Lanthiriel requested a birthday drabble about the relationship of Eowyn and Queen Evenstar

Dandelion clocks

That Ithilien summer’s day had seemed endless, when, amidst a field of gold, Eowyn had shared with them her folklore. Laughing they had torn apart the sunny faces, petal by petal, to prove their husbands’ love, then chased their children through the puff-ball clouds stirred up by telling the hours.

Later, as evening fell, her needle had recalled the bright yellow circles transforming into gossamer globes; how each starry, grey-threaded seed reached beyond the rim waiting for the wind to carry it away.

This Arwen remembered dimly as through a veil she watched the hollow stem returning to the soil.

Arwen and Gilraen spend a little time together.

The bridal belt

Arwen came and I knew I would move on, but before the time was right we worked together, spun and wove the wool, dyed it to midsummer midnight with rarest haradric blue, my son's treasured gift.

Then we sat and sewed. Quietly I stitched a corner then laughed aloud as, all along the girdle, the mithril stars come dancing to meet me like Varda's Road.

When it was done we cried, tenderly folded our work and stored it, hopeful, away. She said at the last, "please stay," but smiled through her tears as I gave her the kiss of farewell.

Altariel requested a birthday drable in which Denethor and Faramir exhibit a functional father-son relationship.

A valediction

The horn’s call faded and Faramir watched the Steward’s fingers tighten on the stone. "Do not regret your choice," he searched for comfort as they walked towards the Tower, "his strength has always been our hope."

The hall offered sanctuary from the pitiless glare outside. Denethor poured the wine, cool and fragrant, and turned towards his son. "So, it seems we must seek to fill your brother’s place as best we can," he said, and Faramir felt cheered by his father’s ghost of a smile.

Their cups chimed fleetingly together. "To Boromir!" their voices joined in the ritual of farewell.

My contribution to HASA's drabbling of The Fellowship of the Ring

Many Meetings

From under the knife, the healer’s House welcomes him with strength against the dark.

Here white smoke-rings drift in sunshine; bright voices make light of Mordor’s power. Elves, child-like and ancient, make merry in the hall. A courteous dwarf assists with cushions and the food is all that he desires.

Here Shire-talk speaks louder than shadows; man’s friendship rings truer than cravings call.

Here hope is kindled and legends live in the firelight. Guiding stars shine out in song: in evening eyes, and above the Ranger’s heart.

Here the light of Elbereth endures and Bilbo’s little hearthside brings him home.

My contribution to HASA's drabbling of The Two Towers

Shelob's lair

"Lo, then slinking malice led them into utter darkness. Senses stifled under Shadow's reek, the hobbits struggled on through ancient webs.

Yet at the blackest pit Samwise the stouthearted recalled old Tom's brightness then Galadriel's light. So Beren's heir bore the glass-caught Silmaril aloft, cried elvish words - but still the horror came. Then Frodo of the Shire, dazzling with an inner fire, strode forth to meet Her, Sting and Star in hand, and Shelob was overcome - but cunning still.

Ravenous, enraged, Ungoliant's spawn again pursued Her prey. But now, Samwise, bloodlust-blinded, left his master lightless so Gollum had not failed ..."

My contribution to HASA's drabbling of The Return of the King

The Field of Cormallen

The West still withstood the waves of darkness
eagles heralded the hour of doom
stormwinds scattered the Shadow's grasp
Ringbearers fell wreathed in fire
engulfed in torment of earth's re-forging.
In Gondor's garden graceful Ithilien
sweet air breathed life after ash's choking
falling waters wakened the dead
healed beyond hope by the hand of the King.
Spring-turf mound now served as throne
yet he knelt before them bareheaded
bade all praise the Pheriannath.
This flame-flower ring fellowship renewed.
Overflowing with gladness the Great River bore them
back from the Gate of blackest despair
to May's blossoming City at Sun's rising.

* * *

Author's note: The Field of Cormallen means 'golden circle' and was named for the culumalda trees that grew there.
Cul- 'golden-red'

(The Silmarillion Appendix)

My contribution to HASA's drabbling of the Appendices.  (What can I say?  A madness took me).

Appendix F (On Translation)

Strong characters; their histories colourful and wordplay sharp.

Foulmouthed swears at Biblical, yet they must unite to interpret the tale. Gaffer Rustic still has doubts, stares, suspicious, at my pen. Book-learned, though, enjoys a bowl as we chuckle together over “thee” and “thou”.

Celtic proved generous; loaning “Bree” its regional names.

And listen! “Westu Engliscgereorde hál?” Hopeful song yet stirs in barrow! Gladly would it wake to life.

But, alas, it will take more than an English “v” to translate the Third Age dignity of Dwarves and Elves. Fading, their voices call me, forever beyond our Common Speech to tell.

A birthday request for pre-War Aragorn.

Joining the Company

When the days darkened towards midwinter, and the weather grew foul, The Pony’s common-room was the only place to be. Somewhat bemused, Aragorn found it could even be good, as a mug of Barley’s best appeared, unasked for, at his elbow.

He studied the ring of expectant faces, softened by ale and firelight. “Come on Strider! Give us another!” For once the shouts were friendly, suspicion forgotten in the strange magic of his tales.

Slowly, deliberately he sampled his beer, biding his time. Then, when he judged the moment right, he cast his spell again and a breathless silence reigned.

A birthday request for Legolas Aragorn friendship.

Fellow Travellers

Aragorn found his new travelling companion under the stars. “We had no chance to speak, after the Council, but please forgive my harsh words - I was taken by surprise.”

Legolas bowed, gracefully, remorsefully. “The fault was entirely ours.”

“I wonder. I fear I may be too close to see clearly where that miserable creature is concerned.”

“Two months dangerous travel burdened with such as he. Foul-mouthed, sly, recalcitrant - and the smell! A sore trial indeed.”

“Indeed, but at least you may be certain I will not bite.” Aragorn’s smile glinted in the moonlight as light-hearted laughter drifted through the trees.

A birthday request for "remembering Boromir".

Shieldbearers

The end of Solmonath was a time of remembrance in the Riddermark.

Standing with Eomer, Lothiriel watched the river flowing around Theodred’s resting place as around a boat’s prow. Horn-calls and grieving voices sang of the glorious Shieldbearer, his might in battle, wisdom in council; but she knew well enough the sorrow they both shared was for smaller memories than these. For cousins can be close as brothers, after all.

Quietly then she remembered Boromir’s kindly arm around her shoulders, the comforting smell of oil on leather and, against her cheek, the swordsman’s calluses as he brushed away her tears.

A birthday request for Bergil and Beregond.

The Steward's Standard

"But why is it white?" Young Bergil was eager to know and Beregond had tried to explain.

"Well, at night a captain flies the white flag to rally his men in battle, show them the way. For in the dark ‘tis all too easy to go astray."

But Bergil did not really understand. Not until later, in sunlit Emyn Arnen, as the banners unfurled above the Prince’s House for the first time. Then he sang his lord and lady home and cheered himself hoarse as the Captain of the White Company came marching past at the head of his men.

A birthday request for Denethor, a dragon and the number four.

Secret Fire

There were to be fireworks! And this wizard knew their secrets! Though Denethor did not imagine he would share his tricks with him.

"So, what will it be?" his grandfather's guest enquired. "Tall ships? Seven stars? Or perhaps … a dragon?"

Now that was tempting! Yet dragons hoarded their gold and this was mettarë after all. Moreover, four-year-old eyes glimpsed a deeper magic about Mithrandir; something that somehow … sparked. So when he remembered the dead branches and sad fountain, his choice was made.

"The White Tree in bloom," he declared.

Mithrandir smiled. "Yes, I think that might be arranged," he said.

A birthday request – keywords Ranger and Halbarad

Kindred

'Tis unseemly!

Gilraen ignored their mutterings; her husband would understand. Arathorn might be Chieftain but he was a Ranger first and knew how to succour his own.

The little one slept, content for the first time in days. With rest, the healer thought, her cousin would recover; enough to feed the babe again. Until that time Gilraen had plenty and to spare.

She carried her guest over to the cradle. "Sorry, Halbarad," she whispered, "you'll have to share until another bed can be found."

Happily the latest Heir of Isildur cared little about his dignity and went on sleeping undisturbed.

My contribution to HASA's drabbling of 'The Hobbit'

The Gathering of the Clouds

Cark, rark! Stormcrows gathering! Greedy for gore! Greedy for gold!

The thrush might sing of the dragon’s death but the sickness remains.

Old Röac understands the honour of kings, a warrior’s pride, even the lure of a shiny trinket; but now they are damming up the free-running river, drowning heroes’ songs under lawyers’ words and shopkeepers’ petty reckonings.

Yet out of the darkness, beyond the wall, fair music still lightens the hearts that will hear.

And still ravens keep watch, from their age-old crags, passing their tidings and memories on.

Good new, ill news! Ever the way! Heading your way!

A birthday request for a Fellowship drabble. (I had to stretch it out to a double)

Pony Sense

"See there, sir, he's favouring it a bit."

"Yes, I see - easy Bill, good lad - I don't think it's much, Sam, just a little stiffness."

They really shouldn't fuss. I know when I'm well off. No whips and curses here. Just that great Man, standing guard over there. Makes me feel as tall as a warhorse when he rubs me down. And that one of the Fair Folk who sings of starlit things in my ear.

And my Hobbits. One's resting, but two are grinning, waving their feet in the air.

"See that's what's best about bare feet - no wet boots."

"Humph!" our Wizard snorts. "It's wet stockings that are the worst."

"Well if you can't have a fire at least you can have a smoke," they laugh and
offer him their odd-smelling weed.

No trouble with my feet. Not with a Dwarf to see to the fit of my shoes.

But that liniment does smell nice. And those hands do feel very good. And my leg really does feel much better already ...

"There, that should do it, Sam. I think all will be well."

Kind master strokes my nose, slips me dried apple, and I know that it will.

A birthday request for a drabble about a character being tempted by the Ring

Weregild

He has failed. Failed to heal as he failed to protect. All he can do is ease the growing torment for a while. Straightening the blankets, his fingers brush against the hobbit's pocket, feel the unmistakable presence of the Ring.

Shame and helpless pity claw at him again. What would he not give to cut this ancient poison from the world; to turn the Nazguls' torturing blades back on themselves? Aye, what price would he not pay?

Frodo moans softly in his sleep, Samwise watches the Ranger closely across the sputtering fire, and Aragorn welcomes the suspicion in those eyes.

A birthday request for something palanitir-related.

The Steward and the King

A grim price must be paid, he finds, to redeem this shadowed Stone; fire reawakens and the burning takes its toll. But with it he may still command, eye to eye, across the far-flung leagues, hold secure a reunited realm. Small price to …

“Sire, enough.”

A steady grip upon his shoulder anchors him as he withdraws his gaze. Horror soon returns; hands - withering, untimely aged - will not relinquish, even as the flames consume.

Faramir’s concern is clear and Aragorn offers him a rueful smile. Together they replace the pall.

“Aye, my friend, you are right; time to let it go.”