Richard arrives in Middle Earth
Feb. 15th, 2005 07:20 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
brainofckHere's a rough take on Richard's arrival in Middle Earth.
May need to be edited to reflect:
a. Timeframe of the story. I imagine Aragorn is "ranging" for the sake of his sanity, but probably on his way home, and relatively near civilization. Possibly even investigating reports of bold Uruk behavior. But this could also be set after Amon Hen, but before the Paths of the Dead, I suppose *most* logically before arrival at Edoras, though where would we get the lovely penthouse suite for the next scene?
b. If we thought it would be interesting for another person to cross over besides Mr. Sharpe, this would either need to be edited or another part written.
c. Your thoughts about Aragorn.
So, Mr. Sharpe has a very difficult morning in the fog...
Title/Chapter: Morning Fog
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
muck_a_luck, posting in brainofck
Pairing: Richard Sharpe/Elessar Telcontar
Rating: PG-13 to NC-17
Summary: Mr. Sharpe has a difficult morning in the fog and
Content/warnings: Crossover. Violence.
Spoilers: None.
Disclaimer: No infringement on anybody's copyright intended. Fan fic worries some authors, because they find that they get a note from a fan or see something posted and it parallels something they were planning to write and their publishers flinch and they lose a whole storyline. Well, my sincere and abject apologies to Mr. Cornwell or any representative or asignee of the Tolkien estate who was considering a Sharpe/Middle Earth crossover novel. I swear by all that's holy that I will not claim any copyright in your publication. Dude.
Archive rights: www.rugbytackling.com only, and my journalsmuck_a_luck and brainofck
Further Disclaimer: This is an unannounced WIP. Beware bad!fic and rough drafts
Special glaring to:uisgich, who started this with some bath!slut!porn one boring afternoon while I was working, pretended she wanted to write with me, then dropped it in my lap. *glares*
Capt. Richard Sharpe thought that there were some days when civilized people ought to just agree not to fight.
But somewhere up the command, someone thought this was the right moment to send a skirmishing party out to test the enemy’s lines, learn their pickets, estimate their strength.
So here he was, leading a line though a fog that belonged more in London than Spain. The mist soaked through boots and jackets, and worse, dampened powder. It made his skin clammy. There were moments when he couldn’t see the next pair of skirmishers down the line, despite the fact that they were moving in a ridiculously close formation.
Enough, he thought, as he lost sight of Hagman and Tongue for the third time. Damned fog. Damned strange woods. He caught the whistle on its chain around his neck and sounded to regroup and fall back.
There was a moment’s pause, in which Richard listened for the telltale sounds of men moving stealthily through the undergrowth towards him. It was strangely quiet. The fog, of course, would be muffling the sounds. But he thought he should also hear more stumbles and mutterings as his men made their way back through the veiled dimness.
Then suddenly, the sound of heavy, booted feet. Marching double time, and a lot of men, at lest 50, maybe a hundred! Where had they come from?! Richard was sure he was right in their path. The fog was breaking up, and as Richard dived out of the way, rolling into the cover of the low ground foliage, he saw them.
What were they?! Monsters out of nightmares! Taller than Harper, seven feet at least, broad and heavy. Armored? Massive! Richard had raised his rifle and fired almost without thinking, shouting at the same time.
“Rifles! Enemy column!” was all he managed, as he leapt to his feet, drew his sword and stood ready to face the man-beasts who turned on him.
Where were his Rifles, damn it? The beasts seemed confused by the rifle shot that had brought down their leader, but that faded quickly, as they realized Richard was alone and armed only with a sword. Three of them came at him, quickly drawing swords as they came. He held them off desperately, then something hit him, and the nightmare was over.
When he woke again, he was alone. His head was throbbing. He sat up, and that was a mistake. He rolled up onto his hands and knees so he wouldn’t vomit on himself. Concussed, then. And cuts on his back. He thought at least two. And clearly either very deep or already infected, as they burned so badly it was almost enough to set him retching again.
He pushed back away from the puddle of sick and collapsed again onto the ground. He felt feverish, and slightly delirious. He thought of poisoned blades in India. Maybe it wasn’t just a concussion? The sky was spinning. Where was everybody? Caught by surprise in the fog, had they been completely routed by the column of whatever those things were? Surely not. There were twenty loaded rifles in the fog waiting for those monsters, and another dozen or so muskets. Huge as those creatures were, their swords would surely be no match for seasoned Rifles.
He groaned, and tried to sit again. He was in a clearing, and the fog had lifted. It certainly didn’t look familiar. He felt queasy, but didn’t vomit again, so he decided to try for standing. He was about to lever himself up with his sword, when he heard a cry from across the clearing. He lifted his head and saw a man. Richard had a sudden clear thought of his boyhood images of Robin Hood, springing out upon unlucky carriages.
The man was staring at him from across the glade, and then running towards him, shouting, as one would shout a greeting, but Richard couldn’t make sense of what he was saying. It certainly wasn’t English, nor Spanish, nor French, either. Sounded like German, maybe, but Richard knew so little, he couldn’t be sure.
The man hurled himself to the ground in front of him, and quite disconcertingly caught Richard's face in both his hands. The man was staring at him, talking to him, and becoming more and more agitated. His eyes were wild and he was nearly shouting.
Richard reached up and caught his wrists, freeing himself from the stranger’s grip. “I’m sorry. Nie sprechen Deutsche. Do you speak English? Français?”
That stopped the man dead. His eyes, already wild, widened, and he became very still. He gently reached out and touched Richard’s temple, where Richard presumed the bruise must be from the blow that felled him. Then the man stood and stepped back a little, moving around him in an appraising way, muttering to himself and as he reached out and caught Richard by the shoulder, now kneeling close behind him.
“Orcs,” the man hissed, the word quite clear.
He stood, and taking Richard by the arm, plainly trying to help him to his feet. Just sitting, Richard had already begun to feel lightheaded and dreamy, either from his head or the cuts. He was hardly able to find his feet, and almost as soon as he was upright, a great shudder rocked through him, and he collapsed against his rescuer. Strong arms wrapped tight around him, a reassuring and much needed support. It was becoming difficult to keep his eyes open. But he struggled to help, tried to get his feet under himself again. The stranger was talking to him, murmuring calming words against his ear, his jaw, his lips, and suddenly, the man was kissing him.
A passionate, desperate kiss.
That wasn’t right, Richard tried to pull back, but this man would not be denied, catching the back of Richard’s head in a strong broad palm, pressing aggressively with tongue and teeth until almost by reflex Richard surrendered, letting himself drift away in the heat and strength of this strange woodsman. He sank back into darkness again.
May need to be edited to reflect:
a. Timeframe of the story. I imagine Aragorn is "ranging" for the sake of his sanity, but probably on his way home, and relatively near civilization. Possibly even investigating reports of bold Uruk behavior. But this could also be set after Amon Hen, but before the Paths of the Dead, I suppose *most* logically before arrival at Edoras, though where would we get the lovely penthouse suite for the next scene?
b. If we thought it would be interesting for another person to cross over besides Mr. Sharpe, this would either need to be edited or another part written.
c. Your thoughts about Aragorn.
So, Mr. Sharpe has a very difficult morning in the fog...
Title/Chapter: Morning Fog
Author:
muck_a_luck, posting in brainofckPairing: Richard Sharpe/Elessar Telcontar
Rating: PG-13 to NC-17
Summary: Mr. Sharpe has a difficult morning in the fog and
Content/warnings: Crossover. Violence.
Spoilers: None.
Disclaimer: No infringement on anybody's copyright intended. Fan fic worries some authors, because they find that they get a note from a fan or see something posted and it parallels something they were planning to write and their publishers flinch and they lose a whole storyline. Well, my sincere and abject apologies to Mr. Cornwell or any representative or asignee of the Tolkien estate who was considering a Sharpe/Middle Earth crossover novel. I swear by all that's holy that I will not claim any copyright in your publication. Dude.
Archive rights: www.rugbytackling.com only, and my journals
muck_a_luck and brainofckFurther Disclaimer: This is an unannounced WIP. Beware bad!fic and rough drafts
Special glaring to:
uisgich, who started this with some bath!slut!porn one boring afternoon while I was working, pretended she wanted to write with me, then dropped it in my lap. *glares*Capt. Richard Sharpe thought that there were some days when civilized people ought to just agree not to fight.
But somewhere up the command, someone thought this was the right moment to send a skirmishing party out to test the enemy’s lines, learn their pickets, estimate their strength.
So here he was, leading a line though a fog that belonged more in London than Spain. The mist soaked through boots and jackets, and worse, dampened powder. It made his skin clammy. There were moments when he couldn’t see the next pair of skirmishers down the line, despite the fact that they were moving in a ridiculously close formation.
Enough, he thought, as he lost sight of Hagman and Tongue for the third time. Damned fog. Damned strange woods. He caught the whistle on its chain around his neck and sounded to regroup and fall back.
There was a moment’s pause, in which Richard listened for the telltale sounds of men moving stealthily through the undergrowth towards him. It was strangely quiet. The fog, of course, would be muffling the sounds. But he thought he should also hear more stumbles and mutterings as his men made their way back through the veiled dimness.
Then suddenly, the sound of heavy, booted feet. Marching double time, and a lot of men, at lest 50, maybe a hundred! Where had they come from?! Richard was sure he was right in their path. The fog was breaking up, and as Richard dived out of the way, rolling into the cover of the low ground foliage, he saw them.
What were they?! Monsters out of nightmares! Taller than Harper, seven feet at least, broad and heavy. Armored? Massive! Richard had raised his rifle and fired almost without thinking, shouting at the same time.
“Rifles! Enemy column!” was all he managed, as he leapt to his feet, drew his sword and stood ready to face the man-beasts who turned on him.
Where were his Rifles, damn it? The beasts seemed confused by the rifle shot that had brought down their leader, but that faded quickly, as they realized Richard was alone and armed only with a sword. Three of them came at him, quickly drawing swords as they came. He held them off desperately, then something hit him, and the nightmare was over.
When he woke again, he was alone. His head was throbbing. He sat up, and that was a mistake. He rolled up onto his hands and knees so he wouldn’t vomit on himself. Concussed, then. And cuts on his back. He thought at least two. And clearly either very deep or already infected, as they burned so badly it was almost enough to set him retching again.
He pushed back away from the puddle of sick and collapsed again onto the ground. He felt feverish, and slightly delirious. He thought of poisoned blades in India. Maybe it wasn’t just a concussion? The sky was spinning. Where was everybody? Caught by surprise in the fog, had they been completely routed by the column of whatever those things were? Surely not. There were twenty loaded rifles in the fog waiting for those monsters, and another dozen or so muskets. Huge as those creatures were, their swords would surely be no match for seasoned Rifles.
He groaned, and tried to sit again. He was in a clearing, and the fog had lifted. It certainly didn’t look familiar. He felt queasy, but didn’t vomit again, so he decided to try for standing. He was about to lever himself up with his sword, when he heard a cry from across the clearing. He lifted his head and saw a man. Richard had a sudden clear thought of his boyhood images of Robin Hood, springing out upon unlucky carriages.
The man was staring at him from across the glade, and then running towards him, shouting, as one would shout a greeting, but Richard couldn’t make sense of what he was saying. It certainly wasn’t English, nor Spanish, nor French, either. Sounded like German, maybe, but Richard knew so little, he couldn’t be sure.
The man hurled himself to the ground in front of him, and quite disconcertingly caught Richard's face in both his hands. The man was staring at him, talking to him, and becoming more and more agitated. His eyes were wild and he was nearly shouting.
Richard reached up and caught his wrists, freeing himself from the stranger’s grip. “I’m sorry. Nie sprechen Deutsche. Do you speak English? Français?”
That stopped the man dead. His eyes, already wild, widened, and he became very still. He gently reached out and touched Richard’s temple, where Richard presumed the bruise must be from the blow that felled him. Then the man stood and stepped back a little, moving around him in an appraising way, muttering to himself and as he reached out and caught Richard by the shoulder, now kneeling close behind him.
“Orcs,” the man hissed, the word quite clear.
He stood, and taking Richard by the arm, plainly trying to help him to his feet. Just sitting, Richard had already begun to feel lightheaded and dreamy, either from his head or the cuts. He was hardly able to find his feet, and almost as soon as he was upright, a great shudder rocked through him, and he collapsed against his rescuer. Strong arms wrapped tight around him, a reassuring and much needed support. It was becoming difficult to keep his eyes open. But he struggled to help, tried to get his feet under himself again. The stranger was talking to him, murmuring calming words against his ear, his jaw, his lips, and suddenly, the man was kissing him.
A passionate, desperate kiss.
That wasn’t right, Richard tried to pull back, but this man would not be denied, catching the back of Richard’s head in a strong broad palm, pressing aggressively with tongue and teeth until almost by reflex Richard surrendered, letting himself drift away in the heat and strength of this strange woodsman. He sank back into darkness again.
