Stories of Arda - Lord of the Rings Fan-Fiction Archive

The first set of drabbles and vignettes is centered on Aragorn and the influences on and of his life. The stories are arranged in order as they occured in his lifetime. "Pipeweed" and "Hobbits and Husbands," posted separately, are also part of this series.

The second section, beginning with the chapter numbered 26, concists of miscellaneous drabbles about all the other creatures of Middle-earth: wizards, eagles, hobbits, dwarves, elves, horses.....This section begins with "Gandalf's No Good, Rotten, Really Bad Day," where Gandalf has to explain a few things to Manwe.

The smith let the still-dark stone cool after the forging of the eagle’s wings. Then, cradling it in his palm, he awakened its hidden power with his breath.

At a quiet pond rimmed with moss and ferns, he dipped the stone into the water’s green-gold depths and felt the power surge. He raised the stone to the light of the sky:

Jewel, heal wounds of despair;
Light, renew all worthy arts.
Eagle, bring hope to the children;
Fire, rekindle barren hearts.

In his exultant fingers a green sun blazed in the span of the fierce eagle’s wings. It was done.

With a relieved sigh, Gilraen sank into a deep chair. Since waking at dawn, her son had been climbing stairs, running on his sturdy legs through gardens and hallways, shrieking with delighted glee at each new thing and befriending each new person. His mother struggled to keep up.

At last, she could rest. He was quietly playing by himself, absorbed in a pair of toy wooden horses, exquisitely carved and burnished by Elven hands. Watching him coax the horses along the carpet in jumps and trots, one in each fist, she marveled at his young resilience. What happened to the terrified little boy calling for his father? Is Lord Elrond right—he will forget Arathorn, forget our people, forget even his own name?

Her eyes blurring with sudden tears, she reached out to him. “Areg, come here.”

Meeting her eyes over the boy’s small, dark head, Elrond smiled sympathetically. “Go rest, Gilraen. I’ll look after him now.”

Note: Thanks to Gwynnyd for helping me with diminutives in Sindarin. “Areg,” formed from the first syllable of Aragorn’s name and the suffix –eg (roughly equivalent to the English –let), means “little king” or, perhaps, “kinglet.”

Glorfindel stood with his arms crossed, one toe tapping impatiently, waiting for the family argument to settle down.

“Perhaps I did,” snorted Elladan. “But isn’t this an extreme response?”

Elladan held up his palm. “Peace, father. Don’t remind me yet again of the incident with the tree.” He paced the room, further irritated by sorry memories of a week spent pouting at the top of an oak. How many yéni would pass before his father would stop bringing it up? “But what are we to do?”

“The sentries will stop him at the pass, as you well know,” Elrond said. “No one leaves the Valley if I do not allow it, no more than they enter. He is perfectly safe.”

“Are you going to claim that your horse is in danger?” Elrond said, with more than a hint of irony.

“No, of course not,” Glorfindel said. “But I can’t allow this to go by without some consequence.”

“Indeed not,” Elrond said. “Horse thievery is not the future occupation that I wish for my foster son, even if he shows good judgment in taking the best one.”

“All right, I owe him an apology,” said Elladan at last. “I’ll go myself to fetch him back.”

“Good idea,” said Elrond. “And then you are going to explain it to Gilraen.”

When he heard the sentry’s low whistle, Elladan brought his mount to a stop. Through the trees he could see Asfaloth contentedly grazing on the lush grass in a small clearing. A heavy pack and a muddy pair of shoes lay against the tree trunk.

He looked up. The sentry’s grinning face peeped out of the leaves. He waved his hand in the direction of Estel’s toes, sticking out over a branch.

There was a silence. Then, with a loud rustling of leaves, the boy began climbing down and soon dropped to the ground from a large branch. He stood there, silent, as full of wrath as an eleven-year-old can be, his feet planted in a belligerent stance.

Dismounting, Elladan faced his opponent. Grey thunder looked out at him from under a scowling frown. The fury in those eyes would stop an army of Orcs, he thought. And soon enough he will be facing one. Estel was even now in the middle of a growth spurt that had added a good inch to his height and left his hands and feet too large for the rest of him.

Elladan bowed. “My lord,” he said, “I seek your pardon. I have been most intolerably unfair. I should not make promises I cannot keep.”

“I underestimated you,” he continued. “I didn’t think you could meet my challenge. Indeed, your bowmanship has improved greatly, and you hit the target three times beyond my dare. But I had made you a promise beyond my power.”

“It is by my father’s order that you must stay in the Valley, and I cannot undo that. Despite my false promise, I cannot take you with me to hunt Orcs—not yet. It is my duty to obey my father’s order even as it is yours. And it was grossly unfair of me to twit you about that party of Dwarves that was visiting last winter.”

Insatiable curiosity began to take over the wrath in the boy’s eyes. “Why couldn’t I meet them,” he asked, almost sadly.

“It is my father’s order,” Elladan repeated, “and thus for neither of us to question.”

Estel opened his mouth to protest, but then thought better of it. His look of resignation combined with his hunger for experience touched Elladan’s heart. “Come now,” he said gently. “Do you forgive me?”

As they cantered back, side by side on the smooth trail past the first steep climb down into the Valley, Elladan asked, “But Estel, why Asfaloth?”

“I thought that riding him was the only way I could to get out of the Valley. Don’t think I don’t know how strong father’s protection is.”

“No,” answered the boy. “It looked good all the way up, but then he stopped cold at the top. He wouldn’t move an inch.”

“Yes,” said Estel. “I love riding him. And I packed up my saddlebags with food and gear for hunting. I was all ready.”

“Actually,” Elladan said, “he’s going to make you help muck out the stables for a month.”

Estel turned to him with a mischievous grin. “And what’s your punishment?”

The boy burst out laughing, and, kicking Asfaloth into a run, he laughed all the way back to the House, his tangled hair streaming in the wind.

Smiling, Elladan shook his head. The next few years were going to be very interesting.

This blade is enchanted, great-grandfather said. While you bear it, no evil men or Orcs can harm you. She wasn’t sure she believed him, but every day she carried it, its slim weight tugging at her belt as she gathered berries or wood, herded the goats, fed the chickens. Although the red damask hilt had faded, the black blade could cut through green wood like butter.

That day, she must have been daydreaming. The men approached so quietly that she heard nothing until a voice said, “Don’t be afraid, mistress.”

Startled, she whipped out the dagger and whirled to face the threat. Two young men, tall, dark-haired, their weaponless hands raised in a gesture of peace, stood at the garden gate.

“Rangers!” she said, thrusting the blade toward them. “What do you want?”

She walked toward them, the knife clenched before her. She stopped short of their reach, the fence between them, and stared into their faces. “Why are you here?”

They stood patiently, hands raised, unmoved, until the dagger caught the glance of the taller one. His eyes lit in recognition.

She pointed the black blade at his chest, firming her grip. “It is a magic blade,” she said warningly, “a gift from the king for our service. Beware, if you intend evil here.”

The respect in his voice surprised her. “You know of the Old Kings?” she said.

“We do.” His steady, clear eyes held her gaze. “And of the power of such blades against harm.”

He speaks true, she thought with wonder. He knows. “All right, then,” she said, lowering her arm. “You may come in.”

The stranger's height and dark hair marked him as a man of Gondor, but he spoke in an oddly accented Common Speech. "I am new to the third éored, and need equipment for that company."

Thengel's armorer shouted, in Rohirric so that the stranger could not understand, "Do we have any horses big enough, Frélaf?"

His companion looked up and grunted with surprise. "A few. But with these dark-hairs King Thengel favors, we'll need more. Or we can chop the riders short, maybe."

From the gleam of those keen eyes, the armorer wondered if the man understood Rohirric after all.

Though all to ruin fell the world
and were dissolved and backward hurled,
unmade into the old abyss,
yet were its making good, for this,
the dawn the dusk, the earth the sea,
that Lúthien on a time should be.

In the Great Hall of Gondor the lords and ladies fell silent as the minstrel’s tenor poured forth Beren’s ardent love.

Captain Thorongil sat at the Steward’s high table, his head bowed, dismayed at the painful leaping of his heart. Why must every young singer take on the test of this song? he asked himself irritably. And I cannot leave without drawing notice.

For a little while, he could indulge the rapture and torment of his desire. He closed his eyes and sank into memory.

epiphany, n. A sudden, intuitive perception of or insight into the reality or essential meaning of something, usually initiated by some simple, homely, or commonplace occurrence or experience (dictionary.com).

Denethor knew that useful information may come in unexpected packages, but from his sharp-tongued, heedless sister Morwen he had endured only ignorant gossip. Until that day.

He and Captain Thorongil were reviewing with the Steward the disposition of the men in Ithilien, a map spread on the table before them. “In Osgiliath,” Thorongil was saying, a glint in his grey eyes—when Morwen’s unmistakable voice rang out. A moment later she burst through the door. “My lord father, my son is an idiot!”

“You must speak to him,” she said, her haughty eyes flashing. “You must dismiss that archivist--that seditionist. He told my son that the council of Pelendur was wrong! Now the boy is repeating this insanity.”

Turning abruptly, Captain Thorongil strode to the window, but not before Denethor caught an interesting blaze in those keen eyes.

“He says it’s true that Isildur was High King of both North and South! That he was the elder son, and so King in Gondor!”

Ecthelion raised a hand and said sharply, “Daughter, I am aware of the argument. Now is not the time.”

But neither her father nor all the Orcs in Mordor could stop Morwen. “Father, that treasonous old man told my son that descendants of Arvedui may yet live in the North! What’s more, they would be descendants of Anárion through Fíriel. He said that if one ever comes to claim the crown, Gondor should acknowledge him!”

Ecthelion sighed. “Many in Gondor agree with him. But it is a moot point. If there are such descendants, they have kept their silence for nearly a thousand years.”

Captain Thorongil stood still and silent at the window, like a statue of the King, and an unwelcome thought crept into Denethor’s mind.

Denethor heard the news with great satisfaction. The captain had crippled the corsairs’ fleet, at little cost to Gondor, lifting a great burden from the folk of the shore, and, by extension, from the Steward. Then that upstart sellsword had disappeared—deserted, Denethor told his father.

What then was that stab of pain when next the Steward’s son saw the golden throne, empty and silent? Till the King shall come again, came the unbidden thought. Regret and loss replaced envy and hate. Thorongil! In the time of Gondor’s glory, I would have been King’s man and your brother at arms.

On the distaff the knot of storm-grey fibers thinned as on the spindle the skein of silky thread fattened.

The slow rhythm of her hands and fingers, forming the fine strands, filled her days.

His heartbeat hovered at the horizon of her thought; she knew that the treacheries of mortality had not claimed him.

But yet he does not come. What changes have the years wrought? Has another won his love?

The leaves had gilded, fallen, bloomed again, and yet again. Still he did not come.

Is this how it will be? she wondered. Will that other part of my Elven blood count the days, the months, the year? Will I too change like the leaves in the seasons?

Impossibly long ago, when they had met under the trees in Rivendell, she had refused him. He had sworn he would seek her again, would again ask for her love. Now she dreamed of him at night. Her laughter fell silent.

Day after day, at the loom in her grandmother’s workroom, she wove the thread she had spun, passing the shuttle back and forth, her feet pressing the peddles to shift the warp. The silver-grey cloth lengthened. Again the leaves turned gold, fell, bloomed. He had not come.

A movement at the edge of her sight distracted her as the warden entered, seeking the Lady. “A Man is asking admittance to the Wood, my lady. He says he is lord of the Dúnedain, and he bears your brother’s ring.”

His wife's doings had long ceased to astonish him, but Celeborn did not speak until her elegant figure, straight and commanding as a mallorn, vanished through the door. "She is very concerned with presentation," he said carefully. "It is a Noldorin obsession."

Aragorn cast a critical eye on the fine embroidered sleeves, his broad shoulders moving restlessly beneath the silvery cloth. "I prefer a plainer look."

"Humor her. It matters little; my granddaughter will have eyes only for the man beneath the cloak, be it kingly or tattered."

Enjoying the warm sun of the late afternoon, Gilraen closed her eyes. The drowse of the bees made her sleepy.

For twenty-three years she had not laid eyes on her son, but yesterday the word had come that he was returning at last. Just a little longer, she mused.

She felt a shadow cross before her. She opened her eyes and with a leap of her heart saw her dead husband standing before her.

“Estel!” She threw herself into his arms, weeping. “You are so like him, my son, so like him.”

The Hobbit and the Man: All That Is Gold Does Not Glitter

All that is gold does not glitter,
Not all those who wander are lost.
The old that is strong does not wither,
Deep roots are not reached by the frost.

From the ashes a fire shall be woken,
A light from the shadows shall spring.
Renewed shall be blade that was broken,
The crownless again shall be king.

Gandalf had said, “You must meet another old friend of mine, a Man, who will help me find the creature. And my dear fellow, he is just your type. You might find him a worthy advisor in your next attempt at impressing Rivendell with your poems.”

Bilbo had not known many Men, aside from those in Dale and a few in Bree with whom he had passing acquaintance. Apparently this one was the Chief of the Rangers who were now, Gandalf said, vigilantly guarding the Shire from the threats of the Wild and other evils. Bilbo’s unerring nose for a story told him there was a good one here.

They met in the gardens of Rivendell. The Ranger’s height, keen eyes and stern face made Bilbo quite uncomfortable, but then he held up a large pouch of pipeweed. “It’s Longbottom Leaf,” he said, “The very best. I’ve just come from the borders of the Shire, and I understand from Gandalf that you will enjoy this as much as I. Shall we?”

“I find myself at a disadvantage,” Bilbo said. “I believe that Gandalf forgot to tell me your name, or who you are, beyond being the Chief of the Rangers.”

“My name is Aragorn,” he said. “As for the rest, let’s put that aside for the present. Come! Tell me about Gollum, so that I may know how to track him. Tell me everything you remember. No detail is unimportant.”

Bilbo found that in response to the Man’s persistent questions, he remembered far more than he expected. Finally, the Man said, “Thank you. You’ve been remarkably helpful. I fear that now I must leave you,” and bowed politely before he left.

He had met the Dúnadan (as he discovered the Elves liked to call him) several more times before he got the answer to his question. And then he thought, Really, old Gandalf has gotten it exactly backward. I’m not going to ask Aragorn for advice on my next poem. I’m going to write it about him.

Half-drowned, bleeding, weeping as the wild water claimed his terrified, screaming horse, Boromir crawled onto the bank of the angry river.

He had lost horse, saddlebags and sword. He had now only the clothes on his back, his shield and, most precious, the great Horn of Gondor. What madness sent me on this mindless quest? Father was right—our despair compels us to chase moonbeams.

Then he remembered his brother’s hopeful face as he spoke of the voice of the dream and the far light in the West. Whatever awaits me in the North, I will find it. For Gondor!

Frodo looked. Strider sat cross-legged not far away, sharpening a lethal-looking blade, the firelight flickering on his grim face.

“He’s got more metal on him than the blacksmith,” insisted Sam. “Knives and a whole sword and that broken one, too. Does an honest fellow need all that?”

“In the Shire, no,” said Frodo. “But here? I think he really is a friend of Gandalf’s.”

“Poppycock!” said Sam. “I’ll believe that when I hear it from the old man himself. But don’t worry, Mr. Frodo. I won’t let that Strider get at you.”

Boromir frowned as the Ranger, with his long stride, vanished down a corridor of Elrond’s house.

Aragorn son of Arathorn Elrond called him, and the scholars say the Northern Kings took such names as a sign of their claim. Underneath that battered cloak I see a man of Númenorean blood, and damn my eyes if that is not Elendil’s sword. Yet he spurns me, the Steward’s son of Gondor? Is the man mad?

Naturally, after the Council meeting, Boromir had sought out the one now revealed as Isildur’s Heir. But after allowing Boromir a close look at Narsil, Aragorn said, “We must delay further speech, I fear—the scouts leave at once to search for any remaining dangers to Frodo, and I must go with them.” He left Boromir standing there.

“He wasn’t much to look at,” continued Sam, “when we met in Bree. Fit to scare the daylights out of honest folk, Strider was. Strange, too—you wouldn’t want him in your parlor. But I found out different.”

He paused, his brown eyes warm with sincerity. “Mr. Gandalf, he says we would never of got here without him. He says hardly nobody could have kept those Black Riders off Mr. Frodo the way Strider could. I saw it. Old Strider, he’s got a thing or two up his sleeve, and not just a broken sword, either.”

Boromir gaped at the impudent little creature. What a strange place the North is! Cheeky Halflings, ragged kings. What next? Laughing, he took Sam’s hand. “I will keep your words in mind,” he said solemnly.

Aragorn embraced him tightly, then stepped back, his hands clasping Elrond’s arms. “Atarinya, for your care of me, your love, I thank you. It may be that I will not return.”

“I pray that you will achieve the destiny for which you were born, and all that I have hoped for you,” said Elrond.

Aragorn bowed his head. “If I do not, do not let her grieve,” he murmured. “Take her across the Sea.”

With one last grip of Elrond’s hands, he went to join the rest of the Fellowship.

Over the land there lies a long shadow,
westward reaching wings of darkness.
The Tower trembles; to the tombs of kings
doom approaches. The Dead awaken;
for the hour is come for the oathbreakers;
at the Stone of Erech they shall stand again
and hear there a horn in the hills ringing.
Whose shall the horn be? Who shall call them
from the grey twilight, the forgotten people?
The heir of him to whom the oath they swore.
From the North shall he come, need shall drive him:
he shall pass the Door to the Paths of the Dead.

As if to summon the very mountains, Aragorn, mounted on his great horse, swept out his bright sword, calling the thirty horsemen to attention. Weary as he was, he looked like the king he was soon to be. Proud and sure, Halbarad reined his horse beside his captain, holding the standard of Elendil yet furled.

“Here at the Hornburg of Rohan we few are gathered,” Aragorn’s voice rang out, “when once the knights of Arnor riding with Elendil and Gil-galad numbered in the thousands. Yet we have the hope of a victory far greater than that won by the Last Alliance. I speak of the hope that Elrond revealed to you before you rode South.

“My comrades, know this: a force of corsairs threatens Gondor. Minas Tirith will fall before ten days are gone. We alone can save the White City, but only by passing through great peril. I go now on a path appointed, the Paths of the Dead, to summon the oathbreakers, who must fight against Sauron at the bidding of the Heir of Isildur to win the peace of the grave.

“No dishonor will fall on you if you go with the forces of the Rohirrim. For I have revealed myself to Sauron as Elessar, Elendil’s Heir, and shown him the sword reforged, Andúril, the Flame of the West. My purpose is to draw his Eye away from the peril that will destroy him. At the fields of the Pelennor I will raise the banner of Elendil before the gates of the White City. And if the West fails, the wrath of Sauron will fall hardest on me and on all who are with me. Therefore I command no man to follow me. Will you come, men of the North?”

Halbarad drew his sword and saluted his captain. “Aragorn!” he shouted, and around him the Grey Company raised the call, their spears glinting in the bright noon.

Aragorn bowed his head, acknowledging their allegiance, and held aloft his sword, alight with the very fires of heaven. The green stone shone on his breast, and despite his pallor men could see his grim resolve. Halbarad raised a great horn, and its blast echoed against the rocky walls. Aragorn turned his proud bay stallion, Roheryn, and with a cry, “Elendil!”, he led the force out of the valley of Helm’s Deep.

They rode hard that day, stopping only to water and rest their mounts. The night was old before at last they halted for a hot meal and a few hours’ sleep.

After seeing to the men and the horses, Halbarad sought out his captain. Aragorn was sitting alone at a smaller fire away from the cook pots. Silent, he stared into the blaze. Andúril in its jeweled sheath lay across his knees, his hands resting upon it.

He searched Aragorn’s face with a critical eye. “You look a little better.”

The chieftain’s brief smile did not reach his eyes. “The weariness is slow to pass.”

Halbarad nodded. He knew what Aragorn did not say: The dread of his contact with the Dark Lord through the palantír yet haunted him. He would never forget it.

The lieutenant sat down beside his chieftain, leaning his arms and chin on one raised knee. “So here we are at last, in the war we always knew was coming. It’s a long time since that young man who had just learned his name wandered into the Angle, isn’t it, my friend?”

He was rewarded with a genuine smile. “Indeed,” Aragorn said. “And where would that Elven princeling have been without you?”

They both chuckled, remembering the Dúnedain’s harsh judgment of the young Estel as their chieftain.

“Well,” Halbarad said. There was so much to say, but so little need to say it—all the years of fighting and friendship hovered between them. “Soon you will have all your hope.”

“Or all hope’s end,” Aragorn murmured. “As Arwen said. And if we succeed—then, Halbarad, I’ll need you all the more—you, who I trust most to tell me when I’m wrong.”

“Yes, I’ve always been good at that. The first of the duties of the king’s man.”

They fell then into the easy silence of intimacy, remembering the cold, rainy nights as Rangers in the wild; quarrels both personal and political; laughter; too few nights of too much ale and pipeweed at the inn in Bree; the many times one had saved the life of the other.

Above, the stars blazed bright and cold in a clear sky, and the glow of the fire lit their warrior’s faces.

After, Aragorn thought of that night as his farewell to his best friend and chief lieutenant. When Halbarad died at the Battle of the Pelennor Fields, the life had fled from his eyes before any man could say goodbye, even his own sons. Only then did the king’s man lose hold of the banner of Elendil.

Once he got used to it, Pippin enjoyed being a Guardsman again, now that he had recovered from his wounds. True, he had a lot of work to do, but he looked forward to merriment in the pubs at night, for the City was vigorously celebrating the downfall of Sauron and the crowning of the new King. And now that Strider was in the City, Pippin found that his reputation as one of the Nine Walkers and a personal friend of Elessar opened hearts and doors.

“It’s not that I’ve made up my mind about him, you realize,” said the barkeep at his favorite pub, the Pig and Thistle, where the ale was almost as good as at the Green Dragon. “We haven’t had a king for some thousand years, and nobody ever thought it would be any different. True, he’s done some wonderful things, and not just swinging that magic sword—he saved my sister’s grandson’s life. For that he has my allegiance.”

“But I learned a long time ago that it takes more than a fancy title to make a true nobleman. Why, the greatest man I’ve ever known didn’t have any title at all. He was a stranger to the City. I served under him in those years, before an Orc’s blade ruined my leg and ended my days as a soldier. This captain would sleep on the ground with his men and eat our food—nothing special for him, always the same that his men had—even if he’d earned honors from the Steward for all his victories. He didn’t hold himself our better, but he was a great leader and a true lord, and no title made him that. He’d look at you with those grave eyes of his and you knew you would do your best. He trusted us and we trusted him.”

“Nobody really knew. He had no father-name. But he could have taken the measure of this new King, and I’d have trusted his opinion, no matter what. He was bold and courageous, too. He led a fleet against those corsairs and beat them, and he didn’t need any ghosts to help. We called him Thorongil, and it was a sorry day in Gondor when he left.”

“Er,” said Pippin, who had recently learned that his friend Strider had a remarkable past, “I think you’re in for a surprise.”

“Not so,” Faramir countered. “I often visited the archives as a boy, but war has since kept me away.”

“Is there anything about the Shire in all this?” Pippin waved his hands vaguely at the stacks of leatherbound volumes and old scrolls.

“Perhaps,” Faramir said. “I never looked. I learned about the land of the halflings as a legend of old.” He stood before a tall shelf heaped with cobwebbed, ancient books. “This must be cleaned up,” he muttered. “It won’t do for the King to see the history of Arnor covered with dust.”

“Strider won’t mind,” Pippin said. “He’s not a stick-in-the-mud about all that.”

“I am thinking about the future, not the past,” said Faramir. “Now that the two realms of Númenor in exile are reunited, Arnor’s history is ours.” He reached for a gilt-edged tome and, laying it on the table, gently wiped it with a soft cloth. “There, Pippin. The History of Arnor in the Days of Argeleb II. Aragorn says that Argeleb granted the Shire lands to the Hobbits.”

“Argeleb? That’s a mouthful,” Pippin said.

Faramir opened the cover to reveal a portrait of the king, splendid with the Star of Arnor on his brow. “King Argeleb the Second. His son was Arvegil, and his son was Arveleg, followed by Araval.”

“They all have the same name,” Pippin said. “Ar-this, Ar-that, and Ara-something.”

“Do I know more of the North’s history than its own son, Master Hobbit?”

“Probably,” said Pippin miserably. “As Gandalf has remarked more than once, I played truant more often than scholar. I hardly knew we ever had a King, never mind his name. ‘When the King comes back,’ we said for something that would never happen.”

“There were like-minded men in Gondor,” Faramir said. “But I did not forget the ancient lore. The names of Isildur’s heirs, as with Aragorn’s own, come from aran, ‘king’ in the Elven tongue, which we Dúnedain also speak.”

“Oh,” said Pippin. He grasped the edge of a huge page and turned it. Close, elegant writing filled the parchment, embellished with gold and silver. He leafed carefully through the volume, admiring colored drawings of beautiful ladies dancing at court, and brave knights on horseback battling foul Orcs. “Nothing on the Shire,” he said regretfully.

But on the last page, tucked into one corner, he found a tiny drawing. A rosy-cheeked musician held a flute to his lips, and a comely lass and stout lad, hands joined, kicked out their large, hairy feet in a vigorous dance.

“It’s the springle-ring!” Pippin stood out from the table and cocked up one set of furry toes. “Like this.” Humming loudly, he began a lively dance, but stopped abruptly. “I need a partner. Faramir?”

And so Lord Faramir, Steward of King Elessar and Prince of Ithilien, became the first in Gondor to learn the dance that was to sweep the streets of Minas Tirith.

The Queen knelt on the bed beside her napping husband, who half-opened one eye and smiled drowsily.

Perplexed and sleepy, he struggled with this odd remark. He murmured, “Lovely they are, too. Your ankles are enchanting, and the rest….”

“Ankles? What have ankles to do with it?” she demanded, slowly drawing the covers from his naked shoulders.

“Wake up, Estel,” she said, laughing. “I’ve talked to the midwife, and she says I can bear a Man’s child easily.”

“You mean….” he began. Her tousled hair, glowing face and rosy breasts swelling beneath a half-laced gown drove away his sleep.

“Not yet,” she said. Pulling the covers to expose his muscled chest and lean waist, she pressed her hand against his taut belly and trailed a soft finger through the dusting of curls. “You have work to do.”

Duty kept the men in the City, inspecting posts and guardsmen atop the wall of the First Circle and exchanging a word or two with the commanders and the occasional soldier.

Then Faramir tapped the king’s shoulder. “Look,” he said, pointing to the green fields of the Pelennor below.

Two horses, grey and black, blazed like smoke across the field, now lush with a year’s growth since the war’s end. Two heads bent over the manes before them, braids, golden and raven, streaming like banners behind them. Skirts flew around bare feet, thighs gripped the sleek strong flanks of their mounts.

The men imagined more than heard the whoops of bliss as their wives raised their rosy faces into the wind.

Aragorn turned, smiling, to his Steward. “My friend, we are the two luckiest men in Gondor.”

Gilraen, Princess Isilmë of the House of Telcontar, was well hidden in the rocky slopes of Emyn Arnen. She huddled beneath an outcrop of stone and wished fervently that the rain would stop. The bad weather had one good feature, however: Any sign of her passage would now be washed away, if she had been so careless as to leave any. This was doubtful. After all, she had been trained in woodcraft by the greatest tracker and hunter in Gondor.

She intended to go back, when she was ready. She was not so childish as to dream of running away. Where—to Thranduil’s kingdom, perhaps? Silliness. No, she would stay hidden for only a few days, just to teach them a lesson.

Why had they made her come? She had to sit like a statue in Lord Faramir’s great hall, princess-like, and talk politely to the emissary’s daughter. Mother was “indisposed,” they said. Ridiculous. She was never sick. But now, supposedly, even Lady Éowyn could not help Gilraen with entertaining the foreigner: she was too busy looking after mother. And Elboron was useless, as usual.

She had been so lonely since granny’s death, for that was the name she had called her great-grandmother Ivorwen, who had died only three weeks earlier at the age of one hundred and fifty-five—an impressive age for a Númenorean woman in these late days, everyone said. Granny, who had sung to her at night and braided her thick, difficult hair. Just like my daughter’s, she would laugh. My little Gilraen.

She saw some movement through the woods down the slope and smiled with satisfaction. Already they were looking for her. They will never find me.

She watched as, after some moments bent down, examining the ground, the tracker followed her precise trail up the hillside. The hooded and cloaked figure wended its way through the trees. He looks just like papa, she thought, amused. But soon the amusement began to flag. He can’t really be papa, she told herself, unconvinced. The man stopped and turned his head and she recognized, with dismay, that he was indeed the greatest tracker and hunter in Gondor. Within minutes he was standing on the slope beneath her tiny ledge and looking her in the face.

She stared at him. Behind the relief in his eyes anger sparkled. He raised his arms. “Jump down,” he commanded.

Sheepishly, she gathered her pack and pulled the hood over her head. She leaped the few feet down into his arms; he caught her with precision and set her on her feet. He looked her in the eyes. “You will never do this again,” he said. “Come now.”

She followed him down the hillside, rage battling with humiliation in her breast.

A half-mile away two mounted guardsmen stood, one holding her father’s great horse. The king mounted, and had the guardsman help his daughter mount before him. They set off to return to Faramir’s hall.

She knew what was coming. He never shouted at her, never even scolded her. Instead, he would talk to her, and somehow he always made her see everything differently. But this time, she didn’t want to see things differently. “You don’t know what it’s like, being eleven,” she cried petulantly.

He chuckled. “You’re right,” he said. “I skipped that year. I went from ten to twelve.”

“Yes,” he said. “Therefore, you must admit I had to have been, once upon a time and very long ago, eleven.” He was quiet for a while, as if remembering. Then he said, “Gilraen, it made me happier than I can tell you that granny could live with us for the last years of her life. I didn’t know her as a boy, because, as you know, I was in Rivendell. That you knew her made up for missing that, somehow.”

She began to cry. He kissed the top of her head and lifted a hand from the reins to squeeze her wrist. “Oh, papa,” she said.

“Grief is hard, and we have left you too much alone,” he said. “But there are reasons. Some, perhaps, you will not understand until you are older. Some are easier to explain. I have been trying to resolve through negotiation these differences with the people of Rhun. I fear I have failed, and there will be a war.”

“If there is war, I must,” he said. “There is never a good time for war, but this is by far the worst.” He sighed. “You know your mother has been unwell.”

Gilraen made a most unladylike snort. “I know better than to believe that,” she said. “Mother does not get sick, no more than Legolas. And if she was sick, why didn’t she stay home, anyway?”

“She should have stayed,” he said. “I lost that argument. As for the rest, I wish you were right. The truth is, Gilraen, she is with child, and that is very difficult for the Eldar.”

Well, that was a shock. She noted the mix of worry and happiness in her father’s voice. “A little sister?” she said.

“You will have a brother,” her father said. “But don’t tell anyone that we know the child is a son. This is our secret. So, you see, I have much on my mind, because if I must leave for war, she will bear the child without my support.”

“Yes, you will,” he answered. “And that will be a very great comfort to all of us.”

Years later, at the time of her father’s death, she finally understood just what he meant.

Aragorn was pleased that his duties were over in time to allow him to join his wife in a family ritual that he usually missed: putting the child to bed. Every night, after the nursemaids had bathed and dressed the young prince in his nightclothes, the queen would dismiss them and take Eldarion to his bedchamber herself. She would tell him a story and sing softly in her lovely voice. Elven dreams and visions of great beauty would drift across his eyes, until they closed in a sound sleep.

The king strode through the nursery suite, and the startled maids dropped curtseys as he passed; they called out “my lord king,” and he greeted them briefly with a smile and a nod. But when he turned into Eldarion’s room, he found a somewhat different scene from what he had expected. Barefoot and nightgowned, his four-year-old son was standing in the middle of the room, brandishing a wooden sword and shouting, “You might be a play-acting spy! What do you say to that?” Seeing his father, Eldarion put on a ferocious face and charged. “Strider!” he shouted.

“Arwen,” the king said, as he held the small body whacking at him with the wooden sword, “what are you teaching our son?”

Laughing helplessly at her husband’s surprised face, Arwen gasped, “The Prancing Pony—I told him the story of the Hobbits and the Ranger, and he just found out that you are Strider. He is being Sam. Such great timing!”

Aragorn closed his hand around the small arm brandishing the wooden sword. The scowl on his son’s fair Elven face bore an uncanny resemblance to Sam Gamgee’s look of suspicious disapproval. He was about the right height, too. “That’s enough, my son. Shall we discuss this, perhaps?” and he knelt down to look at his son face to face.

Eldarion let out a peal of delighted laughter and threw his arms around his father’s neck. “Is it really true, papa? You are Strider?”

“Oh, it is really true,” Aragorn said. “But you are Strider, too.” He picked up the boy and they joined the queen on the bed.

“Strider!” the boy shouted again. Slipping off his father’s lap, he began strutting around the room. “Here is Eldarion being Strider.”

“Lurking by a stagnant mere, peering in the mater as the dark eve fell, I caught him, Gollum. He was covered with green slime. He will never love me, I fear; for he bit me, and I was not gentle.”

“I’m sorry you didn’t bring your son with you,” Legolas said, embracing the King. “Such a charming mix of both our races! How is the little demon?”

“As energetic as ever,” said Aragorn. “Last week he attacked me with a toy sword, pretending to be Sam Gamgee at the Prancing Pony taking on the sinister Strider.”

Legolas smiled. “I would have dearly loved to see that!”

“I asked Arwen to please omit any Gollum stories.”

Legolas’s smile broadened to a mischievous grin, and his eyes closed to slits.

“You would not!”

“Don’t worry—I’ll let him practice on me first.”

In springtime, the old man brought his grandson to see the White Tree. After one hundred years, it soared skyward, its branches embracing the sun. The blossoms rustled with a secret life.

“When my father fought in the War,” he said, “the Tree was dead. But after Sauron was destroyed, the King found a sapling in the mountains and planted it. Now our city is filled with laughter and gardens and schools of medicine, music, and astronomy. Instead of wielding a sword, you will make books on Master Falborn’s new printing press. Such are the blessings of King Elessar’s Peace.”

"The loremasters claim there is only one possible interpretation of the myth of Fëanor. I disagree. Both his glory and his disgrace come from the will to master fate and find freedom from the tyranny of the elements. He strove for knowledge and skill for all. No longer would power be only the province of the gods. For this ungodly pride he lost his life.

"Those who seek to better the lot of our fellow men honor him as the greatest of friends. Praise him!"

Elves are strange folk, Gimli thought, and this one's like a dandelion in a dragon's den. Narrowing his eyes underneath his bushy brows, he watched the Elf surreptitiously, waiting for a repeat of the strange gesture.

All too soon, as the Elf crossed the Dwarf's path yet again, Legolas drew a vigorous X across his chest with one elegant hand, and tugged on his chin, smooth as a baby's behind, with the other.

By Durin's axe, he's mad. Gimli caught Gandalf's glance. A mischievous twinkle lit up the wizard's eye.

"Pay no mind, my good Dwarf," Gandalf said in a low voice. "It's the thirteenth day of the month, and Thranduil's folk believe it brings them good luck on this day to cross a Dwarf's path and themselves at the same time. The chin cupping is to honor your kind."

Snorting, Gimli stroked his luxuriant whiskers. Beard envy—of course.

Clutching his chubby cheek and waving a pointed, silver-painted stick, Beren yelled, "Woe! I'm hungry! Will I ever get out of this mess?" His face split in a broad grin. "Hark! It's music of a pipe unseen!"

Trailing a checkered woolen scarf, Lúthien scampered onto the grass and twirled on her tiptoes. Beren held out his plump arms. "Tinúviel! Tinúviel!"

Rosie folded her scarf, Sam wiped the spit off his flute, and Fatty stuck his "sword" into his belt.

Bilbo coughed. "It's a good start. But to capture the romance, I think you need to do something about the hair on Rosie's toes."

Gandalf wiped his watering eyes and sucked deeply on his pipe. His chest exploded in harsh coughs.

The wizard glowered at the young Took, who at last turned away. Sighing, Gandalf wrapped his tired body in his cloak, closed his eyes, and sank into unwelcome memories.

"Olórin," Manwe had said, "beware the temptations of the flesh. Beware wine, women and other lusts!"

Ever mindful of his divine instructions, Gandalf had fended off these iniquities. But his lord had failed to mention the true curses of incarnation: running bowels and a potent sneeze.

Manwë sat on his throne, a deep frown entrenched on his celestial face, his fingers drumming the carven wood handle. His unhappy stare moved across the three figures before him: the miserable, cringing wizard, the coldly wrathful elf-lord, and his bereft daughter, quietly weeping in the back.

“Well?” he said. “Am I to hear at least some excuses for this catastrophe?”

“It was like this, my lord,” Gandalf said humbly. “Radagast said I had to get there right away. Saruman summoned me on a most urgent matter.”

“He said…” Gandalf’s voice sunk to an abashed whisper. “The Nine were abroad, my lord.”

“Merely a small piece of gossip,” said Manwë bitingly. “An amusing tidbit. And what did you do with this information fit for the society column?”

“And you found a Ranger to take it to him immediately, of course. What any dimwit would do, since Dúnedain litter the landscape guarding the silly place. So naturally…”

“An unusual choice,” said Manwë, his voice crackling with sarcasm. “But of course you could trust him to keep it safe, even if he forgot to send it on.”

“Well,” Gandalf said. “I didn’t realize there were so many spies in Bree.”

“No, of course not,” Manwë said. “They’ve only been moving in and out of the town in droves for years, while Rangers risk their lives keeping the Enemy out.”

“But since it was a model of discretion, it was of no use to him, right?” said Manwë, his eyes piercing the wilting wizard.

“Well,” said Gandalf again, trembling. “I slipped a little. I’m afraid I put Aragorn’s name in there.”

Manwë cast his eyes up to the heavens, silently calling on Iluvatar to give him strength. He sighed. “But besides the name, which would tip anyone with a slight knowledge of the history of the Northern Kingdom just who this man was, you didn’t give anything else away.”

“You mean the poem that says he has Elendil’s sword and that he’ll be crowned king one day?”

“But it wouldn’t have mattered, really,” Gandalf protested. “If only he had had a whole sword and a knife or two, he could have fought them off. Why in Middle-earth was he running around Eriador with only a broken sword?”

“Why indeed,” agreed Manwë. “But since he’s not around to tell us, we’ll never know.”

“And then,” said Gandalf, warming to his story, “he tried to sneak into the hobbits’ parlor and knocked himself out cold against the low ceiling.”

“Yes,” said Gandalf, and he raised his extraordinary eyebrows, hoping to recoup some grandeur. “He really should have been more careful.”

Manwë let the silence endure for a rather long interval, while he stared unblinking at the wizard’s eager face.

“Of course!” Manwë agreed. “Since there was absolutely no one else around to help, due to your excellent foresight in warning the Rangers about the danger.”

Gandalf made one last attempt to save himself. “But at least he got rid of Sauron!”

“Humph,” Manwë said. “I’m glad one of my servants could carry out the mandate. Now, get the hell out of here.”

Bilbo stepped up briskly to the handsome blond elf. “You are King Thranduil’s son?”

“Why, yes,” said Legolas. He had never seen a hobbit before, and was taken aback by the fierce expression on the small one’s kindly face. “May I have the pleasure—”

“Bilbo Baggins, at your service,” Bilbo replied, bowing, his eyes gleaming strangely. “At last I can pay you back for that rude disappearing act.” And he snatched Legolas’s plate of honey cakes. “How does that feel?”

Gandalf looked down upon the elf’s astonished face. “Never stand between a hobbit and his meal,” he declared solemnly.

The smell of the roast meats was so enchanting that...every one of them got up and scrambled forwards into the ring with the one idea of begging for some food. No sooner had they first stepped into the clearing than all the lights went out as if by magic....

“Do you have it?” the boy asked as his brother joined him in the bushes outside their father’s house.

Braced, ready to fly, they lapsed into expectant silence, waiting for movement in the guest bedroom. And the signal came: a drawn-out shriek of outrage and fury and a string of Quenyan curses. “Where are they?” their grandmother shouted. “They will never sit down again!”

Satisfied smiles bloomed on twin faces. Clutching a thick lock of golden tresses, Elrohir said, “It’s worth it.” And they sped into the woods.

True, the books on Elven crafts betrayed secrets of wondrous skills that eluded even the finest Dwarven smiths.

And the luminous Elven music melded with the meaning of the poetry like gold and mithril intertwined.

But now, favoring his gouty foot, chafing his arthritic hands against the cold, and keenly aware that his beard matched the color of the snow, he feared the penalty was again come due: Legolas was gazing sorrowfully at the leafless trees.

“Spare me, Elf,” he grumbled, “another endless lament whining about the sad passage of the years.”

His brow worried into focus, Bilbo bent over the closely written pages scattered across his desk and scrawled heavy black lines over a much-altered passage.

Festooning the chairs, table and floor were stacks of fresh parchment; bits of paper ornamented with exquisite illuminated letters; and untidy piles of maps, sketches and random jottings. Pots of colored ink—blue, red, green and silver—stood on a shelf alongside a fine sheaf of gold leaf.

His graying hair stuck out like thistledown around his old head. Shreds of pipeweed speckled his dressing gown, and he had forgotten to brush his toes.

He threw down his quill and grabbed hold of a small scrap of light brown paper covered with hasty writing. In the middle was a hideous figure drawn in grey pencil.

“The artist got you down pretty well, old fellow,” he muttered to the drawing. “Tom wanted manflesh… William… let’s see…” He picked up his pen.

“Yer can’t expect folk to stop here for ever just to be et by you and Bert. You’ve et a village and a half between yer.” He took a big bite off a sheep’s leg he was toasting, and wiped his lips on his sleeve.

Legolas had never seen so much hair on inappropriate body parts in his long Elven life. Four pairs of hairy feet and four beards assaulted him at every meal. It was enough to kill his appetite, even after hours of walking.

On the other hand, the tough curls kept the Hobbits’ feet warm, and beards protected faces from the relentless wind.

But when Gimli changed his tunic for a warmer one, Legolas saw the wiry, russet hair did not stop at the Dwarf’s chin. The thick pelt coated Gimli’s neck, chest, belly…Elbereth, did it go as far as that?

On the first day, the grey stallion danced like wind across the field, his hooves spattering the wanderer with mud. What insolent beggar is this to claim the Lord of Horses?

On the second day, curiosity delayed his flight. What manner of man lies beneath those rags?

At the next day’s dawn the grey one spoke to him in a strange tongue, courteous and rich with reverence for all growing things. Brother, I have need of your strength and speed. Will you not lend them to me?

As her flight feathers grew, the nestling tested her wings, reaching into the alluring air. Soon she dared to glide to nearby tree branches.

One bright day, she soared away. She dipped and turned over the lake, exalting in the susurrus of the wind. Gliding above, her proud parents watched.

Wheeling back toward the nest, the young eagle spied a thick branch, an ideal perch. Too fast! Talons gripping the branch, she swung till she hung upside down. She released her grip and fell, spreading her wings to gain height. The family nest was the better landing spot, after all.

"Good thing the Beast went out," Gandalfs apprentice said to the cat. "He can roar in some bar while I write a drabble for Ang's birthday about love between long-paired couples. Ha!"

Smiling with his whiskers, the cat settled on her lap and ran a wet paw over his ears.

***
The skin-changing fit seized Beorn as midnight struck. The booming man's voice gruffed into growls; curling man's hair luxuriated into an ursine pelt; human fingernails spiked to bear claws.

Curled up under the bedcovers, his wife followed his movements with her ears as he lumbered out of the bedroom and through the great hall. The door slammed.

The next morning, the paw prints in the mud outside the kitchen door told her not to expect him home soon. "A good day for baking honey-cakes," she said to the pony. His intelligent eyes smiling, he bumped her arm for some oats.

Drabbles, Vignettes and Such by Gandalfs apprentice