I don't own anything. They belong to JRR Tolkien, as interpreted by P Jackson. This is fanfic.
My Garren was away to the Pelennor with the soldiers, thinking to keep us safe. He said the gates would hold and when they fell it was too late to run for the next circle. We were trapped in the shop.
That’s when the southerner broke in waving a sword, blood soaked and screaming some foul language. Just remembering those eyes makes me shudder. I’m only a seamstress but I sneaked up behind and stabbed him in the neck with the shears. War is not my trade but this is our home and my family and nobody threatens my babies!