Chapter One:  Some Dark Place (Aragorn)

Aragorn could not stop shaking.

He was safe now, riding behind Halbarad on the broad back of his kinsman’s sturdy mare, within the protected bounds of Imladris, in full daylight. Soon they would reach the House of Elrond, and be welcomed with food and care and warm beds where they could sleep in peace.

The Riders had found him the night before, alone on a wooded hill high above a creek. Only three Riders had attacked, which was why he still lived today. He was Aragorn, son of Arathorn, Heir of Isildur, Chieftain of the Dúnedain, rightful King of Gondor, and though he had weathered skirmishes with Orcs and even trolls, known the sharp tang of battle-alert, he had never felt terror until the wraiths had appeared, dark shapes barely divisible from the night that cloaked them. Their chill had frozen the very breath in his lungs. He had forced himself to move, to duck and roll and then hurl firebrands at them as he fled. Fortunately, he knew that hillside well, better than did the wraiths. He had run, dodged like a hare between rock and tree, finally reached the stream and stumbled through the current.

But he might well have died from the fear they brought, his heart hammering to break his chest wall, if not for Halbarad. Coming early to their meeting, Halbarad had heard his cries, seen the light of the brands he had thrown, and rode round and round in the dark trying to find him.  Then Aragorn had staggered out of the water to collapse in his kinsman’s very path. Halbarad had pulled him up and borne him away on the fleet-footed mare. The wraiths had lost two horses, and the one they had left could not carry them all with sufficient haste to catch her.

Aragorn let out a deep, shuddering breath. He was grateful that it was his kinsman and friend who now sat close before him. Halbarad would not reveal how the fear still, shamefully, gripped him.  Hopefully, Halbarad had not noticed that Aragorn had soiled himself like a lad in his first battle.  He remembered that moment, when the foremost wraith had advanced, reached out for him with night-shrouded gauntleted hands.  The water had soaked Aragorn so thoroughly that the smell must have lessened by now. And the mare, whose nose was better than Halbarad’s, did not seem to care.

“Easy now, Aragorn,” Halbarad said. “See, they are opening the gates.  We’ll sleep soundly tonight, eh?”

“Indeed,” he answered wearily, and forced himself to sit up straight, clasping the other’s shoulder as the only show of gratitude he could manage for now.

Aragorn could speak no more. He was safe.  He had escaped the Riders of Shadow, through Halbarad’s aid and the mare’s good speed. But what still set his heart racing and his hands to unmanly trembling, what brought a cold sweat to his brow was the certainty that sometime, somewhere, he would have to face the Riders again.

***

‘…They will come on you in the wild, in some dark place where there is no help. Do you wish them to find you? They are terrible!'

The hobbits looked at him, and saw with surprise that his face was drawn as if with pain, and his hands clenched the arms of his chair. The room was very quiet and still, and the light seemed to have grown dim. For a while he sat with unseeing eyes as if walking in distant memory or listening to sounds in the Night far away.

The Fellowship of the Ring, Book I, Chapter 10:  Strider

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Author's Note:  As far as I could tell, Aragorn normally refers to the wraiths as Riders, rather than Ringwraiths or Nazgûl, etc.   I place this encounter at about 2954-2955, after Sauron sent three Nazgûl to occupy Dol Guldur and before Aragorn began his great journeys. 

This ficlet originally written in honor of the birthday of Gandalf's Apprentice.

CHAPTER TWO:  The Exile (Beregond)

And the King said to Beregond: 'Beregond, by your sword blood was spilled in the Hallows, where that is forbidden. Also you left your post without leave of Lord or of Captain. For these things, of old, death was the penalty. Now therefore I must pronounce your doom.

'All penalty is remitted for your valour in battle, and still more because all that you did was for the love of the Lord Faramir. Nonetheless you must leave the Guard of the Citadel, and you must go forth from the City of Minas Tirith.'

ROTK, The Steward and the King

I was born here.

We had a house on the second circle of the City. In our small courtyard, my mother read me old tales, and my father taught me to wield a sword.

As a lad, I ran happily through the streets with my friends. Later we sampled the taverns, staggering home through the streets where once we had played. Later still, I led my bride to our house, as friends and family, even strangers, cheered us on our way. The folk of Minas Tirith have always smiled upon weddings.

I proudly swore oaths to defend this City, this land, and its lord, when I joined the Tower Guard. I have stood in silent watch by the Withered Tree itself and deemed that no honor could be greater.

My son was born here. I watched him grow from babe to a bold lad who I hoped would follow me into the Guard one day.

And I can never enter the White City‘s Gates again.

I have come, as always, to escort Prince Faramir to these very Gates. He gives me a rueful glance; clasps my shoulder, and then leaves me here to seek shelter at our barracks on the Pelennor. He goes to confer with the King, to sit at Elessar‘s table and Council. I go to await his return and perhaps drink a toast to the City I love and had to leave.

They say the new White Tree is in flower, in the Citadel that I once guarded.

I should not grieve. I have been raised higher than any of my longfathers, to the Captaincy of the White Company. And my prince, who I broke oath and law to save, is a man worthy of the sacrifice. I would do it again; for I could not let Faramir die on his mad father’s pyre.

The mighty doors of mithril and steel swing open and he goes through them. I catch a glimpse, like a draught of wine to a thirsty man, of the Square, the flowers and fountains of its new garden, the familiar statue of Elendil the Tall. An eager crowd calls out, hailing my prince and the men of our Company. I can just make out the lamp-post where I first kissed the maid who became my wife, so long ago it seems. And then, slowly, the Great Gates close.

Forever is a long time.

***

CHAPTER THREE:   A Pirate's Life For Me! 

Part I:  Of Captains And Kings

For I am a Pirate King!

And it is, it is a glorious thing

To be a Pirate King!

-W.S. Gilbert, The Pirates of Penzance-

"Yield, invader!" cried the Corsair king, glowering down at the hero of Gondor.

"Nay, foul Corsair!" The bold captain held his ground and his trusty blade. "This night you and your fleet perish, never to trouble Gondor again!"

"Hah, scurvy knave!" laughed the pirate, with an evil grin. "I am descended from Castamir himself, and I will not yield to you. What is your name and lineage, that I may know whose head I take?"

"I am Thorongil, Captain of Gondor, your bane! Come forth and die!" With that, the brave Captain raised his sword, and fell upon his foe--

And shrieked with laughter, as the ‘Corsair’ seized him and raised him high in the air, whirled him around and then set him down, becoming once more his Uncle, and he a boy with a light wooden sword. They stood no longer upon the quays of faraway Umbar, but on the docks of Belfalas. No sign of Corsairs’ burning ships marred the harbor, filled instead with the vessels of Dol Amroth and other peaceful lands.

"Uncle, was the Umbari Captain truly of Castamir’s line?" asked Faramir, youngest champion of Gondor.

"That was indeed his claim. I stood second to Thorongil on that raid, and saw their battle.  The Corsair sought to daunt our Captain with talk of kingly blood. Thorongil cared not, for he was a true warrior and a born leader of men, despite his unknown lineage."

"Castamir was no true King! He was cruel, and brought strife to Gondor," the boy declared.  "Thorongil’s blood was surely higher than his."

"Thorongil could have had Elven blood.  He was lordly in manner. And I have never seen a Man move so lightly," mused Imrahil. "But come, my young captain; I see Boromir waving, doubtless to call us home for daymeal."

Faramir sighed, then sheathed his sword and skipped along beside his uncle. "Will you watch us tomorrow? Boromir wants to be Thorongil, so I must play the Corsair Captain."

"Certainly." Imrahil promised, and was rewarded by a smile from his seven-year-old nephew. "But when you face your brother tomorrow, know that it can be a glorious thing, to play at being a pirate king. I will teach you some of the very words the Corsair shouted, in the Umbari formof Adûnaic, oaths to curdle the blood. Boromir will be most impressed."

"Truly?" Faramir’s voice rose in excitement. "Can you teach me the words this night?" I would rather be Thorongil, but if I must be a pirate king, then I should speak as one. Mayhap, if the Corsairs ever rise, I can bid them surrender in their own tongue. They will think I am their king when I speak his very oaths."

"I pray that it shall be so, Faramir." Imrahil replied. When the Corsairs sailed again, surely no oath would suffice to turn back their ships. Yet an odd shiver prickled the back of his neck, like the flutter of a great black sail or a mighty banner. 

 Part Two:  Pirate Jewel

 As the rain thickened and the Sun hid, the pirates squabbled fiercely for the right to seize their prize.

"I found him, and I should go first!"

"But I’m the captain! Captains go first!"

"Not pirate captains," replied the first mate, from the advantage of five years and several inches above his captain. "Pirate captains are cowardly swine!"

The small captain stomped an angry foot, then shoved the first mate and affixed him with a fiery glare. "I’m not a coward, and I’m not a pig!"

Their prize, a tall man closely cloaked and hooded, then spoke: "A good captain, whether Corsair or soldier of Gondor, leads from the front."

"See?" replied the young captain proudly. "Now let me do it, Elboron!"

The captain marched over to the prize, who had let himself be caught, and fastened a string around his wrist. "You have to give me all your wealth now," the captain demanded.

The prize stood up, looming over his captors: "I have no greater wealth than you both, my jewel and my star, but mayhap there can be some reward given to so bold a captain, when we return home."

The first mate frowned and poked the grass with the point of his wooden sword. "Some captain! You’ll never be one, really."

"Elboron," said their prize reproachfully. He doffed his hood, becoming Faramir of Gondor again, Steward, prince, and their father. "That is not well-said."

"Alright, just for today." Elboron conceded.

Faramir laughed, then swung the captain high up on his shoulders. "For today is special," he proclaimed, "and my little jewel can be a Captain on her birthday, as you on yours, my son." He patted Elboron’s shoulder, and kept his hand there as they walked.

"Huzzah for me, I’m Captain Míriel, the pirate queen!" The little jewel crowed merrily from her perch. She pulled off the kerchief that had bound her black hair, and flailed the damp cloth like a whip in the rain.

"Even the vile corsair Sangahyando had a mother," Faramir, once a Captain of Gondor himself, said. "But I am certain that she would forbid her children to stay out in the rain. We must hasten, to avoid your mother’s wrath." He was sorry to end the game, for he always took pleasure in his children’s company. And, as he had cause to know, playing at battle was far better than fighting one.

 ***

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Author’s Notes:

Of Captains and Kings was written in honor of Isabeau of Greenlea’s birthday (who posts her wonderful stories at Tolkienfanfiction.com and Fanfiction.net), and posted, in a slightly different version, at the HASA Birthday Cards Forum. Imrahil’s past association with Captain Thorongil is not mentioned by Tolkien, but easily could have happened and has occurred in other fanfiction.

Pirate Jewel is a birthday present to my most excellent beta, Branwyn, whose terrific drabbles and stories can be found elsewhere on this site and under the name of Lady Branwyn at fan fiction.net. The vile corsair Sangahyando is canonical, he and his brother Angamaitë, great-grandsons of the usurper King Castamir, were named in LOTR’s Appendix A as the leaders of the Corsairs of Umbar who slew King Minardil (in T.A. 1634, if you‘re interested). The bit about Elboron stabbing at the grass with his wooden sword is inspired by Boromir’s actions in Ch. 16 of By The Light of Earendil’s Star, by Branwyn, at http://www.storiesofarda.com/chapterlistview.asp?SID=2444.

IV.  Legacy (Elboron)

We never met, except perhaps in the depths of my father’s heart, but I have heard his name since I could first understand words.

Boromir the Bold. My kinsman, brother of my father, Captain-General of Gondor, High Warden of the Tower where we three stand now. The hero of old, who carried my father’s vision to Imladris, and helped safeguard the Ring-bearer through great danger, only to fall at Amon Hen.

My father and the King speak of him now, as they do each year at this time. This was the day Boromir fell, pierced by many arrows, trying to save his small comrades from the cruel Uruk-hai. The tale has been told by hobbit, Elf, Dwarf, and Man. I bear a name that is kin to his; and I have always been told that I bear his likeness as well.

I wonder how Boromir felt in those days, the great battle for Osgiliath that he led in the summer of 3018, standing against the overwhelming tide that later nearly killed my father. And how did he stand it, later, to ride off on his lonely quest and die so far from the home he yearned to save?

Yet I cannot truly know the answers. It was a different time, long ago, beyond my ken. Gondor is safe and strong. I have fought, in the East and South, but never against terrible odds. There are no more Ringwraiths, and far fewer Orcs, to beset the Men of the West.

I have just learned glad tidings. My lady will bear our firstborn in the summer. If the child is a boy, I will give him a name that is both old and new, but is not bound to that of Boromir.

But I will remember Boromir. And so will my son.

***

Author's Note:  The meaning of the name of Elboron, Faramir's semi-canonical son, has been translated as 'Enduring Star' or 'Faithful Star', which ties in with the meaning of Boromir - 'Faithful Jewel'.   Tolkien mentions Faramir's grandson Barahir in the Appendices in ROTK; I have assumed, since Tolkien mentioned no other child of Faramir, that Elboron was Barahir's father, but Barahir's paternity is never specified.

This story was posted hastily to get it on SOA before the end of Veteran's Day, so I did not have a chance to pass it through my beta's hands.  All errors are therefore mine, with no reflection on Branwyn's skills.

Dedicated to all the legendary warriors who never came home to reap the rewards of peace.

V.  What I Have Found (Faramir)

There was every reason to despair. His city stood ghostlike, bereft of most of her defenders. The combined forces of Rohan and Gondor and the surviving Dúnedain had marched off into the Enemy’s very maw, led by Mithrandir and the King. His brother and father were dead. He remained, the last Steward of Gondor, in a city that awaited a terrible end.

Faramir did not despair. He had lived and fought without hope for months now. But he had never given up, not even during the terrible darkness of his last mission, not when he was lost within the dark vale from which the King had saved him, not even when his heart had seemed to crack with sorrow at his father’s cold fury. Duty could be a bulwark as well as a burden.

Soon he would leave the Houses of Healing to take up his office. Chances were high that their armies would fall, that the Ring-bearer would fail. Still, he would bide here, and hold the City until the Enemy took it or the King returned to claim it.

He would not despair, but in the past few days, he had become aware of a rising tide of doubt and fear swelling within him at the thought of inescapable death. Life had become sweeter of late, a strange notion, since he had lost those that he had loved the most. He was used to facing death calmly, to inspire the good men under his command. Now, Faramir’s once steady heart rose and fell like a ship on a stormy sea.

He awoke in the mornings with a restless stirring, impatience to get up, to walk in the gardens with his few companions. And when he left their company, or, more usually as it seemed to be, her company, he oft found himself whistling or humming a pleasant song. Boromir would have said that he was suffering from a surfeit of minstrelsy. Then he would see Mordor’s dark, foul-smelling clouds looming over the Ephel Dúath, and clench his fists. All the hope and gladness in the world could be doomed in just a short span of days.

Faramir turned, hearing the familiar sound of wind-rustled cloth. Éowyn came through the stone archway, clad in white, smiling slightly as she beheld him. Sunbeams broke suddenly through the clouds, crowning the pale gold of her hair. A pang of joy pierced his heart so sharply that it hurt. He had never seen anything so beautiful, or so dear.

He knew then that he loved Éowyn. Though they stood on the brink of change, facing eternal darkness or the triumph of light, he loved her. The tumult within him did not subside, yet he was relieved to finally understand it.

He would not tell her of his certainty, not yet. She had only just come to trust in their friendship. But this love that he had found in such fell days was itself an unexpected blessing, whether or not it was shared.

What do you look for, Eowyn?’ said Faramir.

‘Does not the Black Gate lie yonder?’ said she. ‘And must he not now be come thither? It is seven days since he rode away.’

‘Seven days,’ said Faramir. ‘But think not ill of me, if I say to you: they have brought me both a joy and a pain that I never thought to know. Joy to see you; but pain, because now the fear and doubt of this evil time are grown dark indeed. Eowyn, I would not have this world end now, or lose so soon what I have found.’

The Steward and the King, ROTK

VI.  Far From Home (Boromir)

As Mettarë night wanes, I don my cloak and step from the Hall of Fire, seeking solitude.

The sound, fair but still strange to me, of Elves singing, follows me. I think of the songs sung even now in Minas Tirith, and my father lighting the year-fire without me. My hand reaches toward the uncaring stars, then falls, empty and cold.

My name is called. Turning, I see the Ring-bearer.

“The Elven songs are fair,” the halfling says, coming to my side. “But Yuletide in the Shire is more cheery; and I miss it.”

We both are far from home.

VII.  Sing All Ye People! (Faramir)

I could scarcely believe the surge of sunlit warmth and hope that sprang up suddenly in the wake of the Shadow’s departure. Then a great golden Eagle flew out of time-lost legends and circled the City walls. And it sang!

A voice like unto that of Men issued from the Eagle’s beak, the words ringing like bells in my heart. As I listened, I thought I heard my father’s voice in that first verse.

Sing now, ye people of the Tower of Anor,

For the Realm of Sauron is ended for ever,

and the Dark Tower is thrown down.

Éowyn, pressed closely against me, lifted her head to hear the tidings pealing out in the warming air. I caught my breath as the Eagle sang the second verse; for I discerned Boromir’s beloved voice raised within it.

Sing and rejoice, ye people of the Tower of Guard,

for your watch hath not been in vain,

and the Black Gate is broken,

and your King hath passed through,

and he is victorious.

I could do naught but listen in wonder. The third verse was sung by a voice as newly mirthful as a wind of spring blowing through trees. It sounded like Mithrandir, who had fallen but then returned from death to help us.

Sing and be glad, all ye children of the West,

for your King shall come again,

and he shall dwell among you

all the days of your life.

The eagle descended and hovered just above us. The last time a flying creature of such unnatural size had hunted me, it had brought terror that had nearly stopped my heart. But this majestic beast looked down at me; I saw its eyes, full of wisdom and truth and a shining hope. The Eagle circled us once, the unveiled Sun gilding its mighty wings. Then it sang out its final verse in a voice I had never heard before and can never forget:

And the Tree that was withered shall be renewed,

and he shall plant it in the high places,

and the City shall be blessed.

Sing all ye people!"

Since childhood I have been schooled to set an example of strength and constancy as a Lord of Gondor. But now my joy rose within in me like a fountain and flowed forth in tears, mingled with Eowyn’s own, as we stood with arms and hands entwined. As the Eagle soared high and away, I sang his song to all who could hear my lesser voice. The people of the White City spilled out of doors, threw wide their windows, and answered in kind. The song rang from the Citadel in ever-widening circles down to the Gates and out, it seemed, to the very edge of the Anduin. And in those splendid moments, my happiness for the Shadow’s end was equaled by the certain knowledge that I could win Éowyn’s heart in this new and changed world.

The old tales tell us that the great Eagles were the messengers of the Valar, the Lords of the West. Surely the golden harbinger who sang us news of victory belonged to that legendary race, perhaps Thorondor or one of his sons. I wondered though, at the last voice that had sang from the Eagle’s beak: a voice as kind as a brother’s, yet stronger than mountains, gentle as a rippling brook yet powerful as the winter wind.

We will never know whether it was the voice of Manwë, Lord of the Air and highest among the Valar, that came from the Eagle’s throat. But we will never forget the song.

Author's Note:  All italicized verses quoted directly from The Steward and the King, The Return of the King.

VIII.  Better Days Ahead (Shagrat)

So you think we’re licked? Just ‘cause Lugbúrz fell and the Enemy won the day?

Hah! They didn’t even win fair! It were two thieving rabbits who brought down the Boss, not those high and mighty tarks. They dropped His lucky trinket into the Crack, everybody knows it now.

What’s that you say? We’re stuck in this freezing cave, while the tarks are prancing about our Tower like they own it?

They think they’ve won, all the tarks and horsemen and bloody-handed Elves. But enough of us slipped past ‘em. We don’t die easy. We’ll lay low, or go where they need fighting strength, maybe the East. Men will still give us their gold and their women.

Nah, I don’t mean women to eat. You still hungry? Have another finger-bone, there’s still some meat on it. Karchak won’t miss it, har har.

What I meant was, women have other uses too. And long after we’re done, Uruk blood will run in the veins of those soft fools. Uruk blood, our blood, will howl in the night; like wolves at the door.

So buck up, lads! Tighten yer belts! Stick with Captain Shagrat and we’ll see better days ahead! Ya hoi!

Author's Notes:

This ficlet was inspired by Nesta's suggestion of an Orc New Year's party; thanx for the idea, Nesta!

The word tark is used twice in the LOTR text, (in the same speech) by the orc Snaga, who Shagrat bullies in Return of the King. According to Appendix F (Return of the King), tark is an Orkish debasement of a Quenya word, tarkil, used in Westron to denote one of Númenorean descent. For orcs, tark meant ‘man of Gondor’.

Lugbúrz is the Black Speech word for Sauron’s Dark Tower (a.k.a. Barad-dûr)

IX.  Fading Embers (Nerdanel)

I waited on the shores of the Great Sea. I had waited for nearly six hundred years, since my husband and sons left in haste, their hands and footsteps stained with the blood of our kin. Fëanor had doomed them all with that terrible Oath sworn out of prideful spite.

Once, I had shared his pride. The Spirit of Fire was given to the creation of jewels ever finer, ever more brilliant. I loved the forge as well, the making of things both beautiful and useful.

Fëanor and I forged seven jewels, fairer than any Silmaril: Maitimo, Makalaurë, Curufinwe, Tyelkormo, Carnistir, Ambarussa and Umbarto. Our sons were created in love, carried in my willing body, borne in pain and pride. No other Elf ever had so many sons, all of them brave and gifted.

I turned from my husband, angered by the strife he had willfully sown with his kin. And then he called, and my sons followed him; into danger, into bloodshed, into the dark wilderness of Middle-earth.

While I waited on these peaceful shores, my husband had been slain. Then one, two, three, four and five of our sons had followed him. Their spirits wandered the Halls of Mandos, I had been told. But my love for the two who still lived blazed within me like a hearth-fire.

Finally, the Valar sent forth help to the Noldor in their need. Hope flared anew in my heart. Surely the Valar would relent and let the Exiles come home, if Morgoth were vanquished!  How I yearned to see Maitimo and Makalaurë again. No matter what fell deeds they had done, and they had done many, they were my sons and I loved them.

I waited and watched as the ships returned. I saw those who had gone recently to fight, and those who had followed Fëanor so long ago. There were faces I knew, and faces I barely remembered, but not the faces I longed to see. They spoke of my children‘s fate. Maitimo had despaired and died by his own will, bearing his father’s cursed jewel into the earth. Makalaurë had thrown the other Silmaril into the waves and fled, singing songs of sorrow, to wander the shores of Middle-earth, far across this pitiless sea.

I remove my necklace. It was one of Fëanor’s simplest pieces, but a favorite of mine; a chain of white gold upon which lay seven white opals streaked with blue and silver fires. I unlock the clasp, then slowly take off each perfect stone and throw it far out into the darkening waters. One for each baby, sleeping safe in my arms. One for each young prince, standing tall beside his father. Pledges of love.

It has been perhaps an hour since I heard the news, yet it seems as if six hundred more years have passed. Above me, Anar sinks below the mountains in a blaze of red and gold. The light is going, the fire is quenched, and all love is gone.

Author’s Notes:

The first gems that Fëanor made were white and colourless, but being set under starlight they would blaze with blue and silver fires brighter than Helluin  -  The Silmarillion, by J.R.R. Tolkien, edited by Christopher Tolkien. (I thought they might be some kind of opal)

The names by which Nerdanel refers to her seven sons are their mother-names. If I got them wrong, I invite Silmarillion and Quenya aficionados to correct my mistakes.

X.  Girl Talk (Lothíriel and Éowyn)

Three days before Princess Lothíriel’s marriage to the Lord of the Mark, the young bride sat up late and spoke with her soon-to-be sister, Lady Éowyn, of all manner of womanly concerns. Both ladies having drunk, and still drinking, a good quantity of wine, their speech flowed as lightly and merrily as the springs of Isen. So did their laughter.

Alone in Lothíriel’s guest-chamber, the ladies spoke in whispers of Eomer-King’s fair form, and the wounds he had taken in many battles. Then Éowyn giggled and bared her right forearm. "See this raised scar?" She asked.

"Barely" said the young princess. "Is that where the Witch-King---"

"Nay, this was a skirmish with my lout of a brother when I was but five. I had raced at him with my dagger, and he tried to strike it from my hand with his, and missed. Our father took a cane to both of us, he was so displeased by our use of true blades."

Lothíriel lifted her skirt to show a crease across one pale-skinned knee. "I played at pirates with Amrothos, upon the rocks by the bay, and I slipped and fell, cutting my knee. Show me another, sister; I wager that you have better ones."

Éowyn refilled their goblets, drank, and unclothed her left shoulder. A line that gleamed red in the candles’ glare snaked down two inches over the smooth muscle between shoulder and elbow. "Here, the Witch-King struck me with his mace." She said quietly, and drank again.

The young princess stared at the scar. "I thought the mark would be larger." Then, grieved by her heedless words, she jammed her fist to her mouth, her grey eyes begging for forgiveness.

"’Twas large enough, at least the cursed mace was. Do not fret, Thiri-lass;" Éowyn said kindly, and with a certain measure of pride. "It is not much of a scar, for a wound that nearly killed me. Yet it heralded the end of the foul dwimmerlaik, so I am proud to have it."

After another draught, Lothíriel revealed a small ridge above her left wrist. "Thiss ish my only war-scar," she stammered. "Not so much of a war though. My second cousin called me a foolish baby and cruelly stamped on my dolls. I was so angered that I shlapped-er-slapped her, and then she bit me here."

"Well done!" exclaimed Éowyn. "You defended what was yours. She should not have attacked your helpless dolls."

"Did you have dolls?"

"I have a doll my mother made me before she died; and an éored of riders with little wooden horses."

As Eowyn shifted to refasten her garment, Lothíriel viewed her future sister’s neck and gasped. "Oh, Eowyn, what ish that?" she asked owlishly.

"Whaff’s, what is what?" Eowyn wondered, also starting to find speech somewhat more difficult.

"On the base of your neck, there, that red mark. Why, ‘tish the size of a coin!"

The Lady of the Shield-arm started, her golden mane rippling with the sudden motion. "Oh. Well, that was your cousin. Last night."

Lothíriel sputtered, releasing a small quantity of her wine down her chin, which she hastily dabbed with a kerchief. "Faramir? No! Surely he would not have hurt you like that!"

"He was not hurting me." Eowyn said gravely, then giggled. "And I gave him one to match mine". Seeing the younger woman’s confusion, the Lady of Rohan and Ithilien patted her hand gently. "Fear not, little sister. Soon you will understand. Iss, it is joyous, to have a mighty man, a warrior and lord of men, in your hands, hungry with love for you; and you for him."

Imrahil’s fair daughter felt her cheeks turn warm. She understood, or at least she thought, in her tired and somewhat muddled head, the words of the well-married Éowyn. But Éowyn’s secretive smile incited contrary emotions. Lothíriel could not think of her lordly, gentle cousin Faramir like that. Still, she could think of Éomer as hungry with love. And she could wonder, and hope…

Later, after the sumptuous wedding, the strangeness of the first night she spent with a man, and the discoveries of the many nights that followed, Lothíriel blushed less and understood still more.

11.  Measures of Time (Éowyn)

Éowyn can no longer dance as lightly as the lady who now twirls in Faramir’s arms. Her legs, though strong enough to ride, hurt when she kicks high and fast . She watches Faramir hungrily, angrily. How dare he still move so well! He has always been a joy to dance with, easily the best in Gondor, gliding or stepping across the floor with the grace of an Elf, better than even the King or Imrahil. Her feet tap the floor. This dance is too fast for Éowyn, but not for Faramir and the slender young woman whose hair, untouched by gray, shines as golden as hers once did.

Éowyn does not betray her unrest. Age creeps up on her; and she refuses to give any sign how its victories, still occasional, pain her. She sits straight-backed in her green and silver gown and smiles coolly. No one must guess that a sudden jealousy of her own daughter has speared the Princess of Ithilien. It is an ugly thing, to resent one’s child for being young and fair and dancing with her own father.

Faramir and Cynwen move so quickly and perfectly in the dance.

Mercifully, the dance ends. Partners separate. Eldarion approaches Éowyn’s daughter and takes her from Faramir, who returns to Éowyn. His eyes, bright and keen and missing nothing, sweep over her.

“Have you saved a dance for me?” He asks, as if she still drew all men’s eyes. “I hope I have come before Legolas could ask you.”

Is he cozening her? She could snap at him, bid him dance with one of Eldarion’s pretty young sisters. But she truly does want to dance with Faramir. She would have tread a measure already if she had not come late, feeling weary earlier, to the Hall.

“Is there no other you would choose, my lord?” Éowyn hears herself ask. Her voice sounds thin and querulous to her, and she wishes she could take back the years.

Faramir flicks one of his sword-like glances at her, too fast to interpret. Then he holds out his hand and lifts his chin, a challenge visible in his eyes.

“There is none who can match you, my lady” Faramir says firmly, brooking no opposition.

He has never lied to her. Éowyn rises and takes her lord’s hand. The music swells up, drums strike a stern, proud rhythm beneath the trilling viols. Faramir smiles, the way a man always does in the company of a woman he admires, the way he has for all the years since she accepted his suit. An answering pride flushes her own cheeks. If she is no longer the fairest woman in Ithilien, she is still its Princess, and the Witch-King’s Slayer, and she will let no one forget it this night.

They step into the dance. Some heads turn - young Alphor’s wife never misses a chance to flirt with Faramir. But Faramir seems not to notice. His eyes are on Éowyn alone, his strong hands warm about hers. And there is Elfric, Éomer’s envoy and Elfhelm’s heir, gawking at her in the same foolish way as his father sometimes did, so many long years ago. It is rather good to see that she can yet catch a young man‘s eye.

Éowyn nods politely at the Rider, then smiles in heartfelt joy into Faramir‘s bright eyes. The dance is the Knight's Pavane, slower but not tedious, with a certain briskness. Éowyn feels blood, rather than ice, course through her veins. Faramir will not need to slow his pace on her account. And for now, that is enough.

Author's Note:  Cynwen, daughter of Faramir and Éowyn, is my creation (and has appeared in my story Moonlight and Laughter on another site); as is Elfric (who is probably Elfhelm's son). 

XII.  Under The Eyes of the Evenstar (Arwen)

“Do all Men of the South look like him?”

“I would dearly like to find out!”

“He is not unhandsome, though his form is coarser than that of our kind.”

“Aye, but it seems quite strong. Why, Estel looked spindly beside him.”

The silly creatures dawdled at the open door, ogling our guest as if he were bathing for their amusement. And, as I had good cause to know, Estel was as well-made as this stranger. I cleared my throat.

“Oh, Lady Arwen,” Gwaloth finally noticed my presence and blushed. Merilin and Lossael tittered softly. I was relieved to see that their chatter had not disturbed our guest. Far from it, the Man’s head was nodding; another minute and he would drown in the tub!

I led them into the bathing chamber. “I am Arwen, daughter of Elrond, lord,” I greeted him; “My ladies bear towels and robes and will leave them here for you. Fresh raiment shall be brought to you in the morning; and your own garments shall be cleaned.”

Though I stood far enough from the tub that our guest would feel no embarrassment, I easily descried his features. He was startled when he saw me, but he quickly mastered his surprise.

“And I am Boromir, son of Denethor, Captain-General of Gondor,” he replied proudly in somewhat clipped Sindarin. “I thank you, lady. It is long since I have enjoyed such comfort.”

I knew who he was; none enters the house without my knowledge. In truth, I had known of him for years. Little wonder that he could affect such pride while soaking in a tub! This was the heir of one of the greatest Númenorean lines in the South. This was one of the three men who stood between Estel and Gondor’s winged crown, and so between me and my dearest hope.

It took all my will to keep my fists unclenched. I had heard of this Boromir’s opposition to Estel at the Council, when by rights he should have knelt to him. I veiled my hostility and watched my ladies assist him in washing his tangled black hair.

When they finished, the man raised his head. I noticed lines of hardship in his face, the deep circles under his grey Dúnedain eyes. The Steward’s son had courage to match his pride. He had travelled far, braving peril and loneliness, to find help for his realm. Here he had discovered as many questions as answers, and the man who was destined to supplant him.

He might bear watching later, but he certainly deserved kindness now.

“You are most welcome, Lord Boromir,” I said, with a heartfelt smile.

He smiled back. I could see why my ladies thought him fair. I wondered if a wife awaited him in their White City. Then I knew, with the occasional foresight inherited from my father, that it would be better if Boromir had no wife, so that there would be one less to mourn him when he did not return.

Author's Notes:

I got the names of Arwen's ladies (who are original characters) from the Sindarin name generator at http://elffetish.com/sindanames.html (well, I stole two names and created the name Lossael; don't blame the site's owner if the name doesn't make sense).

This ficlet was written in response to two challenges - the B...Like a Bathing Boromir prompt for the B2MEM Middle-earth Alphabet challenge at the Henneth-Annûn email list and the There 'n' Back Again LJ community.  Dreamflower's version for the same challenge inspired me to use Rivendell as a setting - see her delightful drabble at http://www.storiesofarda.com/chapterview.asp?sid=5282&cid=21806.

XIII.  A Mother's Touch (OFC & a special little fellow)

"Mama, I’m back," chirped her son as he scurried through the entrance to their home.

Readfah uncurled and embraced her child. He was growing so fast! Still, he had much to learn, she thought, seeing the splotches of dirt that marred his beautiful pink and white skin.

"Didst thee crawl into the mud, then, my chick?"

The imp hung his head. "I was playing in the river."

"And thee could not wash the stink of dirt and smoked fish from thy skin?" Readfah clouted her little one. His refusal to whimper made her proud.

"Thou art the son of Scatha, scourge of the Grey Mountains," Readfah hissed, "Thy blood harks back to Ancalagon himself, greatest of Allfather Morgoth’s drakes. Thou art not some dirt-delving dwarf."

"No son of mine shall be seen with mud all over his belly," she continued. "We stain ourselves only with the blood of foes and prey, not common dirt. A good dragon is fearsome, but never dirty!"

"Yes, mama." Poor chick, his eyes were large with shame.

"Now come here, my little wriggler," Readfah extended her wing to shelter him. Claws that could gut a horse began to flick the dirt from Smaug’s perfect hide.

Author’s Notes:

Tolkien never revealed Smaug’s parentage. But I thought he could be Scatha’s get, given the ‘S’ in common. Smaug’s exact age is never given, but since he said in The Hobbit that he was young when Lake-town was called Esgaroth, I figured he might well have been born in the Third Age.

In Letter #25 (The Letters of J.R.R. Tolkien), Tolkien says that Smaug's name is from "the past tense of the primitive Germanic verb Smugan, to squeeze through a hole: a low philological jest." - hence Smaug's mother calling him 'wriggler' here.

Readfah is my own creation. Her name, according to a website I found (http://www.mun.ca/Ansaxdat/vocab/wordlist.html), is an Anglo-Saxon word meaning "red-stained", which seemed to me to be the perfect name for a firedrake.

I don’t know what the dragons called Morgoth, but he created them and they did his bidding, so I figure that they might give him a title of respect such as Allfather (traditionally a title of Odin).

Written for the D Like A Dirty Dragon prompt of the B2MEM Middle-earth Alphabet Challenge at the H-A e-mail list and the There 'n' Back Again LJ community.

XIV.  The Tides of the World (Aragorn)

Now as the sun went down Aragorn and Eomer and Imrahil drew near the City with their captains and knights; and when they came before the Gate Aragorn said:

‘Behold the Sun setting in a great fire! It is a sign of the end and fall of many things, and a change in the tides of the world.  Return of the King, Ch. 8: The Houses of Healing

Aragorn nearly staggered with weariness as he left Minas Tirith, worn from the long night and all that had come before it. But his heart soared. He had delivered the City that his sires helped to build, the City he had come to love when he lived in it so long ago. He had kept his pledge to Boromir.

He had saved lives by his own hand, his own will. He had fought bladeless battles throughout the long night, in the candle-lit chambers of the Houses of Healing and later, the rooms in the homes of the City, where he had drawn men and women out of the Shadow’s foul grip. Each healing had taken a little more of his strength and had given him back a little more hope.

Elrohir and Elladan flanked Aragorn now, casting worried glances towards him. Their concern warmed his heart, but he was well enough, and would walk out of the City on his own legs, not supported or carried.

At last they reached his own tent. Aragorn fumbled with the lacings on his tunic; while the Peredhil helpfully removed his boots. A brazier had been lit, a bottle of wine set out with cheese and a few small winter apples on the table. He took a few bites of an apple, but could not finish it, or take more than a few sips of the wine, that, he suddenly noticed, was a prize vintage from the cellars of Imladris.

Stripped down to breeches and stockings, Aragorn collapsed on the camp bed. Someone pulled the furs over him - Elrohir. His foster-brothers’ hands touched his face in blessing. Then the twins withdrew.

Aragorn’s thoughts raced almost too fast for him to fully heed them.

The Kings, dead - Angmar’s cursed lord; the valorous Theoden; and the King of the Dead who had come at Aragorn’s summoning.

Denethor, slain by his own hand. Hirluin, Grimbold, countless others of hill and plain and coast.

Halbarad! His friend and kinsman had not gone alone, with so many valiant souls to bear him company beyond the Circles of the World, and the Witch-King’s destruction to mark the terrible glory of the day.

Yet there were many who lived because Aragorn and the Grey Company had come down from the north, bringing Halbarad to the death he had foreseen: Faramir, the steadfast Captain and Steward; bitter, brave Eowyn; Merry, whose resilient reclamation of life amazed him; and then the many men of Gondor and even Rohan who had awakened from the Black Breath at Aragorn’s call…The White City itself, all its people saved from slaughter, from young Bergil to Hurin and old Ioreth, because of the journey that had claimed Halbarad’s life. Weregild for Halbarad?

Nay, even ten thousand lives could not replace his kinsman! But the survival of those who lived today, and the deaths of their foes, would signal the Enemy who had caused Halbarad’s death that His victory was not certain after all.

Aragorn grasped the hilt of Anduril, sheathed at his side. Your time will come, Sauron, sooner than you think.

Through the flaps of the tent, Aragorn glimpsed the paling of the sky. The sun would soon come forth, undimmed by Sauron’s spite. So much had happened between Anar’s last rising and the approaching dawn. It had been a day of reckoning.

Day of death, day of life renewed. Day of despair. Day of hope.

Day of darkness.

Day of destiny.

The last day. The end of Gondor as it was; the day that Minas Tirith did not fall.

And now, a new day.

Author's Notes:  This vignette is 600 words, and is as yet unbeta'd, so it might undergo some very minor changes. Not sure about the title either.   This collection of ficlets finishes, as it began, with Aragorn.