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Shoutbox

Ysilme
09/21/17 01:12 pm
Good to hear, NelyafinweFeanorion! :D
NelyafinweFeanorion
09/19/17 04:20 am
It worked!
ziggy
09/18/17 11:05 pm
I always use arda-lambion and don't worry too much about the grammar! Life's too short:)
Narya
09/17/17 09:30 pm
Anyone know of a reliable Quenya translator?
ziggy
09/17/17 06:31 pm
Welcome FINALLY Nelyafinwefeanorian!! Hurray- you are here:)
Spiced Wine
09/16/17 10:25 pm
Okay, I hope it works. Maybe it was just some glitch :/ As I say it has happened once or twice before but goodness knows why
NelyafinweFeanorion
09/16/17 10:12 pm
I'll try again from this acct today and see if it works. Thanks to everyone for the encouragement and help and esteliel for the emails.
NelyafinweFeanorion
09/16/17 10:10 pm
I tried last night and it didn't work. I created another account name and tried that and that story posted. At least I think it did--I see it up there on the most recent. I'll try this accoun
Spiced Wine
09/16/17 10:36 am
The only thing I can think to do is for esteliel or myself to use your password, log in and post your first chapter. I believe the last time this happened it's what I did.
Spiced Wine
09/16/17 10:34 am
What did esteliel say, Nelyafinwe?
Shout Archive


Perception by Ysilme

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Story notes:

Character: Annuil (OMC)
Conent: Gapfiller, Third Age, past injury
Disclaimer: This is a work of transformative fiction based on JRR Tolkien’s creation, done purely for enjoyment. No infringement is intended and no money is being made.
Notes: Written for the B2MeM 2017 boardgame for the first prompt of the green path.

Some readers of my story The Meaning of Snow asked what had happened to the OC Annuil afterwards. This is a short sequel answering that question. It isn’t necessary to have read the story to understand this, all you need to know is Annuil is a warrior from the Greenwood who had been caught in a rockslide while travelling over the Misty Mountains to Rivendell.

Many thanks to Lordhellebore for the beta. All remaining mistakes are my own.

o-o-o-o-o

Annuil yawned, staring out into the night. Long hours of guard duty lay before him until the sun would rise again.

Rolling his shoulders he winced, and the movement caused his healing ribs to ache. With a rueful grin he remembered how he used to loathe the unpopular guard duty. Nothing ever happened, and at night, it was hard to stay awake. How much more exciting it was to go on patrol and walk the forest on the ground or up in the trees. He loved discovering their secrets and hidden treasures, and getting some quarry or the occasional orc in the line of his arrows was not to be scoffed at either.

But after that escort trip last winter, when he had nearly been killed by a rockslide in the Hithaeglir, the pain of newly-healed bones was as welcome as the boredom of routine. A dead man felt no pain, and a bored man was not fighting for his life.

The memory of that seemingly endless night was still fresh, of voices and gentle hands tending to him, and of a concerned face floating disembodied above him. He also often dreamed of the path suddenly crumbling away under him, and he tumbling and falling and sliding, while his whole being was engulfed in whooshing white masses taking him downwards. He did not know what of this was true memory, what the tale of others, and what nightmare; but he did know that back then, when the snow and rocks and everything had settled down, he had known with certainty that this was the end, and he was going to die there.

But he lived, saved by the good people of Imladris who had first found him and brought him to the valley, and then nursed him back to health. Now he served as one of their guards for a year as a token of his gratitude, and to find out if the shy smiles of a certain auburn-haired healer might lead to more. Life was bright with promise and more precious to him than ever.

o-o-o-o-o

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