Behold Your King - a double drabble on Halbarad's first impression of the new Chieftain of the Dunedain.  2nd Place, 2009 MEFA

~~~

Halbarad blinked. Had he heard Elladan aright? This was ... the one?

He’s but a boy, all arms and legs too gangly to wield sword or bow!

His heart sank. He had expected ... well, he was not sure what he expected, but it was not this skinny, shaggy-haired lad standing so uncertainly between the Sons of Elrond. Still, nothing to do for it but accept it. If he is the Heir, he must be afforded every honor, even if he looks too green to know a hilt from a heather. "We are well met. I am Halbarad."

The young man raised his head.  "And I am Aragorn, Son of Arathorn," he said softly, as if the name was still too new to his tongue to speak with ease.

Halbarad looked into the large grey eyes and something deep within him stirred, something so long unfelt that at first he could not place it. When he finally did, joy filled his heart.

Hope had returned.

Tears filled Halbarad’s eyes and he dropped to one knee. "If by my life or death I can serve you, my sword is yours."

He knew, beyond doubt or shadow, that their King had come at last.

First March, TA 3019

A drabble, in honor of one of the more memorable of Aragorn's birthdays.  Not a tale of the Dúnedain of the North, but of a Dúnadan of the North who traveled far to the South...

~~~

Few of my birthdays have brought such utter shock, with fear and joy tangling together in a moment where a ghost became flesh and sorrow was wiped away with a single hurling aside of grey rags.

In a single heartbeat, the one who I thought was an enemy changed before my eyes into a dear friend, one I had thought lost beyond the circles of this world. My sword, drawn to slay him, flamed, burning against my hand. Legolas’ arrow flew wide. Gimli’s axe fell clattering to the ground... and my heart surged with joy.

Gandalf the White had returned.

Halbarad quietly watched the fire, listening. Marveling.

Aragorn and his brothers were singing.

Sometimes Halbarad thought his heart might break, so lovely were the voices of the Peredhil. Rising, soaring, then falling soft as rain, ancient hymns that stilled Halbarad’s soul. Left his throat aching. And Aragorn’s voice–never so clear and pure as theirs, but its very roughness embodied hardship and hope despite all the long struggles of Men.

How he loved these moments, for the singing gave him peace, but always at the bittersweet cost of knowing that the cawing of the crebain sounded better than his own singing.

Because spring sometimes brings more than beauty...

Aragorn sneezed, violently.

“Valar bless you,” Halbarad muttered.  For the seventh time.

“Thanks,” Aragorn mumbled.  He blew his nose. 

“Just pray do not give me your plague.”

“‘Tis no plague.  ‘Tis this tree.”

Halbarad pulled a branch lower.  Insignificant reddish flowers festooned every branch.  “These?” he asked, scarce believing.

Aragorn took a step back.  “Yes, those.”  He blinked watering eyes and sneezed again.  He groaned, then pinched his nose shut.  “Ebery tibe I bove, I zdeeze.”

“And scare off any game within a league.”  Halbarad sighed.  “Come.  The hunt can wait until the flowers wither.”

Aragorn nodded. 

And sneezed again.

Rumor and Dreams - a drabble

A conversation between two men of Bree after the Wraiths hit Sarn Ford.  Suddenly the world isn’t quite as they had always thought it to be.

~~~

"Nine. Hit Sarn Ford all at once. Them rangers had no chance."

"Any survive?"

"Some fled into the hills."

"I knew a couple. Good men, for rangers. Shame any died."

"Suppose that’s why they’ve been skulking about all these years. Protecting us."

"Guess I might have thought of ‘em a bit higher."

"They say...."

"What?"

"They say one of them’s an exiled king."

"You’re having me on!"

"No! Someone overheard old Tom Bombadil call ‘em ‘Sons of forgotten kings’."

"Well, none of ‘em’s any king now. That line died."

Silence. Then, "I wish..."

"Aye. ‘Tis a good dream, any road."

Trust - a drabble

Glorfindel has an enlightening conversation with a very young Dúnadan.

~~~

The small boy banged his heels against the stone wall, left-right-left-right, a happy rhythm. He opened his mouth wide and took a huge bite out of the apple he held in his small hand, then pointed up. "See that, Glorfin’l?"

"That cloud?"

"The whole sky."

"Yes."

"Eru thought it up, didn’t He?"

"And the Ainur sang it into being."

"I’m glad He made it blue."

"And when it is pink?"

"Like sunrise? That’s pretty. But blue’s better."

"Blue is very nice."

"Eru is nice."

"How do you know?"

He shrugged. "I just know." He jumped lightly down and skipped away.

~~~

"‘Amdir we call it, ‘looking up’. But there is another which is founded deeper. Estel we call it, that is trust. It is not defeated by the ways of the world, for it does not come from experience, but from our nature and first being." - Athrabeth Finrod Ah Andreth, Morgoth’s Ring, page 320

Forty-Eleven:  A double drabble in honor of March 1, T.A. 2931...

~~~

“Four!  You’re getting positively ancient,” Glorfindel said as he settled Estel on his lap.  “Show me how many four is.”

Estel frowned as he carefully uncurled each finger.  “One-two-free-four... five!” Estel said, thrusting his thumb in the air.

“Such a very bright boy!  Are you sure you’re only four?”

A grin and a nod.

Glorfindel looked down his nose. “I don’t believe it.  I think you’re at least forty-eleven.”

The grin widened.

“In fact, I think we need to find Cook and see that she gives you forty-eleven honey cakes.”

“Will she really?”

“Of course.”

“Are you forty-eleven, Gwofindo?”

“Glor-find-el.”  He rolled a few L’s off his tongue.  “Glor-fin-del.  And yes, at least that much.  Maybe even forty-twelve.”

“Did Cook give you cakes, Gwofindo?”

Ah, well.  The L’s would come, eventually.  “So many that I gave myself a tummy ache.”  He poked Estel’s belly and smiled at the giggles.  “Now let’s go get yours so you can have a tummy ache just like I did!”

He stood, laughing as he swung the squealing little boy onto his shoulders.  Today might be Estel’s birthday, but Glorfindel could not shake the happy thought that Estel was the Valar’s gift to them all.

Rest, My Friend

In the aftermath of a battle, Halbarad takes charge.  A drabble for Estelcontar. 

Rated G.

~~~

"I am not that tired."

Halbarad folded his arms. "So your lips say, but the shadows under your eyes speak otherwise. Get to bed."

Aragorn moved to the next injured man. He knelt but had to brace himself with an arm as he swayed.

Halbarad immediately bent down and grasped his elbow. "Come," he said gently, steadying him as he stood. He led him to a bed and guided him to a seat.

"But I am not..."

Halbarad smiled as he swung Aragorn’s feet around. Aragorn’s eyes had already fallen shut. "... that tired. I know. But rest anyway, my friend."

A Great Leader, Yes; A Great Chef... Not So Much

A drabble written in honor of RS' birthday, and inspired by her awesome drawing of Aragorn and his Rangers, which can be found here:  http://pics.livejournal.com/rs9/pic/00007rwa

Rated G

~~~

"... and no, my stew did not make Denlad sick, I care not what he claims!"

Denlad merely glared at Aragorn as he hurried past them and dove into the bushes. As Eledh chuckled and Galadh frowned at the sounds coming from the brush, Halbarad glanced at Aragorn. Though Aragorn’s expression was hard to read, he could hazard a fairly safe guess that beneath his very real concern and very feigned outrage, Aragorn was hiding no small amount of embarrassment. For he knew, just as Halbarad did, that his cooking skills were deplorable.

It had been the stew, and no mistake.

Lonely Journey South - A Halloween Drabble

Rated G

Aragorn walks a lonely road.  (And belongs, alas, to Professor Tolkien and not me.) 

~~~

Fog cringes in the valleys, leaving moonlit ridges to rear like bleached bones of long-slain worrums; spines without flesh, barren and dead.

A chill breeze rattles the husks of dry leaves, their sussuration an echo of the old woman's whisper as she tosses the bones. What say them? Come, young man...

Aragorn pulls his cloak tighter. She beckons him as he passes her drear cottage, the crone with her dwimmer-cast secrets. But he needs no witch to offer hope for a coin. Hope’s fire burns always within him.

He sets his jaw, and continues his lonely journey south.