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A palantir sat again in the place prepared, high in the tower of Minas Tirith. The Ithil Stone was no more; still the king paused before drawing back the cloth. Gandalf’s hand dropped lightly on his shoulder. “It is a tool, and neither good nor evil of itself. You have the strength to bend it to your will.” Uncovering it, Aragorn stared into the orb. Walking slowly around, he paused at times, but stood longest facing northwest. Finally, weary, he reshrouded the ball and sat, head hanging. “All goes well in Gondor,” he sighed, “but I could not see her.”
Oork comes. Oork comes fast. Nice bone crunch, crunch, good. Food. Much food. Food one. Food two. Food many. Wall not stone. Food for Oork. Wall. Not-wall. Food many there. No wall. Ow! Ow! Hurt Oork. Food hurt Oork. Kill food. Crunch bones. Eat. Eat. Now, eat. Ow!! Ow!! Hurt Oork! Head hurt. Nice food there. Food! More food! Need food. Food Get food. Have food! Food now. Food later. Take. Oork need food thing. Oork want many food, take thing. Ow. Oork hurt. Not-stone thing hurt Oork. Oork hurt food. Use not-stone thing. Take food thing. Ow! Food? Ow!
The splash was very satisfying. Their spluttering victim rose, dripping water, mud and strands of vegetation, and threatening vengeance in three languages. Elladan turned a horrified countenance towards his brother. “That’s not …” “No! It’s the King! YOU said it was…” “I did not! I said ‘someone’s coming’. YOU…” “MY fault? This was all YOUR idea.” “Was not!” “Was too!” “Was…” Wet hands grabbed the twins’ shoulders. Sheepishly, they turned contrite faces to their captor. “We thought you were...” “We’re sorry, Uncle Valandil, we never meant...” Sighing, the King shook his head. “At least run away before you argue.”
Laws and Customs of the Eldar - Preamble Children of Men might reach their full height while Eldar of the same age were still in body like to mortals of no more than seven years. Not until the fiftieth year did the Eldar attain the stature and shape in which their lives would afterwards endure, and for some a hundred years would pass before they were full-grown Written for Isil Elensar - I'm turning 30 in 2005. WOOHOO! I would love a drabble involving 30 year old elveses, menses (uhhh... yeah), and hobbitses. Pick either, I don't have a preference. Make it happy, or a warm fuzzy. Sam glumly inspected the Party Field behind Bag End. Everything was ready: sun shining, warmer than expected; canvas taut, and banners flying; squibs and crackers from Dale; fireworks; birthday cake. One-hundred-forty-four invitations accepted, but more would come. There was food and drink in plenty to serve them all. “Speeches, ” he groaned. He heard a bottle of wine being poured behind him and a glass was thrust into his hand. “Cheer up, Sam, at least there will be no surprises.” “I wouldn’t count on it, Master Merry, and I’d rather a mug o’ beer.” “What?” Pippin breezed up, livery gleaming. “Toast the King’s 111th birthday in beer? I should think not!”
The ring was an unfamiliar heavy weight on my hand, pinning me to an unlooked for fate. “He gave me Narsil, too.” Elrohir laughed. “Narsil? What does father expect you to do with it?” I grin. “Put fear into the hearts of my foes. Drawing it, I declare, ‘Here is the Sword That Is Still Broken.’ They’ll flee my wrath unfought. ‘Twould be a good stabbing sword, with such a jagged point.” ”It was a hand-and-a-half! The hilt would unbalance such a short blade.” “But not unmasterable, I think.” “Estel, no!” “I am Aragorn.” I go to commission a sheath.
He kept the fire burning, watching the four Hobbits sleep. Sixty-seven years a Ranger and he could still count on the fingers of one hand the number of times Strider had been allowed in the best rooms by the suspicious Butterbur breed. A cold draft of fear seeped along the floor. Rising and silently drawing his sword, Aragorn moved to the door; a final bulwark against marauding Nazgûl. Staring down at the oblivious Frodo, he found the familiar pommel-heavy weight of the unbalanced weapon cocked jagged point downwards at the sleeper’s throat. In Isildur’s hand, this blade freed the Ring from Sauron. He is Isildur’s Heir. The careless, apple-cheeked Hobbit is no fitting guardian. The Ring ought to be his to protect. Give this land a few years free and there would be an army of Dúnedain sons behind him, and no sneer on Denethor’s face when he demanded what was rightly his, the crown of Gondor. He would besiege Rivendell, drag Arwen… his thoughts checked. He shook his head. Foolishness! He had lost count of the number of times he had eluded the chill grip of Nazgûl. It must be the Ring. He would be doubly on guard now.
It feels peaceful here, sheltered from the winds. Plants potted, but rioting up the walls, give bursts of color, sweet scents. Her hand stabs the needle almost at random into the fine silk. The thread tangles and she pulls until it snaps. She looks up at me. Rain-washed eyes brim, but do not spill. “How do you bear it?” It is never easy to stay behind. Life is sweeter now she has tasted freedom and love. She waits, fearing for husband, brother, and liege lord. I hug her, as desolate inside as she. “I have had many years of practice.”
Clear blue draws the eye into depths unguessable. A white-hot flaming mass too bright to look upon lurks at the edge of vision, bringing heat and light into the dark, glowing until it fades to red and grey. Showers of stars throb and pulse rhythmically, scattering light wantonly across the dome above to illumine soft darkness. Water hisses and patters as it quenches the built up heat and brings forth strength and form. Aye, there is light here, too, and beauty my hands wrench from fallow ore. When your travels are over, Gimli son of Gloin, come back to me.
To me it feels like exile, but to my son it is an adventure. Days of sailing. No land in sight. Every day the land we left forever draws closer. Finally, the new harbour. We tie up to the rude jetty, unload the trade goods and wait. They come and my son dances with excitement. “Look, look! They are no taller than me!” My hand on his shoulder, we offer greetings. They grunt and accept the trade for their wrought steel. Later, I find my son at their fire, smiling, laughing, hearing tales. I visit. This land will be his. Carefully as I examined the seals they appeared untouched. The superlatives therein – skilled, wise, clever, friend - could have been from Thengel. But he is not enough for Gondor, this unknown not-Rohirrim who seeks a place at my father’s court. For courtesy, he will dine with us tonight, put last and least below the salt at my birthday feast. Tomorrow, father and I decided, he will go to Lebennin where they are not so choosy whom they hire. I stand beside father as he welcomes him and see myself in a distorted mirror, taller than most, dark hair, grey eyes. Father points to the star he wears pinned to his left breast. “Not a dragon for the north?” he chides the stranger. “No, my Lord Steward. Though I saw King Bard, who slew Smaug, once in my youth. This,” he touches the star, “was my father’s.” “Well, Denethor,” father turns to me with a smile on his face. “We will have new stories from our new captain. I’m sure you have a place for him in your guard.” “Thank you, sir.” He bows formally. “It has been my dream to serve Gondor.” My hands clench as they walk away together.
The arrows whizzed randomly around the clout, but the man seemed not to notice as he drew and loosed, muttering curses under his breath that had naught to do with archery. “Still not decided?” I asked, leaning against a tree trunk. “I” – he loosed an arrow that went wide an inch to the right – “have not” – a second arrow followed into the scrub beyond – “been consulted.” His third arrow thwacked squarely into the clout. He turned to face me, anger clouding his expression. “Legolas, does nine seem a rather large number to proceed with stealth?” “You and Mithrandir, Boromir, Gimli, Frodo, of course, and Sam. Glorfindel, Elladan and Elrohir are the names I have heard most frequently. It does not seem an unwieldy group to me.” “My heart misgives me.” He carefully unstrung his bow. “Orcs stir in the mountains, and my brothers yearn to hunt them rather than follow Frodo to Mordor. Glorfindel’s weapon is the sword as is Boromir’s. I will have Andruil. Gimli, his axe.” A glint of humor came into his eyes as they guilelessly met mine. “We need an archer.” “Me?” “Legolas, Merry and Pippin.” “Me? Aragorn!” “Say, yes, and I will see it happens.”
A king sits deep in my armchair by the fire, glass of wine forgotten. He speaks of the exultation of the sword and he gleams golden and red in the flames’ light. He tells of far countries and strange peoples; the sorrow of those who fight and die and the joy when some twist of fate brings them as friends to his side. “Do you never envy the camaraderie of the field when Elessar and I ride to war, Faramir?” I finger the calluses on my fingers, from pen and not bow. Ithilien is green and whole. Gondor prospers. “No.” She does not know I have discovered what she does at the bottom of the garden, overlooked by none, or in the potting shed when she has dismissed the gardeners. Our estates bloom unrivalled, and she is known for gentleness when she gives succor to those in need. “I love best all things that grow and are not barren,” she declares, turning again to deep discussions of crops and pasturage. I am skilled at creeping up, unseen, on even wary creatures. She freezes, sword poised. I slide my blade out, and confront her, smiling. “Spar with me this time, Éowyn?”
The pasture around Sarn Ford is not fenced. Defeated, the young Ranger watches the stallion dance away again from his reaching hand. He rests his hands on his thighs, panting and hot, as the horse trots circles out of reach; winter coat rough and fuzzy, tangled mane tossing. “Roheryn, Aragorn needs you,” he pleads, pauses, and starts back alone. A nose nudges a shoulder. The great horse stands docile as the halter is slipped over his ears. Pacing quietly, he rolls his eyes at the young man as if to say, “You should have told me sooner it was important.”
“Is it true, father?” Weary, I grab his shoulder and carefully inspect him. His clothes are grimed and rent, but little more so than after a day in the fields. The bloodstains are old, dried. Tears have washed clean tracks, smeared again now with the back of his hand. “They say you left your post and killed in the Hallows.” I cannot belittle his fears for they mirror my own. I draw him, unresisting, into my arms. “I had to do what was right for Faramir. There is a king now and I hope for mercy not only justice.”
Aragorn will not rest while the wizard sleeps, preferring to face the utter darkness awake. Gandalf tires at last and the staff that lit their way goes out. The dark presses in; palpable, cold and damp. The Hobbits, Frodo’s daylight dignity forgotten, sleep tumbled like puppies, huddling warmth. The elf, lost in dreams, is no company. Gimli’s soft snore is unmistakable. Boromir wanted to share the watch and propped himself sitting upright against the walls. He succumbs to sleep, mumbling assurances of alertness at need. Aragorn, still wary and sleepless, listens for the orcs, for the sounds of stealthy feet. Dead and despoiled. Faramir made a deep ‘tchaa” of disgust and walked away from the downed tree that had shaded the hillside. The marauding orcs could not strew poison everywhere but they took delight in seeking out beautiful places to hack at the soil and sow their filth. Hungry despite the devastation, he pulled a peach from his pack. The heady scent promised sweet summers and full harvests as he slowly savored it. Licking the last of the juice from his fingers, he tucked the pit under a flap of uprooted turf and smoothed it back down before moving on.
Wearing all the clothing he carried with him, wrapped in his blanket, Pippin huddled over the meagre fire. With no awake companions other than the man who stared silently out into the wilderness, he felt lonelier than ever. His stomach rumbled. Boromir turned. “Still enjoying your adventure?” Tired, Pippin blurted out, “I’m always cold, always hungry, and wishing my father had put his hand on my shoulder and said, ‘Stay. You’re needed.’ when I went off.” A look that might have been pain, or regret, or just a trick of the unsteady fire-light passed over Boromir’s face. “I as well.”
I have been too long alone, Boromir thought as he surveyed the empty forest undecided about his course for the day. He missed even his horse’s company. Since that evil river crossing, he had had nothing to talk to. Sufficient, he’d thought himself, inured to hardships. In this curséd autumn wilderness, he had not seen so much as a plume of smoke or desolate farm. Feeling eyes upon him, he whirled, but again saw only nearly leafless branches swaying in the breeze. Imladris. Fool’s errand. Better Faramir had come. Where to? Soon, he would be loudly answering himself. The Ranger acts lost. Rumour ran thru the valley and within hours the stranger was being closely shadowed as he wandered through the woods near Rivendell to see what he might portend. He looked like a Ranger - tall, dark-haired, bright flashing eyes - save his strangely fashioned clothes. No Ranger behaved like this one. Each day he set a new course and followed it doggedly, silently, stopping only to forage for food or hunt. Each evening he sat silent around his fire. If he seeks the hidden path, why does he not call out now that he is in elvish woods? Elrohir sat next to his brother in the Hall at Helm’s Deep. Looking up he saw the dwarf from the Fellowship smiling at him. “Gimli, Gloin’s son, at your service.” “Elrohir, at yours and your family’s.” “You missed a mighty battle with a mort of killing. I myself have counted forty-two!” Elrohir felt very confused. “Forty-two?” Elladan unhelpfully began, “Dagor...?” “Dagger, axe, whatever weapons it takes in battle.” Gimli leaned on the table. “You are mighty warriors. Have you managed forty-two?” Elrohir did not remember forty battles as large as Helm’s Deep and certainly not during Gimli’s lifetime. A quick glance at his brother discerned the same bewilderment he felt. How many dwarves facing how many orcs did it take to make a battle in Gimli’s mind? He thought back over his largest skirmishes and the few real battles. “We might have done forty-five,” he ventured. “Together, not each,” Elladan added quickly as Gimli’s expression fell. “Hah!” Gimli pounded the table. “And I’ve got forty-two! Legolas only counts forty-one.” He walked away whistling. Elrohir raised a quizzical eyebrow. “Legolas said he’d been in forty-one battles?” There had to be a good story here. As one they rose to find him. Home? He ran lightly through the branches and they, old friends all, welcomed him back with soft rustlings. He had known Fangorn and the song of sleep he sang stilled their voices to rest once more. Landing lightly on his balcony, the familiar trappings of the room with rock-hewn walls tugged him inside. He turned his back to their embrace and moved to his accustomed place looking out over Greenwood in the sun. Trees rolled away to the unshadowed south and birds called a welcome to the wandering son returned at last. Gripping the wrought stone ledge, his hands felt the stone both rough and smooth under his fingers. Startled, he looked down. He did not remember the feel of grit that chafed at his fingers. Dancing lightly, his hands found the shape of themselves. A child of this age, he was not old as the Eldar counted old. Trees grew and died but the rock of Arda should endure. Yet his hands’ touch had worn down the very stone of the mountain. Could anything hold him here? The sea called. The flame of Aragorn and the rock of Gimli held him fast. He would stay awhile for friendship. Feet dance over treadles and the shed accepts the shuttle at last. Gently beaten, the taut warp shifts. Weft builds bridges, over and over. Easily finding the rhythm of the patterns, Arwen smiles as her thoughts fly to all that went before. Times alone, twisting fragile strands into unity strong enough to bind, hair fine, but enough to spread from north to south. Dipping again and again into murky depths, to confound Shadow with its own shades. Coaxing, firmly leading the unruly into place. Untangling, beginning again. Adamantine gems await their place. Our tasks are not so different, my love. The tower was once fair, but only for Mithrandir would he look on her. The one road was unsafe for him to tread. He knew that a man strong, determined, clever and not afraid of heights could climb up unseen and look down into the unhealthy valley. Fear clung like ground fog in the hollows. Miasma wafted up from wind-rippled fields. But too little knowledge could be gleaned from above. He paused before the descent to check the extra skins of water strapped onto his back. Fastening a strip of cloth over his mouth, he started down, vowing, Never again. “In the army, arrows stay in the quiver,” Boromir instructed from all the superiority of six month’s service. With three extra shafts stuck in the ground at his feet, Faramir nocked an arrow and held it loosely against his bow. Their dogs were ranging through the field, plumed tails barely showing above the grass. Forest ringed the meadow and climbed the slopes around them. Faramir gnawed his lip and tried not to let his brother’s military stance irritate him. “We should not be here.” Boromir turned a raised eyebrow and his winning smile on Faramir. “I’m on leave and it’s rather late for you to worry about playing truant. We’ve been gone since dawn.” Faramir shook his head. “Not that. I don’t mind the essays father hands out as punishments. When you said, ‘let’s hunt’, I didn’t know you meant here. Even father doesn’t hunt here. This is the King’s forest.” Boromir gave a hoot of laughter. “No need to be so literal. Father rarely hunts and still half the meat on the Steward’s table comes from these lands.” “But it’s culled by wardens, not hunted for pleasure.” Boromir shrugged. “There hasn’t been a king in a thousand years and the game wardens needn’t have all the fun. The House of Húrin has hunted this land often enough. When I am Steward, I’ll make you free of it with an official proclamation. Does that satisfy your conscience?” Harsh squawks interrupted them as a pheasant flapped into the air. Both bows twanged. Boromir’s arrow sailed inches over the bird, but Faramir’s pierced it. A second bird rose. Faramir plucked another arrow from the ground and his bow sang again to bag the brace, even as Boromir still fumbled in his quiver. Boromir reached over and ruffled the boy’s hair. “Good shooting.”
Searching remembered refuges, Faramir found the prince in the third place he looked. The stoney niche concealed a huddle of boy, skinny arms clutching overlong legs. "I am Man, not peredhel, and yet..." The quavery voice was a child's treble still. He looked away. "My father came early to manhood." Faramir smothered a grin. There was promise of breadth in the slim shoulders; strength in the graceful, clever hands; wisdom behind the reddened, puffy eyes. This Son of the Elves, maturing slowly. "It is five years still 'till you are twenty, Eldarion. There is time enough," Faramir assured him.
“Aragorn!” Arwen’s lip curls in distaste as she answers Elladan. “Yes, of course I remember him.” Flinty grey eyes with a predatory look. A hard mouth that leered, gathering spittle, when he watched her. Hands seeking to grab and hold, hips grinding into her. Too dignified to struggle, she had stared unflinchingly, hoping the contempt in her eyes lashed him. “It was meant to be.” The hot wet feel of his breath against her ear disgusted her. “Our sons will be kings.” Killed young by wolves: a just fate. “Why would Arathorn choose that name for his son?” she queries.
“I feel all muddled up, Mr. Frodo,” Sam admitted, glumly contemplating the floor of the boat. “The Lady said she was no diviner of the future, but it was so real. Trees falling. That Ted Sandyman, fingers under his braces, strutting ‘round like he owned the Shire. Why, it’s almost more than I can bear to think on. I do feel this boat is taking me the wrong way.” “You don’t have to stay with us.” The sadness in Frodo’s eyes near broke Sam’s heart. “No, I promised myself I’d stay the whole way. I’ll not bewail my fate now.”
bewailed
“It’s a figment of your imagination.” Merry shrugged off Pippin’s fears casually as he carefully divided the food in the pan into equal portions. Moria’s dark pressed down, but the small fire was cheerful. Pippin was not so lightly dismissed. “I saw them, Merry, as clearly as I see you. Eyes in a face, just as the fire flared up. I was looking out into the tunnel and I saw them. Then I heard footsteps, even though we were all here and resting.” “So, go tell Strider or Gandalf. There’s nothing I can do about it.” “Bother Gandalf again? No!”
Shouts, laughs, and horns’ blats drifted upwards on the light evening breeze with the scent of beer and frying sweets. The gathering shadows concealed no fear. From his high place, Aragorn saw mothers shooing children indoors away from the whirling skirts of dancers filling the streets. Nine times he had watched his people celebrate more raucously than was deemed seemly at the formal New Year’s court. He longed to roam the streets, swilling bitter beer on every level and learning new tales of that day of joy. Arwen took pity on him at last. “Go. I will make your excuses.”
“Do not underestimate your enemy. He will not behave stupidly just because you wish him to. Respect yourself. Respect him and you will live to see victory in the end.” Fine words. Easy to hear on the cool, shaded terrace where the stones of Minas Tirith reflect the sun into kindly warmth. Harder to put into practice when the enemy is lurking, somewhere, and injury and death are naught but a slip away. Only the foolish wait for hidden foes, and then betray themselves. Faramir scans the terrain and slowly moves his troops into position, silently praising the wisdom of his father.
Pippin stirred the mush of bacon and oatmeal; a scanty, poor way to start the day, for five travelers, and one of them oversized. A real breakfast would have eggs and streaky rashers, with sweet hearth cakes, bursting with raisins and dripping butter. Dividing the meal, he ladled a double portion into Strider’s bowl. There was a slight hesitation before the Ranger dug in. “Not my idea of good, either.” Pippin grimaced, sat down and started to eat. “You’ve lived with elves?” Mouth full, Strider nodded. “What’s your favorite breakfast?” A pause. A swift smile. “Buttered hearth cakes with raisins.”
Trailing hopefully behind the learned pair, Ioreth heard only obscure bits of herb lore. Someone needed to ask the practical questions before all the Elves went home and it was too late. When the Warden left first, Ioreth planted herself boldly in the door, blocking the way. “Tis a marvel to hear you and the Warden speak, lord, though most still here only need time to heal, as you said. I was here during the siege, of course. 'The hands of the king are the hands of a healer' I said, and that was how it was known. But I don't just take care of bandages and so on, no, no. That's not what I normally do. Quite the opposite and always called for the difficult cases. Not that I anticipate any problems. But I’m sure you understand it has us all in a puzzle. Her grandmother would know, of course, but what with one thing and another I’ve been far too busy to seek her out. It’s not a thing I would normally expect to ask a girl’s father, but you are a healer too.” She paused for his answer. His eyes were kind but bewildered. So like a man, she thought. Can name plants in languages no one speaks, but never a practical thought in his head. “It’s the differences. I quite understand that. And babies come whether the embroidery on the presentation gown is finished or no. But it wouldn’t do to expect the happy day too soon, or too late. It will be hard on the queen, but perhaps she mightn’t think it so, it being normal for her, of course. Still, a year in the womb is longer than we’re accustomed to, and if I need to make allowances, I’d like to know now.”
Orcs seethed under the mountains, from Gundabad to Redhorn. None could tell the time the surge would be loosed, seeking to overwhelm the western lands. For five hundred years and ten Elrohir had fought to stem the flood. Now at the moment the tide would surely crest… Aragorn has need of his kindred. Could the addition of one warrior, however skilled, make a difference? Perhaps. Less than a score of riders gathered here; a few more waited towards Tharbad. He fingered the razor edge of his blade and sheathed it. Elladan could stay and fight without him. His place was south.
There would be orcs enough in Rohan and Gondor. Elrohir could stay and fight here.
“I could not let Estel fight alone.” “Nor I. Do we not share a father?” “’Tisn’t natural.” Sam scoops up flowing water from the short trough and sprinkles it on a thirsty flower, shaking his head. “How so, Sam?” Elrond gravely regards the Hobbit, suppressing a smile. “It’s not magic. Surely the City of Kings is allowed to have marvels?” Sam snorts. “The kitchens at Bag End have had pumped water for as long as anyone can remember and I have a built a deal of irrigation, Master Elrond.” He waves the ladle at the shoulder of the mountain connected to the city two full levels below them. “It looks like water runs uphill here!”
Sam just wanted to be doing something, even when Master Elrond ordered him from Frodo’s chamber. “To give him a taste of home,” Sam told the maiden he found in the pantry. “If you can spare the spices.” The elf gathered them: mustard-seed, almonds, vinegar, cinnamon, ginger, raisins, honey. Sam found she could grind and taste - and laugh - as easy as any Hobbit lass. The covered crock was placed on a shelf. “For when he wakes.” A tear trickled down Sam’s cheek. “I’m sorry, I don’t even know your name. “I am Arwen, Samwise. Aragorn told me all about you.”
Fire tosses from hand to hand. Balls fly. Bodies curve to form hoops. “Hands! Momma, he’s on his hands!” Faramir bounces on his mother’s lap. Pale face illumined by her smile, Finduilas leans close to hug him back to safety. Boromir stands entranced by the tumbling bodies, eyes wide as he struggles not to miss a single leap or toss. Imrahil, a sleepy and indifferent Elphir cradled against his shoulder, catches Denethor’s eye as applause ripples around the crowded hall. The Steward smiles. Some of the foreign entertainers were, no doubt, spies. The amusement they brought was worth the risk. Do not hope! Aragorn admonishes himself. The wait now will be as nothing to what has gone before. Gondor’s king, but Arnor still in disarray. He must earn the Sceptre before he has the right to Arwen’ s hand. The crowd cheers, sound swelling as the concourse of elves draws near. He could not demand of the messengers, “Does Elrond carry a sceptre?” Only Arwen claims his attention as Elrond leads her forward. A moment passes before Aragorn realises the warmth of his love’s hand is balanced by the cool smoothness of the rod. “I am not so cruel,” Elrond whispers. Imrahil regards his unrepentant daughter’s mulish eyes and compressed lips. He keeps his tone reasonable. “It has been understood for years. The lands suit. He is a good, honorable man, who will care for you well.” “I do not love him. May I not marry for love? The queen did, and Faramir.” Imrahil thought they had much to answer for. “You will learn to love him. There is nothing against him.” Lothiriel guiltily looks away. “I do not like his kisses.” Suspicion surfaces. “Whom else have you been kissing?” Eyes joyful, she smiles. “Éomer! Would not a king be better?” “It’s not true, is it?” Imrahil looked at his younger nephew. A suspicion of tears lurked in the corners of the boy’s eyes. Faramir’s words spilled over themselves. “That Captain Thorongil is dead because he was stupid.” “As far as I know, he is alive, and still fighting the Enemy in the east. Who told you that?” Faramir’s lip quivered and he swallowed hard. “Stupid! Like Eärnur. Heading off to fight the Enemy and not known dead.” Denethor, leave your sons some heroes. Imrahil drew Faramir close. “Thorongil is very clever. Did I ever tell you about the time…” Horses gone, the dogs also. Starved rat, a feast carefully shared. Harbouring strength enough to lift blade and none spared to quench fires raging unchecked through Osgiliath. “Eldacar! We cannot hold.” The rightful king must flee a once-fair city. “Pure-blooded filthy barbarian! He burns his own.” Escape barely possible, and much abandoned. “You cannot go in, my lord. ‘Twould be death.” Hands held him back from the door, heat from the flames searing through mail. The palantiír could not be left for that haughty rebel. Ballistas set and loosed. Eldacar watched until the tower fell into the waters of Anduin.
At last he was besieged in Osgiliath, and held it long, until hunger and the greater forces of the rebels drove him out, leaving the city in flames. In that siege and burning the Tower of the Stone of Osgiliath was destroyed, and the palantír was lost in the waters. - Appendix A
The wind was stilled; stars shone diamond pinpoints in the milky arc of the sky. Cold seeped around his blanket, but Aragorn was inured to the hardships of winter travel. Something else had woken him. O hon ring finnil fuinui He leant on one elbow. Legolas turned at the movement. “I did not mean to wake you.” Legolas’s voice still barely carried. “Admit it. I told no untruths about Arwen’s beauty.” Legolas grinned, “Was that not Luthien you described when singing that “You know well it was not.”
The vows spoken, the feast eaten, the king and queen had disappeared long ago. The party was raucous now; too much wine had flowed. Elrohir swirled his glass. The rich, red wine of the south stored the heat of summer and it burned through his veins. He leaned back against a wall, grateful for the chill of the stone. Elladan made his unsteady way towards him, glass refilled, and stopped to help him prop the wall. “At least we need no longer wonder about our sister and Aragorn. They have been gone for a very long time.” Elrohir grinned into his glass. “Perhaps he is having difficulties. Shall we go to his assistance?” Elladan gave a low chuckle. “It is more likely that they are indulging several times.” “Several…” The wine and Elrohir’s desires conspired. “Have you ever been tempted?” Elladan considered the question. His gaze roved around the room. “Gondor boasts very beautiful women. There. The one in blue.” The lady caught Elrohir’s eye. Her tongue peeped out and its tip made a languorous circle around her lips. She smiled and inclined her head in invitation. Elladan leaned over and said softly in his ear. “She has ‘come hither’ eyes.” Her finger traced the neckline of her bodice and disappeared into the mysterious dark of her cleavage. Elrohir gulped the last of the wine in his glass. The potent liquid spread its warmth in his stomach, and the heat flowed down, then surged back up. He could feel his ears glow. “There could be no harm in talking with her.” Beside him, Elladan’s arm trembled. “Or touching.” Elrohir pushed himself off the wall and faced his brother. “Both of us?” Elladan laughed. He took his brother’s arm and steered him towards the woman. “We have done everything else together.”
Aragorn heard voices from the Queen’s garden and paused at the window to observe. Eldarion and Legolas were playing “going to Mordor.” “Frodo” wore a real cloak from Lorien with a rather prominent ring, woven from straw, on a string around his neck. “Gollum” was suitably nasty, half naked and smeared with mud. Aragorn scanned the garden. Near the fountain in the center, he saw an overturned flowerpot next to a discarded tunic and a pair of boots. “Gollum” was receiving last-minute pointers on his behavior. “Crouch a little lower. Gollum used his hands as much as his feet. Now show me how you can sound like him.” “Gollum” cavorted energetically around “Frodo”, growling out suitable choking sounds and ‘my prescioussesses’ until he came to a dramatic stop just under the window and proclaimed “Yellow face, it hurts us!” And caught Aragorn’s eye. Laughing, the king stepped over the low sill into the garden. “Papa!” The delighted childish voice rang out. “Come play with us. Legolas gets to be Gollum, but you can be Sam.” The trip had been long and the “princess” at the end of it was very disappointing. She was the oldest person Éowyn had ever seen, parchment skin and gnarled hands, and had to be helped into her chair. Her eyes though were still very alive and they watched keenly until Éowyn felt she had to say something or burst. “I know a strange thing, grandmother.” “And what is that, child?” “When the great dark came at the end of the last age, the Witch King was killed by a woman. And she had the same name as you and me.”
Plonck. Boromir’s fingers tangled in the strings. Grimacing at the discord, he tried again. Plonck. Again!
Midsummer’s sultry heat is not as oppressive in the rarefied air of the Citadel. Breezes cool sweat slicked skin and lift tickling strands of hair from off sticky limbs where it lies tangled. Long dark hair catches between them and pulls. “Your permission, lady?” he queries softly, as he gently unwraps the hair and smoothes flyaway ends back from a beloved face. She stirs sleepily under his gentle hands and smiles, completely relaxed. He slips his arms under her soft shoulders and hugs her closer to him. “I don’t wish to go to bed, ada. I’m not tired at all.” InstaDrabble words: It looked innocent and deserted, but caution was necessary. The old farmhouse’s roof was half decayed and the walls buckled, but the door was still hinged in place and closed. Creeping catlike on elbows and knees, Faramir wormed his way closer, to see into the interior. He stilled in a clump of peony as he spotted a slouching shadow on the far wall. He fervently wished to identify the shadow as friend or foe, but tickling touches crept on his face and into his neck. Ants. Peonies always have ants. He quickly slid back out.
He squints against the glare, knowing sunshine must light the day, but gloom lies heavy on his heart and mind. Edoras looms behind him, and exile before. The coin of the realm he loves is debased. Lies are the new currency, and truth affords few comforts. Fear for his kin and his people squeezes his hand and the great horse fidgets against the pressure of the bit. Escape? No! There is too much yet to do. His destination will not be the unknown wild. They will fight. Gathering his troops with a swift gesture, he does not look back. “Forward!” InstaDrabble Words: “King’s Justice!” the old man snorted. “I’ll believe it when I see it.” The tall stranger gave a bemused look around the inn court where the soldiers stood. The old judge in his robes settled behind a table and the line of the accused waited to be heard. “Here in the south you do not trust the king to see justice done?” The man spat. “The lawyers will allege whatever they want and the judgment always goes with the biggest bribe.” Grey eyes flashed and the stranger folded his hands on the table as the first hearing began. “Not anymore.”
Summer haze greys the sky over the slate green water. The sunset colors, muted bands of red and purple, green and gold, arc across the horizon and shade into a smoky grey sky the same color as my love’s eyes. The brisk wind pushes the single sail and our small boat skims the waves. I shiver as the sun sinks. My love pulls me into his arms. Warmth, a hand on my shoulder; I turn my face up to him. Sweet lips meet mine. The frantic luff of the sail breaks our concentration. “We may kiss, but you must steer.”
“Your heir will do you credit, Denethor. “ Boromir stretched a tiny bit taller as the visiting wizard patted his shoulder. Dismissed with a wave, he walked as slowly as possible from the room, studying the Head of the White Council and the Steward of Gondor. Soon - fairly soon - he too would need to lead men. What was the secret? No one would ever question an order that either man gave. Let Faramir prefer that ratty grey wizard who skulked around the archives and told stories. Boromir knew what was expected of him, and would do it well.
By dawn she was surely far enough away. No feeling of slow time and deep peace, that she thought the normal state of Arda, to thwart her here. Arwen reached out into the land. The field lay expectant, but in the grip of winter still. Hoarfrost tingled, slick and cool under bare toes. A deep breath. Dancing across the field, she poured her heart and will into a song of spring. Expecting a riot of growth, she turned to mark her path, seeing only a faint trace where the ice had melted under her lightly passing steps. Image. Not substance.
The Lay of Lúthien
And her song released the sudden spring, I understand metal and fire, light and crystal, but the soft things elude me. The sponge, held in a beloved’s hand, sluices the grime from the forge off my chest. I tremble from other than chill, heat erupting under tender ministrations; gentle fingers run the towel over the curves of my body. What is this unbounded, inexhaustible power that she has? We have sons – tall, proud sons – and still the copper strands of her hair weave their net around my heart and her soft eyes plead. I know that look. Another child? I am lost in her softness, and agree. Calves aching, we climb the still unrailed stair. The acrid fumes of new mortar invade my nose as I clamber up and see the top chamber at last. I pass from window to window caressing the smooth white stone sills. Birds glide below me, tiny shadows rippling over the thriving corn. Anduin’s silver line fades into the horizon farther than I have ever seen before. My breath feels ragged and not from the exertion of the climb. “Too expensive and unnecessary.” Ingold sounds harsh. “You are not a king, Ecthelion.” “I know.” Yet I am Steward of all I survey.
2698 Ecthelion I rebuilds the White Tower in Minas Tirith. Even the Steward’s son had finally left. In the Third Company common room lit only by dim blue glows guttering in pools of wax, a hand came out, hovered, and placed the rider firmly on the board. “Checkmate.” Man and wizard chuckled. “A good game. Well fought.” With efficient bustle, the captain secured the room: buttery door closed, windows bolted, candles snuffed, lantern lit. “I’ll escort you to your quarters.” “Aragorn.” The man froze. “You should not name me that.” “There are none to overhear. Your mother sends her love, and I have news from the North.”
“Ada!” Legs still chubby propel Legolas across the courtyard. His arms clutch an ungainly burden of leaves raked up from the forest floor. The King’s steady hand halts his forward rush and keeps the boy upright. “Look, ada! Leaves red! Yellow! “ He struggles. “… brown. All from trees. Down! Fix now?” Such trust in his father’s skills! There will be far worse than falling leaves his little son will have to face by and by. And so few things Thranduil will be able to fix for him. “The trees are sleeping now. Soon they will get new leaves.”
The Eldar grew in bodily form slower than Men, but in mind Time in the practice yard had paid off. Faramir’s adolescent body was no longer gawky though his fingers were still ink-stained. Boromir nodded his approval, passing a full mug of brew to his brother. “No thanks.” Boromir gave an exasperated sigh and slowly shook his head. “I thought you wanted to succeed in the guard.” “You know I do.” Faramir’s head came up proudly. “Will you refuse to drink with your men?” “No, but…” Boromir overrode his protest. “How will you know when to stop? Have you ever been drunk?” “No, I…”Faramir squirmed. “Then drink. Your true education starts today.” Elrond finds a lonely niche. Tonight they left with no excuse, fingers interlaced and eyes only for each other. His little girl is maid no longer. “I know how you feel,” Celeborn says from the doorway. “I thought you not good enough for Celebrían. Yet she was happy, as Arwen is.” “They need not flaunt it so.” Celeborn grins. “Will a handshake content you when my daughter greets you in Aman?” Elrond trembles. His mind’s eye sees her loving face surrounded by summer-gold hair, beckoning him West. Heat washes through him. “I will make sure Celebrían welcomes her mother first.”
She was not completely unattractive; dull eyes, unnaturally red lips over yellowish teeth, but breasts trussed high and opulent in the scoop of her neckline. A head shorter, she stood too close and Boromir, of necessity, stared down her cleavage while they spoke. Faramir smothered a grin, and laid a hand on Denethor’s arm. “Take pity on him. Call him away with an urgent message.” “Boromir works to win concessions from her family.” Denethor looked Faramir over thoughtfully and smiled at his younger son. “A man, indeed. Ask her to dance.” “Me, sir?” “Did you not want to rescue Boromir?”
“I might as well have stayed in bed.” Pippin kicked the tent stakes. Ithilien beckoned beyond the camp, but he had been confined to bed until that morning. “I don’t mind serving at the feasts, Merry, and I want to assist the kings, but why are we waiting outside now?” Merry shrugged. At last they were ushered in front of the thrones. Aragorn and Éomer stood. Aragorn addressed the assembled captains of Rohan and Gondor. “It is our opinion that these esquires have proved valiant, skilled, and worthy of the accolade of knighthood. Kneel, Peregrin.” “Kneel, Meriadoc,” added Éomer, smiling. “Dwarves have a sure cure for sadness.” Legolas turned to his friend. “I never heard that before.” Gimli detected a gleam of interest behind the elf’s previously remote eyes. “It’s not something we tell everyone, now is it? But seeing you have a proper respect for rock, well, I could be enticed to share it. You must keep it secret.” Legolas openly registered curiosity. “I respect...” “Good,” Gimli overrode him. Taking Legolas’s hand he led him through a breathless series of steps and turns. They stumbled to a laughing stop. “Of course, it’s better with a band and twenty-four dancers.”
His reaction was all she had hoped for. Aragorn’s eyes caught hers but slid inexorably to the banner showing the king’s arms that took up most of the wall in the small chamber. It stood as tall as he, the light fabric swaying slightly from the movement of their passage across the room. He reached out one tentative hand and touched an adamantine gem on the stars surrounding the White Tree. Even in the golden candlelight, it sparked blue fire. She had fed the worms, unwound the cocoons, spun the thread, dyed the color, woven the cloth, broidered it with gems, and carved the staff. Seeing the delighted wonder on his face made the memory of the labour light. “You made this for me?” he marveled. Arwen laid her hand over his. “Until this moment no eyes nor hands but mine have touched it. I put strands of my hair into the weave; see where the weft seems thicker?” She took the edge and folded it over. “And the back mirrors the front, so all will know the rightful king rides under it. It is time, Elessar.” She called him by the name that had been foretold for him. Delight suffused his face, but he shook his head. “I cannot take this.” “It is yours.” Arwen laughed. “I have already spoken to Sam. There is room on the pony for the staff.” Aragorn’s eyes softened, but he shook his head again. “My path may not lead directly to the White City, and much unforeseen may happen in the wild. I would not have it arrive tattered and ragged, nor see it put to base use.” His hand reverently stroked the crown that surmounted the tree. “Bring it to me in triumph, beloved, when the quest is accomplished.” Arwen lowered her eyes to hide her disappointment. “I wove what strength I could for you in the making, but I will content myself with this.” She took his hands, and brought the left to her lips. Pressing a kiss on his fingers, she said, “May Manwë give you strength to face your trials.” She kissed his right hand. “Tulkas guide your sword to vanquish those who oppose you.” She took his face between her hands. “And Yavanna grant us a life together in peace.” She gently kissed his lips. After a few moments, the kiss turned more insistent, and his arms slid around her shoulders. She felt both a certainty and a promise in his embrace. And Aragorn said to Halbarad: 'What is that that you bear, kinsman?' For he saw that instead of a spear he bore a tall staff, as it were a standard, but it was close-furled in a black cloth bound about with many thongs. Contemplating the caves in his future, Legolas stared morosely into his empty wine glass, unable to decide which prospect dismayed him more, the expedition to Gimli’s Glittering Caves or displeasing Thranduil by recruiting for Ithilien in his father’s halls. A servitor refilled his glass and placed the new bottle of wine on the table. Legolas had no pretensions to being a connoisseur, but in Minas Tirith, the dark ruby red and crimson color, so like the Dorwinion, usually portended a heavy, resinous taste. He took a careless gulp. It was a very good wine. He took another, careful sip and rolled the full-bodied liquid around his palate. The herby nose of black cherries and earth, redolent of sunny hillsides and long summer days, overwhelmed him with a complex array of flavors, and lingered to a long, smooth finish. If Gondor had this, perhaps there was something Ithilien could offer Thranduil. Watching Faramir romping with his grandchildren brought a surge of what felt unpleasantly like envy. Which is ridiculous, Éomer chided himself. Rohan was as prosperous as Gondor, and he was King not merely Prince. Éowyn was still fair, but he preferred Lothiriel, whom no man had ever mistaken for a stripling. Even his grandsons were more numerous! The envious niggle could not be stilled. Some men had all the luck. The wind blew Faramir’s thick, unbound hair into his eyes. Éomer reached past his meager plaits to settle the straw hat more firmly on his head, for bald scalps burn.
“…he released the captive leaf, letting it enjoy a second, unlooked-for life before it wafted down, down, to settle lower… he suddenly longed for the leaf to live, fly back to spring and become green again. He longed for all the woods to be green and wind to sigh with the mysterious voices of his first days.” The mallorns no longer made an unbroken roof of gold; naked fingers of silver crisscrossed patches of open sky. Still, the leaves drifted down, shrouding the mound of Cerin Amroth in splendour. In the way of elven flesh, nothing but a drift of rusty-black wool poking through the pile of bright golden leaves marked the place where Arwen lay; had lain; was no more. Celeborn slumped against a mallorn trunk; both the morning and the evening were gone from his world. Arwen had died alone, but Nienna grant she had been not afraid. Had Aragorn waited for her? Foolish thought. Celeborn was bound to Arda, but was the final outcome, in that unfathomable place, already assured and they were together still? If only she had had the courage to leave with him. His brow rose at the hypocrisy of the thought, and his mouth twisted ruefully. Courage indeed, for his granddaughter to trust in Eru. He knew where his love dwelt, and still he feared. Was it courage to stay and share the fate of Middle-earth in this Age of Men, or courage to face the uttermost West at last? He would find Galadriel.
The great wave that washed half way up the cliff smashed the boats at anchor, ruined the dockside tithe-barns and storehouses, and washed the piers out to sea, but the stone fortress on the promontory escaped unscathed. The Lord of Cobas begged labor and drove his subjects to rebuild, for the Lord loved his land and would protect his people from the wrath of a supply-shorted King of Númenor. The sea stayed empty for months. Then a ship came from the North. Elendil stepped onto the raw wooden dock. “Cousin, Númenor has fallen. Will you stand with me against darkness?”
I’m probably taking liberties to call this ancestor “Lord of Cobas,” but it seemed a reasonable extrapolation from the location. - Gwynnyd
The crusting of silver embroidery was rough under his fingers - Aragorn felt overdressed in the finery - but he obediently stood still while Galadriel adjusted the folds of the robe and placed a gem-hung filet on his forehead. His body was rested enough, but he was heartsick, longing for things he knew he could not have: a kingdom to rule, his love by his side, sons. “I am grateful for your care, Lady.” Galadriel’s eyes caught his with an ineffable expression. “These woods hold many virtues. Walk on the hill of Cerin Amroth. There is beauty there to ease your heart.” Gingerly picking up the glass with her one, good hand, Éowyn eyed the murky orange-brown mixture with dismay, and set it down untasted. Perhaps her arm did not ache quite that badly. She went and leaned on the window frame. The rooftops spread below her were not inspiring and the sky roiled with storm clouds billowing up from the south. The damp wind blowing in smelled of rain and ash, and chilled her. She shivered and a lance of pain shot along her broken arm. She turned from the window when she heard the door open. One of the young healers came into the room and frowned at the full medicine glass. “You have not drunk your willow bark, my lady. If I thought that meant your arm did not pain you, I would be glad, but I see it is otherwise.” Éowyn guiltily dropped her hand from where it had been cradling the splint, trying to infuse warmth to the break. “We brew willow bark differently in Rohan.” “That may be, Lady Éowyn, but this is an ancient formula and has proven very effective.” His tolerant smile annoyed her. Effective for pain, but better as an emetic. She liked licorice, ginger, garlic and tumeric, but not together! “Leave it. If needful, I will drink it later,” she said in the tone of voice she used to exact obedience from errant servants. He bowed himself out of the room, and she found herself once again alone and chilled. Rain sheeted down outside her window, obscuring what little view she had. She awkwardly tried to fasten a shawl around her shoulders. There would be no walks in the gardens today, neither for her nor the Steward. He was no doubt as cold as she was, and, if he had drunk that foul brew, probably nauseous as well. The door opened again, and she turned an impatient eye on the maid who stood there. “Sorry to disturb. I was told to see if you needed anything.” The maid effaced herself and started to back out of the room. Anything? “Wait. I do want something.”
As the maid popped the cozy back over the pot, Éowyn caught sight of the glass of Gondorian medicine. Giving in to a sudden impulse, she said, “Take the rest of the pot to the Steward.” “The Steward?” The maid’s eyes were round with fear. Surely she could not have misunderstood the title of the man in the gardens. “To … Faramir. Is he not also a patient here?” “Faramir?” The maid breathed a sigh of relief. “Oh yes, my lady. I can take the pot to Lord Faramir.” “With Rohan’s compliments.” Éowyn ’s recipe is my friend Patti’s favorite.
The sea was blue, the sky was blue and their robes were blue, but their mood was more fey than somber. Bodies felt strange and limiting. Robes chafed, rubbed and slipped off shoulders. The attempt to ameliorate the marring must be made, and they were confident their decision to oppose Sauron was the right one, but they had had little notion of the restrictions that being confined to one shape would impose. They had blithely shrugged them on. The sand of the shore gritted under their feet and the East beckoned. They would follow their hearts and not look back. A speed drabble using the words: notion, attempt, sky, follow, blue
It’s not fair. Estel sourly surveyed the pile of packs. At eighteen, he had expected that this summer he would finally be allowed to participate in the border defense instead of being left behind with the food and medical supplies. At least they considered him competent enough to be left alone, and had not also assigned another guard. He supposed he would have to be content with this little increase in his responsibilities. Sighing, he made sure his knife was loose in its sheath while he made a slow reconnaissance of the area. It would not do to be surprised.
It’s not fair. The heavy, metal weight that dragged at her belt ought to have been a sword. Keys! Éowyn reached down and jangled the bunch: stillroom, cellar, spice cupboard… she gave up in exasperation. She was eighteen, but these were not the responsibilities she craved. Staring over the practice grounds as the men sparred was not helping her accept the situation. If Grima thought to turn her into a meek and compliant companion by forcing her to take over the management of the household, he was doomed to more disappointment. She would still, somehow, find a way to train. ~~ Elladan tossed an orc corpse onto the pile, counting automatically… ten, eleven. “Elrohir! Where’s the twelfth?” Startled eyes met his. “One’s missing? Estel is alone.” They set off running. The clearing was quiet, but the boy whirled around, knife at the ready, when he heard them coming. Estel gave them a welcoming wave, though a red stain was still spreading on the bandage roughly tied around his arm. “It wasn’t poisoned.” Estel forestalled Elladan’s scramble towards the medical supplies. “See.” He handed over the knife and Elladan thankfully saw the blade was clean. Elladan adjusted the bandage. “First kill?” “Yes!” ~~
Watching his sister at the feast, Éomer noticed she smiled only while the king watched. Grima asked her to dance, but she shook her head and slipped out the door. Éomer found her staring out into the night, biting back tears. He led her unprotesting away from the feast and into a small chamber where Théodred awaited them. “We thought you might want this.” Théodred placed an ornamented dagger into her hands. “It is pretty, but no toy.” Éomer traced the smooth inlays in the handle. “The designs won’t interfere with your grip, and we know you can use it.” ~~
“It’s not fair.” Eldarion stormed in and threw himself down onto the bench. Elboron put a sympathetic hand on his friend’s shoulder. “They turned you down, too?” “It would not be dangerous!” “We certainly can protect ourselves.” “We are not fools.” “Nor children.” Grey eyes met grey eyes and silently affirmed their mutual opinion of their parents’ ridiculous overprotectiveness. Elboron continued to brood, but Eldarion’s ready sense of humor came to the fore. He sat up and laughed. “Which set of stories do you think we should believe? The ones the minstrels tell or the ones our parents tell us?”
Winter was no time for wilderness baths, and the tubs of the Galadrim were welcome. Men and wizard had accumulated the most grime and vermin. The Hobbits were not far behind and no more than men were they fair to look upon. The last member of the Fellowship strode into the soaking room. Muscles, hardened from use, slid smoothly. Body, planed from arm to torso to thigh, radiated strength. Clever hands that could create, not only kill. Arms akimbo, he glowered at the tub’s edge. “What are you staring at, elf?” “Aulë’s creation. I had not realized dwarves were beautiful.”
Dawn faded and the sun was almost high enough to shine down into the valley of Rivendell. The five years at the Havens were well enough, but Edracar had missed the forests and was glad to be home. He listened with half an ear to his father’s admonitions on hunting safely while wishing, for the ten-thousandth time in the last twenty years, that Imros would - once! - be early. Even the babies were already out and about. The four heads huddled together looked like they had not moved in the last five summers. His father ruffled his hair. “Have you heard a word I said?” Edracar grinned. “Only aim at game, and do not stay out past supper.” “Good enough. I must go.” He glanced over to the children gathered near the porch. “Perhaps you and Imros can find another friend.” “They are all babies.” Edracar watched as his father talked with Elrond’s sons. A few minutes later Imros pelted across the courtyard. “About time,” Edracar said as Imros stopped and shrugged his quiver over his shoulder. “Sorry.” “May I come, too?” The voice belonged to one of the babies, but surely he had grown unnaturally fast. Edracar looked over the boy; bow on his back, knife on his belt, eyes uncertain of his welcome. “You still belong with the babies, Estel.” Imros stepped between and pointed towards the three wide-eyed smaller children watching them. “I’ll bet you can’t even draw that bow.” Edracar saw, with a shock, that Estel was eye-to-eye with Imros, who had seen twenty summers. “I shoot just as good as you do.” “Who told you that?” Imros thrust his chin at the boy’s face. Estel stood his ground. “Elladan.” There was no disputing that, with Elladan standing just across the courtyard. Edracar felt the weight of his twenty-four years. “We’re going after game. Did Elladan say you should come?” “No, but…” Estel’s eyes shifted to the smaller children and back. “They are still babies. I’d like to hunt with you, if that’s all right. I won’t slow you down.” Imros shook his head and his eyes strongly signaled he was against it. Estel looked the same age as Imros, though he had arrived barely out of swaddling bands less than eight years ago. Men were odd. Edracar chewed his lip. Estel’s expression slid into disappointment and he started to turn away. “You can come.”
Trail carefully concealed, Aragorn huddled into the tumbled rock shelter. Pulling a flap of cloak over his face, he sat very still. The headman’s wrathful guards stalked close behind him. The cloak kept out the worst of the thin and bitter wind that blew off the steppes and he felt quite unaccountably safe in the cocoon of warmth. His eyelids drooped. Moss green, slate grey, madder red, ochre, birch-bark white, elm brown, cerulean, granite pink, earth and sky, rock and field and wood. Surrounded by baskets of fibre, Arwen’s feet danced over the loom pedals, the soft shrrr of the warp thread flying though the shed punctuated by the muted thuds of the beaters. She plucked a bit of deep green fluff from a basket and deftly inserted it into the weave. A wave of weariness washed over her. Inhaling a deep breath, she focused on the cloth and felt rock behind her back.
“Sleep, beloved. Unfriendly eyes will not see you.”
The cloth for a new cloak grew beneath her hands. She sang, eyes unfocused, thoughts far away. Aragorn woke refreshed as the sun slanted into his eyes. At the edge of his vision, the guards plodded homeward, defeated.
Frodo stood in the main hall and peered down the passageways around the smial, familiarizing himself with his new home. Smaller than Brandybuck Hall, Bag End still had enough nooks and crannies never explored on his previous visits, though the main areas were well known to him. Bilbo’s study should be here. He pulled open the door. The small boy standing next to Bilbo’s desk looked up at him, gasped, and scrambled backwards to stand pressed against the bookcase. “What are you doing?” Frodo asked sharply. “Nothing.” The boy’s hand darted up to his head. Encountering no hat, he gave a quick tug to his unruly forelock and his head bobbed once down and up. “Mr. Frodo, sir,” he added still staring at Frodo wide-eyed. Suddenly he relaxed and gave a disappointed shake of his head. “Durn it. ‘Taint true.” “What isn’t true?” “Halfred said folk were queer where you come from, and I thought you might have green hair or horns or some such.” He fixed Frodo with an accusing look. “But you’re no different than Mr. Bilbo.” Frodo swallowed a laugh at the boy’s disappointment. “You have the advantage of me. Who are you?” “Sam, sir. Samwise Gamgee.”
The title quote is by the Gaffer Gamgee in Fellowship of the Ring. “If that's being queer, then we could do with a bit more queerness in these parts. There's some not far away that wouldn't offer a pint of beer to a friend, if they lived in a hole with golden walls. But they do things proper at Bag End.”
Following the dates given in the family trees, Sam is six years old to Frodo’s twenty-one or, following the dates in the Tale of Years, Sam is nine. Take your pick.
The warm light from the partially shielded lantern gave a deceptively rosy glow to Finduilas’s sleeping countenance. Denethor gnawed his lip as he examined his wife’s thin face and the shadows under her eyes. Her sheer gown with its froth of lace gleamed hardly whiter than the skin it framed. Finduilas had retired with the subtle signals that always presaged a night of joy and comfort. Though he had taken no longer than usual to join her, she already slept. Her radiance outshone the sun, and his passions nearly overwhelmed him, but his wife was dearer by far to him than any child. Denethor reached out and with a gentle finger touched a strand of night-dark hair that strayed across the pillow. Evil is so close here, and I am safest in your arms. He had given in to her pleas before, and nearly lost her. Never again. He had strength enough for them both. Denethor took a step back and Finduilas’s face slid into shadow. She was not yet well. He would not disturb her rest tonight, nor for many nights to come. She would understand that his care was necessary. He loved her too much to risk her.
Raven’s wing black reflecting blue. Sunshine and moonlight. Fields of ripe corn, promising bounty. The deep, rich brown-red of chestnut hulls. The pale translucence of albaster, cool and inviting. Warm as peaches, tawny, luscious, promising sweetness. Dusky, deep and dark, revealing mysteries. Tall and lithe, powerful, dancing in the moonlight hour upon hour. Compact, generous, lush, soft. Blue of cornflowers, sapphires, or clear summer skies. Amber, always warm. Watching them dance, Legolas envied Aragorn; Arwen, once seen, always desired. He turned away from the joy so certain that shone from their sea-grey eyes… The sea. For himself, perhaps in Valinor.
Elrond saw the Balrog-slayers together - Gandalf, Grey-no-longer, and Glorfindel, twice-born who had seen the light of the Trees - showing the same dazzling sheen as sun-sparked snow when even elvish eyes squint lest they be blinded. But when he approached them, standing high on the walls of the White City facing the unshadowed Eastern skies, Glorfindel seemed drawn and faded. “I came to Middle-earth again, yet I played no part in this victory.” Elrond laid Vilya-adorned hand on his friend’s shoulder. “You have more strength than strength of arms and many have relied on you through all this Age.”
“She loves him.” “He is…” Celeborn paused. Galadriel hid a smile. “Unworthy?” Celeborn paced to the edge of the flet and turned back to regard her. “No. That is not the issue.” He hastily added, “They are from different worlds.” This time she smiled openly. Joining her husband, she slid her hands around his waist. “So they said about us. Yet, I love you still.” Celeborn’s hands met behind her back and he leaned his forehead against hers. “I regret nothing.” “Nor I. He loves her.” He gave a deep chuckle. “Very well. Elrond shall have Celebrían with our blessing.”
If the sun ever shone again, the world would be dazzling in its coating of ice. While the rain drizzled down from the dreary skies and froze onto every surface, the Fellowship huddled under scraps of canvas and waited for the storm to pass. This early in their trip supplies were plentiful, but Aragorn and Legolas were off foraging, for even with a pony they could not carry enough food for nine people on the forty day trek through Eriador. Sam and Gimli nursed their poor excuse for a fire, made with wet wood and smoking fitfully. Gandalf and Frodo slept. Boromir, knees raised and clutched under his fur-lined cloak, watched tolerantly as Merry and Pippin tossed suggestions back and forth on what they missed most. “A hot bath,” Pippin declared. “That’s the third time you’ve said that,” Merry said, his voice rather muffled by the folds of cloth over his face. “You declared food off limits last round, or I would have said spice cake with hot custard sauce.” Pippin sent an unrepentant grin in Merry’s direction. “Pippin,” Merry groaned, poking his head out of the cloth cocoon. Boromir could not help smiling. He and Faramir had played the same sorts of games during tedious trips when they were children. The young Hobbits were proving to be much less difficult companions than Boromir had feared. While they did a great deal of cheerful complaining, not even Pippin had whined about the trip’s hardships, and they pitched in with regular chores as their strength allowed and without needing to be reminded. A gust of wind lifted the canvas and sent a cascade of icy water off the edge and down Merry’s neck. Merry muttered an oath, hunched forward to avoid the flow and drew up his cloak again. Pippin eyed Boromir’s feet taking up the space in front of Merry. “Perhaps if Boromir twisted his toes to the side, you could inch forward a bit, Merry.” They were brave travellers. Boromir opened his cloak. “Come sit on my lap, both of you boys. I’ll keep us all wrapped up and toasty warm.” Pippin started to scramble to his knees, but Merry’s head reared up and Boromir saw his eyes were hard and angry. Deliberately, Merry stood up, head nearly touching the canvas roof of their shelter, and stared at Boromir down the length of his nose. “I am no more a boy than you are.” He stood, hands fisted and shaking with more than cold under the open front of his cloak. “He did n….” Pippin began. “Be quiet, Pippin. Buckland may not be as important as Gondor, but I am as much my father’s heir…” “Of course you are,” Pippin interrupted. He shot a quick, warning look at Boromir. “Always stomping through the fields and giving advice.” Gimli and Sam turned, surprised at Merry’s angry tone, but Gandalf and Frodo did not stir. Boromir’s vision of the Hobbits tilted and realigned as he saw past their size to the firmness and maturity on Merry’s face. He held up a placating hand. “I am sorry, Meriadoc. I should have known better, for I was taller than most as a child and often wished I was expected to act my age and not my size.” He offered Merry what he felt was a rather feeble smile. Merry nodded a curt acknowledgement and sat down again, wrapping his woolen cloak tightly around his shoulders. Pippin gave an exasperated sigh. “Now you’ve done it, Merry. There he sits, a veritable furnace, ready and willing to share that great furry cloak of his, and you’ve made it impossible for us to do anything more than sit here and shiver.” “We’ll have some tea in a bit, Mr. Pippin,” Sam said from his place at the fire. Boromir looked from Pippin to Merry as the wind blew a scattering of half-frozen drops into the shelter. “I am always happy to share my cloak with friends.” “Good enough for me.” Pippin snugged himself up against Boromir’s side. “Come on, Merry, at least sit closer.” Merry slid over with cautious dignity. “A hot bath?” Boromir said, joining in the game. “And warmed towels. Your turn.” Merry smiled.
Returning to his room in Rivendell, Aragorn found Arwen hovering on her heels over the neatly laid out the contents of his pack. “Is this all you take?” she asked. As the pack had been filled and tied closed, he assumed the question was rhetorical. “Socks, fire kit, sewing supplies, whetstone, herbs, dried meat and fruit, cheese… it is not much for such a long journey.” “I travel light, lady.” She plucked a basket off the floor and shyly offered it. “I thought you could use ointment for sunburned skin, lembas and miruvor. Is there room?” “For your gifts? Always.”
“Everything ready for the journey?” Hithdol, the king’s majordomo, drew himself up and preened. “Yes, Sire. We leave at dawn: a hundred horse, a troop of infantry, the honor guard, three carriages for the Queen and her ladies. The large campaign tent, the other tents, wagons with the bed and furnishings, the traveling bath.” He waved a dismissive hand. “Farriers, cooks, armourers, barbers, supplies… near two hundred servants and forty-seven wagons. No trouble, sir. It will run as smoothly as ever.” “I’m sure it will.” The desert. A bath, a bed, and his lady. It was good to be king.
Legolas lazily dropped his quiver onto the grass. Legolas industriously investigated his partner. Legolas honestly asked for nothing more than to be where he was.
From the high parapet, Legolas inspected the distant forests of Ithilien half hidden in the afternoon haze over Anduin. He would go home - no, north was home no longer – to recruit elves to settle in Ithilien. There was much to plan. The thought stopped him. Content to observe his father manage a kingdom, and with no expectation such tasks would fall to him, he had planned only war. Ithilien was fair. It would be fairer still, and, though he had not expected it, he found the thought of lordship there intriguing enough to mute the cry of the gulls.
The summer they were fourteen, the Dark Lord died every day; the morning’s elaborate, cunning strategies always ending in a furious sword fight. Sauron had only one hand, and they fought as a strong, valiant team. How hard could it be once they confronted him? Halbarad, supporting Aragorn as he wrested in truth with the Dark Lord high in Helm’s Deep, had a moment of nostalgia for his lost naiveté. Aragorn’s hands gripped the table, pressure crescents of red and white showing through the dirt on his nails. The bright currents within the ball reflected the hilt of Andúril, then hid, then flared against the flint-hard brightness of Aragorn’s eyes. His face was set into stern, proud lines, lips moving in an occasional soundless mutter, looking as if they would snarl had their owner less control. Aragorn had the right to use the palantír, and the strength. His need was great, and the consequences of failure, dire. “I have never been a fool, Hal,” he’d said as they entered the room, enigmatic cloth-wrapped lump held close. They had both recognized the flare of fondness for the impractical schemes of their youth. “I trust you with this, as I’d trust no other.” When Halbarad understood what Aragorn wanted, he had gripped Aragorn’s shoulder. “I promise to do it, but I will not have to. You will not fail.” Watching Aragorn, he still believed that, although the confrontation raged on. Halbarad felt the tension build to a nearly unendurable peak. Soon, Aragorn would either wrench the palantír to his own uses or Halbarad would have to fulfill his promise and prevent Aragorn from revealing any secrets. He took a firmer grip on the bit of rough sacking in his left hand and stole a fleeting glance at the knife in his right.
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