A Matter of Record

       "Come in, gentlemen," the King called in response to the knock at his door.

       It was opened by Bergil, who had taken the duty earlier in the day from Pippin, who would insist on serving his own shift as Guard when he was in the King’s company. Pippin had been told to go change his clothing from his Guardsman’s uniform and to gather to him Merry and Sam and come to the King’s study an hour after noon. The King smiled to see that young Frodo-lad was following after his father, and that Pippin now carried his son Faramir in his arms.

       He looked at Merry and raised an eyebrow. "Your Perry chose not to come with you?"

       "He’s been fighting the sniffles the last three days of our journey, and his mother has put him to bed with a warm cloth soaked in eucalyptus over his chest," the Master informed him. "I was entertaining him singing him some of the songs I learned in Rohan when Pippin came to fetch me. What is it you wanted to show us, Strider?"

       Aragorn smiled. "The archivist brought me a document out of the cavern where the Kingdom’s records have been stored for the last two thousand years, and once I saw it, I knew the three of you would be interested."

       Sam’s left ear twitched visibly, a sight that momentarily distracted the Man from the purpose of this call. "You have your archives here stored in caverns similar to those in Minas Tirith?" the Shire’s Mayor asked.

       "Er, yes. These were enhanced for Argeleb the Second by Dwarves from the northern Misty Mountains, and have done very well for preserving some of our oldest and most fragile documents. This one, however, is in excellent condition, considering it’s been there for a millennia and a half."

       Pippin’s brows raised and his mouth opened slightly, and he immediately shot a look at Merry who at first looked mildly interested but whose eyes suddenly widened with understanding. "You don’t mean...."

       Aragorn smiled widely and nodded. "Yes, one of the original copies of the Charter written by Argeleb the Second granting the lands between the Baranduin and the Far Downs to Blanco and Marcho of the Periannath for the settlement of their people."

       The scroll was contained in a tube of mithril. Aragorn twisted the cap off of one end and gave it to Pippin to examine. The tube itself had a design of vines and leaves twisting about it, and the cap had a single oak leaf upon it, its veining perfect. Pippin passed it to Merry, who passed it to Sam, who in his turn held it down for Frodo-lad to see. "Beautiful workmanship," Sam said, smiling.

       "I agree," Aragorn said. But he was already slipping the rods of the scroll out of the carrier and laid it gently upon his desk, then carefully opened it.

       There was a low, wide stool already in place for Sam’s use, and he stepped upon it carefully with Pippin standing to the left of it and Merry to the right. Pippin settled Farry on the edge of the desk to his left, and Merry picked up Sam’s oldest son and set him down to his right so he, too, could see.

       "Will you look at that," Pippin breathed softly as the scroll was slowly unrolled and stretched tight across the desktop. "Now, Farry my lad, this is true history--the first proper agreement written between the King of Arnor and the Hobbits of the Shire--the Charter granting the lands to us."

       Frodo-lad was running his eyes across the Tengwar script. "It’s beautiful, Da," he whispered. "Oh, look, there’s the signs for us, for the Periannath."

       "Don’t touch it, lad," his father cautioned him, grasping his hand before he could do so. "That’s right old, you know. Written afore our folk ever come over the Brandywine, it was."

       Aragorn was nodding, pleased to see the mixture of pleasure, awe, and pride in the expressions of his friends. He unrolled some more, and then more still. Finally they were past the Tengwar of the Sindarin and into the translation into Westron. Pippin was murmuring scraps of the text as he scanned it. "Northern moors ... marshes to the south ... rockslip ... the Messengers of the King...."

       "There!" Merry said, pointing to a section. "Yes, the upkeep of the Great Bridge as it’s called here is definitely up to us. Now, that’s something I have to tell Uncle Mac, as he tried to say that as there’s a King again it’s up to the King to finance the repairs for it."

       Frodo-lad added, "And it’s the Shire’s responsibility to keep the roads in order as well."

       Pippin looked up to meet his King’s eyes. "We have a copy of the charter in the Westron translation, but it’s been damaged by time, and that section hasn’t been clear for as long as I can remember. The original was lost apparently in the days of Arvedui and Bucca of the Marish. Can you have an exact copy made for us to take with us when we return south to the Shire again?"

       "Yes, of course."

       "Wish we had Frodo here to copy it," Merry said softly. "He was the best copyist the Shire ever produced, you know."

       Aragorn’s face had softened also as he gently nodded his agreement.

       Slowly he rolled through the sections until they reached the end. Merry seemed to be devouring the document with his eyes. "There they are--the signatures of King Argeleb the Second, Marcho, and Blanco. Inscribed almost fifteen hundred years ago, they were."

       "About a thousand ‘n four hundred and thirty-four, I make it," Sam said, also examining the signatures.

       Pippin straightened after a moment, then looked again at his friend and King. "Now, when we were there in Minas Tirith after you were made King we saw you signing a lot of documents and agreements and treaties and even a few contracts, purchasing fabric for the livery for those who served in the Citadel and the Houses of Healing, for example. But I don’t remember you ever signing in red ink, and the number of witnesses needed seemed to be different each time."

       "Usually the number of witnesses is limited only by the number of high enough officials present who wish to serve in that capacity, Pippin."

       Pippin nodded thoughtfully, thinking on that as again he looked at the signatures. Finally he looked up again and asked, "Does mithril help protect documents better or something?"

       Aragorn considered. "I suppose it does. It does not tarnish or fade; and the few sheathes I’ve seen taken apart to be copied to make new ones, where the inlaid wire for the decoration is removed the leather has always been best preserved under where the wire was mithril. Certainly this scroll is one of the best preserved I’ve seen, considering its age. The ink is bright enough it might have been written and signed only a year ago instead of well over a thousand."

       "Yes, I noticed," Pippin said, looking again at the document with an odd smile on his face. "You see how vibrant both the black ink is throughout most of the document and how bright red the signatures are?"

       "Yes," Aragorn said, not understanding why that might be important.

       Merry, however was smiling to match his cousin while Sam was sitting up straight now, his eyes again wide with surprise, clearly thinking. The Brandybuck asked, his eyes on the document, "Aren’t the documents you sign usually signed with the same ink in which they are written?"

       "Oh, no--often quite different ink. That used by the copyists is the very best quality available--that’s been true throughout the history of the Dúnedain, I think. But as official documents are often written by the scribes and copyists and clerks in offices quite distant from my own, I usually end up signing with whatever ink I have opened at the time. Most of it is quite good quality, of course, although some of them will wash away with water. I use that only when I’m signing a document that’s not going to be of any value within a short time after its purpose is fulfilled, though. When it is something that must be archived I use an ink that once it is dried cannot be easily washed away and is known not to fade."

       "Do you ever sign anything with red ink?"

       "No, I don’t think I ever have. I used to use it when I was doing special copies of poems as gifts to highlight certain letters, along with other colors of ink and even gold leaf at times. But to sign something? No, not unless it was the only ink I had out, I think."

       Sam started to chuckle. "So," he said, "it’s likely the Shire requirement that signatures on legal documents must be done in red ink happened maybe ’cause some clerk just happened to have a bottle o’ red ink out when the Charter was signed then? Now, if that don’t fit!"

       Merry laughed aloud. "Now, wouldn’t the news that the reason we use so much red ink within the Shire and that we have seven witnesses is due to happenstance at the time the Charter was written and signed upset the Guild of Lawyers?"

       "Well," Sam said, "I’m not goin’ to tell any of them. No point in causin’ folk to question tradition."

       "I agree," Pippin said, smiling broadly. Then he glanced at the other two. "I might just swear Bard and Brendi Brandybuck to secrecy and tell them, though. I think they at least would enjoy the joke as much as we do."

       Sam, however, was looking back at the signatures, and the wry smile on his face matched that seen earlier on Pippin’s. "And look there, how they signed it, Marcho and Blanco," he said, pointing.

       "I can barely make it out," Merry objected with a shrug. "Their handwriting was quite different from the way most write nowadays."

       "Maybe it’s only ’cause as Mayor I have to make out so many signatures," Sam said, "but it’s clear enough for me. There, Marcho of the Tooks; and there, Blanco of the Tooks." He looked at Pippin. "Don’t you see, Thain Peregrin--they was your ancestors."

       "Are you certain, Sam?" Pippin asked, looking again.

       But Frodo-lad was smiling. "You’re right, Da," he exclaimed. "Even way back then the Tooks were leading the Hobbits of the Shire."

       Pippin was shaking his head slightly as he continued to examine the document. "I’m not so certain...."

       But after doing his own examination Aragorn looked up at Pippin and said, "They’re right, Sam and Frodo-lad are. They’re right."

*******

       The Thain, Master, and Mayor and their families (save for Elanor Gardner, who would remain in Annúminas and Fornost with the King and Queen as the Queen’s Maid of Honor throughout the remainder of their stay in the North Kingdom) returned home shortly after Midsummer, bringing with them a special gift to the Shire from the King--a copy of the Charter granting the lands of the Shire to those Hobbits who agreed to follow Marcho and Blanco across the Brandywine Bridge from the Breelands. A special banquet was called of the family and village heads throughout the land, as well as representatives from the Guild of Lawyers, to celebrate its reception. Throughout the meal and the speeches it sat unrolled on a long table near one wall, lamps lit all around it.

       After the festivities were over the participants lined up to file past the document, walking on either side of the table.

       With the Charter was a separate document signed by the King himself indicating that this had been examined by seven individuals familiar with both languages in which it was written to make certain it was faithful in both the Sindarin and the Westron text to the original, and that an artist who specialized in reproducing signatures had done his best to copy the writing of those who had originally signed it. This document was signed by each of those who had done the examination (including the Queen herself and her brothers), most properly, the lawyers noted, in red ink. And as he carefully rolled the document up to return it to the gold tube made to protect it, Bartolo Bracegirdle, as the current assistant to the Master of the Guild of Lawyers, was heard to sniff, "Even then they used seven witnesses."

       And he didn’t understand the soft laughter from the Thain, Master, Mayor, and their personal lawyers who had sat near them during the meal.

Fighting Shadows with Light

       “Pippin?” Paladin Took’s voice was becoming frustrated.

       His son straightened from his examination of a scene that appeared to be present only in his mind. “Yes, Da?” he said, as if this were the first time his father had spoken his name rather than the sixth.

       “Your mind isn’t really with me today,” Pal commented.

       “Oh, I’m sorry, Da. I suppose I must have been thinking of something.”

       “You don’t know whether or not you were thinking?” The Thain did his best to keep his tone light. “We were speaking of the effects of the Fell Winter, if you’ll remember.”

       “Yes, now I remember.” Pippin’s face was pale, and Pal noted a light sheen of sweat on his upper lip. “The thought of wolves crossing over the Brandywine into the Shire is----” His voice trailed off.

       Pal found himself remembering a short portion of the Red Book, and realized that the talk must have brought to mind certain memories. As he continued he noted Pippin was now paying attention, but that it was a bit forced.

       An hour later Pal was sitting at his desk going over a letter he’d received from the Long Cleeve in the Northfarthing, while Pippin sat with one leg draped carelessly over the arm of the chair his parents had had built for him for Yule, reading one of the record books for the Great Smial, reviewing crop yields for the past sixteen years, when his mother entered carrying a square carton made of pasteboard. “Good,” she said with satisfaction. “I need your longer fingers, Peregrin dearling. Ezra has this so tightly packed I can’t get it out on my own.”

       The top of the carton was open, and whatever the item was, it had a thick layer of wool batting on the top. On removing this he could see a curve of pink glass. He looked a question at his mother, who appeared most satisfied. “These are all the rage now, and I ordered this color in especial because it will look wonderful in the garden, there by the azaleas.” Then as Pippin found he couldn’t get his fingers between the item and the sides of the box she suggested, “Try by the corners, sweetling. You should be able to get your fingers around it there.”

       “What is it?” Pippin asked as he tried her suggestion and found he could finally get purchase on it.

       As he began to lift the item out of the carton she answered, “It’s a gazing ball. Ezra Longbanks makes them, and folks are putting them into their gard----”

       She and Paladin both jumped as the sphere slipped from Pippin’s suddenly nerveless fingers and smashed all over the floor. Pippin’s face had gone grey, and he looked down at the shards of pink glass with eyes that were now hollow. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’ll order you a new one. I’m sorry…. Ezra Longbanks, you said?” He stepped back hastily from the carnage, and bolted from the room.

       Eglantine searched her husband’s face, her own face pale. “What was that about?”

       Pal looked after the way their son had taken, grief in his heart. “I think it’s part of what they went through out there, Lanti” He looked into her eyes searchingly. “Something will happen to remind him of what happened out there, and he seems to slip out of himself--gets his mind caught on what happened to them.” He looked back toward the door again. “I think we ought to think on having another talk with Lord Halladan. Do you feel up to a trip to Bree, love?”

       Eglantine Took gave a distracted nod. “Yes, I suppose that would be a good thing, Pal. I’ll find the ash pan and a broom and sweep this up.”

*******

       Saradoc Brandybuck entered the room carrying two mugs of mulled wine, noting that Esmeralda and Merimac had managed to get warmed blankets about the shoulders of Paladin and Eglantine Took. “Where did Pippin disappear to?” he asked as he pressed a mug into the hands of each of his guests.

       “Almost before you left the room he went in search of Merry,” Mac said. “What brought on the decision to travel here now? Here we are, early March, and it’s still as cold and wet as January, and the three of you and Aldenard are all about frozen. Treasure took Aldenard off to the kitchens to get him warmed up and see him get a decent meal.”

       “It really was warmer yesterday when we left Tuckborough,” Lanti said before she took an appreciative sip of her drink. “Oh, but this is welcome,” she added.

       “It started raining a half hour after we left Waymeet this morning.” Pal sighed, “and it’s been raining the whole way since. As for why we came now--well, that’s due to Pippin. He’s been distracted for days, is having more nightmares again, although he does his best to hide them, and it seems almost everything seems able to put his mind back on what happened to them out there. We were talking about the Fell Winter and wolves entering the Shire, and I think his mind took him to the night their fellowship found itself attacked by wargs. Then he dropped Lanti’s new gazing ball, and he fled in a panic. We decided he needs to be with Merry at the moment, and it’s likely Merry needs him, too. And we wondered if you’d like to visit the Prancing Pony to see if Lord Halladan’s out there--or someone who can let us know if we ought to be worried or not.”

      As Sara sat opposite the Thain he nodded thoughtfully. “Drink that down, Pal. So, Pippin’s a bit off right now, too, is he? Merry’s been that way for at least a couple weeks. He’s been champing at the bit to get off to Tookland and be with Pippin, but we’ve been unwilling to let him go with the weather as changeable as it is. He had that nasty cold in mid-January, and the healers didn’t want him exposing himself to the uncertain temperatures and possible rain. I mean, look at you four--you must be worried to have come all this way through this.”

       When they finally went in search of the lads, Merry and Pippin were found in the library. Merry had wrapped a lap rug about Pippin’s shoulders and was forcing mulled cider into him. “No, I’m not giving you warmed brandy right now, Pip--you know what Strider said about drinking spirits when you’re too cold--how it gives you the illusion of being warmer while actually allowing you to lose body heat. Only reason he’d allow the miruvor was because we only were allowed sips, and the fruit and herbs it was made of actually did increase personal warmth--and even then he was watching us closely.”

      Pippin grimaced, but accepted the cup offered him, letting one hand linger on Merry’s right hand. “It’s very cool,” he said, looking up at Merry accusingly. “So, you’ve been having problems as well as me, have you?”

       Merry looked over his shoulder at his parents and aunt and uncles, and sighed. “Of course, Pippin. It’s only been three years, after all, although it’s not been as bad as last year, or the first one.”

      “Then why did you get sick this year and not last year or the year before?” his cousin asked between sips.

      Merry shrugged. “I didn’t exactly get sick on the anniversaries, Perigrin Took.”

       “Oh no?” Pippin’s expression was disbelieving. “So why did you catch cold in the middle of January, then? Seems we were very cold about that time of year, and then in shock at the loss of Gandalf. And now your hand is cold. Tell me again how it‘s not been worse--worse this year with----”

       “With Frodo gone? Is that what you mean? I suppose that might be part of it.” Swordthain examined Guardsman, the expressions on both faces far too weary to be proper to such young Hobbits.

       Saradoc gave his wife’s brother a searching look and then a decided nod. “Yes--I think it would be useful to speak with Lord Halladan.”

       The next day dawned with a watery sun showing below clouds quickly retreating eastward, and a sky to the west that looked as if it might actually remain clear for some hours. The Thain’s carriage was readied, as well as the ponies for two Brandybucks who’d chosen to attend on the Master and Thain, their ladies, and their sons. Merry grumbled about being forced to ride inside the carriage, but since Paladin Took was insisting on the same for his son there was little in the way of argument he could offer.

       It was as they were ready to turn onto the Road eastward toward Bree that they saw another riding coming from the west, and paused to see what other travelers were considering going out to Bree. It proved to be a farm wagon with a canvas cover raised, and driving it was Old Tom Cotton, Samwise Gamgee sitting beside him on the bench looking somewhat mutinous. Behind, under the cover and wrapped warmly in a number of blankets and cloaks sat Rosie and her mother Lily, with Nick cradling Elanor to keep them company.

       “What’s this?” Saradoc asked, taking in the expression on Sam’s face and the determined one on that of his father-in-love.

       “He’s gone stubborn on us,” commented Farmer Cotton. “Been distracted for weeks, he has, and gettin’ more so by the day. Felt as perhaps he might be needin’ to be by your sons, Mr. Brandybuck and Mr. Took, sirs. We think as it’s all the wet and misery o’ the weather, made worse by his Master bein’ gone, like. Hope as you don’t mind the intrusion an’ all, but he’s been moonin’ around Bag End enough t’ drive my lass mad.”

       The farmer examined the coach facing him, and seeing Pippin and Merry’s faces behind the isinglass of the coach window he gave a sardonic grin. “Word was, Mr. Took, sir, as you and the missus was headin’ this way with young Mr. Peregrin, and so we’d thought perhaps to join you and let this one have a talk with others as knows what he went through; but it seems as you’ve a plan to hand.”

       “We’re heading out toward Bree,” the Thain explained. “Felt we maybe ought to speak to a Ranger or two, perhaps even Lord Halladan if he’s there, and let these two be with maybe some they knew then. We hope it’ll give them a bit if a chance to talk it all out of their system, and maybe help us understand a bit more. If nothing else, the complete change of scene might just help them break free of the melancholy and the memories a bit--put it in perspective, perhaps?”

       There was a bit of discussion, and more persuading; but at last Lily, Rosie, and Elanor took Merry and Pippin’s places in the coach, while they climbed into the wagon bed and wrapped themselves in the abandoned blankets and quilts alongside Nick Cotton. The farmer’s son looked at them askance once the journey continued. “So, it’s not just him as is havin’ troubles, then?”

       Pippin shrugged. “You can’t go through what we went through and not have the memories rear up and bite you from time to time,” he admitted. “And it’s probably worse for all of us due to the weather--grey weather, wind, and rain seems to bring on nightmares in all of us.”

       “That, ’n Mr. Frodo bein’ gone, I suspect,” Nick commented. “Must be hard. I know as my sister ’n Sam sometimes find themselves at loose ends. They go by his room with his books ’n all, and him not there to look up and smile at ’em….”

       Pippin and Merry exchanged glances, and Merry said, “We’ll always miss him, I’m afraid. But he’s had to go on, and we’re here, and this winter’s been so cold and damp it’s been enough to leave anyone a bit distracted.”

       Sam turned about on the wagon seat. “You been havin’ ’em, too?” he asked.

       “Yes, and this time it’s things I barely remembered until I read the Red Book--like the wolves there in Hollin, near Moria,” Pippin admitted.

       “Can’t forget those,” Sam murmured. “Thought for sure they’d get my Bill.”

       “So, how come you’re not riding him?”

       Sam gave grunt of disgust. “They wouldn’t let me, these four. Said as I as so distractible I’d likely ride off the road and get lost in the Woody End or something.”

       Merry decided to change the subject, and turned to Nick. “How’s the apprenticeship going?” he asked. Nick had decided to learn how to make harrows, and had apprenticed himself to a harrow maker in the Northfarthing shortly before they’d left the Shire, although when the Time of Troubles started he went home to try to help his family as he could. Shortly after their return he’d returned to his master, and Pippin was rather surprised to see him along on this trip.

       “All done,” Nick said with a degree of quiet pride. “Made my own harrow, from start to finish, and it was accepted by Master Goold. I’m my own Hobbit now. Got home four day ago, and Dad decided he’d take me along--talk to the Master and the Thain and mebbe find wheres some folks might need a harrow maker o’ their own. And after the open invite Mum and Dad got from the Master to come to Buckland about any time, when they realized Sam was fightin’ the shadows a bit they decided we’d do best to bring him along your way.”

       Old Tom turned about. “And it’s a fine harrow, it is. Right fine harrow. Master Goold taught him well.” He turned back to the road ahead.

       “You got your swords with you?” Sam asked.

       “Of course,” Pippin said. “We slid them over there--a bit uncomfortable to wear sitting in a wagon bed, you see.”

       “You think we’ll meet trouble?” Merry asked the gardener.

       Sam shrugged. “Nothin’ wrong with bein’ prepared, is all,” he answered. He was quiet for a time, then said, “I keep seein’ the eyes of old Bill Ferny in my dreams--him as he was when he watched us leave Bree. Know as he don’t live there no more, but find myself thinking’ o’ him anyways.”

       “What a thing to remember,” Pippin said.

      After a silence Sam continued, “There in Mordor--that orc, the slavedrivin’ one as forced us to keep on marchin’ the time as we was caught on the roads and made to go toward one o’ their forts--he had the same eyes as Ferny. I noted that. I see them eyes, and sometimes it’s Ferny, and sometimes it’s the orc.”

       “I don’t understand,” Merry said, “why this year is worse than last year and the one before.”

      “Don’t know,” Sam said. “Don’t know.”

       No one bothered the cavalcade of two wagons as they drove past the Old Forest and the Barrowdowns. At last they approached the gates to Bree, which were open to allow any entrance and exit. Berilac had been sent ahead to take rooms for the party, and once they’d surrendered the ponies, coach, and wagon to Bob they went in to join him, hurrying for it was clouding up once more and looked to dump more water over a land that had received more than enough in the past three months.

*

       “You want how many rooms?” Barliman Butterbur asked.

       Berilac went through the list again. “We have four married couples, one with a bairn, and six single gentlehobbits, however you choose to divide us up.

      “And all Hobbits of the Shire? That’s a powerful party of Hobbits, small master,” Butterbur sighed. “Don’t know as we have that many rooms for Hobbits, really, for we have a party here from Coombe, we do.”

       At that moment a Hobbit farmer came in and pushed by the Bucklander. “We’ll be leavin’ now,” he told the innkeeper. “Managed to talk Mugwort into finishin’ our wagon first, and we’ll be able to pick it up next week. Thanks, Barliman, for all your help and hospitality. How much do we owe you?”

       Once done, Butterbur looked at the young Shire Hobbit. “Well, you’re in luck--looks like I have just enough room after all, although it will take a time to prepare the two rooms what just was freed. Rest of your party not with you yet?”

      “They’ll be here shortly--I rode ahead a short ways back.”

       “And your name is….”

       “Brandybuck--Berilac Brandybuck.”

       “Brandybuck. I see.” Butterbur examined the young Bucklander. “Why this sudden interest in comin’ out to Bree? Not that I’m pryin’, of course--just curious.”

       “We hope to meet with a Ranger or two--Lord Halladan if he’s anywhere about.”

       “I see.” Butterbur continued his consideration. The Shire Hobbits appeared to have more of a relationship with the Rangers than the folk of the Breelands did. More were beginning to realize that the mysterious folk from up around Deadman’s Dike way had been secretly protecting their borders for generations, although it was still a difficult idea for many Breelanders to accept; but the Shirefolk appeared able to take this information as one more change in the current order of things and get on with it. “Well, I’ll be givin’ you the whole north wing, like. And how old’s the child?”

       “Not quite a year, although Elanor is a particularly quiet and even-tempered baby.”

       “Good enough, then, sir. Now, if you’ll just take a place in the common room, you can keep an eye on the main door and catch the rest as they arrive while I get Nob on changing the bedding and all and seeing to it as the water pitchers are refilled. We’ll be having a nice brisket today--the wife’s been on it much of the afternoon; and there’s jacketed potatoes baked in the embers and….”

       Once the rest of the party arrived Butterbur was impressed. “Why, it’s the Captains!” he exclaimed. “And Mr. Gamgee, isn’t it, sir? And is this your wife and daughter? The rooms are almost ready for you, and we’ll give you the same parlor as before. Would you wish to take a time in the common room, perhaps? No? Well, I’ll take you down, as Nob and Bellsfrage are seein’ to the preparin’ of your rooms. This way--this way.”

       They were soon finding places in the parlor, which seemed crowded with this many Hobbits filling it. A cheerful fire danced in the grate, a wonderful contrast to the again looming skies and dripping rain out of doors as seen through the round windows. The innkeeper bustled out and returned again soon enough with pitchers of ale and mulled cider and cups for all. “Jape’ll be bringin’ you some bread and butter and cheese, as soon as Missus Butterbur has it all prepared,” he promised. “Nob and Bellsfrage should be finished soon enough, and will be showin’ you your rooms. I trust you’ll be comfortable enough.”

       Saradoc Brandybuck cut in, “I thank you, Mr. Butterbur--but we’re wondering if any of the Rangers are present in the inn?”

       “Not of the moment, sir, although they come and go, don’t you see? They tend to come in a bit closer to time for supper.”

       Master and Thain exchanged looks. “Then,” Paladin Took decided, “we’ll set someone to watch. Thank you, Mr. Butterbur.”

       Bormac Brandybuck was set to watch in the common room, an assignment he welcomed. “But how will I recognize them?” he asked as he paused in the doorway.

       Sam volunteered, “Whoever it is’ll be wearin’ a cloak of silver, green, or grey, probably a bit on the stained side, will have a star holdin’ it closed on his shoulder, and will most like have a long sword and perhaps a bow as well. Don’t know about the others, but Strider tended to sit at the table in the far corner. Whoever it is may well light up a pipe--certainly Strider enjoys a good smoke.”

       “Although, if a King’s messenger comes in he’ll be wearing a tabard similar to mine,” Pippin added, “with the White Tree and seven stars and the winged crown on it.” At Merry’s nod of confirmation Bormac went out to take up his watch.

       Farmer Cotton examined the three of them where they sat together on the far side of the table provided. “Well, just gettin’ the three o’ you out of the Shire appears to of helped,” he observed. “Color’s better on all of you, and your eyes are brighter.”

       Merry nodded. “I suppose so,” he murmured. Pippin shrugged, and Sam sighed and looked toward the windows.

       Checking her daughter, Rosie commented, “I’ll be needin’ to change her now. Wonder where….”

       At that a middle-aged Hobbitess came into the parlor from the further corridor. “We have part of yer rooms ready now, masters, mistresses. I can show you the rooms for couples, at least.

       Rosie rose in relief. “Good,” she said, “for this one needs changing.”

       Soon Sam and Rosie, the Cottons, the Master and Mistress, and Thain and his lady were examining the rooms assigned to them. Rosie was pleased with the truckle bed provided, and quickly had her daughter changed, fed, and tucked in for a nap. “Not what she’ll stay there,” she commented to Mistress Brandybuck as she returned to the parlor. “She was an early, early walker, she was, and will be lookin’ to find me or her dad as soon as she’s awake again.”

       The barman had brought the promised bread and cheese and more pitchers of ale and cider, and now all were feeling far more refreshed by the time Nob indicated the other rooms were ready. He looked at Pippin and Merry, “I thought as you two would prefer the room as you slept in the last time, while the others could have the one with the window.” So saying, he led them down the passage to see.

       Paladin Took examined the two rooms, which stood opposite one another. He looked at his son. “Wouldn’t you rather have the room with the window, Pippin?”

       But both Pippin and Merry were shaking their heads. “No,” Pippin said. “That’s not a room we’d prefer to sleep in right now.”

       The others looked at one another. “Well, since there’s four beds in each,” Aldenard pointed out reasonably, “I’ll share the room with you two, Peregrin, so as if there’s aught you’d wish in the night----”

       But Merry interrupted. “No. The two of us had best not have others with us.”

       Berilac said, “But why not? You think, Meriadoc Brandybuck, that I want you to be alone with these memories bothering you, you’re daft.”

       “Then I suppose you’ll have to think me daft,” Merry said, stubbornly.

       “But….” began Eglantine Took.

       Her son was shaking his head. “No, Mum--you’d best let the two of us do what we know works. If I had a nightmare and woke up saying ‘palantiri’ would they know what I was about? Or if Merry woke up saying ‘Pellenor’? We know each other’s nightmares, and they don’t. Plus we know what to look for to see they’re starting and how to stem them off--or at least part of the time we do.”

       There was more argument and discussion, until Nick asked, “You know something about that other room we don’t?”

       Pippin and Merry looked at one another slantwise before Pippin answered, “For us, and only for us, that room has--unpleasant associations, as Frodo put it. We never slept in it, though, and I doubt anyone else has found it unpleasant or uncomfortable since we were here the first time. However--the two of us simply would prefer, while we’re in this inn, to sleep in an inner room. After all, we’ve done so often enough when we were younger, both at the Great Smial and Bag End.”

       There was something in his expression, not to mention that of his cousin, that at last convinced the rest, who took possession of the room with the window. Nob looked from one to the next and nodded. “That’s how I thought it’d work out,” he could be heard murmuring to himself as he looked at Pippin with approval.

       The renewed downpour out of doors brought a good number of folk to the inn rather earlier in the day than they might have, and it was late afternoon when Bormac came into the parlor to report, “There’s four of the Rangers in the common room now.”

       Saradoc and Paladin exchanged looks. “Four of them? That’s rather more than we’d looked to see,” the Master commented.

       The Thain nodded. “Then shall we go make our invitation? And why don’t you lads go off to the common room and enjoy yourselves?”

       The three younger Hobbits and Aldenard agreed, and followed by Pal and Sara they headed off to join the company.

       As had been predicted, the four Rangers sat together at the tall table back in the corner, cups of drink already before them, their cloaks hanging spread over the backs of their chairs to dry. As the newcomers to the common room approached their table the oldest of them rose.

       “Thain Paladin? Master Saradoc? You’ve come here to the Pony?”

       Saradoc gave a bow. “Lord Berevrion? Well, at least we know one of those here. May we ask you and perhaps one other of your companions to join us in the private parlor we’ve been given?”

       “But of course,” Berevrion agreed, then gave a shared look with the other three Rangers about him. “Would Eregiel here be acceptable?”

       Recognizing the younger Ranger and his great hound, Paladin smiled. “Certainly. It is good to see you again, sir.”

       The other two watched after them, a bit bemused, as Berevrion and Eregiel followed the two Hobbits back out of the common room toward the north wing. Saradoc paused at the bar to speak to Jape. “These two will be joining us for a time, so if you will please bring any food they’ve ordered to our parlor, we’d be in your debt. And young Berilac there will be paying for any meal and drink the others order from this point on.” When Berevrion looked to protest, the Master of Buckland cut him off. “You and your kinsman have put us ever in your debt, sending our lads back to us. It’s little enough we can do to stand you to a meal and some drinks, don’t you agree?”

       Berevrion searched the Hobbit’s face. “Considering what each of your lads accomplished, it’s we who are in their debt, a debt none can adequately repay. But we won’t argue now. Lead on.”

       As they headed for the parlor they passed Barliman, and they asked that two chairs adequate for Men be brought, leaving that worthy for once speechless in astonishment at the thought that Hobbits of the Shire would wish to speak in private with some of those odd Rangers. He nodded after them, then at last shook himself and hurried off to find Nob to have him fetch a couple chairs from the common room.

*******

       Berevrion paused as he entered the parlor, finding himself facing not only the remaining three Hobbits he’d accompanied from Gondor to Eriador and the mothers of Meriadoc and Peregrin, but another couple perhaps a bit older than the Thain and Master and their ladies and a younger Hobbitess who resembled the older couple, sitting by the fire, apparently nursing a child under cover of a light throw over her shoulder.

       The three Travelers, as he understood they were known by their own, sat together toward the back of the room, Merry and Pippin shoulder to shoulder as seemed always true of them, Sam to one side, his expression and his attitude defensive. It appeared the rest were keeping something of a watch on these three. The older Hobbit, who was a farmer if Berevrion knew his Hobbits, hastily rose as they entered, letting the hand cradling his pipe drop to his side; the three older Hobbitesses rose more slowly and decorously. Merry, Pippin and Sam seemed to rise together, each giving a most gracious bow of recognition. “Lord Berevrion?” Merry said, his voice pleased, “It’s good to see you again.”

       “Is there something wrong that requires my intervention, Sir Meriadoc, Captain Peregrin, Lord Samwise?” the Man asked. “I was sent at this time to arrange to use the grange hall on the north end of the village for when Halladan hears the cases of those who have been found complicit with Lord Frodo’s kinsman in the injuries done your land while you were gone. Is there further trouble that must be dealt with?”

       Sam flushed and muttered something under his breath, and the other two exchanged looks, after which Captain Peregrin, his face studiously innocent, professed, “No, there’s not really anything wrong at the moment.”

       Seeing the two fathers’ faces going identically stern and the raising of the eyebrows of the farmer, Berevrion thought he now had an idea of what was the current difficulty.

       Merry said hastily, “Let me introduce you. I believe you have met my mother and Pippin’s mother before?”

       “Indeed. Mistress Eglantine, Mistress Esmeralda--it is a distinct pleasure to meet you again.”

       “And this is Sam’s wife Rosie, and her parents, Master Tolman and Missus Lily Cotton. And Rosie, of course, is nursing Elanor.”

       Rosie flushed--a most attractive lady no matter what her race, Berevrion thought. “Ah, my Lady Rose--it is a great honor!” He and Eregiel both gave deep and courtly bows. “And these are your parents? To meet the one who won the heart of our beloved Lord Samwise and her family is an honor indeed. If at any time I or mine can offer you any service, let me know and I will see to it.”

       “Tom and Lily Cotton, at your service, sir,” Tom said, although his tone of voice conveyed to the Man that he felt his own offer of service was insufficient compared to that offered himself. Berevrion did his best to suppress his amusement.

       “I am Berevrion of Annúminas, which in our history was our capital here in Arnor. I am an aide to Lord Halladan, Aragorn’s Steward here in the northlands as Prince Faramir is in the southlands, and I am to serve to represent him in Aragorn’s court in Minas Tirith. My companion here is Eregiel son of Miringlor, who serves at this time as a messenger between myself and Lord Halladan. As the Thain, Master and their ladies have met both of us before, as well as Artos--” he indicated the dog, “--I thought perhaps the three of us should come to see what service is required of us at this time.”

       At that moment Nob knocked at the door, and they opened to allow him to lead in a young Man who carried the required chairs. Nob set down the great tray he carried, then at a nod of dismissal from the Thain nudged at the young Man’s leg and indicated they should take their leave. The youth went, but craned his head in curiosity even as the door shut firmly behind him. Beyond that door Berevrion could hear the serving hobbit reprimanding his companion for his lack of courtesy, and they quickly heard the tread of the young Man’s feet as he headed back toward his duties elsewhere in the great inn. Again he suppressed the desire to laugh.

       He and Eregiel set their chairs somewhat between the older Hobbits and the three who’d been to Gondor, and he looked from one side to the other. Yes, concern equally on the faces on those near the fireplace, and a level of sadness on the faces of the others. He heard Artos’s grunt as the hound lay down solidly behind his master’s chair, then the thump of the great tail as he looked at the other occupants of the room. Rosie, who’d looked rather apprehensive at first, now relaxed, apparently accepting the dog was not in the least dangerous. The child under the cover was stirring against her mother’s hand, and at last decidedly emerged, some milk still to be seen about her mouth, her eyes wide with curiosity about these new folk she was meeting. A most lovely child--clearly beyond being an infant, her hair already a silken halo of golden curls about her head, her eyes hazel rather than the blue he’d expected to see. He could see the resemblance to her mother and grandmother, yet at the same time there was a delicacy about her he was unused to seeing in the children of Hobbits, and a definite Elven air to her--and something that reminded him of Lord Frodo as well, perhaps the solemnity. Definitely Lord Sam’s child, though, with the set of the mouth and the broad brow and lift to her chin. She’d be a responsible one in her day, he decided, just like her father.

       At last Mistress Brandybuck broke the silence. “All three of these have been a bit--off recently--Merry, Pippin, and Sam. They’ve been easily distracted, restless, having more nightmares from what we can see, and more prone to jump if something startles them or appears to bring back memories of--of then.”

       Relieved to have her friend lead the way, Eglantine Took continued, “In the Great Smial it came to a head the other day when Pippin dropped my new gazing ball….”

       “Gazing ball?” asked the Man, puzzled.

       Pippin was flushing furiously. “A colored, mirrored ball, sir, meant to set on a pedestal in the garden. Unfortunately, it was--it was----”

       “About the size and shape of a Palantir?” guessed Berevrion. “I see,” he said as the Hobbit gave a brief nod. “But that’s not the only thing?” he hazarded.

       After a moment of indecision, Pippin gave a sigh and shook his head. “Of course not. Anything and everything seems to bring it back right now. Dad and Uncle Sara seem to think that the weather is partly to blame, and of course there’s the fact Frodo’s gone now, so we can’t focus on his troubles to ignore our own, you know. Dad and I were discussing the Fell Winter when the Brandywine froze and wolves entered the Shire, and I found myself vividly remembering when we--when we were being attacked by wargs there in Hollin, near Moria. And I turn just right and see the grey clouds outside the window, and it’s almost as though I were back on the Seventh Level with Beregond, looking over the walls at Mordor. It’s rather unnerving.”

       The Man nodded. “I see.” He turned his gaze to Merry.

       Merry looked down at his hands, where he was knitting his fingers decidedly together in his lap. At last he said in a low voice, “For me the grey clouds bring back the memories of the mist on the Barrowdowns just before we were captured. At times with the Brandywine up and running faster than usual I seem to hear Old Man Willow’s voice when he tried to enchant us, and at night I seem to hear that wight. The frogs have just begun truly waking up, and there was one outside my window croaking a couple nights ago, and I thought I could hear Frodo begging for help, or the way his breath caught there toward the last before Lord Elrond was able to remove the shard of the Morgul knife.”

       Sam was slower to relieve himself, but at last Berevrion’s patience was rewarded. “All the grey--it’s like we was there, goin’ through the blasted lands o’ Mordor again, sir. And all the rain is just a mockery of what water we couldn’t find then, if you understand. A bit o’ blue sky will show through for a moment, and it’s as if I see him openin’ his eyes, trustin’ me to get us on down the road a bit more afore he collapses again. The cold and damp--it’s what he described feelin’ like when the splinter was in him.” He straightened. “I do believe the weather’s a lot to do with it all, for we can’t truly go outside to do nothin’ what doesn’t need doin’, if you take my meanin’.”

       “Then there’s the fact that all four of them appear to respond to storms, particularly wind and thunderstorms, with bad dreams,” Saradoc noted.

       Berevrion indicated he understood. “Not uncommon,” he commented. He noted that all present in the room relaxed. He looked at the Thain, Master, and their ladies. “Your sons were not raised to be warriors, although when the need came they acquitted themselves well, and are now efficient and capable in the use of their weapons as well as able to do what needs to be done. That they have memories that trouble them is only to be expected, I fear. Even those who are raised to practice war will do similarly, you’ll find.”

       He looked back at Pippin. “You were able to tolerate campfires before we reached Edoras, Captain Pippin. How about anything bigger?”

       Pippin looked sideways at his parents, then back at the Ranger. “I’ve been able to handle the Yule bonfires all right,” he admitted. “But I have had to stay back from them. Haven’t been able to take part in the teams who get the fire drill turning. I used to dance close around them, but haven’t been able to do that. I tend to stand back from them and watch from a distance, where when I was younger I used to jump through the flames with the other older lads. My younger cousin Levandoras accused me of being a coward, and I suppose in this I am.” That last was said in a low voice with a degree of shame.

       Eregiel made a sound of disgust. “Someone would impugn your courage, sir? You who fought before the Black Gate and who are honored in all lands? Does he not realize the cost of what you have achieved?”

       Pippin shrugged and looked away. “I suppose not,” he said with a sigh.

       Berevrion looked at Merry. “And you, Sir Meriadoc--do you still feel uncomfortable in rooms where there are no windows?”

       “If I’m alone,” he said. “But I chose to sleep in one here rather than----”

       “The room where you were to have slept the first time?” he was asked. “Caution is the better part of valor,” Berevrion continued. “Both of you will probably need many years to lay all of the black memories--if you ever do, of course. That you are yet able to sing and rejoice, to laugh and enjoy the company of those you love is a blessing many never return to. But all of us find that there are moments when the memories overtake us, all who have had to face the Enemy and his creatures. Even,” he added with a smile, “our beloved Lord King Aragorn.”

       All three of the Hobbits who’d traveled alongside Aragorn son of Arathorn straightened in surprise. “Aragorn has his own demons?” demanded Merry.

       Sam looked thoughtful. “He told us, there in the Citadel, he has his own nightmares. But then he’s been facin’ the Shadow almost all his life.”

       Berevrion nodded his agreement. “He’ll admit to the nightmares? There were some years he couldn’t, back when he was young. He, too, felt there was something dishonorable about having the memories hang on as they will do. But all of us have similar memories, you will find, and certain situations that put them back in our minds.

       “I will ask you something--when you were traveling with Aragorn and some game was taken--who butchered it?”

       Sam shrugged. “At first he done it, until he realized as I could do it, then he usually let me or even Pippin--Pippin lived on a farm when he was younger, after all.”

       “How about carving a fowl or a joint? Did he ever do that when he didn’t need to do it?”

       The three Hobbits exchanged looks, and Pippin, who’d served him on occasion at formal meals in Gondor, looked thoughtful. “Not once he was in Minas Tirith. He always let Lady Arwen carve, or the servers.”

      Sam was shaking his head, trying to remember more clearly. “Don’t member his ever carvin’ nothing’, not unless the rest of us was busy and couldn’t get to it. Even then he’d let it sit until it was almost burnt or got cool.”

       Merry looked up, his eyes wide with surprise. “You mean that this has to do with his own bad memories?”

       The older Man traded smiles with the younger one. Eregiel laughed. “Yes, he always used to get one of us younger ones to do the butchering. No one’s a better hunter, I think, other than his brothers; but he doesn’t butcher or dismember an animal unless he has to. We used to think it was just him passing on the more unpleasant jobs to us youngsters, until one day he admitted it brings back memories of his own.”

       Berevion was nodding. “Aragorn began riding out against enemies when he was only fifteen years of age. Evidently his Elven brothers told him he could begin joining their patrols once he was able to best one of them during sparring. The first time he did so, he claimed his prize, and afterwards realized it was not the shining glory he’d thought it, in spite of all his brothers had sought to warn him. It is no light thing to kill for the first time, you must understand. But he accepted the reality of the need to do what he’d done--until he had his first encounter with Men.

       "The vale of Imladris, of Rivendell, lies below the Misty Mountains, and through it runs the River Bruinen. It rests below one of the major passes from west to east, and for longer than any can remember that pass has been home to mountain giants, cave trolls, and orcs, or goblins, as many know them. It is not easy to kill any creature, but it becomes easy to kill the orc-kind, for since the twisting of creation by Morgoth that brought them to be they have lived only to hate, fight and destroy, and for no other purpose. Let them become aware of an enemy and they will fight to come to grips with it; at other times they will fight amongst themselves, for fight they must.

       “They are not of the same sort as Elves, Dwarves, Hobbits, Men, or any of the other children of Iluvatar. One learns that when one finds an orc, it is needful to slay it, for it will not fail to do so to those it encounters.

       “So it was for the five years Aragorn, or Estel as he was then known, rode out with his Elven brothers that this was the enemy he ever encountered. Those from Dunland and Angmar did not trouble us in those days, for which we were grateful, or at least not that far south. Then, when he turned twenty and must learn his true name and origin and destiny, he asked to be allowed to join our Rangers in the manner in which most of our young Men do so, and he was admitted to the troop led by Malvegern and Baerdion, who has had the training of our younger Men now for over ninety years.

       “A long patrol did he know under those two, and one in which he went not under his own name. Many of his fellows had no idea who he was, only that he’d been fostered by Elves, which was obvious. He wore his hair in the Elven warrior’s braids, moved like a cat in the wild, appeared to see in the darkest of nights, could follow a scent weeks old. And he fought like a very demon--or angel. None of our young Men could best him in sparring. They were in awe of him, and some were even afraid, for they knew not how to deal with such as he.

       “They eventually went north, the first time Aragorn had been near the borders with Angmar. They had two skirmishes with orcs, and he was instrumental in setting the strategies by which they were fought and defeated. Then came a final skirmish, and this time it was with the Men of Angmar. It was his first fight with other Men, and if his first fight of all was difficult, this was worse.

       “He will not tell the details of that fight, only that he found himself faced with two young Men, neither any older than himself, if not much younger. They were desperate, and fought the harder for that desperation.

       “He admits he tried to hold his strokes that he not seriously injure them, but one got past him and assaulted Halbarad, and wounded him sorely. It was then he finally accepted that he must attack these as he would any orc; and he slew the one who wounded his friend, then turned again on the other.

       “He said he could see in the eyes of the one facing him the knowledge he must die, and in the end he struck him down. The first stroke, however, did not kill him cleanly--it cut into the collarbone of the youth, and ever after the memory of the sound and feel of his sword stuck there within the young Man’s ribcage stayed with him, to the point that he will do all he can to keep from cleaving the skeleton of any creature if it is at all possible.”

       The humor had faded from the face of Eregiel son of Miringlor. “The first time he told me that tale was after my first sword battle with Men. I had ridden in his train for six weeks, and we had known four battles against orcs and one against wargs. We had also evaded a group of four trolls who were quarreling amongst themselves. Then one day we found a group of Men from the south assaulting a farmstead east of Bree, and we fought them. Afterwards I spent a better part of an hour retching, and he knelt by me and comforted me as he could. It was then I first learned just why my lord kinsman always left it to us younger ones to butcher the deer or boar or other beasts we took to feed us.”

       Berevrion sighed as he looked at the Hobbits who had sat, spellbound, to hear this tale. “Do not feel there is anything shameful to find yourself facing situations that cause the memories to return, for you can know that this happens to all, even the greatest among us. As for those born of the weather--that is all, all too common. Even those who have known nothing but joy and delight will find themselves discomfited in such situations; how much more must those of us who have faced and gone through horror know?”

      Eglantine Took’s face was pale. “You, too, have your own memories?”

       Very gently the Man assured her, “Oh, yes, my lady.”

       Elanor Gamgee had been struggling, indicating she wished to be set down on her feet. At last Rosie gave way and let her go, and she walked slowly and carefully forward to the chair where the tall Man sat. “Da?” she asked, looking over her shoulder at her father.

       “That’s Lord Berevrion, sweetling, and you can trust him.”

       She gave a decided nod, then reached up her arms. Surprised, for it was the first time a Hobbit child had ever approached him, he leaned down and lifted her up. She ran her fingers through the hair of his beard, then giggled. “Funny,” she said, distinctly.

       He laughed. “Yes, it must seem quite funny to you, not having had the chance to see much in the way of beards before.” He buried his face in her midriff, making a great blowing noise. She laughed, obviously well pleased.

       At last he looked up from her face. “It is so rarely children will approach us other than our own,” he explained. “She is delightful, and without a shred of fear to her.”

       “And I hope to see that continue for as long as is needed,” Sam said with determination. “We went through too much to give her that, my Master’n me.”

       Berevrion nodded, a gentle smile on his face as he set the child again on her feet. “Yes, I agree, my lord. At least this generation doesn’t grow up under the Shadow, although we must never forget it that we do not become complacent and our descendants lose the lessons learned.”

       Sam looked down at his daughter as she walked toward him. “No, I’ll not let them forget--he charged us not to let the stories die, you see.” He reached down and picked her up. “No, my sweet Elanorelle, you’ll not be forgettin’ what we paid to see to it as you feel as free to be held by a Man as by another Hobbit.” His face lit with a smile. “No--what’s a few bad dreams and memories, in light o’ the fact as you’ll not grow up afraid?” He buried his face in the fold of her neck and blew as rude a noise as had Lord Berevrion. The child whooped with delight.

       The shadows seemed to fall from Merry and Pippin as well, and suddenly the two of them were up and capering about Sam’s chair, and Pippin scooped Elanor out of her father’s arms onto his shoulders. “Now, fair Elanor, where would you have your noble steed carry you?”

       “Outside,” she said, pointing at the window. Although a few stray drops dripped from the eaves, it had cleared once more.

       “As you wish, my lady,” he said, and he set off, galloping down the hall to the door to the inn. Many looked out of rooms along the way to see what the fuss was about, to see an uncommonly tall Hobbit with a tiny, wildly giggling child on his shoulder, making neighing sounds as he bounced down the passageway. As they passed the door to the common room Berilac poked his head out, then looked back in, announcing, “Oh, it’s just Pippin, playing with Sam’s daughter.”

       The two of them, followed by the others who’d been in the parlor, spilled out onto the street, all of them laughing, the dark memories lost with the return of the Sun. And as the party turned toward the west gate Elanor called out, “Ooh!” and pointed.

      Over the Shire hung, caught in the drops of the last rain squall, the most marvelous double rainbow any had ever seen.

       “Do you see, dearling,” Sam said softly to his daughter as he took her from Pippin and raised her to his own shoulder, “Old Gandalf--he sent you a rainbow.”

*******

       Three weeks later, while Pippin and Merry were off on the Thain’s business, Eglantine Took looked up as Pearl’s husband Isumbard came into the private parlor with a great pasteboard carton. “What’s this, Bard?” she asked.

       “Don’t know,” he admitted as he set it down with a sigh of relief. “It’s not truly heavy, but it is large and rather awkward.”

       She lifted the lid off, and recognized the wool batting over it. “Oh,” she said, “Pippin said he’d replace the one he shattered.”

       With Bard’s help she managed to lift out what had to be the largest gazing ball in all of the Shire.

Writing

          Tribulation Broadloam is moon-touched, a child born with an especially round face and body and eyes, with especially stubby fingers, an especially large tongue, and a mind that doesn’t learn many things as easily as the minds of most Hobbit children.  Yet she is clever in her way.  She watches the animals given to the care of her family and can tell when one is uncomfortable or off its feed; she has learned to bake biscuits; she understands that things should be kept as clean and tidy as possible.

          And she understands that the most important things there are in the world in which she lives are love and acceptance.

          She recognizes she’s different from other Hobbit children, although she perhaps couldn’t tell you exactly how that’s true.  Although if she were to try to explain what she sees as different between herself and, say, the youngest of the Boffin children, it’s unlikely most folk would understand her, for it’s difficult for her to speak clearly.

          Her family has never been particularly respectable, for the menfolk of the Broadloam clan for centuries have been devoted to “salvaging”; and not only is their property covered with potentially useful objects such as short lengths of chain, chipped basins, and barrows with missing wheels, but it is likely that a good number of those items used by the family were obtained perhaps before those who formerly laid claim to them were quite ready to give them up.

          There are a few objects that Tribbals herself lays claim to, including a scholar’s slate with a broken corner.  The wooden frame that used to protect the corners of this slate, the one with FB gracefully carved into it, was removed by her grandfather, perhaps to make it harder to prove that the FB who used to practice his letters and numbers and later learned to write words and sentences and figure on its surface had any claim to it.  Gaffer Gerdo had, after all, taken it from a smial in the village of Whitfurrow that the owners weren’t going to return to, for they’d drowned while visiting kin in Buckland.  Nor was the lad who used to own it likely to return for it, for after his parents’ deaths his cousins wouldn't let him return to the smial and face the memories there.  After all, there wasn’t exactly a dearth of such items in Brandy Hall.

          So now it is claimed by Tribbals, and she will sit with it by the hour, carefully inscribing painstakingly matching circles across it, always twelve per line, always fifteen lines to fill the surface; then, when she’s finished she will apply the scrap of flannel she uses to wipe away the white leavings of the chalk pencil and begin again, well pleased because she also can write, just as FB could do.

A.N.  This is based on the activities of three sometime clients of mine, one of whom during visits to the office will take possession of a particular legal pad and inscribe just this pattern of small hearts, one who watches me write on the computer while she writes lines of digits into a spiral notebook, one who gathers copies of his pastor’s sermons and types each letter into his computer, all well pleased to think of themselves as able to write.

Adolescence

          “The Lady Rose, beloved Lady,” announced Elaneth, mistress of the Queen’s handmaidens.

          Queen Arwen turned from her loom, on which she wove fabric from which to cut new uniforms for the Guard of the White Tree.  Those who worked alongside her in the Queen’s weaving room paused in their own work, several of them craning their heads to catch a glimpse of Lord Perhael’s wife.  “Bid her enter with gladness,” the Queen directed, then turned to one of her maidens.  “Hasturnerini, would you please go to the kitchens and fetch the tray set aside for the afternoon refreshment?  And advise them that Lady Rose is joining us that they might add to it sufficient for her appetite.”

          The young woman rose, made a graceful curtsey, and left to do the Queen’s bidding, pausing to curtsey again to the Pherian as she entered the sunny chamber.

          Arwen herself rose to receive her guest.  “Ah, Mistress Rosie, how delightful to have you visit me at my work.  I take it your beloved husband is attending on my own?”

          “Yes, my Lady,” Rosie answered her, accepting the Queen’s embrace and allowing herself to be led to the low stool produced for her use and set beside the low cradle.  The Hobbit peered into it, smiling down at the child who slept there.  “She’s a beautiful one, Lady Arwen.  And so big for not quite a year, she is.  And is Princess Melian glad to have a sister at last?  Young Eldarion’s done naught but prattle on and on about his baby sister and as how smart she is and how she’s begun to walk ’n all; but I’ve not heard much from Melian at all as yet.”

          Arwen sighed.  “I’m not certain what precisely my elder daughter thinks of much of anything.  She’s a bit beyond my experience, actually, for she matures far more quickly than I can quite appreciate, having been born a mortal.  I’m told by many of the ladies of the court that she matures more slowly than did their daughters, but I cannot see it.  As for Estel--he is far out of his depth, I fear.  She is his daughter and his firstborn, and ever they’ve been close; but now that she enters adolescence she is often moody and unwilling to share her thoughts.  He is often hurt by this.”

          Rosie laughed ruefully.  “Then we’re in much the same place, I suppose,” she said.  “Elanor’s a tween now, you know, and don’t seem too certain as to where she fits in.  Too young to be a Hobbit grown, and too old to be a child no more.  Wants to be treated like an adult, but isn’t willin’ to give over not havin’ to be responsible when it don’t suit her.  Far more willin’ to do what’s asked of her by others than for us, as we’re naught but her parents.

          “Not,” she added, “that she’s not actually a very responsible one by nature.  But some days I think as she’d give anything to be a bairn again and not have to always be watchin’ after others.  It’s one reason as we come away south, you know--to give her a bit o’ time away from all the rest.”

          “Where is she today?”

          “Off with your daughter and her guards.  They’re to return to sup with us.”

          The Queen sighed.  “Two caught betwixt and between--what will they end up doing together?”

*******

          Elanor Gardner was peering over her shoulder at the two tall Men whose duty it was to see to the safety of their princess and her companion.  “Are we to be followed about all during the day?” she asked.

          Melian glanced briefly back at them, shrugging.  “It’s their duty, after all,” she admitted.  “Most of the time I don’t mind too terribly much, but there are times....”  Suddenly she stopped, and the two of them exchanged a look.

          “You think as we ought to?” Elanor asked with a further glance back, her brow furrowed.

          “Why not?  Why can’t we just be two girls on a visit within the city today?” Melian demanded in a very low voice.  “It’s not as if you are as obviously a Hobbit as your parents are, you know.  People could think you were my sister.”  She gave a slightly twisted smile.  “Come on--we can go through the store of clothing Naneth has gathered to share with those who need it, and find other clothing and perhaps even some slippers to hide the fact you’re really a Perian, and maybe a hat....”

          Suddenly as reckless as her hostess, Elanor nodded.  “Let’s!” she agreed, and the two turned back toward the Citadel and the storerooms where the Queen’s Bounty was kept.

          A half hour later, carrying their finds in a cloth bag, the two of them went out from the Citadel by the private entrance for the hall to the residential wings, followed by the princess’s two guards, who’d been asked to remain outside the storerooms during the visit by the girl and Hobbit lass.  The two walked most sedately past the Tree and the Memorial to the ramp to the Sixth Circle, and equally as sedately down to the Fifth Circle--and then entering the crowd of folk gathered near a puppet show they suddenly disappeared from the sight of their guards as only a Hobbit or a child born to an extraordinarily long line of Dúnedain Rangers and Elves could manage to do, slipping inside a nearby pub and finding the privy, then rapidly changing clothing for that they carried with them, stuffing what they’d been wearing into the even larger bag they’d carried along with their new garb inside the first bag.

          Using a comb and fine cordage handily, Melian soon had Elanor’s golden curls caught into a pair of braids she then twisted into a bun at the back of the Hobbit lass’s head, then sat on the floor so that Elanor could do the same with her own.  With scarves to hide their ears, for Melian’s did have a bit of a tip to hers, they felt they were now ready to face the city on their own.  “Do you think the slippers will give you any difficulty?” the girl asked the lass.

          “I don’t think as they’ll bother me over much,” Elanor said, “although I’ll admit as wearing them does feel odd.”  She stood carefully and took a couple steps.  “I think I’m ready now.”

          Melian unlatched the door and peered out.  Fortunately no one was waiting to make use of the room, so they were able to slip out of it more unremarked than they’d been when they entered it.  In moments they were waiting by the door to the pub for a mother and her three children to leave it, falling behind the other children as if they were members of the party, breaking away only when they were well away from city guards.

*******

          “You lost them at a puppet show?” the Lord Elessar asked sharply.

          The white-faced guard nodded.  “Yes, my Lord King.  The Lady Melian hasn’t done such a thing for at least eight months, and I’ll admit I didn’t think she’d try such a thing again with a guest in tow--I thought she was past it now, in fact.”

          Aragorn sighed and exchanged looks with Lord Samwise.  Sam was shrugging as he puffed on his pipe.  “They’re at that age,” the Hobbit noted.  “Resent any bounds as you’d put on them, they will.  At least Elanor’s beyond the age when she’d be seekin’ to pilfer extra food from market stalls or gardens--or at least I hope as she is.”

          “Before you’ve found her by her clothing,” the King began, turning his attention back to the guard.

          “Gilorion is continuing to search them out, but I doubt we’d recognize what they’re wearing, for the two of them spent some time alone in the rooms where the clothing intended for the Queen’s Bounty is kept.”

          Sam looked his question up at his friend while Aragorn gave an exclamation in Adunaic to vent his frustration.  “Arwen gathers clothing to give to those in need,” the Man explained, and Sam’s face cleared.

          “So’s they could be lookin’ like about any other lass as is within the city, then?” the Hobbit commented.  At the King’s nod of agreement, he took another thoughtful puff at his pipe.  Finally he said, “Fourth Circle--that’s where they’re most likely to head for--the marketplace and the children’s park.”  He looked up to meet the Man’s eyes.  “Feel up to doin’ some trackin’, Strider?”

          Suddenly there was a glint of enthusiasm in the eyes of the tall Man.  “Why not?  Let me get changed....”

          Soon two figures, one exceptionally tall and the other exceptionally short, were slipping down the ramp to the Sixth Circle, one in ancient green riding leathers and a stained green cloak, the other in the plainest garb he’d worn while traveling from the Shire to Minas Anor and a typical Hobbit cloak, followed discretely by Lord Hardorn also garbed as a northern Ranger.  None seemed to note them as they made their way through the bustle of the Fifth Circle and down toward the children’s park at the north end of the Fourth; not finding their quarry there, the two fathers turned without further consultation toward the marketplace.

*******

          Halgil of the Market Guard was exceptionally painstaking in his work, and had made his reputation by keeping an eye out for those who didn’t belong where they were.  And there were two girls visiting the public market in the Fourth Circle today who plainly didn’t belong at all.  The older girl carried with her a large bag of cloth, plainly filled already with clothing, when he first noted them.  They first walked about the boundaries of the marketplace, looking at the stalls to be seen, then when that circuit was complete looked at one another and gave conspiratorial nods and entered in.  Now they were going by the stalls of the artificers, pausing in awe at the glassblower’s booth, looking at the strings of fine beads.  “My mum has a set like that,” the younger girl exclaimed, pointing to a fine set with flakes of gold in oval green volcano-glass beads on knotted green silk.  “Uncle Frodo gave them to her.  She says as they’ll be mine when I marry.”

          “Naneth would love this set,” the other girl said softly, her eyes caught by a set done in opaline colors of blues and salmon pink.  She turned to the woman who minded the stall.  “How much for this set?”  She didn’t even bargain, but reached into the small reticule she carried about her wrist to produce the requested amount, accepted her change without bothering to count it and dropping it back into the small purse, and watching as the woman wrapped the string in tissue and slipped it into a small bag of pale blue velvet before presenting it.

          “Here,” the woman said, obviously feeling she was cheating the girl, and she produced ear drops to match the necklace, slipped them into a smaller bag to match the first.  “These are my gift to you, for it’s plain you’re new to the market.”

          “But I couldn’t...” began the older girl, but the smaller one pulled at her skirt.

          “She’s right,” the smaller one said in a whisper.  “It’s obvious you don’t know how to haggle, you know.”

          The taller girl flushed a bit, but nodded her understanding.  “Thank you,” she said with dignity to the woman.  “It’s my first time to come to the market on my own, I’ll admit.  Thank you very much.  Naneth will treasure them, I am certain.”

          They went deeper into the market, and Halgil found himself following them.  The smaller lass was not from the city, and he rather thought she usually went unshod, considering how uncomfortable she appeared in her shoes.  A country cousin, perhaps?  Now and then they’d stop to examine goods in a particular stall, and at one where wooden figures were displayed the smaller lass stopped in pleasure.  The stall was open with stepped displays within going up and up.  On the bottom shelves were toys--fine spinning tops and fetch-backs on silk cordage, carved dolls and jumping jacks, soldier figures and farm animals.  On higher shelves were more elaborate figures--a couple kissing, sleeping babes, a stretching dog, and a rose.  “Oh, look!” the smaller girl breathed, her eyes fixed on the rose.  “My sister would love that!”

          “Get it for her, then,” the taller one advised.

          The smaller girl approached the youth who kept the booth.  “The rose there--how much?”

          The youth looked down at her, obviously dismissing her as one who’d not be able to afford such a thing.  “Six silvers,” he advised her.

          “I’d not pay more than four for it,” she replied immediately.

          The youth was taken by surprise, for she’d appeared far too young to know how to haggle.  “Five and eight coppers,” he countered.

          “Four and three,” she returned.

          When she had him down to four and nine he accepted her offer, surprised at how she’d held her ground.  She, too, carried a small reticule, and took from it the amount requested.  Halgil was now very suspicious.  No girl of her age should be carrying such an amount with her.  Had she and her companion pilfered from their mothers’ purses? he wondered.

          Soon the wooden rose, carefully wrapped, had joined the two blue velvet bags within the larger bag the taller girl carried with what the two had brought with them.  “I’m a bit peckish,” the smaller child advised, and the two turned to the line of cook stalls on the eastern borders.  As they walked by a fruiterer’s stall the girl caught up an apple from a bushel and tossed a copper onto the counter almost absently as she began to nibble at it.

          “Wait a moment there!” the stall owner said.  “This isn’t of the King’s coinage!”

          “It’s not?” the girl asked, surprised.  “Oh, I must have had some coins from Bree still in my reticule.  Let me find one of the King’s coinage...” as she began rummaging through the bag.

          It was enough for Halgil to move in on the pair of them.  “I’ll deal with this, Master Belenthor,” he said smoothly.  “May I see the coin?”

          No, definitely not of the King’s coinage at all.  On one side it had pictured a small bird, and on the other a leaf and flower he didn’t recognize.  The girl, flushing deeply, was still going through the coins from her reticule, and at last found a copper of the King’s coinage she gave to the shopkeeper.

          “This is more than the apple is worth,” the shopkeeper said.

          “I know--that’s why I tossed a copper to you, for I didn’t wish to have to stay to learn as how many brasses it might be.  It’s been over three hours since last I ate, you see.  But at home they don’t mind whether it’s a local copper or one from Bree or one from the King’s coinage--they’re all seen as worth the same.”

          “I think,” Halgil said, “I must ask you to come with me and answer some questions.  That one as young as you should be carrying so much....”

          The two girls exchanged looks of alarm.  The smaller girl looked up at him.  “Do you really think as my dad would forbid me pocket money?  I’ve been saving my earnings for six years for this journey, you see.”

          “Earnings?” Halgil asked, his brows raised.  “And how should one as small as you have earnings?  You will come with me--now.”

          But when he got them back into his own shelter and had them seated side by side on the bench, he found he wasn’t getting answers from them.  “I don’t have to give you my name,” the older girl insisted.  “I’ve done naught wrong at all.  No, my parents don’t know where I am at the moment, but I doubt they’d suspect I’m getting into trouble.”

          He turned toward the younger girl.  “And your name?”

          “Elanor,” she answered, her head held proudly, still flushing furiously.

          “Who are your parents?”

          “They’re not from the city.  We’re only visiting for a time with Uncle Strider.”

          “Strider?”

          “My dad’s always called him Strider--and he told my dad he could do so as long as he wishes.”

          “Where did you get the money you carry from?”

          “Most of it’s saved from when I attended--when I was with her family before--six years ago.  But I’ve been saving a long time for this journey.”

          “You didn’t take it from your parents?”

          The girl flushed even more strongly.  “Certainly not!” she snapped.  “I’ve never taken coin from my parents, not even when I was a faunt!  They always saw to it I had proper pocket money and earned it fairly for doing my chores and all.  But I’ve been helping Auntie May and Auntie Daisy, you see, and have been earning wages, just as when he was a lad Dad worked with the Gaffer in the gardens to earn wages of his own.”

          “And what kind of work have you been doing for them?” he asked, the suspicion now openly displayed.

          “Embroidery--although I’ll admit as it’s nowhere as fine as what her mum does, although her mum taught me much of what I know when I--stayed with them the last time.”

          “And how is it one as young as you are is skilled in embroidery?”

          “Aunty May began teaching me when I was but a faunt, and when I--stayed with her family last time her naneth taught me more.  She’s a master embroiderer, you see.”

          “Your mother is a master embroiderer?” Halgil demanded, turning on the taller girl.

          “Yes--of course she is.”

          “Where’s her shop?”

          “She doesn’t keep a shop,” the girl answered.  “She doesn’t need to.”

          “And your father--what does he do?”

          The glance the two girls exchanged was suddenly highly amused.  “He works in the Citadel,” the taller girl finally admitted.

          “In the Citadel?”

          “Yes.”  The girl looked unhappy to have admitted so much.

          “I’ll need to call the parents of both of you down....”

          “You won’t need to do so,” advised a Man’s deep voice from behind him.

          Halgil jumped, for he’d not heard anyone enter the shelter.  He looked up into the face of the Northern Ranger, noting the clear grey eyes of one of almost pure Dúnedain descent, the dark hair peppered with silver, particularly at the temples, the sheer intelligence of the face.  Beside him was a much smaller personage with short curls of golden brown also beginning to be peppered with silver, dressed in brown garments over a green shirt.  He was examining the smaller girl with an unfathomable expression on his face.

          “So, Elanorellë,” the smaller one said quietly, “you and Melian here thought as you’d go off on your own, did you?”

          “Yes, Sam-dad,” she admitted, her voice small.  Then she remembered her frustration with the Man who’d brought her to the shelter.  “He won’t believe the money I have is my own, Daddy.  He thinks as I took it from you and Mummy.”

          “And you?” asked the Man of the taller girl.  “Gilorion and Dagmir are both at wit’s end, having lost you so.”

          “And why do I have to always have folk to trail after me, Ada?” she demanded, apparently intending to bluff him out.

          “You know very well why, sell nín,” he said quietly.  “They risk their lives daily for your sake, and it’s poor recompense to them to disguise yourselves as the two of you have and leave their protection.”

          “As if you yourself weren’t hiding your own identity, Strider,” she seethed.

          His lip twitched.  “I was Strider the Ranger many, many years ere I married your naneth,” he advised her.  “It’s as much a part of me as my current occupation--indeed, I was Strider far longer than I’ve been what I am now.  Now, stand and let me see you.”

          She did so, and he nodded, and, Halgil noted, with a level of approval in his eyes.  “Yes, very worthy of a Ranger’s daughter you’ve proven,” he agreed.  “I’ll allow you to go on with your visit to the market, but only if you two will allow Sam and me to accompany you.  And what’s in the bag?”  He took it from her and produced a very fine garment indeed.  He nodded as if this was what he’d expected.  “I see.  And these,” he indicated the two blue velvet bags and the wrapped rose, “are your purchases so far?”

          “Yes, Ada.”

          “Gilorion will be sent off to return these to your quarters, then.”

          “And who----”

          “Bowman is waiting out in the market, you’ll find, and you know how discrete he can be.  Will you two accept the conditions stated?”

          The two girls again exchanged glances, and finally nodded.  “We don’t have any choice, do we, Uncle Strider?” asked the smaller child.

          “None at all, sweet Elanor,” he assured her.

          The small being gave Halgil a long look.  “And one thing as I’ll tell you,” he said quietly, “when my daughter says as the money she’s carryin’ is her own, she’s not lyin’.  She don’t need to lie, you see.  She’s a good lass and full skilled at many a task.  She’s had her wages from when she attended on Strider’s wife afore saved for all these years, she has; and she’s earned more workin’ longside her aunts since then.  She might not enjoy bein’ followed about by guards, no matter as how well they keep themselves out o’ sight; but she’s honest as the day is long, and I’d be beholden if you’d keep that in mind.”  He looked back at the small girl.  “Come, sweetling,” he said simply.

          “Yes, Sam-dad,” she said quietly, rising and giving the tall Man a deep and surprisingly graceful curtsey.  “Thank you, Uncle Strider.”

          “Think nothing of it, Elanor,” he said, giving her a courteous bow in return.  “Now, if you two will come.”  He slipped the velvet bags and the wrapped item back into the larger bag, and walking out gave them into the hands of one dressed as a Guard of the Citadel itself.  “If you will take these back to my daughter’s quarters,” he suggested.  “And I’m glad you spotted them when this one took them in hand.  That was well done.”

          The guard smiled and saluted proudly, then turned to follow his orders.

          It was only as the four of them turned to disappear into the depths of the market that the true identities of the two fathers, and therefore their daughters, sank into Halgil’s consciousness.  His legs suddenly gone weak, he sank onto the bench the girls had quitted as he pulled a kerchief out of his sleeve to wipe his brow.  He’d just attempted to arrest....

In honor of all the dads, granddads, and second dads out there.

The Gaffer’s Day

                “Now, Dad--you sit here,” Sam directed as Ham and Hal helped settle the Gaffer in the chair his youngest son held for him.  The Gaffer recognized the chair--Sam had arranged to have it made for his Mr. Frodo, for his Master’s use here within the gardens of Bag End.  Well, Mr. Frodo was gone now--sailed away with them Elves he used to study about, and now not just the garden but Bag End itself was Sam’s--Sam’s and Rosie’s. 

                Exactly how that had come about he wasn’t certain.  He’d always felt as it wouldn’t be right for his children to mix with their masters; but both old Mr. Bilbo and Mr. Frodo’d refused to be tied down to proper expectations for masters and servants.  They hadn’t even agreed to speak of either himself or Sam as servants.

                “Nonsense, Hamfast Gamgee,” old Mr. Bilbo’d said once.  “You’re not serving me--only doing a job for me so I don’t have to do it myself.  You’re no servant--you’re an employee--a gardener; and the best gardener in the entire Shire, I’m wagering.  When we’re dealing with a master gardener of your caliber, how can anyone consider you a mere servant?  Why, it’s a greater honor for me to consider myself your employer, you see.”

                Well, there was no question of himself being the master gardener now--Sam far and away left his old dad in the dust when it came to gardening.  Why, look at what he’d managed to do with this garden since he come back from them foreign places!  It’d been trampled down and built over--sheds all over the place, the hedges slashed and broken through.  But look at it now!  The honeysuckle was twice as thick about the new form about the study window; the larkspur, delphiniums, and hydrangeas thick and lush beneath the windows for the dining room; the Elven flowers beneath Mr. Frodo’s window startlingly beautiful about the kingsfoil planted there. 

                Now, if that wasn’t an oddity, to see kingsfoil planted a’purpose in a garden.  Yet the Gaffer had to admit that the delicate white blossoms, which like roses seemed to go on for most of the summer, were surprisingly beautiful, particularly with those golden starflowers and the pursed blooms of the other flower Sam had begged from the one he’d ever call the Lady, and old Mr. Bilbo’s Elven lilies about them. 

                Rosie was coming out now, carrying a tray fit for the Master himself:  delicate cinnamon pastries that would melt in your mouth; biscuits made with the juice of the lemon fruits the King hisself had sent for Yule, sweet and tart at the same time; a cake decorated with sugared violet petals, made with rose water, tasting like a delicate summer morning on the tongue; ham and crisp cress between bread rolls; a refreshing tea of herbs the nature of which the Gaffer hisself remained ignorant.  And all this for him--for Gaffer Gamgee, no one in particular.

                And behind Rosie came his fairy-like granddaughter, little Elanor with her hair as golden as the Elven starflower for which she’d been named, as graceful and delightful as the Elven lilies Mr. Bilbo’d introduced to the Shire, with that blessed, joyful smile that, every time he saw it, reminded him of the young Master’s own.  She led out her little brother, small Frodo-lad.  His hair was fair enough now, but old Hamfast sensed it would darken up a bit as he grew, likely being a somewhat fairer honey color than that of his father by the time he was growed.

                And then came his Marigold carrying sweet little Rosie-lass in her arms, the infant a spittin’ image of the beauty of his own Bell, her eyes already filled with the sweetness her grandmother’d always displayed.  Forget pastries and biscuits, tea and bread rolls--here was joy to clasp as the bairn was laid in his arms, as the other grandchildren began to cluster around, his Ham’s son and Hal’s daughter as well as Sam’s lass and lad.

                May and Daisy came out with their husbands, and Tom carrying small Lily in his arms, the little one already letting all know she wanted down--down with her older cousins, Hal and Ham’s wives carrying out more trays of hardier fare for their husbands and brother- and sisters-in-love and their families.

                He looked up into the satisfied eyes of his youngest son.  “I’d thought as it’d be more fittin’ down below, there in Number 3.”

                Sam gave a huffing breath.  “Nonsense, Dad--it’s your day today, but there’s not enough room there for us to all gather.  And this garden’s ever been as much yours as mine, you know.  If’n you’d not taught me all you knew, where’d it be today, do you think?  This was as much your gift to me as his--it’s only fittin’ as today you see just how much we’ve all loved you all this time, and what your carin’ for us has brought each of us to.”

                He looked about--his Hamson the roper; his Halfred with his successful nursery up Tighfield way; Daisy and Moro, whose tailoring and embroidery shop was once again bustling with trade; May with her husband’s arms about her, her body swelling with their first child expected in a few months; his Marigold now living at the farm she, her Tom, and their children would inherit one day; and his Sam--his small golden lad who’d growed to meet that destiny he’d always feared--met it and bested it, and come home again.  They said as out there, beyond the Shire, Sam was a person of influence, one the new King hisself spoke of as a brother--as much so as had been that other Hobbit the King’d felt that way toward, the one who’d found he could no longer linger this side of the Sea.  But here he was again Sam--but no longer the gardener’s lad--they was callin’ him the Gardner now.

                Making certain small Rosie was held steadily in his left arm, the Gaffer reached up with his right, clasped his hand about Sam’s upper arm and drew him down where he could look into those hazel eyes that were like brown pebbles under water with the golden sunlight flickering off the ripples.  They were as steady as ever, if they saw more than the Gaffer hisself had ever been able to perceive.  There was a memory of glory, a memory of loss, a memory of pain, and an awareness of delight there.  Oh, his beloved youngest lad bore scars on his heart as well as on his forehead and temple and those hidden ones on his legs and back, not to mention those particularly troubling ones on his shoulders; but as Rosie’d put it, they were scars of honor, proving how worthy he was.  “I want to say,” he said, “as just how proud I am of you--of all of you, and how glad I am now as I’ve lived to see this day, and to sit in this garden again.”  He looked about, smiling as all smiled back at him.  “It’s my day, you say--well, it’d be nothin’ special without each and every one of you, I’m thinkin’.  And how proud the Masters must be seein’ all of you and what you’ve come to.”

                And he saw Sam smile at that, for all his eyes glistened the least bit, and he was glad.  For Sam had never been seen as but a servant, either.  No, he’d embraced the friendship offered him by the young Master, and in the end had been loved and honored as a brother.  Yet that relationship had never drawn him away from those to whom he’d been born as happened too often it seemed--it had simply proven to open him the more fully to be the son and brother--and now husband and father--that had ever been there. 

                The Gaffer drew Sam down further to whisper in his ear, “I’m glad now as you never paid me no heed, for I see now as where mixin’ with your betters took you--made you and all of us the better for havin’ knowed ’em, it has.  You’re no ninnyhammer as I was, lad.  And I’m the one as is honored to have ye as my son.”

                And he was pleased to see his son shine at that, warm and sun-lit--yes, proper to the gardener he was.  The Gaffer sat back clasping both arms again about his youngest grandchild so far, and looked down again into her face, seeming to see Bell smiling through her in as much satisfaction and joy as he himself felt.

                Yes, this was his day, he thought as he reached for one of those biscuits.

The Welcome

            They stood upon the quay of Tol Eressëa, their eyes locked.

            “You’ve come.”

            “Yes.”

            “We had no warning.”

            “I know.  I wished it to be a surprise.”

            Her voice warmed with humor.  “Oh, it is that indeed, my lord husband.”

            “Then I am gratified, my lady wife.”

            Those who but heard the exchange would likely think it only a courteous greeting between two long estranged.  But those who watched saw the great flaring of the Lights of each, and knew this was but the public face of their meeting.  Oh, passions were engaged, and would be so even more surely in time, once the two were assured of their privacy.

            And the onlooking Maia smiled in satisfaction.

Word of Resignation

            Finduilas looked up as the door to the nursery on the upper floor of the Steward’s quarters opened and then closed once more, admitting her husband into the room where she was supervising the changing of small Boromir’s garb for the coming meal.  Ordinarily the child ate separately from his parents and grandfather; but this evening they were to host Lord Forlong, who had a definite fondness for the Steward’s grandson and so enjoyed the small boy’s company he insisted he be included in the meal welcoming the Lord of Lossarnach to the city.  “Has he arrived within the Citadel?” she asked.  “I only heard the news of his entrance into the city a quarter mark past, and cannot see how he should have climbed so swiftly up the levels.”

            “No--Forlong is yet on his way.”

            Something in the manner in which he answered her alerted her to the fact that there was something that had disturbed Denethor, although she could not tell whether he was more upset or excited by whatever the news was to which he was reacting.  She gave their son a last inspection and directed the nurse, “Take him then to the gardens but see to it he does not soil his clothing.”  Once the woman had withdrawn with the child, she turned back toward her husband.  “What is it?  Is your father not well?  Or has my brother announced an unexpected betrothal?”

            He shook his head.  “My lord father is well enough, although his councils have been much disturbed.  As for Imrahil--you would know of the possibility of a betrothal long before I--of that I am certain.”  He ran a slender finger once more over the fading scar where an orc scimitar had caught him on the brow just below the hair line, a wound that had been tended by----

            “How is it then with the Lord Captain Thorongil?” she asked.  “Has word come on how serious was the wound he took in the assault on the harbor of Umbar?  Has he come at last to Minas Tirith?  Have they taken him to the Houses of Healing, or has he returned to his quarters in the officers’ barracks in the Sixth Circle?”

            He shook his head, and she realized he was pleased, worried, anxious, and disapproving all at the same time.  “Nay, the honored Captain has not returned to the White City--indeed, it appears it may well be quite some time ere we see him again--if ever.”  She could hear the mockery he tended to infuse ever into Thorongil’s title when he must use it in the past few years.

            “His injury is so bad?”

            Again he shook his head.  “My father has received a letter from him, delivered during the meeting of the Council.  You know that during the assault on Umbar he and two others were separated from the rest, and that he was last seen with his aide and one of his younger troupers sailing north up the river in a commandeered ketch?”

            “Yes--of course-- the story of seeing him leaning on the rail, holding the tiller, with shirt removed and a great bandage about his abdomen while his aide set the sails has been discussed how many times over the past two weeks?”

            His left shoulder lifted in a shrug, echoed by his left brow.  “Yes--true enough.  The report came this morning that the ketch was found four days back some two leagues south of the port of Pelargir.  Ranger trackers have examined the site, and have found indications that those on the ketch were met by someone on horseback.  Such was the nature of the hoof prints, however, that it is plain this horse was not shod by any smith within Gondor or Rohan.  The obvious answer to the riddle is that whoever it was come to meet him must be either from amongst our enemies, or more likely, from amongst his own people from the north.”

            “You are so certain he is from Arnor, then?”

            Denethor’s expression was quite grim as he nodded.  “Oh, I am indeed certain he is from the remnant of the north kingdom.”

            She examined his face, at last asking quietly, “Do you think it--possible--possible he might be----”

            “Isildur’s heir?  Anything is possible, I must suppose,” he answered sourly.  “But if he is, he has made no claims in all the years he has served in either Rohan or Gondor; and he has refused point-blank to answer that question when put to him by my honored father.  Or,” he added thoughtfully, “so the Steward of Gondor has informed me.”

            “Then what?”

            “He sent a letter resigning his commission as an officer of Gondor’s forces.  He stated that word had come that there had been major losses amongst his own people, to the extent that his presence was needed there immediately.  He stated also that he intends to return, should he believe the time is right for it and his presence is both needed and desired by the people of Gondor and the city.”

            “I see,” she murmured.

            “The letter was brought by the young soldier,” he continued, “who will not tell what he might have witnessed of that meeting.  He will say only that one claiming to be the Lord Captain’s older brother met with them, and that he cannot say in what language the discussion between Thorongil and the newcomer was held save that it was one he does not understand.  The paper on which the letter was sent is of Gondorian manufacture, so it is believed that Thorongil’s aide was the source of paper, ink, and pen used in the writing of the letter.”

            “I see,” she repeated slowly.

            The two of them faced one another quietly for a time.  At last he said, “So much for my father’s hopes for the return of the King,” his voice half triumphant, half bitter.

            “At least,” she responded, “it appears that you shall succeed your father as ruling Steward.”

            “So it would seem.”

            She smiled into his grey eyes, hoping to reassure him; but in the depths of her heart she was saddened, for as much as she loved her husband she yet believed the Lord Captain would be sorely needed, and as much by her husband as by the realm as a whole.  And for the obvious relief she could see in Denethor that this rival was now gone from Gondor, yet she realized that in the depths of his own heart he was bereft, for there yet remained a portion of him that had also hoped for the return of the King--now.

Uncertainty

            Pervinca tapped quietly at her brother’s door.  The sound of the simple words, “Yes--come in!” was so heartening after the thirteen months Pippin had been gone from the Shire.  She opened the door and--and stopped dead just within the room, not quite believing what she was seeing.  Peregrin Took had apparently grown in more than one way during his absence--not only was he more competent looking than he’d been when he left, with an air of maturity he’d never displayed before; but he was physically tall now--definitely the tallest Hobbit she’d ever seen.  He was standing by the hearth in his room, a feather duster in his hands, carefully dusting the line of items he’d always kept arranged on the mantel.  But he was wearing an overshirt of some kind of a warm, golden brown over a cream-colored shirt that must have been made of silk considering the sheen and weight to the fabric. 

            “Pippin?” she asked.

            He turned and looked at her, his face breaking into a huge grin.  “Vinca?  Pervinca!  You and Maligar got here safely?”

            “Yes.  Pippin, what happened?”

            “What do you mean, what happened?”  His grin had faded uncertainly.

            “You’re so tall!”

            He shrugged.  “From what we can tell, it’s the Ent draughts.  We didn’t fully appreciate it the first time, not until our clothes seemed to grow unnaturally tight, what little we had left, that is.  And then we were reunited with Frodo and Sam, and Sam just couldn’t get over the fact we were taller than he was now.  By then we were mostly wearing uniforms--Théoden King had ordered one be found for Merry, and I think that it used to be his son Théodred’s when he was an older lad--the mail and leather gambeson were a bit large on him at first; and I was given one made for Faramir--Aragorn had another one made for me after the battle before the Black Gate as the original one had to be cut off me, and undoubtedly that was good for the one of Faramir’s from when he was a lad would be too tight on me now, I suspect.  From what I can tell we grew another two inches along the way home--but we did stop and see Treebeard again....”  At last he seemed to have run out of words and he went quiet, flushing markedly as he looked at her, finally adding, “Merry and Frodo keep telling me that when I grow nervous I do tend to blather.”

            Suddenly she was laughing and hurrying forward to hug him--what she could reach of him, of course.  No matter how tall he was or how strangely dressed, this was her baby brother, her Pippin, complete with blathering.  “Oh, dear Pippin, you can’t imagine how good it is to have you home!”

            And when she saw the tears of relief in his eyes she was triply glad.

Sometimes Wonder is Built, Brick by Brick

            Pippin examined with interest the stack of miniature bricks Absalom had on display in the small building that lay along one side of the brick works in Tuckborough.  “You say your daughter suggested you make these?” he asked.

            “Yes--for the makin’ of houses for poppets,” Abso agreed.  “She loves to build small houses for her dollies, she does, and the lasses what she plays with have all begun to do the same.  It’s begun to be rather a fashion, it has--and lately it’s the dads to them lasses as is doin’ most of the buildin’.”

            “Their fathers?”  Pippin’s brows rose and his eyes widened with interest.

            “Oh, yes, it is.  The lasses, they’ll start with the buildin’, and next as they knows their dads is there, lookin’ on and offerin’ advice, and then startin’ in to help until they’ve took right over.  And if’n there ain’t a right competition to see as which can make the fanciest of little houses!  They’ll go out and cut fine wheatstraw for thatch, and have their wives use their finest cloth to make curtains and all, and the whole family’ll start makin’ the furniture for them.  They get right elaborate, they do.  Want to see as how they come out?  Let me show you the ones as my lass has done.”  So saying, he led the Thain’s son out of the shop building and across the yard toward the gate into his garden and the neat, cheerful Hobbit house his family inhabited.

            An extra bedroom off to the far side of the house contained the collection of small houses that had been built with tiny bricks such as those Pippin had been examining.  “This is the first as she built, and she did all the walls herself, she did,” the brickmaker said proudly.  “I built the form for the thatched roof meself, I did, so’s it lifts right off.  There’s a catch here and--and here.”  There were two snicks, and he was able to raise the roof and set it aside so they could look right down into the construction. 

            It was a small cottage with rooms divided by thin wall partitions made from fine laths.  Pebbles had been grouted together to build a cooking hearth and chimney in one corner; a simple table and two small wooden chairs sat in the kitchen area, and a bedstead was in one of the back rooms.  Absalom demonstrated how the mattress sat on a webbing of fine string woven between the side rails of the bed in imitation of most real bedsteads.  Pippin was enchanted.  And the other three houses in the collection were each more elaborate than the last, the final one appearing to be a copy of Absalom’s own house.  “I’ll admit as the wife’n me helped a great deal with this one,” the brickmaker said proudly.

            When Pippin left the yard with his report for his father on bricks available for repairs to various buildings within the Tooklands he also took a supply of the small bricks with him and had more ordered so he could try his own hand at this new fashion.

 *******

            There were nights when Peregrin Took didn’t sleep well, nights when nightmares threatened or refused to allow him to sleep; nights when he’d awake after a dream of Frodo to find his lashes wet and his pillow damp; nights when impending storms made him restless and brought to mind clashing armies; nights when he relived the fall of a stone down the well in Moria that turned into Gandalf’s fall from the broken bridge of Khazad-dûm, or the desperate crawl away from battling orcs and Riders into Fangorn Forest, or when his imagination showed him the pale, emaciated face of his older cousin lying as if dead on piles of the finest featherbeds sent out from Minas Tirith itself, with only the slowest of pulses and shallowest rise and fall of his chest to show he ought not to be lying instead on a bier.

            On such nights Pippin found the presence of the small bricks gave him a much needed diversion.  Instead of having visions of flames in the Hallows he could focus on how he would hang the round front door--green, of course.  When he found the memories of peering into the palantir disturbed his sleep he could turn his mind to the patterns made as he carefully laid the bricks and considered the materials he would use to construct the interior walls.  He collected wood shavings from the carpenters’ shed and planned how he could use them as shakes for the roof rather than dwell on those last few moments of consciousness when he lay under the troll, and he found thinking on what he would use to indicate the floors was preferable to remembering his last sight of Boromir son of Denethor, shot with arrows.

            “What is it that keeps your rooms lit at all times of the night?” Pearl asked one afternoon.

            “A project,” he answered her; but it took little enough persuasion on her part to convince him to allow her to see it.

            “Oh, how sweet,” she said, delighted.  “Will you furnish it?”

            “I’d like to,” he admitted, “But right now I’ve only been considering how to put it together.”

            It was built on a foundation of a long slab of wood he’d found also in the carpenters’ shed.  He wasn’t certain what it might have been intended to be, but it had had several holes bored through it on one end; he placed the house beyond those holes with the front door toward them.  He had the front entrance way completed, and the parlor, study, dining room, and kitchen largely done.

            “It looks a lot like the house we lived in there on the farm in Whitwell,” she noted.

            “I know.  But it’s not quite the same.”

            “I have a small Dwarf-carved box that would do for the chest by the Master’s chair,” she said thoughtfully.  “A hair clip Bard purchased for me at the Free Fair came in it.”

            “And I have a balsam pillow Pervinca gave me years ago to put in with my handkerchiefs that could do for a mattress,” he said.

            In time all three of his sisters were involved with the project, and Maligar, who liked working with wood, was crafting the frames for chairs and beds, bookcases, wardrobes, and dressing tables.  Pimpernel crocheted round and oval rugs for certain floors, found a rough, narrow length of green wool to use as a runner down the passageway, and with very fine thread and her most slender hook created lace curtains for the windows.  Ferdi found an old circular box whose top became the front door, and whose hinges ended up being used on the wardrobe for the master bed room.  An old wooden tub for butter became the tub in the bathing room, and a metal pepper mill served as the boiler.  Pervinca produced doll dishes carved of wood that Frodo had given her for Yule when she was a bairn to set on the kitchen dresser, and a ceramic salt cellar became the sink.

            It took several months before all were convinced that the little house was complete, with its cheerfully painted green door and a brass bead as a doorknob, flakes of  isinglass for the window panes, entranceway floored with pieces of a broken tile, three carefully appointed bedrooms, two larders and small cool room, study, parlor, and dining room, privy and bathing room.

            The desk in the study had been definitely patterned after that in Bag End, complete with a small piece of parchment on its surface and a tiny inkstand made of different kinds of beads on metal fastenings turned upside down in order to serve as legs with smaller beads for lids.  Each room had is own fireplace and chimney piece, and the chimneypot for the kitchen had been copied from those for the Great Smial itself.

            Pervinca, Pearl, and Pimpernel came to see the small house once it was finished.  “It is beautiful, little brother,” Pervinca said.  “What will you do with it?  Put it in the play room for the smaller children?”

            “Oh, he wouldn’t!” Pimpernel objected, dismayed.  “The little ones--they’d ruin it!  They’d pull off the curtains and break the hinges on the doors right away!  Keep it here in your rooms, and give it to Diamond when you marry!”

            Suddenly Pippin smiled his familiar, mischievous grin.  “No, I’ve thought of the perfect ones who will treasure it most.”

            Pearl examined her brother’s face.  “You going to give it to Sam, then?”

            He looked at her, surprised.  “To Elanor, really.  But how did you guess?”

            She shrugged, but there was a look of regret on her face.  “Do you think I’ve not noted that almost every time you’ve spent time working on this it’s been after someone’s been speaking of Frodo, or after something’s happened to bring your journey again to mind, Peregrin Took?  You, Merry, and Sam--the three of you are all still out there, part of you; and none of you is ever likely to fully heal from him being gone.  And where you used to watch out for Frodo, now you and Merry watch and cherish Sam, perhaps because he’s what’s left to you of Frodo here in the Shire now.”

            He looked down at her, put his hand on the side of her face.  “You’ve become so discerning, Pearl.  Yes, we’re all still torn, but nowhere as much as he was.  He tried so hard to fit back into life here, but the Ring and the journey took too much from him.”

            “At least now, he’s probably alive and well,” Pearl sighed. 

            He nodded.  “I believe so, Pearl, and able to be happy again.”  He leaned forward and gently kissed her cheek, then looked back to the house.  “He would have been delighted with this, and I have thought of the perfect way to give this to Elanor.”  The grin reappeared.  “Oh, yes, I’ll give this to Elanor in a way that will engage Sam’s interest as well.  Rosie will just laugh, but for Sam and Elanor--they will always see it with a bit of wonder, I’d think.”  His smile gentled but broadened as he brushed his fingertip across the paint on the green door.

 *******

            He timed the journey to Hobbiton just right, choosing the day Sam and Rosie had driven to the Cottons’ farm to spend a few days with Rosie’s family before she must face her confinement with her third child.  The great slab of wood sat in the tilt of the trap he’d driven, and from the gardeners for the Great Smial he brought some plants with the tiniest of flowers available to plant around the house when it was placed.  “We’ll take it into the house and place it in the formal parlor--the one they never use.  Rosie’s spoken of turning it into a play room for the children,” he explained to Pervinca’s husband Maligar Bolger, who’d come with him to help carry the structure up the steps to Bag End itself.  “I’ll have to fetch in dirt to place on the plank, and set the pots of flowers in the holes,” he said as they approached the great green door--only the door was locked.  That wouldn’t have been a problem at one time, for Pippin had long ago had a copy of the key made for his own use; but the lock had been replaced when Sam had the smial restored, and he’d not as yet given copies of the keys to anyone else save Frodo himself, who’d returned his own copy before he took ship.

            “Well, are we going to have to take it back to the Great Smial again, then?” Maligar asked.

            “No, I won’t do that,” Pippin said.  “We’ll set it here on the bench and check the back door.”

            The back door, too, was locked, but as they went back toward the front of the smial Pippin stopped, looking at the place where usually Sam planted sunflowers, those having been a favorite of Bilbo’s.  The small plot had been cleared and the ground cultivated, and it looked to be just big enough....

            “Ooh, this is wonderful!” said a childish voice, startling both gentlehobbits.  A small lass had apparently followed them through the picket gate in the hedge, and stood by the little Hobbit house.  She’d gently pushed open the green door and was peering in through it.  “But the sofa’s fallen over!  How can you set it up right?”

            “Cyclamen Proudfoot!” exclaimed Pippin, one hand clutched to his chest.  “I didn’t know you were here!”

            “I saw you with the wee house, and wanted to see it better.  That’s all right, isn’t it?”

            “Well, of course.  But you won’t be telling Sam who brought it.”

            “Where are you going to put it?”

            “Well, we were going to put it in the formal parlor, but I’ve changed my mind.  Although I might have to dig up some seeds if Sam’s already planted his sunflowers, and I’m not certain where I’d plant them again.”

            “Oh, he didn’t get them planted yet--he was going to, but he had to stop.  There were some problems with the green grocer he had to deal with.”

            “Good.  This would be a better place than inside, and would cause even more wonder.  Come on, Maligar!”

            It took a time to get the slab properly placed, and they were able to easily cover it with the very soil they were displacing as they settled it into the former flower bed.  Maligar fetched the small flat of tiny flowers and the pots of miniature roses, and Cyclamen brought trowels from Sam’s own shed to use in the planting.  It took time to get everything just right, but as sunset came they at last pulled back, smiling at their handiwork.

            A layer of soil now lay over the slab on which the house had been built, and small alyssum plants were now planted near its walls, while miniature roses now bloomed on each side of the walk, one of carefully poured sand leading from the stone slab stoop to the edge of the wood.  Pippin had carefully lifted off the roof so they could set the furniture inside to rights and hang the two tiny cloaks his niece Pansy had sewn on the hooks over the bench in the entranceway.  A walking stick leaned against the wall in the corner, and there was what appeared to be an umbrella in the brass thimble that served as an umbrella stand.

            A few garments also crafted by Pansy hung in the wardrobes, along with finely hemmed squares of flannel as extra blankets and carefully folded cambric handkerchiefs to serve as sheets and pillow shams on the shelves. There were even little books that Pansy’s brother Isumbrand and their cousin Piper had made on the shelves in the study, and a miniature copy of Bilbo’s map, complete with red dragon, hanging over the fireplace there.  A miniature picture of Frodo done by Pimpernel hung in one room, and another that was supposed to be Sam, Rosie, Elanor, and Frodo-lad hung over the mantel in the parlor.  An old watch once carried by Grandda Adalgrim had been carefully slipped inside a wooden case so it could serve as a mantel clock.  Strawflowers and baby’s breath were set into miniature vases that Pippin’s mother had found in one of the mathom rooms and placed throughout the house, and over the kitchen hearth hung a kettle-shaped toothpick holder that had been Gammer Blossom’s, donated now by the Thain himself.  Pimpernel had even managed to make a crazy quilt to cover the bed in the master bedroom.

            “It’s so beautiful,” Cyclamen breathed, looking down into it one last time as Pippin and Maligar prepared to replace the roof section.

            “Yes--we intended to make it look as if it was really lived in,” Pippin said, looking at the wooden dog he’d set before the parlor hearth.  Drogo Baggins had carved and painted that dog for Frodo, along with a number of farm animals; Frodo had given it and the remaining animals to Merry, and Merry had passed it on to Pippin.  Now it was coming home again, he thought, smiling as he nodded to Maligar and they set the roof into place and he fastened the catches he’d fixed into it to allow it to be secured in place.

            “I wish I could live in it,” sighed Cyclamen.  “All it needs is a fire in one of the fireplaces and maybe some candles....”

            “Well, that wouldn’t do,” Pippin said, “for if they flared it could burn the insides and the roof.  But I did fix it so we could have smoke from the chimney.”  He produced a small smudge from his pocket.  “I had our orchardist make up about thirty of these from what we use when it freezes just as the apple blossoms start to set to keep from losing the crop.  See the wick here?”  He pulled out his striker set and soon had the wick lit, then dropped the small packet into the kitchen chimney pot.  Soon a steady stream of smoke rose from it, as if a fire burned in the kitchen cooking hearth.

            “That’s wonderful!”  Cyclamen was obviously most impressed.

            “Could you put one of these in the chimney and light it as soon as you realize Sam and Rosie are on their way home, do you think, Cyclamen?  And maybe put one in it a few times in the morning without being seen?  It would so enchant Elanor, I think.”

            With the lass’s agreement, the two gentlehobbits made ready to leave.  “Now, I’m counting on you to be secret about this, and not let Sam and the family know where it came from.  And if you could spy to watch their reactions and tell us about it when we come for a visit the next time, I’d truly appreciate it.’

            “Oh, I promise,” Cyclamen smiled.  “I want to see how they like it, too!”

 *******

            Sam pulled the trap they’d rented from the Green Dragon to a halt at the bottom of the stair up to Bag End.  “Well, we’re back,” he said over his shoulder to his daughter, who knelt behind him in the tilt.  He set the brake and climbed out, lifted Elanor down, accepted a drowsy Frodo Lad from Rosie before aiding her down, then turned to follow his wife up to the picket gate.  Elanor squeezed by them and ran into the front garden.  “I’m going to see if my nasturtiums have started growing yet,” she announced as she ran down the garden path toward the small plot her dad had given her for her own.

            Her parents watched after her.  “I think as I was about the same way,” Sam commented fondly.  He set his son down on his feet.  “You’ll need to follow after your mum while I fetch the hampers, dearling, for you’re too heavy for her to carry right now.  And don’t pout!  Don’t want your gaffer to call you a ninnyhammer, do you?”

            The child shook his head with great seriousness, and Sam had to suppress a grin.  “No--not a ninnyhammer,” the lad announced.

            Just then Elanor reappeared, pulling at her dad’s trousers.  “Dad!” she said, breathlessly.  “Daddy--come quick--someone’s moved into the garden!  And there’s smoke from the chimbly!  Mummy--come see!  Did you mean to grow a house ’stead of the sunflowers, Daddy?  How’d you do it?  Did you have to plant a brick?  And someone must live there, if the kitchen fire’s going, right?”

            Sam looked up at the top of the smial, and saw no signs of smoke from the chimney pots there, then shared a confused look with his wife.  Elanor gave a disgusted sigh.  “Not there--the little Hobbit house what growed where the sunflowers go!  Come see!”  She gave her father’s trousers another pull before grabbing at his hand.  Totally mystified, Sam followed after her, trailed by Rosie and Frodo-lad, until they reached the plot where the sunflowers had always been planted, and there they stopped, looking at the perfect little Hobbit house that stood there, a line of smoke rising from a chimney.  “Will it keep growing, do you think, Daddy?” she asked, sounding a bit worried.  “There’s not enough room for it, I think, if it tries.”

            Sam knelt down as carefully as he could.  It stood about a foot high, and was about long enough to have three bedrooms.  The knob on the green door didn’t turn; he pushed on the door and it opened inward, and peering in he saw the bench and the little cloaks hanging on the pegs, the umbrella stand with the handle sticking out of it, the walking stick in the far corner; the parlor almost across from the door.  The windows had tiny staples on them, allowing him to pull each one open so they could peer inside and see that each room was furnished.

            “I never!” breathed Rosie.  “It’s perfect, Sam-love!”

            “There’s cloaks!” Elanor said excitedly, “real cloaks!  See, Sam-dad?”

            The parlor was set up much like that of Bag End, save for the window that looked out toward the flower bed by the smial’s study window.  The rest of the house was mostly different from the real Bag End, but there were enough features they could see that were plainly copied from the smial and its furnishings that Sam realized whoever had done this was very familiar with the place.

            “How did they get the furniture inside?” Elanor asked.

            “I have no idea, sweetling,” Rosie answered.  “It’s a right marvel, it is.”

            Sam was examining it from every side, smiling as he noted the detail--the painted walls in all the rooms, the map and books in the study, the tiny knitted shawl over the back of the Master’s chair in the parlor and the second one across the arms of the rocking chair in the kitchen, the dog by the hearth and dishes on the dresser, the mug set by the inkstand on the desk as if the Master had just left it....  He felt a single tear escape, then Rosie, who’d been peering into a bedroom, tapped his shoulder.  “Look,” she said.

            Inside hung a portrait, and he smiled through his tears to see and recognize it.  “Oh, bless me,” he murmured.  “And bless him!  Look, Elanorellë--your Uncle Frodo!”

            “Uncle Frodo?  Do you mean he can stay here when he comes to visit us, and we just missed him?”

            Cyclamen, watching from one of the weak places in the hedge, smiled.  Mr. Pippin, she knew, was going to be most pleased.

A Hobbit's Tale

Bilbo Baggins was a Hobbit,

a clever Hobbit, a stubborn Hobbit,

till Gandalf sought to goad the Hobbit

who lived there in Bag End.

*

Oh, Bilbo Baggins went a-questing,

seeking fortune, testing courage.

With Dwarves and Wizard he went a-faring

and proved himself a friend.

*

Beneath the mountains he knew capture,

fled from goblins, found a treasure.

In the dark he traded riddles,

there by Gollum’s lake.

*

Oh, Bilbo Baggins flew with Eagles,

taunted spiders, haunted cellars,

stuffed Dwarves in barrels and rode the river

all for friendship’s sake.

*

Our Bilbo Baggins teased a Dragon,

stole a cup and found a great gem,

chided Thorin and counseled wisdom,

and selfishness defied.

*

With his sword he faced the goblins,

stood by Elf-lords, braved great danger.

He saw the vict’ry and wept by Thorin

as that Dwarvish hero died.

*

Home he went with gold and silver,

sword and secret, confidence garnered.

Dwarf friend, Elf friend, loved by Wizards,

to Bag End he returned.

*

The auction halted, he took possession,

ousted pretenders, irked his cousins.

His heart he found now sought for knowledge,

and his imagination burned.

*

Then in time he found a true heir,

took him in and fed his ardor.

To Rivendell his way he wended;

the Ring he left behind.

*

By Frodo’s side he rode to Mithlond,

boarded grey ship, one last adventure.

They sailed with Elves to Eressëa,

their healing for to find.

*

In Elvenhome they both found comfort,

fulfillment knew, their Lights recovered.

And Bilbo smiled to see renewal

find his Frodo-lad once more.

*

And he in peace at last looked Westward,

gave his thanks, his farewells taken,

eased in heart that Frodo lingered

upon that healing shore.

*

And so at last he met his Maker,

his soul rejoiced, his songs he offered.

His heir possessed his soul in patience

as hope within him grew

*

Until the day when with the dawning

another ship brought Sam to join him.

Treasure restored, they knew thanksgiving

till to Bilbo’s side they drew.

*

Bilbo Baggins was a Hobbit,

a wise old Hobbit, a faithful Hobbit.

The Lights in Sam and Frodo he nurtured,

there within Bag End.

Oh, and this is for LindaHoyland for her birthday.

Treating with the Enemy

            “My Lord Mahmot--there is our White City.”

            Mahmot ibn Lofti of Khand looked up at the prompting of his current keeper--or so he preferred to think of the Lord Prince Faramir ibn Denethor, Steward of Gondor, who had greeted him when his party reached Ithilien, had hosted him two nights in his great keep of Emyn Arnen, and had served as his escort on this last leg of his journey to the city of the great King.  He ought not to be coming here in the company of one such as this Steward, but at the side of his wife's brother, Klifa of the Sunirim of Khand, come in triumph to take possession of this land.  Things, however, had not worked as planned--the great force brought together to invade Gondor had been easily defeated, and his nephew, who had been leading one of the battalions intended to flank those guarding the crossings of the Poros, had been captured and brought back here, to Minas Anor.

            So he was come not to rejoice in the triumph over the land, but to sue for the return of the Klifa’s son.

            And now he raised his eyes--and pulled his mount to a stop in amazement.  He’d done his best to pay no attention to the beauty of Osgiliath as it rose again on both sides of the Anduin; but this look up at Minas Tirith was more than he was prepared for.

            “They told me,” he murmured as the Steward also stayed his horse, “that it was built of the bones of the mountain itself--but this!”

            Prince Faramir smiled as he halted his own steed.  “Yes, and so it is indeed built--a great place and one we love dearly.  For my brother there was no greater or more marvelous place in all of the world.  For Gondor and Minas Tirith, as it was known then, he was willing to sacrifice himself.  I hope that you will find your stay enjoyable.”

            “And your wife is here already?”

            “Indeed--her brother is within the city already, enjoying the company of his sister and our Lord Elessar.  They are as brothers, you must understand.”

            No, Mahmot did not understand, considering the great differences he’d seen between the folk of Gondor and those of Rohan such as he’d met so far.  Yet this one, clearly a favored son of Gondor, had married the sister of the King of Rohan.  Considering the way the Prince’s eyes softened when he spoke of his wife, it appeared that he did indeed love her tenderly.  With a sigh, Mahmot urged his horse forward once more, the Prince swiftly following suit.

            Once they passed through the gate in the Rammas Echor their escort drew further from them, allowing Prince and Khandri more privacy to speak, should they wish it.  But now from the gates of the city came a riding as a number of swift horses and a single pony hurtled toward them at speed.  Prince Faramir’s eyes grew more alert as he examined the approaching party, and then he laughed, urging his own steed forward to meet the oncomers.  Soon the others were about him, and Mahmot realized these great horses were being ridden by children, all milling excitedly about the Steward.  “Ada!” a boy was greeting the Man.  “Ada!  Uncle Éomer has brought you a gift!  Wait until you see it!”

            The Prince was looking up to acknowledge the guard who followed the party.  “They barely allowed you to keep up, I see,” he called.

            “Indeed--they wished to be the first to greet you, my lord!  Your lady wife sends her greetings by me, by the way, and asks you to join her within your rooms in the Citadel as soon as you might.”  The guard turned toward the officer of the Prince’s escort.  “Captain Beregond, the King sends his greetings, and advises you that he will call to pay his respects tomorrow.”

            Mahmot saw the pleasure in the Man’s eyes as he responded.

            Faramir had turned back to the children, accepting the greetings of a somewhat older dark-haired girl with very observant grey eyes who, while greeting the Prince with perhaps more restraint but as much pleasure as the rest was still managing to examine Mahmot thoroughly.  Then the Prince turned to lead the way, the children turning their steeds easily to fall in with him, chattering rapidly in the language of the Sea Kings’ people as they exchanged comments with him and one another.

            “Eldarion didn’t come down with the rest of you?” he asked in the common tongue.

            “He’s to follow Ada about today,” the older girl answered him.  “Had it not been for that he’d have come down with us and out across the Pelennor to greet you, too.”

            The small girl on the grey pony said, “Ada--guess who arrived here yesterday?”

            “Morwen--hush!” responded the boy who’d greeted the Prince first.  “It’s a surprise!”

            Prince Faramir encouraged his horse to start forward once more, and the boy and girl who’d addressed him as “Ada” rode on each side of him, the rest ranging themselves about them.  Faramir motioned for Mahmot to come up alongside the girl on the pony.  “We will be dismounting and leaving our horses at the great stable built outside the city walls, then walking up through the city.  The children’s mounts are stabled in the older stables in the First Circle, so we will meet them again inside the city gates.  There will be a cart to carry your goods up to the Citadel.”

            They finally approached the city, and the Khandri could now see the stables and fenced fields and paddocks there south of the gate.  Here the children pulled away from them, riding in through the gates while Mahmot, Prince Faramir, and their escort approached the great outer stables where they were met by grooms ready to take their horses.  Once the Prince was certain the animals were well provided for he carried his saddlebags to place in the cart, his personal guard doing the same, save for Captain Beregond.  “Your son was released from service earlier and should have your meal well in hand,” the stablemaster informed him.  “He is looking forward to your arrival.”

            “Good enough,” the Captain responded as he settled his bags over his shoulders.  He turned to his Prince.  “Until tomorrow then, my lord.”

            “He does not go up into the city?” Mahmot asked as Beregond turned further southward.

            “My Captain Beregond is a special case,” Faramir said gently as he looked after the Man.  “Remaining outside the White City is a small price to pay, I hope, for the honor he’s earned.”  He turned back to Mahmot and smiled.  “Shall we go up into the city, my lord?”  He thanked the grooms, gave one last look to see that the horses ridden were being given proper treatment, then led the way out of the stable yard toward the great gates.

            There were in Khand hidden cities dug into the walls of canyons, and ruins of others that had slowly emptied when the sources of water dried up or rivers changed their beds, cities that in their day had been vast and bustling.  But nowhere within Khand was there anything to match what Mahmot ibn Lofti saw now--a city white with marble and alabaster; houses and shops bright with windowboxes filled with flowers, small gardens on all sides, and everywhere statues and monuments.  While the Prince of Ithilien and Steward of Gondor stopped to speak with the captain of the City Guard on duty at the gates, the Klifa’s sister’s husband found himself staring about in awe.  Looking slightly to the left across the great square just within the gates he saw the second stable, watching as a groom bodily lifted the small girl from her grey pony, at which she took the pony’s bridle and led it within, the groom following behind her.  At last Faramir accepted the captain’s salute and returned it, moving at last out of the shadow of the gate into the midafternoon sunshine, pausing there to bow acknowledgment of the new troop of Guards in Black and Silver that awaited them, this set with wings of white and grey birds attached to their helmets.  He appeared to be counting them, and gave a slight frown.

            “If it please you, my Lord Prince,” said one deferentially, “two of our number accompanied the children into the stable and will see them out to join with us for the climb through the city.”

            Obviously reassured, Faramir’s expression cleared.  “Very well then.”  Again he led the way forward toward the stable as this group joined with the members of the Prince’s White Company to see them safely through the city.  “Whether or not the grooms here will convince the children to allow them to see to the comfort of their mounts is questionable.  Two, at least, are sons of Éomer of Rohan, while two are children to Éomer’s sister, after all.”

            “Then these have been the royal children who came to greet you?” asked Mahmot, feeling rather dizzy at the idea.

            “Indeed.”  He looked up to smile at the young Man who now approached them.  “And this is my cousin Elphir’s son, now the heir to the Prince of Dol Amroth.  Greetings, Alphros.”

            “Cousin Faramir!  You’ve been expected for hours!”

            “I was about to make a wager as to how long the children will be within the stable,” Faramir continued.

            “Two of the Guard of the Citadel were charged with seeing to it that they allowed the grooms to do their work that you be not delayed in your arrival.”

            “And they will be guided by the advice of mere guardsmen?  Young Elfwine and his brother Théodric?  I have my doubts.”

            “Well, sometimes where orders do not serve, love will,” Alphros laughed.  And indeed the children were now spilling back out of the stable, the last to emerge the small girl, who came out pulling at the hand of another child who’d not ridden out with them, one dressed in the uniform of the Guard of the Citadel, complete with winged helmet--although this time the helmet’s wings were not white but black.  Faramir had stopped and straightened in surprise, his mouth falling partly open.  His eyes widened with delight as he murmured, “Pippin!”  He then hurried forward as the child shook his hand free of the girl’s, then turned to straighten and offer his salute.

            “My Lord Prince, Guardsman Peregrin Took as one of the guard of honor to see you back up through the city, sir.”

            Faramir had stopped somewhat short of this small apparition, returning the salute most seriously now.  “I see.  And what does the Thain of the Shire do here within the King’s southern capital?”

            “He offers his sworn duty to his friend the King and all those within the household of the Citadel, and rejoices to see the Lord Prince of Ithilien and Steward of the realm once more.”  The small helmet was lifted proudly.

            “You may stand at ease, Captain Peregrin son of Paladin.”

            The youth reached up and removed his helmet, and a wide grin could be seen on his face.  The tallest of the boys reached to take his helmet as Faramir knelt down and the diminutive Guard hurried forward to embrace the Man.  “Ah, Faramir, you can’t know how good it is to see you again.”

            “And Merry?”

            The small one pulled back slightly.  “Up in the Citadel, attending on Éomer, which at the moment appears to be reduced to sharing an ale and competing in boasts.”

            “And who sees to the welfare of the blessed Shire while Thain and Master visit Minas Tirith?”

            “You think our redoubtable Mayor not up to the job?  Yes, he stayed home once more.  You know Sam and Rosie--ever just making their newest bairn comfortable or readying for the next one.  You’d think that in time they’d realize what it is they’re doing that has led to the stretching of the resources of Bag End!”

            The Prince laughed aloud.  “Well,” he managed, “Sam did promise Frodo to fill the place with the joy of family.” 

            Now both faces had gone rather solemn.  “Yes, my Lord Prince, that he did.  That he did, and Sam holds that as a solemn vow.”  He backed away, straightening once more.  “I must return to my duty, Faramir.  Strider’s awaiting you and your guest, after all.”  He turned to accept his helmet with a nod of thanks from the boy who’d taken it, drew himself to his full height once more and saluted, then returned to what was obviously his place in this formation.

            Mahmot was now fully confused, for the face he’d seen was not that of a child, but of a Man.  The Guard of the Citadel accepted Implings, what they called mannikins here in Gondor, or so he understood?  Yet this one was not particularly misshapen as was usual with such stunted folk; his head and hands and arms were in proportion to his torso and legs, and certainly he held himself as easily and proudly as did the Men among whom he stood.  The Khandri gave his host a questioning look as Faramir rose and returned to his side.  “My Lord Mahmot, you may not yet realize it, but you stand in the presence of legends fulfilled.  Let us go up.”

            “Ada,” demanded the smallest girl, hurrying to his side, “lift me up!”

            Laughing he reached down and lifted her up onto his shoulder while the boy who’d ridden by his side up on the Pelennor came to his other side.  With the girl now settled, he reached out his free hand to put it on the child’s shoulder, and the boy shone with delight.  Immediately the small guardsman moved into a position of guard should anyone seek to threaten Prince and Steward, his hand on the hilt of the sword he wore.

            Before they’d passed what appeared to be a bustling marketplace in the Fourth Circle Mahmot felt winded; yet his host, with his daughter on his shoulder and his son at his side, was obviously as fresh as he’d been when they’d left Emyn Arnen that dawning.  He caught the Khandri’s eyes and smiled.  “You must remember, Lord Mahmot, that I grew up here, and was called upon to go up and down through the city at times several times in a single day.”

            Mahmot shook his head in disbelief, but accepted the stop they made at an inn where a Man awaited them with a tray of drinks with relief.  The Prince set his daughter upon the ground, and casually dropped a golden coin in place of the mugs he lifted and offered to daughter and son, then the two more he took for himself and his guest.  “Thank you, Genthor.”

            “You are most generous, my Lord,” Genthor returned, “but there is no need.  Lord Elessar has already sent payment for your refreshment, you see.”

            “Then see it into your daughter’s dowry--it won’t be that much longer now ere you find yourself beating off the youths of the city with a stout rod, I fear.”

            “The Valar defend against that day!” the Man said with an ostentatious shiver but a broad grin.

            All drained their cups swiftly enough, and once the Prince saw all replaced on the tray they gave the Man a last nod of thanks and continued onwards.  The children each carried sheaves of flowers and sprays of greenery now, and Mahmot himself carried his own tribute of green--few blossoms had been offered him.  And the small Guard who’d walked to Prince Faramir’s own defense even had a carnation tucked inside his belt--again one not in keeping with that of the rest of the Guard.  As Mahmot examined him once more he noted that this one’s feet were bare--bare, and yet not, for they were clothed in thick auburn hair the color of that on his head.  Never had he ever seen such a thing, and he felt his scalp prickle.

            The girl Morwen was hurrying to take her place at the Guard’s side, but her brother pulled her away.  “Not now, Morwen--Pippin’s on duty, and you must not distract him.”

            Chastened, the girl looked up to meet her father’s eyes.  “Elboron is right, sell nín,” he confirmed.  She sighed with disappointment, then returned to the side of the tall girl with the grey eyes and grave air, slipping her hand into the older girl’s.

            The smallest boy now walked by Mahmot.  “I’ve not met someone from Khand before,” he admitted.  “Does it seem strange to you here?  This is nothing like to Edoras and Rohan, save for the mountains behind us.  They’re the same mountains, but the land there is different.  We have grasslands and small woods here and there, not like here where there are often great forests and farmlands and all.”  And it was accompanied by the chatter of this small child Mahmot finished his climb through the City to the Sixth Circle.

            All was much quieter here.  “This is the level of residents who serve within the Citadel or the Houses of Healing, and guests of the realm,” Faramir explained as they passed the gate, he again having paused to have a quiet word with the one on command here.  “We are to go to the gardens of the Houses of Healing first, apparently, which are at the southern end of the Circle, while the barracks, butteries, and messes for those who serve in the Guard of the Citadel are at the north end.”  So saying he led the way to the left until they approached a group of lofty buildings.  There was a great garden surrounding the houses, and on a bench sat a small boy, very much on his dignity, while before him knelt one in plain trousers and shirt, a dog crouched by his feet, a bucket of gardening tools by his left knee.  Beside him stood a healer’s assistant with a tray in his hands.  The kneeling Man was just replacing a used cloth on the tray as they arrived, and was taking up a roll of bandaging.  He carefully laid a pad over a skinned knee that had been smeared with ointment, and now took the bandaging and wound it carefully to hold the pad in place, finally taking a pair of scissors and cutting off the length he’d used, neatly fastening the knot and returning the scissors to the tray as well.

            “There, ion nín,” the Man commented.  “This will serve to keep it clean that no infection bother it.”  He nodded to the one who held the tray, who with a brief bow withdrew back into the first building.  The kneeling Man rose, proving to be remarkably tall, turning to meet the amused gaze of the Steward.

            “Well, Strider, and what are you about today?”

            “Teaching the Prince of the Realm how to tell comfrey from chamomile--or attempting to do so,” the stranger returned.  “And bandaging his knee when he has slipped away to play upon the wall and has managed to fall--thankfully inside the garden and not outward over the side.  I fear the Queen will quite blame me for not watching her son more carefully.”

            “I see,” Faramir commented, giving the small boy, who had also risen to his feet, a severe look.  “So, you would shirk your lessons, would you, Eldarion?”

            “I wished to see you arriving.  I could not go out with the others, you know, and Ada had sent Captain Peregrin down through the city to serve in the guard of honor once you’d arrived.  And he was busy removing weeds from the athelas, and wouldn’t allow me to help, saying I’d pulled up two plants I oughtn’t already.”

            “And was that not true, my Prince?” asked the tall Man sternly.

            The boy sighed.  “Yes, it’s true.  I know I need to pay attention.”

            “What your daeradar would have said had he seen you today I have no idea,” said the tall Man with a shake of his head.  “Ah, yes, he had stiff words he would give to small children who did not wish to pay attention.”

            The boy dropped his head and murmured something, then looked up.  “Again, I apologize.”

            “Now I must myself go, for with dealing with skinned knees I fear I am quite behind my time to properly greet guests.  My Lord Prince, my lord,” this one called Strider said, “if you will excuse me.”  He gave a graceful bow and turned out of the garden, the young Prince and the dog following behind him, two Guardsmen falling in behind them as he went. 

            Prince Faramir laughed, and there were fond chuckles to be heard amongst the Guards who’d accompanied them up through the White City.  “Captain Peregrin, have you ever seen the like?”

            The small guardsman answered, “You didn’t accompany him through all of Eriador and Hollin, my Lord Prince.  And remember, at Frodo’s direction I was assisting Samwise in his work when I was but a faunt yet.”

            “Assisting or impairing?” the Steward asked, glancing over his shoulder.  “If Sam is to be believed, you insisted on digging up his beloved Elven lilies at every opportunity.  Although he was not yet the Mayor of the Shire.”

            “And I was yet merely a farmer’s son, for it was years before Ferumbras’s death and we must remove permanently to the Great Smial.”

            Prince and Guard exchanged understanding looks.  Mahmot tried to imagine the Klifa having such a conversation with one of his bodyguard, and found his mind flinched from the idea of it.  Faramir gave a thoughtful nod.  “Yes, so it has been.  Well, we, too, are perhaps somewhat behind our time.  Shall we continue on our way, then?”

            Yet they didn’t hurry through this level of the city, taking their time as the Prince spoke of those who dwelt in this Circle--ambassadors and envoys, the Seneschal’s family, healers and artisans, ranking guardsmen, clerks and the King’s sculptor, lawyers and housekeepers.  He pointed out the entrance to the realm’s greatest archive.  “Here are kept records spanning the history of Gondor and even before, for some were brought from Númenor itself.  Here in a level beneath the Citadel lie the records of our history, our hopes and dreams, warfare and acts of peacemaking.  And may the latter be the predominant types of records written from this time on.”

            At last they turned up the ramp, through a brief tunnel up toward the very peak of the city, and slowly they made their way to the top of Minas Anor.  Here they found themselves in the midst of a great court paved with white stone.  “The Court of Gathering,” Faramir commented.  “Let us go forward--the King will most likely be found near the White Tree.”  He indicated where a great tree covered with white blossoms bloomed by an equally great fountain that sparkled beneath the light of the Sun.

            There were indeed figures before still another monument that stood this side of the Tree, but they were the figures of women, beautiful and noble beyond measure, or so it appeared to Mahmot of Khand.  One was slender as a sword herself, her golden hair falling in plaits down her form, erect and beautiful in her white gown over a rich green under-dress.  Another, similarly dressed in cream over burgundy, rose from where she’d been sitting upon a bench, a very small girl-child upon her hip, her auburn hair catching the glory of the Sun’s rays as she lifted her head proudly.  But it was the third, who stood with the dark Haradri girl behind her, who caught Mahmot’s attention, for she appeared to lighten the entire Level of the Citadel with her presence.  Her skin was fair beyond measure and her hair dark indeed, so dark a brown as to appear nearly black, with highlights of a rich chestnut.  Even without the mithril circlet set with gems of white and blue about her brow it was impossible to mistake the Lady Arwen, Queen of Gondor and Arnor, a witch of Elven blood, or so it was said.  She’d been spinning as they’d waited, and a finely made and deceptively simple looking spindle hung from the thread she’d been making.  Carefully she wrapped the thread she was forming about the spindle and set it within the basket that lay at her feet before turning the whole of her attention upon them.  More slowly a tall form rose to his feet from where he’d been lounging in the grass before the monument, one dressed in a robe of silver and green, a white cat in his arms and a belt of blue gems to be glimpsed about his waist beneath the robe as he examined those newly come.

            “My Lord Mahmot, I greet you to Minas Anor, the Tower of the Sun,” the woman said with a courteous inclination to her head.  “I am Arwen, the wife to the Lord Elessar.  I fear my husband is not yet free to greet you, for he was somewhat delayed this day.  The Lady Lothiriel, Queen of Rohan, and the Lady Éowyn, Princess of Ithilien.  And one of my brothers, Elrohir of Imladris.  My ward and apprentice, Mistress Hasturnerini; Lady Mirieth, wife of the Steward of Arnor; and Lady Gilmorien, wife to Lord Hardorn, chief of my husband’s bodyguard and Master of the Privy Purse as well as a member of my husband’s Council.  Be welcome, and may years of peace lie between your realm and ours as a result of this meeting.”

            “My Lady--I am sent, as I am certain you know, to make arrangements for the return of our Klifa’s son.”

            “Aye--this is known to us.  You may be assured that the Klifa’s son is well and in no danger.”  She turned her attention to Faramir.  “And I understand that your wife sent you word to come to her within your chambers within the Citadel.  Well, as you can see I saw to it she came forth to greet you, for I fear my Lord Husband would have you attend on him as Steward of the Realm as soon as can be arranged.”

            Faramir looked down his length.  “I believe I am ready to do that now, as long as I have time soon to retreat to my own chambers with my beloved wife.”

            “I do not believe that Estel will keep you overlong--merely he intends to formally greet our guest within the Hall of Kings, having been forestalled of being properly ready to join me here.  If you will come.”

            She turned to lead the way about the monument, a grouping of four rather small figures, definitely small compared to those he’d seen throughout the lower levels of the city.  There was something familiar to them, but it was only when he looked at the figure to the right that he realized that he recognized the subject.  He stopped, then turned to look at the small guardsman.  “But that----”

            The Queen turned her own attention to the same object.  “Captain Peregrin, will you fall out of the formation?” she asked.  He did so, removing his helmet and placing it under his arm.  She looked between the small one and the envoy from Khand.  “May I formally present Peregrin Took son of Paladin, Thain of the Shire and kinsman to the Ringbearer, Frodo Baggins son of Drogo and heir to Bilbo?  Yes, he is pictured there as he was when the war against Sauron was won--he, his beloved cousin Meriadoc Brandybuck, and Samwise Gamgee, gardener, friend, and companion to Frodo, who with Frodo braved the wastes of Mordor to bring the Ring of Power to Orodruin itself.”  She indicated each statue in turn.  “Frodo and Samwise were made Lords of all the Free Peoples of Middle Earth.  Pippin is a Guard of the Citadel and Thain or hereditary leader of their land, the Shire; and his cousin Merry is Esquire to the King of Rohan and a Holdwine of the Mark as well as Master of Buckland and the Marish.  We would all lie now under the tyranny of the Eye were it not for the courage of these four.”

            No, there was no question of that small one in the black and silver of Gondor being anything but an adult, one who’d seen and done much in his time.  As for the other three in the monument, never had he seen more responsible-looking ones than these.  He looked between the monument and the small guardsman.  “I beg your pardon, sir, but do not recognize your kind.”

            “I am a Hobbit of the Shire, my lord.  The four of us were all born within the Shire, you see.  The Elves call us Periannath, and the people of Gondor know us as Pheriannath or Halflings.”

            “And you are an adult?”

            The small Guard laughed.  “I am now, although I wasn’t even of age then.  But now I’m a husband and even a father as well as the Thain and the Took.”

            Mahmot nodded, trying to understand that here was an individual of a race he’d never heard of before.  He looked up into the reassurance of Faramir’s gaze, then into the grey eyes of the Queen--and was arrested.  Youthful she might appear, but her eyes had seen much of both grief and joy, and she held the Light of Stars in her gaze....

            He was shaken when she finally released him from her examination, and he followed almost blindly as she led the way past the fountain and Tree, giving it brief reverence as she passed it, the others doing the same.  Sweet fragrance enveloped him as he followed within the shade of its boughs, and on they went to the steps of the Citadel.

            In minutes they were entering the doors to the Citadel itself, and then through the second set of doors into the Hall of Kings.  And there, standing on the bottom-most step of the great dais that held the High Seat of the realm, waited the King himself, the Winged Crown on his head, his son standing by his side, two more Elves standing near him, a smaller figure watching to one side, leaning on a great battle axe, his red beard and hair elaborately braided.  Again Mahmot felt his scalp prickle--he’d never seen Dwarves before but had certainly heard tales of them all his life; and there was in the Klifa’s possession a picture of this legendary folk.  The Shkatha of Rhun had sent a painting to his wife’s brother of three of this people, in fact.

            Mahmot went forward, past the great statues of Kings and Stewards, until he stood before the King--and looked into the eyes of the Man Strider who’d knelt bandaging the knee of the boy Eldarion in the garden of the Houses of Healing.  Suddenly he realized the reason why Prince Faramir had dawdled so in the Sixth Circle, and again he cast a glance at his erstwhile guide and caught the good-humored apology in the Man’s eyes.  With a deep breath, Mahmot gave a nod.  “I see.  My Lord King Elessar, I am Mahmot of the folk of the Sunirim of Khand, and sister’s husband to the Klifa of the Sunirim.  I have been sent to sue for peace between our people and yours, and for the return of the Klifa’s son....”

            He was distracted as the white cat carried still by the tall figure of the Queen’s brother leapt from its perch, then walked with that elegant dignity native to such beasts, up past Mahmot himself to the feet of the King, where it turned and sat, carefully washed a paw, and at last raised its green eyes to meet Mahmot’s own while the dog he’d seen earlier sat up behind the King.

            A movement from the back of the hall behind the dais for the Throne proved to be the Klifa’s son, accompanied by two Guards of the Citadel, come out of wherever he’d been kept to show he was well, or so Mahmot judged from what he could see.  The young Man was properly dressed in keeping with his rank and people, and no signs of distress could be seen on his face.  It had been said he’d been struck on the side of the head before he was taken prisoner; yes, his hair was shorter as if it had possibly been shaved and as if it were only now growing out.  As his nephew approached Mahmot could see the humor and pleasure that had endeared him to his people reflected in the youth’s eyes.  “My uncle?  You have come?  Alas--that is too bad, I judge, for the engineers of the city were to begin teaching me how to construct an aqueduct--a gift to our people from those of Gondor to assist our cities once again to grow.  But perhaps we might remain here for a time that I learn the secrets of this construction before we must go back.  What say you?”

            Mahmot found himself feeling more than a bit dizzy--had the tables been reversed, the Lord King Elessar would be standing in chains, watching his own son dragged into the Klifa’s halls, also in chains, threats of death and torture hanging over all who were in Elessar’s train.  To find himself facing a King who’d but come from teaching his son the skill of gardening and binding a skinned knee, with cat and dog as well as children about him----

            The King said something in command, and he felt the seat of a chair being pressed behind his knees just before he collapsed back into it.  A second Hobbit in the greens and browns and golds of Rohan was approaching him now with a goblet of wine, and he looked into grey eyes not as deep as those of the King who stood over him, feeling the pulse point at his throat.

            He looked up into the King’s eyes and searched them.  Grey as the sea itself, he thought.  And there was something else there--something almost indefinable.  Somehow, looking into those grey eyes, Mahmot realized he was looking into the eyes of one whose word would truly bind him.  Yes, he could treat with the one who bore such eyes.  He only wished that he felt as strongly of the honor of the Man he served within Khand.

 A Pleasant Dissonance

                “Is there anything I can do to help you, Mr. Frodo?” asked a young voice.

                The words themselves caught the attention of Meriadoc Brandybuck away from the plateful of cake he held, and he turned to look at the two figures standing near the lilac bushes, outlined against the afternoon sun of a day in late September.  The gentlehobbit was taller than average; the lad looking up at him was only slightly taller than half his size, sturdily built in spite of his rather slender physique, his feet firmly anchored in the rich soil of the Shire.  Merry knew that the gardener looked into eyes blue as summer skies, into a face naturally pale, save for the rosiness of its cheeks, framed by dark curls.  He knew that the Baggins looked into eyes of a light brown slightly dappled with gold, like brown pebbles over which the shallow waters of a merry stream flows.

                It was only that—that it was the small Baggins who was addressing the gardener—who was also a gardener’s son—as Mr. Frodo.

                Merry Brandybuck, Master of Buckland and Brandy Hall, found himself shivering at the same time he wanted to suppress a laugh of sheer delight.  Frodo, my beloved cousin, he thought, how I wish you were here to see your young cousin’s son Eruhael honoring your friend’s son as “Mr. Frodo.”

                He felt a hand on his shoulder, and realized that the Mayor of the Shire stood by him, his eyes shining slightly with a tear he couldn’t quite hold, and smiled as he realized Sam, too, had been taken by surprise.  Softly Sam murmured, “Takes you back, don’t it?”

                “Oh, yes, it does,” Merry said, looking back at the two by the lilac bush.

Thanks to RiverOtter, Eiluj, and Fiondil for the Beta

The Craft of the Elven Smith

            She was taken by surprise by the summons to come to Aulë’s forge, for it had been long since any of the Valar had either approached her or had called her to them.  She’d been certain she’d been tainted by her departed husband’s disobedience and obstinacy--and murderous actions.  That the Smith of the Valar would still speak with such as she, with the blood of the Teleri splashed upon her as the result of the madness that had taken Fëanor and their sons and so many of their people, was unthinkable!  Nerdanel arrayed herself as carefully as she might, and set off for the Vala’s presence, finding herself as nervous as any young elleth.

            Welcome, child.  She realized she was being greeted with courtesy--courtesy and surprising gentleness.  She looked up from her obeisance to find there was no blame in the face of the one who stood before the forge’s fire.

            “My Lord?  And how is it one as unworthy as I might serve you?”

            What felt like a great sigh was released by the powerful Vala.  Lady, do not believe it of us that we blame you for your husband’s actions.  Much evil has he wrought, goaded as he was by Melkor’s whispers and insinuations.  But you we have ever held blameless, for you did all you could to dissuade him and your sons and your kindred from their destructive path.  Nay, it is to you we look to aid in the hope of countering some of the great evil that has been loosed upon the mortal lands.

            She looked on him with disbelief.  “And how am I, bereft of all purpose as I am now that my children and he who was my husband are lost to me, to seek to aid those who dwell within Ennor?” she asked.

            Were you not already an Elven smith of great skill and promise when you came to love him who was your husband?  Have you lost the skill of your hands, the richness of your imagination, the power of your craft?

            “But I have not fired my own forge since they left here, Lord.”

            Then perhaps it is time to begin again.  There will yet be a need for the crafting of gems, and there are a few in particular we would see made and sent, when the time is right, to the needs of Ennor.  For, daughter, the evil wrought here by Melkor’s influence is as nothing compared to what is being wrought by him there.

            “Morgoth he has become.”

            Yea, so it is.  She was amazed at the grief she felt in his communication.  He examined her.  Know this, Nerdanel--you are not the only one who has been made bereft of family as a result of this business.  Oh, we will oppose him should he seek to return as we did ere he fled us--but he is yet our brother.

            That she, a mere woman among the Elves of Aman, should find herself wishing to offer comfort to the Lord of the Forge she would never have imagined.

 *******

            She and her handmaids set to first cleansing her forge, then preparing it.  Time it took to bring in wood and see it prepared as charcoal; she scoured the stores she and her husband had put in to find the quantities of carbon, silica, magnesium, cadmium, manganese, and other materials that she would need for the construction of what she would do.

            There would be the need to bring what she would use to a great heat, so they set about renewing the great bellows.  There would be the need to put it all under almost unimaginable pressure in order to bring those materials to their final clarity, so she cleansed presses, forms, and her great  hammers.  A new set of clamps she wrought with screws to further press what she would put together.  A new lever she forged to turn her screws.  A new set of adamantine chisels she created for the shaping and smoothing of what she wrought.  Iron she laid in, and what was needed to make of it the finest steel.  Molds she created for the forging of new tools.  And at last she found herself ready.

 *******

            Daughter, may we enter your forge?

            Nerdanel looked on those gathered outside the building with even more surprise than she had known when she was summoned before Aulë, for the Smith came accompanied by others.  They had taken forms little greater than those of the Elves of Tirion today so that all might enter the forge building without crowding her.  “Yes, of course.  I am your handmaiden, my Lord--why would I ever seek to exclude you from my working?”

            We have come to bless your work, Aulë told her.  Perhaps had we sought to company your husband as he labored he would not have come to honor the work of his hands more than he did the world in which he wrought the jewels he created or the Light with which he filled them.

            “Thank you, Lord,” she said bowing low.

            I come to hallow your hands that they be fit to create what is needful, he continued.

            There will be need for the creations of your hands to provide healing, Estë advised her, for deep already are the scars our brother and those who follow him have carved into Ennor; and if they continue as they have begun those scars will become deeper yet.

            Imagination they will need who will wield these items, Irmo explained.

            Vairë added, And the ability to foresee what might come both if and if they do not act.  Discernment will be truly needed by them.

            Tulkas sighed, They will require strength--and great endurance.

            What you will create, began Vána slowly, will aid in the restoration not only of balance, but of growth and beauty.

            Elves and Men and perhaps others besides will wield them to the fulfillment of the needs of all, Yavanna continued.

            Námo murmured, Yea, there will be required much of sacrifice, for the cleansing of the wounds wrought by our brother and his followers will come at the cost of many lives, I fear.  Yet only if those who wield these things are willing to spend even themselves to see all brought right will all come back to balance once more and hopefully remain there.

            Oromë lifted his head proudly.  The ability to follow the trail of evil and the craft to stalk it quietly will be needed.

            Great will be the grief of those who live in those times--they will need to know empathy, and will require the cleansing of their pain that they might then look in joy to the future.  Nienna looked on Nerdanel with great compassion, knowing this elleth had already known her heart torn into pieces as a result of Melkor’s machinations.  Not trusting herself to speak, the Elven smith nodded her head in understanding.

            At last Varda spoke gently, Light shall they require, to guide them upon the way and to chase away the Shadows that seek to bring them down.

            And Manwë finished, I come to breathe into them the Breath of Purpose, and we will all seek to see them in tune with the Song itself.  Is this well with you, daughter?

            Nerdanel wiped her eyes against her upper sleeve, for this had moved her greatly.  “Indeed, Lords, Ladies.  I only pray I am worthy.”

            Námo smiled into her eyes.   Is this not but what is asked of any of us who people Arda, child--that we do the best we can to see that all is kept properly in balance and the Light shines equally upon all?

 *******

            So she began.  First, as the Valar sang a great harmony of crafting about her, she melted iron and purified it, added carbon, tested and purified it again, and continued until at last she had wrought it into the finest steel imaginable.  She made of it new tools--tools intended not for her own hands, but for the hands of an ellon of great craft.  Hammers she wrought, a fine anvil, crucibles, vises, presses, tongs, tweezers, great cutters....

            All were blessed by those who stood by her to watch the work and to hallow what she crafted.

            Then she rested for some days before all returned to the forge as she set about crafting what was yet to come.

            A necklace had her husband wrought for her, set with seven great opals of his forging, signifying each of the sons to whom she’d given birth.  Six of those gems had lost their Light as the ellon each had signified had died.  Now she wrested those six Lightless stones from their settings, setting the remains of them within the crucible in which she prepared the materials from which she would craft her own gems.  Once all six were there, Námo, Nienna, Estë, and Manwë together laid their hands over them, grieving with her for what she had lost, desiring that one day she would know the joy of reunion once more, although what she might receive back would be changed, purified of what had taken her family from her.  The seventh stone she removed more gently, setting it aside, as her Macalaurë yet lived and might, in the fullness of time, be restored to her without having to pass through the Halls of Mandos.  The chain, however, she threw into the crucible in which she would prepare new chains for the use of others.  The love she’d known for her husband would require much purification before she could take it up again, she knew.

            Other materials she added to the crucible for her gems, and she began to heat it, Aulë and Tulkas both working the bellows for her forge and Manwë adding the power of his breath, until all glowed beyond white-hot.  At last she poured the glowing mass into her press, and again with the aid of Aulë and Tulkas she saw it tightened down until she feared that it would all fly apart from the pressure of it.

            When at last they undid the great screws and released it all, she opened the press to find a gem of remarkable beauty had been wrought--but it was not anywhere as great as any of the gems Fëanor had forged.  The Lady Varda, however, appeared well pleased with it, and held out her hands to take it, filling it with Light and luster.

            More gems she wrought of various colors, but all of them small, all of them perfect in shape and brilliance, but none of them appearing to be of greater worth than a common diamond or emerald wrested from the matrix of the earth itself.  But each Varda accepted, blessing them the more, delighting in each as it was given to her.

            Again, once the forging of these gems was done, Nerdanel rested for some days before returning one last time.  Today it was Vairë who addressed her.  Elven smiths within Ennor will wield the tools you have made, and the gems will be given to those who will see them set to the needs of all.  However, this day we need for you to set one of the stones you crafted the other day, and we would have other items made for the hands of women to wield, for it is not only the work of warriors and craftsmen that will be needed in the bringing of all to rightness in the end.

            More fragments of mithril, taken from coats of mail and swordbelts, were placed in the crucible that held the remains of the chain on which Fëanor had set the seven opals of his forging, and from the metal she forged a chain of the greatest delicacy, and a setting for the clearest of the gems she had wrought to hang from the chain.  When it was done, it was given into the hands of Estë, Nienna, and Irmo, who between them saw the stone empowered before giving it into the hands of first Manwë and at last Varda once more.

            Then she found herself crafting simple items--steel needles and one of mithril; steel hooks and needles to use in the crafting of woolen items, a series of fine spindles of various sizes and weights, fine gold, silver, and mithril wire and threads, steel pens....

            At last all appeared to be finished to the satisfaction of the Valar.  Each offered her his or her blessing as they left her, until at last only Aulë and Nienna were left.  You have done well indeed, daughter, the Smith told her, smiling on her in pride.

            Nerdanel looked up at him in wonder, smiling in return through the tears of easing she now knew.  “Thank you, my Lord,” she murmured.  “I rather wish I knew what it was that will be done with each of these.”

            Nienna caressed her hair.  I believe we will be able to show you as each comes to its intended recipient.  Tell me, beloved child, is your grief eased?

            “Oh, yes, Lady,” Nerdanel admitted.  “Having work again for my hands has done much to restore my heart--and hope.”

            That is good.  And do not be ashamed, Nerdanel, to weep when it is needful.

 *******

            A small grey boat arrived on the shores of Middle Earth, and from it emerged what appeared to be a tall ellon who claimed to be a trader.  He made his way to Gondolin, where none thought to question his right to enter in.  Enerdhil and Celebrimbor went to the lodging house where he stayed, and looked upon the tools he’d brought.

            Enerdhil examined one set of tools with delight, for it was as if they had been crafted particularly for his hands.  “I will take them!” he said with pleasure.  “What would you have in exchange?”

            Celebrimbor found himself drawn to a second set of presses, and tools appropriate to the fashioning of settings.  “These would I have.”

            Bargains were struck.  As they moved to return to the city with their purchases, however, the stranger merchant beckoned to Celebrimbor.  “Here,” he said.  “You purchased the lesser set of tools, although you paid almost as much as did your fellow here.  I would give you this to make the trade more equitable.”  And he gave into the smith’s hands a carefully wrought box, in which lay a jewel of such beauty the smith’s breath was abated.

            “Never have I seen an item of such Light, not since the work of Fëanor,” he breathed.

            “Is that so?” asked the trader.  “All I ask is that when you find the one you feel it is right to give this to, that you do so.”

            Celebrimbor nodded.  “Gladly, sir.  Indeed, most gladly will I do so.”

 *******

            The trader came amongst the ellyth of the city, and several purchased of his needles, spindles, and items for the making of lace and woolwork.  But when the Lady Artanis came to him he pressed on her a packet of needles, including one of mithril, and would take no payment.  “Nay, daughter,” he smiled.  “It is a blessing to see these given where they are intended to go.”

            She searched his eyes, then smiled on him, believing she recognized him from a far different place and time.  “I thank you, Olórin,” she answered him.  “And what do you do here, and in such a guise?”

            “You think you know me?  But do you truly?”  He kissed her hand and left her.

 *******

            Celeborn looked at the strange trader who’d come to his lodgings with curiosity.  “You say you were sent to seek me out?” he asked.

            “Yes, for it is told to me that you are ever in search of beautiful gems.  Here--let me show you what I have.”  And he showed off a shallow box in which gems of many colors lay on layers of black and red velvet.

            Celeborn bought the lot of them, along with much of the wire and threads he had for sale.

 *******

            With the tools he had purchased Enerdhil wrought the great Elessar stone for the Lady Idril, and Celebrimbor made for it a brooch setting in the shape of an eagle.  Long she wore it, then gave it to her son ere she sailed from Middle Earth with her husband. 

            When Gondolin fell and Enerdhil died, his tools went to Celebrimbor, who took them with his own first to Lindon and later to Eregion.  The white jewel on its mithril chain, however, he gave in time to his friend Elrond.  “I believe it is for one who will be close to you that this will be needed,” he told the Peredhel.

            It was with a feeling of awe that in time he found, pressed into his hand during one of his visits to Mithlond to see friends off who’d elected to return to Aman, the Elessar stone.  How could he be mistaken with it--had he not been working the bellows when Enerdhil forged it, and had he himself not crafted the setting for it?  Who it was that had seen it given him he had no idea, for the press on the stone quays had been heavy that day.  But he was certain that a very small grey ship had preceded the greater one on which his friends departed out through the gates of the Firth of Lhun.  When he passed through the King’s city in Lindon as he returned toward Eregion, he gave this into the hands of Artanis.  “You are among the greatest of us all,” he said, “and are the daughter of Finarfin and the sister to Finrod Fegalund.  In you lies the power to restore much in this world.”

            She accepted it thoughtfully, and wore it long, until in the midst of the Second Age Celebrimbor began creating Rings of Power, giving her Nenya for her own.

            When her daughter Celebrían married Elrond Eärendilion, Galadriel Artanis gave the Elessar to her, and Elrond gave her the white gem Celebrimbor had given him as a welcome gift as she joined him in Imladris.  She gave the white gem to Arwen when she was old enough to care for it; before she left Middle Earth, Celebrían gave the Elessar also into the keeping of her daughter.

 *******

            Celeborn had come to Imladris after word was brought that Isildur had died after being attacked near the Gladden Fields.  The shards of Narsil were shown to Amroth’s second, and he looked on them with grief, remembering the Kings among Men who’d last wielded the sword, first in the bringing down of Sauron and then in the removal of the Ring from Sauron’s hand.  He examined it closely, noting, “Ah--see, Elrond, how a gem was lost here?  It will need replacing.  Wait, I think I may have a perfect stone to replace that lost.”  And he went to the goods he’d brought with him, including the box of gems he’d bought so long ago, and indeed he had a gem that was so closely matched to the others in the hilts of the sword none would realize it wasn’t one of those that had first been set there.  It was with satisfaction he and Elrond saw that much of the sword restored for now.

 *******

            Dúrin looked with suspicion on the strange Elf who’d come to the doors of his halls.  “Why do you come here?” he asked.

            “It was told to me that although mostly you and your people prefer to mine and shape gemstones taken from the earth, that now and then you will purchase some from others.  Here I have some....”

            The Lord of Khazad-dûm purchased a box of such gems and set them amongst his personal goods.  In time they were given to the one who inherited his name and position, and onward, until at last they came into the keeping of Gloin of the Iron Hills and Erebor, who for the first time saw them set into crafted items, some for trade with the Hobbits of the Shire.  Indeed, his former companion Bilbo would greatly appreciate the pair of shirt studs in which he set two matching diamonds taken from the box.  Bilbo smiled and gave them to his younger cousin Frodo, who tried to leave them behind when he left the Shire; but Sam had packed them as spares in case aught should happen to the plainer pair he’d had from his Brandybuck kin that he wore.  After he lost one near Weathertop, Frodo accepted the second pair and wore them as he set off on the quest, losing the second of these only as he struggled up the stairs of Cirith Ungol.

            *******

            A trader from among Men, young and new come to the business that had been actively followed by his family for generations, smiled as the Hobbit farmer’s young wife asked after spindles.  “Oh, yes, Mistress Eglantine, I have some.  Can’t say as how long my old dad carried them about, but they are as good as if they were newly made.”  And he sold her a set of three.  Later he sold three more to a Ranger he met in Bree--the tallest and leanest of the lot, he judged, who indicated he intended them as a Yule gift for his lady. 

            And he did well indeed with the steel pens, needles for knitting and the hooks and lace bobbins and some needles and forms for embroidery his dad had sat on for so long there at the Bridge Market, as the Master’s sister bought them.  “You ought to get years of use out of them, Mistress Baggins,” he advised her.

            “Can we afford them, do you think, Drogo?” she asked her husband.

            “Of course we can, Primula my love,” he assured her.  “You’re amongst the finest woolworkers and embroiderers in the whole of the Shire and Buckland, and you deserve the very best, you know.  But who will receive the steel pens?”

            “You, Bilbo, my father, and Saradoc.”

            He paid for them, and she kissed him as he gave the sewing and woolwork items proudly into her hands. 

            After her death, these were given to Bilbo to dispose of; he immediately thought to give them to Bell Gamgee, who left them to her own daughters.

 *******

            “What is it you work on, my daughter’s daughter?” asked Galadriel of Arwen, having caught her carefully embroidering on black cloth in an almost hidden glade of Lothlórien.  She examined it swiftly, then smiled.  “For him, then?  And you use the mithril needle I gave you for it, do you?”

            “Yes, Daernaneth,” the elleth answered her.  “I have worked long on it, another gift of hope for Estel for the day when it is right for him to assert his heritage.”

            “Yes, this is the right thing to do.  But would this not be better if you used thread of silver, do you think?  Your daeradar gave me a supply of it not long after we were married.  And I believe I have the perfect gems to use for the centers of the seven stars.  Come with me and we will look on them.”

            Indeed, they proved perfect for their intended purpose.

 *******

            Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel came to the workshop where those who worked in leather made quivers, gloves, sheaths for knives and swords, and the like.  “We wish to have a sheath made,” Celeborn explained to the master leather wright, “of your finest black leather, one intended to protect the integrity of the sword’s blade it will contain.  And into it we would have these worked,” he added, presenting the box containing the last of the gems he’d purchased so long ago as well as the gold, silver, and mithril wire.  “It is to contain the sword reforged from the shards of Narsil.  We are told Lord Aragorn has named it anew Anduril.”

            “The Flame of the West?  Yes, a good name,” agreed the leather wright.  “And how soon shall this be needed?”

            “Within six weeks ought to be soon enough,” the Lady told him.

            “It will be an honor to do this for the Dúnedan,” the craftsman assured her.  “Here, let me show you the quality of leathers we have on hand....”

 *******

            One day Nerdanel was summoned as had happened before to the groves of Lórien, and there Irmo showed her a vision of the Lady Arwen settling over the shoulders of a slender and wounded Perian the white gem on its mithril chain she’d made so long ago.  He was dressed in the odd garments of his people, and in his cuffs were studs set with two of the smallest gems she’d crafted.  A Dwarf made those for him, taking the stones from the handle of his own battle-axe to set in them, stones he had from his father.  This one has been sustained by your gifts for a long time, sweet daughter, and they will continue to do so until he chooses whether he will come to us for healing or die in peace amongst his own folk.

            These two stones were the only opals she herself had wrought, and she smiled to see the tremulous look of wonder on the face of this one as he held the white stone in his hand.  “They have been well given,” she murmured.

 ~~~

Author’s notes:

            Tolkien gives us several different tales of how the Elessar stone was wrought and given to Galadriel, coming in time to Arwen, then back via her grandmother to Aragorn as her next-to-last promise gift to him.  It was created variously by Enerdhil in Gondolin or Celebrimbor, and given to Galadriel by either Celebrimbor, who’d loved her, possibly while she and Celeborn dwelt in Eregion, or by Olórin on his arrival as the Grey Wizard.  However, that last would put it in her hands long after she had Nenya from Celebrimbor; so I chose to have the gem returned anonymously from Aman to Celebrimbor at Mithlond and him giving it to her before she and Celeborn followed him to Eregion.

            We are told Nerdanel herself was an Elven smith of note; should she not play a part in helping mend what her husband had marred?  I find I like the idea of Fëanor’s abandoned wife finding her own healing through the practice of her people’s craft, and the idea that the lesser gems she’d wrought would in time serve many we know and love as they went upon the quest.  The thought that the scarf so many of us since the films have continued to have Pippin wear was the result of Eglantine’s spinning on one of Nerdanel’s spindles, knitted by Primula on knitting needles also crafted in Aman and given first to Frodo, then Merry, and at last to Pippin in my series of stories is a pleasant one.

            But I felt Nerdanel deserves her own healing and her own independent purpose, and so this story was born.

With thanks to RiverOtter for the Beta, and to those who wished to see Faramir play a part in the making of the edict in the wake of his conversation with Frodo in "Concerning Walls" for the plot bunny. You do sic them on me!

To Protect and Preserve

The Lord King Elessar sat before his Council, letters from the Thain, Master, and Mayor of the Shire before him. He looked sideways at the envoy from Lord Halladan, his Steward of the northern realm, and gave a nod to indicate Erador should speak next. The Man coughed, smoothed the parchment that lay before him, and began. “As Thain Paladin has indicated, a fairly large number of Men were shown the boundaries of the Shire and sent off, including a number whose skins were unnaturally dark and whose eyes were often unusual colors such as nearly yellow rather than hazel, or a dull mud color. The same description is given of one of the Southerners who were present in Bree on the night the Hobbits stayed there on their way to Rivendell, one who was believed to have taken part in the scattering of horses and ponies stabled that night at the Prancing Pony and to have stolen at least one steed.”

The King nodded. “Yes, I know--I was there and saw him.”

Erador nodded in return as he met Aragorn’s eyes. “The Thain states that he had been advised of that by his son, who has also informed him that it was his considered opinion such were sent from Isengard by the traitor Wizard Saruman.”

At the questioning looks given by most of the Gondorians present, the King explained, “So has Curunír been called in the northern lands, and it was as Saruman that the Ents of Fangorn Forest who captured and held him within Orthanc knew him as well.”

There were nods by several in response to that information, and the expressions of two present were politely disbelieving. Aragorn made mental note of the pair before returning his attention to the northern Dúnedan--it would not do to allow those with such studied incredulity to their nature to maintain their current positions of responsibility--Denethor had taught that to young Captain Thorongil, newly come to Gondor and the favor of the Lord Steward Ecthelion, some forty-five years previously.

“One of those identified by name by the Travelers was one Bill Ferny, who as you know, my Lord kinsman, has ever known ill fame within the Breelands, although so far he was able to avoid punishment at the hands of his own folk.”

Again Aragorn nodded. “He and Harry Goatleaf both threw in their lot with Saruman’s folks, or so it appeared during our stay there.” In a quick glance around the table he could see that the fact he himself had been privy to the situation that led the Ringbearer to flee his own land was being reinforced. Good. “So, Ferny was within the Shire when they returned?”

“Yes, and was one of those who taunted them there near the gate at the Brandywine Bridge.”

Aragorn straightened. “Since when has there been a gate at the Brandywine Bridge?”

“It went up, apparently, some months after the Ringbearer and his companions fled the Shire, ordered built and set into place by his kinsman Lotho Sackville-Baggins, who, as I believe you know, bought Bag End from Lord Frodo as a result of the ruse that he was now out of money and was choosing to retire to Buckland.” At Aragorn’s nod, Erador continued, “Reports had begun to filter through to us that wagons filled with goods were being sent southward out of the Shire via the Sarn Ford and down the Greenway even before you advised us you would be keeping watch for a kinsman of Master Bilbo who was to bring him with tokens and news of danger to Lord Elrond in Rivendell.”

“Yes, I remember.”

“And you will remember that messengers between the Breelands and the Shire, who used to pass back and forth about once a month, were being attacked as of your return from the valley of the Anduin the spring before Lord Frodo came forth from his own land, and there were now none who would willingly come forward to offer for that position.”

Aragorn again nodded thoughtfully. “Yes--so many brigands were being found in the woods opposite the Barrowdowns.”

One of the two lords who’d caught his attention earlier asked, “And what were you doing in the valley of the Anduin, my Lord King?”

His Lord King examined the Man who’d interrupted before answering, “I had come through the Emyn Muil at Mithrandir’s request to track down the creature Gollum, from whom the Ring came to Lord Frodo’s kinsman Bilbo Baggins, and through him to the Ringbearer himself. We had sought Gollum off and on for several years; in the fall I found him looking down into the pools of the Dead Marshes, and there I captured him, taking him at the last into the Greenwood to place in the care of King Thranduil until Mithrandir could come to question him regarding how it was he had come into possession of the Ring.”

“And who ruled your own folk during that time?”

The King was beginning to become annoyed with this one's questions, but he answered with studied calm, “You have been told repeatedly that my northern Steward has often been required to take responsibility for our folk as I did what was needed for the whole of the Free Peoples of Middle Earth. Do you question his competence or my trust in him?”

Erador was looking at the Man with open disdain in his eyes. “You will remember, my lord, that our King was trained by Lord Elrond’s folk to track game, friends, and foes. There is none greater than he in such tasks who could respond with appropriate urgency to the need for finding such as Gollum. And if you believe that we as a people could only make decisions in the physical presence of our Lord Aragorn you’d best think again, sir. We would prefer he were amongst us; but accept that the need for now is that he give the bulk of his attention to the southern realm where the vast majority of his subjects live. Such has been the threat of Mordor toward all of Middle Earth we have had to share his attention and presence all of his life.”

Between the glare from Halladan’s envoy and the set gaze of their King, the Man sat back, now aware his drawing of attention away from Erador’s report had not been well accepted. Even Faramir was looking at him most consideringly, his expression unreadable. He realized he’d best remain quiet for the remainder of the meeting of the Council if he intended to retain his seat--the Lord Elessar had already removed more than one minor lord of the realm who’d failed to do well by his lands and peoples, and probably wouldn’t hold back at doing so with a more major lord as well, given sufficient provocation.

Erador turned back to the subject at hand. “The Shire was already being cut off from the outer world, a situation few realized as its folk have ever been rather insular in nature. But still those of our agents who patrolled along the southern borders were hearing rumors that shortages were beginning to be felt in the Southfarthing just before you met with Lord Frodo as he emerged from the Old Forest. So far the name of Lotho Sackville-Baggins was but one of several we were hearing, and we’d not yet sorted out whether he was amongst those causing the shortages or those making complaints.

“The news that this one had come to own Bag End was noted. The building of the gate began apparently about the time Halbarad was gathering us to come south to your side--again we’d heard but rumors of the project, one we could not bring ourselves to believe, considering how never have the Shirefolk sought to close the Road to any who’d traveled upon it. It appears, however, that a good part of the reason for the gate was to hold those within the Shire from leaving it with word as to what was occurring within its borders, although it failed to keep those who went north of the Bridge from coming to the eastern shore of the Brandywine and carrying some news into the Breelands. There are those within Buckland and the Marish, after all, who have kindred within Bree.”

He sipped from the goblet before him before speaking again. “Just before we rode southward we received word from the Elves who primarily watch the western marches and the Tower Hills that few were coming forth from the Shire, and that Dwarves were being turned back at the borders by troupes of Men encamped about Greenholm. We’d noted an increase in the number of Men approaching the Shire from the south and a certain number who were passing westward through or by Bree itself. That Men were entering into the Shire but not coming out again was a matter of concern, and there was debate amongst us as to whether we would all go southwards to your side or if some should be sent to investigate the Men reported gathering there. However, as the summons had been indicated to be urgent and we learned that the largest threats were to Dale, Erebor, Mirkwood, Lothlórien, and Imladris, we set our northern and eastern forces to aid Lord Elrond as they could and to protect our own lands while those of us who’d ranged about what had been Cardolan and through Rhudaur decided to go south together. Master Bilbo was safely within Imladris and Frodo Baggins was in your company--if he indeed held the Ring then the need would be to aid you as well as we might if we were to best help in the felling of Barad-dûr.”

“So, you left the Shire defenseless?” asked Faramir.

“Unfortunately, yes. That there were more Men streaming northward, sent by Saruman to subjugate the Shire and search for the Ring, we did not know. I will admit that as we rode south we did not send out much in the way of scouts until we passed Orthanc. If they camped well off the Greenway and under cover, we would have not seen them as we rode. Certainly none contested our way or gave any signs of approaching our camps when we rested from the riding.”

“What convinces you that they were sent to search for the Ring?” asked Lord Elphir, who attended for his father Prince Imrahil while his father saw to the needs of his own lands.

“One of the first commands that this Lotho gave on making himself Chief Shiriff was that his Men, assisted by a few of those Hobbits of the Shire who gathered about him and supported his oppression, were to go about the Shire and do what he called ‘Gathering and Sharing’ in his name. This gave his agents permission to enter homes and take what they deemed excess food and whatever valuables they could find. Ever they searched for jewelry, and they were known to take rings off the fingers of their victims as well as out of jewelry boxes. One of those we captured that was escorted to the borders of the Shire by Captain Peregrin and Sir Meriadoc has admitted that the idea was given to Lotho by Saruman himself in the correspondence he sent as he convinced Mr. Sackville-Baggins of his right to take over the running of the Shire. Saruman, who was known to those within the Shire as ‘Sharkey’ or ‘Mr. White,’ asked only one form of treasure for himself in return for the idea and the apparent obedience of his folk--he wished every ring found. Lotho and his folk might keep all the rest of the jewelry; he wished only rings.

“Every home was entered and stripped of any food deemed excess as well as whatever valuables they might find, and almost all jewelry was immediately confiscated. Caches of this jewelry have been found everywhere, and many chains, bracelets, and brooches of gold and silver, and a very few of mithril, have been taken from the persons of those Men who were sent out of the Shire that we have identified--they do not appear to have been properly searched. Lord Samwise, going through the remnants of Bag End following the death of Sharkey----”

“Wait!” commanded Prince Faramir. “You said that Curunír was known within the Shire as either ‘Sharkey’ or ‘Mr. White’?”

“Even so, my lord Prince.” Erador held his eyes steady as he answered Aragorn’s southern Steward.

“He died--there in the Shire?”

“On the front steps of Bag End itself.”

“How did he come there?”

“You know that, having been convinced by him that he had lost all with the fall of Sauron, the Ents freed him and Gríma Wormtongue shortly before the King arrived to give him judgment?”

“Yes--those who returned from Orthanc told me this when our Lord Elessar returned to be reunited with our Lady Queen before they took their leave of us, preceding us to back here to Gondor.”

“Even so, my lord Prince. We came across them on our way north, six days from the parting from the King. They were dressed in the rags of what finery they wore from Orthanc. Saruman offered Lord Elrond and Lady Galadriel as much offense as he dared, and apparently sought to curse them; but their own power and that of Gandalf protected the party from the feeble nature of his remaining power. He totally ignored those of us Men who rode in the company and would not look at the majority of those Elves who rode alongside us; but he gave the Ringbearer a look of great malevolence and stole the wallet in which Sir Meriadoc carried his leaf.”

All were exchanging looks as Erador went on to tell of the finding of the state of the Shire by the returning Travelers and the recognition of Saruman as he appeared from one of the sheds erected by the “Big Men” on the wreck of the gardens of Bag End. When he recounted the interchange between Saruman and Frodo Baggins as the Ringbearer commanded he was to be given the chance to seek his redemption followed by the attempt at assassination, even the two lords who had earlier appeared incredulous now appeared angered on the Cormacolindo’s behalf. The King noted this without surprise. He knew how much effect his small friend could have upon others--he was glad that Frodo’s personal magic appeared to have been properly spun about these two as well as the rest. Perhaps they might also prove vulnerable to his own in time.

As the final moments of Sharkey were described all were leaning forward intently, desiring to hear how it was that a Wizard might find his end. Those who’d fought before the Black Gate were nodding with recognition at the description of the rising of the dark mist from Saruman’s body and its dispersal.

“And Curunír had this Lotho slain by Gríma Wormtongue?” asked Lord Elfhelm where he sat as Éomer King’s representative.

“Yes, my lord,” Erador agreed.

“You speak as one who heard this personally,” commented the Lord of Lossarnach.

“Two days before I departed Eriador for the southlands Halladan, Eregiel, Gilfileg and I managed to meet with Sir Meriadoc and Captain Peregrin at the clearing opposite the Barrowdowns, and there they gave us their report as well as giving into our hands the missives from their fathers.”

Aragorn sought to enlighten himself on the matter of the stolen jewelry. “You had spoken of Sam possibly finding missing property within Bag End itself.”

“Yes--much jewelry was found there that belonged to others, including items taken from the Mayor and families related to Lord Frodo himself as well as the personal jewelry of Lotho Sackville-Baggins and his mother, most of it in jewelry boxes that had belonged to the two of them. Those items positively identified as having originally belonged to these two were returned to Mistress Lobelia; the rest was taken to the office of the Mayor where it is being catalogued and returned to its owners as they are identified.

Lord Angbor of Lamedon asked, “Why was this not stopped by the rulers of the Shire?”

The siege of the Tooklands and Buckland as well as the imprisonment of Mayor Will Whitfoot was described, followed by a discussion of the nature of the Lockholes and their original intent and how they had been transformed into a makeshift prison.

“The Hobbits of Buckland were able in some cases, under cover of night, to make their way under the Brandywine Bridge northwards where, as I indicated, they could come ashore and seek news eastward toward Bree and westward into the Shire itself. It became very difficult, however, for any to enter or leave the Tooklands save from areas at the northern reaches of the Green Hills where it was difficult for Lotho’s Men to properly patrol. Here some were able to get in and out at times. Thain Paladin controlled ample stores for the needs of the folk of the Great Smial, although as they had no idea how long the siege might last they were rationing food and drink and such items as candles and oil. It was similar within Buckland where there was perhaps slightly less want than there was in the Tooklands. But many of the common folk of the Shire proper were in desperate need, so much had Lotho and Sharkey’s folk taken.”

As more of the destruction of Shire property and institutions such as mills and inns and homes was described the anger felt toward Lotho and Saruman was growing palpable. All were now feeling anger toward the two of them. When it was revealed that Mayor Whitfoot was deemed too weak to meet his responsibilities to the Shire and that Lord Frodo himself was taking over his duties all appeared relieved and triumphant.

“Then he will see all put right there,” noted the lord who’d earlier questioned the King’s absence from his own lands.

“Indeed he seeks to do so,” agreed Erador. He described how Samwise Gamgee had already served to set the Quick Post back into service, and was doing a survey of damage and already setting folk to rebuild homes or excavate new ones, and how Frodo was overseeing the reestablishment of proper records and the investigations of what had been done and how it had come to happen.

“The family and village heads are all in support of what is happening, and are making available their resources to the needs of all. Much in the way of confiscated food, clothing, and other goods has been found already stored in Michel Delving, the sheds of Bag End, and on properties that had belonged to Lotho Sackville-Baggins, and there are reports of more being cached in the quarries of the Brockenbores and the caves near Scary. The greatest damage was to the central Shire between Overhill and the borders of the Tooklands, along the Road from the Brandywine Bridge to beyond Michel Delving in the White Downs, along the western banks of the Brandywine, and then throughout the Southfarthing where Lotho held much property. When Men were able to cross the Brandywine or enter the Tooklands they fired homes and farms, as they did throughout much of the Southfarthing on properties belonging to others Lotho saw as his rivals for influence.”

“How many of the folk of the Shire itself have been found to have been complicit with this Lotho person?” asked Lord Angbor.

“That is still being investigated. His cousin Timono Bracegirdle, a lawyer from the Southfarthing, has definitely been named, and was being sought at the time I rode south. One named Markos Smallburrow was arrested, and others who helped send goods intended for elsewhere south toward Orthanc were already being placed under house arrest by their family heads. However, it appears that it was mostly through the Big Men that the Shire was oppressed and much of the destruction wrought.”

Aragorn sighed as he sat back in his chair and rubbed at his temple. “Never have the Hobbits of the Shire been particularly friendly to those other than Dwarves,” he noted. “This could totally destroy the trust they feel toward Men.”

“So Captain Peregrin has commented,” agreed Erador.

“How many Men and half-orcs were involved in this move to take the Shire?” asked Elphir of Dol Amroth.

“At least two hundred, and perhaps half again as many. The largest group was in Hobbiton itself, the village where the Baggins home of Bag End lies. An almost equal group was stationed in Michel Delving, the village where the Shire’s major records are kept.”

“From what Frodo and Pippin have told me, Michel Delving is the functional capital of the Shire,” Aragorn commented.

“Indeed, so it seems,” Erador agreed. “There were many at Waymoot as well, where the majority of those who laid siege to the Tooklands appear to have stayed. Most of those who patrolled the Brandywine River to keep the Brandybucks contained appear to have stayed in a barracks building of sorts raised near the remains of the Bridge Inn to the North, and not far from the Sarn Ford to the south near Hays End. There were also some stationed in Stock, not far from the landing stage for the Bucklebury Ferry.

“The Northfarthing appears to have held the fewest of the troupes; in the Southfarthing most appear to have centered around Hardbottle. Most villages housed at least five to ten, I’m told; and at least that many lived on each of Lotho Sackville-Baggins’s properties.

“As well as Men, Lotho also relied on the Shiriffs to enforce his will. These are usually menfolk amongst the Hobbits who walk abroad, helping to retrieve strayed animals, quiet arguments, see home those who have drunk too much in their inns, and check on the integrity of boundary markers. Lotho had begun to propagate grossly unfair laws that flouted Hobbit customs, and now those who were amongst the Shiriffs were made to enforce them. Those who had been Shiriffs before he named himself Chief Shiriff were not allowed to resign their posts; and many who showed tendencies to bully others were allowed and encouraged to join their ranks and act on their baser instincts. Captain Peregrin has stated that many of these also are now under house arrest on the orders of their family heads, and that Lord Frodo has been summoning them into the office of the Mayor and questioning each. How long the investigation of the situation will go on no one appears certain.

“There is no question, however, that Men and the more corrupt Shiriffs were directed to aim the greater part of their antagonism toward those who were closely related to Lord Frodo, the Thain, and the Master of Buckland, and those family heads who had failed to respect Lotho and his father as family heads of the Sackvilles. Lord Samwise’s family had known the confiscation of almost all they’d owned; similarly with Lord Frodo’s closest Boffin and Bolger relatives, many of whom were forced out of their homes. How many are now dead no one knows for certain, and there are some who have simply disappeared.”

One of the lords present asked, “And all enmity by Curunír was aimed at the Shire?”

“No, for the Breelands were also attacked, and shortly before the Men began entering the Shire in force. Bree village was assaulted directly; but directed by one of our own agents who lives within the village the Men and Hobbits who live there put up a defense and drove off the attackers. Harry Goatleaf and Bill Ferny were part of the attack, by the way, my Lord Cousin.” At Aragorn’s nod, he continued, “There were also attacks on farms near Staddle. How many were attacked and how much loss of life and property was suffered had not as yet been discovered when I came away.”

Prince Faramir exchanged looks first with his cousin, and then with his King. “And Master Frodo wished to give Curunír the chance to know healing?” he asked Erador. “After all he had done, he would merely turn him loose?”

“Yes, my Lord.”

Faramir rose and turned away, looking up at the portrait of his grandfather that the King Elessar had asked be hung upon the wall. “How does one characterize such a choice--as wisdom or folly?” He turned back toward the rest sitting about the Council table. “He and I spoke of what he wished for his people--that there might remain in this world at least one land where innocence for the most part remained. Our Lord Iorhael might have lost all of his own innocence in the carrying of the Ring, but he knows now its value, and the need for unsullied joy somewhere within Middle Earth.”

“A land where Curunír has wrought his own evil out of envy, malice, and the need for vengeance can no longer be seen as innocent,” the King pointed out. “And full wisdom does not come without trial. It was as the result of Frodo’s full time with the Ring that he truly earned the name ‘Wisdom born of experience’.”

“I said as much to him, when he said he would not see his younger cousin Pando, who has played at Túrin and the Dragon with him, having to face a line of trolls.”

“What did he answer?”

Faramir shrugged, remembering that conversation. “He turned the talk to the beauty of the stars, and how seeing the crown of flowers about the head of the statue at the Crossroads and a star past the reek that covered Mordor were enough to have given him and Master Samwise hope as they looked to complete their journey. He then said that all had proved worthwhile if it served to allow his folk to retain their innocence.”

“If it is his wish that his own folk be allowed to know protection from further loss of innocence...” began Lord Angbor before trailing off. All looked to him as he tried to think how to make his thought clearer. Finally he said, “I am a father, and have looked on my child sleeping in peace, and have wished to preserve that peace for as long as possible. Obviously our beloved Lord Iorhael feels himself as if he were father indeed to his folk, and finds he harbors the same wish. Would it truly harm them if that wish were to be fulfilled for a time? We Men with our swords and great self-conceit so often make such a wreck of that we say we wish to see made better. Certainly with the encouragement of Curunír this Lotho appears to have done likewise within the Shire ere all came crashing down about him.

“Is it not desirable that the child first know the security of love that he might come to maturity trusting in both his own worth and that of the world about him that he might reach toward strength to oppose evil by choice rather than necessity? We could do so little to reward the Cormacolindor for what they did for all of Middle Earth. May we not now grant Lord Frodo the one wish of his heart, and bind the world of Men from returning to the Shire to its possible detriment until it is fully renewed, and strong enough to choose to lift the ban for itself?”

“And if they never choose to do so?” asked the Lord of Anórien.

“At least the rest of the world may have the knowledge that here within the Mortal Lands there remains at least one haven of innocence.”

The King straightened and closed his eyes as he thought on this, and Faramir again resumed his seat, taking up his goblet and drinking from it before setting it down again and folding his hands upon the table top, awaiting his Lord’s decision.

At last Aragorn sighed, opening his eyes and leaning forward. “For a generation more, perhaps, we might offer them protection. So be it, then. If all agree?”

He looked about the table. Not one face indicated its owner was in opposition to the plan.

Faramir, however, advised, “Let us first give them a time of trial, my Lord King--say five to six years. Then, let the folk of the Shire itself choose whether or not it would have that ban continued.”

Elfhelm gave a slight nod. “And there should be a means by which the Shire itself might admit a few it deems worthy of trial or trust.”

“With the permission of Master, Mayor, and Thain, perhaps, as well as royal warrant?” suggested Elphir.

Slowly Aragorn nodded, the crease between his brows loosening some. “That makes much sense. Then, in time it may be found enough have been found sufficiently trustworthy to allow at least limited access to the Shire that in time the Shirefolk themselves may realize the continuance of the ban is foolish and so dispense with it.” All about the table he saw now smiles and nodding heads. He looked to Erador. “And what does Halladan advise?” he asked.

The Dúnedan smiled. “Actually, this is almost precisely what he’d felt might aid those within the Shire to best recover from what has been done to them,” he admitted.

Feeling much relieved, Aragorn smiled more broadly. “Yes, so let it be done then. Now, gentlemen, to consider the plight of the widows of Pelargir....”

With thanks to RiverOtter for the Beta

For Imhiriel on her Birthday

I Stand No Longer Alone

            It is long since I have rejoiced to serve my function.  None save those who clean and polish have ascended my stairs or touched me for what?  A millennium?  And if a careless hand has left a smear of dust, who would know?

            But this time it was not but a single servant while the Steward was in Council, but several under the direction of the Seneschal himself that saw to my needs, who dusted and wiped over me a sweet-scented wax.  The windows have been cleaned that the light will fall upon me as soon as Anor rises over the Ephel Dúath.  And the hands that touch me are not perfunctory or melancholy, but quick and thorough, and I hear about me the deep speech of menservants, the light trill of maids, reverent enough yet their voices filled with--anticipation!

            Flowers are brought into the Hall as has not been done since the death of the last Lady of this House.  All of the lamps are filled with oil, and candles set in great stands.  My steps are swept, then swept once more, and then another time as if to make up for all the neglect and to fill hours of waiting ere some great event comes.  And those who clean and wax the great statues even sing as they labor and are not reproved for disturbing the solemnity surrounding me.

            Wait--there are footsteps approaching the doors--such footsteps as I’ve not felt for so long!  Almost I recognize the tread--but I must be mistaken.  Certainly if this one had come before he would not have bypassed me as was done then.  There is a thrill of music as silver trumpets ring out within the room as has not been done for almost longer than I remember.  The doors open, and voices spill into the room, songs and laughter, excitement and uncertainty.  And behind the rest that regular, purposeful step--one that has the stones of the city itself ringing with joy!

            He approaches, and all go silent, waiting.  Will he genuflect to the dais and then take his place, as has been done so often, in the ebony chair on the bottom step?  Nay--he pauses looking up at me, then begins to mount the stairs.  Are you worthy, Man?  Are you daunted by my height?  My venerable status?

            He climbs steadily, patiently.  I wait.  And at last he stands, looking down at me.  No young Man this; but where perhaps he should be venerable himself I sense the purpose seen in those of middle years.  He looks down at me as he lifts the hangers for his sword from his belt, and I sense he has as many questions about me as I have of him.  He takes a deep breath, turns, and--and sits!

            His boots have trodden many lands, and there hangs about him the scent of running waters crossed, forests and mountains traversed, and the smoke of many fires and smoldering leaves that have warmed him within and without.  And he rests across my arms the sheath of a sword--a sword that is far more ancient than I, itself but recently renewed.

            And I proudly uphold him and the Light he bears.  Few have sat here, and he is the first in a thousand years.  Had I a voice I would sing in joy--in joy that the King indeed is come again!  Together, Man, you and I--we will see this land renewed!

Thanks to RiverOtter for the Beta

The Ring that Sauron Forged

This is the Ring that Sauron forged.

This is the hand that wore
the Ring that Sauron forged.

This is the sword
that cut from the hand
the Ring that Sauron forged.

This is the hand of Isildur, the son of the King,
that wielded the sword
that cut from the hand
the Ring that Sauron forged.

This is the mud where rested the Ring
that slipped from the hand of Isildur, the son of the King,
that wielded the sword
that cut from the hand
the Ring that Sauron forged.

This is Déagol
who found in the mud the Ring
that slipped from the hand of Isildur, the son of the King,
that wielded the sword
that cut from the hand
the Ring that Sauron forged.

This is Sméagol
who murdered Déagol
who found in the mud the Ring
that slipped from the hand of Isildur, the son of the King,
that wielded the sword
that cut from the hand
the Ring that Sauron forged.

This is the cavern where dropped the Ring
from the hand of Sméagol
who murdered Déagol
who found in the mud the Ring
that slipped from the hand of Isildur, the son of the King,
that wielded the sword
that cut from the hand
the Ring that Sauron forged.

This is Bilbo, the Hobbit brave,
who fell in the cavern where dropped the Ring
from the hand of Sméagol
who murdered Déagol
who found in the mud the Ring
that slipped from the hand of Isildur, the son of the King,
that wielded the sword
that cut from the hand
the Ring that Sauron forged.

This is Bag End, which is not a cave,
where dwelt Bilbo, the Hobbit Brave,
who fell in the cavern where dropped the Ring
from the hand of Sméagol
who murdered Déagol
who found in the mud the Ring
that slipped from the hand of Isildur, the son of the King,
that wielded the sword
that cut from the hand
the Ring that Sauron forged.

This is Frodo, thoughtful and grave,
who came to Bag End, which is not a cave,
to dwell with Bilbo, the Hobbit Brave,
who fell in the cavern where dropped the Ring
from the hand of Sméagol
who murdered Déagol
who found in the mud the Ring
that slipped from the hand of Isildur, the son of the King,
that wielded the sword
that cut from the hand
the Ring that Sauron forged.

This is the Mountain where lies the cave
to which came Frodo, thoughtful and grave,
who came to Bag End, which is not a cave,
to dwell with Bilbo, the Hobbit Brave,
who fell in the cavern where dropped the Ring
from the hand of Sméagol
who murdered Déagol
who found in the mud the Ring
that slipped from the hand of Isildur, the son of the King,
that wielded the sword
that cut from the hand
the Ring that Sauron forged.

This is Samwise, who sought to save
from the heart of the Mountain where lies the cave
his Master Frodo, thoughtful and grave,
who came to Bag End, which is not a cave,
to dwell with Bilbo, the Hobbit Brave,
who fell in the cavern where dropped the Ring
from the hand of Sméagol
who murdered Déagol
who found in the mud the Ring
that slipped from the hand of Isildur, the son of the King,
that wielded the sword
that cut from the hand
the Ring that Sauron forged.

And here is the Sea, whose mighty wave
broke the heart of Sam, who sought to save
from the heart of the Mountain where lies the cave
his Master Frodo, thoughtful and grave,
who came to Bag End, which is not a cave,
to dwell with Bilbo, the Hobbit Brave,
who fell in the cavern where dropped the Ring
from the hand of Sméagol
who murdered Déagol
who found in the mud the Ring
that slipped from the hand of Isildur, the son of the King,
that wielded the sword
that cut from the hand
the Ring that Sauron forged.

For ObsidianJ's birthday.  With thanks to RiverOtter for the beta.

Thoughts on the Heir of Isildur

Before

            Who is this who calls himself the heir to Isildur?  Though when I saw him first he gleamed in Elvish armor, and was garbed as a prince at the Council of Elrond; yet now he wears worn leathers and threadbare leggings and scuffed boots, his face weatherworn and wary.  What does such as he know of our struggle against the Enemy, to keep the integrity of our land?

            If he thinks that I shall follow him blindly merely due to his claims of breeding....  We of the House of Húrin are of as attested blood as he!

            We shall see.

After

            My brother--my captain--my King!

            There--I have done it--given my fealty at last to the heir of Isildur.  Though Isildur fell to the lure of the Ring, yet this one has proven to be of better stuff in the end--certainly better than this fallen son of Gondor.

            Go to them--see them victorious against the Enemy!   Let my people, my land, my city, know your integrity and courage and wisdom!  Let Anduril shine against the foe!

            I betrayed myself and my land--and Frodo.  You have not done so, Aragorn.  May my brother prove a worthy Steward to a worthy King.

            Hail, Elessar!

For Elena Tiriel.  With thanks to RiverOtter for the Beta.

Epiphany

            “He’s no longer our little brother, you know.”

            Elladan nodded thoughtfully.  “In this you are right, muindor nín.  Nay, I fear he left that state long ago.”

            “How did he manage to do so, and we never noticed?” Elrohir asked.

            What could Elladan say?  “For all his upbringing in our adar’s house, today he is wholly a Man--and in many ways is more kingly than I’ve seen yet amongst Elves.”

            Together they watched the newly crowned King, the Ringbearer and Mithrandir by his side, enter into his inheritance at last, seeing him the Man blest by the Creator he was.

For RS for her birthday.  Thanks to RiverOtter for the beta.

Symbols of Love

            Eldarion was thirteen the first time he and his friend Elboron strode out of Emyn Arnen behind their fathers to spend time amongst the Rangers of Ithilien.  His heart was full, for now he knew his father trusted him enough to both obey orders when given and to use his innate good sense and training as might prove needful to be allowed to study the ways of the guardians of the realm first hand, and he could tell that Elboron felt much the same.

            “Will we stay in Henneth Annun while we are away, do you think?” he quietly asked the older boy.  “I mean, after what your adar was telling us yestereve about the time he took Frodo Baggins and Uncle Samwise there....”

            Elboron nodded, his face taking on that slightly pink, awed expression so common to him whenever he was thinking about the Ringbearer.  “I hope we may go there, Eldarion.  I’ve not been allowed as yet--Ada has always said I wasn’t yet old enough.  But with your adar along he just might allow it.”

            Both boys looked to where their fathers walked together, both in Ranger garb.  The leathers worn by the Prince of Ithilien were well kept, with the White Tree of Gondor worked in subtle colors across the chest; those worn by the King were well worn yet still supple, and still mostly a rich green, and covered by a cloak that appeared the very colors of the forest itself.

            “Your lady mother was not particularly pleased to see your lord father in those,” Elboron commented.

            “Naneth thinks them disreputable,” Eldarion agreed, grinning broadly at the memory of his mother’s expression when she saw them being worn once more.  “He keeps them in his private wardrobe and has forbidden all to touch them save one other and himself, who see them kept properly oiled and worked that they not dry and crack.  Ada has ever repaired them himself, or so I am told.  She will say nothing against the cloak, however--that was given him by her own daernaneth.”

            Elboron nodded thoughtfully as he thought on this intelligence.  They looked forward once more at the two Men.  “I wonder how long he’s had those leathers?” he said thoughtfully.  “Would he be offended if I asked, do you think?”

            “I doubt it.  Little offends my Adar,” the younger boy asserted with a fond smile.

            Together they did their best to keep up.  Both were tall for their ages, being Dúnedain in heritage and Eldarion having more closely inherited the blood of the Eldar through his mother; but their fathers were taller yet, as were most of the Men with whom they traveled.  Both knew that just being allowed to go upon a patrol was considered an honor, and both were proudly aware of the long knives they wore upon their hips and the bows upon their shoulders, weapons won with long toil and practice and the knives only recently received.

            To their disappointment they met with no foes that day, although there were a couple times when their fathers had given the hand signals to take cover before fading themselves into the brush.  The second time they heard the sounds that had caught the attention of their elders themselves, and soon a young boar came out of the brush to cross the road.

            Elboron gave a smile, and had his bow strung in but a moment.  The boar, scenting the odor of Men about him, turned warily, trying to gauge the danger it was in; suddenly it collapsed, the arrow of the Steward’s son in its eye.  The boy willingly accepted the dressing downs given him by his father and Captain Beregond for firing without orders, continuing to smile as he watched the Lord Elessar examine the kill and the distance of the shot.

            Captain Beregond had finally run out of cautions when at last the King spoke.  “There is no question, Faramir, that he is your son and excellently skilled with a bow.”

            “Had there been orcs in the vicinity, however, this could well have given them warning of our presence,” Faramir countered.  “And had the arrow merely bounced off the skull or lodged in the shoulder it might have been maddened with pain and rage and attacked any of our Men it might have located.”

            Offended by this suggestion, Elboron drew himself as tall as he could stand.  “Adar, certainly you know you have taught me better than to miss my target.  And it was an easy shot, surely?”

            A moment later he and Eldarion were crouching over the boar, dressing it for the evening meal.  “You could not keep your mouth closed?” murmured the King’s son.  “Your adar probably would have ordered one of the Rangers to do this.”

            Elboron shook his head.  “Nay, I knew from the moment I decided to loose the arrow I would be the one to dress it--Ada has always said a good hunter dresses his own kills.”

            Eldarion shrugged as he accepted the offal and took it off to bury it, his face twisted in disgust.

            They camped that night south and west of the Crossroads, and enjoyed a roasted haunch from the boar cooked with herbs gathered by the King and Eldarion and young onions dug up by one of the King’s guards.

            “Your father might not like butchering his kill, but there is no question he is a good cook,” Elboron sighed as he leaned back at his ease after wiping his hands on nearby moss.

            “That he is,” agreed the younger boy.  “And I’m glad I know my herbcraft as well as I do.”

            Captain Beregond approached the two of them with straws in his fist.  “Now, which of you shall stand the first watch with Bergil, and which shall have the dawn watch?”

            The boys eyed one another uncertainly.  Both had hoped to sleep through the night; but it appeared they were to indeed be treated as the other Men.  Eldarion smiled first, and reached to pick one of the stems.  They were accounted as worthy to be treated as were their fathers’ Men--that was perhaps the greatest honor yet.

 *******

            They arrived near a rebuilt hunting lodge Eldarion remembered seeing as they’d made their way southward from Osgilliath to Emyn Arnen.  Near the villa stood a man-made lake with a stone curb about it, graceful trees overhanging the water.

            “We were near here when we first encountered the Ringbearers,” Prince Faramir commented.

            Captain Damrod, who was accompanying the party, nodded.  “Yes--and it was there--” he pointed at a particular site, “--that Lord Samwise found where a group of our Men had been butchered by orcs.”

            Two others in the party nodded in recognition of the incident.  “He’d not told Lord Frodo at the time,” recalled one.  “I recall how white the Ringbearer’s face went when he learned of it while we were encamped at Cormallen.”

            “Frodo Baggins was a most gentle soul,” commented Captain Beregond.  “Pippin was so worried for both him and Lord Samwise while we recovered from the fall of the troll.”

            The King set his hand on his son’s shoulder.  “A most gentle soul, our Frodo was,” he said softly, and Eldarion could hear the regret and grief in his father’s voice.

            There was a moment of quiet as all thought on the sacrifice made by the small scholar from the Shire and his friend and gardener.  At last Elboron asked, “Will we be allowed to visit Henneth Annun?”

            His father gave their King a sidelong glance.  “I’d considered it, although I believe we’ll have to blindfold our companion here as he was not born within our land, and we’ve never allowed mere mercenaries to spy out this hiding place, you know.”

            Their Lord Elessar threw back his head and laughed.  “As if I couldn’t lead you directly to it!” he finally said.  “I served several years myself amongst the Rangers of Ithilien under your grandfather, you’ll remember, and knew enough of the lay of the land to have a good idea of the path even if I was blindfolded when taken there at the time.  Besides, I’ve been there with the Rangers some years ago when I’ve accompanied their patrols.  Why, I’ll wager I could find it blindfolded now.”

            Eldarion noted the way the Prince and several of his Men straightened at the challenge.  “You think so, do you?” Faramir said, one eyebrow raised.  “And what are you willing to wager?”

            “How about a barrel of Shire ale against one of your favorite Dorwinion wine?”

            There were appreciative laughs from all sides.  “Only if the winner shares with us all!” insisted Damrod.

            “You’re on!” the King said.

            Damrod produced one of the veils used to mask the faces of the Rangers when engaging the enemy and swiftly had it rolled while another pulled dock leaves to cover the King’s eyes under the cloth.  Another cut down a straight sapling and gave it into the King’s hand after trimming off all the branches so that he might test the ground before him.  Once all was done, Faramir said, “One last precaution.”  He took the King’s shoulders and began to turn him about enough to leave him disoriented, and then at last stepped free.  “Now, my Lord Aragorn Elessar--let us learn just how well Rangers of Eriador are truly trained!”

            “Remember--my first instruction was from the Elves of Imladris,” came the reply.  “Considering some of the exercises devised by my foster brothers, this should be simple.”  So saying, he stood still, plainly listening.  At last he turned westward until he came to the lip of the pool and turned along it, following its line first north and then south, and having satisfied himself of its line at last turned east again to return to the road, then south, the rest of the company following, save for Damrod, who at a signal from the Prince went ahead to scout the way, and two others to serve as rear guard.  Some quarter of a mile past the lodge Aragorn at last located a slight indentation in the brush and grasses to the west of the road with the end of his stick and turned that way.

            Those accompanying the King later commented that this was not the fastest journey they’d ever made from the site of the lodge to the hidden cavern behind the waterfall, but it was certainly the most interesting.  Before they’d finished half the journey there was no question that even blindfolded the King could follow the vague trail easily enough.  He did on occasion blunder into brush and once ran full-face into a tree, but when others started to move forward he waved them back.  “No--allow me to go forward on my own unless I am headed toward a precipice,” he ordered. 

            He would often stop to listen and to test the wind.  They mounted a ridge, and he paused frequently to probe the next step with the stick, pausing for some time with his brow furrowed once he’d reached the top.  At last he said, “More northward, I think,” and turned that way, at last locating a faint track again headed west.

            It was when he stopped to remove his boots that all were surprised, and now he was plainly using his feet as well as the stick to follow the way.  They were mounting another ridge, their path paralleling a merry small river when he stopped.  “I remember there being two traps and a deadfall not far from here, one of them along a lesser path from the south,” he said to those behind him.  “I’ll allow another to guide me from here--my beloved Arwen would be most upset if I returned with a broken leg--or worse.  But the cavern is over the ridge and that direction, down almost hidden stairs along the cliff’s face and through a cutting, then through the cavern’s mouth.  Will you admit I’ve won the wager, my Lord Prince?”

            Elboron’s father laughed with delight,  “With pleasure, my friend!  Masterful!”  With that he went forward to take the King’s arm.  “Now, if you’ll allow me to guide you?”

            “It was not the most direct of routes from the lodge,” commented Faramir as they reached the interior of the cavern and Aragorn at last allowed the blindfold to be removed.  “But you did most well!  And behold--Damrod has the fire lit already to greet us.  Are you hungry, my liege?”

            “That I am--as hungry, I think, as ever Pippin was.”  He blinked as he at last opened his eyes to the subdued light.  “I don’t believe, however, I’d wish to repeat the exercise.  My eyes will take some time to clear, I fear.  I rejoice that it was dock and not poison oak that was used.”

            All laughed.

            “How did you know what to do?” asked Elboron once cups of ale had been produced from the storage barrels from one of the alcoves at the back of the cavern.

            The King smiled as he sipped from his cup and then set it beside him on the table set up for their meal.  “One of the inhabitants of the village where dwelt Berenion, an older cousin who trained us as new recruits to the Rangers of Eriador, had been blinded in the assault in which my father was killed.  He still found his way about the village and to the woodlot and back.  He always wore soft-soled boots and taught me how he felt his way along the paths with his feet.  And Frodo’s kinsman Ferdibrand Took taught me how to use a staff during his visit to the city some years ago and again when he visited with us a few years back in Annúminas.  A most inventive one, Master Ferdi is.  And my brothers taught me to listen to wind and wood, how to sniff for dampness or moss or mold, and how to follow a line.”

            He smiled and clapped his hand to Eldarion’s back as the boy sat down beside him.  “And in time you, too, shall train with the Rangers of the North even as you shall here in Gondor, for are you not as much a child of Arnor as am I?”

            It was as they prepared for sleep, however, that Elboron made one more discovery about the Lord Aragorn Elessar.  As the boys, watched over by Captain Damrod, readied their sleeping rolls on the provided cots, they saw that across the King’s cot lay not a blanket but a quilt, a most marvelous quilt with predominant patches of pink muslin against a variety of different fabrics and colors.

            The heir to the Prince of Ithilien turned to the heir to the thrones of Gondor and Arnor in amazement.  “A quilt?  Your adar sleeps under a quilt--and one with patches of pink?”

            Captain Damrod straightened.  “My prince,” he cautioned, “no one questions the King’s sleeping roll, no matter how--unusual it is.”  He smiled as he leaned down to whisper, “It doesn’t do to question the King, you realize.”

            “It is well enough, Captain,” the King said from where he’d paused in the doorway to the alcove where he and the Prince and their sons would spend the night.  “I will admit that this disconcerted me when I first found it amongst my gear.  However, I’ve come to appreciate it very much over the years, not only for the physical warmth and comfort it gives, but for the memories.”

            He crossed to the cot and sat down.  “You see, Elboron, this was a gift, and a gift of love presented me by many--as well as a joke on me.  In the northern kingdom, you must understand, there dwells a--person who loves to play pranks upon others.  When he was younger he decided the time had come to play one upon his friend, the King.  But how could he manage to disconcert the one with whom he’d traveled from Bree to Amon Hen, then from Cormallen to the capital and then the Gap of Rohan?  So, he thought of a plan and enlisted the help of others to see it through.  And this was the result.

            “The pink muslin came from a dress worn by Elanor Gamgee-Gardener when she was a faunt; this green came from the first proper suit worn by her next younger brother--it was applied over a square from a handkerchief left in Imladris by Bilbo Baggins.  Your father wore that surcoat when we hunted a boar that was terrifying the folk of Anórien, and this came from the shirt your mother wore as she rode with the Rohirrim to the battle of the Pelennor Fields.  This came from Pippin’s own first uniform tabard, and this from a tunic I had made for him to wear during the summer spent with us in Minas Tirith.”  He touched various squares.  “From my mother’s favorite dress, and my father’s dress robes given him by my adar during the days he was fostered in Rivendell.  From your grandfather Denethor’s wardrobe--the shirt he wore the day I met him.  From your grandmother Finduilas’s gown, the one she wore as she presented your Uncle Boromir to the people on the day he officially was named.  From your Uncle Boromir’s extra shirt that Legolas brought away with us after we gave his body to the river.  From the gown my Arwen wore the night on which Melian was conceived.  From the shirt of my sculptor, and one of the robes my Adar wore that I remembered from my earliest days in his house.  Leftover material from the dress the Lady Diamond wore when she married Captain Peregrin....”

            Elboron looked up at him.  “Nothing from the Ringbearer himself?”

            The King smiled, his expression sad but glad at the same time.  “Oh, Frodo is represented here.  This is from the cloak he wore from the Shire to Lothlórien, and this from a shirt made for him when he was very small by his mother, there before she drowned.  And this was taken from the shirt he wore when he was stabbed by the Witch-king of Angmar--he was wearing it when I first saw him.  And this silver grey is from the last waistcoat he had made for himself before he sailed over the Sea.”  He straightened.  “Many of the squares originally were made from handkerchiefs sent by the Hobbits; now several of those are overlaid by fabric from garments of others I’ve loved.  Here is from my cousin and first friend among Men, Halbarad, brother to Halladan and Hardorn.  It is from the shirt he wore the day of Halladan’s wedding.  This was from Melian’s naming-day garment, and this from Elfwine’s, and this from Eldarion’s, and this from yours, and this from Idril’s, and this from Morwen’s.  From your Aunt Lothiriel’s wedding dress, and Théoden King’s court robes.”  He looked his Steward’s son in the eye.  “Wherever I go, I am surrounded by the symbols of the love of those I myself have loved--Hobbits, Elves, Dwarves, Men.  I cannot feel alone any more, not with this.  And if the others with me laugh, I know what this means even if they do not.  Do you understand?”

            The boy nodded thoughtfully as he reached to touch his own square.  “How wonderful,” he said softly.

            “Indeed, Elboron, it is wonderful--a quilt to remind me not to take myself too seriously at the same time it reassures me that I am taken most seriously by others.”

            “And your green leathers?  Have you had them a long time?”

            The King laughed again.  “Ah, yes, I have.  They were given me by Eldarion’s daeradar on the day I returned to Imladris from my sojourns in Rohan, Gondor, Rhun, Harad, and Umbar, to remind me that no matter where I go, I am indeed a child of the North Kingdom, and that my loyalties lie there as much as to other lands.  And when I wear them I remember him always, and how he came to serve as my adar after my own father died protecting the lands and peoples of Eriador.  And for all my lady wife finds them disreputable, she knows how I still feel protected by the love of her father when I wear them.

            “And now, my bowman and my son, it is time for the two of you to sleep, for it has been a very long day, and our beloved Steward and I will be joining you soon enough.  Rest well, our sons.”  So saying, he gave each a kiss on the brow and went out.

            And as they lay down at last on their cots, they could hear the King singing in the outer chamber, singing a song once taught to him by Bilbo Baggins; and Eldarion turned his head to see the quilt, its colors muted in the growing dark save for the pale pink muslin of Elanor Gamgee’s childhood dress.

For Fliewatuet for her birthday.  Thanks as always to RiverOtter for the beta. 

His Birthday Wish

            Aragorn wandered to look out the window from his bedroom at the trees that were planted between it and the Steward’s Wing.  It was his birthday today, and he felt restless.  But then he often felt restless on his birthday, he’d found as the years had passed.  He’d so looked forward to this day when he was a child, as each year his adopted family had given him more mature gifts and had offered him more respect.  But then there had come the momentous day on which he was judged a Man grown, and had learned at last the name of his father and the future that might—or might not—come to him.

            Would he become King of Gondor and Arnor?  Would he lead armies against Sauron—the greatest foe of all of the Free Peoples for two ages of Middle Earth?  Would he in time be granted the love he’d glimpsed in a glade in Imladris, seeing the beauty of an Elf maiden dancing there?

            So many of his birthdays since had been celebrated in trackless wildernesses or sitting unwelcomed in dark corners of the common rooms of various inns.  Only rarely had he been able to celebrate his birthday with those he loved most—his beloved naneth or his foster father or brothers—or his beautiful and loving Arwen.

            That time was over—his future had been achieved, the darkness dispelled and his bride won—and all was in peace.

            Nay, not wholly in peace, he thought, for he knew that in the Shire the one to whom he most owed his own happiness knew continued discomfort of body and spirit.

            Oh, Frodo—if I could but give you the birthday gift I so wish I could bestow upon you, Hobbit fashion—a body eased of pain and a heart once more at peace, your spirit renewed and rejoicing once again.  But I fear it is my wife who has offered you that gift for the both of us.  Please, small brother, accept it.

For Ainaechoiriel for her birthday.  Thanks to RiverOtter for the beta. 

New Daughter

            Aragorn peered into the room on the second level of the Royal Wing where his wife’s young protegè now slept.  Hasturnerini, the young girl his wife had rescued from the slave market in Thetos, capital of Harad, lay stiffly upon her back, her head cradled not by a pillow but by one of the wooden headrests used by her people, her beloved wooden doll lying by her.  In a corner stood the inlaid gameboard Arwen had found in the same stall where used goods were sold as the doll.  How any people could think to sell children into slavery to settle the debts of their parents--particularly when their parents were now dead--he could not understand.

            But Hasturnerini was no longer a slave, and no longer bereft of a home.  He prayed she would be happy here with Arwen and himself and their children.  As a daughter shall she be to us, he thought, smiling as he saw her shift in her sleep to put her arm around the cat who’d claimed her bed and company for itself.  And already she garners friends and allies, he thought.  Quietly he withdrew, closing the door gently to behind him.  May she sleep peacefully.

Written for Nath's birthday. With thanks to RiverOtter for the Beta.

The King's Time

            Tick tock tick tock tick tock....

            The Dwarf-made clock Gimli had given him a century ago tomorrow quietly but steadily marked the passing seconds.  The King finished straightening all that lay upon the desk that had been his since the day he had accepted the Winged Crown.  He finally pulled out the book that was his personal coronation gift to his son, a volume of poems Frodo had copied, illustrated, and bound for a friend within the city who'd been an artist.  The book had in time come into Aragorn's possession.  He set it in the center of the desk and smiled, caressing its cover gently with a single finger.  As he did this the clock struck six times, its chime clear and warm, a chime that had marked his time as he'd worked in this, what had been his personal office, for most of his years as King of Gondor and Arnor.

            He'd dismissed his scribes and clerks and his personal secretary some time ago, preferring to set the room in order by himself.  If it was to be for the final time....

            He glanced at the Shire calendar that Frodo had drawn up for him shortly after he was made King of Gondor and Arnor; it indicated that today was the thirtieth of Solmath.  Tomorrow....  At last he sighed, then caught himself rubbing at his left shoulder in a way that reminded him again of his beloved friend.  He thoughtfully pinched out the candles, turned down the oil lamp, and quitted the room at last, closing the door one final time.

            The door to Lord Hirgion's office was open, and he could hear the faint sputter as the time candle the current Keeper of the Keys always kept burning on the back of his desk flickered, allowing a drop of wax to roll down its side, obscuring one of the blue rings that marked the passage of another hour since the candle was lit.

            Aragorn was restless, but he found that now he still wished to be alone.  Arwen had closeted herself in the chambers he and she had kept on the second floor of the Royal Wing since Eldarion had married his Loreth and King and Queen had surrendered their former rooms to the two of them; and most of those who had gathered for the King's birthday tomorrow were meeting with the future King of the combined realm.

            He walked through the entrance hall, and heard the soft plop, plink, plop of the waterclock that had been a friendship gift sent by An'Ma'Osiri of Harad shortly after he became Farozi of that land.  It was a beautiful piece, and one that Aragorn had treasured even as it fascinated each new generation of pages within the Citadel.

            As he approached the front doors, the Guardsmen waiting there saluted him and immediately thrust them open to allow him out into the chill of the evening air.  By the light of the flickering torches mounted before the Citadel's main doors he could see the sundial markings reportedly worked into the pavement between the Citadel and the White Tree by Ondoher; the Sun had set already, so his shadow, should he stand on the proper place marked by a pair of blue stones where the most of the rest of the pavement was white, could not indicate the proper time, but he knew that tomorrow his grandson Valandil, as he so often did, would probably spend a quarter mark or more watching his own shadow move sunwise along the arc.

            He approached the White Tree, gave it a bow, then moved forward to set his hand against its trunk.  It was tall and remarkably beautiful.  He could feel the rhythm of its growth as it sleepily acknowledged him.  That rhythm had been slowly increasing over the past few weeks, again waking gradually from the sleep that characterized it throughout much of Minas Anor's winter, even as mild as that season was here compared to what he'd known growing up in Eriador.  There were new buds forming along its branches, buds that were now silver that would open into clusters of silver-green leaves and pure white blossoms.  When he'd found it its main stem had been as thin as a finger; now it was a great tree, and the folk of the land did not seem to remember that it had ever been merely a sapling--but, then, of those who lived within the city only he and Arwen had seen it that way.

            "Grow and bloom for my son and grandson as you have for me," he whispered softly.  "And bear my respects to the tree that stands on Tol Eressëa and all who stand beneath it.  And I thank you for sheltering us and blessing us with your presence."

            The awareness of the Tree grew somehow sharper, and he could swear he heard an echo of a Humph from Gandalf, and that he felt his beloved mentor's regard.

            "Namarië," he murmured to that faraway presence.  "I will be following Frodo and Sam and Pippin and Merry, Boromir and Faramir, Éomer and Halbarad soon enough, and will take them your greetings."

            He could almost feel the old Wizard's hand on his shoulder, and was comforted.

            As he started back toward the Citadel the bells of the city chimed to mark the first hour of the night.  He stopped and looked upwards at the face of the building that had been his primary home now for so long.  Over the door was a balcony that he'd seldom visited but that was a favorite refuge for his son.  Indeed, he saw that Eldarion stood there now, looking southward across the length of the land of Gondor, looking over the lit villages and isolated steadings upon the Pelennor and the faint glow of the Anduin as it wound its way toward the Sea--the Sea that tomorrow would no longer sunder him from those who'd crossed it.  Tomorrow the welfare of Gondor and Arnor would be fully Eldarion's responsibility, and he smiled to know that he'd done his best to assure that his son was up to the task.

            My time may be ending, he thought, but here in Middle Earth the time of peace shall continue under his guardianship.  He took a great breath, then smiled the more broadly.  He left Gondor and Arnor in the best of hands.

It is an honor to dedicate this to my faithful beta-reader, RiverOtter, for her birthday.  It follows "The King's Time" by a few days.

Embassy to a New Age

            As the ship from Umbar was being secured in its berth at the Harlond, one of the members of the embassy commented to Lord Adúnil, who had followed his father and grandsire as primary ambassador to the court of Gondor and Arnor, “I do not think that I have ever seen those who work the docks here so solemn and quiet.”

            Adúnil nodded his agreement.  “All appear somber.  And I vow it appears that one has been weeping.”

            They all looked to the Man who was even now wrapping the bowline about one of the great cleats, automatically setting a proper half-hitch to ascertain the current of the river should not pull the Umbari craft back southwards again untimely.  His face was pale and strained, and his eyes were somewhat red and puffy.  Yet he went about his work willingly and competently enough.

            The Harbormaster was arriving, and his attitude, also, was solemn.  They noted the strip of white cloth he wore about his left arm, just above the elbow.  Mourning band?  And the two soldiers who accompanied him, as two always did when their ships were greeted, sported the same--white bands of cloth bound about their upper left arms, shining against the black of their tunics and the steel of their hauberks.

            “Welcome to Gondor, my lords,” they were greeted as the gangplank was set into place.  “I grieve you must come at such a time of general sadness for our people, but hope that your business will find favor in the eyes of our Lord King.”

            “So we hope as well,” agreed Adúnil.

            The Harbormaster continued, “Word of your coming has been taken to the Citadel, and even now a carriage approaches to carry those of you who will enter the city to the Gates.  You know the restrictions regarding your crew--only three of their number may go ashore at a time, and they must remain together while they walk abroad, and all must be within the same building should they enter any of the inns or shops surrounding the harbor.”

            These were indeed the common terms.  “They have been so advised.”  Adúnil turned to the captain, who stood now beside the group that comprised the embassy.  “It will be your responsibility to see to it our Men behave honorably while they are ashore, and that they bring no shame to Umbar during our stay.”

            “Aye, my lord,” said the captain.  “They shall not make fools of themselves while under my command, sir.”

            With that, the embassy, their two servants and the two guards permitted them by the treaty laid upon them by the King of Gondor well over a century past following them, went ashore, surrendered the required list of those who’d sailed upon the ship to the Harbormaster, and entered the open carriages that had been sent for them.

            The early spring day was chilly--far cooler than they were accustomed to in their own lands.  Grey clouds covered much of the sky, although a gentle breeze was slowly blowing them eastward over the dark green heights of the Ephel Dúath.  About them they saw the folk who lived upon the Pelennor going about their business--saw fruit trees being pruned, farmers and their children examining the springing crops planted in their fields, wives and daughters airing bedding over hedges or lines hung between trees or posts, small children picking up litter along their paths and walks.  But all continued to be subdued, as if their minds were distracted by other thoughts; and everywhere they saw signs of mourning.  A maiden here could be seen weeping as her mother held her; two boys, uncharacteristically quiet and thoughtful, had their arms about one another, apparently seeking comfort in one another’s presence.  And as the carriages approached the city they realized they were not the only ones coming to the capital this day, for great coaches with the symbols of Lebennin and Lamedon upon the doors were ahead of them, and there was a great troupe of horsemen coming toward the gates from the northern openings of the Rammas Echor.

            “Rohirrim!” noted Erenthor.  “And led by their King, apparently.”

            Adúnil looked closely.  Yes, that was indeed Théodred King, who’d become lord of Rohan at his father’s death some ten years back; and he noted that Elfwine’s son’s expression was stern and thoughtful.  And the members of Théodred’s party also sported mourning bands--Gondorian mourning bands.

            “The Queen, perhaps, is dead?  Or does Gondor again have a new Steward?” suggested Marendil.

            They dismounted at the outer stable and turned to enter the gates with the others.  Most who crowded the area were speaking in subdued tones in Sindarin or Rohirric as they awaited their turn to pass the Guards to the City.

            “Why can’t they speak a civilized tongue such as Adúnaic?” muttered Lavandas.  Adúnil shot him a warning look, and then it was their turn before the Captain of the Guard.

            “Welcome, Lord Adúnil.  I was asked to tell you that your guest house will be readied for your party once you reach the Sixth Circle.  Our Lord King, however, will not be able to meet with you before tomorrow.  It is the time of Honor for the one we have only just lost, you see, and he is busy dealing with the needs of his family today.  Tomorrow morning he must meet with the Council over the last questions dealing with the succession, but he does have a public audience set for the afternoon, to start an hour after the noon bells ring.”

            “Thank you, Captain,” Adúnil answered him for his party.  “We look forward to that time, then.”

            The Captain gestured forward the guard of honor, and they were allowed to enter the White City at last.

            Never had Adúnil seen Minas Anor so subdued, or the citizens of Gondor so solemn.  Mourning bands were on all arms here.  Children played, but without the usual cries of glee or shouts of argument common to them.  Haggling in the market places seemed abbreviated, as if the activity gave neither buyers nor sellers any pleasure today.  Wreaths of bare twigs hung on many doors, denoting the private grief felt by those who dwelt there.  Even those Dwarves to be seen about the city, and there were more than Adúnil had ever seen within King Elessar’s lands, were uncharacteristically dignified and quiet.

            “Has the Lord Eldarion died or something?” Erenthor asked thoughtfully.

            As Adúnil shook his head to indicate his lack of knowledge on the object of the city’s grief, he considered.  If that were true, then that could possibly work to Umbar’s benefit.  Young Valandil was yet a child, but far less dour toward the folk of Umbar than his father had ever been, according to the stories told him by Adúnil’s own father and grandsire.  Wasnior had ever insisted that from his childhood Eldarion Elessarion had looked upon him with consistent disfavor; and certainly Adúnil’s father had repeatedly said that he found both Eldarion and his sister Melian to be equally suspicious of Umbar’s intents and motivations.  As formidable as was the Lord King Elessar, his two older children were even more so in the eyes of Umbar’s past ambassadors.

            So far Armenlos had remained quiet, and none had appeared to give the Man much notice.  Adúnil gave this member of their party a sideways glance.  Had none within Gondor recognized that the current Lord of Umbar himself had entered their capital?  Apparently not!  Perhaps it was best that way, as Armenlos had insisted before he overruled the Council of Lords to come upon the embassy himself.  It was too important a mission this embassy sought to accomplish this time, he’d sworn, to be left to even as experienced an ambassador as was Adúnil.

            Armenlos was in many ways remarkable, and particularly as he was unexpectedly unremarkable, as had been his father.  Skillful swordsmen and keen strategists, yet both Armenlos and his sire had exhibited the skill to remain unobtrusive.  Allow others to talk and plot and create grand schemes:  Lords Armanthol and Armenlos were more committed to doing.  They often acted quietly, eschewing fanfare and grand exhibitions of deeds that appeared equally grand; but when they realized a task needed doing, they simply saw it executed and then turned with equal purpose to the next item of business.  Aqueducts had been quietly but skillfully repaired and new ones built; the sewage system for their city had been thoroughly remodeled and upgraded; the ancient quays and dry-docks on the harbor had been cleansed of the rotting, blackened stone that had remained from the night of terror when the folk of Gondor, led by Adrahil of Dol Amroth and the Lord Captain Thorongil of infamous memory, had destroyed Umbar’s planned navy of invasion by setting fire to the ships in their own berths and blocking the harbor entrance by sinking in its opening another great ship taken from the Haradrim.  And when one lord of the land suggested that a marketplace be built over the site where the Red Temple had stood in which terrible sacrifices had been offered to Sauron that such worship be forgotten as soon as possible, instead the folk of Umbar had awakened one day to find that overnight a statue had been erected there--a statue of a youth with a terror-stricken expression on his face, his arms bound as had been the arms of those intended for Sauron’s altar.  In time it was joined by others--a weeping woman who could have been the youth’s mother, reaching for her son, and a Man with a lascivious expression on his face dragging at the arm of the victim.  It was later learned that Armenlos’s father had been apprenticed for a time to a sculptor....

            That Armanthol son of Landrion had followed Marcipor as Lord of Umbar had surprised everyone.  Certainly, had he ever realized the young captain of his personal guard who’d married his daughter Enid and was set to follow him in his office had been the son of a Man Marcipor had tortured to death for having had the intention of assassinating him, it was unlikely that that particular past Lord of the land would have allowed the captain to live. 

            As the High Lord among the lords of Umbar, Armanthol had brought to the office two qualities that had graced it rarely in the past--integrity and an enhanced sense of responsibility; and both he and his son had made a point of demanding the same qualities in those who worked with them.  As a result many, including Adúnil himself, found themselves actually proud to serve under the Lord of their land.  And now--now the need to protect Umbar was so great that the Lord of Umbar himself had come to beg the Lord of Gondor and Arnor for the assistance needed.  Adúnil only hoped that the Lord Elessar was aware of just how much honor was due Armenlos of Umbar!

            They were allowed to break the climb through the city in the Fourth Circle to receive refreshment awaiting them outside one of the inns at that level--a courtesy that had been offered for most of the last century, Adúnil understood.  And when they finally passed the gate into the Sixth Circle all who’d made the journey before gave sighs of relief as Armenlos began looking about, as if comparing what he saw with what had been told to him by others.  They were brought to the guesthouse ever given to the folk of Umbar and shown in.  A housekeeper awaited them there, her face pale and saddened, although she was obviously doing her full duty in spite of her personal grief.

            “A meal awaits you now, lords,” she said, “and all bedding is fresh that you might rest well, as well as the boilers lit within the bathing room.  There are supplies in the kitchens for meals for the rest of the day and through tomorrow, at least; and once it is clear how long you shall remain you may speak with the Seneschal for the Citadel about more, or arrange to purchase your own in the markets.  If you will excuse me--my hours of service are now over, and I would return to my family at this time to know the comfort of their presence.”

            They’d moved up through the City in company with others who had turned southwards just inside the gates, and a few who’d continued upwards toward the Citadel itself.  “Where are they going?” asked Armenlos, looking out a window toward the line that skirted the Houses of Healing.

            “I know not,” answered Erenthor.

            “The Hallows are that way,” murmured Lavandas.

            “Then apparently there has indeed been a death in the royal family,” Adúnil observed.  “I must suppose it is the Lady Arwen--it is said she was prodigiously old.”

            “Of course she would be, the daughter of Lord Elrond as she was,” Armenlos said impatiently.  “She told my father she was only a few centuries short of three thousand years, after all.  However, that is not to be wondered at, as she had lived as one of the Eldar for all that time.”

            They examined the meal left upon the still-warm cooking hearth in the kitchens; its scent filled the room tantalizingly--a great baked sturgeon from the river, wild rice, greens such as were preferred in their own land, and a compote of stewed fruit.  A fresh loaf of bread lay covered within a basket; and there was olive oil such as folk of their land preferred to dip their bread within.  There was a basket of duck eggs, again such as their people favored, and jars of preserved fruit.  A small cask of wine, a second of mead, and a third of Haradri beer were stacked on a side table; jugs of juice of the orange fruit were found with a slab of smoked pork in the small cold room.  There were stores of grains sufficient for several meals and a small store of root vegetables undoubtedly brought to the city from the southern coast.

            “Well,” commented Lavandas, “At least they do not seek to starve us.”

            The rest nodded their agreement.

            Leaving the two servitors to see the board properly laid and one of the two guards on watch, the five lords went upstairs to each choose his own room.  Adúnil took the room at the front he’d always slept in, and after setting his belongings in order he stood briefly watching the lines of people snaking their way down the lane to the Hallows and back again, and the second set of lines going up to the Seventh Level and returning down to the lower city.  After a moment Armenlos joined him.  “This is plainly the death of one greatly beloved by the populace,” he said quietly.  “I wonder when it took place?”

            “I know not, Lord Armenlos,” Adúnil said, concern filling him.  “I only hope that the Lord Elessar will not be so distracted he fails to appreciate the import of our proposal.”

            Armenlos gave a concerned nod, and Adúnil noted that the furrowed brow his Lord sported must match his own.

            In the morning there was a horn call from the havens south of the Pelennor; looking out the Umbarian delegation saw a great vessel docking at the quays of the Harlond. 

            “Haradri,” identified Marendil, who was one of the rulers of the main harbor in Umbar.  “Royal standard--that is the Farozi’s own vessel.”

            They all looked at it with even more interest.  Gondor had honored its treaty with Harad for over a century now, and relations between the King’s household and that of the Farozi had been amicable.  Once Barad-dûr had fallen An’Sohrabi had been swift to cleanse his land of those who’d most closely allied themselves with Mordor’s policies and interests; his son and grandson had been equally devoted to Elessar, for it was said that he’d saved the lives of both.  Even An’Ramosiri reportedly held great respect for the King of Gondor and Arnor.  Had he come upon that ship, they wondered?

            The five members of the embassy carefully prepared for the coming audience.  As they met again within the sitting room the guard not on duty before the place reported, “The party from Harad is now perhaps a third of the way across the Pelennor to the city gates.  It took some time to disembark and set themselves in array for the journey.”

            “I hope that we are not set behind them,” Erenthor fretted.  “It is likely that Elessar will seek to welcome emissaries from his allies within Harad before he welcomes us, who have ever been at odds with Gondor.”

            Armenlos took a deep breath and held it, then let it out in a loud sigh.  “We will not know how we will be greeted until we have come into his presence.  Let us go up, my lords.”

            With a nod at the guardsman they went out and headed for the ramp, finding themselves having to join the line of those going up to the level of the Citadel, most carrying sprays of greens and early blossoms.  Expressions were solemn, and often tearful.  When Lavandas would have used their guard to clear a path, Armenlos shook his head.  “We will not win the favor of the king by being rude to his subjects,” he warned quietly.  “He will be more respectful of us should we be respectful toward his people.  So my father learned of him.”

            And so they slowly made their way up the ramp to the Court of Gathering, and at last they stood where they might see the Citadel of Minas Anor and the Tower of Ecthelion through the almost bare branches of the White Tree.   Adúnil paused as he always seemed to do, feeling the awe that this combination of Tree and building always seemed to evoke.  Then they moved forward, still slowly, until they came even with the memorial to the four Halflings.  Armenlos paused now, his eyes examining the cluster of statues avidly, his eyes alight and pride in his expression.  He murmured quietly to Adúnil, “Did you know that my father assisted in the carving of the statues and the preparation of the memorial?  And now I see it for myself!”

            The chief ambassador from Umbar looked on his Lord with a feeling of amazement.  How was this?

            There were wreaths and clusters of flowers and greenery laid before the figures of the four Pheriannath.  And now they could see that the line they followed circled the White Tree, and that most of those who carried sprays of flowers and greenery were laying their tribute there, leaving a carpet of such things that must now be two spans deep and ten paces out from the trunk of the tree.  They continued to follow the line, and watched as those they followed knelt to leave their own offerings, then rose to continue around the tree and then back toward the ramp leading downward again.

            At last as they passed the tree the party from Umbar broke away, heading for the doors to the Citadel itself.  A party of three Guardsmen approached and examined them, then their leader nodded, and the three bowed before turning, their leader before them and the others behind, to bring them out of the press to the steps.  The door was opened and they were led within and into the Hall of Kings.

            The Rohirrim were very visible, and all could see Théodred King speaking with the Lord Prince Steward Barahir near the dais.  A herald met them and bowed.  “Lord Adúnil?  Welcome to you and your party.  Our Lord King has asked you be taken immediately to the lesser audience chamber and that you be offered every courtesy and refreshment while you await him.  He does not wish to begin the public audience before the Haradrim arrive, and has indicated he will see you therefore while all await their arrival.  If you will follow me?”

            They were led back out, down a corridor and then another, and brought to a room fitted with couches and chairs, with a fine, heavily carved and polished table against one wall.  There servitors awaited them, and food and drink was offered them.  At last most withdrew, leaving only two to attend on them as they waited.  The five Umbarians sat or stood, all wondering what this private audience might lead to.

            Then the door opened and a tall figure entered.  The hair, however, was not white but still dark, although with silver at the temples.  Nor was it mostly straight, but instead hung curling about the fair, beardless face, the cleft chin strong, the grey eyes remarkably clear.  And about his brow he wore no visible diadem or crown, yet the royalty of this one could not be mistaken.  All arose rapidly, examining his face, which was guarded.

            “My Lord Eldarion?” Adúnil breathed, surprised.  “But we’d thought to see your father!”

            “If you would see him, then I fear you would need to visit the Hallows,” the reply was given.

            “Then your mother is--there?”

            “Yea, my mother is there, as she has been for most of five days now.”

            The Umbarians exchanged looks.  “Her body would be brought away from there?” Armenlos asked.

            The heir to the King Elessar examined their faces in turn, and a reluctant small smile could be seen.  “I see--then you had not heard, and none thought to tell you on your arrival?”  His lip twitched slightly.  “We have had, as I believe you could divine, a death--in the family.  It was not wholly unexpected by us, but by the will of the one dying the populace was not advised of the impending death until it was accomplished.  So it is that I am here to greet you.  My father sent word to your Council of Lords, but I doubt not it arrived after you five had set sail up the river.”

            Again the five Umbarians exchanged looks.  Adúnil licked his lips and straightened.  “I am sorry--then we obviously intrude on your grief and the mourning of your people.  So--this explains the gathering of so many to the White City at this time.”

            “Indeed.  Then, tell me, my lords, why you have come if not in response to the news of our loss?”

            “We would speak with your father if we could--it is a matter of possible war.”

            “I fear it is impossible for you to speak now with my adar.  Believe me, Lord Adúnil, I am fully empowered at this time to make decisions in the King’s name.  But, please, if you will all be seated and take your ease--even you, Lord Armenlos?”

            Armenlos paused, searching the eyes of the Gondorian.  “You recognized me?”

            Lord Eldarion smiled, much the same slightly feral smile for which his father was famous.  “Do not doubt that your visage is known to me, my lord.  Your name did not particularly stand out in the list given our Harbormaster, but I did know your father when I was a child, before he returned to Umbar from his exile to offer his service to your daeradar, and our officials there within Umbar have sent us portraits of you, you know.  You do markedly favor Lord Armanthol as I remember him.”

            Armenlos smiled, much of the concern he’d felt smoothing from his face.  “Indeed?  I must say your appearance is much like that of your father, save for the curls and the lack of beard.”

            Eldarion’s face also lost a good portion of its weight of care.  “Adar always commented that I resembled Lord Frodo more than I did him, though, what with the curls and the beardlessness.  I fear that my mother being Lord Elrond’s daughter has left me bereft of notable facial hair--too much Elvish blood in me, I must assume.  Please, gentlemen--sit!”

            Once all were sitting he asked, “Now--what is this about threat of war?”

            Adúnil looked questioningly at Lord Armenlos, and at a nod of assent turned to the King’s heir and explained, “It is the Essanis of Khand--they have been harrowing our eastern borders for three years now.”

            “Yes, I know.  My lord father sent word to you that he would send troupes to your support, as I remember it.  However, your Council of Lords rejected his offer.”

            “Even so.  However--however, now our need is dire.  They have managed to take a good portion of the lands where we grow the majority of our grain, and have destroyed six major towns.  They come ever closer to our city, and are close to our mines now.  We cannot afford to lose any more land.  We will fail without our mines.  And this side of our mines are our major forests on which we depend to provide timber for our ships.  They have threatened to burn them out.”

            Eldarion’s face was now serious and alert, and slightly guarded.  “And what would you have of Gondor and Arnor?  Support?”

            “Gondor and Arnor offered it to us before, as you have just noted.”

            “Indeed.”

            Armenlos cleared his throat, and all turned to him.  “Yes, my Lord Eldarion, we would ask for support from your lands to aid us to throw back the invaders.”

            “But what about when they decide in another twenty years to try again?  That has been their pattern, has it not--the Essanis threatening your eastern borders every two decades?”

            “Yes, so they have ever done,” admitted Armenlos.  “So it has been for most of the past three centuries.”

            “And what kind of favor would you offer us in return?”

            Again the Umbarians exchanged looks.  Lavandas’s expression was almost mutinous, but at last he looked away, shrugging his shoulders, his form deflating.  Armenlos turned again to his host.  “We have made a hard decision.  We are the oldest center of Númenorean settlement within Middle Earth.  We have ever resented the later-comers led by your ancestors Isildur and Anárion and their father Elendil, and particularly your land’s insistence that you hold precedence and rank surpassing ours.  Again and again your armies have overwhelmed our land and sought to annex it, and again and again we have won our freedom anew.”

            “While again and again you have allied yourselves with Sauron and the forces of darkness, have allowed the black arts to flourish within your borders, and have supported those who, as did Castamir, sought to remove our rightful kings and institute dictatorships over our people.  From your people have come how many assassins and slavers?  As for your other grandfather----”

            Armenlos’s face darkened.  “I would remind you that your father stole away mine to protect him from the vengeance of my mother’s father when it was learned Landrion had sought to hire assassins to slay Marcipor.  I will admit I do not particularly admire either of the fathers of my parents.”

            Eldarion’s face softened.  “So it is.  I beg your pardon.  My grief has perhaps left me short-tempered.  Your proposal, then?”

            “We----”  Armenlos stopped and took a deep breath.  “Now I must beg your pardon, my Lord Eldarion.  This is a hard thing to say, after all.  We--we would see ourselves made a part of your lands.”

            The Gondorian’s face went white with shock.  At last he said, as if in wonder, “You would become a part of Gondor and Arnor?”

            Again Armenlos took a deep breath, then nodded solemnly.  “We would wish, however, to be seen as our own land, even as Arnor is seen as separate from Gondor.  We have no wish to lose our identity as Umbarians, or as the oldest of the Númenorean kingdoms.”

            “Your Council of Lords has agreed to this?”

            Lavandas almost glared at him.  “Reluctantly, but yes--we have agreed to this.  Would you wish to see your land overrun by such as the Khandri, and particularly the Essanis?  They are barbaric in nature, and have no respect for other cultures.”

            Erenthor added, “We have found that since the fall of the Eye there is no more power to be gained from seeking to master the black arts--it is as if much of the magic with which we were conversant failed along with Barad-dûr.  Ever we have held the Essanis at bay in great part through such power as we could raise through such practices, until, of course, your father was crowned King here.  We have had to actually fight to protect our borders since; but our numbers fail as the Essanis grow in population.  Our greatest strength has ever been in our ships.”

            Eldarion searched his face, then nodded.  “Your family was ever involved with the invocation of the Enemy’s power, was it not?”

            Erenthor’s look was defiant.  “Yet for five generations or more my father’s line had forsworn it, and we had to go into exile in Rhûn to hide from Sauron’s vengeance.  Lord Armenlos allowed my father to return to Umbar, and gave our ancestral lands back into our hands once our kinsmen were exposed as rebels against the Council of Lords.”

            The Gondorian turned thoughtfully to Marendil.  “What of those who have wielded the power of Umbar’s ships--your captains and merchants?  Will you truly allow yourselves to fall under our laws?  No slavery or piracy will be tolerated, or trafficking in women, children, and youths for the sake of satisfying perverted lusts.”

            “Much of that has already been halted, sir,  Why do you think we have been so depleted in population beyond the losses inflicted by the Essanis?  Harad no longer traffics in slaves, while your coastlines are too well protected by your navy; and so we have had to take such from among our own.  And now that has returned to haunt us as households are torn apart from within as former freedmen wreak vengeance on those who have stolen their freedom.

            “Our navy is again strong, but it is powerless against Khand.  The invasions come upon us not from the sea, but from the deserts east of us.  I and those under my command cannot assist in the defense of our own lands.”

            Lavandas spoke:  “My lands were taken by the invaders six months ago.  My wife was repeatedly raped and then tortured to death before the eyes of our son and daughter, and then they murdered my boy--my beloved boy!  He was only three years old!  We have my daughter back--my seneschal escaped with her; but her heart and mind have been darkened by what she has seen done.  They--they did unspeakable things to my children, Lord Eldarion.”

            Eldarion looked down at his own hands, which lay folded in his lap.  “I see.”  He looked up again.  “And you would subjugate your land to me as King?”

            “When that day comes,” agreed Armenlos.

            Again the lip twitched.  “When that day comes....  And you would ask for self-rule, for the most part, such as is known within the Breelands and the Shire, as long as your laws do not conflict with those of Gondor and Arnor?”

            “Even so, my Lord.  Will you speak with the King for us?”

            Eldarion rose to his considerable height.  “Know this--the King’s will shall indeed follow my own--I promise you that,  I must go forth now.  A page will bring you before the throne shortly--speak as you have to me here, and your suit will be accepted.”  He bowed to them.  “My lords.”  They rose to watch him go.

            Not long after there was a knock at the door, and a youth looked in.  “I am to bring you now to the Hall of Kings, my lords,” he said.

            They were led back much as they’d come, and the doors to the Hall of Kings were opened to them.  The King of Gondor and Arnor sat upon his throne, the Winged Crown on his head, the Sceptre of Annúminas in his hand.  He was speaking to Théodred King of Rohan and Farozi An’Ramosiri of Harad.  “And I thank you,” he was saying, “for your words of comfort offered to us in our time of grief, as my sisters and I struggle to deal with the loss of so beloved a parent.  But I ask your forbearance as we deal with a request made of us by the embassy from Umbar.”

            The folk of that embassy stood, shocked into near-paralysis, as they looked up into the beardless visage of King Eldarion Telcontar.

            Adúnil’s voice was rough as he managed, “Then, it is not your mother who has died?”

            “Indeed not, Lord Adúnil--or not as yet.  How long she might remain past my father I cannot say, of course.  But five days ago, on the first day of the month, on the day of his two hundred tenth birthday, our father offered back his life, and it was accepted from him.  He gave the Crown into my hands himself, and gave me his blessing.  It was he who first named me King of Gondor and Arnor--and apparently now, Umbar as well.  For hear this, all of you--Umbar has offered itself back into union with the other two kingdoms founded by the folk of Númenor, as an independent land in league with Gondor and Arnor, and subject  to its laws only as far as are any land under such protection.

            “Behold--this day is the new age confirmed before your eyes.”

            “The King Elessar is dead?” demanded Lavandas.  “But he’s ever been the King!”

            The Lord King Eldarion’s smile was sad, and filled with compassion,  “My father was yet a Man, and mortal.  And he did not rue his ending.  How glad he would be to see the beginning to the Fourth Age take such a turn!”

            A new age--a new King--a new circumstance for Umbar.  Adúnil took a deep breath.  He wondered what other surprises he might know in the coming days.

            And again Drem nodded, and again Talore leaned on his spear and looked down at him.  “Listen, cub,” he said at last.  “If the thing is worth a fight, fight for it and do not hear the Grandfather too clearly.  There are ways--ways round, ways through, and ways over.  If you have not two hands for a bow, then learn to use a throw-spear with such skill that your enemies, and your brothers, forget that it is not from choice.”

Rosemary Sutcliff, Warrior Scarlet.  Henry Z. Walck, New York.  1958

Thanks for RiverOtter for the Beta.  For Agape, with thanks.

Ways Round, Ways Through

            Denethor watched his nephew donning his mail with the help of the aide assigned to him by the mercenary captain Thorongil with stark disapproval in his eyes.  “This is foolish, Húrin,” he admonished.  “You will be unbalanced with but one arm.  And how will you wield spear or sword and manage a horse at the same time?”

            “Thorongil says it can be done, and from what I’ve seen of him, he does not speak lightly of such things.”  Húrin looked somewhat defiantly at the Steward’s son.  “I will not stand by helplessly if those I love are assaulted by an enemy solely because I’ve lost one arm.  Perhaps I won’t be fit for the regular army, but I will be able to help offer a defense.”

            It was somehow pleasing to see his uncle stiffen at the rebuke; but what further argument could he offer in the face of Húrin’s words?  Húrin turned back to his aide, who’d wisely held his tongue through all Denethor had had to say over the past hour.  “Leonid, were you able to find a light buckler such as Captain Thorongil suggested could be suitable?”

            “Yes, my lord--and I’ve brought leather straps as well we might use to build the harness for it.”

            Denethor asked, one eyebrow raised, “Then you have seen such bucklers prepared for use by those who have but one working arm?”

            Leonid gave Ecthelion’s son a quick glance from beneath his brows, then looked deferentially back downwards again.  “There was an older Man in my own village who’d lost most of his arm, although admittedly not as much as has Lord Húrin here.  He used such a harness to offer support for a buckler, and was a superb swordsman in spite of all.”

            “And you face so many enemies in the land from which you come?”  The tone of Denethor’s question was frankly disbelieving.

            Leonid straightened, obviously stung by the implications of that question.  “My lord Denethor,” he said, his voice just short of being judged insubordinate, “all lands face enemies.  The great Enemy has ever done his best to see to the destruction of those who will not bow to his desires; and Gondor is not the only land that has defied him.  And there are too few in our lands to turn away any willing to raise a weapon in defense of those who cannot defend themselves.”

            Soon Húrin and his aide were going down through the city, Leonid plainly still nursing the anger Denethor had raised in him.  As they reached the Fifth Circle Húrin gave Leonid a sideways glance and an approving smile.  “You stood up well to my uncle’s criticism.”

            At first Leonid merely shrugged, then at last answered almost grudgingly, “It galls me to hear anyone speaking of how impossible it is for any to do this thing or another, merely because he has lost a limb or an eye.  One of the best instructors I ever had with throwing knives had lost a hand in a fight against orcs.  And what he can do with a staff is remarkable!  And even our women choose often to learn to wield weapons, in case we Men are from home when the enemy should come a-calling.”

            Soon enough they were entering the stables within the First Circle, and found Captain Thorongil within a box, grooming a young gelding that was obviously of Rohirric breeding.  He looked up as they entered, and smiled.  “You have come.  Good, then.  I’ve decided, Lord Húrin, to gift you with Arrowswift  here.  He was given to me by Thengel King ere I left Rohan to come to Gondor.  He was trained to respond to pressure from the legs and knees, as is common to Rohirric steeds that carry horse archers.  For the times when you must fight from horseback, you will need such a mount, for you cannot expect to properly guide a horse with reins held in one’s teeth.”

            And so the lessons began.  Often Húrin regretted having to do things with but a single arm and hand, but in time he became sufficiently proficient that he felt he could at least hold his own.

            Even after Thorongil left Gondor after the victory in Umbar, still Húrin continued his training; and when at last Arrowswift was turned out to pasture he sought out another mount from Rohan trained to carry archers.

 *******

            Imrahil looked up, apparently amused, to see Húrin entering the stable in the Sixth Circle, dressed in mail and with his warsword at his side, followed as ever by his aide.  “You think to ride out with us, then?” he asked.

            “This is my city, and I would help in its defense.  And if nothing else, I might serve to direct the recovery of the wounded.”

            Leonid led out Húrin’s grey and his own dun, and with the aid of the grooms both were quickly prepared for the planned sortie.

            “You use but a hackamore?” Imrahil asked.

            “What use have I for more?  I won’t be using the reins once we are out upon the Pelennor.  Do not worry--Cleanshaft knows his business well enough.”

            Then Leonid was helping to fasten the straps that were used to hold the buckler his master wore on his left side, just ere Húrin used the mounting block to set himself astride.  Once mounted, the one-armed Man checked the seat of the buckler, and then loosened his sword within its sheath.  “I am ready,” he assured the Prince of Dol Amroth.

            The rest of the Swan Knights and such mounted warriors as there were within Minas Tirith awaited them just within the barrier that had been raised hastily after the gates had been shattered.  They looked out and saw the reeling fight out upon the ravaged fields of the city’s townlands.  They could see the Standard of Eorl toward the northeast quarter of the fields, and to the south could be seen black sails approaching the Harlond.

            Suddenly they heard glad cries from above, and those cries were quickly echoed on the walls immediately above them.  “Yes!” called down a soldier from immediately above them.  “The Standard has told the tale truly--those coming off the ships are our own folk!  See--there is the standard of the Morthond Vale!”

            Imrahil gave a grimace of a smile.  “Then, gentlemen, shall we see to it that the enemy’s confusion is added to?  Forth!”

            Spears were lowered and swords unsheathed; and the Swan Knights of Dol Amroth and the horsemen of Minas Tirith rode out together against the enemy.

            Throughout the first flurry of their participation in the battle, near at hand, his blade soon red and black with the mixed blood of orcs and Southrons, tall Húrin of the Keys matched Imrahil stroke for stroke as they broke through the ranks of the enemy to come to the relief of the riders of Rohan and to keep the fallen from being hacked to pieces by Sauron’s folk.

            And when Imrahil saw Húrin leading those charged with bearing the bodies of the fallen back into the city he smiled.  Much as he honored his late sister’s husband, yet Denethor had always believed those who were disfigured or had lost hands or limbs--or even mere fingers--should not be part of the defenders of the realm.  If only he had seen Húrin in action today, he’d have been forced to realize that even those who’d lost a whole limb were possibly as capable of defending what they loved as any whole Man, if they were sufficiently determined and given the chance to hone their skills.

            Ah, but now it was time to return to the battle.  He signaled his forces, and they turned to face the squadron of Easterlings that was charging from the ruins of Osgiliath....

For Beruthiel's birthday.  And thanks as ever to RiverOtter for the beta.

For the Want of ...

            Healer Eldamir had helped Faramir’s clerk Dendril assist the new Lord Steward back into his bed in the Houses of Healing, and had indicated Dendril himself would also be the better for a good night’s rest, before offering the Steward a draught against infection and then leaving him to his rest.  There was now but a single candle burning in a recess in the wall.  It was not enough light to keep most awake, merely making it easier for those who made their rounds throughout the now quiet halls to check that their wards’ breathing was restful and even and that they were not in distress.  Faramir found himself glad for it as he lay looking up at the ceiling.

            His father was dead--that much they had told him; that, and that by some evil deception the Enemy had managed to bring that death about.  There was a good deal they’d not said as yet, and he was unsure that he truly wished to know the details at this time.  It had all happened but yesterday morning, apparently--he’d been unconscious within his father’s quarters, and then something had happened, and he’d ended up being moved into the Ruler’s rooms within the Houses and his father had perished--something to do with flames, he’d realized.  The lower levels of the city had been burning--he’d overheard the healers speaking of it and of the need for fresh air for the lungs for those brought up from the regions of the fires.  Had his father actually left the Citadel and gone down to assist in the attempts to save the First Circle?  Somehow Faramir could envision that even less than he could imagine his father actually leading the city’s soldiers against the foe--for as long as he could remember Denethor son of Ecthelion had commanded from the heights of the City, allowing others to actually fight, not that he’d ever been less than a canny commander for his lack of physical leadership, however.

            He watched the glow from the candle flicker on the ceiling and wall, sighed, and found himself wishing to have someone to speak with in order to distract his mind.  At last he reached rather carefully for the small bell that lay on the table at the side of his bed and rang it sharply.  After a moment he heard a soft tap at the door.  “Please enter,” he called, grateful the response had been so quick, and his guard looked in.

            “May I summon someone to your aid, my lord?” the Guardsman asked.

            “I wished for a fresh glass of juice, if there is any to be had,” Faramir responded.

            The guard gave the small carafe of water that stood on the table a questioning gaze, then looked back to the Steward.  “If that is your wish, my lord, I will summon the first healer or healer’s aide I might see.  I may not leave my post here, you understand.”

            Faramir gave a slight grimace as he nodded.  “Yes, I do.  As soon as it might be brought....”

            The Guardsman nodded, saluted, and closed the door, but not to the point the latch caught.  Soon his voice could be heard, speaking with someone with a higher voice, and Faramir could hear the newcomer say, “I shall see to it immediately, then.” 

            It was not a terribly long time after that before there was another tap at the door, with the door opening almost before he managed to again say, “Enter.”

            He did not see the head in the region where it ought to have appeared, and he found himself lowering his gaze, surprised to see the one bringing in the tray with its small carafe and a pair of goblets was the Pherian who’d been made a Guardsman by his father.  “Guardsman Peregrin?” he asked, glad he’d remembered this one’s name.  “I was told that you were attending on your kinsman.”

            “I have been,” the Pherian said as he placed the tray on the table with surprising grace.  He turned to look up at the Steward appraisingly.  “Would you like me to pour you a glass, Lord Faramir?” he asked.  “With your shoulder and arm bound that way, I doubt you’d manage it without pulling at your wound, and I don’t think the healers would like it if you did that.”  At Faramir’s nod, he turned a goblet right-side up, then took the carafe to remove its cover and carefully poured a good measure into the goblet before replacing the cover and settling the carafe back onto the tray.  “It’s a bit awkward even for me,” he added as he moved the goblet closer to the edge of the tray.  “Things here tend to be rather high for a mere Hobbit.”

            Faramir sat up as well as he could and nodded his thanks as he sipped from the goblet.  “It is rather good to have something more than just water right now,” he sighed as he replaced the glass on the table.  “And how does your kinsman’s condition progress?”

            Peregrin suddenly smiled.  “Very well--very well indeed.  He’s up and eating almost normally, and that’s a good sign--a good sign for us Hobbits, I mean.  When a Hobbit doesn’t eat well it usually indicates a nasty decline, you see.”

            “He wasn’t so well when he was found wounded?”

            “It’s not really that he was wounded, sir--no, I don’t think he has more than a scratch or two and some bruises from when he fell off the horse he and Lady Éowyn had been riding.  It’s his arm mostly, from stabbing the Nazgûl--it was cold and almost dead, the way Frodo’s was after he was stabbed by the Morgul blade.”

            That statement brought several shocks.  Master Frodo--the slender, wary, courteous and remarkably circumspect Hobbit he’d met in the woods of Ithilien--he’d been stabbed by a Morgul blade?  How was it he was in his own body and mind, or even alive?  Stories of Morgul blades had been told in Gondor, although to his knowledge none had been used here in the past six hundred years or so.

            Secondly, a Pherian had stood up to a Nazgûl, to the point of stabbing one?  And he’d ridden to the battle with King Théoden’s niece?  What in Middle Earth was she doing riding in the midst of an army and taking part in the battle?  He’d not seen the lady in question for several years--the last time he’d seen her she’d been a leggy girl of fourteen or so, and with a reputation of being somewhat of a hoyden.  She’d admired his sword, as he remembered it....

            Apparently Peregrin had divined some of the as-yet unspoken questions.  “From what Merry tells us, both he and Lady Éowyn were supposed to remain safe in Dunharrow, and the Lady was to serve as regent for her uncle while he rode here to war, only neither of them would agree to stay behind when those they loved were riding off to near-certain death.  She disguised herself as a warrior, and not even he recognized her although she allowed him to ride with her.  I don’t think he’d spent a good deal of time with her to get to know her as yet.  He says he thought she was someone who was just too young to ride with the army, probably one who’d lost all he’d loved to orcs, who’d dressed up in his older brother’s mail or something and had attached himself to the army anyway.”

            “I see.”  Faramir wasn’t certain he fully understood, but he had to admire that kind of ingenuity.  “And how was it that the two of them remained undetected?”

            “He didn’t explain.  I understand only that there seemed to be some kind of understanding between this ‘Dernhelm’ and the leader of their eored.”

            Faramir nodded. 

            The Hobbit continued, “He says that as they approached the battlefield Dernhelm kept moving up through the ranks until they were riding at the back of the King’s own household knights, and they stayed in that position through most of what came after.  He says that both of them were very busy killing orcs--she fought to one side of the horse and he fought to the other.  Then the Nazgûl came flying over them on that winged thing it was riding....”

            Faramir listened, fascinated, as the Pherian retold the story his kinsman had told him earlier.  At last, when the tale was finished, he asked, “And both survived this encounter with the Witch-king of Angmar himself?”  Amazement and respect filled him deeply.

            Peregrin was nodding.  “Yes, thanks to Strider--Aragorn, you see.  He’s much stronger now than he was when he tried to help Frodo after he was wounded, but he said only Lord Elrond of all within Middle Earth could successfully bring someone back from a Morgul wound--Lord Elrond had done it before, and I wonder, from the little we heard while we were there in Rivendell, whether it was his own lady that was so wounded.  They told us she needed to leave Middle Earth afterwards to fully recover from the wound she’d had.”

            It was much to think on.

            “Lord Faramir--may I ask you a question?”

            The Man fixed his attention back on the alert face of the Pherian Guardsman.  “You may ask anything, although I can’t promise to answer everything you might ask of me.”

            There was that delightful smile.  “Well answered, sir,” the Hobbit said, nodding his approval.  “It was about whatever news the Captains and Prince Imrahil brought you.  We’ll be sending an army out toward Mordor, won’t we?”

            The new Steward felt the anxiety return somewhat.  “You’ve heard that?”

            “Oh, we’ve heard lots of things, my lord.  But the idea that we’d send an army out to engage the Enemy’s attention--well, since I’m one of the few who knows why his attention needs to be drawn, well, that just sounds the most likely true.”

            Faramir could easily see the Hobbit’s own worry, and remembered that Master Frodo was this one’s friend and apparently a relative as well.  He decided to speak the truth to him.  “Yes, so it has been decided.  They’ve decided the best they can do would be to draw the Eye’s attention outside his own land, as far as possible from where Master Frodo and Master Samwise might be traveling through the plains of Gorgoroth.  However, it is not yours to speak of that to any others, not even those you count your close friends, not until it is announced officially by the captains to their troupes.  Do you understand?”

            “Yes, sir.”  Spoken like a true soldier.  “May I train with the other Men, then?  I mean, Boromir and Strider and Legolas have taught us some things along the way, you see, but I’m no real expert with this sword of mine, and I’ll need to fight after all.”

            “You don’t think you’d be allowed to go along, do you?”  The Man was both alarmed and touched at the small Guardsman’s assumption that this would be true.

            “I have to--I’m the only one left of us four who can.  I mean, Merry’s going nowhere for a few weeks; and Frodo and Sam are in no position to draw attention away from themselves, are they?  I mean, I might prove the lynch-pin.”

            “The what?”

            “The lynch-pin--the carter’s pin that holds the wheel in place.”  The Hobbit searched his face.  “You don’t understand what I’m speaking of, do you?”  As Faramir shook his head, he explained, “It’s from a Shire poem we all learn as children. 

            “For the want of a pin, the wheel was lost.

            “For the want of the wheel, the wagon was lost.

            “For the want of the wagon the harvest was lost.

            “For the want of the harvest, the family was lost.

            “For the want of the family, the village was lost.

            “For the want of the village, the Shire was lost--

            “And all for the want of a lynch-pin.”

            Now he drew a deep breath before continuing, “It’s what Bucca of the Marish used as an argument for sending the forty archers begged by Arvedui Last-king to the battles against the invaders from the north.  I’ve had to study this, you see--after all, my da’s now the Thain, and I have to study Shire history more than most so I’ll be ready when it’s my turn to be Thain after him.  Now, most think the old stories are just that--stories.  I know--I know I did--before we left the Shire, at least.  But reading the records of the argument Bucca made to the Shire-moot to convince them to send the archers and to prepare things to slow up any army following that of the King should the King’s forces need to retreat across the Shire sent a thrill through me.  Most of the family heads who’d come to the moot didn’t want to bother with the business of Big Folk, not until he pointed out that only the Brandywine held the enemy’s forces from entering the Shire, and the reports sent by the King indicated they were crossing other rivers--wider rivers--with no difficulty, after all.  So he wanted to see to it that we were prepared--prepared for our folk to hide themselves from the enemy should they cross the river, and to help get the King’s army to safety and slow up any who might try to follow after.  He quoted that poem, and said that we might prove to be the lynch-pin that held the wagon together long enough for the war to be won or lost.  And it worked, the argument; and it appears we did help win the war just as he’d predicted.”

            Faramir was nodding.  “We have a similar poem:

            “For the want of a nail the shoe was lost.

            “For the want of the shoe the horse was lost.

            “For the want of the horse the knight was lost.

            “For the want of the knight the battle was lost.

            “For the want of the battle the war was lost.”

            “For the want of the war the kingdom was lost.

            “And all for the want of a horseshoe nail.”

            Guardsman Peregrin was nodding with recognition.  “It’s almost the same, isn’t it?”

            “And you might prove the lynch-pin--or nail--that makes the difference in the end, then?”

            The Hobbit nodded solemnly.  “I will be one of those who truly understands--for Frodo’s my cousin, you see, and Sam is our friend.  I’ve seen that--thing--he’s carrying and have seen what It’s tried to do to him already.  I was by his side when he was wounded before, and saw him when we thought we were losing him.  I’ve seen how It’s been working at him all along the way, and how he’s found he’s had to make decisions himself and can’t rely on others to make the right ones.  I want to help as I can.  So far I’ve mostly just stood on the sidelines since we got here, and I want--I need--to feel I’m truly helping.  I just feel that one of us Hobbits needs to be there with the army--for Frodo and Sam.”

            And Faramir did understand.  “I’ll give the orders--I can do that much--that you are to train daily with the rest of the Guardsmen.”

            “Thank you, my lord.”  Pippin gave a surprisingly graceful bow, then stood straight and gave a salute that Captain Gilmaros, the captain of the Guards of the Citadel, would be proud to see.  “I promise not to let you--or Frodo--down.”

            The door opened and Healer Eldamir entered quietly, looking sternly at the Hobbit.  “And what do you do here, disturbing Lord Faramir’s rest, Guardsman?” he asked.

            Faramir interceded, “I desired to have one to distract me from my own thoughts that they not chase one another all night long, Master Healer, and it fell on Guardsman Peregrin to provide me that service.  I’ve just assured him I will give orders for him to train with the rest of the Guard until he leaves with the rest of the army to face Sauron’s forces.”

            Was Eldamir searching his face, and for what?  The Hobbit suddenly assured him, “I was explaining only how I feel I am needed to stand for the honor of the Shire when we face the Enemy again, Master Eldamir.  We Hobbits also have a stake in this war, you see.  If Gondor falls, then Arnor will follow, and the Shire with Arnor.  And right now the others aren’t going to be able to do anything but what they’re doing.”

            There was an expression of relief just before the young Healer nodded.  “So be it, then.  Well, Master Peregrin, if you are to do full training you also need your rest, for you have barely slept in three days that I am aware of.  And you, my Lord Steward, have you been sufficiently distracted now to rest properly?”

            “I believe so, Master Eldamir.  You may return to your quarters, Guardsman Peregrin, and rest as you have been advised.”

            Again that smart salute.  “Yes, my Lord Steward.”  The Pherian turned and left.

            Now that they were alone, Faramir turned his attention to the healer.  “And what is it that he is not to have told me?  The manner of my father’s death?”

            Eldamir’s expression was carefully, professionally neutral.  “I am sorry, my Lord Steward, but I may say neither nay nor yea, on the orders of the Lord Aragorn.  I view him as my superior here due to his far longer and more involved training, as well as the probability that he will be our Lord King when Sauron is overthrown.”

            “And you believe that possible?”

            The relatively young Healer’s face was lit by a quiet hope and pride.  “He has come to us out of the realm of legends, accompanied by still other legends.  Pheriannath, those of the Eldar, the children of Aulë, and the Peredhil accompany him.  When at our need our capital was so defended, how can I not find hope in my heart that Sauron himself shall at last find his final defeat?  And he has the hands of the healer--I have seen those we could not call back from the Black Breath awaken to hope and life once more--again and again the night after the battle; and those who were merely injured again took heart and many even now recover that we’d expected to see die.  I believe in the depths of my heart that he is indeed the King returned; Sauron cannot begin to know how this hope returned to us will change the tide of battle!”  He stood even straighter.  “I, too, plan to go with the army, both to face the Enemy as I can, and to help afterwards as will undoubtedly be needed.  To assist such a healer as is Lord Aragorn, and to learn from him and the Peredhil who call him brother--it would be the greatest of honors for me.”

            Faramir found himself aching to accompany that army himself.

 *******

            After Prince Legolas and Master Gimli left the Citadel with the circlets of honor crafted by them for the benefit of the Ringbearer and his companion, Faramir at last returned to the Steward’s quarters with the day’s communications from the King’s camp in Cormallen.  As he entered the Steward’s wing he again was amazed at what changes had been wrought in just a few days’ time while he’d been held in the Houses of Healing; the hallway itself had been repainted his favorite shade of soft green--Master Balstador had apparently been determined to see to it that this area welcome the new Steward with pleasure rather than the austerity that had come to characterize his father for so long.

            The door to the Steward’s household library had been refinished, and was a lighter, more golden hue than it had been, and hints of gilt enriched it.  He opened the door and smiled at the room within.  Drapes had been replaced with lighter fabrics that reminded him somehow of his earliest years when his mother’s presence had graced the Citadel, and his favorite reading chair from the rooms that had been his from his youth now sat in one of the window embrasures.  The desk was the same; but now it was his own suite of writing tools that filled the desktop rather than the heavy blotter and massive inkstand that had been Denethor’s.  Faramir went to the reading chair and fell heavily into it, draping one long leg over its arm as he broke the seal holding the packet closed.  In moments he was spilling a number of folded missives onto his chest, and then carefully identifying and extracting the personal note from Lord Aragorn, whose hand he was already coming to recognize with a thrill of pleasure.

My most honored and beloved Lord Steward,

            Ah--how satisfying it is to write that greeting!  I’d always imagined writing it to your father’s attention--but, alas!  That was not to be, and I will forever grieve this is so.  Your father was always such an extraordinary soul, even as a young man.  His knowledge of lore rivaled my own--and as I was raised by Elrond of Imladris, greatest of loremasters ever within Middle Earth, that is saying a great deal.  I remember him teaching me the ways of the Archives, and his delight as he realized I shared so many of his own interests....

            Faramir read these tales of his father’s youth with more appreciation than he’d realized he held within him.  There were no words of regret save for the fact that this Aragorn, once known as Thorongil, must now share these memories with him rather than with Denethor himself.  He read this portion of the letter with great interest and even delight, glad that someone remembered his father with such nostalgia.

            At last he reached the portion of the letter that dealt with the matters of the camp.

            Too many have been seriously injured, as I suppose you can already imagine.  And among those is our smallest of Guardsmen--Peregrin Took.  When I wrote to summon Merry I did not tell him all, for fear of causing him to know despair.  For Pippin was indeed very badly injured.

            The first blow was delivered by the one who has been known as the Mouth of Sauron, for he was sent to parlay with us, and to torment us as he could.  He bore with him tokens intended to cause us much grief and dismay, tokens that worked too well on us at first, and especially on Pippin.  These tokens were Frodo’s clothing, the cloak and brooch given him in Lothlorien by the Lady Galadriel, the corslet he’d worn under his clothing, and the sword and sheath that had been borne by Samwise Gamgee.  At first it was as if all of us from the Fellowship had been struck hard in the belly, for well we knew these, and knew that for them to come by such a messenger the one who’d worn them must have been captured; but then I saw that Gandalf and I had both noted the oddity of the sword of Sam being with Frodo’s garb.  Either one of the two of them must be dead, or both must be free; for had Sauron’s folk held one alive they must in time realize that these items had come originally from two individuals.

            Yet the Enemy’s herald spake only of one prisoner, and gave no name.  All was said obliquely, and ever he watched our faces as if to learn how dearly we cared for this one, this one he assured us was even then suffering greatly and would suffer even more ere the end.  When Pippin cried out in his horror at the sight of Frodo’s corslet in this one’s hands, the Mouth of Sauron was plainly gratified.

            Gandalf overcame the shock first, and suddenly reached to take all these items into his own possession.  The foul herald demanded that to ransom the captive we must withdraw our army west of Anduin, first laying down our weapons and swearing allegiance to Sauron, and agreeing to accept this one as our lord.  Yea, in the place of your father we must accept this--creature--his spirit blackened by countless years of enslavement to the Lord of the Dark Tower, as the Steward set over us by the Eye!  And Gandalf told him plainly that Sauron must be most desperate to think that, no matter how dearly we might love the one who’d worn these items, we would yet trade the freedom of the west for one lone prisoner.

            It was so obvious this one had no idea of Frodo’s purpose for being in those lands!

            When Pippin saw these things, as I said he cried out.  When we turned back to rejoin the army, once he was set upon the ground he went away from us.  There were two hills of slag upon which I set our folk, but Pippin joined those who defended the other hill from that on which Legolas and Gimli, Gandalf and I stood.  Those who took the front-most position upon the other hill were of the Guard of Minas Tirith itself, and with them those men of the city who were not part of the Guard who yet stayed with us through it all.  Believing that we had surrendered our faith in Frodo’s survival or even abandoned him to the torments of Barad-dûr, Pippin would not remain by us, preferring to stand by his friend, Beregond of the Guard.  I am not yet certain, but I believe that a good part of the reason why he took a forward position as he did was so that he might die, as die he believed we all must do, the quicker.

            I had no time to come to him or offer him any argument as to why both Gandalf and I believed the words of Sauron’s slave to be but a feint, for the hosts of Mordor were loosed at us almost immediately.  We lost sight of Pippin in the heavy fighting, and when the Ring went into the Fire and the orcs and trolls left off the fight once Sauron’s own will was no longer driving them, we could no longer see any sign of him or those he’d last been seen standing beside.

            The Eagles came!  Yea--there in the midst of the chaos and confusion of battle Manwë’s own messengers came to our aid, striking at the beasts of horror on which the Nazgûl rode.  And when the Ring was destroyed three came to Gandalf at his call, carrying him toward the remains of the Mountain to seek out Frodo and Sam and Sméagol, if they were to be found; and then Shadowfax left the other horses to seek me out upon the battlefield and draw me to the wagons of the healers.  It was there that the great Eagles returned, bearing with them the bodies of Frodo and Sam--found none too soon, for they were nearly past the Gates of Death when I called them back.  Indeed, they had gone further toward Námo’s Halls even than had you!

            Gimli, who bears a great love for the younger Hobbits, sought long upon the battlefield for Pippin, and at last saw that the foot of a Hobbit protruded out from beneath the body of a great troll.  He now looks rather frightful, for he managed to tear out part of his beard ere Legolas could convince him that he sensed that young Peregrin’s fëa yet remained in his body.

            Pippin was unconscious when he was found, but the men found with him have been able to tell us how it was that he saved their lives.  Yea, the troll had reached down to Beregond and was lifting him up to bite out his throat when Pippin thrust upward into the troll’s vitals, striking him in the heart.  So, it fell, and fell directly upon him.  His ribs were badly broken and his hip dislocated, and his upper leg is badly cracked, although not broken through nor shattered as happened with the arm of the Lady Éowyn.  He is badly bruised as well, and will soon be every shade of the rainbow, I fear.  Had he not been a Hobbit I suspect he should have died within moments; but the Periannath have endurance beyond that of Men.  I only hope that his mind took no ill from the time he knew with little in the way of air.  The others were injured as well, but I believe they will recover completely.  For Pippin himself, however, we cannot yet say how deep the hurts run.  Yet although he is not yet awake, he does recover apace, and I hope that Merry’s coming will serve to call him fully back from the last of the darkness.  I regret to say that the uniform shirt that I understand was yours when you were a child had to be sacrificed that we might eventually free him from his hauberk and that we might examine his injuries.  I believe we will have use after all for that tailor you offered to send to my side, for all three Hobbits and many others will need new garments, and I am determined that Pippin be fitted with a new uniform suitable to one of my own personal guard, one reflecting both Gondor and Arnor’s dignity.

            As for our beloved Lords Frodo Baggins and Samwise Gamgee....

            Faramir paused in his reading, feeling mixed grief, relief, and pride at this report of what had befallen the one who’d served his father--and himself--so faithfully.  “The lynch-pin, wasn’t that how you thought of yourself, Peregrin son of Paladin, Guard of the Citadel?” he murmured.  “Yea, so you have proven, my brave one!  Yea, so you have proven indeed!  And I am honored to have been the one to provide you with your first uniform and armor!  As for my father--I hope he is proud to have received your oath!”

            Even as he wiped a tear from his eye, his face was shining with pride as he returned his attention to the remains of their new Lord’s report.

oOo

"For the Want of a Nail" is a traditional nursery rhyme, and one certainly in keeping with the traditions of Gondor and Arnor.  That a slightly different version dealing with harvests rather than warfare would be commonly recited in the Shire just seemed likely.  And I can easily imagine Bucca of the Marish reciting it to convince the worthies of the Shire of the need to send archers to Arvedui's needs.

For Linaewen for her birthday.  And thanks as always to RiverOtter for the Beta.

The Arrival

            “Daro!” came the command.

            Boromir stopped, uncertain as to what to expect next.  Half a year he’d taken on this foolish quest, and now he was being halted in Sindarin from proceeding on into the valley he’d so long sought?  He’d lost his horse long ago, in Tharbad; he was now losing his patience as well.

            “Who are you?” he was asked, again in Sindarin.

            “Boromir son of Denethor, Lord Steward of Gondor.  I come on behalf of my father and people to seek the advice of Elrond Peredhel, thought the greatest of loremasters.”

            The guards considered him, then said, “Enter.”

For Dreamflower's birthday.  Thanks to RiverOtter for the Beta.

The Birth of a Different Hope

            The meeting with Princess Éowyn had been intriguing, and Faramir had the distinct feeling that she did not remember him from his visit to Rohan alongside his father and brother some years ago.  She’d been--what?  Perhaps fourteen, he thought.  A leggy thing she’d been, between childhood and womanhood, her hair snarled by the constant winds that had blown over Edoras, her eyes alive with curiosity and even then with a level of wariness and restlessness.  She’d examined him briefly, and then her eyes had focused on his swordbelt and the hilt that had risen from his carefully polished sheath, then on the bow and quiver he carried at his shoulder.  She’d smiled on them, her curiosity piqued.  When he’d granted her permission to examine his sword her eyes had grown bright with pleasure and the honor of it, and she’d handled the blade with the casual competence of a born swordsman.

            Théoden had commented, “She’s insisted on doing whatever her brother does, so Théodred and our weapons masters have taught her alongside Éomer.  It’s difficult at times to get her to settle to embroidery and such--although she loves dresses that flatter her; and so Anhilde has been able to get her to settle to such mundane tasks.  But give her a good blade or a good  horse and you can capture her interest for hours.  Both she and Éomer spend much of the day with the weaponsmiths and those who care for the horses.  Plus she fletches a good arrow, we’ve found.”

            She’d definitely--grown--since then, becoming a woman of even more spirit than the girl had shown.  Yes, more spirit--but more pain as well.  The wariness he’d seen in the maiden had increased and become downright suspicion, or so he deemed; and he’d sensed a level of wounded pride also, and he found himself wondering about that.  After she left him and he’d returned to his room, he sent young Bergil to summon the Warden of the Houses of Healing to him.

            “The Lady Éowyn is grieved that her windows do not look to the east,” he began.

            The Warden appeared surprised.  “She would look that way, toward the danger that threatens all?”

            Faramir found himself smiling rather grimly.  “She is apparently one who prefers not to seek to hide from evil truths, Master Warden.  She knows that her brother has gone that way, and grieves she could not share the danger of the Black Gate with him.  Can you arrange for her to be moved to a room that has a window looking eastward?”

            “Of course, my Lord Steward.”

            “And can you tell me any more of her?  How was it she came to be here among her uncle’s warriors?  And did I hear truly--that alongside a Pherian she struck down the Lord of the Nazgûl?”

            “Yea--so it has proved, alongside the Pherian Meriadoc, who came with the Rohirrim.  From what I have been told, Master Meriadoc rode with her, and stood by her side when Théoden King was assailed by the Ring-wraith, and that each struck him, together destroying the demon.”

            “How was it that she rode with the army?” Faramir asked.  “I still cannot believe that King Théoden would countenance such an act, particularly as she is the next in line for the rule of their people since Théodred is dead and her brother rode with her uncle here to the defense of Minas Tirith and Gondor.  Although I know many women amongst the Rohirrim learn to defend themselves with bow or sword, never had I heard that they allowed them to ride out deliberately to war.”

            “No more they did,” the Warden said.  “When she was brought here she was arrayed as a Rider, and she had bound her breasts under her hauberk that they not betray her.  All among the Rohirrim were dismayed and in grief to learn their White Lady had so hazarded herself.  Lord Elfhelm told me that she had been given the charge of those of their people who’d remained within Rohan.  That she was amongst those who followed in his eored was a shock unto him.”

            “So--she rode in disguise?  And a Pherian rode with her?”

            “So I have been told.”

            “I would speak with Lord Elfhelm, then, to learn more.”

            The Warden was shaking his head.  “I grieve to tell you, my lord, that he is not here.  Éomer King was greatly grieved when he found her upon the field, thinking her dead, and when he learned that she would live by the power of the Lord Aragorn he was much relieved.  However, then he wished to know how it was she came there, so he questioned Lord Elfhelm, and then set him to taking back the road between Minas Tirith and Rohan from those of the Enemy’s troupes that hold it.  I believe this act was intended to punish him for not recognizing and forbidding his sister from accompanying their army.”

            Faramir thought for a time.  “Then is there none whom I might question more deeply to learn the answer to this riddle?” he finally asked.

            The Warden gave a shrug.  “I suppose,” he said slowly, “that you might question Master Meriadoc, the Pherian.  He, too, was left behind here in our keeping, although I believe he can be released today or tomorrow.”

            “He was not badly hurt, then?”

            The Warden straightened.  “Did you not hear, my lord, that he, too, was near death with the Black Breath?  However, the Pheriannath appear to possess great powers of recovery, and as I said he is nearly well once more--although his sword hand yet grows chilled when he becomes tired or distressed.”

            “May I speak with him?”

            “If I can find him, my Lord Faramir.  Now that his strength has returned he spends a good deal of time amongst those of the Rohirrim who were worst wounded, for they appear most cheered to have him amongst them.”

            “Then if you will set one to find him and bring him to me I shall be most grateful.”

            “As you ask, so shall I seek to see it done, my Lord Steward,” the Warden answered him with a bow, and went back into the Houses to seek the Pherian Meriadoc.

*******

            He found the small person in the room in which two of the worst hurt of the Rohirrim were housed.  Of these two, Elfred had been one of Théoden’s oldest household knights, one of those who’d accompanied the refugees from Edoras to Dunharrow and had attended upon the Lady Éowyn before the return of those who’d fought at Helm’s Deep.  His horse, maddened with terror, had thrown him when the Nazgûl had stooped its fell beast upon the King on the fields of the Pelennor, and he’d shattered a hip and shoulder in his fall.  So it was that he had lain helpless when his beloved lady stood to defend her uncle and King.  “It was a wonder to see her stand, so straight and brave when I could see by the trembling of her legs what she wished to do was to flee, as would any sane Man, or so I’d think it.  And then to see you rise up from amongst the fallen and creep behind the horror of it and strike it behind its knee!  Ah--I found myself wishing to sing with joy, had it been possible.  And then she struck!  Sweet Bema--what a blow!  And it fell--fell--its robes empty!  Then you rose and came to bid our beloved King goodbye, and then came Éomer!  Ah, what a day, what a fight!  And our sweet White Lady--to give such a blow and to defeat such a foe!  And you, too--you helped to fell him!  Such heroics from among those who came here to Mundburg from Rohan, Master Meriadoc!”

            The Warden smiled to see how the Pherian flushed, there where he sat in a chair far too tall for his height, there the other side of the Rider’s bed.  “It was only because I found I couldn’t let her stand alone--and I couldn’t bring myself to face him directly, you know.  You would have done the same had you been able to move.”

            Elfred’s face had become solemn.  “Be not so certain, my friend--it was all I could do to bring myself to lift my head when I recognized her voice raised in challenge.  The thought of joining her in her defiance of the creature never came to me, even when I realized you had been moved to strike a blow at it.  Do not undervalue your courage.  And it must have taken great courage to leave your own lands, as pleasant as they sound as you describe them, to come south as you have into the heart of danger and wars that are of no concern to you and your people.”

            Master Meriadoc was shaking his head.  “One thing that I have learned in the past few weeks is that these wars should concern us, too, for we are as threatened as have been you and your people when all is said and done.  The Enemy had learned of our land and folk, and sent his creatures to chase us from the center of the Shire to the borders of Rivendell.  If he wins here, the Shire and Buckland won’t be safe from him.”

            There was a gurgling noise from the other warrior, who’d been struck in the chest.  Mostly he’d lain in a stupor since he’d been brought here, although he’d wakened more and more each time his position was changed that he not develop open sores from lying too long unmoved.  The Pherian and Man turned briefly to look at him.  “He’s looking more as if he will recover,” Master Meriadoc commented.

            “So may it prove.”

            “Well, I’d best allow you to sleep for a time, Elfred.  I shall be allowed to take my turn standing as one of the guards of honor for Lord Théoden this evening, I’m told.”

            “Then hold your torch high for his sake and mine.”

            With that the Pherian slipped to the floor and came out, allowing the Warden to speak with him quietly.

            “If you have time, Master Meriadoc, our Lord Steward Faramir would speak with you.”

            “Lord Faramir?  But I’ve not been properly presented to him as yet.”

            “He would speak, I understand, of the ride here from Rohan.”

            “I’m not certain what I can truly tell him, for I was attached to a smaller eored and was not particularly in a position to speak with the rest in it, as I was not supposed to have come along at all.”

            This was intriguing, and the Warden’s brows lifted as he led the way to Faramir’s presence.

*******

            The new Steward of Gondor watched the coming of this new--Hobbit--with interest.  As was true of Master Samwise, this one appeared practical and thoughtful, and more wary than seemed the small Pherian Guardsman, Peregrin son of Paladin.  The hair was a warm brown and the eyes both intelligent and observant.  He held his right arm rather protectively close to him, with the fist loosely closed.  He wore an odd belt that appeared to be of enameled leaves, one that reminded him of the one he’d seen on his brother’s body as it lay in its funeral boat, from which depended an empty sheath.  This seemed odd--then he remembered that this one had used his weapon on the Witch-king of Angmar, and it was said that all blades perished that truly pierced the unseen flesh of the Nazgûl.  Without realizing he was giving a small nod of understanding.

            “My Lord Faramir, this is Master Meriadoc of the Shire.  And this is the Lord Faramir son of Denethor, Lord Steward of Gondor.”

            Master Meriadoc gave a graceful bow, reminiscent of both Frodo and Peregrin.  “My Lord Faramir,” the Pherian said.  “I am honored.  How might I serve you, sir?”

            “I wished in part some distraction,” Faramir answered, noting more ways in which this one resembled the others of his kind he’d met so far.  “I am told you are a kinsman of Guardsman Peregrin son of Paladin?”

            “Who?”  The Hobbit appeared rather surprised by this title, then paused.  “Oh, yes--that is how you’d know him.  Well, yes--he’s my first cousin.  His father is my mother’s brother, you see.”

            “You are older than he is?”

            “By a few years--yes, my lord.”

            “Come--sit by me.  I will not stand on ceremony now.  So, you came out of the Shire with Masters Frodo and Samwise?”

            The Pherian paused in the act of settling himself on the stool opposite the Man, and appeared startled.  He was now actively searching Faramir’s eyes.  “You know of them?  Wait--are you the one who saw them?  Oh, how were they when you saw them?  Are they well?  Where did you see them?  How is my Frodo?”

            Faramir was surprised and gratified to see this level of concern in the small person’s eyes.  “You care deeply for him?”

            “Of course!  He’s my first and second cousin, once removed each way, and I love him deeply!  He’s been like my older brother all my life, you see!  He’s the reason we left home, Pippin, Sam, and me.  We couldn’t let him go alone!  When did you see him?  Please--tell me!”

            Faramir asked the hovering Warden to have refreshments brought to them, and he swiftly related the meeting in Ithilien and the night spent in the Ranger’s hidden refuge there.

            “And that Gollum was with them?  Why?  How could Frodo begin to trust him?  He wanted to eat cousin Bilbo, you see.”

            “Eat whom?”

            Now it was Merry’s turn to give an abbreviated description of Bilbo Baggins’s unusual adventure with thirteen Dwarves and a Wizard, and the encounter with Gollum in the complex of caverns beneath the Misty Mountains east of Rivendell.  “If Bilbo hadn’t had that--thing--in his pocket and if It hadn’t slipped Itself onto his finger, we wouldn’t be here now,” Meriadoc told him.  “We aren’t certain why It didn’t change him more, but then from what Gandalf has told us It was mostly asleep most of the time, until a few years ago when Sauron began becoming more active himself, and by that time he’d left It to Frodo.”

            Faramir nodded again.  “I see,” he said thoughtfully.  “And when Gandalf was here last he learned Its nature, I understand?”

            “Yes--that is what he told Frodo--that he’d at last found perhaps a way of testing the--It--to see if It was what he was fearful It was.  When the fire-writing showed itself he was terrified, Sam told us.”

            “Sam?  Your kinsman’s companion?”

            “Yes.  Sam is Frodo’s gardener, and he always was spying on Frodo anyway, trying to make certain he knew enough of what Frodo was doing to make things comfortable for him.  But this time he got more of an earful than he’d thought to find, listening beneath the window the way he did.  And when he heard Frodo say he would have to leave the Shire with--with It he apparently choked, and that was how Gandalf found him out.  He decided that Sam should accompany Frodo, and then I decided I would go, too, and then Pippin made it known there was no way in the Shire he’d agree to stay behind.  So another cousin, Fredegar Bolger, said he’d stay behind and try to make folks believe that Frodo was still there for as long as possible so we could be well outside the Shire before anyone realized the rest of us were gone.”

            “I see.”  Faramir considered this information.  “Master Samwise appears to be very devoted to his Master.”

            “Oh, but he is.  He was ten when Frodo came to live in Bag End, and he’s always been Frodo’s shadow in spite of the difference in age.  Oh, he’s only two years older than I am, Sam is; but Frodo was raised by my parents as if he were my older brother, you see.  I suppose it’s only normal I should think on him as if he were my big brother, while Pippin has always acted as if he were little brother to both of us.  Sam is about Frodo’s best friend in many ways, although almost everyone who knows Frodo loves and cares for him--except for Lotho Sackville-Baggins and Ted Sandyman--and Bartolo Bracegirdle, I suppose.  Although Bartolo’s never been spiteful the way Lotho and Ted Sandyman have.  Bartolo may not like Frodo, but he’s no bully, after all.”

            “I see.”  Faramir was feeling amused.  “How was it you did not ride here with Mithrandir alongside Guardsman Peregrin?”

            “Oh, that.  Well, that’s a--difficult story.  It started when Gríma Wormtongue threw this big glassy, stone ball out of the window in Orthanc, and Pippin caught it before it rolled into a puddle.  Gandalf took it away from him, but that night Pippin was obsessed just with the thought of examining it more closely and wouldn’t stop going on about it.  I finally told him that I’d be as curious about it as he was in the morning, but that he should go to sleep then, or at least let me sleep for a time.  After I finally nodded off he seems to have got up again and stolen it from Gandalf, then looked into it.”  He paused, and the Man could see the fear the Hobbit had felt then mirrored in his eyes.  “He said he saw--he said he saw Sauron, and that Sauron could suddenly see him once he admitted he was a Hobbit, and Sauron said to tell Saruman that he was sending to fetch  him away.  I’ve never seen Pippin that terrified, you know.  Then a shadow passed between us and the Moon, and I knew it was one of the Black Riders only somehow riding a winged thing of some kind.  Gandalf said he needed to get Pippin away--that the Enemy was after him somehow, so he brought him here.

            “I hated it--I’m his older cousin and ought to be taking care of him--only once we were caught by the Uruk-hai it seemed mostly he was taking the lead, if you know what I mean.  Of course, I was wounded and he wasn’t, so he was able to think more clearly and all and saw how we could get away from the orcs, and left his cloak brooch behind for Strider to find to let him know we were alive and all.”

            The Hobbit went quiet for a few moments, and Faramir could see the weight of care that lay on him.  “And now what good am I?” he asked in a quieter tone, as if to himself.  “Frodo and Sam slipped away eastward from us--at least they didn’t get caught when the orcs found us on Amon Hen, and I’m not helping them at all.  Boromir’s dead--the orc who was carrying me was so gleeful about how they’d slain the great warrior, you see----”

            Faramir straightened, his face going pale.  “Boromir?  You were with my brother when he died?” he interrupted.

            Master Meriadoc stopped, suddenly remembering he wasn’t alone.  The Man could see he was cradling his right hand to his chest.  “Brother?  He was your----?”  He stopped and swallowed.  “Then, you are that Faramir, the one he told us about!  Oh, but he was so proud of you, you know.”

            Looking into the earnest gaze of the Hobbit, Faramir felt again the grief at his brother’s death as well as a sudden warmth.  “Let you tell me of it,” he suggested quietly.

            The Pherian gave a slight nod and complied.

            They eventually ate a meal together as the Man continued to ply the Hobbit with questions that Meriadoc continued to answer.  At last they came to the question of the Lady Êowyn.  “And you had no idea she was a woman?”

            “No, my Lord Faramir, none.  She’d seen to it I was given a hauberk and gambeson and all that were appropriate for my stature, and even found me a helmet.  I understand that Thengel King had them made for my Lord Théoden when he was a child.  They are still a bit big for me now, but they serve well enough.  I understand that Aragorn had asked her to have these things ready for us when we arrived there in Dunharrow so that I could be appropriately armed to travel with the Riders to Gondor, where we’d thought to be reunited with Pippin and Gandalf.  Only after Gandalf and Pippin left us we were joined by the Rangers from back home.  We’ve always seen them, the Rangers, as they’ve ridden through the Shire on their own business.  And they’re often seen in Bree.  They brought more messages from Lord Elrond, and that was when Aragorn decided he and his folk were needed southward as swiftly as might be, so he left me in Théoden King’s care and went off with his kinsmen and Elrond’s sons and Legolas and Gimli, and suddenly I was alone with folk I didn’t really know at all.  I hated it, you see.  But King Théoden was a very polite fellow, and I came to love him a good deal.  When I offered him my sword and he accepted it I was so proud!  I think that was almost the proudest moment in my life--besides when I was younger and Frodo was proud of me, that is.  And I knew it was going to be all right--that I would be able to ride alongside the King and come here and help Pippin and fight Sauron.

            “Only it didn’t happen that way.  My King didn’t think I could fight properly, so he wanted me to stay safe in Rohan and asked me to serve the Lady Êowyn for him.  As those who were gathering from his own people in Edoras began to mount up ready to ride this young warrior approached me.  He had his helmet on him, and I thought that was rather strange, for most had their helmets at their saddlebows at the time.  He said that he could tell I wanted to go with the King, too, and that if I wished I could ride with him.  He said he’d not wanted to be left behind, either, and so he’d found a way.  He said to call him Dernhelm.

            “I’ll tell you the truth, sir--I thought this one was considered too young to go and so had been ordered to stay behind, and that maybe he’d taken the armor of an older brother or kinsman who’d been killed or injured so he could ride undetected.  He said I could ride under his cloak until we were too far to send us back, and that’s what I did.  He didn’t join the King’s folks, though--instead when we got down into the valley he rode in Elfhelm’s eored.  It wasn’t till the second day that I realized that several of the Men knew I was there, and that they were glad of it.  Suddenly one of them stopped near me, but didn’t look at me, and left a small skin of wine for me.  I shared it with Dernhelm.”

            “Did Dernhelm tell you anything about himself?”

            Meriadoc shook his head.  “Oh, no, sir.  Didn’t speak much, you see.  Maybe afraid if someone recognized his--her--voice they’d tell Êomer or the King.  I really don’t think that Elfhelm knew.  He told me that first day after I awoke here that he’d known I was there, and that he’d thought that was what Dernhelm was hiding--besides the fact he was too young, that is.  Elfhelm said he understood about wanting to fight to protect others in spite of being too young--he was only fifteen when he rode out with the Men the first time, he told me.  So he didn’t ask too many questions of Dernhelm, for he’d thought him but a lad after all.  He’d just never realized that Dernhelm was the King’s niece!

            “I’ve spoken more to Lady Êowyn here than I did in Rohan or on our ride, really.  She tells me we are sword-brethren, having ridden closely together and fought together as we did.  She fought on one side of Windfola, and I did the other, and we must have killed about twenty or more orcs each that way.  I’ve never fought from horseback before, and was glad Boromir had told Pippin and me something of what it’s like as we traveled.  I tried to do things just as he’d told us, and I must have done most of it right.”

            Faramir found himself now smiling when the Pherian mentioned his brother.  “And you’ve spent much time in her company?” he asked.

            Merry nodded.  “A fair amount, although I’ve also spent time with many of the Riders as well.  It’s been told them that I stood with Lady Êowyn to defend King Théoden, so they seem to want to thank me, even if in the end we didn’t manage to save him. 

            “Those from Edoras want to tell me their tales of him from before the days when Saruman ruled him through this Gríma Wormtongue, and Elfred particularly has told me of how Wormtongue’s poisonous counsel was aimed as much at those close to the King as at Lord Théoden himself.  He appears to have done his best to sow distrust between the King and his son as well as his nephew Êomer, and to make both the King and Êowyn feel powerless and alone. 

            “Herrbold, who’s always followed the Third Marshall, has told me of Êomer’s awareness that Gríma sought his sister.  He said that the Man followed behind her always, spying on her; and when she sought to get away from him by riding out or visiting other villages or settlements he would have his own Men shadow her, and would go through her quarters and possessions while she was gone.  I understand that one time she drew a dagger on him when she was cornered by him in a storeroom.  Many believe he may have--hastened the death of the King’s son, Théodred.  Elfred mutters about poisons and the like.  It does sound as if this Gríma was rather--unpopular, and as if he’d convinced Théoden King he was too old and weak to make proper decisions regarding the Mark.  All rejoiced when he was unmasked by Gandalf.”

            “Have they spoken of the lady being drawn to anyone?”

            Now the Pherian was examining him, his eyes somewhat widened; and a hint of a smile lurking at the corners of his mouth.  His voice, however, was solemn enough as he answered.  “They told me she--may have--favored certain Riders when she was younger, although nothing came of it.  I am told all were older than she by several years, and most were happily married.  She was apparently fascinated by Strider when he came to Edoras with Gandalf, and somehow, I’m certain without meaning to do so, he managed to offend her when he and the Rangers came through Dunharrow in order to go through the Paths of the Dead.  Gimli and Legolas both said she asked to go with them, and was upset when Aragorn told her that he didn’t have the authority to allow her to do so.  Elfred was serving as her personal guard at the time, and saw her approach Strider.  He wasn’t certain what she was asking, but it was plain that Aragorn’s answer was no.  He said that from what he could see Lord Aragorn was most polite and correct, but that nevertheless she was angry and humiliated when she returned to her own tent, and the next morning as their party left it was as bad again.”

            “Then she might have considered herself in love with the one who will be our King?”

            “I’m not quite certain, my Lord.  When I’ve spoken of some of the things he did for us during our journey she listens avidly, but with a certain--set to her mouth, if you can understand what I’m trying to describe.”

            “Does he have one he loves and cares about?”

            “Well, if he does, he’s not spoken of it to us.  Not, of course, that we’ve been in much of a position to see anything in the way of ladies since we left Rivendell, and he wasn’t there all that much during that time.  I did see him a time or two speaking with Lord Elrond’s daughter Arwen, but then as Lord Elrond served as his foster father after the death of his own when he was a faunt--or whatever it is Men call that time when children are learning to walk and need so much supervision--I suspect that was just him speaking with the one he thought of as his sister.  He did tell us several times that Lord Elrond’s twin sons were like brothers to him, after all.  The only other time we were around women was when we were in Lothlorien, and we appear to have been there a month.  Now, he spoke with the Lady Galadriel easily enough, but she’s married--and apparently happily so, from what I saw of her and Lord Celeborn together.  And never was there any indication that he felt anything but the strongest respect for one who wields a good deal of power and benevolence.  And neither Pippin nor I was there in Edoras with him, or even Dunharrow.  The King’s party didn’t arrive until long after he and Gimli and Legolas and the Rangers had left, going through the Paths of the Dead.”

            “Did the Lady speak of Lord--Aragorn there in Dunharrow while you were in her presence?”

            “Well, yes, she did.  But it was always with a bit of a pursing of her lips as if she were weren’t quite happy with something he’d said.  And if it was him saying he couldn’t allow her to go with them, I can imagine it was that.”

            “I see.”  Faramir thought for a time.  He could certainly appreciate that her imagination would have been caught by the person of the Heir of Isildur, much as his own had been.  But if the Lord Aragorn didn’t respond to that fascination....

*******

            It was late that evening that Mistress Ioreth came to his chambers.  “Would you feel the desire for a sleeping draught or something of that sort, my Lord Faramir?” she asked him.  “Or perhaps you’d like some more juice--ever since the first night you’ve been here we’ve tried to see to it you have some in the evening----”

            He interrupted smoothly, “Oh, and I do appreciate that thoughtfulness, Mistress.  You and those who serve in this house have been so good to me and so thoughtful for my comfort, and I’ve wished to thank you.”

            She beamed at him.  “It is so good to know that you appreciate it, Lord Faramir.  But you know that we would do anything in our power for you, for after all we’ve known you all your life and have watched you grow from the dear child you were to the responsible Man you are today.  And for your sake and that of your father and brother--and your mother as well--well, all of us who knew her did love her, you see.  A fine lady, your mother was.  But we do what we can for the sake of all your family.

            “Not, of course,” she continued, “that we’d do any less for any who need our care.  Take the Rohirrim--ah, that they should have come so far to our need as they did--they certainly deserve all the comfort and aid we can offer them, and the Pherian Meriadoc even more.  He’s come, apparently, from the furthest reaches of the north kingdom that failed so long ago, after all.  A remarkably hardy race, the folk of this Shire of theirs.  To have been so deep under the influence of the Black Breath as he was and to have recovered so well?  Why, the Lady Êowyn has not recovered anywhere as swiftly, for all she now sees herself as strong enough to have followed the army toward....” For the first time words failed her.  Apparently she could not bring herself to name the Enemy’s lands.

            “Ah, yes, the Lady Êowyn!  She also came to the needs of the lands of the West behind her uncle and brother.”  He smiled at the older woman.  “And how was it she was brought out of the depths of the Black Breath, Mistress Ioreth?”  He gestured to a nearby chair, wordlessly inviting her to remain with him for a time. 

            She flushed as she seated herself, but who was she to turn down the invitation to speak further with their new Lord Steward?  “Well, of course, my lord, it was due to the intervention of our Lord Elfstone, as it was with you.  I don’t know if you realize just how close you came to leaving us altogether, for even he said that all three of you were close to death, and you most of all, sir.”

            He let her chatter on, describing how Aragorn had asked for athelas or kingsfoil, and how none could be found, and of the empty help offered by the Herbmaster.  “Not, of course, that Master Varadorn is all that helpful at the best of times.  Oh, but I know I shouldn’t speak poorly of those who are masters within the Houses, for they are all my betters, of course; but Master Varadorn, for all his learning, truly little appreciates just how the plants he uses grow, much less possible effects of those herbs not commonly used.  There are some uses of lemon balm, for example, that he has sniffed at, although we always used the leaves when I was a maiden in Lossarnach for----”

            Afraid that this might take them too far off the path he wished to tread, he lifted an eyebrow, and she immediately ground to a halt.  She took a deep breath, realizing that even as understanding as Lord Faramir had always shown himself, nevertheless even he would not tolerate all the frankness she preferred to express.  “Right,” she said.  “Well, as Master Varadorn finally admitted he had no kingsfoil within his stores, our Lord Elfstone merely looked at him with a bit of a shake to his head, almost as if he’d not expected more of him, and Lord Mithrandir sent him on his way with the call to one of less learning and more wisdom who might just have some in his house.  Young Bergil was watching from the doorway, and commented to me that the woman who watched in the house in the Street of Lampwrights where he and the other younger boys were staying kept some always to help with her headaches--and I know she does have headaches, the dear woman, for she’s always come to us----” 

            Again it took but a raised eyebrow to bring her back from this tangent to the main topic.  She’d sent Bergil off to the apothecary in the Fifth Circle where the woman had obtained her store of kingsfoil, and of a wonder the Man had answered the door and given the boy all he’d had--a few leaves his apprentices had culled from the mouth of a valley called the King’s Refuge that now served as one of the havens where women, children, elderly, and infirm had been sent to keep them safe during the siege.  His apprentices had gone there a week earlier with the wife and daughters and younger son of the apothecary to see them comfortably settled and to bring back what herbs they could gather in haste, the apothecary foreseeing there might be need for a great store of healing herbs in the coming days.

            Faramir listened, fascinated, as she described how the Lord Elfstone, as she kept calling Aragorn, had called him back to life and consciousness again.  “I slipped out of the room just ere he left yours to have one of the apprentices fetch more water near to boiling so it would be there when he went into the Lady’s room, for it was obvious that he would go there next.  Oh, but she was in a bad way.  I was there with the basin of fresh water and I saw him lean over her and call to her to return, worrying to the others as they came in also that she might waken to despair and so fail to strengthen.  And he would not stay by her after he’d set the kingsfoil to steep and called her back--once he sensed she was making her way back from the Gates he had her brother sit by her side, saying that she loved him truly, not as she thought she’d loved him.  Ah, how much regret I saw in his face when he said how hard it had been for him to not be able to return the love she’d begun to hold for him.”

            The Steward felt a level of relief at that.  So, the heart of the Lord Aragorn was not inclined toward the Lady Êowyn, and she apparently realized it?

            He allowed Ioreth to continue to chatter on about the waking of Master Meriadoc, and then the family members of others who’d already heard from the apprentices that one with the ability to call folks back from death was within the Houses and had called him, their new Lord Steward, back from the very Gates themselves, and now they were now waiting for him as he emerged from the Pherian’s room and begging him to see to their own sons, fathers, brothers, kinsmen and companions of various degrees. 

            But he was listening less and less as she spoke, for his own curiosity had now been slaked, and he was realizing that the warmth he was now feeling in the depths of his heart had a hope.  There was some reason that the one he would see as their King had turned from the adoration he’d seen in the Lady Êowyn, and that heartened him somehow.  He could feel free, he realized, to test the growing feelings he’d found in his own heart this day, for he admitted to himself that he’d been fascinated by her from his first look at her discontented, frustrated expression.  Could it be that at last he’d found the one to stir his heart?

            Giving Ioreth another encouraging nod so as to consider his own emotions under the cover of her chatter, Faramir son of Denethor set himself to considering those feelings.

For Wilwarin and Rhapsody for their birthdays--enjoy!  Beta by RiverOtter.

The Brides’ New Homes

Lúthien

            They were alive, she and her mortal husband; and this time she would be allowed to follow him fully, past the boundaries that ordinarily would hold the daughter of an Elf and Maia within Arda until the unmaking of the world.  She looked uncertainly, but with growing delight, into Beren’s eyes.

            “And this place has been granted us?”

            He nodded solemnly.  “Yea, to us and our family, or so they tell me.”

            “And once again within Endorë?”

            Again he nodded.

            “A time to know the fullness of our love, then,” she whispered.

            “A time and a place,” he assured her.

Celebrían

            She alighted for the first time as Elrond’s wife within the vale of Imladris, looking about her in interest.  “And this is our home now?” she asked, assuring herself this was real.

            “You are free to do whatever you wish, to order building or removal of structures, however you wish so as to make it as much your home as mine,” her husband explained.

            She looked about.  No golden mellyrn here, raising their silver limbs toward the blue of the heavens.  But the singing of the waters--that was heartening.  “I shall love it here, I believe,” she announced, smiling broadly.

Arwen

            She awoke, feeling strange, lying next to her new husband.  No singing water outside to welcome her into a new day; no golden trees to ward her about.  The stone chamber seemed somehow--heavy.  She felt heavier as well.  For the first time she knew that she’d abandoned the Life of the Eldar, and that the Gift of Iluvatar was hers.  Vaguely she wondered what that would feel like to accept at the last.

            Arwen stirred, and he awoke; she turned to look into his eyes, seeing the startled delight, knowing that from now on neither should ever truly awake alone.

Éowyn

            She slipped off his saddlebow--he’d begged to carry her so to the site of their future home, and at last she’d relented.  It was a beautiful place.  True, there were ruins here, but what of that?  They would be incorporated into the home she and Faramir should share.

            She looked about, seeing the great mount of stone on which the castle of Emyn Arnen had once stood and where it would soon stand again.  The trees should have left her feeling strange, cutting off her view as they did, but they didn’t.  She smiled.  Pointing, “The garden there, I think.”

Rosie

            Rosie was embarrassed by the treatment given her by the wife of Saradas Brandybuck.  Sam stood by her, his face stiff with fury, his arm about her protectively.  But it was Master Frodo who faced down the Hobbitess.

            “I will have you know, Dirna, that Rosie is the Mistress of this hole, and is not to be treated as a servant.”

            Dirna Brandybuck looked, wide-eyed, from Frodo to Sam and back.  “You mean, you share her?”

            Master Frodo’s face went stark white, and for the moment she saw in him the majesty of Lord Iorhael, as Sam told her he was known in Gondor.  “You would think that of my brother’s wife?” he said, his voice dangerous.  “For know this--Samwise Gamgee is my adopted brother, and not merely my gardener.  He sought to give his life for me and for all of Middle Earth.  There is nothing I would not do to honor him--and his family--as he deserves.  And I suggest that if you question the propriety of me sharing my hole with the brother of my heart and his family, that you write to the King Elessar himself.  I am certain he would be glad to set you straight.”

For Cheryl Ann Alexis and TariElfLady for their birthdays--a quaddrabble.

Words of Counsel

            “So--you have been chosen to accompany the Ringbearer on the road to Mordor?”

            “Yes, my Lord Glorfindel.  I had thought perhaps you should be chosen for this place.”

            “And you think that once we left northern Eriador the Enemy would not be aware of the fact the Balrog-slayer was headed his way?  Nay--that would have proven disastrous.  Nay--better one he has paid little attention to, even if you are a Prince of Eryn Lasgalen.  But keep the blade of your knife keen and your bowstring dry, child--his creatures will undoubtedly follow you along the way, drawn by the presence of the Ring.  And stand by both Frodo Baggins and our Estel.  Remind the Hobbit that he is compassed round with the love and concern of those who serve the Light, and remind Aragorn that he cannot expect to do everything himself, and that all of us at times make mistakes in judgment.”

            Glorfindel examined Legolas Thranduilion, then smiled.  “Sauron is too prideful, I think; and you shall help to help shake that pride somewhat.  Go with my blessings.”

            “If only they had not included the Dwarf--speaking of pride.”

            The ancient warrior shook his head.  “Nay--do not discount him until he has proved himself one way or another, my prince.  The Children of Aulë also have a stake in seeing Middle Earth ridded of Sauron’s treachery.  He has cost them much--perhaps the chance to return to their former numbers once more.  He has seen what Sauron’s creatures have done to his lands and peoples; and his folk have a special love and regard for the Periannath.  He will stand by Frodo Baggins with all that is within him, you will find.”

            Sensing the light reproof, Legolas bowed his head.  “As you say, my lord.”

 *******

            As he glanced behind during the run through Rohan, Legolas could see the determined Dwarf keeping stride, there behind Aragorn.  Frodo had chosen to go on alone--save for the determined Sam.  The only way they could keep faith with the Ringbearer at this point would be in rescuing Merry and Pippin, if it could be done.  Yes, when choosing Gimli son of Gloin Elrond had chosen well.  A worthy Dwarf!  Then he caught a winded smile of approval from Aragorn, who appeared able to read his thoughts.

            He turned back to the trail of the Uruk-hai, smiling slightly.

            They would rescue the young Hobbits, that he pledged.

Inspired by "Forfeit" written by Lady Branwyn, a story nominated for a MEFA in 2008.  Beta by RiverOtter.

The Guardsman Comes Home

            “And how long have they determined he has left?” the King asked as he walked at the side of his friend and Steward down into the town that had grown about the slopes of Emyn Arnen.

            Faramir shrugged his shoulders, and beyond him Elboron mirrored his father’s gesture.  “They will not hazard a guess, my Lord Elessar,” he explained.  “All that is known for certain is that it will not be long.”

            Aragorn nodded his head thoughtfully, his expression solemn and compassionate.  One of the personal guards that had accompanied them came out of a lane leading toward the forested area that lay between the great hill of stone and the South Road.  “All is well, my lords,” he said  “They await your arrival.”

            Together the King, the Prince of Ithilien and his heir walked the half-mile to the entrance to the estate granted to the family of Beregond, Captain of the White Company.  Bergil’s wife Esselien met them at the door to the captain’s home, smaller than some of the great houses in Minas Tirith, perhaps, but certainly comfortable and proud enough for the Man’s family.  “My lords,” she said, inclining her head respectfully, “he is sitting out in the garden.  If I might lead you....”

            She led them through the house to the double doors leading out from the dining room.  There, amidst the rock roses and twining ivy they found Beregond of the Guard, sitting upon the garden bench, leaning forward with his forearms crossed and supported by the head of his cane, his son Bergil, whose own temples were now silvered, sitting beside his father, and grandson Bergemon sitting on a light stool opposite them, his black and silver tabard shining in the sunlight of a warm autumn day.  “And then young Borogil sprang out from behind the cherry trees it is said Lord Denethor had planted for our Prince’s mother, pretending to be a dog,” Bergemon was saying as they approached.  “It took the envoy from Khand quite by surprise, to find himself apparently being attacked by a small child who seemed taken by a fit of madness.  That the King himself reached down and swooped up the child and bade him mind his manners startled him even more, I think!  His older brother Hirlion was red with embarrassment.”  The three Men were all shaking with laughter by the time King and Princes came even with them.

            “That I would have loved to see--our Lord Húrin’s younger grandson pretending to be a hound--and before the envoy from Khand!”  Beregond smiled, although it could be seen there was a decided level of pain behind his good humor.  “Ah how our Lord King must delight to have small children playing in the gardens of the Citadel once again.  Is that not true, my Lord Elessar?” he asked, looking up at the newcomers.

            “Indeed.  And you, my beloved Captain--how is it with you?”

            Beregond shrugged.  “As well, I suppose,” he said, “as it can be for one who knows his time approaches all too soon.  I am honored you would come all this way to visit me.”

            The King raised one hand.  “Nonsense--you know I would not stay away once we heard the news.  Too dear to our hearts have you become.  Would you permit me to examine you?”

            After some time the King straightened, having listened to the soldier’s chest and back, having felt his pulse and laid his hands over his belly, examined eyes and tongue and nails.  He listened patiently to the descriptions of the symptoms noted and what had been said by the local healers.  At last Beregond, Bergil, and Esselien had related all they knew.

            Beregond’s expression was calm.  “I have no fear for my family,” he said quietly.  “You and our beloved Prince Faramir and now Elboron as well have ever done well by us.  I have but one regret--that I have never seen the White Tree again blossoming within the Courts of the King.”

            The Lord Aragorn Elessar searched the eyes of the old soldier, knowing the faithfulness of his heart.  At last he said softly, “That can be remedied.”

            He came again near sunset, carrying what appeared to be a casket of lebethron.  He came into the great room of the house where Beregond sat before the fire of sweet cherry wood, his family about him, and asked that Bergemon set a table before his grandsire.  As that was being done he lifted off the lid of the casket and gently pulled out of it a bag of worn yet still rich black velvet tied with silver cord.  As he unfastened the ties he said quietly, “You are about to see one of the ancient heirlooms of our house, my friends.  I ask that you not gossip of this with others.”

            At their nods, he returned his attention to the cord, and having it at last loosened he lifted it away, allowing the bag to fall free of its contents.  Gently he reached into the box and brought out a great ring of mithril, which he set upon the table in front of the former Captain of the White Company.  Finally he lifted the palantir of Orthanc and set it upon the ring, carefully twisting it until it was in the proper orientation.  He then knelt beside Beregond’s chair and pressed against it, setting his hands on each side of the stone, which swiftly began to glow.  “Can you see, my friend?” he asked after a moment.

            Beregond’s eyes were filled with wonder and delight.  “See?  Oh, yes--I can see!  The Citadel--it is even more beautiful than I remember!  And the Tree!  Oh, how wonderful!  And is that the Lady Melian beside her brother?”  He leaned forward.  “Oh, yes,” he whispered, his expression proud.

            The King showed him the whole of the city, now cleansed of wounds, its gardens filled with trees going gold with the autumn’s advance, late roses and chrysanthemums glowing like small fires, doves celebrating the last of the sunset by wheeling about the Tower of Ecthelion, their wings catching the golden light.  And he showed him the Silent Street, the House of Stewards restored, the place where the old White Tree lay in honor.  He then showed the House of the Guards of the Citadel.  “I will ask this of you, my friend,” King Elessar said as Beregond examined the scene with an avidity that surprised even him, “if you would wish to lie there after death?  Your honor and courage and the love all bear for you have earned you that right.”

            Beregond shifted his gaze from the Seeing Stone to the King’s face, searching his eyes, his own face alight with a hope long thought laid to rest.  “Then--then I shall be allowed at the last to reenter Minas Tirith once more?” he whispered.

            The King smiled, laying the hand bearing his seal upon that of the soldier.  “Even the Noldor under the Doom spake by the Lord of Mandos himself have found that they have been allowed to return to Aman,” he assured him gently.  “How long it might be before they are housed anew in bodies restored no one can say, perhaps.  And even the Lady Galadriel has been allowed to return to the land of her birth, having fulfilled her purpose here in the Hither Lands.  Are we less than the Valar in forgiveness for one whose trespass was done in response to love and fealty rather than a baser motive?  Oh, yes, child, the gates of the city shall open to receive you once more, if this is what you desire.”

 *******

            A few days later the King’s party returned across the Pelennor from beyond the city of Osgiliath.  Their King Elessar rode beside a low wagon within the box of which could be seen from the walls Captain Bergil sitting, his father’s head pillowed in his lap.  On the other side of the wagon rode Prince Faramir, his son and others of their house riding before them.  As they approached the city Lord Elboron urged his horse forward, coming to the gates and dropping down to speak with the Guardsmen there.  The Captain could be seen straightening, and quickly he called out behind him in gladness.  By the time the wagon approached six Men had gathered, and a youth was on his way up through the city to the Sixth Circle to alert those in the Houses of Healing.  As the wagon pulled to a halt the King and Prince Faramir had dismounted and were already reaching to help ease out the padded litter on which lay Beregond, former Captain of the White Company and before that Guard of the Citadel, from the bed of the vehicle, and Captain Bergil was being helped to follow his father.  The King signaled those summoned for the duty to come forward, and gladly they took up the litter.

            Word was already running through the White City as they at last entered through the renewed gates, and Beregond was able to see that inside as well as outside the image of Elendil the Tall again watched over all who came and went from Minas Tirith.  “It’s Captain Beregond!” he heard being called out, and folk came out to watch the proud procession.  Soon women, children, and even some of the Men of the city were pressing forward to offer him bright blooms and sprays of orange and red and golden leaves.  “Welcome home!” could be heard called from all sides.  In each of the levels of the city it was much the same, and many pressed forward to see Captain Beregond brought home once more.

            He lingered within the Houses for a full month, but the night of the eve of November he asked to be carried up to the Court of Gathering.

            Prince Eldarion stood waiting for them, and the Princesses Melian and Idril held warmed blankets to lay over him.  Beregond examined the memorial to the four Hobbits with pride.  “What we have all owed to them,” he whispered before indicating he wished to be brought beneath the White Tree.  It was losing its leaves, but was no less lovely for that.  “And this,” he breathed softly, “is what we fought to see renewed.  Yes, renewed indeed!”

             They set his cot beneath the Tree, and those who loved him gathered around him.  He held the hands of his son and his son’s wife, and smiled up gladly at the stars seen through the Tree’s branches.  At one point he reached out to gently touch the bole of the tree, and went still with added wonder.  “We aren’t the only ones,” he said, looking to the King, “to be beneath a White Tree tonight.”  His hand gripped the bark more firmly than he’d held anything for days.  His eyes closed, and he was smiling.  “No,” he whispered, “not the only ones.”

            At last he seemed to slip into a doze, and then came the time when the last breath was not followed by another, and they knew he was gone.

 *******

            Three days his body lay in state upon the same catafalque on which had lain the body of Théoden King of Rohan, and a silver cloth of honor was laid across him up to his breast.  Only when the full complement of the Guard and the White Company was gathered was the bier at last raised, and they carried Captain Beregond to his last rest in the tomb set aside for the Guards.  He was laid upon the table prepared for him, and at last his son removed the pall and straightened his father’s white and silver dress mantle, opening it to show that beneath it he wore the black and silver of Gondor rather than the silver and white of Ithilien.  “It was his wish,” Bergil said gently.  “It was always his greatest pride that he had once been found worthy to be made a Guard of the Citadel.”

Inspired by Ellie’s story “The Dark of Night.”  Thanks so for the spark to ignite this one.

  Spider's Ambition

            Slowly, the small spiderling carefully, tentatively crept out of the darkness of the cavern in which she’d dwelt with her mother, ever since her other brothers and sisters had crept away, those her mother had not grown annoyed with and poisoned, sharing them with this one of all her progeny she had cared for most.  The challenge had been issued by the star-filled warrior, and her mother had at the end gone out to face him.  But he had not faced Mother Ungoliant weaponless, with only his hands and mouth and body as was true with her, frozen as she was in her great spider shape.  Nay, coward that he was, he used arrows to almost totally blind her, then hacked at her with his sword.  Curse him!  Curse him, for he’d destroyed that which he barely understood.

            But although he left the body of the great black spider for dead, in that he was mistaken.  Her fëa yet lingered within the failing hröa, lingered in shock and dismay that it must now leave the Bounds of Arda and perhaps dwell in the Void, or more likely shiver away to nothingness.  She denied that Melkor had ever mastered her, choosing instead to imagine it had merely pleased her to take this shape at his behest, and to keep it until she could not revert again to her true being.  Hunger for light and life became, once she was frozen as the great spider, hunger for the Light and life of others; but it seemed that the more she consumed the hungrier she’d become.  Melkor and his lieutenant Sauron may have come to thirst for power, but they did not realize that they were no different in nature than she was.  At least she was sufficiently honest with herself to admit freely she desired to glut herself on all others; what was their desire to turn the whole population of the world into those who worshiped them but the same thing got up in shades of “Let’s-pretend-they-do-this-because-they honor-and-fear-me”?

            Ah, my child, my daughter, she thought weakly to the tiny spiderling.  To what will you come without me to guide you--to protect you from such a one as that?

            What is happening, Ama? the spiderling asked back.  Why didn’t you bring his body back with you that we might feast on it together?

            One leg, half hacked from her body, spasmed uncontrollably.  Alas, child, I am undone.  My body has he destroyed, and soon I shall not be able to dwell here further.  And there is so much yet I had wished to tell you, to share with you, to teach you....

            The spiderling ran its multiple eyes over its mother’s nearly lifeless body. “I need to eat,” it whispered.  “I need to eat to grow.”

            It was a statement of fact, not of apology or explanation.  And spiders commonly consume others of their kind....

            So saying, the spiderling approached the still spasming limb and brushed away as best it could the dead portion, for she preferred her meat yet living.

            Further shocked to find that what she’d done to her mates, engorged by Melkor’s power to allow her physical satisfaction and to help breed more of her kind for his use, was now being visited upon herself, Ungoliant found her attention drawn to her daughter’s steady feeding.  And suddenly there was a hope that she might be able to avoid death and the dissolution of her spirit.  Nay, she would not die--not fully, not she!  But could it be done?  Could she hide her fëa within such a host?  Perhaps one day find a worthy second host body in which to dwell fully, to take over its control, to use as a weapon with which to wreak her vengeance against the world that had brought Eärendil to confront and so best her?

            She could try....

            And as the daughter fed on the body of the mother, Ungoliant wracked her remaining memories to try to remember how it was she had clothed her fëa with the hröa of a spider, and how on occasion she had, in the earliest times at least, reverted back again.  Now that her spirit was almost free of the body as the hröa she’d borne slowly lost its last vestiges of life her memories became clearer, and she just managed it--

            --as her daughter at last found the Maia’s heart in the cooling shell of the spider’s body.

            And so Ungoliant’s get managed to retain the company of her mother, not that she was necessarily fully pleased at the prospect.

            He has gone, but has surely told others where he found me, Ungoliant told her growing daughter.  Others may come to look upon my corpse and gloat over my defeat.  They must not find you, child.  You must leave this place--find another.  Seek out Melkor’s servant--he will draw others such as we to him, and perhaps from them you might find a mate, even if it were to be one of your unworthy brothers, one of those too craven to remain here with us, one of those who survived to creep away....

            And the young spider found the advice sufficiently wise to heed it, one night creeping north and east until, after the new age was well begun, in a wilderness of stone and ash, near the crater of a small volcano, she found where he who’d once been Aulendil but was now called Sauron lay in hiding.  And in the mountains between his refuge and the living lands to the west she found another cavern, black with the eternal dark she’d been born to seek to inflict upon the rest of the world, and there she made their home--that for herself and her mother’s fëa, there spinning the webs of darkness that her mother had learned to spin even ere she poisoned the two Trees, sucking out their life and Light.  Oh, the world would be Ungoliant’s in the end, the two agreed....

For Tracy Claybon for her birthday; written for the LOTR Community Young/Old Challenge.  Thanks so to RiverOtter for the beta.

At the Harbor

            The children of Samwise Gamgee all became quiet as the family came through the archway that led to the quays of Mithlond.  It was here their father had come with Uncle Frodo some years back to see him take ship for Tol Eressëa, and the solemnity of his attitude had proven contagious.  Frodo-lad and Rosie-lass crowded close on either side of their father, while little Merry clung to Elanor’s hand, his other hand to his mouth, sucking at his fingers as he stared, wide-eyed, at the Firth of Lhûn for the first time.  Rosie cradled Pippin-lad in her arms, shifting him about so he could see, and his mouth rounded in surprise as he looked at the light dancing upon the water.

            There were a few boats along the quays, but no grey ship such as Sam had seen before.  Only one appeared sufficiently large to support a voyage, but it was of different configuration than had been the ship on which his Master had sailed.

            One of the Elves working along the quays set aside the nets that he’d been folding, rose and came to meet them.  He examined them closely, then bowed quite deeply.  “My Lord Samwise--it is an honor.  And this is your family?  I am Galdor of Mithlond, at the service of you all.”

            Sam bowed back solemnly.  “And I’m ever at yours, Master Galdor.  I member you from the Council.  You work with nets?”

            The Elf smiled.  “We who work here in the Havens have become too few for any one of us to avoid whatever tasks need doing.  If the nets need folding and I am the one available, then I fold nets.”  He indicated the boats.  “Mostly these are fishing craft, although a few are used also for patrolling the coasts of Eriador.  The large ship is for our merchant traders, and is patterned after the crafts of Men, for many will not trade with those who are readily identified as Elves.  Some of the Dúnedain help to crew it and do much of the direct trading.  There are two other such ships, one owned by Lord Aragorn Elessar’s kinsmen.  You have come for the unveiling of the memorial to the riding of the Ringbearers?”

            This memorial had been commissioned by the sons of Elrond to mark the departure of their father, grandmother, Gandalf the Grey, and Frodo and Bilbo Baggins, along with many others of the remaining great Elves, from Middle Earth.  They had wished it placed near the walls of Mithlond, that for what time the memorial might last, all passing should remember the greatness that had passed from Middle Earth after the end of the War of the Ring.  The King’s own sculptor had come north to see it raised, and was to join them with those who had assisted him the following day.

            Sam nodded.  “We were invited special,” he told him.  “Merry and Pippin--they’re seein’ to the rooms as we’ve been offered, them and their families.  But Frodo-lad here and our Ellë--they wanted to see the water.  They’ve not seen nothin’ larger’n the Brandywine afore, and I don’t think as they could imagine somethin’ so big and bright as the Sea.”

            Galdor smiled more broadly.  “And this is but a portion of the Sea,” he told the children.  “It is so much larger when one passes out the gates there of the firth.”

            Frodo-lad’s eyes were wide with wonder and a great pleasure that plainly wasn’t shared by his father.  “And Unca Frodo went sailin’ there?” he asked, pointing down the length of the firth.

            The Elf’s expression became more solemn.  “That he did, young sir,” he said with a great gentleness to his voice.  “We were honored to serve him, considering what he did for all of us.”

            The Hobbit lad nodded thoughtfully as he stared toward the distant narrowing of the firth and the shining of the open Sea beyond it.  “How I wish as he could of come back again,” he said softly.  “I’d love to of knowed him.”

            Elanor remained quiet, looking down the firth with what the Elf recognized as a look of longing.  He asked, “Do you remember him, small mistress?”

            “I think I do,” she said.  “I know I sing songs he used to sing to me.  I know he loved me--loved me a lot.”

            “That he did, sweet Ellë,” her mother said.  “Never doubt that--never doubt that.  And if’n him could of stayed here with you, you know as he would of.”

            The small, delicate lass nodded, staring off down the firth while reaching up to take her father’s hand. 

            After another moment in which the Elf noted the still-healing grief in Lord Samwise’s eyes, the Hobbit gave himself a shake and said, “Well, we need to find as where we’ll sleep tonight, and I’m thinkin’ as your little brother needs changin’.  Come now, children.”  And with great dignity he turned away from the sight of the path his Master and friend had taken, but not before Galdor noted that this one, too, felt the Sea Longing--felt it strongly!  He watched after the small family as they went back toward the guesthouses to find where they would stay for the next few days.

*******

            Galdor and Círdan watched early the next morning as the tiny Hobbitess slipped out of the guesthouse door and slowly and carefully made her way toward the quays.  “There, my lord, walks Elanor daughter of Samwise,” Galdor advised the other.

            “I see,” the Shipwright said, his gaze intent on the small lass.  After a moment he said, “I shall go and speak with her.”  So saying, he turned to follow her, leaving Galdor near the entrance to the shipyard where even now timber was being gathered for the crafting of the next ship intended to set sail, never to return.

            As he approached the very small figure of Lord Samwise’s older daughter he could tell that she was aware of his approach and was watching his shadow advance.  However it was not until he spoke to her that she actually looked up at him.  “Greetings, child.  I am Círdan, who has been granted lordship here over the Elven havens.  And what might we do for you, my Lady Elanor?” he asked.

            At that she turned to face him more directly.  A twisted smile quirked her lips.  “I’m not a lady,” she informed him.  “I’m only a lass.”

            “You are Lord Perhael’s daughter, which makes you a lady in the eyes of those outside the Shire, sweet mistress,” he advised her.  “We have waited a time to greet you and your sister and brethren.”

            “Oh?”  She thought on that.  “Did you know about us, then?”

            He smiled as he nodded.  “Yes--Lords Elladan and Elrohir as well as the son of Gildor Inglorion have kept us apprised of the increases in your family.  They all hold your adar in great esteem.”

            She gave a small nod, then said, “He loves Elves.  Says he always has, even when he was a littler one than me.”  She examined him.  “You have a beard,” she noted.

            “Yes, there are some amongst the Eldar who do grow beards.”

            “I never saw an Elf with a beard afore--before,” she corrected herself, confiding, “Daddy says as I ought to talk more educated than him and Mummy.”

            The Elf felt a smile quirking at the corner of his mouth, but maintained his courteous demeanor.  “Does he, now?  That will undoubtedly serve you well as you mature, my lady.”

            She smiled more fully in response to that, and he could see a charming dimple on her right cheek before she turned back to her earlier interest.  “How come you have a beard and most Elves don’t?”

            “It is because I am one of the most ancient of Elves of all, certainly the oldest of those remaining within the mortal lands.  I awakened under Elbereth’s starlight long, long ago, before the creation of the two Trees or the rising of Moon and Sun.”

            Her eyes had widened.  “Ooh, but that’s a long, long time ago, isn’t it?”

            He nodded.  “A very, very long time ago.  I was there when Lord Oromë found us and then returned to call us to follow him to Aman.”

            It was plain she didn’t fully understand that statement, but he did not feel compelled to explain.

            Elanor Gamgee turned her attention back to the length of the Firth of Lhûn.  “Master Galdor told my brother that out there the water’s even bigger.”

            “He spoke truly.  It stretches west, north, and south as far as you can see once you get past the gates to the firth.”

            “And that’s where Uncle Frodo went?”

            “Yes.”

            After a moment she said in a low voice, “Daddy cried last night.  For all he loves us, he loves Uncle Frodo more.”

            He felt himself shake his head.  “Never believe that, small lady.  No, he does not love his Master more than you--if he had, he would never have stayed behind when he came to bear Lord Iorhael company and fare him well.  Nay, it was love of you and your mother and those who would yet come and of your people and your land that kept him here within Ennor then, and that keeps him here now.”

            Suddenly she straightened, standing on tiptoe to see.  “A ship!” she whispered.  “There’s a ship there?  Is it Uncle Frodo’s ship, come back again?”

            He dropped his hand to the top of her head.  “Nay, sweet one, but that is not.  He cannot return again, not that way.”

            She looked up at him, her face saddened.  “You mean it’s impossible?”

            He smiled gently in comfort, stroking the golden curls.  “No, small lady, not impossible, but very, very improbable.  Nor, if he could return, would he be able to remain with you long, I fear.  Already his being was changing, and had he stayed before I deem he would have died shortly.  How much the transformation has continued and to what he will come in the end I cannot say, for I have little experience with the magics that were twisted by Morgoth’s lackey when he first sought to construct Morgul blades.  I do not know if Lord Frodo’s body, already changing, could sustain him were he to return here.”

            She looked at the boat there in the distance of the firth again.  “Then, if that’s not his ship, what ship is it?”

            He smiled.  “It is a fishing boat belonging to the Men who live in the harbor there,” he explained, pointing northward.  “Most there are kinsmen of the Lord Aragorn Elessar.  Some are coming here to learn from us what we can teach them before all of us abandon Middle Earth, but some remain there yet on the site of what was the port city of Dûnestelilond.”

            He could feel her disappointment.  At last she said sadly, “Then he can’t come home again, then?”

            “No, beloved daughter of Eru, he cannot come home again.  He has had to find a new home, one fit for him and apt to his healing.”

            “Yes,” she said slowly.  “Yes, Daddy said he was bad hurt.”

            “Very badly hurt indeed, Elanor Perhaelieth.”

            She giggled briefly.  “My last name’s Gamgee--or Gardner, I suppose.  Lots of folks call us the Gardners now as we own Bag End.”

            “Perhaelieth means daughter of Samwise.”

            “Oh.”  Again she went quiet, staring back down the firth toward the distant fishing boat as it came closer to its harbor.  At last she continued, “What you said, that about my daddy could of gone----”  She twisted to look up at him again.  “You mean he’d of been let go, with Uncle Frodo, I mean?”

            “He also was one of the Ringbearers.  Yes, he has been granted that grace, although he chose not to take ship then.”

            “But, he can go, too?  Sometime?”

            He smiled gently down at her.  “Yes, at some time he chooses, when there is a ship ready, he may follow his Master and, I hope, be reunited with him.  But I deem your adar will not do so for some time yet, not until you and your brethren and sisters have homes, families, and lives of your own to live, and not unless your naneth is gone as well.”

            Her expression became defiant.  “My mummy’s not going to die!”

            He felt the compassion he knew for mortals rise up in his heart.  “I do not mean that she will die soon, sweet Lady Elanor.  Indeed, what foresight is granted to me shows that it will not be for quite some time as your people reckon it, and not until your family has increased to twice what it is now, or perhaps more.  But you all are mortals, and it is the Creator’s gift to you that you need not remain here ever within Arda, seeing lands and delights come and go and knowing the griefs common to Elves.  For every mortal there is appointed a time to leave this life behind, that you may go beyond the Bounds of Arda.  And I do not doubt that when that day comes your mother will rejoice to return the gift of her life to accept that Gift and go where Eru brings her.”

            She looked puzzled by that, but aloud she merely said, “Oh.”  She turned her attention back to the fishing boat again.  Her face was growing determined.  “Well, when it’s time and my dad decides to go, I’ll go with him.  He’ll need me, if my mummy’s not there, to help take care of him.”

            He could not withhold a soft laugh.  “Ah, dear child, but you do not know how it will be for you when that day comes.  Your father never thought to ever leave off following his Master, wherever Lord Frodo ever might go; but it proved different when the day came for Frodo Baggins to take ship.  By then there were you and your mother to anchor him here, here within Ennor, and he would not abandon you nor betray your mother’s love.”

            Again she looked up at him, tears swimming at the corners of her eyes.  “You mean as I can’t go?” she asked in a small voice.

            “I mean that you, too, will most likely find your other loves will bind you here until your proper time comes, child.  For you will not always remain merely Lord Samwise Gamgee’s daughter--one day you will be a worthy Hobbit’s wife, and mother and grandmother to delightful children, as well as a friend to King and Queen all through your life.  And to whom will they look for companionship and the delight of sharing memories if you abandon them?  For they have bound themselves here, also, here within the mortal lands until the fullness of their days has come and they, too, at last look to accept the Gift.”

            She looked up at him as if startled to consider that idea.  “You mean I’ll be friends with the King and Queen, like my daddy is now?” she asked.

            He nodded.  “Yes, child.”

            Slowly her face grew brighter, joyous even at the thought.  “Friends with the King and Queen!  I do love them, you know.”

            “I see.”  A bell rang from the guesthouses.  He straightened.  “Ah, the dawn meal is ready.  Shall we go together, you and I, to see what is prepared for your repast, Lady Elanor?”

            She gave him a curtsey.  “I’d be glad to, Mr. Círdan, sir.”  Straightening proudly, she reached up to take his hand and turned to accompany him back toward the guesthouse where her family had spent the night.  Before they made it halfway, however, her dignity had melted away and she was skipping at his side, a small eager Hobbit lass with the thought of a delightful breakfast on her mind.

For LindaHoyland for her birthday.  Enjoy!

Argument and Anticipation

            As they left the Council Chamber, following behind the rest of the lords of the realm, Faramir reached to loosen the neck of his shirt under his surcoat.  “I swear,” he sighed, shaking his head and rolling his shoulders to loosen the tension that had set in during the last hour of discussion, “that had Lord Mardiol raised one more question of ‘but what if’ I would have sought out my father’s riding crop to use on him.  He has become the most obdurate of Men in the last few years!”

            Aragorn Elessar nodded.  “My uncle Halbaleg used to comment such people were useful mostly to help us develop patience and diplomatic skills, although he was known more than once to interrupt such individuals to ask just what point was intended or if the speaker had truly thought through the likelihood of such conditions as were being suggested.  However, he also pointed out that although nine of ten times such arguments were to the point of absurdity, that one time when such folk manage to bring up possibilities that are indeed valid make them still valuable people to retain on the Council.”

            Faramir eyed his friend and king.  “Then, you suggest I leave Father’s riding crop wherever it is he left it?”

            “Are you truly ignorant of where it is?”

            The Steward shrugged.  “I suspect, actually, that it was quietly packed away by one of those who helped clean and refit the Steward’s wing while I was in the Houses of Healing, as an object that I probably did not wish to see again.  In his last few years, the few times Father went riding he was often cruel to his horse, I thought.  I never found I needed a riding crop to get my mount to go faster or to respond more quickly.  However, during the years he spent as Steward Father went out of the city, indeed away from the Citadel, less and less often to the point I believe he forgot that horses will do far better when we are willing to cooperate with them than when we seek blind obedience from them.”

            He was quiet for a time before adding, “For all his ability to read the hearts of those who came before him, after Mother’s death Father became increasingly unable to fully appreciate why others will think as they will.  It is as if he became increasingly blind to the emotions of others or their ability to reason differently than he himself did.”

            Aragorn gave a twisted smile.  “Ah, but that is the way of it with so many wise yet stubborn Men.”

            “I often felt sorry for him,” Faramir said, wistfulness detectable in his voice.

            The King nodded.  “It is too bad, I think, that Pippin didn’t come into his service years ago when his thinking was less rigid.  I find the reasoning of Tooks sufficiently confusing at times to be refreshing, and a wonderful exercise to the mind in trying to follow it.”  He turned more purposely toward the doors.  “Thinking of which, shall we, you and I, spend the evening in the guesthouse in the Sixth Circle, do you think?  Between Peregrin Took’s mercurial mind and Sam’s common sense and Merry’s ability to think several steps ahead and Frodo’s empathy--not to mention the cooking prowess of them all--the evening should prove entertaining, instructive, comfortable, provocative, and most delightful.”

            As the two of them headed for their rooms to change into more comfortable garb Faramir added, “And don’t forget most satisfying.  I wonder if Master Samwise has found those sturgeons he’d hoped to find in the fish markets?  It ought to be a wonderful meal he was planning for tonight.”

            “Even if he didn’t find sufficient sturgeon, you would be amazed to learn what he can do with even simple things such as herbs and mushrooms he encounters along his path.  And when a Hobbit manages to encounter a truffle!  Ah, my friend----”

            The guardsmen opening the doors to the Royal and Steward’s wings watched with bemusement as their lords passed within, obviously anticipating good things in the coming evening.

For Alassante for her birthday  With so many thanks to RiverOtter and SurgicalSteel for the beta.

Wounds from the Enemy

            Elrond watched the arrival of his guests with a mixture of excitement and discomfort.  Elendil and those who guarded him he recognized well enough, for he had hosted them frequently enough in the past century or so, since they had arrived in Eriador, driven from the ruins of Númenor on the wings of the storm.  But the one who rode by Elendil was one he’d not yet seen, this grim figure followed by four others, two of whom resembled him closely.  From the descriptions of the beardless face he recognized this must be Isildur, Elendil’s elder son; and the three males who rode behind him must be his own sons.  The fourth rider was a woman, and definitely an attractive one in spite of her obvious maturity.  Isildur’s wife, perhaps?  And the oldest of the sons had, riding before him, a solemn boychild of perhaps ten years according to the count of Men, if Elrond was correct.  But it was to the one before whom the child rode Elrond’s attention was drawn most strongly.  Beardless as his father, this one’s visage caught at Elrond’s heart, so closely did he resemble Elrond’s own brother Elros, long-father to all of these.  There was the Elven-light in this one as there was in Elendil himself, and as there was not within the father he followed.

            It was this, Elrond realized as he nodded to his bride and together they stepped forward to greet the newcomers, that caused him the discomfort.  Elendil the Tall sported a beard in keeping with his Mannish nature; the face of his son, although as beardless as that of any Elf and in spite of its fair and obviously noble features, yet had a smoldering darkness behind it, somehow a shadow to it that made the Lord of Imladris feel defensive.

            It wasn’t until these descendants of his brother from Númenor began to dismount, however, that he realized that Isildur was wounded, as the son before whom the child had ridden moved to help his father from his horse as the boy turned to the woman’s side.  As he alit upon the ground the Man almost stumbled, and the beardless son immediately interposed his shoulder for his father to steady himself upon.

            Elendil was smiling with obvious approval at this young Man, and was coming forward to Isildur’s other side.  “Here, ion nín--lean on myself and Elendur,” he was saying as he put his right arm about his son’s back.  He gave a look over Isildur’s head at the child.  “You are by your naneth, Valandil?  Good.”

            As several Elves went forward to remove personal belongings from the horses while others came to lead said beasts to the stables once they were unburdened, Elendil drew his son and grandson forward.  “My son, Lord Elrond,” he said in greeting.  “My son Isildur of Gondor, come this day to bring the petition of the south kingdom before you and all who might aid us against Mordor and its dread lord.”

            “Celebrían and I greet you to our home here in Imladris, and will hear your petition in good time.  However, it appears that it is more as healer than host I am needed first.  Come within--we will go to the healing wing.  Tell me as we go how it is you have been injured, Lord Isildur?  Here, Elendil my friend--you are too tall to be fully comfortable in supporting your son so--let me take your place.  Erestor, if you will go before us and see the curtains drawn wide and the lamps lit?  My lady, my wife shall lead you and your younger sons to the rooms prepared for you.”

            It was a common enough tale--two days ago, while riding from Annúminas, Men from the north assisted by yrch from the Mountains of Mist had assaulted the company escorting these two kings of Men; and although they had been victorious against the ambuscade, Isildur had taken a wound to the thigh as he defended his wife and youngest son.  “I doubt it is all that serious,” he explained.

            Elendur sighed.  “You ever say that when you are wounded, Ada,” he said.  “As it was an orc’s blade that took you, I doubt it is merely a scratch as you would have us believe.”

            Nor was it merely a scratch.  Yes, the blade had been smeared with filth, although the Man’s hardy constitution had not yet much succumbed to the contamination.  Elrond signed to the other healer Elves to bring screens to place about the padded table on which he had the Man sit.  “We will need for you to disrobe completely, my Lord Isildur, so that I can follow the lines of your vessels to see how far the infection has spread.  Meliangiloreth--if you will bring heated water and athelas as well as Beren’s wort and comfrey?  Eglarón, please prepare a surgeon’s tray.  We will wait until you tell us when you have disrobed, my lord.  You may wrap yourself with this light blanket when you are done--you will find it proof against any chill.”

            So saying he withdrew, leaving Elendur to aid his father, stepping out to where Elendil waited, his face drawn with the worry he had refused to show before the younger Man.

            “He is a stubborn one, my elder son,” Elendil commented in a soft voice.  “He has not allowed me to examine him for fear I would not permit us to come this far ahorse.  He would allow only Elendur to touch him, and then only to bind the wound with athelas against it.”

            “I am glad for that,” Elrond replied.  “Had it not been for the athelas I suspect the wound would be far worse than it is.”

            It was not long before a muffled voice behind the screens indicated that the Man was now undressed and wrapped with the blanket.  Two stepped forth to remove the screens closest the windows and to arrange the lamps to best effect.  Once they had stepped back, Elrond came forward to pull open the blanket where its edges overlapped on the wounded side.  At first he worked to cleanse the wound’s edges, peering closely to see how deep the sword thrust had gone.  He irrigated it with water in which athelas and comfrey had been steeped, and carefully pressed from its margins what matter could be found.  “It might be stitched,” he commented, “although that would have been best the first day.  However, it was wise not to do so until all contagion might be flushed from it.  But I like not this,” he went on as he ran his finger along the line of red running up from the wound toward the Man’s ribs.  He drew the blanket back some more----

            ----And revealed a mass of scarring, indicating Isildur had been grievously wounded there before, what appeared to be a spear thrust that had entered from behind and to the side, going through his body.  Elrond paused, his eyes rather wide with surprise and dismay at this evidence of a terrible wound once endured by the Man.

            Isildur had been sitting forward on the table, grasping it with the near hand between his legs, looking stoically at the view out the window where the gardens were ordered.  Realizing that Elrond had stopped his examination, he turned his face toward the Elf, then gave a glance at the place on his forward abdomen where it appeared the spear’s point had protruded.  “I was wounded there, long ago, when I went with a companion to fetch away a fruit of Nimloth the Fair,” he said quietly.  “I will admit I nearly died then, and particularly as the Betrayer had come forth himself to seek to claim me, and his breath fell on it ere we won free.  It is often cold, there where I was wounded.  However, in this case I suspect it shall work for us.  Although then I nearly fled this life due to the wound, yet the blood does not move easily through the scarring, and so it has helped keep the contagion from spreading further.”

            Elrond searched the Man’s face, realizing that Isildur, too, had in his time received the training necessary to help him use the gift of healing that so often occurred in his brother’s descendants.  And, for the first time he saw Elros’s likeness impressed on Isildur’s features, saw the traces of his brother’s spirit echoed in this Man’s fëa. 

            He looked back to the wound and followed the red lines of infection up to the site of the massive scar, where those lines stopped.  Beneath it he sensed a pocket of infected matter.  He had noted darkness within Isildur not seen in his father or sons?  Now he understood.

            “Sauron left you marked,” he said quietly as he carefully lifted the cloth that kept his surgical instruments clean and chose a fine blade.  “But in this you are right--the scars his people gave you in this case work against his intent.”  He nodded to Eglarón, who held out a strap of leather for the Man to bite upon to protect his cheeks and tongue.  “I fear much of this will hurt, but then you are aware of that, I am certain.”

"All of a sudden they heard a howl away down hill, a long shuddering howl. It was answered by another away to the right and a good deal nearer to them; then by another not far away to the left. It was wolves howling at the moon, wolves gathering together!"  The Hobbit

Written for the LOTR Community Halloween/Harvest challenge.  Thanks to RiverOtter for the beta.

Aragorn has been called north to Rivendell to consult with his foster brothers and Lord Celeborn, and Merry and his older son Periadoc, now in his tweens, have decided to travel there to see him, deciding to make the journey without any further escort, just the two of them.  Perhaps that wasn’t as good an idea as they’d thought.  Fall has set in, after all.

(Note:  I know real wolves don’t behave this way unless there has been a total dearth in their natural prey; but this is Tolkien’s world after all.)

Escort

            “Dad, how long do you think it will take us to ride to Rivendell?” Periadoc Brandybuck asked his father as they rode out of sight of the palisade that surrounded the village of Bree.

            “It took us roughly three weeks walking,” Merry answered his tweenaged son.  “Probably about two weeks, as we have no reason to go particularly slowly, and won’t be attempting to avoid the road.  The Rangers have built a nice waystation about a day’s ride from Bree, so we’ll probably stay there tonight.”

            He looked about as they rode.  “There are so many more farms and settlements along the way than we ever saw during our first journey.  Bilbo wrote that they were able to beg room from farmers and woodsmen almost all the way to the Trollshaws when he and the Dwarves were headed with Gandalf toward the Lonely Mountain, although he said most of those homes and farms had been abandoned by the time he traveled east after the Party.  I’m thinking we could do much the same if we wished.  Folk appear to have come back now that Strider is the King.”

            The younger Hobbit nodded his agreement as they rode past a field in which a herd of red cattle grazed contentedly.

            A week and a half later neither Hobbit was as sanguine as he’d been at the time they left the Breelands.  The last settlement they’d passed had been two days back, and there had been no further houses to be seen since.  That had been a difficulty as the weather had been turning increasingly grey.  Last night they’d made a camp amidst the ruins of an ancient cottage, grateful for the respite from a chilling westerly wind offered by the pile of stones that had marked one wall that still stood about three feet high.  They’d been awakened when, in the middle of the night, the clouds had opened.  In moments both bedrolls were soaked, and the two of them had been forced out of the ruins to take shelter under a spreading chestnut until the heaviest of the rain finally passed eastward not long before dawn.

            “It’s going to be a miserable night tonight,” Merry sighed to his son, “with our blankets all soaked.”

            Periadoc nodded, peering eastward where the clouds hid the mountains.  “How much longer until we get there?” he asked.

            “I believe four or five more days, if we don’t have any more storms.”  He looked westward where another line of heavy, dark clouds could be seen moving their way.  “However, looking at that, I suspect we are in for bad weather for at least the next two days.  We should find someplace where we can take shelter for a day or two so we can let our blankets dry.  I don’t know that the wet has gotten into our packs as well, but if it has we’re going to need to do some hunting or fishing--certainly we’ll need to forage for what roots, berries, and so on we can live on for the next few days.”

            The three ponies were miserable, and Periadoc’s appeared particularly aggrieved to be here in the wet and wind rather than in his snug stable with a nice, warm barley mash.  Much of that day they searched, and in the late afternoon, just as the next storm front reached them, they found a byre that still had a roof to it perhaps a mere five miles from the ruinous cottage they’d camped within the previous night, and quickly took possession of it.  Apparently Rangers or Elves had also found it a handy shelter, for they could see where a corner of the stone structure’s roof had been removed over an improvised hearth, and they found a fair store of dry wood stacked to one side.  Merry soon had the wettest of the blankets tacked up over the doorway to keep out the draft as well as to give it a chance to dry--if the rain would but let up--and they settled in.  The byre was sufficiently large to allow them to house the two of them and the three ponies with some room besides.  A measure of grain for each pony and a good rubbing left their steeds feeling more content, and soon they were preparing a meal for themselves.

            “I’m so glad,” Perry sighed, his stomach also fuller for its ration of porridge augmented with carrots and celery and a few handfuls of mushrooms found growing wild near their last camping spot, “that Uncle Sam helped pack our extra supplies.”  Most of those had proven sound and blessedly dry.

            “As am I,” Merry answered, then sipped at his tin mug of tea.  “Ah--to be warm again, inside and out!”

            The ponies also appeared glad for the fire, and their coats steamed slightly as they pressed companionably together at the far end of the structure.

            The two Hobbits had laid out the least wet of their blankets near the fire where they could also dry further, feeling grateful to whatever soul had camped here last who’d laid springy pine boughs to serve as a bed of sorts.  “We’ll share the blankets tonight,” Merry decided once he’d drained his mug.  “It will be warmer for both of us.”

            “Yes, Dad,” agreed his son.  “When I tell Fari and Wyn about----”

            But then both froze to stillness, for they’d heard a noise outside--the snapping of a twig and a faint whimper.  Remembering the howling of wolves at the foot of Caradhras, Merry’s hand settled upon the hilts of his sword where it lay, there within reach.  Merry’s pony whickered uncertainly, and all three animals looked toward the doorway.

            Something pushed slightly against the hanging blanket--something more substantial than the wind, at least.  Meriadoc Brandybuck noted that his son also was reaching for the long knife given him by the King that served the younger Hobbit as a sword.  The pack pony shifted its position, and the others grew more tense.

            Whatever it was pushed again, and Merry picked up his sword and slid it soundlessly out of its leather sheath.  The whimpering was louder, and Perry sat up straighter, a look of concern creasing his youthful brow.  Another push, and a muzzle appeared in the gap between blanket and doorframe.  Merry swallowed deeply as he rose soundlessly and prepared himself....

            The creature slipped halfway into the room and then went still, eyeing them as warily as they eyed it.  It was a dog--pale gold, its coat matted with mud and dripping with rain.  Almost it began to back up, but paused lifting its questing nose and sniffed, a look of uneasy hope to its face.  An ancient collar could be seen about the animal’s neck.

            “A hound!” Perry murmured.  “And so thin!  Oh, Dad--do you think it’s hungry?”

            Watching the nose and its determined sniffing, his father nodded.  “I rather think it is.”  It came a step further past the blanket and paused again, and he could easily see the hollow flanks.  “Oh, yes, I’d say it’s near starving.”  Perry’s pony was backing into the far corner and whiffled nervously.

            “All we have cooked is the porridge, though,” the younger Hobbit noted.  “Would it accept that?”

            “If it’s as hungry as I think it is, I’d say yes.”  Merry wasn’t going to put away his sword, though, not until the animal had proved itself.

            His estimation of his son went up as he saw Perry turn to pick up the small pot of porridge.  He knew the lad had been considering finishing off what was left, and had only been waiting to be certain his father didn’t wish more before working at filling the corners.  Without pausing, Perry carried it to place before the hound, who’d cringed slightly and backed almost out the doorway again before Perry set it on the ground and backed away, his hands open to show he held nothing with which to abuse the beast.  One eye on Perry and the other on the pot, at last it slowly eased its way back inside again, sniffing more determinedly, until at last it decided that these were indeed not going to snatch the prize away again.  At last it entered fully and examined the pot carefully, finally burying its muzzle in the remaining porridge and wolfing it down greedily.  The ponies again watched and shifted position uncertainly, then calmed, apparently accepting that the animal was no threat.

            “I hope it’s not eating too much too quickly,” Merry commented, remembering the cautions given them about Frodo when he’d wakened first in Rivendell and later in Ithilien.  “I would hate for what we give it to make it sick instead of helping it fill its belly.”

            His son was shaking his head.  “I doubt it, Dad--there wasn’t that much left in the pot.”  He watched sympathetically as the dog thoroughly washed the pan clean with its tongue before turning his gaze to his father.  “Do you think we could spare some of the dried meat?  And I think we still have that hard sausage Uncle Pippin gave us.”

            “Not the sausage--its spices are rather strong, and in this one’s shape I doubt it could stomach it.  All right--some of the dried beef--that should be acceptable to it.  But not much--we still have a few days’ journey ahead of us, and we aren’t going to starve ourselves to feed the dog--that would do neither it nor us any good.”

            Perry nodded his understanding and went unerringly to the bundle that held their food supplies, quickly bringing out the waning store of jerky and tearing off a couple strips, returning the rest to their stores before slowly approaching the dog, holding out the offering.  This time it retreated only a half step, then came forward with relief to take the meat, again eating it quickly.  It eyed the two of them, particularly Merry with his drawn sword, and circled around them, settling itself there where Perry had been sitting by the fire.  Having chosen its place it lay down, and for the first time they could see the other side of its head.

            “Oh, pups and kittens,” Perry murmured.  “Its other ear is half missing.”

            “So I see,” Merry said in a tight voice.  “This one has been through a fight or two, I’d say.”

            The wound was fairly recent, for there were still scabs on the ragged edges on the outer side of where the earflap ought to have been.  As the animal closed its eyes and lowered its head to its paws Merry finally sheathed his sword and set it aside, although still within reach.  He took the pan out to the stream where they’d filled their water bottles and cleaned it thoroughly, then filled it and brought it back in and set it to heat while he brought out a shirt he’d torn earlier in the journey that they’d set aside for emergency use.  It didn’t take a good deal of time to have some smaller rags and warm water, at which time he knelt by the animal, which looked up at him warily, then relaxed as he began to stroke its head, gradually working toward the wound.  It whined when he began to clean the ragged end, but didn’t pull away or nip at him.  Meanwhile Perry dug out his own foot brush and began grooming the animal, who was soon stretching out in pleasure at the attention.

            “Whoever owned the dog appears to have loved it,” Perry commented as he took another of his father’s cloths and turned his attention to cleaning the pads of the creature’s feet.  “It’s well behaved.”

            Merry nodded.  “That it is.”  Having finished with its ear and not found any signs of infection he sat back.  “I wonder whose it was?  That collar doesn’t look rough--it appears to have been well made and of good materials, when it was new, at least.  This was someone’s companion, obviously.  And how did it end up way out here, days from anything or anybody, near an abandoned byre that appears not to have been used by anyone but Rangers and Elves for ages?”

            There were no answers to those questions, so for now they allowed the animal to lie where it was.  They cleaned up their space and set their things in order, and having built up the fire a bit they crawled between the blankets, lying close together for warmth, trusting the fire and the dog to deter other intruders.  Perry was soon asleep, and Merry smiled as he felt his son relax easily into slumber.  Soon after he, too, was sleeping, dreaming of sitting near the petrified trolls with Strider and the others, only this time Frodo was well and laughing and encouraging Sam to recite more of his poems.  He smiled in his sleep.

 *******

            “Dad?”

            Merry came slowly awake.  “What, Perry-lad?”

            “I have to get up.”

            The older Hobbit considered their positions.  He didn’t appear to be lying on any part of his son’s body--indeed, it appeared Perry was lying partly against his shoulder and right arm.  “So, get up!” he finally said.  “I am certainly not stopping you.”

            “No, but the dog is.”

            Merry was instantly alert.  The dog was no longer in view by the fire.  “I didn’t hear it growl or anything,” he said hesitantly.

            “No--it’s lying on my arm.”

            “What?”  He did his best to rise up to peer over the younger Hobbit’s body.  Sure enough, the animal was stretched out on its side, its back to Perry’s stomach, lying across the lad’s outstretched arm.  He smiled.  “Is your arm asleep?” he asked.

            “I don’t know for certain, but I can’t feel it.”

            “Probably is, then.  When he was a child Pippin used to lie on mine and put it to sleep, and Frodo always said it served me right as I used to do the same to him.”  He eased out of the blankets as well as he could.  He could hear the animal’s breathing and a faint whine as it chased dream rabbits, its front paws scratching at the air.  He gave a quick glance.  “It’s a male, I see.  And it had a nasty bite to its belly at one point--a lot longer ago than the ear, though.”

            He reached down to stroke the side of the dog’s head, and immediately it awoke, startled, and scrambled up to its feet, apparently not certain of its welcome.  “That’s all right, lad,” he crooned.  “You didn’t do anything wrong.  Calm down, now.”

            Perry took advantage of the release of his arm to get up and head outside to relieve himself, while his father spoke soothingly to the dog.  It was still raining, but again more lightly as they led the ponies out and down to the stream to drink and hobbled them so they could graze a bit; the dog did some quick sniffing of the area about the hut and efficiently marked some territory before following them back inside, alert when it noted they were again getting into the bundle that held their store of food.

            Merry frowned.  “We may have to hunt a bit if we’re to travel with Goldenrod here,” he commented.

            His son paused as he set the pot of water over the relaid fire.  “Goldenrod?” he asked, amused.  “Since when have you named an animal you didn’t intend to keep?  That was always what we did, you know--named the strays so you’d have to let us keep them!”

            “And a lot of good that did when you brought home a lamb!”

            Perry laughed outright.  “Ah, yes, Wooly-Booly.  You never gave him the benefit of a doubt, did you?”

            “Stupid creatures, sheep!” Merry commented as he tore off some strips of dried beef and examined the size of the remaining hard sausage they had left.  “Definitely not intended to dwell in a smial of any size.”

            The younger Hobbit grinned broadly.  “No, but Melody was so taken by it, and wished it always by her.  How was she to know it would try to eat the Hall’s storage baskets and Aunt Diamond’s new straw hat?”  They laughed.

            They were surprised at a soft but demanding “Woof!” and turned to find the dog was watching Merry avidly.

            “He recognizes who has care for the food, doesn’t he?” Perry noted, smiling.

            “Indeed.”  Merry looked at what he had in his hand, sighed, pulled out the beef again and tore off two more strips, and after giving most of what he had to his son he presented the last two strips to Goldenrod.  “There, demanding soul.  But you will need more than this to get you back to proper weight again, I’m thinking.”

            The younger Hobbit peered toward the doorway.  “If the rain gives over for a time I might go out and find a deer or some smaller game.  But if I go now the bowstring will likely be uncooperative.”

            His father, however, was shaking his head.  “Too near the Trollshaws here, I fear.  I don’t like the thought of you going out alone.  We may see something as we ride tomorrow.  I think the rain should give over by then.”

            Perry made a sound of disgust.  “With three ponies, Dad?  No, any sensible game won’t allow itself to be seen once it hears the ponies’ hooves.”

            Merry gave a grin and responded, “Then I suppose we must hope at least some animal is daft enough to come out to see just what we’re up to.  But we do have the stream--perhaps there are fish to be tickled there.”

            In the end Merry did bring in three fat trout that had lurked under the bank.  He set them down by his son as he pulled out one of the blankets with which to rub his arms.  “I’m glad Frodo taught me the trick of that,” he said as he rolled down his sleeves and stood over the fire to warm himself.  “I understand a lad there in Whitfurrow taught him how to do it when he was still quite small.  He was very good at it--Aragorn would always shake his head when we’d camp near a stream and Frodo would be able to get enough to feed the whole Fellowship.  Gandalf would just sit there and puff on his pipe with a smile as if it were somehow all his doing.  As for Boromir----”  His smile became softer.  “Boromir was always fascinated when we’d come up with enough from what was around us to feed us all--saw it as some magic only we Hobbits could manage.  And no one anywhere is as good a forager as Sam, I think--he could spot anything edible within a minute of entering a clearing and would have it harvested and ready to go in the pot in no time at all.  Not that he doesn’t prefer meat from the butcher’s in Bywater, of course, to a rabbit or two Pippin and I would bring in.”

            He sat down and brought out his pipe and filled it.  “Strider at first thought we were completely helpless in the wild, of course, although we taught him different on the road sou----”

            He stopped, and both turned, their ears twitching, and Goldenrod’s ears twitching as well.  In the distance they heard howls. 

            “Wolves!” Meriadoc Brandybuck whispered, and at that moment Perry saw the grim-faced Hobbit who’d stabbed the Nazgul in the back of the knee as that dread creature had sought to infuse despair in the Shieldmaiden of Rohan.

            Goldenrod growled deep in his throat, and it was plain the hound had no love for its wild kindred.

 *******

            They cleaned the corner where the ponies had spent the night as swiftly as they could, and Merry quickly strewed such grass as he could pull in haste over the area before they led the ponies back into the byre.  They were restive--they, too, had heard the howls of the distant pack.

            “Even if it does clear up, do you think we ought to remain here if they don’t appear to move away from us?” Periadoc asked.

            His father shrugged.  “I’m not certain, son.  We’re not that far from Rivendell now--or at least I don’t think so.  Some things have changed since I came the last time, eight years ago, but I know we aren’t more than four days away.  I would think the road between here and there should be still relatively safe.”

            “But they’re not wargs, are they--not like when you were traveling with the Fellowship?” 

            Merry looked at him closely, having heard the fear in his son’s voice that the lad hadn’t been able to hide.  “I doubt it--the last time I spoke to Lord Elladan he said no wargs had been seen for at least ten sun-rounds.”  He looked off toward the region from which the howls had been heard, a serious expression on his face such as that he’d shown only since they’d first heard the wolves.  “I’m not certain what we ought to do, but I know we don’t have food for more than about four days, not that we couldn’t tighten our belts and make do if we need to--I have had to do that and know it can be done.  But if there are wolves prowling about we don’t want to do much outside the byre, and especially at night.  There is still the odd orc knocking about in these parts, and you know what they say--Where the wolf howls, the orc prowls.  I don’t wish to test that saying.  I’ve no problem with killing any of the beasts if we meet with them, but it’s wiser to avoid them if at all possible.  They don’t like Men’s structures and aren’t likely to bother us here, and as there’s but one way in we can defend ourselves fairly easily, I’m thinking.  I’m just glad your Uncle Pippin and I saw you trained to use that sword Strider gave you.  I hate the thought of you being blooded, though--it’s not--pleasant--killing your first orc.”

            The fear Periadoc had been feeling deepened.  “You never said that there might be orcs when we talked about riding to Rivendell to meet the King on his visit, just the two of us, Dad.”

            Merry’s expression was grim as he turned his face slightly away from his son.  “There are still no truly safe places, lad--not even in the Shire, and certainly not outside of it.”  He turned back to look almost defiantly into Perry’s face.  “But what are we to do--go nowhere, do nothing, because to step outside our door may mean we might slip on ice or find another unexpected danger?  No, I didn’t travel alongside Frodo for so long to sit, craven, hiding from possible danger.  And it’s not for nothing I am accounted a knight of Rohan.”

            More than ever the younger Hobbit saw that other Meriadoc son of Saradoc in what he usually knew as the affable Master of Buckland.  He thought of what he’d read in Uncle Frodo’s book:  “Dangerous!” cried Gandalf.  “And so am I, very dangerous; more dangerous than anything you will ever meet, unless you are brought alive before the seat of the Dark Lord.  And Aragorn is dangerous, and Legolas is dangerous.  You are beset with dangers, Gimli son of Gloin; for you are dangerous yourself, in your own fashion.”  He had the feeling that had his father and Uncle Pippin been there, too, the Wizard would have warned the Dwarf of the dangers of Hobbits as well, and for once the thought of such a warning did not make him smile.  Oh, he sensed that his father could be very dangerous indeed should the need arise.

 *******

            Two more days they lingered in the byre, but they still heard the howls of the wolves at odd times both during the day and at night.

            “We can’t stay longer,” Merry said.  “It’s too late in the season, and there won’t be enough grazing for the ponies in another day, much less enough food left for us to finish the journey.  We must go on tomorrow, whatever we do, and take the chance.”  He looked up at the grey sky.  “Yes, it’s cloudy, but not raining now.  You will have your bow at the ready, and we both have our swords.”

            “And there’s Goldenrod,” Perry added with a pat to the animal’s head.  “He’s plenty brave!”

            Merry nodded, giving the dog a brief smile.  “We’ll ready things tonight and leave early, and hopefully they won’t bother us.”

            “And if they do?”

            His father turned to look toward the last area where they’d heard the howls about an hour earlier.  “If they do, then we fight.  What else can we do, Periadoc Brandybuck?”  The expression on his face as he turned back said it all, his son thought.

            Early in the morning they loaded the pack pony and saddled their own mounts, and after straightening things as well as they might so the next Rangers might find the byre habitable, they set off eastward.  They heard and saw nothing all that day, and did not pause in their journey, eating as they rode, always keeping a watch.

            Goldenrod kept up easily with them.  He didn’t look quite so lean as he had, although they’d not been able to boast of feeding the dog particularly well.  He loped along easily at Perry’s stirrup as if this were something he was well accustomed to, and the young Hobbit noted that he appeared ever to be vigilant, his nose questing, his ears swiveling.  At first the ponies were restive, partly from lack of exercise over the past few days and partly due to an awareness of the wolves, who’d howled long into the night somewhere southwest of them.  “They’ve passed us now,” the older Hobbit had commented.  “I doubt they wish to bother us.  We’re not their usual prey, after all.”

            By noon the ponies were much calmer, and Perry noted that his dad didn’t have his hand quite so close to his sword hilt now.  Perry found himself starting to sing, and in a while they were both singing a song about ponies and riding to the fair that Frodo-lad Gardner had written for the Free Fair a couple years back.

            In the late afternoon they found a hill covered with blackened tree stumps.  “A wildfire must have struck here since I last came this way,” Merry murmured.  “Come--I think I see a shielded place where we might camp.”  So saying he led the way up the slope to a cleft in the rocks.  Here they made their camp for the night--there was room behind them for the ponies and an overhang to shelter them all should it rain again.  Perry drew the first watch, and pulled his warm cloak and a blanket about him as he perched on a half-buried boulder and looked down toward the road, Goldenrod lying at his feet.  He drank the soup his father had prepared, now and then pausing to spoon out the slivers of meat and herbs cooked into it until the cup was all but empty, then set it down for the hound to enjoy the last of it.  When the golden hound leaned on his knee he felt warmer somehow, having found an unexpected friend along the way.

            He was drowsing when Goldenrod startled him by leaping to his feet, and they heard the howling of the wolves again, and this time close at hand.  There was a long, shuddering howl down the hill, followed by another to the right and a good deal closer--far too close, Perry thought, suddenly shivering.  He peered out, trying to see if he could see the beasts, all the time leaning over and feeling blindly for his bow, which he’d set at his feet.  He found it and the quiver, drew the latter over his shoulder, and had the bow strung in a trice.  Uncle Pippin had given it to him--it had been made there in the Tooklands by Cousin Reginard Took, who was accounted the best bow maker in the entire Shire.  Why, he’d even made an extra-large bow for the Thain to present to the King when he’d come north the last time, three years back.  Perry remembered how the King had praised it, as had his Elven brothers, although Prince Legolas had politely refrained from commenting on it, his own beloved bow from Lorien rising over his own shoulder.

            It was odd, he realized, the thoughts that came to one as danger approached.

            Goldenrod was again growling deep in his throat, and the warm, loose body that had earlier leaned on Perry’s knee now stood erect, apparently big as a bear, the Hobbit thought, now all muscle and teeth, ready to face the enemy.

            The moon peeked through the clouds, and he heard still another howl as the wolves came still closer yet.

            A shadow loomed behind him, and again Perry jumped, then realized it was just his dad, come from his blanketroll.  No, he realized, not just his dad, not now, with wolves howling about them.  It was Meriadoc, Holdwine of the Mark, the companion of kings, who came forth with the sword given him by Éomer King and his sister Éowyn in hand, the sword his father had wielded in the Battle of Bywater and in besting countless ruffians after that during the Scouring of the Shire.  Nay, not just the Master of Buckland and Brandy Hall, but Meriadoc the Magnificent, steely in his determination.

            The first shadowy shape crept out from among the clump of blackened trunks below them on the left, and Perry readied his bow.  It slunk closer, and Goldenrod’s growls grew louder, more menacing yet.  Closer it came, and Perry drew, drew deeper, and then when it came within what Perry had determined was their boundaries of safety, he let fly.

            It hit--hit squarely, and the body of the wolf fell and rolled, twisting somewhat, down the hill.  Immediately Perry had another arrow nocked, looking for another target, as the rest of the pack came charging out of the shadows on both sides.  He let fly another arrow, then was lifting his sword from its sheath at his belt, for they were too close now for arrows....  He was aware of the hound surging forward to engage a large male wolf that was making toward his own position, and then a change in the shadows to the left and another was almost at his throat....

            Dawn finally came, and with it the remaining wolves retreated down the slope, crossing the road and melting into the wooded copses there.  Perry, shaking now that it was all over, stood, his sword the King had given him hanging loose now in his hand.  He saw there was blood on his arm, and wondered stupidly from where it could have come--then realized it was from the sword, his sword with which he’d killed at least two wolves and wounded three others, or so a clearer portion of his mind told him.

            He heard a noise, and looked sideways to see his father standing there, wiping the blade of his own weapon with a strip of the torn shirt he’d pulled from Perry’s quiver, somehow fallen to the ground, a strip Perry had stuffed into it earlier in the day to keep the arrows from rattling as they rode.

            “You all right, Perry-lad?” his father asked.

            “I--I think so,” Perry replied, realizing it was true.  “You, Dad?”

            “A small nip to my left forearm--luckily not my sword hand.  That’s a bit cold, though, now it’s all done with.”

            Oh, yes--at times his dad’s right arm would go cold on him--when a cold storm blew in, or when he heard bad news, or when he was very angry, which fortunately wasn’t often, Perry thought thankfully.  Once as a faunt he’d asked his dad why, and his father’s face had gone distant, and he’d said, “It’s part of his legacy--the Witch-king’s revenge, I suppose.  It was much the same with Frodo.”  And his dad had remained quiet, sad, and thoughtful for the rest of that day.  It was the first time he’d realized that his famous but absent Uncle Frodo had been hurt before he’d gone away.

            Suddenly Perry was looking around.  “Goldenrod!” he whispered.  “Where’s Goldenrod?”

            “Here, lad--wipe your blade and sheathe it,” his father said, thrusting the rag at him, his fingers somewhat clumsy as he sheathed his own sword.  He, too, was looking about--and then they heard the hooves of horses coming, and turned toward the road.  Three animals came to a stop before them, and from them dropped two Elves and a Man, tall and shining almost as brightly as the Elves themselves.  Merry was hurrying forward.  “Strider!  Oh, Aragorn--but it’s good to see you!”

            One of the Elves was one of the twin sons of Lord Elrond.  He looked about at the bloodied ground.  “There has been a great wolf slaying here,” he said with respect.  “They attacked you?”

            “Last night,” Merry replied, “or, rather, not too long before dawn this morning, actually.  It was supposed to be my watch, but I suspect the lad dozed some and didn’t wake me to take my turn.  But he did well--heard them coming and was ready--we were both ready.”

            Aragorn was scanning both of them.  “A bite, Merry?  We’ll see to it in a moment--let us see what was done here first.”  Together they began to walk down the hill.

            They found the hound standing over the body of the great male wolf just beyond a fold in the land, licking at a deep bite on his flank.  Perry hurried forward, relieved.  “Oh, Goldenrod!” he said, reaching out to embrace the dog.  “You’re all right!”

            “He appears well enough,” commented the second Elf, coming forward to examine the animal.  “Save for the flank, and then the ear--but that is not from today, is it?” he asked, looking at the two Hobbits.

            “No, he came to us that way, a few days ago.”

            “It is just the two of you?” Aragorn demanded.  “Where is Pippin?  Why are there no others?  Do you think I like the idea of two witless Halflings wandering about in the wild unprotected?”  But Perry could see the smile in the King’s eyes that betrayed his pride in both of them and belied his words.

            “Oh,” Perry said as he held the dog closer, “oh, no, my Lord King.  We were not unprotected, nor without escort.  Not this trip!”

Written for the first A_L_E_C prompt:  "Don't tell me--I don't want to know!"

Beta by RiverOtter

The Pain of Remembrance

            He remembered almost nothing of his earliest years.  He knew he’d had parents--parents who loved and adored him and his twin brother; but they were for the most part but a shining memory of grey eyes and illuminating laughter and great grief.  His father had gone away--he was oft away, or so he remembered it amongst the little he could recall.  He’d come back in a time of darkened skies and anxiety, and there were councils held to which had come many, both sides of his parents’ kindred, men and elves.  And then there was the vague realization that that bright presence who’d been his father had come to him, held and embraced him and his brother and their mother, and that Ada was weeping, as was Nana, before he left again that last time.  After that all was a total blur until he’d awakened one morning here, here in Ada Maglor’s home, knowing somehow he and Elrond had been here for some days and now belonged here.

            He suspected that Elrond remembered more than he did.  Certainly after Elros had asked his brother what he remembered of their parents and the home into which they’d been born, Elrond had only shaken his head, his expression toward the father of their hearts and his brother filled with mixed love and loathing, with a level of deep grief thrown in as well.  But as to why?  Elros was but left to wonder.

            Elros had come to love the lands Ada Maglor claimed as his own, and had found a number of small places in which a young one could secrete himself and a scroll or codex as well as some bread and meat from the larders, and perhaps some apples or plums as well.  Properly hidden, Elros had learned he could avoid many of the less pleasant chores and more boring lessons that might otherwise fall his way.  He was not a great one for appreciating the value of work for its own sake, after all.  Today he had a codex brought last night by Uncle Maedhros that he was perusing, and he had no intentions of returning from his hiding place until he’d had the chance to read it through at least twice.  Here, with the bubbling of the stream singing happily in his ears and the calling of birds overhead, he enjoyed a great green plum and carefully opened the codex, which proved to hold the tale of the meeting of Beren One-hand and Lúthien Tinúviel.  Fancy, calling a beauteous lady a bird! he thought as he took another bite of his plum and read on....

            “I don’t know why you chose to bring them that story, brother,” he heard suddenly.

            Elros went totally still as he heard the voice of Ada Maglor.  He’d not heard the two elves approach the area near the stream where he hid, not that he ever seemed to hear Ada’s footfalls.

            “I can see no harm in them reading of the meeting of Lúthien and Beren,” Maedhros’s deeper, almost rumbling voice responded.  “I found it among the wares sold by a mannish peddler.  A pretty work, and the hand that inscribed it is fair, as is the wording used.  You saw how excitedly Elros received it.”

            “But what if it awakens memories in him--memories of before?”

            “And if it does, what can be done about it, muindor nín?  Those memories must come out one day, after all.  And I have reason to suspect that Elrond remembers far more than he allows others to know.”

            “As do I,” Ada conceded grudgingly.  “Oh, I’ve seen the looks he gives us at times, as if he hated everything to do with us.”

            Uncle Maedhros gave but a grunt in response.

            “Not,” Ada continued, “that he has any reason to think well of us, considering what we did then.”  The elf’s voice was sad, almost fatalistic.  Then it sharpened to anger.  “I hate what that oath has led us to, Maedhros!  We have been made kinslayers and fugitives and murderers by it.  For all the love I bore our father, I can yet wish I’d never become party to his oath.”

            “You would have willingly forborne this, my brother?” his uncle said.  “Living in an uncouth land amongst other elves who loathe us, with no conveniences or servants to ease our way or see to what needs doing, breaking our own land and harvesting our own bread?”  The sarcasm was palpable, but then the voice became bitter.  “But you know what he stole from us, how the Light went out of our atar’s life with the death of his father and the ravishing of the treasury.  Would you have allowed him to come away alone, without us to back and support him?”

            “And what have we achieved with all our struggles to retrieve the Silmarils, brother?  What we did at Aquallondë was unforgivable, while what we did at Sirion....”

            Elros could almost hear Ada Maglor shuddering.

            He’d never heard the tone he now heard in his uncle’s voice as Maedhros answered him.  “What else could we hope to do, Maglor?  We were--are--bound by that cursèd oath we swore!  There is no hope for us, for we must take back the Silmarils or die in the attempt!”

            “As we have ever done,” his foster father said with even more bitterness in his voice.  “Of the seven of us, only you and I remain, Maedhros.  We left Ambarussa lying in the chamber from which we drove out the twins’ amma with the Silmaril taken by Beren and Lúthien still on her breast!  Ah, but I wish Atar had never forged the things, or that he’d given them to Yavanna so as to rekindle the Trees!”

            Maedhros gave a bark of a laugh with no humor to it, a laugh as bitter as the voice of his brother.  “Our father--be reasonable?  Give up what he so long sought to forge so that all might rejoice once more in the Light of the Trees?  Unlikely!  Most unlikely!”  From the change in the timbre of his voice Elros, sitting cold and sweating in his hiding place, the codex and treasured plums forgotten, judged that his vaunted uncle had turned toward the stream, away from his brother.  “No, not for Atar, to share his treasures with others!  I swear he came to love them more truly than he did our ammilë.  No wonder she refused to accompany us.  So we have sought and plotted and betrayed those who ought to have been our staunchest allies because they did not surrender what we have claimed for ourselves.”  There was a plop as if he’d thrown a stone into the stream before again he apparently turned to face Maglor.  “Do not think, Macalaurë, that you alone hate what the vow has done to us, and through us to so many others.  Elrond is right to hate us, knowing we drove his mother undoubtedly to her death!”

            “We never found her body, though....” Maglor said uncertainly.

            “She could never have survived the fall from that window,” his brother responded.  “Fifty feet up or more--at the very least!  And there was a storm that night, I’ll remind you.  Her body was most likely dragged by the tide out to sea immediately.”

            “But her grandmother was no mere elf, remember.  And it has long been said that Elwing herself knew the gift of skinchanging.”

            There was a moment of quiet consideration between them.  “You think,” Maedhros said tentatively, “that she might have done that--changed herself into a great bird, perhaps, and so escaped us?”

            “It is my hope, muindor.  It was the sight of her throwing herself from the windows that shook me at last from the battle lust.  That she should throw herself to her death for the sake of a mere bauble such as our father’s Silmaril----”

            “You would speak of any of the Silmarils as a bauble?”  Maedhros’s voice sounded shocked at the idea.  “Did he not pour into them all of his hope and will----”

            “And love!” interrupted Maglor, his voice filled with a mixture of anguish and loathing.  “You yourself have pointed out how he held them over even the honor he owed our mother!” 

            Now it was apparently his turn to turn away toward the stream.  “And what is worse is that he never made it even this far so as to retrieve the cursèd things himself!  Nay, that was left to us, without even the hope of returning them to him once recovered!”  There was a brief, brooding silence.  “Nay,” he said at last, quietly, the anger fled, leaving his voice flat and empty.  “We have no hope of good things coming from our vow.”

            “Two good things have come from it,” Maedhros pointed out.  “You have Elrond and Elros, and they have made of you a far more hopeful person than you were before.  They help to restore the delight of your soul.  It had been yeni since you last composed music before they came to you.”

            “Yes,” Maglor said in a soft tone.  “I learn to give my heart again.  But to what point?  Will I in the end be robbed of them as I was of my wife and child in Aman?  Have I any hope ever of seeing what kind of ellon my son has grown to become, or to hold my beloved in my arms again, know her sweetness and the delight of her love?”  Again the bitterness returned.  “I would wish again the Silmarils had never been forged, to have been driven to abandon the only elleth I will ever love.  Instead of loving my son’s mother, I have driven away, perhaps slain, the mother of two I have so come to love.  Indeed, Elros and Elrond have every right to hate us with every fiber of their beings.  If Elros only realized that the Lúthien of which he reads in that codex was his mother’s grandmother....”

            The two adults moved off, away from the stream, away from the small child crouched so close to where they’d stood.

            His ada, his uncle--they had perhaps slain his mother--driven her out the window?  And for what--that pretty jewel, the one that seemed forged of light itself, that she’d worn that night?  For the memories were coming back to him.  Then there were those who’d taken him and his brother from the tower, leaving them exposed, intending them--intending them to die!  Oh, he remembered now.  He remembered the terror as the room had been broken into, how Marcipor had been stricken down as he sought to protect the Lady Elwing, how his blood had stained the carpet and the white stone of the floor.

            It was not until long, long after nightfall he returned to the house.  The door had been left unsealed.  He wondered if Maglor realized he had to have been concealed somewhere near at hand during that talk when he didn’t return for the noon or evening meals.  But all was still, the doors to Maglor’s room and that given to his brother’s use closed, and with no sign of candles or lanterns.  Unlike many other Elves, neither brother used light-bearing jewels in the illumination of their homes--and now Elros knew why. 

            He crept up into the loft room he shared with his brother, put off his clothes, made the most cursory of ablutions, and slipped into their bed.

            “I wondered if you might choose to return.”  Elrond’s voice was quiet, almost dispassionate.  “They sought you for a time, but then gave over when Ada said it must be your own choice to return, if you would.  So, you remember?  Did you overhear them, then?”

            “Yes.”  Then after a time of silence he finally asked in a whisper, “You’ve remembered all along, haven’t you?”

            “I can put it from my mind at times, pretend that I didn’t see them kill Marcipor.  It was Uncle Maedhros who did that, you see.”

            “I wish I hadn’t heard,” Elros said, tasting the gall of the bitterness he bore in his heart.  “How can I love them as I have?  They are monsters!”

            “But they love us.”  After a moment Elrond added, “And perhaps they love us the more because they did drive Nana into flying from the tower.  But I don’t believe she is allowed to return to us.  I always hope, every time I see a sea bird, it is her, coming back for us; but it never is.”

            He shifted slightly in the bed so as to look into Elros’s eyes.  “I know it is hard to understand, but Ada is sorry for what he did, for what they did.  But he made a vow--a terrible vow, and he must keep faith with it in spite of what it makes him do.”

            “How do you know?”  Elros felt the question escape him.

            “I can see his dreams sometimes.  I have seen his father’s face, heard his voice, as he made the vow and called on his sons and his people to join him in it.  Ada never--never dreamed to what it would lead him!  He thought only he would follow his father and brothers to Morgoth’s stronghold and besiege him there, then finally break in and force him to give back the jewels.  So many have died due to that vow, though--he hates it with every bit of him there is!  But he has sworn himself to it, and must see it done.”

            “Why didn’t he give it over long ago, then, when he saw it was evil?”

            “He can’t.  He is one of the High Elves, and his vows hold him.”

            “Then I don’t wish to be an elf, too, if I must hold to evil vows!” Elros said vehemently.

            “Oh, Elros!” Elrond responded, reaching out and holding him close.  Elros could feel the tears on his brother’s face, the quiet sobs that shook his brother’s body.  He found himself holding his twin back, seeking to offer what comfort he could.  Once again he wished he might have remained ever in blissful ignorance of the day when they lost their mother’s comfort.  Elrond had received strongly the gift of foresight.  What else did his brother know that he’d not yet shared?

            And so they were found the next morning by Maglor as he came to see if, indeed, Elros had returned--two small, dark-haired children, clinging to one another, tracks of tears to be seen on both faces.

For Lady Roisin's birthday.  And my thanks as ever to RiverOtter for the beta.

Imogen

            “But why did you bring such a thing here?” Elrond of Rivendell asked his son, giving Elrohir’s intended gift a suspicious look.

            “It is for Estel, Ada.  He is lonely, and needs something that he can love and care for.”

            “And when it gets into your rooms and claws at your furniture, or becomes ill on your brother’s pillow, who will be blamed?”

            “You may blame me if you so desire.”

            The Master of the Last Homely House examined the creature one more time, reaching down a shapely finger to caress its head.  The white kitten closed its green eyes and began to purr loudly, kneading its claws into Elrohir’s arm.  He peered into its large ears, carefully opened its mouth and examined it, then looked into its eyes when it stared at him in surprise at having its jaws opened.  “It appears healthy enough,” he finally admitted.  “Where does it come from?”

            “From the wife of Lord Halbaleg.  The cat in their keep had kittens two months past, and they are at last ready to find new homes.  There were five, and the mother was beginning to be rather overwhelmed with all five stalking her at the same time.  This one appears to be the calmest, and perhaps the most intelligent of the litter, and I felt that Estel----”

            Elrond waved his hand, silencing his son.  “So you said.”  He continued his contemplation of the small animal for a moment before looking up into Elrohir’s eyes.  “You will teach him how to keep a tray of sand for it and to keep it sifted.”

            “Yes, Adar.”

            “And you will teach him how to feed it and to keep its dishes clean.”

            “I had planned to do so.”

            “And when it knocks over dishes or vases that cannot be replaced, you will assist him to sweep up the shards.”

            This time his son paused before agreeing to the terms.

            “And you will teach him to keep its coat brushed and free from dirt and mats.  Is it male or female?”

            Elrohir again paused briefly, then admitted, “Female, Ada.  But then all within the litter were female.”

            Elrond shook his head.  “That is not so good, for she will undoubtedly come into heat frequently, and there will undoubtedly be kittens from time to time, particularly once the toms from the stables realize she is here.”

            Father and son exchanged looks.  They could, both realized, remove the female organs, although they would usually wish to wait to do that until she was older.  That would forestall the birth of unwanted kittens, they knew.

            At last, uncertain of what conditions he might have forgotten, the Master of the Last Homely House indicated that the gift might indeed be bestowed.  “Although you must keep in mind that Gilraen may yet overrule the both of us.  You may not go against her wishes in this.”

            It was a consideration that obviously still concerned Elrohir.  “I promise, Ada, I will bow to her will.”

            However, there was no time given for Elrohir to consult with the child’s mother, as they could hear Estel hurrying toward them even now.  “But why didn’t Elrohir come with you to tell me you were both home now, ’Laddan?  Why did he go to Ada first?  What kind of present did he bring me?  Did you really stay with the Edain?  What are they like?  Are they all like Uncle Halbaleg?  Hurry, ’Laddan!”

            Then the door was crashing open, and a small, dark-haired child came bursting into the room while the kitten, disturbed by the noise, retreated to Elrond’s lap.  “Elrohir!  You didn’t come see me first!”  He reached to hug onto his brother’s leg.  “Why didn’t you come to see me first?”

            Elrohir shared a smile with his father before ruffling the dark hair of his small brother.  “I had a question to ask of Ada before I came to you, and I need now to speak with your amma.”

            “She’s coming.  Did you really bring me a present?”

            “If your amma says you might have it.”

            But the child’s observant eyes had already noticed the small kitten peering over the edge of the desk.  He went very still, his attention fixed on the small white head and bright green eyes.  “Oh,” he said in a soft voice, his face fairly glowing.  “Oh!  How beautiful!  But a cat--here, in the house?”  He looked up to meet Elrohir’s eyes, his expression hopeful.

            The Lady Gilraen entered then, having decided to maintain her dignity rather than to follow immediately in her son’s wake.  “And what is this present you have brought to the child----”  She halted, for her own attention had also been caught by the reflection of green eyes across Lord Elrond’s desk.  Her expression softened, and a smile began to show.  “Anbeth sent this one?” she asked.

            “Even so,” Elrohir said.  “It is the daughter of the cat she calls Belleth.”

            Her smile grew wider, and obviously filled with nostalgia.  “Ah, Belleth--I was ever a favorite of hers.  Oft while I was pregnant with Estel she slept with me.”

            Her son had begun walking around the desk where he could see the kitten more fully, his movements slow and gentle.  “Hello, kitten,” he crooned.  “Do you like it here?  Would you like to stay here with us?”  He reached out his hands to the animal, and it stretched to sniff at him.  He carefully took it from his adar’s lap.  “Ah, sweet one,” he murmured as he rubbed his nose against its fur.  “Will you be my kitten?  Will you stay here with me?”  And such was his enchantment with the creature that no one had the heart to say no to him.

            Elrond had half hoped that the child’s mother would forbid the gift, but she was obviously as taken by the kitten as was Estel himself.  He sighed and rose.  “All right,” he finally said.  “You may keep it, Estel, but it will be your duty to care for it, to feed it, and to clean up after it.  And Elrohir will assist to teach you how to do this.”

            The child looked up, smiling with delight.  “May I truly, Ada?  Oh, thank you!  I promise I will take care of it!  Oh, does Glorfindel know, or Meliangiloreth?  Please--may I show them?”  And at his adar’s nod he was off.

            “Go after him, Elrohir--and remember that it is now your responsibility to teach him his own responsibilities toward the kitten.”

            His son nodded, flashing his father a grateful smile.  “It will be my pleasure.”  He quitted the room, following the child.  “Do not run with an animal in your arms, Estel,” they could hear as he turned to follow the boy down the hallways.  “Yes, that is right--walk!”

            “It is my hope we do not regret this decision,” Elrond said quietly.

            Gilraen smiled.  “It will help him to understand better how it is we care for him, or so I believe you will find.  And perhaps it will ease his loneliness somewhat.  He so wishes to have a playmate more of an age with himself.  He has even created for himself brothers of his imagination with whom to play.”  She looked after the way her son had gone.  “She will be a companion to him probably until he comes of age.  And if she takes after Belleth, she will be a great beauty.”

            She turned her attention back to Elrond.  “I was surprised not to see cats here when I came, my lord, with their delicate ways and their grace.  It always seemed to me that this house would be one that would delight them, and that they would add to its beauty.”

            Elrond gave a wry smile.  “I will admit that Celebrían favored them, and always had a number about her.  But they live such short lives.  After she--left us, those that remained mourned her, and some went to dwell in the stable.  Those that remained in the house died at the end of their time, and none had the heart to replace them, I fear.  This one is the first to dwell within the house for at least three yeni.”

            She left him to see to her child, and soon he was busy listening to the report of Elladan on the activities of the orcs and trolls that had been found near the settlements of the Dúnedain who dwelt in the Angle.  Then Erestor came to discuss the trading mission that had recently returned over the High Pass from the Beornings with great jars of honey, and the recent shipment of fine wool Gandalf had arranged to have purchased from the Shire.

            It was late by the time Elrond was free to finally seek out his foster son once more; and when he came to the rooms shared by Estel and his mother, it was to find that the boy had already been put to bed.  “He has named the kitten Imogen, and she’s been entertaining him all day long,” Gilraen told him.  “He’s dangled yarn spiders for her to chase, and has run with her after butterflies in the gardens.  He’s been learning that as she’s so young she must be fed frequently, and so he’s spent much of the day in the kitchen begging scraps for her.  That she should love liver fascinates him, particularly as he detests it.  He has overcome his disgust at cleaning her tray, and has followed after her to clean it at least three times this afternoon.  And he’s absolutely hanging on everything he’s told of how to care for his new friend.”

            Elrohir, who sat opposite Gilraen with a wine goblet in his hand, nodded his agreement.  “I fear, Adar, that he and Imogen between them have managed to quite run us all ragged.  But he has proved very gentle-handed with her, and does not torment her.  Nay, it is rather than she has found she can torment him and he loves it.  But she has worn out his considerable store of energy today, and now they are both asleep.”  So saying, he rose to his feet and led the way to the child’s bedchamber door and opened it quietly.

            Estel lay in the casual sprawl in which he usually slept, and there, in the curve of his neck at the shoulder, lay a small white bundle of fur.  Elrond stood still, aware of an odd noise that filled the room--then realized that it was the purr of the kitten.  Briefly it opened its green eyes to look up at them, yawned, then curled itself into an even smaller ball against the child’s shoulder.  There was a matching movement from the child as he turned his head slightly toward the animal, and Elrond realized his youngest son was smiling as he slept, knowing he wasn’t alone.

            Smiling himself, the lord of Imladris withdrew from the room and pulled the door closed after him.  Perhaps it was indeed far too long since there had been a cat about the house!

For Nieriel Raina and Illyreyn for their birthdays.

Faith Tried

            Celeborn turned from the vision of his beloved granddaughter standing surrounded by the embrace of a mortal, and stared in disbelief at his wife.  “I cannot believe this!” he said in low, shocked tones.  “You would give your blessing to this union, our beloved daughter’s own youngest child bound in hröa and fëa to an adan?  What has possessed you?  And you not only permitted him to enter our land, but dressed him as a very lord among the Eldar to beguile her eyes?”

            Galadriel’s face was without any discernible expression, a sure sign, he recognized in that small portion of his infuriated mind that was still rational, that she was deeply hurt by the very lack of faith in her judgment she had expected him to exhibit.  “Say not that I sought to beguile her with false seemings, but rather, my husband, that I instead sought to open her eyes to the truth of his very being.”  Turning to look from afar at her granddaughter in her happiness she said in tones that could not hide her own grief, “Is she to remain ever merely a vessel empty of love and passion, an object of worship only but never knowing the delight her mother knew in loving her father, or that I know in loving you?”  She returned her gaze to meet that of her husband, and he saw that her defiance was tinged with a level of acceptance that frightened away his anger.  What had she seen?

            “Do you mean to imply that should she not accept him she will never know love?” he asked.

            She shook her head.  “Say rather, my beloved lord, that should she not accept him, giving him the hope his childhood name declared, there is likely to be no future within which for her--or any--to find another love.”

            If possible, his heart became even colder with dread, and he turned his attention back to the sight of a pale maiden in the arms of a white-clad king.

Written for the Songs/Poetry challenge at the LOTR Community.  Beta as always by RiverOtter, and with my many thanks for her help and feedback!

"All woods there be must end at last"

            “I can’t think how in Middle Earth I allowed you to talk me into this!” Merry growled to Pippin.  “We’ve been going about in circles for far better than an hour, and I’m certain we’ve been heading the wrong direction much of the past fifteen minutes.”

            “I don’t see how you figure that,” Pippin answered with a quick glance at his cousin and then away again, looking once more for some sight of a trodden path.  “It’s far too cloudy to tell what direction the Sun is traveling, after all, and the trees and underbrush are terribly thick about us.”

            “Estella will pull out each hair on my left foot one by one when we get back to punish me for the worry we’ll have given her!” Merry added, slumping back against a birch tree.  “Luncheon is well past, and we’re now missing tea, as your well-known appetite ought to be telling you.”

            Peregrin Took sighed and reached into his pocket.  He pulled out a rather bruised plum and with a level of reluctance handed it to his cousin.  “Here--I was saving it to have on our way back, but it appears that for once you need it more than I.”

            Merry accepted it, looked briefly between the plum and its giver, then defiantly (and hungrily) bit into it.  “Not,” he said between swallows, “that you don’t have two or three more about you.”

            Pippin grinned, and he quickly produced another one, slightly more battered than the one he’d given Merry.  “Well, of course.  You know what Sam always says--there’s no harm to bein’ prepared.  So, I left Emyn Arnen prepared.  And if you’re still hungry I see some cress over there, and a hint of wild onions.  We’re not in danger of starving, you know.”

            “But I was looking forward to boiled eggs and some of those cubes of poultry dipped in batter and cooked in hot oil,” Merry sighed.  “Faramir’s cook does such a good job at preparing things like that!”  He slid down the tree to sit on the ground, looking as dejected as a tween whose first love took the last serving of honeycake rather than sharing it with him.  He went silent as he finished the plum and began worrying the last bits of flesh from the stone.  He gave his companion another glance, finally suggesting, “Diamond isn’t going to be any too pleased with you, any more than Estella will be with me.  They will think we did it on purpose to avoid having to go to the market with them.”

            “Well, didn’t we?”  Pippin managed to look smug as he sat down facing him and finished his plum.  He threw the seed to his left, then produced two more, both decidedly the worse for having spent much of the day in his pocket.  As he handed one to Merry he cautioned, “Mind the lint, now.”

            “You sound as if you were speaking to Fari,” objected Merry, who nevertheless accepted it and checked it over carefully, pulling loose some fuzz and a hair before eating it.

            “We ought not to have slipped out of the gardens that way,” Pippin said as he disposed of the second plum stone.  “It’s not as if we were familiar with the forest in this part of Ithilien, after all.”  He bent his knees and folded his arms across them, looked past the next stand of trees, and began to sing.

            “Oh, the forest’s deep, the leaves do turn.

            The woodsman gathers wood to burn.

            And ’neath the boughs we wander still,

            seeking ’venture ’neath light of gil.

            Anor’s long fled, and Ithil’s fleeing,

            and stars alone their light we’re seeing.

            So we’ll sleep the night and greet the dawn,

            and in coming day we’ll journey on

            and find our way to hearth and hall.

            ‘Our adar’s home!’ the children call!”

            Merry’s bad mood had faded away as he’d listened to Pippin sing.  “I like that one,” he said.  “Where did you learn it?”

            “The gardener was singing it last night when I went out to smoke my pipe,” the Took sighed.  “And that I’d like to have with me at the moment.  Did you bring yours?  And some leaf?”  He gave his older cousin a hopeful look.

            “No--mine is sitting on the clothes press in my bedchamber.  Not much use to us now, is it?”

            “I suppose not,” Pippin sighed, and laid himself back on the leaf mould that carpeted the area.  He sighed again and looked upward through the arching branches overhead toward the glimpses of grey sky.  “You know, we could be only feet from rescue and would never know it, considering how thick the woods are here,” he complained.

            “That is very true,” said another voice, causing both to jump and swing about.  Lounging negligently--and most elegantly--on a limb to a nearby alder was Legolas, smiling down at the two of them with that arch expression that he so often wore.  “This is at least the third time you have passed near me, and I am barely within the forest at all.”

            Both Hobbits had sprung to their feet and were staring at him.  “Are you telling us we’re almost out of this wood?” demanded Merry.

            “Indeed.  You are barely a quarter of a mile from the old Harad Road, and somewhat less than that to the edges of the settlement below Prince Faramir’s dwelling.”

            “And you knew we were wandering about in here and didn’t think to let us know you were here or to tell us which way to go?”

            “And how was I to know you were lost?” the Elf asked, his eyes dancing with laughter.

            “You had to know!” Pippin pointed out.  “He’s not stopped complaining of it for ever so long!”  He indicated the Brandybuck’s glaring face, and now his expression was hardening to match Merry’s.

            “It was amusing to see you living out the song you just sang, Pippin.”  The Elf’s voice sounded so reasonable.

            There was but a glance between the two Hobbits, and they’d both stooped and thrown before Legolas could quite be prepared.  He held up his hands defensibly as he was struck twice by seed cones.  “Hold!” he cried, then retreated up toward the tree’s crown, out of range of the Hobbits’ aim.  “If you wish direction,” he finally called downward, “you had best desist!  Otherwise I would indeed be strongly tempted to let you lie here all night long.  Let you miss a few meals and you will be less likely to pelt a harmless wood Elf with litter!”

            “Harmless?” sputtered Merry.  “We have seen you fight, Legolas Thranduilion!  There is nothing harmless about the Lord of Ithilien’s Elves!”

            “Give us direction, and we might just allow you to descend,” added Pippin.

            “Never mind,” came another voice, and they turned to find that they were being joined by Prince Faramir, who was accompanied by their wives, both of them with smoldering eyes.  “So this is where you two have wandered off to, is it?  Thank you for finding them, my Lord Legolas.”

            “Find us?”  The affront in Merry’s voice was palpable.  “He didn’t find us--we found him!  Instead he was allowing us to blunder about aimlessly for at least the past hour!”

            “I was keeping an eye on them,” the Elf offered as he dropped again to the lower limb of the tree.  “Had they been truly in danger I would have alerted them.”

            “And what were you doing here?” asked Estella Bolger Brandybuck of her husband in a dangerous tone.

            “We were searching for the end to the wood so we could be back in the gardens by the time you were ready to leave for the village market,” Pippin offered.

            Diamond glared at her husband.  “You weren’t expected to leave the gardens to begin with.  One would think you hadn’t wished to accompany us!”

            Estella watched the exchange of guilty looks between the two gentlehobbits and gave a brief nod.  “There you have it, Diamond,” she sighed.  “These two are no more likely to enjoy shopping with us here in Gondor than back home in the Shire, are they?”

            “Frills and laces,” muttered her husband.  “You expect us to rejoice to stand by while you spend hours choosing just the right ones?”

            Diamond gave her friend an evil smile.  “Then, I suppose we shouldn’t seek to share with them the candied nut meats we purchased today, even though they both dote on them?”  She looked up at the amused Man who’d served as their guide.  “Shall we go, then, and leave the two of them to continue to blunder about aimlessly until they finally find their way back?” she suggested.

            “Now, wait a moment, my beloved wife and most dearling of women!”  Pippin hurried to catch hold of her arm.  “You’ll do no such thing!”  He smiled.  “Besides, now that I smell your perfume, I could follow that--most eagerly--back to the Prince’s house.”  His expression had become decidedly suggestive.

            Faramir laughed outright.  “Come, friends--the evening meal is almost ready, and the cook will be most upset should you not praise it to the stars!”

            Legolas watched, most amused, as the four Hobbits followed the Prince of Ithilien from the small glade.  “Are we indeed so near the end of the woods?” Pippin was asking as they passed beyond sight.

For Dean Maia of Este's birthday. And thanks to RiverOtter for the beta.

Seeking to Give Comfort

          The Lady Melian, Queen of Doriath, sought to comfort her daughter. "I do not understand, Naneth," the weeping elleth whispered between her sobs. "Why cannot he see that this is the one who stirs my heart! It is true he is but a Man--but the fire of passion within his heart burns so strong that it has blinded me to those who look at me with desire from among our own people! Why can Adar not appreciate how deeply I am moved? Why must he see him as nothing more than an adan, as if that were somehow shameful, or as if Men were lesser somehow than the Eldar? Are they, too, not among the Children of Eru?"

          What could the mother say to her bereft child, her sweet Lúthien? After all, could it not be said by some that she, too, had, as a Maia, wed beneath her own station by marrying Thingol, a mere king among Elves?

          "Oh, my daughter, I understand."

Written for the A_L_E_C prompt:  Dead Things.  And so many thanks to RiverOtter for the beta! 

No Going Back

            “Good,” the creature crooned to itself as it peered out of its hiding place, checking to see that it remained unseen.  “Very good, precious.  The White Face--it’s gone, gone now.  It won’t see us, show us to enemies.  Good.  And the Yellow Face won’t come for a long time yet.  Now, my precious, it’s time to look, yes, look.  Find the thief!  Find the Baggins, the filthy little thief--find it, and get the Precious back.  Oh, we needs the Precious.  Gollum!  Gollum!  It’s cold--oh, so cold!  So cold without the Precious, it is.  We needs the Precious, oh, yes, we does!”  And continuing on in this vein, the creature resumed its path, picking its way down the rocky road from the mountains.

            “He went this way--we knows he did!  The tricksy one--he went thiss way.  Had to--this is the only way that runs from the door, it is!  Gollum!  No, no other way to go, not the thieving Baggins!  Had to go this way.  Good thing the orcses aren’t so many.  Yesss, very good thing, for they don’t always guard it, the back door--not like then, then when the thief took it and wouldn’t tell us what it had in its pocketses!  Yes, good thing there aren’t so many orcses now, precious.  We could get out, follow him--follow the Baggins.  Maybe we’ll find him, wring his nassty little neck, get the Precious back!  Oh, but we wants the Precious back--we needs it, doesn’t we, precious?  Yesss, we needs it....”

            It found a fox’s den as the sky began to grey, and stole two kits from it to fill its belly, then sought a shadowy place to den itself so as to hide from the Yellow Face it so dreaded.  Clouds covered the sky as evening approached, and with no fear of being seen by the moon it traveled all through the night, pausing only for a time by a stream where it was able to catch three fish unawares.  Downward and downward it traveled, ever heading for the valley of the great river, feeling a subtle excitement growing in its vitals as it came closer and closer, slipping through forests and darting through open fields and glades only in the darkest hours of the night.

            How it found its way no one could perhaps say.  Certainly there was little in the land surrounding the river that could possibly be the same as it had been nearly five hundred years ago when it had climbed up the foothills of the mountains and followed a stream to the wormhole through which it had crawled into the eternal darkness that lies beneath the roots of the pillars of the sky.  When at last the wretched thing came out onto the flats of the Gladden Fields there was nothing to recognize save for a feeling of rightness to the place; perhaps it was the angle of the light from which it hid under the roots of a fallen tree or an elemental tang of peat in the air or a particular sound to the river itself that somehow told the creature that this place was nevertheless familiar, that it had once been thought of as home.

            The last of the waning moon had followed the sun over the shoulder of the mountains that loomed to the west when it quitted the hollow left by the fallen giant at last.  It found little enough about which to complain as it traveled, walking more upright than had become its wont since its Precious had come to it, back in the days when he’d been able to tolerate light; and for once it went without its interminable drone of comment to itself.  When the valley opened westward it turned that way automatically, again doing so because it was the right distance from the other place.  At the proper distance from the turn, the sound of the river properly muffled by the ridges, it found itself searching the wall of earth and stone along which it traveled, at last finding a hidden opening behind a mat of vines, again with a feeling of rightness to it.

            It broke its own silence, whispering to itself, “Here--yesss, yes, here it is.  Is it waiting--waiting for me?”  With a growing excitement it pushed its way determinedly past the clinging stems, not caring for the moment if broken vines, torn leaves, and scattered blossoms might betray this hidden place and his current presence within it.

            What had he thought to find within?  The laughter of his long-dead kin?  The welcome of his grandmother’s voice responding to his belated homecoming with a chiding for tardiness but assurance he might yet find something to fill his belly lying wrapped on shelves in the second larder?  The call of Déagol to come show him what he’d found that day?  The thought of peering through cracks in the doorways into the lasses’ chambers as they prepared to bathe, or being able to listen unseen to the quiet confidences shared by his aunts and uncles?  Ah, but it found none of such things, for all was dark--dark and dank and filled with the scent of rotting wood and stone.  No tables stood in the expanse of the chamber into which he emerged; no chairs or padded benches.  Where there had been screened windows there was now fallen earth.  Where there had been several passages only one remained.  He was loth to follow it, he realized, for that was the way to the rooms in which the most precious of his clan’s possessions lay, and where they had laid--the bones.

            He had been with one of his uncles the day they’d found the bones, cutting peat for the fires in the spongy lands about the edge of the lake that lay south of their hole.  There had at one time been a great tree there, back when the river had run this side of the flats, or so his uncle, who had been learned in the lore of the river, had told him.  The tree had grown right on the banks of the river itself, and the rushing water had eaten away at the soil that had surrounded the roots of the thing.  The stark trunk of the tree, encased in mud a good length above the roots, had stood there still in the days of his childhood until his uncles had cut it down for firewood, not that its remains had made good fires.  But there was little in the way of harvestable wood in the lands surrounding their hole by Sméagol’s time, not unless one was willing to travel two to three days’ journey north or south.  So their clan relied mostly on what fallen trees the river brought them and the peat, waiting patiently for the day the saplings they’d planted themselves were tall enough to supply them with what they needed.  Wildfires had taken the trees that had once sheltered their home lands--wildfires followed by boring beetles that had killed those of the great trees of this land that had survived the flames.

            And after they’d cut what peat they needed, his uncle had shown him how to dig down to the ancient root structure to prove to him that indeed a tree had once grown here--until as they were clearing away the dirt from one side of a moldering root the spade had brought up not a stone as they’d expected, but a skull!

            It had been a huge skull, far, far larger than those of his own people; and his uncle, excited, had kept digging and kept Sméagol at it far longer than the young one had wished to do so.  Others had come to see what it was that kept them away, and his uncle had insisted they help him, too.  The body of the giant must have fetched up against the tree roots, then been encased in mud during the very flood that had drowned the tree and changed the course of the river, as happened from time to time.

            How had the giant come to be in the water? he had asked.

            Who was to say for certain? his uncle had responded.

            It had been Sméagol himself who’d found the hand, one fingerbone still circled by a great ring figured with a sparkling star and a crescent moon circled by seven more stars, a ring that had remained intact when the rest was reduced to greyed and yellowed sticks of ancient bones.  He’d wished to keep the ring, but his uncle had said no, it should lie with the rest of the giant, for who knew what evil might cling to the belongings of one who’d died so?

            They’d found the point of a great arrow lying in the midst of the collapsed chest, and an older cousin had found a golden chain hung with an empty locket between the arrow point and where the skull had come away.  A sword they’d found, too, in the moldering ruins of its sheath, as well as a long knife, its blade notched and the tip of it missing.

            In the end they’d brought it all home to his grandmother’s hole, and she’d examined the ruins of the giant, which they’d laid out on a great table in one of the rooms that lay toward the river, one used no longer as it tended to grow damp during the spring thaws.  Carefully she and his uncle had laid the bones each in its place, both ruing where a spade had broken the length of one of them.  Sméagol had watched, had watched and helped as he was allowed, fascinated to see how it was that death had managed to reduce what had been a huge great figure to this--mere bones and a few oddments, scraps of fabric and rather more leather, including an odd leather bag that had been found near the hip-bone; the remains of a belt and the sword and sheath and knife, the ring, and nothing more. 

            In the end, once each fragment of bone was laid in its place so they could see how great a one this had been, he’d proven at least three times the height of their own folk, or so his uncle had insisted.  His grandmother, feeling some honor should be given to this one who had apparently died in the river long, long ago, had anointed each and every bone with oil; had arrayed the necklace as it should have been in life, the locket centered on the ruined chest over the arrow point, which had been brought as well, the ring around the fingerbone.  Then she’d carefully opened the bag to see what it contained, and all had been awed to see its contents spilled out into her hand.  It was a great white jewel of remarkable clarity set in a silvery housing, that attached to what appeared to be a great ribbon of carefully crafted silvery links that proved as supple as fabric.  She’d appeared troubled by this, and had finally returned it to its bag.  “This is something not meant for the likes of us,” she’d said.  “There is power here--great power, but of a sort intended for the great ones who are honored by the stars, not for hole dwellers.  It would be dangerous for our folk. 

            “It is best to let this one lie with honor, this one the river took so long ago.  If we do not do so, his spirit might well walk amongst us and breathe illness into our children.  But if we treat his remains with honor, it is likely he will grant us good fortune.”

            So his grandmother, who was ever considered a wise one, had set the leather bag again by his hip and laid over all a length of cloth, and led her folk all out of the room, leaving the giant’s bones to lie in peace.  She’d had the uncles bring in stones and wall in the doorway, making a tomb of the abandoned room.  And in time all appeared to have forgotten the great figure--all save Sméagol, who spent hours wondering where the giant had come from, and how it was he’d died apparently of an arrow and ended within the river’s embrace.

            He shivered as he peered down the hallway.  No one lived here now--that was plain enough.  Where had they gone, he wondered?  What had become of them?

            “There’s no one here, is there, precious?” he asked himself.  “No--no one here--all gone--perhaps gone long, long ago.”  He again found his attention drawn to the passageway, and at last, reluctantly, approached it.  “Come, precious--gollum, gollum.  Come and let us see--perhaps the stones have fallen, too--perhaps!  Then we will see--oh, yes, we will see.  That other ring, the one with the moon and stars--perhaps it is still there, waiting for us, perhaps!”

            The wall appeared indeed to have been dismantled, but then the stones had been stacked again, rather haphazardly, partially blocking the entrance.  It took time to shift enough of them to finally creep past them, back into the room--at which he stopped.

            There were skulls there--small ones, skulls suitable to have come from his own people.  They lay in a line across the floor, pale in the shards of light that fell on them from a partially dug-away ceiling.  He took a breath that hissed between his clenched teeth.  “These aren’t from the giant--oh, no, they’re not, are they, precious?” he said, shocked by this evidence of someone else’s violence.  “No--not from the giant!  Put here on purpose, they was--gollum!  Gollum!  But, why?  Why leave them here, the heads?”

            The table had been tipped over on its side, although it was barely recognizable.  On the floor by it lay a pile of gritty matter that he recognized from the floor of the cavern where he’d lived for so long as having come from old bones fallen to dust--the bones of the giant warrior had long since lost their shape, save for the smallest of fragments.  Nothing could be seen of the sword, knife, or ring--or that odd bag.

            No--the sword was there, lying on the stone pavement of the floor, its blade stained and pitted, no longer bright.  Almost he touched it, then pulled his hand away, repulsed.  “No--no!  They used it, they did, didn’t they, precious?  They used it--on these!  Gollum!”  He backed out of the room and halfway down the passageway, finally turning and running out into the night.  As the coming sun began to lighten the eastern sky he found a hiding place for the day and huddled there, shivering.

*******

            Gandalf leaned over Gollum.  He’d put the fear of fire into the miserable creature; it ought to actually give him a decent answer this time.  “The ring that the Baggins stole from you--where did you get it?”

            “From the grandmother--lots of things--beautiful things--she had.  Lots of beautiful things.  Leave us alone!”

            The bushy grey eyebrows rose.  This was most unlikely.  “Your grandmother had lots of beautiful things?”

            But Gollum was looking away again, once again refusing to answer.  “Not its business,” he muttered.  “Not its grandmother!”

            “And did you ever go back to your grandmother’s hole?”

            Gollum glared up at the grey one who was questioning him.  “Not its business!” he repeated, his voice more distinct and defiant.  “Not its business if Sméagol went back there.”  His voice suddenly dropped in timbre, and the wizard had to lean closer to hear.  “Not its business if it’s empty now.  Gollum!  Gollum!”  There was a strange hollowness to his tone, and the wizard realized it was honest grief.  “All gone now,” he crooned softly, almost under his breath.  “No one left any more, is there, precious?  All gone.”

            Gandalf leaned yet closer, compassion replacing the suspicion he’d felt earlier.  He wished he dared touch the creature, but sensed that such a gesture would lose him what little trust or authority he’d been able to build.  “All gone now?  What is there now, then?”

            But Gollum just shook his head, looking away.  “Nothing there now,” he murmured.  “Nothing there now--just dead things....”

Written for the A_L_E_C "A Little Night Music" Challenge.  For Imhiriel on her birthday.  Beta by RiverOtter.

The Dance

            He found her singing in the darkness beneath Varda’s stars, and he smiled.  Of green things she sang, of trees and grass and scented flowers.

            He entered the clearing, adding his song to hers, singing of rich soil and shining minerals, soft sand and smooth stones.

            He could tell she was glad he had joined her, for now she began to sway as she sang of blossoms and fruit.

            He stepped to the side, singing of clay and mineral-laden water, heated by the earth and given to the relief of aching joints and exhaustion.

            She sang of the sweetness of apples.

            He sang of the richness of cups made from the metals to be taken from the earth, and how they would be ready to hold the apple’s juices.  Their hands met as their steps began to complement one another’s.

            She sang of the song of crickets hidden under leaves, of the song of frogs beside the banks of streams.

            He sang of the song of the water as it poured over rocks and between boulders.  They circled one another in their dance.

            She sang of filled bellies and contented children.

            He sang of useful items made such as knives to peel fruit and prepare vegetables to be eaten. 

            He lifted her easily high into the air, and she laughed as she sang of the comfort of growing things.

            He responded with the reassurance of the reliability of the earth and its bones.  He set her upon her feet.

            She paused, then held out her hands to him, her song slowed and seductive as she sang to him of the thanksgiving offered by trees and plants for the earth from which they grew.

            He took her hands and drew her to him, singing of the consummation the earth could know only when growing things sprang from it and drew from its bounty.

            He inclined his head, and she raised her face to meet his, and as Yavanna kissed her beloved Aulë their joined songs continued, more full and harmonious for their shared love and delight in one another.

            And all of the world prepared for the Children of Iluvatar delighted in their shared dance.

Written for the LOTR-Community-GFic Yule Exchange, written for Levade, but with a special dedication also to Szepilona, who loves the Rangers.  Beta as always by RiverOtter.

Will the Light Return?

            Halladan smiled as his older brother entered the recently restored Great Hall of the fortress of Fornost.  “Well, it is good to see you here, Halbarad!  How was the ride from the Breelands?”

            “I am uncertain whether I am merely growing older or what, but I swear each time I must ride days at a time through rain, sleet, and snow it grows worse, and that much the colder!  Do you have any mulled cider ready?”

            “No, although I do have some warm, spiced wine, if that would be acceptable, of course.”

            “Ordinarily I would say no, but in this case I would welcome it.  My toes feel as if they are frozen--perhaps this will help thaw them.”

            “I will send for some warm bricks and strips from old blankets to place about your feet to warm them.  Come to my private parlor and sit by the fire.”

            In moments they were in the private quarters for the lord of the keep where the fire on the hearth cheered the room.  Halladan pulled a chair near to the fireplace and settled his brother in it, and knelt to pull the damp boots from Halbarad’s feet.  One of their younger kinsmen came in, and he asked for the wine, and for warming bricks to be brought from the kitchen hearth.  “And some blankets or toweling to wrap about Halbarad’s feet.”

            “We have some ready for those who come in from the guard duty.”

            The Dúnedain of Eriador had been quietly restoring the ancient fortress of the kings of Arnor for some years, but in the last five years a more concentrated effort had been begun with the assistance of some of the Dwarves from the Blue Mountains.  Six years ago orcs and Men had crept south from the borders with Angmar and had assaulted one of the furthest Dwarf holds there northwest of the Shire; Dúnedain Rangers had borne warning to the Dwarves, and had assisted in the defense of the mines and forges that had been targeted by the northerners.  The Dwarves had gladly repaid this help by sending some of their masons to the assistance of the descendants of the Númenoreans in reconstructing the most ancient fortress of their people.  Halladan had been charged with overseeing the work, and he and his wife now resided here with some families that had lost husbands and fathers to the constant wars with the Enemy’s creatures and allies.

            “To think that we will have an actual fortress worthy of Aragorn in a few years time!” Halladan commented.  “Only a pittance of Arnor as it once was, but a promise that the realm of Elendil and Valandil will be restored.”

            “May it indeed be so,” Halbarad said as he accepted the warmed bowl of drink brought him, holding it close to his chest as if to warm himself with it, breathing its heady scent.  “No more merely wanderers in the empty lands shall we appear, but instead the stewards indeed of all the lands we once claimed as our own.”  So saying, he took a draught of the spiced wine and sighed appreciatively as the youth returned with the warmed bricks and dry cloths.  Between them youth and Halladan soon had Halbarad’s feet warming, and he relaxed deeper into his chair.  “Ah,” he said, “but that is good!”

            “A fine change from a tentless camp on the borders of the Shire?” Halladan asked.

            “Actually, I have given most on the borders permission to stay at the Bridge Inn or in our waystations or at the Pony in Bree for the days surrounding Mettarë.  There have been a series of heavy snows, and they will impede the approach of any through the second week of the new year at least, unless the weather becomes unseasonably warm without warning.  It is as if the Enemy is sending his worst wishes toward the Shire in terms of foul weather for the Hobbits’ Yule.  If so, it works to their protection as much as to their inconvenience, and I am grateful for it.”

            “The snow does appear particularly heavy here, too, brother.”

            “It is far worse there about the Shire and in the Breelands.  It does not appear, however, to be anywhere nearly as bad in the region of the Angle and Imladris, and I sincerely hope it will not cause difficulties to those who are to leave there.”

            “What more has been heard from there?”

            Halbarad was shaking his head.  “Little enough, save that so far all have reported the same as we have found--there have been no further signs of the presence of the Nazgûl anywhere within Arnor.  Those charged with what must be done will not leave, however, until the last reports come from those in what remains of Lindon.  Gildor Inglorion had promised to relay the reports of the coastal watchers there this week at the latest.  And what have those from the Blue Mountains shared with you?”

            “None of the Dwarves have found any sign of the Enemy’s folk anywhere within fifty miles of their lands.”

            “Good--may it remain so!  Certainly the word given our folk by those from Mithlond indicate Círdan’s region is currently free from any threat.”

            “How many do you have stationed near the Sarn Ford?”

            “Nine Men, all of them experienced in fighting wargs and orcs.”

            “And what of the word of wagons driven by Men entering the Shire in the past months, since Iorhael came out of it?”

            Halbarad shrugged, his brow furrowed as he drank some more.  “How are we to stop those invited into the Shire by the very folk there?  Although I must say I like it not.”

            Halladan nodded thoughtfully as he poked at the logs on the hearth and added another.

            “And we will not know when those charged with what must be done leave Rivendell?” he asked at last.

            “Not until they are well upon their way.  Do you not agree it is better so?”

            “In my mind I agree.  It is my heart that misgives me, knowing that once more our Chieftain, who should be openly our King, goes from us, and on such a quest!  Can any who sets forth to those parts ever be expected to return to the living lands once more?”  He searched his brother’s eyes.  “He is the last pure heir to Elendil and Isildur, descended father to son over all the generations.  If we lose him, what then?  Are we to become like Gondor--a land led by a series of sister’s sons and distant cousins until at last we sink to being ruled by stewards alone?”

            Halbarad shrugged.  “There are some yet close enough to take up the Chieftain’s role, at least.”

            “But could we expect any save Aragorn himself to become more than that?”

            “If their errand fails,” Halbarad said solemnly, “then I doubt that any of us will be in a position to ever see Arnor renewed.  Sauron’s revenge on the north where his greatest enemies have lain hidden so long and where his treasure was held away from him will be swift and heavy once he has spent his wrath on Gondor.  On that you can depend.  Why else do you think so many orcs, wargs, and trolls have flourished of late?  Rivendell and the Grey Havens, the remnants of Lindon and our lands and the Shire--he will seek to obliterate all these places.”

            “At which time our reconstruction of Fornost here will be meaningless,” Halladan sighed.

            “Even so.”

            “A grim Mettarë shall we know, then.”

            Halbarad set his bowl of wine in his lap.  “Do not grant the Enemy the victory before we have the chance to ward off the stroke first, my brother.  This will be our last Mettarë within Eriador as we know it no matter what happens with those charged with the full burden.  If they fail, a year hence we will undoubtedly be hiding in the hills, seeking some semblance of safety.  If they succeed--well, then, this keep will be the symbol of the rebirth of Arnor once more.  And if this proves to be our last Yule as guardians of those lands that remain of our ancient realm, I personally intend to make it one to remember with joy.  Now, tell your wife and our folk here to prepare the place as if Aragorn himself were to be here, with all the symbols of the Light Returned.  Let us hope that even as the growing darkness of the days is overcome, so it will be with the darkness of the great Enemy as well.  His fell Master was conquered two ages ago--now it is time for the Servant.  And if it can be done by anyone, then I believe that Aragorn can lead all to that victory!”

            Halladan took a deep breath.  “May the Creator and the Belain assist in seeing that happen, then!”

            “Indeed.”

            Halbarad was finishing his bowl of wine when they heard a growing excitement from the outer hall.  He kicked his feet free of the swaddling of blankets and towels and stood upright on the thick braided rug, setting the bowl down on the table by him, and Halladan came to stand by him as those charged with guarding the gates entered, obviously excited, leading another.

            The young Ranger was one who’d been patrolling the area near the borders shared by the Dúnedain and Rivendell.  His cloak was sodden, and there was snow upon his shoulders and boots as he pushed his hood and the knit scarf back from his face.  “They have set forth!” he told them.  “The word just came--they left Rivendell three days since, the Ringbearer and those with him.  By Mettarë they will be well on their way.”

            He was pulling at his gloves ineffectively with fingers stiffened by riding swiftly through the worst of winter weather.

            Halbarad and his brother exchanged looks.  “So it is begun, then,” the older brother said.  He took a deep breath as he straightened.  “Then,” he said at last, “let us rejoice that at last the matter will be settled, one way or another, and I prefer to think that it will be the Light that will win this time, even as Mettarë falls upon us.”

            He raised his voice.  “Let the keep be decorated fit for the King Returned himself!  As we rejoice in the return of the Light, we shall look forward, particularly this year, to the return also of the King and the renewal of the lands founded by the refugees from Númenor!”

            All cheered, heartened by Halbarad’s own confidence.

            As the youth entered with a bowl of the spiced wine for the messenger, followed by Halladan’s wife with more warmed bricks and cloth to warm his feet, Halladan asked his brother quietly, “But can a mere Hobbit see it through--enter the Enemy’s own lands and see what must be done accomplished?”

            Halbarad thought for a moment, and then he smiled--a smile that made it clear what he felt toward the Enemy.  “Remember, brother, that the last time Sauron’s own fortress was breached it was by a woman among Elves, one who beguiled him sufficiently to effect the escape of her beloved.  That he would underestimate a Hobbit even more than he might an elleth is perhaps to be expected.”

            For a moment Halladan merely looked at his brother openmouthed, shocked at the thought of this, and then he began to grin.  Soon both brothers were laughing openly.

            “He has not a chance, does he?” Halladan chortled.

            His face alight with mirth, Halbarad indicated his agreement.  “No--Sauron does not yet appreciate he is already conquered before he realizes just how under siege he is!  Know this, brother, this time the Light shall return!”

  oOo

AN:  Mettarë is the name given by the Dúnedain to the feast of the winter solstice, as Yule is that given it by the Hobbits of the Shire and probably the folk of the Breelands as well.  The celebrations might be different, but the meaning would be the same.

Belain is the Sindarin word for the Valar.

For Jay of Lasgalen, who loves stories of the twin sons of Elrond and Celebrían.  Happy birthday.

On the Naming of Twins

            She’d wished to give birth under the stars, “Even as our ancestors woke there, so long ago, on the shores of Cuiviénen under the first lights to these lands,” she’d explained.

            Elrond had agreed, so a bed was set on one of the many wide porches of the place, one from which he was accustomed to watch the stars.  And there it was, on a midsummer night of no moon, that the Lady Celebrían gave birth for the first time.

            Now she rested, enjoying the fruits of her labors.  “Twins,” she breathed, looking from the bundle in her arms to that her husband held.  “And identical!”  She looked up to catch her lord’s eyes.  “Our own Ambarussa?” she suggested.

            Elrond shuddered at the thought of that name given their sons.  “Nay,” he said, shaking his head.  “Never that--not again!  Nay, for even now they are subtly different one from the other.”  For even as the first one to be born beneath the light of stars stared upward in fascination at the glory of the Wilwarin overhead, the one held by Celebrían was even now seeking the comfort of his mother’s breast.

            Beyond the bulk of the place they heard the noise of horses entering the vale of Imladris.  “Glorfindel has returned from Annúminas with the King of Arnor,” he commented.  “They will be grieved to know they have arrived after the event, I fear.”

            She gave a tired laugh.  “Ah, but they do not have to fret through the long hours of the labor, do they?  It will be enough for them to see the babes already come, or so I would think.”

            He smiled at her.  “Even so,” he agreed.

            They could hear from afar the voices of those set by Erestor to greet the newcomers.  “They will soon be brought here,” she said, to which he nodded thoughtfully.

            They heard the deeper, rougher timbre of the voice of the King of Men as he responded to the report of Erestor, and the child in Elrond’s arms turned its head that way, intrigued by the sound of this new voice.  “An Elf with the awareness of Men,” Celebrían noted, watching her firstborn’s reaction.

            Just then one of the horses neighed loudly, at which the infant in her arms startled, turning his head also.  Elrond considered his second son with interest.  “And that one is already drawn by horses,” he answered.

            They exchanged looks.  “I do believe,” she said, “that they are now named.”

            “Indeed,” he agreed.  “Then they shall be known ever as Elladan and Elrohir.”

            Her answering smile challenged the very stars for brightness.

For Lady_Roisin, with prayers for her recovery.  Beta by RiverOtter.

First Victory!

            Eldarion gave off his offense and stepped backward, watching his opponent closely, trying to predict which move might be tried next.  Then he noted that the other’s sword was lowered slightly more than one usually saw, and he immediately moved to take advantage of that brief moment of increased vulnerability.

            Whack!  Clang!  And suddenly the other Man’s sword had dropped from his grasp and was skittering across the practice ground.

            Eldarion stepped back, lowering his own blade to a guard position as he’d been taught—“Never assume you have won until your opponent has made it more than plain he yields--and even then ward yourself, for some truly have no honor, and will seek to take advantage of any perceived laxity of guard.”  From the corner of his eye he could see the mouths of several of the onlookers drop in shock, for most had never seen this Man lose a practice bout with a sword to anyone, and particularly not to a fifteen-year-old youth; but it was his opponent’s own face he watched most closely, seeing the initial dumbfounded surprise give way to realization that, yes, he had indeed been bested, and then the growing respect and--and pride! that went with that realization.

            The Man straightened.  “I yield me,” he said, placing his right hand across his breast and bowing respectfully.  “Today, my son, you have indeed proven your skill.  Now, if you will grant me the chance to redeem my reputation?”

            Eldarion Telcontar finally sheathed his sword, realizing of a sudden that his hand was shaking.  He looked down at it, then back to meet the eyes of his father.  “I fear, Adar nín, that it would perhaps be best should we look to match ourselves again tomorrow.  Right now....”

            And Elessar Envinyatar Telcontar was suddenly stepping forward to press a steadying hand to his son’s shoulder, his eyes already searching the youth’s face, noting the sudden pallor and the sheen of sweat on the youth’s forehead.  “Nay, you are right, ion nín,” he agreed.  “Tomorrow will be soon enough for me to challenge you again.  But today you have adequately shown that you have listened well to the lessons offered by myself and your uncles and by Hardorn.  And I am ever so proud of you.”

            Eldarion took a deep, strengthening breath, straightening in pride and sudden delight.  He had done it!  Today he, a mere youth of fifteen summers, had managed to defeat his father, reputedly the greatest swordsman among Men.  He might not match this feat for months; but today--today he had proved himself a worthy match for the King of the West!  And when others crowded about him to offer him their congratulations he felt his smile threatening to split his face.

For Eli, for his birthday.  Beta by RiverOtter.

For the Sake of Friendship

            He’d first seen the adan as a child, a mere boy.  He’d been small and eager, although with an innate courtesy that Legolas had found both surprising and endearing.  They’d met when Legolas had come to Imladris with a message from his father to Elrond, and the child had been drawn to the newcomer as are iron filings drawn to a lodestone.

            Legolas had seen him next when he’d come east of the Misty Mountains into the vale of the Anduin and beyond into Mirkwood, accompanying Mithrandir and Elrohir.  He’d been newly come to manhood, tall and earnest; and his courtesy had been improved with a courtly manner that even Thranduil had remarked upon.  Such grace was seen rarely enough in the Second-born--but then, Aragorn son of Arathorn had been raised in Elrond’s home as if he were a son of the place.

            From time to time Legolas had seen him after that, especially after the Dúnadan had returned to his own lands from his sojourns within Rohan, Gondor, and the lands controlled by the Enemy.  It was amazing for Legolas to see how swiftly the Man matured, and how grim he could appear--only for that grimness to melt away at the sound of Elven singing and the sound of Sindarin spoken by a full Elf, as if Elven voices were able to renew that young third son of Elrond.

            The last time he’d seen Aragorn before the Council of Elrond had been when the Man, tired and worn with a long, arduous and thankless journey, had brought the creature Gollum to Thranduil for its keeping until Mithrandir could come to question it.  Legolas had brought him to the healers, for the Man’s hand had festered where Gollum had bitten him.  There had been some question as to how well he, as one of the Second-born, might recover from such a serious infection.  However, he’d proved remarkably hardy for a Man, and had left with his hand much recovered and the scar already fading, barely to be seen by others afterwards.  Legolas had sparred with Aragorn during the last few days of his stay, and had found the Man to be remarkably well skilled with his blade, a fit opponent even for Legolas’s white knife.

            Within Rivendell at the time of the Council the Silvan Elf had found the Man seemed even older, somehow.  His expression was mightily serious, and rightly so, what with the Enemy’s Ring found as it had been and Its bearer so wounded on the Ranger’s watch.  Legolas was already disposed to see the joint son of Arathorn and Elrond as a friend, and for his sake he held his tongue as well as he might about the Dwarf.  It was because Aragorn was named early as one of those who would serve in the Fellowship that Legolas had put his name forward as one who would be willing to go forth alongside the Perian as one of the Ringbearer’s companions.  All accepted the Grey Wizard as their primary guide, but Legolas already respected the knowledge the Man had for the lands through which they’d traveled.  And when Gandalf had fallen in Moria, the Man had simply moved into the role of leader so naturally that none had questioned him, not even the Steward’s son.

            When was it that Legolas had first realized how deeply he loved Aragorn as one as worthy as any Elf?  That was hard to say.  It was after he’d found the even more surprising friendship growing between himself and the Dwarf.  Aragorn had proved himself even more competent than Legolas had perceived before:  an attested guide through the lands through which he led them; skilled at healing; a lore master in spite of his lifespan that didn’t even reach a century as yet; welcomed and honored by the Lord and Lady of Lothlórien in spite of his claim on the love of their granddaughter; honest; steadfast in his rejection of the lure of the Ring; true in his commitment to the Fellowship; magnanimous and comforting to Boromir; tireless in his intent to recover Merry and Pippin; observant and heartening....  In him was married the best of his mixed heritage as a descendant of Beren and Lúthien Tinúviel, Idril and Tuor, Eärendil and Elwing.  As wise as his ancestor’s brother; as honest and dedicated and courageous as the truest of the Edain who’d fought alongside Elves, Dwarves, Maiar, and Belain against Morgoth himself--Aragorn was one full worthy, Legolas judged, of the respect and love he found himself bestowing on the Man.

            He’d shared so much of the Man’s life--had witnessed his marriage and the birth of his children; had been there to see him prove indeed the wisest of Kings, the most formidable of defenders, the most skilled of healers.  For love of Aragorn he’d allowed himself to become close to his children as well, and to share all he could with Eldarion in preparation for the day when he would take his father’s place.

            But now, as he left his mortal friend for the last time, Aragorn Elessar’s fëa fled the cooling shell of his body, for the first time in his long life Legolas felt his age.  He watched after Undómiel with pity for her overwhelming grief as she was led away from the tombs by her son that the embalmers could do what they must for the King’s body, and set a hand that was beginning to feel transparent upon the shoulder of his one remaining friend from the Fellowship, and felt there, also, a growing fragility that indicated that Gimli, too, was nearing the proper ending of his life.  “I begin to know the weariness that all too often is our lot as Elves,” he murmured in the Dwarf’s ear.  “It is time to prepare to leave Middle Earth.”

            Gimli stopped, and looked up at him, his face stricken.  “You would leave ere I do?”

            Legolas shook his head.  “Nay, mellon nín, I would not leave you.  Remember, an invitation was granted you as well.  Will you come with me?”

            The Dwarf searched his eyes.  “You know I’ll grumble--I’ve never been a good sailor.”

            Legolas was surprised that at that moment he could still laugh.  “I look forward to it, friend Gimli.  Then we shall sail?”

            Still the Dwarf searched his eyes, and then that familiar grin split his now white beard.  “Oh, I’ll go with you, Legolas--and make you regret it for the rest of your unnatural life!  You’ll bless the day I finally go to join my fathers in the Halls of Waiting.”

            And the two of them still laughing together, they returned to their quarters within the Citadel, their arms about one another, comforted in their shared grief.

Written particularly for Mike Kelner on the occasion of the anniversary of the HASA discussion list.  Beta by RiverOtter.

No Longer Merely a King

            He sat, holding his firstborn not as a healer who had assisted in the birth of the child, watching to see that the event did not needlessly endanger his beloved wife; not as the one who’d been born the son of an obscure northern chieftain of a nearly hidden people in the wastes of Eriador; not as the one whose father had died as the result of an ambush by orcs, an arrow lodged in his eye; not as the one raised as if he were the son of an Elf lord of immeasurable power; not as the one who’d won fame and glory fighting in lands not his own, and whose curiosity and need had driven him to spy out the ways of still others; not as the one who’d cobbled together alliances with scattered settlements of Men, Elves, and Dwarves throughout the northern reaches of Middle Earth; not as the one who’d slipped behind the Enemy’s defenses to look closely on Minas Morgul, Dol Guldur, and from a distance even upon Barad-dûr; who had directed the guarding of lands not his own for countless years; who had ridden, walked, and sailed the ways of the world many times over; who had once feared he would never earn the deepest desire of his heart; who had at times struggled to hold the reality of his childhood name in his own heart and life....

            Nay, today he was not even the one who’d walked beside the Ringbearer and drawn him back from the Gates of Death, the bearer of the Winged Crown and the Sceptre of Annúminas.  No, today he was far, far more than that, for today he was----

            ----Today he was a daddy!

            And in the delight of that new identity he began eagerly marveling at tiny fingers and toes, and admiring how his child’s eyelashes lay against a pale cheek, and how the dark curls of down grew upon the infant’s head, and wondering at the strength in the grip of that small hand about his finger!

Written for Elena Tiriel's birthday.  Thanks as always to RiverOtter for the beta.

From the Ashes...

            The King rode alongside his friend and Steward down the great Road, and had to smile as he saw the verdant forest give way to yet another village’s farmlands.  He saw fields of grain, a rich vineyard on a south-facing slope where already great bunches of grapes fattened on the vines, and an orchard of peach trees.

            At a nod between the two Men they pulled to a halt and alit from their mounts, and approached the orchard together.

            The orchardist who came to greet them had a face marred with a great scar from where he’d been caught by an orc’s scimitar in the battle fought before the Black Gate.  Once he’d been a Ranger of Ithilien; now he cared for its land in another way.  His expression brightened as he recognized his former captain and his King.  “My lords!  It is an honor!  Welcome to the restored village of Dûnsmir!  Oh, but my wife will rejoice to offer you some of the fruits we preserved from last year!”

            Aragorn was pleased to accept slices of thick bread spread with sweet peach preserves, and ate them as he wandered through the grove of trees with his fellow former Rangers, pleased to hear talk of how the trees and their fruit were protected from the predations of deer and rabbits and the danger of late frosts.  He could almost be walking through similar orchards far to the north, near the villages he and his own Rangers had protected for so long, only there the trees would have produced apples and cherries.

            He paused, smelling the rich scent of ripening fruit and contented trees, hearing in the distance the singing of one working amongst the vines.  He saw, lying between the nearby eaves of the orchard and the slopes of the vineyard, the ruins of an ancient granary.  Not far from it the new winepress had been erected.

            As was true in Arnor as well, from the land long scarred by the Enemy’s assaults new settlements were rising.  And the King rejoiced that the former Ranger so engaged in earnest discourse with the Prince of Ithilien had found it worthwhile to trade his sword and bow for pruning hooks and bushel baskets.

            Men and land might be scarred, but it did not stay them from being fruitful once more, he thought as he watched the man’s children come forth to delight in the company at their father’s side.

For Agape4Gondor, for her birthday.  Beta by RiverOtter.

A Proposal of Renewal

            Gimli considered the younger Dwarf’s proposal for a long moment.  Was I truly that young once? he asked himself  “You would indeed seek to return to Khazad-dûm, knowing what was awakened there?” he asked aloud.

            Ori’s grandson faced the Lord of Aglarond squarely.  “Balin sought to rebuild our most ancient kingdom there.  It is true he and those who went with him are lost, but I would see that dream fulfilled at last, now that the Dark One is no more to breed orcs and trolls to overwhelm us.  I would restore his tomb and the memorials to our people there, and see our folk again know some hint of glory there once more.”

            “But our days are passing as surely as have those of the Elves,” Gimli pointed out.  “We do not increase our numbers--not in these days.”

            “Perhaps all the more reason to consider the project,” the younger Dwarf responded.  “Let us not be remembered by Men only for those cities of our peoples we abandoned, but more for those we restored.”

            It was a worthy thought.

For RS, Rhyselle, and Surgical Steel for their birthdays.  With thanks to RiverOtter for the beta.

Renewal Embodied

And the very stone once rejected by the builders shall become the cornerstone....

            “This stone,” noted the mason to the sculptor, “has been worked before.  See how the edges were once sharply defined?  And if you look upon this face, you can see the eight-pointed star of Eärendil once was worked into it.”

            The sculptor’s eyes gleamed as he ran his clever fingers over the design that still remained on the weathered block.  “Oh, yes!” he said.  “And the stone is eager to be returned to its former purpose once more.”  He looked up.  “If you will see to the smoothing of its other sides, I will bring the star again to shine out.  But where do you intend to put it to use?”

            The mason nodded toward Lake Evendim.  “There--the King’s Retreat will rise there near the lake’s shore.  A tie between the ancient realm of Arnor and its renewal!  I will place it on the central tower, above the King’s own quarters.”

            The eyes of the sculptor shone with approval.  “Yes, most fitting.”  He looked about at the scattering of blocks that littered the ground here, at the center of the ancient site of Annúminas.  “Here were the halls of the King when this was the capital of the ancient realm.  That our beloved Lord King should have a portion of the ancient citadel worked into his own private dwelling is indeed right and proper.  A reminder that all indeed is renewed under him.”

            He looked at another great, irregular stone.  “This was once part of a statue, and of Elendil the Tall from the beard and the portion of the diadem that can be seen--yes, the Elendilmir.”  He sighed as he examined where enemies long ago had shattered it.  What remained was not even half the height of the original.  “It is too bad, really.  There is not enough to conserve, and no way of reworking it to its original image.  Yet there is warmth here, and again the stone longs to be returned to its original intent as much as does the star block there.”

            “But if it cannot be restored or reworked in some manner...” began the mason consideringly.

            For a few more minutes the sculptor ran his forefinger mournfully over the ruins of what had been Elendil’s features.  Then he paused, and a smile began to show itself.  “Not Elendil now,” he murmured as the plan began to blossom in his imagination.  “No--but as great a hero of the northern realm.”  He raised his eyes to meet those of his fellow artisan.  “I will sculpt the Ringbearer from what remains of the old stone.  I doubt Elendil would begrudge his shattered image being reworked to the likeness of Frodo Baggins!”

            For a moment the audacity of the plan shocked the mason, but then he, too began to smile.  “Oh, yes.  Newly cut stone can be brought to carve into fitting images of Elendil and Isildur and others of the northern Kings and Chieftains.  A wonderful turnabout, Ruvemir!  And if I know our beloved Lord Aragorn, he will so appreciate the irony of it--old stone for a new hero!”

            He indicated to his laborers that these two stones should be carefully removed to the shed where the small sculptor come from Gondor would be working on his projects and embellishments for the building of the new Citadel.

 *******

            Aragorn slowed his steed as they approached the new Citadel of Annúminas, his attention fixed upon the great facade of the building.  He smiled.  “I am glad you did not attempt to recreate the Citadel of Minas Anor here,” he commented to his cousin Halladan, who’d served as his Steward in Arnor during the long years he’d labored to confirm the rule of Gondor under his sovereignty.  “This is by far more appropriate to Arnor!”

            “You can thank the many who labored to see it done, my Lord Cousin,” Halladan answered.  “So many have spent so many years seeing the building properly planned and raised.  Come and see!”

            So saying he halted his own great bay gelding and dismounted, and his own son, smiling, hurried to take the reins to lead their horses to the great royal stables.  “Your own retreat has recently been finished there along the lake shore; but this is most fitting, we thought, for the King Returned.”

            Together they were greeted by masons and architects and other artisans, and many of those who’d labored long to see the new city rise over the ruins of the old.  Increasingly delighted to see the how the plans that had traveled so many times between Gondor and Arnor had finally taken shape, the King explored the wonders of his new home.

            The Royal Wing had behind it the beginnings of a private garden where already herbs and flowers coexisted in abundance and beauty.  He smiled as he examined a topiary tree shaped into a delightful star shape, in memory of lost Númenor.  “How wonderful!” he exclaimed, and walked around it----

            ----And stopped, his attention arrested.  There was a seated figure carved of what appeared to be ancient stone, in a warm, flesh-colored granite.  It was not tall, and not seated in majesty as were many of the figures he’d seen depicted about the Council’s Court.  Nor was the figure seated on any sort of throne.  No, this was a comfortable chair such as scribes favored, the back high, the arms at a comfortable height to support the elbows.  Indeed, the right hand held a quill pen, while the left hand held a comforting mug.  The eyes were alive, full of delight and curiosity, the mouth just opening as if preparing to share a most interesting story.

            “Frodo!” he said softly.  “Oh, yes--Frodo--in the King’s garden!”

            He was not surprised to see his favorite sculptor there, watching his response in pleasure.  “Your work, Ruvemir?” he asked.

            The mannikin sculptor nodded.  “Yes, for I thought you’d love to find him here, sharing the garden with you.”

            “But where did you find this stone?  It’s not native to the area.  I was told that much of the stone used in the original construction of the city was this warm granite brought from the Blue Mountains.”

            “Oh, Elendil himself provided the stone for the figure, my Lord King,” the sculptor assured him.  “It was here and shattered from its original purpose; but you will find that wherever they could the builders incorporated older remnants into the newer buildings.  It is likely that many of the carved cornices were done in stone that originally graced Elendil’s own keep.”

            The King wasn’t precisely certain what the sculptor meant by Elendil providing the stone for the figure, but there was no question that within the life-sized statue of Frodo Baggins he found the same feeling of an old soul he’d known in the Hobbit it depicted. 

            And somehow he found this most reassuring.

My birthday mathom to all of you!  Enjoy!  A double drabble.   

Masters of the Hill

            Bungo Baggins often stood here with his new bride, looking out over the Shire both of them loved, caring little for the lands beyond that two of her brothers had sought out.  He little dreamed that those who’d follow him would so favor their Took antecedents.

            Bilbo Baggins would sit under the oak tree with his books, secretly dreaming of lands beyond the dawn and the sunset while in public he behaved with the propriety and predictability expected of a Baggins--until....

            Frodo Baggins looked over the land he loved so fiercely, that he yet wished were more alive and aware.  He desired the excitement promised by the outside, but found himself clinging the more to what he knew he cherished even as it exasperated him.  But then destiny called him away....

            Now it is Samwise Gamgee who stands atop the Hill as Master of Bag End, looking south toward the King he loves and honors, east toward the paths he has trodden and the fears he has faced and conquered, then west the way he’s sent his hope.

            Within Bag End sleeps the next Master of the Hill, and what dreams he may know are not yet made manifest.

For Dwimordene for her birthday. Beta by RiverOtter.

Concerns Voiced

            “I am not certain what problems you foresee when Tar-Palantir dies, cousin,” Amandil suggested to his kinsman.  “The Lady Míriel is intelligent and filled with compassion and wisdom.  She will serve well as ruler of Andórë.”

            “And who will serve to see to it that the throne is kept safe from those who would force her to marry against her will?  There has been talk of arranging a marriage with the son of one of the rulers of Umbar or Pelargir or the Falas.  Would you see one of those who forsook Númenor be made her consort?”

            Amandil felt unexpectedly alarmed, not at the retelling of such news, for such was common enough knowledge; but the anger he heard in his kinsman’s voice disturbed him rather more than he’d expected.  “I do not see any difficulties.  These are all kinsmen of ours, and nobles in their own right.  Certainly they have as much respect from those of our land as does any prince of the Island itself.  Nor is there any hint any would force her into an unwanted marriage.  I have attended upon her as she’s received these lords and have heard them in council with our beloved Tar-Palantir.  I have seen no stain of dishonor in any of them.”

            “But it is said that there are those within Umbar who are in collusion with the one who styles himself the Lord of Middle Earth.”

            “Not from the houses of their rulers, however.  Our King has sent emissaries from his court to investigate, and they have not found any evidence of any sort to indicate those who rule Pelargir or the Falas have ever trafficked with the one they call Sauron.  As for Umbar....”  He stopped, less certain, before continuing, “But our Lady has told me herself she is not in any way drawn to the lord from Umbar.  She finds him shallow and lacking in curiosity and imagination.  I believe she said she would rather marry you than him.”

            Later he was to question the expression he saw in his kinsman’s eyes in response to that statement, when he learned that his cousin had brought his own men to the capital and staged a revolt, and had taken his kinswoman Míriel to wife against law or custom--and reportedly against her will--and then named himself Ar-Pharazôn, the Golden King.

            My beloved cousin--what is it you have done to our land and her rightful Queen?  

For Radbooks for her birthday, and in honor of our shared love for Aragorn son of Arathorn.  Beta  by RiverOtter.

Nativity of a Future King

            “The child was safely born?”

            “Indeed, Lord Arathorn--you have a son--a most wonderful son!”

            Gilraen, exhausted, smiled up at her husband, indicating the small bundle in the crook of her arm.  “A son, husband.  And one who fought being expelled all the way.  A warrior born!”

            The Chieftain of the northern Dúnedain reached to lift his child from the bed.  “Valiant already, is he?  A worthy grandson to Arador, then!”  He held the infant in the crook of his arm and pulled back the blanket, his heart already given to this child.  “Aragorn, then, we shall name you!”

Two true drabbles, the first written for Julchen and Rhyselle, the second for Starlight--for their birthdays.  Beta by RiverOtter. 

Summoning the Grey Company 

Summoned

            The Elf appeared suddenly within the Dúnedain camp, startling most of the Men.

            “How...?” began Faradir.

            Halbarad held up a hand to still his fellow.  Addressing the grey cloaked Elf:  “You are a messenger?”

            The Elf’s voice was slow, accented.  “I was sent to summon you to Rohan.  Your Lord Chieftain--he has need for you.  It is time to ride to war.”

            “Berestor--bring food....”

            A slight smile.  “Nay--I must away.  But go swiftly.”  And he was gone.

            The Men exchanged glances.  “At last,” Halbarad breathed, “the time comes.  Aragorn shall be made King, and the riven kingdoms reunited!”

*******

Forewarned

            A day’s ride from Rivendell, the Grey Company was met by a party from the Last Homely House, including the children of Elrond.

            “We, too, ride to war at our brother’s side,” announced Elladan, leading his twin to join the Men.

            Arwen, holding forth a furled standard, beckoned to Halbarad.  “Long have I labored over this for my belovèd.  Please, bear it to him.” 

            Halbarad accepted it.  “It is said, should he who first bears the King’s standard fall, yet the battle will be won.”  He inhaled, met her eyes.  “For his sake, and yours--I would do so gladly.”

Written for the LOTR-Community Nightmare Wedding challenge.  Dedicated to Mews.  Thanks as ever to RiverOtter for the beta.

And Just Whose Wedding Is This?

            In the wake of Peregrin Took’s birthday party on the occasion of his coming of age, at which he’d given Diamond North-Took a diamond necklace crafted in the form of the White Tree of Gondor, there was much excitement throughout the Tooklands and the North Farthing, particularly within the great smial of Long Cleeve.  The knowledge that the Thain’s son had spoken for the granddaughter of the family head of the North-Tooks seemed to send everyone into a mild form of madness, from what Pippin could tell.

            He’d arrived three weeks after Yule to find the whole of Long Cleeve turned upside down.  “But why?” he asked of Diamond’s sister Sapphire.  “The wedding isn’t for nearly four months yet!”

            She gave him a look he knew well from growing up with three older sisters--obviously as a gentlehobbit he was assumed too foolish to appreciate how it is with womenfolk!

            “You’d best just come with me,” advised his Aunt Jade’s husband Morigrin, “and stay well out of the way save for mealtimes.  It’s only then that you will be expected to show yourself--at Diamond’s side, of course.  Then--well, one piece of advice:  whatever she or her mother suggests, just agree with them.  It’s not worth while to do anything else.”

            “But it’s my wedding, too!” Pippin objected.

            His uncle gave a bitter laugh.  “You just think it is your wedding,” he said, shaking his head.  “You’ll find you’re wanted to be there for the actual event only because it’s customary to have the groom present.  Oh, my lad--you will learn!”

            “But, don’t I have any say at all in my own wedding?”

            “Very, very little, Pip-my-lad.  Very, very little!”

            And so it proved.

            “You want me to wear what?” Pippin demanded as his bride began describing the outfit envisioned for him to wear.

            “A blue waistcoat and vest,” she repeated.

            “I am a Hobbit, not a peacock!” he insisted.  “Hobbits don’t wear blue waistcoats and vests!”

            “Your cousin Frodo is said to have worn blue and grey and looked quite well in them,” she said.  Had he been more accustomed to her tone, he would have realized that she was most annoyed.

            “Well, Frodo was a special case.  The Lady Arwen made him the blue surcoat he wore in Gondor, and sent him an outfit in silver, and I’ll admit that it suited him especially well; but then he was----”  He didn’t finish; it was still difficult for him to speak of his lost cousin.

            He cleared his throat.  “At any rate,” he went on, “he wore grey and silver there at the end, not blue.  And I don’t happen to care for blue for myself.  It’s just not a color we gentlehobbits tend to wear.  I mean, it’s all very well for a lovely lass like yourself----”

            She was visibly growing annoyed, although the last compliment did apparently hit home.  “Well, I’m to wear blue, also, and I tend to look very well in it.  And I wish for the two of us to match.”

            “But I wanted to wear my uniform!”

            She gave quite a snort.  “Gentlehobbits don’t wear blue!” she mocked him.  “Well, since when do gentlehobbits wear black with silver embroidery?”

            “Since this gentlehobbit was made a Guard of the Citadel, that’s when!” he retorted.  “And I will have you know the Queen herself did the embroidery on my new tabard!”

            “Oh, did she?  And why should I believe that you truly know the Queen?”

            He looked at her, amazed.  “And since when have you decided I’ve lied to you about knowing Aragorn and the Lady Arwen?” he demanded.

            She apparently realized she’d gone too far.  “It’s not that I think you lied....” she began.

            “You as much as said I had!”

            She looked alarmed.  “Oh, no, Pippin, dear,” she said hurriedly, “I know that you didn’t lie to me----”

            “Then why did you say it?” he interrupted, feeling particularly hurt.

            She didn’t answer, merely staring at him with hurt eyes.  Then she began blinking furiously, and he realized she was about to cry.  “Our first quarrel!” she moaned.

            “And don’t start that weepy bit with me!” he insisted.  “I’ll remind you I have three older sisters, and I won’t stand for it!”

            The tears gave way to temper, and her face went first pale and then flushed.  Her eyes flashing, she turned and flounced out of the parlor where they’d been discussing things, and Ruby, after glaring at him as she rose from her place by the door, followed after her, hastily tucking away her sewing as she went--something blue, he noted with dismay.

            It was there that Morigrin found him.  “Didn’t I advise you to agree with anything suggested by your bride or her mother?” the older Hobbit asked.

            “Well, yes--but she was saying I must wear blue!”

            “And you must quarrel about it?”

            “I ask you, Uncle--would you agree to wear blue at your wedding?”

            Morigrin gave a bitter laugh.  “I will have you know that at my wedding I wore a lilac-colored waistcoat and a dusky rose vest.  Your aunt wished it, you know.”

            Pippin was shocked.  “You didn’t!  Lilac and dusky rose?”

            “It went with her dress, you see....”

            But Pippin was literally shaking with horror.

 *******

            The next argument was about where the wedding was to be held.  As they finished a rather quiet and notably strained late tea, Diamond’s grandfather Olimbard wiped at his lips with his napkin before asking, “And how many folk do you think will be coming from the Great Smial for the wedding?”

            Pippin, still with a terrible image in mind of himself wearing blue at his own wedding, looked up with surprise.  “What?  Marry here?”

            “Well, of course, Peregrin.  Diamond was born and raised here in Long Cleeve, after all.”

            Pippin cast a concerned sideways look at his proposed bride--he and she had both spoken of their hopes to be married at the Great Smial by the Thain himself, after all.  He noted she was blushing furiously.  “Well, as we were considering marrying at the festival to follow the first sowing----”

            “Oh, yes--a most suitable time to be married, just after the fields are first planted.  Yes, yes--most suitable indeed.  Most proper and propitious!”  Old Olimbard gave a decided smile.  “So we will expect you and your parents and your sisters, at least----”

            “But we’d planned to be married in Tuckborough!”

            Olimbard’s face went quite stiff.  “Out of the question.”

            “What?”

            Diamond’s mother hastily explained in a low voice in Pippin’s ear, “He made a vow, you see, years ago, that he wouldn’t set foot in the Great Smial.”

            Pippin searched her face desperately.  “A vow?” he asked in low tones.  “But wasn’t that made when Ferumbras was Thain?”  At her nod he protested, “But my father is Thain now, and has been for ever so long!  He can’t think himself bound by that vow now, can he?”

            She whispered vehemently, “Oh, yes!”

            His heart sank the more.

            Then after the meal Sapphire asked rather negligently, “Of course, Micolo will carry the flowers for the wedding?”

            Diamond’s younger brother, who was fifteen now, was flushing madly.  “I’m too old to carry the flowers for the wedding!”

            Pippin felt sympathy for the lad.  “I was thinking,” he said, “that with Diamond’s agreement we might ask my nephew Brand.  He’s more of a proper age....”

            Diamond glared at him.  “Now you’d think of consulting me?” she sniped.

            It was with relief he heard her cousin Elspeth crying out breathlessly as she hurried into the room, “There’s a party of riders coming--it appears to be the Brandybucks, considering the height of the Hobbit leading them!”

            “Thank the stars!” Pippin breathed as he took Diamond’s hand determinedly and pulled her out of the room to greet his cousin.

 *******

            Diamond and her sisters and Elspeth had taken Estella off to show her the rooms prepared for her and Merry and their companions--Merry’s cousin Berilac and Gomez Brandybuck had accompanied the two of them from Brandy Hall.  Beri and Gomez had been drawn away by Diamond’s father to show them the orchards and sheepfolds that were sources of much of the North-Tooks’ collective wealth, and so Merry and Pippin found themselves pretty much left alone save for Uncle Morigrin.

            Merry was now examining his younger cousin’s face carefully.  “It would appear you are not particularly happy, Pippin.”

            Pippin allowed himself to flop onto the nearest chair, one that creaked ominously at the move.  “We’ve had our first argument is all,” he admitted.

            “I warned him just to agree to anything Diamond or her mother might say,” Morigrin announced in I-told-you-so tones.  “But would he listen?  No!”

            “But it’s my wedding, too!” Pippin returned bitterly.  “Why must I wear blue just so I match her dress?”

            Merry looked at him thoughtfully.  “She’d have you wear blue?  Actually, there are some shades of blue that would look quite good on you----”

            “But I’ve never worn blue--not since I was a small lad!”

            Suddenly Merry smiled--a rather wicked smile, as Pippin judged it.  “Oh, so that’s what this is about, eh--that shirt you used to have to wear when you were small, the one that you loved at first but that Sancho Proudfoot used to make fun of as he’d never seen anyone but Cousin Bilbo wear blue, eh?”  He turned toward Morigrin.  “You remember, don’t you?  He wore it to Cousin Agate’s wedding when he carried the flowers for it, and it was such good cloth that Aunt Lanti kept it there for him to wear.  But when he wore it in Hobbiton Sancho made quite a good deal of fun of it, and accused him of being a mam’s lad.”

            “He wasn’t the only one,” Pippin muttered.  Then, in answer to the inquiring looks given him by both his relatives he said, “Lalia used to make comments on it, too.  Face it, Hobbits don’t usually wear blue!”

            Morigrin gave a snort.  “What?  Considering how she used to dress Ferumbras when he was a faunt, she had small room to talk!”

            Merry considered Pippin appraisingly as he continued, “And Frodo looked quite nice in blue.  You know that the Lady Arwen herself made him several blue shirts and tunics--and there was that surcoat she made for him, and even that soft blue shirt she sent him after he returned here.”

            Pippin was shaking his head.  “I’m not Frodo,” he insisted stubbornly.

            Merry straightened.  “It’s a matter of compromise, cousin.  No, Hobbits don’t usually wear blue, but then look at the outfit Frodo had made for Sam.  Now, I’d never thought to see Samwise Gamgee in an outfit made in dark blue and green, but now it’s hard to think of him on a formal occasion not wearing it.  And I can see you with your uniform tabard over a shirt of a dark blue with silver stars about the cuffs and the collar....”  He smiled.  “It doesn’t have to be just the same shade of blue as Diamond’s dress, you know.”

            “If I could wear it under my uniform tabard,” Pippin said, his eyes finally beginning to soften in spite of himself, “then it might not be too bad.”  Then his face darkened.  “But her grandfather wants us to get married here, not in Tuckborough as we’d planned.  We’d intended to be married just after sowing was finished so all would be free to come to the Tooklands.  But it appears Olimbard won’t agree to go to the Great Smial even now, with my da as Thain rather than Ferumbras.  He’s still insisting he’s held by that vow he made back when Ferumbras was trying to order his comings and goings, trying to keep the North-Tooks under the control of him and his mother.  I don’t know how we’ll handle that!  As I’m the Thain’s son everyone at the Great Smial will want to attend the wedding, and most of them can’t afford to leave the Tooklands to go to a wedding so far north, not that season of the year!  Nor would Olimbard be able to house all who’d wish to come to begin with.  He’d have no problems accepting you and your family coming, Merry.  But what’s he going to think of me insisting that Sam and Rosie attend with Elanor and Frodo-lad and the new babe once it’s born?  And I’ll want Folco and Fatty and their families to come, too, and Berilac and his parents, and many of those who’ve always been closest to you and Frodo, you know!  I don’t think he has any idea how much resentment us being forced to marry here just after the spring planting is likely to cause with so many unable to come, or how much of a strain those who’d wish to come anyway would make on resources here in Long Cleeve.”

            “Have you told him this?” Merry asked.

            “Well, no--but then I’ve hardly had the chance to explain--not to him or Diamond’s parents, at least.  But then, seeing how many here are keen to attend, I’m beginning to wonder if the Great Smial might just prove too small to contain it all, also!”

            “Then let’s choose some other place and time to hold the wedding, and on neutral ground where folks are accustomed to such crowds.”

            Pippin and Merry’s eyes met.  Pippin at last began to smile.  “The Free Fair in Michel Delving!  They are used to having most of those who’d wish to attend being there at that time of year, so it would be a trip all would be accustomed to taking anyway, and it wouldn’t be any more of a hardship on those here than on those in the Great Smial or those coming from Brandy Hall or Hobbiton!  Or,” he amended, “no more of a hardship than they’d be expecting to take on anyway.”

            “And if we start planning it now, even though this isn’t an election year we can make certain there’s enough food and drink and entertainment there for everyone.  And it would be more acceptable to Diamond’s folks to allow your parents and even mine to send provisions ahead so as to have everything in place!”

            Pippin could feel the tension in his shoulders giving way.  “It’s workable,” he agreed.  “Now, to convince Diamond and her parents and Olimbard....”

 *******

            Morigrin took Merry to his rooms so he could wash up and change for dinner and speak with Estella while Pippin hurried off to find Diamond.  He found her in her bedroom, and she was not happy with him.

            “I wanted to apologize,” he said tentatively.  “What shade of blue is your dress going to be?”

            “We’d wanted about three shades, from quite a dark blue to a light one,” she said, eyeing him with a degree of suspicion.

            “I still would wish to wear my uniform, but Merry had a suggestion.  What if I wore a blue shirt under it with silver embroidery to match the White Tree on the tabard?  It could then go with your dress and your promise necklace,”

            It obviously wasn’t what she’d been planning to date, but he could see her imagining it and finding it perhaps preferable to what she and her mother had been considering.  “That might work,” she allowed.

            “As for Micolo--well, Diamond, you had to have seen his face when your sister suggested he’d carry the flowers for the wedding.  He was appalled!  He’s not a little one any more, after all.”

            “I know,” she admitted.  “That was Sapphire’s idea, you must understand.  I’d been thinking of....”

            The mood of both had improved a good deal by the time they arrived together in the dining room for dinner.

            Merry was wiping his mouth with his napkin after a marvelous fish course when he said, as if it were an obvious concern, “And what is this about you planning the wedding just after sowing?  How are we to make it here to the North Farthing in a reasonable amount of time?  We’ll just be starting the thinning in our orchards there in Buckland then, as you well know, and from what I know of lambing there in the Tooklands you’ll probably still have folk busy with it at that time of year.”

            Pippin noted glances being exchanged around the table where they sat with Olimbard, his children, and his grandchildren.  It was plain that this hadn’t yet been taken into account by the folk of Long Cleeve.  “Well, we hadn’t yet made it firm we’d be married then, Merry,” he said, as if with reluctance.  “We’d hate to not have you attend, after all.”

            “How about setting the wedding perhaps a bit later--say in May?”

            “What?  Just in time for sheepshearing?”

            “And would there be room enough for all who’d wish to come?  You know Mum and dad will come, and Merimac and Amaranth and Beri, as well as....”  As the list of Brandybucks grew progressively longer and longer Pippin could see Diamond’s father’s face growing increasingly alarmed, while old Olimbard’s expression was equally thoughtful.  “As for your folk,” Merry continued on implacably, “of course all three of your sisters and their families.  And Isumbard’s sister Linden, not to mention Reginard and Everard and Tollerand....”

            “And I’d intended to ask the Cottons, considering how much they helped in keeping things calm around Hobbiton, Bywater, and Overhill and folks fed in spite of Lotho and Sharkey’s restrictions during the Time of Troubles.  And the Gamgees, of course.  If it weren’t for Sam and his brothers and their planning and ability to get folks working together, do you think that the Shire would be as close to being returned to its former glory as it is?” Pippin added.  “And of course there are the Bolgers and Boffins....”

            He noted that Diamond’s father’s eyes were beginning to glaze.

            “What about putting the wedding off for a time?” Merry asked as if the idea had just occurred to him.  “The Bolgers couldn’t come just after sowing--why, Fredegar Bolger will just be marrying Melilot Brandybuck right then, you know, early in April.  We wouldn’t wish to lose wedding guests who found it inconvenient to attend both weddings, both so close together, after all.”

            “But the only time after that when we could be expected to get folk together for the wedding of the son of the Thain and the granddaughter of the family head for the North-Tooks would be at Midsummer,” Pippin said, as if just considering the idea.  He smiled.  “Not that we wouldn’t be in good company, as the King and Queen were married at Midsummer,” he added, with a sideways look at Diamond’s mother.  Aha!  That had hit home--to marry at the same season as had the King and Queen had obviously caught her imagination.

            Micolo interrupted, “And how old are your nephews and nieces, Pippin?” he asked.  “People all expect the flower carrier to be just out of faunthood, after all.”

            Pippin was proud of the lad--he obviously had a good instinct toward self-preservation!

            But the final touch came after the meal when Berilac produced a package he’d picked up at the Brandywine Bridge addressed to Pippin--a package wrapped in black silk shot with silver and sealed with the King’s own sigil.  Once he opened it and found it contained a shirt of midnight blue embroidered with silver stars about the collar, placket, and cuffs there were no further discussions as to how the groom should be dressed for the wedding!

 *******

            Aragorn opened the package that had arrived from the Shire with interest, and found it contained a carefully padded, flat wooden box.  Once he finally had it open, he found within it a framed picture of Peregrin Took and Diamond North Took dressed for their wedding.

            Merry’s wife Estella did the chalk drawing of us, and I hope it comes to you unmarred, Pippin had written.  Ah, what a glorious wedding, in spite of all the fuss and kerfluffle!  And, in spite of the clear day we started out with, suddenly a thunderstorm broke over us!  I’m afraid we had to move from the hillside where we usually sing on Midsummer Eve to the pavilion where the ponies are housed for the judging.  But there is no question we are married now, and most happily so.  And let your beloved wife know I was never so grateful for anyone’s foresight as I was for hers the day her gift arrived....

            The King smiled, and went in search of his wife to share the picture and letter with her.

Written for the A_L_E_C "Last Words" challenge.  Beta by RiverOtter. 

The Game Lost

            Ar-Pharazôn looked with triumph at the white shores ahead of his armada.  His smile grew broader, more self-satisfied.  Within an hour his ships would enter the shallows and would begin dropping their anchors; how long it would take to get the inhabitants of Alqualondë to capitulate he could not say, but he suspected they would do so swiftly enough.

            “It serves to prove,” he said aloud, “that if one can command enough in the way of men and ships one can cow all others into compliance with one’s will.”

            “You truly believe that?” asked the sailor who knelt nearby, scrubbing the deck of the King’s flagship.

            The King indicated the sea that was empty of all ships save his, and the deserted shores before them.  “Does it appear that any contests my will?  We have detected and evaded all the spells set to keep us from advancing past the outer islands, and none came out from Tol Eressëa to contest our right to sail in these waters.  We have challenged the so-called Powers to deny us the right to land upon those shores, and none has been sent to deter us.  The city can be seen there, and yet none walk abroad within it, or along the sands or cliffs on either side.  No ships lie on the quays; no banners wave from the flagstaffs.  Nothing stands in the way of our conquest of these lands, for they have seen how mighty my fleet is and have hidden themselves away in terror, even as did Sauron when we came to fetch him from Middle-earth!”

            “I had thought he came on his own to surrender himself,” the sailor muttered, turning his attention again to the brush he used against the wood underfoot.

            Ar-Pharazôn gave a negligent wave of his hand, dismissing this triviality.  “The greatest power within Middle-earth yet surrendered himself to me, man.  He saw the might that I commanded and did not seek even to fight, any more than do these!”

            What the sailor muttered to himself under his breath the King could not hear, so he turned from his place at the rail to stand over the fellow.  “What was it you said?” he asked in a low, dangerous voice.

            The sailor set aside his brush in the bucket of soapy water he’d been using and rose to his feet, drying his hands on the fabric of his leggings.  Ar-Pharazôn was surprised to see both how old and tall--and familiar--the man was, as the sailor towered over the King by nearly a head.  He looked down from his height, his fading grey eyes searching the face of the monarch of Númenor and obviously finding him lacking.  “I said, my lord, that they have no reason to fight, for your own choices condemn you and all with you.  Do you think that those who have told you that mere mortals were not created to dwell here in the Undying Lands were only seeking to deter you from coming here for their own selfish purposes?  Nay, I tell you plainly that it was done for love of you, that you might have time to turn from such folly as this and survive to learn to live more wisely!

            “I ask you, my lord, if Númenor is a greater, more joyful place to live now, or as it was before you brought that failed Maia to our shores?  Do the people of our land prosper more now?  Are they more satisfied with their accomplishments?  Do they live fearlessly and with nothing to regret?”

            Something in the aging sailor’s gaze spoke to the fading conscience of the King, and he trembled under the judgment he saw there.  “I will have you fed to the sharks!” he threatened.

            The man gave a grim laugh and a shake of the head.  “I am already a dead man, and you will follow soon enough, once you leave your ship and seek to claim what your body was never intended to endure.  That is why you see none out of doors, there in the city.  They have been warned to remain inside that they not see what you come to by seeking to claim by force that which is inferior to what the Creator already gave to you.  There is but one chance left you--turn back and live--for now!”

            Suddenly his foot shot out, kicking over the bucket of water, which was cold and greasy as it sloshed about the King’s ankles.  Ar-Pharazôn looked in shock at his now wet feet, then raised his gaze to glare at the sailor--only to realize the man was no longer there.  He hurried to the rail, but saw no signs anyone had dived into the waves.

            “Lord Amandil?”

            Ar-Pharazôn turned to see his ship’s captain standing where he’d just stepped onto the deck from the forecastle.  “What?” he asked the seaman.

            “Lord Amandil--where did he disappear to?  He was there, speaking with you--and then he kicked over the pail and was gone!  Where did he go--but even more, how came he to be aboard this ship garbed as a simple sailor?”

            The ruler of Númenor shivered, feeling a chill of dismay run through him.  Amandil had been here, in disguise, here on this ship?  Why?  How?  The rumor was that his kinsman Amandil, once his friend and advisor but long now distrusted as one who was suspected of being among the leaders of the Faithful, had disappeared from his home in Andunië some months earlier.  Where had he gone?  Had he been hiding in the open, serving as a sailor upon the King’s own ship?

            The captain set his mate to combing the vessel, but no trace of the lord of Andunië could be found aboard.  By now they were within minutes of the quays of Alqualondë, and the other ships were even closer to its shores, and many of them were already dropping their anchors and preparing to launch their ship’s boats.

            Dismissing the visitation--or whatever it was--the King gave the order to take the premier berth at the wharf.  Once all lines were secure the plank was run out, and he moved to take the first step ashore, followed by all others aboard the ship, including all the seamen.  Ar-Pharazôn had no intentions of having the sailors strand the fighting men and seek to flee away to safety--nay, all would share in the dangers and benefits of the experiment.

            He led the way up the quay to the solid ground of the island, there below the ways of the great, silent city.  He took a deep breath, and laughed at how it warmed his chest to take in the air of the place.  He and most with him were drawing themselves up and standing ever taller, doing all they could to breathe in as much of the richly scented air as possible.

            He looked at the paved street leading up to the houses above him, and laughed again.  Nay--not that way, not yet, at least.  He turned to walk northward along the shore, and all followed after, laughing and singing.  There were splashes from the ships in the harbor as they disgorged their crews and passengers.  They heard the shingle of the rockier beaches groan, the sands sing as more and more men came ashore.  Further and further the King led the way along the sparkling shoreline, and greater and greater the throng that followed after----

            Then he heard the coughing begin, first among the older men behind him before it spread to the rest.  He felt his own lungs become increasingly irritated as well, and found he could control it no better than the others.  The coughs grew worse, more hacking.  He breathed in more of the air and found the coughing was growing even more persistent!  Soon he could not straighten, so bad had it become!

            “The ships!” cried someone closer to the shore, and he turned a tear-filled eye just in time to see the sails of the nearest ship begin to tear as if they’d become ancient and worn by time.  Lines were snapping; planking began to shrink visibly.

            “What is happening?” demanded one of his guards of the captain.

            “I know not--it is as if they were each ancient relics rather than ships most of which are less than five years from the laying of their keels!”  The captain ran a wasting hand through his now-sparse hair, then paused to look in horror at the age spots now visible in the backs of his wrists.

            Ar-Pharazôn shifted his gaze to the guard, who had been but fifty years of age when they went aboard their ships.  His broad shoulders were now stooping, the flesh over his ribs wasting away even as the King watched.  But the expression on his face as he returned his King’s gaze was one of horrified fascination.

            The King reached to touch his own face, and felt the now-fragile skin that seemed to barely clothe the skull underneath.  “No!” he breathed, and the coughing returned----

            And they began to fall, aging decades in the space of what must be minutes. 

            Brought to his knees by weakness and the terrible coughs, Ar-Pharazôn yet sought to regain his feet.  “I claim this land--” he began.

            He never finished the declaration.

 *******

            The citizens of Alqualondë looked down in revulsion at the thousands of corpses.  “What do we do with the bodies?” asked an Elf originally born in the woodlands of Beleriand.

            The elders of the city listened to the advice given by the unseen Maiar who surrounded them.  “Let us put them aboard their ships again.  The Valar and Maiar indicate they will do what is necessary.”

            Barrows and litters were produced, and the sailors of the region brought their own skiffs and dories, loaded them with the bodies, and ferried them out to the waiting ships that had not been able to find a place on the city’s wharves.  Anchors were weighed, or their lines cut.  Soon the servants of Lord Ulmo, directed by Ossë, drew the ships away, out of the harbor, out to beyond the enchanted isles that screened the Lonely Isle and Aman from the rest of Arda.  None who dwelt in the city knew for certain what became of the rotting ships, but it was rumored that they were consigned to the Void once the Breaking of the World was complete.

For Rhapsody and Peredhellover for their birthdays.  Beta by RiverOtter.

Star Daughter

            Glorfindel greeted the sons of Elrond and Celebrían at the front door to the Last Homely House as the late twilight faded.  “Your parents cannot greet you right now--they are out on the porch where the two of you were born.”

            “And why cannot they come to greet us?” demanded Elrohir.

            His brother added, “We came ahead that we might have a short time alone with them before Daeradar and Daernaneth arrive.”

            The guardian Elf smiled.  “It would appear that someone else is arriving also, and they are busy welcoming the newcomer.  I fear your arrival would only serve as a distraction at the moment.”

            The two youthful Elves shared a look, then pushed by the warrior, intent on solving the mystery involved.  They had spent two years in Lothlórien with their mother’s parents; it seemed impossible to imagine at their own father and mother should prefer to welcome a different guest before greeting their return.

            “They have placed a bed here on the porch?” Elladan asked his brother as they came to the doorway.

            “Oh!” Elrohir breathed, realizing the nature of the situation.

            Their father sat with one hip supported by the bed, and their mother lay back, bolstered by pillows while ellith came and went with what appeared to be piles of linens and toweling and basins of water.

            The Lady Celebrían, her face alight with joy, looked up to meet her sons’ eyes.  “Ah--good--you have arrived in good time.  Come, and greet your sister.”

            The light of the Evening Star shone brightly on the small form that lay cradled in their mother’s arms.

            “She shines as brightly as does the Gil-estel itself!” Elladan murmured as he sat himself by his father and reached out a tentative finger to stroke the infant’s cheek.

            “Our own star-child,” agreed their mother.

            Elrohir stood, awed, over the forms of father and brother,  “A sister?  She is already a queen of beauty, and not yet more than a few hours old!”

            “Arwen Undómiel,” pronounced their father, reaching to take his daughter into his own arms.  “Our own Evenstar.”

            And so Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel found them when they finally arrived and were led through the house to join the family that had grown once again under the light of the stars.

Written for the LOTR-Community "Some Like it Hot" challenge:  313 words long.  Beta by RiverOtter.

“Old fool!” he said.  “Old fool!  This is my hour!  Do you not know Death when you see it?  Die now and curse in vain!”  From The Siege of Gondor in The Return of the King.

The Thoughts of the Servant of the Secret Flame

            Old fool, do you call me?  And you think that you are Death, and so I must fear you?  You do not recognize that already I have faced Death and gone through it and been sent back!  How can one who has been through Death, who has known the fire and the water, the scorching of the flame that sought to consume my body and the chill smothering of the wave that sought to drown both Man’s breath and Balrog’s fire, fear such a one as you?

            Who is the fool now?  The one who has suffered Death and so cannot fear it further, or the one so terrified of Death that he has accepted the cheats of Sauron so as to try to avoid it, delighting instead in inflicting it upon others?  Oh, Angmar, our old enemy, your own time is upon you and yet you will not see!  The Creator Himself has the shining blade ready to cut off the thread of your life; what then will you do when you find your life spent at last, totally sundered from this pale echo of what your body once was?  Your pride now leaves you undone, and you will not recognize the danger until it strikes you!

            For it approaches at a gallop now, your last moment bound to this world.  And I very much fear there is not sufficient of you left to find your way to the place appointed for the fëar of Men and so know what Eru Iluvatar has prepared for their further delight and fulfillment!

            How I can feel pity for you you shall never understand, but I do.  Manwë himself appointed me to counter your Master, my own brother, even as he countered the Master of your Master, who was his brother in the thought of the Creator.

            Your own Death is come--at last. 

For Maeglin for her birthday.  Beta by RiverOtter.

Counselors

            Scholar, musician, and warrior--such had been the father of the heart for Elrond and his brother Elros.  Having so few memories of their own parents, it was perhaps natural that the two young peredhil would find themselves honoring those skills.

            So it was that when he came to build and order his own household Elrond sought out those who would assist him to maintain such gifts and skills in himself.  And so he welcomed Glorfindel, Lord of the House of the Golden Flower, to his hearth and home--a warrior who, having passed through death in the embrace of a Balrog, held no fear within himself.  He welcomed also Lindir, minstrel, harpist, singer--his heart beat to the echoes of skeins of music; his feet danced through the day; his fingers found melody and rhythm and brought them forth; his voice lifted in song and tale, firing images of glory and grief in the imaginations of his listeners.  And what little Elrond himself might forget of all he had seen, experienced, heard, or read could be summoned from the prodigious memory of Erestor.

            Between the discernment and sensitivity of his beloved Celebrían and the counsel and support of these three, Elrond served his people well.  That he should insist each of them be granted a place in the White Council went without challenge.

For Shelley for her birthday.  Written for the A_L_E_C "Love" prompt.  Beta by RiverOtter.

Fired Anew

            “I will see him again--now?”

            *Not immediately, daughter, but soon.  Does that please you?*

            She remained still, trying to sort through the emotions she felt churning inside her.  At last:  “I am not certain.  It is hard to believe, though.”  She took a deep breath, and swallowed.  “It has been so long.  I am not certain how I should feel.”

            *There is no should, daughter.  We have learned from long association with your people that each reunion is unique, for no death is precisely as was any other; no return is precisely as is any other; no relationship between any two individuals is as that between any two others.  Tell me, daughter:  were your feelings toward him when you felt him fall as they were when first you knew he had caught at your thoughts and heart?*

            “No!”

            *And there you have it--no matter how constant the love, yet that which one feels toward any other flows as does water in a stream, never the same from one moment to the next.*

            Her lip twitched, but not with amusement.  “And when the object of one’s love is lit from within by such a flame as burned within his breast----”  She raised her eyes to meet the gaze of the one who stood before her, aware of the compassion displayed there.  “He has not lost that, has he?”

            *Ah, no.  If anything, that flame burns the stronger and more purely now.  There was a need for one with such a flame within him, we have found.*

            “Even when that flame set fire to so many, and led to such destruction?”

            *And had it not done so, would any have returned to the Mortal Lands to lead the resistance to our fallen brother’s tyranny there?  Would there have been the chance here, do you think, for the greatness of the Lord Finderato, known there as Finrod Felagund, to be made manifest, and that of the rest of the Noldor who followed?  Would our fallen brother have at last been forced to capitulate and been expelled from Arda?  Would Arda have known the leadership and greatness of Númenor?*

            “And see where that led!  Ar-Pharazôn taking Aulendil into his custody and then into his council, the abominations of the temple to Morgoth, the folk of his armada and all their kindred and their land drowned beneath the waves....”  The grief of it still smote her breast.

            *Yet the Faithful won away and returned, far wiser and devoted to justice and righteousness, to Middle-earth at a time when it was needful, and continued to lead the resistance to Sauron’s evil.  And with their leadership that one, too, was in the fullness of time expelled from Ëa.  It is likely none of this would have happened had not that flame burned in the breast of your lord husband.  Know this--when a flame is necessary, it is ever wise to remember that it can both burn to the point of destruction as well as to enlighten and hearten.*

            With a touch of bitterness:  “His flame scorched even me.”

            The one facing her merely showed yet more compassion.

            “And it cost me my sons.”

            *They, too, will be restored to you, alongside their father.*

            Her heart leapt, then stilled.  “Restored--restored to me now, here at the end of all things?”

            *Would you rather not see them ere the end?*

            Rather hastily:  “Oh, no--that would have been too much to bear, to see the final battle without knowing they, too, were freed from their long imprisonment!”

            Gently:  *Say not imprisonment, but instead time of contemplation and cleansing, preparing each for his part in the war to come.*

            There was no further communication for a time as she considered in her heart what this meant.  The final battle was upon them--this all knew.  So many had emerged from the Halls of Waiting recently, and all prepared for the final defense against Morgoth himself, broken free at last from Angainor and forcing his way back into Arda one last time.  Given his desires, all would lie broken at his feet, and all would become but puppets to his will.

            *It is for this reason that the results of the wills of the Children of Iluvatar have ever been allowed to be made manifest.  How could you ever imagine how terrible it would be to lie under the feet of Morgoth had you not seen how grief could destroy your husband’s integrity, and the horrors that grief led to here?  How could those who dwell within the Mortal Lands appreciate the true meaning of tyranny had they not seen it enacted again and again throughout their history, and have a full appreciation of what it will be to allow Morgoth and Sauron again to hold full sway there?  You must know what you fight against, or so we have learned.

            *And all have needed to see the promise of peace afterward to appreciate what this last victory will mean.  Your people have managed to return to peace, your awareness broadened, your bliss the more treasured, having known it threatened, knowing it must be guarded, protected, nurtured.  So it has been for mortals as well.

            *Know this--this war threatens all of Ëa, not just Aman or even Arda.*

            “And my husband--my sons--they emerge only to take part in this last battle?”

            *Would you rather they never know their rightful revenge against the one who stole Finwë from us, and the Jewels, and the peace we knew, and the lives they might have known had Melkor not filled their hearts with his lies, slain your husband’s father, and rifled his treasury?  It is now the right time for that righteous and rightful anger to be shown forth.*

            “So, he will have but little time for freedom, but little time for us to share together....”

            The smile of the one facing her was so brilliant she had to shield her eyes and heart from it, for that smile was so pure it was more than mere flesh could bear.  *Do not underestimate the power of Eru Iluvatar to give what is needed.  As mortals have had driven into their awareness, it is not the length of time one has that is meaningful, but what is done in the time given one.  Far more of meaning can be done in a mere instant than you perhaps appreciate.  So, daughter, think carefully how you will greet your husband when he comes forth at last.  Let him not make his final choice of defiance against his ancient enemy with no hope, no estel to support him.  Again, know this:  he may yet choose not to fight.*

 *

            And the feelings she’d known toward her husband over countless ages of the world ran through her, as she remembered the early fascination, the lust, the contentment and the way his brilliance inspired her own craft, her own determination to see their children born to carry his inspiration before the rest of Arda....

            Yes, she had herself been burned by his passion as well as warmed by it.  She had seen Alqualondë fired by that passion when his grief was turned to fury by Morgoth’s lies and hatred and envy.  Much of the rest of Arda on both sides of the Sundering Sea had suffered under the same flames--certainly Finderato would not have returned as he had were it not for the way in which Morgoth’s will to evil and destructive passion for her husband’s Silmarils had infected one of her own sons.

            Yet, her sons had done good as well as evil, both here and there; and at the last her Macalaurë himself had given over the long travail and returned to stand before the Valar, forgiving them even as he was himself forgiven, all acknowledging that they shared the same flaws brought by lack of omniscience.

            But how could she greet him, this one who’d shared his body with her, whose exploration of her own had been so thorough and so fecund?  This one who’d torn her heart from her body when his grief had destroyed his trust and his willingness to accept comfort or wisdom?  This one who’d torn her sons and most of their kindred from Aman and taken them back across the Sundering Sea by stolen ship and ice bridge to a lessened life there?  Who himself had not felt the horrors of further battle, dying on the borders of the lands he felt were promised to their people?

            How could she greet him, knowing how he’d fallen to those lies and had been instrumental in bringing war to Aman?  Knowing the betrayal of those he’d loved, including her,  that he’d wrought?  Knowing his innate weaknesses as she did--as she’d experienced?

            She should hate him--despise him!

            But in her heart she remembered...

                        his warmth filling her heart with passion

                        his pride and delight with each new work of his hands, each new discovery

                        his repeated wonder at the birth of each new son

                        the pain when he turned from her....

 *

            A great light filled the portal behind the one with whom she’d been in communion, and she knew the time had come.  There was no time for further consideration as to whether she’d be as the youthful elleth whose heart he’d captured, the mother of his children, the partner in his work, the one betrayed by his descent into arrogance and suspicion, the one whose heart and mind had been twisted by his overwhelming grief and the loss of the greatest works of his hands.  Ah, did he not appreciate that for her the loss of her children had been as devastating as his loss of his father and jewels?  No, the time had come for her to greet him for the last time!

 *

            In the east a great wall of wave arose from the Sundering Seas, and from it emerged Ulmo himself, shepherding Macalaurë toward this place, Macalaurë wearing as a pendant the ancient glass phial once given by Artanis to that odd mortal creature who, it was said, had been instrumental in bringing down the might of Aulendil within the Mortal Lands.  And in Macalaurë’s hands he bore the very Silmaril he’d once thrown into that Sea.

            From the West a great ship drew near, descending from the Seas of Night, shining with the light of the Silmaril Eärendil bore upon his brow.

            In the north there was a great flame of fire from the heart of Arda itself, and from the shelter of his greatest smithy came Aulë, accompanied by her firstborn, her Maitimo, tall and lordly, made wise by grief and delight and pain and mercy shown, bearing in his hands the Silmaril he’d once carried with him into the heart of the world in his agony.

            And the portal to the Halls of Mandos opened, and her remaining sons came forth, and behind them----

 *

            Who could deny the beauty of him, who had been her husband, her love, her delight beneath the light of the Trees?  Who could withstand the sacred Flame that burned in his heart?  For now his time had come to atone for all the destruction done by and through him!

 *

            And she stepped forward to greet him this one last time within this final age of Arda.

            “Welcome, my beloved husband.  Welcome back!”

            She saw the fire of his love leaping up within him, saw him lean forward to take her in his arms, felt that flame encircle and set fire again to a passion she’d too long thought smothered....

For GamgeeFest and Celeritas for their birthdays.  Beta by RiverOtter.

Traditions

Red Book

            Elanor cared well for the old red tome entrusted to her by her father, keeping the binding cleaned and oiled, renewing the ribbon marker, making certain the fingers that opened it were clean and dry before being entrusted with it.  Her children learned to read with it, as did her children’s children and all who asked.

            Her father and her Uncle Frodo, she knew, would be well pleased.  On her watch, the Powers providing, there would always be some who knew the true story of how it was the Enemy was vanquished and Middle Earth saved from a second darkness.

 *******

Family Tradition

            “He’s leaving Hobbiton this late in September?” Carnelian Proudfoot asked Myrtle Grubb.

            “Oh, ever since old Mayor Sam left, Mr. Frodo does this every year,” Myrtle assured her.  “Goes off to the Westmarches, he does, to see his sister and her family, there in Undertowers.  ’Tis said as that’s as far west as any Hobbits live.  Can you imagine, goin’ there as where y’can see the Great Sea?”

            “What do they do there?” asked Carnelian.

            “Well, from what Missus Linnet tells me, they reads from that old Red Book as that cracked Frodo Baggins is said to’ve wrote.”

            “How strange!”

Written for the LotR Community August challenge.  For Arc-5 for her birthday.  Beta by RiverOtter.

       The Rangers gathered within the cavern behind the falls of Henneth Annun listened as Captain Ingbold finished his tale of the visit here of the Ringbearers.  “And so our Lord Captain Faramir had two staves fashioned of lebethron by the father of Captain Damrod cut down to fit the height of our visitors, the tips shod in silver, the hafts pierced to allow leathern thongs fit to go about the wrist.  The staves were given them, and many thanks did they give us in return.  In the end Damrod led Lord Samwise and I led Lord Frodo back to the road, while Tervain led the creature known as Gollum; there we unbound their eyes and left them to continue their mysterious journey.  None of us, I believe, thought to see them again.  Only our Lord Faramir knew the intent of their quest, and I saw the grave concern for their safety reflected in his eyes as we watched from hiding as the three of them resumed their path.  Only when they were no longer in sight did I see him shiver as if a cold chill overtook him, after which he straightened his shoulders and led us away.”

       The two youngest and newest of their number shared looks.  “I had not heard of there being staves given them,” commented the younger of the two.

       “No, I must suppose you did not,” agreed Captain Ingbold.  “They were not among the tokens taken with Lord Frodo that were brought from Barad-dûr by the Mouth of Sauron to the parley with the King and Mithrandir; nor did the Eagles carry more out of the ruins of Orodruin than the Ringbearers and the little they wore about their wizened bodies.  And Lord Sam gave us to know that the staff he had borne he broke upon the body of the creature Gollum when the foul thing sought to throttle him, having already betrayed the Ringbearer to the terrible spider Shelob who had long inhabited the tunnels leading through the pass.  It is likely the shards of his staff lie still where the staff was broken.  As for that given Lord Frodo himself--none has ever mentioned it, whether it was dropped as he climbed the winding and the straight stairs or within the tunnels, or whether Lord Samwise laid it beside his Master’s body when he thought him dead, taking the Ring to complete the quest.”

       The older of the two gave his companion a concerned look, for it seemed to Elboron that Eldarion’s expression had taken fire with a thought, a thought somehow focused on the staves of which they’d just learned.

       Now, however, the time for tales was over as those who were to take the next watch left to relieve those now on guard, and as those within began unstepping the cots that stood against the walls preparatory for the night’s rest.  The watch upon the walls of Mordor had become ever quieter in the years since the victory before the Black Gate, and it was most unlikely that there would be any disturbance of any note to interrupt the sleep of the company.  Eldarion had been disappointed to be sent here rather than to the frontier shared with Rhûn; but King, Steward, and Prince of Dol Amroth had agreed that for the first duty to be shared by the heirs of Crown and Steward among the Rangers of Gondor they wished them to be relatively safe while they learned their duties.  So it was that the sons of Elphir of Dol Amroth, the Lord King Elessar, and Faramir of Ithilien served together under Captain Ingbold, with Alphros, the yet youthful heir of Dol Amroth, serving as mentor to his kinsman and the Prince of the realm.

       It was not the first time the two youths had been here, of course; they had accompanied their fathers here twice as King and Prince of Ithilien joined the maneuvers of their Rangers, both having served as Captains of Rangers in their own time, the King both in Gondor in his younger days and in Eriador in his maturity.  So, there was no particular novelty to what was being done now to which Elboron could attribute his companion’s barely suppressed excitement.

       They saw to the stowing of their gear and made their evening ablutions, and with their older fellows took to their cots.  The one acknowledgment of their rank they’d been granted was that they were placed last, beyond Alphros’s cot, given but that much privacy from the rest.  Once they were abed and Alphros had gone to hear with Ingbold’s officers the reports of those coming off guard, Elboron looked to his friend and asked in a whisper, “And what mischief have you in mind?”

       Eldarion gave his older companion a look, glaring with the full dignity of the Telcontars.  “And who says that I plot mischief?”

       “Well, perhaps not mischief.   But I know that look--there is something you consider that will not please our parents.”

       “And you think to know my adar’s mind that well, Elboron?”

       “It is something to do with the staves of lebethron of which Ingbold spoke.”

       The affront melted from Eldarion’s face, and his eyes shone as often did those of his father and mother, the Elven light clear to be seen.  He gave a quick glance about without moving his head, a skill he had from his mother, to see to it none sought to overhear them.  Satisfied no one was paying attention, he murmured, “I mean to fetch them back--the shards of Sam’s staff and the staff of Frodo, if they can be found.”

       “What?” squeaked Elboron, at which Eldarion put his hand to his friend’s lips.

       “Hush!  Do you wish for us to be separated in our duties?”

       Annoyed, Elboron shook away the hand.  “Of course not!  But they will never allow us to climb up into the pass of Cirith Ungol!”

       “Then we shall not tell them our intent.”  Eldarion drew closer.  “Listen--they will be sending a patrol of three to sweep the road to Minas Morgul, and I intend we and Alphros shall take that patrol.  And, yes, I know this for certain!  Not for nothing do I spend time in Ada’s councils.  Oh, I do listen!”

       Seeing the stubborn set to the younger youth’s eyes and jaw, Elboron gave a sigh.  The son of Aragorn Elessar had made up his mind, and by this time the Steward’s son knew full well his friend was as firm of will as was his determined father.

*******

       It was five days before the promised sweep was ordered, and somehow Elboron was not surprised to find Eldarion and himself assigned to the patrol with Alphros.  “We are given seven to nine days to check the way between here and the cursed vale,” Alphros told them.  “Go:  draw ten days’ supplies.”

       Both youths saluted and went to fufill their orders.  Eldarion, however, did more, Elboron realized, slipping rags and a bottle of the oil used to prepare torches into his pack alongside ten days’ worth of dried fruits and mushrooms, jerked meats, waybread, nutmeat bars, and other foodstuffs.  When Elboron glanced into the pack as Eldarion stowed a change of clothes, he had a quick glimpse of another glass bottle in a leathern bag, one that appeared remarkably familiar.  “That looks like----”

       Eldarion shot him a quelling look, and Elboron went silent, although he could not help wondering what his friend was doing with a bottle of Shire brandy, one from a gift of twenty-four such bottles sent by Sir Meriadoc of Buckland to the use of Gondor’s King, a small glass of which he’d been allowed to sample at Mettarë.  Had Lord Elessar given this to his son to bring with him?  It was difficult to say, of course.  But then Eldarion was capable of having taken such a bottle on his own authority, Elboron supposed.  It was, after all, such a thing as the youths near their ages were given to doing.  Not that Eldarion had ever done such a thing before to Elboron’s knowledge.

       They soon had their packs and blanket rolls in order; and Elboron noted that the last his friend set into his pack was a red healer’s bag with a complex knot.  Soldiering, after all, was not the sum total of the studies of the King’s son.  “Do you have your cooking kit?” Eldarion asked in a low voice as he saw the cover to his pack cinched tight.  “I had no room for mine.  And could you carry my plate and cup?”

       Elboron soon had stowed the items Eldarion had left out of his own pack, and after slinging their cloaks over their shoulders and tying the masks favored by the Ithilien Rangers about their necks to be donned at need, they presented themselves to Ingbold to indicate their readiness.  Two water skins were issued to each of them, and less than an hour after their orders had been received they were climbing the stair out of the shelter and heading for the road, swords and knives at their belts, bows and quivers over their shoulders, extra bowstrings in oiled packets in inner pockets.

       Alphros set Elboron to parallel the South Road on the east while he and Eldarion followed along the tree line west of it.  But if he thought he could control the speed of their march he was much mistaken.  For all that Alphros was the nominal head of the patrol, still it was Eldarion who set the pace, and it was a quick one.  However, Alphros could not fault the speed at which they went, as there was no question that his two charges were keeping sharp eyes for any signs of disturbances.  Elboron had a suspicion that his kinsman was glad of the quick pace, as the sooner they reached the opening of the Morgul Vale, the sooner they might return to the relative comfort of the redoubt of Henneth Annun, and it was well known Alphros did not enjoy sleeping upon the ground.  And if he knew just what you intend, Eldarion Elessarion, he would be totally appalled! he thought, looking across the road at where his kinsman was struggling to keep up with the King’s son.

       They made it all the way to the Crossroads that evening, pausing to give the great statue there the respect due it, and to examine the two smaller statues that had been carved by the King’s sculptor nearby it, statues little better than half the height of Eldarion, two beardless Pheriannath paused now eternally to look up at the restoration done of Alcarin the Glorious, seated upon a somewhat sleeker throne than the one originally carved for him.  Elboron noted as he never had before that each indeed carried a staff fit for his height.  It was only as they passed the great statue of the King that he noted, for the first time ever, the third figure, small and wizened and ancient looking, its eyes enormous, placed where it would be half hidden in surrounding shadows even in the height of a sunlit day, that he realized was Gollum.  It looked back furtively over its shoulder, not toward the great monument to the Kings of Old, but instead at the slender figure of Frodo Baggins, who paused fearlessly to look up into the eyes of Alcarin himself.  The statue of Samwise Gamgee, however, was looking beyond, following with his own gaze the way he intended to take bodily, the way they must take now.

       Elboron paused alongside Eldarion, whose own gaze was as intent as that of the small statue of Frodo Baggins the Wanderer, who as far as he knew traveled past here to his own death.  For the first time since they’d been boys together playing in the Court of Gathering he noted the resemblance between his friend and the Hobbit, most marked in the shared sense of purpose one saw in their eyes.  Oh, he thought, you will be as great a King as your father, gwador nín.  Somehow he felt heartened as the three of them sought out a place in which to camp for the night.

*******

       The next day they traveled, more slowly and carefully now, eastward toward the ruins of what had first been the Tower of the Rising Moon and then the dread fortress of Minas Morgul.  Even though the Sorcerers’ Vale had been cleansed long ago by fire, and blessed for renewal by the combined power of King and Queen, it was still a place avoided by all save the most hardy.  One day each month volunteers came to the ruins of the city to continue its dismantling, working as long the light held, tumbling the blocks of stone about this way and that that each might be cleansed by wind and weather, and by the light of Sun, Moon, and stars.  Bones had ever been found there, the young Men understood--remains of Men and orcs and trolls, for the most part.  Those known to be those of Men were buried now in a tomb burrowed into the south side of the mountain wall that narrowed the approach to the ancient city, while the bones of fell creatures were burned in a great pit.  All weapons found were brought out into full sunlight, and often cleansed by fire before being given to the King’s folk for study so as to ascertain they had no evil spells tied to them.

       This way was often haunted by orcs and renegade Men even nowadays, and so the three young Men went warily indeed, ever keeping a watch.

       A muffled grunt from Eldarion and the whistle of his blade as he drew and wielded it were the only warning there was time to heed when they were attacked by a small party of five orcs that sprang down out of the rocks on the scree slopes at the bottom of the steep cliff walls.  Elboron was barely aware of drawing his own sword; soon all five orcs had been dispatched, and Eldarion carefully drew their corpses into a space lit by the Sun, then turned automatically to ascertain neither of his companions was seriously hurt.  Alphros had a cut to his arm, while Elboron had lost some skin over his knuckles; other than that the three of them were intact.  It did not take long for Eldarion to see his fellows treated and to seek out and find an easily defensible place among the fallen rocks and scree to hide them for the night.  Now he pulled out the bottle of brandy, giving each of them a swallow or two, and then returning the remainder to his pack.

       “And how is it you have such drink with you?” asked Alphros.

       Eldarion shrugged.  “I had asked my father for a bottle to perhaps save for future need, and he granted it.  I suspect he believes I would serve it at a party attended by those I companion with.  Or he might have realized I would bring it with me, and perhaps expected me to use some of it to obtain my own desires during my time of service.”

       “And instead you use it to hearten us after the attack?”

       Again the younger Man shrugged, merely smiling as he did so.

       They took the watch in turns, but saw and heard nothing during the night.  Only after the Sun was well risen did they finish their patrol to the new bridge that had been built to replace the ancient one so corruptly used by the Nazgûl and their minions.  They saw no further sign anyone had passed that way since the last visit by those who labored in the ruins, and heard no further rumors or echoes of enemies.  The three of them found indications that the party that had assaulted them had come down the tumbled stair that led up into the Pass of Cirith Ungol.  They paused in the shadow of the two statues raised to replace those of the hideous creatures that had guarded the way during the time of residence by the Witch-king of Angmar.  Now there stood upon the left a statue of Mithrandir as the White, and on the right what appeared another bearded Man, dressed in large boots, clothing that seemed much similar to the garb of the Hobbits, and a hat with a feather in it, his eyes as apt to warning as to merriment.

       “I say we should climb up and make certain that there are no more bands of enemies still hiding upon the Stair or in the tunnel,” Eldarion said.

       Had it not been for the attack the preceding day, Elboron was certain that Alphros would have refused.  Instead, he stood staring up at the hidden way uncertainly.  “I doubt any others would be hidden there,” he began tentatively.

       Elboron opened his mouth to argue, but a slight gesture from Eldarion gave him pause.  Eldarion was quietly extracting the bottle of brandy from his pack when Alphros finally continued, “Nay, I do believe, my Prince, that you have the right of it.  I deem we would do well to make certain no further enemies have come to haunt the pass or take refuge in the remains of the tower at its top.  Yes, let us go up.”

       Eldarion gave a swiftly hidden grin of triumph, and more openly displayed the bottle.  “Then, perhaps to hearten us for the labor, we should each have another swallow of this.”

       Their bellies warmed by the liquor, they began the climb.

*******

       “And Lords Iorhael and Perhael made this climb on little in the way of rations, with a dearth of water, and with their shorter legs?” panted Alphros as they reached a landing at last sufficiently large enough to accommodate the three of them.

       Eldarion was looking about with a critical eye.  “I wonder if this is where they rested, when Gollum slipped away to betray them to the spider?”

       It was at least sheltered here from the constant light wind they’d known much of the way so far; and here the two Hobbits might indeed have found it sufficiently comfortable and secure to allow themselves to sleep.  Somehow there was a wholesome feeling here, and in searching about Eldarion found a small statue and a worn inscription where the brief sunlight to enter the space might fall upon it.  “It is an invocation of Vairë to ward those who must pass this way against chilled bodies or spirits,” he breathed.  After a moment he added, “It is interesting, is it not, that here the Weaver was called upon, here below the lair of a daughter to Ungoliant herself?”

       The others nodded, but they felt better as they rested there.  Elboron found the second inscription on the opposite wall, not with a statue but with what appeared to have been a bas relief of a blossoming flower, this time apparently invoking the Lord of Lórien, although most of it was far too worn to interpret.  They shared waybread and water, and another swallow each of the brandy, before they finally rose to continue the climb.

       Perhaps they ought to have spent the night on that landing where Irmo and Vairë had been invoked; but the three, knowing how little time they had before it might be expected another party would be sent out after them, felt compelled to hurry upon their way.  It was thus as the sky greyed to announce the coming of a new day that they found themselves at last at the mouth to the tunnel.

       All they’d found had been a sign that the party that had attacked them had paused for a time in their own descent beneath an overhanging ledge some way above the landing they’d noted.  They’d also found nearby a spring that filled a natural basin before spilling off to trickle down the rocks toward the Morgai.  The water within the basin had been purposely sullied by the orcs (“I understand what Legolas and Gimli commented upon during the pursuit of the Uruks toward Isengard, how no other folk seems to delight so in marring,” Elboron noted to the others).  They cleared away the filth as they could, and soon it was again filled with sparkling water.  They’d refilled their water bottles before continuing, and now paused at the entrance to Shelob’s Lair knowing that they were as well provisioned as it was possible to be.  When Eldarion brought out the bottle of oil and the rags Alphros merely shook his head as if this were no great surprise.  As the light grew they found the discarded branch used as a torch by the orcs, and Eldarion soon had it wrapped and lit.  Holding it up, they started into the darkness.

       “It is noisome enough in here,” Elboron noted, “but it is as if the stench were old, as if the rocks themselves had been so penetrated by it that they cannot easily give the smell over.”

       The others nodded, and continued on.

       There were side openings here and there, but the main way was as straight as Samwise Gamgee had described it to Eldarion and Elboron on their last journey north.  “The road, it just went on and on and on, straight as could be,” he’d said.  “We were fortunate, I suppose, that was so or we’d of most likely ended up gettin’ hopelessly lost, dark as it was.”

       Dust last disturbed by the orcs they’d encountered lay over the surface of the way.  There was nothing to indicate any living spider might be still lurking about the place.  Still they went warily, looking about as they could and listening intently for any movements other than their own.  All, however, was still as death itself.

       It seemed forever before a distant greyness indicated the end of the tunnel at long last.  Now Eldarion paused.  Near one side tunnel that had been closed with a partial door they’d found a stack of ancient torches, and now Elboron and Alphros each carried one, while that formerly carried by the King’s son had been discarded after it had guttered out.  He reached out to take that carried by Elboron, who surrendered it gladly enough, and now they began to search the floor of the place.  “If there is anything, it should be near here,” Eldarion commented.

       Alphros appeared surprised at such a pronouncement, and gave the youngest of the three a suspicious look.  “And for what do you search?” he asked.

       “Signs of whoever might have come this way before,” he was answered.  Elboron did not think Alphros looked either mollified or reassured by the answer.

       Having found nothing where they were, they went forward slowly.  There was a narrowing of the way as they approached the exit, and as they came to it Elboron tripped over something on the floor, under dust and silt that had been blown in by wind and rain.  Whatever it was skittered away as Alphros reached out to steady his kinsman, and at that Eldarion pounced, reaching down to find what it was that had awaited Elboron’s approach.  He picked it up and held it up in the full light of the torch, then smiled.  “I do believe,” he said softly, “that we have found part of Uncle Sam’s staff.”  It was a rod of lebethron about two and a half feet in length, pierced to take a thong on one end, clearly cracked in two at the other.

       Elboron looked up from where he’d been rubbing his ankle.  “Are you certain?  Then the rest ought to be here, also.”

       Alphros looked, puzzled, from one to the other before the import of what they’d found struck him, at which his eyes lit with understanding.  “The staff of Lord Perhael?” he asked.  “The one given him by Faramir?”

       “He struck Gollum with it, and it broke upon the creature’s body,” Eldarion said.  “So he has told us, and so Uncle Frodo wrote it in his book.”

       Soon all three were searching carefully, and it was Alphros who finally managed to find it, lying alongside the bowed long bones of what appeared to have been an orc’s bandied leg.  It was but a foot in length, and at the end was a tarnished cap of what proved to be silver engraved with a five-petaled blossom.  “The mark of the silver smiths of Ered Lithui,” he murmured.

       His companions nodded their recognition.  Elboron looked to Eldarion.  “Think you that we might still find the one given to Lord Frodo as well?” he asked.

       “We will not know until we seek it,” Eldarion said.  He stopped and listened carefully.  He sighed.   “I suppose we should put these out before we leave the caverns,” he said softly, “in case any creatures are about outside the place.”

       In moments they had the flames of the torches smothered, and set them aside where they could find them again easily.  Loosening their swords in their sheaths, they started forward.

       “We have seen no signs of the spider,” whispered Alphros.  “I hope that indeed Lord Perhael’s sword proved its bane.”

       In the corner of the doorway was a fine web, apparently spun by a grey spider common to Ithilien.  Alphros took the position to the left of the opening, while Elboron took the right with Eldarion behind him.  Elboron peered out, and signaled Eldarion, who took the point, exiting through the last narrowing of the passage and slipping to the right, signaling the others to come after him.  As Elboron came out last, the King’s son was examining the walls about them.  There were folds in the stone, and in front of one of these folds a pile of rocks had apparently fallen from the overhang of the cliff above.  Only a small opening remained at the top.  Seeing no signs of any watchers, Eldarion nimbly clambered to the top and reached in with his sword, then stuck his face close to the opening to scent the air.  He pulled back with a grimace.  “It does smell foul!” he reported.  “But whether or not anything alive remains inside--that I could not say.”  Carefully he descended, leaving the rocks mostly undisturbed, adding, “There is a cavern or tunnel behind, of that I am certain.”

       Alphros shook his head in wonder.  “It must be the Elvish in you, my lord Prince,” he commented.  “Had I tried that I am certain I should have brought the whole pile rolling downward.

       Together they turned, examining the facing over the doorway and the pavement.

       “Rain rarely comes here,” Eldarion noted, reaching down to sift the dust that filled the bowl in which they stood through his fingers and examining the little that remained on his palm. 

       A line of steps had gone through it recently, the prints of five orcs in badly maintained boots entering the tunnel.  They had come not from the steps leading up toward the tower overhead but from a cleft off to the right.  They examined it, and found traces of a watercourse that appeared to have gone dry.  “So,” Alphros commented, “this is where they have been dwelling.”

       “Even orcs must have water,” Elboron noted, to which Eldarion nodded.

       “And with their water dried up, they must leave to search out a better place to inhabit,” he said thoughtfully.  “There is but the faintest whiff of their essence upon the air of the place, but no signs of a living creature within save flies.”

       None of them wished to explore that place, so they drew back to the bowl and again looked about.  Ahead near the far side of the bowl near the exit toward the tower they saw a strange shadow, and went toward it, then paused, amazed.  There, just within the opening in the natural stone they saw something they’d never expected to see.

       “Lebethron--a lebethron tree!  Growing here, of all places!” Alphros said, looking at a leaf upon it with its five lobes, almost as if it mimicked a human hand as it trembled in a soft breeze.

       It could not be told how old it might be, but its slender bole was about the thickness of a staff.  Sheathing his sword, Eldarion drew near to it and laid his hand upon it, as if listening intently.  He lifted his visage, bright with wonder, to look at his companions.  “It is happy,” he breathed.  “It greets us, and rejoices we have come upon it!”

       “But how could a tree of lebethron grow here?” asked Alphros.

       Elboron was examining the slenderest of its branches, and his breath caught.  “Oh!  Here is a wonder!” he said in soft exclamation.

       About the branch was what appeared to be a wide band of silver, much tarnished, into which was engraved the five-petaled rose of Ered Lithui.  Forgotten was whatever danger might linger about them as the three young Men gathered close about the tree, examining this strange find.  Eldarion finally reached out, and with great care worked the band free over the tip of the limb’s fine branches and leaves.  There was a hollow as if the end of the cap had been eaten away by time to become a ring.  Elboron brought out the end of the staff to compare the band to the cap.

       “But, how could a tree grow from a staff?” Alphros asked.

       The breeze freshened, bringing with it a sweet scent, and as one the three of them turned, moving into the opening from the bowl.  Coming through the breach they found an ancient stair, worn and cracked from too many years of use by the servants of Sauron coming and going, with a partially paved way leading to it.  Between themselves and the stair stood what appeared to be an ancient woman clad in vibrant green, standing over a cloth laid upon the ground, on which were placed fruits and vegetables and green stuff of many kinds.  She turned to greet them. 

       “Welcome, children,” she said.  “When we learned the three of you were intent on coming here, my beloved and I decided it was past time to see this place returned to the state intended for it.  First, however, we found we had to see the current tenants driven away, which was easy enough to do, between my husband and our brother.”  She indicated a freshet that trickled down the rocks.  “Without water close at hand, those who lived within would be forced to find another dwelling place.  So the stream now runs on this side of the rockface.”  She gave a soft smile, yet her eyes were filled with compassion.  “Now, come and be seated and welcomed.”

       “They are no more,” Eldarion said, hanging back.  “The five who came down the Stair--they attacked us, and we slew them.”

       “Are you to blame for their deaths when they had sought first to slay you?”

       “Yet it does not seem right that any living thing be driven from its place merely to allow others to dwell there after.”

       She searched his eyes.  “Yet who built the tower above?”

       He looked up, and after a time sighed as he returned his gaze to meet hers.  “Our ancestors--those of my companions and myself.  For I am of the House of Isildur, and a descendant of Númenor; Isildur and Anárion’s people together set the watch on Mordor.”

       She nodded as if in approval of his knowledge of that time.  “The orcs were a perversion of creation by Morgoth, and further degraded by Sauron and Saruman after him.  Those who attacked you would have done the same had you encountered them here as they did below.  Perhaps it is best that they are now freed of the evil that has held them all their lives.  Now come, sit with me.”

       It was a strange feast, as they were served nutmeats and sweet fruits, greens and crisp roots, mushrooms and tart berries.  Water was given them in cups formed of leaves pinned into shape with thorns and spines from plant stems; and it was fresh and sweet upon their tongues.  And as they ate she sang softly under her breath, sang wordlessly--or perhaps with words from the days before the tongues of Elves or Men or Dwarves formed echoes of the intent she sang now.  And as she sang the breeze blew about the place, and the seeds from the fruits were blown from their hands about the open space, and they were kept busy brushing strands and locks of hair from their eyes.

       Elboron thought he heard, as if from afar, the echo of a great hunting horn.  Moments later a hunting cat sprang up the rocks past them as if fleeing the pursuit of unseen dogs, and three goats with large curling horns bounded from the gate behind them toward the stair, woolly tails flashing with their hurried leaps.  Overhead a hawk soared, and in the distance they heard the caws of crows and sharper rasps of ravens.  As she watched, the Lady noted, “And before Sauron raised these mountains from the lower ring of hills they had been, other creatures lived here.  And that was long ere your ancestors built the tower above.”

       Eldarion had sat and accepted what was offered him alongside his fellows, but now for the first time his shoulders began to relax and his expression to soften some to resemble the youth he was rather than the Man he should all too soon become.

       Casting brief glances left and right, Elboron saw that tendrils of vines and blades of grasses had begun infiltrating the formerly arid landscape.  It was Alphros, however, who spoke:  “It is not as dead as it was when the Nameless One dwelt within.”

       She smiled.  “Indeed it is not.”

       The day was darkening rapidly now.  “You must rest now.  Do not fear to sleep, for you will not be without guard this night.  But when you leave this place in the light of morning, do not look back.  There is much labor yet to be done ere this becomes as it is meant to be.”

       Alphros asked, as if not certain such a question was allowed, “Lady, the tree within--how could it come to grow there, and from a staff, or so it seems?”

       She smiled, and Elboron felt a thrill pass through him at the look of that smile.  “New life is being breathed into a land of what had appeared to be dry bones and sticks.”

       Eldarion nodded thoughtfully, saying, “And we rejoice that this is so.  Thank you, blessed Lady.”

       Her smile brightened the deepening twilight.  “Well were you named, son of Renewal and of the Eldar.  Your daeradar would be most proud of you.”

       He ducked his head as Elboron had never seen him do before, for all the world as if he were indeed a flattered boy rather than the son of the King, and flushing with pleasure.

       Carefully they removed their packs and set out their bedrolls, and they took their turns washing faces and hands at the freshet before lying down to rest.  Soon all were deeply asleep, and through his dreams Elboron seemed to hear sweet voices singing to one another, and laughter shared, and the rhythm of bodies swaying and stamping in dance, great hands beating complex patterns upon the heads of drums, mouths blowing upon reed pipes.  Several times his eyes opened briefly to see a great shining of lights about the distant dancers, reflecting silver and white and green against the surrounding rock walls.  And then he would burrow his face against the fabric of his pack and pull the blanket higher about his ears.

       They awoke to the call of birds, great and hardy to allow them comfort at this height.  As he sat up, Elboron saw a small mouse delicately turning what appeared to be a cherry pit in its front paws before taking it into its cheek and disappearing into the rocks.

       The cloth was gone, but there lay there three great leaves, on each of which lay a small melon and other fruits fit for the breaking of the nightly fast, with more of the leaf cups from which to drink.  Eldarion paused still standing, looking west, for some moments before sitting down to his dawn meal.  “I believe that we have known a visitation,” he said simply.

       They ate rapidly, carefully buried what was left, the three of them scattering the seeds as well as they might.  Then they took up their packs and turned toward the gap, went through it back to the bowl, pausing but briefly to admire the tree now growing within, then entering the tunnel.  They found the torches easily, and hurried on their way.

       It was late afternoon when they came at last to the head of the stair, and they slept that night on the landing where Samwise Gamgee had once seen his Master glowing in the dusk, resting peacefully for a wonder there on the borders of the Black Lands.

       Elboron slipped the next day upon the stairs and twisted his ankle.  It took them far longer than they’d planned to reach the road, and Alphros and Eldarion took it in turn to support him, the other going point, as they traveled first west and at last north once more, back towards the refuge of Henneth Annun.

*******

       Both the King and the Steward were there in the cavern when they arrived at last.  “You have taken eleven days to make your patrol,” the King Elessar said to the three young Men lined up before him.  “You were given seven days to make the journey and back, and granted two more should any difficulties be met.”

       “Yes, my lord,” Eldarion said as if he were the one answerable rather than Alphros as leader of the patrol.

       “A second patrol was sent to the same destination from Osgilliath,” Elessar continued.  “They did not find you upon the road, but they did find signs of fighting and five dead orcs.”

       “Yes, my lord.”  Again Eldarion spoke.

       “What is your report?”

       “The five came down the Stairs of Cirith Ungol, down the straight and winding stairs.  This we learned when we began to track their passage back to find out from whence they had come.  They were hiding in the rocks some ways west of the bottom of the stairs, and sought to take us by surprise.  We were well prepared, and there was no true difficulty in overcoming them.”

       “And where went you then?”

       “We sought to find out where these five had been hiding from the Sun, and whether there were more.  We realized that since they came down the stairs that they must have dens somewhere up those.”

       “So you climbed the Stair of Cirith Ungol.”

       “Yes, my lord.”

       “And you know the significance of that name?”

       “You know that I do, for has not Uncle Sam told us the tale of it, and have we not read of it in Uncle Frodo’s book, Ada?”

       “And although you did not know whether or not Shelob yet lives or dwells within the tunnel, yet you went?”

       “We were well prepared, my lord.  We had torches, and my blade was wrought by Elves....”

       “And you were three to Sam’s one?”

       Elboron felt himself flinch at the King’s tone.  Nor did his father’s face show any indication of sympathy.

       “I know that those who have gone up the stairs before have seen and heard nothing of her, my lord,” Eldarion said formally through tightened jaws.

       “Did you find where it was that the Orcs had been holed up?”

       “Yes, sir--in a cavern that opens into the space where Lord Samwise fought the Spider.  There had been a small waterway there that had dried up.  Finding no water to sustain them longer, the orcs were forced to leave their refuge to seek a new place elsewhere.  They found one spring upon the stair itself--we found signs they had drunk there and then sought to befoul it for any other who might follow them.  We cleaned the bowl into which the water flowed, and when the water ran clear again we refilled our own water bottles before finishing our journey upwards.  We found our way into the bowl where Frodo was injured by late in the day after passing through the tunnel.  As I said, we took materials with which to make torches----”

       “You mean to say, you took such materials,” interrupted Elboron’s father.

       Eldarion’s face flushed slightly.  He remained at attention as he admitted, “Yes, even so, my Lord Prince.”

       “And what else did you find besides orcs and their holes?” the King asked, his voice still implacable.

       This time the King’s son gave a small smile, his eyes less cautious and more watchful for reactions.  “We found a few things we had thought perhaps might yet remain to be found there, relics of those who had passed that way before.  And we found some things to wonder at.”

       He took a deep breath.  “There grows a sapling now within the bowl where Uncle Sam fought the spider--a sapling of a lebethron with its five-fingered leaves.  And upon one of the branches we found this----”  He fumbled in the pocket sewn into his leggings and brought out the band of silver and held it out to his father.

       The stern aspect of the King had fallen away as he reached forward to accept what his son held out to him.  “Silver--and well tarnished,” he said, turning it to examine it.  “And engraved!” he added in surprise.

       “The tree grows close under one of the rock walls, Ada.  It appears to flourish there in spite of the bare aspect of the land.  And beyond the bowl we found that plants have begun to grow there once more, with vines and grasses and even some hints of flowers and berries.  We saw animals, also--a lynx, goats, a mouse, soaring birds....  And the waterway that once gave sustenance to the orcs now trickles down another way, outside the bowl now, toward the foot of the stair up to the tower.”

       “Did you go up to the tower itself?”

       “No, Ada.  We stopped there, just outside the bowl.  And we were warned to sleep that night and return directly the next morning, and not to look back again.”

       “You were warned?  By whom?  Of what?”

       Eldarion could not contain a smile of wonder.  “Perhaps you could tell us, for we are not certain.  A Lady we found there, one who appeared ancient--ancient until that night, when she danced with her Lord Husband.  When first I glimpsed him he, too, appeared ancient of days; but as they danced together----!  Oh, Ada!  Then both appeared young and more fey than any Elf--and far greater!”

       Elboron found his voice at last.  “The land begins to bloom again, my lords.  She said that with the help of their brother she and her beloved had diverted the water so that the orcs would leave, and they would see the land as it had been meant to be.  And when they danced, I swear that the earth itself felt younger and more filled with purpose than it knew when we lay down upon it at their command to sleep.”

       “And this is what you found?” asked his own father.

       Alphros looked from Elboron to Eldarion.  “There was one thing more,” he said.  “Or, two things, rather, for the one thing had once been broken.”  He had been holding the tip of the staff between his hands.  He held it now out to his father’s cousin to take.

       Elboron turned to the side where he’d placed his pack, and reached in to pull out the upper end of the staff.  He held it out, also, and once it was in his hands Faramir was turning the two pieces to see how once they had fit together.  “But this would have been too short for any of our Men,” he began, then stopped, and a smile suddenly began to spread.  He checked the tip to the staff, and began to laugh with delight.  “Ingbold!  Come here!  Tell me if indeed this is what I think it once was!”

       The Captain came forward and took the pieces within his own hands, at first perplexed and then with a growing appreciation for what it was he held.  “And did you not tell them that lebethron bears the virtue of returning, my Lord Prince?” he asked, sharing a delighted look with the former Captain of the Rangers of Ithilien.

       “Told whom?” demanded Aragorn Elessar, perplexed.

       “The Hobbits!” Ingbold told him.  “Lords Frodo and Samwise, when he gave them staves of lebethron to serve as walking sticks for their journey onward!”

       “Staves?  Walking sticks?”  The King continued perplexed, then paused as the memories of the tale as Sam had told it came back to him.  He reached out his own hands for the broken pieces.  “The staff you gave Sam?  The one he struck Gollum with, driving him away when the beast tried to throttle him?”

       “The very same!” Eldarion said, no longer stiffly at attention, his own face shining with delight.

       “But you did not find the one I gave to Frodo?” Faramir persisted.

       Alphros gave a slight cough.  “We suspect that we might have done so, but we would not risk the displeasure of the Lady in trying to bring it away,” he said.  “I think that Lord Eldarion did all that was allowed us by carefully working the band there off the branch on which we found it, taking care to roll the leaves past which he worked it so that they take as little harm as possible as he removed it.”

       “She said that this would no longer be a land of dried bones and dead sticks,” Elboron told them.

       “She fed us on fruits and nuts, vegetables and mushrooms and roots, all fresh as if newly harvested,” Alphros added.

       The King’s face had gone pale, and he looked down at the two pieces of the staff he held, and at last returned the longer piece to Elboron and the shorter one to Alphros.  “Relics indeed,” he said softly, “and let them remain heirlooms of your houses.”

       But when he started to return the band that had once been the end cap to the staff given to Frodo to his son, Eldarion shook his head.  “I know we exceeded our orders, Adar, but after Captain Ingbold told us of the giving of the staves to the two Ringbearers, I felt we had to look.  I know how dear to your heart the two of them are.  Please--let you keep it as a memento to the journey they made.”

       Aragorn Elessar Envinyatar Telcontar solemnly examined the silver band once more.  “A relic indeed, and of your audacity as much as the journey those two once took.  Not to say of the apparent blessing granted by the Powers.”  He turned to examine his son’s face.  “Yet you had good reason for going up the stair, and have been able to show that one danger at least is no longer there at the head of the pass.”

       He sighed and relaxed back onto the folding chair given him.  “But if I ever learn of you seeking to go out upon a limb again in such a manner....”

       Elboron felt relief as the King melted into the father.  Fathers, he knew, could be convinced to forgive those who surpassed their orders, while Kings and Princes tended to be more inflexible.

*******

       And the King and Prince Faramir, accompanied by some others and Lord Gimli and Prince Legolas, who had come to visit at Emyn Arnen with the Prince of Ithilien and the King of the Reunited Realm and their families, made the climb up the Stairs of Cirith Ungol to see for themselves that what had been reported by the three young Men was true, not that any believed that the King or the Steward’s sons would lie about such things.

       Indeed they found all as had been reported, and the tale of the tree found where once the body of Frodo Baggins, paralyzed by the poison of Shelob, had lain as if in death, was told abroad throughout the land.

       There and beyond that narrow space they found that plants again had begun to grow.

       Some swore, however, that one of the doubled seeds of the lebethron tree must have clung to the hair of the Ringbearer, and fallen free when Sam cut away the webbing from his body, and there one grew in the dust that floored the place....

       Elboron, however, only shakes his head when he hears such claims.

Author’s notes:  The word lebethron has an element to indicate it has leaves of a shape to resemble a hand, suggesting the leaf has five nodes or “fingers.”  The second element of its name indicates either an oak tree or that it is faithful or dependable.  Here one is reminded of Faramir’s statement to Frodo and Sam that a staff made from its wood has a reputation for helping its bearer to find his way there and back again.

       The indication is, therefore, that the lebethron is most likely a variety of an oak or a maple tree, with it most likely being a black oak if it is indeed of that species.

       However, as one whose father came from Vermont where the sugar maple is the preeminent of all trees, and who lives on the west coast among vine maples with their great five-fingered leaves, it pleases me to think of it as a maple tree, which, as is true of the oak, is considered a highly desirable hardwood for most purposes.  And so it is the double-headed and vaned seed of the maple I suggest might have gotten caught in Frodo’s hair.

For Tracey Clayborn for her birthday, and for Dreamflower for the inspiration.  Beta by RiverOtter.

New Birth

            “Atto, you have allowed me the Ents as my children, even as you have breathed life into my beloved’s Dwarves....”

            Yes, my most greatly loved daughter?

            “I have been finding my imagination caught by the thought of still another race to live, there within Middle Earth, a small, shy creature who would live mostly hidden, almost as the field mouse lives hidden in the grasslands or the lizard in the sands of deserts.”

            Tell me how you see this new creature.

            “Small, far smaller than Men or Elves; smaller even than Dwarves.  One who cares for the tilled earth even as Elves are drawn to the wild lands and driven to bring healing where our fallen brother and his folk have left scars.  Looking like Men, but one whose overwhelming appetite is for food rather than for glory or love.  One who, like the Dwarves, feels at one with the earth itself to the point of living within it when possible, but who has not the hardness of stone within him.  One who cares strongly for family, and will do all within his strength to nurture those given into his care.  One who can draw tenderness from others, bringing out the best in those who care for him.”

            A worthy challenge, and quite a contrast to your Ents, child.

            “Thank you, Atto.  I fear you have me blushing.”

            Have you discussed this possible new race with any other?

            “Not with any of my brethren or sisters, although I must admit that the idea came to me while I was speaking with Olórin.  For all that he is of Manwë’s people I find he at times can inspire me to even greater creativity.”

            Warmly:  Ah, yes--I did gift him with such a great abundance of empathy and creativity, as well as filling him with perhaps more of the Secret Flame that I did many of the other Maiar.  And it was in speaking with him that your imagination conceived of this new race of Children?

            “Oh, yes, Atto.”

            I will think on it, daughter.  Yes, I do believe that I find this idea for a new creature to be among my Children pleasing.  However, if I choose to bring it forth, I shall do so at a time that perhaps may appear capricious.  But the gifts of your imagining ever delight me, Yavanna.

            “Oh, thank you, Atto!”

            Why have you not spoken of this with your brothers or sisters?

            “I am sorry, Atto.  I--well, I suppose that I feel somewhat guilty, as if I would appear greedy to the others.  Manwë has the Eagles as his special children and delights that his winds lift them up to rejoice in the airs above Arda, while Varda particularly delights in the Elves who reflect the beauty of her stars.  Certainly Oromë and Ulmo are fascinated with Men and the idea that they share the mortality of the rest of the creatures of this world, yet can appreciate our natures.  And my Aulë is most pleased with his Dwarves.  As you have given me my Ents, how could I imagine still another race as my children?  After all, we did not sing them into the theme of Ëa as we did the others.”

            She felt His delighted laughter.  Do not be so very certain of that, sweet Yavanna, my most fecund of children!  Did I not give to each of you the ability to sing forth My song, but making it Yours?  There can be nothing that did not come to you of my own imagining, you will find.  And this imagining of yours pleases me greatly, as does your desire not to appear greedy, but still to share the seeds that you have conceived of within the rich world of your thought.  Will you trust me with these seeds, to see them planted within the proper place, in the proper soil for their beginnings, and then to see them moved when the time is right to even richer soil?

            She felt a thrill run through her at His words, at the thought he spoke to her in her own language and images.  She bowed low.  “Nasië, Atto.”

            And she felt His attention shift to the world that she and the other has worked so long and carefully to prepare, and knew He Breathed upon it, planting the seeds she had just given into His hands....

~o0o~

Atto:  The informal, intimate form of Atar (Quenya), or Father.

Nasië:  Let it be so; amen.

For Dawn Felagund for her birthday.  With thanks to RiverOtter for the beta!

Cleansed

            “Their skin is so dry, Gandalf.  I fear for them if we cannot keep it supple and from cracking further.  Already there are infections.”

            “You are doing all you can for them, Aragorn.  Do not worry overmuch.  You have called them back from the Gates, and they will remain with us now.  They are Hobbits, after all, and have the natural resilience of their kind.  Now, you go and rest, and allow others to worry for them for a time.  Even if there are infections, you have cleansed them as well as you can, and they will grow no worse while you sleep.  You do no one any good if you do not take your own rest.  Or do you wish to collapse before the faces of all as you did when your adar sought the first time to remove the shard from the Morgul knife?”

            Aragorn gave a weary laugh.  “You would throw that in my face,” he sighed, rubbing the back of his hand across his eyes.  “But you are right, I fear.  Elladan is preparing an ointment to rub upon their skins with the oil of athelas in it and a fair amount of lanolin and other natural oils to help keep the skin soothed.  But it will take some time to finish.  I will sleep, then.  But if there is any change at all, I would have you call me, no matter how much you may believe I need to rest.”

            “I swear, Aragorn.”

            Assured, the Man went to the tent raised for him, and soon was fallen across the cot, still dressed.

            They were not being observed, and so the Lady came to the side of the bed on which they had been laid side by side upon clean sheepskins.  She drew down the covering laid over them, looking down on the wizened bodies.  The bandages fell away; the hair blew away from their faces.

            She wept--wept tears of compassion for them, and caught the tears and anointed them with the salt sweetness.  She wept tears of pride, and soothed the cracked skin.  She wept tears of joy, and eased the caked dryness.  She wept tears of relief, and cleansed away the last of the embedded ash.  She wept tears of love, and moistened desiccated lips and reddened eyes.  She wept tears of loss, soothing the place where a finger had been severed.  Carefully she cleansed them, blessing them with her pity and her grief and her undying love for them and their faithfulness, and ridding them of the last of taint and horror.

            Gandalf entered the pavilion raised for the two Ringbearers and paused, aware that they were not alone.  He bowed low, seeing the brightness that surrounded them, recognizing the presence of one he’d once companioned, long ago, before he’d taken on his current duty and form.  “My Lady Nienna!” he murmured.

            He felt her smile, and noted the benediction she bestowed upon him.  Then he saw the bandages, now pristinely clean, refasten themselves; saw the covering once again replaced over forms that no longer seemed quite as fragile as they had appeared but moments earlier when he’d left the place alongside Aragorn.  He saw hair smoothed, and noted it no longer appeared dry as straw, and noted that tongues and lips were more properly pink.  A sweet odor filled the tent--the odor of the freshening breeze over the living Sea.

            The flap was pulled aside, and Elrohir entered with a tray on which lay two invalid’s cups.  “The Perian Peregrin has turned his head on his own...” he began, then paused, seeing the Light of Mithrandir unveiled, and realizing another presence was there.

            The Wizard turned.  “Do not hang back, Elrohir.  All is well.”

            Still the Peredhel bowed profoundly before coming forward and looking down on the two still forms, at which time he smiled.  “They are eased,” he said in a soft voice.

            Gandalf looked down with a proud smile on his lips.  “Oh, yes, they are eased indeed.”

******* 

            As the Sun began brightening the sky beyond the Mountains of Shadow, Aragorn woke and turned to sit up, shaking his head to clear it.  One of his kinsman from among the Grey Company entered, bearing a basin of warmed water, and a ewer with more besides, as well as soft soap and cloths for washing.  Once he was refreshed and his face cleansed, the Man accepted a cup of an herbal drink sent from the cook tent, and hurried first to the beech grove where the enclosure had been raised to allow Frodo and Sam to know some privacy as they slept.  Elladan was there already, awaiting him.  “Elrohir accepted the ointment from me, and took it within.”

            The two entered together.  Elrohir and Gandalf between them were turning the bodies of the Hobbits, and now paused to acknowledge the arrival of the new King of Men and Elladan.  The pot of ointment lay, open, upon the table that stood between the bed on which the bodies of Frodo and Sam lay and the second bed that had not yet been used.  Concerned that it had been left open, Aragorn looked down into it, noting that droplets of moisture lay atop it, almost like tears.

            “They look much the better,” Elladan said, drawing his attention to their two sleeping patients as he carefully removed the white shirt that had been used to clothe Sam’s body.

            Aragorn followed suit with Frodo, and paused, looking at the bandages with surprise.  “They are clean!” he said, his startled eyes meeting those of the Wizard.

            Gandalf was smiling.  “Yes, they have been cleansed--thoroughly cleansed, both the Hobbits and their bandages.  Do not be surprised or alarmed.”

            Elrohir’s eyes were still bright with the awe he had felt since his arrival in the enclosure the previous evening.  “And I believe that you will find the ointment will prove remarkably effective, Estel.”

            Aragorn looked from his foster brother to Gandalf and back, then looked back to Elladan, who appeared as baffled as he was himself.  He nodded to Elladan, who began removing the bandages protecting Frodo’s hand, and realized that the hand was far whiter than it had been when he’d bandaged it after removing the roughened edges of the bone and carefully drawing the loose skin over the stump.  “I wasn’t able to remove all the traces of blood,” he commented in a low voice.

            “No, but they are gone now,” Gandalf affirmed.

            But it was as he dipped his fingers into the pot of ointment and began rubbing it into the skin of Frodo’s maimed hand that he felt a special warmth such as he’d never felt in this ointment before.  He hummed the invocation for healing as he worked, and suddenly realized he was weeping softly as his hands kneaded Frodo’s palm.  Yet he felt not sadness, but a solemn triumph, and he smiled through his tears, which fell barely noticed on Frodo’s arm.  And as he began working the ointment into the arm he found it already much more supple, its color less pale than it had been, particularly as he found himself softly singing the verses invoking Lady Nienna’s ministrations for those who had suffered greatly.

            The Lady smiled as she heard her name invoked and as she saw the tears of compassion further soothing this special child.  Ere she withdrew she laid her hands upon those of the new King-to-be in blessing.

            “Well done, thou faithful servant,” she said.

            As he watched, Gandalf continued to smile gently.

Written for Pearl Took's birthday.  And I thank RiverOtter so for the beta. 

Birthday Plans

            “And just what are you doing, Peregrin Took?”

            Pippin gave a glance over his shoulder.  “Making Frodo a birthday cake.”

            Merry glanced around Bag End’s kitchen at the widespread distribution of flour and egg shells, then at the drops of batter that spattered the table top and jam pot and floor, and sighed, shaking his head.

            “You had best hope, my favorite small cousin, that the cake tastes good, or they’ll have you cleaning up the kitchen with a huge basin of soapy water and a nail brush!”

            Pippin smiled confidently.  “Oh, it will, Merry mine.  Just wait and see!”

Written for the LOTR Community Sept. 22nd Challenge.  For Linda Hoyland for her birthday.  Beta by RiverOtter.

The Ring-day Fete

            Sam had been growing increasingly solemn over the past few days, and Aragorn found himself watching after his friend with concern.

            “It’s that we’re not home right now,” Rosie explained.  “He’s always been there, in Bag End, for Master Frodo’s birthday, and it just don’t seem right for him t’be nowhere else, you see.”

            “So, that is it, is it?” the King said thoughtfully as they stood near the herb garden for the Houses of Healing, where Sam was moodily evaluating the mulch mixture the herbalist was preparing to use about the roots of the roses.  “I hope that he does not find the Ring-day celebrations distressing.”

            “Ring-day?” she asked.

            He nodded thoughtfully, his eyes still following the gardener as he examined a spotted leaf with an expression of disapproval on his honest face.  “Ring-day is what we call the celebration of Frodo and Bilbo’s birthday.  We remember how it was on this day the Ring came into the hands of Frodo, perhaps the best person in all of Middle Earth to carry It safely that It not destroy all ere It could be brought to the Mountain.  The Ringbearer has become greatly honored here, you must understand.”

            “They celebrate Master Frodo’s birthday here?” Rosie repeated.  “Then mayhaps it will help him feel better, knowin’ as the folks of the City all celebrate it, then.  Although it does feel queer, thinkin’ as Hobbits of the Shire are that well honored so far away, and better’n them is at home in their own place.”

            He turned to search her face, the grief on his own clear for her to see.  “So few there honor his memory to this day?” he asked.

            Reluctantly she nodded.  “I’m afraid not, Lord Strider, sir,” she said.  “Oh, those as was closest to him do, and always have; but most folks--they only member as him went away and took the others with him--they always blame him, you see.  Not the fault of the rest as they went, you understand--it’s always seen as his fault they was led astray.  And when they come back, he was the one as made the rest stop and take care so as they didn’t hurt none as had give up fair and square, and there’s them as is still angered they wasn’t allowed to hurt ’em back.  And then, when the whole Shire was ready to elect him Mayor in his own right he refused to run--give it all back to Will Whitfoot, and him didn’t want it back at all!  Oh, most of them as speak hardest feels as if he betrayed them, choosin’ not t’run after all.  Then, when he went away--well, that was the worst thing of all, not wantin’ t’stay a Hobbit of the Shire, goin’ away with the Elves.  If’n him wanted to go away with the Elves, then obviously him wasn’t a proper Hobbit all along, don’t ya’ see?”

            The King did see--he saw all too well.  There were those, when he’d returned to his own folk among the northern Dúnedain, who’d refused to recognize him as having any authority over any among their people.  After all, he’d been raised by Elves, away in Imladris, and had not shared their griefs and privations over the eighteen years of his minority.  Why should they accept him no matter what the authority of those who recognized him as Arathorn and Gilraen’s son and thus as the proper heir to Isildur?  He’d had to prove himself day by day, again and again before some had finally softened to him.  How were most folk of the Shire to begin to appreciate Frodo Baggins, his sufferings and sacrifices on their accounts, when they could not begin to appreciate just what danger they’d been in, having the Enemy’s Ring dwelling in their midst for so very long?

            He reached out his hand, and Rosie took it in hers, running her fingers over his still sword-callused palm, as both turned their attention back to Sam, who had wandered over to the line of athelas plants and had fallen to his knees, now lifting the long, narrow leaves to look for weeds to pull.

 *******

            “Thursday will be Ring-day,” Aragorn commented to his guests as they ate together in the Royal Chambers that night.  “It is our celebration, Sam, of the birthday of Bilbo and Frodo, and our honoring of the both of them, and particularly Frodo, for what he undertook in accepting the Ring and the quest.  The City will be filled with revelers, and there will be many fetes and mummeries throughout the seven circles, all honoring Frodo and those of us who traveled with him.  There will be retellings of the story of Bilbo and the Dragon, although I fear that most do not realize this is not but a fanciful tale but is indeed among the histories of the northern realm.  And there will be reenactments of the Quest itself on all levels of the city, including here in the Seventh Level, out in the Court of Gathering.  I’d like you to be forewarned that you not be taken by surprise, or come to see any of the dancing and pantomimes as disrespectful in any way.  All is meant in honor and love for Frodo, you see--of Frodo and you.”

            Sam had paled, and then flushed as Aragorn indicated he, too, was to be honored in this celebration.  He met the King’s grey eyes, his own brown ones steady if a bit bright, before turning his attention back to his plate and his meal.  “Thank you for tellin’ me ahead of time, then, Strider,” he said, leaving the matter at that.

            That evening, however, as he and Rosie prepared for bed together, he paused, laying his hand on her shoulder, looking down on the bulging where she bore their expected thirteenth child.  “They do pantomimes for Frodo here?” he asked softly.  “That’s play-actin’, isn’t it, Rose my love?”

            She nodded, pausing in her brushing of her hair to look up into his beloved honest face.  “Yes, or so I understand from our Lady Arwen.  She says as the children make up the scenes they play at themselves, so they don’t necessarily match what really happened.  She says as the scenes are often dear, sometimes sad but more often funny and charmin’.  She so hopes as you enjoy it, but hopes as you a’n’t disappointed not t’recognize what they show.”

            He nodded, thoughtfully.

 *******

            The day before the Birthday Sam was quiet much of the day.  He was on hand when Prince Faramir and his family arrived from Emyn Arnen in Ithilien, greeting the Steward of Gondor solemnly and accepting the warm hugs of his wife and children.

            “He appears much distracted,” Faramir murmured to the King.

            “Yes, he is, for he is not accustomed to being away from Merry and Pippin on  Frodo and Bilbo’s birthday, or away from his home.  He is finding it quite unsettling, apparently.”

            “I see,” said Faramir as he turned to watch Eldarion and Elboron draw Sam away to show him how they had been studying wrestling holds together.  After a moment he returned his gaze to meet that of his Lord and friend.  “I only hope that tomorrow will not prove offensive to him,” he commented.

            The Lord Elessar nodded slowly as he returned his attention to Sam once more.  “And I so hope as well,” he murmured.

 *******

            Sam rose early the following morning and went to the far door leading out into the gardens beyond.  He felt unsettled.  Here it was, September twenty-second, the birthday of his Master and old Mr. Bilbo, and where was he?  Thousands of leagues away from Bag End, in Gondor, of all places!  He ought to be home, seeing to it that the Birthday was properly celebrated, laughing with Sancho Proudfoot and watching the children of the Row arrive carrying their platters of cakes and biscuits, and their parents bringing tureens of rich stews or platters of roasts.  Merry and Pippin ought to be arriving home right about now, having left Minas Anor a month ago, he thought as he opened the door and sniffed the air redolent with the scents of a myriad fall blossoms and turning leaves.  The gardeners had turned the soil in one of the nearby beds yesterday, and he inhaled the scent greedily.  There was a different smell to the soil here, but still the scent of fertile earth was as food and drink to him.  He stepped out further and closed the door behind him before tying the sash of his dressing gown about him.

            And then he saw the boy.

            He’d seen the boy before.  His father worked in the gardens, while the child’s mother, if Sam remembered rightly, was a pastry cook in the Citadel kitchens.  He often could be seen kneeling by his father’s side pulling weeds, and it reminded Sam both of his own childhood working alongside his old Gaffer as well as how his own children had all labored in the gardens of Bag End and elsewhere alongside himself.

            At the moment the boy was pushing a barrow that was almost as tall as himself.  The handle of a rake stood out to one side, bouncing up and down as he took it over the ground; and it appeared that there were a number of leaves in the barrow, considering the trail the child left behind him as he trundled the barrow down the cobbled way.

            “It  ’pears as you’re losin’ your load,” Sam called out.

            The boy raised his head, apparently surprised to hear himself being addressed, and looked inquiringly at the Hobbit.

            Sam pointed behind the barrow.  “Your leaves--you’re leavin’ a number behind you.”

            The child turned his head, and Sam could see the look of dismay as he took in just how many had escaped the barrow.  “Oh!  That’s just too bad!” he said, shaking his head.  “And I need as many as I can gather.”

            “For what?”

            “For our pantomime!  We’re to do ours near the memorial, you see.  Would you like to help?  You could play Sam!”

            “What?”

            “I’m to play Frodo, you see, and Denergil is to play one of the Eagles that rescues us.  And Lissel is to play the Elf Queen Galadriel--she helps me stand up when I’ve got very tired and fallen down.”

            “What?”

            “I get very tired and I fall down, and Queen Galadriel comes and helps me stand up, you see!”

            Confused and intrigued, Sam asked, “And who plays Gollum?”

            “Oh, we don’t have him in,” the child answered.  “None of us likes him very much.”

            “Well, I never liked him much, neither,” Sam admitted, “but all else would of gone for naught if’n it hadn’t been for him.”

            “Why?”

            “’Cause It--the Ring--It had taken Frodo, there at the last.  If’n Gollum hadn’t of been there, he’d not of been able to drop It hisself.  Oh, I loved my Master, but I could tell as the Ring took him--took him hard, there at the end.”

            “What?”

            “Well, you see--wait, what’s your name now?”

            “Teragil.”

            “Teragil.  A nice name, that.  Well, Teragil, if’n I was t’help in your pantomime I don’t think as I’d have to play at bein’ Sam Gamgee.”

            “Why not?  Would you rather play at Gollum?”

            Sam felt a shudder of revulsion go through him at the thought.  “No,” he explained, wanting the child to understand.  “I wouldn’t have to play at bein’ Sam Gamgee ’cause I am Sam Gamgee already.  I was there, there with Frodo Baggins, there in Mordor in the heart of Mount Doom, right over the fire, when Gollum bit off his finger and took It, and then him fell in.  That’s when I picked up my Master and we ran--ran right out of there, though I doubt as I can tell you exactly how I managed it.  It was horrible close in there, what with the fire and the smokes from it, and I’d had such a nasty knock on the head....”

            Teragil had stepped closer, his mouth falling slightly open, his attention fully fixed.  Now he interrupted.  “How come you had a knock on your head?”

            “Gollum had hit me here--right  here!  Hit me with a rock, him did.”  Sam pulled the hair from his temple to show the scar.  “And I fell down and hit here on the floor, and it was bleedin’ somethin’ fierce, it was.  I shook my head and looked around, and there they was, or there Gollum was, leastways, holdin’ on to somethin’ and lookin’ like he was floatin’ in thin air ’cause my Master had put on the Ring when It took him and had gone invisible.  I guess as that just proved he wasn’t strong enough to claim It proper, for them as mastered their rings didn’t go invisible when they put them on, although they could make the rings themselves go invisible so as other folks didn’t see them.”

            “You saw the others who had the other rings?”

            Sam nodded solemnly.  “Oh, that I did.  I traveled hundreds of miles alongside Gandalf, you see, and I never realized as him was wearin’ the Ring of Fire.  I knew as the Lady was wearin’ Nenya, the Ring of Adamant, but only ’cause she told us so, Mr. Frodo and me.  And it wasn’t till them all was goin’ on the Grey Ship as I could see as Master Elrond was wearin’ the blue ring, and that was how him could keep Rivendell hidden as well as it was.”

            “Oh.”  Teragil looked thoughtful.  After a moment he asked, “Where’s Rivendell?”

            “Way north, east of the Shire, at the foot of the Misty Mountains, it is.  The Elves called it Imladris----”

            “Oh, I’ve heard of there!  That’s where Lord Boromir went!”

            Sam felt himself grow solemn.  “Yes, that he did.  That’s where we met him, us Hobbits.”

            The boy looked surprised.  “You did?  You met Lord Boromir?  But that was a long time ago!  I wasn’t born yet!”

            Sam couldn’t help laughing.  “Well, I’m a good many years older than you, lad!  But that’s where we all met--except for us meetin’ old Strider--we met him in Bree, you see.  Now, what are you goin’ to do with them leaves?”

            “Oh, it’s to make the lava with!  My ada won’t let us use coals, so we’re going to use leaves.”

            Sam was intrigued.  “I’d like to see as how you’ll do that!”

 *******

            Prince Faramir came out of the Steward’s Wing to find the King standing with his family, the Lady Rose and Lady Elanor near the fountain that bubbled cheerfully in the cross hallway.  “Master Samwise is not with you?” he asked.

            Rosie sighed, shaking her head.  “We’ve hardly seen him all day, Lord Faramir.  He’s been that busy, workin’ with some of the children what are supposed to do one of the pantomimes.  Asked to have his meals sent out to him in the gardens and all, he has.  And they’ve been right busy, they have, fetchin’ leaves and cartin’ them around to the memorial.

            The Steward exchanged amused glances with the King.  “And what are they to do with leaves?” he asked.

            “I have no idea,” Aragorn answered.  “It should be entertaining, at least.”

            Rosie gave a slight frown, then sighed.  “Well, I hope as these pantomimes don’t last all too awful long.  Don’t know as how long I’ll be able to keep to my feet today.  The bairn’s gettin’ most heavy, don’t you know, Lord Strider.”

            The King was distracted from giving her a more thorough look by a herald coming through.  “Our Lord King, Lord Faramir and beloved ladies, the festival is about to begin.  If you will come now?”  He turned and led the way out through the Hall of Kings and the vestibule to the front doors of the Citadel. 

            “Éowyn?  The children?” asked the King of his Steward as the two of them walked side by side toward the doors outside.

            “They’ve gone out.  The children of our servitors have begged Elboron and Morwen to help in their pantomime, apparently at the suggestion of Master Samwise.”

           “And what is he doing in all this, do you think?” Aragorn wondered as they came through the doors.  He searched through the crowd of faces below, both familiar and unfamiliar; where was Sam?

           Sam, however, was not in evidence at all.

           A row of chairs had been set up for the King, Queen, Prince of Ithilien and his wife, the Lady Rose, and other nobles residing at the time within the Citadel.  Aragorn nodded at Lord Húrin, who joined them with his wife Lynessë at his side, accompanied by their son, who was much of an age with the Princess Melian.  He gave Melian a shy smile, to which she responded with a formal nod, her fair brow furrowing slightly before turning her face toward the Memorial.

            A number of children came forward to sing, a young woman directing them.  The first was a harvest song familiar throughout Gondor; the second was a portion of the Lay of Frodo of the Nine Fingers that was often sung by children.  When that one was over, the woman turned to give the King a slight shrug and an uncertain smile and curtsey before giving way to a much smaller figure--not a child, but....

            “Oh, Sam, and what are you up to?” Rose Gamgee-Gardner could be heard to say, reaching out her hand to her daughter, who sat beside her in the low chair intended for her husband.  Elanor straightened in her seat, returning the squeeze of her mother’s hand.

            Sam nodded to a boy with a simple flute, who blew a note for the rest.  At that he nodded, and the children began to sing,

            “The road goes ever on and on,

            out from the door where it began....”

            Aragorn smiled, his face softening; and Queen Arwen lifted her head higher, delight clear to be seen upon it.  “Bless Bilbo,” she murmured in low tones.

            When at last the verse was complete, the children moved aside, kneeling down to reveal a great hill of brightly colored leaves that had been raised before the memorial to the Hobbits.  Two children came forward, dragging their feet as if very tired.

            “Isn’t that Dad’s Elven cloak?” Elanor asked her mother, looking at the thinner of the two.

            Rosie nodded. 

            The child wore it with a rope belt girding it tightly about him.  Aragorn leaned toward his Steward.  “It’s how Frodo had it fastened around his body when he was brought out of the ruins of the Mountain,” he whispered.  “Sam must have tied it about him.”

            “I am so tired, Sam,” the slighter child said.

            “I will carry you if I have to, Master Iorhael,” the other boy said.

            “No, Sam--I will go myself,” the first insisted, and turned toward the hill of leaves, then slumped dramatically to the ground.

            A taller girl with blond hair came forward and stood over the fallen “Hobbit.”  “Ah, Frodo Baggins--rise and go onward, and save all of Middle Earth!”

            “My Lady Galadriel--but I cannot do it by myself.”

            “If you cannot do this, no one can!”  She leaned down and extended her hand.  He took it and allowed her to lift him to his feet, then turned determinedly to the mountain.

            He took a few slow, deliberate steps before again falling to the ground.  At that point “Sam” came to stand over him.

            “I cannot carry It for you, Master,” he said, “but I can carry you.”  So saying he went upon his knees.  “Climb upon my back, and I’ll lift you up!”

            “Frodo” did as he was told, and the other boy began crawling toward the mountain.

            A boy and two girls came to one side, and began to sing.

            “When you cannot walk yourself, then I will lift you;

            upon my own back I shall carry you up.

            Your burden is heavy, enough to defeat you.

            I will bear you until at last with the Valar we sup.”

            It was a song none had heard before, and all listened with solemn quiet, watching the slow crawl of the two toward the mountain of leaves.

            A smaller child crawled out from behind the hill of leaves, a girl, Faramir thought, although he didn’t recognize her.  “Frodo” tapped his friend on the shoulder.  “Here is far enough, Sam.  I must go the rest of the way myself.”

            “But Iorhael, you are too weak!”

            “I must do it myself!”

            “How often I’ve heard him say that,” the King confided.

            “Frodo” walked forward slowly, then stopped.  He held out a pretend Ring as if to drop it onto the edge of the brilliant leaves.  “Here is the Ring!” he proclaimed.  “And here is the Fire!  The Ring must go into the Fire!”  He paused, his eyes fixed on the unseen Ring.  “But I can’t!  Ah!  I am undone!  It is taking me!  Oh, no!  I claim It as my own!”

            And the girl rose to a crouch and hurried forward.  “I will take It if you can’t get rid of It yourself!” she cried out, and all the company straightened, for this was no stranger child, but was instead Morwen, daughter to Prince Faramir and Princess Éowyn.  She grabbed “Frodo’s” hand firmly and began to struggle with him, until at last she reached forward to bite the other child’s finger.

            “Ouch!” cried the boy who played Frodo, the pain real, before he remembered he was supposed to fall down, clutching his hand tightly to himself.

            Morwen, however, rose to her full height and lifted her hand to display her “prize.”  “I have it!” she called out.  “I have it!  My Precious!”  She danced up and down and up and down until the boy who’d played Frodo rose and ran toward her and tried to grab her hand.  “No!” she cried.  “It’s mine!”  And with that she jumped backwards and fell into the leaves, at which time someone hidden within the pile rose up and began dumping more leaves over her body.

            “Sam” came forward and grabbed “Frodo.”  “Master!  We have to get out of here!”  He pulled his companion away, dragging him away from the hill of leaves, which was being flung at this point in all directions.

            They didn’t run far, though--just until another child dropped some leaves in front of them.

            “We are stuck, Iorhael!” said “Sam.”

            “Yes, this is the end,” declaimed “Frodo.”

            “I won’t get to marry the Lady Rose now,” “Sam” said, sinking to his knees.

            “Yes, you will,” said a taller boy with paper wings, who ran forward, followed by another, each of them picking up one of the smaller boys and carrying them away as a group of children dumped leaves over where “Frodo” and “Sam” had been crouched a moment before.

            A very tall boy, one of the Royal Pages, Faramir noted, stepped forward, and one of the Eagles surrendered “Frodo” to him.  “I am the King Elessar!  And no matter how close you are to death, Frodo Baggins, I now call you back!  Now, you must sleep properly for a while until you are well again.”  He laid the boy down on a hastily laid pallet placed upon the ground, and then he did the same for “Sam.”

            At that another small figure came out and stood over the two children lying on the pallet.  The voice that spoke wasn’t that of a child.  “Oh, my two dear boys,” it said.

            Aragorn startled.  “Bilbo!” he breathed.

            “My two dear lads--what did I do to you, Frodo, giving you the Ring the way I did?  How could I have done that to you and Sam?  I didn’t want none hurt but myself!  But now Aragorn’s healed you, and you’ll sleep for a time and get better.  And I’ll be waitin’, I will, waitin’ for you two to come and tell me it all next fall.  But I love you both--love you both past tellin’.  And that awful Ring--It can’t hurt you no more!  It can’t hurt nobody.”

            Sam must have managed to stand just like Bilbo Baggins, Faramir determined, seeing the tears of recognition in the eyes of both his King and Queen, not to mention those of the Lady Rose.

            “He sounds just like old Mr. Bilbo,” he heard Rosie assure Elanor.

            “Galadriel” came forward to stand opposite “Bilbo.”  “You will rest now, and you will see the beginning of the peace you have given us.  And you, Frodo Baggins, Lord Iorhael, you will find healing far away, but we will never forget you.”  So saying, she laid a blue blanket over both figures lying upon the pallet.

            The boy with the flute began to play, and “Bilbo” turned to sing,

            “Ah, Elbereth Gilthoniel....”

            And the King rose to his feet to join the hymn, as did his Queen and his older daughter and son, then Faramir and many others.

            When it was all over, the children came together and bowed to the company, and at last Sam came to join the rest.

            There was dancing after that, and great rings of golden straw were set all about the base of the memorial, while crowns of scarlet and gold leaves were set upon the heads of the statues of Frodo and Samwise.  But as servants came from the Citadel with great trays of golden honeycakes and sliced apples and peaches, the Lady Rose suddenly rose to her feet.

            “Sam,” she said, her face white.  “It’s time.”

            He looked at her and at the spreading stain upon her gown, then nodded.  “Strider!” he called, leaning forward to lift her in his arms as years before he’d carried Frodo Baggins out of the Sammath Naur, hurrying toward the doors to the Citadel with the King and the Princess Éowyn following close behind.

 *******

            The last to enter the feast hall that night was not the King, but instead Prince Faramir.  He approached the seat given to the Lord of the Feast, and stood quietly until all had gone still.  “My friends,” he announced, “usually it would be our Lord King who would greet you with suitable words.  But it must be otherwise this year.  It would appear that still another future resident of the Hobbit home known as Bag End shall be born today, on September twenty-second, as the Hobbits of the Shire know it.  And until the Lady Rose is delivered of her child, the King will not be free to grace us with his presence.  Let us rejoice together, and I entreat the Powers that they grant her an easy birth!”  So saying he gestured, and all turned west for the Standing Silence.

            It was not that long afterward, however, that another tall figure, formally dressed, entered the hall and approached the King’s seat, the Elendilmir upon his brow.  All rose hastily, but he quickly gestured for them to sit once more.  “I rejoice to tell you that Tolman Gamgee-Gardner, the thirteenth child of Lord Samwise the Stout-hearted and the Lady Rose of Bag End in the Shire, has now been safely born, and rests in his parents’ arms at this moment.  Quite a Ring-day gift to the world of Arda has been granted us, and both speak of this son as a last birthday gift to them from the Ringbearer himself.”

            There was cheering, and the musicians began to play the music from the Hobbits’ Husbandman’s Dance as glasses began to be lifted around the table to toast Lord Perhael and his lady wife and their newest child.

            It was late when at last the feasting and dancing were over.  The King bowed many of the guests out of the Hall of Merethrond, wishing them the joy of the day and a peaceful night, and soon torches and lanterns were leading many toward the head of the ramp to the lower city.  Once all were away, the King led his Steward to the keel of stone sticking out over the plain below, bringing out his pipe and wallet of leaf, and at last his striker set.

            “So,” Faramir commented, once his Lord’s pipe was lit, “another son for Samwise and the Lady Rose.”

            “Yes, and a fine child he is--and quite the pair of lungs he boasts!”

            Both laughed.  “As small as they are, the Pheriannath are not to be ignored, are they?” the Steward commented.

            “Never that,” Aragorn replied.  “Oh, Frodo--if only you were here to see!”

            They stood quietly until the pipe was spent, and the King knocked the ashes out against the wall before they turned to walk back together to the Citadel.  As the approached the White Tree, however, they realized there were three small figures underneath it.

            “And it’s now, Teragil, my Elanorellë, as we let them as is there know.  Now, set your hands against the trunk there.  Yes, that’s right.  Now, I’ll bring the bairn close enough to have him touch, also.”

            “What is Sam doing?” Faramir asked, surprised.

            Aragorn smiled.  “Introducing his newest son to his beloved Master,” he whispered.  “I suspect he’s done this with each child born in Bag End since Elanor herself--brought them out to the mallorn in the Party Field to present them to Frodo as he can.”

            And they could hear Sam saying softly, “Are you there, Frodo Baggins?  Here--here’s our newest, our Tolman.  Named after Rosie’s dad and her brother, he is.  And quite the birthday present you give us this year!  And this here’s Teragil, who pretended to be you earlier--but he didn’t mean nothin’ but good from it, you understand....”

Written for Kitty and Claudia for their birthdays.  Beta by RiverOtter.

Preparatory to an Introduction

            “And you wish me to meet with this Hobbit?  First of all I have difficulty appreciating why Lord Elrond would take in a Hobbit as a resident of Rivendell.  Then I don’t understand how you have managed to become so respectful of him, much less why you want me to meet with him.  I mean, he is but a Hobbit, after all.”

            “You will understand the latter all too soon, Halbarad.  But you’ve heard the tale of how it was that Smaug the dragon was vanquished in Erebor....”

            The Ranger’s eyes opened the wider.  “No!  This isn’t the Dwarves’ famous Burglar, is it?”

            “No other!  And when you hear how it was he managed to hide himself from Smaug’s gaze, you will begin to understand just why it is important that we do our best to keep the borders of their lands impenetrable.  If indeed what Bilbo Baggins left behind in his heir’s hands is as Gandalf fears, and should it fall into the keeping of the Enemy, then there will be no hope left for any of the Free Peoples of Middle Earth.  But it is best you hear the tale from Bilbo’s own lips.”

            Halbarad searched the eyes of his chieftain and friend.  Never had he heard the words no hope left uttered by him before, and to him it underscored just how seriously Aragorn was taking the matter.

            Meanwhile his kinsman was continuing, “And know this--we of the Dúnedain are never to use the true name of Bilbo’s young kinsman--we will ever speak of him by his name in Sindarin that we never betray his actual identity and endanger him further.  Do you understand?”

            As they turned down the final corridor to the Hobbit’s rooms, Halbarad nodded tentatively.  “And what is his name in Sindarin, then, Aragorn?”

            “Iorhael.”

Written for Hobbit Month on LiveJournal.  For Isabeau and Lady Branwyn for their birthdays.  Beta by RiverOtter.

A Problem with Names

            It was a day in late March, and the wind was blowing briskly as Pippin and Merry leaned together over the mare who was giving birth in the back pasture behind the Crickhollow house they shared.  “There, there, lass,” Merry crooned.  “It’s all right, Fala.  It’s all right.  Soon it will be over.  Rest until the next push.”

            The mare blew, apparently calmed by the voice of one well accustomed to soothing upset ponies.  She looked over at Pippin, who scratched the place on her blaze that she that she especially liked having so caressed.  “You’re a good lass, Fala,” Pippin said in his higher tones.  “You’re doing well.  And soon you shall have a foal--ah, what a foal it shall be, too!  As fair as its sire and as steady as its dam....”

            “And what are you going to name it?” Merry asked.

            “Frodo, of course,” Pippin answered,

            Merry looked at his cousin a bit askance, but Pippin refused to meet his eye, determinedly scratching Fala’s stop.  The Brandybuck took a deep breath, and said, his voice sad but determined, “Peregrin Took, you cannot go on naming every beast that comes your way Frodo!  You’ve named the pup Farmer Maggot sold you Frodo, and the kitten you got from Haysgate Farm Frodo, and then you bought the dingle there near Haysgate and have renamed it Frodo’s Dingle!  I swear I heard you addressing the toad in the garden as Frodo, too!”

            At last Pippin turned to face his cousin, his eyes suspiciously bright.  “And if I want to name the whole world Frodo, who’s to blame me?” he snapped.  “I want all of Middle Earth to remember him, and to know what he did, and how we’d all be slaves or worse were it not for him!”

            A lop-eared red dog, half grown, came lolloping about the byre, grinning happily, its tongue hanging out of the side of its mouth, a bright red kerchief knotted about its neck.  Fala started, pulling away from the approaching dog.

            “Be calm, Fala,” Pippin said, turning his eyes back to her.  “Be calm.  There’s nothing to fear.  That’s only Frodo, and you never have to be afraid of Frodo!”

            But then the next spasm began, and the two Hobbits had their hands full of anxious mare and surprised pup.  “It’s not time yet, sweetling,” Merry murmured.  “Not yet, but soon enough.”

            Pippin was having to haul the young hound away from the straining pony.  “No, Frodo--you have to let her be.  No!  She’s upset enough as it is!”

            Once this contraction was done, Merry began to walk the pony up and down the field.  “Sa, sa, my dear one,” he said, then added in a phrase he’d heard in Rohan from one of the ostlers in the Royal Stable as he’d calmed the Lady Lothiriel’s palfrey.  Fala turned her ears, and looked back at him.

            “You’d best be careful what you repeat from languages you don’t know,” Pippin cautioned.

            “It means, ‘You are the light of my eyes, daughter of the plains’,” Merry told him stiffly.  “It’s not so different from many of the old phrases we’ve always used with our ponies, here in Buckland.”

            “Do you really think that the ancestors of the Brandybucks and the ancestors of the Rohirrim came from the same place?” Pippin asked.

            “You heard Gandalf, there in Rivendell, as he and Lord Elrond were discussing with Frodo and Bilbo how our ancestors came over the Misty Mountains from the valley of the upper Anduin, and how the same is true of the Éotheod, from among whom rode Éorl the Young,” Merry said.  “And there are so many special words that are used by us Brandybucks, who surely have Stoor blood in us, that are so similar to words in Rohirric.”

            Pippin nodded, at last letting the pup go.  Frodo the dog came close to the mare and sniffed her muzzle, and this time she did not start away, but reached forward to sniff him back, then turned her head slightly to mouth at the scarf about his neck.  “Stop that, you silly thing!” Merry said, amused for the moment.  “It won’t fill an empty belly, not that kerchief.”

            But once again the pony stopped and shuddered and began to strain.  She planted her feet and whickered in distress, while Frodo whined in sympathy.

            “It’s nearly time!” Merry noted.

            “You don’t think there will be any problems, giving birth, I mean?” Pippin asked fearfully.

            “And why should there be?  She’s healthy, and has given birth before you bought her from Merimac.  It’s not all new to her, after all.  And I’m surprised you didn’t rename her Frodo, also.”

            “Nonsense--she’s a lass!  You don’t name a lass Frodo!”

            “With you, my dear Took of a cousin, it’s not always so certain what you’ll do,” Merry muttered half under his breath as he checked to see if any part of the coming foal had yet made itself visible.  “It should be within the next quarter hour,” he announced.

            This latest spasm done, he resumed the walking up and down, Frodo the dog keeping pace alongside the mare.  Fala gave a snort, and allowed the familiarity, and walked gamely by the Hobbit.  “And I’m not certain why you named that dingle Frodo’s Dingle,” Merry continued.

            “It was one of his favorite places in all of Buckland, and you know it,” Pippin pointed out.  “Why not name it after him?”

            “That may be, but there were violets growing there long before he ever came to Brandy Hall to live, and there will be violets growing there long after we are gone.  Uncle Dino used to say it had been one of Frodo’s mum’s favorite places, too.  Perhaps you ought to have named it Primula’s Dingle instead.”

            “There wouldn’t have been violets growing there if the folk at Haysgate Farm had had their say,” Pippin said darkly.  “You know what we found there when we chased away the half-orcs who’d been hiding there near the High Hay.”

            A group of Sharkey’s more questionable ruffians had managed to get past the traps set on the road into Buckland after Pippin and Merry’s company of Hobbitry-at-arms had broken up the band that had terrorized Kingsbridge.  The two Hobbit Captains had led their folk here deep into Buckland in pursuit of them, until the half-orcs had turned at bay near the Gate into the Old Forest.  They’d had to slay most of them, although three had managed to flee to the great hedge, using swords to hack a way through the brush that separated Buckland from the wild lands beyond.  At Merry’s word the others let them go.  “They won’t come back to haunt us,” he’d said.  “The trees will see to that.  They tolerated us Hobbits--barely, but they won’t stand for such as those--wait and see.”

            Certainly no one had seen them again.  But at the bottom of the dingle they’d found a pony, disemboweled but still living, and a dog, its skull crushed by a great stone.  The folk from Haysgate Farm had been terribly upset, losing the stallion of their herd and their favorite hound that way, and had threatened to fill in the hollow of the dingle to wipe out the memories of the horror.  Pippin had been even more horrified at the idea of that, and had offered to purchase the dingle outright, paying much of the Guardsman’s pay he’d had pressed on him by Aragorn before they parted near the Gap of Rohan to see it preserved.  He’d had Merimac and several of the Hobbits in their group help carry the pony up out of the dingle, and saw it and the dog decently buried side by side.  Rain had helped wash away the gore, and time had cleansed away the horror.  He knew the violets would soon begin to sprout and bloom, and looked forward to seeing it much the way it had been when Frodo had frequented the place as a young Hobbit.

            “He showed it to me the first time I saw it,” Merry said softly.  “The dingle, I mean.”

            “And the two of you took me there the first time I saw it,” Pippin said.  “I remember riding there behind Frodo, with you on your Mum’s old mare, Merry.  Bilbo had stayed in the Hall with our parents, arguing with old Dodinas about whether it was better to use sage or rosemary when preparing a roast chicken!”

            Merry laughed outright.  “Oh, yes--the two of them argued about everything, it seemed!”

            Pippin nodded.  “I remember the dingle, how quiet it was, and how enchanted it seemed, particularly once Frodo was seated in the midst of it, looking as if a company of Elves had left him behind them, a small Elf--our size--to teach us to delight in the violets and the beauty.  And he told us stories there....”

            At that moment Fala stopped again, more urgently this time.  Merry checked, and sighed.  “Go get the sacking,” he directed.

            “It’s time?” Pippin asked, alert and somewhat alarmed.

            “I do believe so!”

            He got back just in time with quite an armload.  He’d managed to lay a fair amount out along the ground before Fala went down on her knees and then on her belly.  Small hoofs could be seen now, and Merry was quickly busy making certain that the forelimbs and head led the way properly.  Frodo-dog lay up against her side, and Pippin knelt at the pony’s head, singing the first thing that came into his mind to distract her.

            “You are singing a Gondorian marching song?” Merry asked, when he had a chance to sit back for a moment and take a breath.

            “Well, it seems to soothe her,” Pippin said defensively.

            Merry smiled, and turned back to his work.

            It seemed to take forever, but actually it was very quick before the foal was lying beside its dam, shaking a pale silver head as it took its first breath of air.  Fala was leaning backwards to sniff and lick at it, and now the dog was rising to assist in the cleaning.  Merry wasn’t certain if this should be allowed, but once assured Fala wasn’t taking it amiss, he allowed Frodo to continue as he was.

            “Well,” Pippin began as Merry started rubbing at the tiny, leggy creature with some of the sacking.

            Merry glared at his cousin.  “You’d best be aware, you fool of a Took, that you will not be naming this foal Frodo.”

            “And just why not?”  Pippin’s voice was far chillier than it usually was, perhaps indicating how he’d deal with disagreements once he followed his father as Thain.

            “Well, you said so yourself, Peregrin Took, that one does not name lasses Frodo.”

            “You mean,” came the response, sounding much younger than Merry had heard his cousin sound in some time, “that this isn’t a lad?”

            “As lovely a filly as was ever born in Buckland,” Merry assured him.

            “Oh, but that does change things,” Pippin said.

            “I suppose you could always name her after Frodo’s mum.  Primula is a nice name.”

            But Pippin was shaking his head.  “No, I promised him, back when I was but a little lad, that I wouldn’t be naming any beasties after his parents.  He said it would disturb him to find out he’d been eating a hen who’d been called Primula or found himself helping geld a Drogo.”

            Merry couldn’t contain a snort of laughter.

            “Hello, the house!”  They could hear the halloo even where they were.

            Pippin rose to his feet.  “Oy!  Sam!  We’re back here, behind the byre!”

            Shortly Sam Gamgee came around the byre, his faithful Bill ambling along behind him.  He nodded self-consciously to them, then spotted the mare and her foal and forgot himself, his eyes alight with pleasure.  “So, this is what you two’ve been up to today, is it?”

            “Yes,” Pippin said.  “I bought Fala here from Merimac not long after Merry and I moved here, and bred her to Merry’s Stybba.  This little one has just been born, and we’re debating what to name her.”

            Watching the licking dog with surprise, Sam continued, “And your Fala here’s allowin’ a dog to help in cleanin’ the baby up?  That’s surprisin’.”

            “She’s decided that Frodo there’s as trustworthy as his name-father, so she’s allowing it.”

            Sam gave a slight wince at the dog’s name, and took a deep breath, purposely turning his attention back to the tiny foal, which was just trying to scramble to its feet.  “A filly, then?”  He smiled again.  “And as pretty a little thing as was ever borned, I’m thinkin’.”

            “He was planning on naming it Frodo also, as he’s been doing rather profligately lately,” Merry commented with a trace of acerbity in his voice, “but has rather wisely decided that it wouldn’t be appropriate for a lass, you know.”

            Again there was a slight wince to Sam’s expression.  All knew that he’d been planning to name his firstborn after his beloved Master, and intended to name the first son Rosie might bear him Frodo.  He looked back at the foal and started to make a suggestion, only to have Pippin interrupt:

            “And I promised not to name any animal after his parents.”

            Sam appeared surprised at that, then murmured, “Well, there’s a poser for you, and that’s a fact.  Although I can certainly see him makin’ you promise that.”

            “I’d like to name her after someone who truly loved him, then, since I can’t name her after him, you see.”

            Merry suggested, “Well, Pearl was the first he fell in love with.”

            “But she married Isumbard in the end, so it wouldn’t be the same.  She admits that she was more in love with the idea of being in love with Frodo than she truly was with him, you see.”

            “Well,” Sam said slowly, “Miss Narcissa Boffin’s loved him since the same time as your sister thought as she did, Pippin.”

            “But she never spoke up about it--or at least not to anyone other than her mother.  Oh, I know we all know she loved him, and we all know she’s been heartbroken since he left.  But although he was starting to look back way back then, he never did so again later on.”

            “That was ’cause of the Ring,” Sam pointed out, his expression stern.  “How I hate that Ring!”

            “We all do,” agreed Merry.  They all thought for a moment, and at last Merry suggested, “You could name it after Sam’s mother, Pippin.  Mistress Bell was almost as good as a mother to him after he went to live on the Hill, after all.  And I’m certain she loved him almost as much as she did her own six children.”

            But Sam had begun to smile, and was shaking his head.  “No, not my mum, although there’s no doubt but what she did love him true.  No, not Mum.  But there was one other as saw him the first day as him was born, who was there all the while him was growin’ up, lovin’ him most as much as his own mum, and steppin’ in when his mum died, doin’ her best to love him as he needed it, even when it meant she had to give him up to see him set right.”  He looked from Pippin to Merry, a proud expression on his face.

            Merry’s smile grew to match that of the gardener.

 *******

            That evening Merry’s parents came to Crickhollow to have dinner with their son and nephew and their guest, and Pippin immediately drew them off to the paddock where Fala and her gamboling foal were sequestered after the excitement of the earlier afternoon, Frodo-dog following behind and Frodo-cat leaping up on a fencepost and licking his paw. 

            As they approached the rail fence to the paddock, Saradoc was addressing Sam.  “And what made you come here now?”

            Sam snorted.  “Rosie said that as this was an important time for me, memberin’ as how it was all over three years ago today, and as I ought t’be here with these on the twenty-fifth.  Plus, her and Marigold wanted t’go up north to the rope walk; see our Gamwidge kin, and meanin’ no disrespect to Uncle Andy, I just couldn’t feel up to visitin’ with him and the rest.  She was right--I needed t’be with Mr. Pippin and Mr. Merry today.”

            “And you arrived just in time to see the new foal?” asked Merry’s mother.

            “That I did--and she’s a right beauty, too, same as my Elanor.  Look--look there and tell me I’m not sayin’ true!”

            The two older Brandybucks took a look, and there was a deep sigh of pleasure from both of them.

            “I decided to name her after one who’s always been full of honor and love and caring, and who’s always been among the most beautiful people I’ve ever known,” Pippin said, with a sideways look at his aunt.  “I know we perhaps shouldn’t name animals after people, but I hope you don’t mind, and that you take it as the compliment it’s meant to show.  Aunt Esme, I’d like you to meet little Esmeralda.”

            Esmeralda Took Brandybuck’s face shone with surprise as she extended her hands through the rails of the paddock fence.  When the tiny silver filly carefully made her way over to sniff at her hand and lick at her fingertips, she was visibly filled with delight.

            And through it all the half-grown red pup’s tail wagged vigorously.

Written for Raksha the Demon, for her birthday.  Beta by RiverOtter.

On Lordship and Lands

            Faramir examined the illustration in the ancient codex that described the disappearance of King Eärnur.  It showed the King, pulling on his gauntlets, standing beneath the White Tree, which was in full bloom in the picture.  The artist had been a good one, capturing the Man’s preoccupied expression very well.  The pictured King reminded him of his father, but even more it reminded him of his brother, that look of calculation and stubborn determination.  When Boromir wore such an expression it usually betokened he was planning his next campaign.  And did not the turn of the mouth indicate a tendency toward truculence in spite of the obvious nobility the man wore as easily as he did his mantle and armor?

            At least he would not be expected to rule the country, he thought as he turned his attention to the tree.  He didn’t realize that now his own expression was softening, a slight, wistful smile lifting the corners of his mouth.  The tree was in full bloom, and clearly was the very Tree he knew so well--that arch, there, was still there in the skeleton of it he knew so well.  And that gap--yes, that gap also was as familiar as the face of his father!

            To see a living White Tree growing before the Citadel, there in the court of the fountain--ah, how wonderful that would be.  But as his imagination filled in the scene, it was a different face to the King, more slender, more mobile, more thoughtful.  A face that could smile as easily as it could appear stern; eyes that could laugh....

            The King pictured did not laugh often enough, Faramir opined.  Perhaps it was because he had faced too many enemies in his life, and had not thought of gentler pursuits.  It was said he’d never thought of marriage to a woman, being wedded instead to the nation of Gondor.

            “He went so far from Minas Tirith,” he said softly to himself.  “He traveled to the remnants of Arnor to assist the King there, only Arvedui was already lost when he arrived.  And he faced the Witch-king twice, once there, and once here.  But it was not by his own strength that Angmar was defeated there....”

            He felt sorry for Eärnur.  He’d been a great warrior by all accounts, but had felt it was all up to him, to destroy all enemies himself--and so he was betrayed in the end by his own hubris, not knowing when it was better to retreat from a challenge.  “I only hope Boromir does not follow that path, too,” he murmured.  “He, too, is married to Gondor, and feels he must do all himself.”

            He worried so for his brother.  Boromir did not take enough time for himself, to smile at the ladies and listen to his men, to walk along the river and admire the beauty of Minas Tirith from a distance with the glory of Mindolluin behind it, to listen to the running of water and the sough of the wind in the trees.  He rode, but did not glory in the beauty and grace of his horse; he walked, but ever with a destination and purpose in mind; he laughed, but seldom for mere heart’s ease.

            “I will serve Boromir one day as his adviser,” he said.  “Chief counselor to the Lord Steward, and that is enough for me.  But still I would see the White Tree growing and blooming in the courts of the King, and know the King’s friendship, and see the City and the Nation renewed, and know that both Boromir and I served him well.”

            “Daydreaming again?”

            Startled, the young man dropped his book into his lap as he turned to face his father.  “I was studying the campaigns of Eärnur,” he explained, then felt chagrined, as if he were offering excuses.  “The White Tree--I would see it bloom again--one day, at least.”

            “You would deny your brother his heritage of Lordship?”

            “No, Father--not that!  But to see the King return....”

            But his father’s scowl was now deeply etched onto his face.  “Daydreams!” he repeated dismissively.  “We of the House of Húrin have served the land well enough, don’t you think?  And there remains no heir to Anárion who is closer to the royal line than we.”

            “Perhaps not in the south,” Faramir began.  “But did not Arvedui leave an heir of his body?”

            “It is said his son perished with him, there in the Bay of Forochel, when the ice closed around their ship.”

            “But there is mention here of one named Aranarth, with whom Eärnur spoke before returning southward.  Had not the Kings of Arnor taken the royal Ar as part of their names since the days of King Malvegil?  Is it not possible that an heir to Elendil hides among the Lost?”

            “And if there is?  What kind of heir might one find in a land where there are not enough folk left to name a kingdom, where those who carry what blood remains from Númenor must ever hide in the shadows?  What would such a one know of the responsibilities of rule, or how to deal with allies and enemies?  I have spoken with the traders who deal with what little remains in the northern lands--east of the Misty Mountains there are a few small lands, petty rulers who are each jealous and watchful toward their neighbors--makers of toys and musical instruments, folk whose pride is in the ringing of bells and the crafting of boats to travel the Long Lake and the River Running.  As for the western lands--beyond Dunland there is little enough.  Not even Rhudaur holds much in the way of people, while the ancient road northward is almost empty, with few villages and fewer who would dare to settle the lands.  Until one comes to the Breelands there is next to nothing, and even there the folk cluster together, I am told, wary of strangers for all their support of trade.

            “Nay, from the north come but legends of Elves and Dwarves and other strange creatures, and little of any worth.  Look not to the north for any King, my son.  Those of the Lost who have come to us always leave again, and will not speak willingly of their life there.  Tell me--if they had a King living amidst them, would they come here to serve, do you think?”

            Denethor sighed.  “And such was our last King,” he said, his lip slightly curled as he looked to the volume held by his son, “a man who worried so that he was found wanting when his terrified horse fled the field from the presence of the Witch-king that he accepted the challenge uttered by that one after he’d taken Minas Morgul, going thoughtlessly to his death, his personal honor meaning more to him than his responsibilities toward his land and people!  One who left no heir to take up the Winged Crown after him.  I believe Gondor has been better served by her Stewards than by her Kings!  Valacar and his son tearing apart the land, Ondoher seeking to unite the realms once more by marrying his daughter to Arvedui, then plotting to marry a grandson of one realm to the granddaughter of the other....

            “Can you not see, Faramir, how such schemes nearly destroyed our land?”

            Faramir did not know how to answer, for had not the Stewards also made miscalculations at times?  How near Cirion had come to costing Gondor its freedom on the Field of Celebrant, after all.  And Pelendur had done ill, he’d always felt, in denying the claim of Fíriel and her husband as joint rulers to Gondor, preparing for the day when Arvedui would be King of Arnor, reuniting the ancient realms in their persons.

            “Perhaps you are right, Father,” he said, and he could hear the hollowness of his own words.

            “Of course I am right!” sniffed Denethor.  “And where is your brother?”

            “Down in the practice grounds in the Sixth Circle, practicing his swordsmanship,” Faramir said.

            “Perhaps you should join him,” his father suggested.  “Gondor will be well served when he is Steward after me.”

            “I would hope so,” Faramir said, rising to place the volume back on the shelf.

            But as he left the Citadel with his practice gear, he thought once more of how much his brother reminded him of Eärnur, with his trust in his own sword arm often greater than his trust in his men to work well together.  And he prayed that Boromir would not continue to follow in the path set down by Gondor’s last king....

For Linda Hoyland, Tiggersk8, AnnMarwalk, and Lady Roisin for their birthdays--a true drabble for each.  And thanks to RiverOtter for the beta.

The New King Surprises

            “How strange,” Prince Imrahil commented quietly to his nephew.  “Our new King walks through the Citadel with such certainty.  It is as if he knew it well.  It must be the foresight that it is said has ever been one of the gifts granted to the worthiest descendants of Númenor’s rulers.”

            Faramir, who had divined far more than had his uncle of their Lord Elessar Telcontar’s past history, merely smiled.  He would allow the King Restored to reveal his familiarity with Gondor in his own manner.  Who was he to remove the veils yet hiding the past Lord Captain Thorongil?

*******

            The King and his Hobbit companions seemed to visit the most unusual places, Imrahil thought.  He gave the page an inquiring look.  “He has gone where?”

            “If you please, my lord, he has taken Lord Samwise and Guardsman Peregrin to the kitchens.  It appears that Lord Frodo has expressed a desire to eat some stewed mushrooms, and that only these two know how to prepare them properly to satisfy the Ringbearer’s appetite.  And our Lord King will do all in his power to grant to Lord Frodo anything he might desire.”

            And who would be more worthy of such concern?

 *******

            Imrahil and the King’s companions watched as the new casket of lebethron Lord Elessar had ordered was placed before the King.  The King took it up and examined it, and at last smiled.  “It is as I desired,” he said quietly.  “Truly a work worthy of an heirloom of my house brought from Númenor itself.”  He turned to the kinsman he’d named Master of the Privy Purse.  “Please pay him the agreed sum.”

            From a drawer he pulled out a lumpish bundle of grey rags.  Guardsman Peregrin blanched as the rags fell away to reveal...

            Imrahil breathed, “A palantir!”

 *******

            Faramir and his uncle relaxed in Faramir’s chambers with a glass of wine.  “Who would have dreamed of it?” the Prince of Dol Amroth said as he set his goblet upon the table.  “A new King, a new age of the Sun, a new Steward for Gondor.  And we see dreams and legends rise out of the northlands to grace our lands--the Heir to Isildur, Pheriannath, Elves, Dwarves....”

            He shook himself.  “If only your brother and father were here to share the wonder with us,” he added softly.

            “Indeed,” Faramir said in return.  “I miss both so.”

Written for the LOTR Community Dialogue Challenge.  For Nieriel Raina for her birthday.  Thanks so to RiverOtter for the beta.

Questioning

            “But it’s a thief--a filthy, little thief!  He took it, he did--my Precious--he took it and kept it!  He wouldn’t tell us what was in its pocketses!”

            “And what did he have in his pockets?  Do you know?”

            “My Precious!  He had that in his pocketses!  Had my birthday present!”

            “Then you guessed it?”

            “Too late!  We guessed it, yesss!  Oh, yess, we guessed, but by then he knew, the thief!  He had it then.”

            “How did you come by it?  By your--Precious?”

            “Not its business!”

            “But we need to know.”  A pause.  “We need to know!”

            Softly:  “From the Grandmother.  Lots of nice things in her hole.”

            Skeptically:  “A magic ring?  Your grandmother had a magic ring?”

            “Lots of nice things!  She had lots of nice things!”  Muttering:  “Why does it wants to know, precious?  Not its business!  Not its business what the Grandmother had.”

            A heavy breath.  “You said that there were lots of nice things in her hole?  Your family lived in a hole?”

            “Decent folk lives in holeses.”

            “Holes?  Are you a Hobbit?”

            “What is it asking, gollum?”

            Urgently:  “Where was your grandmother’s hole?”

            “Not its business!”

            “I rather think it exactly my business!  Did your folk live in the Shire?”

            A snort of disgust.  “Not there!  No Shire, not there by the river!”

            “So, you lived by a river, did you?  Did you catch fish in the river?”

            “Oh, yess--lots of nice fishes in the river.  We caught them, we did--with lines and hooks, or nets, or sometimes with poles and points.  But I could tickle them, I could--he taught me, Déagol did.”

            “And who was Déagol?”

            Agitated muttering:  “Not its business!  Mustn’t ask us--mustn’t ask us about him!”

            “Is Déagol dead, then?”

            “Mustn’t ask us!  Gollum, gollum!  Mustn’t never ask us!”  A stifled sob.

            Softly to self:  “So, speaking of this Déagol is not allowed.  Interesting.”  A pause.  “Your grandmother--did she have a name?”

            “She was the Grandmother!  It was her hole.  We all lived in it.”

            “Did you love her?”

            “What?!”

            “Did she make special dishes for you?”

            Softly:  “Fissh!  She would make white fissh for us--for us when she knew it would make us happy.”  More softly still:  “I like fish.”  Then defensively:  “We will eat fissh--lots and lots of fishes, whenever we wants them!  He’s promised!”

            “Who has promised?”

            “Our friend!  He’s our friend now!  Made them stop hurting uss; made them let us go, oh, yess, he did!”

            “So, you went to Mordor, did you?  But we could guess that by the fact you were found within the Dead Marshes, moving away from the Black Gate.”

            “Don’t say it!  Don’t speak of it!”

            “Why did he let you go?”

            “Didn’t let us go--we gots away on our own!  But we have friendses!  We have friends now--strong friends!  They hurt you, you hurts us!  Gollum!”

            “Oh, enough of this foolishness!  Gollum, I don’t intend to hurt you!”

            “You talk about there!  We doesn’t want to speak of there!  Gollum!”

            A shuddering breath.

            “We are lost--lost without our Precious!  The thief, he took it from us!  The thief--the Baggins--he found it and took it!  Put it in his pocketses and took it!”

            “So, you went in search of it?”

            “Yess, but we couldn’t find it, could we, precious?  Oh, we looked--we looked!  But we didn’t find where the thief went.”

            “So, you left your home under the mountains and tried to follow the thief, did you?”

            “Oh, yes, we did, didn’t we, precious?  We came down the mountains, all the way to the river.  We looked, but we couldn’t find which way the thief went!  But there was a house, and they were talking, and we heard them--about the Dwarveses and their friend, and how the friend was not a Man, and not a Dwarf, and not an Elf or such a one as they’d seen before.  It had to be the thief!  It had to be the Baggins!  The one who said he came from the Shire!  Gollum!”

            Slowly:  “Did he remind you of when you were younger?”

            Muttering:  “And why does it ask?  Why does it wants to know?”

            “You were kind to the Baggins, after all.”

            Softly:  “Yes, we was kind to it.”  With rising anger:  “Oh, yes--we was kind to it, but it was a thief back to uss!  It took our birthday present, it did!  Oh, the filthy thief!  We wanted to catch it, we did, and wring itss nasty neck!  It tricked us, preciousss!  Wouldn’t tell us what was in its pocketses!”

            Half under his breath:  “So you’ve said!”  After a moment:  “And who gave it to you?  Was it your birthday, or someone else’s?”

            “It was my birthday!”

            “Ah, it was your birthday.  So, the one who gave it to you must have been a close relative.  Your grandmother, possibly?”

            A rude noise.  “No, not the Grandmother!”

            “Oh--not the grandmother?  Didn’t she love you enough to give you such a precious thing?”

            “Of course she loved us!  Who said she didn’t love uss?  Gollum, gollum!”

            “Then who did give it to you?”

            Angrily:  “Mustn’t say such things about the Grandmother, must it, precious?  Nasty thing, this one!  Won’t answer it again!”

            “Gollum, who gave it to you?”

            “Not talking no more.  Not to you!”

            “Shall I have to compel you?”

            “Can’t make us say!”

            “Gollum, I must know!”

            “Not its business!”

            “Don’t say that again!”

            “Curse it!  Curse it!  Gollum!”

            “I call upon fire as my witness----”

            “No!  No, mustn’t hurt us, it mustn’t!  No!  Please, don’t hurts uss!  Not with nasty fire!  It burns us, it does!”

            “If you won’t tell me who gave you your--birthday present, then I must.  Now, speak!”

            “It was Déagol who gave it to us!  It was Déagol--there on the riverbank!”

            “And where did Déagol come upon it?”

            “In the water!”

            “In the water?  There in the river?”

            “There was a fish--a big fissh!  So big a fish, it pulled him from the boat!”

            “He was in a boat?  Upon the river?”

            Sobbing:  “Yes, in a boat.  He fished from the boat, and the big fissh, it pulled him over the side, into the river.  Gollum!  He had it--he had the Precious, in his hand when he came up again!  But he lost the fish, the big fissh--it swam away, and took his line.”

            “He found it, the magic ring, there in the river?  In which river?”

            Impatiently:  “In the river--the great river!”

            “Was the great river near where you lived?”

            “Of course!”

            “Was the river deep where he went into it?”

            “Deep?  Deep?  No--not deep, not there.  It is shallow, there near the Gladden Fields....”

            A gasp.  “The Anduin--you lived along the Anduin, there near the Gladden Fields?”

            “That’s what they are called, you see.  Yesss, yes, the Gladden Fields.  The Men--the horsemen who live there--that is what they call them--the Gladden Fields.”

            “The Valar defend us!  And this Déagol--he gave it to you?”

            “I wanted it, you see.  It was my birthday----”

            “And so he just gave it to you?”

            Whispering:  “No, no--mustn’t ask more, it mustn’t!  We doesn’t want to talk about it, does we, precious?”  More fiercely:  “He gave it to us, I say!  It was my birthday present!”

            A long period of indecipherable hissing and grunts of “my precious” and “my birthday present!”

            At last, more kindly:  “So, it was your birthday, was it?  And what did you give him for your birthday?”

            “Gave him three new hooks--hookses to fish with.”

            “I see.  Did he like them?”

            “Of courssse!  He used one--caught the big fish with it, he did, didn’t he, precious?”

            “And what did you give your grandmother?”

            “Gave her a wooden spoon.  Carved it ourself, we did.”

            “I’ll wager she was very proud of it.”

            “Oh, yess!  Yes, she liked it very much!”

            “And what did you give your mother?”

            Half crooning:  “Didn’t have no mother--not then.  She died--died long ago, long ago when Sméagol was little, she did.”

            “Oh, but I am sorry.  And your name was Sméagol?”

            “She left Sméagol long ago.  ‘Didn’t want to leave you, my precious lad--your mother; she didn’t want to leave you, my little Sméagol.’  That’ss what the Grandmother told us.  No mother now, no father.  Only the Grandmother and the uncles and the cousins and all.  But them--they didn’t like Sméagol, they didn’t.  Only the Grandmother and Déagol--only they liked uss!  Gollum!  Gollum!”

            “And you and Déagol--you were fishing together?”

            “No--Déagol, he was fisshing.  Sméagol was on the riverbank, looking for blue stones.  Sméagol liked blue stones, so we looked for them when we went to the river, we did.  Looked for things what were losst, and sometimes we found them.”

            “Only this time--this time it was Déagol who found something--something you wanted.”

            “‘I wants it, Déagol, my love.  I wants it.  It’s my birthday.’  ‘No--I already gives you something, Sméagol.  I gives you that--you said you wanted it before, so I give it to you--more than I could afford.  No, I wants this!’  ‘But I wants this now!  Now, give it!”

            “Heavens!”

            “‘Give it to us!’  ‘No!  You can’t have it!  It’s mine--I found it, and it’s mine!’  ‘I’ll make you give it to us!’”  A gasp.

            “And you made him give it to you?”

            No answer.

            “And he didn’t complain to the grandmother when you returned to the hole?”

            Defensively:  “He never went back, not Déagol, did he, precious?  Gollum, gollum!  No, didn’t come back.  Now there was only the Grandmother that liked Sméagol.”

            “Why didn’t Déagol go back to the family hole?”

            “He hid him, didn’t he, precious?  Hid him good!  No one ever found where he was hiding.”

            “Did you show the grandmother your new birthday present?”

            “No--not the Grandmother’s business.”

            “So, you kept it a secret, did you?”

            “It was mine--my birthday present!  My cousin--he gave it to me, gave my Precious to me, for my birthday!  Oh, my Precious--it was my birthday present!  Now, when we wanted something, we took it, and no one could see or blame us.  Only they did.  So they treated us bad, they did!”

            “Your grandmother didn’t defend you?”

            “She was looking--looking for Déagol, she was.  Only she didn’t find him--he was hiding--hiding too good to find.  She asked us about Déagol, she did.  Didn’t want to believe him was gone, gollum!  Wouldn’t believe he left.  Wouldn’t believe he ran away after he gave us the Precious for a birthday present.  She wouldn’t listen to the others, not for a long time.  But at last she did, and she made us go away, didn’t she, precious?  Made poor Sméagol go away!  Only them--they didn’t call us Sméagol any more.  Called us the other--called us Gollum.  They said as we murdered Déagol, they did.  But they couldn’t know--they never found him--never found where Déagol hid after he give us the birthday present.  They didn’t know about the Precious--we never showed them, never told them.”

            “I see.”  A deep breath.  “I think that is enough for now, Sméagol.”

            “Mustn’t call us that!  No, it mustn’t call us that!  Not that any more.”

            “Guards--please take this one back to his room, and see to it he has fish and water.  Thank you.”

            “Gladly, Mithrandir.  You, come with us.”

            Whining:  “No!  No, don’t make us go back where there is no air moving!”

            “Go on, Gollum.”

            After a time:  “Well, Mithrandir, did you learn from him what you wished to know?”

            A shuddering breath.  “I learned far too much today for my own comfort.  Not all I wished to know, perhaps.  Certainly not as much as I need to know.  But far too much for comfort, Thranduil.”

            “What would such a wretched creature know that would be of interest to such as you?”

            “Wretched, you called him?  Oh, he’s that--far more so, I fear, than I’d ever dreamed.  And he didn’t know what he held.  Tell me, friend, when was the last time you were aware of Pheriannath here east of the Misty Mountains?”

            “Pheriannath?  Oh, not for a very long time.  Over ten yeni ago, I’d think.  They left, long ago.  I’ve not seen any among the Fallohides for at least that long.”

            “But what of the others--say, the Stoors, who lived right alongside the river itself?”

            “Perhaps four or five yeni past.  They were gone for a very long time; and then some were there, along the river itself.  I think some once lived there near the Gladden Fields, but they have not been seen for quite some time.  They traded with the folk of the Eotheod, I believe.  They never trusted Elves, as I remember it.”

            Murmuring:  “Some came back across the mountains from Eriador, about the time the Dúnedain were moving their settlements westward toward Bree.  That must have been the source of the settlement in which Sméagol lived.”

            “Sméagol?  And who was that?  Some ancestor of this creature?”

            What?  An ancestor?”  A mirthless laugh.  “One who once lived there near the Gladden Fields, a long time ago.  Nay, I very much fear that until today Sméagol himself hasn’t been seen,”  More briskly:  “A thorough bath, I think.  That is what I need right now.  And tomorrow----”

            “You must question him again?”

            Another sigh.  “I fear so.  I must find out what his--birthday gift--did to him.”

            “Then come.  I will have a bath prepared for you.  How much more do you need to learn from this Gollum?”

            “I very much fear I won’t know that until I hear what else he might be able to teach me.”

            “I shudder to think about what such as this might be able to teach anyone.”

            “As do I, friend.  As do I.”  And as he walked within the doors to the palace of the King of Mirkwood, he looked westward, as if his gaze might pierce the distances and somehow locate the place where he was certain the long-missing Déagol was still hidden.

Written for the A_L_E_C "Wicked Things" challenge.  For Surgical Steel for her birthday.  Beta by RiverOtter.

Coveting the Light

            We might try such hröa as pleases us, then?

            Indeed, beloved child.  But know this--the longer you remain within a particular guise, the more you shall take on the nature of that guise, and the more that guise shall take on your nature.  Nor can the form you take go counter to your basic nature or counter to the environment in which you find yourself.

            Which means?

            There was but a feeling of observation from the Timeless Halls.  Atar had not withdrawn, but watched, apparently dispassionately, as if to see what would happen now.

            Mairon felt a moment of unease as well as a flicker of frustration that was swiftly suppressed, and a flicker of something else that he found more enjoyable.  He thought about that flicker momentarily.  He looked sideways at his brother in the thought of Eru, and found that Olórin’s aura had gone bright with curiosity.  There was a sudden shimmer, and in place of the Maia’s brightness he saw instead a flurry of icy crystals in a spiral pattern, capturing a bright pattern of crystalline notes in the Song.  That caught the attention of Ossë, who took on the towering form of a waterspout, and heavier notes reflected the motif that Olórin had first expressed.

            One of their sisters laughed and stretched herself into a great pillar of shimmering ice, her music clear and bright and cold.  Uinen, who favored Ossë, frowned at the growing chaos of his dance, and took the form of a great stone within the circuit of his waterspout, giving it a base for symmetry and keeping it anchored within a prescribed circuit.  Attracted by the pillar if ice, which was beginning to take on a shape that was more definable, a face becoming more obvious, Mairon suddenly flared into a ring of bright flame, hot and consuming, dancing about her and causing her pillar to begin to lose its cohesion.  There was a cry from Olórin, who suddenly shifted his circle of icy crystals between Mairon’s flames and the pillar of ice, while Arien became a sphere of great light beyond Mairon’s own circle, drawing his attention outwards.  Mairon’s envy was raised, for Arien’s light was clearer and brighter than his own, and he lost the shape completely as he found himself reaching out to try to take her brightness for himself.

            Children!

            Mairon paused, having found himself as a great wolf seeking to swallow up Arien.  Tilion had leapt between the wolf and the sphere of light, however, a warrior holding a blade of flame to ward off Mairon’s advances; while Olórin had flattened into a wall of flame that caught and directed Arien’s light, protecting both Arien and Tilion.

            All turned toward their atar, ashamed to realize they were bickering in His presence.

            How will the other children behave, with the example of such quarrels before them in your behavior?

            Most went back to their more usual forms, although Arien, Olórin, and Mairon continued on in their current forms several measures longer.  Their sister who had taken the form of the pillar of ice seemed less bright, and quickly one of their brothers was at her side, comforting her and offering his own brightness to lie against.  The attention of all seemed to be on Mairon, who found himself licking his snout and whining, then shifting back into his normal guise, Arien and Olórin following suit but a beat behind him.

            That was not well done, brother, Olórin commented privately.  It is never good to threaten others, even in play.

            Anger flared through Mairon.  What right did his brother have to reprove him?  A quick examination of the others present, however, indicated that most shared Olórin’s opinion of the matter.  But one of their sisters, one who had taken on a shape with far too many legs and a sucking mouth, appeared to approve of him.

            He gave a mental shrug, and turned his attention pointedly away from his brother.  But he had to admit to himself that as the ring of flame he had felt empowered, mighty and above the rest.  And how he had coveted the brightness Arien had displayed....

---o0o---

Author's notes:  As Raksha the Demon noted a few weeks ago, in Tolkien's notes the first name given the Maia who later became known as Sauron the Accursed was Mairon, although he also bore the names Aulendil or Friend of Aulë while he dwelt in Aman before the final rebellions of Melkor against his peers, Annatar or Lord of Gifts while inspiring Celebrimbor to create the Rings of Power, and Zigur during the years he spent in the company of Ar-Pharazôn leading to the downfall of Númenor.  Tolkien indicates he was one Maia who took on different forms at different times, and that as well as showing a pleasing humanoid shape he appeared at times as a werewolf, a great vampire bat, and could be the greatest of the Balrogs as well as taking his most common final form of the Great Eye once his ability to take on a pleasing humanoid seeming was lost to him after Isildur removed the Ring from his hand while he was in that shape.

          It was my brother who noted that in losing the ability to take on that shape any longer Sauron had lost a good deal of himself, becoming a mere shadow of what he had been until the victory of the Last Alliance over his forces when he lost the Ring; as a shadow with no substance it was natural that he, he who had ever shown affinity for fire and whose hand was hot enough to destroy Gil-galad and from the heat of which the Ring was able to display the Ringspell written upon it, should surround himself with a ring of flames, for it is only when contrasted against light that one can truly discern shadows....

Written for Imhiriel for her birthday.  Thanks so to RiverOtter for the beta!

The Approach

            “My Lord King?”

            Surprised to hear a voice, here in the private gardens behind the Citadel, the newly crowned Aragorn Elessar turned to find himself faced by a woman he could not remember having met before.  She was strikingly beautiful, with a particularly long and elegant neck that many would compare favorably to the swans of Dol Amroth.  However, there was a hint of something in her eyes he could not identify at first--a glittering.  Was it attraction?  Calculation?

            Then it struck him--it was a hint of desperation!  Whatever her personal ambitions, this woman looked on him as her final chance to achieve what was expected of her.  He felt both amused and exasperated, both of which were quickly eclipsed by an unexpected feeling of pity.  He’d seen such desperation before, long ago, when he served in Gondor as Captain Thorongil.  Most of the time the women who had approached him then had been singularly beautiful as this one was, and most of the time they had been pushed into their approaches by ambitious and calculating mothers.

            A surreptitious glance about him proved him right--an older woman indeed was watching from what she thought of as a place of concealment behind a bush that was covered by brilliantly white blossoms of camellias.

            He hid the sigh building within him.  He would need to be carefully diplomatic in dealing with this fair lady who desired his suit if she was not to suffer serious castigation from her mother!  Perhaps if he were to arrange an introduction for her to one of his kindred from Eriador, or perhaps Lord Elfhelm from Rohan, whom he’d learned was a widower.  Not this one for Éomer--the new King of Rohan might be initially attracted by such beauty, but he would only be truly drawn by one who had remarkable sense as well as physical presence.

            He forced himself to smile as openly as he could....

For Jay of Lasgalen, who wanted stories featuring battling twins, and for Cairistiona, who loves Aragorn as much as I do.  May not show them off to their best advantage, but I do hope this amuses!  I'm with Arwen on this one!  Heh!  And thanks as ever to RiverOtter for the beta! 

Fighting Enemies

            “Then Elladan turned to the orc on his left while I turned on the one attacking me from my right, and we were fighting back to back for a time,” Elrohir explained to his apparently fascinated audience.  “I was ever so pleased to see the head of his orc cleaved in twain, while I admit that the blood spilt out upon the ground before me was all black, and then there was brain matter....”

            Bilbo Baggins, who had been a member of the household of the Last Homely House for some sixteen years now, was no longer showing the gusto for his meal he’d displayed when they’d sat down together.  In fact, he’d pushed his plate of trifle away from himself.  Arwen, who was glaring at the second-born of her two brothers from down the table, recognized the signs.  Certainly Elladan and Elrohir appeared to revel so in the destruction they brought upon those orcs they found in the passes of the Misty Mountains that they thought nothing of describing in great, gory detail every blow they’d administered; and not even the prodigious appetite of a Hobbit could endure all of the images such tellings could conjure.

            “I made a thrust to the orc’s midsection, and its entrails....”

            Arwen felt her own stomach clench, and saw that Bilbo was turning decidedly grey.  “And where is Adar?” she interrupted.

            “Seeing to Elladan’s arm,” Elrohir answered promptly.  “One of them managed to slice his right forearm with its scimitar.  It did not appear to be poisoned, as there’s been no adverse swelling or green putrid matter from it.  However, Ada wished to check it himself and assure that the stitches I put in are sufficient.”

            It was at that moment that the door opened to admit the Master of Rivendell and his first-born son.  Arwen was grateful to note that Elladan did not appear to be in any distress, and there was no sign of blood or drainage on the neat bandage that peeked out his loose sleeve.  Seeing that he was not favoring the arm, she asked, “Then the cut was not particularly deep?”

            He looked at her with some surprise, as if he wasn’t certain what it was she was asking about, then looked down at the strip of linen and shrugged.  “No, more an annoyance than anything else, really.  Although I must say that I responded by cutting the creature’s arm quite off him, just before I clove him in two.  I found it quite satisfying to realize I’d relieved the thing of its liver----”

            There was a gulping noise from the Hobbit’s seat, and suddenly Bilbo was rising.  “If you’ll excuse me,” he gasped as he fled the room.

            “Must you have such graphic discussions at meals?” Elrond asked his progeny.

            “What?” demanded Elrohir, straightening in his seat.  “When we must deal with orcs on a daily basis, what else would you expect to hear about?”

            The door opened again, and Erestor leaned into the room to announce, “Estel has just arrived, and----”

            He had no chance to say more as Elrond’s beloved mortal foster son pushed past him into the room, still dressed in his worn riding leathers.  “Ada!” he said as Elrond rose to embrace him.  “I’ve just returned from finding the creature Gollum--and what a chase he led me, and right through the Dead Marshes!  Caught him trying to fish one of the apparent corpses out of one of the fetid pools in hopes of eating it--almost lost my own last meal--or I would have, had I eaten within the last day and a half.”

            Arwen, having risen to embrace him next, pulled back, her nose wrinkled.  “And you smell as if you had come directly here from that pool you were just describing.”

            “Oh, but I stayed a few days in Thranduil’s court--the thing bit me, and my hand festered some.”  He held out a scarred wrist in testimony to the experience.  “I vow, its teeth were rotting in his mouth, and his breath was as bad as the miasma of the marshes themselves!  It’s no wonder the wound went septic, I suppose.  And the journey back--ran into several troupes of orcs and had a wraith’s own time killing off that last lot.  One just refused to die--I stabbed its shoulder, ran my sword through its foul abdomen, cut off one arm--finally had to behead it fully before it finally fell over and twitched for a few moments before it went still.  Blood and gore all over the place--looked as if the two of you had been fighting there,” he added to his Elven brothers.

            Fighting the rise of her own gorge, Arwen retreated to her chair.  Elladan and Elrohir were immediately offering him advice on what he ought to have done with the stubborn orc.  “Should have cut it off at the knees,” Elladan suggested, while Elrohir was suggesting a particular method he favored for disemboweling the creatures.  Bilbo, who’d just started to reenter the room, turned and fled again, his hands clapped determinedly over his mouth.

            Suddenly Arwen had had enough.  “Be quiet!” she thundered in a manner that brought back to mind the fact she was the only daughter of Celebrían, formerly of Lothlórien, and granddaughter to the Lady Galadriel.  “That is quite enough!  When your talk is enough to drive a very Hobbit off its feed, it is time to put an end to it!  Now, the three of you--Aragorn, go and get a swift bath, then put on old training clothes and meet me in the guest wing.  You two----”  She glared at her brothers now.  “You two--training clothes, and meet me in the guest wing in a quarter of an hour, or I swear I will seek you out wherever you might hide, and slowly and painfully remove your spleens--and our adar can tell you he has seen me do just that for less provocation before!  We have a number of guests who will be here soon enough, and the three of you will do the lion’s share of cleaning out the cobwebs!”

            She kept them at it for three days before she released Aragorn to fetch Bilbo’s younger kinsman from the borders of the Shire.

            “Don’t know why you’re favoring him over your own flesh and blood,” grumbled Elladan.

            “Just think of it as good practice for your next encounter with the orcs,” she said sweetly.

            “And just how do you know we’ll need all these rooms cleaned and put to rights?” demanded Elrohir.

            She glared at him imperiously.  “Am I or am I not our father’s daughter and our grandmother’s granddaughter?  Do you think I do not know a measure of foreknowledge of my own?”

            “But to be having to beat out window hangings and rugs....”

            “Just imagine it’s the head of the next orc you meet that’s too stubborn to die!” she suggested sternly.  “Now, you’ve missed a spider’s web--right over there!  I won’t have any of Ungoliant’s get in this, our father’s house.  Now, get back to work!”

            “At least,” confided Bilbo with a small smile as he watched, “a Hobbit’s been able to eat without feeling sick to his stomach for the past few days!”

            She patted his shoulder with a feeling of satisfaction.

Written for the LOTR GenFic Community Potluck Challenge.  For Princess of Gondor for her birthday.  Beta by RiverOtter.

Night Songs

The night after Midsummer in the first year of the reign of the King Elessar

            Faramir stirred in the night, startled by the song of a bird, one he was certain he’d never heard before within the White City.  Intrigued, he rose from his bed and pulled about himself a night robe.  He must go out now and see the singer and be certain his ears were not fooled!

            He walked quietly down the hallway and the stairs to the lower level of the Steward’s Wing, then out the door at the end of the passage into the Citadel’s private gardens.  There appeared to be a soft glow beyond the cherry trees his father Denethor had planted in honor of his marriage to the Lady Finduilas, and it was from that region that the birdsong came....

            “Go softly, Faramir,” advised a voice.

            Startled, the young Steward of Gondor and newly made Prince of Ithilien turned to find Mithrandir standing in the shadows of the nearby rose bushes.  “I did not see you there!” he said, still keeping his voice soft in response to the admonition given him by the Wizard.

            Mithrandir laughed.  “I am able to hide myself at times,” he admitted.  “Pray pardon an old Man’s foolishness.  But what brings you in your nightclothes out into the gardens?  I would have thought you had gone to your bed some hours ago, for this day has been remarkably full.”

            “And the same is not true for you, my friend?”

            The White Wizard laughed again, joyfully.  “I find that now my task is done I do not need as much sleep as I once did, Faramir.  To stand in the gardens under the stars in a sky cleared of the long darkness is rest enough tonight, I find.”  His smile deepened.  “And I stand somewhat guard over the privacy of those two,” he added, nodding at the soft glow beyond the cherry trees.

            Realizing who else it was who wandered the paths of the gardens, Faramir indicated his own understanding.  “So--the newlyweds have risen from their marriage bed and rejoice together beneath the stars also,” he murmured.

            “As you shall undoubtedly do as well, and soon enough,” Mithrandir agreed.

            “Shall they make Éowyn and me to leap over the broomstick?” asked the Man as he sat upon a bench.  “I understand that that is the form of marriage often practiced within Rohan.”

            “Perhaps,” the Wizard answered, sitting beside him.

            Again the bird sang.  “A nightingale,” Faramir whispered.  “A nightingale, here within the gardens of the Citadel!  Never have I heard such here within the walls of Minas Tirith!”

            Slowly and with a level of satisfaction, his companion nodded, pursing his lips.  “Indeed.  But remember, friend, who it was that gave birth to the lineage of both of them, bride and bridegroom, and what were the familiars for her and her blessed mother.  With that in mind, are you truly surprised?”

            Faramir had to admit that he was not.

            Beyond the cherry trees he could hear the new Queen of Gondor raise her own voice in song to match the beauty of the nightingale’s trill.

            “And so it is,” Faramir whispered to himself, “that the nation is indeed renewed.  The Valar be praised!”

            “And the One,” agreed the Wizard.

For Aruthir's birthday.  Beta by RiverOtter.

The Wraith’s Report

            “And what wouldst thou do here within Barad-dûr, Khamûl?”

            The Nazgûl hissed its displeasure at having to deal with this--servant.  “I answer not to thee, snaga, but to him.”

            “But our dread Lord is busy now, thinking on policy.  Thy report?”

            “And who art thou, with thy lesser Ring, to question me?  The Mouth of Sauron they might call thee, but it is ever thine own mouth we who have served our Master for well over an Age of the Sun have heard!”

            The Herald for the Lord of Mordor snarled, “That name is forbidden!”

            The Ring-wraith laughed, and even the Herald shuddered at the sound.

            “Thy report?” he requested anew, tempering his anger, adding slyly, “Or didst thou, too, require a new steed?”

            The Dark Lord’s Steward of Dol Guldur became more grim with anger.  “And are we to blame when our Lord’s gifts to us are vulnerable to such simple weapons as bows and bolts?”  The two glared at one another until the Mouth shuddered and looked away.  Only then, at this sign of victory, small as it was, did the Nazgûl continue.  “I have been west of the great river to learn of the nature of the storm that stood over the Mountains of Mist.”

            “And?”

            Another hissing.  At last Khamûl continued, “Our Lord’s servant there is dead, its hröa destroyed and its fëa fled.  I found what little remained of it atop the mountain under which it was sheltered.  All of the snow atop the mountain was melted away, and the rock scorched with its last flames.”

            “And this happened how?”

            “And how am I to know?” demanded the wraith, the hiss of its voice filled with the expression of the impotence it felt.

            “The reports from Moria tell of the Grey Fool falling there, with the Master’s servant, from the broken bridge.  The orcs sent with the message swear that they saw this.  Didst thou see aught of him?”

            “And how would either of them have survived such a fall?” asked the Nazgûl.

            Again the Mouth shuddered, although this time the disturbance was not because of his companion.  He responded in a low tone, “Such as either of them is not precisely easy to destroy.”

            Khamûl gave what in others might have been a snort, but which from him sounded particularly ominous.  “I have seen but a Man’s seeming upon the Grey Fool.  Destroy the seeming, and he will be forced to flee away!”  He seethed in thought for a moment, hissing softly.  At last he said, “I saw no sign of that one--not save this:  a place where the snow lay yet unmelted, as if it had been overlain by a lean body, one bereft of heat.”

            “And if the Grey Fool did indeed lie there, then what became of his body?”

            “Who can say?”  The wraith gave a shrug.  “There were eagles flying about the peaks, although they gave way to me and my steed.  Mayhaps they fed on him?”

            The Mouth laughed grimly.  “Mayhaps they did indeed!  Fitting--that one’s servants feeding on the Grey Fool’s remains, don’t you think?”

            For the first time the Mouth detected a sense of amusement in the wraith.  “Oh,” it hissed, “fitting indeed!”

            And together they laughed cruelly before the wraith took its leave to return to its captain.

Written for the February LOTR Community Letters challenge.  For Ansostuff's birthday.   Beta by RiverOtter.

Notice of Eviction

            Before she shut it after a departing customer, Daisy looked out the door of the tailor shop that she and her husband ran in Hobbiton to see her father stumping toward her, a letter in hand.

            Moro looked up from a suit he was making for Olo Proudfoot.  “And what is it, dearling?” he asked.

            “It’s the Gaffer--he’s on his way here, and he’s not lookin’ too happy.”

            Moro laid aside the suit to accompany her to the door.  “Welcome, Dad-Hamfast,” he said as Daisy reached forward to take his cap. “Don’t see you here near the Commons often.”

            “It’s this,” Hamfast Gamgee said, shaking the envelope in his hand.  “Need this read t’me.”

            “Couldn’t Missus Rumble read it to you?” Daisy asked as she reached out to take the missive.

            “Not at home--gone over t’Bywater t’help the Crofters.  Their dad’s not come home from a trip t’Michel Delving.  No one seems t’know as what happened.  It’s all wrong--the whole Shire is all upside down since our Sam and his Master left Bag End.”

            As she unsealed the envelope Daisy asked, “So, did this come by the Quick Post?  Mebbe it’s from Sam.”

            But the Gaffer was shaking his head.  “No--wasn’t brought by the posthobbit.  Was nailed t’my door by a Hobbit--little, thin, weasely sort--one what was there when the young Master sold Bag End t’that Lotho Sackville-Baggins.  Big smirk on his weasely face, this one had.  And had two Big Men standin’ ahind him, him did.  Was nailin’ letters like this t’every door on the Row, they was.”

            Daisy glanced uncertainly at her father’s face, then finished pulling the letter out of the envelope.  There were two sheets here, both closely written in a small, cramped hand.  Her expression became confused, and then alarmed.  “No!” she exclaimed.

            By this time Moro was peering over her shoulder, and his face was as upset as her own.

            “What is’t?” insisted her father.

            “It’s from Lotho Sackville-Baggins, only he’s signing himself Chief Shiriff,” Daisy said, scanning to the end of the first page.  “Chief Shiriff and Master of the Hill.”

            “He’s no right to name himself Master of the Hill!” insisted Moro.  “Mr. Frodo assured me before he left Hobbiton that he’d kept title to the holes on Bagshot Row--didn’t want Mr. Lotho lording it over the Gaffer and the others as live there!”

            Daisy’s voice was stiff with anger and alarm as she said, “Well, it appears that he’s claimin’ t’be Master of the Hill whether or no.”  She was rereading the whole first sheet and shaking with emotion before looking to the second, at which time she turned absolutely white.

            Impatiently, the Gaffer insisted, “Well, read it t’me, lass!  Let me hear what the great git has t’say!”

            “Well, what he says is that you have to move.  Says as the law reads only family can live in holes in the same hill or ridge, and since you ain’t family to him, you have t’go!”

            “What!?” exclaimed Moro and the Gaffer at the same time.

            Speaking with difficulty past the lump in her throat, Daisy began to read the second sheet aloud:

From the Offices of Bracegirdle and Sackville
West of Commons, Hardbottle
Southfarthing, the Shire
10 January, 1419 S.R.

To the Residents of what is known as Bagshot Row under the Hill, Hobbiton, Westfarthing, the Shire  

Let all Hearken and Attend!

It is written in Shire Statutes c. 1350 S.R. that:

            “In the interests of Privacy and Decorum, hereby let it be Established that only those who are Related by Family Ties are to Dwell within Holes that might Communicate within the same Hill or Ridge or Bank.”

In light of this Statute, it is therefore within the Legal Rights of Mr. Lotho Sackville-Baggins, as owner of Bag End and the Hill, to insist that all living along Bagshot Row, none of them kindred by blood closer to third cousin twice removed, may continue to dwell in the holes therein and thus Must Depart by 1 February, 1419.  Realizing that this could well cause Hardship to the tenants of these holes, let it be known that Mr. Sackville-Baggins, in keeping with his Generous Nature, is having built at His Own Expense Modern Houses of the most Efficient and Comfortable design, for these individuals to remove to.  Each will have an established privy and pumps and pipes and appropriate drains.  Thus these residents shall be in Better Circumstances than they are likely to know at this time as Tenants of an Absentee Landlord who by repute is in No Position to respond to complaints by his tenants.

The Residents of the holes on Bagshot Row shall therefore be able to dwell in Homes under the Benevolent Supervision of Master Lotho Sackville-Baggins, who hereby takes upon himself the Responsibilities so Wantonly Abandoned by his Errant Kinsman, Frodo Baggins.

Written by the Hand of Timono Bracegirdle, Legal Representative of Lotho Sackville-Baggins, Master of Bag End and the Hill, Chief Shiriff.

            Moro was outraged.  “And just how is it that the Chubbs in Number One or the Proudfoots of Number Five have no family ties to call upon?” he demanded.  “They are both relatives of the Chubbs-Bagginses and the Bagginses, after all!  And not only do the Proudfoots have Baggins blood in them, but Missus Geli’s sister is married to Lotho Pimple’s own cousin!”

            The Gaffer’s face was grey and drawn.  “They’d drive me from me own hole?” he whispered.  “I’ve lived there for more years’n I could count!  I lived there with Uncle Holman, and that was where I brought my Bell when we was married!  All our childern was borned there!”

            His expression begged his daughter to tell him that this was but a sick joke; but she could only shake her head.

            Moro took the notice from her hand and read it over to himself, then crumpled it in impotent fury.  “It’s not right!” he declared.  “Master Frodo would never countenance this!”

            Daisy found herself crying.  “No, he wouldn’t, and that’s a fact,” she managed to say.  “He’d be right there to tell old Pimple a thing or two, and you know it!  And our Sam would be there right behind him, backin’ him up!”

            “I won’t go,” her dad was muttering stubbornly.

            Outside there was rough laughter, and they looked out the door, which would fall open at untoward times, to see a group of rough-looking Men, one with a particularly cruel face, passing by.  All had cudgels at their belts, and the cruel-looking one had his in his hand, slapping it against the palm of the other hand audibly.

            “Did you see the look on that ratling’s face when he read the notice the Chief’s flunky had nailed to his door?” laughed one of the others.  “Oh, this is sport!  Now, to see how many decide they ain’t goin’ t’leave their holes!  I can’t wait t’watch them squirm!”

            “I can’t wait,” grunted the one with the club in his hand, “t’let ’em as won’t leave feel this!”  With that he gave a particularly hard slap to his palm, and there was a smile of such savagery on his face that Daisy felt faint.  “We been holdin’ our hands way too long.  Be good to break a head or two, don’t ye think?”

            The three Hobbits within the tailor shop stayed still instinctively, not willing to let the ruffians know that their threats had been overheard.  Only after they were well out of sight did Moro straighten and look again at the notice he was holding so tightly.  His hands shook as he straightened it out and read it once more.  At last he said, “They have no real right, but apparently Pimple has it in mind that the might of his Big Men somehow gives him the right to do as he pleases.”  He gave a ragged sigh, looking after the way the Men had gone.  “We don’t want you or Marigold hurt, Gaffer.  You’d best be ready to do as they say.  Otherwise….”

            The three shared worried looks.  There were tales told of Lotho’s bully-boys having waylaid Mayor Whitfoot when he was on his way from Michel Delving to Hobbiton to confront Lotho about his actions in naming himself Chief Shiriff; and there were others who’d disappeared recently.  Daisy said in a near-whisper, “You say as Mr. Crofter didn’t come back from a trip to Michel Delving?”

            Slowly, the Gaffer nodded his head.

            Moro shivered.  “Who’s to say as what they might have done with him?” he asked.

            Hamfast Gamgee said, “Him was right upset as them Gatherers and Sharers o’ Pimple’s had taken his milk cow.  What’ll him have for his childern t’drink without no cow, and what about butter and cheese?”

            Somehow the days ahead seemed darker now.

            Moro shook his head.  “It’s a time of troubles, it seems.”

            Daisy and her father had to agree.

A triple drabble written for the second B2MEM challenge.  For Eli for his birthday.  And thanks so to RiverOtter for the beta.

Peril Unforeseen

            “And I must travel with that Dwarf?” demanded Legolas of Gandalf.  “He and his father have never forgiven my father for the imprisonment imposed upon Thorin and his fellows so long ago.  Dáin may consider us allies, but the same is not true of either Glóin or his son!”

            “Do you think that Gimli hates Sauron and his creatures any less than do you, Thranduilion?” Gandalf returned.  “Can you not see the importance of overcoming such differences if all of Middle Earth is not to fall into darkness?  That is where the true peril has lain all these ages of the world—in allowing old hatreds and suspicions to fester.  As long as we harbor suspicion of one another, we will not truly unite against our one common enemy, who wishes us all to fall!”

 *

            Legolas was to think on that warning given him by Gandalf often as the quest continued, and particularly after the remaining Fellowship entered Lothlórien.  When the Lady Galadriel looked into his heart, had she not seen there the suspicion and resentment he’d still tried to hold against Gimli and all Dwarves?  And had she not shown him how it would doom not just the quest but both Gimli’s folk and his own if he did not let that bitterness go?

          And to think that he’d never foreseen the deepest peril to him was that he would so come to love and honor these mortals, and particularly this most stiff-necked of Dwarves and the remarkably Elvish Aragorn, and to come to see both as brothers. 

          To lose such brothers was so painful….

          Yet, even knowing he would survive the pair of them, he found he did not regret having come to love them so.

          “That is the peril I have embraced,” he admitted to himself.

Written for the B2MEM "Magic" challenge.  And so many thanks to RiverOtter for the beta.

Weapons Forged

            He was to marry a princess of Cardolan, and soon.  He’d come to Imladris to prepare for that marriage, and while here he sought to craft gifts for his bride’s kinsmen.

            So it was that the Prince of Arthedain, aided by a kinsman who was a master smith, watched and advised by Elven smiths, Lord Glorfindel, and a visiting Dwarf from Khazad-dûm, forged blades of honor intended to be gifted to the father and three brothers of his betrothed.

            “You will be putting spells to these, won’t you?” grunted the Dwarf.

            “Of course,” said the Prince.  “Spells for the protection of those who bear them, and curses on the folk of Angmar who ever harry our lands and people.”

            The Dwarf nodded in satisfaction.  “And I’ll gladly add a rune of power to each of them from my own folk,” he promised.  “May it work to the dismay of the Enemy’s forces!”

            Glorfindel gave a particularly sardonic smile.  “And you will not have forgotten the teaching you had here as a youth?”

            “Indeed not,” answered the Mannish descendant of the brother to the Lord of Imladris.

            “Then I shall Sing as you work,” declared the golden-haired slayer of Balrogs.  And he was as good as his word.

            So the two Men labored over the blades, bending and folding the steel seven times before beating them into shape.  Under the tutelage of the Dwarven smith certain signs were inlaid in fine lines of mithril upon the blade of each; more were traced as suggested by the Elves, and at last the two Men added an eight-pointed star to the blade of each, uttering over each one such words of Power as had descended through the heirs of Elendil to these, his current heirs within Arthedain.

            The hilts were finally attached, each inlaid with red gems intended to protect the blood of those bearing them while drawing forth the blood of enemies.  And Elrond himself provided carefully wrought sheathes of wood and leather for each of the blades, each richly inlaid.

            “Worthy gifts,” he said as he saw each blade slipped carefully into its housing.  “Blessed are they by representatives of all of the Free Peoples; may they serve their bearers well.

 *******

            As he saw to the destruction of the barrow in which he’d found the Hobbits, Iarwain noted the four long knives laid by the wight at the feet of the four Hobbits where they’d been placed by their captor on the cracked biers.  It was long and long since he’d last seen these, the frailest of them borne by the prince who’d lain alone on the smaller bier, the youngest son of the King of Cardolan, one of those who particularly seemed to carry the Light of Eärendil within him.

            “And what of these?” he murmured to himself, then smiled.  “Time it is that these are brought back into the light, or so I deem.  And who better than these to carry them?”

            So saying, he swept them up with what treasures he’d found, including a brooch crafted of sapphires and topazes and blue quartz that he remembered had been given to the Queen on the marriage of her daughter to the Prince of Arthedain.  So beautiful and strong in virtue and intelligence had been both mother and daughter, as well as the youngest of the princess’s brothers.  It was with satisfaction that he added the sheathes to his load and swept out of the ruins of the tumulus to pour out the jewels upon the ground, then sheathed each blade and presented it to one of the Hobbits.  “Long knives of Men should make proper swords for those of Hobbit-kind,” he noted. 

            And as the Hobbits took them and looked at the blades in wonder, he added his own Song to the blessings and spells once laid upon them--and upon their new bearers.

Written for the A_L_E_C "Hopeless Love" challenge.  For Belegcuthalion for her birthday.  Beta by RiverOtter.

Love Unrequited

            Gimli Glóin’s son returned from a circuit about their campsite to sit on a fallen log in the shadows of the riverbank, where he had decent vision but where he himself would be difficult to detect.  The others were asleep, from what he could tell, at least.  Legolas had rolled himself into his cloak and lay quietly near the rest, his eyes open, apparently weaving the fleeting glimpses of starlight above into Elvish dreams, as he’d not turned his eyes toward Gimli as the Dwarf walked by.

            Thinking of the Elf led to other thoughts, and Gimli reached into the special pouch in which he carried those of his greatest treasures he’d brought with him on this quest, carefully bringing out the Lady’s gift to him, holding out the three strands of hair, not surprised at all to note he could see them clearly in spite of the darkness of the night.

            “Nothing can come of it, of course,” he muttered to himself after a time, as he carefully coiled the three hairs together.  “It’s not that she’s free to love me back as I find I love her.  She’s married, after all, and to one of the greatest of Elven lords remaining within Middle Earth!  And she is an Elf!  Since when to Elves and Dwarves mate?  Not that she’d ever love the likes of me!

            “Oh, she was polite, and recognized I’m smitten by her.  At least she didn’t behave as if were merely a joke, a matter to laugh at or to pour scorn upon!”

            He was silent a time further, sighing as he stowed the hairs back into the pouch and hid it away again within his clothing.  He sat, lost in thought, his hands upon his knees as he watched the rippling glints of light from the flowing river.  “My father,” he at last told himself, “will be so disappointed in me.  He’d hoped that when we returned to Erebor I’d give thought to finding a wife.  But where, among the women of our people, will I ever find the equal to the Lady of the Golden Woods?  For now that my heart and fealty are given to her, no one but her equal could stir me to love.”

            And with another sigh he reconciled himself to the thought of remaining unwed for the rest of his life.  Not, of course, that this was unusual among his people, after all.

Written for the B2MEM "Response to Disaster" prompt.  For Shirebound for her birthday.  Beta by RiverOtter.

A Choice of Life or Death

            He lay in the dust, craning his head up to look at the rock face in front of him.  He could see a thin film of dampness trickling down it, and he could not drink!  For three and a half days he’d gone without water, having exhausted the contents of his water bottle in the first few days he was separated from his company.  Why he’d not thought on how difficult it might be to find a stream in this rocky wilderness, here north of the enemy’s now ruined fortress of Fornost, he could not say.  Nor had he seen aught that he might have taken for food.

            Not that he had any experience in living off the land.  He had been born in a village within Angmar to a well-to-do craftsman, and had grown up trading the work of his hands for food and drink.  His father had been able to purchase slaves to work his garden, to cook and to clean and keep his family comfortable.  Not for the likes of his son to need to learn to tell edible plants in the wild!  So he’d learned the Common Tongue that he might help his father’s trade, but had never learned many possibly useful skills.

            But then the armies of their dread lord had come through the region, and all young men capable of bearing arms, whether or not they had known any training in the arts of war, were taken to swell the ranks of the Witch-king’s forces for this great assault on the foes to the south.  The new recruits, many of them unwilling, were told that the land to the south was lush and rich, and that there would be much chance to plunder the wealth to be found there, and new lands for the taking that those who dwelt within Eriador knew not how to use properly.

            “They are barbarians!” they were told.  “They slay the children of their enemies without thought or conscience.  They would sweep across the borders of our lands to force us to adopt their strange and uncouth ways!”

            And the new recruits had believed.  Not, of course, that there was any other choice.  Disagreement or questioning of authority was harshly punished.

            His experience, however, had not been in keeping with what he’d been told.  Oh, the lands immediately beyond their borders had been rich enough, but then they had been ordered to follow a road that led through the mountains, and most of the time he’d been in the armies of Angmar since then it had been these stony hills and washes that he’d patrolled.  Now and then they would stumble upon a hidden valley, an oasis in the midst of granite walls where they would find small villages with obviously fertile soil.  Always these lands appeared well tended, and those folk they’d encountered who’d not fled the rumor of the coming of their ancient enemy seemed stout and healthy enough, their children well kept, their homes comfortably constructed.  Never had he seen signs that these folk knew not how to husband the lands they dwelt upon.

            But he had seen no villages since he was separated from his company.  He had seen no streams.  He had seen no crops.  He had seen no beasts.  He had eaten all his rations the first day and had had no food since, and no drink either.

            And now he looked at the thin film of moisture on the surface of the rock and despaired, for he could not drink of it!  Why was it fortune so tantalized and cheated him?

            He felt darkness taking him, and gratefully sank into it.  May the end take me while I am unconscious! he thought as that darkness flowed over his awareness.

 *******

            “What are we to do with him?” asked a voice using the Common Tongue.  “He’s an enemy soldier, after all.”

            “So what?” demanded another.  “Chances are he’s been told lies about our side same as most of the others as have been taken prisoners—you know what rot they’ve all been told, about how our side rape women and cut up children’s bodies while they’re still alive and all.  It’s obvious as he’s not had proper food for days, and the way his eyes are sunken, I’d guess as he’s not had water, neither.”

            The first voice gave a snort of disbelief.  “But there’s water right there, dripping down the rock face there!”

            “Ain’t no good fer him if’n he’s got no idea as to how to get enough fer a drink from it.”

            He felt himself being gently rolled over onto his back, and then there was a hand under his head, lifting it slightly.  “Here, you,” he heard.  “Here’s a drop or two of water, but no more’n that fer now or you’ll just choke on it, or get sick.  You keep this down, and in a moment or two we’ll give you more, understand?”

            He cracked open dry eyes, dimly seeing a concerned face above him.  He made himself give as much of a nod as he could, and opened his mouth to accept the water offered him, not much, but so welcome.  As promised, soon a second swallow followed the first, then another wait before a third was offered.

            He was aware there were about three individuals in the party that had found him.  The one was attending him, while the others bustled about efficiently to set up a camp.

            A fourth arrived, carrying something bundled into his arms.  “Lots of foodstuff growin’ round here,” he said.  “Wild onions and leeks, some wild carrots back that-a-ways, and dandelions over there.  Good stuff for a salad, at least.  And I got one of them conies as seems to live ’neath the rocks just east of us.  There’s some kinda bird as lives above us, so if’n one drops down enough t’get it with a stone we could have some fowl as well fer our next meal.”

            “Good thing, Tunnely,” the one who was tending him said.  “’Twill make us a thin stew, mayhaps, but enough t’ keep body’n soul together.”

            There was some hammering, and one of the four spoke over his shoulder from the rock face, “There—I have a small cup cut into the rock so we can collect the water to refill the bottles before we go.  Good to know we have what we need out here.  It’s not much, perhaps, compared to home in the Shire, but it’s enough to keep us on our feet until we’re back with the Prince’s army, at least.  And can you imagine they’d planned to give us more rations?  As if we couldn’t take care of ourselves!”

 *******

            They brought him more water, and shared their food with him when it was finished cooking.  What amazed him, however, was that none of the four of them came quite up to his chest in height.

            “How did you get separated from your own folk?” he was asked.

            “I was near the end of the line.  There was—there was a rock fall, right in front of me.  It fell on those by me, and I stopped and shrank back.  There was dust in the air, and many small pebbles.  At last it was over, and somehow I was safe and alive.  But I know not where the others went—whether they even managed to survive.  And I have been lost out here in the wilderness for many days.  I could not find food—or water.

            “And you—what kind of folk are you?  What are you doing here?”

            “We were sent out to take messages to the Dwarves, and now bring their answers back to our captains.  I’d guess that the rock fall was caused by the Dwarves—they are rather good at it, after all.  But then, it could have happened naturally.  Rock falls aren't all that unusual within these hills, we've found.  Anyway, as we don’t get lost easily, and are good at foraging and remaining hidden from sight, we’re sometimes sent as messengers.”

            “As for what we are,” added one of his fellows, “we’re Hobbits.  I’m from Bree, and the others is from the Shire.  And we come out t’ the King’s need, same as any other soldier in his armies.”

            “What do you intend to do?” asked the one who’d been questioning him.  “Once you’re better, do you want to go back to your fellows?  Not, though, that they’d be likely to welcome you back—I’ve led three of your soldiers who’d been separated the same as you back to their companies, and they were all soundly beaten, and one killed on the orders of the Witch-king.”

            “You would lead me back to the Witch-king’s armies?”  He was amazed at the thought.

            “Why not?” asked the one who’d described himself as being from Bree.  “Don’t do much fer the Witch-king’s cause when common soldiers see their fellows beaten and killed as punishment fer bein’ unlucky enough t’be separated fer a day or so.  More’n one who’s been found by our soldiers is as much willful missin’ as wounded or captured.  Right strange t’ think as so many o’ your folk would rather be prisoners with us than servin’ the Witch-king no more.”

            Another commented in bitter tones, “Not what I’d want to serve the Witch-king myself!  I’ve heard the tales of them as has left his armies, how he orders those as is hurt or crippled killed just so’s they don’t have to waste food nor time on ’em.  Don’t see him there in the healer’s tents, workin’ ’longside the healers like our King nor his son.”

            His fellows gave murmurs of agreement.

            “Well,” said the first one, “you think on it and let us know.  We’re leaving here in the morning no matter what.  You can go with us and join the others of your kind who’ve decided they aren’t going to fight any more for Angmar, or you can go back and take your chances with your captain.”

            The Man found himself not having to think deeply on it in the end—he had, after all, seen just the treatment described offered by the Witch-king and his captains to his comrades who had been found after going missing or having lost a limb or an eye.  What real choice was there between going back to a beating or perhaps even death and the type of treatment he’d been given so far?

            When, two days later, he found himself being welcomed into a makeshift camp of prisoners of war where he was granted an adequate cot and blankets within a patched tent, and immediately given a mug of gruel and a ration of small beer, he knew he had made the right choice.  “Not for me, death at the Witch-king’s hands,” he admitted to himself.  It was certainly not the fate he’d anticipated as he lay, apparently dying, before the trickle of water down the rock face!

Written for the B2MEM near-death experience prompt.  Beta by RiverOtter.  Just a bit more than a true drabble....

Am I Alive?

           Pippin was staring intently at the small river that ran by the camp at Cormallen before it joined the Anduin. Merry shook his head. "And just what are you looking at so intently, our beloved fool of a Took?" he asked.

           "It's just so beautiful, Merry--all of it! So beautiful, the light sparkling from the water." He turned to look up at his cousin. "I'd heard that the land of the afterlife was beautiful beyond imagining. Tell me, Merry, am I truly alive?"

           Merry's heart twisted within his chest. He'd asked much the same questions when he'd awakened in the Houses of Healing, but with nowhere the joy Pippin showed now.

A drabble for Agape for her birthday.  Thanks so to RiverOtter for the beta!

Lost in the Wilderness

            Boromir sat within the meager shelter of three tight-clustered trees, huddled within his cloak.  But nothing seemed to ward off the drizzle down his neck!

            “I should have let Faramir have this quest!” he muttered to himself, then brushed futilely at his hood as a hail of nuts fell from the oak trees above, striking his head and shoulders, one landing in his lap.  “Curse these foul things!  I’m not made for travails within the wilderness!  Tonight I’d give anything to sleep in a sound room in a clean bed!  And I have still to find the way to Imladris!”

A triple drabble for The Lauderdale for her birthday.  Beta by RiverOtter.

Shagrat’s Welcome

            Shagrat approached the fortress with a feeling of relief.  He’d not known true terror until the last few days, only since he’d seen the figure on the stairs with its bright sword.  “An Elvish wight!” he repeated to himself, remembering the power he’d sensed, and the horrible light given off by its blade.  “An Elvish wight was in the tower!  No one could be expected to withstand the fury of an Elvish wight!  The maggots here have to believe that!”

            But the captain who received his report sniffed.  “This one speaks of Elves in his tower?  Of bright Elves filled with wrath, but smaller than himself?  Nonsense!”

            “But I saw it!” snarled Shagrat.  “And the spy we brought to the tower—it was small as well, but fair shinin’ in the gloom!  And it was carrying these!”  So saying, he spilled the bundle he carried out upon the floor.

            The captain startled backwards as the grey-green cloak fell open and out of it spilled a sparkling coat of mithril links, set with pearls that reflected the torchlight with soft allure and shining crystals that seemed themselves to flame, and with them an ancient knife that radiated with fury.  The clothing it saw was a mystery to the captain, but he’d served once in Angmar, and the fashion of the knife and sheath he recognized.

            “Arthedain!” he whispered.  “Wights indeed!”

            He turned to his lieutenant.  “Have a messenger bring these to Barad-dûr—immediately!  Hurry, slug!”

          Realizing the captain respected the import of his find, Shagrat started to straighten with relief.  He’d been right!

          But the captain was not through.  “As for this one—he’s all but lost his arm.  He’s of no further use.  Kill him!”

          No surprise there.  Shagrat pulled his knife—he’d not go down easily!

My birthday mathom to all.  And much love to RiverOtter for her faithful beta work!

Admitting the Conspiracy

            Folco Boffin was giving his cousin Fredegar Bolger a most serious stare.  “Where are they, Fatty?” he demanded.  “You were going to stay there at Crickhollow with Frodo, Pippin, and Merry for a few weeks, but then word came that they had disappeared through the Old Forest and someone had tried to break into Frodo’s new house!”

            Freddy gave his favorite cousin a sidelong look, then turned his head away.  “I promised not to tell anyone else,” he said with a defeated sigh.

            “Whom did you promise?” insisted Folco.

            “Merry Brandybuck.”

            “Merry Brandybuck?  What on earth is anyone doing promising Merry Brandybuck not to tell other folk important information as to what is going on?”

            “I can’t tell you!  It’s too dangerous!”

            Folco felt he was beyond his depth.  “Frodo moved, and decided to go off on an adventure like Cousin Bilbo, and that’s dangerous?”

            Freddy turned to face him, his face uncharacteristically stern.  “It’s not just an adventure, Folco.  It’s serious—deadly serious.  It’s a matter—a matter of life and death!”  He took a deep breath.  “Frodo and Sam Gamgee were charged by Gandalf not to tell anyone—and that means not anyone at all.  Only Sam, Pippin, and I were already working with Merry on keeping an eye on Frodo.  We all knew that someday he’d try to leave the Shire and follow Bilbo and have his own adventure.  And you know how he’s been the past three years—always poring over Bilbo’s maps and the new ones from Rivendell.  You know how restless he’s been and all.  And you know how he’s had these odd—dreams, ones about being chased and about eyes looking for him.

            “Did you know that many of Frodo’s dreams come true?  That he’s dreamt of fires and awakened the Master and saved people?”

            “I know Cousin Esmeralda was telling my mum and yours about that happening once, the last time we were all at Budge Hall.”

            “Well, Sam Gamgee’s been certain that Frodo’s been having true dreams about being looked for for quite some time.  The time that Frodo got those new maps—you remember, don’t you?”  At Folco’s nod, Freddy continued, “Well, he wondered if there could be moon letters on them—you know, like on that Dwarf map Bilbo told about.  So, he was taking one of them up on top of the Hill, and he was right!  Only he dozed off while he was sitting there, and was having a bad dream when Sam became worried and came too close, and accidentally woke Frodo up.  That was when Frodo told Sam about the dreams, and that that he was having them often.

            “Then Gandalf came last April—and he had news—bad news.  Very bad news.  It was about something that Bilbo----“  He seemed to be searching for the right word to use.  At last he continued, “Something that Bilbo brought home from his own adventure turned out to be very, very bad.  I mean terrible bad, Folco.  Extremely dangerous.  And some terrible folk from Outside want it, and will do anything to get it, even if it means invading the Shire and killing folk!”  His voice dropped as he stared off into the distance.  “And they have—they’ve entered the Shire and killed folk.  You heard about the Bounder they found ridden down by horses—not ponies, but true horses, there near the Brandywine Bridge?”

            Folco nodded again.

            Freddy continued, “Well, that was them, coming for—for it.  They would have killed me, there at Crickhollow, if I hadn’t felt them coming and hared off the way I did.  I’ve never been so terrified in my life!  I never dreamed I could be so frightened!  And the feeling when they came into the front garden, there at Crickhollow—you’d never believe how horrible it could be!  I don’t think even Frodo would have been able to stand up to it!”

            Folco was concerned.  Fatty’s face was a pasty color, and he was sweating heavily.  And he was trembling!  He reached out and took Freddy’s hand, and squeezed it reassuringly.  Freddy pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his face, and reached down to pick up the mug of beer that sat on the table beside his chair.  He gulped from it, almost desperately.  He then set the mug back on the table, and wiped his face a second time before wadding up the handkerchief and ramming it back into his trousers pocket.

            Fatty was looking down now, down at his knees.  “I don’t know what kind of folk they were, but they weren’t natural—that I’ll swear.  Couldn’t be natural, these Black Riders.  They appear to have reached Hobbiton just about the time Frodo, Sam, and Pippin started their walk toward Buckland, and were asking around.  We know they talked to the Gaffer, trying to figure out where Frodo was.  They then followed after them all the way to the Woody End.  Only there were Elves there, and the Black Riders veered off—it seems they don’t do well with Elves.”

            Folco was intrigued.  “Elves?  In the Shire?”

            Freddy appeared disgusted.  “Do you think that Bilbo lied about Elves liking to visit the Shire, then?”

            “Well, of course not….”  But Folco had to admit to himself that, yes, he’d always thought that the old Baggins’s stories about meeting with Elves on his walking trips were indeed just stories.

            “Well, Frodo, Sam, and Pippin all had words to say about meeting the Elves.  It wasn’t just made up, that’s for certain.  And they spent the night near Woods Hall, in a tree garth of some sort that Frodo says appears to be the source of the name of the place.  The next day they tried taking a shortcut through the woods between there and the Marish, and got lost, of course.  But it appears it was good they left the road when they did, for there were another Black Rider or two along the road.  And they all said they seemed to be sniffing for their scent, like they were dogs or something.  Right uncanny!  Came out on Bamfurlong Farm—the Maggots’ place, don’t you know.  Maggot had seen them, too, the Black Riders.  Said the one that came across his fields scared his dogs witless, and scared him, too!

            “Maggot brought the three of them to the ferry in his wagon, and was right spooked when Merry found them.  They took the ferry back, and when they were about halfway across, they saw the Black Riders at the dock, then riding off toward the bridge.”

            “And you all knew that Frodo was planning on going somewhere, out of the Shire, and you didn’t tell me?” Folco asked.

            “No, we didn’t tell you.  What could you have done anyway, Folco, with your mum as ill as she’s been?  You couldn’t leave her for more than a day or two, and you know it!”

            “I have to be off home tomorrow,” admitted Folco.  “I don’t trust the neighbors to see to it she’s fed properly, since it’s hard for her to get up and down any more.”

            Freddy indicated he understood.  “That’s why we didn’t tell you.”  He took another, more normal pull at his mug, and then picked up one of the sugared cakes that sat on a nearby plate.  After a couple of bites, he set it down by his mug.  At last he continued, “When we thought it was just Frodo wanting to follow Bilbo and have an adventure, we were all keen to go with him.  Only, when we found that Gandalf had told Frodo he had to get—it—out of the Shire, I decided I didn’t really want to go.  So I stayed to make it seem that Frodo was still there, so folk wouldn’t know he was really gone until it was too late to go after the rest and drag them back.  They were supposed to go by way of the Bridge, but then Merry thought----“  He took a long breath.  “Well, Merry decided, when he realized just how serious it was, maybe they’d need to go out by way of the Old Forest.  Now, I’d never go through there!”  He shivered.

            “Nor I,” agreed Folco.

            “So they did—the four of them riding ponies and with a fifth for the luggage.  That was the last I saw of them.  I hope they made it!”

            The two of them were quiet for a time, watching the dying fire, and Fatty taking occasional reflexive bites at his cake.  At last he set the remains of the cake down once more and clutched at the arms of his chair.  “I’m a coward,” Fredegar Bolger admitted at last.  “Too much of a coward to go with them.  Just the thought of them going past the High Hay, and I decided like that I’d stay safe in the Shire.  Only, just how safe are we when the likes of those Black Riders managed to get in and found out where Frodo was supposed to be?  When I saw them creeping toward the house through the garden, I ran—and I’d do it again in a heartbeat!  They’re pure evil!  You’d not understand, I suppose, unless you were to face them yourself!  I must have sat in that farmhouse where I ran to and gibbered, ‘I don’t have it!  I don’t know where they’ve gone!’ for a good hour before the Brandybucks got me to calm down at last!”

            He finished off his mug of beer at a single gulp and set it down, looking at it regretfully.  At last he stood up, and leaned over with difficulty to pick up a log from the woodbox to throw onto the hearth.  At last, satisfied the log had caught, he turned to face his cousin.  “Thing is, Folco, if the likes of the Black Riders have managed to get past the Bounders and into the Shire, what’s to keep other evil folk out?  The news from the Dwarves and others who cross the Shire along the Road—it’s bad.  There’s wars going on out there, and Frodo and Merry and Pippin and Sam Gamgee—they’re riding out right into the middle of it all!  What if the wars start spilling over the Brandywine into the Shire itself?  We can’t let the Enemy get a toehold here!”

            Folco was to remember Fatty’s words when he heard that the Bolgers were forced out of Budge Hall by Lotho’s Big Men, and then when he heard that Fatty himself, Fredegar Bolger, the self-confessed coward, was leading the Rebels who were seeking to steal back from the ruffians what the ruffians had stolen from the Hobbits of the Shire!

            “If you’re a coward,” he said aloud to himself, “then maybe the Shire needs more of the same kind of coward as you are, Fatty Bolger!”

For RS, for her birthday, and a precursor of sorts to another story I wrote for her a few years back, "Adolescence."  And thanks so very much to RiverOtter for the beta!

The New Queen’s Bounty

            The shrill cries could be heard all along the lane; and out on the high road through Minas Tirith at least one of the great ones headed toward the lower portions of the city paused, all too clearly discerning the words of a distraught mother.

            “You have ruined your tunic and your sister’s dress!  How am I to see you decently clothed now, with your father dead in the defense of the city and no one to earn coin enough for new cloth?  How could you possibly be so careless!”

            “What is it, vanimelda?” murmured the King into the ear of his obviously distracted Queen.

            She glanced aside at the small lane from which the voice had issued, and answered, also in low tones, “A mother berates her son for ruining the clothing of himself and his sister.”  She turned her gaze to meet his.  “It is another case in which the death of a Man in the defense against Mordor has left privation.”

            One of the guards behind them called out a single word, and those who’d gone ahead stopped, two of the advance turning to come closer to the realm’s new Lord and Lady.

            “Would you see more clearly the actual destruction wrought?” asked the King.

            It took no thought at all.  “Yes.”

            He gave the slightest of nods to her, then a more definite gesture to the chief of their guards to indicate Lord and Lady wished to turn aside momentarily.  As he allowed his wife to lead the way into the narrow lane, the guards shook their heads and hurried to adjust their positions to accommodate the change in destination.  Never would our Lord Denethor have done such a thing! was their mutual, if unspoken, thought.

            “How did you come by the paint?”  Arwen smiled automatically, remembering all too well a long-ago day when it was her own mother asking the same question of her brothers.  When her husband gave her a glance of inquiry she merely shook her head.  “And how is it that it’s even in your hair?”  She had to struggle not to laugh aloud.  The woman was clearly deeply upset, and it would not do to belittle her concerns.

            A wooden gate stood open, its boards partly painted a lurid green.  A pail of paint lay overturned upon the pavement, its former contents splattered liberally, indicating that it had probably stood there, upon that crate, and been dislodged from it.  From within the yard she heard a boy’s voice offering his defense.  “Master Orion down the lane—he had the paint left over from the painting of his garden shed.  He said we might have the rest for the gate.  You said yourself that the gate needed painting, Nana, if it were not to rot away!”

            The green footprints of two individuals, one much larger than the other, could be seen leading into the yard.  “An easy trail for you to follow,” she whispered almost soundlessly, and the Lord Elessar smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he nodded.  He, too, could now hear the voices raised within the yard surrounding the small house that stood behind the now-piebald gate.

            “And you had to use it today, when you were dressed to go down to the market to see what new foodstuffs were brought into the city from the southern fiefdoms?”

            “But he said if it were not used immediately that it would be like to dry betimes, Naneth.  And I had no idea that Rhysellë had found a second brush and would seek to help me!”

          A higher voice spoke over him.  “I was only trying to help, Nani!  It’s such a pretty color!”

          The Lady Arwen and her husband again shared amused and somewhat appalled glances—the color was hideous!  Another unspoken communication, and he held out his hand to help her make the long step to avoid the worst of the splatters, and he followed, another gesture indicating their guardsmen should remain outside the yard.  Only Hardorn shook his head stubbornly, carefully stepping over the spill to keep them well within sight, while the rest remained in the lane, murmuring in amusement to one another.

          The two children, one a boy of about twelve and the other a girl of perhaps seven, stood to their left, and their mother stood to the right upon the walkway to the door, a small child barely out of infancy being shifted to keep it firmly on her left hip.  “No—you shall stay here—we don’t need another smeared with paint!” the woman was saying.  She returned her attention to the children before her, shaking her head in distress.  “And what are we to do now?  You cannot go to the market with me in such a state, and I must imagine that there is now quite the mess upon the stones of the lane outside the gate!  And we could be ordered to pay a fine for having stained the streets of the city!  Where am I to come up with even more coin should such a fine be levied?”

          The two children opposite her exchanged looks.  Obviously neither had thought on the possibility of a spill, or a fine to pay.  The boy dropped his gaze to the ground.  “I’m sorry, Nana.  I’ll ask them to allow me to work to pay it off.”

          Arwen gave her husband a significant look, which he answered with a brief nod of understanding.  “I doubt,” he said aloud as he returned his attention to the small family, “that you need fear such a fine, Mistress.”

          The mother and her children all gave identical jumps of startlement at the unexpected voice, all turning their attention to see who had entered their yard.  “And who are you to say what the bailiff might--” the woman began, then stopped as her eyes widened in recognition and fright.  “My Lord!  My Lady!” she said in a voice suddenly thick with awe, and she tried awkwardly to curtsey with her youngest on her hip.  “And what has brought you here?  I am sorry….”  Her throat was obviously dry, and her tongue too thick within her mouth as she stared up at her royal visitors, then suddenly dropped her eyes to the ground as if terrified her gaze might be deemed too familiar.  “I am sorry,” she whispered again.

          “And for what?” asked the King as he and his wife came closer.  “That your children so love you they would seek to paint the gate for you that their father is no longer here to paint?  A woman that draws to herself such love from her children is to be honored before all!”

          The woman colored with surprise and confusion, not certain how to respond to such a compliment.  The girl Rhysellë was looking up at him with wide eyes, not certain why his presence seemed to cause such confusion; the boy straightened as he recognized the respect shown his mother.

          But it was the Queen’s eyes that now caught those of the young mother.  “Fear not, Mistress,” said the Lady Arwen.  “We, too, were once children, and know all too well how, in our attempts to aid those we have loved we were like to mar more than we helped.  And I remember well the day I appeared in much the same state as does this one before my beloved naneth, save the paint I’d managed to spill upon myself was blue rather than green.”  She laid a gentle hand on the shoulder of young Rhysellë, smiling down into the clear green eyes of the little girl.

          “And for me, it was whitewash I’d poured upon myself, and Ada was most distressed when I left footprints across the floor in the Hall of Fire,” her lord husband explained.  He smiled into the woman’s eyes.  “Yea, even in the north children are yet children, are they not?”

          She looked from King to Queen and back, not certain what she should do or say.  Again husband and wife exchanged unspoken communication, and the Queen smiled encouragingly.  “I do not know if you are aware of this, but I am a weaver and embroiderer of much experience.  If you wish employment, I have need of those who will serve in my weaving rooms, and I will gladly offer training to the children of those who are willing to serve me so.  And I have already begun to gather clothing and fabrics to help clothe those who have lost the support of fathers, husbands, sons, or brothers, that none within the White City or in its townlands might need to go naked or in rags.  Much of the fabric that I and my maidens will produce shall go into these stores, or to the needs of those employed by the Citadel and the City itself.  For I swear I shall not be idle as my husband and the lords of the realm seek to rebuild all that has been lost in the long defense against Mordor.”

          What could the young woman say?  She looked into the eyes of the new Queen, and found herself caught, seeing there the light of stars, compassion, and a new day dawning on the land.

          “And the bailiff?” asked the boy.

          The King laughed outright.  “What of the bailiff?” he asked.  “Nay, and what complaint can he make if we now clean up what has been spilt out upon the streets?”

          And who could have foreseen the spectacle offered as the King himself knelt down in the dust of that narrow lane, helping a youth to clean up spilled green paint?  And when the young mother found, a few days later, that the gate was now fully painted in a more suitable shade of green, she found her appreciation for the new state of the realm broadened, and her burgeoning love for their rulers enhanced.  Indeed Gondor was renewed under the King Elessar and his Elven Queen!

Written for RiverOtter for her birthday, with much love and many thanks.

The Might of the Númenorian

            They were referred to as the Númenorians, although none could say precisely why these were so called when they were no more such than was the family of the King or, say, the Steward, or a host of other lineages of the hereditary lords of Gondor.  But it was said that their own line was descended from the younger sons of Tar-Calmacil as well as the younger sister of Pharazôn, who had gone into exile in Romenna with Amandil and his family rather than to number herself among the fold of the King’s Men, and so put herself into obedience under his fell advisor, known on the Star Isle as Zigur.  Pharazôn’s sister had married a descendant of Calmacil, another Prince among the Faithful, without the benefit of her brother’s blessing—or permission.  She died in childbirth a day before the King’s Men came to bring her back to the capitol, where she was to have been given to the altar in Zigur’s temple.  When they came, the King’s Men were shown her body being prepared for burial, and by it lay the still form of a newborn; in reality her son Faramir had lived and had been exchanged secretly for the stillborn daughter of a servant within Amandil’s household; only when he was eight years of age and his foster mother had died was the child reunited with his true birth-father and acknowledged within Romenna as a prince of the realm.

          Faramir the Númenorian was a man grown and accounted very wise when the Faithful put to sea upon the advice of Amandil ere he sailed West to lay the griefs of the Faithful before the Valar—if they would deign to hear his petitions on behalf of the people of Númenor.  His ship stayed with those of Isildur and Anárion, and he chose to settle among those who had colonized the islands off the southern coast of Middle Earth, themselves largely descended from younger sons and daughters of the line of Kings who had rather be important among the emigrants from Númenor than be merely smiled at with tolerance in the courts of the King remaining on Elenna.  Here Faramir’s wisdom was honored, and he was made their Prince, and in time he built his stronghold upon the heights overlooking the Sea, near the Elven haven of Edhellond.  Wide lands he governed in the names of Isildur and Anárion, and he was a frequent visitor to Osgiliath where his advice was always heeded by the Kings of Gondor and Arnor, who accounted him their close kinsman and liegeman.

          And even now, when most of the remaining descendants of the Kings of Gondor squabbled petulantly with one another and held but little power in their own names, the Prince of the Southern Fiefdoms was still accounted great in the eyes of the realm and ruled second only to Eärnil.  So it was that he known as Imrazôr the Númenorian was honored more on his visits at his father’s side to Minas Tirith than many who counted Aldamir or Telemehtar among their ancestors.  Those known as the Númenoreans were yet mighty while most of the descendants of Anárion had sunk to the rank of petty lords of the realm.  And Imrazôr looked upon them and shook his head at their envy and sycophancy, welcomed as he was into the personal chambers of the King while they were reduced to maneuvering against their own kindred in order to gain a seat on Eärnil’s council!

          How the mighty had fallen, he thought.

For Erulisse for her birthday.  Beta by RiverOtter.

Envy

           He looked upon the Trees with hunger in his heart.  His brothers and sisters—together they had given them being.  Yavanna’s song had caused them to grow, but the Light within them had been bestowed by Varda.  The colors of them had been granted by Aulë, for only in him could be found gold and silver so pure.  Nienna’s tears of joy watered them; Tulkas’s laughter was echoed in the rustle of their leaves; Nessa danced beneath their limbs, and Oromë’s creatures sheltered there.  In their light Vairë spun her threads with her husband watching over her work.  Of their light Irmo wove dreams, and from it Estë drew warmth for healing.  Their warmth was carried on Manwë’s winds, and the waters of Ulmo reflected their glory.

          Only he had had no part in their creation.

          “But I shall see to their destruction!” he vowed in his heart as he wrought his spear….

For Dwim for her birthday.  With thanks to RiverOtter for the beta.

Little Brothers

            The older Ent examined Bregolad closely.  “You spend a great deal of time in the presence of the hole-dwellers-who-are-ever-hungry,” Fladrif noted.

            Quickbeam smiled broadly.  “Yes, so I will readily admit.  They are hasty even for my tastes; but they are young and filled with the Creator’s Light.  I find they warm my heart and give me hope.  It would appear that they are akin to us in spirit, for I feel our Mistress’s gifts filling them.  They appreciate our griefs and delight in our joys.  When they examine a seed, it is with the knowledge of the plant it might give rise to; and when they caress a sapling I can feel their joy in it, as well as its contentment in their attention.”

            Both turned to watch as the two Hobbits shrugged out of their clothing and splashed into the shallow pool formed by the stream that bordered the bowl where the Moot was gathered.  The older Ent was shocked.  “They shed their rinds?” he asked.

            Again Bregolad smiled as he watched them fondly.  “Yes, for it is adornment for them, apparently.  But see how they rejoice to offer themselves for cleansing and nourishment?  I have not forgotten how it was I felt when I was yet an entling and did likewise.”  He returned his attention to his elder.  “I have decided to adopt them as brethren,” he confided.

For Nath and Addie for their birthdays.  Thanks to RiverOtter for the beta.

A true drabble set during Bilbo's second trip to Erebor, just after his 111th birthday.

Giants’ Games

          Bilbo stopped as they approached the top of the pass, his gaze fixed on the hulking shapes facing one another to the south of them.

          “Mountain giants,” grunted Glóin.  “Pay them no mind.  They won’t bother us if we ignore them.”

          But how could Bilbo ignore them as they tossed huge boulders to one another as casually as Hobbit children played with pigs’ bladders?

          There’s something magnificent in watching them, he thought.

          Laughter like the sound of avalanches filled the air, and he found he ached to join their play.  Then a missed toss landed nearby, and he scurried away.

For Julchen and Sivan for their birthdays.  Thanks so much to RiverOtter for the beta.

Celeborn’s Thoughts

            Celeborn, formerly Lord of Lothlórien, watched as Eldarion, the son of the Lord King Elessar Envinyatar Telcontar, practiced his archery under the tutelage of Legolas Thranduilion in the court behind the King’s Retreat at Annúminas.  Nearby the older daughter of this King of Men sparred with Elrohir, while behind them her sister had her fingering on her harp corrected by Elladan.

          Did these realize how blessed they were, to know the love and last tutelage of the Eldar?  Did they realize that when their father at last slept with his ancestors, they and their descendants, alone among the children of Men, would keep alive the memory of Elves within the Mortal Lands of Arda?

          He heard laughter, like mithril bells ringing in the clear air of mountain snowfields, and his eyes were drawn to his granddaughter.  In spite of the darkness of her hair and the grey of her eyes, yet in her he saw reflected his own beloved as well as the gentle implacability of his daughter, this one’s mother.

          Could he linger here, linger to see her at last fade when the one she loved at last accepted the Gift of Men?  But, without her beloved beside her, here within this world, she could not long remain.   And without either her or her consort, there was nothing left within Ennor to hold those of his own household or people to the Mortal Lands.

          Perhaps it would be wise to speak with Círdan.  But for now, he would join with his grandsons and the King’s Friend in seeing to it that not all of the wisdom and skills of the Elves was lost when the last of them sailed.  He rose and moved to Elladan’s side, seeing the gladness arise in the eyes of his granddaughter’s daughter as he sat beside her.

          Nay, he would linger yet a time longer, for life in the Mortal Lands yet remained sweet….

Written for the Tolkien Weekly Luncheon challenge.  Beta by RiverOtter.

Company for Tea?

            The Sackvilles have dreaded Thursdays for decades, ever since Otho Sackville-Baggins became their family head.  Once that happened, Lobelia decreed that they should join her and Otho for tea on Thursdays, to begin at two o’clock sharp.

            Now that Lotho has succeeded his father and taken possession of Bag End, at least they will no longer be alone in their miseries, for they expect all in the environs of the Hill as well as the Bagginses will be required to join them.

            Did Frodo Baggins indeed cheat Lotho of the role of head of the Bagginses?  He’ll be most wroth…. 

Written for the Tolkien Weekly "Daymeal" prompt.  For Rhapsody on her birthday.  Thanks so to RiverOtter for the beta!

Perhaps Not the Best Mealtime Conversation

            Imrahil watched with dismay as the Steward closely questioned his younger son on the activities of his Rangers.  “And how long did you spend within the safety of Henneth Annun?” demanded Denethor.

            “We slept there most nights, but other than that we were almost always out on patrol, Father,” Faramir explained.

            “Yet two troops from Khand and one from Rhûn managed to enter into Mordor through the Black Gates unhindered!”

            “And two from Harad were destroyed, plus three patrols of Uruks that had been harassing our garrison within Osgiliath.”

            Faramir will be too tense to eat his daymeal with this!

Written for the TolkienWeekly Supper challenge.  Beta by RiverOtter.

The Invitation—at LAST!

            Otho sniffed, “We’ve received our invitation to Bilbo’s party.  And we are to be included in the family supper.”

            “Well, of course!” said Lobelia sharply.  “You are his proper heir, after all!”

            “We had to have been the last in the region of the Hill to receive ours,” Lotho noted.  “Angelica Baggins told me her family got theirs last week.  Why, even Old Noakes has been speaking of little else but of how glad he was to receive his for almost a fortnight!”

            Lobelia straightened.  “He has given us the place of honor!”

            Place of honor, or ignominy? thought Otho.

Written for the Tolkien Weekly Grandparents challenge.  Beta by RiverOtter.

Inaccessible

            Grandparents are one of childhood’s joys—usually.  Their laps are to sit upon, and their arms to hold and steady.  They smile down upon one, and offer reassurance and encouragement.  They kiss bruises and wash scraped knees.  They give advice and listen to fears, give comfort and warnings.

            But for young Arwen—her father’s father is indeed as distant as stars, and his mother hidden in a realm she may not enter for years yet.

            At least she is able to know her mother’s parents, although sometimes Daernaneth’s attention is as distant as that of her shining daeradar.

            The problem with voyaging the Sundering Sea accompanied by Ossë and Uinen was that one saw little of the sky and the sun, as Ossë preferred to gather about him colorful storm clouds. By the time his small boat came into sight of the queys of Mithlond, Olórin was feeling quite starved for simple sunlight.

            He and Tilion had both been close to Arien, and had worshiped her golden beauty. How often had the three of them danced together in the Light and Breath! But after the destruction of the Trees, Arien had taken the assignment to guide the Sun’s bark through the Seas of Heaven, while Tilion had agreed to do the same for the Moon.

            He remembered his last sight of her, newly crowned with the flowers and leaves rescued from Laurelin, a gem filled with its Light upon her breast. She had smiled at him….

            He looked up as the Elven sailors of Mithlond leaned down with gaffs and lines to guide his craft into a slip. There was a time of controlled chaos as ropes were passed here and there, and a thick grass mat was set into place as well as bumpers of soft wood wrapped with rope to protect the strakes from impact with the quey itself. It had been so long now since he’d seen so many others—he found himself somewhat overwhelmed.

          “You have done well, friends,” said an authorative voice. “Now, go, and let him come to himself. I will take charge now of our guest. You—see to it that suitable quarters are prepared and that a filling meal is made ready for him. And have water heated that he might bathe if he so desires.”

           And now the quey was as peaceful as it had been busy but a moment before. Only one was left, a venerable Elf, bearded to denote he was one of the eldest of the Eldar race, his eyes filled with memories of the time before the light of aught but stars. “Welcome, Lord,” said Círdan. “Will any others follow you, do you think? Or are you the last of your kind?”

            “I am, I believe, the last to be sent.”

            “Can you rise to your feet?”

            Olórin snorted, and his companion smiled to hear the undignified sound. “I am not that decrepit in my looks, surely!”

            “No, Lord, that you are not. However, many find it difficult to rise and walk properly after spending many days in cramped quarters at sea.”

            As he rose to his feet with the aid of his gnarled staff, Olórin smiled. “The quarters here have not been all that cramped.” He accepted the Shipwright’s assistance to step across onto the stone of the wharf, and paused, surprised to realize that it seemed that the solid surface of it was heaving beneath his feet. His surprise must have shown on his face, for the ancient Elf’s smile grew even wider.

            “Your body is new to all of this, I suspect,” Círdan said. “It will take some time for it to readjust to the fact that you no longer must ready for the motion of the next wave. Merely stand and lean on your staff until you are ready to move.” Having assured himself that the newcomer was heeding his advice, the Elf leapt aboard the small craft as lightly as any of the much younger Elves who had been there so shortly before. In moments he had the tall blue hat in hand, and was gathering up what supplies could be found into the pack with which the newly come Istar had been outfitted. These he passed over the side to Olórin himself, who settled the hat upon his head and slipped one strap of the pack over his left arm. Having assured himself the mooring lines were properly tied, Círdan returned to the quey himself, and offered Olórin his arm. “If you will come with me, Lord, I will show you where you might rest for the night.”

            The clouds overhead had gone from silver grey to purple with hints of flame here and there as the almost hidden sunset passed and it grew darker. Now the purple dimmed into dark grey, save for a faint rift in the clouds to the east where a glimpse of starlight could be discerned beyond the outline of the Elven city.

            Círdan noted the direction of his guest’s glance. “The stars are beautiful, there beyond the clouds,” he commented.

            “But it is the Sun I would rather see now,” the Istar noted, drawing his grey cloak more tightly about him and shivering in the cool evening air.

            “You are cold, Lord?”

            “I fear I have spent too long a time at sea,” the Istar commented wryly. “The cool of the waves seems to have filled me. I would wish to bask in the Sun’s light, is all.”

            The Elf smiled. “I can understand.” But his face grew more serious, and he stopped once more, gently drawing away from the Maia-turned-Wizard. “Perhaps this is the time for the gifting I have envisioned,” he said quietly. So saying, he held up his hand, and placing the fingers of his other hand about the base of one finger he gave a slight twist----

            ----And Olórin suddenly saw that he wore there a ring, a ring with a great red stone—although not for long. For Círdan was drawing said ring off of his finger. “It is my hope that this will warm you then, my Lord,” he said with a profound bow. “For I foresee that you will need this as I have not. For there will be hearts to kindle during your time here. It is said that as he wrought this in the smithies of Eregion, Celebrimbor invoked Arien herself and the flame she bears.”

            Olórin looked at the ancient Elf with surprise. He remembered Círdan well enough from his days serving in the War of Wrath, and the competence that the Shipwright had ever shown. And he could see that the eye of Círdan had pierced the veil drawn over his true nature, and that he had been recognized from that time.

            “You followed our Lord Manwë, second only to Eonwë in his service,” Círdan murmured. “The Secret Flame is bright within you, and all of Middle-earth shall need that ever at your hand if we are to survive to see a better beginning when at last the Fourth Age comes. Accept this, Lord, that you not forget fully your beginnings and your mission as the cares of life seek to overwhelm you.”

            Olórin searched the earnest, steady gaze, and at last held forth his hand. The Elf dropped the great Ring into it, and he felt the sudden, unexpected weight of it, the solidity of it that somehow felt more real than did the weight of his robes or the apparent solidity of his staff. He closed his fingers about the Ring, Narya the Great, and felt the thrum of power it enclosed.

            Potential! So much potential! And so different in nature than the power held in his staff….

            “I am not an Elf, however,” he finally stated, testing the Shipwright’s determination to gift him with this. “It was not intended to be utilized by such as I.”

            The bearded lips facing him smiled confidingly. “Perhaps all the better in the end. I am sworn to the service of Ulmo, as much his vassal as is Ossë. Narya and I are often at odds, as my own bent dampens its power. But you, as akin as you are to Fire already—you will have far less difficulty than I in gaining its cooperation; and not being an Elf, you will be less likely to be able to compel the service of those whom it was intended to dominate. And what need have I of it? I would not rule out of compulsion, and do not wish to hide my lands using such power as it holds. It is but a small sacrifice on my own part I offer. Accept it, my Lord.”

            The gift was given, and in earnest. What choice had he but to accept it? He bowed to the humility of his host, and at last set it upon his finger….

            And he saw her again, Arien, smiling at him as she had as she accepted her new commission, leaning forward to kiss his forehead with burning, life-affirming lips….

            Her warmth filled him!

Written for the Tolkien Weekly Mother challenge.  For Shelley for her birthday.  Beta by RiverOtter.

No Abandonment this Time

            His own mother had given up her personal hope for the sake of their people.

            The mothers of his faithful Steward and of the Ringbearers had all died during their childhoods.

            The mother of his wife had abandoned Middle Earth half a millennia past to seek healing for the wounds to body and spirit inflicted by the orcs of the Misty Mountains.

            The King Elessar held his firstborn in his arms, smiling down on his wife.  “You,” he whispered into a tiny, shell-like ear, “shall know your mother’s presence at least for as long as I remain alive.”

            He smiled.

For Anglachel for her birthday.  Beta by RiverOtter.

I Shall NOT be Supplanted!

            The Steward’s son went still as he found himself listening to the talk in the adjoining room.

            “There are those who would see the King return again and wear the Winged Crown.”

            “And there are those who would refuse to bow the knee to any whose claim upon the Throne of Gondor could not be verified—and with good reason.”

            “You are obviously of good Dúnedain blood.”

            “Am I?  There are those already who will swear that I am the love-child of the Steward, and thus obviously illegitimate and so barred from claiming even the Rod and the Black Chair.  Yet you would somehow see me sit at the top of the dais, crowned in mithril and mother of pearl?”

            Lord Meredorn of Langstrand gave a great snort.  “You—the fruit of an assignation between Ecthelion and some Rohir’s daughter?  Were your eyes green or blue, or your hair a lighter brown—perhaps.  But you could be the very brother of Denethor.”

            “I assure you that I am not.”

            “Then who is your father, or your mother?”

            “No one you have ever heard named, I am certain.  Remember--not all who bear full Dúnedain blood are automatically of the Line of Kings of Gondor.”

            “Where do they dwell, your parents?”

            “My father died when I was little better than a babe in arms.  It was another, a distant relative, who took my mother into his home and saw me raised among his own sons, and who saw me trained to serve as I can.”

            “You would stand to inherit from him when he dies?”

            “There is no question that his sons are legitimate and much older than I.  No—I look to inherit nothing from him.  I have no claim to anything that is his save the love he gave me for the sake of my fathers.  As I said, we are kinsman from afar.”

            Meredorn dropped his voice, but Denethor could still hear him.  “But if we were to claim that you were from among the Lost, and were the Heir to Isildur?  Would you not be tempted to reach for the Winged Crown?”

            “You would risk civil war?  And for what?  To see an untried stranger made King to supplant Ecthelion and his son?”

            “None seeks to supplant Ecthelion.  He is a genial enough soul, and a good one to have as Ruling Steward.  But there are few who look forward eagerly to the time when Denethor succeeds his father.  He is given to rigidity, we find.  He has been a good Captain of our forces in the past, but he is much given to the study of lore.  One with his attention ever in a book too oft fails to see dangers or advantages to be found right beneath his nose.”

            Thorongil’s voice became cold.  “Have you not heard that I, too, am learned in ancient lore?  Such was my kinsman’s interest in such things that he has seen to it all who pass through his house are entertained nightly with ancient tales and songs, and I read freely all I could find in his library regarding the histories of Middle Earth.  Even now, when naught else puts calls upon my time I spend what time I can in the great archives, ever seeking to add to what I learned as a child and youth.  I doubt that in the end you would find me preferable, as you appear to see it, to Lord Denethor.

            “And there is the fact I have sworn myself to his father’s service.  I will not betray that oath by standing against Ecthelion’s son when it is his time to accept the White Rod.  Tell me, my lord—why this interest in preferring me?  Do you think me more easily swayed to your arguments than Denethor?  You will find I am master of my own mind, and I have been known to speak against those I love most truly when I have felt it right and proper to do so.”

            Meredorn’s voice cooled to match that of the mercenary.  “Is that your way of warning me you consider my talk treasonous?”

            There was a pause before Thorongil answered, “I question the motivations of those who would advise against following the legal succession of power within the land.”

            “If the rightful King were found, and could substantiate his claim to the Throne, would you deny him?”

            “He would have to prove his lineage and his claim, and even then I would not wish to see the authority of the Ruling Stewards blindly set aside.”

            “Would you give your oath to Denethor as you have to Ecthelion?”

            “That is not a question that needs to be answered at this time, Lord Meredorn.”

            “But if you could become King of Gondor----”

            “My lord, you press me too closely.  If you continue, I must make my report to Lord Ecthelion that you speak, if not against him, at least against the rightful succession of his son.  I will leave you now.  I give you good day.”

            He heard the door to the next room close with far more force than he had ever heard from Captain Thorongil.  Denethor considered going into that room to confront Meredorn when he heard the inner door to the chamber open.  He heard Meredorn ask, “Then you heard all?”

            Denethor was surprised to hear his father say, “Well, he told you no more than what he has told me.  And he stands for Denethor’s succession, which puts the lie to what has been said by many.  A most mysterious soul, my young Captain.”

            “He is able to keep his temper.”

            “And he is able to be as angered as is true of any other.  I heard him all but slam the door as he left.”

            “He did not say, though, that he would swear allegiance to Denethor as he has to you.”

            “No, he did not.  But he answered well.  He is a politic soul, I deem.”

            “That he is—I will drink to that.”  There was quiet for a time, before Meredorn asked, “Would you not see your son succeed you as Ruling Steward?”

            “I would see him serve as Steward, but would not be adverse to seeing him serving under the rightful King’s rule, should the King choose to return in my time.”

            “But there is little enough to indicate that this is any more the Heir to Isildur than is any other from among the Lost.”

            “Save that when he enters a room all come to attention—even I.”

            “Pelendur did not accept the claim of the last Heir to Isildur to put it forth, even though Arvedui was married to the one remaining child of Ondoher.”

            “Fíriel was his daughter, and no woman has ruled Gondor.”

            “Other than Berúthiel,” muttered Meredorn.

            “Pelendur could rule against the Heir to Isildur when it has ever been the Heir to Anárion who has ruled Gondor since the day Isildur ceded that position to his brother’s son.  But the descendants of Fíriel might be the Heirs to Isildur, but also are the Heirs to Anárion as well.  If the current Heir to Isildur could be found and it is shown he is also descended from Fíriel and thus from Ondoher and Anárion, it would go far to making the argument that the proper King has been found.”

            “But if he refuses to name himself Isildur’s heir----”

            “We shall do nothing until a claim has been put forth.  He is wise—it is never good to start a rule by inciting civil war.  But the shadow within Mordor grows ever stronger, and my son, as much as I love him truly, is not an easy man to love and honor to the point of freely given obedience.  It will be well enough once he and Finduilas are married.  When those within Minas Tirith see how deeply she adores him it will be easier for them to realize there is a side to him that does draw fealty based upon affection.  But a strong King of pure blood from both lineages could command more easily than ever will Denethor.  And if, as I have foreseen, the great battle comes within my son’s lifetime, Gondor will need one who can command loyalty with a glance, as Denethor cannot.”

            There were approaching footsteps along the hallway, and both men within the next room went still.  There was a knock at the door, and Ecthelion could be heard calling, “Come.”

            “My Lord Steward, Lord Meredorn—I am sent to tell you that Lord Adrahil’s ship has just arrived at the Harlond.  He should be within the City within two hours.”

            “Good, good!”  Ecthelion’s voice sounded ebullient.  “Then shall we away, Meredorn, and prepare for the arrival of our beloved Prince of Dol Amroth and my son’s prospective bride?  The announcement this evening at the banquet of their engagement should do much to assure the Lords of the Realm that all is in hand for the peaceful succession of rule within Gondor, don’t you think?”

            “Indeed so.  Lead on, my Lord.”

            Denethor could hear the three sets of footsteps leaving the other room behind the Hall of Kings, and he set the book he’d been reading down into his lap.  They thought that his devotion to learning weakened him as a leader?  And even his father thought to deny him his rightful place as Ruling Steward when his time should come?  His father would put forth Thorongil as a possible candidate for the Throne and Winged Crown?

            He’d begun to resent Thorongil’s penchant for being better versed in the histories of the First and Second Ages than himself, and better, too, at weapons.  But where before he’d suppressed his feelings of disenchantment as being beneath his dignity, he would do so no longer!  “No man has the right to supplant me in the heart of my father or my people!” he murmured to himself.  So saying, he closed the book with a decided clap! and never opened it again.

Written for the Tolkien Weekly "Descendants" challenge.  For ChickLovesLOTR for her birthday, and for Mirach for the idea of Elrond sailing annually with his father.  Beta by RiverOtter.

Descendants

            Once each year Elrond, past Lord of Imladris, sails with his father upon the Seas of Night, borne aloft in the great craft Vingilot.  They look down upon the lands of Middle Earth, watching the doings of his twin sons as they continue to ride with the Rangers of Arnor and as they travel to and from Gondor or Annúminas, and increasingly, Mithlond.  He looks down and sees echoes of his brother’s high cheekbones and grey eyes throughout those lands, as well as in Umbar, Angmar, Harad, and Rhûn.

            My descendants multiply.  May they be ever blessed,  his father sighs.

With many thanks to RiverOtter and Surgical Steel for the beta!

The Crafting of the Seeing-stones

            “Oh, Fëanáro…” Nerdanel said from the doorway of the forge.

            Her husband turned, wondering what had brought her here at this time, so soon after the birth of their twin sons.  And he knew well that when she used quite that inflection she did very much desire something of him.  “Yes, O flower of my heart?” he responded.

            “It is only that I have thought of a challenge for your skill is all, as the father of our children and the master of your forge.”

            “And that is?”

            She entered the room, moving aside one of his sets of tongs that she not knock it clattering to the floor with an unwatched movement of her hip as she settled it against a worktable.  “It has to do with our sons, best beloved,” she finally admitted.  “I am finding it increasingly difficult to reach each of them when necessary.  As for Ambarussa—I can barely leave the side of their crib without worry that one or the other—or both—will awaken and cry out for me.  Between the caring for our home and the commissions I have received for works from my own forge or from my studio I have much to do, and I cannot always easily break away to have to go far and wide in search of this son or that.  And I cannot bring Ambarussa to the forge or studio for their nap, as the noise and movement keep them awake and watching.  Macalaurë slept through nearly anything as long as the sound had rhythm to it, and give any of the others a bar of mithril on which to teeth and they were happy.  But these two….”  Her shrug served to arouse him, and he knew he had yet another reason to fulfill her wishes, as when she was pleased she could share such pleasure with him.

            “So, what is it that you would wish of me?”

            Again she shrugged.  “I am not certain, but it should be something for me and for each of the children.  Something fairly portable that they each might carry theirs with them when they are abroad, and that I might carry mine easily from the kitchens to the solar to the studio or forge when it is needed.  Something with which I might watch over the children when they are away from home, and with which they can contact us when we are needed.  Something with which I can watch over the twins as they sleep or play quietly together while I am working elsewhere.  Something that I can use to call the older ones home with when it is needful for us to gather as a family.  Something with which they might communicate with one another even if they are far apart.  After all, Maitimo is now busy in the house of his grandfather, attending upon him as King, and Macalaurë seems ever on the road from Alqualondë to Valmar and back, singing for festivals and weddings and dedications and the like.  And with Tyelcormo so often on the hunt with Oromë and that hound of his….”  She did not need to go further.

            “I will see what I can do,” he promised her, and received a sound kiss in return ere she left him.  He was humming as he finished the knife he was currently working on, and humming still as he set an apprentice to sharpening it and reached for his wax tablet and scriber on which to begin the plans for the devices his wife desired of him.

 *******

            He found Nerdanel in the room where the twins slept, a fussing child on each arm.  She looked flustered, as did the elleth who served as the nurse for the infants, not that the twins ever seemed to respond well to anyone other than their parents.  She looked up at him distractedly.  “Yes, Fëanáro?”

            He smiled at her with triumph.  “I have completed the challenge you set me!” he explained.  “If you will come to the dining room when you are free to do so.”  He reached out to take one of the infants into his arms, allowing her to lift the other to nurse.

            She gave a tired smile, and murmured soothingly to the child she held.  “Softly, softly my little one.  Drink and be calm.”  She looked back, suggesting, “If you will change that one, I believe he will quiet the quicker.  Then, once both are calmer we can go down together.”

            The nurse curtseyed with relief and fled to her own chamber, leaving master and mistress in charge of the two terrors of her life, vowing secretly that she would herself never give birth—and certainly not to two at once!

            Soon enough they were able to carry their two youngest to the dining room.  There upon the table sat seven spheres, each slightly larger than a span in diameter, with two somewhat larger than the rest.  They appeared to be of black glass through which wound ribbons of light.  Each sphere was set on a circular stand wrought of steel raised upon four lion-clawed feet.

            “Here are seven far-seers,” he explained.  “There is one for each of the older ones and one for the nursery, and this one--” here he touched the largest, “—can speak to all of the rest at once.  When you look into this one you can see everything in the land in which the son carrying the sphere you seek to follow travels, indeed all betwixt you and that son.  And when each son looks into his sphere he can see all between where he is and wherever it is that the brother he seeks to find or speak with might be, as well as all betwixt himself and you.  When two seek to communicate with one another, they will be able to see each another and speak using osanwë.  And when you face one or all of them through the master stone here, you shall be likewise able to use osanwë.”

            She was enchanted, and that night was most pleasantly spent by the two of them.

 *******

            Getting their sons to carry the spheres took persuasion at first, and with Tyelcormo and Atarincë she had to use the coercion of guilt to convince them to do so.  As each stone became associated with a particular son, she found that she could watch over them even when they did not carry their own stones with them.

            All worked well at first with the sphere for Ambarussa’s room—until the twins realized that they could turn their sphere toward any of their brothers and watch whatever they were doing or interrupt them in the midst of sometimes very delicate situations, and tattle on them at will.  At last, to keep the peace, their father set the stone assigned to Ambarussa to focus on Taniquetl.  “There,” he muttered.  “Let the Valar deal with the two of them spying!”  Their mother, however, could easily watch over them and speak to them through the master stone, and at need they could use theirs to speak with hers.  As they grew up, however, they found each wished to have his own stone, so their father took theirs for a time to duplicate it.  Unfortunately, this new one, too, tended to focus primarily on Taniquetl for the longest time, until with considerable frustrated fiddling their father finally was able to change the primary focus of the two stones to each other.  This pleased the two of them mightily, as they each felt the need to know where the other was and what he might be doing at any time.  And all was at peace in the house of Fëanor until Melkor was released from Mandos….

******* 

            “We shan’t need these in Formenos,” groused Atarincë.  “I mean, what will be the use?  We won’t be traveling abroad from one another, after all.  Indeed, I suspect we shall come to loath being forced to be together constantly!”

            So it was that during their time of exile the sons of Fëanor and Nerdanel indeed got out of the habit of relying on their stones.  Their father became increasingly bitter and convinced that the Valar sought to take his treasures, and in time he locked the eight Palantiri in his treasury with his Silmarilli.  And, unfortunately, as his anger and suspicions grew, he became convinced that his wife’s constant admonitions to trust the Valar indicated she honored the Powers more than she did him, and his love for her began to cool.

            When he came out of Formenos, Fëanáro refused to return to their home, and there were quarrels and hurt feelings.  Nerdanel finally insisted that the stones be given her, but only she used them, it seemed.  And on the day that her estranged husband led their sons to swear that cursèd oath and led them to Alqualondë and the bloodbath there, she watched through the master stone and wept in grief and horror, the other seven sitting about her, for not one of her sons, not even the twins or Macalaurë, had agreed to take his stone with him.

            And in time first her husband and then each of her sons died, save Macalaurë alone, and all the stones did was to remind her of all she had lost.  They were returned to the chest Fëanor had crafted for them when he’d placed them in his treasury, and she hid them away.

*******

            At the end of the First Age of the Sun many things were changed.  Beleriand was buried beneath the Sea, while across it, within sight of the tower of Avalonnë on Tol Eressëa, a new land was raised as a dwelling place for the most favored of the Second-born.  A far more solemn Nerdanel in time began to craft items to be gifted to or traded with those who dwelt in Númenor, and oft when she came across some treasured creation of her husband that brought back the more painful memories of her lost marriage and sons, she would send it there to be rid of it.

            One day one of the Elves of Tol Eressëa who had once been in Círdan’s court and had befriended Elros Tar-Minyatur and his people came to her.  “Evil grows upon the Star Isle,” he told her.  “Those who are faithful to the Valar are sent into exile away from the capital of Armenelos, and when their lords meet with one another they are accused of fomenting revolt.  They cannot be seen together much of the time, but have need of a means of communicating with one another and with those of us upon Tol Eressëa willing to succor them.  It is said that he who was your husband had crafted stones allowing his sons to speak together and allowing him to watch over them from afar.  Is this true?  Can you make such things for their use?”

            Could she make such things?  Even if she could, would she?  She tried, but in the end accepted that too oft there is but one proper time for such makings.  What was she to do?  And then she thought, “But of what use are the original stones to me now?  I cannot see my sons there in the Halls of Mandos; nor am I able to see my Macalaurë even with the master stone.  They might be of use to the lords among the Faithful on the Star Isle, but I will not betray Fëanáro’s memory by giving them into the hands of those here in Aman whom he saw as enemies.”  For, although he was lost to her, yet she found she still loved him and would not look on any other.

            And so on the day the Elf from Tol Eressëa came again she brought out the casket and revealed the eight stones to him, explaining the use of the larger master stone, and that these two spoke primarily only with one another.  He was pleased and accepted them.  His house took one of the paired stones, and the rest were given to the chief lord of the Faithful, who kept the master stone for himself and gave the rest to others of the lords who refused to join the King’s Men.  These were kept secret, and on the day that the Faithful and their people went out in their fleet to the east side of the island, three of the stones (including the paired stone) were given into Elendil’s keeping, two were given to Isildur, and two to Anárion.  And so it was that Elendil kept a stone each at Annúminas and Amon Sûl, placing the paired stone in one of the three ancient Elf towers that stood looking out over the Sundering Sea.  Isildur placed the master stone in Osgiliath, his brother placed one in Orthanc, and they each took his remaining palantir to his own city.

            And so the palantiri were settled as Elendil and his sons saw the lands of Arnor and Gondor founded within Middle Earth.

 *******

            In Aman, Nerdanel kept the empty chest, and within it stored small tokens that most strongly reminded her of the joyful days before her husband succeeded in crafting the Silmarilli, when his ardor shifted fully from her to the works of his hands, and her family was lost to her.  And she prayed that one day each would be restored again to her side.

~*~

Author's notes:  As this is told primarily from the point of view of Nerdanel, I have used the mother-names for her sons rather than their father-names or those they were known by best within Middle Earth.

Osanwë is the Elven skill of telepathic communication.

Author’s Notes

            Another collection of stories has reached the propitious tale of a hundred, and again I will close it off here, beginning other collections for those tales that are not Frodo- or Bilbo-centric for the future.

            I thank all of those who have responded to what I’ve written so far, and hope people will continue to read and comment as they can.  Special thanks are given to those who have offered corrections and suggestions.

            Tolkien’s world is enormous, with a history and population that is remarkably diverse and fascinating.  To add my own portions to the story he has begun and bequeathed to us is delightful, and I am ever grateful to him for the gift of Arda as to those who share in the delight and development of it.

            Thank you again, and be on the watch for other tales as they come.