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Nogrod · 08-23-2006, 11:06 PM

Thinlomien's post

The river. The Great River. Too much water in one place, Thin-Gloomy had thought when he had first heard of it when he was a child and was sitting beside the fire and playing with his wooden pony cart. Now, when he was a full-grown dwarf nearly drowning in the currents of that stream, he could but agree. Too much water in one place.

He had no idea how he had managed to walk straight to the biggest river in whole Middle-Earth. He should have seen it, or heard it or understood where he was. All too late now.

Thin-Gloomy couldn't swim. Few dwarves could.

Up and down he went as the roaring river threw him below and above the surface. He tried to move his arms and legs in order to not sink, but that was not easy. He tried to move towards a riverbank – either of the banks; at this phase it didn't even matter was it the right one or not. He was helpless; the river took him where it wished.

Had the current been any stronger, he probably would have crushed his skull when he crashed to a big stone in the middle of the stream. Realising this might be his chance, Thin-Gloomy grabbed the stone harder than many men grabbed their lovers.

He was no longer floating – or drowning – in the river, but he was not much more comfortable. Each wave almost carried him away. He knew he couldn't survive on the rock for long.

On the western shore there a few trees. And Thin-Gloomy had a rope. He made a knot to it so that it became a lasso. All the time he tread the water with his short feet and leaned to the rock against which the stream pressed him.He threw the rope. It fell short by a fathom, at least. Cursing, he threw it again, and ended up underwater. By some means he manged to get back and to get air.

This is not going to work, Thin-Gloomy thought gloomily. With every tread he was more tired, with every passing moment he was weaker and with every rush of water it was more difficult for him to not let the stream take him. He knew he couldn't last long. And he knew he didn't have enough strength in his skinny arms to throw the rope to to the trees. Unless...

Thin-Gloomy took the rope and made himself breath steadily. One toss, and it's over. To one way or another, he thought. Putting in all his remaining strength and effort, Thin-Gloomy thrusted himself forward as he threw the rope. Though it took only a few seconds, for Thin-Gloomy it was like ages to watch the rope first fly and then fall. Fall toward the trees. And fall short. The rope slithered back toward the river as Thin-Gloomy helplessly floated downriver, gasping for air in vain. It's over now, Thin-Gloomy thought.

But he was wrong. Just as he was bidding his bitter farewells to the world that he did not love and that certinly did not love him, he felt the rope – which he still grabbed uselessly – tighten. Desperately, he started to pull the rope. With the toughness only the dwarves have, he tugged himself to the shore. Bless Mahal, Thin-Gloomy thought, laying on the riverbank, devastated.

After a few hours rest he rose up and decided to continue for a little while. But before leaving he gently took off his rope which was wrapped about a tree-root. He bowed down and kissed the root that had saved his life. ”Now I know why Elves love trees”, he muttered.

08-23-2006, 11:06 PM	#101
Nogrod Flame of the Ainulindalë Join Date: Jan 2006 Location: Wearing rat's coat, crowskin, crossed staves in a field behaving as the wind behaves Posts: 9,308	Thinlomien's post The river. The Great River. Too much water in one place, Thin-Gloomy had thought when he had first heard of it when he was a child and was sitting beside the fire and playing with his wooden pony cart. Now, when he was a full-grown dwarf nearly drowning in the currents of that stream, he could but agree. Too much water in one place. He had no idea how he had managed to walk straight to the biggest river in whole Middle-Earth. He should have seen it, or heard it or understood where he was. All too late now. Thin-Gloomy couldn't swim. Few dwarves could. Up and down he went as the roaring river threw him below and above the surface. He tried to move his arms and legs in order to not sink, but that was not easy. He tried to move towards a riverbank – either of the banks; at this phase it didn't even matter was it the right one or not. He was helpless; the river took him where it wished. Had the current been any stronger, he probably would have crushed his skull when he crashed to a big stone in the middle of the stream. Realising this might be his chance, Thin-Gloomy grabbed the stone harder than many men grabbed their lovers. He was no longer floating – or drowning – in the river, but he was not much more comfortable. Each wave almost carried him away. He knew he couldn't survive on the rock for long. On the western shore there a few trees. And Thin-Gloomy had a rope. He made a knot to it so that it became a lasso. All the time he tread the water with his short feet and leaned to the rock against which the stream pressed him.He threw the rope. It fell short by a fathom, at least. Cursing, he threw it again, and ended up underwater. By some means he manged to get back and to get air. This is not going to work, Thin-Gloomy thought gloomily. With every tread he was more tired, with every passing moment he was weaker and with every rush of water it was more difficult for him to not let the stream take him. He knew he couldn't last long. And he knew he didn't have enough strength in his skinny arms to throw the rope to to the trees. Unless... Thin-Gloomy took the rope and made himself breath steadily. One toss, and it's over. To one way or another, he thought. Putting in all his remaining strength and effort, Thin-Gloomy thrusted himself forward as he threw the rope. Though it took only a few seconds, for Thin-Gloomy it was like ages to watch the rope first fly and then fall. Fall toward the trees. And fall short. The rope slithered back toward the river as Thin-Gloomy helplessly floated downriver, gasping for air in vain. It's over now, Thin-Gloomy thought. But he was wrong. Just as he was bidding his bitter farewells to the world that he did not love and that certinly did not love him, he felt the rope – which he still grabbed uselessly – tighten. Desperately, he started to pull the rope. With the toughness only the dwarves have, he tugged himself to the shore. Bless Mahal, Thin-Gloomy thought, laying on the riverbank, devastated. After a few hours rest he rose up and decided to continue for a little while. But before leaving he gently took off his rope which was wrapped about a tree-root. He bowed down and kissed the root that had saved his life. ”Now I know why Elves love trees”, he muttered.