Jättebra skrivet, Túrin! Jag gillar ditt ordförråd och målande språk.
Meningar som "fienden vid murens fot föll som sädesax för lien" och "det var vilt och skönt som en hednakonungs från forna tider" ger extra liv åt historien. Tyckte också om förändringen av Proditor i läsarens ögon - jag anade något när Iuvent lyfte svärdet, och det "kändes kallt i hans hand och han rös en aning; tungt var det också". Jättebra beskrivet! Man får riktigt känslan av att något är lite fel, men man vet inte vad, än.
Om du skriver något mer så lägg gärna upp det, för det var kul att läsa. Titlen fick mig först att tänka på Bilbo, faktiskt...
Jag skriver också en del, och just nu håller jag på med en historia som är förlagd i Gondor (alltså fanfiction), fjärde åldern. Jag hoppar på chansen att klistra in första kapitlet här. Kanske lite för långt för att någon ens ska orka med att läsa...
vanja skrev:
He looked much like any young Gondorian his age. The slight olive tint to his skin, his hair the hue of darkest ink, his lean body frame and straight nose – all traits he shared with so many men in the south. Only his sad, greyish eyes spoke of his mother’s northern blood. Yet Lethril, son of Anthril, led a life very different from the other boys in the village.
Tonight, it was Lethril’s turn to cook dinner for him and his father. They had lovingly called him an unexpected accident, for after two decades of what they has thought was a marriage lacking the blessing of fertility, Lethril had arrived when his mother was already nearing forty years of age. Anthril, his father, had a grey yet full head of hair and walked with a stoop, but age had not dampened his spirits. It was now two years ago that Lethril’s mother died. A persistent cold in the damp winter months had seized her last breath after weeks of fevers and coughs. When she finally passed away, Lethril had felt both sadness and a strange sense of relief. She had always been poorly – now she drank the wine of the eternal afterlife beside her sisters, with that healthy glow to her cheeks that he seemed to remember from his childhood.
They managed well on their own, but the days were long and empty. Never in Lethril’s lifetime had they lacked food on their table or shelter from the elements, and still, this is not all a young man needs in growing up. With watchful eyes he had always followed the lives of the other children in the village, from behind the fence, or from a branch high up in a tree he had seen them nabbing sour apples from the cider grove, running away laughing or being caught by the ear and given a hiding with tears streaming down round cheeks. He had seen them playing a different game every day, and as he grew older, the girls stopped braiding their hair and the play turned to shy glances and brief kisses behind barns.
There were a few girls in the village that Lethril thought pretty, and boys who seemed decent enough, but he had learnt long ago that their eyes passed over him much like they would over a cripple in the street, or a stray dog. Once he had made a friend – a boy from a family who were new to the place, but after a couple of days – and Lethril often thought of them as the happiest in his life – he stopped coming to their house. Now he, like the others, pretended he did not see him.
Of course, it was no secret why Anthril and his son had been quietly but firmly excluded from the small community of the village. It had been forty years and more since the great War and overthrowing of Sauron, but memories live on in the hearts of men longer than it takes for wounds to heal, and many were those who still called Anthril a deserter, sometimes even traitor. Old Anthril himself did not mind. Strong in his beliefs, he spoke often and at length to his son of the evil of war, and how choosing the right words would resolve any conflict without the spilling of blood. Anthril was one of the few young men to refuse joining the army which marched against the forces of Sauron, and for that his son paid bitterly.
As he set the table, Lethril’s father came in, hair in a mess and face flustered from the chill wind blowing outside. Lethril felt a wave of momentary anger, which he quickly repressed. In his heart he blamed his father for the loneliness, but to his mind, it seemed reasonable to refuse to fight. They sat down to eat, and Anthril, as usual, spoke cheerfully of the day’s events. Lethril, however, was not listening. Like the thick stew before them, his mind had been bubbling with ideas, warming to them and now they were finally formed, ready to be revealed.
‘Father,’ he said suddenly, interrupting the old man’s flow of words.
‘Yes?’
‘Father, I am leaving.’
The words sounded so large, so strange, when he heard them. Much greater than in his thoughts did they echo out over the small cottage. His father seemed oddly calm.
‘It is not a good time for travelling. The roads are in a state with all this rain,’ he remarked.
‘I have made up my mind. Nothing you say can stop me.’
He realised straight away how ridiculous his words were, for his father had not at all tried to stop him. It surprised him a little, but his father was an unusual man. Now his eyes twinkled with mirth at his son’s display.
‘If you must go, you must. I will not stop you, for I always hated my father for trying to rule my life. But go at once, or your heart might change.’
‘No, my heart is made up. I will go in the morning, when I have light to see.’
His father shrugged and returned to his meal. Lethril, feeling light-headed and excited could not manage another bite. As soon as the table was cleared, he laid down to sleep. His rest was fitful and many dreams came to him. He saw a great forest and beyond, mountains. His mother spoke to him, her dead skin peeling, and the flesh rotting beneath. Her lips moved, but no sound came from them. She changed then into a young woman with golden hair, and Lethril desired her, but her face was not known to him. With a gasp he awoke, and outside could be seen the first light of morning.
____________________________
By the gate, he turned to his father, whose dark eyes were openly flooded with tears. Unashamed he cried, but Lethril felt little more than anxiety.
‘Take my counsel and go north,’ his father begged once more.
‘But Dol Amroth is only a few days away, and the weather is milder there. Perhaps my road takes me north later, but not now.’
‘Lethril. I know in my heart that this is the last time I see you before I join your mother. May life treat you well, and perhaps in years to come, your grudge against me will die.’
‘There is no grudge,’ said Lethril, but a stab to his heart told him there was. But now he also felt true sorrow in leaving home. He squeezed his father’s hand once, then turned and did not look back as he walked briskly down the muddy road, to the south and Dol Amroth.
As his father had predicted, the road was poor, and within minutes, Lethril’s boots were soaked. Still, there was a spring in his step as he for the first time walked further from the village than ever before in his life. The skies were grey and heavy with rain and soon a steady drizzle had soaked his hood. His hair curled up from the wet and stuck to his face, but Lethril had no thought of turning back.
After a few hours of slow trudging, he saw a figure coming towards him on the road in the rain. As the distance between them shrank, Lethril saw that it was a man, some years older than himself.
‘Hallo, friend,’ shouted the stranger.
Lethril, a little taken aback by being addressed as friend, or addressed at all, stopped dead, unable to speak at first.
‘I say, hallo,’ shouted the man again.
‘Yes?’ replied Lethril uncertainly.
‘Ah, for a moment there I thought you couldn’t hear me,’ said the stranger, stepping up to him.
‘I beg your pardon, sir, I was just a little surprised…’ Lethril trailed off and reminded himself that “traitor” was after all not written on his forehead.
‘Fair enough,’ said the man and eyed him curiously. ‘I was just wondering what the road ahead might be like.’
‘Oh, I have only come from the next village, sir, but the it’s the same all the way there, and beyond, I’ll wager.’
‘Yes, always poor, the roads this time of year. Are you heading to Amroth?’
‘I am,’ said Lethril.
‘Well, about a day’s walk ahead, you’ll find that the going gets easier. Higher ground, of course, and it’s not raining. At least it wasn’t last night! Tell me, this village… Do they have an inn? That is to say, is the inn respectable?’
‘Oh, yes. The Leaf of Vine, it’s called,’ said Lehtril, picturing the building he had only seen from the outside. ‘Very grand place.’
‘Do a nice brew, do they?’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Lethril and nodded vigorously. ‘Very fine.’
‘You’re a good lad,’ said the man approvingly. ‘I wish you well in Dol Amroth.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
As the man walked on down the road, Lethril stood gazing after him for some time. This was just what he had hoped for. To anyone he met, he was simply another traveller, someone to exchange a few words with to ease the boredom of walking in the rain.
_________________________________
That night he slept in the hayloft of a barn. A farmer had agreed to let him eat and stay the night in exchange for a coin. Lethril was not sure of its value, but made a point of keeping the little pouch his father had given him out of sight, saying that he only had a couple. The farmer had a sour face, but his wife was round and jolly and gave him second helpings of soup and bread. Their oldest daughter shot him glances that made him blush furiously to her unending delight, but he did not desire her. Her face was blotchy with small, beady eyes and a upturned nose, and her dull, dark hair was greasy and unkept.
As he lay in the damp hay, he thought of the woman in his dream. He knew that he would never desire anyone like he desired her, and her face was still before him when he closed his eyes. Hair like gold, like sunshine and honey. Like ripe wheat and amber.
The next morning, the farmer offered Lethril a ride in the back of his cart for another one of his coins. Although he had a feeling the farmer was sneaky and stingy, he accepted and climbed aboard, sitting atop the sacks of carrots and potatoes of last summer. It had stopped raining, and the clouds rushed by overhead in a cold blue sky. The cart was uncomfortable, but they passed a great deal of travellers who walked, and Lethril was pleased to hear that they would reach Dol Amroth by nightfall.
Just as the sun was setting, they climbed over a hill, and Lethril saw the sea for the first time in his life. It took his breath away. The vastness of it, the last rays of the dying sun making it seem on fire. A breeze of salty air hit him and his heart soared. To think he had lived this close to something so magnificent without seeing it until now. And below them lay the city of Dol Amroth, larger than any of the villages he had passed in these two days, a thousand times larger, and although it was too far away to tell, he knew it was sprawling with life, full of people he had never met before, who knew nothing of him or his father.
As the light failed, Lethril sank back down among the sacks, a satisfied smile on his face. His new life was about to begin.
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