Post by Admin on Jan 9, 2021 1:45:17 GMT
Author: Archeress of Silverbow
Summary: Out alone on Hallowtide night, Aragorn is both scared and sheltered by spirits
Rating: T
Elrond stood at the window, staring out. The valley gleamed under Isil's light, the trees looking as if they had been crafted out of ithildin by Celebrimbor.. But beyond that the mountains rose up, looking formidable and dangerous even as they provided Imladris with the securty that it required. Unwillingly his eyes were drawn to the boundary, stretching to see beyond.
Estel was out there somewhere, in those wilds. His youngest son, child of his heart, if not of his direct blood, was out there. He knew, albeit in a disconnected way, how harsh the land was. And he was an elf, one with far greater endurance than the lad had.
The breeze hissed through the window and he felt a shiver run up his spine, an involuntary tremor of fear. His adan blood stirred slightly, tonight of all nights he wanted Estel safe in Imladris' walls. No man should ride alone on Hallowtide. So he would watch this night through, what help that might give.
The man shivered and pulled his cloak tighter, glancing warily around into the night. The ground was cold and damp, seeping into his muscles. He told himself to stand up and ease the stifness, to keep a better watch. But he didn't have the confidence, he wanted to stay close to the fire, use its warmth as a protection of whatever lingered out there.
The wind wailed in the trees and he flinched, resting a hand on his sword. He wanted to be home, but home was miles away, through thick forest and rough ground. No, it was here he'd have to stay, alone and sc-.
Not scared his mind snarled An heir of Elendil cannot be scared.
But 'tis Hallowtide, in Eregion. You know there are still spirits here. Some other part of his mind argued.
He set his teeth and straightened his back, determined not to show fear. But the night only got darker, and as he listened he swore he heard footsteps on the leaves and twigs that carpeted the autumn floor. The muscles in his neck fought with his brain, demanding that he turn his head to look. With a huge effort of will he made himself stay still. But noises, noises, all around. He could hear whispers, debates, angry calls. He knew the sounds well enough, this was an army approaching him, ready to spill red living blood onto the earth.
An Army of the Dead
Silently he gripped the sword hilt, making sure with only the slightest glance that the leather wrap was still secure. But what good a sword would be against things that were less than shadow, he could not know. If it was Nasil, or Aiglos, perhaps there would be some recognition by the spirits that faced him. This was one step off a training sword, reformed by Imladris's smith at short notice for him to take away. It had no powers, no history.
Blood filled his mouth and he hunched forward, cowering.
“Áva nehta se... Nás yónya”
The voice came from behind him, but he felt it was directed outwards, towards the menace in the trees. When the unmistakable sound of grumbling came he struggled to swallow a hysterical giggle, spitting out the blood from his bitten tongue instead.
Something, in feel much like a hand, rested on his shoulder. His breathing slowed back to normal and as the steps receded into the forest he relaxed, gradually loosening one muscle after another. Then, slowly, he looked at his shoulder, where he still felt the pressure of the touch. There was nothing there. He shut his eyes, and as Elrond had taught him, reached with his mind. Now there was something, but it was insubstantial, like a wisp on the wind.
Yónya
The word reached into his mind, using those ears that were closer to his heart. He smiled, slightly, but didn't try to reply with words. To walk too close to Mandos' gate was dangerous.
Somehow he felt that there was more than the one he faced, and looking, he saw that they ringed the fire. One crouched next to him, the others stood on guard. He didn't know how he was understanding what even his fea could barely sense, but he knew there was no point trying to figure it out.
Instead he returned his gaze to the first speaker, looking even as he settled to sleep. There was something there, something familiar. And as his eyes fluttered closed, as he drifted even further into his mind, he saw it.
A figure stood over him, all limbs and features visible. It was Elrond, but not quite.
He smiled, and touched his heart in salute, saw the figure nod. Eärendil's light blazed as the spirit voice came again
Yónya
By the fire, his forefathers guarding him in a watchful ring, Aragorn slept.
Translations
Quenya
Yónya= My son
Áva nehta se... Nás yónya= Don't kill him... he is my son
Summary: Out alone on Hallowtide night, Aragorn is both scared and sheltered by spirits
Rating: T
Elrond stood at the window, staring out. The valley gleamed under Isil's light, the trees looking as if they had been crafted out of ithildin by Celebrimbor.. But beyond that the mountains rose up, looking formidable and dangerous even as they provided Imladris with the securty that it required. Unwillingly his eyes were drawn to the boundary, stretching to see beyond.
Estel was out there somewhere, in those wilds. His youngest son, child of his heart, if not of his direct blood, was out there. He knew, albeit in a disconnected way, how harsh the land was. And he was an elf, one with far greater endurance than the lad had.
The breeze hissed through the window and he felt a shiver run up his spine, an involuntary tremor of fear. His adan blood stirred slightly, tonight of all nights he wanted Estel safe in Imladris' walls. No man should ride alone on Hallowtide. So he would watch this night through, what help that might give.
The man shivered and pulled his cloak tighter, glancing warily around into the night. The ground was cold and damp, seeping into his muscles. He told himself to stand up and ease the stifness, to keep a better watch. But he didn't have the confidence, he wanted to stay close to the fire, use its warmth as a protection of whatever lingered out there.
The wind wailed in the trees and he flinched, resting a hand on his sword. He wanted to be home, but home was miles away, through thick forest and rough ground. No, it was here he'd have to stay, alone and sc-.
Not scared his mind snarled An heir of Elendil cannot be scared.
But 'tis Hallowtide, in Eregion. You know there are still spirits here. Some other part of his mind argued.
He set his teeth and straightened his back, determined not to show fear. But the night only got darker, and as he listened he swore he heard footsteps on the leaves and twigs that carpeted the autumn floor. The muscles in his neck fought with his brain, demanding that he turn his head to look. With a huge effort of will he made himself stay still. But noises, noises, all around. He could hear whispers, debates, angry calls. He knew the sounds well enough, this was an army approaching him, ready to spill red living blood onto the earth.
An Army of the Dead
Silently he gripped the sword hilt, making sure with only the slightest glance that the leather wrap was still secure. But what good a sword would be against things that were less than shadow, he could not know. If it was Nasil, or Aiglos, perhaps there would be some recognition by the spirits that faced him. This was one step off a training sword, reformed by Imladris's smith at short notice for him to take away. It had no powers, no history.
Blood filled his mouth and he hunched forward, cowering.
“Áva nehta se... Nás yónya”
The voice came from behind him, but he felt it was directed outwards, towards the menace in the trees. When the unmistakable sound of grumbling came he struggled to swallow a hysterical giggle, spitting out the blood from his bitten tongue instead.
Something, in feel much like a hand, rested on his shoulder. His breathing slowed back to normal and as the steps receded into the forest he relaxed, gradually loosening one muscle after another. Then, slowly, he looked at his shoulder, where he still felt the pressure of the touch. There was nothing there. He shut his eyes, and as Elrond had taught him, reached with his mind. Now there was something, but it was insubstantial, like a wisp on the wind.
Yónya
The word reached into his mind, using those ears that were closer to his heart. He smiled, slightly, but didn't try to reply with words. To walk too close to Mandos' gate was dangerous.
Somehow he felt that there was more than the one he faced, and looking, he saw that they ringed the fire. One crouched next to him, the others stood on guard. He didn't know how he was understanding what even his fea could barely sense, but he knew there was no point trying to figure it out.
Instead he returned his gaze to the first speaker, looking even as he settled to sleep. There was something there, something familiar. And as his eyes fluttered closed, as he drifted even further into his mind, he saw it.
A figure stood over him, all limbs and features visible. It was Elrond, but not quite.
He smiled, and touched his heart in salute, saw the figure nod. Eärendil's light blazed as the spirit voice came again
Yónya
By the fire, his forefathers guarding him in a watchful ring, Aragorn slept.
Translations
Quenya
Yónya= My son
Áva nehta se... Nás yónya= Don't kill him... he is my son