, staggering, and run into the woods.
Elluine Moraelin knew, knew with absolute certainty, that Anarmacil Carlothel would never, ever leave her alone in the state she was in unless something was truly wrong with him. He clung too strongly to his honor, his duty as a man, a lord, and a Narmarta, to leave a woman defenseless, injured and sick with pain, on a horse she was too small to control, in a town that was unsafe, just because he didn't feel the need to protect her anymore. He was too smart, too caring, too… too rebellious to allow her to wander off and leave her alone. He was sick. Something was wrong with him. He couldn't help it.
The question was, what was wrong? And what could she do?
As her hands spasmed in pain, as her breath hitched in her chest, she fell from Ambarone's back and landed in a painful heap at the flagstone steps leading up to the round, green, wooden door to Bag End. Her skull hit the bottom step with a resounding crack, and as she tried to get breath to scream, to call for Anar, for her mother, for help, for Frodo Baggins, a numbing darkness wrapped around her consciousness and pulled her down into oblivion.
Cirince watched. She was good at that.
Weak compared to the people she had been raised to admire, the winged ravisoron, a major part of the air force of the Liemuina, she was limited by her humanity and had thus learned to extrapolate upon what skills she did have. Whereas her half-brother had strong, powerful wings with which he could fly, hers were ornamental only. It had taken her all of her fifteen years to learn to maneuver with them on the ground, awkward and ungainly as they were. Too small for flight, too large to hide, and too delicate to not count them as a weakness, the feathery wings the color of burnished copper were her greatest drawback as a half-ravisoron. Where her father's eyes were keen as an eagle's and he had the ability to see in the dark, like a cat, both Cirince and her brother had eyes so sensitive they was nearly blinded in all but the dimmest candlelight. She often wore cloth over her eyes to protect them. Her form was human, despite her wings, delicately pointed ears, and too-powerful eyes, and thus weak compared to the other Liemuina younglings she was often in company with. She was strong for a human girl of the Peerage (a class she would have belonged to if she'd been entirely human) but only because of the years spent roaming the cliffs where she'd lived for most of her life. She was no stronger than the average human farm girl.
And she was small. Weak. Not strong, not tall, not pretty, not powerful. There was only one thing she was truly good at – watching.
She had learned from an early age how to pretend that she was invisible, that she didn't exist, that she wasn't there. If she pretended hard enough, people had a difficult time remembering her themselves, and if she were hidden carefully enough, she would be nearly impossible to see. She found out later from her mother that it was the ravisoron version of the Glamour, the magic all Liemuina had (in some way). All her glamour allowed her was the ability to sometimes hide herself when the Liemuina of the Village would look for her and she didn't want to be found. Her mother had the ability, as well. So did the Rangers, the Elves, the Hobbits, and some warriors. Many children who had grown up in forests possessed the power to hide themselves this way as well. She'd been disappointed when she'd discovered just how common that form of Glamour was.
But it was what she did with this power that set her apart – she had learned early on how to spy on people. That's what she did now.
"They got away from me," Erynmir whined, kicking a stone with one slipper-shod foot. "Something was blocking my influence with the forest. I do not know who has that kind of ability – no one here, that is certain – but it prevented me from recapturing the wretch after she and Anarmacil made it into the forest." The future Wood Witch of Buckland glared hatefully at the tall trees surrounding the Village clearing as if the forest itself had betrayed her.
Cirince rolled her eyes, but otherwise remained motionless. She despised Erynmir, for her vanity, her pride, her cruelty, and her penchant for theatrics and melodramatic fits. One other thing that the winged girl despised about the Village in general and Erynmir in particular was the deference paid to Mistress Nimrohwen. Cirince hated that most of all.
Motionless, wings tucked tightly against her back, covered in mud from when she'd fallen into a pond, and nearly invisible against the forest backdrop in her current state, the half-ravisoron listened as the Cenmarta with the cruel streak continued to rant about how the trees had refused to tell her what they knew. Cirince didn't know anything about that – her domain was the sky, snow capped peaks and windy cliffs, not the forest. But somehow, the young girl had the idea that Tauriel was behind it all. The Tavari, the oldest Liemuina that Cirince had ever met, underestimated her own influence. Lacking power, she had other gifts – charisma, charm, diplomacy, and an air about her that made it obvious that if she took the time to notice you, it was obvious that you were important to her. She was also slow to anger, slow to hate, and slow to hold a grudge. She was like a tree, patient as the redwood whose life anchored her to Middle Earth.
Yes, she highly suspected Tauriel of having something to do with this. It was just like her to sway the forest to her point of view without even having to exert any power at all. Just like her, indeed.
Tauriel wanted to brain herself with a rock. The only reason she hadn't done so yet was due to the fact that no rocks were available high up in the oak tree she was nestled in, trying to sleep. The only way to brain herself from that height was to throw herself out of the tree and make sure her head hit a branch or two on the way down. She wasn't high up enough for that to work out. It would only hurt, not give her what she wanted.
She hurt. It was the only reason she was being so irrational. Her skull throbbed. Her body ached. Her feet hurt. She simply wanted to lie in the crotch of this tree and fall asleep. She could feel the starlight on her hair, her skin, and it was sweet, but it was mingled with the sensation of approaching dawn. Two hours, maybe three, and the sun would rise over the horizon, gilding the trunks of the trees and the dark green, summer leaves with gold, peach, and crimson light. She loved the dawn, but not if she'd been awake for more than a full day.
She couldn't sleep.
It was the Halflings. They were so different, so strange, so full of life and excitement. She had done more in this one week than she had done in the last year. Being with Pippin and Merry excited her, made her feel… young. She felt so young around them. She hadn't been young since the Second Age of Middle Earth. And yet here she was, feeling like she hadn't felt since her great, redwood tree had been scarcely taller than she was.
Tauriel turned her head fractionally to look at Breeyid, who was climbing the tree the tavari was trying unsuccessfully to sleep in. The red-haired half-Liemuina girl settled herself onto a tree branch and began jauntily swinging her legs. Her bare feet, caked with earth, were moon white splotched with darkness in the starlight.
"No, just staring at the sky looking for a moon I know for certain isn't there," the wood girl replied airily, waving a hand to indicate the leafy canopy above her, blocking the starry sky lit – or unlit, as it were – with the new moon. "Obvious, Breeyid, I cannot sleep." She turned to glance at the half-breed girl's face, to ascertain if her sharp sarcasm had hurt the girl's feelings. Breeyid was still smiling, so either she hadn't realized Tauriel was being sarcastic, or she didn't care. It was difficult to tell with her, at times.
"It's kind of exciting, isn't it?" The red head asked her, leaning forward to glance down at the two Little Folk asleep upon the ground. "These Hobbits are so kind. The ones we've always run into were cruel to us but these two are so sweet."
"Don't be deceived," Tauriel murmured, although she couldn't find it in herself to be as fervent in her words as she might have been before meeting Meriadoc. "Hobbits are Hobbits," she went on, "and the Hidden Ones are the Hidden Ones. After we find Anarmacil and Elluine and go to that party, we leave. Do not become too attached to them while we're here. It will only bring you sorrow."
"Well aren't you just a bundle of joy? I understand that you're supposed to be ancient or something, but all the same, I must say you're a gloomy one. Why so glum all the time?" Breeyid demanded, incredulous.
"I am only warning you that things aren't going to turn out well if you insist on liking these Hobbits."
"How can you not like them?" She asked Tauriel, who stiffened.
How could you not like the two Hobbits? That had been what Tauriel had been whimpering to herself in her mind the entire trip. How could you not enjoy being around such exuberant and joyful people? Breeyid was right, these two Halflings were much kinder than the ones they had had dealings with previously. Merry and Pippin made a point to be gentlemanly to the two maidens, helping them over logs without being asked, fetching them soap root for bathing and guarding the streams with backs turned to make sure no one came upon them and harassed them, offering them first share of the meals. Until this point, the girls' experience with the Little People generally involved vulgar curses, lewd suggestions from a few, the cold shoulder, and thrown rocks. This genteel politeness was shocking, new, refreshing. And the two lads were just so funny….
"We have to stop ourselves from liking them," the Tavari told her in clipped tones as she wrenched her wandering thoughts back into her head with harsh force. "Otherwise, we're in mortal danger. You know that."
Breeyid blinked, realizing that she hadn't thought of the law since meeting Pippin and Merry. Of course, the meeting was not their fault, and the invitation issued could not be helped. They wouldn't be punished for that. But might they be punished if it seemed like they were searching for excuses to remain in the Halflings' company? It was a frightening question – and a valid one. The Cenmarta maid looked at Tauriel, whose face was blank of any emotion in the wan starlight, and she shivered.
The answer to that question was a very loud, resounding yes.
He saw it from the corner of his eye, and it rocked him like a brutal wind rocks a tree, but it penetrated his brain in tiny fragments too disjointed at first to make any kind of sense. Flashes of images, fragments of memory, wisps of scent and sound. A horse whinnied, and bolted, its eyes rolling so you could see the whites, its mouth frothing and foaming. A blue gown, so pale it was nearly gray, mended so many times it was nearly a sack on the thin frame, arrested his attention from the horse. But what struck him hard, what punched into his chest like a fist, knocking the wind from his lungs, was the pale, too-thin body falling to the ground in a billowing cloud of flaxen hair, her head hitting the flagstone step with a crack like snapping bone.
It was actually Gandalf who saw her first, but Frodo was at her side in an instant, lifting the limp form into his arms. The familiar face, its planes and contours etched into his memory, was still nearly unrecognizable beneath new and old bruises, half-healed cuts, and a horrid weal that parted the once average, almost homely face into diagonal sections, permanently disfiguring her, ruining any chances of prettiness. Her bottom lip was stitched from just above her chin to the plumpness of the actual lip with black thread. It made the Halfling shudder. Holding the girl tightly in his arms, he staggered to his feet and turned the Grey Wizard.
"Give her to me," the old man commanded, and without waiting for acquiescence, took the blond woman out of Frodo's arms and began carrying her up the steps. "Look after my cart, Frodo, if you would be so kind. Have no fear," he added in a much gentler tone. "I will take care of her."
The Halfling nodded and went to do as he'd been bid while the wizard disappeared into the Hobbit hole. He actually had to take the pony and cart to Bagshot Row – there was no place to stable a beast like that at Bag End.
He found the Gaffer and Samwise working in their humble garden in the front of their Hobbit hole, their hands caked with good, tilled earth. In Sam's cupped hands was a fragile, delicate violet shoot, just unfurling a tiny, purple bud. The look on the Hobbit's face was one of almost incredulous wonder. Frodo felt a tiny drop of calm suffuse his spirit. It seemed as if, in a world where violets like this one could throw up pale, green shoots and give off such lovely blossoms, things weren't as frightening and horrible as the sight of Elluine Moraelin lying on Bag End's flagstone steps had led him to believe for a moment.
"Mister Frodo, sir!" Sam saw his young master's face and immediately realized something dreadful was afoot in the gentlehobbit's life (2). Sam placed the violet in a pot and handed the pot to his father before getting to his feet. "What's the matter, Mr. Frodo?"
"I need to stable this pony and cart here if I could, Sam," Frodo managed to get out. His throat felt perilously tight, a lump rising up in it as he glanced over at the mound in the Hill that was Bag End. He had not expected to see the Village maiden who had saved his life all those years ago so soon, and not lying unconscious on the pavement leading to his own front door. Forcibly turning his thoughts from the injured woman he and the Grey Wizard had discovered on his doorstep, he turned back to Sam, who immediately moved to take the little pony's reins. Frodo moved off of the cart bench to the ground, allowing Sam to take the cart away.
The older Halfling turned to run back to Bag End, but a hand on his shoulder stopped him. He turned to see Gaffer Gamgee looking down on him with a strangely concerned look upon his face.
"Young Master Frodo… is there something amiss?"
Frodo opened his mouth to speak, but closed it almost immediately. What should he say? He wasn't sure if he ought to mention that a girl from the Village was residing in his home at this moment. Was it safe to have such news spread around? The Gaffer meant well, Frodo knew that. He would never intentionally hurt anyone, even a stranger from the Village. But he was also a notorious gossip. What if something he said got to the wrong person? Would Elluine be safe if her presence wasn't a secret?
How in the world could he keep her presence a secret for very long?
Quickly, the Halfling told the Old Gaffer what was going on, but nothing about what Elluine had done for him as a young Hobbit bairn, floating helplessly down the Brandywine. When the Gaffer gave him a dubious look, Frodo insisted that the older Hobbit couldn't say a single word about what was going on. He had to keep it a secret until Frodo himself said it was all right to speak of it.
"But… Master Frodo, them Village folk-"
"Gaffer, please," Frodo begged, casting anxious glances around to make sure no one was listening to the conversation. The other Gamgees, minus Samwise, were all inside. Sam was taking the cart and pony to the barn. There was no one around to eavesdrop. All the same, Frodo wanted the conversation over.
"Young master, she's an outsider, and unnatural!"
"Gaffer, her life could be at stake!"
The Hobbit youth's eyes were pleading silently with the head of the Gamgee family. He simply could not impress upon him enough the importance of silence in this matter. He didn't know what made him say the bit about Elluine's life being at stake, but somehow he knew it to be true, even before he said it. It was imperative that it all remained quiet about her being in Hobbiton.
Finally, the Gaffer nodded, though Frodo could tell the gray-haired Hobbit was unhappy about the idea. Grateful, the young Halfling cried "thank you!" as he rushed away from Bagshot Row and raced up the path back to Bag End. Watching after him as he pelted headlong through the tiny bit of wild lands between Bagshot and Bag End, the Gaffer frowned, and wondered what evil thing had come into Hobbiton on that strange, fire-eyed horse with the strange, bone-gray teeth.
She drifted in darkness.
For a time, all was midnight mists and sable smoke. She floated on an obsidian ocean, the wavelets lapping gently at her ice cold skin, leaving trails of wetness on her cheeks that tasted strangely like tears. She felt nothing, afloat in the sea of numbingly cold, phantom waters. There was no moon above her, no stars, no clouds or sky as far as she could tell. There was only the soft sighs of the sable sea, and the salt of the water, like tears and without the taste of bitter brine. She drifted, half-asleep beneath the black, lightless sky inside her own unconsciousness.
She awoke when she saw a flickering light, a blue beacon the color of flaming sapphires, on the horizon, far off and away. She saw it, and it lanced her to the core.
Come back. Your time is not yet done.
Why do people always have to act so dramatic? She called out to the burning cobalt flame, exasperated.
Rolling her eyes, she flipped herself over and began treading water, feeling the cool wetness of the sea lapping at her body. She could feel tiny currents and eddies swirling around her toes, tickling her calves. Somehow, she felt that she ought to have been afraid of a pitch black ocean, with no light to see by, and no sounds other than the sound of the waves. But she was in the water, sweet and cool despite the salt, and it welcomed her. Elluine simply couldn't feel frightened of the sea at this point.
Again speaking to the light flickering in the distance, she called, I'm not exactly on Death's door, you know. It's difficult to kill one of the Liemuina. Whoever you are, no need to sound like I'm already in my grave.
She managed to surprise a wry chuckle from the strange, cyanotic luminosity, and that made her smile. She had no idea why the idea of a voice coming out of a pale blue light didn't strike her as odd. The fact that it didn't strike her as odd struck her as odd, but that was the gateway to such a convoluted chain of thought that she cut it off immediately and began swimming towards the light. After all, it could speak - an intriguing development and the only interesting thing occurring on the vast expanse of the sea.
"She has a strong will," the Wizard murmured absently, as he pulled himself out of the girl's mind. This sort of Healing was difficult, and potentially dangerous to those fools only half-trained. Luckily, a member of the Order of the Istari was anything but half-trained. The girl's spirit was rising out of the depths of unconsciousness and she would wake soon. That was all that mattered. But the thought brought a niggling concern. Glancing over at the youth to whom he had been speaking, he saw that Frodo had quite probably heard nothing he'd said in the last minute or so. His large, luminous eyes were wider than usual in his head, scanning the pale, sunken face and still form lying on the Hobbit's own bed. It had been hours since bringing Elluine Moraelin into the Hobbit hole, and for the first time since seeing the flaxen haired maiden fall to the ground, the gray-bearded Wizard had hope of recovery.
A gentle knock at the door took Gandalf's attention from the golden crescents cast across the thin, sharp cheekbones by silvery eyelashes to the doorway to Frodo Baggins' bedroom. In the portal were three Hobbits - Bilbo, Samwise, and a young Hobbit maiden the bearded Wizard had no trouble recognizing - Rosie Cotton.
"What's going on here?" Frodo demanded, and his voice was harsh and sharp. Gandalf glanced at him and saw twin spots of high color in his cheeks, a furious glitter in his eyes. Surprised, the blue-eyed giant (or so he was forced to think of himself in the presence of so many diminutive, childlike Hobbits) laid a restraining hand on the bony shoulder of the young Hobbit lad and murmured, "There, now, Frodo, there's no need to be angry."
But the boy was still tense, ready to fight. Most unlike the gentle Halfling.
"Samwise has brought young Rosie-"
"Why?" He demanded angrily through clenched teeth. The Gaffer had promised to tell no one that Elluine was in the township of Hobbiton. Now that Rosie knew, everything was ruined. Elluine would be forced out of Hobbiton. She could very well die out there, injured as she was, barely able to maintain consciousness, if she were forced to fend for herself out there in the thickest parts of the wilderness. For some reason, just the idea of her being forced to struggle in the wild, when that strange portent out of the East continued to make his flesh crawl, actually attempt to crawl from his bones and hide... he couldn't stand it. Frodo found himself clenching his fists in anger.
"Calm down, Frodo, my lad," Bilbo interrupted. "Rosie's here to help this young lady with her convalescence when she wakes up."
Immediately, the dark-haired youth relaxed and wondered what had come over him. Why had he become so angry? Something like relief shuddered silently through him as the dark rage left him as quickly as it had come. Frodo gave Rosie a quick nod, half-acknowledgment, half-apology. Then he went back to staring into the thin, white face upon his pillow.
What had happened? What had happened to her? When he had seen her last, she had been strong, capable, alert, ready to fight, able to care for herself. Now she was reduced to... to this. Pale. Pathetic. Weak, vulnerable, and in desperate need of protection from what the cobalt-eyed Halfling youth could tell from her injuries. Had she no escort? Had she no friends? When she woke from her deep sleep, there would be only a handful of Halflings and a crotchety, lovable Wizard there to wait for her to awaken, but no people of the Village. No friends, no family, no sweetheart. She would wake, for all intents and purposes, alone in a strange and unfriendly place... no. No, Frodo would not allow that to happen. He would be here for her when she awoke. Surely she would remember his face, would remember him, despite the fact that he was now almost twenty-one years older than he had been the last time he had seen her. She would remember, and she would be glad of his presence.
"Mr. Frodo?" Samwise edged cautiously towards the Hobbit, concern etched across his features, as easy to see as markings upon a page. Frodo did not look up, did not acknowledge him, did nothing other than continue staring at the form upon the bed. The younger Hobbit, eyes wide in his head, watched his Master as the clock continued to tick away, and wondered just who this Village lass was, and why she was so very important.
She swam in shadows, cutting through the water as cleanly as a fish, the muscles in her arms rippling like waves beneath her skin. She smiled, reveling in the feel of the water rushing past her skin as she parted it with her hands and thrust herself forward. The light was bright, now, a glimmering blue glow alight upon the water several yards away. She was close. She would probably reach it in a matter of moments, unless she decided to rest in the dark, buoyant waters she had swum in for what seemed an eternity and yet only moments.
She suddenly had a thought that brought her up cold. For several seconds, she trod the water, allowing it to sooth her suddenly agitated thoughts. She had realized something just as she'd come to within scant feet of the gentle, cyan light beckoning to her. Like an imbecile, she had followed the light without hesitation, swum after it as if she were some kind of mindless infant crawling along to some kind of Pied Piper's enchanting, intoxicating lullaby. She ducked beneath the waves, allowing the cool ocean waters to clear her head, before surfacing to think and breathe.
Why go back? Why suffer through it all again? What was she to do with herself? It wasn't as if she had anywhere to go. Anarmacil had even deserted her, not that she believed he'd meant to. But now she had no one and nothing to go back to. Why leave this beautiful ocean, so welcoming and wonderful, where she felt no pain, felt no grief or sorrow, just to return to a world that hated her?
Because there is someone here that needs you, the blue light breathed against her ears. He is under a spell by one of your kind. He needs you, or the magic will drive him mad.
Elluine shoved a lock of damp hair out of her face and looked straight at the blue ambiance upon the waters. She stared at him, hard, her mouth twisted into a scowl that didn't hurt because here, she had no stitches in her mouth, no slices from the whip, no cracked bones or damaged skin. She was whole, and she was in no pain. She was free of the fear that had plagued her since she was old enough to understand what her parents' words to her had actually meant (tell no one that we found your mother, Ellie, no one, do you understand? All our lives depend on it) and she was in a world where everything was easy and soft and painless. But according to this light, touched and flavored with raw magic, there was someone in the real world who not only wanted her, but needed her. To save his very sanity, it seemed.
"Who?" She asked, her voice breaking. Who could possibly need her?
It started with a breath, heaved like a sigh or a gust of wind. For a moment, Frodo thought he could smell the sweet scent of the rivers, or something like it. Then a pair of silver lashes glittered and fluttered, and the girl on the bed opened her eyes. She took a breath, as if testing the air, and then her gaze, clear as crystal blue waters, swirled around the room before alighting on the pale face of Frodo Baggins.
"Hello, Frodo Baggins," Elluine Moraelin whispered.
"Hello, Elluine Moraelin," he replied, and smiled. An answering smile lit up her pale face.
I hope you enjoyed this latest installment. I pounded it out in about 2 months, during the downtime during my family reunion and during my honeymoon (yes, I'm Mrs. MDJ now instead of Ms. MD!). This sets up everything else. From this point on, the story is all Elluine. Anarmacil, Cirince, Breeyid, and Tauriel make their appearances, but their stories now diverge so greatly that they cannot be written into the same story and include everything we need to know about their doings without losing track of the main focus which has taken almost 10 whole chapters to set up - the relationship between Frodo and Elluine. And now, at last they've met.
DEFINITION OF MARTA PENNAS:
The word martapennas means "tales of the fey." Here, what I mean is not "tales of fey" as in faery, but fey as in "those with a strange or unique fate." Granted, that applies to everyone and their dog in Lord of the Rings, but I just want to be clear. Since it applies to everyone and their dog (to quote Mrs. MacReady, "Everyone has their part to play." Including the baby currently climbing the book case next to this computer desk who is frequently diverting my attention from this chapter with her musical exploits in honor of the death of Bohemia, as she showcases her antiphonal symphony involving a USB cable and a metal shelving unit. It's starting to sound a bit like Musetta's Waltz. If you caught that reference, I'll give you a cyber cookie and a walk-on part in Anarmacil's story during book 2) I don't feel too bad about giving everybody that one little thing they have to do that's necessary for the survival of civilization as we know it. Life is like that. Watch Touched By An Angel and you will totally see what I mean.
ABOUT THE MARTAPENNAS SERIES:
In this series, there are subseries. Like Tamora Pierce – she has her Tortall series, but in that series are at least 5 sagas (Beka Cooper, Song of the Lioness, Wild Mage and the Immortals, Protector of the Small, Daughter of the Lioness). In that same way, there's the Martapennas series, but in that series are different sagas – Eomer Dreams, Son of Flame, Daughter of the River, Chronicles of a Red Wren, the Heirs of Gondor, etc. Some take place in the past or the future, and some take place during other Tales of the Fey or during the Lord of the Rings.
Luineyende takes place from the very beginning of the Fellowship of the Ring (a while before the Farewell Party) to some time AFTER Samwise sails to Valinor after the end of the Return of the King. Anarmacil has his own story as well, which will actually be a duology at least: Tinurion and Gilnarion. I think. I haven't entirely decided on the title yet. The story(ies) about Anarmacil that will be written/posted soon start as of the end of the last chapter (when he finds himself in the forest) until probably the death of Aragorn in 144FO (Fourth Age). Cirince has her own little series of one-shots that cover about 2 decades, and then a chapter-fic that will cover her activities during the War of the Ring until the end of the War.
Tauriel and Breeyid… well, Tauriel makes various appearances in both Tinurion and Luineyende, as well as the Cirince stories, but she won't be a major player until the Hobbits set out to go to Bree. Breeyid… is currently a loose end. I have some ideas, but nothing definite. Please bear with me. But I want you all to understand just what is going on my head right now.
ABOUT THE CHAPTER TITLE:
I changed the original title because it just didn't fit with anything in the story. So instead, I picked what I think is the last line of the poem Xanadu: In Xanadu did Kubla Khan a shining pleasure dome decree... something and something, something, blah-blah... down to a sunless sea. Since it describes the place where Ellie resides most of the chapter, I thought - hey, cool!
1 – Here, fey does not mean fairy. I've seen fey used to describe people who looked strange, otherworldly. That is the meaning I intend here.
2 – I tried to take the word "gentleman" and turn it into the Hobbit version. The computer says I spelled it wrong, but they said the same thing about the word Hobbit to begin with, so yeah.
SOURCES & INSPIRATION:
The Chronicles of Narnia (books)
Daughter of the Forest by Juliet Marillier (book)
Daughter of the Lioness Duet by Tamora Pierce (book)
Disney's the Chronicles of Narnia: Prince Caspian
Disney's the Hunchback of Notre Dame
Lady of the Forest by I Don't Remember
The Last Herald Mage Trilogy by Mercedes Lackey (books)
Lord of the Rings (movies and books)
Nevrast . net
Ranger's Apprentice (books)
Tuckborough . net
Violet and Claire by Francesca Lia Block
Wikipedia . org