Title: Hall of Heroes
Author: illwynd
Rating: K+ Disclaimer: I own nothing in this story except my arrangements of words, and the concept of the Hall of Heroes. The rest belong to Tolkien and Gaiman.
Notes: This will make a lot more sense if you’ve read all the Sandman books. If you haven’t… you should, but I won’t give too much away. All you need to know that’s not in the story (and that I can possibly explain) is that Nuala works at the heart of the Dreaming, but it was just bad circumstances that got her there, and that Lucien is the Librarian of the Library of Dreams, which contains books that their authors never wrote or completed, except in dreams.
Nuala really liked her duties, even though she was lonely and still told herself that she wished she were home in Faerie. She particularly liked the Hall of Heroes. Sometimes stray dreamers would wind up there, staring entranced at the heroes of their dreams. Although they never said much, she felt that their presence was fair company, and their love for the figures she took such care to tend to was… well, a justification for the adoration she herself felt for them. This particular room of the Hall was visited more than most, and she took the utmost care of these. Sometimes when she would meet the living dreams of these figures (the Dreaming was sometimes a very confusing place) she would have to repress the urge to shower them with her adoration. They certainly had enough problems in that regard without her adding to them. But here… all that mattered was that she kept them clean and tidy, and called Merv if they needed repairs. Nobody would see, or care, if she would linger a bit longer, touching them, than it really took to swipe away the dream-dust that they collected. The “older” ones collected more dust, naturally, having fewer admirers. Gil-Galad, Beren, Luthien, Tulkas, Fingolfin, Earendil, these and the countless others took some tending. The more recent heroes, so to speak, had more visitors; King Theoden, and Eowyn, and Faramir, and Eomer, Elrond, Tom Bombadil, Galadriel, all of these had a place in this room of the Hall of Heroes, and many more that Nuala could list off, but I won’t bother to name them here. If you have dreamed of them, standing graceful and proud with the light of triumph in their eyes, they are there.
Those visited the most often were, of course, the Fellowship themselves. The little hobbits were nearly always kept rather dust-free with the adoring touches of dreaming fans, but Nuala didn’t neglect them. She would always clean the maimed hand of the Ringbearer, and dab away the lipstick-smears from Pippin and Merry, and every day removed the piles of flowers that collected at Sam’s feet. Legolas was, despite the woodland elf’s reputation for a tidy appearance, always having his hair mussed by some overzealous fan, and she would brush it tenderly back into place. She also kept the dwarf’s axe shining at his side. And Aragorn- oh, the King had been a bit of a problem back when the Hall of Heroes was put into place. Did the dreamers revere Strider, or King Elessar? It seemed there had been a bit of a compromise; the shining crown graced his head, but over his shoulders was a ratty and travel-stained cloak (that she had to take care not to clean too thoroughly), and the look in his eyes seemed to be both that of a hidden wanderer, and a wise leader.
Mithrandir had posed a similar problem; gray or white? Morpheus himself had settled that debate, deciding that both were possible, from different angles. Then there was her favorite, Boromir. There was something so sad and tragic that the dream-artists had captured in his eyes, and something so proud in his bearing. There was also a mystery about him, something inexplicably similar to… another that she loved. She would tenderly wipe the dust from his horn and shield, and lovingly polish his sword and armor, tending to every little detail. Then she would stand back and admire her work, and find herself fantasizing idly about what it would be like to have someone like him to talk to. She had picked up enough from the mumblings of the dreamers to know all their stories, and his had captured her heart.
One day, after completing her work in the rest of the hall, and coming back to check that no dust had collected on her favorite in the last few minutes, she had looked around nervously. She was alone, and she approached the dream-statue reverently. She stood on tiptoe to brush a strand of hair back behind his ear, and look into those tragic gray eyes again. She emitted a little sighing sound of sorrow, and pressed her lips against his for a brief moment, feeling utterly silly but not being able to resist. Dreamers did that, those who didn’t know they were in a hall that someone else had to take care of every day, didn’t know that this was the Dreaming and these were but statues and not the real thing. She knew that, but she didn’t care. She let a tear fall from her eye then backed away, touching his hand gently before she turned. A sudden sound behind her- what?
“Nuala?”
“Eep!” She squeaked, nearly jumping out of her skin. “Oh, Lucien, it’s you. I was… just finishing up here. Just… finishing up. I’ll be heading to the Heinlein wing next…”
“Take your time, Nuala,” the impossibly tall figure said kindly, watching the little Faerie woman scurry out with her cleaning cloths and supplies. He knew she was lonely here, with none of her own kind, in a life so different from what she had been used to. He had stood silent in the doorway, peering at her through his spectacles as she had kissed the motionless figure. The scene had been pitifully moving. He would have been worried about her, but there were worse affections she could have developed. This was, after all, the Hall of Heroes. Perhaps he would find “The Lost Tales of Boromir of Gondor” in the library, and insist that she borrow it.
~end~
Author: illwynd
Rating: K+ Disclaimer: I own nothing in this story except my arrangements of words, and the concept of the Hall of Heroes. The rest belong to Tolkien and Gaiman.
Notes: This will make a lot more sense if you’ve read all the Sandman books. If you haven’t… you should, but I won’t give too much away. All you need to know that’s not in the story (and that I can possibly explain) is that Nuala works at the heart of the Dreaming, but it was just bad circumstances that got her there, and that Lucien is the Librarian of the Library of Dreams, which contains books that their authors never wrote or completed, except in dreams.
Nuala really liked her duties, even though she was lonely and still told herself that she wished she were home in Faerie. She particularly liked the Hall of Heroes. Sometimes stray dreamers would wind up there, staring entranced at the heroes of their dreams. Although they never said much, she felt that their presence was fair company, and their love for the figures she took such care to tend to was… well, a justification for the adoration she herself felt for them. This particular room of the Hall was visited more than most, and she took the utmost care of these. Sometimes when she would meet the living dreams of these figures (the Dreaming was sometimes a very confusing place) she would have to repress the urge to shower them with her adoration. They certainly had enough problems in that regard without her adding to them. But here… all that mattered was that she kept them clean and tidy, and called Merv if they needed repairs. Nobody would see, or care, if she would linger a bit longer, touching them, than it really took to swipe away the dream-dust that they collected. The “older” ones collected more dust, naturally, having fewer admirers. Gil-Galad, Beren, Luthien, Tulkas, Fingolfin, Earendil, these and the countless others took some tending. The more recent heroes, so to speak, had more visitors; King Theoden, and Eowyn, and Faramir, and Eomer, Elrond, Tom Bombadil, Galadriel, all of these had a place in this room of the Hall of Heroes, and many more that Nuala could list off, but I won’t bother to name them here. If you have dreamed of them, standing graceful and proud with the light of triumph in their eyes, they are there.
Those visited the most often were, of course, the Fellowship themselves. The little hobbits were nearly always kept rather dust-free with the adoring touches of dreaming fans, but Nuala didn’t neglect them. She would always clean the maimed hand of the Ringbearer, and dab away the lipstick-smears from Pippin and Merry, and every day removed the piles of flowers that collected at Sam’s feet. Legolas was, despite the woodland elf’s reputation for a tidy appearance, always having his hair mussed by some overzealous fan, and she would brush it tenderly back into place. She also kept the dwarf’s axe shining at his side. And Aragorn- oh, the King had been a bit of a problem back when the Hall of Heroes was put into place. Did the dreamers revere Strider, or King Elessar? It seemed there had been a bit of a compromise; the shining crown graced his head, but over his shoulders was a ratty and travel-stained cloak (that she had to take care not to clean too thoroughly), and the look in his eyes seemed to be both that of a hidden wanderer, and a wise leader.
Mithrandir had posed a similar problem; gray or white? Morpheus himself had settled that debate, deciding that both were possible, from different angles. Then there was her favorite, Boromir. There was something so sad and tragic that the dream-artists had captured in his eyes, and something so proud in his bearing. There was also a mystery about him, something inexplicably similar to… another that she loved. She would tenderly wipe the dust from his horn and shield, and lovingly polish his sword and armor, tending to every little detail. Then she would stand back and admire her work, and find herself fantasizing idly about what it would be like to have someone like him to talk to. She had picked up enough from the mumblings of the dreamers to know all their stories, and his had captured her heart.
One day, after completing her work in the rest of the hall, and coming back to check that no dust had collected on her favorite in the last few minutes, she had looked around nervously. She was alone, and she approached the dream-statue reverently. She stood on tiptoe to brush a strand of hair back behind his ear, and look into those tragic gray eyes again. She emitted a little sighing sound of sorrow, and pressed her lips against his for a brief moment, feeling utterly silly but not being able to resist. Dreamers did that, those who didn’t know they were in a hall that someone else had to take care of every day, didn’t know that this was the Dreaming and these were but statues and not the real thing. She knew that, but she didn’t care. She let a tear fall from her eye then backed away, touching his hand gently before she turned. A sudden sound behind her- what?
“Nuala?”
“Eep!” She squeaked, nearly jumping out of her skin. “Oh, Lucien, it’s you. I was… just finishing up here. Just… finishing up. I’ll be heading to the Heinlein wing next…”
“Take your time, Nuala,” the impossibly tall figure said kindly, watching the little Faerie woman scurry out with her cleaning cloths and supplies. He knew she was lonely here, with none of her own kind, in a life so different from what she had been used to. He had stood silent in the doorway, peering at her through his spectacles as she had kissed the motionless figure. The scene had been pitifully moving. He would have been worried about her, but there were worse affections she could have developed. This was, after all, the Hall of Heroes. Perhaps he would find “The Lost Tales of Boromir of Gondor” in the library, and insist that she borrow it.
~end~