Tag: sneak-peek

Sansûkh Chapter 41 – Sneak Peek (YES, ANOTHER)

So as many of you are aware, because of my #@$%ing laptop woes, I haven’t been able to get the chapter out when I hoped. 

*pouts*

But! I get a new laptop this afternoon, and I have access to some of my work. So, here we are: another little sneak-peek! Thank you for your patience, and I hope you enjoy!

Sansûkh Chapter 41 – excerpt from draft 

Dear Da and Mum, Gimris and Bofur,

I’m alive. I’m not hurt. I’m not wounded. I’m eating. I’m
wearing my helm, I promise.

I have worried constantly about the Mountain. Is all well
with our family? Are you hale? I heard of the death of Dain, and I sorrow with
you. May Mahal watch and protect him. Do our friends prosper? How does Dale?

You will know this from other messengers, no doubt, but the
War is won at last and the Quest has succeeded. My friend Aragorn is now King
in Gondor and Arnor, and there is much work to be done. I have pledged the work of my hands and mind to rebuilding the Gates of Minas Tirith, and would see many of our people join me in making strong both the city and our friendships with Men. Too, I have found the most glorious place in the White Mountains above Rohan. I must speak to our new King about it. But. That’s not what
this letter is about.

I’ve found my One.

I would tell you this in my own voice and in the same room,
if I were able. But with things the way they are, well, we are no longer
unknown, not even here in Minas Tirith. Indeed, we’re rather famous, it seems?
Anyway, all this is to say: you may hear the news thanks to rumour and gossip,
and I would prefer it to come first from me.

This is hard to put to paper, but I will try it in one
strike, and perhaps it will sting less. Here goes: You may have already deduced
that my One is no Dwarf. Aye, he is not. He is an Elf.

Please, put the letter down and do not throw it in the fire.
Mum, please stop Da from throwing the letter in the fire.

Gimris, sit on him if you must. At least until he calms down
enough for the rest.

Bofur, stop laughing.

Here is the rest: He is Legolas Thranduilion, the son of
Thranduil. He is in fact the very Elf who once insulted Mum and called me a
‘goblin mutant’. He makes truly appalling first impressions. It’s sort of
breathtaking, how poor they are.

Bofur, I said stop laughing.

I have not lost my mind. I am not writing this under duress.
I am not under some ridiculous Elf-spell or bewitchment. This is not some
flight of fancy or passing infatuation. I am perfectly aware of what I do and
where my heart has found its home.

He is not as I thought him to be. I am not as he thought me
to be. The past is more complicated than we were ever led to know. We were both
entirely, completely, grievously wrong. About many, many things. And I thank
Mahal and all the Valar that I know better now.

The whole story is long (and full of tedious walking,
horses, boats and running). But
suffice to say that my eyes have been opened, and I see more clearly now than I
have ever done.

Legolas will return with me to the North, after we have seen
our friend crowned and the Hobbits healed, and after we have attended to a
small journey that we have pledged to each other. We wish to wed. Legolas
wishes to meet with you, and I with his family and people.  

I want only peace between my beloved and my family. I will understand
if your reception is chilly, but for love of me, I beg that you receive us,
that you hear him with an open and unclouded heart, and leave the past where it
lies – for now.

I love you all. I miss you all dearly.

Gimli

P.S. All right, Bofur, you can laugh now.

My beloved King and father, my dear and valiant brothers,

I will be home before the snows fall again. I have missed
you. So very much. The lands to the south are warmer than our woods, but the winds blow strangely and the sea-birds call in voices that are hard to ignore. I have missed our trees and our rivers. I have not heard a Silvan accent in what feels like decades, and these stately Galadhrim and the steel-eyed Peredhil make me feel gauche and incomplete. 

Aragorn is crowned, but his kingdom lies ruined, exhausted from centuries of watchful suspicion and outright war. The olvar here are starved for the sun: the spume of Mordor now dissipates, but it has choked the life from much that is green and good. I have begun whispering to them, coaxing them to put forth leaves and stretch high, but the plants are as weary and frightened as the people. 

I long to be home, where wild roots sink deep and strong into the earth and not even darkness can tear them free. Soon, I will begin the journey. I have a promise to keep, to go south to visit the White Mountains and from thence to see the Onodrim and wander the ancient boles of Fangorn. I think that they would approve of what I do here, with these frightened young trees. 

After I have seen to my promise and to the mountains and the woods, my feet will turn northwards, and home. 

My hus

I would have you meet my

I will be bringing a guest: Gimli, son of Gloin, a
Dwarf-Lord of Erebor. He is one of the Nine Walkers, the champion of Galadriel
of Lothlorien. She bestowed upon him three hairs from her head.

You read that correctly.

He is also the one to whom I plight my

I love him.

You also read that correctly.

It grieves me to know that my love will cause you more pain.
I do not love him to hurt you. I love him because he is brave and kind and
noble and great of heart. Because he has brown eyes and a warm smile, and his
hands could crush bone but he holds me so gently. Because he is Gimli, and no
other.

I write these words not to warn you, nor hurt you. I love
you, and I am proud to be your son, your brother, proud to walk Middle-Earth
wearing the emblems of the Greenwood. I write these words to give you time, and
to prepare you. I would not spring Gimli and the nature of our connection upon
you, nor you upon him, without first telling you of what has transpired.

Much of what you know of Dwarves is wrong. I beg of you, put
aside old tales, caricatures and suspicions, and meet Gimli with an open heart
and clear eyes. He will surprise you. He is endlessly surprising.

I did not care for him at first. I thought I despised him. I
thought every cruel thing that has ever been spoken was true. Yet he was
ever-faithful, ever-stalwart and generous and true, even in the face of terror
and grief and disdain. Our journey has torn away every false belief, and slowly
I have learned to see Gimli, just as he learned to see me. Once I saw him, truly saw him, then I could not help but
love him.

Laindawar, please do not sneer at him. He is a Dwarf, yes,
he is smaller than you, bearded and broad and thick-bodied. He is also a mighty warrior, and
though he is quick to anger he is quick to forgive – and how he forgives. His heart could contain the whole world. He knows
little of trees, but much of home.

Laerophen, I pray you do not account yourself wiser than
him. The Dwarves may have lost much of their records, what with their sorrowful
history, but there is much we do not know and will never know. He sees this world differently to you or I, but no less clearly. He has secrets
upon secrets, his eye is keen, and his mind is quick.

Father, I cannot NOT love him, not even for y

Adar, forgive me for the direction of my heart. And
please do not drain the wine-stores dry

And also I beg that you forgive me this: Gimli’s grandmother
was a Firebeard. Her name was Haban. She died at Moria, during the terrible War
of Orcs and Dwarves so many years ago. She was an honest and hard-working trader who travelled far and
wide, transporting her goods from Ered Luin to the Iron Hills and between. She was a loyal soul and a clever one: the old tales make her people seem like monsters, but she puts the lie to them. She was a good Dwarf. Gimli has her red hair.

Last but not least painful: He is the son of one that we imprisoned, eighty years ago. The one with the red fire-touched hair and the scar over his brow is Gloin, Gimli’s father. Thorin Oakenshield is Gimli’s cousin. I mocked his family and stole his image, long before I ever saw his face.

He has long since forgiven me, and will soon
forgive you for love of me.

Galadriel calls him ‘Lock-Bearer’, but he holds my whole
heart in his great and gentle hands.

I can only hope that your hearts are gentle in return.

Your son and brother,

Legolas Thranduillion, Prince of Greenwood the Great

TBC – thank you so so much for reading!

(The first sneak-peek for ch41 is here)

Sansûkh – Chapter 41 Sneak Peek

Hey all! I am still working on this chapter (wrestling with it is probably closer to the truth) but I wanted to give you all a little looky, for being so patient with me… 

and also to reassure you that I AM TOTALLY DOING THINGS OTHER THAN SINGING WITH MY HOLIDAY i solemnly swear i can’t help it, hamilton has eaten my heart whole

So! Have some aftermath of battle! Hope you like 🙂

Sansûkh Chapter 41 – Draft

“Pippin!” Gimli stumbled over the battlefield, his voice
carrying over the shrieks of the wounded and the screams of the fleeing Orcs.
“Pippin! Mahal curse it, you wool-brained little pesk, please be living, please
be hale and well, you have cost me too many pains to die now!” He turned over a
great grey Orc’s body with an almighty shove and a curse, but found no Hobbit
beneath. “Pippin!”

“Meleth, he is nowhere to be seen upon the Eastern flanks,” Legolas
said, close behind. He had not once left the Dwarf’s side since finding him
unharmed amidst the wrack and ruin of Mordor. “Surely he will have found a
store of provision somewhere. We will find him smoking and drinking at the
supply wagons, you may be sure.”

“That was the first place I checked,” Gimli said,
frustrated, and he kicked the Orc’s body with a growl. “Pippin!”

Legolas’ eyes grew soft. “He will be well,” he said, and
laid a hand on Gimli’s shoulder.

“Aye, until I get my hands on him, he will be,” Gimli said,
and he roughly dashed at his eyes and brow. “Your eyes are better than mine,
ghivashelê. You could see nothing?”

Legolas turned to peer out at the desolate, silent ruin that
was the remains of all Mordor’s might. “I can see the fallen Tower and the
Mountain of Fire that still belches its smoke everywhere. I see the bodies of
Men and Elves, horses and Trolls and Orcs, all lying where they fell. I see the
silhouette of Eagles upon the sky, the shine of the stars beyond the Mountain’s
fume that now begins to pierce through at long last…”

“In other words, you see everything,” sighed Gimli, and he
patted Legolas’ hand consolingly. “Everything except one dratted fool of a
Took. Tis a damned good thing we know the look of a Hobbit’s foot. Do you
recall where he was fighting?”

“He flew ahead as fast as his furry feet would carry him,”
said Legolas, and he dropped to his knees and pulled Gimli’s helm from his
head, pressing their grimy foreheads together. “I did not see him.”

Gimli’s eyes closed and he breathed out slowly. “I will not
lose him, young stout-hearted little rascal,” he said, almost soundlessly.
“This should be a field of victory, and yet…”

“I feel it also,” Legolas said, and he kissed Gimli with feather-light
swiftness. “We have won – but now we also count our losses, and they are great
indeed. We will turn towards a new age, and with it we will farewell much that
was beautiful and sorrowful in the old.”

“Elvish and cryptic, as always,” Gimli snorted, and he carded
a hand through Legolas’ hair, and kissed him again. “Come, let us keep
searching, before this New Age of yours grows any older.”

“It may have been the clamour of battle playing tricks with
my ears, but perhaps it was his voice shouting near where the Men of Rohan made
their stand. Something about Eagles?”

“Well, you could have said so earlier!” Gimli exclaimed, and
he gripped Legolas’ hand tightly and dragged him from his knees and towards the
crumbled heap that had been the Right-hand Tower of the Teeth. “The Horse-Lords
were over here, I think…”

“They held the line to the centre, I thought,” Legolas said,
caught in Gimli’s wake.

“No, to the right,” Gimli repeated stubbornly, and he tucked
his helm under his arm and pushed at a fallen horse with one booted foot. “You
see?”

“One horse does not an Éored make,” Legolas said dryly, but
he was cut off by Gimli’s soft gasp. The Dwarf was stock-still, before he
dropped Legolas’ hand and broke into a run, sprinting as fast as he was able
across the churned earth to the corpse of a gigantic troll.

Gimli dropped helm and axe onto the ground, before he pushed
with all his strength at the beast’s body. “Help me!” he shouted, before he
redoubled his efforts, the muscles in his neck cording under the strain. “He’s
underneath!”

Legolas was a breath behind him, and together they managed
to lift the Troll high enough. Then Gimli turned and took all the weight upon his
back, while Legolas crawled underneath upon his belly.  He inched back out, a small, muddied and limp
body cradled in his arms. The fine Gondorian livery was spattered with blood as
well as mud, and the hair was matted and filthy upon one side of the bright
curly head.

“Shuf!” Gimli let the Troll fall, and rolled his shoulders
back. His neck clicked as he tipped his head. “Is he all right? Does he
breathe? Tell me he yet breathes!”

“He breathes, but sluggishly,” Legolas said softly. “He
needs Gandalf, or Aragorn. If he felled this beast, then he has indeed achieved
the mighty deed he so desired.”

“I will carry him,” Gimli said, a stubborn look in his eye.
Legolas obviously thought better of it than to argue, and gently laid the
Hobbit in Gimli’s great arms. Gimli carried the little fellow as though he were
his own kin, carefully cradling him close to his chest.

“Where is Gandalf, anyway?” he asked as Legolas led them
back across the field of war to where the army gathered together, victorious
and yet solemn, for so many of them had not lived to see this victory.

“He left upon the back of a giant Eagle,” Legolas said, and
he glanced back across the terrible dark plain, past the shattered gates, to
the smoking fire in the distance. “He goes to Orodruin.”

“Mahal tadnani astû,” Gimli murmured, and he held Pippin’s
little frame more closely. “They would have been standing…”

“They must have been right on top of it,” Legolas said, grim and sad. “To the
wagons.”

Gimli looked down at Pippin as they trudged through
the mire, and then he sighed soundlessly. Then he glanced up at Legolas, his
expression slightly deliberating. “You know,” he said, almost conversationally,
“now we get to do everything we said we would. Fangorn and the Glittering Caves
await!”

“As do our peoples,” Legolas said, and he sent a small wry
smile down at the Dwarf. “We get to deal with that as well.”

“Ah, so we do.” Gimli winced a little, and then sighed.
“Well, there’s nothing else for it, Âzyungelê. I will not
hide my love, nor will I run from my people. The price of winning, we might
say.”

“A price, or a prize?” Legolas countered, and he laid a
gentle hand on Gimli’s shoulder and squeezed. “We have yet to discover what
this new Age will bring. But so long as it brings you, I will be content with
it.”

“Not sure how they’re likely to react if we simply show up
together and announce it,” Gimli said, and gave Legolas another considering look.
“What you do think?”

Legolas grimaced. “I feel that it has the potential to go
terribly, horribly wrong. I do not feel it would be fair to my family or to
you, to put you all in such a position. Shock and fear can make a temper
stretch to breaking.”

“Too true,” Gimli sighed. “Nobody likes to have bad news
sprung upon them.”

A faint frown touched Legolas’ face. “You are not bad news,
meleth nîn.”

“From your mouth to Gimrís’ ears. Not to mention your
father’s. There’s Aragorn!” Gimli began to walk faster over the churned earth,
but he was careful not to jostle his burden. “Aragorn, laddie! I’ve found our
rascal, but he needs your help…”

Aragorn was surrounded by soldiers and his counsellors, all
discussing in quiet stunned voices together. It seemed that none could quite
comprehend the sheer magnitude of what had just happened. Soon the realisation
would sink in, and then the celebrations would begin – but for the meanwhile,
the air was hushed and fragile. The King turned at Gimli’s call, and he had
hardly taken the sight in at all before he was sliding down from his horse and
striding over to the pair. Kneeling in the mud, heedless of his mail and finery,
Aragorn smoothed a hand down Pippin’s small round face. “I have nearly
exhausted my store of Athelas, but I will do what I can with what remains,” he
said.

Then he glanced up between Gimli and Legolas, and said,
“it’s good to see that you are both whole. I was worried.”

Gimli made a rude sound in his throat, but Legolas just
smiled. “And you.”

Shuf! – Ooof!
Mahal tadnani astû – Mahal guide you
Âzyungelê – Love of all loves
Ghivashelê – Treasure of all treasures.

Sansûkh – Interlude

In honour of @fishfingersandscarves‘ podcast on The Dork Forest, here’s a little sneak-peek of

Sansûkh! Congratulations again, dearest Fish! *hugs and hugs*

It’s not really an excerpt of the next chapter, tbh… it’s more of a short interlude between Chapters 39 & 40. I had to take it out of Chapter 40 due to pacing and length (seriously, ch40 is gonna be MONSTROUSLY LONG lmao please forgive me Ricky & HD)

I hope you enjoy!

“What else?”

“I need to go to the lavvy a lot,” said Bomfrís bluntly, and
Gimrís’ lips quirked beneath her fine red moustache.

“That’s normal. And don’t expect it to get any better,
either. I felt like I was living in there, right at the end.”

“That’s reassuring,” Bomfrís said sourly. From the seat
beside her, Alrís chuckled.

“I promise, it’s not that terrible. Uncomfortable, aye, and
annoying at times, but liveable. I’ve done it twelve times, my girl: I wouldn’t
have bothered doing it even twice if it were as horrifying as all that.”

“Yes, but you’re you,”
Bomfrís muttered, and she picked at the hem of her tunic. “I can’t eat a damned
thing either. Everything smells foul. I nearly threw up when Barur came back
from the smokehouse last week: his clothes, they just -” she broke off and
tried to make it plain with a series of grimaces just how revolting her brother had smelled.

“I know.” Gimrís said, and there was a gleam of sympathy in
her eyes, though her demeanour remained strictly professional. “That’s also
fairly normal. At least you’re keeping down what you manage to eat.”

“Small meals,” Alrís said, nodding.

“But I’m not hungry,” Bomfrís protested. “And my gums keep bleeding.”

“Wash your mouth out with salted water, and eat anyway,” said Gimrís matter-of-factly.  

“I know your appetite’s probably down to naught, but your
body is doing a fairly remarkable thing right now, my lass,” said Alrís. “You
have to give it something to work with.”

“You’d know all the tricks,” Gimrís said to her, “get her
eating before she stands up, an’ don’t let her skimp just because there’s
rationing. I’m happy to give up some o’ our share of the milk and cheese. She
needs dairy.”

“That’d be a kindness, but I suspect the King won’t be going
begging,” said Alrís dryly.

Bomfrís shuddered. King.
It was an absurd thought. Her awkward, stumbling, sweet Thorin – now the King.

Then she remembered the fire in his eyes, the easy command
in his voice as he ordered the Elves and Dwarves to make their ambush, and she
shuddered for an entirely different reason.

“How’s Bofur doing?” Alrís was asking softly as Bomfrís
pulled herself together. Gimrís shook her head slightly.

“He still has terrible headaches,” she replied, and her
professional tone didn’t do a thing to hide her concern. “He’s getting better
at using his stick too. Bomfrís, anything else? Do you get headaches, or feel
any pain in your belly at times?”

“I get dizzy spells when I stand too fast, sometimes,” she
said, and for the first time Gimrís looked a little concerned.

“But no headaches or fluid gain, an’ you’re not being
sick… Hmm. Get red meat into you, not only dairy. You ought to get as much of
it as you can. Don’t argue!” she said as Bomfrís opened her mouth to protest.
“I know it doesn’t taste right, but you can’t go keeling over because you’re
not getting what you need. Find a way to eat it that you can stomach. Plenty of
water as well.”

Bomfrís groaned. Alrís patted her hand.

“So, nothing else you want to ask about?” Gimrís made a note
in a book, and then looked down at Bomfrís with a pleasant, expectant air, as
though she hadn’t just told Bomfrís that she had to try choking down something
that smelled and tasted like chalk and cardboard to her.

“Um,” said Bomfrís, and her hand came to hover over her
bodice.

“Ah, yes.” Gimrís said, and a glimmer of her normal acerbic
wit shone in her eyes. “Don’t be standing face-first under running water for a
while. You’ll regret it.”

Alrís gave a cough that sounded suspiciously like a
hastily-covered laugh. Bomfrís glared at them both, her ears burning.

“I’ll want to check your blood pressure too,” Gimrís
continued, and she directed Bomfrís to lie down on a long leather-covered
bench. There she was fitted with an odd contraption. It had a soft round pad
that pressed against her wrist and a long tray that rested against her forearm.
Once it was strapped in place and the pad was positioned over her pulse to Gimrís’
satisfaction, the tray was then gradually loaded with small weights until Gimrís
nodded.

“Aye, very low,” she said, her lips pursing. “Well, that’s
safer than if it were the other way around. You can take it off now, and then
we’ll get onto the rest of the check-up.”

Bomfrís took off the weird thing, and wondered at the
strange sense of apprehension that clawed at her.

“All right, relax,” said Gimrís, her tone smart and
clinical. Bomfrís looked up at the ceiling and tried very hard to make each
knotted muscle unclench. It wasn’t working all that well.

Gimrís leaned over and began gently pressing into Bomfrís’
abdomen with practiced fingers. Bomfrís sucked in a breath and stared up at the
ceiling. Off to one side she heard her mother laugh.

“Relax, Bomfrís, you’re in good hands,” said Alrís gently.

“What if there’s something wrong, though?” Bomfrís
whispered, and she reached out her hand blindly. Alrís caught it.

“No use borrowing trouble, we’ve enough of that on our
doorstep as it is,” said Gimrís briskly. “And just there – no, the top of that
round ball, you feel that? – that’s the top of your womb. Everything seems to
be fine.”

Gimrís directed Bomfrís’ free hand to a spot low on her
belly. If she pressed in slightly she could feel a resistance that hadn’t been
there before, even with the layers of Dwarvish muscle and fat that her family
were so rightly proud of. “Huh,” she said, nonplussed, and tapped the little spot with
a forefinger. “Right.”

“You won’t feel anything for quite some time, your bairn’s
far too small to make ‘emselves known that way,” Gimrís said to her, gently
pressing down again. She then stretched a measuring tape over

Bomfrís’ abdomen, before shaking her head and re-taking the length. Then she frowned. “Hmmm.”

Bomfrís’ grip squeezed tight upon her mother’s hand,
clamping down like a vice. “What?”

“Just…” Gimrís wrinkled her nose, and then she stood back
and gave Bomfrís a puzzled look. “Two months, did you say?”

“Well, I can promise that it wouldn’t have been earlier than two months…” Bomfrís said,
and her face flamed scarlet. Alrís chuckled.

“Chip off the old block, aren’t you lass? Your father and
I…”

“I don’t want to hear the rest of that sentence, Ma,” Bomfrís
cut in hurriedly. Alrís smiled, but it was a bittersweet sort of expression.

“No. I suppose not,” she said, and her eyes lowered. A
hint of her grief stole back into her expression.

Gimrís glanced between the measuring tape in her hand and Bomfrís’
anxious, flushed face. “Well, we’ll keep an eye on things,” she said
eventually. “I’d say you must be more than two months along, if the fundal
height is any indication. Perhaps it’s just a big child.”

Bomfrís’ fingers tightened over that little spot on her
belly. “Nothing is the matter, is it?”

“Too soon to say,” said Gimrís, but she patted Bomfrís’
shoulder. “We’ll see if we can’t find a heartbeat, eh? That should put your
mind at ease.”

“There’s a heartbeat this early?”

“Aye, though it’s as soft and rapid as fluttering wings.” Gimrís
smiled, and she brought out a curious contraption that looked rather like Oin’s
ear-trumpet, but with a long tube affixed to one end. “Now, don’t be too
alarmed if we can’t find it,” she warned as she pressed the end of the tube
into one of her ears, pushing the bell-like end against Bomfrís’ belly. “At
this size, we’re lucky if that’s the case. The bairn may be lying at the back
of your womb and so we won’t hear…. oh.”

“Oh?” Alrís and Bomfrís echoed. It was Alrís’ turn to
squeeze Bomfrís’ hand, almost to the point of pain.

“How about that, found it straight away,” said Gimrís
softly, and then she looked up at Bomfrís. “Eager, whoever they are. Lying
right at the top, I should think. Here…” and she pulled the tube from her ear,
wiping it and handing it to Bomfrís. “Fast as a robin’s heart, it is.”

Bomfrís gingerly pressed the tube into her ear, and
concentrated. She could hear a gurgling that she supposed was her own poor
hungry stomach complaining (the child hadn’t let her eat any lunch, again; everything smelled so wrong!).
Swallowing her worry and annoyance, she tried hard to ignore her hunger and to
keep listening for this fluttery sound that was supposedly her baby.

“I can’t hear a thing,” she announced after a moment.

“Keep listening,” Gimrís said, and she moved the bell of the
trumpet a little to the left.

“No – wait!” For she did hear a small something. It didn’t
sound like a heartbeat ought to; not at all like the familiar thump-thump she
had half-expected. It was a tiny whooshing rhythm, regular and rapid, as soft
as the brush of feathers against her face.

“Oh my Maker,” she said in wonder, and pressed the ear-piece
into her ear even harder. “That’s….”

“Aye, that’s your child,” Gimrís said, smiling at her. “It’s
a good strong heart, Bomfrís.”

Alrís carefully hid a wet sniff behind her hand.

“Thorin should hear this,” Bomfrís said, still listening. It
was with a detached and dreamlike sense of fear and awe and shock that she
finally acknowledged that this was really and truly happening, that there was a
brand new little possibility taking form inside her. She’d been so caught up in
everything else – her misery over her morning-sickness, the dratted Elves, the
ever-looming dread of impending royalty, and always the war, of course. 

Always,
always the war.

Her father’s cold face flashed into her mind’s eye, and she
swallowed. Papa would have been happy.
He’d be happy. “D’you have another of these horn things I could borrow?”

Gimrís grinned. “For you, my Queen? At your service.”

“Urgh,” Bomfrís pulled a face at her, and then went back to
marvelling at that little noise.

…

Notes: The machine used to measure blood pressure that is referenced here is based on the sphygmograph. I figured that if Dwarves are medically advanced enough to have discerned the presence and purpose of the nervous system, then presumably they will have made other medical discoveries (and the machines to monitor them).

Of Iron Chapter 3 Sneak Peek

poplitealqueen:

Not exactly what I would call a long peek, but for 500ish words it says quite a bit (I think, at least). Anywho, thought it might make someone happy somewhere.

This is also legit the least Dain involved bit I’ve written for this chapter, BUT I STILL LIKE IT.

uh, notes. Nadadith is khuzdul for little brother

Yrsa is the name I’ve given Bombur’s wife. Her full name is Yrsa daughter of Yrta, and she’s an architect much like Bombur (though she specializes more in repairing forges than general infrastructure, and she’s not half as good a cook!). 

umm. If you’re thinking “is that Bifori? it is. I like that ship.

Keep reading

OH GLOIN

GLOIN BBY

ALSO NORI

ALSO EVERYONE

❤

Sansûkh Sneak Peek – Ch 39

jhaernyl:

determamfidd:

soooo – Guilty Writer Problems Part the #768209th – when you say you will get a chapter finished by blah-blah date, and don’t. *cringe* I am so sorry. All I can say in my defense is: the Dwarfling is sick. She is so so gloopy and tired and miserable, and it’s like a hook in my heart. We’re off to the doctor again today. Plus, I have had a stream of family visitors over the last two weeks (my mum last week, MIL this week…) – PLUS new job. SIIIIGH. 

Anyway, I DID manage to complete and clean up one small scene last week, and so as an apology, here it is. It’s only 2K or so. BUT BARIS. Also THIRA. And… uh, badass angst? IDEK. 

Thank you for your patience and for putting up with my current flakiness. I hope you enjoy… whatever the heck this is! *hugs*

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Continua a leggere

Thank you for writing this, determamfidd, would you mind if I were to print or copy it and hand it where I can see it?

Absolutely – go for it! 😀

Sansûkh Sneak Peek – Ch 39

soooo – Guilty Writer Problems Part the #768209th – when you say you will get a chapter finished by blah-blah date, and don’t. *cringe* I am so sorry. All I can say in my defense is: the Dwarfling is sick. She is so so gloopy and tired and miserable, and it’s like a hook in my heart. We’re off to the doctor again today. Plus, I have had a stream of family visitors over the last two weeks (my mum last week, MIL this week…) – PLUS new job. SIIIIGH. 

Anyway, I DID manage to complete and clean up one small scene last week, and so as an apology, here it is. It’s only 2K or so. BUT BARIS. Also THIRA. And… uh, badass angst? IDEK. 

Thank you for your patience and for putting up with my current flakiness. I hope you enjoy… whatever the heck this is! *hugs*

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Sansûkh Sneak Peek (Draft) – Ch 39

It was very cold in the place of the tombs. Bombur looked
about, and shivered a little. His head was still spinning from the stars of
Gimlin-zaram.

“Why here?” he wondered aloud.

“Perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea,” said Bifur
worriedly, and he patted at Bombur’s back absently as he spoke. “Perhaps it’s
too soon. We should…”

“I’m fine, barafun,” Bombur said in his soft voice, and he
squared his shoulders and lifted his round, pleasant face. “I’m all right.”

“He’d want his braid done proper – properly, I mean,” said
the Dwarrowdam before them stubbornly, catching her slip of the tongue and
correcting it almost absent-mindedly. “I can do it. Besides, it’s not like I
can do for my.” She stopped, and then looked down at her fingers.

“You needn’t explain it to me, child,” said the Queen – no,
the Queen Dowager – tiredly.

“She looks a century older,” Bifur whispered, but Bombur had
no eyes for anything but his eldest daughter.

“Our special little starling, our surprise baby she was,” he
said, staring fixedly at her. Her brown hair was caught in a plain
working-braid, her beard unadorned and her dress old and threadbare. Her
sleeves were rolled up to the elbow. The uniform of a nasty, mucky job.

The Dwarrowdam sighed and scrubbed at her eyes for a moment,
and then returned to the business of twisting thick, white hair into two long
braids. His arms ached with the need to hold his little girl again. She
sniffled, and rubbed at her nose. It was red.

Bombur gripped at Bifur’s arm, and his eyes stung and
prickled. “Ah, Barís. Don’t cry, poppet.”

Baris wiped her forearm across her eyes again, and then
broke off with a muttered curse to fumble for a handkerchief. The resulting blurt was embarrassingly loud in the
cold and silent crypt.

“Sorry,” she mumbled, and pocketed her handkerchief as her
cheeks flushed a dull pink.            

The Queen was seated beside her, her hand tightly clasping a
cold and lifeless one. Bombur glanced down at the bench before them once more –
and then hurriedly turned his eyes away from the wreck that was the remains of
the King. “No apology needed,” she said.

“I just.” Barís waved a hand at the corpse. Bifur’s warm arm
under his fingers was the only thing keeping Bombur from rushing over to try
and gather her up in a hug.

“No, no apology.” Thira repeated, and she finally looked up
at where Barís stood. “I did not lay out my parents. They were Burned Dwarves:
I never prepared them to return to the stone. I’ve never done this before
either.” She swallowed hard. “I did not expect to do so for him. Not him.”

Barís’ eyes dropped. “He always seemed so. Well.
Invincible.”

Thira smiled. There was no true warmth in it. “Aye, well. He
was good at seeming.”

“At least you can return him to the stone,” Barís said
eventually. “At least you have that.”

Thira laid a gentle hand on Barís’ forearm. “We will
retrieve them. Him. Barís, my son will see to it. I swear to you! You will have
your father’s body, to mourn and to bury.”

Barís’ lips tightened. “I wish–” she blurted, and checked
herself. Then she scrubbed at her face again. “What bloody use is wishing,
though? My Papa is dead, and wishing won’t bring him back.”

“Bombur, khulel: I’m here,” said Bifur,
low. “I’m here.”

Bombur nearly bit through the inside of his cheek.

“If wishes were pigs, we’d all be riding,” Thira said, and
laughed joylessly. “He used to say that.”

“He called me poppet,” Barís said. Her beautiful voice was
rough and wretched. “And I had that Mahal-cursed idea. And it killed him. My
papa.”

“Oh no, no you don’t get to do that, darling girl,” Bombur
said with sudden heat. “Not your fault. Not your fault it didn’t work, and not
your fault I chose to go out there with my bum leg an’ all!”

Thira’s glance was hard and sharp. “You tried to save us
all. No knife in your hands, Master-singer.”

Barís bent her head. “I wish,” she said again.

“My husband did the same as you: tried to save us all. So
did your father.” Thira shrugged one shoulder: a careless-looking movement,
though her expression was anything but. “So did many others, many who tried and
died. Will you claim their deaths as well?”

Barís’ mouth contorted as she struggled with her sobs. “My
uncle…”

“Aye.” Thira looked back down at the pallid, drained,
withered shape of her husband. Without the enormous force of his personality,
it was easy to see how old he was – how tired and shrivelled. “He chose too.
Chose to try to save the Bizarunh. Do not make his choice into your failing.
Will you strip them of their decisions in your haste to condemn yourself?”

Barís made a terrible broken sound, deep in her throat.

Thira kept gazing with endless longing at what had been Dáin
Ironfoot, King Under the Mountain. His white beard was clean and now braided
neatly, covering the terrible wounds upon his chest and arms. His skin was free
of blood and mud, pale and parchment-dry to look upon, the eyelids closed,
hollows beginning to sink upon his cheeks and either side of the sharp
Durinesque nose.

“Sometimes things don’t work,” she said slowly, in a
distant, almost dreamy voice. “Sometimes the best ideas, the best intentions,
go wrong. And that may not be the fault of anyone – or it could be the fault of
everyone. In another world, it might have worked. Who is to say? Without the
tunnel, would the Dalefolk ever have made it to the sanctuary of the Mountain?
Would Dale be a smoking graveyard now, if not for Bofur and Bombur and my silly
old boar? Would bright little Gimizh be dead, or perhaps the Crown Prince of
Dale dead, all those trapped underground slaughtered, if not for my Thorin and
your father? If not for the diversion of Dáin? If Brand had not decided to ride
out to meet him?

“And either way – what does that matter? Things are as they are. They are gone back to the stone,
and we are here. And life goes on. We remember. You sang that song, did you
not? You carry that with you always now. That moment… it’s a part of you. This
moment is a part of me.” She tipped back her head and her eyes fixed upon the
roof with its ornate and solemn carvings. “We’re all just moments and choices,
in the end.”

“And now I know why canny, shrewd old Dáin Ironfoot chose an
unknown and crowd-shy steelsmith to wed,” whispered Bombur. Bifur grunted in
agreement, his face serious and set.

Barís closed her eyes, and eventually she nodded. Her mouth
was still pressed in an ugly line, twitching every now and then as she barely
controlled her emotions. “I know, your Majesty,” she said in barely a murmur. “But I still
wish I’d never thought of it.”

“I can sympathise. I often wish – wished – that my idiot
husband didn’t have a thing about saving the day at the last minute,” Thira
said, and smiled a little. Unlike before, it was a true smile. “Come now, Barís.
We are to become family, you needn’t be so deferential. My son and your sister,
eh?”

“Little idiot,” Barís sniffled, and tied off a long white
braid, laying it respectfully down upon the King’s still and lifeless chest. “I
can’t believe her.”

“I think it’s wonderful.” Thira’s hand fumbled for the cold,
stiffened one again, and upon finding it she squeezed a little. “So wonderful.
He would have been thrilled.”

“Papa too.” Barís rubbed her eyes one last time, and then
sighed out, long and tired. “He spoiled all my nieces and nephews outrageously,
and they would climb all over his chair and pull at his nose and beard and ask
for sweets and stories.”

“She hasn’t called me Papa for thirty years,” Bombur said in
a faint little voice. “I was Dad or Adad, she called me… after the Quest, after
the money…”

“She didn’t need to, did she?” Bifur pointed out. “You’ve
always been Papa.”

“But it all changed, we all changed so much.” Bombur pulled
a little at his looped braid. “We… she got taught to speak more proper, and
stopped calling me Papa.”

“Looks like she never stopped where it counted.” Bifur
turned back to his cousin, and gently rubbed Bombur’s back. “There there, lad.
You get used to it.”

“The Council has been clamouring for a wedding,” Thira
snorted, and then shook her head and smiled down at Dáin’s still face. “How you
would have laughed at them, dear. Insisting on proper Ereborean protocol in the
middle of war.”

“Bomfrís is still panicking a little about that. Well, I say
‘a little’…” Barís laughed wetly, and then sighed again. Her shoulders relaxed
from their stiff, guarded posture. “What else can I help with? He’s clean, and
his hair is as it should be…”

Thira’s dark eyes glittered. “Always so helpful, hmm?”

Barís blinked.

“Don’t think I haven’t missed you hovering around my forge, Master-singer.
For all your grand performer’s tricks, you’re rather unobtrusive, aren’t you?
Always helpful, always willing.” Thira cocked her head. “Now, what is so
fascinating about my workrooms in particular, I wonder? Not a wiry old
steelsmith, Durin forbid.”

A flush rose on Barís’ sweet, round face, and she coughed
awkwardly. “I… want to be useful.”

“To one of my craftsmasters in particular, hmm.” Thira
huffed a little laugh. “I haven’t missed that either, young Alrísul. For a
trained artist, you aren’t the most subtle of actors.”

“Must we speak of it now? Here?” Barís said plaintively.
Then she scrubbed at her eyes again. “Oh, what use is anything anyway.”

“Now is the best
time to speak of it,” said Thira. “This is an ending. Go make a beginning,
child.”

“Easy for you to say.” Barís glowered down at Dáin’s
peaceful old face.

“No. No it isn’t easy for me to say.” Thira said, and her
voice was suddenly sharp and cold, like steel striking steel. “My love lies
here before us, without breath or life. It is not easy for me to say.”

“Forgive me,” Barís said quickly. “I mean, I just. I don’t
know where to begin. Sometimes I think Bani doesn’t even know my name…”

Thira’s eyes softened. Then her hand reached out once more,
and she squeezed Barís’ shoulder in reassurance. Her hard, thin fingers were wiry
and tough. “Remember, choices and moments, Barís,” she said kindly. “Bani is a
single-minded sort of lass, and gets lost in her work. She gets irritated
easily by any sort of interruption, and she often forgets to eat in her zeal.”

Baris digested that for a moment, and then she gave the
Queen Dowager a helpless sort of look. “What am I supposed to do with that?”

Thira squeezed Barís’ shoulder again. “It’ll come to you, child.
The moment will arrive, and with it, your choice.”

“Is that the one Barís has been sweet upon, then?” Bombur
wondered. “Alrís wouldn’t tell me.”

Bifur nodded. “Bani daughter of Bana, a woodsmith. Very
clever, very clumsy, very impatient. And very
unobservant,” he added sourly.

Barís’ face scrunched up with indecision. “But… what if it
all goes wrong again?” she mumbled.

“Then that is the way of things, isn’t it?” Thira smoothed
back Dáin’s shock of white hair, standing high over his forehead. Her rough
fingers lingered there. “But remember this, Crystaltongue. Sometimes, if you’re very brave, very honest, very lucky… sometimes, for a time, it goes right.”

Then the Queen Dowager looked up and smiled at the
master-singer. There was grief in that smile, naturally – but Bombur could see
the shade of a young smith with steady, fire-touched eyes and smooth skin in
it: the ghost of the Dwarrowdam that had captured the heart of Dáin Ironfoot.
“And if you’re very, very lucky?” she said softly, “it keeps on going right, and keeps on going right. And it’s just – just always there, always right, all your life long. Until one day, perhaps one hundred and thirty years later, your luck finally runs out. And it ends.”

…

Sansûkh – Chapter 36 Sneak Peek

Okay, I am feeling a bit guilty that I haven’t got this damned chapter finished yet when I promised that I had most of it nutted out and only had to write it. gdi, everything happens all at once hnnngh this is the most difficult goddamned chapter I stg

Current word count progress: 8.9K 

So, I haven’t done a sneaky peek of the draft/WIP in freakin’ ages. But because you’re all being awesome and patient (and sending me cute headcanony ideas to keep me bopping as I wrestle with this danged thing), as a thank-you I thought I’d give you all some flirty Gigolas. 

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Enjoy!

Hrera looked up from her silver wire-twisting as they approached. She was seated comfortably in a large high-backed chair that had been dragged into the Chamber
of Sansukhul because: ‘if you think I am sitting for hour after hour on cold stone all alone, then next you will find that I am sitting on you.’

The
chair had been produced in record time. There was even a cushion.

“Back again?” Hrera looked disapproving – more so than usual.

“I
must,” Thorin said wearily. “The battles still continue, and I have not yet found my star.”

“Oh, I’m not in the least bit worried for him,” she sniffed, and smoothed back his hair. “Don’t push yourself too far again, Thorin darling.”

He ducked his head obediently, allowing her to arrange his hair to her satisfaction. “I will not,” he said, and yawned.

She tweaked his ear. “I’m sure. Off you go then. If you must.”

Thorin gave his grandmother a tight smile of apology and fell upon his bench. He heard Frerin whispering a few words to Hrera as the stars began their mesmerising dance. Then all was drowned by the ringing in his ears as he was hurtled through the star-pool towards Middle-Earth once more.

The shrieking was the first sound. Thorin opened his eyes and then winced as the cold, cutting light of day stabbed into them. There was no sign of the sun. The sky billowed with black clouds, roiling and evil-looking.

“Where…” said Frerin, squinting and shading his eyes.

“Give chase! Give chase!” came the cry, and
Thorin turned to see Aragorn with his sword drawn, urging the Grey Company onwards. “We near the port of Pelargir! Drive these allies of darkness onwards, drive them into the sea!”

“Ai-oi, come and take a bite of my axe, you servants of Sauron!” came the familiar rumbling laugh, and Thorin’s heart leaped as he turned to behold his star. Gimli was standing planted firmly upon a small rise, his axe dealing blow after
blow. Behind him, the Elf stood like a spear of pale fire, his bow picking off more distant targets.

“These aren’t Orcs, these are Umbari,” said Thorin, frowning. “Corsairs.”

“I see you’ve finally made it, then,” said Óin, and he jerked his head towards Gimli. “Pleasure to watch him work, ain’t it?”

“Aye.” Thorin watched for a moment as Gimli cut down a corsair, his axe glinting in the dim daylight. His star spun on one foot to sink the blade into another, unstoppable as a charging bull. He pulled his axe free with a jerk, and then whirled it over his head for a moment, the blood spattering in an arc upon the
faces of his foes. His hair was caught in an unfamiliar braid, and Thorin
frowned at it for a moment.

“Twenty-one!” Legolas called, and Gimli laughed again in delight.

“I’m ahead o’ you again, laddie, better catch up! I make my count out at twenty-three!”

Legolas
drew his bow, fast as thought, and the corsair that was rushing behind Gimli fell to the ground with an arrow in his throat. “Better watch your back, meleth nin,” Legolas panted, grinning hard.

“Why,
when I have you to do that for me?” Gimli returned the fierce grin, his eyes bright.

Aragorn glanced back at them, and rolled his eyes. “To the ships!” he cried, and then sprang forward. Andúril gleamed like a tongue of white fire.

“Boats again,” Gimli groaned, and Legolas’ laugh pealed out over the fighting, a clear bell of silver.

“I
shall hold your hand, shall I?”

“Oh fer cryin’ out loud,” Óin muttered, and tugged at his beard. “Sickening, the pair of them.”

“Have they been like this the whole time?” Thorin said. Beside him, Frerin snorted.

“They’re flirting with axe an’ bow, is what they’re doing,” Óin grumbled. “Gimli’s putting as much flair and polish on those swings as he possibly can without taking his own eye out, and the Elf’s more damn flamboyant than a peacock. How do they twist and leap like that? Are they part cat?”

Legolas twirled and turned, his hair flying out in a fan behind him as he drew his knives. He moved like liquid music, almost too graceful to be thought of as fighting if it were not for the trail of fallen bodies he left in his wake.

Gimli paused for a moment, his axe raised halfway, to watch the Elf move for a second.

“Keep your mind on what you are doing,” Thorin told him.

“Ah,
my king,” Gimli said, and smiled broadly. “You cannot blame me for admiring such skill.”

“I do not think it is exactly his skill that you admire so,” Thorin grunted.

Gimli’s smile turned arch. “Ah, well, you cannot blame me for that, either. Weren’t you the one who urged us on?”

Thorin folded his arms and harrumphed.

“Bloody sickening,” Óin muttered again, and then he waved a hand down towards the river some small distance below, glittering like a silver snake. “There’s the mouth of Anduin. These bastards are sailing up the river.”

“They mean to fall upon Gondor unforeseen,” Thorin said, and then an unearthly reek
filled the air. The wind rose with a sudden howl, blowing back the hair of the
fighters, clawing at them with chilly fingers.

Then
the greenish sickly glow of the restless dead began to rise like marsh-mist
from the earth. Aragorn paused, and then lifted Andúril high. It gleamed against the murky sky. “Take their ships!”

The
corsairs aboard the ships below laughed and jeered. “Who’s gonna stop us then!”
one shouted, his rough voice raucous from bellowing over sea-winds. “Your
ragged bunch? Who are you to deny us passage to Gondor, eh?”

“Legolas,
fire a warning shot past the bo’sun’s ear,” Aragorn said, and Legolas drew his
bow once more.

“Mind
your aim,” Gimli murmured, close by Legolas’ side.

The
shot flew wide, and hit a sailor in the throat. He pulled an extraordinary
face, and keeled over dead.

“Whoops,”
said Gimli innocently. “Treacherous winds, aren’t they?”

Legolas
glared down at Gimli for a moment, but could not maintain it for long. His
laugh pealed out, even as the corsairs gaped at their dead comrade. “Ah, meleth
nin, not the dread of death nor the sharing of heart’s secrets can daunt the
spirit of a Dwarf!”

Gimli’s
nose wrinkled. “Sea-sickness might do it. Boats. Eurgh.” Then he shook his head
and raised his voice to a carrying roar, addressing the corsairs once more.
“Well, we warned you! Prepare to be boarded!”

“Sounds
exciting,” Legolas murmured. Gimli choked and the apples of his cheeks flushed
almost as bright as his beard.

“Elves,”
he muttered with a scandalised huff, and raised his axe. There was a glitter in his dark eyes, however,
that told Thorin that this particular taunting arrow had found its mark.

TBC!