I.  Employee Review (Nazgûl)

Angmar, the mighty First among the Nine, skulked out of Sauron’s Chamber as if he had been kicked by a mûmak.

“You go next,” Seventh of Nine urged Fourth.

“N-n-no; do not make me,” Fourth whined.  

“Such a crybaby,” Third said with appropriate scorn.  “Come, Second, shall we set the example?”

“This time, you may have the sole advantage;” Second replied, and stepped behind Third.

“Hsssst, what a lot of ninnies, one would think you were still Men!” Third spoke his contempt.  Sixth and Fifth shivered, holding claw-like hands together in an attitude that looked wretchedly prayerful.  Ninth hung back, with bent head; and Eighth had curled up in the corner, sucking his bony thumb.  Fools!

Third smoothed his tattered cloak and strode into the dark chamber.  There, he bowed low before the ebon throne of their Dread Lord.

The black shimmer that signified Sauron’s living Presence emitted a disturbingly pleasant voice.  “Ah, it’s Third, is it not?”

“Yes, Dread Lord.”

“Is it really true that while Sixth through Ninth were lost in the wild somewhere, you and the others managed to let my Ring slip from your grasp on that miserable hill?”

“We were opposed, Dread Lord.”

“Ah…yes.” Cold laughter emanated from the Presence.  “You were opposed by four scared halflings and a lone Ranger.  Are you a Ringwraith or a tax collector?”

Third would have liked to suggest that his Dread Lord face that particular lone Ranger all by his Dread Self.  But then, his Dread Lord did not have to wear robes and mantles that could easily catch fire from a brand wielded rather fiercely by the vicious woodsman.  And, as Third knew from over four thousand years’ experience, to speak up at this juncture would have been unwise.

Too late! The Presence read his mind.  Third quailed inwardly at the menace in his Dread Lord’s chuckle.  “I will indeed face that meddlesome Ranger one day.  He and his accursed people shall be crushed, after I retake my Ring - which you failed to seize, even when the thieving Shire-rat practically handed it to you by putting it on his finger.”

“Forgive your Servant, most Dread Lord;” Third asked, rather stiffly.  He wondered if Angmar had weaseled out of the blame for the debacle; and what lies the ever-scheming First of the Nazgûl had told their master. 

“Mmm.  Not today, Third.”  The tone of his Dread Lord’s voice turned soft now, almost purring, which surely promised merry hell to pay.  “I think it is time for you to undertake a Positive Motivation Seminar.”

Not that!  The pride of the Nazgûl finally failed him.  Third moaned: “I beg thee, Dark Master, no!  Be merciful to thy minion.”  He dropped quickly to his knees, which creaked at the sudden pressure. 

“Oh, Gothmog!”  The Presence whistled.  The chief of Barad-dûr Employee Relations, a tall Man wearing the gold-chased jet of the Black Númenoreans, bounded into the chamber and grinned toothily.  “Escort Third of Nine to the White Room.”

Sweet Darkness!  “No.  Please.  Not the White Room!  I shall hack off the heads of a hundred West-Men in your honor if you will spare me, Dread Lord!”

“Too late; Angmar already promised.  Gothmog, take him.”

“My pleasure to serve Thee, Lord of All.”

No escape! Third rose and followed.  Gothmog was a filthy bootlicking maggot!  Third suddenly and shamefully realized that he would happily lick Sauron’s boots to avoid punishment; that is, if the Dread Lord could actually wear boots.  Alas, since the loss of his Ring, Sauron could not incarnate for more than a few hours, and brought out his damaged body only in pretense, feigning the guise of his own messenger, to see through fleshly eyes.  Third never understood why their Dark Master bothered with a body at all. Sauron was more than powerful enough in his shadow form; and the rain need never bother him without bones to feel the damp.

The Man now led Third into the room with ghastly white walls, and chained him into a stone chair before the block where was inset their Lord’s great black Seeing-Stone.  Third’s teeth chattered in anticipatory fear.  Gothmog bore down on the palantír, which hummed to life, fire flashing in its depths.  Third began to thrash in terror.  He tried to turn his head away, but Gothmog seized Third by what was left of his neck, and forced him to stare into the Stone.

Unbearably cheerful sounds trilled out of the stone, battering Third’s senses like the clatter of larks.  He was undone!  Third wailed out his misery as he heard the notes of incorruptible goodness in a distant song, captured and relayed by Morgoth-knew-what-truly-foul-devilry:

Hey dol!  Merry dol!  Ring a dong dillo!

Ring a dong! Hop along! Fal lal the willow!

Tom Bom, jolly Tom, Tom Bombadillo!

Author’s Note:  The verse, of course, was sung by Tom Bombadil; so J.R.R. Tolkien wrote it, as he wrote and the Mighty Nine and Sauron too.  And of course, the Tolkien Estate owns them all.  No profit is intended by this vignette, though it is hoped that the piece will generate a few giggles.

Gothmog’s name is mentioned only once in LOTR.  He is the lieutenant of Morgul, who takes command of the Witch-King’s forces after the latter meets his end.  Gothmog’s race is never revealed, though it has been theorized that he was a Man.

No Ringwraiths were harmed in the making of this story.

II.  Libation (Faramir)

“What have you to say for yourself?” asked the Prince of Ithilien of the young and red-faced lieutenant.

“We were on leave, my lord.” answered the tall officer, turning redder, if that was possible.  His hands were also red; as were the faces and fingers of the twenty-two Rangers who now stood at attention.  It could be more accurate, thought the Prince, to describe the hue as purplish-red. 

“…And they were short-handed for the pressing of the grapes in Greenhollow; the village below Amon Dîn.  We thought it only right to offer our help, so they would not fall short in their harvest.”

“And such help led to this new coloration?”

“It would have not have been fitting to leave with the work unfinished, Sir.  Then there was the feast to celebrate it; and wine that needed sampling.  We could not disappoint our hosts; we had to uphold the honor of the Rangers - Ithilien’s Finest!”

“Of course you did, lieutenant.”  The Prince of Ithilien said kindly.  “Very well, since you were all on leave, I deem such occupation acceptable.  You and your men are dismissed.”

As the lieutenant turned, obviously relieved, to go, the Prince caught him by the shoulder.  “Your honor is unstained, but the same cannot be said for other attributes.  I suggest that you scrub your face before you go up to greet your mother.”

Elboron blushed again.  “Yes, sire” he replied, grateful that his men had started to disperse.

The Prince smiled and pressed his son’s shoulder.  He remembered another young Ranger and his band who had once passed through the same village and aided in the vineyard‘s harvest, before leaving with red faces and aching heads.  “Call your men, my son” Faramir urged. “Let us assure that all of Ithilien‘s Finest take some tea.”

This ficlet was originally written for the 23 Red Rangers prompt of the 2005 Henneth-Annun email list Christmas challenge.

III.  High Hearts and Folly (Arwen)

Tinúviel! Tinúviel!
He called her by her elvish name;
 And there she halted listening.
One moment stood she, and a spell
 His voice laid on her: Beren came,
And doom fell on Tinúviel
 That in his arms lay glistening.

Her father’s latest fosterling possessed some skill with the violin, Arwen observed; but his voice faltered when he glanced at her.  The lad often slowed the song to smile at her, his grey eyes bright with longing.  She had but lately returned from Lórien, when she had encountered the young Dúnadan.  Since that day, the boy had declared undying love for Arwen, brought her grubby handfuls of niphredil and elanor, and dedicated a sparring bout to her. 

Arathorn’s son was tall for his meagre twenty years, strong in mind and body, promising to be a worthy Chieftain of his people.  Arwen smiled back kindly, as befitted a kinswoman who was also the Lady of Rivendell.  One day, this boy would find a fair mortal maid who would give him what Arwen could not.

And long ago they passed away
 In the forest singing sorrowless.

At last he finished.  Elrond and his household cheered for the young singer.

“That was well done indeed, Argonui;” Arwen told the Chieftain’s heir.  Argonui blushed to the roots of his black hair and grinned rather foolishly.  Arwen noticed that her father was looking at her closely and with some concern.

Does he fear that I shall give my heart to a mortal, like my foremother?  Argonui was a noble-hearted boy.  He was not the first Heir of Isildur to declare his love for her, and Arwen doubted that he would be the last.  Such “love” was merely a youthful folly of Men.  When her father took ship, Arwen would go into the West and remain Undómiel.

Author’s Note:  Argonui, son of Arathorn I, was the great-grandfather of Aragorn Elessar. 

IV.  On The Edge (Faramir)

Faramir looked out upon his moonlit city from the Citadel walls.  All was made ready.  He had planned and labored to good purpose.  The filth of war had been mostly cleansed, the dead buried or embalmed for future ceremony, the homeless housed.  Those who had been sent forth in danger had returned in peace.  Baskets of flowers lined the streets; people who had streamed in from all over Gondor were safely quartered and like him awaited the morrow.   Feasts and food for all were being prepared; and the host of soldiery lying now on the Pelennor would have good shelter and welcome.  Maidens, ladies and children would throw garlands; minstrels would play viols.  For tomorrow, the Tower of Guard would lay down its vigil and welcome home its King. 

Soon he would catch a few hours of sleep.  But now, Faramir watched quietly, alone but for a few guards standing still and reverent.  He had held his last Council as Ruling Steward; and made the final preparations for the ceremonies that would come on the morrow.  He had chosen the words he would say to hand over the rule of Gondor to Elendil’s Heir, and committed them to memory.  And in the morning, in the light of the spring sun, the King would come again.

Aragorn son of Arathorn would be, Faramir believed with all his heart, not just any King, but one of the greatest to ever wear Gondor’s Silver Crown.   He peered over the walls to the city of torch-lit tents that covered the Pelennor.  What did the King do now, down there among the Rohirrim and Swan Knights and halflings?  Was Aragorn dispensing justice, speaking of kingly matters to Mithrandir?  Or was he making merry, cherishing his last night of freedom from the burdens of state?  Faramir smiled, hoping his lord was taking some rest, for tomorrow would be a day as long as it was great.

He touched the cool pale stones of the wall, thinking of all that those stones had seen in the tumult of the past year.  Such times were already the stuff of legend.  Faramir’s right hand tightened on the remade white rod as he willed his thoughts away from the brother who should now have borne it.  A familiar sound of wind-snapped cloth caught his attention.  Faramir craned his neck to gaze upon the argent length of the Stewards’ banner, rippling from the White Tower’s spire for the last time.

Faramir raised the white rod in salute to the banner of his sires.  Change was coming.   Destiny had seemingly appointed him to return the rule of this city and land to the realm’s true lord.  Faramir’s breath caught, his heart hovering between sorrow and joy.  He looked down to the King’s encampment on the Pelennor, then once more upward to the Stewards’ banner, and exhaled.

Be proud, Faramir declared silently to the Stewards who had flown the white standard in defiance of the ever-rising Shadow.  For we have held our charge.

The ficlet owes a debt of inspiration to one of my all-time favorite Faramir stories, A Kind of Valediction  (

http://www.fanfiction.net/s/1039864/1/A_Kind_of_Valediction) by Altariel.

V.  Expectations (Faramir)

“Daughter?” Faramir repeated foolishly, as he gazed at the bundle in Éowyn’s arms.   He had expected another boy, a new son, a little brother for his beloved Elboron.

“Yes, most certainly,” Éowyn answered. A shot of color flamed on her pale cheeks, and a certain edge sharpened her voice. Faramir could understand, Éowyn had endured long hours of a labor, they told him, that had been much harder than that which had brought forth Elboron. “Sometimes women bear daughters as well as sons, my lord.”

Faramir knew well that Éowyn’s rising ire was justified, and struggled to collect himself. He had never really considered the thought of a daughter, more fool he. Yet now that he did, the prospect was pleasing. A daughter! A pretty little girl, pink and white like a tiny Éowyn! She would have dolls and fine gowns and flowers. And of course, being Éowyn’s daughter, she would ride before she could walk; well, why not; he would want his daughter to know how to ride. 

“Well then, I must meet her,” Faramir said, smiling; and crossed to his lady’s bedside. Éowyn’s demeanor gentled as she handed him the bundle.

The first surprise was the child’s lightness. Elboron had been a large infant at birth. This one was smaller; except for its voice, which arose in a shrill keening and grew steadily and determinedly louder. Was he holding the child too tightly? Faramir relaxed his grip slightly and pulled the coverlet from the infant’s face, to behold the second surprise. The child looked nothing like Éowyn; in fact, it looked very like his own father, that is, if Denethor had been a squalling, red-faced baby.  “Does she please you, my lord; or do you wish to give her back?” Éowyn asked coolly. 

Oh, this was not going well. “I am just surprised, my heart,” Faramir answered, raising his voice above the child’s cries. “I had not expected a girl-child.” What to say? Elboron had been fair even as a newborn, pink-cheeked and sturdy and serene.  Not this one!  Faramir saw that the skin of its face seemed wrinkled as well as reddened.  Its stormy dark eyes and the wrathful twist of its sharp little features reminded Faramir uncomfortably of his last conversation with his father.  “She seems a strong child; she will grow to be a worthy daughter of our house.” 

“Worthy?” 

Faramir knew that he was now in dangerous waters. He must find something better to say about this odd-looking child that Éowyn had exhausted herself to give him. 

Faramir looked again. In truth, he had seen some children who were born wizened and red-faced gain flesh as they grew, becoming strong and healthful. Mablung’s daughter Indis had been a puling, sickly babe; and was now a fetching maid-child of some ten years, the delight of all who knew her.  He touched the babe’s cheek to see for himself if there was fever. But it just seemed the usual slight heat that crying brought to a small child’s cheeks.

At his touch, the infant slowed its cries for an instant, and looked up at Faramir. Her eyes were the deep, startling grey of the sea in a summer storm. Some called those eyes Númenorean grey, while others called it sea-grey.  That should not have surprised him.  The babe did carry the blood of Númenor on both sides, and many of her sires had gone down to the sea in the ships of Dol Amroth. More importantly, the strength of her squalls lessened slightly as she stared at Faramir.

“Greeting,” he said gently to her. “Thou hast had a long journey, little one, and thou art gladly welcomed.” He stroked her cheek again, and then opened the blanket, since it was warm enough in the late summer afternoon that he risked no chill.  Her small face was capped by a mop of black hair, and her body seemed well-made, her limbs already pushing and kicking with a surprising strength. She raised her voice again, wailing louder and louder like a sea gale. 

“Be easy now,” Faramir soothed, closing the blankets and caressing her cheek once more. She looked at him again, and sighed between cries, a plaintive little sound. And again, he saw Denethor in her face. A sudden surge of pity filled Faramir’s heart. “Oh, it is all right. All shall yet be well. No one shall harm thee.” 

Indeed, he vowed, pity mingling with a deep, fierce resolve, no one would ever harm this child!  She would grow up strong and tall and unafraid. “No Shadow shall ever dim thy light, iell-nin, no fire shall touch thee.” 

The cries diminished to the intermittent wails of a tired child. Faramir stroked the little face as his daughter’s dark grey eyes widened, then disappeared under soft eyelids as weariness took hold. She was not a bad-looking infant at all, when not screaming out her displeasure, Faramir noticed. Her eyes were most striking, her nose distinctive but not over-large, and her mouth well-shaped. Men would find her fair.  He tightened his hold. Yes, one day men would seek her out, a Prince’s fair daughter.  And they will reckon with me, and it shall be few indeed that I will find worthy of her!

“Fear not, my daughter,” Faramir vowed. “Thy father loves thee, and thy father will always guard and protect thee.” He kissed her forehead, observing that his daughter had Denethor’s high, noble brow.  The sobs had ceased now, and Faramir thought he heard the sound, like the smallest of waves trickling onto the sand, of a baby’s contentment. 

Or was it Éowyn, who now smiled at him wearily, her bright grey eyes soft with unspoken tenderness.  Reluctant to loosen his hold on the babe, Faramir stood a moment, treasuring the sensation of her chest rising and falling against his heart. Then he sat down in the chair by Éowyn’s bedside, and took her hand. Together, they watched as their daughter slipped into slumber and peacefully dreamed.

Author's Note:  A slightly less polished version was posted in my LJ a few months back, written in honor of an alphabet challenge necessitating that a story begin and end with the letter D.  This story, which has been germinating for a few years, is exactly 1000 words according to Microsoft Word.

The phrase iell-nin is Sindarin for my daughter.  Opinion differs on whether the term should be iell-nin or sell-nin. 

My thanks to Tanaqui for her excellent beta-work on this piece.

VI.  Conquering the Helcaraxë  (Faramir, Barahir)

He could feel the bite of the cruel Northern winds even through his heavy gauntlets and fur-lined cloak. Heavy fog hung over the snowy hills. Before him stretched an ice-field that seemed to go on forever.  It was as smooth and shiny as glass.  And like glass, this surface could break beneath the feet of the brave! His steps slowed.

And a large, familiar hand took his own in a firm but gentle grip. “Barahir, what ails thee, lad?” Barahir looked up at his grandsire. The Steward of Gondor laughed softly. “’I know thou art unused to the weather here, but ‘tis not the Helcaraxë before thee; only Lake Evendim covered by ice.”

Barahir clenched his grandsire’s hand tightly, and fought back the urge to take off the gauntlet and chew his right thumbnail. Grandsire’s other hand held four of the special shoes he had called skates, hanging by their long lacings.  Barahir knew the Helcaraxë from the Quenta Silmarillion. Grandsire must not go out there! Grandsire could perish just like the Elven lady Elenwë, mother of Idril Celebrindal!

“Grandsire, you should stay on the shore!” Barahir pleaded. “’Tis dangerous. What if the ice breaks?” 

His grandsire gave Barahir the Look. Grandsire could make a boy and even grown men quail before it, but oft-times, like now, the Look was kindly. “I am old but not decrepit, Barahir; and the ice is thick enough to bear a horse-drawn sledge.” Grandsire answered.  “It has been cold for many days and nights, Barahir; so the lake is well-frozen. The King’s servants cut a small wedge in the ice each day to assure that it is strong enough to bear as many as would skate. Thain Peregrin and his son Master Faramir are out there too, as are many from Annuminas.  And see, the King and Queen skate on the lake; and await us.”

Barahir watched Queen Undómiel glide across the ice, her silvery cloak flaring in the wind, like a fair seabird.  She saw Barahir and his Grandsire, and waved merrily at them.  Barahir felt warmer; for he loved the Queen well.  And there was the King, racing one of the Lords Peredhil, both of them laughing.

 “The weather can bring blessings as well as burdens, Barahir,” Grandsire said. “We should not shrink from either prospect.”

Barahir’s heart swelled. He remembered a line from another tale of the old days; it reminded him of Grandsire. “The old that is strong does not wither,” Barahir said proudly.

“Deep roots are not touched by the frost.” Grandsire spoke softly, then raised his voice. “Very good, Barahir. Now, let us go to down to the ice and put these skates to good use. Thou wilt have many new tales to tell thy father and mother when we return to Ithilien.”

“And Grandmother too, when she comes back from her ride!”

“And thy grandmother too,” Grandsire replied.  “Now come along, my lad.  We will go out on the lake, put on our skates, and I will teach thee how to fly across the ice.”

“Yes, Grandsire!”  The wind blew around Barahir again, but no wind, however cold, could gainsay him. He stood up high, stuck his chest out and his shoulders back, like a White Guard on parade.  He thought again of all those Elves.  How bold they had been to cross the Helcaraxë!  Barahir wondered if the Eldar had used skates.  He would ask the Elves who had come with them from Imladris.  Some were old enough to know!

Barahir of Ithilien strode forward to conquer the frozen lake, pulling impatiently on his grandsire’s hand.

Author's Note:  This one was inspired by a winter weather challenge on the H-A email list.  My thanks to LindaHoyland for editorial assistance; and to the LOTR-Research yahoo email list for their responses to my questions about ice thickness.

VII.  Glitter (Elrond, "Annatar")

In a lodge set deep beneath the trees of Eregion, I am attended by the stranger who holds sway in the Jewel-Smiths’ court.  As my King’s herald, I came to meet the mysterious Elf and hear his words. 

It disturbs me not a little to see how my distant kinsman Celebrimbor fairly dotes upon this Annatar, holding him high in his councils.  Celebrimbor treats Annatar as if the other were a brother long lost.  That in itself is not so odd; save that Annatar has no kin that he has ever mentioned. 

And now, Celebrimbor and his folk have retired for the night.   I would have also retired, after we sang the evensong to Elbereth.  But Annatar asked to speak to me here, before the hearth.

A harmless request.   So why do I shiver?   His words are kindly.  Annatar offers me friendship, and more:  the priceless lure of knowledge.  I am not so much a Noldo that the crafts of the Jewel-Smiths tempt me unduly, yet Annatar speaks of ancient lore and tidings from the Blessed Realm itself,  messages from my lost sire and the mother that flew to him.

“And I can give thee even more wisdom in the healing arts than thou hast already, Eärendilion,” Annatar says.  He puts a graceful, firm hand on my shoulder, drawing me slightly towards him.  He must have heard that I am a student, when time permits, of the healing art.  Few know that it is a passion of mine. 

“Drink with me,” he says, extending a golden cup.  The words are courteously spoken but they sound like a command, however gentle.  I look up into Annatar’s proud face and remind myself that the only one in Middle-earth who may command me is my king.

I am drawn to just the sight of him; I who have not yet felt bodily love towards any, male nor female.  I do not think that I have ever seen a fairer Elf than this Annatar.   He is raven-haired, taller than even my well-remembered uncle Maedhros, with brilliant eyes of gold-flecked grey that pull my heart and mind to him. 

When I hear Annatar’s voice; when I behold the majesty of his face and the glory of his eyes, I yearn to accept the gifts he graciously would give me.   Would my hand burn if he clasped it?  I lean forward.

Yet as I look upon him, I feel another, different kind of sight that sometimes takes me, coming from the back of my head into my eyes.   I realize that I must resist the pull of this Elf.  For I detect a spirit within him that does not match the beauty of his form. Those gold-grey eyes veil a thing that stalks me, slavering in greed, a will that would snap me up as Carcharoth once consumed my longfather Beren’s hand.   Ugliness and foulness!

Barely veiling my own horror, I step back.  “Thank you; but no,” I manage to say with some semblance of dignity.  “I am weary, and crave the fresh air before I seek my rest.”

I walk away, close the door behind me, and go outside, gulping the cool air of early autumn.  My steps turn into a run through the holly-trees and pines.  Finally, I come to a clearing where I stop to catch my breath.  I raise my head and see, high above me, the star borne by my father, its silvery light clear in the cloudless heavens. 

“Not all that glitters is gold,” I announce, the words sounding strange but fitting.  I will sleep under the stars this night. 

Author's Note:  This Second Age ficlet was written (and originally posted on my LJ and the Henneth-Annun email list) for the B2MEM Day Eight Challenge prompt -   Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Is it? And ugliness? Is it also relative?

The name Annatar means "Giver of Gifts".  Most of those who are reading this will know who he really was (Hint:  he had a thing for rings).  If you don't, read The Silmarillion.

VIII.  Between Shadow and Sun (Ioreth)

I shall never forget what happened on that day of days.  Our armies had departed to the East, some said on a fool’s errand, to follow the Lord Elfstone into Mordor.  We had no word of them.  The pale sky was darkening, and a fell wind had sprung up, bringing more than the chill of weather to rattle my old bones. 

Well, rain might fall and the wind might blow, but the sick still had to be looked after, so up I went towards the walls with the messenger-boy Bergil, bearing possets for Lord Faramir and the Lady of Rohan.  Why they would brave that cold wind and evil sky to stand there and risk sickening, I did not know; but if the Lady were a quiet, sensible lass she never would have taken up arms and slain the captain of the wraiths and then where would we all be, eh?  And our dear Lord Faramir, what was he doing out of his bed?  Ah, young folks.  Sometimes they don’t care about making more work for the old.  I suppose I could understand.  It was good to step out of the Houses when one could, and take fresh air.  I would gladly sit on the bench in the herb-garden myself at times, but not when such a cold wind came sweeping out of the dark East. 

What is that you say, dearie?  Why was I was sent to bring them the possets?  The Warden wanted the Lord Faramir and the Lady Eowyn to return to the fireside, lest they catch cold.  If he had sent a young messenger lad alone, the boy would not have had the natural authority of my venerable years to command them to return.  I am not just your loving granny, my girl; I have worked at the Houses for more than two score years and my eyes are still sharp and my hands still strong.

Now where was I?  Yes, well, young Bergil and I wended our way to the walls, when suddenly the sky turned grey.  The wind blew even colder.   All looked drear and dark, even the white stones of our fair city.  And all the sounds, the little chirps of the birds, the sounds of people moving about in the Houses, the very rustle of the leaves on trees stopped right then, at that moment.  Even the wind ceased to move.

I think my heart began to jump in my breast, lass; but I couldn’t hear it beat.  Bergil and I stopped in our tracks then; we both took such fright together.  Bergil leaned against me.  I think he missed his mother then.  Time seemed to stop, as strange as it might sound to you.  All of Middle-earth seemed to be waiting.  

Lord Faramir and the Lady Éowyn saw it first, and raised their heads, so we looked up too, towards the mountains to the east.  A dark Shadow rose up, dearie; higher and higher,  so high that the very mountains looked like a row of fallen helmets at the feet of some tall, tall warrior.  Lightnings flashed about the darkness.  I thought then, for an instant, that I saw an eye within that great Shadow, looking down at us, wishing evil towards the entire world. 

I felt dizzied, though mind you, I wouldn’t have fallen, even if Bergil had not been there with me.  I thought of your mother and your brother, sent away weeks before to Lamedon for safety, and you just a wee thing in your mother’s belly; and tried to say farewell in my thoughts.

“Do not fear, Dame Ioreth,” Bergil squeaked out, setting the posset set on the ground and taking up his little dagger.  “I will defend you!”  Such a brave  lad, that one.  I put an arm around him as we watched that Shadow rise, as high as the Sun it seemed.  Then there was a deep rumbling sound, rushing in to fill the silence.  The very walls of the City trembled. 

I cannot remember when a sigh was heard, it appeared to me from everywhere, the skies and earth and waters too.  I could hear my heart beat again, fast as can be, like a tiny mouse skittering for shelter.  That was when the wind roared up again, but not so chill, just strong.  The towering Shadow began to fall, and the wind swept it up and away, and we never saw such a thing again. 

The Sun returned, and the day was fair and filled with light once more.  I looked up to the walls and saw the Lord Faramir and Lady Éowyn standing close together, raven and golden hair flying in the wind. 

What do you mean, is that all?  Why, you silly lass, what more could there be?  The Shadow had departed!  I had never thought to see such a day!

Oh yes, the possets.  I thought that the lord and lady might find some a few more minutes of the fresh, warming air to be as healing as the possets, which had gone cold anyway.  So I took up the possets and went back down to the Houses to freshen them.  Bergil would have stayed with me to carry them, but then the Perian, Meriadoc came out, crying and laughing in joy and embraced Bergil.  They were dancing a jig together as I opened the door and entered the Houses.

Author's Note:  No children or grandchildren of Ioreth are mentioned in LOTR; but I do not think it unreasonable that she should have had some.

IX.  Filling the Breach (Ingold)

Ingold climbed carefully down from the supply cart with the aid of his crutch.  Twelve days had passed since the Battle, where he had taken an orc-thrust in the leg.   Had it only been fourteen days since the Rammas had been breached? Eighteen days ago, in what seemed another life; he had watched the masons make the last repairs as Mithrandir rode in from the north.  Ingold's heart sank as he saw the gashes and rifts in the wall.   Masons labored once again, fewer in number now.   And the old north-gate was gone. 

He hobbled up to the wall, and rested a hand awkwardly against the stone.  "Alas for the broken and the fallen!"  Ingold lamented.   "Many have indeed fallen; Ingold," spoke a voice from his right; "But some have been raised up, and the City still stands." 

Ingold turned to behold the Lord and Steward of Gondor.  He had last seen the son of Denethor when the new Steward had visited the wounded in the Houses of Healing, while Ingold had lain abed.   Lord Faramir moved more easily now, though one arm was still bound in a sling. 

"It is good to see you up again, my Lord." 

"And you, Commander."   

Ingold frowned, uncertain in his response.  From what he knew of the Lord Faramir, the truth would be the best choice.  "Nay, my Lord; I am but a Lieutenant.   Mardil, son of Orodreth is my Commander; he passed temporary command to me when he was wounded during the Retreat.  Commander Mardil left the Houses a week ago; he is surely well enough to resume command."

The Steward spoke gravely, but his eyes were kind:  "After sixty years in the Guard, Captain Hador plans to retire.  Mardil is now Captain of the Second Company of the Wall.  He has confirmed you as Commander, with high praise for your deeds."

Ingold shifted his weight uncomfortably.   His deeds, compared to those of the man before him, seemed paltry.  All he had done was keep his head and a group of men together while they gathered fell tidings, and then get them back southward to the City before the Gates closed.   A few orcs and no Nazgûl had hindered them; they had only lost one man.  Almost all the Enemy's force had then been pouring in East-West from Osgiliath.   

"You should find a letter of commendation and promotion when you return home," the Lord Faramir continued.  "They were delivered this very day.  There will be a ceremony to name the new Captains and officers, and remember those who have fallen, in two days time at the Citadel.  I would rejoice to see you there, Ingold.  The King will need commanders of your worth."  

"Then the King will keep our forces as they are?"  The words slipped out before Ingold could stop them.  It still felt strange to think of the King as a living man who would soon rule in Gondor. 

"I believe the King would rather rebuild than tear down.   Though the size and the missions of the Tower Guard might change in years to come, good men will always be needed to command its companies."  

Command!  Ingold's family was rich in Numenorean heritage but poor in other wealth.  A Commander's wage would assure the security of his mother and sister.  And perhaps the father of a certain pretty maid in the Fourth Circle would look more kindly on Ingold's suit. 

Another cart pulled up; and the laborers carefully unloaded a large metal framework that stood higher, when raised, than even Lord Faramir's height.    A new gate!   "'Tis but a makeshift, until a better one is built," The Steward said softly, seeing the direction of Ingold's gaze. "But it will serve." 

Ingold thought of the gate opening to admit wains from Anórien, travelers and tradesmen, and lines of Rohirrim on their fine horses.  Good men had fallen, houses and walls and gates had been breached.  Their land remained.  It was time he turned his watch toward the future.  Peace was such a new and precious thing!  It would need watching and tending like the fairest of flowers. 

"It will serve indeed, my lord and Captain," Ingold replied.  "And so will I."

Author's Notes:

Originally posted in the May 2009 HASA Birthday Cards Forum, under the title Reclamation, in honor of Starlight's birthday.

(my concept of the military hierarchy of Gondor is sketchy at best; but Tolkien's "Captains" seem to me to be the equivalent of Generals, so I thought they'd have officers under them. )

X.  Forbidden Fruit (Anárion)

Never as nimble as his brother, he moved as swiftly as he could.  If he should stumble in the dark and lose his burden, then his brother would have suffered fell wounds in vain, and hope would surely be lost.  Even now, their great house was being watched by the King’s men.  Trudging through the fetid waist-high waters of the sewers under Romenna, Anárion fingered the pouch hung round his neck.  The pouch felt warm, perhaps by the sunlight caught in the stolen fruit it held.  

Move.  Breathe.  Listen.   The Son of the Sun smiled, and walked on, without pursuit. 

***

Never was the pale light of the morning more welcome to the man who was named for it.  Anárion shambled out of the tunnel, shivering and half-blind after the night spent walking in darkness.  He knew this land, having traveled the coast of the Hyarrostar years before.  Sun on his face, Anárion hastened to a hidden grove, deep in a wood of sea-spruce and gold-flowering laurinquë.  There, in the rich soil near a rippling stream, he dug a bed where the Tree of the Kings could be reborn. 

Anárion brought the Fruit of Nimloth out of the pouch into the warmth of the rising sun.  Anar’s rays shone upon the soft golden fuzz coating the silvery fruit.  Silver for the moon, gold for the Sun; he thought, reminded of his brother.  No gold or silver plundered by Pharazôn could be worth more than this one fruit, Anarion thought.  May the false king and his devil Sauron choke on the fumes when they give Nimloth to the flames!         

A dark red streak marred the fruit’s perfection.  Isildur’s blood!  Anárion considered wiping the stain away.  No.  “My brother bled to save thee,” he said softly as he planted the fruit.  “Remember him!” 

***

Never had he thought, however much he loved trees, to spend the cool spring night huddled in his cloak beside a fragile sapling in the wilds of Hyarrostar.  Yet Anárion could not think of what else to do.  Isildur lay in a deathlike sleep.  The wounds taken when he saved Nimloth’s doomed Fruit had not healed.  Even the athelas raised in their mother’s own gardens had not helped.  Desperate, Anárion had returned to the grove, hoping to find some sign, some help, for his brother.  But the small buds pushing out of the new Tree’s branches had not yet opened. 

The sap of Isildur’s life wanes, even as the sap of life rises in this scion of Nimloth, Anárionmourned.   He looked to the distant stars and moon, the shining lights of Over-heaven.  “Do not sunder the Friend of the Moon from the Son of the Sun,” he begged to whatever Valar might hear.  “Or, take me and spare my brother who risked all to save the line of Nimloth.”   

A light rain pattered down from the dark skies.  Sighing, Anárion curled his weary body around the sapling, gripping its slender trunk with one hand.  He slept deeply, dreaming of a strange white city jutting out of a mountain and a White Tree as fair as Nimloth blooming at the city’s height.   

And when the sun rose out of the silver sea, Isildur stirred in his sickbed.  Slowly he opened his eyes, smiled upon his wife and mother.  Eyes and heart faraway, he said: “Anárion.” 

Listen, Anárion.  Breathe.  Move, a joyful female voice urged from the edge of dreams.  Anárion obeyed. He rubbed his eyes and stretched his stiff legs. Then he blinked.  For there, on the little Tree, a new, moon-white leaf stood forth to greet the morning sun.

*******

 And Sauron urged the King to cut down the White Tree, Nimloth the Fair, that grew in his courts, for it was a memorial of the Eldar and of the light of Valinor.  

At the first the King would not assent to this, since be believed that the fortunes of his house were bound up with the Tree, as was forespoken by Tar-Palantir. Thus in his folly he who now hated the Eldar and the Valar vainly clung to the shadow of the old allegiance of Númenor. But when Amandil heard rumour of the evil purpose of Sauron he was grieved to the heart, knowing that in the end Sauron would surely have his will. Then he spoke to Elendil and the sons of Elendil, recalling the tale of the Trees of Valinor; and Isildur said no word, but went out by night and did a deed for which he was afterwards renowned. For he passed alone in disguise to Armenelos and to the courts of the King, which were now forbidden to the Faithful; and he came to the place of the Tree, which was forbidden to all by the orders of Sauron, and the Tree was watched day and night by guards in his service. At that time Nimloth was dark and bore no bloom, for it was late in the autumn, and its winter was nigh; and Isildur passed through the guards and took from the Tree a fruit that hung upon it, and turned to go. But the guard was aroused, and he was assailed, and fought his way out, receiving many wounds; and he escaped, and because he was disguised it was not discovered who had laid hands on the Tree. But Isildur came at last hardly back to Rómenna and delivered the fruit to the hands of Amandil, ere his strength failed him. Then the fruit was planted in secret, and it was blessed by Amandil; and a shoot arose from it and sprouted in the spring. But when its first leaf opened then Isildur, who had lain long and come near to death, arose and was troubled no more by his wounds. 

--From AKALLABÊTH The Downfall of Númenor, The Silmarillion--

Author's Notes: 

Originally posted on the May 2009 HASA Birthday Cards Forum for Dwimordene's birthday.

I believe that Anárion means 'Son of the Sun'; and Isildur means 'Servant of the Moon', or 'Moon's Servant'.  If I have erred, let me know.

XI.  Aspiration (Faramir)

Master Egalmoth sat in the corner as Faramir set himself to the task his teacher had directed.  He was not certain if Master Egalmoth was watching or starting to nod in his large chair, but it was no matter.   Faramir nibbled his thumbnail absently, thinking on the Master’s instruction.  “Who is your hero, Faramir?  Who do you most admire and aspire to be like?  You have fifteen minutes to write your answer.”

It should not be a difficult exercise; in fact it was just the sort of writing task that Faramir liked.  The difficulty was that there were so many he admired:  Haleth, the lady of the Haladin, Eärendil the Mariner and his son Elros Tar-Minyatur, Elendil and Isildur the mighty lords of the Faithful, Steward Cirion who forged the great alliance with Eorl and the Northmen, Captain Thorongil, bane of corsairs, the learned and kindly wizard Mithrandir; and his own brother Boromir, deservedly called by some The Bold…

Faramir paused, his quill poised to write.  And he smiled when the best choice of all came clearly to his questing mind.  He scribbled furiously, his pen-strokes scratching the parchment in his haste, eager as he was to make the words obey his thoughts.

I have learned of many heroes, many great people in Ages past and even in our own time.  Their deeds are legend.  But the hero I reverence the most, whose wisdom I aspire to match, is Denethor, son of Ecthelion, Lord of Minas Tirith, sixth and twentieth Ruling Steward of Gondor.  He is a great scholar and lore-master; wise in governance.  He keeps our realm safe from the Enemy. 

Faramir, son of Denethor, aged 11; he signed firmly.   “Master Egalmoth, I have finished!” Faramir called out, and stood ready, parchment in ink-stained hands, as his tutor awoke.

Author's Note:

Originally written for the B2MEM (Back to Middle-earth) Challenge, Day Four, with a prompt asking about role models and how people should relate to them.

XII.  Day's Ending (Halbarad)

Death in the morning and at day's ending

lords took and lowly.

The Battle of the Pelennor Fields, Return of the King 

When I was a lad, my grandsire told me the story of our family and our people.  I remember the leather-bound old book he showed me.  I loved the faded picture of Minas Tirith the best, Minas Anor of old, that showed the great White City built into the very side of Mount Mindolluin.

And now I lie here outside that city, dying in a tent.  They do not tell me so; but the faces of the Peredhil seem grimmer than usual, and tears are rolling down Aragorn’s face when he looks upon me.  I do not think he even knows that he weeps.

I heard them send for my son. 

There is little pain, only weariness and some cold.  I doubt I have much time left.

But by all that I have lived and died for, I will not perish inside this tent!  “Take me outside!”  I demand.  

“You must lie quiet, Halbarad!” Elladan protests.  At least I think it is Elladan.

“I will lie quiet soon enough, Elrondion,” I snap back.  “Let me die under the sky.”

Aragorn whispers.  I am carefully lifted from the bed onto the litter that bore me here.  Then the tent flaps open, and I am borne back out; my litter lowered onto soft ground.  I see grass around me, and booted feet.   One pair belongs to my son, as I see when the man wearing them bends and sits by me.   

“Take care of yourself, my son,” I tell him.  Halgil tries not to cry; he is a brave fellow and I know he wishes to be strong for me.  I see his lower lip quivering as it did when he was a child awakening from a bad dream.  “And take care of your Chieftain as well.”

“I will not fail you, Father,” Halgil says.  Aragorn clasps Halgil’s shoulder briefly; and then they look back at me.   I know that they will both live and enter the City in triumph; just as I knew that I would meet my end here.

Aragorn bends his head to touch his brow to mine.  “Be at peace; my kinsman, my captain, my friend.   Your name shall be sung when the tale of this day is told.”  I daresay that I am one of the few who could tell that his voice quivers ever so slightly. 

“Mourn not long for me, Aragorn,” I manage to answer.  It grows hard to speak. 

“Look there, Halbarad,” He says.  As ever, I obey him.  And if I had much breath left, it would catch in my throat.  The standard of Elendil flies before me, unfurling in a light spring wind.  I remember well its weight in my hand on the journey southward and in this long day’s battle.   Glad I am to see it wave unscathed!

My eyes follow the line of Aragorn’s hand.  Above the crowned stars of the standard, I behold Minas Tirith clearly at last.  Tears well up behind my eyes.  The City is so very fair, fairer than I had guessed from the old tales and the picture in Grandsire’s book.  And the City is safe, still sheltering free people, because we came!  The sinking sun stains the White Tower with red and gold there at the end of my gaze.  Again I see Minas Anor of old, the Tower of the Setting Sun!

My son and my Chieftain will walk through those seven circles.   I gather my thoughts and what remains of my strength.  Little time is left to me, and just one regret.  I had taken leave of Morwen ere I left home, as a warrior must leave his beloved; yet a last message might bring her some comfort. 

“Farewell, Aragorn,” I say quietly.  “I am glad I lived to see this day.”  Now for Halgil, while I can still speak at all:  “Tell your mother…Tell her that I died with my eyes on the White City and with her in my heart, where she has always been.

His answering voice is strangely distant.   I can scarcely feel the grip of their hands on mine anymore.  Minas Tirith gleams in my sight, until my eyes close and I fall into the last sleep.

Author’s Notes:

Halbarad seemed to know, well before the actual Battle of the Pelennor, that he wasn’t going to live much longer (in ROTK, The Passing of the Grey Company: 'This is an evil door,' said Halbarad, 'and my death lies beyond it. I will dare to pass it nonetheless; but no horse will enter.'); hence I have had him refer to that foresight.

The original name of Minas Tirith was Minas Anor.  There is some confusion whether the latter means Tower of the Sun, or, as Elrond called it during his Council, “Tower of the Setting Sun”.

Tolkien mentions no wife or children of Halbarad; but I believed he might have left a wife in the North and had at least one son to bring on the journey southward as one of the Grey Company.