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

She walked alone under the trees of Lorien and the leaves fell about her. Slender she was and graceful, but her air was one of sorrow and despair. She had not spoken in a long time, for there was no other talking creature left now in the Golden Wood. Pale winter light caressed Arwen Undomiel. While she walked, she let her eyes wander, greeting trees she had known from saplings, grieving for those that had succumbed to time.

To be older than the trees meant to see these slow and beautiful creatures grow and flourish and die. It meant to see rivers change their course and coastlines worn away by the sweeping tides. To be free from death was a sorrow mortals could not comprehend. The sadness of the Elves was the sadness of the futility of their lives, as ones forever sitting on the banks of a river, watching it flow by. To preserve what once was in story and song and to hold on to the memories of ages past became a heavier burden with each passing millennium. The eldest of her kind were weighed down indeed with the remnants of endless years.

Verily, they had their pleasures and their merriment; finer garments, choicer dishes and brighter songs than any other race. Still, the essence of their being was sadness. Their joy drifted away whenever the stars faded, but their grief clung to them as an everlasting gloom.

New things rarely captivated the Elves, and yet sameness made their days stretched thin like evening mist on the hillsides. Everything was fleeting, everything was in vain. To attach their hearts to anything meant to lose it, and they were destined forever to watch the slow decay of the things they loved. Their desire for beauty inspired them to great works of art and of craft, but once completed each creation brought with it the burden of having to defend it against the ravages of time. The Elven Rings had power to preserve some things for some time, but even those were destined to fade. Her father’s home, her grandmother’s realm, she had always known to be just episodes in the vast history of Middle-earth. Everything she knew carried its own doom from the beginning.

Men, on the other hand, seemed so much at home in their little islands of time. She had watched it with marvel. Their hearts seemed stronger, their passions fiercer. Sorrow had a weaker hold on them and their minds always turned to hope and renewal. Their lives were filled with purpose, driven to build what they could hope would outlive them: homes, cities and kingdoms. Mere trifles these things were to the Elves, who would see them crumble into dust, but to Men they gave both promise and pride. They wove garments that would be heirlooms. They planted trees to give grandchildren shade. They sat down at the end of a day, pleased with the changes they had wrought.

Men seemed to change and grow so much in mind and in skill in such short spaces of time. Elves were grieved by change, because they themselves changed so little. But changelessness speeds up the pace of life, when there is nothing to give weight to the years. Songworthy deeds are not done every day, so what was there left to remember? Arwen had seen her life slipping away like sand through her fingers. It never mattered what she did today, since she might as well do it tomorrow, and so Today and Tomorrow began to feel as if they were the same. Nigh on three thousand years she had lived without a lover or a child. Whole centuries had faded without trace, memories and songs melting into one as if it mattered not what was once real, until she felt that nothing, nothing would ever touch her at all.

How crisp and clear were, by comparison, her years with Estel. Short years, little more than a drop in the ocean of her vast life span, and yet a drop that changed the hue of everything. What had drawn her to him, that day on the mound of Cerin Amroth, was the sudden wave of knowledge washing over her that here was someone whose life truly mattered. And thus her heart had chosen him, to share in a life that had meaning and weight. He had been her anchor in time and her beacon in a sea of indifference.

When Estel had died, she had mourned him, but she had also envied him. His work was done and he had spent his time well. He had seen his world renewed and would not see it fail. The sapling he had planted was flourishing still. She longed for the peace that shone from his eyes when he closed them forever. Most of all, though, she was not yet weary of him, and the gift of the One to Men seemed to her more bitter even than she had expected. Indeed, she had never tired of him.

For there was another, a deeper sorrow, of which the Elves did not speak: That as the centuries passed, they grew weary of each other, however great the love between them. They did not welcome separation, but they bore it willingly. When her mother had departed into the West, her father had bowed his head to the inevitable and had not wavered in his choice to stay. It sufficed for him to know that they would meet again; he felt no urgency for that day to come. And thus it always was with her kind, content to linger and postpone. Few Elves had ever truly said farewell. Her father had at last encountered that final parting, when he sailed into the West and left her behind, and she knew that the bitterness of it was to him beyond any song in the Elven tongue.

Bitterness was on her mind now when she looked back on her life. Through long, languid years of yearning she had come, and one sudden day had found a love beyond all expectation. Anxious years had followed, years of fear under a deepening shadow, until her banner had been unfurled, the crown regained, the sapling revealed. A lover she had become, a mother and a queen. Now all, all was lost and nothing was left for her but to linger, without purpose or aim.

She had forsaken her mother and father, she had forsaken her kind. Her fate had become entwined with those for whom eternity is but a dream. There she walked, weighed down with the enormity of her grief and the sadness of too many years, and so she came to comprehend the choice of Elros. What a mercy to let go of one’s sorrow. What a mercy to know an end. Thus she stood again on the mound of Cerin Amroth, with the golden leaves of Lorien scattered round her feet, ready at last to embrace Death. The Gift of Ilúvatar: She understood it now.

Pot, plate, spoon. Eating is a habit that comes with the body. No more than a habit: I can still go without food when I need to and I do not kill to eat. It is a good habit, though, one that I picked up when I saw the bonds it can forge among people. In halls and palaces, in houses and hovels, in cottages and smials, in tents and under open skies shared meals are an expression of generosity, caring and love. A good habit then, but a habit also that ties me to this soil and this body. I do not know if I could still free my spirit from this earthly shape if I tried. I do not wish to try. I like to eat, to breathe, to feel. It’s a habit that comes with the body.

Bedroll. How many nights have I rested under the open skies? As many as there are stars in the sky, it seems. Stars that shone overhead in all those countless nights, reminding me that however sundered, the world is one. Even after the changing of the world, the same stars shine over Valinor. The same sky rises above us all. It was One who called everything into being and the world is His with everything in it, be it good or evil. Why did he allow evil to arise? Would the world not be complete without it? Would we not know the light if there was no darkness? The stars only shine in the night sky. I have looked up at them from my bedroll more times than I can count.

Robe. Grey, colour of twilight. Colour of rainclouds that hide the sun yet quench the thirst of the soil. Colour of the sea on a dull day, an ocean of grey that stretches all the way from here to Valinor. Colour of stones, of ashes, of spider webs. Colour of yearning and of sorrow. How came it to be my colour? Why not green, the colour of hope and of life renewed? Why not red, colour of fire, my friend and ally? Maybe grey is to hide my brightness from the enemy, or else it is my lot because I am so closely bound to the Elves with their grey ships, grey eyes, grey cloaks. Still, I feel this grey robe is but a chrysalis, from which I will emerge one day in my true colour, I know not which. Until then grey will serve me well enough.

Hat. The hat now, that’s a bit of a bonus. Saruman does without one, but Radagast is fond of his, too. I confess I am rather attached to mine, and not just because it makes a nice change from all that grey. Nothing like a hat to let people know who I am. I believe the hat has saved me a lot of arguments over the years. And it makes me comfortable, so it does. A handy sunshade and a good shelter for hiding a chuckle now and then. Yes, I am attached to my hats. If only they didn’t wear out so quickly. Three score years, four at the most, and they’re faded and frayed. A hole in the hat makes for a soggy scalp! It is as well that I know an Elven hatter who makes them just the way I like. Tall, pointy, with a wide brim. Just a whim of mine. Indulge an old man!

Boots. They don’t last even as long as the hats. Hundreds of pairs I must have worn out over the years. I need no map of Middle-earth, the map is inscribed in the soles of my feet. Grey Wanderer they call me and a wanderer I am. From the Grey Havens to the Sea of Rhûn, from the Iron Mountains to the shores of Tolfalas I have walked, collecting names as I went along. The peoples of Eriador know the sight of the blue hat as well as those of Gondor or Rohan or Rhovanion. They know me, and yet they know me not. They see what I choose to let them see: the old man, robed in grey, leaning on a staff. An old man with boots that have walked all the long miles of Middle-earth.

Pipe. Many will find it hard to imagine me without my pipe, but it is only a short while by the measure of my life that I have known the delights of smoking. Hobbits taught me, though I pride myself in surpassing even Bilbo in the art of blowing smoke rings. Ah, hobbits. Quite a mystery they are. Ilúvatar woke his Children, both the First and the Secondborn. Aule wrought the dwarves and Yavanna set her tree herds to guard her own. But whence the hobbits? They seem an afterthought, a whimsical addition to a world already filled with people. Whose afterthought, though? And who would know? I seem to be the only one among the wise to have paid much attention to them. Hobbit-lore, a field of study seemingly tame and dull. Hobbits, however, are never quite what they seem and they have surprised me more than once. Something tells me that others will be surprised by them, too, before this Age comes to a close. Well, I have learned my lesson and I won’t be surprised if hobbits should prove to be the undoing of Sauron. I can just imagine them smoking a pipe after their quest is fulfilled.

Sword. Glamdring. Oh yes. No warrior am I and yet this sword has slain more orcs than many a blade in a soldierly hand. And always, always there’s more of them. I’ve never found out if those first orcs, those that were wrought by the torture of Morgoth, maintained the life of the Eldar. Sometimes, when my sword found its mark, I have imagined that I saw in the eyes of the foul creature a faint hint of a lost soul, the last spark of one of the Children. I could never be sure, though. And even if I was, what could I do? They cannot be redeemed. There is nothing but death for them, and time and time again I have been the one to deal it, much as it went against all I believe. They cannot be healed. I have tried. Way back in the Ages of Stars, when their twisted forms first spoiled the face of Arda, long before I took on this bodily form, I sought to lead them back to the light. I failed. There was nothing left in them but hatred and despair. I returned to Valinor and lamented my failure to Nienna. She wept to hear that Children of Ilúvatar had been broken beyond the reach of compassion. Not even Varda could rekindle their souls. The sword, then.

Staff. They think it is magic. Well, perhaps it is, if you want to give that name to the power that resides within the members of my order. The staff is just an extension of ourselves, a symbol more than a tool. The members of my order, hmmm. Saruman’s treachery was a heavy blow indeed. He should have led us, and now we must fight him or outwit him. There is nothing much to expect from Radagast, for faithful though he may remain, his mind is filled with little beyond his concern for the birds and beasts. Alatar, Pallando – no word has come from them in nigh a thousand years. They are lost, if not to all of Arda, then at least to the fight at hand. I am the only one left and it is up to me. If nothing else, I have a staff to lean on.

Ring. Narya. My finger is worn thin underneath it. It sits on my hand as if it has been there since its making, yet it is not so. Why did it come to me, an Elven ring, meant for an Elven keeper? Círdan may yet find that he has need for it. To protect the Havens, to keep open the route of escape, remains of utmost importance. But he is Círdan of the wood and of the water; fire was never his element. Fire! It comes to me like a friend, it yields to me willingly and I shape it, mold it, colour it. It is a thing of great beauty and fierce power. With the last of the dragons gone, there is none in Middle-earth now who can wield fire as I do, not even the Dark Lord himself. I do not believe, though, that fire will win us victory over Sauron, unless it is the fire in our hearts. Here it sits, the Ring of Fire, only a arm’s length from my heart. Does it have fire enough for us all?

Elrond calls, the fellowship is ready to leave. I am well equipped for my greatest challenge. Well enough? That remains to be seen.

Written in co-production with my husband. He wanted to have “So when one stabs you in the groin” in the sixth verse, but had to concede that this really didn’t happen in the book.

Written for the LOTR GFIC yahoo group July Challenge “Some Like It Hot.” The task was to write an exact length of ficlet, in this case 222 words.

“I like it very well. The young princess is possibly the greatest of its attractions,” replied Éomer gallantly.

“Indeed?” The smile that appeared on Lothíriel’s face was more amused than flattered, but the King of Rohan had his eyes fixed on the plate in front of him, for the task of tackling the seafood course had proved challenging, and besides, he had little experience in reading the subtleties of a woman’s expression.

Éomer at last succeeded in extracting the flesh from the shell of the winkle with the delicate little fork he had found next to his plate.

“Not at all,” he said and ventured a look at Lothíriel. “I enjoy variety. You need not think that the Rohirrim are ignorant of foreign cooking.”

“So you’ll like chillies, too, then?” she asked in the most innocent tone she could manage.

Lothíriel reached for a bowl and placed a generous spoonful of a red puree on Éomer’s plate. Without hesitation, Éomer loaded his fork.

Middle-earth belongs to Tolkien. With thanks to Dawn Felagund for her advice. MEFA 2010 First Place

So this was the young man’s mother. They had both bowed their heads in greeting when Elrond had introduced them and now they were left to each other’s company, presumably to converse politely about ladylike matters. But Arwen found it hard to think of aught to say and the Dunadan Woman only looked at her with shy deference.

“May I?” said Arwen at last and sat down at the other end of the bench. The Woman nodded, smiled, and lifted her embroidery closer to her eyes. Arwen, with no needlework of her own at hand, glanced out of the window at the two oak trees she had planted before she had left Imladris for Lothlorien. She was pleased to see them grown so tall and strong. Every now and then, she stole a glimpse at the Woman, discreetly, so as not to intimidate her. Once, by chance, their eyes met and they smiled and then each averted her gaze again.

Little by little, Arwen began to get a picture of her companion. She had an oval face and large eyes under strong brows. A shaft of sunlight that sneaked in from between the trees revealed a dull patch where the fair hair was turning grey. On her right hand, the skin had toughened in places from holding the needle. Arwen rubbed her own smooth fingers together, fingers that had held needles for more hours than those trees bore leaves. She needed no mirror to know that thousands of years had left no trace on her hair and skin, while a few decades had carved lines into the face of the Dunadan Woman, bearing witness to her joys and her sorrows alike.

The Woman was slender in her green gown of Elven fashion, silken and tight fitting, but under the thin fabric lay barely hidden the signs that told the tale of childbearing and nursing. Arwen lowered her eyelids and secretly looked down at her own high, firm breasts, untouched by the years, untouched by anyone. Her maiden body was strong, supple and perfect, and might have been barren for all she knew.

She caught the Woman’s eyes again, and this time their smiles were deeper, warmer. Arwen was struck by the loveliness of the aging face.

Outside, a squirrel raced up a tree, stopped, turned with a jerky movement and disappeared behind the trunk. Only his twitching tail remained visible. A second later, that was gone, too, and the scene lay still as if the little animal had never been.

Written for the LOTR Genfic Yahoo Group July Challenge "Short and Sweet," where the task was to produce a fixed length ficlet. My length is 369 words.

He was to give a speech. This had been worrying Aragorn for weeks. Not that he was usually shy to speak in front of people, but he felt under a special obligation in this case. Faramir had asked him to be his groomsman and Aragorn was determined to give a magnificent speech.

He had made notes, lots of notes. He had visited the archives and read up on some of the more obscure episodes in the history of the Steward's family. He began to feel almost up to the job, but not quite yet.

"Are you sure, my love," said Arwen one evening, "that all this is really necessary?"

"Certainly, dearest," he replied and continued to scribble on his sheet. "The guests will be fascinated by the historical details. Did you know that Egalmoth had the entire west wing of the Citadel refurbished by Dwarven artisans?"

And now the big day had come. Aragorn stood at the head table, the quiet attention of several hundred festively attired guests turned towards him.

"Dear, honoured guests," he began. "We are elated to welcome you on this very joyful day. It is a day that gives reason to celebrate on more than one account. We think today of the Shadow that has passed from our world and of the valiant deeds of so many that have brought us deliverance. The two who are wed today have been among the most praiseworthy. The fair Lady Éowyn, descended from a line of kings, who defeated the Enemy's most powerful servant, and Lord Faramir, brave and noble Steward of Gondor, faithful and just. To see them joined in marriage, a new union between our two lands, is the crowning glory of the well-earned peace."

There was a round of applause. Aragorn nodded and smiled while he waited for it to die down, but suddenly Arwen rose beside him, lifting her goblet, and one after another the illustrious guests joined her; there was laughter and cheering, Imrahil slapped him on the shoulder, everybody talked and showed no sign of settling down again!

"That's the way to do it," said Ioreth the healer to the Warden of the Houses, "short and sweet."

Middle-earth belongs to Tolkien. Thanks to Thranduil Oropherion Redux for beta reading.

After that talk with Elrond, he didn’t quite know what to do. What was he supposed to do? The world, the familiar halls and corridors of the Last Homely House, seemed unchanged and unimpressed by the sudden revelation. There was nothing in the tapestries, the fireplaces, the carved chests or the statues to acknowledge that he, he was changed and would never be the same again. For a while, he wandered aimlessly from room to room, until, by chance, he came across a looking glass. He squared his shoulders and smoothed down his hair. Descendant of kings, who would have thought it?

Rangers seldom ate anything but the simplest of fare, and often had to make do with whatever they could forage in the wildernesses of Eriador. He would have liked to think of himself as anything but pampered, but the truth was that half-burned rabbit without even a grain of salt was very much an acquired taste. So much so, indeed, that he had failed to acquire it in six years. With a barely perceptible sigh, he received his wooden bowl from the hands of the comrade whose turn it had been to cook. He would have to bring his mind and his palate to appreciate this dish. It simply would not do to begin dreaming again of Rivendell’s First Cook and her delectable chicken pie with sage and onion, not to mention her rhubarb and apple crumble.

Arwen was beautiful, there was no doubt about it, but so were all the other elf-maidens. One was as shapely as the next, with shining hair, eyes like gemstones and lily-petal skin. Perhaps Arwen moved a little more graceful, smiled a little sweeter, but he could not believe that his heart was so blindly ruled by the pleasure of his eyes alone.

Across the table, he saw her gently lay her hand on her father’s when he reached out for the wine jug again, and silence her brothers' bickering with a look. That, perhaps, was it.

Gondor was a disappointment. Approaching from the North, he found the farmsteads of Anorien as simple and crude as those of the Rohirrim, and somewhat less striking for want of the carved horse-head gables. He passed unchallenged through the rustic lands, which made him consider their watchfulness with disdain. Ranger or not, someone ought to have spotted him. Nobody did.

At last he came to the gates of Minas Tirith, and there the seal of Rohan’s king gained him entry. The city had looked impressive from afar, but as he wound his way higher and higher, he saw empty houses in every circle, and others that stood in disrepair, not from some attack of the enemy, but because the remaining strength and wealth of Gondor’s people all flowed into the struggle against that foe and left little for the upkeep of her former splendour. The White Tree, a sad skeleton beyond all hope of rebirth, made him flinch.

When he was ushered into the citadel, though, and before the Lord Ecthelion, he had to suppress a smile of satisfaction. The steward’s gaze, calm and penetrating, could have withstood the stare of Elrond himself. There was power in Gondor yet.

On the other hand, he might as well join them. If the quest failed, there would be no kingship to claim anyway, and if it succeeded – and how small was the chance that it would succeed! – then his claim would stand all the stronger for having aided the defeat of Sauron.

Thus he reasoned with himself in his bedchamber at night and convinced himself that his passion was prudent, his desire the call of duty. However, in his heart of hearts he knew what really drove him. There was a small hand attached to a small body that had taken upon itself to carry this burden, hurt already and bound to be maimed even more. If the Halfling had to go on that grisly path, he ought not go without the sword of Elendil.

Ruling turned out to be a pleasure, not the burden he had expected. Duty and responsibility made high demands of him indeed, but he found himself thrilled with his powers of rising to those challenges. Every time another building in the war-shaken city was restored, every time a missive from Harad showed that his labours for peace began to bear fruit, his heart was soaring, and he took the inevitable set-backs in his stride.

“No, Sire. It is a fertile land with mild and pleasant weather, forty-seven days’ ride east from the Sea of Rhun. They have been dwelling there for a long time.”

Not yet, he thought. Heavily scented honeysuckle snaked up over the arbour in this quiet corner of the citadel. Over the years, Arwen had turned the place into a pleasure garden in which all the citizens of Minas Tirith were welcome to refresh themselves. He, too, felt refreshed by the fragrant shade. Had it not been for the weariness of his limbs and his spirit, he would not have entertained such thoughts as were on his mind these days. Thoughts of finality, thoughts of great weight and solemn purpose, like a heavy, steel-girded door slamming shut.

From between the quivering twigs of the honeysuckle, where it had sat for some time in silence and stillness, a sparrow hopped down and flittered about on the path. Somewhere below the Seventh Gate, as child was laughing. The stones of the wall felt warm to the touch.

Middle-earth belongs to Tolkien. Thanks to Thranduil Oropherion Redux for beta reading. Dedicated to my dear friend Ignoble Bard. Teitho September Challenge, first place.

His life began, as lives do, with sustenance. In the room around him, the bustle had settled into a hush. A servant hurried along the corridor to give the news to the King, now a father. Word spread quickly through the underground halls. Outside, the leaves rustled as if nothing had happened. The trees seemed to huddle close to the Elvenking’s home, for with every yard of distance the gloom increased, however slightly. Not far into the forest, and spiders spun webs of noisome stickiness and wicked purpose. Further South, worse things were afoot and would seep, inch by inch, into the trembling woods.

He knew nothing of all this yet. Comforted, satiated, he fell asleep at his mother’s breast.

That blasted spider! It was all the spider’s fault. It hurt a little, but not terribly much. There were scratches on his arms and legs and a small gash on his cheek where a twig had whipped him on the way down, but he could bear it. That wasn’t the worst. His tunic was torn and greenish-brown goo from the tree trunk had soiled his breeches. That wasn’t the worst, either. His bow had snapped when he landed; it was a bow he had been proud of, and it irked him to see it ruined, but that still wasn’t the worst.

The worst was that by the time he came home, everybody knew. The guards and the archers, the serving maids and the cooks, yes, even the King’s advisors and the ladies in waiting struggled to keep a straight face when the news made the rounds that the young Prince of Mirkwood had fallen out of a tree.

There were so many elf-maidens. He’d seen them all before, hovering about the throne hall, dancing in the clearings and, without doubt, getting their hopes up every time he so much as looked their way. They were all beautiful, all accomplished and all, so he thought, dreadfully dull.

This one, now, this one had only arrived recently. The Lady Arwen had sent her on an errand and, for some reason or other, she had stayed. She cast no sidelong glances at him like the other maidens did and didn’t fawn about his mother as if it was the Queen who would choose the Prince’s bride. She minded her own business, something he wasn’t quite sure what it was, something that involved scrolls and rulers and compasses and numbers. One day, he tried to peer over her shoulder to see what she was doing. She turned her head and gave him a look, such a look!

He knew how to hunt orcs. Spiders, too, and the occasional random creature of darkness that had crept under the boughs of the forest. There were so many ways to kill them, though, alas, there were always more to come. So he hunted, and he killed, and that kept them at bay after a fashion. They did not dare come close to the heart of the Elven realm, and she mostly stayed inside with her parchments and her strange calculations anyway, trying to wrestle secrets from the stars. Of course, at times she would come out to watch and to plot further dots onto her maps, but near his father’s halls the forest was blissfully free of orcs.

It would never have occurred to him that she of all people would fall prey to them.

He hadn’t expected this. Coming to think of it, he couldn’t quite say what he had expected, other than giving his message and returning home, which, should it have come to pass, would have been oddly disappointing. Nevertheless, he wasn’t quite sure what had prompted him to throw in his lot with this group of strangers. He had no desire to go where they proposed to go and no delusions about the audacity of their plan.

Perhaps it had been the intense expression in the Halfling’s face. Such a burden put on one so small! The house of Elrond was teeming with elves; many could have represented his race. Yet as the Fellowship prepared to leave on this dim winter evening, he would have resented anyone who had wanted to take his place.

He was so used to his own graceful movements, he never thought about them. There was no need. His feet hadn’t sunk into the snow, they had danced across the rope bridge, and walking or rowing or riding he had moved with effortless and unconscious poise. He knew there was a thing called clumsiness. It was something that happened to other people.

However, when the voices began to shout that the eagles had brought them back and that they were alive, he began to run and for once his easy grace failed him and he fell over a rock that really had no business lying there in his way.

So now he was sailing. He felt inclined to think, at last, but this would not completely express his feelings on this long-expected event. He had been impatient to go and yet strangely contented to stay.

The ocean unsettled him. He had long nurtured his dreams of the sea, but the real thing was different. Wilder, colder and less poetic. It smelled rank, of seaweed and dead fish. In the wake of the ship, the murky waters churned up a pale foam. Blobs of spineless creatures drifted past. Jellyfish. He watched them and turned a helpless glance at his companion.

Darkness fell before the last distant glimpses of Middle-earth had disappeared from sight.

Once on the way and for the whole, long voyage, he had been wondering what was awaiting them. Someone, he felt sure, would hold him responsible for bringing the dwarf. This thought was uppermost in his mind, superseding others which nevertheless continued to simmer at the back of his consciousness and even soaked into his dreams. Would he be welcome? Would he be welcomed? He wondered how he would find his mother and, moreover, whether She would be there.

The immortal lands emerged gently from the haze, indeed, had taken shape before he was quite aware of it. Less than an hour took them to the shore and when he set foot on the glaring white beach, it was as if the entire land rose up to embrace him and pull him to its heart.

All his questions faded. He fell to his knees and dug his fingers into the sands of what would become Home.

“But I found them!” The little girl clutched her new treasures and gave her brother a defiant stare.

“That doesn’t matter,” declared the boy with all the authority he commanded by virtue of being two years older. “You can’t keep them. You heard what the heralds said. People can’t just keep what they find. It’s not right, the king says. And the king is always right.”

“Is so. Don’t be silly, Míreth. The king beat the Dark Lord and defended Gondor. So when he says you can’t keep what you find, you must obey. Or do you want orcs to come back and attack us?”

Míreth, not entirely convinced by this line of reasoning, pulled a face and stomped her foot.

“Míreth!” The boy’s voice indicated that he was summoning more patience than his sister deserved. “The king doesn’t want them. The king says you have to hand them in so that the rightful owner can come and claim them.”

“I don’t know. We don’t need to know. We just go and hand them in and that’s our duty done.”

This threat failed to make an impression, so the boy tried a different strategy.

“Imagine you lost your dolly,” he said. “And some other girl would find her and keep her and you would never ever get her back. That would make you sad, wouldn’t it?”

“And wouldn’t you be really, really glad if instead she handed her in and you could get her back?”

“So,” he finished triumphantly, “you know what Mama says. We must always behave in the same way we want other people to behave.”

There was a tell-tale shimmer in Míreth’s eyes, but she knew she was as thoroughly beaten as the Dark Lord had been beaten by King Elessar and his friends. A little while later, and to the astonishment of the elderly clerk on duty, she dropped four shiny conkers on the desk of Minas Tirith’s newly opened Lost Property Office.

For my dear friend Linda Hoyland on her birthday. Thanks to Raksha and Finlay for beta-reading. Middle-earth belongs to Tolkien.

Finduilas echoes, not only in his heart, but in the whole of Minas Tirith. Sea lavender still blooms in haphazard places, like little crannies in the limestone walls. It was her reminder of home, and now it is a reminder of her. The flowers are of a rich, deep blue, crowned with tiny white stars. They can be cut and bundled and strung up to dry, and they will give colour to a home all through a winter, and another, and even a third. In the end, they fade; the blue evaporates leaving rustling shells, almost transparent, like straw to the touch. Older women, their bunches of star-studded blue in their hands, lift their heads as he walks by. They weigh him up, gauge his merits and nod slowly. Their eyes say, For your mother’s sake…

Ada – for he still thinks of him by the name he called him in childhood, though in recent years he has been using a more formal address – Ada kept a sprig of sea lavender in a mother-of-pearl box by his bedside. Perhaps he took it out sometimes to ponder its fragile petals, or else he did not dare lift the lid for fear the blue might escape. Either way, he did not say. He did not speak of her, later, through all the years of stern words and sterner mien, but the boy could feel the thoughts sometimes, especially on those rainy afternoons when water fell from the overflowing gutters like long-due tears. It seemed to him at times that all was falling, water, walls, kingdoms, in a gently roaring plunge into a river that would bear them all away to the sea…

Rauros, they tell him, is the name of the waterfall that swallowed his brother. His funeral ground, unless he wants to believe that hazy vision which seems more dreamlike by the day. That one who was so vigorous, ever moving, one who could not sit at the table – especially not on those rainy afternoons – without tapping a foot or drumming his fingers on his arm, that such a one could lie so still! Yet still he lay, no different now from what lay with him, broken horn, futile sword, and so he drifted away. In Rohan, they say, flowers like white stars grow on the graves of the fallen, but no flowers will grow for Boromir, unless the river took him out into the ocean and past the cliffs of Dol Amroth and the sea lavender nodded at him as a last farewell…

Aragorn carries no horn, and it is his sword that was broken, broken and forged anew. He is neither falling nor fading; his hand defeats, his voice calls back even from the threshold of death. Today he wears the winged crown. The white rod, however, inlaid with mother-of-pearl, he has handed back to his servant and called him a prince. Older women, with sprigs of sea lavender pinned to their dresses, weigh up the new king, nod slowly and wish that She could be here to see it. But she is now a cherished memory kept in a box, or a posy that dangles, in star-studded bunches, from the ceilings of their houses. Aragorn knows nothing of this secret kinship of colours, and on the summit of his crown shines a jewel like a flame…

Mordor lies extinguished. The voice of the king has proclaimed the fall of the Enemy and flame has consumed the power of evil. Ash now covers its stricken soils, ash hangs dry and colourless from the summit of Mount Doom and all the rain of all the gloomy afternoons when the boy sat at table with his brooding father and his finger-drumming brother, all that rain would not suffice to do ought but turn it into a glistening, pearly mud. All the years of his life, the darkness has festered and dried up all joy. All the years of his manhood, the sword has hardened his hand. Now the Black Gates are fallen and the Dark Tower collapsed like a house of straw. Even the memory of fear is already fading. The shadows begin to withdraw from the west-facing mountain slopes…

Ithilien rains down those mountain slopes, cascades over rocks lined with rosemary, lavender and thyme. Ithilien breathes water and pulsates with streams. Ithilien puts down deep roots, finds the good water, brings forth the fruit. Not yet, perhaps, not yet, but soon the swords will be laid aside and hands will seize the plough, the pruning hook. Homes scented with dangling posies will harbour the flame at the hearth. For his mother’s sake, his father’s sake, his brother’s sake, he will make it flourish. He keeps by his bedside a mother-of-pearl box which he has never yet opened and perhaps never will. At night the sky is a silky blue cloak on which stars sit like tiny flowers…

Rohan’s White Lady has chosen and she has chosen him. He has clothed her in the blue night and the white stars. He has touched her pearly skin and it has all, all fallen into his hands, the eyes so blue, the hair coloured like sun-lit straw, the voice he would follow even to the threshold of death. She has vowed to put down her sword with his and hold out her hands, palms up, to receive the rain. Older women have nodded slowly and pressed posies of sea lavender into her arms as she walked down the winding road from the citadel. Now they lie in silence and in gently fading blueness on the windowsill of their new home. She, though, cannot hold still. When she sits at the table, her foot is tapping or her fingers are drumming on her arm. Faramir holds his breath and listens to the echoes…

With mild amusement and gentle concern, Varda's stars looked down on a clearing in the Woody End. The grassy place was lined on three sides by trees and fell in a steep slope into the valley on the fourth. Here the Firstborn had stopped for the night like they had done so many times, but never before had they entertained any of the little folk as their guests. A dome of Elven song curved over their camp. It held the shimmer of the fires within its embrace. Darkness encroached it.

Gildor Inglorion sat, chin on hand, on the trunk of a fallen oak and stared into the gloom beyond the edge of the clearing. He had watched the hobbit Frodo Baggins fall asleep on a fragrant bed of grass and fern. A frown on the halfling's brow had smoothed out when the breeze blew another fragment of song into his ears. He would slumber peacefully now. No matter how insightful he was – and Gildor had found reason this night to marvel at Frodo's mind – he could not know that there was more to the song than simple merrymaking. Gildor, however, was only too keenly aware of this. Night lent power to the Elves, but also, and more so, to the servants of the Enemy. He could sense them vaguely, three clusters of menace slinking around the circumference of the dome. The Elven music kept them at bay, but it was a thin, thin veil. Note wound around note, voice hovered by voice as the tune brooded over the clearing. For now, the magic held. While the praises of Elbereth rose and met the starlight streaming down from above, the three Nazgul would not dare attack. What would happen, though, if more should join their number, of if clouds should hide the stars? Gildor twisted a strand of dark hair round his finger and wondered how he could best protect the hobbits.

It was not entirely by chance that the Elves had caught up with the hobbits earlier that night. The puzzled pondering of a fox had alerted them that something was amiss. Like some of his companions, Gildor had read the animal’s mind in passing. Three hobbits out in the woods at night, the fox had thought, were a strange enough thing; stranger still the big black men on the big black horses. A shudder had gone through the fox's body at this point and hastened the steps of the Elves.

Now Gildor was worried that he had unwittingly led the hobbits into a trap. He could not hold off the Nazgul forever, and how would the hobbits get away from here with enemies on three sides and a sheer drop on the fourth? He didn't know enough about the little people to gauge how able they might be to tackle the challenging terrain. As for defences – none of them seemed to carry weapons, and indeed Gildor could not remember ever seeing a hobbit wielding anything fiercer than a pitchfork. And even if they had been well-armed, how much use would a piece of sharp metal be against the terrors that pursued them? His hand went to his belt and lightly touched his short sword.

“Faeldis!” he called softly. An Elf-woman rose from the circle around one of the fires. The hem of her dress rustled among the grasses as she came over to him. She knelt down.

“You are worried,” she said and rested her hand on his knee. “Do you think the song will not hold?”

They both listened. Gildor felt that the shield of music had become patchy in places as some of the singers grew weary. He knew he would have to join soon to add the power of his voice. First, though, he had to make a decision.

Faeldis nodded. “We will have to try,” she said. “It will be easier in the daylight.”

“Far enough, I should think, to throw them off the track. Drive them West while the hobbits travel East. That is what you have in mind, isn't it?”

“Because Elf-friend Frodo told me that one shouldn't come to the Elves for advice, since they will say both yes and no.”

Gildor began to hum, and she followed his lead in close harmony, and slowly words emerged to mingle with the song of the others. The notes spanned the clearing, arched across the dome which had faded by now to cobweb thinness. Their voices revived the faltering tune and the Nazgul, who had sensed their chance and drawn nearer, melted back into the shadows again.

For a while, the renewed dome seemed strong. It rang with the name of Elbereth and echoed between the boughs of the trees. Gildor wove in words that evoked the Powers across the sea. Faeldis summoned the might of root, leaf and bark, of rock and of soil. The Nazgul crouched and winced. An hour or so passed in this manner. Then clouds moved in from the South. One by one, the stars winked out. Gildor felt the strength drain from the dome and he saw in his mind, as clearly as if he had seen it with his eyes, how the Nazgul straightened up and prepared for attack. He reached out with his voice to save the dome, but suddenly he knew it would be futile. To withstand the onslaught, the song would have to draw power right out of the earth on which they sat. This land, though, no longer yielded to the wishes of the Firstborn as it would have in ages past. It had known other masters for far too long.

“We are not enough at home here,” he whispered to Faeldis. She pressed his hand but didn't stop singing. The Nazgul could be seen now, inky chasms in the night. As soon as the song gave way anywhere...

It was the hobbit called Peregrin. He stood, blanket clutched around his shoulders, next to Gildor and stared at him with anxious eyes.

Gildor acknowledged the hobbit's question with a nod and sang on without missing a note. Faeldis took Peregrin by the elbow and bade him sit beside her.

Even in the firelight, Peregrin's blush was visible. He raised a hand to push back his curly hair.

“They will sing all night. They cannot stop now, or our troubles would be much greater. You could help us by singing one of your own songs. Don't worry about the pitch. It will match somehow.”

“I will give you one of Uncle Bilbo's songs then. They're as good as any you will find in the Shire.”

Gildor let the words flow through himself and felt them surge up into the dome. The pale, hazy veil that covered the camp began to fill with new power. It rang with the call of the geese. It shimmered in the golden hue of hops and the sun-kissed purple of ripe plums. It hung heavy with the sweetness of brambles. It pulsed with the scent of crumble tarts. The land under their feet had awoken and fed its strength to their shield. Out among the shadows, the Nagzul shrank back.

“Sing it again,” Faeldis whispered when Peregrin had ended. And Peregrin sang it again. He sang it three times, four times, five, until his eyelids began to droop and the could fight off sleep no longer. Anxious, Gildor stretched out a hand to shake the hobbit by the shoulder, but Faeldis touched his arm.

“Look,” she said. High up in the night sky, the clouds were dispersing. Starlight touched the dome and covered it with a milky sheen that sealed in the bounty of Peregrin's song. “We shall be safe till morning. And when the sun comes out to kiss the purple plum...”

“Yes.” Gildor wrapped his arm round the sleeping hobbit and carried him back to his bed beside Frodo. “When the sun comes out,” he murmured, “you will be granted another day.”

Two poems written for the LOTR Community Challenge April challenge "Beauty of Arda." Elements: believe -receive

Middle-earth belongs to Tolkien. Thanks to Clodia and Finlay for beta reading.

Written for the Plot Bunny Challenge of the LOTR Community Challenges group. This was my plot bunny, submitted by Linaewen: In RotK Chapter 5 (Ride of the Rohirrim), Elfhelm says, "We need no further guidance...for there are riders in the host who have ridden down to Mundburg in days of peace. I for one." I'd like to see a story about Elfhelm (or some other person from Rohan) visiting Minas Tirith prior to the breakout of war.

The signal tower of Eilenach glinted in the sunlight. It was late morning and almost too hot for comfort, so Elfhelm decided to take a rest in the shade. He stopped by a group of inviting-looking birches, dismounted and took off his helmet. It was such a relief to shake out his long hair and let fresh air reach his scalp. Curse all this leather, he was sweating like an ox! But, ah, shade, welcome shade! It was good not to have the sun staring into his face for a while. The birches' leaves rippled gently in the breeze and seemed to beckon him to come nearer. Behind them, the woods rose up the slope, a brooding wall of trees and dense underbrush. Elfhelm couldn't tell one kind of tree from another, except for birches with their conveniently striped trunks, but fortunately there was no need for him to get entangled with the forest. He sat on a tussock of grass and gulped down half the content of his water bottle. He had left Edoras early, straight after breakfast, and now he began to regret that he hadn't brought a little snack. Never mind, he thought, just another hour or so to get to the city, and Húrin was bound to have lunch sorted. Last time he'd been to Minas Tirith, they'd gone to this fabulous little place in the fourth circle that did those delicious stuffed olives... That dish alone almost made it worth the trip, which otherwise he couldn't help resenting a little. It was not really necessary, from a rational point of view, but well, the Boss was very particular about what he smoked and he liked to have his own special courier. Such was a boss's prerogative.

It was quiet. The road lay deserted in the near-noon heat. Elfhelm thought of sitting for another five minutes, then having a piss and going on. There were ants crawling around or in some cases over his boots. He didn't mind them – let them try and bite through the leather!

At first he wasn't sure that he had heard a noise at all, and then he wondered what kind of animal it might be, and then, when it came a third time, he couldn't help thinking that it sounded very human. He looked round. There it was again, somewhere to the left. A kind of wheezy groan.

“Hello?” He got up and walked towards the spot where he thought the noise had come from. “Hello? Anyone there?”

The girl sat under some sort of curly bush, or perhaps it was a fern. Her left leg was stretched out in front of her, the other folded under it. When she saw him approach, she tried to duck into the shade, but didn't get up.

She was stark naked, apart from a kind of dry grass skirt round her waist. Flippin 'eck, thought Elfhelm, some boobs! They were the shape and colour of hazelnuts but the size of melons. It cost him some effort not to stare.

She made no reply. Her face clearly spoke of her fear and a terrified whimper came from her throat.

“Come now,” he said, “have you never seen a man in black leather before?” The moment he spoke the words, he realised how stupid they were. He suddenly thought it was possible that she'd never seen a fully clothed man at all.

“I won't harm you.” He held out his hand. “But let me help. I could take you home.” No, you couldn't, you idiot, because her home is likely to be somewhere deep in the woods, and how would you get her there, carry her? She doesn't exactly look like a featherweight.

There was no danger of her accepting his hasty offer anyway. She recoiled even further. Suddenly there was rustling in the forest and a choir of angry voices. Elfhelm couldn't understand a word, but he understood the tone. It meant, “Shoo!” From among the bushes emerged half a dozen chubby men, grass-skirt-clad like the girl but much fiercer looking. To a large extent, this was due to the spears they waved about. Elfhelm felt put out by this, though he realised that it could have been worse. They could have been pointing the spears at him.

“Hey, keep cool!” he cried and stepped back. Three of the men dashed forwards and picked up the girl by her hale limbs. Within seconds the whole group had disappeared among the greenery.

“What the heck!” said Elfhelm. He swept his hair out of his face and took another sip of water. There was no question now of having a piss, because who knew what faces might be staring at him from the bushes. “Well, sod it, I'd better get going.”

At least the sun had meanwhile veiled itself in a few obliging clouds. He mounted, let the engine roar and zoomed off to the South-East.

Húrin had sorted lunch. He had a table booked in that fabulous little place in the fourth circle. First though, Elfhelm showered and changed and then they went to the very upmarket tobacconist in the sixth circle to buy a three months' supply of the equally upmarket (and correspondingly expensive) cigars the Boss was so fond of these days.

“How is he anyway?” asked Húrin as they sauntered back down to the fourth circle.

“Oh, so-so. He has his good and bad days. Not getting any younger, of course. To be honest, I don't think he will finish the term. We could have elections before the end of the year. Éowyn will run for office, you know. Good for her, too. She'd send that Gríma with all his committees and sub-committees packing.”

“Where does she stand on defence, though? The Conventional Arms Treaty with Mordor has completely fallen through. They've commissioned a whole new generation of mid-range ground-to-ground-missiles. There are rumours about a special kind of warhead. Gondor will have to invest heavily in weapons technology in the next few years. We really need our allies to back us up.”

“I guess she's made up her mind about that. Let your boss give her a call and discuss it.”

Meanwhile, they had arrived. Elfhelm didn't even look at the menu; he ordered stuffed olives, sweet pepper ratatouille and hazelnut ice-cream.

“I had a strange experience on the way,” he said while Húrin frowned at the wine menu. “I stopped for a break at Druadan Forest, and there was this girl, she must have been injured or something, I don't think she understood me, she looked like some kind of, I don't know, some kind of native. Practically naked! And then all these native guys came and ran off with her. They had spears! I'm not making this up.”

“No, I know you aren't.” Húrin gave a cursory nod to the waitress as she put down the dishes of stuffed olives. “They were Woses.”

“Well, something like that. They've lived in Druadan Forest forever. Hunter-gatherers, band society. They're not exactly an uncontacted tribe, but the Protection of Tribal Societies Act has banned all contact with them for the last fifteen years. It is enforced very strictly. You really didn't know they existed?”

“Not outside children's books, no. I think I remember now, my sister had this picture book, The Púkelmen of Druadan. That's them?”

“Amazing. They looked like something I once saw at Dunharg Museum.” Elfhelm munched an olive and then another.

“Senator Faramir. That was his first term, it was unbelievable he'd made it into senate at that age, and he was supporting every idealistic project you could possibly think of. He's grown a bit more realistic since. But anyway, the PTSA went through, thanks to him. It was widely applauded in the usual quarters, and strongly resented in the other usual quarters.”

“Yes. A lot of people don't care one way or another what happens to a few bushfolk. They were in a bad way, it must be said. It started off pretty harmless with craft stalls by the roadside here and there, native art and blablabla, but it ended up, inevitably, with alcohol, prostitution and STDs. Obviously, somebody was making a profit there and it wasn't the Woses. Their chieftain, Ghân, came up to the city personally to demand that our government put a stop to it. And Senator Faramir was happy to champion their cause and even back then he had this charisma, you know, so the legislation went through swiftly. There are heavy fines in place for anyone who approaches them.”

“You might find it difficult to prove that in court,” said Húrin. “They really are very strict about it. Fortunately, the authorities need never know. Did they get your registration number?”

“Well, make sure you shut up, and I'll tell nobody. And if you ever come across any of them again, just pretend you haven't seen.”

“I didn't hear that,” replied Húrin . The waitress served the ratatouille. The look she gave Elfhelm was as icy as the Helcaraxë.

They come. Two and two they come, from the East, from the West. Two and two, the night on their shoulders, the morning in their eyes, they seek the place.

One wears the song of autumn. The rich hues of chestnut skins echo in his robe, the deer's glossy coat, the dying leaf. In his locks hides the smell of rain soaking into fertile soil and his breath rises and falls like the contours of the hills.

One wears the snow off the mountain tops, the glitter of ice, a burning cold, yet he carries also the white-hot essence of flame, heat beyond heat. His gaze cuts diamonds, his grasp bends steel.

One wears the horizon, the palest blue forever out of reach. His presence is fleeting, his gait a forgotten dream, his feet don't touch the ground. Gossamer is like ship's rope beside his insubstantial voice.

One wears the deep shimmer of the deepest lakes, a blue that mirrors all other blues. His garments shine like the Kingfisher' feather, his movements wave and flow. Ocean spray cools his brow.

This is the place. Furthest from all coastlines, it is the core of the land. It rolls on calmly, clad in grass, hemmed by woods, untouched by any feet other than these. They arrive, two and two, from the West, from the East, and extend their staffs until the tips touch and weld the future to the past.

“We are missing the twilight,” says Gossamer Blue, “and the sky clad in rain, the cygnet's down, the pebbles on the shore.”

“We are missing the Grey of in-between things,” says Kingfisher Blue. “Where is Olorin?”

Greed? As if it wasn't enough to reside in the sleek splendour of Orthanc. As if the awe of elves and mortals did not satiate his hunger. Like ants beneath his feet he wanted to see them scurry.

Hybris? As if there were not Powers beyond his own; Powers who have in safe keeping the Gift to make Life. He wanted to make his own, a desperate race to do his bidding. How great a sin was that, to unleash unto the world creatures with no hope of joy?

Folly? As if a vengeance so petty could ever have sufficed for one so proud. As if one measly mortal could replace those he had lost, his peers, two and two. Would that he'd turned his back before it came to this.

Blue and Blue, they bow their heads. One colour was not enough for him, and so he lost all colours in the end and faded from the world.

And so silence descends, spreads across the rolling plains and ebbs away through the woods. Then:

The future melts into the past. They lift their staffs. Two and two, they walk away, to the West, to the East, leaving the core of the land behind. Slowly, like the final breath before sleep, the greyness of in-between things settles on the grass.

Come May

Written for the Teitho challenge "Moments of Transition," where it came joint 2nd. With thanks to Thranduil Oropherion Redux for beta reading. Middle-earth belongs to Tolkien.

And so she is changing, as the battle is over. The forges lie cold at first and then their fires are rekindled to bring forth ploughs and pruning hooks and all the tools of life. She feels the different hue in the glow of the flames, the different ring of the blacksmiths' stroke. It is a tune that has always been there – for she could not have lived without it – but that has been overpowered for so long, far too long, by the clamour of swords.

She stretches out her senses into all the distant parts. The fertile plains whisper with the soft growth of the new grain. Apple blossoms hang like pale stars in the moonlit nights; peach and cherry blossoms make the orchards blush. In the fields, women and children stand with bent backs to pluck earth's sweetest gift, succulent strawberries, and drop them gently into their baskets. Swallows dive under the gables like fleeting caresses. The old men linger outside their houses in the evenings and watch the sun sink below the Western horizon, afraid no longer to turn their back on the darkness in the East. The cattle shift in the barn, drowsy and content, the sheep, the goats, the horses are settled for the night and mothers tuck in their little ones, able to say truthfully at last: No need for fear.

All along the coast, on the pebbled beaches and glaring white cliffs, eggs shells crack open, delicate membranes are torn and the sea birds' chicks lie, exhausted from their efforts, for the first time under open skies. Waves wash over the shores, be they sand or rock, and they, too, have changed their tune, singing no longer of doom. From the harbours emerge the fishing boats, freshly painted green or red. They set out cheerfully and bring home the ocean's bountiful harvest, ready to roast or smoke or grill. No more anguish troubles them other than the exuberance of the weather; no more black sails darken their horizons. The smell of salt and seaweed is invigorating like never before. The young women send off their sweethearts onto the glittering waters in the mornings with kisses that promise more on return.

The woodlands, too, feel the change. Where shadows have long fed on nightmares, kinder spirits now drift. The fungi that rise from the litter on the ground are wholesome and firm, free from the sickly green poison and spongy decay. The forest floor rustles with tiny creatures. Hunters pass under the boughs that hang lush with new leaves. Old wives come in search of firewood or healing herbs; their steps are still slow but more confident than before the winter. In the clearings, the charcoal burners watch their clamps for signs of cracks that need a swift cover of soil. A tree that falls in the wood this spring makes not a noise but music, and she hears it and sighs.

And in all the little towns there is a susurrus, an excited twittering of voices as all her children – and she has many – talk of the times that are gone and the time that shall come. They fix their roof tiles and paint their shutters, they sweep their streets and wash their steps, for who knows who might pass through soon? From house to house they string bunting and garlands of green branches to mark their feasts of farewell to the children who return to the city of white stone. There are fiddlers and pipers playing up for the dance past the middle of the night and the morning sun finds some of the townsfolk still sitting on the walls and benches and new lovers seeking a pillow on the other's chest.

High above all this preside the mountains, snowcapped and serene. These, surely, remain in their frozen silence? But no, even here a sudden thaw transforms what was rigid and harsh. The ibex clambers on rocks shiny with meltwater. Small, starry flowers cling to the crannies. The peaks raise their voices. They call to the young and the stout-hearted, who tighten their bootlaces and set off on narrow paths, up, up and further up till the air feels thin and the heart is pounding. Why would they exert themselves like this, why risks their limbs, their very lives to reach the summit? There is something to see from up here, something the mind sees better than the eye. She lies in a new-found light; she is changing.

She is changing, she knows she is changing, the clouds that race over her bring tidings of thrilling new ways. And then the clouds open and bathe the woodlands and the plains, the towns and coastlines and mountains until all is cleansed off the very last dust. The sun rises in the East, paints pink the walls of the city and sparkles on the dripping countryside. A scent rises with the mists of this damp dawn and all who smell it feel gladness lift their hearts.

For a moment, a precious, breathless moment, a hush lies over all the land.

Gondor receives her king.

Teitho May 2014 2nd place. The them was "Yes, I do." Thanks to Thranduil Oropherion Redux for beta reading.

Daughters! They are, of course, a joy, a delight for the proud heart of a father, an ornament to his household and so on and so forth, but they come with one dreadful complication: When they get married, or rather, in the weeks, months, possibly years before they get married, their poor fathers have to live with the girls' mothers. Is there any mother in the history of Middle-earth who hasn't made a fuss about her daughter's wedding? If so, the books don't record it. Fuss there always was, fuss there always will be, and just imagine by what factor this fuss is amplified if the daughter isn't just any old girl [inset your own pun here, esteemed reader, because I couldn't think of a good one] but a princess of Gondor marrying the Seraph of Kûz. Imagine how the situation is even further aggravated if the mother in question has several centuries of experience in fashion and etiquette under her silver-tinkling belt. And then imagine, for a few seconds only, that you were the father, Aragorn Envinyatar.

However, when running away is not an option, one has to knuckle under and do the best one can, King of Gondor or not. And Aragorn had tried to do his best since breakfast time when Arwen had briefly stuck her head through the door and given him a meaningful look. It was nearly noon now. The love birds were sitting on a bench in the lower gardens. Aragorn could see them from his study window. Even from a distance it was plain that his eldest daughter was inordinately nubile and he had no objection in principle to her getting married. He would have preferred it though if she had married no further away than, say, Rohan, but there was no arguing with it – it was a love match. Now, Řahamûjil was a good lad, he had to give him that, but still. Řahamûjil, Seraph of Kûz indeed. Why stop there? Why not call yourself Patritetrarch of Ȅlãngÿŵø? What was wrong with a plain old-fashioned king or prince? What was wrong with names without diacritics? What, in short, was wrong with Elfwine? Nothing was flipping wrong with Elfwine! The problem was that he and Arneryn had grown up almost as cousins (as far as you can grow up together if you live three hundred miles apart) and that she looked upon him as family. Aragorn sighed. He really should have curtailed those long summer visits. Never mind, it was too late. In Arneryn's eyes, Elfwine would forever look homespun. He hadn't stood a chance against the oriental charms and exotic orthography of Řahamûjil.

The flipping Seraph of flipping Kûz. Huh! Twenty years ago, nobody had known such a country even existed. And now...Aragorn clenched his first when he remembered the confidential talk with Řahamûjil's father during which the Archseraph (yupp, Archseraph) had condescendingly declined a dowry for Arneryn, hinting that what the coffers of the King of Gondor held would barely suffice to endow a fishmonger's daughter in Kûz. It was amazing how rich a country could get on spices and strange glow-in-the-dark minerals. Ah, for those bygone days of the Enemy, when the East held nothing but simple-minded, axe-wielding Easterlings. You knew where you stood with an axe-wielding Easterling. But what in Middle-earth can you do about a man who perfumes his moustache with patchouli oil and could buy your whole kingdom out of his petty cash? Let his son marry your daughter, that's what you had to do, even if it meant that she would move to a place two months' travel away, and that stupid palantir still not working properly...

With such uplifting thoughts running through his mind, Aragorn could not entirely avoid a certain disgruntled expression spreading over his face.

“Don't look so glum, my love,” trilled Arwen as she came through the door with a bundle in her arms. “I have sorted it all out.”

“Have you?” He raised his eyebrows and wondered how she had managed to make the girl see sense and appreciate the solid virtues of Elfwine at last.

“Oh, yes. Look here.” She sank down on the carved bench by the window and opened her bundle. “This watered silk is exactly the right shade to match both the tablecloths and the porcelain, and if we have any left over it could be used in the centrepieces as well.”

“Of the fabric, Silly, for the wedding favours! Have you forgotten? The pink satin I bought first was too garish – we can recycle that later for doilies in the guest rooms, it will be fine on the mahogany – and the tulle looked vulgar no matter what I did with it – I suppose we'll have to pass that on to the housemaids who might like it for bonnet linings – but I sent for Elugol again this morning and explained the whole case to him a-gain, and lo and behold, he finally did understand that I want mauve and not lilac. So that's one thing less to worry about. Have you made any progress with the speech?”

Aragorn glanced down at the parchment in front of him. In his haphazard hand, he'd written:

A week later Arwen took over his desk. His randomly collated but neatly squared up stacks of documents disappeared under an enormous sheet filled with the most mystifying diagrams.

“See this,” she said and pointed to a corner of the sheet. “This is simply not going to work.”

Aragorn, who had been called “Silly” at least a dozen times in the past week, nodded gravely and refrained from silly questions. “I see,” he said. What he saw was a lot of rectangles.

“How can you see it, Silly, you don't even know about it yet!” said Arwen. “I was working on the assumption that Angannel and Aedhol had reconciled last Mettarë, but Lothíriel told me just now that Aedhol still holds a grudge against Angannel's sister due to what happened at the funeral, and therefore it would be impossible to have them opposite each other. It means that I have to move the entire Belfalas branch to a different table.”

“Now, can you tell me how I am going to do this? I cannot have them at the top table, because I absolutely cannot displace the ambassadors, and they will take offence if they are too far towards the bottom, but all the middle tables are so nicely sorted that I don't want to tear them apart again. What shall I do?”

She looked at him with those beautiful eyes that used to hold poetry and memories of ancient times and the promise of infinite joy but were now full of dressmaker's bills and bickering relatives.

“Řahamûjil has explained to me that the marriage will not be recognised in Kûz unless he and Arneryn walk seven times around a well. Now, I am not criticising you in any way, nor dear Gimli, and I do find the water pipes very convenient indeed, but it does mean that the nearest well is in the Fifth Circle and it will be such a lot of hassle to get the whole wedding party down there and back again. A little more foresight in your modernisation schemes would have been too much to ask for, I suppose?”

“No, not a stag hunt. More a companionable evening of general carousing with the groom and his male friends. … What? ... I don't know what deer have to do with it. It is the custom in Kûz and I think we have to respect that. You could always claim that you are allergic to beer. Anyway, it's worse for us ladies, apparently we have to pretend to be chickens.”

“May I remind you that the delegation from Greenwood is arriving to-night? I cannot possibly put them into the east wing, the carpet is all worn on the staircase. I don't know what you were thinking. I didn't even know you had a pipe collection, let alone that it took up five bedrooms. Now you move them into the attics immediately or I'll have them thrown in the trash.”

“It is an absolute disaster. Every rose within twenty miles twenty miles ruined; what the hailstones didn't get has been broken off by the wind. Apparently there are some near the south wall of the Pelennor that survived, but I've seen them last week; they're the wrong size. Oh, I absolutely despair! Where am I going to get flowers with only two days to go? Are you listening to me, my love?”

“No, you can not just nip out after the meal! Now, don't let me hear any such silly questions tomorrow.”

“Chin up! Hold still just now. There, that's it. Who shaved you this morning? Really, Aragorn, you need to get a new man, this just won't do. ... What? ... No, you can't wear that, you might stand next to Mithiriel of Lebennin at some point and I know from reliable sources that she is going to wear Eau de Anduin.”

“Oh, here comes the Archseraph. At least try to make a good impression, will you?”

“The Variag ambassador is watching. Quick, make a toast to him, too, or he'll say you favour Harad!”

“Well done with the speech. See, I told you, I would be better to shorten it. Only the drunk and the elderly fell asleep.”

“Who cares what she weighs! She is the groom's mother and you will dance with her.”

“You did say 'henpecked'! You said it just there under your breath. Don't deny it! Faramir, did he just say he was henpecked?”

It was nearly dawn when Aragorn's head finally hit the silk-embroidered pillow. Ah, to rest!

“Well, my dear, that was certainly a great success,” chirped Arwen beside him.

He opened one eye. She smiled, looking fresh as a daisy. “It was worth all the effort, don't you agree?”

“I may decide to believe you,” she said and kissed his brow. “Good night.”

“Good night, Vanimelda.” He rolled over. Sweet sleep was welling up around him.

“Oh, one more thing,” came Arwen's cheery voice again. “Did you notice how young Bors of Dale looked at our darling Lindis? I must say, she did look particularly lovely in that gold brocade. If I am not mistaken, we will have another wedding next year. That would be lovely, don't you think? Aragorn?”

“Uncle Imrahil is the best,” said Faramir, unperturbed by any sense of disloyalty. “Ada would never allow us to roam about like this at home.”

“It’s different at home,” replied Boromir, “with us being so close to Mordor; it would be too dangerous for a child like you.”

“You still have five months to go to your birthday, so that doesn’t count as nearly.”

Faramir shrugged. The day was too lovely for quarrels. They had walked away from the castle, far beyond the lawns and kitchen gardens, past fields and paddocks and finally up a steep slope on a path lined with sloe and hedge roses. It was the first truly summery day; they wore sandals instead of boots, and no cloaks. Faramir stopped to pick up a stick and swung it around. It made an immensely satisfying SWOOSH noise, so he swung it again, and again. The third time, the stick unfortunately connected with a fraternal elbow.

They chased each other up to the crest of the hill and then tumbled into the grass, panting and laughing.

“It’s nice here, look!” said Faramir, once he had caught his breath. He pointed at the view that had been hidden from their view before. A lush wildflower meadow stretched out ahead. Buttercups peeked at the sun, ox-eyed daisies nodded on their slender stalks and here and there a clump of cornflowers shone but, immersing all these in a lake of lilac, Ragged Robins ruled the scene. Tall grasses rippled serenely in the breeze.

Boromir snorted. “Flowers!” The word expressed more derision than should have fitted into two syllables. “Do you want to make a daisy chain like a girl?”

“No, I just want to…” Faramir stepped forward and stroked the meadow with his flat palms. “It tickles!”

Boromir came up beside him and did the same, patting the grass as if it were a pony or a dog. The tallest grasses came up to his hip, to Faramir’s chest. They both giggled.

On the far side of the meadow, woodlands closed in. To the right, they formed a dense thicket into which a gap opened like a tunnel under the entwined branches. Nothing could be seen bar darkness under the shadowy boughs. To the left, though, the trees were spaced out more sparsely and the afternoon sunlight splayed fingers through the canopy. Faramir pointed.

“There, Boromir. That reminds me of the story Naneth used to tell us, about the Lady of the Golden Wood. Can you just imagine her coming out from those trees?”

“Oh, yes, dancing and singing. You really are a girl, Faramir. Flowers and fairies! Let’s go over there into the woods and find some adventure, like men!”

Boromir strode off towards the dark tunnel into the forest. The grasses and wildflowers rustled in his wake.

Faramir remained for a moment, looking at his brother’s back. Then he, too, began to wade through the meadow, but into the direction of the sunlit gap. He felt moist leaves getting stuck between his sandals and his naked toes. A delicious smell of living green rose about him.

Boromir had nearly reached the edge of the forest. He looked back and found that his little brother had not followed him. He saw the dark head bobbing among the grasses to his left.

“Faramir! For goodness sake, wait for me” Arms swinging to push the flowers aside, he marched across the meadow to catch up with Faramir. The little boy, however much he seemed oblivious to his brother’s approach, stopped and stood still.

Faramir grabbed Boromir’s hand. Where the trees gave way, silky green grass led to the edge of a pond. The sun glittered on the waters and there, gliding along like a song, were a swan and five cygnets.

“I’m glad Uncle Imrahil lets us roam about, that’s for sure. He is, as you say, the best.”

They sat down, took off their sandals and dipped their feet in the cool waters, like girls, like boys, like children.

Pebbles From Arda by Virtuella