Written for the "Six Days of Spooky Challenge"

***************************************

“That’s your disguise, Gandalf?” Pippin’s muffled voice rose from the hindquarters of the horse. “You came as a wizard?”

“I am here to keep you out of trouble, Peregrin Took. No costume is needed for that.”

“Don’t worry about me, Gandalf! I’ve done this for years, ever since I was a lad.”

“It isn’t you I was worried about.”

The horse bobbed its head up and down, the string mane swinging wildly, as Merry squealed, “Look! Here are the others!”

Two figures, one tall and one short, strode down the lane. Legolas’ face peered out from among hundreds of silk leaves embroidered with silver sequins. He wore a robe made of tree bark, and his arms stuck out stiffly from his sides.

“You’re a tree!” Pippin shouted.

“Haroooomm, barrooommmm…” the elf started to bellow.

“No, you’re an ent!” Merry cried. “That’s wonderful, but promise us you won’t talk like that all night because I don't think Pip and I could stand it. And look at Gimli!”

A stubby dragon, dressed in an odd mixture of scale armor and velveteen, bowed. “And not just any dragon! I am the mighty Green Dragon!” He took a swig from a bottle, then striking a spark on his armor, he blew out a stream of fire.

The hobbits jumped, shrieking with laughter, as Gandalf shouted, “Do not do that again, or I will turn you into a toadstool and leave you for the squirrels to eat!”

“Why do you not have a costume, Gandalf?” Legolas asked.

Ignoring the question, the wizard looked around. “Where are Faramir and Eowyn?”

“I thought they were right behind us,” Gimli said with a frown. “Perhaps they took a wrong turn in the dark.” They were about to form a search party when two tall figures stumbled down the lane.

A strangely shapely ranger pushed back his hood. “We lost our way,” Eowyn said, gasping for breath. The mustache that she had drawn on with charcoal was smeared all over her face.

Faramir straightened his blond wig. He wore a coat of mail and carried a round, green shield painted with a white horse. His face, too, was smudged with black marks. “These hedgerows all look much the same.”

“You came as each other!” Pippin laughed; then he frowned and asked, “You fit in each other’s armor?”

“Never mind, Pip. Let’s get going.” Merry handed empty pillowcases to the members of the party. “Now we go to all the farms hereabout, and we ask the folk for sweets. That’s why it’s called beggars’ night.”

“But the Shire is a prosperous land. There are no beggars here.”

“It’s just a name, Faramir.”

The horse's backside bounced up and down. “They give us taffy and cookies and cakes. And at some farms, they serve us ale.”

“But first, we must wait for Gandalf to don his disguise,” Eowyn said, smiling brightly.

“I am going as a wizard, and if anyone else asks about my lack of a costume, I will go as a greatly annoyed wizard.”

“Not much of a disguise,” one of the hobbits muttered as they stumbled down the lane to the nearest farm.

**********************
A/N -- Beggars' Night is a holiday peculiar to parts of the US Midwest and is usually celebrated on the day before Halloween.

Written for the "Six Days of Spooky" Challenge

***************************************

The lamps flickered in the lifeless air, casting a pale halo that wavered on the rough-hewn walls, holding back the darkness. Beside a rusted pickaxe lay a single moldering boot. A gleaming river of ore spilled from an upended cart. Heads bowed over their work, the masons did not stop to look.

In silence, they laid the courses of stone, each layer leveled square and true, until the last block was slid in its place, sealing the darkness inside. Then they carved on the wall in Daeron’s runes--
In this place did Durin’s folk delve too deeply into the mountain.

Written for the "Six Days of Spooky" Challenge

**************************************

“You’re lookin’ for proof of the afterlife? Well, I don’t suppose the ghosts care whether or not we believe in ‘em.

"But, yes, I’ve heard the Indian. When I take the boat out early and the water is calm. The Micmac call him 'Wave-singer.' Once I even saw him. Looked like a brave with his hair in long braids, but he was dressed all queer, not how you’d expect for a Redman.

“What was he singin'? Saddest song you ever heard. Not even the Micmac can understand the words, but he must have lost every last thing that he loved.”

**************************************

A/N--the Micmac are a Native American people who live in New England

Written for the "Six Days of Spooky" Challenge

***************************************

“Is this an ill-favored jest? Did you hold your mistress so lightly that you take her belongings for your own use?”

“I did not touch it, lord,” the maidservant whispered, eyes owlish in the shadowy chamber.

In a softer voice, the steward asked, “Or did she ask you to finish this before she—“

“No, lord!” The maid began to weep. “Indeed, I have not her skill with the needle.” Hiding her face in her apron, she fled from the chamber.

Lord Denethor stood with a small embroidered jacket clenched in his hands. “Come back,” he whispered again and again.

“So the lad is his nephew? I have heard it called other things,” a soldier muttered. The others laughed, and one raised his fingers in a telltale gesture.

“These folk are the guests of our lord, and it is not our place to judge their customs,” Beregond told them sharply. “It is a great honor to serve as their escort, so show yourselves worthy of Lord Faramir’s trust.”

Yet when this duty had fallen to Beregond, he had felt more unnerved than honored, so he could scarcely fault his soldiers for their misgivings. What did he know of the children of Durin?

A small party of dwarves had traveled from the Aglarond to search for ore in Ithilien, for Lord Gimli believed that rich veins of iron ran beneath the green hills. Only one day into the search, and Beregond suspected that these dwarves planned to study every rock between the Mountains of Shadow and the Anduin. Again and again, Nali son of Nim called for a halt then swung down from his pony, hitting the ground with a solid thud. The miner stared at each outcropping of stone, scratched it with a file, and then sniffed and tasted the filings. His sister-son Bror stood beside him and handed him the tools. Beregond had never seen a young dwarf and was surprised by his silky beard and slight build and the clear, almost musical sound of his speech, so unlike the rough voices of his older companions. Well, I doubt even dwarves are born with whiskers, Beregond told himself then shook his head to dispel the images of bearded dwarven babes.

Like his soldiers, he had noticed the fond looks that passed between the miner and his young nephew. The bond seemed somehow different than the natural affection between near kin, but he decided that a Man of Gondor might easily misread the words and gestures of another people.

That night as they sat around the camp fire, Beregond asked the dwarves if they would honor their hosts with a tale.

The eldest rose to his feet and bowed until his white beard swept the grass. “Now I will tell you,” he began, “Of the fighting in Erebor at the end of the War. When Dain Ironfoot fell, axe in hand, defending his friend and ally, Brand the Bold of Dale.”

In a deep voice, he told them the story, and the men were astounded to learn that this ancient dwarf had fought in the battle. Then Beregond told the grim tale of the freeing of Moria, for he had had a hand in that task. Their eyes glinting like gems in the firelight, the dwarves nodded their approval as the orcs were routed and slaughtered. Then toasts were called for, so a cask of ale was broached and several flasks of brandy were passed from hand to hand. As the fire burned down, the men and dwarves traded stories, each one wilder and worse than the last. They shouted with laughter when Beregond told the “onion” riddle that he had heard from a troop of Rohirrim.

I am a wondrous creature; to women a thing of joyous expectation. Firm and straight, bearded below, upright I stand in my bed…

In recent years, the soldiers of Gondor had learned a wealth of new tales from their allies in Rohan.

The next morning found young Bror somewhat worse for the wear. The poor lad must have been unused to strong drink, for he fell to his knees and retched when one of the soldiers brought him some gruel. Nali just smiled and shook his head. “’Tis the brandy. My people have no stomach for it.”

Yet strangely, during one of their many stops, the lad picked a handful of unripe apples and, as they rode along, he bolted the green fruit like a colt who had wandered into an orchard. This early in the summer, they must have tasted vile and sour.

They rode many slow leagues and looked at many stones that day, and the dwarves were pleased with their progress. At the foot of a cliff near Henneth Annun, where the rocks were stained as red as blood, they shouted aloud in their strange tongue and waved their shovels above their heads. Nali showed Beregond a handful of pebbles. “Look at how fine this ore is, as good as any in the Iron Hills.” Beregond nodded and admired their find, though in truth he knew less than naught about mining.

A light rain was falling when they made their camp for the night. Weary and cold, they took their meal with little cheer then sought the shelter of their tents soon after darkness fell.

To Beregond’s surprise, for there had been no drinking the night before, Nali’s nephew was ill again in the morning, retching into the bushes at the sight of his gruel. The fit left Bror so light-headed that he had to lie down in the grass.

“What ails the lad?” Beregond asked the miner quietly. “If he is unwell, we should return to Osgiliath.”

“Nothing is amiss except that he is unused to travel,” Nali replied and started to turn away.

“Master, I know little of your race, but he looks to be no more than half-grown. Perhaps you have no children of your own, but take my word on this--you must not treat these stomach ailments lightly.” He remembered the time when Bergil was so sick, fevered and vomiting, that the healers had despaired of his life.

“This matter is not your concern.” There was a trace of anger in Nali’s gravelly voice.

“The well-being of every member of this party is my concern and also my responsibility,” Beregond replied, surprised by the dwarf’s response. He seemed to have little regard for his own kin. “We will head for Osgiliath. There are no healers among my men.”

“It is not what you think." 

“Then tell me why he spews up his morning gruel. I will not drag an ailing lad through the wilderness just to find a pile of rocks.”

The dwarf glared at him. Beregond glared back.

“He has no illness that several months' time will not cure, and he is not my sister's son nor is he even a lad.”

The queasiness and the sour apples, the doting glances… But Beregond would never have guessed that dwarven women had beards! And he had seen him—her—carrying nearly a hundredweight of gear! “He…she is with child?” Beregond stammered.

The dwarf burst out laughing and thumped him on the shoulder. “Clever guess, Man of Gondor! But do not tell a soul that my nephew is a lass! We dwarves prefer to keep such matters among ourselves.”

Bowing to hide his confusion, Beregond replied, “Of course, Master. I am honored by your trust, and I beg you give my best wishes to your lady wife.” He could feel the blood rising to his face as he remembered the ribald stories around the fire. I told the onion riddle in front of a lady…

*********************************

Note:  The onion riddle is borrowed from the Anglo-Saxon riddles of the Exeter Book. It is about an onion…or is it? :)

More Anglo-Saxon riddles here

Written in honor of the tenth anniversary of the Valar Guild, an international fellowship of Tolkien enthusiasts and gamers.

****************************************************

When the wind from the north rattled the shutters, the two rangers would sit by the fire for hours, hunched over a chessboard marked in black and white squares. At first, Barliman had been annoyed. He was lucky if they ordered a second pint during the evening, and he worried that their grim looks might scare away honest folk. Until he saw how the other guests were watching their match with great interest.

The rangers called it “the game of kings” and Strider had offered to teach him, but all those pieces and rules were too much for Barliman to remember. Kings, castles, knights, pawns—it was enough to make your head spin! But Breelanders, dwarves, and Shirefolk gathered about the table to watch and sometimes even play. Whenever a dwarf sat down at the chessboard, there were long discussions about which moves were lawful, and the Shire hobbits insisted on using their own names for some of the pieces—thain for king and archer for knight. The matches lasted for hours and sometimes even days. Barliman was puzzled. This pastime seemed as amusing as watching the grass sprout on the Greenway, but if it kept his guests happy, who was he to complain?

Then the two rangers would disappear, leaving the chessboard sitting on the table. Barliman guessed they were off in the wild, doing whatever it was that rangers did. The less he knew of their business, the better, he supposed. The innkeeper would not see them for days and sometimes even months; and then one evening, he would look across the common room, and there they were playing chess, as if they had never left. Except that their boots were more worn and their faces a little more grim. “The game of kings,” Barliman would mutter as he brought two tankards of ale, “That’s a funny name for a game played by rangers.”

Written for Cressida for the Faramir Gen and Het Fic Exchange.  She had a asked for a story about Gandalf and Faramir.

“Lord Faramir can show you the shelves with the early Third Age histories. Indeed, he knows this library better than most of the clerks do,” the old loremaster said.

Gandalf bowed. “Thank you, Master Eradan. You are ever helpful to a fellow scholar.” Young Faramir looked up at them, bouncing slightly on his heels as he waited. The top of his head barely reached the wizard’s belt, and perched on his silky hair was a tiny version of a scholar’s cap. Gandalf leaned down to speak with him. “Now if you will be so kind as to lead the way, Lord Faramir?”

The boy pointed down the aisle. “We must go through Poetry and Ballistics to get to the lower archive.”

“That sounds like a highly dangerous course, but I have great faith in my guide,” the wizard said as he hurried after him. Faramir walked quickly, almost at a trot, and at times he bounded ahead then circled back to wait for his companion.

“Master Eradan lives here with the books,” the lad told him in a loud whisper. “He has a chamber with a bed and a chest for his clothes.”

“And you would like to live here some day?”

Faramir nodded. “No one would cover the lamps at night, and I could read for as long as I wished.”

“You remind me of a member of my order, a most worthy wizard named Radagast. He lives at Rhosgobel in the far North. His chosen study is the lore of beasts and birds, so his tower is home to all manner of creatures. Once when I came to visit him, he had been sitting for days without moving except to unroll a scroll or turn the pages of a book. I recall that he was trying to learn what chickens write when they scratch in the dirt. Anyway, he had been sitting still for so long that when he rose to greet me, a sparrow’s nest slid from his hat and acorns came pouring from the sleeves of his robe. Though he was most apologetic, the squirrels were furious.”

Young Faramir giggled. “I want to be a wizard when I am older. I will travel to the North, and all the birds and beasts will live in my house.”

Now it was Gandalf’s turn to laugh. “Be careful what you wish for. A wizard’s life is lonely and dangerous, even for a kindhearted fellow like Radagast. Besides, your father and brother will need your help here in Minas Tirith.”

They passed through an arched doorway that led to a winding set of stairs.

“Master Eradan says that no one but my father reads the scrolls in the lower archive. He says that my father would make a fine loremaster.” Even in the gloomy stairwell, the grey eyes shone in the boy’s upturned face.

“Indeed, he would,” Gandalf replied. Alas that in these times of war the choice was never his to make. As Faramir skipped down the steps ahead of him, he wondered why the Lord Denethor was interested in the ancient chronicles. Badly faded and written in an older form of Sindarin, the scrolls were not easy to read.

A small lamp flickered near the foot of the stairs. In its bobbing light, they saw the dim outlines of a long, low-ceilinged chamber. Gandalf picked up the lamp and fussed with the wick until the flame flared then subsided to a steady light. Rows of tall wooden shelves loomed out of the shadows, and the air was heavy with the rich smell of parchment and the fume of mineral pigments and glue.

“It smells like words here,” Faramir told him, and the darkness of the archive seemed to lessen at the sound of his voice.

They found the rolls that listed the contents of the archive. “Let us start with ‘An Account of the Disaster of the Gladden Fields as Writ by Estelmo’,” Gandalf said.

“He was Elendur’s squire,” Faramir chirped.

“Yes, he was.” Gandalf could not help smiling. “I can see that you pay close heed to your lessons. The rollbook says that Estelmo’s account is kept on the north wall, in the second set of shelves to the west.”

Faramir held the light as the wizard glanced along the shelves. “This is the right place; where is the scroll?” Gandalf muttered under his breath.

“Maybe it was lost,” the boy said with a worried glance at the ranks of shelves that marched off into the shadows.

Gandalf shook his head. “No, I have learned that things are rarely lost. They are merely waiting to be found by the one with the patience or the good luck to find them.” Though there are some things that were better never found, he added to himself. After lighting several more lamps, he began to work his way along the shelf, lifting up each wooden scroll case and leather-bound book, while Faramir bounded off to search the neighboring shelves. The archive fell silent except for the dry scrape of the wizard’s boots and the patter of Faramir’s footsteps. Twice, the lamps burned low, and Gandalf had to lengthen the wicks, and his back began to ache from crouching down to search the bottom shelves.

Suddenly, a high-pitched cry rang out. The wizard leapt to his feet and ran toward the sound, staff raised in his hand.

“I found it! I found it!” His face alight, Faramir staggered toward him, a long scroll case balanced in his arms.

It has been far too long since I spent any time around children, Gandalf told himself as he hurried forward to take the case before the lad fell over. A small metal plate on the lid was engraved with the words “North, 2nd West, 3rd Down, Vol. XXIV, Account of the Gladden Fields.” He set the wooden case on a table and unfastened the lid. Inside, a scroll lay nestled in a soft tangle of embroidered cloth. “You have saved me a great deal of work, Faramir. How did you find it way over here, in the middle of the Second Age?”

“All the other scrolls on the shelf were covered with dust,” Faramir told him. “This one was not, so I deemed it was misplaced.”

The wizard placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder and could feel the warmth and the tremulous spirit, as quick as the flutter of wings, that were bound in his flesh. “You are your father’s son—nothing escapes your glance.”

Faramir smiled up at him. The scholar’s cap had slid forward until it nearly covered his eyes. “It was waiting for me to find it.”