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"And get my pipe out of my pack, if it isn't broken." 'Indeed, it is not broken, cousin, but as whole as the day it was made.' Unlike you, my poor Merry, with the Shadow still lingering in your eyes. I thought Strider said... 'Then fill it, and we shall have a good smoke together, just as...' Just as in the lost days, on a visit to Bag End, sitting on the doorstep. O Frodo, shall we ever see you again? Dear Frodo, walking into Shadow... 'I'll light it, Merry.' He puffs, flame shoots up, his face is wreathed in smoke. Smoke and fire, is that how we all shall perish?
Questions 'Merry?' The older cousin doesn't hear; he's immersed in a book on herb-lore. 'Merry!' It's quite annoying. Teatime is all of half-an-hour ago, and the little cousin is not only bored, but starting to feel stirrings of hunger. Irritatingly, the older cousin doesn't answer, for he has found the page he was seeking, and is devouring the text that describes the curious leaves he found that morning in the Old Forest. 'Merry!' Tickling someone's ear with a quill often helps immensely. 'Yes, Pip?' the older cousin says for perhaps the twenty-seventh time since tea. 'Why do hobbits have ten toes?'
I See the Moon and the Moon Sees Me 'Merry?' the little one says, head comfortably ensconced in the teen's lap as they gaze at the stars in wonder. 'Yes, Pip?' This one was graced with endless patience, perhaps in preparation to be older cousin to this younger one. 'Where does the moon go, when he's behind a cloud?' 'He's still there, Pip, the cloud's only hiding him.' Reassured, the younger one smiles and falls asleep. Merry always knows the answer. In the Houses of Healing, the younger cousin thinks on these words, as he sits and holds an icy hand. Merry's not gone, the Shadow's only hiding him...
The Moon Sees Somebody I'd Like to See ‘Merry?’ says the little cousin, then ‘Merry?’ and ‘Merry? ...Merry? ...Merry?’ rising in pitch and volume. At last the older cousin drags himself from the book of tales, heroic deeds, a knight shining from the page, saying, ‘What is it now, Pippin?’ As it turns out, Pippin really doesn’t want anything, or doesn’t know what he wants, unless you count Merry’s undivided attention. Yes, that’s it. That is what he wants. And now he has it. The older cousin watches by the bedside of a hero who felled a troll. What he wouldn’t give to hear ‘Merry?’ one more time...
The Silent Street I hold the door as my sword drinks the blood of friends. 'Traitor!' they call, 'Renegade!' they name me, one who has drawn no disloyal breath since my first. Behind the door, a madman cries, 'Who will slay me this renegade?' Another falls to my blade, pierced to the heart, Targil, sister's-son; my own heart bleeds. Whence cometh mine aid? Is it my fate, to be trapped in nightmare of endless shout and slash? Should I yield, should I fall, my Captain's life will be snuffed in flame... I hold the door as my sword drinks the blood of friends.
Fireside Chats Put it in the fire, Frodo! I cannot. Does it already have so great a hold on you? Do you see anything? No... Yes... Fiery letters... Frodo! Put It in the Fire! (How brightly it shines, how fair, how golden, how heavy, as if I hold the entire World in my hand... ) I have come, but I do not choose now to do what I came to do. I will not do this deed. The Ring is mine! Precious, precious, precious! My Precious! O my precious. Pre... An echo sounds in the dark: Death, death, death! Death take us all!
Dernhelm's Ride A dead man's helm. A dead man's horse. A dead man's shield and cloak and sword. I will ride with my Lord, my King, to death and the world's ending. He can order me stay, and knit by the fire -- hah! -- and watch over the dogs as they roll on the floor with the brats -- so he orders me, stay. Though I may not walk the Paths of the Dead, following flickering torches, my heart rides there... A dead man's helm. A dead man's horse. A dead man's shield and cloak and sword. I am dead also.
A Drabble for Dana 'What is it, my love?' Eglantine said fondly. Pippin deposited a bulky parcel in her lap. 'Can you tie the bow?' he piped. 'Certainly, dear ...a birthday present? For me?' she asked, fingers swiftly completing the task. 'No, for my bestest friend, next to Merry,' he grinned. 'And who would that be?' Eglantine smiled. 'Well, it's her birthday, but her folk do things different,' Pippin said. 'So I'll give her a present today, and she'll give me one on my birthday.' 'Ah, I know who!' his mother chuckled. Mother and son turn to the screen to say, 'Happy Birthday, Dana!'
At the Witch King's Feet
She should not die, so fair, so desperate! At least she should not die alone, unaided. As slowly as the slug Samwise picked up and drowned in a bucket one sunny day at Bag End (sun? what is that?), I crawl aside. Averting my eyes from horror, I thrust my sword as high as I can. My arm turns to ice as my sword turns to smoke and burns away into nothingness. Eowyn! I cry, even as I burn-freeze to nothingness, as well… All is darkness, Shadow, flames of ice engulf me. Forgive me, lord, if I broke your command. [author's note: aargh. after idly re-reading the prologue and first chapter of FOTR while waiting for my car's wheels to be aligned, i find that this is not canon. drat. ah, well. be warned, this is evidently AU. unless of course, i set it some hours after the Hundredweight Feast, with Frodo feeling melancholy after the guests have gone. ummm. perhaps Merry missed the feast because he had a flat tire or something, and so has arrived well after the party was over. in hobbit terms, his pony threw a shoe? The Professor does not say, after all, *who* was at the Hundredweight Feast, as I recall.] Happy Birthday, Bilbo and Frodo! A bottle, two glasses, a toast to an absent cousin: 'Happy eleventy-second birthday, Bilbo.’ A sip, a sigh. A knock at the door, at this time of night? ‘Merry! Whatever are you doing here?’ ‘Happy birthday, Frodo! Where’s my present?’ ‘Would a glass of Old Winyards do?’ ‘Very nicely indeed!’ A sip, a sigh, a wondering eye. ‘Two glasses? Were you expecting someone?’ ‘Just drinking Bilbo’s health. Mine’s not the only birthday this day.’ ‘I see.’ ‘Somehow I think you do. So, a toast: Happy birthday, Bilbo!’ Merry echoes: ‘Happy birthday, Bilbo. And many happy returns.’ A sip, a sigh.
Title: Before the Call to Muster (a drabble) http://www.livejournal.com/users/marigoldg/ or Marigold's Recommendations for links to the Challenges; lots of excellent reading!)
‘Merry, you're shivering. Come and sit here by the fire and I'll bring you some tea.’ ‘When did you...?’ ‘What was that, cousin?’ Pippin was almost used to Merry falling into silence, this new and strange Merry, called back to life by the hands of the King. He lifted the lid of the oversized teapot; yes, perfectly brewed. ‘Here you are, Merry, just as you like it.’ When did you grow so wise? Merry was thinking. When did your eyes grow old? In despair, he wondered if his young cousin would grow any older. What he said, was, ‘Thank you.’
Title: Tales of Old Wives Originally written for Marigold's Challenge #6, where she supplied the title and the author was responsible for the rest of the story. (See http://www.livejournal.com/users/marigoldg/ or Marigold's Recommendations for links to the Challenges; lots of excellent reading!) Tales of Old Wives (three drabbles) I watch him sleep. I watch him sleep. I watch him sleep.
Inspired by a question and a drabble by Dana. March 25 SR 1419 Perhaps it was the lark, singing high above as she sought out new-green spring weeds along the farm lane, suitable for tea-making. Perhaps it was the daffodils, bright and brave against the bleak background of the trees fallen all along the Bywater Road. Perhaps it is the pristine whiteness of the innocent fleecy clouds against the freshly-washed azure sky. What else can account for the unaccountable lightness of her heart, the song that threatens to burst from her lips, betraying her to the suspicious ruffians searching for sedition in the marketplace? All she knows is... her Samwise is coming home.
Far above the Hill in the West the night-sky was dim and pale. There, peeping among the cloud-wrack not quite blown to pieces after the storm, Sam saw a white star. The beauty of it smote his heart, as he looked up, and like a shaft, clear and cold, the thought pierced him that in the end what troubled him was only a small and passing thing: one day, as Frodo had promised, they would meet again. ‘D’you think he’s looking at that same star?’ Rosie whispered at his side as her fingers twined with his. ‘I’m sure of it.’
First published in Marigold's Challenge 16 Title: Heat Heat It was hot; the sort of heat that withered growing things and caused the waters to dry up, the kind of heat that baked bones, burnt skin, and made one shiver all at once. Frodo despaired, yet he crawled forward, the sun a fiery torment, ever before him, sometimes resembling a flaming wheel, turning before his eyes until his head spun. ‘Water,’ he whispered through lips so dry and cracked he could scarcely form the words. He felt himself lifted, turned over, a cup held to his lips. ‘Drink, lad,’ whispered Bilbo’s worried-loving tone, ‘the fever ought to break soon.’ Written for cpsings4him's "Hobbit Blankie Challenge". Legolas entered the clearing where Aragorn still whispered to the restless sleeper, recognisable as Frodo only by the heavily-bandaged hand. ‘You’re exhausted,’ he said. Aragorn did not lift his eyes from the hobbit’s bandaged face. ‘Safe,’ he said huskily. ‘Peace. Rest.’ ‘Here,’ the Wood Elf said, thrusting soft fabric at him. Aragorn took it up, smelling the freshness of salt air, hearing faintly the lullaby of waves and crying gulls. ‘Your cloak,’ he said. ‘Yours would have done, were it not stiff with the blood of foe and friend alike,’ Legolas said quietly. Frodo stilled as the cloak cocooned him.
Belated Birthday at Crickhollow (a drabble for Marigold's birthday, which was yesterday) Merry sat abruptly upright, sweat pouring from his forehead. 'Steady,' he heard, but his ears rang with fever, making it impossible to identify the speaker. 'Pip--Pippin...' 'Steady, cousin.' He was eased backwards into softness as a cold cloth enveloped his forehead. 'I--I missed your birthday,' he whispered, eyes closed under cool darkness. ' 'sall right, Merry,' he heard Pippin say lightly. 'You can always make it up to me.' 'Make it up to you?' he echoed, confused. 'Aye--when you're better, you can give me two presents.' 'Two?' 'If you insist. But I won't take more than three.' *** Author's note: It says in JRRT's letters that not only did hobbits give birthday presents on their birthdays, but they also received presents from close family members, before 10 a.m., if I remember correctly. OTOH, am tired out of mind, so I might have imagined it all. Will look it up later and amend this note then. (...a drabble from the world of "Jewels", where for a time Estella and Pippin were pledged to marry, in accordance with a marriage contract signed by mutual agreement of thier parents. For Dana.) 'So perhaps it will not be such a tragedy, being married to me?' Estella said. She plucked a petal from the daisy. He loves me? 'I don't know what you're talking about,' Pippin said, honestly bewildered. He loves me not? 'I promise to worship the ground you walk on,' Estella said. He loves me? 'That sounds... uncomfortable,' Pippin said. He loves me not? 'For me? Or for you?' Estella said. He loves me? Pippin seized her hand, causing her to drop the flower, and laid the gentlest of kisses in her palm. 'We'll manage,' he whispered. He loves me not.
First posted on my LJ about a month ago. Have been musing on the Tooks, lately, and especially about Hildibold, an OC but a Took of Tooks for all that. He marched off to the Battle of Bywater at Ferdibrand's side, fearless and bold, ready to throw the ruffians out of the Shire for good, and make a song afterwards to charm the lasses. But things didn't quite work out as he thought they would...
Frodo had been in the battle, but he had not drawn sword, and his chief part had been to prevent the hobbits in their wrath at their losses, from slaying those of their enemies who threw down their weapons. The Battle of Bywater, as described in "The Scouring of the Shire", from Return of the King by J.R.R. Tolkien The Battle of Bywater It was all a lark, keeping the ruffians out of the Tookland. A lark, and yet deadly serious business--for we'd be dead if they could catch us. A game it was, trap the ruffians and dance away, laughing, like one of the faerie folk of legend. "Catch me if you can!" And Pip returns from the dead in knight's clothes, leading us marching and singing in his pony's wake. I laugh aloud--a game it is, and what a game! But the rest was no game; ruffians climbing the walls to get at us shooting into their midst. One jumped over, raised his club, took aim... a Took fell. Not content merely to escape, the ruffian raised his club again, and again--until my arrow took him. I don't remember the rest. I shot into the mob, I shot... and was pulling back the bow to shoot again at the ruffians, strange, sitting upon the ground with hands upon their heads, in the midst of a battle! ...when a hobbit stepped in the way, jerked at my arm to spoil my aim. Have done! I hold that arrow in my hand. How did my quiver come to be empty?
November 11, 2005: Thinking of fallen soldiers everywhere, through the ages, and the loved ones left behind. Remembrance Day February 26, 1420 (S.R.) Merry wasn't sure why he wakened. Prowling through the silent rooms of Crickhollow with only a flickering candle for light, he found nothing amiss. He found, as well, no Pippin. It had snowed in the night, and he followed the footprints, down the lane, over the fields to the River. Merry's oath blew white on the icy dawn-lit air. What was his fool cousin thinking? He found Pippin at last, sitting on the bank, staring at the passing water beyond the thinning ice that embraced the shore. 'Pippin!' His cousin raised haunted eyes. 'A year ago, today.' Together, they wept.
October the Third Surrounded. And night is falling rapidly. Here on the hill-top, I have the illusion of falling, myself, into the bowl of the sky as it pales and fades into twilight. I find my shoulders sagging as their horror-induced dread creeps closer. I straighten with an effort, feeling the aches that assail an old man. And then, high above, I see the first star, shining faintly in the murk, its inner fire strengthening as it fights free of the surrounding darkness. I pile broken stones in the centre of the ring; I lift my staff, waiting. They come. I am ready. ***
On the top they found, as Strider had said, a wide ring of ancient stone-work, now crumbling or covered with age-long grass. But in the centre a cairn of broken stones had been piled. They were blackened as if with fire. About them the turf was burned to the roots and all within the ring the grass was scorched and shriveled, as if flames had swept the hill-top; but there was no sign of any living thing. ‘I should say,’ answered Strider, 'that they stood for G3, and were a sign that Gandalf was here on October the third: that is three days ago now. It would also show that he was in a hurry and danger was at hand, so that he had no time or did not dare to write anything longer or plainer … for myself, I believe he was here, and was in danger. There have been scorching flames here; and now the light that we saw three nights ago in the eastern sky comes back to my mind. I guess that he was attacked on this hill-top, but with what result I cannot tell.’ --excerpted from “A Knife in the Dark”, from Fellowship of the Ring by J.R.R. Tolkien
My first attempt at a dribble. Thanks to Dreamflower for showing the way! October the Sixth: Weathertop As he dons the Ring, moved by some silent command, The Battle of Bywater Each year, this day, But this is the most important part:
Laying Plans An heir, he thought to himself. That’s just the thing. Hand shaking, he slopped a little milk into the cup and added the steaming tea. Too perturbed to remember sugar, he gulped half the sustaining drink and rattled the teacup back down on its saucer. An heir, he thought again. A Will, that’s it. Must have a Will. Earlier, Lobelia had barged in as if she owned the place. You’re not getting any younger, after all, Bilbo-my-dear, and... Never! he hissed. Why, if Lobelia thought she’d inherit on his demise, she had another think coming. An heir. Just the thing.
Short Cuts Make for Long Delays ‘First check,’ Pippin said grimly. Inside his head, of course, he was thinking, I told you so! ...but he’d never say such a thing to Frodo. Not, at least, until they were sitting comfortable over mugs of beer, though such seemed a dim prospect at the moment. Just then, Sam clutched at Frodo’s arm with an urgent, ‘Look!’ Behind them, a black figure stooped over their trail. Frodo led them plunging into cover. Frodo didn’t say, I told you so, for it would go better over beer and vittles, somewhere far from here. Instead, he said, ‘We were both right!’
Respite Of course the life of a Ranger of Ithilien does not lend itself to reading and contemplation. One must be on the move, or poring over maps, trying to anticipate the enemy, trying to direct Men to where the least number can do the greatest good. Still, there is the odd moment of rest, even relaxation, in the hiding behind the waterfall, time to take up a favourite old “friend”, to read a few pages by the flickering light of a candle. Odd moments only, for a scout arrives to report Men of Harad advancing, and business is at hand.
(Written for the there_n_back LJ community's "Sam" challenge) Sam and the Baker's Dozen ‘Aw, Rosie, tell me the trouble,’ he said as Rose turned her back to him. He folded her in his arms, burying his face in the crook between neck and shoulder, inhaling her fragrance, to counter the black clouds rolling in, a late spring storm on the way. ‘It’s just that...’ she hesitated. ‘It’s such an unlucky number! What if we have thirteen, and stop?’ ‘We just won’t stop,’ Sam said, happy to have a ready solution. ‘We’ll have fourteen children, if need be, Rosie...’ ‘O Sam, you spoil me so,’ she sighed, and turned to nestle in his arms.
Inspired by Grey Wonderer’s “Concerning Ladders” (recently re-published at http://www.storiesofarda.com/chapterlistview.asp?SID=3126), here is a glimpse of Merry on the roof of the little house at Crickhollow, not a place he’d normally be found, save for the fact that the road to (a very unpleasant place) is paved with good intentions. Up on the Housetop, Click, Click, Click! Lovely! Merry thought sourly. How do I get myself into these scrapes? After last year’s debacle, acting as king and executioner when Pippin had been innocent on all charges, Merry had thought he’d make this Yule a memorable one, and start things off on the right foot. He’d got out the Yule decorations and the ladder he’d gifted Pippin, last year, managed to climb to the rooftop and string the decorations in the rising wind, and finished, to find the ladder—fallen. It’ll be a memorable Yule all right, he thought, hugging himself against the cold. Pippin! Hurry home! Please! On the Slopes of Mount Doom Gollum’s blow had sent Sam into dream, a warm and comforting dream wherein he was cutting flowers from the garden at Bag End, carefully selecting the blooms, to look just right, tied together. He was smiling when he arose; but his Gaffer looked grim, and old Mr. Bilbo had tears in his eyes, though his pocket-watch was in his hand, and he was muttering, ‘All’s well, lad. We’ll be in good time.’ Suddenly they were standing by the graveside, and somehow Sam knew the shrouded figure was Mr. Frodo’s. He sat bolt upright, moving from nightmare into nightmare. Mr. Frodo! Inspired by “Pervinca’s Gift”, written by Rowan and to be found on her LJ and here at SoA:
Ignoring the prohibition on running indoors, Pervinca breathlessly slammed her way past the heavy door, skidding to a stop in a torchlit courtyard that buzzed with activity, a hive of disturbed bees. Because GamgeeFest mentioned laughing layabouts in a plaintive post to the LJ community Hobbit_Fluff, this began to prey on my mind. *** Laughing Layabouts or "The Practical Joke" ‘What’s so funny?’ Merry wanted to know, but Estella could not answer for the giggles consuming her. Pippin was holding his stomach and laughing. When he turned to Ilberic, that hobbit simply howled and collapsed to the ground to join the other two, pointing a shaking finger. He rubbed at an itch near one eye, and his finger came away black. ‘What...?’ he muttered, as the laughing intensified into hooting sounding rather like demented geese. ‘What...?’ he said. ‘Your face...!’ Pippin gasped, before going off again. It was then Merry saw the soot around the eyepiece of the dwarvish spyglass. *** (Partly inspired by dim memory of an episode of M*A*S*H, where Col. Potter brings down binoculars from his eyes, leaving racoon rings, and Radar falls down from laughing.) In honour of those heading off to Scotland for a hobbity moot, this drabble: So, Folco, I thought I’d find you here... your sister said you were in one of your moods... Moods! Hah! What I’m in the middle of is beer, if you’ll so kindly hand mine back! So tell me, cousin, what’s eating you? Eating me? Trust you to bring up the topic of food, Fatty. Gi’ me my beer! Well? Not at all well--I want my beer, you bl-- Ah-ah-ah, you know what Lobelia says about language! What is it, that’s got you so miserable, cousin-mine? Here... (shove) It’s just that... (slurp) you’re all going off without me, next week... Another drabble in honour of the Mooters Some of Frodo's friends came to stay and help him with the packing: there was Fredegar Bolger and Folco Boffin, and of course his special friends Pippin Took and Merry Brandybuck. Between them they turned the whole place upside-down. Folco, what in the world...? Beautiful, isn’t it? How... how did you...? With my own little hammer, I swear. And I only hit myself on the thumb once, I’ll have you know. But we’re... we’re supposed to be nailing up the contents of the smial in crates, you blockhead! Now, Merry, when we arrived, Frodo said he was certain we’d turn Bag End upside-down, didn’t he? How are you supposed to sit in chairs nailed feet-first to the ceiling beams? Hush, Pippin! Were you a part of this? I don’t think he meant-- (Don’t look, but here he comes now.) When they had sung many songs, and talked of many things they had done together, they toasted Bilbo’s birthday, and they drank his health and Frodo’s together according to Frodo’s custom. Then they went out for a sniff of air, and glimpse of the stars... (small caution for use of a word I'm told is objectionable)
I see hobbits everywhere, you know
I’m sure, Sam. Here’s his handwriting on the note. But we look like great bloody jack-o-lanterns! Merry! (Sorry, Frodo, but really... the colour...) Ahem. His note says orange-and-black are traditional colours of his House. Ah, so that explains it. Lovely. *** *sigh* What’s wrong, Bergil? O naught, Grandfather. It’s just that... the pumpkin patch makes me think of Pippin, that’s all. Pippin? (Beregond, I think the lad’s fevered...) Yes, and Lords Sam and Frodo, and Sir Merry too. (Beregond! Call for the healer!)
Characters: Bell Gamgee, Bilbo Baggins Curtains for Frodo ‘Mr. Bilbo, I’m a-puttin’ my foot down!’ And Bell Gamgee did just that, resting stern hands on her substantial hips for good measure. ‘But they’re my mother’s...’ ‘And that’s just the trouble! Those curtains are so old and sun-rotted, there’s just nothing to be done but throw them out and start over!’ Seeing a little of the old Baggins stubbornness surfacing in her employer’s expression, she softened her voice to try another tack. ‘You’re worried about that lad and his wheezin’,’ she said persuasively. ‘Well, he won’t get no better, breathin’ the dust o’ those old hangings!’ Bilbo’s face took on an expression of concern. He stuck his hands in his pockets, as if seeking comfort, and rocked back and forth on his heels. ‘Well,’ he said slowly, ‘Well, Mrs. Gamgee, when you put it like that... I hadn’t thought...’ O’ course he hadn’t thought, and what an old bachelor like him was doing, adoptin’ a tween at this late date, well, it wasn’t Bell’s place to say anything about that. She dropped her voice to a conspiratorial tone. ‘It just so happens, I’ve got a friend what makes real’ pretty curtains...’ In the end they agreed, for Frodo’s sake. Heard something the other night that’s stuck with me. For no reason, really, I wove it into a drabble just now. It does seem to fit Frodo at the end of the Quest. Characters: Estella Bolger and Frodo, watching over a sleeping Fredegar
‘It’s you, you old donkey.’ ‘What?’ ‘You... you... they say you pitied... you forgave that wicked wretch of a wizard... after all he’d done...’ Her gesture encompassed more than the ruin the Lockholes had made of Freddy; the shattered Avenue, the ghost of Bagshot Row, the devastated Party Tree. ‘You even pleaded for the lives of those murderous ruffians at Bywater...’ ‘Ah, midge... Estella... A wise old wizard, a different wizard, once told me...’ ‘What?’ ‘Unforgiveness is like drinking poison... and expecting the other person to die.’ Vigil by Lindelea Pippin sits by Merry's side after the Battle of the Pelennor... Title: Vigil
The sunset flushes your face with the look of life, but it is a lie, only a lie; your hand remains as cold as death, though I will not let go, no, not though another army of orcs and oliphaunts appear before the broken Gate. They say you fought bravely... I didn't see it, but I believe it. I remember how we stood back-to-back, surrounded, when they came to carry us to Isengard... you slashed at them, even cut off a few hands before they struck you to the ground. I realise I'm weeping when Bergil holds out a pocket-handkerchief. Another Journey South Pippin reined in his pony and sighed. ‘What is it?’ Merry asked. ‘It’s too stupid,’ Pippin said, with a wry shake of his head. ‘Try me,’ Merry said. ‘Caradhras just doesn’t seem the same, when he’s not throwing wheelbarrows of snow down on our heads, and blowing his freezing breath in our faces, and...’ ‘You’re quite right, you know,’ Merry interrupted. ‘Right?’ Pippin said, sitting up a little straighter. ‘Quite right,’ Merry said. ‘It’s definitely too stupid.’ With all the dignity he could muster, Pippin dismounted, then stooped to gather a double-handful of snow. ‘Definitely!’ he said cheerily, and threw.
I will take the Ring, though I do not know the way. Very angsty for a birthday offering, but offered with hopes of a happy birthday, and many happy returns. *hugs* to Larner, and thank you for your friendship and the wonderful tales you spin! His heart pounds, a feeling he'd thought left behind, in the past, when Bilbo had taken him in, helped to heal his broken heart, filled the emptiness left by his parents' abandonment. Not that it had been their choice... but Bilbo's had been a choice, a choice to offer new life, new hope, a new beginning, new dreams rising from the ashes of the old. But now his heart pounds as it had not in years, as even the new dreams melt away. The words come seemingly unbidden. New-old life ends, another choice made, not-life, not-hope, with nightmares for dreams.
Gathering and Sharing in honour of Tax Day in the U.S. At the loud banging on the door, Holly jumped up. 'Who could that be?' she said. 'It's not teatime, not quite yet, and while I always make extra...' The caller would not be put off; the banging came louder yet. Holly thought perhaps the door would burst open in another moment. She hurried to the door. ...and looked up, way up, to the sneering face of one of Lotho's Men. 'Yes?' she said. 'You wanted something?' He smiled, and not a nice smile. 'Yes, my little lady,' he said, with an ironic bow, 'as a matter of fact, I do.'
Larner recently mentioned the wild geese calling as they pass overhead, something heard twice yearly as these majestic birds fly to summer breeding grounds or to winter rest. We always pause to hear their song, and thinking of this--and the fact that it's been too long since I've had any writing time--I looked up migrating birds in Britain. I read about swifts, which we also have in our part of the world, passing through in the early days of September, flying in clouds at evening before coming to rest in trees or dart down chimneys, signalling the end of summer and onset of autumn days, with winter not far behind. *** Swiftly fly the passing days It is dusk. As usual at this season -- when at home, at least -- Bilbo sits upon the bench before the smial, his pipe cradled in his hand and his eyes on the sky. Waiting. Frodo, beside him, catches his breath as a flock of wild birds rise suddenly, bunching, undulating, ever higher, until they are lost to sight and only their voices remain. Bilbo listens a moment, and sighs. 'Summer's nearly over. Soon they'll be gone.' Frodo's heart sinks at the wistfulness in the old hobbit's tone. He never quite believes the old hobbit will leave all behind, and yet... *** A/N: For more information on swifts: http://www.birdsofbritain.co.uk/bird-guide/swift.asp (and apologies for the pun in the title. sometimes puns are hard to resist...) 43. There at Pelagir lay the main fleet of Umbar First, smoke; battle joined? ...save we ride at anchor, oars secured, uneasy rest before unbearable effort. Then cries – nay, screams, thudding feet, splashes – the sailors! The sailors! Abandoning the ship, and us, chained to our oars, to terror and death! For surely the great ship burns, is aflame all around us... I am choked with smoke, or is it a mist made of fear? Now silence, a drift of smoke, wisping, driven by breeze cold and clear. Now stillness. Fainting, we sprawl over our oars. Footsteps above, now descending. We raise our heads, listening. The Dúnadan speaks words of freedom. *** To every ship they came that was drawn up, and then they passed over the water to those that were anchored; and all the mariners were filled with a madness of terror and leaped overboard, save the slaves chained to the oars. Reckless we rode among our fleeing foes, driving them like leaves, until we came to the shore. And then to each of the great ships that remained Aragorn sent one of the Dúnedain, and they comforted the captives that were aboard, and bade them put aside fear and be free. --Gimli’s account of the coming of the Heir of Isildur and the Shadow Host to Pelargir (Return of the King, “The Last Debate”, by J.R.R. Tolkien)
Summary: Young as she is, Elanor puts her grown-up escort at ease Seeds of friendship sown As head of escort, he’d been assigned to show young Elanor Gamgee about the Smials on this, her father the Mayor’s first official visit after Pippin’s elevation to Thain. The lass was plainly nervous, he could see, at the curious stares in the corridors, and so he took them into the quiet of the third-best parlour, where no one would be this time of day, for soothing tea and biscuits. She was still ill at ease, he saw, though he managed to make her smile at a jest. He put his teacup down to say, ‘Your smile reminds me so of my own true love…’ ‘Your wife?’ Elanor said, sipping at her tea. Her smile disappeared, probably in response to his own suddenly sorrowful expression, and so he found his smile once more, though it felt forced, to say lightly, ‘Her name was Nell…’ But no more words followed, and he found a lump in his throat that was hard to swallow. She put a small, warm hand on his. Young as she was, kindness and understanding were in her face as she said, ‘Then you must call me “Nell” after her, and we shall be friends, shall we not?’ Claiming the Prize The Thain surveyed the slight (for a hobbit) youth before him; still a tween, by anyone’s account, always hungered, always eating (as oft as he could manage), yet growing still, up, if not out. Even if he were growing, he was a full head shorter than Ferdibrand or Tolibold, former heads of escort. Hobbits of the Thain’s escort tended to be taller than average. Not so tall as Pippin or Merry, perhaps, but then, Ent draughts weren’t common in the Shire proper, now, were they. The Thain’s eyes narrowed, and at his mild tone, those who knew him well stiffened. ‘I beg your pardon?’ *** A/N: Adelbrim was introduced in As the Gentle Rain and the short story Dressed to the Teeth. He is Faramir's friend from their early years, and the youngest Head of escort in the history of the Tooks.
The Siege of Gondor Sound of battle, then silence as Fear approached. A great BOOM, not far—not far enough. A dreadful cry, another BOOM!, and twice more, the last with a flash of searing lightning. The greengrocer’s wife cowered in her flimsy shelter, overturned table leaned against the only undamaged wall. She’d sent her children away with the wains, stayed for her husband, but he (so far as she knew) stood upon the Wall with what remained of the garrison. She’d thought to die beside him, if need be. Now, it seemed, she’d die alone. Neighbour’s cock crowed defiance. Then… Horns! Wild-blowing horns! There were some benefits to staying in the North until the King’s return, not the least of which had a laughing smile and dancing eyes and the promise of a kiss left upon his lips as he hung between life and death in the House of Healing. -- from All That Glisters, Chapter 71. Of Endings and Beginnings
Love’s First Kiss Merileth had never been there before. This place was for rich, nobles, those living in the grand houses of new-built Annuminas, and not for the likes of her family, sensible common folk who knew that bed and home, surrounded by loved ones, was the best place to recover from illness or injury. An errand lad had told her the way to where the hobbits’ bodyguard lay, having laid down his own life for theirs. A sob caught in her throat. She’d laughed him away. And now… now he might really go, and forever. Pinning on a determined smile, she entered.
I'd like to introduce you to an old friend of mine... Frodo looked up from glum contemplation, and put on a smile. Faramir saw through it. He spoke briskly. ‘The King asked me to look in, as he’s a bit tied up at the moment.’ ‘It’s but a cold. I wish everyone would stop fussing.’ Rather more than a cold, Faramir thought to himself. The other hobbits remained confined in separate rooms in the Houses of Healing. Frodo had only recently been released to the guesthouse, with strict warnings to avoid relapse. ‘With you all so ill, Mithrandir thought you’d be –’ (he did not say “lonely” but thought it) ‘at odds and ends… I thought…’ He held out a book. Frodo took it, eyebrows rising quizzically. ‘A Child’s History…’ he read from the spine. ‘Our favourite, upon a time, Boromir’s and mine,’ Faramir said. ‘For children, perhaps, but so well written I revisit on occasion.’ ‘Boromir’s favourite, as well?’ Frodo said, paging idly through, stopping for a brightly coloured picture, heroic soldiers, flying banners, desperate battle. ‘He loved to read about battles,’ Faramir replied, and shrugged. ‘When he read aloud to me, that’s all he chose.’ His smile widened. ‘I had to learn to read myself, to hear the rest…’ *** A/N: Was idly re-reading a few things, in an attempt to avoid writing by pretending to "research", and upon reading the drabble "Respite" this little scene sprang to mind.
Love Lessons ‘Show us how it’s done, Denny, since you know so much about it!’ Faenon said, giving young Denethor a push. The King’s elite bodyguard were enjoying some well-earned time off in the marketplace at new-built Annuminas. ‘All right, then, I will!’ Denny said, in sudden capitulation. And to the astonishment of all near the greengrocers’ stand, he seized a convenient bouquet of herbs, fell to his knees, and grabbed the nearest daughter’s hand. ‘My dear!’ he said, gesticulating grandly with the bouquet. ‘My love! My treasure!’ Everyone laughed, even the dumbfounded girl. ‘Come! Marry me, and make my joy complete!’ *** A/N: A companion, of sorts, to "Love's First Kiss" (chapter 46 in this collection of Drabbles)
Eleni sílar antalyannar! The owner of the voice that spoke at his elbow had approached more quietly than a hobbit, and he jumped. The intruder appeared to take no notice. ‘The stars are bright tonight,’ the latter said. Ferdi didn't respond, willing the intruder to pass on and leave him to his homesickness. But the tall figure simply pointed to the sky. ‘Telumendil,’ he said. ‘Lover of the stars. I’ve seen you out here, night after night, watching the sky rather than relaxing with your kin in the Hall of Fire.’ ‘Somewhere, my beloved is watching the same sky.’ ‘And mine as well.’ *** Author's Notes: Constellation information from Ask Middle Earth website. ("Telumendil: Meaning “Lover of the Stars”, this constellation is a bit of a mystery. Astronomers think that it might be modern-day's Boötes, but they aren’t sure. Another of the early stars made by Varda.") Translation of title: May the stars shine upon your faces! (from Elrond's blessing as the Fellowship departed, from this website.) Apologies if it's not done right.
Remembering the Departed On this Remembering Day, it was Steward and not Thain who held the torch, who spoke the ritual words. 'We gather together for remembering, as is our custom on this day. We remember those who have been lost to us since the last time we gathered so. We are here to celebrate their lives, their memory, our love which can never be lost, and the hope we share.' The Thain held the wick of the candle-boat to the torch, turned away stiffly, and mourned as he released the boat to the current. Voice breaking, he spoke the departed’s name: ‘Pippin.’ *** A/N: In my version of the Shire, Shire-folk keep the custom of carving small boats, incising on the side of the boat the name of someone who has died since the previous year's remembering ceremony. The final steps in preparation entail fixing a candle wick in the shell of the boat and pouring in wax, thus creating a candle-boat. Just after the Sun sets on the Second of November, on the banks of streams throughout the Shire, the heads of families that have suffered losses light torches and recite the words repeated in this drabble. Each mourner lights the wick in the candle-boat from the torch, walks the few steps to the water's edge, stands in silent contemplation of life and love and loss, then speaks the name of the lost loved one and lays the boat upon the water, to be carried to the Sea.
As Long as Hope Remains (Remembering the Departed, Part 2) ‘Word is, Dinny mourned his son earlier this month.’ Saradoc raised his eyes to meet his brother’s quizzical gaze. ‘The Tooks forced him to it, I’d imagine, and made him name his successor.’ He sipped at his tea and swallowed past a lump in his throat. ‘Who’s to succeed him?’ ‘Reginard,’ Merimac said in surprise. ‘How did you—?’ ‘The Tooks trust only what they see before them. They put little faith in faith.’ ‘But—’ Merimac said. Saradoc fixed him with a sardonic eye. ‘You know you’re next in line, should something happen to me. But Merry’s not dead.’ *** This drabble and the previous one were born out of a snippet from Flames recounting a clandestine meeting in the Crowing Cockerel during Yuletide after the Travellers had set off on the Quest, some time before Lotho’s ruffians burned the establishment to the ground: There was a general shaking of heads all around, and then the hooded visitor said, 'And how long is the Thain going to be able to hold off these thieving Men with threats and mischief? One of these days, someone's going to call your bluff, and it's either shoot, or let Tookland be overrun with these vermin.' 'Shoot,' Ferdi echoed, feeling sick. Regi nodded. 'Neither alternative is all that appealing,' he said. 'We'll bake that bread when it's risen.' The Bucklander took another sip of his beer. 'Word is, the Thain mourned his son's passing on Remembering Day.' 'Aye,' Regi said heavily. 'How's the Master dealing with his loss?' 'He refused to mourn,' the other answered. 'He says until he sees his son's body, he will consider him alive.' 'Hard knocks on the Bucklanders,' Ferdi said, 'if he refuses to name a successor.' 'Ah, well,' the other said softly. 'If need be, Bucklanders know who'll be Master should anything happen to Saradoc. And it won't be Pimple Baggins, either.' 'Who, then?' Ferdi asked. He didn't know how the Bucklanders ordered their affairs, but he knew some things were different. Had Meriadoc left a son, even an infant, the child would have become Master at thirty-three, with a regent holding the land for him until his coming of age. Not so amongst the Tooks. It didn't matter, anyhow, as Pippin had left no heir. Regi would be Thain in any event, and if anything happened to him, the succession would pass to his brother Everard. Ferdi was next in the succession after Everard, but his becoming Thain was about as likely as the coming of the King. 'Him,' Reginard answered shortly, and from his tone, Ferdi took warning. He saw the eyes in the face crinkle, and realised the other was smiling, but the answering voice was grim. 'Indeed, and with all the odd things happening, let us not spread the news that the successor is out and about, shall we?' Merimac took another gulp of his beer. 'Odd things?' Regi murmured low. The other fixed him with a stern eye. 'Has it not struck you that the heir to Buckland, the heir to Tookland, and the heir to the richest hobbit in the Shire all disappeared on the same day? Never mind that the latter wasn't exactly an heir anymore, he'd inherited. I still have trouble believing he came to the end of Bilbo's money. Anyhow, he's gone, with the rest.' He let the thought sink in, then said, 'I'd watch my back, were I you, Reginard. You're in the same boat as myself.' |
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