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

Rated: G
Summary: In which Arwen has reason to reprimand one of her ladies-in-waiting...

“Lady Haleth, I have the highest respect for your mother. She was one of my maids of honour for several years, and I account her a dear friend. It was only for that reason I accepted you in such a capacity.”

Haleth dared to raise her eyes from her toes, and meet the Queen’s gaze briefly. Her heart sank, and she dropped her gaze once more. Such cold contempt there was, and what was worse, sorrow and pity.

“At this point, my inclination is to dismiss you from this Court at once, and send you home to your mother in Lossarnach with a detailed account of exactly *why* you are in disgrace.”

Haleth could feel the blood drain from her face. Her parents would never let her out in public again.

“There is only *one* reason I do not. Your victim has pled for you, and asked me to forgive you.”

Hope warred with confusion in Haleth’s breast. She dared to ask “What do you mean, my Queen?”

“I mean that even though you have cruelly taunted her, have used her spitefully, and made her the object of ridicule, she says that she has forgiven you and she wishes me to do the same. She says that since she will not be here much longer, she does not care to leave ill-will behind her, and that she thinks you may have learned your lesson.”

She gulped, and felt unaccountably small, and very, very young. “Why?” she whispered.

Raising her gaze to the Queen’s once more was perhaps the hardest thing Haleth had done in all her fifteen years. Queen Arwen was the most beautiful creature Haleth had ever seen, but her anger was dreadful.

“She said she wanted you to be forgiven because her parents would wish it, and most of all, she said, because her Uncle Frodo would have wished it.” Arwen’s eyes sparked briefly with tears, and then she blinked. “I told her that I would spare you on one condition: you must apologize. And, Lady Haleth, trust me that I will *know* if you do not mean it.”

Haleth burst into tears, but nodded. Arwen went to the door of her chamber, and opened it. “Lady Elanor, Lady Haleth has something she wishes to say.”

Haleth looked at the halfling maiden, as she came to stand before her. “I--I’m sorry…”

Elanor smiled at her, and opened her arms in comfort. “That’s all right. You won’t do it any more.”

Arwen watched as they embraced, the tiny hobbit lass patting the other girl comfortingly on the back. Haleth looked up once more, and was surprised to see a look of pride there now.

Merry and Pippin dried themselves with towels as large as blankets, and quickly dressed. It had been their first visit to the large bathing house in Rivendell. It had been quite a treat to swim in the huge bathing pool, with its water heated by some mysterious spring.

As they were getting ready to leave, Boromir arrived. He gave them a pleasant nod in greeting, as he disrobed and stepped into the pool.

“He’s a warrior, Pippin. Thank goodness we shall never have a reason to worry about such things.”

Targon nodded. He’d wondered at it himself. “The pherian you introduced me to, yesterday, he’s sworn to the Steward’s service. This is for him.”

Beregond nodded. He remembered Pippin telling him he had sworn to the Steward’s service. It had never occurred to him that the pherian would have livery and armor--in such circumstances as these, who would have the time to make them? “Where did they come from?”

“The Steward’s seneschal brought them down to the armory late last night. He said they had once belonged to the Lord Faramir as a child.”

“Ah, then,” smiled Beregond, “wearing the garb of such as our Lord Faramir is sure to bring our small friend courage!”

Beregond smiled. “He is young, but no child. But he comes from a land untouched as yet by the enemy, and he is very open and cheerful! It made my heart the lighter to be with him. I wonder that Mithrandir brought him into such peril, but there is some tale woven about him that I do not yet know. I do not think that he told us the half of why he is so far from home.”

Just then the door burst open, and the object of their discussion appeared before them. “The Lord Denethor said--oh! Beregond! And Targon, isn’t it? The Lord Denethor said I was to come get livery and gear of the Tower, that had been ordered for me?”

Beregond gestured at the items which lay upon a table, and Pippin’s eyes grew wide at the sight. “Oh my!” He walked over and put a hesitant hand on the surcoat, and traced the outline of the White Tree with one finger. Then his attention turned to the small black hauberk; he lifted the chain mail by the shoulders, and blinked. “It’s heavy! And I’m to wear this? How?”

Beregond and Targon chuckled. “It is heavy, but when you wear it, its weight is distributed across your body,” said Targon.

Pippin looked at the other items: a small helmet, a silk shirt, black boots. He blinked at them, and then looked at Beregond and Targon questioningly, appeal in his green eyes.

At Pippin’s nod, the two Men assisted him: silk shirt beneath the chain mail, which slithered coldly over his head, and links caught briefly in his hair. Over that the surcoat. But Pippin shook his head at the boots. “They will not fit me,” he said, emphatically, “and I cannot imagine imprisoning my feet in those.”

The two Men had to admit the practicality of that. “There is no weapon,” said Targon, “but I see that you have one already.”

Pippin buckled on his silver belt, his sheathed sword at his side. He stood back, his feet a shoulder's width apart and drew his blade just as Boromir had taught him, and then made a few passes with it. He grinned up at the Men, but there were tears in his eyes as well. “Do you think good old Boromir would be pleased to see me like this?”

Beregond and Targon looked a bit surprised. “You *knew* our Captain-General?”

Pippin nodded, and smiled sadly. “We--we traveled with him for a while. It was he who taught me and my cousin what we know of swordplay,” and he held out the little sword for an instant before sheathing it with a snap. “He was a good friend.” And one tear escaped before he could dash it away roughly.

Touched by this sign of respect and love for their lost captain, Targon and Beregond were silent for a moment, before Beregond smiled and said “I do think that he would be very proud to see you in the livery of the Tower.”

Pippin’s face cleared at that, and he laughed lightly. Suddenly, he gave each Man a quick hug. “Thank you! And now I must run, for the Lord Denethor commanded me to return as soon as I had this gear!” And he darted from the armory as quickly as he had entered.

The two Men stared after him in bemusement, and then Targon said in a tone of wonder, “As black and as dark as the times are, for some reason I cannot help but think our luck may have turned, to have such a one among us.”

Sam stepped over the broken door. The tables were smashed, the windows broken, and the floor was piled with dirt and debris. The bar was hacked and scarred. The shelves that once held gleaming tankards, plates and spoons were bare. But the building still stood, its ceiling beams were still there, and the huge fireplace at one end. It would take a deal of work, but The Green Dragon would be restored. He glanced back at the doorway, where Frodo stood, his face blank.

He knew before he spoke his words would not help. “It’s not your fault, Mr. Frodo.”

Frodo’s thought swam upward. The world swirled about him in a freezing mist of pain and weariness. Over and over he relived that instant, the pale face, its eyes cold and empty, frightening and filled with an awful blackness, looming over him with the knife, but ever the memory stopped there, before the pain, and he was once again thrust to the beginning, as he so foolishly placed the Ring on his finger. And now a pale face, frightening and filled with a terrible light in the eyes, unlike the cold dead eyes of his first memory. But looming over him with a knife, thrusting the point into his shoulder--

Pain! Agony lanced through him--surely he would die! Ai! His thought faded away and fled into blessed silence once more…

“I have it,” said Elrond, looking in disgust at the shard of the Morgul-knife, such a tiny foe to be so fell and loathsome. “I am afraid that at the last he perceived me. I hope that he will not remember when he awakens the pain I had to inflict upon him.”

“I do not think it will seem more to him than an evil phantom of delirium,” replied Aragorn.

Faramir took a deep breath and swallowed. “Are you sure, Pippin?” he asked his small friend, who was tugging at the back of his tunic.

Pippin chuckled. “Yes, Faramir, I am quite sure that this will do perfectly. Éowyn’s aunt sent word that her gown tonight will be of pale blue. I think that *she* will think you look splendid in this dark blue velvet. Trust me, I have three sisters, I know these things.”

Across the room, sitting in the windowsill and watching in amusement, Frodo, Sam and Merry chuckled.

“D’you remember, Mr. Frodo, your forty-fifth birthday, when word got out that the dresses Miss Pervinca and Miss Estella was wearing was the same color, and everyone thought there’d be a scene?”

Frodo grinned. “I do believe that several people learned the folly of wagering that night!”

Merry rolled his eyes. “Well, certainly not Pippin! They did exactly what he said they would--embraced and laughed about it.” He scowled briefly. “I lost ten coppers.”

“I lost two,” muttered Sam under his breath. Frodo looked at Sam in surprise.

“I know my sister,” said Pippin. “It was Estella, who’s a good friend. Now, on the other hand, if it had been Cousin Amethyst, we might have seen a bit of hair-pulling!” As he spoke, he stood up on a chair, and began to straighten Faramir’s collar. He gave a brief brush to the shoulders of the tunic. “There!” he said in a satisfied tone, hopping off the chair. “I think that you are quite presentable!”

“Faramir!” Pippin exclaimed, “Éowyn loves you and wants to marry you! Do you think her brother is going to deny her anything?”

“Not if he values his hide,” said Merry cheerfully. “My sword-sister has a way of getting what she wants.” He slid down from the window, and went to Faramir’s other side. “Now, I do think there is a feast ahead of us, and a betrothal to be announced.”

His fears allayed, and surrounded by hobbits, Faramir allowed himself to be herded from the room.

The tall and unkempt figure, in his worn leathers, bent down to knock upon the door of the smial.

It was opened by a hobbit of late middle-years, his round face at first wary. “Ah, Strider,” he said, his expression clearing.

“Mr. Mugwort!” the Man responded politely. “I have come to check on my kinsman.”

“He’s feeling a sight better than he was when you left him here, Strider. Mind your head!” he said, as he led the way through a low passageway to the left of the front hall.

Nearly bent double, Strider followed slowly. The hobbit opened a small round door to a chamber, and gestured within. “Rover!” he called. “Strider’s here.”

Another Man, a few years older than Strider, and clad in leather trousers and a much mended shirt sat cross-legged on the floor, next to a pallet of blankets. He appeared to be doing some mending to a worn grey cloak. Looking over at the other Man, who had almost to crawl to come through the door, he smiled. “Have you come then, to liberate me from this confinement?”

“Say rather ‘convalescence’ and you will be nearer the mark. An infected wolf bite is nothing to speak lightly of. Take off that shirt.”

The other Man loosened the lacing at his throat, and then pulled the shirt over his head, only a little stiffly. There was a linen bandage bound about the upper part of his left arm.

With a deft touch, Strider removed the bandaging, and looked at the pink scar that was revealed. He smiled, and made a small satisfied noise, and then took a pouch from his side. He took from it another pouch of waxed linen, and from it removed a remarkably beautiful pair of steel forceps, and tiny snips. “Time for the stitches to come out,” he said.

Mr. Mugwort stood in the doorway, and watched, his brown eyes wide, as the Ranger gently removed the stitches from the other Man’s arm. It was a surprise to see how gentle-like Strider’s touch was--sure and deft.
After a few minutes, Strider nodded, satisfied. “Well, Halbarad, I think that I can say that you are hale and ready to move on.”

“I’m thankful, then.” He moved to put his shirt back on, and Strider backed out of the small room to wait for him.

He turned to look at the hobbit. “I have brought something for you, for your kind care of my kinsman during his injury and illness. If you will accompany me back outside?”

“Well, now, Strider, I didn’t do naught thinking of no reward,” Mr. Mugwort said, but he followed all the same, curious as to what the Man was talking about.

Man and hobbit came out the front door to the smial, and Strider pointed next to the door, where a brace of coneys and a fat pheasant lay, clearly freshly killed.

“I hope, Mr. Mugwort, that this will be of some use to you and your family?”

The hobbit’s face lit up. Roast pheasant were a treat not often come by, though coney were common enough. He grinned. “The missus will be right pleased with this! Mightn’t you and Rover stay to supper and have some of it with us?”

At that point Halbarad came out of the smial, his cloak over his arm, and a pack across his back. He looked at Strider, a question in his eyes. But Strider shook his head. “No, I am afraid that we must be on our way, Mr. Mugwort.”

Halbarad bent down, and shook the hobbit’s hand. “You have been an excellent host, Mr. Mugwort! And give my fond farewells to your wife--I shall miss her cooking in the wilds!”

“You take care, Rover. Don’t come by no more wolf-bites, now! And any time you’re around, stop in to say hello and have a bit to eat with us.”

Mr. Mugwort stood and watched the two Big Folk walk away. There was them that said Rangers was no better than vagabonds, lazy folk who couldn’t be bothered with doing a job of work, but would rather live like animals in the Wild. One time, he might’ve agreed with that, but no more. These Men was good folks, polite and well-spoken. Sometimes he thought that mayhap there was more to them than there looked.

Ah, well. It’d be awhile afore he saw them again. His face brightened and he picked up the coneys and the pheasant, to take them to his wife.

The following came from the writings of Iorhael the Belovéd, known in his own land as Frodo Baggins, taken from his home on the Blesséd Isle after he had accepted the Gift of Mortals. Most of his later writings were in Quenya, but many of his earlier ones were written in his native tongue.

I was beyond all hope, in toils and dangers,
in places I had never thought to come,
where nothing could be found of any grace,
with one who’d always followed where I’d lead.
I’d brought us far from any hope of home.
Yet burden gone, my heart once more felt safe.

I cannot say that anywhere was safe,
but friendship urged me on from fiery dangers.
My spirit filled with thoughts of distant home;
and I was sure my final time had come.
Down the fiery path I let him lead,
blessed at the last with only friendship’s grace.

Weary, worn and wounded, devoid of grace,
facing death, I somehow yet felt safe.
How could I have known where my steps would lead?
How could I have pictured all the dangers?
I wished that I had never let him come,
to bring him here to death so far from home.

But in his company I feel that I am home.
How did I deserve his friendship’s grace?
We wait for death, but death it does not come.
We waken in a bright and fresh world, safe,
alive, past all the snares and dangers!
Who can know where this new age will lead?

But I soon find I can no longer lead
the life that I once had in my dear home.
Even there had come harsh snares and dangers,
and all my life seems harsh and lacking grace.
I thought that I had kept my homeland safe--
but all is grey and joy had not come.

But then a message came: the time had come,
that I might take the hidden paths that lead
to Havens where a grey ship is kept safe.
A ship to bear me far away from home--
Dare I go and take the offered grace?
Shall I leave my world behind with all its dangers?

But now at last to harbor safe I’ve come, and no more dangers.
Who knew that here my road would lead: to this fair home I’ve gained by Eru’s grace?

[AUTHOR’S NOTES: This poem is written as a modified sestina, a poem in which six words are used as the last word of each line, in a specific order, with two last lines using all six words. I modified it by adding the refrain. Since I do not know anything about Elven languages, the refrain is cobbled together. I took the word “Laitë” from the hymn of praise to the Ringbearers in Cormallen, and the latter part from Cirion’s Oath as quoted in Unfinished Tales. It should say:
"Praise Iluvatar! The One Iluvatar! The One who is above all thrones forever!” If you are an expert, and I have got it wrong, I’d appreciate any correction you might care to make.

EDIT: Thanks to Fiondil, I have edited “Laitë” to "Á laita", which he was kind enough to point out to me was a more correct Quenyan form of the word in this usage.

The six words I chose come from the second verse of the hymn “Amazing Grace”:

Through many dangers, toils and snares
I have already come
‘Twas grace that brought me safe thus far
And grace will lead me home.

Rating: G
Summary: Frodo gives a lesson in First Age history to a young friend…

Frodo passed the door of his study, and then backed up a few steps, to look in. “Fatty? I thought you’d gone out with Merry and Pippin.”

Fatty, who was curled up on the settee with one of Bilbo’s books, shrugged. “They were walking down to the Water; I think they might have wanted to go swimming.” He made a face. “Besides, I was really interested in this story…” He glanced back at the book. “Er, Frodo?”

Frodo walked into the room to get a closer look. He bent over the back of the settee. “Ah! The Silmarillion! One of Bilbo’s translations. What do you need to know?”

“I’m just not sure I understand what happened with all the jewels, or why…” Fatty’s voice trailed off in a hopeful fashion.

“Well, I was about to go to the kitchen for some elevenses. Why don’t you join me, as you are still here, and we’ll discuss it.”

Fatty grinned, and he stood up with the book under his arm and trailed after his older cousin.

Frodo filled the teakettle and put it on to boil, and opened the cupboard. “I have part of that apple cake from supper last night still left?” He arched his brow at Fatty, whose face lit up.

“That sounds lovely, Cousin Frodo, thank you.” Fatty found the forks and teacups, and in only a few minutes they were seated at the table.

“Now,” said Frodo, “what is confusing you? I remember when Bilbo first told me that story, I became completely confused trying to keep track of everything that was involved. I remember that I told Bilbo that it was like trying to juggle.”

Fatty chuckled. “Exactly! And I really don’t understand why they made so much trouble. If they were made from the Trees of Light, then they should have been *good*!” He took a bite of his apple cake, and looked at Frodo expectantly.

Frodo felt quite gratified at his younger cousin’s faith in his ability to untangle all the maze of confusion surrounding that ancient tale. Since Bilbo had left, he’d missed being able to discuss such things. Merry and Pippin had very little interest in those old stories for the most part. But it was clear young Fatty had a keen interest in Elves. “Well, you see, it was not the jewels themselves that were the problem. It was Fëanor’s pride and folly in swearing that awful oath, and in binding that oath on all his family…”

Though they soon finished the apple cake between them, the tea grew cold, as they talked about the story, and Frodo took the book from his cousin to show to him certain things and explain certain passages. They were still talking when the back door banged open and Merry and Pippin rushed in, flushed, their curls still wet.

Merry and Pippin stopped and looked at the other two in surprise. “Now, here Pip and I hurried to get back so we’d not be late for luncheon, and it doesn’t look as though you’ve even started cooking!”

Frodo looked at them in astonishment. Surely he and Fatty had not been talking for two hours straight! But the look of equal surprise on Fatty’s round face showed that they were quite right. He stood up. “Well, in that case, why don’t we walk down the Hill, and take our luncheon at the Ivy Bush?”

They were King and Queen, but Frodo saw them only as Aragorn and Arwen, who waited forty years for this moment. Their eyes met, Aragorn’s filled with a tenderness that enveloped his bride. She dropped her eyes, suddenly shy, and then looked up. Her countenance was filled with joy, and the radiance of her own being surrounded him. He cupped her chin; then they kissed.

Somehow Frodo saw in them the majesty of Númenor renewed, as though that ancient land had risen from the sea. He felt slim hands upon his shoulders.

Merry winced at the shrill notes coming from the front steps. Pippin’s voice, patient--though Merry thought he could detect the tiniest bit of weariness in it-- “All right, Ilberic, try again from the beginning. You have to relax your fingering…”

Merry sighed. Life at Crickhollow normally was nice and peaceful, except for those days when his younger cousin came down from Brandy Hall to take his lessons from Pippin. Pippin was so talented musically, he could not imagine that others would not have the same ease in learning to play that he did. When Ilberic had expressed interest in learning how to play the shepherd’s pipes, Pippin had generously offered lessons to the tween.

The melody for “On the Banks of the Brandywine” floated out, surprisingly free of sour notes, though it sounded somewhat slow and dirge-like for such a jolly tune. Ilberic managed to get all the way through without hitting a wrong note.

“That’s great!” Pippin exclaimed. Merry could imagine the encouraging grin. “Now, try it this way.”

That’s more like, thought Merry, listening to Pippin play it. His toes started to tap as he sat at his desk. He’d been making notes about the properties of vervain. He could listen to *Pippin* play all day.

Pippin finished, and now Ilbie started again, hesitantly, then picking up speed and--there was the shriek of a bad note. Merry felt it go all through him. How on earth did Pippin stand it.

“I’m sorry, Pippin,” Ilbie said, “I don’t seem to be getting any better at all. I *do* practice--I really do! But Mum and Da won’t allow me to practice in the apartment anymore, and now Uncle Saradoc has asked me not to practice in the public parts of the Hall, and--” his voice trailed off miserably. “Maybe I should just quit while I’m ahead,” he added in a wistful tone.

“It’s all right, Ilbie. All you need is--” Pippin’s voice trailed off, and Merry could almost see the wheels turning in his younger cousin’s head like a well-tuned pocket-watch.

“*Your* pipes, Cousin Pippin?” Ilbie exclaimed in surprise. “But you told me that--that Legolas, the Elf, made those for you!”

“Exactly!” Pippin crowed. “It’s *exactly* what you need! After all, an *Elf* made it! And he made it in an Elven realm--in the Golden Wood of Lothlórien…”

“Well, what do *you* think?” There was a brief silence, and then Pippin continued. “Now, you take *those* to practice with, and I will just make myself another set. If you practice enough, I am certain you’ll be able to play with us at Yule in a few weeks!”

Merry sat there shaking his head. Pippin *loved* those pipes! How could he just give them to Ilberic like that! Why, they were no more magic than Merry himself was!

A few moments later, Pippin came in. “You can unstuff your ears, now, Merry, he’s gone.”

“My ears are just fine, thank you. Why did you give him your own pipes? You know there’s no magic in them!”

Pippin blushed and shrugged. “It won’t hurt him to think so. He just needs a bit of confidence, that’s all. And it may help him.”

Merry rolled his eyes. Pippin was just too generous sometimes. There wasn’t much of anything, in his opinion, that could improve Ilberic’s playing.
________________________________________

Merry stared in astonishment at the dais, where the musicians, Pippin and Merry’s mother with their fiddles, Melilot with her harp, Mentha with her lute, Myrtle with her tambour--thank goodness *he* wasn’t up there with a tambour--and Ilberic with his pipes, were rehearsing. He’d not heard a wrong note yet. They finished playing “Candles” and Esmeralda signaled a break.

Pippin came down, and caught Merry’s eye with a grin. “I told you all he needed was a little confidence.”

Merry just stared after Ilberic. No, he thought, Legolas really *did* make magic pipes. That’s the only thing to account for it.

“My stars, Merry!” said Pippin, as he straightened his cousin’s jacket, and brushed imaginary fluff from the back. “It’s not as if you haven’t done this before.”

“Of course you have! You are the Master of Buckland, after all! You’ve officiated at dozens of weddings!”

“But *not* for one of my own children, Pippin! Think about it! *You* officiated at Perry’s marriage.”

Just then there was a tap on the door, and Sam himself entered, along with Freddy Bolger. “Are you ready, Merry? Everything is in place.”

Merry felt a sudden and unaccountable reluctance. His baby. Never mind that she was of age--she *was* his baby. Pippin gave him a quick hug, and a shove towards the door, and taking a deep breath, out he went.

Followed by Pippin, Sam and Freddy, he made his way to the front garden of Brandy Hall, where the crowd of guests parted to make way for the Master. There was the great white pavilion, wreathed in flowers, next to the large and imposing oak tree. Generations of Brandybucks had wed beneath that pavilion. There was the table, with its white cloth, and the bottle of red ink, and the large and beautifully illuminated marriage document. All of it was familiar to his eyes, and yet today looked strangely alien. Frodo Gardner and Merry Gamgee stood next to the table waiting for him. He took his place, and then looked back over the crowd.

Here she came. Tears sprang to his eyes, and he blinked them away. Her mother and sister were behind her, but Estella stepped away, and, accompanied only by her sister, and looking just a bit frightened, she came forward.

At a nudge from his brother, Merry-lad moved to stand next to her, and they looked into one another’s eyes. Merry could not help but be moved to amused fondness at the way all of his daughter’s nervousness seemed to transfer itself to her betrothed. Merry-lad gave an audible gulp.

Niphredil was beautiful, thought Merry. She took after her mother so much, with her dark hair and delicate face. His youngest had always been on the shy side, and he had been quite surprised to realize that she had attracted the regard of Sam’s exuberant son, his own namesake--and even more surprised to realize that she returned the affection.

“I have before me two hobbits who have come with a petition of marriage. Who will vouch for them?”

Frodo, who was standing witness for his younger brother, stepped forward with the response. "I am Frodo Gardner a hobbit of Hobbiton. I present Merry Gamgee, a hobbit of Hobbiton, known to me as a hobbit of good character, who is of age, with no reasons why he should not be wed.” He turned and favored his brother with a proud smile, and then stepped back again.

And now it was Wyn‘s turn. “I am Simbelmynë Greenhill, a hobbitess of Greenholm. I present Niphredil Brandybuck, a hobbitess of Buckland, known to me as a hobbitess of good character, who is of age, with no reasons why she should not be wed.” She smiled at her little sister, and giving her a kiss on the cheek, stepped back.

“Merry Gamgee, is it your intent to wed Niphredil Brandybuck, of your own free will?”

Merry looked right back, and arched an eyebrow at him, before turning to his daughter. His expression softened, and he had to stop and swallow a lump in his throat, before he continued.

“Niphredil Brandybuck, is it your intent to wed Merry Gamgee, of your own free will?”

She turned to her bridegroom, and, her heart in her eyes, said, “Yes, I do.”

“Merry Gamgee and Niphredil Brandybuck, you have declared before witnesses your intent to wed. The duties of marriage are to honor and support one another; the blessings of marriage are to love and respect one another. These duties and these blessings are meant to last for a lifetime. Are you prepared to take on these tasks, through such joys and sorrows as may in time come to you?”

“As the Master of Buckland, it has been my privilege to preside over many weddings. But this wedding is very special, for I find myself joining the hand of my youngest child to the hand of the beloved son of one of my dearest friends. Niphredil and Merry, I know you both well; I know that you will honor and cherish one another, that your new home will be filled with love and laughter. I know that you both have the courage to stick with one another when hard times shall come, as they always do. But though you will have one another, do not forget that you have the rest of your family as well, and do not hesitate to ask for help when you need it. I know that you will make all of us proud. And Merry Gamgee, I welcome you to my family as my new son. Niphredil and Merry, may your joys be many, may your sorrows be few.”

“And now, if the designated witnesses will come forward: Peregrin Took, Samwise Gamgee, Frodo Gardner, Peridoc Brandybuck, Faramir Took, Pippin Gamgee and Hending Greenhill.”

Pippin and Sam signed first, the Thain handing the quill to the Mayor with a grin and a flourish, then Frodo-lad, Perry, Fam and Pippin-lad, and finally, Wyn’s husband Hending. Hending handed the quill to Merry-lad, who wrote his own name, his hand trembling just a little. Merry noticed unshed tears of joy in his daughter’s eyes as she added her own.

Finally, Merry added his own name, and then taking off his ring, affixed the seal of the Brandybucks. He stepped back, putting an arm around them both, and looking out at the guests, pronounced, “I am honored to present Mr. and Mrs. Merry Gamgee.”

He stood back, and then whispered to Merry-lad. “You can kiss her now, you know.”

But Merry did not watch his daughter and his new son-in-law exchange their conjugal kiss. Instead, his eyes sought for Estella’s. He hoped that Dilly and Merry-lad would be as happy in their marriage as he had always been in his.

Pippin and Sam came to stand by him, as the young couple was led away by Wyn and Frodo-lad. Sam sniffed, and blew his nose. “Mr. Frodo would have been right proud today,” he said.

Pippin chuckled. “Two Merrys in the family now. Well, Estella will only have to call once at supper-time!”

Rating: G
Summary: One of the princes of Dol Amroth relates a bit of family history to an old friend…

Amrothos leaned heavily on his cane, as he crossed the courtyard of the White Tree. His attention was first caught by the small, perfectly formed rings of smoke drifting out from beneath its shade. He smiled as he caught sight of the tiny white-haired figure, sitting on the bench there, and swinging its hairy feet. He turned and made his way there.

As he approached, he could hear singing, the hobbit’s voice surprisingly sweet and strong for all his years. There was something about the tune…

“Master Pippin?” For the former Thain and his cousin had been living at the Court of the King for long enough that a certain amount of familiarity had set in.

The hobbit’s face lit up. “Lord Amrothos!” He grinned. “Do come and rest your old bones alongside mine.”

Amrothos chuckled. “My old bones,” he pointed out, “are four years younger than *your* old bones.” He sat down. “Where is Master Merry?” For truly, one almost never saw one of the hobbits without the other.

“If you can believe it, the Master of Herb-lore at the Houses of Healing asked him to talk about herbs to the apprentices there this morning. He was rather chuffed about the honor, though I feel sorry for the poor apprentices--he’s quite likely to talk them to death.”

Pippin smiled. “It’s a song I learned from Legolas, all about an Elven maiden named Nimrodel.” The hobbit’s face briefly softened into solemnity. “He sang it to us, long ago, on the Quest, as we watched the waters of the river named for her leaping nimbly among the rocks and rills. It was just before we came to Lothlórien.” He gave a little touch to the brooch at his throat, which clasped his cloak about him, and a look of wistfulness came over his face, limned as it was in laugh lines. Then the green eyes crinkled, and he gave a rueful chuckle. “I *must* be old,” he said, “when I think with longing on the dark days of our journey.”

“It is not the danger you miss, Master Hobbit, but the companions, and the innocence of youth.”

“I daresay you are right.” Pippin blew out another smoke-ring. He hummed under his breath a little of the tune he had been singing. “But if I recall correctly, Lord Amrothos, your family should know the tale of poor Nimrodel quite well.”

Amrothos nodded. “The tradition of our family is that we are descended from Nimrodel’s dear friend Mithrellas, and Imrazôr the Númenórean.”

“I’d been told that before. Faramir and I discussed it once; Nimrodel’s story is such a sad one, but Mithrellas’ story seems rather mysterious.” Pippin arched his brows and his green eyes widened in entreaty, an expression that had served him well since he had been a very small child, and worked even now that he was no longer young.

Amrothos laughed heartily at that ingenuous question, and then said “There are any number of tales as to what may have happened to Mithrellas. The tradition is that she vanished after bearing Imrazôr two beautiful children, a boy and a girl--there is no doubt that the boy was my ancestor, for the family records go that far.

Some say that her husband had grown fearful of her, as he began to grow old, and she did not, and so he slew her. I do not believe that myself, although it makes for a very dramatic and suspenseful story--just a few years ago, a troupe of players in Dol Amroth had great success in acting out that version of the tale.”

Pippin shuddered. “I have never quite understood why Men are so fond of tales about murder.”

The Man glanced over at his companion. It always amazed him at how sensitive and tender-hearted the halflings were. He smiled and continued. “However, this is the version of the tale that my brothers and sister and I were told in our nursery:

One night, shortly after her daughter was born, Mithrellas and her husband went into the nursery to bid the children good night, before their nursemaid tucked them in for the night. She bent, and placed a kiss on each of their cheeks, and then as Imrazôr took his turn to do so, she stood by the open window. Suddenly, she gave a start. ‘Husband’, she said, ‘do you hear singing?’ Imrazôr went to stand by her, and then shook his head. ‘I am afraid not, my dear.’

The next night this happened again, and once more Imrazôr denied hearing anything. But on the third night, he hesitated. ‘Perhaps,’ he said ‘I did hear something, but perhaps it was only the wind off the water.’

For several days, neither of them said any more, nor did they hear anything. But a few weeks later, on a clear, moonless night, when the stars were blazing brilliantly overhead, Mithrellas stood by the window again. ‘Husband, I know that I can hear my friends singing!’

Imrazôr went pale, and standing by her, he listened. ‘No! I hear nothing.’

A day came when it was necessary for Imrazôr to make a voyage on business. He would be gone for several weeks.

Each night, after kissing her children good night, Mithrellas would stand by the window. And then one night, she turned to their nursemaid.

‘I know that I can hear my friends! They sing an Elven hymn of praise to the Lady of the Stars. I will go out to them, and bid them come here and be made welcome.”

The nursemaid was frightened at this. She could hear nothing. And the master would not be home for at least three more days. But she could not gainsay her mistress. Mithrellas threw on her cloak, and walked out into the night in the direction of the mountains from whence she had come. Before she left, she turned to her children and said ‘My darlings, I shall return with the morning.’

But she did not. And no one knows what happened after that. But my own nursemaid always held that she found her friends but lost her way home. And Imrazôr searched for her till the end of his days.”

Pippin nodded sagely. “It is still a sad story, her babes being left behind like that. But it’s a happier version than the other.” He blew out another smoke ring, and then knocked his pipe out. “I do think that it is nearly time for luncheon. Would you care to join me?”

It had been a long time since Amrothos had much of an appetite, but suddenly, he realized he was hungrier than he had been in a score of days. “I would be honored to join you, Master Pippin.”

Peridoc Brandybuck made his way to the pony paddock where his cousin Faramir stood beside the fence, a grin on his face, and the breeze whipping his dark curls.

“Well, Fam, do I finally get to see this magnificent gift your namefather sent you for your coming-of-age?” asked Perry.

“We left earlier than we had first planned. Da’s been chaffing to see Uncle Pippin for a while now.” Perry came over, and leaned against the fence as well. “So, now, about that gift…”

Fam gestured towards the stable, where the head groom, Wat, appeared leading a high-stepping pony, brought all the way from Dol Amroth. His coat was a glossy black, save for an arrow-shaped blaze upon his forehead. He was champing at the bit and tossing his head, and it was all Wat could do to keep hold of him. He finally jerked his head hard enough to pull away, and then skittishly trotted around the paddock. He approached the two young hobbits and stood just out of their reach, eyes rolling.

“Pippin, I’d like you to meet my mother, Chrysanthemum North-took. And this is my Great-Aunt Hepatica Greenhill.” Diamond bit her lip, and Pippin thought for an instant that she looked timid. He could not imagine his Diamond as timid. “Mama, Aunt Hepatica, this is Peregrin Took.”

Now, Diamond’s mother? She did seem timid, as she extended her hand to him. “I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Took,” she said in a soft voice, and Pippin nearly had to strain to hear her.

He bent over it, and gave it a courtly kiss, as they did in the South. Merry had told him that it went over well with the matrons--and so far, he’d discovered that advice to be sound. Sure enough, Chrysanthemum’s eyes widened, and she smiled at him.

“I’m very pleased to meet you, as well,” he said, “and do call me Pippin.”

Diamond’s aunt gave a thump to the floor with her cane, and fixed Pippin with a gimlet eye. “And just what is wrong with your given name?” she demanded. Diamond paled, and Pippin blushed. He cleared his throat, and said diffidently, “Well, Mrs. Greenhill, I do not suppose there is anything wrong with it, it is simply that my friends and family have called me Pippin since I was a baby.”

She snorted. “A great strapping lad like you? You should not still be carrying about your baby-name. *I* shall call you Peregrin.”

Diamond winced, and, trying to lighten the mood, Pippin quipped “As long as you do not call me ‘fool of a Took’ that is fine.”

“Then don’t take such names to yourself.” She turned and looked at Diamond, and her gaze softened. “It is good to see you again, child. You’ve been so long away.” She leaned over and gave Diamond a soft kiss on the cheek, and then turning a sharp eye on Pippin, she nodded and sailed out of the room.

Pippin stared after her, and let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

Diamond looked up at him and grinned. “Aunt Hepatica *likes* you,” she said triumphantly.

Pippin’s jaw dropped. If that was the way she spoke to those she liked, he wondered what it would be like for someone she *didn’t* like! Or, on second thought, perhaps he did not want to know.

He’d slept the night in the best guestroom, on a bed too short for him, and had wakened with his back and neck stiff, and his knee bothering him. He wondered if he should have brought his cane. He’d thought it might lead to awkward questions, but his limping would probably do the same. He sighed, and dressed for the day. He had very pointedly *not* brought his livery, though he did not travel without his sword. But he had put it away in his other gear before they had come to the smial.

As he made his way to the vicinity of the dining room, guided by the tantalizing smell of breakfast, he could hear Diamond’s voice. “I got to know him well when he broke his leg.”

“And *how*, pray tell,” barked Aunt Hepatica, “did he come to do such a thing as *that*?” Her tone seemed to indicate that only a person of very little wit could have such a misfortune befall him.

Pippin halted briefly, uncertain. He heard Diamond’s reply. “He was very bravely saving his brothers-in-law from a fallen tree branch during a thunderstorm.”

Aunt Hepatica sounded mollified. “A most courageous thing, indeed! I am impressed Diamond!”

“But that is not the half of the brave things he’s done! Why, when he and the others were in the Outlands--”

Pippin decided it was time to intervene. “Good morning, everyone!” he called cheerily, as he entered the room. “This smells like a very lovely first breakfast.”

“It is second breakfast, Peregrin,” corrected Aunt Hepatica, though her tone with him was not nearly so sharp as it had been before.

Later in the day, after Pippin had seen to Sable’s well-being in the stable, and had been taken on a tour of the smial and its grounds--not terribly extensive, but the garden was very nicely kept--he and Diamond sat in the front room on a settee talking.

He wished that he dared sit close enough to put his arm around her shoulders, or to at least hold her hand, but Diamond’s mother and aunt sat across the room: Chrysanthemum knitting something white and lacy, Aunt Hepatica with a lapful of mending. Every time Pippin would glance up and see them there, he would find himself blushing.

“So,” he said to Diamond, “when will I get to meet your sisters? Ruby and Sapphire, right?”

Diamond smiled at him, and the sight of her dimples made his heart flip. “Well, Sapphire’s been visiting Ruby and her husband Archibold--he’s another North-took cousin. But they will all be here today before teatime.” She giggled. “Sapphire is wild to meet you! Why you would not believe the way she has been questioning me--” she continued speaking, but Pippin found himself paying more attention to the way her eyes sparkled as she laughed than to what she was saying.

They arrived shortly before tea. Ruby was about five years older than Diamond, and seemed to take after her mother, being a bit shy. Her husband Archie was the hearty sort, who had a more than passing acquaintance with some of Pippin’s Great Smials cousins, such as Ferdibrand. It helped to have a topic of conversation.

Sapphire was less than a year older than Diamond, and though she too had dark curls and green eyes and dimples, to Pippin’s mind, she was not half so pretty. As soon as Diamond introduced them, Sapphire’s eyes went wide. She blinked, and then she said “Oh my! You *are* a tall one! Are you certain you aren’t descended from the Bullroarer yourself?”

Sapphire frankly simpered at him, and he noticed Diamond’s eyes narrow as she glared at her sister. Quite fortunately, tea arrived, and he was able to escape. But he couldn’t help feeling a bit uncomfortable under Sapphire’s appraising gaze, and he blushed.
____________________________________________

Later that evening, coming in from a pleasant smoke with Archibold, who had a rakish sense of humor and a store of tales about the Old Bullroarer that had never made their way down to the Tooklands, he saw Diamond and Sapphire in the corridor. Diamond was quite obviously berating her sister, for her arms were folded and she looked quite angry as she spoke. Sapphire hung her head, and then after a few moments the two sisters embraced.

They looked up and saw him standing there. Pippin could feel himself blushing again.
___________________________________________

The next evening, the whole family, accompanied by Pippin, went up to Northcleft, the ancestral home of the North-tooks. It was by no means so large as either the Great Smials or even Brandy Hall, though it was somewhat larger than Bag End.

They were invited to be the guests of Bandigard North-took, the Head of the North-tooks in the Northfarthing, although he acknowledged Paladin in the Great Smials as *the* Took. Still, by tradition, the North-tooks had always been more or less autonomous in their family affairs. Pippin was curious to meet him, as he had not seen Cousin Bandigard since his father’s investiture as Thain, years before. He thought it quite hospitable of Cousin Bandigard to invite them all to supper.

However, as their small group approached Northcleft, it became clear that this was more than a small dinner-party for a few guests--it appeared to be a full-fledged party--every window in the smial seemed to have light pouring from the windows, and there were other groups of hobbits making their way in that direction. Pippin could also hear the sounds of musicians warming up. This was definitely not an intimate family gathering!

Their host stood at the door, greeting each arrival. It clearly was not a birthday, for he saw no evidence of gifts. And then Diamond’s family approached, and Cousin Bandigard’s face broke into a huge grin, as he gripped Pippin’s hand. “Ah!” he exclaimed, “at last the guest of honor has arrived! Welcome, Captain Peregrin!”

And it seemed he was fated to blush the entire evening through. Cousin Bandigard’s daughter Gemma tried to flirt with him, much as Sapphire had done the day before, and Diamond hauled him off unceremoniously with a scowl for her cousin. Then several of the lads seemed to want to re-hash every detail of the Battle of Bywater, making some very unkind and unflattering remarks about Men in general. This forced Pippin to recount some of the details of his journey, that he would rather not have spoken, in order to defend his King and his friends. At least his listeners seemed to take his words to heart.

Before supper, he found himself called upon to make a speech. He kept it short, simply thanking his host and those who were gathered there--this was popular, and the loud applause made his face warmer than ever.

He thought the evening would never end.
_________________________________________

The next day he said farewell to Diamond, to return to Crickhollow. She would be staying with her family for a month, before she returned to Mistress Lavender to take up her apprenticeship once more. But the healer had returned to Budgeford, so at least she would not be *quite* so far away.

Diamond’s family allowed the couple the illusion of privacy, though he was all too aware they were all watching from the windows.

He took her hands before he got ready to mount up, wishing they were *really* alone, so he could kiss her.

She reached up, however, and pulled him down, and bussed him soundly. “I might as well give Aunt Hepatica *something * to scold me over, dear.”

At the sound of her voice, calling him “dear”, Pippin felt every last drop of his blood rush to his face. “Oh, Diamond,” he said, “I *do* love you!”

“I know, Pippin. Now be off with you, before she comes out and scolds *you*!” she laughed.

“Ha, hmm, barrarum! On and on you talk, of the world that passes us by, and of nobody being on the tree’s side! You speak of the elder days as though they were the rising of yesterday’s sun. You see these small creatures, and it is clear they are not of orc-kind! Why do you spend time deciding what we already know? Clearly they are a Free People! We know this! Ra-hoom-rah! Saruman and his hordes are hacking and burning and killing into the very eaves of our land! Take me to the hobbits! My mind is already made up!”

Sordid, as evil so often is,
And filled with sleepless malice,
Understanding nothing of love,
Ruined by mercy,
Overcome, and
Negated.

“Good day, my friends!” Faramir was surprised to see all four of the hobbits in the throne room of the Citadel. It was usually deserted this time of morning.

“Hullo, Faramir,” said Pippin cheerfully. “I was just showing the others the statuary. They are all so solemn and grim-looking. Are they all kings?”

“Some of the Ruling Stewards are here as well. Not everyone is represented.” He pointed out one of the statues. “This is Mardil Voronwë, the first of the Ruling Stewards…” He led them on, telling them of this figure or that, and answering their questions.

“Who is this?” asked Pippin, pointing out one near the end. “He--he looks rather like--” he broke off, and ducked his head in distress.

“He looks a good deal like my father,” replied Faramir, “but as you can tell, it is not he. That is my great-grandfather, Turgon.” He chuckled. “I can remember our tutors making my brother and I read a good deal of ponderous and rather turgid accounts of his rule.”

Frodo studied the figure, standing in stiff dignity, and draped in the heavy stone folds of his robes. “He looks sorrowful.”

“It was during his time that Sauron returned to Barad Dûr, and Mordor rose once more to harry our people. My father considered him a failure, and it disturbed him to be compared to his grandfather.”

Frodo shook his head. “There was nothing he could have done.” He swallowed hard, flushed and looked away. “There was nothing *anyone* could have done.”

Faramir did not miss the signs of distress on the faces of Frodo’s companions, and his own eyes sparked with tears at these signs of grief and self-blame. He blinked, and said, “Yet all the same, something *was* done, Frodo. For he is gone, and his works have passed away, and we are here, alive and free. And however you may feel about it, none of it would have come to pass without you.”

Sam looked up at Faramir. “You’ve got the right of it, Captain Faramir, sir. And you done your own part in making it all come to pass as well.”

“Thank you, Master Samwise.” He smiled at the hobbits. “It is a pleasant summer’s day, my friends, and much too fine to be cooped up in this hall of stone. What say you we find a tavern, and I shall stand you all an ale?”

Frodo’s face brightened, and Pippin grinned. “I don’t believe Cousin Frodo’s been to The Golden Cockerel yet!”

Faramir laughed. “Well then, by all means, Sir Peregrin, we should remedy that!”

And the friends left the Hall, and great-grandfather Turgon, behind. Faramir glanced back--was it his imagination, or did the statue seem to look happier than it had before?

Thorongil cast an annoyed eye over the five crewman who stood before him: his second mate, his pilot, his best helmsman, and two of the regular deck hands. Their pasty faces were a mask of misery, and it was clear they could barely stand. He hardened his heart. He did not have time for all this. The sooner he could get back to Minas Tirith with the information he had gathered on the activities of the Corsairs here in Umbar, the sooner he could put his plan into action.

If possible, the men turned even paler--in fact there was a greenish cast to their complexion. One of them dared to say, “But Captain--that’s truly vile--”

Thorongil cut him off. “You are, of course, free to refuse to take your medicine. You are also free to find your own way home.” He turned and took the bottle proffered by his grinning first mate.

He poured out a large smelly dose. “Let this be a lesson to you all, the next time you get the urge to partake of seafood in unsavoury inns in Umbar.”

It was the smell of things that helped Sam remember, before he opened his eyes--the scent of growing things, the perfume of grass and sunshine was overlaid by the fragrance of the sea on the breeze. He had arrived in the West, and was here on the Blessed Isle, reunited once more with his best friend.

“Sam, dear?” and at the gentle delight in his friend’s voice, he opened his eyes to the most wonderful sight.

Frodo sat next to him, his own face now just as old and limned with laughter and years as Sam’s, his once dark hair as silver as mithril. But there was no longer the furrow of pain and fear upon his brow, and his blue eyes still held hard-won wisdom, but no more the glint of fear and guilt and sorrow. They looked upon Sam now with fond amusement.

The two of them sat alone upon a grassy knoll, beneath a sky blazing with stars--more brilliant than Sam ever had seen them in the Shire, or even as he had sailed here over the Sea. He glanced about--they seemed to be quite alone.

“Where is everyone?” Sam looked about, for when he had fallen asleep they had been in the midst of a welcoming crowd of Elves, including many good friends.

Frodo took Sam’s hand. “They have withdrawn, out of respect for one who has come to see *you*.”

Sam looked at Frodo in confusion, for he’d seen no one else, but Frodo stood, and drew him up by one hand, and then, his face lighting up in delight, he bowed. Sam turned, and his eyes wide and his face blazing, he bowed somewhat awkwardly himself.

She was beautiful, more beautiful than Queen Arwen, more beautiful than the Lady Galadriel or the Lady Celebrian, whom Sam had met for the first time three days before. Her hair was a cloud of darkness, that blew behind her and blended with the night sky, and seemed to be dewed with the stars. Her raiment shimmered and her eyes were deep and dark and full of love.

“Arise, Iorhael and Perhael! I greet thee!” Her mouth did not move, rather Sam heard her voice in his head and heart, like the sweetest of music.

“A Elbereth Gilthoniel!” And Sam realized that neither had Frodo’s mouth moved. Yet this did not cause him any fear. His own mouth felt dry and incapable of any sound. He swallowed. “My Lady!” he finally managed to whisper.

There was a sound of music in Sam’s heart, and he realized that he heard the Lady’s laughter.

“Long have I desired to greet thee, Perhael, as I greeted Iorhael when he came.”

Again there was the beautiful music of her laughter. “I wished to thank thee, Perhael.”

Sam could feel her reading his confusion. What would the Lady of the Stars be thanking *him* for?

“As did Iorhael, in calling upon me when thou wert in direst straits and by that calling, allowed me to help thee, as I could not have without thy plea. Thus I was permitted to send thee Light, and in so doing, helped to foil the Foe.”

Again he felt the gentle chiming of her laughter. He ducked his head, abashed, and when he looked up again, she had vanished.

He glanced over at Mr. Frodo, tears of joy blurring his vision. “I can’t believe I met *Her,*--” he hesitated, and took a deep breath, “--Frodo.” There, he’d done it, finally, and after all these years.

Frodo gave a laugh, a hearty one from deep within, such as Sam had never heard from him before. “Oh, my Sam! I’m so glad you are here with me at last!”

Rating: PG
Summary: …An encounter shortly after Caradhras…(a droubble--200 words)

With a howl of rage, he led the pack into a nearby stream. Cold the water, rimmed with a crust of ice, but it eased the burning. His pelt stank of fire. He came out of the water, glaring uphill at the blaze above, and the two figures glowing with another more painful light. One of the hated Elf-kind; the other beyond anything he’d ever encountered. Seven other figures ranged around, clutching bright steel. Over the heart of one of the smallest the sweet scent of power, small and strong, that had drawn the pack.

His brother, their chieftain, coveted that sweet token, whatever It might be. He would have become the mightiest of Wargs, and the pack could go ravening over the lands of Men and Orcs alike devouring all, mighty in power as long-ago Warg-kind had been when their chief had been the One Who Sits in Darkness in the South. Blood and bone would be theirs; none would escape their maws. But the burning arrow put an end to Brother.

Now he was leader of the pack. With a satisfied growl he led the rest away. Dawn would see an end to the bodies of their dead.

Rating: G
Summary: A very narrow escape…

X: Like Excruciating Exertions on the Way to That Crucial X on the Mouldering Map

“Hammer and Tongs!” muttered Bombur, pushing desperately with his hands and feet against the rough stone of the cliff -face. It was no use; he bumped and banged against it once more, and his push just moved him away enough to twirl slightly in the wind. He reached a hand up to grab the rope, and banged once more into the rock-face. “I shall be all bruises by the time I get to the top! I wish they’d left me below!”

However, the awful bellows of the dragon caused him to re-think that wish! “Perhaps not,” he thought. He glanced down, and then wished that he had not. “Oh, why did I even *come* on this expedition! I should have stayed behind! I am too old and too fat for such excruciating exertions!”

“Curse it all!” he said, as his knee hit the unforgiving crag. He heard the cloth of his breeches tear and felt the scrape, and a trickle of blood. “Oh mercy me!”

He had thought that he and Bofur were safe with the ponies below. Bofur had not been happy with having to stay behind, but Bombur had volunteered. He had told them-- “I am too fat for such fly-walks. I should turn dizzy and tread on my beard, and then you would be thirteen again. And the knotted ropes are too slender for my weight.” Remembering his words, he hoped, oh, how he hoped, that he had been wrong.

The horrible roar of the dragon sounded once more--Smaug was clearly searching from above, but as yet he had not crested this side of the mountain. Pull faster, thought Bombur in a panic.

Looking above, he could see that Bofur had reached the top, and been hauled over. That was a relief, at least.

When Thorin had yelled down to them that the dragon was awake, and likely to be on a rampage, and they had best come up at once, he and Bofur had scurried about, tying the ropes quickly to some bundles of tools and food. But there were not enough ropes to haul *everything* up and still have two left over for the two Dwarves.

But when Bombur had called up that the stores were ready, Thorin had replied that the stores would have to wait until he and Bofur had been pulled up.

“We may go hungry if we lose the food, but we can replace it in time. You are not so easily replaced. You will come up at once--that is an order.”

And so, he had reluctantly tied the rope about himself. These were such slender ropes! How could they possibly be strong enough to lift him at his weight. But there was no arguing now his chief had issued an order. He was made even more nervous when Bofur said “I hope they hold. The Men of Lake-town told Balin that these ropes were some of the items taken in trade from the Elves!”

Bombur gave a shudder. Trusting all his considerable bulk to a rope made by Elves! He swung about again, and this time his other shoulder hit the precipice. “Hoy there!” he yelled upwards. “Have a care! I am not a sack of--” his words cut off as this time he slammed the back of his head. He saw stars! Oh, but that was painful! But the faces of his friends hauling frantically at the rope were coming closer. Thank goodness! He was nearly at the top!

Suddenly, it seemed the rope had slipped from his kinsmen’s hands, and he gave a heart-stopping lurch, dropping several feet, as those above gave a sharp cry of fear. He thought for a moment he was lost! At least, he thought for an instant, I shall be dead before the dragon eats me--but no! He was still dangling, and then was once more being pulled up.

Finally he was close enough to grasp the several outstretched hands. They dragged him painfully up and over the edge of the rock face, and he flopped gratefully onto solid ground. All he could do was to lie there, panting heavily, as the others hauled and pulled on the other ropes. Soon they had pulled all of the stores that could be saved up, and were ready to flee to the tunnel.

It was just in time, too, as they heard the terrible bellows coming closer.

“Get to your feet, Bombur!” ordered Thorin. Bifur and Ori pulled him to his feet, as they scurried away from the cliff-face, dragging their pitifully few supplies behind them. Far below, they could hear the panicked screams of the ponies.

“How did you know to warn us of the dragon?” panted Bofur.

Bombur had wondered the same thing.

“You may have to thank our burglar for that,” said Gloín. “Mr. Baggins insisted we were not safe, and we should seek to hide.”

They had only a few seconds to flee into the tunnel when Smaug came hurtling from the North, licking the mountain-side with flame, beating his great wings with a noise like a roaring wind.

Panting and puffing, his heart pounding like a trip-hammer, Bombur leaned against the cold tunnel wall. For the first time, he wished that Gandalf had never found that cursed map. He decided that if he came out of this quest alive, he’d spend the rest of his days at his toymaker’s bench, and never venture forth again.

[AUTHOR’S NOTES: Quotations in italics are taken from The Hobbit, Chapter XII, “Inside Information”.]

She studied them: they had not the grace of Elves, nor the fierceness of Men, nor the grim dignity of Aulë‘s Dwarves. Clearly they were of the Secondborn, their fëar destined to fly beyond the kenning of the Valar, to a fate unknown. Yet they had something Elvish about them, in the shape of their ears, the way they seemed attuned to the earth and to growing things. Why had He placed them under *her* protection?

One of them yawned, placing a small brown hand over his mouth, and she yawned in response. She smiled. Ah, but they *were* charming.

Up the endless stair, out of the gloom of darkness
Two warriors battled their way into the blinding light
Of day. One dark as death, flaming red;
The other with the light of Anor.
Storm raged, thunder clashed, lightning fell.
The Darkness was cast down,
And the Light prevailed.
All was calm,
Silence reigned:
Silvertine.

An Alphabet for Middle-earth by Dreamflower