Upon the grass knelt I,
beside the rippling water.
Upstream, downstream,
the distance drew mine eye.

Where are they?

The breeze loosed a sigh,
the birds sang a joyous song.
Nature took its normal course,
yet worried still was I.

It has been too long.

Finally, a speck drew nigh,
first one sail to crown the horizon,
then three, then five, then
even was clear the sails' dye.

Have they returned?

Mine heart was lifted thereby,

Tender, tanned flesh. The valley of her spine leading up to a neck fragmented by taut tendons. Marked by teeth or fingerprint bruises. Either posed as a visual representation of possession.

Collarbones that cut through skin. A protruding ribcage that protected a bandaged heart. Her body had endured much. Physically, emotionally. Strenuous activities through fitness and other, much more intimate, means. A needle to the skin to reiterate art in the form of swirled ink, another to illicit pain for bad behaviour.

A voice speaks
to those who will hear.
Softly it comes, as the early spring breeze,
a whisper of joy and sadness, yet not of fear.

Upon the voices of gulls is it lifted,
by lapping wavelets is it carried.
Through summer's green grass,
and winter's bare trees.
Upon the wind, in the air,
passed on by bard and scholar alike.

Few enough there be who hearken,
who seek to understand.
But to them is given a gift,
a strength of longing, a restlessness,
a strange and silent calling;

Tall and brave, clad in green
did he stand to bid me farewell.
Departing on a secret errand he was,
one on which he must not be seen.

My brother bid me farewell.

He departed then well-armed,
bearing the blessing of the Lord and Lady,
to journey far on sword and wit
with our wishes that he return unharmed.

My brother bid me farewell.

The morning was most beautiful and bright.
The birds were singing, the wind was sighing,
and around us many brilliant flowers bloomed.

"Alone?" 

The solitary word hung in the cool, evening air. The girl's feet drew together, the toe of her shoe pressing into the floor as seemed to be her habit when she was anxious. 

"Aye, alone," said the wiry, dark-eyed man standing over her. He placed a light shawl around her shoulders and gave her back an awkward pat. "You know what you're doing. You're ready."

There I sat and watched,
as the White Ships bare them hence.
I stood and wept, one so wretched,
left now alone, with no fence.

The White Ships bore them hence.

A seagull did fly upon the wing
its mournful cries tinged with darkness.
I felt for a time that my heart could not sing,
but still I knew my ending would be no less.

The White Ships bore them hence.

With a wild and insatiable heart did I remain,
now to explore, to learn, to fight

The weather continues to be unseasonably agreeable, though the vast amounts of melting snow have created a bit of a mess in the form of slushy mud no matter where one sets one's feet.

The "bottle cake" that I received from the kind hobbitess will be tested today, I think. There has been little activity around the ruined fort, and I think a small fire can be safely managed on the sheltered side of this rock, away from the road. 

The story of Búrfi and his family (The Stouthammers) is the first Tolkien fan fiction I ever wrote about in great length. The first time I thought of writing about a dwarven family happened when I was seated on a train for two hours after a long week of studying at my university. It was dark outside and the only proper writing material I had was the same pen I used to take notes in class and the 'extra notes' section of a small, outdated pocket agenda.

She'd always loved firelight. Whether from a blazing hearth, or a solitary, flickering candle, the golden dance of light across the plush coverlets, the various angles and curves of bare skin, never failed to be mesmerizing. This particular evening was no different, save for one, small factor that she strove to push from her thoughts.