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Colors  by annmarwalk

Good For What Ails Ye (Red)

Winter travel took its toll in coughing and sniffling wanderers. It didn’t take a ranger to know what needed doing.

“Might there be coneys, or partridges, roundabouts?” Treasures simmering, Sam sought early greens, dandelion, wild onion. From deep within his pack, a parting gift from kitchen-friends at Rivendell: “Dried red peppers, garlic, spices, to hearten the weary. You’ll know when you need it. Farewell, fellow cook!”

Gasping surprise at the first spoonful – “Damn, what is this?”; appreciative belches at the last - “Well done, Sam!”

“Hot peppers in elvish cookery! Who would have thought?” Sam spoke wonderingly.

Legolas merely smiled.

Bruises (Blue)




The blow will set yet another bruise blossoming on the little one’s forearm; shoulder, shins, and back are already bedecked with blue, purple, and green bruises. Yet for a every blow that connects, there’s “It’s nothing, let’s go on!”, “”No, I didn’t even feel that one!”, “Are you getting tired, Boromir? Perhaps you should rest now, old man?”

His fortitude amazes me. He is but a child, after all; but hidden below the child’s exuberance and curiosity and, yes, carelessness, I sense the love and loyalty and courage the little one does not even yet know he possesses.

Light and Leaf and Color

Author's Note:

Inspired by Celandine Brandybuck's lovely story, "Courting the Lady" (found at . Finduilas’s words are quoted with Celandine’s permission.

Finduilas writes:

What is the spring like in Minas Tirith? I have seen her gardens only in winter, and had difficulty picturing those stone-walled spaces full of light and leaf and color. . .

First appear the tentative green blades of the crocus-leaves, then saffron and lavender blooms lie scattered like jewels on the snowy ground. As the days lengthen, checkered-lilies and columbines lift their heads in anticipation, until, finally, the riotous trumpeting of the daffodils – spring has returned!

Branch gives way to blossom; blossom gives way to leaf. Every patch of green is alive with chattering, chirruping, feathered souls; goldfinch, nightingale, linnet. How can their tiny bodies sustain such ceaseless, joyous music?

I pray you, lady, return soon to my city: the music that delights me most is the sound of your voice.

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