Author's Notes:
This work could be called LOTR and the Silmarillion canon only. So,
if some of the things I write don't mesh with Tolkien's other writings,
call it AU for those writings only. I haven't read them, though I would
some day like to. Right now this story begged to be told, so my apologies
for inaccuracies. I welcome feedback of all kinds, but I would rather
not be harangued. Writing Fanfic should be fun, and if I give myself a
migraine the fun would end.
My take on Tolkien's world is that there are rules, yes, but the best
stories are the ones where the rules are broken...by the characters.
Feanor is a prime example!
With a few exceptions, I have decided against using elvish and other
"foreign" expressions, with regard to my own comfort and that of my
readers. In this first chapter, however, I have used dialect to underscore
the differences in speech patterns, which will soften in time, just as
Shaw's Eliza Doolittle only spoke her first few lines phonetically.
Without further ado, may I present my first fanfiction effort.
Mother of Horsemen - Chapter 1
The smell of death was nothing new to them, but a hint of it, borne on the
late winter wind into the valley, was enough to cause a stir among it's
inhabitants. They had fled here to escape death, and all the memories of
too-recent battle.
Elves lived there then. They hadn't been there long, for the river-carven
cleft between the forested ridges was a welter of tents and other temporary
shelters of brush and sapling. The only sign of permanency in this maelstrom
of disorganization was a bathhouse of logs and a crude outline pegged for
the foundation of a house to be built when time permitted. Piles of stones
set here and there indicated that the work had begun, though if any had
thought to ask for details of the finished product he would have been met
with blank stares. Truly, haste had been their only constant in the past
months.
Heads popped from tent flaps as the smell grew stronger and acquired
complexity. Not only the death smell, but notes of old sweat, rotten fish,
and other layers of more indefinable foulness mingled and invaded the air.
What had been a murmur rose to a babble, hands gesturing to the North,
when a horse and rider appeared at the ridge above the falls.
The horse was unlike the few they had salvaged from war. It was far taller,
with a hawk-like profile much different from the dish-faced, silk-skinned
animals they rode. Its coat was a curious color; deep red with white hairs
sprinkled evenly throughout, like frost on grass, and it's clean, hard limbs
were white past knees and hocks. Almost the whole front half of its head was
white, and its large, intelligent eyes were blue.
One thing only could be attributed to the rider, apart from the smell, and
that was boldness. Not knowing or caring what kind of encampment this was,
the rider unhesitatingly guided the horse forward into the clearing. No
real judgement could be made as to the species or sex of the rider, muffled
to the eyes in primitively tanned furs against the chill, though it might be
guessed that it was an Elf, as the horse bore no saddle or bridle. The bow
and quiver were decidedly of Mannish make, the former wrought of horn, sinew
and horsehair, the latter of the boned and hollowed head of a strange
variety of deer, hung from the shoulder by a strap of it's own skin. Its
eyes, mouth and nostils were sewn shut and formed a repository for flint
arrowheads and tools, while the animal's neck held arrows shorn of dark wood
and fletched narrowly with white feathers.
"Foddo-chel-ck! ck!" a gritty female voice muttered, as if in answer to
their unspoken questions. "Fodd-d-do-chel! Ck! Chchchch!" Sounds like that
of a clucking bird accompanied the words. The eyes behind the rim of fur
flickered to and fro as if searching for something or someone, and nothing
of interest had as yet drawn her gaze or arrested her progress though many
had gathered to watch her pass.
For, underneath the filth and despite the strange speech, there was an
undeniable look of nobility about her. She bore herself erect. When she
pulled back the hood of the strangely cut fur garment, there was a
collective gasp, for what appeared to be Noldorin blood showed clearly in
the chiseled cheekbones, prominent despite the roundness of her face. Her
matted hair was dark russet, with rough braids hanging before each flared
ear and the rest hanging in shaggy, uneven lengths. Her nose was a bit
convex, but small, and her eyes, though grey, had an undertone of green
like the spruce-clad ridges towering above the valley. She was shorter
and heavier than any Noldo, however, and her skin had a rosy hue strange
for any Elf.
She paused perforce, as one of the larger tents impeded her. At that
moment raised voices came from within and a tall figure emerged from it,
stupid with sleep, tying his long dark hair into a queue. His evening-grey
eyes widened and his fine nose narrowed at the same instant the stench hit
him full force. He looked up in astonishment.
Elbereth! he thought, does she carry a rotted carcass behind her? At the
same moment he was struck again. I have seen that face before.
She met his eyes with a spark in her own, and what might have been called
a smile had it lasted longer than a heartbeat.
"Seen me? I think not." Her voice was deep and whispery, as if disused,
and the accent was rolling and foreign, and at the same time strangely
familiar. Only the Green Elves ever clacked and chirruped in that
squirrellike way, but the Laiquendi did not hunt, and seldom if ever used
horses. And, he thought, his eyes watering, they are a cleanly folk.
She allowed a corner of her mouth to twitch upward a second time.
"You'd stink too, if you lived on fish and washed in bear fat a t'ousand
year. Nothing but snow up there."
He was speechless. Could she read his mind?
She laughed then, a dry sound, but her eyes twinkled. She tapped her head
and shook it, then circled her face with a graceful motion. "Face gives
your thought away." Without waiting for him to ask, she said, "Fish go
away, bear too. Everybody starve or go away. So I come back." She looked
around her."You have food, maybe?"
He signaled to one of his aides to bring food, and discreetly thumbed
toward the bathhouse where another nodded and went inside to stoke the
fire.
She dismounted, and for a brief moment the smell was worse. She looked
around her at the tents, the piles of stones, and at last at the curious
Elves who had gathered, still at a healthy distance upwind. She turned
back to this one who was apparently chief of his tribe, and bowed with
surprising formality.
"I am Readfah. Mother's people were Men of the North, yellow hairs with
many horses. Father elf. Both dead long time now." She peered closely at
him for a long, uncomfortable moment, meeting his eyes with no pretense
to subtlety.
"You half and half too, eh?"
Stunned, he could do nothing but nod. He looked around him helplessly,
as if expecting someone to come to his rescue, but at last he turned back
to her, finding his manners.
"I am Elrond."
This work could be called LOTR and the Silmarillion canon only. So,
if some of the things I write don't mesh with Tolkien's other writings,
call it AU for those writings only. I haven't read them, though I would
some day like to. Right now this story begged to be told, so my apologies
for inaccuracies. I welcome feedback of all kinds, but I would rather
not be harangued. Writing Fanfic should be fun, and if I give myself a
migraine the fun would end.
My take on Tolkien's world is that there are rules, yes, but the best
stories are the ones where the rules are broken...by the characters.
Feanor is a prime example!
With a few exceptions, I have decided against using elvish and other
"foreign" expressions, with regard to my own comfort and that of my
readers. In this first chapter, however, I have used dialect to underscore
the differences in speech patterns, which will soften in time, just as
Shaw's Eliza Doolittle only spoke her first few lines phonetically.
Without further ado, may I present my first fanfiction effort.
Mother of Horsemen - Chapter 1
The smell of death was nothing new to them, but a hint of it, borne on the
late winter wind into the valley, was enough to cause a stir among it's
inhabitants. They had fled here to escape death, and all the memories of
too-recent battle.
Elves lived there then. They hadn't been there long, for the river-carven
cleft between the forested ridges was a welter of tents and other temporary
shelters of brush and sapling. The only sign of permanency in this maelstrom
of disorganization was a bathhouse of logs and a crude outline pegged for
the foundation of a house to be built when time permitted. Piles of stones
set here and there indicated that the work had begun, though if any had
thought to ask for details of the finished product he would have been met
with blank stares. Truly, haste had been their only constant in the past
months.
Heads popped from tent flaps as the smell grew stronger and acquired
complexity. Not only the death smell, but notes of old sweat, rotten fish,
and other layers of more indefinable foulness mingled and invaded the air.
What had been a murmur rose to a babble, hands gesturing to the North,
when a horse and rider appeared at the ridge above the falls.
The horse was unlike the few they had salvaged from war. It was far taller,
with a hawk-like profile much different from the dish-faced, silk-skinned
animals they rode. Its coat was a curious color; deep red with white hairs
sprinkled evenly throughout, like frost on grass, and it's clean, hard limbs
were white past knees and hocks. Almost the whole front half of its head was
white, and its large, intelligent eyes were blue.
One thing only could be attributed to the rider, apart from the smell, and
that was boldness. Not knowing or caring what kind of encampment this was,
the rider unhesitatingly guided the horse forward into the clearing. No
real judgement could be made as to the species or sex of the rider, muffled
to the eyes in primitively tanned furs against the chill, though it might be
guessed that it was an Elf, as the horse bore no saddle or bridle. The bow
and quiver were decidedly of Mannish make, the former wrought of horn, sinew
and horsehair, the latter of the boned and hollowed head of a strange
variety of deer, hung from the shoulder by a strap of it's own skin. Its
eyes, mouth and nostils were sewn shut and formed a repository for flint
arrowheads and tools, while the animal's neck held arrows shorn of dark wood
and fletched narrowly with white feathers.
"Foddo-chel-ck! ck!" a gritty female voice muttered, as if in answer to
their unspoken questions. "Fodd-d-do-chel! Ck! Chchchch!" Sounds like that
of a clucking bird accompanied the words. The eyes behind the rim of fur
flickered to and fro as if searching for something or someone, and nothing
of interest had as yet drawn her gaze or arrested her progress though many
had gathered to watch her pass.
For, underneath the filth and despite the strange speech, there was an
undeniable look of nobility about her. She bore herself erect. When she
pulled back the hood of the strangely cut fur garment, there was a
collective gasp, for what appeared to be Noldorin blood showed clearly in
the chiseled cheekbones, prominent despite the roundness of her face. Her
matted hair was dark russet, with rough braids hanging before each flared
ear and the rest hanging in shaggy, uneven lengths. Her nose was a bit
convex, but small, and her eyes, though grey, had an undertone of green
like the spruce-clad ridges towering above the valley. She was shorter
and heavier than any Noldo, however, and her skin had a rosy hue strange
for any Elf.
She paused perforce, as one of the larger tents impeded her. At that
moment raised voices came from within and a tall figure emerged from it,
stupid with sleep, tying his long dark hair into a queue. His evening-grey
eyes widened and his fine nose narrowed at the same instant the stench hit
him full force. He looked up in astonishment.
Elbereth! he thought, does she carry a rotted carcass behind her? At the
same moment he was struck again. I have seen that face before.
She met his eyes with a spark in her own, and what might have been called
a smile had it lasted longer than a heartbeat.
"Seen me? I think not." Her voice was deep and whispery, as if disused,
and the accent was rolling and foreign, and at the same time strangely
familiar. Only the Green Elves ever clacked and chirruped in that
squirrellike way, but the Laiquendi did not hunt, and seldom if ever used
horses. And, he thought, his eyes watering, they are a cleanly folk.
She allowed a corner of her mouth to twitch upward a second time.
"You'd stink too, if you lived on fish and washed in bear fat a t'ousand
year. Nothing but snow up there."
He was speechless. Could she read his mind?
She laughed then, a dry sound, but her eyes twinkled. She tapped her head
and shook it, then circled her face with a graceful motion. "Face gives
your thought away." Without waiting for him to ask, she said, "Fish go
away, bear too. Everybody starve or go away. So I come back." She looked
around her."You have food, maybe?"
He signaled to one of his aides to bring food, and discreetly thumbed
toward the bathhouse where another nodded and went inside to stoke the
fire.
She dismounted, and for a brief moment the smell was worse. She looked
around her at the tents, the piles of stones, and at last at the curious
Elves who had gathered, still at a healthy distance upwind. She turned
back to this one who was apparently chief of his tribe, and bowed with
surprising formality.
"I am Readfah. Mother's people were Men of the North, yellow hairs with
many horses. Father elf. Both dead long time now." She peered closely at
him for a long, uncomfortable moment, meeting his eyes with no pretense
to subtlety.
"You half and half too, eh?"
Stunned, he could do nothing but nod. He looked around him helplessly,
as if expecting someone to come to his rescue, but at last he turned back
to her, finding his manners.
"I am Elrond."