Chapter Text
Preface
Dearest Readers! This is that place where if you wish to spend a moment gleaning some valuable information about this road that will go ever on and on (since you are daring to step outside your door and have an adventure) you may do so. If you wish to throw caution to the winds and just start reading the story, please scroll down until you see the black and white photo above Chapter One and be on your way! Otherwise...
This fanfic is rated mature for very descriptive depictions of consensual adult sex within the confines of serious relationships as well as graphic violence. It may be asked, how dare we call ourselves authors of a serious literary endeavor when obviously the Professor would abhor a smut-filled version of his elevated fantasy world that was specifically meant to exclude such elements? Ann, with her fussy academic thinking, has answered that because it ranks as a valid question/point of contention for many who hold 'canonicity' sacrosanct. Hence the essay: There's No Sex in Tolkien! for those wishing to understand our position on this topic. For those curious about 'the nature of the explicit content'? The adult scenes are written in elevated emotional language. There is no coarse speech; this is not porn or erotica. What exists purposes to be a window into the totality of a character's mental and emotional spectrum. In the beginning of the story one finds more; there is a reason. While it never disappears from the tale, this is a story about many many things and moves from bedrooms to the wide world. Because it did. We will say no more beyond, read or do not. The rating exists for a reason, but the work exists to challenge the reader's thinking and point of view as does any good work of literary fiction and we like to hope that if you pass into our forest you will not emerge unchanged.
What is this work? As of summer 2025, this story is a narrative literary fiction written in the genre of a novel, currently a work in progress. It contains a central theme and storyline, will have a defined ending, and a reader will encounter the recognizable hallmarks of character development, thematic emphasis and psychological complexity. This may be one of the largest experiments with the form of 'a literary fiction novel' out there. Who knows? We estimate we are 7/8 of the way through telling our story, and there is a planned sequel we hope to write. This work is a dynamic project that has consumed closer to a decade than not of our creative effort, and we have many plans and goals for its continued enhancement. This explanation is here because many have asked questions such as 'will the story end,' etc. That deserves a response given that reading something of this size involves a considerable investment of time and personal resources.
Trigger Warnings. Regarding the Archive Warnings for this work; we think tags are spoilers. We don't have a rape/non-con tag while also saying that there is graphic violence in here, so sensitivity demands we be really up front about some elements in the fic. Our story does not carry the rape/non-con tag because no actual vivid depictions of successful sexual assault occur. However, there are attempted assaults, recovery/survivor discussions, recollections of assault, explorations of gender-based crime, and survivors eventually confronting their perpetrators as a whole subject, etc. So it isn't like we don't go there...we are just like the horror movie that never fully shows the monster on camera. That being said, if sexual assault is a trigger for a reader, be advised that it is a recurring topic in this work. All chapters that contain potential triggers (recollections, 'flashbacks', attempted assaults) are clearly identified with warnings at the beginning. The same is done for scenes of graphic violence. While these are hardly dominant features of this giant story, they exist. We have done our best to be sensitive to those who have suffered real world abuse. Respectful requests regarding the need to do more will definitely be taken into consideration.
Some items of note; a fun fact: When we began the story, where to place imaginary Lasg’len was something of a question mark. We chose the real world village of Feakle as our “x” on the map, in County Clare, Ireland. Humorously, there is no forest whatsoever but there is a lake. https://www.clare.ie/place/feakle/
The fic is saturated with references to three older films in particular: Monty Python and the Holy Grail, The Princess Bride, and A Christmas Story. We cannot recommend enough that the reader view these movies (please watch Monty Python with subtitles turned on if you aren't British! or else many many words will sail straight over your head and that would be sad). If you find them difficult or can't access them, contact us on Discord. Seriously. We will help you find a way to view them...it matters to us that you be able to enjoy the story as it is meant to be enjoyed and if we need to, we will go back and embed every video clip on YouTube.
As you read the story, you will find photos, art, the text will be quite polished, the writing so very good...and then you will think 'what happened???' Ah. You will have encountered the tipping point of the Great Edit. We feel that our story is a living organism and even as we are writing it, we are trying to improve the parts of it written long ago. We have so many ideas! We began editing in January, 2020. We will slowly fine tune, annotate and in other ways improve the story from the very beginning and leave a note in the chapter summary that we have done so. Ann wrote chapters 1-11 or thereabouts before Sona came aboard and made this story possible. Chapter One alone yielded over 120 edits, yowza. (Then rewrote it again later anyway, and will probably rewrite it again in future) Every writer starts somewhere, and Ann been writing fic for just four months when this "little side story" began. All our readers have been an inspiration to improve and learn, and we hope you enjoy the comments, links, art and other tidbits we will provide as this process unfolds. You can see more of our journey of discovery as writers, if you wish. If anyone still wants to have or read version 1.0 we downloaded it before we began to update, just send a comment.
Something to file away for later. This is ultimately a Silmarillion fanfiction, as the category indicates, though its roots lie in the tale of "The Hobbit." Some readers come here familiar with both works, others, neither. The purpose of this massive tale is to complete the unfinished vision of the Ainulindalë. In the weighty language of The Silmarillion, this Song of Creation is understandably dense and inaccessible. This brilliant webcomic by Evan Palmer solves this problem and when the time comes in our story when some light bulbs begin going off, please do look at it. Another project underway we'd like to point toward (because pictures are worth a thousand words and while the Hobbit films did much good, they also did much leading astray) is this wonderful Retelling the Hobbit right here on AO3, a work in progress like our own.
Many Acknowledgements that pertain to this fanfic:
To SonaBeanSidhe, for bringing in her OC's from the M Universe series (they appear in later chapters), and for help and support with all things Irish and Ireland. After chapter 16 all material is co-written; AO3 didn't initially leave an elegant way to be clear on this.
To Nuredhel, wttw, moiety, bluehair, Franki3W, April Summers, the Beta Squad who keep this train on the tracks, we do not know what we would do without your magical ability to Remember All the Things. To Lilith di Libri, for proofreading the earliest draft of what became this book and providing valuable insight.
To Agent Of Entropy, who also did beta/admin work for us; our story is now also her memorial. She passed to the care of Eru on August 30, 2018. We were greatly saddened by her loss, and will ever appreciate her significant contribution to our tale.
To Mary and Malinornë (Mary and Mal), authors of the stories at www.thranduil.net for their original character Thaladir, which provided loose inspiration for our OEC "Thanadir" and not so loose inspiration for OEC "Thaladir" (used with permission from Malinornë). Mary Aseltyne has passed beyond the circles of Arda. Somewhere, we hope Mary is smiling because there is Unseemliness.
Most awkwardly, to the author who I now cannot find because s/he took down their unfinished piece...about a faded Thranduil that lived in a modern-day woods, and was in the process of seducing a firieth of his own. While this trope is the only thing that our stories shared, reading it planted the seeds for this one. If the author ever re-posts their work, I will certainly give credit.
To denizens of the Discord server Vinyë Lambengolmor. The desire to learn the Elven languages partly inspired this fic...a rocky road indeed and an ongoing (and probably eternal) quest. We are grateful to the Tolkienian linguists who supply corrections for the Sindarin used in the story, and all of the Quenya translations.
Our sincerest appreciation to Spiced_Wine for her explicit permission to write the original characters Vanimórë and the Khadakhir from her Dark Prince AU. To be entrusted with a creation of this intricacy is an honor and a privilege, and we hope to prove worthy of this complex challenge.
Thanks to the generous artists who have given permission for their art and photographs to be used to illustrate this fanfic: lucife56, Małgorzata Karolak, Natalie Chen, Kaprriss, Alystraea, EJDM, Mysilvergreen, Tindomiel-Heriroquen, Sepi-Donne, SonaBeanSidhe, AnnEllspethRaven, Edgar Badilla, Landscape Photography by Mike Thompson
Last and greatest, to J.R.R. and Christopher Tolkien, whose combined efforts have provided us with boundless magic. All characters of Tolkien's creation belong to the Tolkien Estate. No infringement is intended in this transformation of the Professor's original concepts, and we earn no remuneration from our efforts here. We do claim ownership of our respective original characters found in this story.
Chapter One
Arrival
{February 21, 2016, County Limerick, Ireland}
Earlene walked down the steps from the jetliner onto the tarmac, her tired mind trying to process…this was a thing. Somehow, gran’s voice echoed in her mind. Fire up what God gave you for a brain, Earlene. Does the sign say Welcome to Heathrow? No, it does not now, does it? A pause in her steps and a glance upward confirmed her Inner Gran. Shannon Airport. Aerfort na Sionainne , the letters beneath it protested. That little muscle under her left eye twitched with fatigue while other passengers walked past her into the terminal.
Correcting her posture, the stiff Irish breeze brought an altogether different scent to her nostrils. The bouquet of Not New York City. Here goes nothing. The signs that had greeted her on the airplane were in many languages…that was usual…but seeing one of the languages be Irish…ah, that was new. And now the Irish was everywhere. All the signs, she observed, were in English and Irish. An immediate charm settled over her that wove threads around her heart and tugged. Ireland. You are standing on Ireland , Earlene…no. No, can’t think about it. Not yet.
Inside, past the nothing that passed for Customs at which her passport was stamped with the Temporary Visitor Permission stamp, good for ninety days…in which she would have the best solicitor hired to sort things out because as gran would put it, like hell will I be arsed to deal with it myself. The tiniest smile curled the edges of her mouth as she stepped into the large space just past the gate where her agent would await her arrival…hopefully. After all, she wasn’t in Kansas now. And…the sign that said Sullivan , held by someone dressed nicely enough if not in the same level of formality as her two piece wool suit. Walking forward with that extreme sense of self-possession worn like armor, Earlene smiled. “Hello, I am Earlene Sullivan. You are Niamh?”
“Aoibheann, actually,” she said — it sounded like Ay-veen, spoken in a Dublin accent softened by a few years in the States. She was some five years’ Earlene's junior, a touch on the short side, with strawberry-blonde hair pulled back into a chignon, and a face full of freckles. “Grand to meet you. Niamh got called into court last-minute, but she’s sent me with everything.”
“Ah well,” Earlene replied pleasantly, masking her irritation. “These things happen! I am pleased to meet you. I have everything with me; checking baggage has always seemed like tempting Fate.” Though, Aer Lingus could take its carry-on policies and place them in a deep, dark place…their bag size limit was ridiculously small even by the standards of European carriers. The diminutive roller suitcase behind her and the sleek leather case slung over her shoulder were apparently the extent of her possessions. Inner satisfaction not permitted to surface coursed through Earlene upon noting the expression of vague disbelief on Aoibheann’s face.
“It’s Russian Roulette even at the best airports,” Aoibheann said. “I’ve got all the papers here—” she held up her briefcase. “Tax forms, bill’v sale for the property, and Niamh’s done a list’v things you might not know about Ireland, like the ins and outs’v National Health, emergency services, that sort’v thing. The history’v the property was surprisingly hard to parse — to be honest, she was trying to figure out what was wrong with the place, because nothing in Ireland sells that cheaply, but she came up empty. So far as she’s been able to tell, you just got incredibly lucky.”
“Is that so…” Earlene trailed off. “As long as she did her due diligence,” Earlene chose her words carefully. “There were no constraints on her ability to hire anyone necessary to ascertain the legality or…any points of interest…concerning the sale because not being familiar with these elements myself, well…this was the point of hiring someone so highly recommended and paying very well in order to have no stone left unturned. I am certain that I will find everything is in order,” Earlene noted in a pleasantly sleek tone that in fact meant, god fucking help you and five generations of your descendants if everything is not entirely in order . Her attractive face appeared disarmingly bright; the accompanying voice seemed rich and pleasant, yet this short narrative held a subtle undercurrent that was wholly terrifying.
“Oh, if it exists, it’s in here,” Aoibheann assured her. “Some’v it was bloody hard to track down, but Niamh’s tenacious. She said it’s the most interesting case she’s had in years, because there was so much secrecy around the property’s history. The cottage has never been occupied full-time, but there was nothing wrong with it — she had the drains cleaned, but that was somehow all it needed. I’ve been out there myself — if I didn't know any better, I’d swear it somehow got frozen in time before we got the contractors in for the wiring and plumbing, and all that. Even the thatch on the roof was pristine.”
It had, in point of fact, been more than a little creepy, and she’d been happy enough when the final inspection was over. Had it not been for the thick layer of dust, she’d have sworn it had to be occupied by someone…or something. Aoibheann wasn’t normally the superstitious type, but the stories her gran had told her when she was little hadn't been far from her mind the entire time she was out there — tales of the Sidhe, and what they sometimes did to humans they ran across. Daft, all of it, but somehow, standing at the edge of that dark forest, it hadn't seemed daft at all.
But there was no way in hell she was going to say any of that to this pragmatic, wholly businesslike American. There wasn’t actually anything there, and there was nothing to be gained by making Earlene believe some of the worst stereotypes of the Irish.
Earlene looked with great interest out the window in every direction as they departed the airport in Limerick, realizing with a slight sense of disappointment that of course, it lay outside of the city proper and so they would not see any of it. A foolish mistake, but weariness was creeping over her in the worst way. With much determination, yawns were fought off like dragons to slay. While the kilometers passed by her tired but fascinated eyes, the scenery felt like a dozen vaults of treasure… Emerald Isle indeed . A wholly different demeanor settled upon her, wrapping around like a woolen shawl. “My gran was from Ireland. You must hear that from every single person like me,” Earlene murmured to the quiet of the car’s interior, uncertain why she volunteered this even as the words were spoken.
“Are you here under the Right’v Return?” Aoibheann asked. Out of deference to her American passenger, she actually drove like a reasonable person — unfortunately, nobody else on the road could say the same, but it might be best if Earlene got used to it before she got behind the wheel herself. “A load’v people who immigrate here had an Irish gran, or grandda — so many were flung out to the four corners’v the world, especially prior to the Fifties. Where was she from?”
“That’s just it, I don’t rightly know and it’s embarrassing,” Earlene confessed. “Gran was three when her parents brought her here. She remembers the stories her own mam told of her life and I know those…but all of them came without places attached. So…” helpless hands went into the air. “I know it sounds lame but my life…I never had time for anything but work until I made the decision to come here. Maybe it’s one of the things I can try to discover. I could tell you the stories were about being farmers run off the land but I suspect that’s the tale of several million people and not helpful in the least,” Earlene smiled wryly. She wasn’t a complete ignoramus concerning the sad saga otherwise named The History of Ireland …nor would she pretend to know what a native did.
“It’s a tragedy that’s all the worse for being so common.” Aoibheann merged, and fought an urge to swear under her breath at the twat in the SUV, who’d apparently decided it was time to play Pinball on the M7. “Well, the good thing is, a lot’v places in Ireland have got records going back six hundred years or more — the bad thing is, there’s a lot that still hasn’t been digitized. You’ll find whatever there is to find, if you’ve got the time, and no doubt an entire gaggle’v old ladies who’d jaw your ear off about the goings-on in Lasg’len for the last five generations at least. Give them some names to hunt for and they might do half the legwork for you.”
A fat raindrop splatted on the windscreen, followed by a smattering that struck the car like marbles. “And I think that’s the price we pay, in our line’v work — there’s not much room for anything else. Out’v our entire firm, only one’v us is married.”
Earlene snorted. “I can completely relate. My friends and I used to exchange jokes about all the tricks we pulled how to turn down requests for dates…er, being asked out…not meaning to be rude but…there simply was no time. No point letting someone get a foot in the door, it gives them ideas they’ve got a chance at…whatever…whatever it was I couldn’t afford to be interested in any manner. Not only did I have to concentrate all the time, I had a reputation to maintain and…no. Believe me, nothing was worth it. I worked too hard for my career and I really liked what I did. But…I kept thinking about Ireland. And gran. I know it makes no sense.”
No, it did not make sense. The day and moment the senselessness coalesced seared itself into her memory. After one long afternoon and early evening in the office, she treated herself to a run in Central Park. On every occasion in which her feet indulged themselves on the winding footpaths, they tracked to Cleopatra's Needle. As she admired this monument for the umpteenth dozenth time it finally sank in: She might be here solidly established as a New Yorker, but she belonged here about as much as this dissonant obelisk did. Deep inside, she wanted something else. God help her , as gran would say, the epiphany had finally arrived.
The smattering rapidly became a full-on downpour, and Aoibheann flicked on the headlamps. “Oh, that doesn’t sound so odd,” she said. “Ireland’s in your blood, even if it’s attenuated a bit. Sometimes, a place just…calls to you. You actually listened.” She’d looked into Earlene's old firm, when Niamh handed her the file — that was a level of pressure Aoibheann herself wouldn't have volunteered for in a million years. It was a recipe for burnout, and yet Earlene didn't seem burnt out. There was none of the air of whole-soul exhaustion about her — just the ordinary tiredness of jet lag.
The increasing volume of the rain drumming against the glass stole away any enthusiasm Earlene had for continuing the conversation, and the space between the two women lapsed into a comfortable silence. More rapidly than Earlene expected, they turned off the M18 onto R352, then R468…finally they crossed over a very old and sturdy stone bridge and passed some homes, and sparse buildings. Earlene tilted her head, trying to peer through windows sheeting rain and a bit fogged by now. “This cannot be…is this the town? Lasg’len?”
“It is,” Aoibheann said. “Tiny place, even by Irish standards — some three hundred-odd people, and it’s so off the beaten track you won’t be dealing with much in the way’v tourists, unless they get lost.” The village itself was downright picturesque, even in the inclement weather; it was only the cottage itself that had unnerved her so. Up ahead, the forest loomed, tall and dark and surprisingly ancient — she hadn't thought there was any ancient forest left in Ireland, but the trees were as massive as the pictures she’d seen of some of America’s old forests. “I’m not sure how they kept this forest out’v the hands’v the English, but this might be the only ancient forest in the whole country.”
“That is odd, isn’t it?” Earlene pondered. The photos sent of the property had indicated assorted deciduous trees bordering a lightly rolling meadowed area, with the warning that there was some of the limestone karst (it had been necessary to look that one up) at the surface in places. That had seemed…fine? But why had nobody mentioned that those deciduous trees in turn bordered… this ? Surely that was no small detail? In fact ought that not to be the selling point of all time, like…oh, small charming cottage in the shadow of California’s giant redwoods or words to this effect?
Why the question died on her lips became a matter of long experience. Important facts became omitted for a reason. Discovery of why…if someone hired to do their work had deliberately played games with her, regret was not only a word in the dictionary she thought darkly. Though Earlene was not ordinarily given to ill-temper or malice, more than one person had made the mistake of believing that crossing her could be done with impunity.
Obviously they must be truly close, and it became very hard to hide her nearly giddy excitement…or was it exhaustion? Turning, it was impossible to avoid noticing the largest beech tree she had ever seen right at the edge of the driveway, then catching sight of the lovely and very, very Irish looking cottage caused her lips to part as unreality descended. Many smaller beech graced the rear of the property, along with birch, rowan, oak and others.
Still the ironclad demeanor held. The surprise, of course, faced the woods; the side of the building unable to be seen from the road. Instead of so much stone, immense panes of slightly rippling glass faced them. While vehicles were meant to be parked nearer the barn they had passed, in view of the rain neither woman was going to do any such thing and a dash was made to the shelter of overhanging thatch in front of the back door – also a frame with mostly glass. Above, one small decorative panel that seemed quite old and also surprising in stained glass, depicting a thin branch bearing green leaves.
Earlene looked all around, fighting to cobble together anything resembling professionalism.
“The builder certainly gave both fingers to the window tax,” Aoibheann said. “I suppose they thought nobody’d see, out in this forest, and they must’ve been right. You’ll not find windows like that on any cottage’v the same age anywhere in Ireland. The sills were all sound in spite’v it not being occupied for so long — there wasn’t a draft to be found, and trust me, the contractors looked.” She was fairly certain they’d also found the place more than a little unsettling, just because nothing held up that well without maintenance in Ireland’s climate, no matter how well-built it was. Niamh said the foreman had confided that he’d felt watched, though he’d said nothing to his crew. At least Earlene looked amazed, rather than unnerved; hopefully that would last.
“It’s beautiful…and everything is still arranged for someone local to come and bring firewood, help with any deliveries and such like twice a week, and there is definitely the bicycle I ordered in the barn? I am not going to ask you to go out there and prove it to me in this rain, but without it I have to run to town and…while I can, that’s a bit much with groceries and all,” Earlene said, stopping herself before she could start babbling deliriously. Uh oh. Not only was she too tired, she hadn’t eaten. This…wasn’t ideal. Stupid. Why hadn’t she thought to ask about…takeout? Something? Before coming all the way here? Fail, Earlene.
“It is,” Aoibheann assured her. “You’ve accounts set up with the grocer, and the cottage has a handyman — though the poor man’s well into his eighties, he won’t retire. Thankfully he’s got a strapping grandson to help with the wood. Aislinn — she runs the market — she’s stocked the fridge with things like bread and milk and fruit, I think, and there was some note about Ian’s wife making you an apple pie, so hopefully it’s in there. You’ve got to be bloody famished.” She did, after all, know exactly what Aer Lingus served for food; it was a wonder Earlene hadn't dropped already. “Here, these are the keys.” She passed them over, and actually pulled a miniature torch out of her coat pocket — it was so dark in the forest they actually needed it to see the lock.
Earlene waited to follow Aoibheann in and immediately noticed, someone had been in not so long prior to heat the stove. “It was kind, whoever did that. It’s oddly not horridly cold outside but…I much prefer the temperature in here,” she indicated. Aoibheann knew where the light switch was, and Earlene filed this away immediately and saw a thick binder prominently left atop the kitchen island. Like a bloodhound drawn to scent, she beelined to this item and immediately beamed. Meticulous organization, seemingly thorough and highly detailed; a reference for the property. Everything she might want to know (and possibly more). “This is wonderful!” Just as her appearance had seemed formerly cold, hostile; now that she had something about which she was so pleased a complete transformation had occurred. “This is all so wonderful,” she added tiredly. “Thank you for coming to get me. For all you have done. I cannot imagine trying to take…the bus here, or something.”
“Damp can make even mild cold feel…colder,” Aoibheann said. “Between this and that—” she held up her briefcase “—there ought to be an answer to any question you’ve got, but if there’s anything that doesn’t make sense, I can come back out tomorrow and explain.” She pried the case open and set the rest of the forms beside the first binder. The poor woman had to be bloody exhausted; there was nothing to be gained by keeping her from supper and what would hopefully already be a made-up bed.
“Too true,” Earlene said, smiling. “I won’t keep you, and honestly I think what I need most is something hot and sleep. I’ll take a good look tomorrow and sort it better then. Thank you again, for your help. It’s made such a difference to me.” This was not some platitude; every word spoken held sincerity. “Let me at least walk you to the porch. It’s raining so awfully hard. Or can I offer you tea, to wait and see if it slows down some? I’m going to have some myself.”
“Thank you kindly, but I’d best be off before the weather gets any worse,” Aoibheann said. “Welcome home.” She meant more than ‘welcome to the cottage’, and doubtless Earlene would pick up the rest.
“Alright,” Earlene agreed, feeling that she had done right by the laws of hospitality, seeing her to the door and walking to the porch. A mild sense of dismay washed over her when the realization came…you eejit, you never brought an umbrella to move to Ireland? As the rain sheeted down and Aiobhean dashed into her car (left running, she now noticed) the driver’s right-side arrangement seemed to have some merit for the first time ever. Because otherwise, it was just arseways. Waving, retreating into the home and closing the door, a profound sense of relief washing over her, the latch clicked. Lips parting, an unholy shriek ran through her mind…but only silence could be heard in the cottage, with the occasional pop and crack of the wood stove reminding her that if she wished to remain warm, she should feed the fire.
The unreal had converted. Turning, she faced the room again. “This is mine now. My home. My home in Ireland. I’m…here. Well…..?” What would you say, gran? Ah…this is where you and I would run into fundamental disagreements. You would tell me to set out a bowl of milk for the fae, and that I could do with a bit of bread too. That…will not be happening. But really, both sound quite nice at the moment….with tea.
The pantry and small refrigerator had already been generously stocked with food; fresh fruits lay in a basket on the island. Some bottles of wine too; an assortment of teas and coffees to last a few days. Someone with good sense had taken care to see that this place had essentials suiting her preferences and now that she recalled…there had been an offhand discussion about cooking and food that must have been a cleverly concealed scouting mission. Out came the smartphone; Niamh’s name was summarily added to the Christmas basket list.
While the kettle heated on the stove, Earlene prepared toasted bread and butter with warmed milk because that sounded good, and shamelessly sweetened the lot of it with honey. Sliced fruits, peanut butter…no nutrition awards would be won tonight. No, she did not care. Downing the toast and a bit of the fruit left her feeling a bit revived.
With a steaming mug in her hands, winding paths guided her around the acreage. Some old and sadly neglected (but redeemable) fruit trees met her eyes, as well as potential garden sites. Her summers growing up and even into the first years of college had been spent with gran and grandda; farmers until the day they themselves had plowed under.
With that time on gran's farm, Earlene had become thoroughly acquainted with the work. She might not be able to operate an entire farm alone, but everything about growing, machinery, canning and cooking – that, she knew. Her brother Aidan had had very different interests; after they had finally flown the nest they rarely saw each other except on the sporadic family holidays when everyone had traveled back home. With any luck a few dairy goats would be hers before long, and the process of keeping busy in her little world could begin.
Walking to the wooded environs, her eyes scanned the barren canopy. The trees were just beginning to bud; winter kept its grip here late much as it did in New York. It was fortuitous that she arrived when she did, to take advantage of what would pass for the growing season in Ireland. The silver-gray bark of beeches had always held a place in Earlene’s heart; as she walked past them, she trailed her hand along the trunks.
"All mine," she said, and hardly believed her luck. Faintly, she heard an echo, but in what seemed like a masculine voice. Far away it seemed, yet determined.
Mine.
She laughed, deliriously silly in her weariness. "Mine, mine, mine!" she pushed back, giggling.
Once again, she heard it. Stronger. Mine.
"I think I’m past my bedtime," she mumbled, with a slight degree of concern and possible flickering thoughts about fae that her good sense mashed down hard and beat with a two pound sledge hammer, all the while sipping her milk tea. Returning to the house, she closed up. Her grandparents had never locked anything on their farm but this wasn't there, and better safe than sorry.
The fruit eaten, Earlene regarded the rooms. This was basically a large cottage, but the single bedroom did contain a rather ample bed for one person; basically a queen-sized mattress. Once she’d had her tea, she made ready for sleep, damping down the stove before she filled it for the night. Pulling the covers over herself, she took a moment to shut down her phone, tossing it on the unused half of the bed coverlet. There would be no waking, until she'd taken all the rest she wanted.
*****