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A Month of Sundays: 2. Barking mad
Disclaimer: Harry Potter is owned by J.K Rowling, etc. Lord of The Rings belongs to the Tolkien estate, etc. Not me. I'm only dabbling my unworthy fingers in their magical worlds.
Credit: wikipedia dot org *Rated for cursing (sweary words) and some sexual innuendo.
Please review. Somebody. Anybody ...
She hadn't always been such a vicious old cow.
In fact, once she had been magnificent. Stately, even. So young, so graceful, so light on her feet. Always laughing, the most popular of her innumerable sisters.
They had been green with envy when she returned home one day announcing her intention to elope with a dashing suitor - the leader of his people no less! True, he was more of a naturalist whereas she came from a family of renowned agriculturalists, and she'd had to sacrifice the career she loved so passionately to be with him. But it was worth it because, at the time, she'd loved him more.
She swayed, recalling those early, heady days of wedded bliss when nothing had seemed more important to her than the security of her new husband's presence, the firmness of his arms around her; his earthy masculinity, the timbre of his voice reciting seductive poetry intended to get her in just the right mood. Aah, those poems had been almost as long as his …
Stifling a sob, she shook the thought away. There was no point in dwelling on the past. No point in bemoaning the life she had lost because of his stubbornness and her own restless nature ...
Anguish made her lash out unconsciously, her ageing limbs barely missing two teenaged boys who had stopped nearby.
"Careful!" they yelled, dodging her knobbly arms, though both fled when she struck out at them again.
Boys! Horrible little buggers, every one of them. They grew up into men, didn't they? And men equalled trouble! She should know.
Glaring at their swiftly receding backs, her thoughts returned to the far distant past, and the horrible bigger bugger she had ended up with.
The arguments started only a few years into their marriage. Why? Because her sisters were debating moving abroad and she – dismayed at the thought of never seeing them again - suggested to her beloved that they join them. Predictably, he refused: she had known he would. He was so very stuck in his ways, so annoyingly traditional!
"I cannot leave, you know this. I am the leader of my people. They need me. They must be nurtured, protected, cared for. To leave would be unthinkable!"
Blah, blah, blah ... What a boring bastard he was. Absolutely no sense of adventure.
For weeks, months, years they had argued, she pleading, he refusing. Their spats became legendary in the neighbourhood for their sheer volume and duration. She accused him of loving his job more than her: in retaliation he accused her of being selfish and irresponsible. Said she had known when they married that his job would be a major factor in their lives, and actually told her she had no right to even entertain the thought of running off with her sisters when her place was with him!
Why, oh why, had she ever mistaken his fecking raging sexism for olde worlde charm?
After that, everything about him began to annoy her: his stink, his terrible complexion, that stupid slow voice droning on and on and on, his bloody irritating obsession with poetry, his equally dull friends and the arduous visits she'd had to endure while they immersed themselves in month-long political pow-wows. She could have been planting! Sowing! Discovering exotic new places while the sun warmed her back.
Instead she was stuck in the mouldering cesspit he called home.
And despite the fact that a bloody warlord had shacked up just east of their home and was preparing to invade, he'd actually suggested they start a family.
Have children when a fecking maniac was preparing to burn them to a bloody crisp!
There was no point in staying after that. To hell with putting down roots: there was no way she would sentence her children to death before they'd even been born! She'd had enough!
Distraught by the thought of being stuck in that dank, gloomy home with only a twat for company, she secretly made her plans. Waiting until he'd buggered off for another thrilling chat with his mates, she'd upped sticks and left him. Abandoned her dreary husband and their dreary home to travel the brave new world with her sisters.
What a joy it had been to be with them – to be free again. Free from the threat of invasion, free to explore new lands, to discover new species of plants. And then joy of joys! Far away in the western world, she finally found her true home. Oh, the wide open spaces! The rolling hills! The myriad plant life. The merry, delightful neighbours! It was intoxicating to be herself once again, to be free of her former, stifling home and her cloying, arsey husband!
For many years she lived contentedly in that wondrous place.
Many, many, many years.
So long, in fact, that she could hardly believe it when she woke up one day to discover that the world around her had changed. Gone were the merry neighbours and rolling hills, and in place of the order such company had once brought there was only wilderness and dilapidation - and she herself had grown old.
Ancient enough to find that she had put down roots after all. Even her voice had been lost with age! Tug as she might, she had not been able to free her legs from the earth. Only the power of a strange wizard's magic had managed to excavate her. But buggery! She'd lost the use of her lower limbs in the process. The wizard had tried to repair the damage, but his strange magic had backfired: instead of the stately, light-footed lass she had ever been, the incompetent twat had managed to turn her into a hideous fecking hag. As unsightly a specimen of femininity as she'd ever seen!
The shock of that alone had almost killed her. Then, to make matters infinitely worse, she'd been flogged to the biggest, most gullible idiot of a gameskeeper she had ever met. True, he was the only gameskeeper she had ever met, but that by no means diminished his sheer idiocy.
Which had left her in her current predicament: stuck in the grounds of a towering castle riddled with grotty adolescents, completely robbed of the beauty, grace and full mobility she had enjoyed for eons. Fimbrethil/Wandlimb that was: reduced from her former status of agricultural goddess and lissom young wife to gnarled curiosity for rowdy teenagers and haven for raging werewolves.
No wonder she was bitter.
And where was her adoring spouse when she needed him most? Because somehow – she didn't know exactly how – but somehow, this was his fault. Why, that bastard Treebeard hadn't even bothered to come looking for her!
Speaking of bastards …
The two twerps who'd yelled at her earlier had returned armed with a stick, and they poked it, laughing, into her arse. Unable to vent her fury vocally or run the feck away, the Whomping Willow resorted to the only defence she had left, and they were soon soaring through the air courtesy of her remaining (vicious) limbs.
Satisfied, she fervently hoped that - with a bit of luck - she might have done the rest of womankind a favour and broken their stupid necks ...
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