For the "Romance" Challenge. Imagine your favorite pair of lovers here!

Al Fresco

Bodyguards and chaperones a discreet distance away, the lovers (the betrothed, not yet lovers in actuality, but soon, oh, so soon) spread their picnic.

Oysters, plucked that very morning from the sea-bed, garnished with lemon from the princess’s own garden. Carob-dipped candied ginger, smuggled expensively from far Harad, exploding like passion upon the tongue. Tart, juicy star-fruit. Dandelion wine, tasting of summer sunlight; apple cider, cool and crisply scented of autumn.

With warm damp cloths they laughingly cleanse each other’s faces, lingering to caress lips, cheeks, throats. Soon, but not soon enough, these sensual feasts will be enjoyed in privacy.

In the Kitchens

You should go to your sister’s, Mag, where you’ll be safe.

“Why? I’ve not had a civil word from her in forty years. I’d as soon go quickly, here in my kitchen, as have my last days full of her clacketing.”

You don’t know as it would be quick.

“It would be quick. I’ve a few knives I’ve kept extra-sharp. Small ones, but they’ll do the job. I’ll be ready when the time comes, and take some with me.”

We may be down to pease porridge at the end, but cooking is my duty here, and I’ll not shirk it.

~*~
For the "Preparations" challenge at tolkien_weekly.

Elfwine

“ ‘Tis a son!” our young king bellows, waking the hall with the exuberance of the cry.

He would not be hustled away to drink alone during the birth, no, not our king! He stayed through it all, wide-eyed though pale, squeezing our lady’s hand; and caught the gasping, howling boy himself, to our embarrasment and great delight.

“A son, a son, a son!” Riders, farriers, and scullery maids gather laughing in the stableyard to wet the baby’s head. Our grey-eyed sea-queen sleeps, smiling, while the king breaks out the mead; then dispatches our very fastest riders off to Ithilien.

~*~
For the "Birth" challenge at tolkien_weekly.

For the “Mistake” challenge.

Denethor's Confession, Exactly As He Whispered In My Ear

I have uttered words no parent must ever speak.

Do not gaze at me with such shocked self-righteousness! You are no different than I. We pretend to love our children equally, but in our locked hearts we know the truth – we would give a dozen of the others for the one, the golden one, our heart’s delight.

While the words were unspoken, we lived the lie. I bear the guilt now and will for all time, reliving not the sight of my golden son, but of the anguish in his brother’s eyes.

My sin was to speak the words aloud.

Thus Are Legends Born

Plop! Tiny wriggling legs disappeared under a moss-covered rock.

“What was that? A baby dragon?” Faramir whispered excitedly. The startling gleam of red amidst the dark wet leaves had attracted their attention to the vernal pool.

“Probably an eft, a young salamander. Aren’t dragons green, anyway? And why would a dragon be in a mudpool, here by the Anduin?”

The seven-year-old loremaster surveyed his brother solemnly. “A baby dragon, whose blood is new, and hot, would glow red and yellow. Water would cool it, as it grows, turning it green and gold . We have seen a great wonder today, brother."

~*~
For the "Life Aquatic"challenge at tolkien_weekly.

Memory

Faramir found the book in a dusty cupboard in the old nursery: leather binding still supple; jewel-like paintings as wondrous and terrifying as he remembered from his childhood.

Playing each part: hero, maiden, villain, beast, Boromir would read and reenact fabulous tales of mythical creatures and mighty warriors. Wide-eyed, awestruck, Faramir provided the perfect audience as the candlelight flickered and the pine logs crackled and hissed through those long winter evenings.

Brotherly love; hero worship; treasured memory. Faramir smiled as he tucked the tattered volume into his pocket. A family tradition would be renewed, throughout these wintry nights, in Ithilien.

~*~
For the "Dust" challenge at tolkien_weekly.

Needlework

“Why do you not practice with us?”

“They say I am too young, and that I must practice my needlework instead. As if I could protect Rohan with a needle! Shieldmaidens do not sew.”

“Nor do they weep. Have you a blade?”

Eowyn pulled it out from where she held it hidden under her apron, her greatest treasure: Morwen’s blade.

He whistled softly in admiration. “A sword is a kind of a needle, no? You could do fine needlework with this.” Eowyn grinned.

“Remember,” the swordmaster whispered, “keep your needle sharp; then your needlework will always be clean and lovely.”

~*~

For the "Sharp(e)"challenge at tolkien_weekly.

For the "Astronomy" challenge.

Green and gold, red and violet , the colors rippled and shimmered in the night sky. It seemed as though there should have been music, but there was only the soft sigh of the wind, and Lothíriel’s amazed gasp.

“What are those lights?” she whispered.

“ ‘Tis said that a great fire-fox, far to the north, flings the snow with his tail until the sparks fly up to the sky,” murmured Éomer. “ ‘Tis also said that children conceived under those lights are particularly blessed.”

Laughing, she turned. “Well then, Éomer Éadig, we should not pass up such an opportunity.”

Théodred brought the two children back to Edoras, riding with him on his own horse. He knew they would not immediately accept their new home – too many changes, too much pain. They would need to be coaxed, gentled, like the hurt, frightened creatures they were.

Give them something, his old nurse had suggested, to break the ice. Then she astounded him by producing two long-forgotten treasures: a tattered stuffed pony, and a small wooden sword.

He gave Éowyn the pony. Much later he remembered the envious gleam in her eyes as she watched Éomer, slashing the air with his sword.

For a challenge to tackle a character we've never tried before.

Lobelia's List

To-Do BEFORE Auction:

1. Count books – make sure gardener’s boy hasn’t walked off with any. Though why he would, I can’t guess. Still, he has a shifty look.

2. Ditto for garden tools – Bilbo invested a tidy bit in those tools; they are mine his!! and worth a pretty penny too!!

3. Clothes – certainly all too nice to be given to Gamgees. Sell!

(Except for tatty old boots, nice gift to Gamgee Senior?)

4. How to keep lollygaggers away from beer barrel? Station Otho at cellar door? Who to watch Otho?

5. Surely a few spoons wouldn’t be missed ?

Another for the "Character You've Never Written" Challenge - Thorongil

Death Warmed Over

He had been stabbed through the thigh with an Southron blade and seen the wound turn greenish with poison; had a chunk of his ear bitten off by a frenzied stallion; smashed his whole hand under a granite rock-slide and achingly retaught those muscles and newly-knit bones to grip a sword.

Never before, though, had he wished that he could just lay down and die.

“Sit up, and keep your eyes on the horizon, my friend,” Imrahil said, patting his shoulder encouragingly. “We don’t ever want it said that mere seasickness vanquished the mighty Thorongil, when the Corsairs could not.”

For the "Smooth" challenge. In Imladris, Boromir ponders women he has known.

In Memory, Rustling Like Silk

I had a Haradric woman once, a whore; her skin was the softest thing I have ever touched. Her silken robe slipped off her shoulders like mist, leaving me breathless. I was almost ashamed to touch her with my torn, callused hands. Her eyes were dark as obsidian, fathomless.

These elvish women have skin like ivory, what I can see of it, smooth and cold, and their hair gleams like ebonywood. I don’t imagine that I will ever taste that skin, or bury my hands in that hair. Their eyes, too, are fathomless; gazing through me, into the past.

Boys Will Be Boys (Director's cut, slightly more than 100 words)

What made Boromir open his eyes was the scent of cinnamon.

He remembered running, on a dare, along the top of the high stone wall. Stumbling, falling, the sickening thud as he landed, forgetting altogether that marvelous drop-and-roll that the younger guardsmen had taught him.

He remembered howling, thrashing, as the healers reset his shoulder, bound his collarbone, arm, and wrist.

He didn’t want to remember any more. Mostly, he wanted to be dead: from the embarrassment, the humiliation, the pain. How could he ever be Captain-General if he could not stand pain without wailing like a baby?

For two days he slept, or pretended to, ignoring every visitor. No head injury, my Lord, this is very odd indeed, he heard, screwing his eyes shut.

On the third day, what made him open his eyes was the scent of cinnamon: a bowl of creamy porridge, a baked apple, a cup of sweet milky tea.

“Time for breakfast, my lamb!” Mag chirped.

Perhaps he would live, after all.

For the "Change of Heart" challenge at tolkien_weekly

No Pain, No Gain (Two Parallel Dialogue Drabbles)

The First:

“It will hurt, won’t it.” Merry’s usually buoyant voice cracked, just a bit.

“Most probably,” Eomer agreed. “It does most of us. You’ll swear ‘Never again!’ while it’s happening, but you’ll forget all about the pain when you see the result. Think how proud you’ll be, showing it off!” Merry looked doubtful, but it was too late to turn back now. Prince Imrahil patted his shoulder encouragingly, while Frodo and Sam shook their heads in disbelief.

“Ready?” The tattoo artist picked up her needle; Merry squeezed his eyes shut. Eomer gripped his hands while Pippin nervously gnawed at a fingernail.

The Second:

“It will hurt, won’t it.” The Queen’s normally calm voice trembled, only slightly.

“Most probably, my lady,” the midwife agreed. “It does most of us. You’ll swear ‘Never again!’ while it’s happening, but you’ll forget about the pain when you see the result. Think how proud you’ll be, showing it off!” The Queen looked doubtful, but it was too late to turn back now, even if it were possible.

“Ready?” The midwife slid Arwen’s knees apart, then reached between them. Arwen pushed; Eowyn gripped her hands while the King of Gondor and Arnor paced outside, nervously gnawing at a fingernail.

***
For the "Parallel Dialogue" challenge at tolkien_weekly. The challenge was to write two different drabbles, using the same dialogue.

A Triolet: The Weaver's Song

When the wind blows from the river, my lord will not feel the cold.
I’ll weave my love like armor, to shield him from all harm.
I’ll wrap him in velvet and sable, glorious as kings of old.
When the wind blows from the river, my lord will not feel the cold.
Valor, beauty, honor: a thousand tales will be told.
Dark velvet and black sable, my blood and tears to fix the charm.
When the wind blows from the river, my lord will not feel the cold.
I’ll weave my love like armor, to shield him from all harm.

***
For the "Cold" challenge at tolkien_weekly, inspired by Boromir's marvelous cloak. A triolet is a poem or stanza of eight lines with a rhyme scheme abaaabab, in which the fourth and seventh lines are the same as the first, and the eighth line is the same as the second.

Behind Every Great Man...

“Perhaps we should inspect the bridal chamber one last time? Just to be sure everything is, ah, ready for tonight?”

"As you wish, my lord.”

“Where…where did the flowers come from?”

“The gardeners dug the bulbs, from the garden at the Houses of Healing and potted them up so they would be in bloom today. Narcissus and hyacinth are hardly in season, midsummer.”

“How…?”

“I wrote to milady’s maidservant, several months ago.”

“Ah, very thoughtful of you.”

“No, my lord, very thoughtful of you.”

“Indeed. What are these flowers called, again?”

“Narcissus, hyacinth.”

“Ah, Mormegil…’

“My lord?”

“Which are which?”

2007 MEFA Award Winner - Third Place, Times: Mid Third Age:Drabble

Fatherhood

"....to explore the possibility of marriage between..."

Imrahil should not have been shocked; had not this day been expected from her birth? And he held the Rohirrim in high regard: courageous, forthright, and loyal. It would be a good match.

But his little girl, his darling!

In truth, he thought, I am not ready to think about giving her over to another man's care. But perhaps it is time to begin..

"Lothíriel - " The six-year-old looked up guiltily from the stream of honey she was pouring over her bread.

"I think it is time that you had a pony."

For the "Honesty" challenge at tolkien_weekly

Sammath Naur

Bloodied, wearied, we crawled up to the Sammath Naur. “Only there can the Ring destroyed,” I repeated, over and over, until anger smouldered in his eyes. I dared not send him alone. Though I loved Isildur well, I did not always trust him.

Standing at the precipice, limned in flames, he smiled, mocking me. Then he tossed it up into the air, spinning it to twist and dance, pulling back his outstretched hand just in time. The Ring plunged downward.

“Done,” he whispered.

Arm in arm, laughing and weeping with relief, we stumbled out as the mountain collapsed around us.

For the "Different Decisions" challenge at tolkien_weekly

Decisive Action

Gamling pushed his way through the crowd, swiftly surveying Éowyn's disarrayed clothing, the trickle of blood, the crumpled body on the floor. Cool blue eyes challenged him as she wiped off the dagger and slid it back into her boot. She has more courage than any of us, he thought.

"King Théoden is ... indisposed, and I do not believe Lady Éowyn poses a danger to herself or others. Send word to the Marshals; the Council under their leadership will deal with this. "

He poked the body with his foot. “And get this thing out of here.”

For the "Different Decisions" challenge at tolkien_weekly

Family History

She thought she had cut away that desperate desire for death and glory, the wound seared shut when she vowed to devote herself to growing things, herbs of healing and a garden full of children.

Now her grandson is on her knee, his piping voice like birdsong. “A story, a story!”

Who is this stolid matron she sees, reflected in his eyes?

"Shall I tell you how I garbed myself as a man, riding to war with a halfling prince behind me?"

Barahir's mouth drops. "You...oh!"

Laughing, she swoops him close. “I was a shieldmaiden, and bore my grandmother’s sword….”

At Second Sight

“We have a guest,” Galadriel said, “a Dúnedan, seeking rest for body and spirit. You may know him, for he was fostered in your father’s house.”

Undómiel sighed. “Which one, I wonder? So many, over the years, wide-eyed waifs growing into gangly youths and solemn-eyed men. I would not begrudge their care, for we are kin, but ofttimes it seems they are as autumn leaves, numerous and fleeting.”

Yet as she wandered under the mallorn, she glimpsed the stranger, standing still and silent. At the rustle of her footfall he turned; when she gasped in surprise, he smiled.

****

”And thus it was that Arwen first beheld him again after their long parting; and as he came walking towards her under the trees at Caras Galadon laden with flowers of of gold, her choice was made and her doom appointed.”

Life Sentence

Beregond had not imagined that the task would be so difficult.

“We…must…leave...the …City? But why?”

“I broke the law by shedding blood within the Citadel. The sentence was exile, but in his mercy, the King bid me serve for life in Ithilien.”

“It’s not fair! You did it to save Captain Faramir! Couldn’t he explain what happened, and then we wouldn’t have to …” The sound of his son’s strangled sob nearly broke Beregond’s heart.

“It may not be fair, but it is just. We are King’s men now, and what our true liege commands, we are sworn to obey.”

Wonder

At first I was hesitant. Go on, let him hold her, my Sam said, so I laid my precious in the Wizard’s arms, surprised at how expertly he held and rocked her, crooning a strange lullaby.

At the unfamiliar voice her eyes opened wide, and she stared in amazement. Reaching out her dimpled hand, she patted his beard tentatively, then pulled.

Flustered, I jumped to stop her, but he boomed out a great belly-laugh. “It's been a long time since that happened,” he chortled. “But I do not think it will ever happen again,” he added, a bit wistfully.

For the "Touch" challenge at tolkien_weekly

Bad Example

Finduilas could hear her boys, giggling under the monkey-puzzle tree, and stopped to savor the moment: My beautiful sons. How soon you will be grown.

“Bollocks!” declaimed Boromir.
“Bufflehead!” exclaimed Faramir.
“Bugger-all!” roared Boromir.
“Bushtit!” chortled Faramir
“Bloody whoreson!” whooped Boromir.
“Blue-footed booby!” shrieked Faramir.

Boromir gasped. “You said ‘tit’! And ‘booby’! Everyone knows those are bad words! And Mother heard you!”

Faramir whirled around, panic-striken,. “I didn’t mean to!” He burst into tears. “Uncle said they were birds’ names!”

That Imrahil, Finduilas sighed, gathering Faramir into her arms as Boromir tried to look innocent, has much to answer for.

Author's note: Actually, they are all bird's names.

Envinyatar

In a few swift words my birthright was seized, claimed by ancient right; my most private hopes and dreams stripped bare as the lifeless trees in that bleak midwinter.

Bound by duty and honor, I pledge my sword and strength to this doomed quest. Through long bitter nights I guard  my anger and despair, hoarding it as my secret treasure. Yet in the feeble light of lengthening days,  I begin to value his wisdom, honor his compassion, yearn for his healing touch.

His warmth steals toward my sullen heart, and I can almost dare imagine a spring of Hope renewed.

"Verily, for in the high tongue of old I am Elessar, the Elfstone, and Envinyatar, the Renewer."
The Return of the King, Book V, Chapter 8: The Houses of Healing

For the "Renewal" challenge

First Love

“This scruffy mongrel?” Denethor asked doubtfully.

“He's been hanging around the stables. He didn't belong to anyone, so we brought  him home.  We didn't want him startling the horses,” Boromir added reasonably, the well-rehearsed tale flowing smooth as honey.

Faramir kept silent. From the moment he'd seen the dog, this dog, he could think of nothing else. Five copper pennies was such a small price to pay!

The soft nudge of a velvety nose against his palm heartened him. “Don't worry,” Ranger seemed to say. “We were meant for each other, and nothing will keep us apart.”

For the "Velvet" challenge

Call of the Wild

He is a man made for leather, not silk.

With tawny hair and leonine grace he makes the nobles of Gondor seem dull as grackles and harmless as coneys. Flushed with victory and acclaim, he fills the room with energy, proud and restless as a great beast.

Like calls to like.  He turns, curious, as if feeling the heat of my gaze; I stand stock-still as he approaches. There are those who will fault me for my boldness, but I will be his, and he will be mine; glory calls us in the echo of a faraway battle-horn.

Author's Note: "Thengel, son of Fengel, left Rohan when he came to manhood and lived long in Gondor, and won honour in the service of Turgon. He took no wife until late, but in 2943 he wedded Morwen of Lossarnach in Gondor, though she was seventeen years the younger. She bore him three children in Gondor of whom Théooden, the second, was his only son." The Return of the King, Appendix A, "The Kings of the Mark"

For the "Leather" challenge
MEFA 2008 Winner, First Place, Romance, Drabbles

Like Calls to Like (Thengel's Response)

Rubies do not suit her, nor ladylike pearls,
Though opals may, perhaps, reflect her inner fire.
Other men have sought to decorate her
With jewels, and garish  fripperies
While whispering their blandishments in her ear.

I am not as other men.

I'll braid three strands of butter-soft leather
Her life, and mine, and those of our children yet unborn.
Her wrist needs no further ornament
Nor pretty, pointless words to bind her heart.
She'll look within me, and know I am true
As grassland, earth, and sky, 'til world's ending.
As I am hers, so she shall be mine.

For the "Leather" challenge. Thengel's Response to Morwen's "Call of the Wild"

Rosie’s Dilemma

A lass can tell, even if the lad’s too shy to speak. That special smile under lowered eyelashes, the lilt to his voice that’s music meant only for her. How he’ll stop for a glass of buttermilk and a bite of cake knowing full well her brothers aren’t around to tease. The way he always seems to turn up her partner when there’s dancing.

Aye, a lass can tell.

Comes a time, though, a lass tires of waiting, wondering what’s tying his tongue; if there’s someone else holding his heart more firmly than she. And she wonders what to do.

For the "Before" challenge

Fall Cleaning

“What did Rosie say when she found out Sam had high-tailed it off?” Ted Sandyman asked, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Tom took a long pull of his ale. “What could she say? They weren't bespoke, though it looked as like all this time. Took up a frenzy of housework, though; mopping and scrubbing, pulling all the wall hangings and carpets out to air in the sun, ' 'Fall cleaning', she says. 'Tis the season for it, I s'pose, though I'd surely not want to be the rug she was beating, out there in the dooryard.”

For the "During" challenge

Marriage Minded

Maidens and matrons, bright as butterflies, sip tea from porcelain cups; mothers and grandmothers retire to their corner for smoky gawa or fruit brandy. Conversations eddy and flow, always returning to everyone's favorite subject, the Steward's sons.

The young ones sigh, exchanging memories of a smile, a glance, a hand held for one long, encouraging moment. Their elders tiptoe daintily around one son  – “not interested, you know”-  to consider, as always, the other: graceful, gracious,  elusive.

“Just throw a book at him! That will get his attention,” a saucy granddame cackles, to polite laughter;   some listeners nod thoughtfully.

For the “Cups” challenge. Another plotbunny hurled by the dangerous Lady Branwyn.

Tea Party

Their eyes rake over her, head to toe; upraised goblets conceal their false smiles. A quirked eyebrow,  a shrug, a whisper – subtle knives, unfamiliar weapons assembled against her.

Yet Imrahil's lovely daughter stands by the window, eyes shining; surely there are some whose welcome is genuine? I am Steelsheen's granddaughter. I slew the witch-king. I can face a roomful of women, she thinks, and then the Queen's fingertips brush against hers.

Courage, for us both, the Evenstar murmurs with the quick flash of a smile. Heads held high,  together they move forward to begin their conquest of the city.

Inspired by Lady Branwyn's Stirrup Cup (in a very off-the-wall kind of a way). For the "Cup" challenge.

Night Songs

When Elboron heard the whippoorwill call, he would quietly slip outside.

The part of him that was obedient understood his father’s concern, the nagging worry that Ithilien might not yet be completely safe, even here at Emyn Arnen. But it was neither recklessness nor rebellion that drew him each evening to his vigil at the edge of jessamine thicket.

Amid the quiet rustlings of the night-creatures, the scent of warm damp earth, he could hear the murmuring of ancient bards and kings, mournful tales of valor and grief; but sometimes he heard the nightingale: the clear, piping note of rebirth.

A birthday drabble for mrkinch, April, 2007

Confuzzled

”It’s me!” shouted Sam as he trotted up. “Sam Gamgee! So don’t try prodding me, Nibs. Anyway, I’ve a mail-shirt on me.”

When I heard his voice, I went all weak in the knees, like. No-one knew what really had happened, him and Mr. Frodo disappearing and all; then he shows up, right as rain, fierce and valiant like those warriors of old!

I didn’t want him to see how rattled I was, so I teased him, just like always. Soon as the words were out I knew they were wrong, so confuzzled did he look, so I ran after him. “You look right fine, Sam! Take care, and come back straight as you’ve settled those ruffians!” And he did, my Sam.

For the "Weakness" challenge

Handiwork

Of all the homely arts of spinning, weaving, embroidery, Arwen found knitting most soothing. Her handiwork outfitted both graceful Eldar, her kin, and  whatever Edain were fostering in her household.

One freckle-faced boy was ever losing hats and mittens, so she chose bright wool, easily seen, safe within the borders here but nowhere else. A scarf, too; winding 'round his neck and crossing upon his chest, weightless warmth against winter's chill. There were only so many hours Isildur's young heir could spend by the fireside in study, not while the sky was clear blue and a frozen pond beckoned.

For the "Chest" challenge; inspired by Telperion1's lovely ficlet, "Ice Skating", especially by this one line: The child tore his knit hat off his head and waved it in the air at Glorfindel as he skated backwards.

The Treasure Hunter

Let us dwell in fair Ithilien and there make a garden, he had said, and she, to his delight, agreed.   Amidst his travels he collected seeds and saplings, roots and cuttings, sketching them first in his worn leather journal,  carefully noting sun or shade, rocky hillside or  misty bog, color and scent and which birds gathered near.  

Tucking pouches of seed in the crannies of his saddlebags, swaddling  delicate bulbs in gauze  and nestling them inside his shirt, close to his heart, he bore these treasures home to lay at his Lady's feet: sunflowers, moonflowers, cloth-of-gold, baby's breath.

For the "Saddlebags" challenge. A gift for Lady Branwyn and Rakshathedemon.

Boromir's Prayer, While Running

Please, let this not be my tomb.

I do not fear death;  as often as I have looked it in the eye, it has turned away, blinded by the glint of sunlight on my blade.

Do not make me die in the dark.

When I die, let the kiss of the sun be the last touch on my skin; the whisper of leaves, the rush of water over stone be the last sounds I hear.

Let me take my rest under the boundless sky. If, by ill-fate, I am doomed to wander,  please, let it be under the stars.

For the "Tomb" challenge.

For the "Never Happened" challenge. Warning! Extreme AU.

Bitter Truth

The King took a long pull of his wine. The Steward watched silently, noting the slump of his shoulders, the weariness and pain in his eyes.

"Has Frodo ever spoken to you of …?"

"I know my brother tried to take the Ring, but Frodo became so distressed in the telling that I could not bear to press him. Were you there, also? Did you…"

Aragorn took a deep breath. "I was there, Boromir. I saw how your brother in his despair was bewitched, entrapped by the Ring. And it was my dagger that killed Faramir, not any orc blade."

In Search of History

Tell me were Barahir's first words.

Raised on the bright weavings of family history, the glories of Gondor and Rohan, and the wider world of Arda, his own first writings, childish scrawls, were of history, too.  Once there were Elves. Now they are gone.

Alone he wandered, one hundred and ten days, awestruck at each totem of past, present, and future.  When he reached the hidden valley he stopped, touched by its desolate beauty  and the whispers swirling around him. In vain he tried to capture the words, but the voices turned to the murmuring of dry leaves. Gone, gone.

For the "Gone But Not Forgotten" challenge

The Toymaster of Buckland

The toys came from Dale, smoothly sanded and ready for his brush. He ground and mixed the pigments himself: azurite, viridian, cochineal, rolling the exotic names around his tongue like poetry. He found it curiously relaxing to set aside his cares and play the simple craftsman, fashioning gifts for those dearest to his heart.  

Horses of gleaming brazzilwood;  fierce mumakil, ochre and cinnabar; bright hummingbirds shimmering lapis and ruby-red.  Once he crafted a kine of Araw, sleek as ivory, with gold-tipped horns, but that he kept for himself, in memory of the one who bore that mighty horn.

For the "Leisure" challenge

Warrior Stance

The assistant sword-master's teaching methods were unorthodox, yet those few who completed his training spoke wonderingly of achievements in  strength, balance, agility. Denethor could hardly wait to test himself in this arcane study.

In the small bare room swords remained stacked against the wall as students practiced twisting their bodies into ever more complex postures, holding them for long moments as breathing slowed and the mind sharpened.

Self-discipline. Concentration. Schooling the mind to stillness. These were the lessons Denethor valued, even in his youth: the dominion of the mind,  the mastery of the subtle body over the physical.

For the "Sport and Leisure" challenge

Antikythera

The idea was born one autumn night on a cliff high above  Ithilien, friends sharing warm spiced wine as stars wheeled overhead.  Faramir and Legolas devised the mathematics,while Gimli  spent years tinkering with the design. When he was finally satisfied, his kin forged the cogs and wheels to a precision approaching perfection.

The finished device, austere and elegant, was gifted to the peoples of Middle-earth, accepted on their behalf by the King Elessar. His son Eldarion was particularly fascinated. In his time he set it high in Ecthelion’s tower, where he spent endless hours, asking questions of the stars.

For the "Tinker" challenge. My search for “clockwork” led me  here.

The Giver and the Gifted - A Drabble Pair

The Giver

"Mormegil, if I were to want to give a lady a gift, what would you suggest?"

"That would depend on the lady, my lord. A book? Poetry?Jewelry?"



"Jewelry would be gilding the lily. Something useful, perhaps? Yet beautiful."



"Gloves? A headscarf?"



"A cloak? Blue, to match her eyes?”

Mormegil nodded. "Indeed, sir."

"Deep blue velvet, like the evening sky.  Stars, I think, embroidered on the velvet. Would that be too garish?"

"Not at all. Goldwork on dark blue is lovely."

"Could you find someone to craft such a gift? Before Mettarë?"

"I'm sure I can, sir," Moremegil smiled.

The Gifted

Mormegil had seen the fabric once, from the corner of his eye, while visiting Arrad Tailor's workroom. Now Arrad was rolling it out reverently, rhapsodizing about pile and nap and how the color would vary with the light.

There was a tap at the door; a young woman entered. She was small and slim and as lovely, Mormegil thought,  as Tinúviel, as Melian the Maia. "Oh, the blue velvet!" she exclaimed happily. "I've always loved it; the color is so rich."

"My sister, Rívorn," said Arrad, "and my embroiderer. By her skill will Lord Denethor's lady be wrapped in starlight."

For the "Tailor" challenge"

October Morn

Each morning upon rising Aragorn goes to the window, throws open the shutters, and breathes deeply, reveling in the scents and sights. Autumn mist veils the river while beech and birch and aspen trees glimmer golden on the hillsides. The smell of woodsmoke and damp earth mingles with the fragrance of the late, last roses. His long-awaited, long fought-for kingdom lies drowsily at peace.

A rustling of silk, and then Arwen is there, wrapping her arms around him, her warmth and scent intoxicating. “Come back to bed,” she murmurs. “Your kingdom can do without you for another hour.”

A birthday drabble for Isha Libran

The Braided Stream

The children of Éorl have no need for books; their history surrounds them like air, like water.  With  their mother's milk they begin to learn their people's memory in story and song,  rhythm and pattern and detail.  As they grow they observe, hear, mark, learn, and inwardly digest: past, present, and future a braided stream, endlessly flowing through and around them.

Others may call them uncultured, unlettered; yet the Éorlingas wonder at those who keep their history locked away in books, instead of breathing it anew each day, fresh as the scent of grass after rain, the   color of sky.

For the "History" challenge. Inspired by Alex_quine's incredibly vivid short story, Invisible Ink. The phrase "hear, mark, learn, and inwardly digest" is from the Episcopal Prayer Book.

Fifteenth

The flagon of wine sat untouched on the table. Boromir noted the flush to Faramir's cheeks, his parted lips, his fingers tapping his knee in time to the music. It all sounded like caterwauling to Boromir, the jangling lute-strings and odd, atonal wailing, so he poured himself a drink and tried not to look bored. It was Faramir's birthday, after all, and he had suggested this tavern.  

Then the tempo began to quicken, and the clatter of castanets replaced the singing. When the dancers leapt forward, eyes flashing, silks swirling, Boromir finally understood:  his little brother was growing up.

For the "Pitcher" challenge