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prompt for December 1 - 24 devious dwarves ~~~ Devious Dwarves “Dwarves have a sure cure for sadness.” Legolas turned to his friend. “I never heard that before.” Gimli detected a gleam of interest behind the elf’s previously remote eyes. “It’s not something we tell everyone, now is it? But seeing you have a proper respect for rock, well, I could be enticed to share it. You must keep it secret.” Legolas openly registered curiosity. “I respect...” “Good,” Gimli overrode him. Taking Legolas’s hand he led him through a breathless series of steps and turns. They stumbled to a laughing stop. “Of course, it’s better with a band and twenty-four dancers.”
prompt for December 2 - 23 obstinate oliphaunts ~~~ Equally Obstinate One oliphaunt was daunting. Aragorn rapidly counted the animals milling in the valley below him. A herd of twenty-three... he swallowed hard. To get the job, he had to find the lead oliphaunt, take hold of the red ring on her head and lead her out. The rest would follow. Red? It had sounded like red. Shouldering past a curious youngster not much larger than a horse, he grabbed a red ring and tugged. She rolled her eyes. Planting his feet, he tugged harder, and found himself on his back with the herd leisurely heading away. He stood and followed. prompt for December 3 - 22 red rangers ~~~ The Sincerest Form of Flattery “It’s disgusting!” Faramir burst through the door into his brother’s office. Boromir raised one eyebrow. “When did you get judgmental? You should be flattered that he copied your livery.” “Flattered?” Faramir snorted his contempt. “With twenty-two of them swaggering around the city in that garish color? Even father doesn’t travel with that much escort.” “He’s young, new come to his honors, and very proud of his position,” Boromir said soothingly. “He’s only two years younger than I am. It’s no excuse.” “Perhaps down in the south…” Faramir snorted again. “Red Rangers! Even in the desert, that color is not camouflage!” prompt for December 4 - 21 ornery orcs ~~~ Hope Eternal When Aragorn and Faramir peered over the cliff edge, the orcs trapped and imprisoned in the box canyon below leapt to their feet, brandishing weapons and screaming a cacophony of foul curses. Faramir turned to Mablung. “How many down there?” “Twenty-one, Captain, and every one ornery and uncooperative, as always.” “They have been given the opportunity to surrender peacefully?” Aragorn asked. “Of course, Sire, every day since we trapped them here,” Mablung assured him. Faramir stepped closer to the edge. The orcs had managed to build a fire, but had not dug a latrine. Charred bones lay scattered amongst the piles of excrement and offal that littered the floor of the tiny valley. He turned an outraged eye on Mablung. “You didn’t feed them did you?” “No, Captain! You know as well as I that they can be easier to handle if they are hungry and weak.” He shot a wary glance at the king. “We caught twenty-five.” Faramir swallowed hard. He had never become accustomed to the orcs’ cannibalism. If the decision were his, they would be killed. Aragorn gave a dejected sigh and stepped to where he could see more of the group, still cursing and clashing weapons below. “I am Elessar, King of Gondor. Throw down your weapons and surrender peacefully or your lives will be forfeit,” he called down in a loud, clear voice. “I’ll throw my sword down your gullet, Tark!” One of the largest orcs roared his defiance and cast his sword up towards them. Faramir did not bother to flinch: it was obvious that the unwieldy, bent weapon would not reach the top of the cliff. As it clattered down, a brief fight broke out over it. The first orc to touch it had his hand sliced off with, Faramir saw, what had once been one of the Gondorian plow blades the orcs had received when they were resettled. It had been beaten into a crude axe. The axe-wielder was stabbed by a scythe, whose owner left it deeply embedded in his victim and triumphantly snatched up the sword. “I’ll ram it up your arse,” the new owner of the sword shouted, brandishing it upward and ending the threat with a howl. “Aragorn,” Faramir said quietly, as the king stared bleakly down at the carnage below. “It is not your fault.” He put a delicate emphasis on the ‘your’. Aragorn turned a questioning brow to his Steward. “Is it yours, then?” Faramir made an open-handed gesture of negation. “I am not the king out of legend who vanquished all evil.” Aragorn stared silently at the bloodthirsty mob. Faramir did not interrupt the king's thoughts. At last, Aragorn turned to him. “The official policy is still clemency. All must be given the opportunity to surrender and be resettled. Do here what needs to be done.” He turned and strode to his waiting horse. Faramir gave a nod to Mablung. As he hurried after the king, the bows of Ithilien sang death, until silence fell.
prompt for December 5 - 20 gay Gondorians ~~~ Finding a Little Time Alone No one had been amused: not the foremen overseeing clearing of the damaged masonry, nor the healers, nor the guards, nor the cooks, nor especially the carters bringing supplies into the city. Bergil stood before Faramir, unrepentant , if a little worse for wear. He saw that the boy was as confused as he was. “Why did you try and find out… ?” Bergil’s head came up. “Lady Éowyn sent me on a quest. She wondered if, even in this dark time, I could find twenty happy people. So I went and asked everyone I saw if they were gay.” prompt for December 6 - 19 weary wargs ~~~ Paternal Instincts The skirmish had ranged far down inside the mountain; orcs in their dens scrambling away from glowing blades wielded by fierce Elvish warriors. By wavering torch-light, Elladan surveyed the carnage and gave a satisfied nod. But where was Elrohir? Grabbing a brand, he wandered the blood-spattered corridors until he saw his brother’s blade resting beside a doorway. Inside, mewling sounds rose from the dark depths where Elrohir leaned over a pit. Thrusting his torch down, Elladan saw many squirming fuzzy shapes. “What’s down there?” “Nineteen sleepy puppies. Should we keep them?” Elrohir wondered. “Warg pups?” Elladan protested incredulously. “As pets?”
prompt for December 7 - 18 earnest ents ~~~ Searching Farther Afield Diamond screamed while the forest marched up the hill to the door of the Great Smials. When the lead tree bowed, she threw her apron over her face and turned to flee. She thwacked firmly into Pippin who had run out half-dressed and brandishing his sword. “Quickbeam!” Pippin gave Diamond a shake. “Look, dear, eighteen friends have come for a visit.” A lathered horse rounded the drive, thundering up to Pippin, the rider crying out, “Ents are coming!” Quickbeam’s hoom-ing laugh rang out. “We outpaced the messenger. But you promised to search the Shire for us. Have you seen Entwives?”
prompt for December 8 - 17 cunning Corsairs ~~~ Getting Ideas As the conference progressed, Yando studied the man seated across the table. After reading the reports from the sixteen previous meetings where Denethor had been Gondor’s representative, Yando knew that Umbar’s policy of sending a different ambassador to every negotiation both annoyed Denethor and took a disproportionate share of the resources of Gondor’s spies as Denethor sought to gain advantage by discovering whom he would be facing. “Unfortunately, ships from Umbar have been seen raiding Gondor’s coast,” Denethor asserted. Assuming a concerned expression, Yando leaned forward to give an impression of sympathy. “Pirates. It is indeed hard when pirates raid freely. Umbar also suffers much from these attacks.” The man on Denethor’s left, who had been introduced as Captain Thorongil, spoke abruptly. “I saw the ships. They were identical to those that brought you here.” “Stolen.” Yando shook his head sorrowfully. “Umbar has had many losses from these pirates. As you have. But what can be done?” Yando tried his best to look bland but concerned as he carefully watched how this sally was received. He doubted if this strategy would fool the Gondorians, but if they accepted his coming suggestion of a joint pirate patrol, Umbar might learn much.
prompt for December 9 - 16 singing eagles ~~~ Spreading the News “… the Realm of Sauron is ended for ever,
prompt for December 10 - 15 hot(t!?) Haradrim ~~~ Stepping Out “This is Gondor?” “Yes.” Denethor had waged a campaign not two summers ago to assure that. While Harad also claimed this fertile, resource-rich strip of land in South Gondor, the assertion held, for now. He didn’t know where to focus his eyes. The boy … man facing him wore breeches and a loose, open robe that showed, in Denethor’s opinion, far too much smooth, hairless chest. He had enjoyed the performance last night, but watching the sinuous play of oiled skin by torchlight while the dancers leapt and spun was a far cry from seeing an expanse of bare flesh by sunlight in the commander’s room at the fort. Looking at the boyish face was no easier; there were definite signs of aging around the eyes. “And Gondor does not allow slavery.” The young, light voice did not at all accord with the shrewdness Denethor heard there. Denethor gave a curt nod of acknowledgment. “So this is clearly illegal.” The man touched the silver ring, inscribed with the brothel owner’s name, welded around his neck. “The fifteen of us wish only to abide by Gondor’s laws, and pay a portion of our earnings to Gondor in taxes, rather than all of them to an owner. We provide services no less than any other citizen, and desire only that our …legal… status as free men and women be acknowledged.” Knowing now why the garrison commander had greeted his arrival with undisguised relief, Denethor sourly considered his options. There were not that many outright slaves in the region, but they tended to belong to the richest and least tractable men, who already resented Gondor’s presence in the area. Decreeing that all slaves were now free would probably spark another war. Yet, in principle, Denethor deplored slavery. Could he free just this group? Studying the intelligent face opposite him, Denethor had an idea. “Would you object to moving around or a,” he hesitated to give emphasis to the next words, “change in profession.” “We are dancers and prostitutes. Our profession can be practiced anywhere.” The other smiled a feral grin. “I have no reason to be grateful to Harad, and I think you will find me very loyal to a new …master.” They understood each other. A talented group of attractive dancers could glean much useful information. It would cost a great deal, but, if he proved trustworthy, it would be worth it.
prompt for December 11 - 14 fickle Valar ~~~ Cacophony Maybe ‘time’ wasn’t such a good idea after all. He’d only done it to keep them all together. Before, the Music had been rather like an Arbor Day program at a kindergarten, with Valar randomly leaping in whenever the urge came upon them to do a little more praising. For a while everything had been fine and they had quickly picked up the time signatures on the celestial music. In the first intimation that not all was well, Manwe, Orome, Aule, and Tulkas formed a barbershop quartet. Not to be outdone, Vaire, Nessa, Este and Irmo started practicing polyphony in earnest and complaining that the quartets needed to get together to practice eight-part harmony more often. Ulmo played long drum solos. Namo found a willing group of maia and formed a family pop rock group. Eru threatened that he’d hurl an asteroid if they didn’t expand their repertoire beyond “Yummy, Yummy, Yummy (I’ve Got Love In My Tummy). Now they alternated that with “Raindrops Keep Falling on my Head” and “I Think I Love You” until he wanted to scream. Nienna sang like Edith Piaf and wanted him to create absinthe, except when she sounded like Billie Holiday. Yavanna could never decide if she wanted to be Maria Callas or Brittany Spears. Varda’s costumes were too Vegas and the bits of glitter were beginning to fall off and stick to the cosmos. But the worst, the absolute worst, was Melkor, who’d been created with a strong voice but a limited range. Eru had envisioned him as the do-wop background track to keep the rest in time, but he wanted to be the lead singer. The Gregorian chant phase hadn’t been too bad, but he’d segued right into channeling Adrian Leverkuhn, and took to declaiming loudly that atonality was “The Future of Music.” Melkor’s latest glissando scream shattered Eru’s last nerve. The Valar were supposed to stick to one musical style, but their fickle tastes made that impossible. Quickly creating an enclosed universe, he bundled them inside and told them to play out their own creation. Silence. It was finally quiet. prompt for December 12 - 13 giggling Gamgees ~~~ Coming Home Elanor, Handmaid to the Queen, looked every inch a lady - tall and aloof in her beautiful, outlandish dress, her eyes grave - as the family surged noisily into the parlour to welcome her home. Rosie pulled Sam out into the hall, muttering about getting some tea. “Oh, Sam, she no longer belongs here.” Sam held Rosie close. “Nonsense. She’s still our Elanor. You’ll see.” Tea-trays ready, Rosie heard a commotion from the parlour. The door swung open to reveal a seething pile of giggling siblings. “Then the king grabbed Eldarion.” Elanor, on the floor, reached over and tickled Ruby. “Like this!” prompt for December 13 - 12 ticklish Uruk-hai ~~~ Back to the Drawing Board This batch looked good: tall, muscular. The dozen Uruk-hai stood at attention under Saruman’s inspection. “Good work, Grizbone,” the wizard congratulated. Grizbone shuffled uneasily. “There may be a bit of a problem.” Saruman grabbed the chin of the nearest Uruk for a closer look. “Teeheeehee,” the Uruk flinched in his hand. “Tizzzaazzuk!” The next orc in line tried to stifle his giggle. “What?” the wizard roared. He pointed one long finger at the offender. “Stooooppppnorfiggheehhheeee.” The whole line of Uruk-hai shook with laughter, collapsing into helpless heaps, unable to breathe through the bouts of giggles that convulsed their mighty frames.
prompt for December 14 - 11 stupid (silly) spiders Note: Let me just state right up front that I have a real problem with spiders; a touch of arachnophobia. I have watched Return of the King at least a hundred times, and I still have never SEEN Shelob. Never. Not once. Not doing it. Even thinking about this mathom has been rather difficult. But as I was walking the dog one night, I got an idea that I thought would work. When I got home, I quickly committed it to virtual paper, Liz did a quick beta on it for me, and I went to post it - and noticed that the prompt was for eleven STUPID spiders! Er, um, the memory I had of the prompt was eleven SILLY spiders. Before when I mis-remembered a prompt, I thought up a different drabble, but this is SPIDERS, darn it, and I do NOT want to think about them any more. You get a silly spiders entry! Deal with it! ~~~ Web of Friendship Arwen saw that Elanor was homesick. She sat to the side and contributed nothing to the chatter of the other girls, which was only about people – boys – she had never met. When a tear splashed onto Elanor’s hand, Arwen quietly went over to her. “I can see that lucet is too large for your hands. Shall we find you a smaller one?” “I do think I have a cramp in my fingers.” Elanor gave the queen a grateful look. “I don’t often use a lucet at home.” “Walk with me to the artificer’s, and tell me how you make cord.”
Elanor, bright-eyed and important, circled the room, helping in turn. Arwen giggled at her eleven silly spiders weaving, tangled in their own webs.
prompt for December 15 - 10 wicked walkers ~~~ Willing Sacrifice They accepted the dangerous task, because tracking the intruders was an honor. Taking turns creeping close at dawn and dusk, they overheard what they could, and reported it to the great, black birds that circled down each noon. Ivy was eaten first, but she’d always been slowest. As they days went by, Nettle, Thistle and Bindweed fell to the deadly elf arrows. Bramble and Blackthorn shuddered as they heard their sisters’ bones crack and their marrow greedily sucked. It did not deter them from their job, but they too were spotted and taken. Blackspot was more cautious, but clumsier. While following up the mountain, he walked too near a precipice and slid to his death when the ledge gave way. The others saw his body tumbling end-over-end. Before all was lost, Mistletoe and Nightshade took counsel, and went to find the wargs. They headed to certain death in wolf teeth, unflinching and proud as they hurried away. Thumper skulked as close to the Fellowship as he dared, waiting for the wargs to finish them off in the darkness. He never saw the stalking elf, but, as he lay bleeding, he heard: “Look, Gimli, another rabbit with the same strange markings.”
prompt for December 16 - 9 nervous Nazgul ~~~ Worth the Risk Parts of Barad-dur stood, though Sauron no longer inhabited it. The Dark Lord gave them power, enslaved them, deserted them. He gathered them together in the chaos following Sauron’s downfall, when they would have scattered, half of them wandering witless in the bright sunlight. Their rings - his ring was somewhere in the rubble of the tower. He lusted to wield it for his own purposes, and not feel Sauron’s overriding will bending him. They were afraid still and would crawl if their master required it. But if he held his ring… he stilled his nerves, and drove them forward. ~~~ "At length he resolved that no others would serve him in this case but his mightiest servants, the Ringwraiths, who had no will but his own, being each utterly subservient to the ring that had enslaved him, which Sauron held.”
Unfinished Tales, Part 3, Ch 4, The Hunt for the Ring: Of the Journey of the Black Riders
prompt for December 17 - 8 eager elves ~~~ Different Perspectives The muster had been called for the second hour, but long before then the courtyard rang with horseplay among the eight striplings waiting for Glorfindel to escort them on their first serious foray. Celebrían, on her balcony, watched the elves, none of whom had seen fifty summers, with a wash of sadness. “This should not be necessary. No great evil remains.” Elrond draped a comforting arm on his wife’s shoulder. “So it was said also after the breaking of Thangorodrim, and still Sauron caused much grief. It is best they be prepared.” The courtyard erupted in yells as Elladan snatched a knife from the belt of another youth and led him a frantic chase that ranged over the pillars and across the paving. He tossed the knife across the courtyard to Elrohir, who deftly fielded it, flipped it and, with a half-bow, handed it back to its owner hilt first. Elrond chuckled. “You cannot deny that we have bred warriors.” “They are not invulnerable.” Celebrían heard the anguish in her voice. “There is little danger in this task and Glorfindel will teach them well.” Elrond gave her a hug. “They are not as undisciplined as they look now, only eager.” prompt for December 18 - 7 soggy crebain ~~~ Keep Reminding Yourself, All Birds are Edible Boromir, wandering through Dunland, set the snares, expecting to spend the next day resting and eating something, anything, besides rabbit. The water meadows teemed with fat, juicy geese. He could almost taste the crisp skin as he settled down under the scrap of canvas that kept off the night’s dew. He fell asleep thinking of plump duck breast, roasted swan, and stuffed egret. A crash of thunder woke him. He spent a damp and miserable morning before the rain let up. Checking his traps, he resigned himself to bitter and stringy meals, for he had caught only seven soggy crebain.
prompt for December 19 - 6 sexy Rohirrim ~~~ Spring Rites When Imrahil objected, Éowyn described the outing as little more than a formalized remnant of an old ritual honoring Oromë, whom the Rohirrim called Béma, and Lothíriel argued that Éowyn was certainly chaperone enough. When the fire died down, the music throbbed in a more primal mode than Lothíriel expected, and the six dancers who stepped out were stripped to the waist, their faces masked by horse headdresses and exotic paint. Sleek, oiled skin caught the flickering firelight and Lothíriel found her attention drawn to the dancer flaunting a black horse-tail. Neither the most flamboyant, nor the most muscular, of the dancers, he moved with a fluid, controlled power that entranced her as they reenacted the stallions’ battles. One by one, five dancers dropped out, defeated or exhausted. Lothíriel found herself cheering enthusiastically for her favorite, and delighted when he claimed the victory. Black horse-tail led the dancers in a final triumphant circuit around the sinking fire. Stopping in front of them, he offered Lothíriel his hand. He was very attractive, but what would accepting commit her to? Uncertain, she shot an anguished glance towards Éowyn. Éowyn leaned over to her. “They choose maidens to jump the fire with them to ensure fertile mares and abundant crops. It’s an honor. Go.” Lothíriel stood, and tentatively touched his hand. “Do not be frightened.” The voice was familiar and, looking closer, she recognized the eyes gleaming behind the mask. “Éomer!” Laughing, she gladly let him lead her through the fire.
prompt forDecember 19 - 5 wily wizards ~~~ More Than the Wise Know We love the small things and do not call attention to ourselves nor meddle with the unknown sweep of history. Content to watch the grand things pass us by; we avoid the chiefs of our order, ranging far wider than they. We bring news to isolated peoples, because Arda is not constrained to their horizons. When we pass, a heart is lightened, love grows, a child cherished who saw only neglect before, or a plague ends more quickly. Our chiefs call themselves wise, but we are the five wily wizards - cunning and secret – bringing hope to all free people. ~~~ Of this Order (the Istari) the number is unknown; but of those that came to the North of Middle-earth, … the chiefs were five. Chiefs, to me, imply some subordinates.
Prompt for December 21 - 4 frolicking Hobbits ~~~ Motherlode for Magpies My wife loves bright things even more than I do, but there are places I never land, even when flashes of gold fly through the air and catch my eye as I glide overhead. The air feels lighter, and Oldest is near, so maybe, perhaps... bright things are so tempting. Circling lower, I look to see what tosses the gold, for the evil that dwells in the mound does not come forth in the bright sun. I back-wing in surprise. I have seen much in my flights, but I have never before seen four naked Hobbits frolicking on the grass. ~~~ ‘Run naked on the grass, while Tom goes a-hunting!'…
prompt for December 22 - 3 tipsy trolls ~~~ Old Menaces One hundred and fifty years after Elessar’s passing, trolls came out of the barrens again. First it was a sheep killed, then a cow. The attacks left the farmers fearful and the authorities grim. When a caravan was attacked, messengers were sent off in haste to Rivendell. No one living had ever faced such a menace from the black past. Would they, could they help? Elladan exchanged a wolfish grin with his brother. It had been far too long since they had hunted anything but meat for the table. The next morning, the twins came out armoured and girt with newly sharpened swords. Celeborn joined them, saying, “I, too, will hunt with my grandsons.” He added for the twin’s ears alone, “You two need not hog all the fun. The world is far too tame these days.” The overjoyed messengers led the three elf lords to the edge of the thickly settled lands near the Trollshaws. The signs of carnage were all too obvious; the half-eaten horse carcasses from the merchant caravan still gave nauseating witness to the latest attack, though the trolls had dragged the wagon off into the hills. Even though it was approaching sunset, the two days old trail was clear to follow, and the three elves set off after the trolls, hoping to find them awake and in a fighting mood. They found the empty wagon near midnight, abandoned at the foot of an escarpment with a slope too steep to drag up the heavy vehicle. The trolls had apparently shouldered the cargo and continued into the barrens. After another hour of tracking, they came across an empty barrel, lying broken at the side of the road. Elrohir sniffed appreciatively at the staves, before they continued deeper into the wilds. The trolls had stopped not much further on. Examining the ground in the light of the gibbous moon revealed marks of three trolls, five barrels and a scuffle. Two of the casks lay broken and empty. The trolls had each shouldered another cask and proceeded back to their lair. More cautiously now, the three trackers followed. Near dawn, there were signs that they were approaching the trolls’ hiding place. Bones and refuse littered the pathway. Drawing their swords, they rushed around the corner into the clearing in front of the trolls’ cave, ululating their war cries. And stopped. Elladan and Elrohir stood slack-jawed, their swords forgotten and points drooping downwards. Celeborn, after the first frozen moment, laughed until his knees were weak and his weight was only supported by his sword. The three trolls stood at tipsy angles, legs splayed for balance, tuns of fine wine still held overhead, with stains, dark in the starlight, running from their mouths and down their stone fronts. “Was it a contest that they all lost at sunrise?” Elrohir inquired at last. “All that good wine is wasted,” Elladan complained. “The world has changed indeed. Do you think we can still claim a victory feast from the villagers?” Celeborn asked.
prompt for December 22 - 2 laughing lovers ~~~ Stolen Kisses are Always Sweeter The little door led nowhere but to a scrap of ledge, with a magnificent view over the Pelennor from the precarious angle where the parapet met the wall. As he passed the spot and heard giggling from the other side, Faramir had a visceral memory of his much-younger self maneuvering a cuddly armful of girl into the place where the wind pushed her into his arms and the inevitable kiss. Had he ever told his son where to find this perfect spot for a tryst? He could not remember, and Elboron was certainly too old to need such information now. Unfortunately, Faramir’s memories did contain the interruption by the guard and the lecture from his father on how dangerous the place was; he supposed he ought to be the responsible adult and chase the couple inside with the same stern admonitions. Opening the door, he saw the queen - ecstatic, laughing and disheveled – with a man’s dark head buried in the loosened neckline of her gown. Faramir froze. “Faramir!” Arwen called out happily. The man raised his head, and saw him. Smiling, Aragorn gathered his wife casually in one arm, and held out his other hand in greeting. “You’re early.”
prompt for December 24 - 1 golden ring ~~~ Planning Ahead Groping his way to consciousness, Arathorn groaned and cursed that ill-named horse’s clumsiness. It had become a steady litany in the two days since Lightfoot slipped over the edge of the trail and he had ended in a tangled heap of horse and bush at the foot of the ravine. The horse had stood up and trotted away, but he had heard the bone in his leg snap and it would be weeks before he could walk again. He would not think of the day and a half of jostling it took to get him here. They had poured glass after glass of fiery distilled liquor into him to deaden the pain of the bone setting. He muzzily took stock: he was stale drunk, hung over, desperately thirsty, and his splinted, sore and swollen leg throbbed to the same beat as his headache. He also seemed to be alone in what was clearly the best chamber in Dírhael’s fortress, lying propped and centered in a great, tapestry-hung bed. The water pitcher and glass on the small table next to it were out of his reach. Groaning again, he heaved himself over on one wobbly arm and reached for the pitcher. His hand fell short and the movement woke the throb in his leg into fire. Arathorn sagged back, closed his eyes and tried to summon the energy to shout. “Do you only make those odd noises?” Arathorn’s eyes flew open. The voice belonged to a tiny, black-haired beauty barely tall enough to see over the side of the high bed. Her grey eyes with their fringe of long dark lashes stared at him with intense fascination. He made an effort to be civil to a daughter of the house. “Sorry my noises disturbed you. Could you summon your mother or your nurse to help me?” She gave her head a decisive shake. “No,” she said, her long, thick braids undulating with the movement of her head. Arathorn swallowed hard and riveted his attention on her eyes. “I just wondered if you made those sounds all the time. I have to take care of you.” That could not be right. Ivorwen could not be so lost to good sense that she expected this mite to have either the skills or the strength to be of use to him. Nor could he spurn her offer of assistance; she seemed entranced with him, and she was here and willing. “Can you at least get me a glass of water?” Arathorn summoned a weak smile to accompany the request. “Of course,” she replied with a dignity very much at odds with her youthful appearance. The girl carefully poured water into the waiting glass. She pushed a stool over to the bed and clambered on it to hand the glass to Arathorn. As he gratefully sipped the water, she stayed standing on the stool with her elbows propped on the bed, studying him carefully. “You are quite old,” she announced. Arathorn was not in the mood to humor her for much longer. “I’m thirty-nine,” he snapped, “which is still young for a Dunedan.” She took the news with equanimity. “I’m five and nearly a half.” She rubbed her forefinger and held it up for him to see. “Will you give me my ring today?” He blamed the liquor that still clouded his brain. This conversation made no sense to him at all, but he was afraid to shake his throbbing head, even to attempt to clear it. “I have no rings to give,” he told her, and tried to tinge his words with regret. “I didn’t think you did, now.” This time he did shake his head, instantly regretting the injudicious movement. She forged onward. “Because when I see the ring, I am much bigger. So you will have a ring, then.” “Lady…” he began. She giggled at the formality. “Gilraen. You are Arathorn and I am Gilraen. When they carried you in, I knew. I saw it. You give me a golden ring and touch my face and say you love me.” She must have correctly interpreted his skepticism. “I promise I’ll grow up as fast as I can,” she added, giving him a confident smile. His head spun. Marrying her would be as unlikely as… as… His thoughts stalled. There were probably less likely things than marrying this baby, but, in his current condition, he could not think of any. He would promise her anything for a strong draught of willow bark and a chamberpot, followed by the chance to sleep until he was sober again and his damned leg had stopped aching. The way he felt, that might take the twenty years he had until she was marriageable. She seemed to be waiting for an assurance, and her smile began to sag as the silence grew longer. Having only a charming, helpful child around was enough of a trial. If she were distraught… ? “I am not at my best. If I forget, remind me when you are grown. Now, please…” The door opened and a shaft of light speared into his eyes. “Gilraen!” Wincing, he saw an adult woman - at last! - come into the room carrying a covered tray. “Lord Arathorn needs rest. Out with you, this instant!” Gilraen patted his hand where it lay on the coverlet. She leaned over and whispered confidentially, “I understand. I will remind you.” Sliding down from the stool, she walked to the door. At the last moment, she turned and gave him another brilliant, confident smile. We had a lot of fun with this exercise over at HASA and on the HA Yahoogroup all through December. At one point, someone marvelled "we are so creative, I'll bet someone could write a drabble to the prompt 16 soggy grapes". Ahem... well... I am so bad at declining challenges. the bonus drabble for 16 soggy grapes ~~~ Unexpected Company Sam and Rosie were good enough friends that Pippin had no hesitation in showing up at Bag End several hours earlier than he’d told them to expect him. Pippin-lad led away his pony. Rose-lass blushed and said everyone was down helping with the harvest and she’d just nip down and fetch them. Turning a stern eye to her juniors, she admonished them ‘to take care of Mr. Peregrin’ before she hurried away. Pippin eyed the gaggle of little ones, none more than half as tall as he was, left standing open-mouthed in the entryway. Goldilocks - he thought it was Goldilocks, though it might have been Daisy as her hair was a rich chestnut brown - led the way to the parlour, followed by the rest of the children in duckling fashion, all in a group and quacking loudly. “Can we get you something to make you comfortable?” the self-possessed girl asked. “Yes, yes! Let us get you something,” chorused around her. Pippin estimated the culinary skills of the little group. “How about a glass of wine?” he requested, thinking that would not task them too hard. “Wine!” shrieked little Bilbo, or maybe that was Primrose. “I know how to make wine!” Pippin gave a sigh of relief, as they all trooped out after … Goldilocks? Daisy? … , and gratefully settled down in a chair where he could look out over the party field and the mallorn tree. The door to the parlour opened and the children filed into the room. The presentation was excellent. A small linen-lined tray held a plate with two biscuits and a tall tumbler filled with sixteen crushed and soggy grapes floating in water. A father himself, Pippin knew what was expected of him. Picking up the glass he took a loud gulp. “Delicious,” he told them. |
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