Disclaimer: All the settings and characters belong to J.R.R. Tolkien. This story is my way of working out or interpreting ideas and concepts already present in The Lord of the Rings. This is done for enjoyment, and for sharing, but not for profit.

Author's Note: Over the past year on Live Journal, I have participated in the writing of drabbles, double drabbles and "ficlets" for various purposes. Some were for people's birthdays, others were for spur-of-the-moment inspirations or requests, others for challenges. I have found that I have amassed quite a few of these things, and thought that it might be an idea to collect them together into some kind of anthology.

As is usual with me, almost all of these "ficlets" are about Frodo in one way or another. Unlike my longer stories, they are often non-canon/AU, movie-verse or highly interpretive. These ficlets have often been written to answer a request by someone else with their own ideas, favourite themes, and so on. They seem to gather in rough themes of, for example, "hurt/comfort", angst, or Sam's POV (regarding either Frodo, Elves, or both). My plan, therefore, is to put them together in "pages" or "chapters" depending on their themes.

Chapter 1: Ficlets of the Ring and Chain

~*~*~

My first drabble... This was inspired by the ROTK trailer that was released in ?August 2003. The one-second-long clip of Frodo crawling up Mount Doom captivated me, and I wrote this first attempt at a drabble. I just hope that the title doesn't have to be in the 100-word count. Otherwise, I'm 3 words over...

~*~*~

Ring of Fire

Sight, sound are gone. But touch is yet his. The foul dirt scrapes under him, welcomed, for it anchors him in the outside world: the blessed other, for it is not of him -- he who is lit within by the wheel of fire.

The Ring tugs between his chest and a stony outcrop on the ground. The chain pulls in turn at his neck: a thin line of fire. A circle of fire in front of him and a chain of fire around him -- complete.

But, touch is still his. Unseeing eyes look up. A small gasp.

A gentle hand.

~*~*~

A Dose of Ailing Frodo: Quite a while ago, Febobe (Frodo Baggins of Bag End) wanted some Frodo-Healing. My attempt was amateurish, to be sure, and woefully short on actual healing details and all that, but I hoped that it would be something to brighten her day. I wrote it in one hour, so am making no claims to quality or inventiveness. This ficlet picks up on the theme from the drabble Ring of Fire which I had written a few months before.

~*~*~

A Chain of Healing

It was happening again. Over and over, and it would never stop.

And just like in Mordor, Frodo could feel the fiery line of pain encircling his neck. The chain had bit in deeply, and the Ring's weight pulled until he could no longer bear to walk upright.

But he was no longer in Mordor. Why could he feel the chain so vividly then, yet not smell the stench of ash and smoke. Why were his feet resting on a soft mattress and not cut by cruel stones?

He moved his head and cried out in pain. Where was he? He could not understand.

And then a soft voice, well known to him, spoke gently, and he could feel his fingers being unwrapped from the delicate chain that he had clutched in his dilirium.

"Now look what you have done, Mr. Frodo. What a mess, and from such a beautiful necklace too."

Frodo frowned and tried to resist the prying fingers. But then another voice, that of dear Sam, came.

"It will be all right, Mr. Frodo. Just let go for a moment. Just let go."

A cool hand felt his forehead, and then a damp cloth was laid upon it. Fretful, Frodo squirmed, but Sam (or so the feel of those familiar hands told him) held him down, gently but firmly.

"Let Rosie clean your neck. It will take just a moment. Just a moment, and you can have the necklace back."

And to Frodo's horror, his head was being lifted and the chain slipped over it. "Please don't take it..." he begged. "Don't take it."

"Only for a moment," Rosie's voice soothed. "Just for a moment."

But it seemed that that was not to be, for Rosie's voice lowered and Frodo could hear her saying something. Sam answered, but Frodo could not hear the words.

So he was not in Mordor then. And if Rosie were there, then wouldn't that mean he was in Bag End? Or perhaps at Farmer Cotton's? But Sam hadn't been there when he was ill at the Cottons'. Bag End then, he decided vaguely.

The side of the bed suddenly dipped, just slightly, as someone sat down upon it. A pause, and then his head was being turned to the side.

"Just for a moment, dear." And a wet cloth was touched to the welts on his neck.

It stung, and Frodo recoiled. But another pair of hands (for the bed had dipped slightly on the other side of him too) cradled his head, palms against his cheeks.

"Just for a moment, Mr. Frodo. It will soon be over."

"Yes, Sam," Frodo murmured. Those cool hands were soothing. Cool hands on his face, and stinging touches of wet cloth dabbing at his neck.

"And the other side - just let me turn your head. No, no, don't shift, you will only make it bleed again. Just... that's it. Good."

"After you finish," Frodo whispered, "please put the chain back on."

Rosie's voice came then. "I don't think we should, my dear. You will only make it worse."

Panic rose within him. "I must have it!" he said desperately.

"Of course," Rosie soothed. "But perhaps you could just hold it in your hand. Wouldn't that be all right? Surely you don't need to be wearing it?"

"I... I want to wear it," Frodo said forlornly.

"He needs to wear it, Rosie-love." And Sam's arms burrowed between Frodo and the pillows under him. Frodo felt himself being lifted into sitting, held against Sam's chest. And as his cheek rested against Sam's collar bone, and sturdy hands pressed against his back, smaller fingers smeared something gently around his neck. And as those deft fingers traced the path of fire, the soothing cream banished the pain.

"Well," Rosie's voice said disapprovingly (but kindly for all that), "if you want that thing on again, you had better have some padding."

And a long folded cloth was wrapped around his neck. To his relief, Frodo could feel the chain pulled over his curls until it lay draped over the cloth. The familiar comforting gem once more lay cold and hard (yet beautiful and clear, Frodo knew) against his breast. With a contented sigh, he wrapped his hand around it.

And as Sam laid him back down, he knew. He was not in Mordor. And not all pain was eternal.

The End

Disclaimer: All the settings and characters belong to J.R.R. Tolkien. This story is my way of working out or interpreting ideas and concepts already present in The Lord of the Rings. This is done for enjoyment, and for sharing, but not for profit.

Author's Note: Last year I needed to have time absent from online activities, due to real life being rather busy. As a thank-you to people who helped make sure that I stayed off Live Journal during that time, I wrote these drabbles for the first three people to request scenarios. Curiously, all three asked for some kind of interaction with one of the "big" folk, and so that makes for a handy theme for this installment of "drabbles." (two of which outgrew their 100 word boundaries...)

Shirebound asked for a little scene from Rivendell, where Frodo first 'officially' meets Legolas in the days following the Council.

Shirebound's drabble

You have pledged to take the Ring to Mordor, and I, too, will go with you. Death is a possibility for all of us. Some would say a probability. But I am immortal and so I must face the idea of my death to my kind. You are mortal and have expected to die at your natural time. And so now, you must face the idea of death after only a part, a regrettably short part, of your finite life.

Which of us, I wonder, chances the worse fate?

"I am honoured to meet you, Frodo Baggins of the Shire."

The second request, by Sandy, was for an internal monologue from Aragorn shortly after the fall of Gandalf in Moria. It seems to have been written for movie-canon.

Aragorn’s Monologue

"Give them a moment for pity’s sake!"

A moment? What will a moment do us? We have lost you, Mithrandir! I do not indulge and say I failed you, for you said the truth. It was a foe beyond us all. But now I must harden my resolve and lead the remainder of our company to Lothlorien. May they find it within themselves to trust me as they trusted you.

The hobbits know me well. I do not fear their doubt, although I must continue to earn their trust. But you, Boromir, who stand there in shocked disbelief. And you, Legolas! Your puzzled incomprehension marks you. Innocent in your immortality, you still do not understand death. Gimli, I am in your debt, for you stand waiting. You are grieved, but you accept what must be done. Help me! Stay by my side until I knit this shattered fellowship together.

If I cannot bring us together once more - if doubt, and worse, forces us apart? What then?

Frodo - you are the only one left. For all that I lead in practice, you lead in truth. I must relinquish my power to you, though you do not ask for it.

Forgive me!

The third request was by Claudia who asked for a scene in which Frodo and Boromir talk at some point during the quest.

Boromir and Frodo

The edges of the Woods of Lothlorien were within sight now. Even the hobbits could see the distant golden smudge on the horizon, and they pressed on eagerly even amidst their tiredness and grief.

Frodo walked behind most of the Fellowship. Although Aragorn’s ministrations had eased and helped him greatly, he found it difficult to keep to the pace set by the Ranger.

You shall not pass!

Frodo shook his head violently and blinked furiously. As he lowered his head doggedly, he caught, out of the corner of his eye, Boromir watching him. Discomfited, he watched the ground pass away under his feet, step by step, until he became dizzy from the motion.

Fiery thongs curling through the air. "Fly, you fools!"

Frodo bit his lip and looked up to focus on Gimli’s back. His head cleared slightly. But there was a slight motion to his right as Boromir’s head turned away.

Resentfully, he shifted the straps of his pack slightly away from his sore ribs. The pace of the company quickened slightly and so he concentrated on forcing his legs to move faster.

Falling into flames...

Now he was the last one of the Company, save for Boromir. With a sense of dismay, he realized that the Man was now looking at him openly.

"Frodo?" The voice was gentle.

"Yes?" he said, reluctantly. Why did he have such a sense of unease?

"May I help?" The voice was open. Unguarded.

Frodo looked at Boromir then. Gone was the confidence and the bravado. What there was now, he was not sure. But Boromir’s face was friendly and kind.

"I’m all right," said Frodo cautiously.

"I’m not sure you are," the Man said. "I see you gradually falling behind. I would carry you if you let me."

Frodo hesitated. The offer was tempting.

Fly, you fools!

Boromir watched the Ring-bearer. The hobbit was wavering, uncertain about the offer. But he could see that Frodo wished to accept it, though the halfling was guarding against something. Against what?

In all honesty, Boromir admitted to himself, he had been doubtful about the wisdom of entrusting the Ring to the Halfling who struggled on beside him.

After Frodo had been appointed to the Council, Boromir had wondered if the Ring-bearer had a strategy. As time went on, however, he began to suspect that indeed there was no strategy, and he despaired.

A Halfling with little strength, and with no plan beyond walking into the evil land. Folly!

A thought touched his mind then. Perhaps there could be no strategy. If the Ring were indeed as perilous as they so said, then perhaps, just perhaps, there could be no controlling it.

"Yes, please."

Boromir looked down at the Ring-bearer’s upturned face and rejoiced. He had grown fond of Frodo during their journeys together. The brief thought fled, and he lifted the halfling up. To him, Frodo’s weight was negligible.

There had better be a strategy, he thought.

The End    

Disclaimer: All the settings and characters belong to J.R.R. Tolkien. This story is my way of working out or interpreting ideas and concepts already present in The Lord of the Rings. This is done for enjoyment, and for sharing, but not for profit.

Author's Note: This selection of ficlets or drabbles (all written from September to December 2003) feature Sam and how he views the Elves, Mr. Frodo, and sometimes both. As the readings progress, Sam's views begin to change.

When I reread these, I can sense the touch of "movie-verse", particularly in the second one...

Chapter Three: The Wonder of Elves

I missed my bus home after class on a cold winter's evening last December and had to wait for an hour before the next one. What was I to do with an hour on my hands? Well, this was the result.

Elf-like

A voice, rising and falling, rode the breeze that teased his curls. Sam stood still as he peered through the trees. The words were nothing to him: no meaning could he discern in the soft consonants and pure vowels -- sounds unlike those of the common tongue of hobbits. But the words pulled him forward, beckoned him onward as they spoke to him of distant lands and of beautiful and remote beings.

He crept onward. Step by step, the boy closed in on his mysterious quarry...

...but there was no elf as Sam had hoped. Only the slightly odd Frodo Baggins who had, not long ago, moved to Bag End. Moved from Buckland which was queer enough.

Sam crouched noiselessly amongst the bushes and he peered at the hobbit with the hair so dark. He was not noticed; indeed, the strange words continued and the dusky head remained bent over a book whose soft leather covers drooped ever so slightly over the careful, cradling hands.

Elf-like was what Frodo Baggins was, he decided, -- elf-like and utterly enthralling, with eyes that were unnaturally bright and a voice that spoke each word as if it were tasting every tantalizing letter. He was unlike any of the Shire-folk Sam had ever known.

A sudden yearning to join the older boy seized him so much so that he almost dashed out from the cover of the bushes. But that would have broken the spell.

For Sam was sure, as sure as the heavy wisdom of his ten years, that Master Baggins would not welcome a witness to his unhobbit-like behaviour. This he knew.

But Mr. Bilbo Baggins wouldn't have minded, he thought. Books and words and enchantments were as breathing to the venerable hobbit. All both taken for granted yet cherished.

With a new resolve, Sam settled down. He would watch and wait. And then, perhaps, one day, when he had screwed up enough courage, he would go to Bag End.

For Baranduin, who requested a drabble based on the scene where Sam and Frodo watch the Elves pass by.

The Passing of the Elves

The singing came to them on a soft breeze, and yet it echoed as if in a great hall, trembling amongst the trees in plaintive but ancient beauty.

Sam turned to Frodo, and there it was -- the starlight, or elf-light, caught in his master's eyes.

"Mr. Frodo," Sam said hesitantly, wonderingly.

But Frodo did not hear him. And it was, Sam thought, as if something of Frodo were leaving to join the elves glimmering in the twilight.

And Sam shook in sudden fear, for truly he knew not if it were clear sight or simple fancy which frightened him so. 

Maybe that’s it. All these places we’ve been to have all been grand and terrible, but Rivendell feels closer to home. We were there before, and now we know it. And I know that this sounds funny, but I have the feeling that it knows us. And we belong somehow. If you take my meaning, sir.

Disclaimer:  All the settings and characters belong to J.R.R. Tolkien. This story is my way of working out or interpreting ideas and concepts already present in The Lord of the Rings. This is done for enjoyment, and for sharing, but not for profit.

Author's Note: This chapter's collection is rather interesting in that each drabble includes Frodo and one of the other three hobbits, and all the drabbles take place after the Quest and in Hobbiton. They are all rather angsty, or at least reflective. Despite the similarities, none of this was planned by me! The characters and general themes were all suggested by other folk.

Chapter 4: "...some vague anxiety about his master."

In June, Budgielover asked for something "between Frodo and Pip, some cousinly advice and wisdom. Something heart-warming that just makes you want to hug them both."

Silver and Sable

"Silver and sable, gleaming in the sun." Frodo stood up from the bench. "It's good to see you, Pip."

Pippin latched the gate behind him. "It isn't too 'uppity' is it?" he asked. He came up the steps.

"No."

"Not even for the future Thain?"

"Certainly not."

"But no lordly clothes for you, Frodo, and no attention either."

"My choice, Pip."

"The clothes? Or the attention?"

Frodo turned away and sat down. He shrugged and smiled.

"What would I do with either? But you, Pip? They suit you, and that suits the Shire."

Pippin rested his head on Frodo's shoulder.

These two drabbles were written for Aratlithiel who enjoys reading about Merry being protective of Frodo. I had only intended to write one, but I wasn't quite satisfied with the first, and so had another go at it.

Drabble 1: The Rider

Pony, cart and rider hurtle past them. The only reason why Frodo is not struck down is because Merry grabs him and they tumble to the verge.

As they stand up, shaken, the rider returns. "Sorry, Mr. Brandybuck, sir. Me pony was a bit startled, like. Didn’t see you in your finery."

"It wasn’t me who you nearly ran down," Merry says shortly.

The rider only glances at Frodo. "Right you are then. Again, awfully sorry, Mr. Brandybuck."

"Not sorry enough." Merry walks away and does not see the regretful smile on Frodo’s face.

The rider moves on.

Drabble 2

The whispers have annoyed Merry all evening, but Frodo doesn’t realize or doesn’t care. A couple of pints have more of an effect than they used to, and Frodo is as surprised as Merry when he slides off the bench and onto the floor.

"Oh my," he says and laughs.

Merry easily picks him up and Frodo‘s right hand dangles freely.

At last the worthies of Hobbiton can see that which had never been clearly shown before. But Merry can only scowl as he carries Frodo out, for trying to quell the flames of gossip only fans them brighter.

This drabble was for the birthday of Elanor1013 from LJ.

Bond

Frodo crouches with his cheek pressed to the silky-cool bark. His hands barely encircle the trunk, for the sapling has grown swiftly. He has come seeking the melancholy of Lothlorien; if he listens hard enough, perhaps he can hear some kindred echo.

But this mallorn has sprung from the soil of the Shire -- a land of renewal and rebirth. It will not give a tired, broken hobbit what he yearns for. The bark remains smooth and impervious.

Sam watches Frodo slowly retreat into Bag End, and he rests his own hands where Frodo's has been.

The bark is warm.

This drabble, written in April, was for Gwaith who asked for "frustrated!Frodo with a patient!Sam (or vice versa), or something of the sort. Character comfort is always a plus."

Little Renown

Frodo kneels beside the gardener, for Sam is in tears. His hands tremble as they pat earth around a sapling.

"It isn’t right," Sam says and wipes his hands clean with a vengeance. "You of all of us should have renown."

"And what would you have me be?" Frodo quietly asks. "A dazzling hero? One who did not fully belong before because he was a Baggins? I certainly wouldn’t belong if I were larger than life and twice as unnatural."

Sam shakes his head.

"Do not fret for me, Sam. The Red Book will tell my tale. I am content."

Disclaimer: All the settings and characters belong to J.R.R. Tolkien. This story is my way of working out or interpreting ideas and concepts already present in The Lord of the Rings. This is done for enjoyment, and for sharing, but not for profit.

~ * ~ * ~

Author's Note: This page of drabbles and ficlets are centred around the theme of writing. I never planned such a theme, but requests seem to create one on their own.

A week before I wrote this drabble for Nivina's birthday, I had watched a television special on the creation of an illuminated, hand written copy of the Saint John's Bible. I have always had an interest in illuminated manuscripts and studied them in my Anglo Saxon course at my first university a long time ago.

As I watched the master calligraphers form the perfect letters, the images of the writer carefully, but boldly pressing that nib to the beautiful sheets of paper, and of how the flowing, glistening ink obeyed the writer's every intention just amazed me. And so I wrote these two following drabbles.

Part One

Sam touched the soft leather binding reverently. The journal had been found among Bilbo's stacks of books and papers.

"What are you going to do with it?" he asked.

"Bilbo asked me to put his writings in order," Frodo said. "But he will not return to the Shire. And even though we will, I want all his stories, his fanciful ones as well as his adventures, to be written down.

"I don't believe that he can remember them in detail now, but I can -- along with the ones we made up together. And of the memories that have returned to me, those are some of the most dear."

Frodo opened the book to the first creamy white page, dipped the pen into the inkwell, and pressed the nib to the paper. He smiled.

And even though they were not yet in the Shire, Sam felt as if he had come home.

~*~*~

Part Two

The golden nib swept downward, curving just a little to the left before racing under. The even pressure dented the paper just enough for shadow and sunlight to vie for supremacy until the nib left the page in a long but even trail of ink.

Black glistened as a surplus of liquid pooled and sank into the vellum. But the edges of the half-formed letter were crisp and clear, and the ink was even.

Down came the stained tip once more and Sam held his breath as the sure touch of the writer sent the pen gliding through another bold, smooth curl of a perfect stroke.

Rivendell's waterfalls might thunder outside, but the calm strength of the letters forming quietly under the four-fingered hand carried far greater power.

And the almost fey intensity on the face of he who wielded the pen showed greater power still. The power of imagination.

~ * ~ * ~

Not long after the drabbles I wrote above, I came up with this ficlet which included the elements Gayalondiel requested: Sam beta-ing Frodo's writing in the Red Book.

Concerned about Hobbits

"You forgot the hobbits, sir."

"The... the hobbits?"

"The hobbits." Sam stroked the worn red leather. "You give everyone's names, but you don't tell about us. What we are like, what we love. Why we fought against the ruffians."

Frodo looked at him blankly.

Sam picked up the book and held it reverently."In a hundred years time, no-one will remember how Lobelia was before the hard times, and so how we loved her after. Mr. Bilbo knew when he wrote his part -- concerning hobbits, that is."

He put a warm hand on Frodo's shoulder.

"Let us live through your writing, even if you can't bring yourself to live amongst Shirefolk no more. And maybe you will live a little more if you let yourself remember more than just the nastiness and the fear in these pages."

He gave the book back to his master then, and Frodo held it tightly to him.

The last thing Sam saw as he passed out through the door of the study was his master cautiously dipping pen-nib in inkwell and hovering it over waiting page.

It was a beginning.

Disclaimer: All the settings and characters belong to J.R.R. Tolkien. This story is my way of working out or interpreting ideas and concepts already present in The Lord of the Rings. This is done for enjoyment, and for sharing, but not for profit.

Author's Note: This page of drabbles is centred around characters who are dear to Frodo, yet Frodo himself does not appear.

Katakanadian requested this subject for her birthday drabble: Sam's last day with Rosie. Fitting a whole day into a drabble was a little difficult, however, so I had a look at one moment of that day...

Roses

Her fingers touch the wool of the cushion under her, and her curls shining silver in the sun brush another at her back.

Sam kneels before her on the flagstones by the round green door and holds up a rose: a rich red bloom.

"Ah, but you should not have cut it, Sam," she says even as she fondly touches the dewy bright petals and the faithful wrinkled hand that holds it.

"More will bloom, Rosie-lass," he answers.

And when she has breathed in the fragrance and closed her eyes for the last time, Sam fills her lap with roses.

"But you were always the fairest of them all."

In a very belated attempt to celebrate Pippinswolf's birthday, I wrote a Pippin-centred drabble. I wrote it while camping, while removed from "civilization" and all other signs of human life scattered in cities far away. I wonder if that had some effect on what I wrote...  

The Palantir

The world turned beneath them. And Pippin knew not if wizard, hobbit and horse moved upon the earth.

Turning, turning... the Shire dropping around the edges of the world. Merry, Aragorn, Frodo -- they all stood on the great ball below him: scattered, lost.

Where was Mordor? Frodo? East no longer held meaning for him. Shadowfax was fixed; all else was fluid.

And there he could feel it as if the globe were beneath his hands: the baleful Eye. There was no need for East, West, North and South, for it filled all his vision.

And the Palantir glowed...

Turning, turning.

For her birthday drabble, Shireling simply requested Sam/Faramir.

The Quality

"And so, Samwise, I have taken the chance."

"You have indeed, sir," Sam said. His fingers touched the Evermind amongst spears of grass. He blushed. "A better chance than I took, at any rate, when I told you off and spoke poorly of Boromir! It is a wonder you didn't pitch me over that pretty waterfall."

Faramir smiled and looked up at the glinting gold of Meduseld.

"And what quality does she show?" he asked gravely.

"Now you are just teasing me! You know as well as I do, or better.

"The highest, sir, the very highest."

Disclaimer: All the settings and characters belong to J.R.R. Tolkien. This story is my way of working out or interpreting ideas and concepts already present in The Lord of the Rings. This is done for enjoyment, and for sharing, but not for profit.

Author's Note: This is a little bit of post-Quest holiday cheer with just a tiny smidgeon of angst. Unlike the other ficlets and drabbles, this one was only posted today at Live Journal. Since it seemed timely, I decided to add it into my ficlet collection immediately.

~ * ~ * ~

Candles

"Close your eyes, Mr. Frodo, and just stay where you are." Sam's voice came from the evening-dark hall just outside the study door.

"What is this, Sam?" Frodo asked, although he had obediently closed his eyes. He leaned back in his chair.

Sam did not say a word, but Frodo could hear him moving about, setting some objects on the floor. And then Frodo gasped, for Sam had picked him up, chair and all, and turned him around so that his back was to his desk.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

There was no answer. Sam simply continued to busily arrange... something.

But soon there grew to be a soft glow that Frodo could sense through his closed eyes, and a warmth was all about him.

"Don't move," Sam said softly.

And then Frodo felt his hands taken, clasped gently between Sam's own, and a kiss bestowed upon the cold left one, and then upon the incomplete right. And then they were wrapped around what felt like a waxen candle. After a moment's pause, the glow grew brighter.

"Open your eyes," Sam said.

And Frodo did. In wonderment he looked around him. He was surrounded in candle light. Bowls of water lay at his feet, and small lights floated within. Stools were placed on either side of him, and candles were burning upon those. Either side of his slanted writing board were similarly decorated and behind him at the top of the desk stood three pillar candles. In his hands was a taper.

"This is beautiful, Sam," he said, and marvelled at it all. "You have placed me in a circle of light."

Sam only smiled, but with the rapt expression almost of a child. He knelt down.

"How... why did you do this?" Frodo asked softly.

"The light behind you," said Sam dreamily, "is catching reddish-ginger lights in your hair. The candles in front shine in your eyes, and on your waistcoat."

Frodo looked down, and it was as Sam said. The blue satin of his Yule waistcoat shone deeply and richly.

"You are like a jewel in its setting -- a setting of light."

"Sam?" Frodo was quizzical, for there was a note in Sam's voice that he had not heard before.

"You've always been my light, Mr. Frodo. And, if you will pardon my words, you've always been my light when other lights have gone out."

Frodo laughed a little shakily. Holding onto the candle with one hand, he reached out the other and placed it on Sam's curls.

Sam spoke again. "I think that I shall do this each Yule, if you're willing, sir. It is a fair treat to see. A new tradition, maybe. 1420. A good year to start."

Frodo's smile dimmed a little, but then the moment passed.

"A new tradition, then." And mindful of the candles at his feet and in his hand, Frodo leaned forward and hugged his faithful friend.

"Merry Yule, Sam. Bless you."

Disclaimer: All the settings and characters belong to J.R.R. Tolkien. These drabbles and ficlets are my way of working out or interpreting ideas and concepts already present in The Lord of the Rings. This is done for enjoyment, and for sharing, but not for profit.

Author's Note: This page of drabbles is centred around the theme of stories, legends and tales. I never planned such a theme, but people's individual requests seem to create one on their own.

Chapter Eight: Stories, legends and tales

With this drabble (written for Shirebound's birthday), who the questioner and the replier are is up to your imagination.

~ * ~ * ~

O what is a library to a hobbit?

An odd and dangerous place where Shirefolk seldom go.

Tell me--what is a library to the eldest of Bilbo’s young cousins?

It is promise, adventure, and knowledge.

Please tell me about the ancient library of Imladris.

It is an oasis. It is calm. It is reassurance.

And he who is troubled will find heart’s ease.

And will that respite help carry him through his trials?

It will not, for knowledge alone cannot help him in his darkest hours.

But for a short time it will bring him comfort.

It is enough.

This drabble, for Riddlemaster's birthday, was written to answer the request: "Though [Frodo] is a tragic figure in a sense, I would like his drabble to be filled with hope."

~ * ~ * ~

The children of Brandy Hall clamoured for more of the Travellers' tales. But when an older lad asked for one of the Dark Lord, a younger hobbit piped up in confusion. "Who was he?"

And when the youngest were led away by Esmerelda, and Merry began his story, Frodo sat back and closed his eyes in quiet joy.

The young did not know, at first hand, of the evils that could have been. They had no need or occasion to know until they were deemed old enough for tales.

The Shire had truly been saved, even if not for him.

Finally, this drabble for Westmoon only needed to feature Frodo prominently in order to make her content.

* ~ * ~ *

The Orphan of Brandy Hall throve upon stolen mushrooms in the Marish.

The Master of Bag End did not grow much hobbit-sense, yet the lads and lasses of Hobbiton seemed not to mind.

The wise Ring-bearer saved Middle-earth and the people were grateful.

The blessed pherian Iorhael lived out the remainder of his years on Tol Eressea.

"He was from Buckland," said Merry proudly.

"He was from Hobbiton," said Sam stoutly.

"He belongs to all the peoples of Middle-Earth," cried the scholars.

But Círdan only smiled and heard the waves of the Sea murmur against the shores of Mithlond.

Disclaimer: All the settings and characters belong to J.R.R. Tolkien. These drabbles and ficlets are my way of working out or interpreting ideas and concepts already present in The Lord of the Rings. This is done for enjoyment, and for sharing, but not for profit.

Author's Note: These two ficlets were written in 2004. The first (a drabble, with elements from the movies) was for Ana_stasia's birthday while the second was for Febobe (Frodo Baggins of Bag End). I have a few more drabbles that have h/c elements, but they have a little more of the comfort in them while these two have a little more of the hurt in them.

Chapter 9: Rough Healing

Kingsfoil

The hobbits stop their ears, for Frodo’s cry is a Ringwraith’s: a thin tearing sound. Strider crushes leaves with his fingers. Whatever other virtues the plant might have, the Ranger knows this: it helps draw poison forth. But as astringents often do, it stings and burns.

He presses the pulp to the wound.

But Frodo cries out only once, in his own voice. As Strider binds the leaves to broken skin, Frodo’s eyes silently thank him.

For though the pain was not eased by the hands of a Ranger, the wraith call was foiled by the herbs of a king.

Resolve

Frodo sits awkwardly, his legs stiff and straight in front of him.

"Now, sir," says Sam, "we could do this the difficult way or the easy way."

Frodo shakes his head. "I know, Sam." He lies face down and holds out his hand.

Sam nods slowly, smiles, and hands Frodo the cloth.

It is a difficult thing for two hobbits to steal noiselessly through the green yet dangerous land of Ithilien, but the damp of the Dead Marshes has been insidious. It has stolen in during long marches and left its victim in agony at night. Frodo knows this well, and daily his knotted and aching legs bear testimony. But when Sam's strong and unyielding fingers dig ruthlessly into spasm-hardened calves, Frodo cannot help but cry out. Gollum, bidden by his master to do so, holds him down. Curious eyes gleaming, he watches as Frodo writhes.

Sam admires Frodo for the rational acceptance of rough healing, but is a little afraid of that unreachable stern core that will not allow anything, or anyone, to hinder the Quest. But when Frodo sits up once more and removes the cloth from his own mouth, the resolute Ring-bearer is no longer there. Instead a weak and trembling hobbit, the kind and grateful master of Bag End, gingerly props himself up against his backpack. And so Sam cannot help but look forward, each day, to this transformation. He cannot help but look forward to these moments of giving pain.

Sam covers Frodo with both Elven cloaks and holds him close.

Disclaimer:  All the settings and characters belong to J.R.R. Tolkien. These drabbles and ficlets are my way of working out or interpreting ideas and concepts already present in The Lord of the Rings. This is done for enjoyment, and for sharing, but not for profit.

Author's Note: These ficlets were all written in 2004 with the exception of the last which was written in December 2003. These are the drabbles that have h/c elements, but focus a little more on the comfort as opposed to the hurt.

Chapter 10: Comfort

Cellibella asked for "more comfort in the A Simple Touch universe." To understand this drabble-and-a-half, it is helpful to have read that story, though not fully necessary. This small scene occurs at the same time.

Embers

When a piece of wood splits apart in the fire, it first crackles and embers flare along the edges. Then it sighs and hisses to itself as hidden moisture is suddenly exposed.

Stones scrape together as they are nudged closer to the flames. In a faint rustle of movement, a fully heated stone is wrapped in clothes.

Someone approaches. Frodo knows it is Strider -- his shadow is larger than the others and his feet treat the earth more slowly.

There is hardly any jostling or pain as Strider holds Frodo still while Merry smoothly slides out from between him and the cliffside. There is even less as Strider settles Frodo against him and blankets are folded around.

As Strider's long arms encircle Frodo, the fire pops and crackles. And even though Frodo can only see shadows of grey, in his mind the embers glow redly, while warmth steals over him.

Tangelian simply requested a bit of h/c for her birthday, although for some strange reason when I proposed a storyline of an aching Grima who had returned to a caring Saruman after being kicked down the steps at Edoras, she didn't go for it. There is no accounting for taste...

So instead I offered this:

Void

In a void he floated, bereft of light, sound and smell. Not all senses were denied him however, for an ache hovered at the edges: dim but teasing.

Some strange thing wound itself around his hand, passing in and out among his fingers. Yes -- there, the ache! And what was touching him? Spider web?

Frodo flinched and drew back his hand, but a cool hand laid itself upon his brow even as the silken stuff continued to wind.

The ache eased and Frodo stilled.

And when the hand began to stroke his hair, feeling fled and he slept once more.

Elwen is as much an Elrond fan as she is a fan of Frodo. This "double drabble" written for her birthday includes both (with some Sam).

Simplicity

Sam hovered by and fretted.

"I could do that for you, Mr. Elrond, sir. There's no need to trouble yourself with such a simple thing."

Lord Elrond paused and fixed his keen gaze upon the flustered hobbit.

"And why should such a "simple thing" trouble me, Master Samwise?"

Sam stammered. "Surely it's better for the likes of me to do that..."

Lord Elrond looked down at the sleeping hobbit, free of evil and at peace at last. It was the third night since the arrival in Imladris.

His gaze settled once more on Sam. "You should not put yourself down, Master Samwise. Nor should you put down the value of... simple things."

And once Sam had reluctantly left, Lord Elrond gently took another wisp of dark curl between his fingers and eased an exquisitely wrought comb through it.

And the art and careful thought that had given rise to the crafting of that comb returned in the very tilt of the fingers and the meditative sweep of silver tines through dusky curls.

For it was that in the minds of Elves simple things and simple deeds held as much importance and healing as did great and complicated things.

And silence settled.

At Christmas in 2003, I had to write an h/c story, A Simple Touch, as my assignment for the Frodo New Year Mathom exchange. I wrestled with it at first before I hit my stride, and one of my "warm-up" attempts is a one-page excerpt that has been gathering dust.

Perhaps it could possibly be seen as a continuation of A Simple Touch -- certainly it is chronologically; although in reality it was more a precursor to the story I actually ended up writing...

As it is, here is a little bit of cousinly h/c fluff.

Troll's Nest

Crack!

The hobbits looked at one another. The stick lay in two pieces on the ground.

"At least you were right about one thing," Frodo said and he smiled gently at his two abashed cousins. "They were trolls once."

"And there aren't many in the Shire," added Sam, "who could say that they've seen trolls, live or dead. So I would say that you are ahead on that score, Master Pippin."

Strider said nothing, but as he approached with his back to Pippin, Frodo could see a quiet smile play about his lips.

Bill stood still as Strider carefully lifted Frodo from the saddle and carried him to a nest of blankets that Sam was busily arranging.

Old Bert's leg made a very nice back rest, Frodo decided, as he leaned against it in relief. Upon further reflection, however, he thought it seemed cold. Sunlight was dappled throughout the glade, but Frodo sat in the troll's shadow. He stirred restlessly and tried to pull the blankets higher, but his one-handed efforts were clumsy.

Pippin was beside him in a trice. "Allow me, cousin," he said gallantly and he pulled a blanket closer about Frodo's shoulders.

"Ah," said Frodo, but the cold seeped through from the stone and he shivered again. Pippin looked at him thoughtfully for a moment, and then his face lit up.

"Hang on," he said and, grasping the blankets, pulled Frodo along the grass. A moment later, the young hobbit was sitting on the sunlit grass, with his back solidly and comfortably wedged against his elder cousin's.

"What are you doing, Pip?" asked Merry. "We need water."

Pippin smiled sweetly up at him. "I'm helping Frodo much more by letting him lean against me here in the sunlight."

And to that Merry had no reply.

But it was at night, at the next encampment, that Pippin felt the cold. Any spare blankets, by common agreement, had been wrapped around Frodo, and so the youngest hobbit was left shivering. His pack made for a lumpy and uneven pillow which hitherto had not bothered him. But now Pippin shifted and squirmed and could not sleep.

Frodo watched Pippin toss and turn. Beyond the firelight, Strider and Merry sat talking quietly, their backs to the sleepers.

"Pippin," he whispered softly.

Pippin looked at him, instantly alert. "What's wrong, Frodo?" he asked.

Frodo thought for a moment. "I'm feeling cold, Pip," he said at last. "these blankets don't seem to help. I'm sorry to bother you, but would you mind awfully if you could lie here beside me?"

Pippin frowned and looked at the two talking at the edge of camp.

"I'm not sure that's a good idea, cousin," he said. "What if I jostle you in my sleep?"

"I'll take that chance," said Frodo with a smile.

And so, when Merry came to check on Frodo, he found Pippin nestled within his older cousin's embrace. Blankets securely covered them both, and Frodo's left arm was carefully supported -- laid over top of Pippin... who was fast asleep.

"Don't wake him," Frodo said softly.

"I won't," Merry whispered back. "But what about you? How are you doing?"

Frodo closed his eyes. "I feel a little better with Pip here. He is warm, and it comforts me."

End of excerpt

Disclaimer: All the settings and characters belong to J.R.R. Tolkien. This story is my way of working out or interpreting ideas and concepts already present in The Lord of the Rings. This is done for enjoyment, and for sharing, but not for profit.

Chapter 11: The Friendship of Men

A birthday drabble for Baranduin. (Written December 2004)

Eyes

Faramir looked into the clear, calm eyes and felt once more the thrill of recognition. In dreams, those eyes had gazed at him -- with resolve, then resignation, and finally, brokenly, in anguish.

He will not have the strength to do this task -- I have foreseen it. Yet his strength is greater than that of men -- to bear Evil, unflinching, and to pass into the dread vale yonder? Already I fall lower in the test than Frodo, son of Drogo.

Faramir knelt and kissed the halfling's brow.

"Fare you well, while you may."

But long after, those eyes haunted him still.

Belegcuthalion asked for a drabble that featured Aragorn and Frodo for her birthday. (Written March 2005)

Parting

They sat apart from the company. The wind bent the tawny grasses around them in a whistling murmur that never ceased.

"You were a friend unlooked for in the wilderness," Frodo said. "It grieves me that this is our last day together."

"I will visit the north," said Aragorn.

Frodo's fingers sought the gem of the Evenstar.

"When would you come?"

Aragorn smiled wistfully, sadly. "Not for some time, I fear."

Frodo's hand dropped to his lap.

"I will look forward to it."

* * *

But the grey company dwindled in the distance; the great green stone flashed. And the wind keened.