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Elegy for Númenor - Volume 1: Journey to Umbar by elfscribe Mature
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Shoutbox

Spiced Wine
07/20/17 10:19 pm
I hope you had a lovely time, Naledi. And Ziggy, I hope you are recovering well
Naledi
07/20/17 10:10 am
Thanks, Ziggy. Oh no - heaven forbid that the Shoutbox should be civilised! It sounds like things need to be shaken up!
ziggy
07/18/17 11:53 pm
Welcome back Naledi! It's been very civilised in your absence:) Everyone has been behaving and not making people write things they shouldn't;)
Naledi
07/18/17 09:00 pm
Hi all, I've been quiet lately because I've been away a lot. Sorry I missed your birthday, Glorfindel. I hope everyone's well.
ziggy
07/13/17 12:00 am
Yes- have a lovely day Binki:) xx
Alpha Ori
07/12/17 09:52 pm
Have a great day Binky!!
Spiced Wine
07/11/17 10:13 am
Have a lovely time Alquien. Same for me, internet/wifi both very iffy.
Alquien
07/10/17 03:21 pm
Starting today, I am on vacation for 2 weeks. No internet though (or very iffy, at best) so I will have lots to catch up on when I get back. Have fun everyone! ((hugs))
Spiced Wine
07/06/17 06:00 pm
I hope you are all okay. I have finished by backlog of work, and I notice I have missed Encarion's update, so I will treat myself by reading it
Ysilme
06/27/17 10:44 am
So good to have you back, Spiced! *hugs*
Shout Archive


A Dawn Of Many Colors by Pink Siamese

Story notes:

A note on languages: All of the languages you see in this story are either based on Tolkien's constructed languages or are based upon languages of my own creation. Any resemblance to real languages is completely and totally coincidental.

This story has long outgrown the Tolkienverse and now contains references to Tolkien himself, C.S. Lewis and the Chronicles of Narnia, Stephen King's Dark Tower series, H. P. Lovecraft and his Cthulhu Mythos, and Samuel Taylor Coleridge's poem Kubla Khan, among others. While it's not strictly a crossover, the story depends on these elements to function, so it only seems right that I acknowledge them here.

UPDATE - As of 11/19/2015, the latter part of this story has become...a crossover, of sorts? It has picked up a character who technically hails from another fandom, but this particular version of him passed through Stephen King's Dark Tower universe on his way from 1950s America---well, one particular version of 1950s America, anyway---to Middle-earth, making him very different in a lot of ways. Dark Tower lore, as it applies to this character, will feature more prominently in this story than it has thus far.


I could start at the beginning: I got up that morning, ate a homely breakfast of oatmeal and fruit, went to school, daydreamed about my Archaeology professor, ate lunch while giggling with some women from my Archaeology class, went out onto the grounds to do my homework and take advantage of the gorgeousness of the day—it was autumn and crisp, the sky a perfect blue backdrop to the riotous red change of leaves, and the air smelled fresh and dark, like well-turned earth—but the beginning is boring, as beginnings often are. You yourself have lived a hundred such beginnings.

I will give a brief description and history of the grounds. Given what has happened to me, the history has made the leap from quaint to sinister: the grounds are rolling and green, thick with trees and populated with secret trails. There’s a stream that sprouts up somewhere in the middle of all that verdure and flows out through a cleft in the low hills until it reaches a giant culvert. The culvert directs the busy waters to a muddy eddy in the local river. In the early 1980s the administration put a huge screen over the culvert to prevent drunk Uni students from using it as a waterslide. The groundskeepers are always cleaning clots of string bikinis and rejected boxer shorts out of that same grate; the stream cascades in a waterfall and fills up a deep clear pool before continuing its roar to the culvert. The land came as part of a bequest, the legacy of an old man in an oil painting that hangs in the building named after him. I think often now of that portrait and wonder at the tilt in the old man’s smile. He knew something about all of this, the crafty bastard.

I’d heard the stories. Everyone heard the stories. They were as part of the initiation into college life as keg parties and cram sessions. The student folklorists picked them apart with an avidity reserved for teenage fangirls. Those who followed the course of the stream up to the pool and had their drunken bonfire parties told their silly stories, but with a tinge of uncertainty: the one girl who was sure there were long-robed ghosts watching her in the woods, the guy who heard a bunch of men muttering in a guttural language, the unexplained lights flickering through distant trees. Archaeology students and Criminal Justice majors made forays into the woods by day, attempting to investigate the sources of nighttime disturbances. Linguistics students did their best to unravel approximations of the overheard languages. All of them looked for traces of fires, disturbed earth, fibers and fallen buttons that might’ve been left behind. Parapsychology majors left tape recorders and video cameras rigged up in the branches overnight. Most of the stories got laughed off and blamed on the interference of alcohol and psychedelic drugs. I laughed them off.

I’m not laughing now.

I’ll begin with the action. That’s the part you want to read. How I, a nice girl, ended up in a place like this—Middle-fuckin-earth.

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