Stories of Arda - Lord of the Rings Fan-Fiction Archive

Dust. Dust and ash. The blackened, skeletal remains of trees, twisted beyond recognition. The stench of burning still hung close, even after all this time. The absence of birdsong accentuated the morbid silence of the dead forest.

Ahead, glints of light and movement momentarily lifted his heart, but it was a bitter illusion. Silver trinkets hung from bare branches, stark reminders of those who had perished here.

At the foot, hands ashy and sooty, a weary figure lovingly tended a tiny shoot of green, the merest hint of new growth, before looking up with a smile. “Welcome home, my son.”

Elros Tar-Minyatur is dying - Númenor mourns. Our first King, surely to be our greatest King, who wrought all around us. Unheralded, for no message was sent, sails are sighted from Lindon. Rumour abounds. A mighty Elven lord, say some. The herald of Gil-Galad, say others.

This is just a grieving brother, facing the final, bitter parting from his long-sundered twin. A brother - surely questioning the choices made so long ago. Words are unspoken; sorrow replaced by love and acceptance. The eyes of one grow dim, closing under the tender caress of the other.

All is quiet now, peaceful and still. It is late, and you are asleep, cradled in your mother’s arms, tired out after the great adventure of your birth. She too is exhausted, but never have I seen her so happy, so serene and content. You have been long awaited, little one.

I look at you, so tiny, so perfect, so vulnerable; and feel a great sense of awe that I played a part in creating something so wonderful. I know in this instant that I would give my very life to protect you both.

All is quiet now, the song and revelry which greeted your birth stilled. The soft voices of the trees, joyous in their welcome of this newest green leaf, are muted.

You sleep in your mother’s arms, both exhausted after the great adventure of birth. She is serene and content now – you have been long awaited, little one. Long have we listened to and delighted in the murmur of your song. By Elbereth’s starlight I look on you, so tiny, so perfect; in such awe that I played a part in creating something so wonderful.

Author's Notes: Feedback on this would be most welcome - I tried to make it feel more 'elfy'. Has it worked?

Orcs and Easterlings fled from that great battle, north and east and west. Some fled across Dagorlad; Gimli and I pursuing them, across the plains and into the Dead Marshes. Yet when the last remnants of Sauron’s armies were slain we lingered, watching lights flickering across the fens. The candles of the dead, their faces glimmering in the water. Elves and men, dead faces in the water, victims of the last great battle here.

And this is where my grandfather fell. His grave is now swallowed by the creeping marshes. I think I begin to understand your nightmares, my father.

We are not the same. Mirror images, yes. Identical of face, yes. Identical of heart, no.

Others find it hard to comprehend us, I know. They are blind, cannot see beyond their eyes, cannot see that below the surface lie different hearts, different souls, different minds. And yet I find it difficult myself. I know your thoughts, even when I do not share them; I feel your pain, even when it is not my own. I love you, my brother, and could never bear to be parted from you, yet I chafe to be myself.

I remember when the news came, the shock and horror on Father’s face. We made a vow then, Elrohir and I, to find you, no matter the cost.

I remember the endless search, the long days and nights of pursuit, never stopping for rest or food. I remember the soul-numbing dread clouding our thoughts, the dull fire that consumed us. I remember.

I remember the moment we found you, the way you clung to Elrohir as we fought our way out of the pit. And I remember the moment you left, your heart and soul broken beyond repair. I remember.

Even before the order to attack is given, we fall upon the hosts of Mordor. Too soon. Though valiant, we are too few to achieve our goal, and I watch in horror as one after another falls. These are my friends, my comrades. Then you too fall, and I kneel at your side, heedless of the battle still raging.

Scalding, bitter tears fill my eyes as you look on me for the last time, your hand brushing my face. Then you too are gone, and around us warriors kneel in homage.

You need not fear me, my friend. Her heart is not mine to hold – I love your Evenstar, it is true, as she loves me, but ours is the love of true friendship, of perils endured together, of laughter shared – the same love I bear for you.

Arwen loves you, Aragorn. I know she loved you from the moment you first met, walking among the birches of Imladris at dusk. She loves you with all the passion of her spirit. She loves you enough to forsake her immortal life.

(Blame HASA for this one. The Birthday Drabbles thread had three requests for June - Legolas, Legolas/Aragorn friendship, no slash. I combined all three, and this is the result. The speaker is Legolas.)

I long for my home. I want to see the beeches again; to walk beneath their shade. I want to hear the wind among the branches; to see the stars between their leaves. I want to smell the scents of a misty autumn morning and feel the soft dew beneath my feet.

Here in this city of stone I feel confined. The walls reflect the heat and constant clamour of humanity. But outside the walls the white gulls cry, and the Anduin leads to the Sea.

This was the most beautiful part of the forest. Two majestic oaks stood here, strong and tall, their branches forever entwined as they reached towards the sky. I came here to remember you, and to weep, and to hear your voice among the leaves.

And then, they came. They came to burn, to kill, to destroy. I am told we had the victory, but at a price. The price of lives, of beauty, of memories.

Now the oaks are blackened skeletons, twisted in agony. No longer do their branches stretch tall.

In the silence that follows, I ponder our friendship. A friendship that transcends the ancient enmities between our peoples, a friendship that perplexes many.

Perhaps the first seeds were sown long ago, at Erebor. I learned then that your folk were not the cowardly Naugrim of legend, but stout and valiant warriors. On the Quest I came to know more of you; and with knowledge came acceptance. With acceptance came friendship, growing to the sort of friendship I have been blessed with before, but never thought to find again.

Black clouds gather above. With a clap of thunder, wild wind roars down from the hills. Vast armies of orcs and wolves fall upon elves, and men, and dwarves – fighting together now, all differences forgotten. Siege, greed, retribution; ancient disputes become irrelevant against the common foe.

Cold flame flickers from sword and spear and arrow, burning with immortal hate. But skill, strength and courage are not enough, cannot overcome sheer numbers. Elves, dwarves, men; all fall beneath the crushing multitude, until hope is utterly vanquished. Defeat is certain, until a glad cry is raised.

My pride and independence led us to this. I did not want to wait for debate, for endless discussion – it seemed that this was a time for action. I saw our chance to strike at the heart of the enemy, and took it, seizing it with both hands, while our allies pondered strategy and tactics.

This was not meant to happen. We should have been returning to the Greenwood victorious; returning together. Instead our forces were cut down, decimated, and it is you who will lead our warriors home. Forgive me, my son. I was wrong.

Like you, I wrestle with my thoughts, never speaking of our choice, delaying and delaying and delaying until we can delay no more. I have long feared this moment, when I – when we – must face our heritage; choose our destiny.

Do we take the fate of men or elves? Mortality or immortality? A brief’ glorious spark followed by swift death, or a slow gradual flowering and eventual decline? I love this world; would gladly take eternity to explore it; but that same eternity without you, my brother, would be unbearable.

Author’s Note: I do not know the twins’ choice, but I tend to think that they chose immortality. Whatever the decision, I think they chose the same fate – I cannot imagine them being sundered as Elrond and Elros were.

Sadly, it is true. Arwen has gone now, and Estel before her, and our last link to Middle Earth is broken. Eldarion has grown to a fine man, and makes a worthy king. Father would be so proud of him.

Turning, I take one last lingering look at Imladris, remembering. Then, together, we ride for the last time along the twisting trail and out of the valley. We ride for the Havens, and for a long awaited reunion.

Before dawn, she is at the harbour, waiting impatiently. This is the day she has hoped for; longed for; waited for; for so very many years. To her great joy, one such reunion has already happened. To her great sorrow, there is one reunion that will never now take place.

As the light grows, the ship is sighted; sails shimmering in the early sunlight. As it draws near, she sees them; standing shoulder-to-shoulder by the rail, tall and beautiful. As the ship docks, they come; bounding down the gang plank to throw themselves into her tearful, joyous embrace.

Daisies. His father’s favourite flowers. Carefully, he searched the grass, picking only the long, thicker stems he could weave into long chains. Daisies were just right. The stems for the emeralds his father most loved, petals for his favourite white gems, the brilliant centre, just like his father’s golden hair.

He threaded the stems together, interlacing the flowers and weaving the resultant chain into a thick rope, finally joining the ends together. Satisfied, he ran to his parents, throwing himself into his father’s arms and placing the daisy crown on his head.

Author's Notes: This is a birthday drabble for Daw the Minstrel, one of my favourite writers. She writes a wonderful little Legolas and Thranduil.

They tell me that we had the victory, but I cannot see it from here. All I can see is the destruction of the forest. Majestic, venerable oaks are burned and blackened. They tell me that Sauron is overthrown, that the shadow is no more – but at the cost of so many lives, so savagely snuffed out. Will they see this victory?

They tell me that a messenger has come, bearing a letter of utmost urgency. My heart quails as I open it.

When we are summoned to our father’s study on that last day, I know what he will ask. “I ride tomorrow for the Havens. Have you made your choice, my sons? Do you sail with me, or stay?”

I do not need to look at Elrohir before I answer for us both. “We will stay.” I see such a depth of sadness and grief in his eyes, but no surprise. He feared that this would come one day.

“We will stay for now,” Elrohir amends. “We will stay for Aragorn and Arwen. Until – until the end. And then, if the Valar allow it, we will join you.”

I hesitate for the first time. “No. Not yet. It may be that we delay too long, and our choice will be taken from us. But we are both agreed on this.”

“No. Never that.” He steps towards us and we embrace, all three. “I will wait for you, my sons. But this may yet be farewell. Have you thought of that?”

Elladan passed the bottle of wine to his brother, who refilled both their glasses. Taking a sip, he lay back against the grass, gazing upwards at the night. Another burst of fireworks arched across the sky, fountains of gold and silver fire drifting silently downward.

Beside him, Elrohir raised his glass. “To our beautiful new sister,” he said proudly. “I wonder if they did this when we were born?”

Elladan sat up, touching his glass against his twin’s. “One hundred and eleven years ago,” he mused. He took a bite of the Birth Day cake, baked in celebration. “To Arwen,” he repeated.

Author’s Notes: Part of the HASA birthday challenge, to write a drabble in 111 words in recognition of Frodo and Bilbo’s birthdays. It had to include three of the following: a bottle of wine, a birthday cake, fireworks, pipeweed and the number 111. Four out of five isn’t bad.

When I remembered that a certain pair of elven twins were 111 when their sister was born, the rest was easy!

The room is in near darkness now, lit only by a faint firelight. The flames are dying – no! I will not use that word! – yet you remain pale and unmoving, your only colour a faint flush of fever.

It seems I have been at your side for an eternity, holding you, calling you. I talk incessantly, until I weary of my own voice, offering you an anchor, something to cling to when you finally cease your desperate wanderings in nightmare. I try to follow you, to show you the path of return, but you are lost to me, lost in darkness. I cannot find you.

Please, my brother, hear my voice. Come back to me, to all of us, wake from your dreams of darkness and return to the light. Where are you? What evil thoughts haunt your dreams? Why do you not wake?

My fear grows that you are lost to us, and I fear for the future. I do not think I could continue alone, without you at my side, for we have been together all our lives – yet I know our parents could not endure a double loss.

Author’s Notes: I have deliberately not specified which twin is speaking here. What do you think? What has happened? Tell me your ideas!

Searching for his brother, Elladan pushed the door open. Elrohir’s room was empty, his bed unslept in. That was odd. Where was he, today of all days? With Elrohir, the stables were always a good place to start. Elladan dressed swiftly, left the house, and crossed the dewy grass to the warm, hay-scented building.

He could hear Elrohir’s voice, warm and affectionate. Inside, a mare, tired and content, watched with pride as a wobbly-legged foal suckled peacefully. Elrohir, weary and grimy, looked up and smiled, patting the foal paternally.

Author’s Notes: This one is for JastaElf’s birthday – a little late, I’m afraid. Happy Birthday, Jasta!

Legolas shrugged. “The ghosts of men hold no terror for me. But my own people – they are the houseless ones, who refused the summons of Mandos. In denying death, they became trapped between Arda and the Halls. I have seen them, Gimli – wisps of mist; flickering flames rising out of the cold earth. They are restless. We should hurry.”

Around them, darkness spread; misty flames flickering slowly above unseen candles as pale lights and shadows grew.

It was my birthday that day, so we took a boat down the river. Fish darted, silver and gold, in the sparkling water. Then, I saw it. A different gold; glinting, shining on the river-bed.

He saw it as well. He wanted my pretty. A ring it was, golden; shining and glittering in the sun. A present, for me. Beautiful – so very beautiful.

Instead, he snatched the ring back – tried to keep it! So, I took it. Killed him – I had to. The ring was mine – my birthday present. Mine.

Author's Notes: This was written for the 'Greed' challenge at Tolkien Weekly

Midnight-dark hair flows like silk through my fingers. His skin burns against mine, and his kiss, tender in the aftermath of passion, is sweet. I feel his soft breath, quieting now, warm against my neck as his arms encircle me.

I turn to look into his storm-grey eyes, eyes that I have seen darken with desire, as slowly he falls into sleep, head resting on my shoulder.

I too am exhausted by our loving, but here, now, I want nothing but to lie in his gentle embrace.

Anger consumes me when I receive your letter, and I have only one question: Why?

Why do you take this deadly path? Do you think to find glory there? There is no heroic sacrifice in certain death.

Why do you turn your back on duty? You are needed here, to lead our troops into battle at my side, to lead them if I fall. For battle, assuredly, will come.

Why did Elrond suggest you for this foolhardy mission? Are his own sons too dear to him? Why must he risk you, my only, my beloved son, my life?

Marten eyed the elf-maid drunkenly. She was tall and slender, the prettiest elf-maid he’d ever seen – but that weren’t many, admittedly. And her hair – long, blonde, silky, it shone like – like sunlight, he thought, in a sudden poetic burst.

Seizing his chance, Marten weaved over to the elf-maid, laying his hand on her arm. “ ’Ello, gorgeous,” he slurred winningly.

He found his hand held in a vice-like grip. “Remove your hand, ere I remove it for you!” snapped a hard voice. Startled, Marten looked up – into a beautiful, cold, undeniably male face.

Author’s Notes: This was written for the Tolkien Weekly ‘Mistakes’ Challenge.

I can hear the Ring’s seductive whisper on the edge of my thoughts. I know its evil lure; have seen it at work in the company. To banish its malice, I think of my home; the trees green and growing. Yet blight and shadow mar the woodland now – my father fights valiantly; using his power and strength to defeat this darkness, but ‘tis not enough.

Why is it that he is the only Elven ruler without a ring of power? It would be so easy: together we could sweep all evil from this world. I have only to take it.

Author's Notes: Written for a HASA Birthday challenge to show a member of the Fellowship tempted by the Ring.

I have rarely known such friendship as yours, my friend. We owe our lives to each other, many times over, and together have faced dangers we could not survive alone. Your friendship and companionship mean much to me, and I feel the richer for it. You fill me with laughter with your humour, your view on life, your tales, your warmth.

For you I would face death; have faced death – and I know that you would do the same for me. Without you, my life would be duller, poorer, less full – and no doubt far safer.

Author’s Note: A friendship drabble with Legolas and Aragorn, written for Cassia and Sio at the Mellon Chronicles, to say ‘thank you’ for a Christmas gift they sent.

Legolas leaned against a convenient rock, gazing upwards at the stars. The sky was clear, the air crisp with the chill of winter. “I cannot believe it,” he said in wonder. “We have been journeying for a month, are nearly home again – and nothing has gone wrong. No wargs. No spiders attacking us.”

“No trolls,” added Elladan slyly, as he leaned forward to add another fallen branch to their fire.

Author’s Notes: This one is for LKK’s birthday. She requested Legolas, Elladan and Elrohir friendship.

Mid-winter was the best time of year, full of wonder and excitement. The trees surrounding Lasgalen were leafless, frosted with white. At twilight on mid-winter’s eve they were bare, still beautiful in their stark simplicity; but bare. By dawn on mid-winter’s day the branches were festooned with ribbons, brightly wrapped sweetmeats and trinkets. There were gifts for all.

None knew who put them there. Elflings tried hard to stay awake, determined that this year they would watch, yet, inevitably, they slept. When they awoke, the trees were dressed in their bright finery.

The devastated forest still smouldered as Thranduil saw Celeborn approaching, as weary as he was himself, but wearing a fierce smile. “I bring news. Galadriel has seen them – Legolas is safe,” he said in greeting.

Thranduil’s weariness and sorrow vanished. “Thank the Valar,” he whispered. “Thank you for your aid, cousin – and your lady. The shadow of evil that has blighted my forest for so long is gone.”

“This is Mirkwood no longer,” Celeborn observed. “You should rename it.”

From Appendix B: ‘On the day of the New Year of the Elves, Celeborn and Thranduil met in the midst of the forest, and they renamed Mirkwood Eryn Lasgalen.’

Elrohir rolled over and peered at the other bed. Elladan was still asleep. He groped under his pillow, and found the jewel-hilted dagger that was to be Elladan’s begetting day gift. It was the only safe hiding place, so obvious that his twin would never think to look there. He slid out of bed and crossed to Elladan’s, tugging the covers off abruptly.

Elladan sat up with a startled yell. He sighed, then fished beneath his pillow and held out a felt-covered object. “Happy begetting day, Elrohir!”

Carefully, Elrohir unwrapped it, smiling at the jewel-hilted dagger revealed. “Happy thirtieth, Elladan.”

Aragorn, last in a long line of fosterlings, was gone. Arwen, always their little sister, had passed. With the deaths of their sister, and one they had loved like a brother, there was nothing to bind them to Middle Earth any longer; nothing to stay for. Even Imladris was fading and dying. The ravages of time could no longer be denied.

Pausing only long enough to pack essentials for the journey, and mementoes they could not bear to leave behind, they consigned fair Imladris to the care of those who remained. They rode for the havens, arriving at dusk, the long firth shining ahead of them, glimmering softly in the moonlight.

Cirdan greeted them. “Welcome to Mithlond, my lords. You have been expected. We sail at dawn.” Nodding to the grey-bearded shipwright, they boarded the ship, feeling deep sorrow and loss at the memory of all those who would never now join them. Yet amid the sadness there was hope – expectation of joyous reunion with those long missed who had gone before, anticipation of a new land to explore – and they would always be together.

This part of the forest was burnt to the ground, and the stench of burning lingers in the air. The soil is barren, bare; rising in a cloud of black dust as I work.

I feel the destruction of the trees in my heart, their suffering as a physical pain. Yet still I work; digging, planting, watering, tending; so that the forest may grow again.

I turn to the last scorched patch of earth, and stop in awe. A shoot of green is growing – unplanted, unwatered, untended, but growing nonetheless.

Notes: This is from Thranduil’s POV, and was written for the ‘Earth’ challenge at Tolkien Weekly.

Celebrían turned the wriggling, squirming elfling in her arms to face her. “Nana,” she said clearly. “Say ‘Nana’.” Her son wriggled again with an incoherent wail, struggling to be free. She held him firmly, determined that the twins’ first recognisable word would be ‘Nana’, not ‘Ada’.

Across the room, Elrond was having equally little success. “Ada. Can you say ‘Ada’? Please, little one. ‘Ada’!”

Parted for too long, both twins started to wail. Celebrían moved closer to Elrond, with a sigh of despair. “Will they ever stop this incomprehensible babble and talk properly?”

“Of course they will. They just have to be taught properly!” Glorfindel appeared beside her. “Glor-fin-del,” he said clearly. “Glor-fin-del.”

Celebrían gave a snort of derision. “If they still cannot manage ‘Nana’, I doubt they will be able to cope with ‘Glorfindel’!” She leaned against Elrond’s shoulder wearily. “They should be able to say something by now!”

Elladan stretched out one hand, and tugged at his brother’s hair. “El!” he said gleefully – and clearly. “El!”

Their father gazed at them, one eyebrow raised in disbelief. “El?” he repeated in horror. “My sons’ first word is ‘El’?”

The cat opened one eye indignantly as her sleep, in a patch of bright sunlight on the sun-warmed flagstones, was disturbed. She heard the heavy clump of booted feet, very different to the familiar soft steps of the elves. There were deep, gruff voices, harsh to her ears after the light, musical voices she was used to.

There was peace for a while as the one she thought of as her elf spoke, and she dozed again, ignoring the discussion that followed. All was well if he was here. Suddenly she awoke with a start and hissed, her fur standing on end in fear. A harsh, menacing voice was speaking in some foul tongue. The sunlight faded, and a sense of evil hung in the air. Then her elf spoke again, gently reprimanding, and she felt the dark shadows lift. There was more talk, then a heavy, ringing silence. Finally another voice spoke, soft and resigned, rather sad.

Her elf spoke again in reply, and then – finally! – the intruders were gone, and silence descended once more. The pointless, irritating discussions were over. Contented, the cat curled into another patch of sun, and got back to the important business of sleeping.

Arwen stopped abruptly as two horses pounded into the yard, and the riders dropped lightly to the ground.

“And then Elladan nearly got us lost!” They exchanged glances of fond exasperation.

She tried hard to look disapproving as her brothers, looking dishevelled as always when they returned from a patrol, advanced on her. They both hugged her, smearing her with mud, and she broke into a reluctant smile.

Author's Notes: A HASA birthday drabble for Forodwaith, who wanted Arwen with someone other than Aragorn.

Desperate now, Thranduil searched further downstream. How could such a small elfling wander so far, in such a short time? He had turned his back for only a second, but his son had vanished.

His mind was filled with terrifying images and dread. There were so many dangers to befall a child; spiders, wolves – and the swift, cold river.

Flaming torchlight revealed a muddy, tear-streaked elfling; peacefully asleep among the protective roots of a mighty oak. Thranduil bent; scooped him up with a kiss. “Legolas. Come home now.”

Elrond sat cross-legged beneath a tree in the garden of Bag End, watching Sam hard at work.

“You look hot, Sam,” Elrond commented. “I confess, when it comes to gardening, I prefer watching others labour.”

Sam joined him in the shade, surveying the garden proudly. “My old Da were a terror on weeds and such – but I prefer a more liberal approach. Even weeds have their place, I reckon.”

The door opened, and Sam’s little niece flew across the green lawn. “A ’tory, Uncle! A ’tory!” she lisped.

Author’s Notes: A birthday drabble for paranoidangel (Nic), who is a fellow Review Admin at HASA. She requested Elrond and Sam, so I’ve pretended that Elrond visited the Hobbits at some point.

Her birthday’s on May 5^th, a significant date in the UK as it is the General Election. I’ve played with that idea a little!

In case you're not familiar with the references I've made, look out for the three main political parties: Labour, Liberal (Liberal Democrats) and Tory (Conservative).

He passed through the Tower Hills. There before him, he saw it at last – exactly as imagined, as tales of childhood fantasy told. The Sea. A wide expanse of water, glistening in the sunlight, vanishing into the West beyond his sight.

At the Havens, he trotted onto the docks, watching in awe as sailors coiled ropes, unfurled sails, prepared to set sail. One looked up and hailed him. “You there! You looking for a job? We need someone small, nimble; to climb into the rigging. Think you can do it?”

Author's Notes: For the ‘Life Aquatic’ challenge on Tolkien Weekly. Isengar Took (Pippin’s great-uncle) is said to have ‘gone to sea’ in his youth.

Suddenly the great bow of Lórien sang. High above, a dark shape veered towards them with a croaking cry of triumph and swooped downwards.

The elf turned to face his companions with a cold, feral grin. The ring on its slender chain dangled from his long fingers. “My Lord knows of our presence. He will be here shortly.” He regarded their shock contemptuously. “Surely you did not think Gollum escaped from Mirkwood? I released him.” He turned and called into the night. “Come here, my pet.”

Gollum crept from the shadows and rubbed lovingly against Legolas. “Yess, master,” he crooned.

After a long, weary, lonely journey, Boromir finally found the hidden valley of Imladris. He paused, gazing down the track, wondering. Would the answer be found here? The haunting music and words of the song he had heard in his dream still echoed in his mind, ‘Seek for the sword that was broken.’

With a shrug, he rode on. Gradually he became aware of light and laughter ahead of him, and strains of gay music. A burst of laughter and song greeted him as he rode into the valley itself.

Notes: A HASA birthday drabble, featuring Boromir and music as requested. Italics are Tolkien's own words, of course.

Legolas slid a narrow package next to his father’s plate as he sat at the breakfast table. “For you,” he said with a smile. “A thank you – for no particular reason.”

Thranduil unwrapped the gift – a book; an account of the Last Alliance – carefully, and looked up. “Thank you. But why?”

“I told you – no particular reason. To say thank you. Because even after mother died – especially after mother died – you always had time for me. No matter how busy you were.”

“Even when I was doing ‘king things’?” Thranduil asked with a smile, using the term his son had adopted as an elfling for the essential, time-consuming business of ruling the realm.

Legolas nodded. “Yes. Even then. If you said you would do something for me – with me – you always did. It meant a lot.”

Thranduil smiled reminiscently. He had tried hard to do all the things a normal father would do with his child – swimming; riding; picnics on a summer day – but it had been hard, especially after his wife’s death. He and Legolas had both weathered that tragedy, and it had only strengthened their love and dependence on one another.

Author’s Notes: A double drabble for Father’s Day. Dedicated to my father, who sadly died six years ago.

I plead with my sons to cease their endless quest for revenge – yet while orcs still roam these lands, I know they cannot rest.

I understand their anger, but can they not understand my fear? One day, they will not return. One day, one will return alone, bearing his brother’s body – and I will still lose them both.

Yet I cling to hope. Hope that one day, the cold-eyed, vengeful warriors will go, and my sons will return. I have to believe that that day will come.

I watch, heavy-hearted, as they ride out again – vicious orc-slayers consumed by bloodlust.

Lord Éomer summoned us at midnight. Scouts had warned of an orc host descending the East Wall; orcs pledged to Saruman and Mordor. That which we most feared had come to pass.

He spoke passionately: “I do not command you to ride with me – I ask that you do so. We will ride without King Théoden’s leave – but we ride for Rohan. Will you join me?”

Would I join him? I had eyes to see, and ears to hear. I had seen the shadow that had fallen upon King Théoden – and I had heard the evil whispers of Gríma. I had seen the shadow that had slowly crept across the land of Rohan. Around me, my companions brandished their swords, cheering and pledging allegiance – allegiance to Éomer, not Théoden.

Another rider, Gárulf, glared at me. He was both a companion and a friend. “Well? Do you ride or not?” he demanded. I nodded, but this decision was not mine alone. I looked to my other companion, my horse.

“Well, Arod? What say you? Do we ride for glory?” With a snort, he agreed. So with high hearts and high hope, the éored of Éomer rode into the night.

What words could he possibly write? What words could simultaneously justify this desperate decision, explain the great need for their hopeless quest, and yet reassure Thranduil – at least as far as was possible?

His mission – his evil tidings about the escape of Sméagol – had proved ill news indeed; abruptly changing his resolution to deliver the message, and thence return to the defence of Lasgalen. He burned now with the need to atone for his people’s failing, and had been elated when Elrond named him as one of the Nine Walkers.

Slowly and hesitantly, Thranduil opened the letter. When his son had not returned from his mission – bearing words which could be entrusted to no other – he had feared much. Now, it seemed, his fears were indeed justified. The words lay stark and bold on the paper before him – words of desperation, hopelessness and defiant reassurance.

Amid the fears – Legolas was all that was left to him – there was an immense pride; a sense that if this could be done, his son would see it through; no matter what the cost.

Handing Frodo to her father – the unfortunate hobbit looked half dead, successfully distracting Elrond – Arwen dismounted, and handed Asfaloth to the grooms.

Stepping back, she felt an unyielding body behind her. “Just where do you think you are going?” a low voice growled.

Heart sinking, Arwen turned to face her accuser. “Glorfindel! Thank you for letting me borrow Asfaloth. He is much faster than my own horse!”

His expression darkened. “You did not ‘borrow’ him. You stole him – again. I warned you before – your brothers and I will tell Aragorn every embarrassing tale of your childhood!”

At Eru’s command I raised my voice gladly and joyously, adding to the Song that he created. At first I sang alone, hearing nothing but my own part, intent on singing for him and him alone – but slowly the song of another reached my ears. Gradually we blended our voices into a duet of joy, singing a melody of delight for him.

Others joined us, faltering at first until we gained a harmony. The words of the Song soared heavenward and hung like glittering stars against the void.

Author's Notes: Written for the Tolkien Weekly 'Music' challenge. Based, of course, on The Silmarillion.

Father and son walked through the darkened gardens, settling on an expanse of lawn clear of trees, where they could gaze upwards. Stars shone in the heavens like diamonds against black velvet – yet far more beautiful.

“Ada? What are the stars?” The child wriggled onto his father’s lap, leaning against him sleepily.

The child stretched out his hand, reaching upwards. “I wish I could go there,” he said wistfully, “and explore.”

“Eärendil the explorer? Who knows?” Tuor smiled. “You could be anything you want, my son.”

Thranduil crept through the forest. Pausing by a thicket of bushes, he peered into the clustering branches to the hollows beyond. There was nothing there.

He gazed upwards, past the yellowing leaves into the depths of the trees above him, looking for a green and brown shadow – which was not there. He paused, thinking. Where to look next? The stables lay ahead, with lofts, corners, shadows, and stacked bales of hay.

Passing a drift of autumn leaves, he jumped as the pile exploded upwards, and a laughing, shouting elfling emerged.

Elladan peered over his brother’s shoulder at the scattered balls of screwed-up paper that littered the desk. “What are you doing, little brother?”

Estel jumped. “Nothing,” he mumbled, briefly trying to hide the sheet before passing it reluctantly to Elladan.

‘She is as beautiful as the ~~night~~ ~~morning~~ ~~twilight~~ breaking dawn.

He gave the sheet back to his brother, placing a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. “Estel, we will make a poet of you yet.”

Within the clearing firelight blazed and torches flickered. Drumbeats thrummed, a rhythm that stirred the blood and echoed in the hearts of the dancers. Harpers and singers added a gentle counterpoint, but the music of the drums could not be denied.

The feet of the dancers left no mark on the grass as they swirled in intricate patterns, jumping and leaping across the fires, as they celebrated the song of Arda and the waning of the year.

Here within the enchanted circle of firelight no harm could touch them, held at bay by the power and strength of the Elvenking.

Slowly, Legolas approached the willow. Enchantment hung thickly in the air, but he was no stranger to enchantment and stepped between the long, trailing branches that hung into the water. They seemed to twine around his feet and legs, and he pulled them free carefully before placing his hands against the tree gently. Feeling a shiver run through it, he leaned closer, resting his head against the trunk; ignoring the twisting fronds that now attempted to wind around his neck.

He could feel the darkness at the heart of the ancient willow, a wellspring of loneliness and long abandonment. His heart wept for the tree’s sorrow, and softly he began to sing. A shudder ran through the tree as his song continued, and he felt the coils wrapped around his throat slowly loosen and fall away.

Finally he felt the tree stirring and waking beneath his touch, and a soft, whispering voice drifted through his mind.

“Aye, an elf,” he thought back. “You are no longer alone, my friend.”

The trailing branches writhed again, lifting to brush gently against his face. “Elf.” With a sigh, the willow shivered in contentment, and slept again.

Beneath the eaves of the forest, fierce battle raged. The trees rang with cries as each flying missile found its mark.

Rallying his troops for one final attack, Thranduil gazed at the determined faces around him. “We will not yield,” he vowed.

There was a cry at his side, and Thranduil saw a dark wetness spreading across the young elf’s cloak. The enemy was getting closer, and more daring. Surveying his dwindling supply of weapons, Thranduil nodded determinedly. He had just two options.

He surged forward, leading the attack on the other elflings with his last remaining snowballs.

Remember when Aragorn and Gandalf found the sapling of the White Tree? I began to wonder just how it got there in the first place …

The old man moved furtively through the courtyard of the fountain. Night’s shadows concealed him from the ever-watchful guards; their attention focused on enemies from without rather than within.

With a nimbleness that belied his apparent age, he neared the tree and reached into the clustering flowers on its crown, taking the single seed formed there. Then down, down through the many levels and circles of the city, flitting through shadow and darkness to the great gates, before climbing again to the heights of Mindolluin.

There he halted, scooping a small hollow in the earth and placing the seed reverently within before covering it again. Finally he stood. “Lie hidden here, even as the race of Elendil lies hidden. Your time will come.”

With a final glance at the secret hollow, he left the barren, snow-covered wastes to return to the city, and the aged, stooped disguise that cloaked him.

Although we ride together, the journey passes in near silence, for what words can express my sorrow and guilt in leaving you? I know that this will be the last journey we take together, and pray all the while that you will change your mind at the last – or that I will – but in my heart I know it will not be. You are as set on this course as I am.

You find such hope and strength in the rise of men and their realms – you always were more optimistic than I. You do not despair as the flame of each brief lifespan flickers and dies, but see instead the glorious spark of passion to achieve and create so much in the short time they have.

At the quay we make our final farewell. The words come at last, but are unnecessary. Our last embrace, our tears, say more than any words ever could to express the emptiness I feel. I stand at the stern of the ship, watching, as your figure dwindles into the distance, and know that now – and for evermore – I am alone.

Although we ride together, the journey passes in near silence. I am reminded of so many other journeys together – escapades and adventures when we were children, routine patrols when we were oh-so-serious young warriors, the deadly chases and vengeful searches of later years.

And this – this will be the last journey we take together. You have lost all joy in Arda, and can see only the fading of the elves and the loss of all we have ever loved. Yet you do not despair, and are full of hope and longing for what will come. You always were more optimistic than I. You ride with your eyes fixed on the distant horizon, the wondrous new land awaiting you, and the reunions that will follow this last, bitter parting.

At the quay we make our final farewell, the saddest I have ever known. Already I can feel the emptiness in my heart as we embrace for the last time and our tears flow and mingle. Standing on the dock, I watch until your ship fades into the faint sea mist, and I know that you are truly gone.

Author Notes: If you're not sure, Elrohir is the first speaker, then Elladan. I don't really think that the twins chose different fates - I firmly believe that they both sailed - but began thinking, 'what if they did part'?

On the slopes of Orodruin, Sauron fell – as did many others, among them Gil-Galad and Elendil.

“We cannot let their deaths have been in vain!” Isildur exclaimed harshly. Seizing Sauron’s hand, he hacked at it with the broken hilt of Narsil. “The Ring is mine,” he proclaimed. “Mine to do with as I will. Mine to destroy.”

He plunged into a crevice that led to the heart of the mountain, and held the Ring aloft. Opening his hand, he watched as it fell into the fire, gleamed once, and was gone forever. “It is done,” he breathed. “It is over.”

Smaug shifted restlessly as the sharp edge of a golden goblet pressed into his side. The discomfort roused him from dreams of gold, jewels and treasure, and he opened a bleary eye, surveying his hoard with avaricious pride. Gems glittered brightly; sapphires shone with inner light. Cups of gold and silver dotted the mound – slightly dented where he had lain on them, but what did that matter?

Satisfied that all was well, he rearranged himself more comfortably on the pile of treasure, and settled back to sleep. It was his, all his, and no-one would dare take it from him.

A deep shadow lay on Elrond’s heart as he gazed southward. Far beyond mortal or elven sight, far from his aid, his sons fought a deadly battle against despair, dread and darkness. In truth, though only two were the sons of his blood and body, all three held an equal place in his heart and his love. He feared for them.

The darkness had begun to encroach on him at dawn; an ominous shadow that swallowed all three from his Sight. Had he been right to send the words of Malbeth the Seer south with Elrohir? He could do naught but wait; wait until they traversed the Paths and came at last to Erech.

He stared south, oblivious as the sun wheeled overhead and the shadows lengthened around him. The accursed darkness and unease lifted a little as evening deepened, but he did not cease his vigil. Somewhere a soft bell chimed the hour of midnight, and in that moment he heard it – a distant horn echoing across the miles, ringing in the hills and mountains. A chill wind blew on him, and he knew that far to the south, beneath the Stone of Erech, the Dead had been summoned.

“I suppose you feel that everything has gone off splendidly and according to plan?” Elladan asked pointedly. He and Estel gazed upwards at Elrohir, hanging precariously from a high branch by one hand.

“Stop worrying, El – I have it now!” Elrohir retorted. “It was not my fault the branch broke – it was weaker than I thought,” he added defensively. Securing the errant kite between his teeth, he reached the safety of the ground. “There, Estel – ‘tis quite safe!”

Estel snatched the kite, inspecting it for damage, then glared at his brother ungratefully. “Next time, don’t show me how it’s done!”

“I think we should go that way.” Elrohir pointed to a narrow path that led through dense woodland. “It would be quicker.”

“Maybe. But our last shortcut through woods nearly ended in disaster,” Elladan reminded him.

“No? That is not my recollection. Someone led us along a path that ended in a sheer cliff – and then decided we should climb down. It was as well that those dwarves came by when they did, or we may have been stuck for some time.”

Author Notes: Written for the 50 Passages challenge, prompt #4: 'Our last shortcut through woods nearly ended in disaster'.

Elrohir placed the last book neatly on the shelf and surveyed the new bedroom with satisfaction. His own bedroom, he repeated to himself with relish; a place where he could be alone; where he could keep his own books and mementoes without having to share them; a place that he could keep tidy without Elladan’s clutter strewn everywhere.

He climbed into bed and lay listening to the peace and quiet sleepily. It made a pleasant change – usually Elladan was snoring at his side long before he himself closed his eyes. All was silent.

Elladan huddled miserably in his bed. He wanted his own room, and the space to spread out. Yet without Elrohir’s complaining about ‘untidiness’, the room felt empty and lonely.

Finally, he had had enough, and opened Elrohir’s door. “El? I came to see if you were all right. If you were feeling lonely – it’s the first time you’ve been on your own.” He swallowed. “Do you want me to stay tonight? I can sleep on the floor.”

Elrohir gave a sudden nod, and slid to one side of his bed. “All right, but there’s room enough for two,” he offered.

Elrohir groaned as he woke very, very reluctantly. The light was too bright; the birdsong too loud. There was a pain in his head as if all Aulë’s dwarves were hammering in concert, and a taste in his mouth like scrapings from the floor of the barn where the hens roosted.

He opened one eye. Elladan stood over him; maliciously, deliberately sober. “Still asleep, little brother? I was awake early this morning, and now it must be nearly noon.”

Dimly he recalled dinner last night, and the bet. He groaned again, and pulled a pillow over his head.

Midsummer in the Greenwood. A time of magic, when it scarcely seemed to grow dark at all – no sooner had the sun set, then it rose again. It made the few brief hours of starlight all the more magical.

Thranduil’s queen was as radiant as ever; but on this night, something more primal stirred within him. It reminded him of the night of a harvest moon, when another new life had joined them. He glanced down at the child curled asleep on his lap, exhausted by the festivities, and bent to place a kiss on his cheek, before turning to the elf-maid at his side. “Mireth, would you please put Legolas to bed?” His eyes caught Telparian’s, and he swallowed. “I think – we may be some time.”

Mireth nodded and scooped the elfling into her arms. “Goodnight, my lord – my lady.” She smiled suddenly. “May Yavanna bless you!”

He took his wife by the hand, leading her away from the music and feasting, into the shelter of his beloved trees and the warm, fragrant darkness. A touch, a caress, a kiss, and she was in his arms, clinging to him.

Author Notes: Yavanna is the Giver of Fruits - so her blessing may well be sought by those wanting to create a child.

Elrohir stared after his brother, fuming. Why was he a twin? Half the people he met called him Elladan. Everything he had, he shared with Elladan. Everywhere he went, there was Elladan.

If he was one, everyone would know him as Elrohir. If he was one, his possessions would be his own. If he was one, he could please himself.

But … if he was one, he would not have Elladan’s constant, unspoken support. He would not have anyone to share joys and sorrows. He would not have his brother, his dearest friend.

Elrond stood behind his wife, placing a gentle kiss on her neck before sliding his hands downwards, slowing over the gentle swell of her breasts, to rest against the flatness of her stomach, feeling the new life within.

“I cannot believe it,” he murmured. “To think that we have been twice blessed by the lady Yavanna.”

She turned within the circle of his arms, returning the kiss, unable to quench the joyous smile that had lit her face since that night.

“Twins,” he repeated incredulously, with a pang of remembered sorrow. “Twins.”

From the sanctuary of Elrohir’s arms, Arwen made her wavering way across the grass until she fell into Elladan’s embrace, shrieking with delight. “El!”

Still weeks from her begetting day, she had taken her first, uncertain steps the day before, weaving her path carefully from one brother to the other.

Elrond watched in delight. There was no sibling rivalry here – from the moment of her birth the twins had been devoted slaves to their little sister. With a hug and a kiss, Elladan set her on her feet, on her way back to Elrohir.

“I am Elladan,” the young elfling protested with his hands crossed and his chest puffed out.

“No you are not, I am!” His twin brother stamped his foot, his eyes tearing.

Elrond could take utter confusion in his stride. Bending to sit on his heels, he hugged the twins and looked the elfling he knew to be Elrohir in the eye. “Why are you Elladan?"

Author Notes: I didn't write this one myself. It was written by one of my LJ friends Gwanunig - twins who really are called Elladan and Elrohir. Elrohir swears this really happened! They kindly gave me permission to post it here.

Throughout the long, grey, chill afternoon, Legolas checked his gear – then checked it again. Long, strong fingers traced the contours of his bow, examining it for suppleness or any flaw or weakness. He counted arrows; counted again – feeling the straightness of every shaft and the careful fletching that would make each arrow fly swift and far and true. His knife was honed to exquisite sharpness, the blade polished to a mirror’s sheen, the handle of bleached bone perfectly balanced.

At last he nodded, satisfied. When the Company set forth at dusk, he would be ready – for whatever fate awaited him.

They slipped into the garden unseen, scaling the high wall with the ease of long practice, then slid into the long glasshouse. The air was warm and fragrant, enticingly sweet.

Elladan darted forward, and parted the dark leaves. The berries were plump and ripe, and glistened mouth-wateringly. “Yes! Come on, El!”

Kneeling between the neatly-tended rows, they began to gorge – until a tall shadow suddenly loomed over them. “Elladan! Elrohir! What are you doing in the strawberry beds?”

Elladan looked up, red-stained and sticky. “Strawberries? What strawberries, Erestor?”

Elladan froze in his quiet corner of the gardens as he heard his brother’s voice. Elrohir, clearly oblivious to his presence, continued. “Your hair is like the finest silk – the colour of a fresh chestnut. I love you, you know.”

Elladan squirmed with acute embarrassment. He had no wish to be an unintentional eavesdropper, but was torn by a mix of curiosity and, he had to admit, a surge of jealousy. Who was this girl who had stolen his brother’s heart? Why had Elrohir never even mentioned her? And how had he remained unaware of this burgeoning romance? He and Elrohir shared everything.

Elrohir continued. “You are the best I have ever had – and I have had many.”

Elladan blushed scarlet, shocked beyond words. He could stand it no longer. He cleared his throat, coughing loudly. “Elrohir!” he cried in a strangled gasp.

Elrohir’s voice broke off, and he peered around the bushes with a grin. “El! I did not know you were there. Come and see her.”

Elladan stared, blushing again. His knees felt weak. “You were talking to your horse?”

The night before the battle was full of deep, dark shadows, made yet darker by our despair – for what hope had we of ever seeing another sunrise? I looked at our ragtag army – old men and boys, farmers and farriers – and knew that only a miracle could save us now.

And then, out of the night, they came. Elves. Barely a hundred of them, but still they came. They came with horns and songs, with arrows and bows, to honour the old alliances. With them came hope – and the thought that perhaps we might yet live to see the dawn.

Author Notes: In remembrance of the very many for whom there was no miracle, and no sunrise. The verse quoted is from one of the most well-known war poems, though most people know only this verse:

Elrond paid little attention at first to the whispers on the edge of his hearing, concentrating instead on the viciously complex treatise before him.

Elladan appeared by his elbow. “Ada? Can me and El go to the river to swim?”

“El and I,” Elrond corrected absently. Then he caught himself. “I mean Elrohir and I.”

Two bewitching smiles broke out. “We can? Thank you, Ada!” The twins raced out, leaving Elrond feeling uneasy.

Elladan winced at the sound of the fractured music limping haltingly from his youngest brother’s bedroom. Peering around the half open door, he saw Estel sitting before Lindir’s great harp, his fingers – still too short – stumbling over the notes as he fumbled awkwardly for the gleaming strings.

Elladan’s eyebrows rose. “Really? You seem to be playing all the wrong notes,” he pointed out delicately.

Estel flushed. “I’m playing all the right notes,” he insisted. “Just … not necessarily in the right order.”

Author Notes: The last line is not mine. It was originally said by the late, great, Eric Morecambe.

He sat with his wife and son, and gazed at the miracle of new life before them. “The midwife said he’s a bonny lad, that he’ll grow strong and tall. And I will teach him to fish, and ride. Take him into the wilds, and show him rangering!” he vowed proudly.

“Boy’s games,” she smiled. “He needs to learn courtly graces too, to woo a wife, so one day he will show me grandchildren!”

He laughed. “Hark at us. Planning his life away, when we have not even named him!” He held his son gently. “Welcome, Aragorn son of Arathorn.”

“Stop it!” she snarled, turning on her husband. “You may be a healer, but what do you know of childbirth?”

“And you!” she added savagely to her brothers. “Why Naneth left instructions for you to help me at this time … I will … never … know!”

She began to pant, breathing hard and pushing, leaning back into Aragorn’s arms. She fell against him with a groan and a triumphant cry, tears of joy and exhaustion streaking her face as her cry was answered by a shrill, plaintive wail.

“Your son,” Elrohir whispered, kissing her brow. “Well done, little sister!”

Author Notes: For the Back to Middle Earth challenge, 'An Antagonistic Arwen'.

Barliman pointed to the crudely-lettered sign above the bar. “Can’t you read, Strider? It says ‘No Smokking’. The town councillors and worthies of Bree have decided that there’s to be no smoking in the inns or the streets or the town square. I’m sorry, but you’ll have to put that there pipe of yours out – or leave.”

Aragorn took a last, long draw and inhaled deeply. Then he knocked the weed out of his pipe and replaced it in his pack sorrowfully.

Author Notes: Last night the regulars in our local pub were bemoaning the soon-to-be-introduced ban on smoking in all public places, including pubs and bars – and I suddenly wondered what Strider would make of it.

It was a rainy day in March when Aragorn met with his brothers at the Pony. He shook himself in a shower of raindrops, hanging his cloak over a chair to dry. “Well, I’m back.”

Elladan sniffed and grimaced. “So I see. What is that foul smell, littlest brother? It is like …” he sniffed again. “Damp dog.”

“It is my wolfskin cloak!” Aragorn protested. “I know it smells a little in damp weather, but it is warm, and keeps the rain out!”

Author Notes: For the Back To Middle Earth challenge 'Like a Wet Warg', and the Tolkien Weekly challenge 'Smell'.

Elladan tightened his grip on his sword hilt as he surveyed the gathering hosts of Mordor. Orcs and Easterlings and trolls surrounded them, the hordes deepening even as he watched. “We are outnumbered, little brother,” he said softly.

Elrohir nodded. “Aye. But when has that ever stopped us?” He smiled grimly. “This was our idea – and Father’s. It is a little late to change our minds now!” He sobered and turned to face Elladan, clasping his arm tightly. “If we fall, we fall together,” he vowed.

Elladan gripped his arm. “Together,” he agreed. “Whatever may come, we face it together.”

There was a harsh bray of trumpets as arrows thudded into the ground at their feet, and a mighty roar as orcs and trolls surged towards them, blood-red light glinting dully on swords and spears.

Author Notes: A drabble-and-a-half for Elena Tiriel. She requested the 'hunky Sons of Elrond' - and who am I to refuse her? She also requested canon events from the Tale of Years, and this fitted the date nicely.

The sudden shattering crash of a crystal goblet splintering on the flagstones brought the music and mirth to an abrupt end. Ripples of stillness spread out across the great hall of Imladris and left in their wake a dreadful hush.

Slowly, all eyes turned to Elrond who stood at the centre of the well of silence. He was ashen faced, staring blankly into the far distance at some horror which only he could see or sense. Finally his voice, harsh and cracked with grief and sorrow, broke the echoing silence, and shattered the peace of Imladris for ever.

On a rare interval between patrols and duties and training, Elladan and Elrohir relaxed on the lawns of Imladris, watching a group of young children at play. The woods, gardens and outbuildings all provided wonderful places of concealment for the elflings’ game of hide and seek.

Elrohir nodded. “Yes. I never could see the point of the game – no matter where I hid, you found me. Wherever you hid, I knew where you were.” He shook his head sorrowfully. “It was many years before I realised we were supposed to search for each other!”

Author Notes: A far more light-hearted response for the 'Sixth Sense' challenge on Tolkien Weekly.

Elrohir sat on the dewy grass, and pulled Estel into his lap. “Dark? No. Look – look up.” Estel leaned against him and looked up obediently. “Now, what do you see?”

“Yes. Do you see how lovely they are? It is only now, when it is dark, that we can see the stars.”

“Aye. Never fear the dark, Estel. The stars shine most brightly when the night is at its darkest.”

Throughout the long night of Moria, he could feel the endless dark pressing on him. Doubt and despair began to gnaw at him again; fears and memories of the last time he had passed this way tormented him.

The darkness became ever more stifling – no night had ever been darker! With the thought, a distant image flickered; and from the past, yet clear and bright, he heard Elrohir’s voice. “Never fear the dark, Estel. The stars shine most brightly when the night is at its darkest.”

Author's Notes: A pair of drabbles written for the Tolkien Weekly 'Dark' challenge.

The wide waters of the Anduin lay ahead, black in the pre-dawn light. He shivered, recalling Galadriel’s words. This battle held his death.

Halting, he drew a deep breath of the cold, sea-tainted breeze. A high, keening cry sounded above, and he stared at the fleeting white shapes wheeling overhead. Their call delved deep into his soul, severing the peace and tranquillity he had always felt beneath his beloved trees.

Perhaps he had mistaken Galadriel’s prophecy, but this was his doom nonetheless. Alas for the wailing of the gulls!

As he stepped through the doorway, utter darkness fell upon him. His torch cast a tiny, fitful circle of light, but the shadow beyond was oppressive. Somewhere ahead walked the rest of the company with Aragorn at their head, and Elrohir at his side – yet their torches were lost in the ever deepening gloom.

Behind him … behind him was shadow, and darkness, and a sullen muttering of restless voices. Dread clawed at his spine as he heard a heavy step behind him, until he risked a glance downwards.

Author Notes: Written for the Tolkien Weekly 'Behind' challenge. In The Passing Of the Grey Company, and the Paths of the Dead, Tolkien tells us that Elladan was at the rear, but that Gimli was behind him. It intrigued me, and it was a pairing I've never tried before ...

He passed like a shadow through the Shire; isolated, cut off from the companionable talk and drinking of inns like the Green Dragon. The hobbits were wary, for he was one of the big folk, while the Bree-folk mistrusted him as ‘one of them Rangers’.

He did not belong in the Shire or out of it, and he sometimes feared that he no longer belonged in Imladris either. Estranged from Elrond, and with Arwen gone once more, his only ties there were with his brothers – and they were seldom home.

When he woke up the sky above was dim, not lighter but darker than when they had breakfasted. He blinked, staring up at Elladan who was kneeling over him anxiously. “What – what happened?” he croaked.

Elladan sat back with a sigh of relief. “What happened, little brother, is that you decided to impress Taniquel.”

“The flowers,” Elladan agreed. “Taniquel mentioned how pretty they were – so you decided to climb up the cliff to pick them for her.”

“But it’s her begetting day!” Elrohir pointed out. He turned his head gingerly, trying to see. “Where is she now?”

Elrohir considered the question, cataloguing numerous aches and pains, though it seemed that nothing was broken. “Only my pride,” he decided at last. He sat up carefully, wincing as he rubbed his aching head – and then grinned. Clutched within his hand, and miraculously unharmed by the fall, he still held the tiny flowers: an intense, brilliant blue. He looked at Elladan in triumph.

Hoofbeats, and voices from the latest arrivals roused Aragorn as he dozed in the sun in a sheltered corner of the stableyard at the Pony.

A handful of coins landed in the dust at his feet, and Aragorn looked up with a sigh. “Someone is going to kill you both one day – and it will probably be me!”

Elladan looked down with great surprise. “Merciful havens – is this scruffy fellow really our littlest brother?”

Elrohir grinned. “Come, Estel – you can bathe while you tell us your news!”

Aragorn scowled as his brothers turned away. He wished that just once, he could get the upper hand with them – but it was difficult, and he was always outnumbered. Then he grinned as he bent to pick up the coppers from the dust. If Elladan and Elrohir wanted to give him ‘alms’, the least he could do was take their coin.

He followed them into the inn, where he found they had already ordered three brimming mugs of ale. He smiled. Perhaps they were not so bad after all.

Author's Note: A sequel to 'Charity Begins At Home', and also written for the Tolkien Weekly 'Coins' challenge.

*Sigh* This seems to be developing into a series - now I've written Aragorn's reaction. Just why do the twins tease him so much?

Any suggestions for a new title for the series would be gratefully received, as the 'Charity' theme no longer fits.

Aragorn slapped the coins onto the bar and sat down. Like shadows, Elladan and Elrohir appeared on either side of him, sliding onto the bench.

“Though Arathorn did pour his ale over Elladan once,” Elrohir remembered with a grin.

Elladan shrugged. “The others were …” – he waved his hand vaguely – “just fosterlings. Whereas you – ”

The mug of ale before him emptied and was refilled several times as they talked, exchanging news and sharing reports. This time, he did not have to pay.

“Why? Three days after the full moon; or four days or five – what does it matter?”

Elladan frowned. “Have you forgotten the date, littlest brother? It is the first of March.”

Elrohir sighed as he pushed a package across the table. “Happy beg – happy birthday, little brother.”

Author Notes: This is definitely a series now, and it finally has a proper title. There will be one more part to come!

After a long, companionable evening of laughter and reminiscing they retired to bed. Elladan and Elrohir stopped by their door. “Estel – we will say farewell now. We leave before dawn.”

They hugged him warmly. “Take care, little brother.” Elrohir ruffled Aragorn’s hair.

By morning the twins’ room was deserted, apart from an envelope on the table. Aragorn felt rather melancholy – he would miss them, despite the incessant teasing.

Opening the envelope, he found a bill for the night’s accommodation, and a note:

Elrond took the sword, examining it carefully. The blade was bright, untarnished even after its long sojourn in the trolls’ lair; the edge still sharp. Runes were etched along its length. He wrapped his hand around the jewelled hilt – it felt comfortable and oddly familiar; as if he had once wielded it long ago.

Visions assailed him – scenes of fire and destruction, a burning city and a mountain pass. He shook his head, wondering where the images had come from, and bent to study the runes again.

Author's Note: A scene from The Hobbit, written for the Tolkien Weekly 'Swords' challenge.

[Edit: It was pointed out that it's not too clear what Elrond is seeing here. He wasn't at the fall of Gondolin himself, of course - this is an inherited memory of what Tuor, Idril and Earendil saw as they fled Gondolin. The King of Gondolin is his great grandfather.]

When Bilbo awoke beneath the mountains, he wondered if he had opened his eyes. It was completely dark. He moved his hand in front of his face, but could see nothing. He was completely alone in the blackness.

He listened, but utter silence surrounded him. There was no sound of any living thing – not even the drip of water.

Slowly he moved forward, groping his way along the passage. His hand fell on something small, round, hard. It felt like a ring – but what would a ring be doing here in the passages of the orcs?

Author Notes: A scene that didn't happen in The Hobbit. For the Tolkien Weekly 'Different Decisions' AU challenge.

“But he is a poor, wretched creature – should we not show him our sympathy? He will never change if he knows only darkness and cruelty!”

Thranduil paused for a long time, considering his son’s words. Compassion was a virtue – and a folly – of the young. At last he spoke. “No. His malice is too great. I know what Mithrandir bade us, but I will not allow this Gollum the chance of escape. He must remain within the dungeons, under close guard.”

Legolas bowed stiffly. “As you wish, my father. He will not leave. I will guard him myself, I swear.”

Author Notes: Another AU drabble based on what Tokien didn't write, again for the Tolkien Weekly 'Different Decisions' challenge.

It had been six months – though it felt more like six years – since Elladan had been gone; on a long patrol across the Misty Mountains and north to Forodwaith and Carn Dûm, then south again. Though he had been kept busy with his own duties, Elrohir still felt the absence keenly. He missed his brother and his constant companionship. But this was not the first time, nor would it be the last.

Soon though, Elladan would be home again, and they would stay up half the night talking. Soon. With a sigh, Elrohir marked another notch on the tally stick.

Author Notes: For Juno Magic, who asked for something about 'absence'. Although I think the twins were pretty much inseparable, I'm sure there were times when their duties and responsibilities in Imladris meant they had to work apart.

Elladan looked out onto the silent, shrouded land. “They will be celebrating midwinter at home.”

“Perhaps – if we had not pursued that last band of orcs, we could have been back by now.”

Elrohir nodded again. “I know.” He joined Elladan at the entrance to the cave. The night was clear, still, and piercingly cold. High above, a faint glimmer of light caught his eye.

“Look – the first star!” His words were echoed by Elladan as always, recalling happier times. “Happy midwinter, El.” He sighed. “Next year – we should be at home.”

As he finished his letter, Elrohir became aware of someone hovering by his elbow. He glanced down at the diminutive figure, groping for a name.

“At your service!” the Dwarf responded. “Your lord father said I could browse among your archives of Dwarvish history …” He broke off. “That’s beautiful,” he added.

Elrohir had never regarded his handwriting as particularly beautiful – indeed, Erestor had often likened it to a spider’s crawl. “The Elvish script, you mean?”

Author’s Notes: ‘[Ori] could write well and speedily, and often used the Elvish characters’ – Gimli, in ‘The Bridge Of Khazad-Dûm’. I’ve often wondered how he came to know Elvish writing! Probably the oddest pairing I've ever written, too :>)

Jay's Drabblets by Jay of Lasgalen