Goldberry said it clearley enough: Tom is simply the master. The same concept goes for the master of Middel-Earth, Proffessor Tolkien. I do not own, nor did I create, any of the characters mentioned. They are Tolkiens. I hope he doesn't mind that I borrowed a few. They are his, even thoug I think LotR is real! And it really happened! It did it did it did I tell you!!! Whoe, sorry. I do not want to be accused of literary theft. This is simply my little tribute to the master.

Why a Druid moon? It represents the inbetween--this world and that--where the line cannot be easily discerned. The half way. You see where I'm getting at.

Anyway, these little drabbles are kind of my personal feelings of the books...or rather, how I interact with the words in the deep watches of the night when I began to breath them, and become part of the story, as Sam said he felt he was inside a song. I hope you enjoy (ha, I dare to dream). 

He walked in the night, like a vision of Odin...though his smile was purley Loki's. The moonlight gleamed on his white robes, and grey hair, like tattered storm clouds. A ghostly avatar in the shimmering mists above the emerald grass of Rivendell, dissapearing in the phantasmagoric throng that faded in the pines. Oh Gandalf, whiter are thou going?

As a child I had often watched him go off in the night when he came. I wondered what he saw there amidst the trees. Often I had followed him along the path he made. His sandals made soft imprints in the ground; they were stars. Stars in the dust. Stars that sorrowfully trailed in the dust.

He would lean against the mighty oak tree and thoughtfully smoke his pipe. I could never again grasp the comfort felt from nestling agianst Gandalf and feeling the scratch of his beard while I inhaled the deep scent of pipe-weed.

In his hands was strength. He, among the few could tame the wild horses. Nay, not tame, not break them; he would befriend them. He could stop a runaway horse in their tracks by taking hold of the reins. He could even bend iron. But his physical strength could not compare to what else I had seen. He could call fire from his hands, weild the Winds. He could make the clouds moan and thunder with electrum, and send it crashing down with many a hissing scream. He could call the tides and move the water, and turn it suddenly to ice.

His voice was like the soft rustle of wind in the grass, touched with a note of the eroding river bed as the stones roll over eachother. Yet when he conjured, it was like the chours of the voices of the Vala welling underground, in the deep rocks and caverns and hidden places in stone and earth, and in the raging clouds. As above, so below

He could look into your heart and see what even you yourself could not see. Long have I desired to again clambor up into the old wizard's lap as he sat on the soft moss under the oak tree in Rivendell. I long to yet again nuzzle against his soft grey ramninent and wiery beard and let the soft smoke from the...hobbits, did he call them?...drift down about me like the Dragon's blood smoke from the censor at our worship circles. The rain would just be falling--a light drizzle, yet still he would pull his wayworn cloak about my small frame and whisper great tales of dragons and kings and strange creatures like hobbits and Ents and Men.

Yet alas! The day you sailed, Gandalf, is the day I heard the children and maidens weep, for thy ever mischevious yet brillant mind, thy strong and gentle hands, thy eyes like the glittering multitude of the inky indigo womb of Elbereth, and thy compassion for the toils of others that were not yours, is one I've never seen again.

Under the shimmering multitude she lay. The same souls that glimmered in the ebony-flushed indigo canopy above the earth reflected in her eyes. They were simply lost in her eyes.

The gleaming astral light softly exhaled around the moon and glittering jewls, and flowed slowly and gently around the sky, the crystaline amniotic fluid of the Star Queen, the Star Kindler. All souls are cradled in Her Sacred Wombe.

Lothiriel! What are you dreaming 'neath the web of night? The wind stirs her translucent garments of misty violet and her hair like the desert sand washed with red and rose and gold--so fitfully, and so carefully.

Her eyes burst in rays of crystal saphire and jade, laid gently over the earthy-brown sunflower petals cut like crystals--nay, formed so there, by the will of Arda's bones. They swirled and were frozen--a thundering whirlpool frozen in ice, frozen in time. And all this exists in the eyes of Lothiriel.

Fair lady who lays dreaming, whose eyes are open and mind is shut. But still we see in your orbs of glass. Lothiriel, Lothiriel, in your mourning countenance we see, that you would sprout wings and fly away. Dissapear into the west, on wings spun from light and sea-foam; wings of a gull.

Fair lady bound to space and time, but not forever! She who did not understand, who did not grasp the feeling in her marrow...the blood of the Fair Folk, welling scarlet in deep places, only to manifest itself in her confusion, and in her timeless eyes. A part that will be re-discovered, I deem, one day. And she will stand like a crystal glass filled with light. Light and crystal.

The Elves watched her with sadness, and curiosity. How queer, thought they, that she is dying. That while we watch her her time on Arda is endlessly pouring away like the sand in an hour-glass. Always at the same speed, always a constant rush. Never letting up. For as soon as they breath their first, they begin to die...these mortals.

Of course, those in Imladris were somewhat accuainted with the second born, but there was something about Gilraen that caught them. The slow way her eyes would light up, and this feature would be particulary noticeable...perhaps for the first time to some...and they who beheld it would see for the first time that this is what harboured her mystery. Her wolf like eyes. Piercing and keen, light filled and fluid like amber.

The last rays of day gleamed softly on her hair--a cascade of rare and exotic fabricated spices, it swished behind her like a dancer's skirt as it tumbled down in a flutter of cinnamon and ebony and copper. She held herself with such grace, none would guess she was not an fey. She walked amidst the gardens of Imladris...the plants that were frozen in their burning. Perhaps it was the wind, but with her steady, graceful gait and gentle, loving touch, the plants seemed to respond and lean to her.

Her life was a great wheel of sadness and beauty, swirling in an endless stream of light and color, with cloud and shade to sharply contrast it. Her words were those of one who is wintered into wisdom, her voice low and mealodious, like it rose from behind a waterfall. Never have I seen the likes in another living thing.

And then there came a day when the dawn washed on her pallid skin and lidded eyes, as it had a thousand times before. Those who loved her gentley shook her, whispered, called her name, but she did not get up. Her eyes did not flutter to reveal the glitter of gold beneath the long lashes. And her beauty and grace left the world. We immortal stared on with wonder; for she was here in an instant and gone in a flash, like the tide, like the dawn. And never again was her lith figure seen rose stained, fading into the distance in the valley as long as the world lasted.

Sam inclined his weary eyes toward the smoky sky. No relief there, no beauty. Ash and dust all around. Beneath him in shadowy pools lay the graceful star dusted forms of Elves, the sad, grim faces of men, and those of orcs...he didn't want to think about it. But what touched him the most were the Elves. It seemed a horrible crime to slay something so pure. It reminded him of the reckless hobbit children that would pull flowers out of the ground--root and all--carelessley, and without reason.

A horrid stench filled the air. Sam wondered if that was because of the mass grave. He had heard of land no farmer would plough because rotting bones lay beneath them--remnents of war, and all it was worth. And the glimmers arising from the pools shone dimley--like the candles that light a funeral procession--in his earthy brown eyes.

Suddenly, amidst the scenes of the frozen pandomonium of battle, he began to hum. The tune seemed far off, and sad as it was strong. He did not know where it came from. Then, he noticed his master was humming along with him, some paces behind. He waited for him. "What's that you're humming, Mr. Frodo?" asked Sam, for it had been the same tune he was humming. "I don't know..." said Frodo, with a far off, glazed look. "Perhaps Bilbo taught it to me in some dim time, and you as well," but right now, the thought of Bilbo was a fleeting image in the shadow. They continued on in silence, and then, without warning, began to gently hum again. The same song, all in perfect harmony. And neither could remember it. "Well, I call that queer indeed," thought Sam, "always the same song. And the mealody, but never the words."

And so they continued on into the shadow and dim flame, across the mass grave, never knowing that in a time dimly remembered, even by those who were there...like Lord Elrond...an army of soldiers--yong, some of them, too young to die, and others immortal and pure, who should not die--marched down the same plains as they, with the light of fire gleaming on their silver mail and helms, singing a song both sad and strong. A song of hope.

*Inspired by a favorite Civil War Ghost story

Turning their faces to the mild-eyed stars, they had all gone on to battle and death. To seek glory far away from home seemed to be a thing noble. Yet men need not be immortalized in legend to call their lives worthwhile, for if they had a care for this world, they had something to give it. She had already learned that lesson, long ago. Eowyn tilted her head up to receive the warmth of midday. The golden light spilled over her, and she breathed it’s truth. She knelt in her herb garden with her hands in the soil, feeling the charge of life it gave her.

She knew there wasn’t much to see there in her tranquil garden, and less to do. But the feel of the cool ground supporting her gave her stability, and she could taste the life in the berries she grew, still warm from the sun. There was nothing more beautiful than that golden light filtering through the birch leaves onto the water in August, and no bard could compare to the sweet sound of birds singing only for love of the land. Let them rejoice in steel and blood, and dream of going far away. Why, she now wondered, would they dream of leaving? Was no one content with their homes and families, and the simple peace of the hearth? Never again would she so long to leave. This garden...the one Faramir promised her two years ago they would make together...had become a haven to her, a piece of Summerland, where time flowed on it’s own. "I’m calling this my piece of Earth." There was earth clinging to the hand she laid over her quickening womb, and she prayed one day her child could sleep soundly in the white halls of Emyn-Arnen, watching the moon rise over the hills, while the silver light danced on the trickling water and flowers. The starlight would dance through the transparent linen curtains and into their eyes, and the gentle chirping of crickets and the mournful sound of the nightingale and the wind in the heather would be their lullaby. And she could take her child and teach them to care for the Earth Mother and all her children, and hope they could one day put their hands underground and feel the same charge she felt, from the roots that went far underground. The magick that binds us all.

There may not be much to do there, or see, but she knew the land, and all it’s folk. No sword woman would she be anymore, standing beside the soldiers with blue war paint on her body. Nay, she would have babies to sing to and tell tales, and children to teach to love and to love them. Here, in her home. In her garden of light, like one of the Faery folk, the once wild shield maiden knelt in awe and love; not tamed, but not furiously beating her wings against iron bars. At last, she was free. Eowyn smiled to herself. "I’m calling this my piece of Earth."

*Written on request. Are you happy now, Gwen? Are you happy? Geese, I thought you would never be done harassing me! *Pouts* you abuse me! In revenge I should write an Elfhelm/Imrahil slash and mail it to you repeatedly! Mwa ha ha ha ha!!!