Post the first sentence of the first fic you wrote for every month. I altered it slightly because my first sentences don't generally give much away.
January - no fics! What can I say? It was hot.
February. She stood so still upon the threshold that I half-believed her spirit had left her body to walk with her son. Túrin had departed by the light of the westering sun, but she had made no move to go inside after he disappeared into the woodland. (Leavetaking) It was the drabble that broke my 50lyricsfanficdrought.
March. It was a game that they played. They would go to the gardens around Amon Obel before the day grew too hot, where Brandir would sit and watch the plants in the early daylight. Sometimes Níniel sat beside him, but more often she would be dancing on the grass, running and spinning and twirling in bursts of unfettered energy like a child. Brandir smiled to see her run gleefully across the grass, as though the morning had taken human form. (Thorns)
April - no fics again, unfortunately.
May. ‘I hope it’s a boy,’ said Erchirion.
‘I certainly don’t,’ said Elphir with a grimace. ‘I have enough trouble from you two without another brother to pester me.’ (Cygnets) It's Dol Amroth fluff, how can you resist?
June. Aldor, grandson of Eorl, third King of the Mark, sat looking out over Rohan, in the morning of a fine autumn day. His eyesight wasn’t as it was in his youth, but he could make out the bright colours outside: blue sky, white mountains, green hills. Except for an occasional traveller on the road and a few white clouds drifting lazily past, there was no movement: no orcs in the mountains, no reports of villages attacked and burned. When he was young, he would have been immediately suspicious, and would have taken a patrol out anyway, but he was an old man now, and he left that sort of thing to his son and grandson. Today was a lull in the storm, a brief respite, a chance to lick wounds and sharpen swords against tomorrow. A day of rest. (The Heirs of Rohan)
July. Of course I am afraid for him. I am always afraid whenever he goes to hunt orcs, although I hide it behind a smile. (Foreboding)
August. She had managed to convince herself – again – that her children were simply tired, that this was just another version of the colds that came to Dor-lómin every year as the summer waned. She wished that she was a better liar. (Vigil)
September. It may surprise you to learn that I, one of the greatest singers in Arda, am not also one of its greatest magicians. I had a passing interest in it as a boy, but soon the theories and careful exercises bored me, and further study would have involved me spending most of my time among the Vanyar, which was not at all to my father’s liking. I ceased my studies of it, and returned to those of us who see music as a thing of beauty in itself, rather than a means to an end. (It's A Kind Of Magic)
October. No fics written, technically, but I did do a PPC Mission (and I should really finish my other ones, yes...)
The label on the door did say ‘RC #37’, but the door to the left was a broom cupboard and there were none to the right. El looked at the door suspiciously, and made a mental note to use some string next time she left her RC. (Mission 1: Lady Caleniel)
November. He should have understood long before the words tumbled from the messenger’s chapped and thirsty lips. They had arrived in the late afternoon, a horse and rider who were both sweating, dusty, and looking close to exhaustion. The rider he vaguely recognised, a boy of thirteen years or so, and the horse, although not a destrier or a palfrey, was fine enough to come from his own stables. That should have been his first warning. (Red Night)
December. I posted 'Sausages' first, but I wrote that in June, I think, so this is from another 50lyrics fic.
My sword is heavy in my hand, and sweat stings my eyes, yet the battle is not over. The westering sun sets the whole sky aflame as I raise my shield against an orcish axe, bracing myself for the jarring impact. I lift my sword: bright Noldor steel becomes black with blood as I unseam the monster from shoulder to hip. The beast falls, and I turn away before it reaches the ground. Some warriors aim only for heart or throat, others take pains to ensure every foe they meet is completely dead. I do neither: a stomach cut incapacitates, and it is a wound from which there is no recovering. I do not have the luxury of time to watch each of my enemies die. There are too many of them now. (Outshone)