Ch. 1 - Dead (Movie verse)

"Shut yer gob; I hear somethin’.” The Orc next to him turned.

“What are ya talkin’ about? I don’t hear nothin’,” he stated, scratching his head and looking everywhere but up.

The pail hit the first Orc’s head dead center before he even had a moment to look up. What brains were in him were effectively squashed.

“Argh,” the second Orc screamed and jumped back. “The cave is falling!” He ran right and left, screaming at the top of his lungs as more debris fell: a dismembered skeleton, a long chain, and a sword.

Pippin looked down the well, horrified.

Ch. 2 - Late

Denethor's eyes flew open. His heart was screaming in his chest. He groaned. How could this have happened?

He had missed the meeting. His father would be livid. Why had no one woken him?

He lay, huddled in his bed, trying to think what he could say, what excuse he could give, but he knew there was none.

Slowly, he moved the covers and swung his legs off the bed. The cold of the marble floor made him grimace and tightened his toes into a fierce cramp.

He opened the drapes. The sky was dark.

It had been a dream.

Ch. 3 - Hide and Seek

They had played hide and seek all morning and still he had not been able to find him. Always, he had to surrender. Then, it would be his turn to hide and he would be found before a moment’s hesitation. He knew his playmate was quick, but this was becoming absurd.

Now, he wished his playmate was with him, for he had been commanded to find the halflings and protect them. Instead, he found the band of Orcs charging down the hill towards the defenseless little ones.

“Faramir,” he sighed. “Would that you had taught these little ones to hide.”

Ch. 4 - Amidst the Flowers

Grief. The word he had flung at her so long ago hung in the air over the funeral bier as incense wrapped around her heart. Ada had said it would be thus. Bitter were his words spoken so long ago, and bitter now they rang again as if just spoken.

Cerin Amroth beckoned, where first they met, kin and yet not. Once, she walked in that fair land, covered with elanor and niphredil. Now, overborne by grief profound, she found herself marked for doom as was Lúthien Tinúviel. She laid herself down amidst the fragrant flowers and woke no more.

Ch. 5 - Oliphants and String

“Leave the frog alone, my precious, else you hurt it and it cannot return to its home.”

“I want it. I found it and it’s mine,” the sweet tone that had once been his now resonated with disdain. “ ‘Sides, it’s an oliphant and I’m tamin’ it.”

“Where is your cousin?” she changed the subject.

“ ‘Dunno,” he whined. “Can’t always watch ‘im.”

“You went to the river with him, didn’t you? Isn’t that where you found the frog?”

“ ‘Dunno. And it’s an oliphant. I tied it up tight with this here string and now it can’t get away. It’s mine, it is,” he whined even more miserably.

“Where is Déagol?” she asked, her tone now harsh.

He turned towards her, eyes flashing with hate. “I don’t know!” he screamed.

A moment later, they came into her smial and brought the body before her. She saw the handprints on the boy’s throat. Shivering, she called his name, but he had disappeared. She wondered where he had gone to, but grief swept all other thought from her.

For months after that, unease swept through her village. She was its head, its guardian, and she knew the cause. At last, she confronted him.

He denied the murder, the thefts, the eavesdropping, the tortures… everything and so she ordered him banished.

Watching as he bundled a few rocks, shells from the river, string and various dead bugs into his bedroll, she held back her tears. Once she had such dreams for him. The frog had long since died else she knew he would have taken that too. She offered food – he spat at her. She closed her eyes. She would not watch him walk away. But others did and shouted obscenities at him.

Forgotten forever was the sound of his sweet voice.

~*~

A/N – I probably should put this as an AU – but it seems hideous that Déagol’s body was never found. So – someone found it and brought it for proper burial….

Ch. 6 - Not Forgotten

The sea beat boats against their berths. A winter storm, the first of the season, loomed in the distance. Great black clouds roiled across the sky, whipped by western winds. The wind felt good on his face. He could smell the salt air and hear the gulls calling their lonely cry, preparing to feast on the banquet that would be laid before them, after the storm passed.

He looked towards the horizon and thought of Westernesse. The yearning had left his heart and for that, he was grateful. Peace had settled upon the land. Those warriors who had survived the Pelennor had returned. But where was Finduilas? Where was Boromir? Where was Denethor? His family had been decimated by the War of the Ring. Had too much been given? Would surrender have been preferable to this great loss?

Elboron ran towards him, arms wide open, smile splitting the boy’s face and Imrahil smiled. ‘Nay, all would have been lost. All. I can now rejoice in this lad and in the sacrifice of my people. They will not be forgotten as we raise our goblets high. Hail, Denethor, Hail Boromir, Hail Gondor. And Hail Belfalas.’ A wave crashed over the seawall.

Ch. 7 - Only a Mountain

The waves crashed gently against the shore. How long had it been? He could not remember. But his heart was lighter than it had ever been. As he turned towards the sea, the light silvered on the crest of the mountain. Skipping a beat, his heart slowly settled down. It was only a mountain, a slip of land pushed upwards towards the sky.

Frodo smiled. In ages past, he would have felt an answering pain in his shoulder. But those days were long past. Now, he could acknowledge the thought and pass on; he could smile at mountains and rings.

Ch. 8 - Ent-draught

Hroom-hoom. Ent draught always taste best this time of year. It sparkles and tickles my nose. I wish Merry and Pippin were here. They would most enjoy this year’s harvest. Though they would have been hasty, and drunk the first spill, not waiting for the better draught that comes behind.

Hrum, Hoom, I think I am happy they came into my forest. Oh! That is a hasty thing to say. Yet – they did brighten things up a bit. Root and twig, I wish them well. Perhaps they would have brought news with them, too. News of the Entwives. Hm, hroom.

Ch. 9 - Of Airs and Heirs

The air of Ithilien was sweet. He closed his eyes and drank in the scent of herbs and flowers. ‘Twas good to smell beauty again. His mind went back to the smell of smoke, pungent in the stale air of the Steward’s House. ‘Nay,’ he thought, ‘I will not remember that time again. ‘Tis over and done with. Gondor has been saved.’

Opening his eyes, he walked towards the newly planted shrubs that outlined the buildings on this side of the Anduin. The Elf had done well. The grounds were beautiful. His master had an heir and Beregond had peace.

Ch. 10 - Lost Comrade

“Where is Faramir, Adar?” Boromir was turned and out of the Hall before Denethor had the opportunity to answer. He pointed, knowing Boromir would find Faramir. ‘They are too close,’ he smiled, but rejoiced in their love.

He ran towards the Seventh Gate. His father had not pointed up, so Faramir must be in the stables. ‘Why had not Faramir been at the Gate when I returned from Osgiliath? He knows I only have a short time in the City; only time enough to report to Adar, bathe, eat and be back on the road before the daymeal.’

The stable door was wide open. He looked about; one of the stablehands pointed to the back. Boromir nodded in thanks.

‘I will give him such a shaking – not meeting me!’ He stopped short. Faramir sat on fresh straw, a beloved head cradled in his lap. Neither moved. Boromir bit his lip; Faramir’s face was tear-stained.

Quietly he sat next to his brother. “What happened?”.

Faramir gulped and looked into his brother’s eyes. “I should have known. His hair was already white, his step halting, but I had hoped…” He swallowed hard.

“Truer friend none could ask for,” Boromir leaned over and patted the unmoving head. “He will be missed.”

They sat thus – for how long, Boromir knew not. The bells announcing sunset and the call to the daymeal brought his head up. ‘Adar!’ he thought ruefully. ‘Captain Amlach!’

Faramir felt the stirring at his side and looked at Boromir, mouth open, face pale. “You have not returned to your post!”

“This post is more important. Mourning a fallen comrade is understood by both Adar and my captain. Do not be concerned. Shall we take him to Nana’s garden? We could bury him there, under the White Cloud bush. He liked to lie there in the heat of summer.”

Faramir nodded. “I will carry him.”

“Of course.”

Boromir motioned to one of the groomsmen, whispered something to him, and followed Faramir to their mother’s garden.

After they had dug the grave, Faramir lowered his beloved. Footsteps were heard behind them as they covered the body.

“I see he finally died,” Denethor said sadly. “He lived longer than I thought he would. Probably the good care he received.” He looked towards his youngest. “It is hard to lose a comrade.” Faramir nodded as he was engulfed in a warm embrace. “Even a dog.”

(A/N - A friend who lost her beloved pet, MissB, has been on my mind for so long... I just had to write something. I know it comes nowhere near to what she must feel, but I had to share her sorrow with someone and Faramir volunteered to put himself in her place.)

Ch. 11 - The High Warden's New Clothes - A Drabble and 1/2

“If you say ONE WORD… ”

Faramir knew when to be quiet, but laughter bubbled.

Boromir lunged for him; Faramir ducked.

“You will ruin the outfit and Father will be angry,” his little brother shouted.

At that, Boromir stilled. Turning his back, he walked down the steps to his own quarters, those of the newly commissioned High-Warden, and slammed the door after him.

A quiet tap, tap, tap on the door announced that Faramir had followed him and was trying to gain entry to apologize. ‘At least,’ Boromir thought angrily, ‘he best be here to apologize!’

“Boromir! Please open the door. I meant no disrespect.”

The tapping grew distinctly louder. ‘Best open before Father hears,’ Boromir thought morosely. Faramir’s eyes still glinted with glee and Boromir quickly shut the door in his brother’s face.

“I am sorry, Boromir, truly I am, but the wingéd helm - it was too much!”

~*~

A/N - it must have been odd to have seen this uniform their whole long lives - and then to see it on Boromir - well, reality can sometimes be a bit much to take... too much for young Faramir!

Ch. 12 - On the Stairs of Moria - A Double Drabble (movie verse)

“What?” his frightened cry was drowned by the fierce screams of the Orcs as they shot arrow after arrow at the little group on the stairs. Their attention was taken by the attack; his was taken by something else, something just as dangerous. He was sure he had felt it, a slight trembling under his feet. But no one else said a word or looked beyond the attack.

There it was again! This time he was certain. Something was terribly wrong. He looked up, saw Legolas and Gandalf on the far side, and decided. He yelled Merry’s name, placed his arms around Pippin and Merry’s waists and held on tight. The distance was far and he would be lifting two Halflings. Would he be able to make it? Would it be safer to just toss one at a time? The formidable shaking of the stair, still undiscerned by the others, decided for him. He gave a great yell, pushed with all his might, and jumped the crevice. He made it, with plenty of room to spare. Arms reached out and held him as he swayed slightly to the left. But he had made it. A great grin crossed his face.

Ch. 13 - Choices - A Double Drabble

Thorongil kicked the stone. ‘If I stay,’ he thought, ‘I will continue to damage Denethor’s place in Gondor. Ecthelion is foolish when it comes to his son. Denethor tries, does everything he can to obey him, and yet he turns to me for council. I will never earn Denethor’s trust. And trust me he must, for he will be my Steward if things come to pass as Elrond sees them.’ He sighed. ‘My heart is happy here. I love his son. I love him. And Finduilas and Indis could not be more courteous. If I leave now, if I do not return to Minas Tirith, perhaps Ecthelion will turn to Denethor and use him. This parting would be most painful. I love Minas Tirith, her people. Would I be abandoning them? Nay, it is more important that I not abandon Denethor. The longer I stay in Gondor, the deeper grows Ecthelion’s attachment to me, the deeper grows the rift between Denethor and myself. I cannot let this continue. How will I tell them? Nay, there is naught to say. I will leave a note and go. Bitter is this time.’ He kicked another stone. ‘This is not what I planned.’

(A/N - This grew into part of one of the chapters of TA 2980 in Ten Thousand Years Will Not Suffice)

Ch. 14 - Fatty’s Anguish – A Double Drabble

They would let this happen without telling me! I have always been there for them. They would ask, and I would obey. When they needed someone to watch the road, I was there. When they needed someone to stall the evil at Crickhollow, I was there. I put their safety before my own.

If I had not been coming up the road and seen them in the distance, I would never have known. Rarely do they travel through the woods in the middle of the day, and yet, there they were and not alone! There was Bilbo, Elves. And there were my friends.

And I knew! I knew without a doubt that they were leaving. Again. Leaving without me. Will I be left again to fight the evil that they let into the Shire? Will I again be imprisoned? I could not stand the horror of the Lockholes again, with never enough food, sunshine, nor friend about. Will the evil come back? Will I die here alone?

I will follow them. I will tell them what they are doing to me. I will tell them they are breaking my heart. I will not be left alone again. I will not.

(A/N - Poor Fatty was one of the first Hobbits on record to suffer from Post Traumatic Syndrome!)

Ch. 15 - Boromir on Feanor – A Double Drabble

“Feanor,” Boromir mumbled.

“What?” Faramir asked.

“Hmmm… Sorry. I was thinking aloud.” Silence.

“Well?”

“What?”

“Feanor! What were you thinking about Feanor?”

“You have studied the ancient myths. Do you not see?”

“Boromir!” Exasperation crept into his voice. “How am I to see when I do not know where you are looking?”

“The Ephel Dúath and beyond. Does not it strike you that, if not for Feanor, we would be looking at a snow-covered mountain, trees filling its sloping sides, rivers full of fish, good hunting grounds, blue skies above. I would that it were that way now. Never, in my lifetime, have it seen it but blackened, smoke-filled, with rivers of molten fire coursing down its sides. Aye, that is what I see. And I do not like it.”

“You blame Feanor?”

“His oath began all this. The Valar turned against men, against Númenor, because of him.”

“How can you say that? Númenor was brought low because of the pride of the king.”

“But who stoked that pride? The servant of Melkor, a Valar.”

“So - Feanor hated the Valar, turned his back on them and The Undying Lands, and the Valar turned their backs on us?”

“On Gondor!”

Ch. 16 - No Money for Extras - A Drabble

There was the contest, of course. Sam had long waited for it. His palms fairly itched at the thought of the prize money and the seeds he would buy with it. Seeds for his own mother’s garden, not Bilbo’s this time. He smiled at the thought. His mum would be so happy, once the flowers bloomed. The Gaffer didn’t have money for extras like flowers. Enough that they had plenty of food on the table: that was the important thing.

But if his Gaffer was known for his potatoes, well then, why could not Sam be known for his pumpkins!

~*~

A/N - Some folks think there weren't pumpkins in Middle-earth, but I'm not so sure.

Ch. 17 - Crossroads Village) – A Tribble

(a response to a challenge)

“I was thinking of calling it ‘Crossroads Village.’ An upper scale establishment for Elves of every kind. We will move the statue of the king further up the road; I do not want to block the entranceway, and I would like to add an exit onto the road. You would not mind, would you? I want the traffic flow to be uninterrupted. Unless, of course, you decide to widen the road? That would be perfect. Perhaps put in a turn lane or two.”

His friend’s eyes looked glazed, but Legolas put that down to his awe of the project before him. He continued excitedly.

“I hope to have at least two fountains in the front of the property and another in the entranceway, probably supplied by the river that runs near Henneth Annûn. It is clear, clean water. I am sure you can spare a few troops, a battalion or two, to dig the pipeway? Cannot you just see it, Aragorn! Splendid, just splendid."

Aragorn still had not said a word.

“Once I have the marble outer wall built – we could get the Dwarves to mine it and bring it over, don’t you think? Well, once that is in, I plan on building two separate units, probably one hundred suites in each, for a start. I must keep the Noldor and Sindar separated, you know. They can become contentious at times.”

He sat back, a look of pure contentment on his Elven face.

At last, Aragorn spoke. “I did promise Ithilien to Prince Faramir.”

“Of course you did,” Legolas said magnanimously. “But he has the riverfront property. He will have his hands full developing that stretch of land. And you did promise me land.”

Aragorn turned towards Arwen, who sat with her mouth open, and asked, “Who IS this Elf?”

Ch. 18 - Taters - A Quadrabble

He sifted the sandy loam through his hands. “Taters would grow here,” the gardener said aloud.

“Taters?” the Queen asked. “What are taters?”

Sam stilled for a moment, his heart in his throat. The voice was different but the words – he swallowed hard – those words brought all the horror of the last few months crashing down upon him.

“Sam! Sam!” he heard her calling, but could not move nor answer her.

“Estel!” she cried, “Estel!” and the king was beside her straight away, though he had been in their own chambers only moments before.

He pulled her to him, seeing nothing but pain and fright in her tear-laden eyes. “Undómiel, beloved!” he whispered over and over, trying to discover, in the midst of his fear, what ailed her.

Then he saw Sam, lying face down on the ground. Turning towards the Hobbit, Arwen pushed the king to him.

Faramir joined them as he had been in conference with Elessar when the cry had come. The king placed a hand upon Sam’s brow and breathed into him. The gardener blinked and sat up, looking embarrassed and flustered.

“I don’t know what could have come over me, fainting like that. I’ve never done such a thing in all my life."

“What was it that assailed you, dearest Sam?” Elessar asked quietly.

Sam sat and blinked up at him, at a loss, for a moment. He heard Arwen’s quiet sobs and remembered. “I can’t say right now, Strider.” Faramir smiled at the name. “‘Tweren’t nothing important.”

“Sam,” Elessar said gently. “Anything that affects one of the Nine affects me.”

Noting Faramir standing above him, Sam sighed. “‘Twere taters. For the love of me, I’d forgotten Boromir hated taters. I can’t plant taters here.”

Faramir started. “Boromir…” He closed his mouth. Boromir loved potatoes. Sam was hiding something.

Elessar helped Sam stand up. “Of course he did, Sam. I remember that too.” Tears filled his eyes as the gardener walked off. “Something to do with taters has hurt him or Frodo,” he whispered to Faramir. “I will find out what it was, in time, and heal the little one.”

Faramir’s own eyes watered. ‘Little one’ had been the term Boromir used when his little brother was hurt, worried, or frightened. “With your help, my liege lord, we will all heal.”

Samwise muttered as he walked through the garden door, “Next time, I’ll plant carrots!”

Ch. 19 - There Was A Hobbit - A Drabble

"What are you laughing at, Haldir?" Boromir questioned him.

"The song my friends are singing. Listen!"

"What is it? I am not familiar with the tune?"

At that moment, Celeborn stepped from the flet onto the stairs, giving a withering look to all; that immediately quelled the singing.

….except for one fair voice, off in the distance, some poor Elf who had not seen the look!

Haldir translated.

“There was a Hobbit had a dog and Frodo was his name-o…

F R O D O    F R O D O    F R O DO ooooh…”

Haldir and Boromir both burst into laughter.

Ch. 20 - Solemn Remembrance - A Double Drabble

Looking out over the city, watching as the moon, skirted by dark clouds, endeavored to cast some light on the scene below him, Denethor watched and wondered if the people really understood or remembered what they were celebrating tonight. The Day of the Dead had turned from a feast of solemn remembrance, to a feast of carnality, a feast of depravity. The dead would ‘roll over’ in their graves, should they see the spectacle that lay before him. He shivered. Boromir and Faramir were somewhere in the crowd of revelers. He wished it were not so. ‘Grant them safety, Valar!’

And he… on this day of all days, he would sit in his mother’s terraced garden, thinking of her, of his grandfather Cranthir, his own father, Ecthelion, Finduilas…. Oh, even Thengel and too many others to even remember the names. Though remember them he did. Each one who had fallen for him, or at his command. The list had lengthened to the point that, if he said each name aloud, it would take days, perhaps weeks, to name them all. And so, he stood with the scent of flowers filling his nostrils, while the sight of debauchery filled his eyes.

Ch. 21 - Suspicious Sam – A Series of Drabbles

Part I

“I don’t trust him, Mister Frodo. I won’t be sleeping none too soon tonight. But you sleep. You need it. I’ll just sit here beside you.”

“Sam,” Frodo sighed heavily. “Lord Elrond himself picked him to be one of the Fellowship. Would he not have known if there was danger from him?”

“That sounds right and all, Mister Frodo, but as my old Gaffer would say, ‘You don’t stand behind a cow, no matter how friendly it seems.”

Frodo could not help but laugh aloud. “Sam, dear Sam. I will listen to you then, if that is how you feel.”

Part II

“But Sam, I promise you. Gandalf has said words over Bill. He will be protected now. You need not worry.”

“There are wolves, Strider. I remember Bilbo’s tales of the wolves. ‘Twas only the eagles that saved him an’ the dwarves from them.”

Strider smiled.

“I don’t think an eagle could pick up Bill,” Sam muttered to himself as he patted the pony’s nose. “Probably not even an oliphant could lift him, bein’ as he’s gotten so fat.”

Strider’s smile grew wider.

“I believe we should keep Bill here a little longer,” Boromir chimed in.

Sam looked up in hope.

Part III

“Minas Tirith, Mister Frodo. Do you think we’ll ever see it?”

“That is not our destination, Sam.”

“Well and I know it, Mister Frodo, but it sounds like a grand place.”

“He does not stop talking about it, does he?”

“No, that he doesn’t, but he loves it as much as I love the Shire; I can tell.”

Sam’s eyes dreamed and Frodo smiled.

“I’m missing the Shire already. Spring is coming right quick and the flowers I planted under Mister Bilbo’s windows should be close to blooming. Do you suppose we might be home in time for the harvest?”

Ch. 22 - Boromir's Lament – A Drabble

I know ‘tis not my place to complain. For, in truth, I have been the one who has inherited the noble look of Númenor. I have inherited the strong arms, quick reflexes, and great eyes of the men of Westerness. Yet, there is one thing that I have not inherited. And I find it most irksome.

Perhaps none notice. My strong jaw line, my muscular arms, my full lips, all command attention. It is such a little thing that vexes me. And yet – I cannot let it go!

Why, by the Valar, does Faramir have hair more luxurious than mine?

~*~

A/N - Sorry, I had to write this after watching the 3 movies... Faramir's hair was glorious and poor Boromir's was not. Simply not. Much to his chagrin!

Ch. 23 - Yearning – A Drabble

‘Tis the middle of Laer and the sun is hot; I have taken to hiding in the pools near my father’s home. My mother, I am told, created these pools to help ease the effects of the summer heat upon her children. My body leans against the confining walls.

To have known her. Even now, I have only the memories that my father passes along to me, some sense of her fëa that still dwells within him.

I want more. I want to touch her. To speak her name. No, in truth, I want her to speak my name. ‘Legolas.’

Ch. 24 - Sarn Gebir – A Quadrabble

He had kept silent, as was his want, when Sam cried out, but when Aragorn did nothing, when their boats were swept towards the eastern shore, when the rocks clawed at the Elven boats, when the Hobbits turned their fear-filled faces to him, he could hold his tongue no longer. Was the man truly going to let them continue forward?

“Hoy there, Aragorn,” he shouted his frustration as his boat bumped into the leader’s. “This is madness! We cannot dare the Rapids by night. But no boat can live in Sarn Gebir, be it night or day.”

Finally, too late for Boromir’s liking, Aragorn responded, crying for them all to turn back. Straining with all his might, he found himself stalled in the water, the other boats making no more headway than his own. At last, he gave a great cry, dug his oar into the water as deeply as possible, and turned his boat. It did little good, as he strove against the mighty current.

“All together, paddle!” he shouted. “Paddle! Or we shall be driven on the shoals.” Even as he spoke, he saw Aragorn’s boat hit the river’s bottom and stop.

An arrow flew over his head. He looked towards the further shore. Orcs! They were under attack. He heard Legolas cry out, then Gimli. He did not look again; gripping the oar tighter, he put his full strength into his oar strokes. Would that he had two more stout men of Gondor with him in the boat, they would have made the western shore easily. But the two Hobbits, struggling with all their might against the current, were little match for the river.

A hiss escaped his lips as an arrow struck and stuck fast in the gunwale of his boat, close to Merry’s hand. He had sworn to protect these little ones. With a roar, he turned the boat heading back north, passed the wicked rocks on his left now, and rode into clear water. The effort was cruel. He did not know how the Hobbits were even able to cling to their own oars, so swift and dreadful was the current. At last, they reached the middle of the stream; he turned his boat towards the western shore. Giving himself a moment, he looked back. Grateful, he noted both his companions’ boats were close behind. If the voices would only stop, he could smile.

(A/N - Musing:  According to Tolkien, Aragorn was still a man very torn as a leader. I found the quotes that Boromir speaks above in FOTR and had to write about his frustration, knowing full well, that Aragorn was probably as frustrated with himself as was Boromir. In fact, a few short words later, he says to Frodo, "I am out of my reckoning." How difficult it must have been for these two men, roles completely switched, to survive. Boromir, son of the Steward and believed destined to lead Gondor, for no king had, as yet, come forth, and Aragorn, a loner, accustomed to helping others by deed and in secret, destined to lead Gondor. I find it very sad.   – Agape)

("Hoy there, Aragorn! ' shouted Boromir, as his boat bumped into the leader. "This is madness! We cannot dare the Rapids by night! But no boat can live in Sarn Gebir, be it night or day."

"Back, back! ' cried Aragorn. "Turn! Turn if you can! ' He drove his paddle into the water, trying to hold the boat and bring it round.

"I am out of my reckoning," he said to Frodo. "I did not know that we had come so far: Anduin flows faster than I thought. Sarn Gebir must be close at hand already." LOTR, Ch.9, The Great River)

Ch. 25 - Fey Were His Thoughts (movie verse) – A Tribble

The stairs are broken. I look to my right and my left; there is no escape but forward. The chasm is deep. The Elf has no trouble; neither does the wizard. Yet, the little ones will never make it. It is too far.

I scoop them into my arms. I jump, while thoughts of Faramir chide me. ‘You never think. Just act. Someday you will kill yourself with your foolish bravery. It is not bravery to die. To leave Gondor bereft of her favorite son. To leave me…’ Faramir never finished the sentence.

I, however, finish the jump. Aye, ‘twas difficult, perhaps foolhardy, but the Halflings would have no chance otherwise. I land in Legolas’ arms. His eyes shine with the fear of what I have done. I pat him on the back as I swallow my own heart, lodged in my throat.

How or why the Ringbearer is still on the wrong side, I do not know. I know only that he must be saved. Too late! The chasm widened by my jump! “No rope!” I hear Sam moan. I judge the distance. Aragorn, even alone, could not make such a jump; neither is there the possibility that he can toss Frodo that far.

So these hands have failed Gondor. The Ringbearer will carry the ring with him to the bottomless pit and Middle-earth will fall. Is that not what Gandalf said? And I have been the unwitting agent.

Another sundering crash; there is little left to the rock that holds the King of Gondor and the Hope of Middle-earth. Yet, has not Aragorn told me there is always hope! The rock sways. Surely, they will fall. Yet, the rock is falling towards us. I reach out my arms; these hands catch the little one and I am redeemed.

Ch. 26 - Frodo at the Battle of Bywater – A Drabble

I cannot bear it.

I tried to tell them…

Stop, please. Do you not see what is happening here? We cannot hurt each other. We cannot resort to violence as they do. There must be some way, some better way to resolve this. Put away your swords, please.

But no, they could not listen. They would not. And now Hobbits lie dead upon the road. And my beloved Shire will never be the same. Pain floods my heart as I see the Ring continue its horrid reign. We will never be free of the evil it created. All has changed.

Ch. 27 - Fallen (AU) – A Drabble

“He fell?” Théoden whispered. “It cannot be.”

He fell back hard onto his throne, the throne given to his fathers by the fathers of this man. And now Denethor was fallen. It was too much to take in. He had just been with them, just a few short weeks ago, for Théodwyn’s troth pledge. And now he was fallen. He started to shake; no tears came, just shaking. And then the moans began.

Théodred stood by the throne, appalled at his father’s distress. The Steward had been friend, yes, but not that close.

“What now for the Éorlingas?” Théoden moaned.

~*~ 

(A/N - This small drabble led to the writing of the ‘My Sword’ series)

Ch. 28 - The Lady and the Servant – A Drabble

SAM - Just wanted a little description of him before I began...
Staunch, Steadfast, Simple, Solemn
Allegiance, Affection, Adventurous (not), As good as gold
Meritorious, Muddler, Mighty (in heart), Minstrel (even surprised Frodo!)

She came upon him unawares, smiling at the sight.

His face turned a raging red. She waited for his bidding. He picked himself up from the ground. She walked forward. He stepped back. She swiped his back and arms. He held his breath. She whispered his name. He nearly fainted. She walked him back. He sighed.

“What’s this on the back of your neck?” Frodo wondered. He pulled a yellow star-shaped flower from behind one of Sam’s ears.

“Elanor,” Sam whispered, “or so she called it.”

“What were you doing – rolling in it?”

Sam’s face turned red and he ran.

Ch. 29 - Filaments – A Drabble

He closed his eyes, waiting for breath to return. He had hoped it had been a dream, but it was not. He was a prisoner. Filaments of web surrounding his body did not lie.

He had been on patrol; the spiders had attacked. His warriors had stood their ground, but there were too many. His bow had been ripped from his arm by the sticky filth. He pulled his knife, the beautiful, ivory-handled gift from his mother. It did not save him. He hoped it was not lost.

A sour laugh escaped his lips. He hoped he was not lost.

~*~

A/N - The Company took little gear of war… Legolas had a bow and a quiver, and at his belt a long white knife. LOTR, The Ring Goes South.

Ch. 30 - The Pit - A Tribble

He fell into the pit while in the company of the Lady, and he wept, for what – he knew not. As he plunged deeper, every fibre of his body and soul turned to fiery ice; he wished for death, or life – he knew not which. His mind screamed in horror. Further and further he fell.

His heart cried out for help, but his mind knew he was alone. There would be no comfort, no pity. He clawed at the sides of the pit as he fell, but knew it was hopeless. The pit was in his mind and he could not escape it. ‘Father!’ Tears stung his eyes. ‘Faramir!’ The cry of a wounded animal fell from his lips. ‘Mercy!’

He put his hands over his ears, begging the Valar for surcease from the whispers that sliced and tore through him. Yet, they did not stop; they grew louder the more he moaned and cried. ‘Alone! Elbereth, I am alone and doomed.’

A hand touched his shoulder. The fall slowed, then stopped. He opened his eyes. He was no longer on the talan, but in a glade. Aragorn stood close by, watching him quizzically.

“Rest, Boromir. There is nothing to fear here in the Golden Wood.”

He shivered, listened, and sighed. The whispers, at the very edge of sound, hid, but his heart heard them. He turned fear-filled eyes to the Ranger.

“There is hope, Boromir. You are not alone, nor is Gondor.”

“Nay. Evil I spoke of when we entered this place. You chided me. Yet, it is here.” His voice fell to a whispered gasp.

Aragorn sat next to him. “I will shield thee, if thou needs that.”

Tears trickled down Boromir’s cheeks. “There is no shield that can protect me.” He stood and walked into the forest.

~*~

A/N - Inspired by David's psalms in the Bible.

Ch. 31 - Helcaraxë – A Quintdrabble

The cold and mists were what his fëa remembered, though there were other things of more import. But Finrod could not look at those now. He would not. He put his head in his hands and sat in mournful silence. Tears fell as remembrance o’ercame resolve.

The water was not frozen when Fëanor set out on the accursed boats. A shudder ran through Finrod as he thought of the price of those vessels. The dead faces looked at him in silent reproach. The living – his sister, Galadrial, his friend, Turgon, and Glorfindel – all looked at him. But what was he to do?

He waited with the others, waited to see the masts coming back for them. A sickening feeling caused him to lean over and retch until he thought he would lose himself as well. He looked up and east; the red glow in the sky told him what his stomach had discerned just moments before.

Through his tears, he found himself bent over, retching again and again. His sister would not believe him, nor her own eyes, at least not at first, but finally, she too cried out in horror. The cry echoed down the long column. All had waited patiently for the ships to return; all shared in the terror that now assailed the exiles.

Fëanor had betrayed them!

The waters near the shore, for a furlong and further, had now frozen over. ‘What matters it?’ Finrod thought disconsolately. ‘The boats will not return.’

He waited, as all those in the column waited, for Fingolfin to accept his fate and lead them. His brother had deserted them. Finrod looked back at the column and wept as Fingolfin led them northward. Finrod kept to the front. He could not look back, for when he did, he saw his people stepping over the bodies of the frozen. The youngest died first, most in their mothers’ arms. The mothers would lie down and close their eyes, cradling their dead babies. They would not re-enter the column. Then the old succumbed. He choked and retched again. The silence of death was deafening. None cried aloud; none screamed. Only soft moans filled the cold, heavy air.

He felt his sister’s hand on his back, but he batted it away and growled low. “Do not ever touch me again!” He had not wanted to leave their father; he had not wanted to come. She had; she dreamt of power. He hated her; for a moment, he hated her as he hated himself.

At last, Elenwë was lost. Turgon would not go on. Finrod watched as his cousin sat in the icy snow, holding her body close to his and moaning piteously. Finrod’s ears hurt at the low keening wail. But there was nothing he could do. Nothing any of them could do but push on northward. They could not even pray to the Valar for they had been cursed.

His anger kindled in the cold, icy waste of Helcaraxë and would not be appeased.

~*~

A/N - http://www.tednasmith.com/silmarillion/TN-Fingolfin_Leads_the_Host_Across_the_Helcaraxe.html  for the picture behind this long drabble.)

‘There Elenwë the wife of Turgon was lost, and many others perished also; and it was with a lessened host that Fingolfin set foot at last upon the Outer Lands. Small love for Fëanor or his sons had those that marched at last behind him, and blew their trumpets in Middle-earth at the first rising of the Moon.’ The Silmarillion, Chapter Nine

Ch. 32 - Disquiet – A Tribble

Irritably pulling parchment from a drawer, he dipped his quill in the ink and furiously wrote:

‘My heart longs to write, yet my mind is so filled with a thousand details that I scarce can even think where to begin.

I miss Faramir. I want one of my sons by my side. Boromir has been gone overlong and I begin to fear for him – fear for the fearless! If my heart were not so heavy, I would laugh at the thought. Never have I put the name Boromir in the same thought or missive with fear. Even as a lad, headstrong and fearless, he would frighten Finduilas with his antics, walking atop the escarpment, climbing down walls as shortcut to the first circle (she did not know I had done the same even after my youth), swimming in whirlpools on the great river – so many foolhardy adventures. Yet, fearless he was. And taking Faramir with him. Her heart twice assailed.’

He paused for a moment. ‘Mayhap that was another cause of her despair.’

He shook his head. ‘Nay! Much of that happened after she passed. Was it her passing that gave my sons the freedom to disregard safety? Nay again! Not sons, for Faramir is the wiser. It is hard for me to think this, but he is, at least in the ways of caution. ‘Twas Boromir conceived the adventures and Faramir’s love for Boromir (who could not love him?) that bid him follow into danger.

Of course, I could not stay them. ‘Twas good training for the both of them – to stretch themselves beyond their own familiarity.

Until these dreams, these accursed dreams. Boromir would not consent to Faramir’s following him on this fear-filled quest.

Fear! There it is again. I fear for Boromir. Where are you, my son?'

Ch. 33 - Frodo and the Ugly Chair – A Quadrabble and a Half

(in response to a challenge beginning 'Frodo stared, aghast…' sorry for the silliness!)

Frodo stared, aghast, at his right hand; he could see through it, to the arm of the chair beneath.

Well, he really couldn’t see through his hand, just through the spaces between his fingers, but that was enough to scare the pants off him. The chair was the ugliest thing he had ever seen; he wondered who the carpenter was who conceived such a hideous object. He hadn’t realized he spoke the thought aloud, when a bellow washed through the hall as the owner of the chair roared into the room, knocking down the door as it came through.

‘How dare you criticize my chair, you little pipsqueak?’ it cried. ‘Son of a halfling!’

'Hey!' Pippin yelled. 'Be careful how you use that phrase!'

Frodo was appalled. How could anyone call him such a thing, slur his dear father? He strode towards the troll who had been distracted by Sam’s lovely curls, and tapped it on the knee.

‘My dear fellow,’ he said politely, as all Hobbit’s tend to be polite. ‘What you said of my father was not very nice. We prefer the name Hobbits to halflings, and I would have you remember that.’

‘Aaarrrrggggghhhh,’ the troll roared again. ‘You have the taste of an elf!’ he screamed, at which comment Legolas stride forth, arrow ready in his bow, with a retort on his lips.

Aragorn pulled him aside and turned to the troll himself. ‘What say you?’ he asked, and asked, and asked.

Legolas apologized for his friend. ‘He gets like that sometimes, stuck on a phrase that he happens to like.’

‘What is this,’ the troll screamed, ‘a diversion?’

‘There are older and fouler things than Orcs in the deep places of the world,’ said Gandalf, ‘and that chair is definitely one of them. I must agree with Frodo.’

‘I think it is quite lovely,’ said Pippin. ‘It reminds me of the cheese and sausage omelet that Sam made on Weathertop.’ He sobbed at the memory of the lost omelet.

‘Fool of a Took,’ Gandalf snarled. ‘Throw yourself into its cushions and rid us of your stupidity.’

The troll slammed its huge body into the chair. A contented sigh escaped its lips.

‘What new devilry is this?’ Boromir demanded.

‘In a little while, I will take you on a nice tour of my abode, but for the moment, I must rest; all this bellowing has tired me out.’

‘Your abode,’ Gimli sputtered. Legolas immediately placed his hand over the Dwarf’s mouth and pulled him out the door. The rest of the Fellowship tiptoed out.

‘Don’t look at your hand again, will you dear Frodo,’ Merry pled. ‘I couldn’t stand the thought of what you might see next.’

~*~

A/N - I think I must have eaten some bad mushrooms when I thought of this one!

Ch. 34 - The Green Parrot, Fourth Circle, Minas Tirith – A Tribble

"Ho! Ho! Ho! To the bottle I go,
To heal my heart and drown my woe…”

Merry looked long and hard at Pippin. “Why are you singing that? It doesn’t belong here; it belongs in the Shire.”

“It belongs wherever a Hobbit is, isn’t that right, Sam?”

“‘Course it is, Pippin. I don’t fancy it here though, so I see what Merry’s gettin’ on about.”

“What about you, Frodo? Do you think it’s wrong to sing it in Minas Tirith?”

“No. It feels right. It feels good. Pippin, because of you, I am content. And I have not felt content since we left the Shire.”

“Not even in Rivendell, Mr. Frodo?” Sam asked in wonder.

“Not even in Rivendell, my dear Sam.”

“It’s the ale, Sam. It’s even better than the ale at the Stuffed Sheep at Stock.” Pippin scrambled to the top of the table and lifted his glass. “I declare this the finest ale east of the Shire!” He quaffed the rest of the pint, swiped his hand over his mouth for the last drops, and licked his hand.

The entire bar broke into laughter. Costa’s son, Jimmy, brought over another four pints, placing them on the table. “A gift from my father and me.” He bowed low and left them.

Frodo sat, dumbfounded. Never had he been offered free ale – not even in the Shire.

Merry joined Pippin, holding onto his pint while pounding his feet in the song’s familiar beat.

“Ho! Ho! Ho! To the bottle I go,
To heal my heart and drown my woe…”

The other Hobbits quickly joined in, followed by Aragorn and Gandalf.

”Rain may fall and wind may blow,
And many miles be still to go
But under a tall tree I will lie,
And let the clouds go sailing by."

~*~

A/N - This triple drabble was written in memory of many wonderful nights in the Green Parrot in Wellington, NZ. The cast had their farewell dinner at this glorious establishment and it is mentioned in the extended DVD’s. The song, of course, is Tolkien's from FOTR.

A Warm and Grateful “Thank You” from Agape to our Hosts: Angelo, Costa, Dimitri and Jimmy Sakoufakis at The Green Parrot, Wellington, NZ. Three times Agape has been there, and three times they have treated her as friend!’ Elen síla lúmenn' omentielvo, a star shines on the hour of our meeting!’

Ch. 35 - Tharbad – A Quadrabble

“And that is why Hobbits are so fond of mushrooms!”

Boromir sat with his mouth open. “Never have I heard such a pack of lies. Oliphants do not like mushrooms!”

“How do you know?” Merry retorted.

“Now, now,” Aragorn said, raising his hand to still the approaching argument. “It is my turn to tell a tale.”

Pip sat forward, all ears.

“‘Twas quite some time ago – I was on patrol on the outskirts of the southern Shire. There were reports of Dunlending activity. A small group of Rangers descended upon the area. I happened to get separated from my men.” Aragorn ignored Boromir’s snort. “I was following the river trying to find my way back, near the fords at Tharbad. The river becomes quite treacherous there.”

“Is this a real story?” Merry asked testily.

“Come on, Merry,” Pip interjected, “We didn’t make any rules for this. He can tell a real story if he wants to.”

Boromir interjected. “Does that you mean your Oliphant and mushroom story is made up?”

Aragorn harrumphed. “As I was saying, the river can be treacherous. As I went to cross, the current took my horse’s legs out from under her and I went crashing down. I have never been so wet nor cold in my life!”

Pip whispered loudly, “He doesn’t know how to tell a good story.”

Sam nodded in agreement.

“Only a fool tries to cross that river. I have been near Tharbad. I myself crossed the river there on foot, leading my horse after me. She bolted when…”

“Go on, Boromir.” Pip exclaimed.

“I think I have had enough of the telling of this tale.” Boromir shifted uncomfortably.

“What happened there, Boromir?” Aragorn asked quietly.

“I would not speak words of what I saw there, not in this place of peace.”

Galadriel stepped forward. “I have heard of your adventure at Tharbad, man of Gondor. The tale was written by one of our scribes. You had reported to Lord Elrond, when you arrived in Imladris and the tale was brought here. You are wise to speak no further of it."

The Hobbits were disappointed.

“If you would read of it, you may go to the library. My Elves will show you were it has been kept. Linaewen was the author, if I remember correctly. It is time now for rest.”

Pip shrugged. “No one knows how to tell a good story!”

~*~

A/N - http://lotrscrapbook.bookloaf.net/stories/serial/110/index.html (chapters 9 & 10 tell of Boromir’s adventure by the Tharbad and the unexpected meeting of nine – 110 Days by Linaewen)

Ch. 37 - Future Site - A Tribble and a Half

He had stood here before, in the Third Age - stood next to the king and watched the celebration unfold before him. Dancers, fiddlers, and the ever-present minstrel of Gondorian festivities littered the field of Cormallen. He saw Frodo and Sam walking toward their appointed places. The plans for commendation were in full swing. Yet, one was missing.

Even after all these long ages passed, whenever Legolas found himself once again upon this field, he never failed to miss the missing.

Aragorn and Arwen slept, waiting for who knew what Eru had planned for them. Frodo, Sam and Gimli were in Valinor with his father, cousins and friends, Merry and Pippin slept also. One day, he would take his rest and return West. Yet, one was missing.

The field was being encroached upon, as the humans of this age always seemed to do, encroach, then finally o'ertake the land and its beauty, marring it with their paved roads, uprooting trees to build unseemly dwellings, and those hideous steel monsters that belched smoke and ran unaware people over.

He sat on a half-finished stonewall. A sign next to it proclaimed, 'Future Site of Rivendell - Spacious Condominiums and Gracious Living at its Best.'

Future Site - he knew the future site of those he loved, Aragorn, Arwen, Thranduil, and so many others, but not of one. One who was missing.

Where did those men go who the world considered failures? Were they with other men who died in battle or in their sleep? Where, in fact, was Boromir, for Aragorn had told him of Boromir's fall.

The last moment. Many said that all were given the chance, at the last moment, to be freed and healed and though the world did not know it, they were indeed free. And happy.

The last moment. Future site. Aragorn had said that was the key and Legolas would believe it. For Boromir's sake, he must believe that Boromir had been freed and healed and would someday be in a place where Legolas could find him. At the end of Arda, he would find him.

~*~

A/N - Fiondil wrote a beautiful piece about Boromir and the afterlife that you may want to read… http://www.storiesofarda.com/chapterlistview.asp?SID=4770

Ch. 27 - Gimli’s Grief – A Tribble

I put my hand on his shoulder. Not to pull him away from the tomb. Not to bid him stand and prepare to fight. But to somehow say, ‘I know what you feel.’

Some wonder why warriors cry. I do not. I never question such a thing. Gimli’s tears do not surprise me. I have lived with tears my whole life.

So I comfort him in the way a man does, a fellow warrior. I know he understands, for he does not pull away. His shoulder loses some of its tension. It slumps. I have allowed him to grieve.

Sometimes, a warrior needs permission to grieve. Balin’s Tomb supercedes every need or want that came before this moment. It is terrible in its telling, haunting in its silent cry, wicked in its evil end. The horror of it is silence and dust and bones bereft of flesh.

Tears fall from my eyes. I did not even know this warrior. Gimli’s witness of grief is enough to give me permission to cry, to share in his grief. One warrior for another. It will not be the last time.

My esteem for Dwarves rose the moment Gandalf’s staff lit the halls of Dwarrowdelf. Never had I seen such a city before.

It seems the essence of Middle-earth lies in its vastness. The men of Gondor crafted huge statues, the Argonath; towering cities, Minas Tirith, Minas Isil; and a great civilization.

So, too, I have now discovered, did the Dwarves. The size of it astounds. From such little creatures. I find the magnitude of it unsettling. Would Gondor be built if we had been such?

I will look differently upon my Dwarven friend. Gimli seems to recognize this as he stands, nods his head to me, and clutches his axe. We battle together.

Ch. 37 - Boromir’s Undoing – A Double Drabble

Fathomless miles fall before my eyes. I see the wizard hanging on and I can do nothing; I am holding the little one. He strains and I find it incredible that he would almost pull me with him; such is his ardor to help Mithrandir. But it is folly. I cannot let him try. The bridge will collapse. So much of it is already gone. A lost cause, I know. Mithrandir struggles, stares as we freeze in horror, barks at us to run, and then, in a moment, a heartbeat, a breath – he is gone. He has let his hands free. He falls. He falls.

The Halfling screams pushing against my arms: arms that are there to save him, not hold him back, and I find I must pick him up and carry him away ere he too falls prey to those bottomless leagues. I expect him to pummel me in his anger and grief. But he holds on tightly, little hands clasping the cloth as he continues to scream the name of his supporter.

A short while ago, I was grateful for these hands that helped release Gimli’s grief. Now they help to separate friends. Frodo must hate me.

Ch. 39 - Not Forsaken – A Drabble

Tightly I hold onto Gimli. He struggles, tears at my arms, but I will not let him go. He bellows invectives at the Orcs that chased us from his cousin’s burial ground, at the Balrog that tore Mithrandir from us, at the dreams that died in the space of a moment. I will not let him return to that dark pit, that cave that would claim us all if we let it.

The grief of these last hours’ envelopes him and he falls. He cannot fall far. I have him. Held tightly in my arms. I will not abandon him.

Ch. 40 - Where is Home? – A Double Drabble

The air and sea smelled so clean and fresh, now that the storm had passed; she wanted to throw herself into the waves, feel the water wash over her and cleanse her as it did the beach. But that was not possible. She was with child. Everyone knew a woman with child was not allowed in the water.

She had so missed her home, the sea, and her father. When Denethor finally acquiesced and let her return to Dol Amroth for the summer, her joy was beyond telling. Yet, once she arrived, she had found that she carried the future Steward and was immediately prohibited from the sea. Next, she discovered her father, unaware of her return, was in Pelargir, arranging some sale or the other with the shipbuilders there. Lastly, her own room was in the midst of disarray as a long-overdue renovation had been ordered before her father left.

A tear fell, then another and another. Sitting on the wall overlooking the bay, she chided herself; she was a full-grown woman and hardly fit for sulking, but nothing could stay the tears, once they began their downward fall.

Standing, she stamped her foot. “I want to go home!”

Ch - 41 - Arwen's Woe – A Drabble

She sat, day in, day out, the embroidery needle in her hand stabbing through the fragile fabric. It screamed, as she could not, as the needle dove into its very being.

She watched them ride out as she remained behind, listening to the gossip of the brave deeds they did, seeing the wonder in her maidens’ eyes.

She cried out to join them. Her eyes, burnt dry by the same fire that burnt in theirs, closed. Her heart withered.

They killed Yrch; she could only stab fabric until her fingers bled. No one noticed.

Stab, then pull the thread through.

Ch - 42  Behind Enemy Lines – Aragorn in Harad – A Drabble

“Hmmm.” He held the creature in his hand. Never had he seen such an animal. Was it even an animal? He had seen it moving, out of the corner of his eye, waddling across the desert sands. Bending to touch it, he was greatly surprised. It rolled into a little ball, fitting comfortably in his hand. There was an aura of peace about it. He spoke to it in Elvish, and, lo and behold, it had unwound itself, looking into his face. He couldn’t help but smile. Intelligent eyes looked back at him. At last, he had found a friend!

Ch. 43 - Rescue Unwanted (movie verse) – A Drabble

“Stop it! Leave me be! Take your hands off of me!” the Dwarf howled in anger.

If it were a different time, a different place, I might have laughed. But tears were still coursing down my face. I had watched Haldir die. I could not - I would not lose another!

I had to save him. He would fight to the death – his own. Another Elf, one I did not know, took hold of my other arm. No one Elf can wrestle me, a Son of Aulë.

‘No Elf would want to!’ I thought miserably. ‘I have changed – for the better?’

# 44 - The Portrait – A Double Drabble

“What is your plan, brother?” Faramir wondered aloud as Boromir strode purposefully down through the tunnel and out onto the Sixth Level.

“I am not sure. I have a thought, but cannot be certain that what I consider can be done.” He walked in silence again and Faramir had to content himself with only that, noting only that his brother held a piece of paper in his hand.

They stopped at the Second Level. Boromir looked towards his left, shook his head and strode towards the right. About four stalls further along the street, he stopped. Pointing, he smiled. “This is the place. Now, to find what I hope for.” He walked into a small gallery. Paintings covered the walls, paintings of Minas Tirith, Osgiliath, Ithilien’s vast forests, Dol Amroth – Faramir gasped at the skill of the painter.

“No,” Boromir moaned quietly. “This will not do.” He quickly left the shop and turned right again. Faramir followed, nonplussed.

“Ah, mayhap we have found it.” He walked into another shop and, once again, Faramir noted they were in a gallery. This time, portraits hung upon the walls.

Tears filled his eyes. At last he understood Boromir’s Yule gift for their father.

A/N - some have been discomfitted by the fact that the exact 'subject' for the portrait is not known. For me, it really doesn't matter. For the reader - make the subject whom you would like!

Ch. 45 - Boromir's Birthday - A Quintdrabble

We do not know exactly what date Boromir of Gondor was born on – but he was forty years old when he set off on the quest to find the answers for the riddle of the dream that Faramir and he shared.  July 3rd - -

He heard stifled laughter coming from his father’s study; his brow furrowed. There was naught to laugh about, in his mind’s eye. All seemed to be doom and gloom. Was he not leaving on a dangerous quest on the morrow? He hesitated a moment before knocking on the door.

“Who calls?”

Now Boromir was highly disturbed. His father’s voice questioned him! Did not his father summon him? The guard at his side never flinched. “You told him I was here?”

The guard nodded, but said nary a word.

“‘Tis Boromir. You sent for me, my Lord Steward,” he called through the closed oaken door.

Uproarious laughter greeted his words. Boromir began to fume. Mayhap he should turn around and go to The Green Parrot, as he had planned before the summons.

“Just a moment, Captain. I need to tidy the room.”

Behind the door, snorts and giggles greeted this response. Boromir stood at the closed door, his mouth agape. ‘What in all the tea in Harad is going on?’ He clutched his sword hilt and paced back and forth.

“You may enter,” his father’s voice said a few moments later.

He put his hand on the cold, black, iron handle and pushed the lever down. The door was locked!

Raucous laughter came through the door.

“Forgive me, my son,” the Steward called aloud. “I forgot I locked it.”

Boromir stood back, waiting impatiently for someone to unlock it and let him in. It was nearing dusk. He had hoped to spend the night packing, sharpening his sword, and spending at least a little time with Faramir. He had reserved a table at the Green Parrot and had hoped to enjoy what was left of this hideous day with his brother and some close friends.

The Council meeting earlier in the day had been a disaster. It had taken all of Boromir’s persuading to finally sway his father to let him go to Imladris. If such a place could be found. Faramir had wanted to go, probably should have been the one sent; instead he left in anger. They had not spoken since Denethor gave the mission to Boromir in his stead.

If his father was in one of his moods, he would spend the night here, listening to theories, looking at maps, and going over all the information that they had eschewed at the Council meeting earlier in the day. He tried to control his temper, his frustration, and his sorrow. He needed to spend time with his brother, to explain his reasons for making the journey instead. Faramir was disappointed in him, he knew that.

“Surprise!” The shouted greeting met him as he stepped through the late opened door. “Happy Birth Day!”

Boromir stared. Denethor, Faramir, Imrahil, the captains of the different Citadel guards, some of the lords from the Council meeting – all stood about with smiles upon their faces and shouts of congratulations on their lips.

“I… I had forgotten.”

Faramir stepped forward and hugged him. “We did not!”

Ch. 46 - Lords of the Dance – A Quintdrabble

(this, with some tweaks, turned into part of a chapter of Ten Thousand Years Will Not Suffice)

“Come, little brother. Let us show these poor excuses for dancers how this is supposed to be done!”

With that he grabbed Faramir’s forearm and hauled him to his feet. Faramir grinned. Both men drew their swords from their scabbards and placed them on the ground; they removed their scabbards and then their tunics and shirts. Bare-chested, they moved into the circle that formed for them. Suddenly, stillness filled the night air. The stars themselves seemed to pause in their flight. The tension was palpable. Everyone knew this was a contest, for, though great was the love brother for brother, great also was the love of competition. The men started singing, accompanied by a slow steady clapping; they knew they were in for a treat. The brothers smiled and started circling their swords and each other. Slowly, they moved to the dance. The men’s clapping grew faster. The brothers’ feet flew, hands held high in the air one moment, then reaching for their swords in the next. The clapping spurred both brothers’ feet into faster movement. Laughter was warm upon Faramir’s face, but Boromir’s, though a smile covered it, showed deep concentration. Faramir danced much better Boromir knew, but at speed, none could match him. As the clapping got faster and stronger, shouts roared from men caught up in the excitement that was before them. Suddenly, Faramir stumbled and fell backwards. Hoots of laughter went up from the men, but a look of consternation covered Boromir’s face. He growled at the men who immediately ceased their taunting. Faramir started to get up, but Boromir was quickly at his side with his arm outstretched.

“Forgive me, brother. I should have stopped moments ago.”

Faramir smiled and clapped Boromir on the shoulder as he was pulled upright. “That was fun. You always did best me when the dance raised its speed, though perhaps…”

“None dance as gracefully as you, little brother,” Boromir interrupted. “Any great brute can move his feet quickly. It takes skills to move them well. I am sorry!” He hugged him fiercely and with great pride. The men strode forward and pounded them both on their backs congratulating them.

But then silence shattered the moment. The men quickly parted and Denethor stood before them. An embarrassed smile spread across Boromir’s face as he moved to greet his father.

“So, I send you on patrol and what do I find?” The scowl hid the twinkle in his eye. “You won, of course?”

“Only because you tripped Faramir!” One of the bolder men shouted out.

Faramir grinned as Boromir was teased. Then, he saw Denethor’s scowl. “He did not! Father, I tripped.”

Boromir turned and stared hard at Faramir. “Father knows I would not trip you.” For a moment, all the joy left Boromir’s face and uncharacteristic uncertainty crossed the older man’s face. “You know I would not trip you?”

Consternation filled Faramir’s face. “I would not believe it of you.’

”Then it is settled,” Denethor interrupted. “The match is Boromir’s!”

Ch. 47 - A Lesson Learned - A Thousand Words Moment

The cloaks felt warm on their backs, but that, Boromir noted wryly, did not seem to be the reason that the Hobbits giggled so. He watched them as they rode before him in the boat this first day. They were doing things with their hands and feet and their cloaks and then, they would burst into peals of laughter. Boromir tried to shush them, but the sound of their mirth tickled him; he found himself hard-pressed to stifle a laugh of his own.

He could feel Aragorn staring at them and at last, in a gesture of helplessness, Boromir shrugged and looked away.

When they camped that evening, Boromir hoped that Merry and Pippin would settle down. They did, for the time that it took to eat Sam’s stew, but shortly thereafter, they started again. Whatever they were doing, he saw they could not cajole Sam and Frodo into joining them.

It was soon time to set up the first watch. Aragorn’s tone, as he told Merry and Pippin that, due to their high spirits, he would hold them to first watch, was firm. Boromir cocked an eyebrow. These two would be useless at watch tonight if they kept up their present antics! Aragorn must have thought the same, for he separated them, sending Merry to one end of the camp and Pippin to the other. Their look of extreme disappointment caused the man of Gondor to laugh out loud. Aragorn scowled at him and the Hobbits blushed in embarrassment.

Before their duty began, Sam went over and gave each one a good talking to. Boromir had to stifle another laugh as he saw Sam’s finger wagging furiously in front of the face of each one. Even Sam could tell it was a losing battle. He turned, grumbling, and went back to Frodo’s side.

“Mayhap they could have another moment before their duties begin?” Boromir had walked quietly to Aragorn’s side. “The camp has not yet settled, and I must admit some curiosity as to what mischief these two are about.”

Aragorn nodded. Boromir motioned to both Hobbits, who looked to Aragorn for approval, and, once he gave it, ran to Boromir’s side.

“Do you need some help, Boromir?” Merry asked hopefully. “We felt quite useless on the river today. Every time I put an oar in to help push, it was almost ripped from my hand by the forward pressure of your thrusts.”

“Merry!” Pippin cried in horror. “Never once did you try to help.”

“Aye. You are right in that, Pippin. Neither of you even attempted a hand. You were busy with other doings and I would ask you now what that was.”

Merry looked furtively at Pippin, who just smiled – a fell smile if ever Boromir had seen one! – and simply said, “We’ll show you.”

With that, they ran beyond the camp’s borders. Boromir’s jaw dropped in surprise and Aragorn stood in alarm.

“Forgive me!” Boromir held up a hand to his companions. “It is my fault that they have left the camp. I will bring them back.”

The beginnings of anger stirred in his heart. He had trusted them, had even intervened with Aragorn on their behalf, and yet, at the first opportunity, they left duty behind and ran into the forest. He called out quietly to them, but the only response he heard was soft giggling somewhere in front of him. The night was dark and he could hardly see. Now, dread replaced anger. What if the Hobbits could not find their way back? He quickened his step.

Off to the left, he heard more laughter. As he moved forward, he felt something touch his leg. He looked down in surprise, but saw nothing. Shaking his head in wonder, he moved forward again. Another touch upon his other leg. He whirled about, perplexed. Now the laughter came from behind him, somewhere in the direction of their camp. He heaved a sigh of relief as he walked towards the sound. At least Merry and Pippin were safe. He wondered again at the touch. Was the Lady Galadriel’s sorcery part of this? Did her power extend beyond the Golden Wood?

In the distance, he could see their campfire and counted the bodies around it. Only five. Merry and Pippin had not returned!

He looked to his left and to his right. There was no sign of either of them. A faint giggle arose in front of him; his frustration welled from him as a growl.

Suddenly, he was tackled from the front and from behind. Within a moment, he was sprawled upon the ground, his mouth eating dirt and leaves. The Fellowship, running towards him in concern, began to laugh.

At that, two hoods were popped back and the smiling faces of his tormentors could be seen. Merry and Pippin’s wide grins flashed in the firelight. “These cloaks are as good as the Lady said, Boromir. Not once did you see us!”

They plopped down on his chest, laughter filling the air. The rest of the Fellowship looked on in amusement.

“Indeed they do,” Aragorn stroked his beard. “Indeed they do.” He walked back to the fire. Legolas and Gimli, Frodo and Sam left also.

Boromir sighed. None helped him rise. The two Hobbits giggled and smiled at him. “Are you all right, Boromir?” Pippin asked.

“I will be, when I am finished with you!” He pulled them tightly to him and began to tickle them mercilessly. At last, he collapsed as laughter and fatigue took him.

Tears streamed down all their faces, then Boromir released them. Merry and Pippin rolled to the side. Boromir stood and bowed. “You have put my heart at ease,” he said gently, “and for that, I am grateful. The Lady said the cloaks would protect us. I would not have believed it myself if you had not shown me.” He bowed again and walked back to the campfire.

Merry and Pippin sat on the hard ground, their mouths opened in astonishment.

Ch. 48 - Summoned – A Quintdrabble

April 25, T.A. 3019

The great Host of the West prepares to leave the green lands of Ithilien. The boats are made ready to depart Cair Andros. The people of Minas Tirith, as well as the reunited Fellowship, look forward to the King's coronation. (This was taken from some calendar entry. Unfortunately, I don't remember where, so I cannot give credit where credit is due.)

My heart speaks out in sorrow and pain for I have finally returned to the land that I love. I had not meant to ever leave Ithilien, but duty called. Even before…

Continuously, father ordered me to and fro; most times the order was to leave her, especially after Boromir…

During the year before the War, as Boromir traveled on a quest that I would have made my own, father ordered me from Ithilien to attend numerous duties. And now…

Now I wish even less to leave - now that I stand once more upon her beloved soil. Yet, leave her I must, if only to possess one whom now holds my heart, to fully win her love, to bring her, as my own, to this fair land.

I was summoned by my King once before – summoned from the darkness of the Black Breath and from the madness of another's. Denethor's hot breath held me as he waited for death to take us both. But I was ripped from my father's arms - arms that would take me through fire into another world, ostensibly to save me – a world free from the horrors that he thought awaited us. Even now, I wonder why I was spared.

Today I wait upon him who is my King, here in the field of Cormallen. The red-golden culumalda trees wave gently in the breeze; their beauty steals my breath and my heart. I want to stay here. Dwell and live and breathe in the peace and the joy of this land, this land that I have loved so deeply for so many years.

Soon, I will return to Boromir's city, for that is how I think upon it. He was in love with it, infatuated, nay, enraptured by it. Ithilien was my love. Is my love! Now, my King has indicated it will be mine. My beloved land of the moon will be mine and I am most grateful. As Steward, if that is to be my fate, I will be summoned to the city many times. My very being shivers at the thought. Undeserved, unearned, unwanted duty that belongs to someone else - to a brother who will never return. Yet, I am Steward now, at least until I hand over the Rod. And I will return to Boromir's city, but always, I will leave it for him, and return to my own, my Ithilien.

She will come with me. I feel her touch upon my heart even here, away from her, knowing she stands on the parapet and waits for me. Knowing her heart flies from that high lofty peak down to this field, this green land. She waits for me with her whole heart. And I would give her my whole heart.

I cannot. Not yet; it is still scorched in the twisted mass that once was the Steward's House. I am not quite healed. Not yet, though my King wills it so. Nor is she, but we will heal together.

Ch. 49 - Too Late, It Seems – A Thousand Word Moment

Never, in all the long years of his life, had he ever seen so many Orcs. They spilled from the forest as water from the great falls in Imladris. Beauty destroyed by their trampling feet: flowers, insect life, ferns and flora. Everything in their path destroyed, desecrating ancient ruins with their vile feet. Though he was not of Gondor, he felt the pain of the forest and of the stone as the defiling beasts descended.

Gimli was at his side. He was almost sorry, for surely, with such an army upon them, neither would survive this onslaught. He had grown fond of this gruff Dwarf. For a moment, his heart stopped. He had not realized how fond he had become of him. An unlikely friendship, one that would raise the brows of many an Elf, had begun. Would it end on this grassy slope?

He hoped Aragorn fared better. He traveled in a different direction after Boromir returned to their camp. He had turned towards the ancient Seat of Seeing and Legolas had not seen him since. One sword, though it be Andúril and wielded by the King, would not stay this horde. Perhaps they here in front of him.

The Hobbits. He drew his breath in quickly at the thought of the gentle little creatures. Boromir had been sent after them. If he could find them, he would protect them. He smiled. Boromir was stalwart. He would protect them with his last breath. He must focus on his own danger now. They were coming.

Evil itself must have designed this day. If the Fellowship was together, he doubted that they would be o’ercome. But now, with them all tossed to the four winds, they could not survive. He bowed to the memory of those who had gone before him, lifted up a word to Ilúvatar, and nocked an arrow. They came in waves, the foolish creatures. If they had all descended at once, Gimli and he would have been easy prey. The waves gave him time to reload and Gimli time to prepare. He looked sideways for one moment. How many axes did the Dwarf possess?

His quiver emptied. He pulled his knife, waiting for his attackers to cover the ground that they had been afraid to cross while death sang from his bow. He shivered and wiped his ivory blade. Gifted from his mother, it had Elvish runes written on the blade to protect the wielder. Perhaps he would see her sooner than he had expected, in the Halls of Mandos. He shook his head. This was not the time to give in to despair. His companion lived, as did he. Taking another deep breath, he stepped forward and slashed at the enemy.

Gimli gave a low growl. “’Twill be good to finally do some damage to these foul creatures. The very stones of Moria, the Lonely Mountain, and the Ered Luin cry out for justice!” His scream of rage filled the air as Orcs finally came within striking distance of the Dwarves’ weapons.

They fought furiously, he and his companion, at one point even moving back to back to thwart the cowards as they worked their way around them. How many? He had lost count. He felt dirt on his cheek and wondered. His arms were beginning to tire and he wondered how the Dwarf had lasted so long. He heard the sharp intake of short breaths from his friend and hoped that he would not fall till after the Dwarf had. He did not want the valiant creature dying alone. He choked back a sob and again wondered at the friendship.

His hands were covered in Orc blood, black and vile. The touch of it burnt. Gimli’s face was covered in it. His shorter stature made him more susceptible to the splattered blood. They would need to find a river to wash it off. He laughed aloud at the thought and Gimli gave him a quick quizzical glance. A river! They would be dead; they would need no river.

He heard the Horn. His heart stopped. The Horn of Gondor. Once it was heard, its call embedded itself in the heart of the listener. He saw Gimli freeze and knew the call echoed in his heart also. He screamed aloud at the thought of the Hobbits and their peril, then rushed full into the band of Orcs in front of them. But the Orcs stood still for a moment, as if mesmerized by the sound of the Horn. They looked at each other and Legolas discerned fear upon their ugly faces. He rejoiced and lunged forward to use this precious respite that had been so suddenly given to them. The Orcs turned back and resumed their attack. The Horn blew again. The Orcs stopped. Legolas shook his head. Never had he seen such a thing. Again, the Horn blew and this time, the Orcs turned, snarled and ran towards the sound.

Legolas stood frozen at the horror that was about to descend upon the man and the Hobbits. He ran through the dead bodies and retrieved as many arrows as he could, noting that the Dwarf did the same thing. ‘Clever creature,’ he thought to himself. ‘An ally such as this is good to have!’

The Dwarf seemed to hear his thoughts, for he looked over and grinned. “Time to save Boromir and the little ones. Always it ends that a Dwarf must win the day!” Again, he laughed and Legolas joined him.

The sight that greeted them as they came over the lip of the dell froze their very hearts. Both Aragorn and Boromir were mortally wounded; the Hobbits were nowhere in sight..

He moved closer; Gimli stood still. “Alas!” said Legolas, coming to Aragorn's side. “We have hunted and slain many Orcs in the woods, but we should have been of more use here. We came when we heard the horn - but too late, it seems. I fear you have taken deadly hurt.”

~*~

'Alas!' said Legolas, coming to Aragorn's side. 'We have hunted and slain many Orcs in the woods, but we should have been of more use here. We came when we heard the horn - but too late, it seems. I fear you have taken deadly hurt.' Chapter 1, TTT

Ch. 50 - The Valar Guild – A Tribble

(written for the 10th Anniversary of The Varda Guild which I have used extensively for research and such - http://valarguild.org/varda/Tolkien/encyc/frames/Tsitefrms.htm)

“What a silly name for them. They do nothing.”

Faramir giggled. “They do so. Nana says they take care of Middle-earth and us and the stars and my dog and your horse and - ”

“Stop it!” Boromir held his hands over his ears. When Faramir stopped speaking and was looking at his toes, Boromir said, “Ada says they do nothing. They were great a long, long time ago, but they are tired now and don't do nothing.”

“Do not do anything,” Nanny corrected him.

“See! Even nanny agrees. They don't do nothing.”

“Boromir! I do not agree. I was simply correcting your grammar. We stand and keep silent for a moment before our meals. That is in respect to the Valar, as our ancestors did before us.”

“Nana says we are Elf-friends. Elves love the Valar, don't they, Nanny?”

“They do not!” Boromir interrupted. “They left the Valar and started their own place. Hoy!” He jumped up, shouting in glee. “Let's start our own place!”

“Boromir!” Nanny stood and took Boromir's arm. “We are being quiet. Your mother is not feeling well.”

Boromir shrugged. “Sorry. May we go outside?”

“Only as far as the White Tree. I do not want to see you near the parapet. Do you understand?”

Boromir sighed. “It won't be any fun if we can't go to the parapet. We can't go into Nana's gardens.” He sat down in frustration.

“Let's go to the kitchen, Boromir! We can start our own place in the cupboards. Maybe we can find an Elf and have him join us.”

“There are no such things as Elves.”

“There are! There are! There are!” Faramir cried. “Nanny,” he turned, tears streaming down his face, “There are Elves!”

“Aye! As long as your mother lives, there are Elves and Valar, Faramir!”

Ch. 51 - Dinledhwen – Two Tribbles

(for a friend)

The Elf looked over his shoulder. He knew he heard something, a tittering? It was the only description he could find for the sound he heard. Trees looked back at him with nary a hint of what they hid. But he knew they hid something. He stood perfectly still, hoping that whatever had made the noise would be tricked into repeating it. But no sound came. There should be sound! The trees, at least, should respond to his query. Nothing. His skin started to prickle. Yet, he felt no menace.

Again, the sound came, pleasant and soft. He let his defenses down. He knew who it was. And he was glad. For had not she been the scribe and historian for all of Mirkwood and the Wood Elves for as many years as he could remember? Had not she been archivist, beloved friend who showed him so many delightful tomes from his father’s library? Had not she been the one to regale him with tales of old? Ah, ‘twas good to hear her voice, raised in song. Too many times, of late, had her voice held fear. Spiders had increased their range; Orcs even, cruel, hateful creatures, had dared to set foot in his beloved forest. But now, there was joy in that voice. It did his heart good. He did his utmost to sneak up on her and knew he had succeeded when he heard her yelp of fright as he grabbed her hand from behind the bush where she was hiding.

It was, in truth, Dinledhwen, archivist and friend. He hugged her furiously, chiding her for the fright she had given him. She laughed, her wondrous laugh and they walked back towards Thranduil’s hall. He considered what he might do to ‘pay her back’ for the moment’s foreboding.

Part II

Just before the entrance, he pulled her towards him, pointed to the top of the hill and shouted, “Watch out! Spiders!”

She screamed, putting her hands over her head. He could hear her cursing the lack of a weapon.

Clutching his sides from the laughter that threatened to choke him, he chortled, “You should see your face!”

She screamed again, but at him and beat his chest with her hands, half-yelling, half-laughing. “You are impossible!”

He ducked, tried to stop her by taking hold of her arms, and pulling them towards her sides, but she was strong and fought nearly as well as he did. Suddenly, he let her go; Thranduil was walking towards them.

“Legolas. You have come back from patrol? Is all well?”

“Father!” Legolas smiled in joy, giving her a quick look as he strode forward. Both men embraced. “All is well. The patrol has returned with good news. No sign of Orcs within the perimeter of Mirkwood at this time. There were signs of a large band that must have passed a fortnight ago, but no fresh signs. Spider activity has lessened also. I was going to take Dinledhwen to the library to look up a flower that I found. Look! Is it not beautiful? There was a small field full of them. I’ve not seen their like before. Have you?”

“Yea and more have I seen in the far reaches of Lothlórien. I am surprised you found ones so far north. I did not know they could endure the cold.”

“Endure and thrive, Father, as the Elves.” He smiled. “So,” he said wistfully, turning towards Dinledhwen, “we have no need of going to the library.”

“We could,” she said shyly, “press it in one of the ancient books and display it, once it is dried?”

Ch. 52 - Rembrandt – A Drabble

“What have you there?”

“Naught, Boromir,” Faramir’s grin turned slightly lopsided, “but an old clamshell.”

“May I see it?”

Embarrassed, he held his hand out. The clamshell was painted in soft watercolors.

Tears sprang to Boromir’s eyes. “From Dol Amroth! Mother showed us how after we’d collected them! Have you more?”

“Nay. Just this and another.” Faramir turned to a small chest that sat, opened, on his desk. This shell had two large eyes painted on it and a wide, slightly crooked smile.

Boromir took his brother in a great hug, fists clenched, and laid his head on Faramir’s shoulder.

Ch. 53 - Dragonflies – A Tribble

The river rode high this day. High and wild as the sea by Dol Amroth. ‘No fishing this day,’ Boromir thought ruefully.

“Mayhap we can find some hidden pools and catch frogs?” Faramir asked.

Boromir’s eyes danced. “Nothing stays you from joy, does it, little brother?”

“I have you by my side. What could be better? I do not care if the river floods, as long as you and I can play.”

“We cannot play in the river, I am afraid. There will be no hidden pools. It is too high.”

“But there are dragonflies. Lots of them. Over there! That means hidden pools, does it not, Boromir? Dragonflies like still water. They would be there.”

Boromir looked to where Faramir pointed. The Harlond’s quays slowed the river on the west side; Boromir could imagine that there might be hidden places that would draw dragonflies. “Yes. Let us look.”

And there they were, close to three dozen of the long-winged insects. They flew about as if cavorting and Faramir, dearest Faramir, shrieked in delight. The lad chased them up and down the river, running here and there; Boromir had all he could do to keep his little brother from falling in. But was that not what big brothers were for?

He grinned as Faramir took another leap. The delightful creatures seemed to be having as much fun as his brother. He looked up and saw Denethor leaving the harbormaster’s office. His grin turned to a frown. Their playtime was over. It was time to leave. He turned to call to Faramir when a hand touched his shoulder.

“I think I see a frog,” Denethor pointed. “I think we should try to catch it. What think you, my son?”

Boromir smiled. Playtime was not over. It was just joined by another.

Ch. 54 - Finduilas – A Drabble

Oft times, waves wickedly washed against the jagged rocks, as the little promontory valiantly thrust out into the Bay.

This day, the sea lay calm. Black rocks against green-blue waters. Sky the color of aerinite. Gulls, in the nearby sea, gently lifted up, then dropped down again. Their companions wafted on the wind.

Eyes closed, she brought this scene before her mind's eye. Always, this image strengthened her, lifted her up and kept her heart steady when all about her seemed fierce, ugly, and violent.

This day, she found moments of peace flitted further apart. This day, she was afraid.

Ch. 55 - The Promise

Clouds scudded across the sky and leaves unseasonably fell. Cold permeated everything about him, but it was not cold of winter that he shuddered from, it was only July. It was grief deep in his heart. Long had he been Steward of Gondor, long had he fought to preserve her whole and intact, long had he watched, nay, ordered men to battle, long had he watched them die.

He could not now remember a time when he did not have to write a letter to a parent, a wife, a son or daughter conveying his sorrow and grief, commiserating with them at their loss in the only way he knew how. Their sacrifice was so great. Once again, he knew that anything he did for his people was worth the price. He knew they were the breath of Gondor.

Today, he would send his first-born, his heir, to a far distant land, known only in faerie stories and old tomes, long gathering dust in the bowels of Gondor’s Great Library. Once his son, his Boromir, took his leave, Denethor would sit at his great oaken desk, gifted to him by Thengel King in happier days, and write the missives to his people. Too many letters would be couriered out. He had lost so many at the Anduin, as the bridge between the two halves of the once-great capital of Gondor had finally been sundered. His heart ached for his land and his people.

Folly some would call it, to risk all for a piece of land, this small piece of glorious land. Where the sun shone bright and rivers ran deep and strong. Where trees in mighty Lebennin still provided black wood for walking sticks that helped a man climb the heights of Mindolluin and beyond, and whose five rivers sang as strongly as her clear-voiced people. Where the sea in humble Anfalas brought treasures of fish and her coastland fed Gondor’s sheep. Where fair Anórien gave up her slabs of purest marble to build the cities of Minas Ithil and Minas Anor, whose hills carried beacons, awaiting Gondor’s call for defense, and whose people protected deserted borders. Where the land of bright Belfalas became home to Elves and dark-haired faithful of Westernesse. Where lone Lamedon’s hills flowed from the great White Mountains, whose people were stalwart and ever faithful. Where sweet-smelling Lossarnach grew roses, herbs and orchards to lend beauty to its land. Where fragrant Ithilien, land of fountains, garden of Gondor, became the beloved land of her Steward. South Gondor and her other, separated lands, harbors of ship-kings and treachery.

Where freedom was hallowed. Where each man, woman, and child was gift. Gift to be offered on the altar of war. As a young lieutenant, he vowed he would do anything to save the sons of Gondor from the slaughter that the generation before him had endured. He failed in that promise. What promise was left? To hold Gondor until Boromir brought hope home. He would do that.

 #56 -Farewell - A Thousand Word Moment

He rode into the encampment, his eyes searching, but not finding his brother. “He is yonder,” one of the men standing at attention said in answer to his query, “there.” Boromir acknowledged the direction pointed out to him with a nod, left his horse in the care of his brother’s men, then strode purposefully towards the small hill north of the encampment, grateful for the moment to be doing something with purpose instead of thinking. The long ride from Minas Tirith had deteriorated from one of peace at the thought of the ride, into one of sorrow at the thought of what he must now say.

Faramir stood, tall, straight and confident, his arm lifted and his hand pointed eastward. Damrod listened in profound respect. Boromir noted the crease in Faramir’s brow and knew he spoke not of simple things, but of war. He bit his lip, then shrugged. He had never wanted Faramir to go to war. Nor had his father, of that he was certain, but here they all were; in the midst of the most hideous war ever he might have imagined. That he and Faramir had even survived the destruction of the bridge less than a fortnight ago still amazed him. There was no staying this moment. ‘Twould not be the first time he interrupted Faramir in matters of import.

It was Faramir who noticed him as he walked up the hill. The brow’s crease deepened. “That is all for now, Damrod. I will return to camp shortly. We leave for Henneth Annûn on the morrow.”

Damrod saluted, turned – and stared in surprise. “Captain-General.” He gave a crisp salute, looked back towards Faramir, then nodded his head and left them.

“You are still angry.”

Faramir clenched his fists and turned towards the Anduin.

“Tell me what angers you most – father’s giving me the quest or me taking it?”

“Neither. My own inability to budge either of you. For all my long years.” He collapsed his legs under him and sat hard on the green expanse. He took a tuft of the long grass in his hands and began to shred the unfortunate stalks.

“That is not entirely true. What else angers you?”

Faramir began to weep. “I see things, yet you will not listen.”

“I know,” Boromir sat next to him. “I would that you would keep such thoughts to yourself, at least where it concerns me. I must go, firm in myself, not quaking at what might be.”

Faramir swallowed. “I know, but if I went in your stead, mayhap what I see would not come to pass.”

“I did not come to speak upon a matter which is already decided. It was my hope you would have stayed in Minas Tirith until I left.”

“I could not. I could not bear to look at you, nor father.”

“Faramir. You cannot, you must not think you are all that lies between life and death. Father is failing. The years have not dealt kindly with him. I do not know if he will be alive when I…” He stole a quick glance at his brother. “If I return.” His brow knotted. “There is naught you can do for him, beyond giving him the love you have always shown him. I have spoken, in the past, of your friendship with Mithrandir. I have asked you to discontinue it, for father’s sake. I was wrong. The last time he was here, I saw his deep regard for father and his love for you. Whatever father might think of wizards, I believe this one is a good one. Keep him close, if you can, and heed him.” He took a deep breath.

“As for father, every now and again, I see fear in his eyes. And knowing your penchant for astute observation, I know you have seen it too. I know not what will happen whilst I am away, but I must caution you – do not take to heart anything he says or does if fear shines in his eyes. I have seen men driven mad by fear; my hope is in father’s great mind. I hope he will fight any such madness. Faramir,” he took his brother’s hand in his. “He loves you deeply. Not as he loves me, but deeply, nonetheless. He respects you. Give him what council you may, but then step away – I do not want you caught if he is. You have ever shown your respect and love – and obedience – to him. If he falls, I do not want you to fall with him.”

“Faramir,” he dropped the hand and knelt in front of him, taking his face in his hands and holding it. His great gray eyes bore into his brother’s “Protect yourself. You cannot save him if madness wins, but you can save yourself.” Great tears coursed down his cheeks. “I cannot bear leaving you with this burden, but you are better able to handle it than I.”

“Come,” Faramir whispered. “Stay the night with me.”

Boromir nodded; they walked back to the encampment. After supper, pickets were relieved and the men sat around the fire. Though they were glad and proud to have their Captain-General with them, sharing their meal and their fire, his demeanor and that of their captain’s showed great strain. Long before the usual hour, the men dispersed to their bedrolls.

Faramir offered his to Boromir. “Nay, little brother,” Boromir smiled. “I would share it with you, if you do not mind, as we shared my bed on the nights right after mother’s death.”

Faramir nodded and crawled in next to Boromir. He laid his head on his brother’s chest and felt Boromir’s warm arm about his shoulder. Sometime, right before dawn, he felt Boromir’s hold tighten.

“I love you, Faramir. Always remember that and know I am and have always been proud to have you as my brother.”

Faramir felt a tear fall as Boromir leaned over and kissed his brow.

“Farewell,” Boromir whispered and left him.

Ch. 57 - The Fellowship Set Out

On December 25th, from Rivendell set out
The nine - hearts filled with love..and hope...but also fear and doubt

The Fellowship set out

Their journey led to paths most hard, to places not enjoyed
The Fellowship did not survive, fell evil was deployed

Fell evil was deployed

In Moria, bright Gandalf fell, brought down by flame and shadow
The Hobbits cried, the elf perplexed, the evil saw it so

The evil saw it so

Lothlorien, a haven fair, moments of peace would tell
A horrid task forshadowed there in fair Galadriel's well

In Fair Galadriel's well

At Amon Hen, a moment's respite to our friends was given
But Boromir, 'mid evil's call, the Fellowship did riven

The Fellowship is riven

And now we journey on again, the Fellowship asunder
We've seen the places they now travel and sit in fear and wonder

The Fellowship asunder....

Ch. 58 - Trust

We sat on one of the many overhangs that decorated the walls of Minas Tirith, my arm around his shoulder to ensure he did not fall. The Pelennor was quiet this day, but our eyes did not note that. We looked to the Anduin, hoping that summer would come soon. The fish would be biting and the river would warm enough to swim. My heart ached with the love I bore him. Would I measure up to his belief in me? His trust? Could any measure up to the hero worship that I saw in his eyes? I think not.

~*~

The artwork of Kasiopea absolutely boggles my mind. It draws me in and holds me until I write something to release the emotions that they generate. I hope you can take a moment to enjoy her work. http://tolkien.com.pl/kasiopea/strony/Boromir%26Faramir3.htm

Ch. 59 - The Esquire

"I will, when I learn what you are fit for,” said Denethor. “But that I shall learn soonest, maybe, if I keep you beside me. The esquire of my chamber has begged leave to go to the out-garrison, so you shall take his place for a while. You shall wait on me, bear errands, and talk to me, if war and council leave me any leisure. Can you sing?” Denethor to Pippin. ROTK: The Siege of Gondor.

(In memory of the Fall of Sauron - 25 March)

I tried not to cry as I begged him, for he did not approve of tears. ‘My father is there,’ I told him, ‘and I would join him.’ Surely the Steward would understand that. His eyes flickered in anger and I knew my request had been denied. I saluted, took my customary place behind the Chair, eyes forward. Silence ensued. I stilled my thoughts, attentive as ever to his needs. I felt him stir and did the unpardonable - I looked. Tears glistened upon his cheeks. “My Lord?” I questioned, dumbfounded.

“You love your father.”

It was a statement, not a question. I nodded, trying to still my heart at his obvious grief, keeping myself from falling to my knees to comfort him. I had seen this same grief as he held Boromir's broken Horn in his lap.

I loved him, too. Almost as a father. I had been his esquire for two full years now. From the first day, when I stood trembling before him, his eyes twinkled. He did not smile, but I saw benevolence in his eyes and fear left me. Though gruff to most, he showed me acts of kindness, joked with me till the homesickness left.

“Do not tell anyone,” he whispered conspiratorially. “Else I lose my power over them.”

I nodded, smiling.

“Wipe that smile from your face, Esquire. No emotion in this Hall.”

I shuddered for a moment until his eyes brightened again. I saluted him. “Where would you have me stand, my Lord?”

He pointed. “Next to the Chair. Just a bit back so it does not look as if you were concerned that I would fall out of it at any moment.”

A laugh escaped my lips. His own tightened in what I now knew was mock anger. I apologized profusely.

Over the years, I watched as hope left him, replaced by resolve. I had been afraid that the Enemy would triumph when first I entered this Hall as his esquire. I fear no longer. He is stone - as marble from Mindolluin. I know Gondor will survive. No enemy can best my lord.

I waited upon him. The silence grew more profound.

“Go.”

“My Lord?”

“I said, go. I will find another to take your place.”

I knelt and kissed his hands, tears flowing from my eyes. “Your sons love you as I love my father, my Lord. I have seen it. And mayhap, Boromir will return.”

He stood, flinging my hands from his. “Leave me before I change my mind.”

Now that the moment was upon me, I found myself torn. How could I leave him alone?

He sat upon his Chair, the Rod cradled in his arms.

I saluted him, tears streaming down my face. Some part of me knew I would never see him again.

I ran to the outer battlements and my father hugged me tightly. I fell that day, in my father’s arms, the Lord Denethor's name upon my lips. May the Valar protect him.

~*~ 

A/N – Pippin takes this esquire’s place. I take the liberty of believing that Denethor had a heart as evidenced by the opening quote of this tale and this next quote. Right before Pip pledges fealty to Denethor, Tolkien writes: “A pale smile, like a gleam of cold sun on a winter's evening, passed over the old man's face...” ROTK: Book V, Chapter One: Minas Tirith.

A squire was originally a young man who aspired to the rank of knighthood and who, as part of his development to that end, served an existing knight as his attendant or shield carrier. However, during the middle ages the rank of the squire came to be recognized in its own right and, once knighthood ceased to be conferred by any but the monarch, it was no longer to be assumed that a squire would in due course progress to be a knight. The connection between a squire and any particular knight also ceased to exist, as did any shield carrying duties. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Squire  Also, http://www.reference.com/search?q=squire

A medieval page was the first stage of chivalric knighthood. In medieval times the degree of page was the first stage of chivalric knighthood, preparatory to that of first esquire and then knight. http://histclo.com/act/work/page/work-pagemed.html

"In the military organization of the later middle ages, a young man of good birth attendant upon a knight, one ranking next to a knight under the feudal system of military service and tenure. http://www.stamaria.com/onSquires.asp

According to my version of LOTR, Tolkien calls them esquires NOT squires. 'Éomer and his esquire rode back to the rear.' ROTK Passing of the Grey Company. "You shall be my esquire, if you will. Is there gear of war in this place, Éomer, that my sword-thain could use?" ROTK Passing of the Grey Company. "Rise now, Meriadoc, esquire of Rohan of the household of Meduseld!" ROTK Passing of the Grey Company. 'But at that very moment a trumpet sounded, and a man came summoning him, the king's esquire, to wait at the king's board.' ROTK The Muster of Rohan. 'Now having eaten he made ready to set out again, and he wished his esquire a kindly farewell.' ROTK The Muster of Rohan. "And what of the king's esquire, the Halfling? Éomer, you shall make him a knight of the Riddermark, for he is valiant!" ROTK Houses of Healing. 'But when, after the Standing Silence, wine was brought there came in two esquires to serve the kings; or so they seemed to be: one was clad in the silver and sable of the Guards of Minas Tirith, and the other in white and green. But Sam wondered what such young boys were doing in an army of mighty men.' ROTK The Field of Cormallen.

Ch. 60 - Opportunity

His father told me where to find him, but I am too late. I am too late, at least, for Denethor's plan. But a new one forms in my heart and quickly consumes me. He is surrounded by Orcs and evil things the likes of which I have never seen. However, naught causes me fear, and so I wait.

Fruition comes quickly. Though he fights hard, he is no match for them. I am a little surprised to see the Scourge of Gondor fall. I see the Halflings being taken. Well, they do not matter to me. I do naught but turn and watch until the beasts leave him; he sits in the grass, pulling arrows from his body. I furrow my brow in surprise. Still, even at death's door, the man shows incredible haughtiness. I think that is why I hate him the most. Always so sure of himself. Always the know-it-all. 'Well, leave the arrows in,' I think, 'it will make no difference. You are dead and do not even know it.'

As the last of the creatures leaves the area, I step forward.

"Húrin!"

"I am here, Lord Boromir. I came too late."

"Did you see them? I cannot any longer. Two little ones. Did you see them? We must rescue them."

His breath catches and I know he has but minutes to live - and I have but minutes to question him.

"The quest, my Lord? Were you able to find Isildur's Bane?"

"I did. I tried to take it." He sobs.

I sit back on my haunches. "I will take your place, Lord Boromir. Tell me who has it and where he is. I will take your place."

His eyes rise in hope and I would have smirked if I thought it would pass his notice. But even wounded unto death, the son of Denethor is still a force to be reckoned with.

"I promise to uphold your honor, Boromir. I will take your quest upon me and help in its fulfillment. Tell me where it is."

He swallows convulsively. He only has moments. I dare not show my hand though, else he would know my purpose.

"The Halfling has it. I believe he went to the river. You must help him, Húrin. He is pure and gentle and will be o'ercome by all he sees in Mordor."

"I will help him, Lord Boromir. Go now to your rest. You have done all you could."

He weeps quietly. I kiss him, only for his father's sake, upon his forehead, and move off.

Running silently, as Faramir had taught me, I reach the river in short time. There are no Orcs about, nor any other creature or man. I curse under my breath. 'Where is he? Where has he gone?'

I hear a whimper and look upriver. He stands there, oblivious. My spine tingles. He has it in his hand. 'By Morgoth's breath, it will be mine.'

He never hears me. Never feels a thing but the quick, killing blade. Then it is over. He lays at my feet, eyes open wide, hand clutching it. I howl in triumph - not aloud - never aloud for the forces of the Enemy might still be about. I take it and scream in pain. It takes me, takes my mind! I have never felt such pain, but the joy that courses through me, primal joy unknown before, fills me and I run, run as fast as I can towards the stairs that lead to Minas Tirith. And I know I will NOT give it to the Steward. It is mine.

# 61 - A Gift

It was a great gift; one he had never even dreamt might be possible. Yet, Lord Elrond had gifted it to him when Elessar had given him the Princedom of Ithilien. He still shivered when he thought upon ‘that’ gift. None needed to tell him the significance of Elessar’s gift: he was now the greatest noble after Dol Amroth in the revived Númenórean state of Gondor. He did not want it; but that also was a gift. Not to be declined.

Faramir held the bow in his hand, softly, gently, as if he held a babe. Beleg’s bow. He wept.

~*~

A/N - Beleg happens to be one of my favorite Elves during the Second Age. Here are a few little notes about him – all from the Silmarillion…  1) Then Beleg Strongbow, chief of the march-wardens of Thingol… Chapter 18 Of the Ruin of Beleriand and the Fall of Fingolfin  2) To that chase went Huan the Hound of Valinor, and Mablung of the Heavy Hand, and Beleg Strongbow… Chapter 19 Of Beren and Lúthien  3) Beleg A great archer and chief of the marchwardens of Doriath; called Cúthalion 'Strongbow'; friend and companion of Túrin, by whom he was slain. 190, 225-6, 230, 243-8, 251-7, 278. Index of Names.

Unrelenting Peace

He found himself at the door of Rath Dinen. He could not quite remember how he had come here, nor how he had left the Houses. His last recollection was when Mithrandir left him. The wizard had been kind. The army was leaving and, in case they did not return, Mithrandir thought it best Faramir knew of his father’s last hours.

Now, he found himself at the entrance to the Silent Street; dust and soot hung heavy. There was no guard; the little guardhouse still had blood pooled at its feet. None had cleaned up here; the City itself needed the bodies of the dead removed, food brought in, water sources checked. There was so much to do in the City proper that the care of his father’s last resting place was the last thing on anyone’s mind.

Well, almost anyone’s. His mind had come here the moment he had heard. And his body, as soon as he could slip away, found its own way here.

Aragorn, Mithrandir, Imrahil, Éomer, Pippin, Beregond… all on their way to their own doom or, if the Hobbit succeeded, to the salvation of Middle-earth.

He was left alone. With Merry and with Éowyn.

Yet, his feet had flown to this place. His heart sank as he walked forward. Not often had he visited these tombs, for the horror that had filled Gondor these past few years left precious time to tend to the dead. He could not let that happen to his father. Someone had to come and grieve. Someone had to give him obeisance. Someone had to offer a moment’s silence.

He gingerly stepped through the wreckage of the House that once was second only to the House of the Kings. There was no door left; it lay fallen to the side, sundered by the heat. He felt his chin wobbling and shook his head. He would need to be able to see well; he could not trip and fall. None would ever find him. He batted away the tears.

The center hall still smoldered. He walked to where the table should be and found only melted marble and… he cried aloud. The Palantír sat in the midst of the destruction. He picked it up, knowing it was the very last thing his father’s hands had touched. A shudder ran through him, but he did not drop it. He clung to it tightly, but refused to look. Though in some dark part of his mind he heard his name called, he did not look.

He sat in a corner, near what had been his mother's final resting place. There was naught left of her mummified body. It had succumbed to the flames that brought the ceiling down. He looked a little further to his right and noted that Ecthelion’s body was gone too. The shaking of his chin became worse. At last, he bent his head, leaning it against the cold stone, and wept bitterly.

When once he could breathe again, he offered up every thought he could to the Valar, to any who would listen. He loved Denethor with all his heart. He could not leave him to turmoil and everlasting pain.

“Give him unrelenting peace. Please. He was a good man. He served his country well. He loved his own and he loved Gondor. He was unyielding in the face of the Enemy; he spent his entire self and all those he loved to find peace for his people and his land; he was unswerving in his duty. Please, please do not let him spend eternity bereft. Please, give him unrelenting peace.”

un·re·lent·ing

 –adjec. 1.    not relenting; not yielding or swerving in determination or resolution, as of or from opinions, convictions, ambitions, ideals, etc.; inflexible: an unrelenting opponent of the Equal Rights Amendment. 2. not easing or slackening in severity: an unrelenting rain. 3. maintaining speed, effort, vigor, intensity, rate of advance, etc.: an unrelenting attack. un·re·lent· adjec. Having or exhibiting uncompromising determination; unyielding: an unrelenting human rights worker.  Not diminishing in intensity, pace, or effort: an unrelenting ice storm.

Ch. 63 - A Master's Friends (A triple drabble)

Some horses, very sleek and well-groomed, trotted up across the grass and looked at them intently with very intelligent faces; then off they galloped to the buildings.

"They have gone to tell him of the arrival of strangers," said Gandalf.

Soon they reached a courtyard… Standing near was a huge man with a thick black beard and' hair, and great bare arms and legs with knotted muscles.

He was clothed in a tunic of wool down to his knees, and was leaning on a large axe.

The horses were standing by him with their noses at his shoulder.

"Ugh! here they are!" he said to the horses. "They don't look dangerous. You can be off!" He laughed a great rolling laugh, put down his axe and came forward.  THE HOBBIT

~*~

“He said they don’t look very dangerous. Perhaps they’re not.”

“I don’t care what the master says; I won’t leave him alone with them. No telling what a Dwarf might do in the middle of the night, let alone thirteen of them! And I don’t very much trust that smaller one. Look at the way he’s dressed, definitely not ready for any kind of real traveling!”

“The tall one,” his friend asked, “what kind of a man is he?”

“I think not a man, too tall. Perhaps… a wizard?”

“That sounds about right. Radagast is well-loved by our master. If it is a wizard, perhaps all will be well.”

“Because one wizard is good doesn’t mean they all are. I wonder… Perhaps he’ll send us off on their adventure with them! For it seems our Master’s house is not their final destination.”

“He won’t send horses. Those Dwarves could never ride horses; they’re too short. But ponies, he’d send them on ponies.”

“That wizard won’t be able to ride a pony. You mark my words, one of us will have to go!”

“The master’s too kind. And too fearless. Just because he can turn into a bear, doesn’t mean we can.”

“He is too kind. But he forgets how men treat animals. I, for one, would prefer to stay here.”

“But if the Master asks us to bear them?”

“You know the answer. I will have no fear, if he bids us bear them, for there will be just retribution if they harm a hair upon us.”

“Well, then. Let us keep our ears pointed up and watch them. If they try to harm him, we are here. If they try to harm us, he is here.”

They all whinnied in agreement as they watched the gathering on the porch.

Ch. 64 - Never Ask A Hobbit Home To Tea

Never buy a watch without you hear it ticking;

Never send a post without you do some licking;

Never open a window, when the rain the panes are slicking,

And never ask a Hobbit home to tea,

Oh me, oh my!

Never ask a Hobbit home to tea,

He'll eat your pantry dry!

Yes - never ask a Hobbit home to tea.

~*~

A/N  - I rarely ever remember dreams but this little ditty is the second in a week! (see A Ghost In Dol Amroth).... but I woke up and could 'hear' the words, 'never buy a watch,' and it took off from there. I have no idea if this is a poem or a song or what! I hope readers will realize that a pantry must be VERY full indeed before one dares invite a Hobbit home to tea.

Ch. 65 - A Gift For All Hallows Eve

“It is simple enough,” Elrohir’s voice took on a note of scorn. “I did not think I needed to further explain the request.”

The cook looked down at the small round globe sitting on the table.

“It is known, by some, as a pumpkin. You bake it.”

“Just put it on a flat sheet and shove it in my ovens? What if it explodes?”

“You cut off the top, scoop out the seeds, and bake it. Do you not know how to bake?”

Elladan stepped forward and put his hand warningly on his brother’s arm.

“Why do you want me to bake this? What is it for?”

Elrohir rolled his eyes. Elladan sighed. “It is a gift for Estel. Something they cook in the Angle at this time of year. Halbarad suggested we bring one. The boy has seemed homesick as of late. We thought this might help.”

The cook blinked away what Elladan thought might be a tear. “The boy who lost his father?”

“That is the one. His mother says this time of year is his favorite, but no one here seems to know how his people celebrate. This is one of the customs; one of the ones we knew should not be too difficult to do.”

“Why do they bake it? Do you know if it tastes good?”

Elrohir turned the pumpkin around. “Could it be a vegetable? Mayhap you could make a soup from it?”

Elladan smiled. “I think you could stuff it; it looks quite large enough for a good cranberry and chicken stuffing?”

The cook looked long and hard at the orange globe. Taking a knife, he quickly severed the top, about an eighth of an inch down, and cut out a piece. Biting into it, he grimaced. “It is… I will come up with something. When did you wish it served?”

“At tonight’s meal?”

“Very well. Now leave me be.” They were almost through the door before he stopped them with a shout. “If it were not for the boy, I would not be doing this, just you remember that. I have not forgotten the mess you made making cookies for him. I am still finding flour in my cupboards.”

They waved as they left the kitchen, hiding their smiles behind the cook's back.

~*~

“I do not see it here,” Elrohir pushed aside one plate after another.

“No.” Elladan concurred with his brother. “He must not have been able to make anything with it. He did not seem to like the taste.”

“Then I am grateful that I said no word to Estel about a surprise.” Elrohir’s face fell. “I wish we had done something. I think tonight is the special night.”

“It is. Morgoth’s breath, we should have thought of something else.”

“Too late now. Father is beckoning for us to sit. And there is Estel and Gilraen. Look at him,” Elrohir sighed, “not even the hint of a smile.”

They bowed to their father and took their seats. The evening’s meal went well for all but the sons of Elrond. Disappointment was etched across Elrohir’s face and Elladan could be seen peering towards the kitchen every now and again. When at last Elrohir asked, Elladan said he still hoped.

Estel ate quietly. Gilraen held his free hand and stroked it now and again.

At last, the meal was complete. Servants came and removed the platters and such as Elrond stood. “I am told tonight is a special night for our Estel. The cook has asked to present something in honor of our youngest son. Estel, would you come and stand by my side?”

The boy looked up in surprise as both twins jumped up. Elrond smiled and motioned for them to sit.

Two servants led the cook forward, a large covered platter in his hands. He approached the table where Elrond stood and placed the platter on the table. He bowed to Estel. "Your brothers told me of your liking of punk… pumpkin. I hope this meets with your approval, young Estel.”

He bowed and backed away from the table. Elrond took the cover off the platter and Estel gasped.

Elladan dropped his serviette and Elrohir dropped his mouth. “What is it?” they both exclaimed in horror.

"A jack-o-lantern," Estel shrieked in joy.

Ch. 66 - Rumors

There are times, in the midst of battle, when I have looked in mine enemy’s eyes, and found something so disturbing, that I have almost lost my way, for the moment, and become prey to it’s wicked blade.

I knew not what it was until today. Today, Elladan and I met a great force. We had many Rangers with us and a few other Elves that could keep up with the pace. I say that only because many of the Firstborn, unlike Fëanor’s sons, do not feel the bloodlust that Elladan and I feel. Men have no such scruples when it comes to Yrch.

We found ourselves in the midst of a valley not too far from Tharbad. The river Gwáthlo rushed and silenced our enemies’ step. I laughed when they supposedly snuck upon us. Their stench was smelt at least a quarter of an hour before they appeared. We had some of our company, the Men, for Yrch have contempt for the Secondborn, sit around a fire with their backs to the oncoming foe.

When the Yrch raised their voices in the battle cry and we swept forward, my heart sang with such joy. It is a blessing to kill them. Our father sometimes, I think, despairs of us, Elladan and I, as if this joy is something to be feared. It is to be relished, I try to explain, for we would be dead if not for that. We guard Imladris with that joy. He shakes his head. I believe he prays to the Valar for us. I am sometimes shamed by his grief, but I would have it no other way. Yrch must be killed.

I digress. An Orch came at me, it’s foul blade raised and it’s eyes filled with… that same joy I had. I shudder now to think upon it. Not that I should not be killed, it is probably my fate, the way I tempt it. But that the beast should feel the same joy I do? The thought stopped me and almost cost me my life. Elladan dispatched it quickly and cuffed my head, shouting to focus. I nodded and returned to the battle.

But again, another Orch came at me and I looked full into its eyes, searching for the same joy. It was there. But something else. Something which took the breath from me. I seemed to recognize those eyes. Could it be possible? I stopped once again; this time, the beast stopped too. It searched my eyes. Never before have I looked into an Orch’s eyes with anything but hatred. It could not be… Rumors have told of such things, but I never believed them. Until now.

My cousin, Inglor, stood before me, misshapen, gross to look upon, but the eyes were Inglor’s. How had it come to this?

He was dead before I could even acknowledge I knew; Halbarad had been watching my back and crushed the creature’s…. Inglor’s skull. I knelt in the black blood and wept.

~*~

A/N - 'Yrch' is the Sindarin plural form; the singular is 'orch'

Sometimes I wonder why the Muse, in the midst of a busy day, stops me cold and insistst that I shiver with horror at the things that happened in Middle-earth.

"Indeed in nothing is the power of the Dark Lord more clearly shown than in the estrangement that divides all those who still oppose him. " Haldir, Lothlorien, FotR

Ch. 67 - Estrangement Or

Was It Really Denethor’s Fault or the Dark Lord’s?

How I long to hold him in my arms, as when he was a babe. Not oft did I think beyond those moments. The feel of him was so right. My heart would soar.

Two sons! How could I be more blessed? My sister had three daughters birthed to her; her husband is still bitter. Yet I was blessed with two sons. I still wonder at the grace of it.

I would listen as he spoke his first words, garbled, yet delightful. Ada seemed easy enough, but when he called Boromir, B’eer, I lost my heart to him. Im’hil still loves the boy, even after his name was butchered. Who could not love him?

He stands before me now and my heart aches. I would have him imprisoned in his own quarters, anything to protect him, but the Enemy draws nigh and I must use him, in whatever way I can.

He will not understand; he will think I send him to his death. Is his regard for me so little? I know it is. Not only the wizard has come between us.

I give him his orders; he obeys. B’eer already lost; I will hold F’ah, if I can.

~*~

A/N – First, I have a two-year old grandbaby who absolutely butchers names. I have a list of LotR names that she has graciously told me how to pronounce. B'eer is definitely how Boromir sounds to her and F'ah is Faramir. Giggles

Second, I wonder if, according to Haldir, it is really Sauron who caused the estrangement between Denethor and Faramir? Whispers of Sauron instead of whispers of the Ring?

Ch. 68 - A Horn of Special Magnificence

After the kill, Vorondil was able to look closely at the kine; the Hunter shook with excitement. He knew he had a treasure, a precious treasure. One of the kine’s horns was the largest he had ever seen; the other, sadly, was badly misshapen. Kneeling before the head of the beast, he cut off the superior horn. His friends cheered as he held it up. All knew the voice of this horn would be thunderous. Vorondil walked to the camp’s fire and threw the severed horn into a boiling pot of water.

Shortly thereafter, the camp settled and most of the men slept. Vorondil fished the horn out of the pot, dug the core out, trimmed the thin layer at the base, then began the tedious task of stripping the scale. Holding the horn in his lap, his practiced hand wielded the rasp, and in much shorter time than most other men would take, the horn was clean.

‘This Kine of Araw was indeed a fighter,’ Vorondil smiled in appreciation. ‘The gouges are deep and many. Even Oromë himself might have had a bit of trouble defeating it.’ It took another hour to file down those imperfections to Vorondil’s liking. There was yet much to be done, but he was satisfied, for the nonce.

He knew a conjurer who would write the ancient characters and speak the ancient words, a smithy, who would make the silver bindings, and a cordwainer who would fashion the baldric. Now, all that remained: return to Minas Anor and commission the work.

‘This will be the hunting-horn of the House of Vorondil; I will pass it down to my eldest, and he to his – generation unto generation.’ A flush of pure joy lit his face. ‘Never has Gondor seen such a horn as this will be!’

~*~

A/N – 1) Of course, this is the famous Horn of Gondor, carried by Boromir, son of Denethor II; 2) I am figuring this hunt took place at the very beginning of Vorondil’s Stewardship, or perhaps even a few years before. I don’t think he would have been traipsing about the Land of Rhûn as the Nazgûl were laying siege to Minas Ithil; 2a) Vorondil's Stewardship was a time of war and loss for Gondor. In only his second year as Steward, he saw the Nazgûl come out of Mordor and lay siege to Minas Ithil, and two years later (III 2002), they succeeded in capturing it and the Palantír it contained. 2b) Minas Anor changed to Minas Tirith in 2002. So in this tale, it is still Minas Anor. Encyclopedia of Arda: http://www.glyphweb.com/arda/v/vorondil.html; 3) Kine of Araw – horn bound with silver with ancient characters: http://www.henneth-annun.net/resources/things_view.cfm?thid=142 (ET herself contributed to this!); 4) Last but not least, I found this great site for making horns! http://home.att.net/~mman/PowderHornMaking.htm

Ch. 69 - Plain and Simple

King Elessar
Minas Tirith

When do dreams become nightmares? In the middle of the dream, once it’s upon you and you’ve no way of turning back? When you’re lulled into a sense of peace at some memory and then, horror slips in?

I don’t know what I can do for him, Strider. My heart breaks. I can hear him, through the walls. They ain’t that thin, you know, that I should be able to hear him, but I do. Screams sometimes. Enough to make my blood run cold. Moans too, fit to tear me limb from limb.

If you might be able to stop? I know it’s a long ways. I’ve been there and back again. Mightn’t you think about visiting your northern friends? On the ways there, or back if it’s too much trouble, mightn’t you stop and visit – as an old friend.

I’d not tell him you were coming or why. But I’d make sure Bag End was ready for you. Enough food and such for you and your company. I could hide most of it over at the Gaffer’s. My sister’s now.

Rosie helped me write this, so’s it would be easier for you to read,
Sam

Chapter Seventy - A Musing and a Lament

There are times when I wish I had never read any of Tolkien’s stuff….

I am researching Théodred’s death for my epic tale of Denethor. It is not a pleasant death. In fact, it seems to me to be as tragic as Glorfindel’s in the First Age against the Balrog. I wept as I read it again. Especially knowing he dies about twenty-four hours, almost to the hour, before Boromir fell.

For those of you who are elf-lovers, there is no rebuke or slight intended. Glorfindel’s sacrifice was incredible. But so was Théodred’s… and his perhaps even more so – for the man had no hope of ‘returning’ from Mandos’ Halls. His kind, I believe, hoped that they might go somewhere, but where, how, we don’t know.

These Men (Boromir and Théodred) were targets of Sauron. Targets. Unbeknownst to them or those who loved them. The same with Éomer and Faramir, but these two survived; I don’t think it was by their own hand that they were spared.

And yet, not many know of the horror of Théodred’s death, nor the sacrifice of the Men of Rohan at the Fords of Isen. It seems to be only a footnote in the tale. Only if you look to Unfinished Tales, can you find the real story. The disaster that befell such brave Men. I always capitalize Men when speaking of those from Gondor, but I see now, others were just as brave. The Men of Rohan, the Men of Erebor (Dale and Esgaroth), the Beornings. All side stories that no one ever hears of unless a fanfic writer decides to ‘broaden’ our horizons. Or someone is compelled to read beyond the Lord of the Rings.

Théodred was Saruman’s chief target, on the 25^th of February. The wizard would have destroyed Rohan, if he had continued on with the battle, but once his forces killed Théoden’s Heir, he stopped for a moment, did not pursue further, and thus lost a portion of the battle for all of Middle-earth.

I just had to stop for a moment and remember this Man.

A Lament for Théodred

I scarce can breathe nor hold my tears,
For even through the many years
That young lord lived and sang and fought
O’er grassy plains our freedom bought,
He did not know that fate would allow
His life be bought for a wizard’s vow
Evil blazed and vanquished Men.

To crush the land of Rohan deep
Bring his throat beneath the feet
Of some foul Orcish creature bred
Within the walls of Saruman’s dread
The tower keys gladly given by a Steward
To leave a young lord dead and skewered
The plans unfold time and again.

So much promise in that blood
So much honor given, loved
And yet he lies, his life force riven
His men stand round, unforgiven.
We let him die, his back unguarded
His sacrifice so little regarded
By those who think us less than wrens.

I would stand now in the Golden Hall
And sing his praise for one and all
To hear and marvel at the tale
Of one so brave, Théodred the Hale.
Yet only words, none could divine
That his blood shed worth more than mine
Was spilled for liege, lord, land and Men.

Ch. 71 - A Master’s Friends

Some horses, very sleek and well-groomed, trotted up across the grass and looked at them intently with very intelligent faces; then off they galloped to the buildings.

"They have gone to tell him of the arrival of strangers," said Gandalf.

Soon they reached a courtyard… Standing near was a huge man with a thick black beard and' hair, and great bare arms and legs with knotted muscles.

He was clothed in a tunic of wool down to his knees, and was leaning on a large axe.

The horses were standing by him with their noses at his shoulder.

"Ugh! here they are!" he said to the horses. "They don't look dangerous. You can be off!" He laughed a great rolling laugh, put down his axe and came forward. From THE HOBBIT

~*~

"He said they don’t look very dangerous. Perhaps they’re not."

"I don’t care what the master says; I won’t leave him alone with them. No telling what a Dwarf might do in the middle of the night, let alone thirteen of them! And I don’t very much trust that smaller one. Look at the way he’s dressed, definitely not ready for any kind of real traveling!"

"The tall one," his friend asked, "what kind of a man is he?"

"I think not a man, too tall. Perhaps… a wizard?"

"That sounds about right. Radagast is well-loved by our master. If it is a wizard, perhaps all will be well."

"Because one wizard is good doesn’t mean they all are. I wonder… Perhaps he’ll send us off on their adventure with them! For it seems our Master’s house is not their final destination."

"He won’t send horses. Those Dwarves could never ride horses; they’re too short. But ponies, he’d send them on ponies."

"That wizard won’t be able to ride a pony. You mark my words, one of us will have to go!"

"The master’s too kind. And too fearless. Just because he can turn into a bear, doesn’t mean we can."

"He is too kind. But he forgets how men treat animals. I, for one, would prefer to stay here."

"But if the Master asks us to bear them?"

"You know the answer. I will have no fear, if he bids us bear them, for there will be just retribution if they harm a hair upon us."

"Well, then. Let us keep our ears pointed up and watch them. If they try to harm him, we are here. If they try to harm us, he is here."

They all whinnied in agreement as they watched the gathering on the porch.

~*~

A/N - Part of a challenge at HASA.

Quickbeam

He had sat under the great tree’s branches since he was a child: first with his mother and brother, and then by himself, when deemed old enough to be on the Pelennor alone. It had always been a favored tree. His mother thought it most peaceful; Boromir loved to climb it; and Faramir loved to listen as the wind played in its branches and the birds sang merrily within its folds.

When first he had been stationed in Ithilien at the hidden garrison of Henneth Annûn, one of the things he found he missed most was riding out of the City on hot days, finding the glade where the tree stood, and resting his back against it. Much to his amaze, he had found a like tree within a league of the cave. ‘This grove of rowan trees is like unto the grove near the City. Of course, it is not the same.’ His tree was the same, and yet it could not be. ‘It is of the same type; this is probably why I think this tree is the same.’ However, he felt an air of familiarity when he sat against it; almost, he could have sworn it was the same tree.

His men oft teased him about his habit of going to the grove and sitting with his back against the smooth bark, but no amount of joking would stop him from enjoying the tree’s company. ‘Enjoying,’ he thought. ‘What a comical notion – to think of enjoying a tree, but that is what I suppose I am doing.’ He leaned back and the tree seemed to enfold him. He spoke to it, as he had done when a youth, and told it of his concerns for his father and his brother, for his men, and for Ithilien. “The land is growing wilder, my friend, as are the animals. There is an air of aloofness that I have not felt before. Father believes it is the one who lives over the mountains; that he corrupts it and Father is probably correct. He is wise.” Faramir shrugged in frustration. “I love this land. I would keep Ithilien beautiful and… friendly, but it seems beyond my purview.” He touched its trunk gently as he stood to leave. “I will see you soon.”

But this morning, after a week’s absence, he found it gone. ‘Nay,’ he thought to himself, ‘not gone. That is not possible, but where is it?’ The rowan trees were all slaughtered, if one could say a tree could be killed, but that is what it felt like – that they had been murdered in their sleep. The very thought choked him and he looked about wildly for his tree. It was nowhere to be found. No stump, no branches, nothing to show where it had stood. ‘A tree cannot get up and walk away.’ Yet sorrow filled him as he made his way back to the cave, never seeing the waving of branches as a tall tree moved away.

~*~

A/N – The idea for this tale came after reading this passage. It seems Quickbeam was not originally from Fangorn. “Birds used to flock there. I like birds, even when they chatter; and the rowan has enough and to spare. But the birds became unfriendly and greedy and tore at the trees, and threw the fruit down and did not eat it. Then Orcs came with axes and cut down my trees. I came and called them by their long names, but they did not quiver, they did not hear or answer: they lay dead.” Quickbeam from The Two Towers: Book Three: Chapter Four: Treebeard.

Lament of an Istari

(for River Otter's birthday)

They say one grows wiser the older one gets, but I have not seen this in my own life. I think I grow more foolish, not less. I have watched, all these centuries, hoping that my task will be fulfilled, but it does not seem there will be a ‘happy ending’ for Middle-earth. I fear I will return to Valinor a failure. Already Saruman is lost, though he does not yet know it. All my plans seem destined for failure. I had all in the palm of my hands; everything slipped through like sand. The Ringbearer is my only hope.

Ch. 74 - FRIENDSHIP (four drabbles)

Gentle Persuasion

“I had not thought… Nay, it was more that I refused to think Faramir might become a soldier.” Boromir’s brow furrowed; he twirled his knife in his hand. “He is of a more… gentle persuasion.” He looked at his friend, eyes lit with joy, smile wide and gracious. “Have you ever listened to his music? He has written quite a number of lays and chants, a few songs and even a lament. One even makes me weep.”

Théodred leaned closer, brushing aside a tendril of hair that moved whenever Boromir blinked. “He will be fine. You have taught him well.”

Wielding Words

“I sometimes think I should never have allowed him a sword.” Boromir chuckled. “He wields it like your cousin.”

“Like a woman? I think Éowyn would take umbrage at your less than flattering remark.”

“They both would. It occurs to me, if I had not taught him, mayhap Father would have left him to his studies. But I worried for him, Théodred. In this age, none can live without learning to wield a sword.”

“Rumor says he is deadly with a bow.”

“He is.” Once again Boromir’s great smile filled their tent. “Beleg would be sore pressed to defeat him.”

Restless Sleep

Théodred watched as Boromir twisted and turned in his bed. Finally, he could stand it no longer. He reached over and woke the Heir of Gondor.

Boromir gasped, drew his dirk, and rolled to his knees.

Théodred laughed. “It never ceases to amaze me.”

“What?” Boromir asked testily. “I see there is no danger.”

“Nay. Only for your poor bedclothes. Glad am I that we do not share a bedroll. I would be dead now.”

“Why did you wake me then?”

“You were calling Faramir’s name in dread.”

Boromir sat for a moment, then wept. Théodred knelt by his side.

Portents or Dreams

“I saw him in flame and fire.”

“Did you recognize the place?”

“Nay. He lay as if in a dream. I think… ” Boromir’s shoulders shook. “I think he was dead.”

“Not Faramir. He is safe in the Esquires.”

“He was older.”

Théodred sat on his heels and took Boromir into his arms. “If I recall rightly, dear friend, Faramir is the one with foresight. You had a bad dream because he is now an esquire and wields a sword. Let it be. We will both be dead before he e’er comes near danger.”

Boromir laughed. "Thank you - I think!"

Ch. 75 - Praises Flow As Water

Manwë, the wind rushing and whirling his robe about him in splendor, held in his left hand a goblet filled with nectar from the vines of Taniquetil.  Turning, he extended his right to his mate, and Varda, clothed in raiment bedecked with her beloved stars, rose to stand beside him. 

Ulmo, not used to being in Valinor and greatly missing the sound of the sea, looked towards his friend.   Manwë had to laugh – never would the Lord of Waters come to his table without some distinctive garment.  This time he wore a dark helm, foam-crested, and his raiment of mail shimmered from silver down to shadows of green.

Aulë, in deference to the occasion, had shaken the dust of the earth from his own robes, laid his axe and pick aside and stood holding Yavanna’s hand in his.  Robed in green herself, she smiled and the air was filled with the sweet smell of flowers and wild berries.

Námo and Vairë had entered the room late, bowed to their Lord, and stood by the places allotted to them.  Varda shook her head.  As always, Vairë had woven their attire and, as always, the weave was perfect and stunning.  Nienna stood close by, holding her arms about her, stifling the moan of supplication that was ever on her lips. 

Irmo and Estë waited in silence, hearts turned inwards towards Irmo’s dreams and visions, which wrapped around them in the deep rest offered by Estë.  A gentle clearing of his throat caused the two to turn towards Manwë.  They bowed and raised their own cups.

Tulkas, proud, brave, golden-haired Tulkas and Nessa, wind-whipped themselves from their sudden entrance, stood with goblets raised.

Oromë, his hound ever at his side, laid his great horn on the table in front of him, and extended his hand.  Vána, birds perched on her shoulders, stood and took it.  Her smile caused his somber face to light in joy.

Some called them fickle, these Valar of Ilúvatar, but today, they stood as one.  Today they would not be called the fourteen fickle Valar.  Today they would be called constant.

“To Eru!  May He be praised now and forever!”

Let it go

Boromir?

I can’t look at him. I can’t look in those grey eyes, so like Faramir’s. By the Valar, how can I have come to such a place? What have I done to deserve this anguish?

My stomach roils. I turn from the man, my king, and enter the forest. He does not follow, for which I am grateful. I still reel from the force of the whispers. Whispers that beat into my brain until I cannot breathe. If I could only scream, perhaps then I would have some respite.

The forest quiets me, like my mother’s garden in Dol Amroth. Inevitably, I think of Faramir. My throat clenches. I am bound to him, as to no other. Some think he is bound to me. Fools. He holds my heart. He lifts me up.

Let it go. When Mother died, I wept behind Father’s back. Faramir held me, comforted me, gave me a reason to live.  He needed me. At least, that’s what I thought. I soon discovered I needed him. I was like the pup at its master’s feet. I craved his touch, his love, his friendship. He gave it – without question, without qualification, without reservation.

Let it go. My first battle. I failed. I fought, by the Valar I fought, but it was for naught. My friends died around me. I cannot, to this day, say why I survived and they did not. Faramir didn’t care. Yes, of course he cared, but he showed me that I had done all I could. He walked through the battle with me. Over and over, he defended my choices. He took each dark part of my battered heart and opened it to the light. At last, after many hours of tender care, Faramir made me realize, my friends’ deaths could not be laid at my feet.

Let it go. The bridge. That cursed bridge where I almost lost him. Lost so many others that night, but not him. Oh! My heart still aches at the remembrance. I screamed his name, over and over ‘til my breath was ragged and my throat constricted to but a whisper. In the end, I found him, lying in the mud, face down. It took every ounce of strength I ever had to lift him, knowing he was dead, knowing I’d lost the most important being in my life. Ah! The joy, the searing joy of seeing his eyes open, love-filled, as tears spilled. “I knew you’d find me.”

Let it go. The whispers. Aragorn cannot understand. The voice assails me, even in my sleep. I want to let it go. Oh, Faramir. Would that you were here. Would that you could lend me your strength.

Strength and purpose and fortitude. All traits my father swore I had in abundance. Fool It is Faramir who owns those qualities. I have nothing now. Nothing but death, in this ghostly glade.

Let it go. Not by my choice. The voice has left me. I am no longer needed. The air slips from my lips. My king kneels by my side. I wish it were Faramir.

Let it go, Aragorn says. My eyes widen. Faramir will be safe. My king will take my place. I can let it go. I can let Faramir go. 

The Vanishing Point

“What did you say her name was, Boromir?”

“It matters not.”

“I know this melancholy has naught to do with Father. He has been in Dol Amroth for a month.”

Faramir shifted on the hard stone ledge overlooking the Pelennor. The sky, crystal blue as he’d ever seen it, caused him to shade his eyes. Anduin cut through the farmlands below like a great blue-grey ribbon.

“You have been less than sanguine since she returned to Harad.”

A peregrine dove past his cheek. Faramir smiled. “I remember. She was named after Nevrast’s lake of birds. Linaewen. You miss her.”

“Yes.”

A/N: Linaewen could have been of the line of Hador from the First Age. Perhaps her ancestors escaped the fall of Beleriand and returned east. I don’t think Boromir knew her lineage.