(no subject)

[thrihyrne]

The newest installment of "The Hours" follows.



Lauds, 5:45 a.m.

Eilenach Beacon, Grey Wood, Gondor

Merry was awake, but even with his eyes open the forest was so dark that he couldn’t see anything. Eyes closed. Eyes open. Eyes closed. He pulled his blanket over his head, breathing in its earthy woolen scent now as familiar as his own rather pungent odor, the consequence of riding for days back to chest with another person, and no chance to bathe. He was sure that no matter how happy Pippin would be to see him that his cousin would immediately make some raunchy and well-deserved comment about him smelling so ripe.

Pippin. Merry took another breath from within his small cocoon, then cast the blanket down. He missed his cousin. He missed anybody who would talk to him, or even acknowledge that he was riding with them, just as likely to suffer their fate on the battlefield. The healing scar on his forehead from his days with the Orcs throbbed, and he rubbed at it, frowning into the too-quiet stillness of the early morning. For a few moments he wallowed in self-pity, deciding that he had never been so lonely in all of his life. Even Dernhelm said almost nothing to him. Merry was beginning to wonder why on earth the young Rider had bothered to approach him back in Edoras, since Dernhelm acted only as though he was an additional piece of luggage, and just as mute. “He speaks more to Windfola than to me!” Merry mused, indignant and pitiful.

He closed his eyes again, listening to the increasing noises around the camp; the tinny rustle of Riders waking and putting on mailshirts, whickering and snorting of horses being fed, the crackles and snaps of wood set alight. None of it was comforting per se, but it was routine and predictable, familiar sounds, tastes and odors. It was in the afternoon of his second day spent riding in silence save the incessant rumbling of horse’s hooves, his thighs and backside throbbing in pain, when he realized that he had become quite fond of one scent in particular: oiled leather.

The Rohirrim were riding their horses hard and as swiftly as possible, but each night after their meager meals Merry would catch the scent of leather being oiled, drifting through pockets of it as he wandered on the perimeter of his éored, ignored by Elfhelm and everyone else. It was a warm smell, affection and heat rubbed into its tangy scent, one which made Merry think of a particularly potent and peaty ale served at The Strongbows in Buckland.

His imagination started meandering down dark thoughts of never having a pint of ale again, of reliving Boromir’s death, the stench of sweating Orcs…

Suddenly Merry heard an odd sound. He rolled over and saw Dernhelm, his face contorted, murmuring something he couldn’t understand, squirming in his blanket. Merry cautiously wriggled over to the Rider and shook him on the shoulder.

“Gríma!” Dernhelm hissed, his grey eyes instantly wide and full of fear.

Merry stared at him for a moment, then asked quietly, “Are you okay? You were talking in your sleep.”

The young Rider nodded curtly, then shocked Merry by placing his oddly delicate hand on top of his, still resting on Dernhelm’s shoulder.

“It was just a dream.”



Quite pleased with how this series is turning out. I should get back to working on the Dwarf/Elf story, or the Weasley twins one, but I may just write a letter and do some envelope art. I have owed Jussy a reply for about 6 weeks now. :P