(There are two versions of this one, poetry and prose. The challenge was to condense a chapter of The Two Towers into a drabble; the complete book, each chapter drabbled by a different writer, is available at this URL: http://www.henneth-annun.net/stories/chapter.cfm?STID=2476)

The Riders of Rohan

Three hunters seek hobbits in harsh land of hills.
Road marked by riddles, lightly they run on Rohan's grass.
Bright leaf of Lorien leads them on;
The wizard's will wearies their hearts.
A red dawn rises, and Riders they find
with wary welcome for those the Wood has favoured.
Then swift is sword bared, sworn are oaths,
and great-hearted gift of horses by Eomer given.
At Fangorn's fell eaves are fire's ashes,
but no hope of hobbits. Have a care –
Cut no quick wood! Dwimmer-crafty old man
Haunts their fire, horses flee.
Alone, without allies, sleep is all they seek.

Riddles and eagles mark their road, and fallen leaf of Lorien. Through wide empty lands for three days they run, but find no hope. All choices go amiss, and the ill-will of Saruman wearies them.

A red dawn rises, and Riders they meet have little welcome for strangers. Then Anduril is drawn, and oaths are sworn to return the gift of horses, not given lightly by Eomer. Under forest eaves smoking ashes are seen, but no sign of hobbits.

A cloaked old man haunts their campfire, and the horses flee. Alone, in peril, there is naught to do but rest.

(Again, the challenge was to condense a chapter of The Return of the King into a drabble. The complete book is available at this URL: http://www.henneth-annun.net/stories/chapter.cfm?STID=2497)

Many Partings

Many rich gifts are given in memory, not least the fairest maid of Rohan. To the Ringbearer is granted a jewel for comfort when all seems dark, and passage West if he desires it.

But then come bitter partings; for the Morning is passing away, and the Evenstar will not shine forever. The world is changing. Some of the Fellowship may yet meet; but they shall not all be gathered together ever again.

The time has come to return home – at least for some, at least for now. Their story must be written, and then one last long journey made.

Posterity

Arwen sits under the White Tree and breathes in its scent. This courtyard – once barren and cold, a reminder of Gondor's decline from past vitality – has become one of the places she most loves. The sapling planted here with hope has thriven. Grown taller than Man or Elf now, it blossoms with starry white flowers that drench the courtyard in heady scent.

The flicker of a smile touches her lips as she rests one hand below her waist. Her mortal choice is truly irrevocable now. Nothing has ever felt so vastly, terrifyingly inevitable.

Aragorn crosses the worn paving stones, nearly running to where she sits. By the look in his eyes she knows that he already guesses the tidings she had intended to tell him. He kisses her brow, her lips, and smiling, he plucks a cluster of flowers from the bough above them and sets it behind her ear. "My white tree. Now we are truly renewed."

(For Sphinx, who wanted "something with Aragorn and Arwen" for her birthday. It's a drabble and a half, really - I couldn't pare it down to exactly 100 words.)

Leavetaking

Gilraen and her escort mount and prepare to depart. Dawn is near, but the grey mist of morning hides it.

The Master of the House has come to see them off, and she gives him her hand in farewell. "My thanks are little enough return for years of shelter, yet I offer them nonetheless."

"They are more than sufficient, Gilraen. But will you not remain?"

"There is no longer any victory it is possible for us to share, Master Elrond. In the end, one of us will lose a child. I will not stay to see who it must be."

(For Imhiriel, who wanted drabbles about "a meeting between Gilraen and Elrond, any time, any topic" for her birthday.) 

Links

The broken horn now hung in a place of honour in the Hall of the Kings. Frodo stood before it with a simple golden chain pooled in his palm. He twisted it around the four fingers of his right hand, remembering the mountainside. The chain dangled from Boromir's fingers, and the Man's eyes followed the Ring's slow pendulum.

Standing on tiptoe, Frodo reached up to twine the links around the baldric of the horn, where they gleamed dully in the sunlight from the high windows. "The same chain bound us, Boromir. I hope you are free of it now."

(For flick, who wanted someone "remembering Boromir" for her birthday.)

First Meeting 

"Be welcome to Lorien, Heir of Isildur," Celeborn said, yet his cold stare belied the words. Galadriel said nothing, only met Aragorn's eyes, and he gasped like a man plunged into icy water. So you would ask my granddaughter to make Luthien's choice. And what if Arwen consented? Have you the courage to take her life?

He broke free from her gaze and looked down at his hands, relieved to see that they were not trembling. If it were her own free choice, he thought, yes. If she gave me her life, I would hold it close as my own.

(For fliewatuet, who requested drabbles about pre-Ring-War Aragorn for her birthday.)

Family Resemblance

He watches Arwen as she cuts the arrowhead from her brother's shoulder, her eyes as steady as her hands on the surgeon's knife. Before she asks, he presses a cloth into her outstretched hand and she blots the blood sliding down Elladan's arm.

Later, while they put the stillroom in order, Elrond draws his daughter into his arms and kisses her hair, smooth and shining as the obsidian tool she wielded on her brother's flesh. "It is well that there are two healers to care for the two hunters in this family." Her rare smile illuminates the grave grey eyes.

(For nutterzoi, who wanted drabbles featuring Elrond and a family member as a birthday present.)

The White City

Child of the sea strand, Beregond had not seen the beauty of Minas Tirith's cold white stone until Aerlinnel's eyes reflected it back to him. "Teach Bergil to love my city," she asked on her deathbed, and he has tried.

Now, as Beregond looks at the boy's thin face so much like hers, he realizes he has succeeded all too well. Bergil will not leave with the women and children, and with his mother gone there is no way to compel him.

"Stay then, and do what you can," he says at last, and hopes she will forgive his weakness.

(For Dwimordene, who wanted Beregond & Bergil drabbles for her birthday.)

Merry trailed aimlessly about. Everyone was terribly busy preparing for Théoden's funeral; he alone was at loose ends, an esquire with no king to attend.

A man stumbled over Merry as the hobbit abruptly turned; a grip on his shoulder saved both from falling. "Your pardon, Master Bag. I see you have returned to trip me up once more."

"Marshall Elfhelm! I feel more like an unwanted parcel than ever," Merry admitted. "I have nothing to do until the funeral."

The Rider bowed. "Perhaps you would ride out with me, and talk of Théoden King with another who served him."

[For Nickey, who wanted drabbles about Merry for her birthday. Title suggestions gratefully accepted.]

Overheard at a Wedding

"Truly a queen, this one; like Celeborn in seeming, but in all else as imperious as her mother."

"A delightful conceit, to dress Elrond in silver and Celebrían in black."

Mirror images of ebony and mithril, the couple dances in the centre of the Hall of Fire, at the centre of all gazes. Jet beads are woven into Celebrían's silver plaits, while Elrond's black hair is held back with mithril clasps.

"They say she led him a merry chase – would not agree to his suit until he'd bested her in archery."

"I'll wager any child of these two is strong-willed."

[A Celebrían drabble, for Rainsong's birthday.]

Farewell

"Your task may be complete, Olorin, but I was not sent to Elves and Men only, nor the beasts and birds. I must take thought for all that grows and is green."

"Then you will never be finished, until this world is made anew."

Radagast shrugged. "I shall be satisfied if I help to preserve something worth remaking. The Elves are departing, and the Men who remain hew and hunt and harvest with little thought for tomorrow and none for the day of their children's children. I must do what I can to teach them otherwise. Did you not say yourself that you would not wholly fail, if anything survived to grow fair or bear fruit again?"

"Do as you must; but I shall miss you, brother," the grey wizard said.

"Take my greetings to Valinor with you, and tell my lady that I still work to fulfill her charge."

[A drabble and a half for Vulgarweed, who wanted Maiar or Ainur for her birthday.]

Drums in the Deep

Doom. Doom, doom.

The dwarves huddled around Balin's tomb did not stir. By now the baneful drumming was a constant background to their restless, nightmarish sleep.

"It's louder," Ori said suddenly. "The orcs must have reached the Great Hall."

Bor silently inspected the barred door to the Chamber of Mazarbul. "It will hold for perhaps ten minutes against a ram," he said. "Less if they have a cave troll."

The drumbeat began to accelerate. Orcish shrieks reverberated in the hall.

Laying his axe aside for a moment, Ori took up the Book of Records to write its final entry.

[A dwarf drabble for Marta's birthday.]

Dark Memory

The torch went out, and the thick warm darkness of Moria fell over them like a stifling blanket. Aragorn knew they could not build a fire while they rested, yet his spirit craved light.

"How far do you reckon we are from the Dimrill Gate?" His whisper floated on the hot air.

Halbarad's shrug was felt rather than seen. "The orcs know; I do not. Sleep now, and I shall take first watch."

Sliding down the wall, Aragorn shifted his leg by silent degrees until it grazed Halbarad's knee. Anchored by that mute proof of companionship, he drifted into sleep.

[A belated birthday drabble for Alawa, who wanted "something Aragorn and Halbarad".]

The Fourth Attempt

Three times one of these feeble worms has tried to steal from him – he, Smaug, descendant of black Ancalagon! Now their bones lie scattered like the jewels they sought, and their blood leaves a pleasing stain on his treasures, the hue of red gold.

More of them are about now; he can smell the sneak-thieves' nervous stink. Dwarves, and something else he cannot place – not sickly elf, nor rancid man.

Whatever it is, here it comes now, pattering down the "secret" way. Smaug's tongue flickers in anticipation of tender meat. Come along, thief number four. I am ready for you.

[For Anglachel, who wanted anything involving the number 4, Denethor, and/or a dragon. Two out of three ain't bad.]

[mild smut warning]

Gifts

The room is dark, and Rose can hear nothing but the rough sawing of their mingled breath. Of course she knows what's going to happen; a farm girl can hardly escape such an education. The heifers never seem to enjoy it much, though, so her expectations are equally modest.

But this rainfall of pleasure, each single movement making her shiver, the whole gathering into a slow driving wave that breaks over her body, leaving her trembling – washed up on the shores of exhausted desire... she never hoped for this. Another of the gifts unlooked for that Sam has given her.

[This started as a birthday drabble, but developed into something that didn't fit the request. It's also my first attempt at writing any sort of sex scene - though still very tame by today's standards.]

A Ranger's Life

The open sky your roof and the moon for night-candle. A grey cloak for bedding, shelter and concealment all alike.

For weeks you hear no voice other than the eternal wind scouring the dry grass on the hills. No eyes meet yours but the opaline glare of wolves just outside the ring of firelight. Rough wool, sodden leather, chilled steel are all that your fumbling, chilblained fingers touch.

Your reward? A sullen stare from a fat innkeeper as he grudgingly draws you a pint; respectable women pulling their skirts and children aside as you pass them in the muddy lanes.

[A birthday gift for fileg, who said "my keyword is Ranger".]

Ithilien

Once this land was the garden of Gondor. Now the stones of the farmhouse are buried in long grass combed by wind on the hillside. If there are bones here, they lie quietly under years of leaf-mould.

The chill wind pushes the unbearably sweet smell of rotting fruit toward him. Fallen apples, riddled by squirrel and bird, lie rolled under the knotted shadows of ancient trees. In the valley below the silver-scaled stream flashes on its way to the Great River. Faramir twists one nearly unblemished apple from the bough and bites into it, juice dripping from his fingers.

[For Tanaqui, who wanted drabbles featuring Ithilien and/or Faramir.] 

Downfall

He thought that he could outrun the storm and return to the ships before the wave fell. The captain warned him - We cannot wait for stragglers - but how could he leave Lissuin behind? One last time, he had to try to persuade her.

And this time, he succeeded - even his wilful young wife was daunted. "Our pride has cost us," she admitted.

They foundered the horses trying to reach Andunié in time; for nothing. Now they huddle in the lee of the city wall. Water falls from the black sky, rises up from the black sea, blows sideways on the wind. From under her cloak she watches him. "I cost you a chance to live. I am sorry."

He is past sorrow, past anger. He feels only regret that the two of them will never see the shores of Middle-Earth. "We are still voyaging together," he tells her, and it is true. Together they will discover what - if anything - lies beyond the wave.

The roar is so loud it is past hearing - not a noise, but a blow. They do not look up, but cling to one another and hope not to be sundered.

[a double drabble for Arquen, who wanted tales of the downfall of Numernor]

Southland

Child of the temperate north, Arwen has never known heat like this - it strikes to the core of her bones, burns her flesh wherever it is bared. At this searing hour of the day, the sun hangs unmoving and the city of the Haradrim dozes. Sitting under the shadow of the arcade she watches the empty streets, where only flies stir. In the courtyard a bird echoes the liquid note of the fountain.

Beside her Aragorn sleeps on a divan draped with gauze. He has taken to Haradric ways again, and they call him by the name he bore long ago in these lands: Ekiri, the tall one. Looking down at the hair tousled on his pillow, she sees threads of silver woven into the black like the banner of his house. Gently she strokes her fingers through, separating them, and wishes she could so easily untangle the years.

[A drabble and a half for Aeneid's birthday request of Haradrim and/or Fourth Age]

A Gift

Youngest of his family, Pippin was accustomed to well-worn birthday tokens. He stared unbelievingly at the packet wrapped in yellow paper and red ribbons. "Is that really for me, Mr. Baggins?"

"Of course, my boy! It's my birthday, what else should I do but give presents?"

One fierce rip and Pippin clutched a bright sword and shield. They were tin, and the sword-tip was blunted; but they were still dwarf-make and fine weapons.

With a yell of challenge Pippin ran toward the mob of children under the Party Tree. "Look at me, Merry -- I'm the Bullroarer! Watch out, goblins!"

[for Hobbit Lass21, who asked for wee!Pippin]

Maturity

Merry has told me of the halflings' coming of age celebrations; there are no such rituals among my people. The Eorlingas consider a man full grown as soon as he can break a colt or do a long day's work in the fields.

I believed that I had come of age when I was first given command of an éored, the responsibility for a hundred other men. I never thought to be King, nor wished it, and now I must answer for every soul in the Mark, from the new-born babe to the oldest greybeard. It is a harsh lesson. 

The Very Dead of Winter

Sam cracked one eye open and groaned. A lace of frost lay on the blankets piled over him and Frodo, and traced the bleached grass blade next to his nose. "And mountain climbing today, I don't doubt," he muttered. "What the Gaffer’d say! It don't bear thinking about."

He stuck one leg out, wincing as frozen air slipped under the covers, and kicked the closest woolen lump. "Merry! Pippin! Strider says ‘tis time to stir yourselves." The two younger hobbits tumbled out, grubby and cross.

Legolas was the only one of the company who didn't seem chilled, Sam noted irritably. Gandalf and Aragorn huddled inside their cloaks, swathed in mufflers; all that could be seen of the wizard under the hat brim pulled down over his face was the great billhook of his nose. Boromir had folded the fur side of his mantle over his mouth to warm his breath.

Sam stood up, and needles of cold wind instantly drove through his clothes. A milky film of cloud turned the sun to a dull pearl but didn’t soften the bulk of Caradhras looming in the eastern sky.

"Master Frodo?" He bent and gently nudged Frodo's shoulder. "We must be off."

* * *

[For Azalais, one of the first and dearest friends I made through Tolkien fandom. A double drabble because she wanted the Fellowship, and I couldn't make all of them fit in less than 200 words. Plus: bonus Eliot title! (which is actually someone else's obsession, but I know Azalais will still appreciate it.)]

The Ring slides around the hobbit's neck as Arwen bathes his wound. He is dying. All our skill cannot save him.

She could wield it. Is she not daughter and granddaughter of great lords, wise and strong in her own right? Aragorn is too timid to take what is rightfully his; she will give it to him and he will reign at her side… Her fingertips strain toward the shining band, but Frodo stirs, and they brush his swollen shoulder instead.

She backs away. If I steal the Ring, his mind will break. And so, in the end, would hers.

[For Elana, who wanted to see characters tempted by the Ring.]

Ithilien, Part II

"It reminds me of Hollin," the Queen said. At Faramir's questioning look, she added, "A northern land that is also deserted, though once it was tended by my people." She pulled the silky petals of a wild rose through her fingers. "This land would draw many of them, I think, especially my Greenwood kin. Should you object to sharing a small portion of your domain, lord Faramir? There are so few of us left; it would be no hindrance to you."

Elves as neighbours was a startling thought. But if their grace might restore Ithilien… "They would be most welcome."

‘Go not to the Elves for counsel, for they will say both no and yes.’

Arwen balanced Galadriel's silver vessel in her hands. Starlight reflected from the water inside cast wavering light on her face.

"Will you look in the Mirror?"

"I wished to see the future of this love… but now I wonder if that is wise. You said once that the Mirror was dangerous as a guide of deeds."

"It may be; but only you can say whether you want guidance."

Slowly Arwen raised the ewer and tilted it. The silver sang as water spilled in a thin stream on to the grass. "I will choose for myself, no matter what may come."

[for Ithildin's birthday, "something with Elves"]

A Memory of Loveliness

Denethor watches his son with painful amusement. “Arbelethiel is lovely tonight.” The boy reddens, but agrees firmly.

“Do not be hasty, Faramir. I was many years older than you before I met your mother. Some said she was too young for me, but I have never regretted waiting until I was certain I had met the only woman for me.”

He realizes what he has said is true, not merely an argument mouthed for prudence. He remembers Finduilas’ slenderness, wrapped in her blue mantle. Perhaps he will pass it on to one of his sons, should they take a wife…

[for Astara, who wanted Denethor and/or Finduilas]

Chosen

Aragorn stared at the ground, so certain he wouldn't be chosen that he failed to hear his name called. Mallor had to repeat it twice, his voice rising each time. "Pay attention, clothhead -- do you want to join the next company to the Lonely Mountain or not?"

"Aye, sir!"

"Don't let it go to your head," Mallor warned. "You're not the Chieftain yet. Keep your mouth shut and ears open; you're only there to learn."

Halbarad saw the young Ranger's jaw clench and flicked him a sympathetic smile. "You'll enjoy the journey, lad; 'tis long, but not too toilsome."

[Ainu Laire wanted "Aragorn drabbles" for birthday presents]

The Hour of our Meeting

The only relief for the restlessness plaguing Bilbo since his return from the Lonely Mountain was a long walk. When his chair by the fire at Bag End became more confining than cosy, Bilbo would travel the paths of the Shire and remember all the other roads that branched off from them.

Today he found himself humming the silly ditty the Elves of Rivendell had loved to sing. It seemed almost like Elvish voices were echoing his; Bilbo stopped to listen. A faint harp trill floated over the hill and resolved into the opening notes of the Lay of Leithian. Bilbo dropped his walking stick and ran, shouting breathlessly, “Hello!”

The music halted suddenly, and so did Bilbo. It was no use; he’d scared them off, and now he’d never see another elf… He turned back toward the path, stooping to pick up his hat.

“Are you Bilbo of the Shire?” A towering, golden-haired elf smiled down at him. “Elrond has spoken of you often. I am Gildor Inglorion.”

Remembering his manners, Bilbo bowed. “Elen síla lúmenn’ omentielvo.”

Gildor laughed. “A scholar! Too seldom in these days do we meet one who knows our tongue. Come and share our meal.”

 [For Marion, who wanted something about "young Bilbo." She gets a double drabble, since I couldn't condense this to a hundred words!]

Lost at sea

Water pushes through the ship's seams in trickles, then streams, then jets stronger than fountains in the King's garden. Wood groans and shrieks as the ice rends it. The stones do not see or hear; they are locked away in ebony caskets bound with silver. Lifted gently by the water, the boxes float, nudging a ringed hand drifting in the current.

Do they call out silently, or are they dumb as well as blind? Do they sleep in the frigid water, fathoms deep, where nothing ventures but the furred seals? What does the eye of Manwe see of these things?

City of the stars

The stone plummeted from a vast height, yet it bears no chip nor score nor dent. The riverbed's mire broke its fall, of course, but still the glancing flight between fire and stone, earth and water left no trace on its shining curves.

It watches weeds scrolling in the current, incurious fish mouthing its glossy side, black-bottomed boats sliding above. Light flares briefly in its centre, like signals from a beacon far away, if any but the fish were there to see them. Slowly it sinks as the silt settles around it. Soon it will hold no fire at all.

Elostirion

This stone waits alone in the white tower of Emyn Beraid, where it lay untouched for years until Gandalf came to retrieve it. An unmarked film of dust blurs its sight. The wizard cannot resist; he blows away the dull gauze and bends to look into the West.

Swiftly the straight road unrolls before him. For a breath he sees another white tower far away, like a needle scratch on the horizon of a grey sea, before the vision is veiled in mist again. He sighs and takes up the stone, wrapping it carefully in silk for its last voyage.

[for the lovely & wise Altariel, who wanted drabbles about the Seeing Stones]

Of Tuor and his coming to Vinyamar

Lichen paints the walls and moss dyes the carven channels of water green. The presence chamber is bare, but not empty; his arms and shield hang above the dais and the air trembles with fate's nearness. In the great chair, shadowed by swan's wing, Tuor dreams of water falling into a fountain in a white court. A woman dances beside it, golden hair swinging, her bare feet alighting only briefly on the stone.

When he wakes, he remembers little of his dreams, but the whisper of feathers tells him he will bring more than a message to the Hidden City.

[For Imhiriel, who wanted Tuor and Idril, "preferably happy." She also corrected a canon error in the first version of this, for which many thanks!]

Under Siege

Arwen draws the bow taut, its curve echoed in the narrowing of her brows. She lets the string slip and the arrow strikes, vibrating, to the heart of her target. Swiftly she looses another to plunge into an orc's throat.

Nock, pull, aim, release - over and over until her arms tremble. Around her, other archers repeat the same motions. From the cliffs across the Bruinen, orcs fall to be tumbled away by its roaring current. She wipes her forehead and spares an instant's thought for Aragorn. If this is the Enemy's final throw, what has He unleashed on Gondor?

The White Mountains

White light beat in Arwen's eyes. Blinking, she saw through tears a moving blur - ivory against ice - as Eowyn's horse descended the slope ahead.

Old fears always rode with her on these trails. Spots flung in her vision by the dazzling snow too easily became dark smears on it; but Eowyn turned her wind-burnt face encircled in white fur and smiled. Arwen could feel her warmth, that mortal fire she'd sensed first in Aragorn. It is no marvel she was drawn to him; in so many ways they are akin. In this too - I love them both.

[For Makamu, who wanted gen Arwen & Eowyn.]

Preconceptions

I looked for a lady, small and soft. This Queen is tall as I, and her face, though unmarked by age, could never be mistaken for young. Her fine-drawn strength reminds me of a well-balanced blade, and I blurt out my thought. "Do you know the sword, Lady Arwen?"

She smiles. "Somewhat, though I am not as adept as you. I am reckoned an excellent archer, however," she adds, with a glance at her brother that tells of old jokes.

I find myself smiling in return. "I fear I am no master of the bow; perhaps we may exchange tutoring."

[This was a practice run for Makamu's.]

No spring can last

Arwen turns the Elessar over in her hands, watching the soft shimmer of spring light under fresh leaves. Life undying the stone cannot bring, here in Middle-earth; but it has given Rivendell lasting bloom, unblemished fruit, and leaves fallen without rot.

The hands holding it are gifted with healing, but they can do nothing more for the woman in the bed. Arwen brings the stone to her eye and looks through it: refracted in the crystal, her mother’s face is eased of all its pain and suffering.

When she lowers the jewel, the sheen of tears in her sight remains.

[For Loquacious, who wanted drabbles about the Elfstone jewel.]

Folly

If she knew what we rode toward, had ever faced the slashing iron hooks of the Orcs, Eowyn would not seek to join us. Or am I mistaken? Her eyes are empty rather than defiant. She has not seen the spoor of death in battle, but she is hard on its track and not to be dissuaded from pursuing it.

“What of the people your uncle entrusted to you?”

“We all must face the end alone.”

My laughter tastes bitter. “Eowyn, you may be a fine Rider, but to be a leader you must know that -- and conceal it.”

[For TZA, who wanted Eowyn and/or Elfhelm drabbles.]

Sea Change

The jewelled sands of Eldamar were rich and strange; Fallinel was not used to sifting gems through her fingers instead of shells. But the water was the same that touched the shores of Middle-Earth, rolling and breathing in its restless sleep, the same winds tangled her hair, and the tall white towers of Avallone would make a fine sea mark.

So she sailed her white-winged ship far to the north along the coast of Araman until slick salt ice choked the waves, and south into waters glittering with their own light, until her eyes shone brighter than that reflected sheen.

[This is for Sangfroid101, who wanted drabbles about the Teleri.]

Interment

Denethor had imagined his wife lying in state in Rath Dinen, waiting silently for him to rejoin her, but Finduilas' quietly unyielding will had won her way in death as in life. Now he stood on a headland by the sea - a foolish place to bury one's dead - and watched her body lowered into a grave beside her father and mother.

His young sons stood by him, one at each hand, and his grip left marks in the nap of their black velvet tunics. How old would they be when his body was laid on a stone bier?

[For Celandine Brandybuck, who wanted drabbles with the Steward of Gondor's family]

Orc's Best Friend

The Orcs hate the stars, but their mounts do not. The Wargs watch for the Hunter and the Great Wolf passing overhead; they sing to them and to the waning Moon in voices as cold as their pale eyes. The Orcs shiver and slacken in their drinking.

Vark walks over to kick his steed in her slatted ribs; Warg and rider snarl at each other. "Shut up that yowling! D'you want those juicy little pullets to know we're coming?"

She falls silent, but her eyes shine brighter corpse-green as she promises herself One day my cubs will feed on Orc-flesh.

[One for Khazar, who wanted to see "the bad guys in action."]

Faint Hope

The sun was pleasantly hot on Arwen's shoulders as she turned the earth around the irises. Hearing the whisper of bare hobbit feet on turf, she smiled; her fellow-gardener had joined her.

"Frodo’s well enough to travel at last." Joy quickened Sam's deliberate tongue. "We're going home, Lady Arwen!"

"Samwise--" She hesitated. "Frodo is not - entirely - well." Fear clouded Sam's eyes, and she hastened to explain. "His wounds are healing, but his spirit is still weak. He may never be as he once was."

"I know, my lady, but the Shire will do him good. You'll see," Sam said stoutly.

Arwen opened her mouth, but could not bring herself to smash his dear-held hopes; perhaps Sam’s love and the peace of his homeland might make even Frodo whole. "I hope you are right, and that I shall see you both happy when next I journey north."

Yet when she straightened up, Sam seemed to stand with her on the shore of a wide grey sea dividing them from those they loved, with a white ship melting into the horizon. She laid a hand on his shoulder, wishing there were comfort for either of them here in Middle-Earth.

[A double drabble for Vistula, who wanted "Sam and your favourite character interacting."]

Release from Bondage

Elwë has known time to stretch beyond measure before. Then, it was slow and sweet as honey dripping from the hive; now it is dark and bitter with grief. The bright jewel hanging about his neck sheds no warmth. He and Melian pass each other silently in the halls of Nargothrond, thronged with the ghosts of memory: Luthien laughing, dancing, raising voice in song.

Will time ever gather speed again? Or will he be trapped in it like a fly in amber, until his life fades at last, and he goes to the Halls that will be empty for him?

[For Narwen Almiriel, who wanted Melian and Elwë.]

At swim, two brothers

The Anduin was low and the grass on its banks tawny as a lion's coat in that late summer. The brothers crossed mud and pebbles on wincing feet; once in, Faramir could have stayed in the cool water forever. A small fish flickering in the shallows, watching slow shadows pass overhead… "Daydreaming again?" A grip on his ankle dragged him underwater, and he kicked Boromir in the stomach before they surfaced together, sputtering.

When Boromir's body floats past in this same river, Faramir remembers that day, and how the dry grass speckled their backs as they lay in the sun.

[For Shadow975, who wanted a (more or less) happy moment for the brothers Mir. If the title sounds familiar, that's because it's adapted from Jamie O'Neill's novel At swim, two boys.]

Crownless

Aragorn sat comfortably cross-legged, oiling his knives, but the weariness he usually wore as easily as his grey cloak seemed to lie heavy on him tonight. Halbarad studied his friend's remote face. "What troubles you?"

"The men we killed..." Aragorn scoured at the runes etched on his blade. "They were not evil, only hungry and misguided."

"True," Halbarad agreed. "But they did evil to the people of the Angle."

Aragorn rubbed his brow, smearing it with oil. "Killing bandits is little use when I can do nothing about the reason they plague Arnor. I must be ready to face the Dark Lord soon, or this land will be ruined past saving."

"When you do, I will stand with you."

Aragorn smiled, and some of the lines scored on his face smoothed away. "I know, old friend. And I hope you will stay with me for counsel after that day comes."

[a drabble and a half for Fliewatuet, "pervy Ranger fancier"]

Homecoming

It is harder than Eldacar foresaw to return to his father's land. For ten years now he has ridden as one of the Rhovannim, and the hunting bow comes easier to his hand than the sword. If Gondor does not want him, why trouble with them? Let them have Castamir and choke on him.

Then his old dream of Osgiliath's fall returned: he watched the Dome of Stars crack and shatter again, and woke himself by crying out. Staring at the tent ceiling, he remembers Ornendil, and the only question left is how best to kill Castamir: quick or slow.

[A Kinstrife drabble for Dwim's birthday.]

Another Sea

The world was made of grass and sky, knit together by the wind that pulled Lothiriel's hair across her eyes. Yellow waves as high as her horse's belly rippled away to the horizon, where the mountains far to south and east were smudges less substantial than the thunderheads piled above them. A hawk sailed overhead, its shriek ringing against the vast cloud-streaked bowl of the sky, and the unending scour of the wind echoed the rush of surf on shore. It sounded like home.

"I never thought to find another ocean here," she whispered. Eomer took her hand, and smiled.

[One of Starlight's birthday requests was Eomer & Lothiriel.]

Kin Strife

"The girl is useless, Valacar." I retreat into the tapestry shadows. "She refuses to even touch a needle!"

"Vidumavi's people revere other skills, Mother. They teach their princesses to shoot three arrows into the same target at a gallop, and sing the deeds of their ancestors for fifteen generations. She will learn the ways of Gondor; only give her time."

I straighten my back and sweep forward. Let my husband try to appease his mother; I will show this seagull-shrieking woman that a daughter of the North is as proud as she.

Or I shall kill her, and return home.

[for Marta, who wanted "uncivilized" peoples' opinions of the more civilized]

Ithilien, Part III

Grass is creeping over the burnt scars of the war. The hills of Emyn Arnen are loud with more than birdsong; they ring with voices, human and elvish, with the blows of chisel on stone and axe on wood. Ithilien is a garden again, tended and blooming. Last year's cider pressing was justly famed, and already the Elves are coaxing wine from the long-abandoned vineyards to the south.

Yet sometimes Faramir recalls the taste of wild apples, or the silence that a raven's call fell into like a stone, and remembers the days he was a ranger, not a gardener.

[for fileg, her favourite character]

Watches lengthen with the nights and are doubled as well. Firith is the most dangerous season, bringing darkness to hide the Deceiver's creatures but no snow yet to hinder them.

Still, Mevenneth finds a secret pleasure in this time of year, and the damp, sour smell of beech leaves underfoot. It is cold at night now; cold enough that she shares a blanket--and other comforts--with Beredur. In the morning their pail of water is webbed over by ice.

The thin sickle of autumn's last moon hangs ready to reap the year's turning. Mevenneth watches it pass and sings.

[for fileg, a thank-you for her Hallowe'en present]

Sibling rivalry

With an expert flick of the wrist, Faramir loosed his stone. It bobbed over the water like a heron, skimming the surface once – twice – six times before plummeting into the river. 

"Lucky throw!" Boromir thumped his brother's shoulder, ungracious in defeat.

Faramir elbowed back. "The wise man does not believe in luck," he quoted sententiously.

"He who wrote that never had a horse killed under him in battle."

"Likely not, considering he was an Umbari eunuch."

Boromir winced. "That would alter one's expectation of fortune." He bent to choose another flat pebble from the strand. "Best out of seven instead?"

[a birthday present for the lovely & talented Altariel]

A Pledge of Good Will

“It is finished,” Gimli announced.

Legolas looked up as the dwarf held forth the crystal casket, jointed with gold and set with splendid topazes, that encased the lock of Galadriel’s hair. It should have been too rich; yet it was delicate and airy, enhancing the living gold it cradled.

The light of the lust for beauty kindled in Legolas’ face. "Now I can almost understand the love of gold."

“We shall make a dwarf of you yet, my friend,” Gimli said.

 “Nay, Master Gimli, I would say that you are becoming almost elvish. That is craftwork worthy of Celebrimbor himself.”

[for Mar'isu, who wanted Gimli & Legolas as friends] 

Well begun is half done

"Begin with your name."

Begin, my master says -- as if I had not pressed ink-sticks, bound soft marten hairs into bristles, pulped paper rags for more than a year before he let me merely hold a brush in writing position.

I take up the brush, dabble it in ink, draw it over the page. Transfixed by the shock of dark ink on creamy paper, I strain to recall all his teaching. Move from the elbow, not the wrist. I trace the last stroke of lambe simply, not daring to flourish, and hold my breath.

He considers. "A good beginning."

[For Meril, who wanted to see a student (any kind) learning something in Middle-Earth. The speaker of the drabble is Tasariel from my story Fading Leaves.]

Troubled

Strider has lived in the wild long enough to know that taking omens from the weather is folly. Yet the dark sky to the West fills him with anxiety. Where is Gandalf? Why has he sent no word?

Back and forth across the Road Strider casts for some sign of the wizard’s passage. Others are out upon the hunt, he knows, and not all of them friendly. A thick mist shrouds the Barrowdowns and the wind carries keen cries to the edge of hearing.

Has he failed the ring-bearer, lost the wisest being in Middle-Earth, destroyed all hope of victory?

[for obsidianj, who wanted drabbles about Aragorn as Strider or Thorongil]

Intimations of Mortality

Elves grow older, as by nature all living things must, but they do not age. Arwen’s grandmother -- the most ancient elf she knew -- had seen the light of the Two Trees yet appeared little older than the maidens of her household.

Arwen sings to her sleeping daughter, examining the almond-shaped eyelids (so like Galadriel’s) and the lashes fanned against her cheeks. Shorter-lived than a tree, still this child will remain in Arda long after her parents.

Now each year passes as a thief. Arwen wishes for the days when she had no need to count them.

*

It should have seemed strange to me that my parents did not age, but it never did -- for every child thinks her parents unique, and by the time I understood mine truly were, I was accustomed to their timelessness. Before my father died, little more than a scattering of grey hairs marked his years; strangers took Mother for my sister, until they met her eyes.

Now he lies on the dais, never to grow older. Mother's age shows in her slow movements though her face is as smooth as always. I fear the time left to her is short.

[a late pair for Dwim, who wanted drabbles on the theme of aging -- not just growing older, but aging]

The Fenced Land

It was the longest journey of his life. Yet Beren never knew how many days it endured; he saw no sun or moon, only the unchanging dim twilight of magic. Pursued by snarling shadows, he stumbled through a ceaseless misery of sucking mire and grasping thorns.

A twisted root toppled him headfirst to the ground. He lay waiting for death, until a whisper of air breathed against his cheek. When he lifted his head and saw the stars through dappled leaves, it was a deliverance almost as great as his first sight of Luthien dancing with flowers in her hair.

[For Marta, who wanted journey drabbles, and Harad or Doriath if possible]

The Return of the King

Arilen has never seen so many people: the streets of Gondor must be empty. She tries not to gawk like a country girl and still look everywhere at once. The gems in the winged crown glitter like sunlight on the sea. The scent of grass crushed beneath the crowd's feet is sharp in her nose.

She links arms with her mother to stay together in the press of bodies. Soon, she suspects, they will return to bickering, but now they are too grateful to have each other. Her brother was one of the soldiers who did not return from the Pelennor. Arilen needs to see the King he died for.

King Elessar is not alone; all of his companions stand with him. The Ringbearer and the periannath princes look like children in their rich dress, but no-one could take the dwarf for a youth despite his size. She thinks the tall one beside him clad in green is a man, until the bright blade of his elven glance falls across her. She stares, and forgets to close her mouth. He smiles -- at her! -- and turns back to the coronation.

Forty years later, her grandchildren still hear that tale.

[a double birthday drabble for vampfan30 & her daughter to share]

The Stone City (too little here that grows and is glad)

The baby stops crying and stares at his father, brows crumpled.

"Unfair!" Arwen protests, laughing. "Where did you learn that? I never knew Rangers were nursemaids too."

Aragorn swings Eldarion through the air, trailing strings of chortles. "I saw Halbarad's children nearly as often as he did. And the young Beornings or wood elves were always underfoot."

"I wish Imladris had been so lively." Arwen takes the child back and balances him on her hip.

Aragorn tickles him with the feathery end of her braid. "I promise Eldarion will have more companions," he says mock-solemnly to make her laugh again.

[for Radbooks, who wanted Aragorn "in a fatherly role". I hope this is to your taste!]

The title refers to the way both Legolas and Pippin observe that Minas Tirith seems cold and underpopulated. The part in parentheses is a direct quotation from Legolas.