The Fool

            “Fool of a Took,” I’ve called him--impetuous, taking little thought before acting.  But there is a wisdom there we need.  See him beguiling Frodo to smile?  Coaxing a laugh from a moody Boromir?  Anticipating the wood Sam will need to prepare a too scanty meal (particularly by Hobbit standards!), and distracting Legolas and Gimli from sniping at one another interminably, taking that heavy pack Merry has just unloaded and setting it where Aragorn will be able to get what he needs without stumbling over it now.

            When someone is needed to distract us from our blisters and grumbles, Pippin is always there.  Perhaps not as much a fool of a Took as I’d thought!

The Magician

            Saruman watched Gandalf preparing his tubes of powder and balls of materials that would give off a great noise and colorful showers of sparks when touched by fire.  All to please the mindless Pheriannath!  What a waste of time and energy!  Surely there must be a better use for this matter?  Often there were great explosions when the fire was lit, and the power of them could be felt by those on the ground far below.

            But if the matter were packed tightly into quite small tubes and then placed by rock, might it not be possible to blast the rock in two--save miners much labor?  To clear one’s way with but a minimum of effort? 

            He must think on this, and perform his own experiments.  Dwarves might scoff at such belittlement of the labor they found joyous; but Men and Elves were not created for such work.  Men in particular would see this as a wondrous magic indeed!

The High Priestess

                Noldo she was born, granddaughter to the Noldor King.  Aulë and Yavanna were once her patrons, and from each she learned much.

                Now she is Lady to a secret people, secret wielder of the Ring of Adamant, the weaver of webs both tangible and intangible, the bestower of wisdom and gifts.  Her own eye is open to what is, what was, what will be, and what might come to pass, although it is not always clear which it is she sees at any one time; and she can inspire others to do similarly.  She can sift hearts, but long ago gave over condemnation for what she finds there, for the same heart that harbors thoughts of envy is oft also warm with compassion for the very one envied.  She knows there are no simple facts, and yet she knows that in the end all is more often than not far simpler than we tend to perceive it.

                Now she will see these travellers upon their way, gifting them with the product of her loom and needle as well as lembas to their hallowing.  As to whether the Ringbearer should prove a living sacrifice or a burnt offering--to that she can not, will not, speak--not until the One Himself so rules.  Either way, let the Light of Eärendil light his way, even as Eärendil’s descendant travels it alongside him--for now, at least.

The Empress

            I am not certain precisely how this has come to be, and for me!  Yes, I have served as my father’s chatelaine and hostess much of the time since my mother left Middle Earth; but today I am Queen to two kingdoms, sovereign lady not only to my Estel, but to the folk of Gondor and Arnor as well.

            And those who see us hand in hand upon the end of the stone that splits the city greet us with cheers and songs of praise and thanksgiving.

            How did I go from Elrond’s daughter to ruler?  Am I truly worthy?

The Emperor

                I must laugh when I think of the name bestowed upon my most prized counselor.  Did they name him Samwise because as a babe he stared about him at the world with wide, round eyes, that stare so often associated with those whose minds are weak?  Or did his mother merely like the sound of the name on her tongue, having no regard for the meaning of it?  Whatever the reason, the name stands in stark contrast to his sagacity.  Indeed, he too could have been best named Iorhael or Frodo, as he has ever learned swiftly through experience.  No fool he, our beloved Mayor of the Shire.

                I was raised to rule, and tutored in skills of negotiation, compromise, evaluation of martial readiness, command, offense and defense, tongues, histories, administration, legal matters, determining justice, and the handling of treasuries from my earliest childhood.  He was raised and trained to be a gardener.  Yet today this one-time tenant in a hole not his own is Master of the Hill and the owner of Bag End, patriarch to a village-worth of family, Mayor of the Shire, familiar and adviser to lords and kings, and a Lord in his own right in the eyes of all within Middle Earth.

                I tell you truly--it is before Samwise Gamgee that all should bow as I do--I who am considered the High King of the West.  Our beloved Frodo--he chose his successor well.

When Archetypes Meet (High Priestess and Emperor)

            I know not as yet what to make of this simple Hobbit who had wished merely to “see Elf Magic.”  His eyes are open and guileless where those of his Master are already wary as well as weary.  But there are depths to him that have just begun to be plumbed....

            A simple gardener, or so he has been represented.  But as a gardener his dedication is given to nurturance--and so his Master perceives it as well.  One whose gifts are being awakened by this quest, who will come out of it empowered to the fullness of his potential, even as all is scoured away by the dark flames in the one he serves out of filial love....

            One to watch, I deem, and one more than worthy to be honored when the time comes.  And the Ringbearer already perceives this, while my granddaughter’s beloved is coming to appreciate this truth as well.

            Most interesting!

The Heirophant

          We saw him fall--we all did! Him--Gandalf the Grey, old Gandalf Greyhame, or so I understand as they call him in the Horselords’ lands. But when we awoke, there in Ithilien, there he was--standin’ by our beds, all in shinin’ white--even his hair!

          Aragorn’s brothers tell me as him, Gandalf or Mithrandir as they call him, has been here for most of this last age, come from over the Sea to Middle Earth. I don’t quite understand as how that could be, as I understood as none could come east from the lands that-a-ways--not this age, at least. And Mr. Pippin, he speaks of the Light at the heart of him, only veiled by his old Man’s seeming. He says as when Gandalf rode out to face the Wraiths, and later again as he sat Shadowfax when the Gate of Minas Tirith fell, he could see that Light let loose. And I saw it, too, when he laughed with me when I woke up under the beeches and found as Mr. Frodo ’n’ me was goin’ t’live after all, this time.

          And now--now there he stands, with the Lady and Lord Elrond: white, blue, and red they’ve been, and this time I see them clear, the Rings on their hands. Just rings now--gold or mithril, set with gems as might be spent but still show as these was indeed Lords, here within Middle Earth.

          Look on them, Sauron, and see what you ought t’have been like, what you ought to have done with your own Ring! But there was no protectin’ nor preservin’ for the likes of you, was there?

          And it’s him, Gandalf, who receives my Master, leads him aboard! Takin’ the heart as Mr. Frodo give me all our years together right out of me!

          Hold him close for me, Gandalf or Olórin or whatever your true name is there where you come from. Help his own Light t’burn bright once more, and show him the way. And help me find him again--when the time’s right for it. Light the way for both of us as you’ve done for our Lord Strider and the rest. That’s all I can ask in the end.

The Lovers

                I watched Faramir with the Lady Éowyn when first we arrived in the White City, and felt a stab of envy.  It is worse now when I watch Aragorn with his bride.  I remember seeing the Lady Arwen within Rivendell, and realizing that this was a vision of loveliness such as I’d never seen before.  I even saw Aragorn standing beside her and her father, dressed in Elven armor, there in the Hall of Fire--if that was not a dream brought on by Bilbo’s poem.  I did not realize then that he loved her, and she him.  Not until she arrived from Rivendell with her father and her grandparents, her brothers returning at her side, did I realize that it was she for whom Aragorn had been waiting, and that the two of them were to be wed.

                There is no question that they love one another, whether or not they touch--not now, here where they are reunited, where they have just been married to one another.  Each glance that causes their faces to shine in quiet joy, each smile shared--these tell the tale clearly enough.

                To have such glances cast my way, or to share such smiles with one such as the Lady Arwen----

                Ah, but my heart bleeds for such bliss, even as I rejoice that this, my beloved friend, knows what I can not.

For Baranduin for her birthday, and for Emily for her interest.

The Chariot

            He looks down, not dispassionately as many believe, but with the patience he has learned in over two Ages of the Sun, sailing the Seas of Night.  The time is not yet to seek landfall upon the shores of Middle Earth, although that day will come at the end.  Therefore there is nothing that he can do to aid those he would so favor save to be what he has become--to shine out the brighter against the darkness that seeks to overwhelm those who labor to protect the world as the Light of Hope itself.

            And this night he shines down upon several.  The latest of the heirs of his departed son stands outside his tent, peering upward in search of heartening; it is likely that tomorrow his forces will face an attempt at an ambush, and he prays he has anticipated and planned wisely.  His remaining son and that one’s daughter stand together upon a balcony in their hidden valley, also praying that their preparations for defense are enough.  In Gondor the young Man who is now Steward stands upon the walls, peering eastward and upward, praying for those who seek to draw the Eye northward, away from the true danger that threatens the Lord of Mordor.  And huddled together among the stones and dust of that land two tiny figures rest, one peering upwards in hope through the rent in Sauron’s veils, the other near blinded by the encroaching darkness whose center lies over his heart.

            He cannot bring his ship and his sword to the aid of any of these, but he will hearten each as he can....

For FrodoBaggins252 for her birthday.

Justice

            “You know the law that I have made, Faramir--that no stranger to Gondor is to walk freely through Ithilien.”

            “Yes, Father, and usually I would agree with you.”

            “But these two and the gangrel creature you describe as their guide--you held them not, and did not bring them here to Minas Tirith for my judgment.”

            “You know that I did not, Father.  I would not have that--thing--anywhere near anyone I love.  I could see in the Halfling’s eyes how very much it cost him merely to bear it.”

            “But he does not know the way!  And what way does the other creature know that leads off of the road to the cursed city of the Nazgûl, and how does he know of it?”

            “There is but one way I have been advised of, Father--the Pass of Cirith Ungol.  I know that it is a way of dread; but then all ways that lead into the Nameless One’s lands are ways of dread, are they not?  As for how he knows of it--that I cannot say.  We had no time together to share all that each of us knows--or guesses.”

            “I will remind you that were you a lesser man of Gondor your life should be forfeit for what you have done.”

            “Then suffer that justice to fall on me, if my judgment should prove ill.  But each of us must judge as we might, and I will not regret my decision even if I must kneel to the sword of the headsman.  And Peregrin’s kinsman--were he a Man rather than a Pherian I would say of him he is one whose own judgment is keen.  I saw it in his eyes--he knows that he will not return from this quest.  He will either die upon the way, or within the Sammath Naur itself.”

            “And what is it that you mean to say to me with this?”

            Faramir sighed and rolled his shoulders, his eyes weary and sad.  “Only this--by sending him onward I have merely assured that in the end he will suffer the death that is to be the fate of strangers within Ithilien.”  He raised his chin defiantly.  “Perhaps I have not administered your justice directly, but I have set it in motion, I fear, as surely as if I held the headsman’s sword myself.”

The Hermit

            He watched the messenger sent him by the head of their order with a feeling of unrest in his heart.  He hated traveling far from Rhosgobel, there where he watched over the activities of Dol Guldur and Mordor with growing concern.  The great spiders and rabid wolves, aided by orcs and wargs, had been gathering about the borders of Thranduil’s lands; and once they passed that point they would march upon the Beornings, the Woodsmen, and the remaining horseherders of the Eotheod in the northern reaches of the Anduin.  Who would sound the alarm if he was not there to send out his own birds?

            But, if Curunír desired to speak to Gandalf, Radagast supposed he must go westward over the mountains.  Perhaps he could stop to speak with Iarwain while he was abroad....

The Wheel of Fortune

            Elrond looked about the circle of chairs with interest.  One of these would be moved, he knew, to rise and accept the role of Ringbearer, although he could not say for certain which it might be.  There were certain individuals whose Light shone particularly brightly to his enhanced sight:  Gandalf, he knew, would not take It, nor would Aragorn.  That disposed of two of those seated in the ring.

            He shuddered.  A ring about the Ring, and a Ring intended to destroy the fortunes of all save one who sought to invoke Its power.  Thranduil’s son shone clearly, as, unexpectedly, did Gimli son of Glóin.  Now, that was most interesting, when he saw a Dwarf as clearly as he did an Elf.  Indeed, the Dwarf was almost as bright as was Glorfindel, whom he knew would not touch any artifice of the Enemy.  There was a dull rosy aura about the warrior Boromir, and a warm glow about Bilbo that the influence of the Ring appeared to leave untouched.  The Lights of the other Elves within the circle appeared somehow dampered, however.

            That left but two others whose Lights could be discerned--Bilbo’s kinsman Frodo and the gardener seated at his feet.  The evil of the Ring pressed now against the Light of Frodo Baggins, which stubbornly shone a purer mithril in response.

            He knew already where it was the wheel would point to once it stopped spinning....

The dialogue is drawn from The Two Towers, "The Voice of Saruman."  For Tallis.

When Archetypes Fight - Heirophant vs. Magician

            “When last I visited you, you were the jailor of Mordor, and there I was to be sent.”  Saruman controlled his temper as he heard Gandalf out.  “Think well, Saruman.  Will you not come down?”

            “There are conditions, I presume?”

            “You will first surrender to me the Key of Orthanc, and your staff.”

            “If you wish to treat with me, while you have a chance, go away, and come back when you are sober! ... Good day!”

            “Come back, Saruman!”

            Never had he heard such a voice of command, not here within Middle Earth, not even in his communions with the Lord of Mordor.  Saruman turned reluctantly, and quailed.  Looking at his fellow Istar he saw not the Man’s seeming that Gandalf had worn for much of this last age of the Sun, but instead the royal might of the Maia that that seeming hid.  Although Gandalf did not bother to part the grey cloak he wore over his white robes, there could be no question of the power he held being unveiled, the Light of his Being blazing forth as bright as Arien herself.  And within Gandalf’s new staff was such potential!  How Saruman hungered for it!  He grasped his own staff to him, prepared to draw from it the power he needed to wrest that of his rival from him.  But it answered him not!

            Fool!  Ah, Curumo, how little of you as you were is left, for you have spent it profligately over the years.  Each time you have practiced cunning rather than charity, treachery rather than honoring your alliances, relied on craft rather than on honest dealings, you have lost a bit more of your true self.  And what is left of you, I wonder?

            Gandalf raised his staff slightly.  “Saruman, your staff is broken!”  And the ebon wood of Saruman’s staff burst into a thousand fragments, fragments that caught fire and burned swiftly to ash.  Only he and Gandalf between them knew, however, that this act was but a show for the others, that there had been no power left within it for him to draw upon.

            Saruman felt his heart twist within him, realizing he was now little better than those who followed in the train of Olórin.

Strength

            Saradoc Brandybuck watched his wife deal courteously with the messengers who’d come from the King’s Bridge to bring the news that their son, nephew, cousin, and Frodo’s gardener had returned, and had succeeded in turning the Shiriff House there upon its ear.

            “You should see them!” gasped out Fred Oldbuck.  “I’ve never seen outfits such as they’re wearing!  Your Merry--I’d not have recognized him if I’d not heard him speak!  All in greens and golds, but in leather and fabrics I’ve never seen before in my life!  And swords--they all have swords, you see.  And shields, or at least Merry and Pippin do.  As for Frodo Baggins--him and his friend from Hobbiton are all got up like princes from one of the storybooks he used to read to us when we were younger.”

            “And Pippin--he’s well?” asked Esmeralda.

            “Oy, is he!  And he’s grown--him and your Merry both--quite the tallest Hobbits I’ve ever seen!  Their hair’s grown some, too--past their shoulders, both of them, and I’ll swear twice as curly as it ever was before!”

            Sara asked, “Are they coming here first?  We should tell them what we’ve learned about how these ruffians of Lotho’s act....”

            But Fred was shaking his head.  “No--they’re going straight to Hobbiton.  Frodo was saying that they needed to confront Lotho himself, that the family needs to put him in his proper place.”

            Esme nodded, and stood to see to it he and his companions were served a proper meal and a good ration of the Hall’s best brandy.  How could Saradoc help but love and respect her, knowing she would see first to the needs of their folk and their guests, even though he knew that what she really wanted to do was to run all the way to wherever it was along the Road the wanderers had reached and confront--and hug and scold--the four of them for a good hour or two?

            He’d married the strongest and most gracious Hobbitess within the Shire--of that he was certain.

The Hanged Man

            He was always far more reserved than Bilbo, as far back as I remember him.  But still as a young Hobbit he could and did laugh freely, his humor perhaps the more delightful because his many griefs experienced gave it depth.  He was always compassionate and intelligent, but with a level of impatience with the slowness of others to appreciate the depths of their own lack of experience.

            But now----

            Frodo Baggins was never a simple Hobbit, and now he is so changed by his time of trial with the Ring.  If he remains a Hobbit at all, it is merely due to the accident of birth.  He offered himself due to imperfect knowledge of what the Ring would do if left abroad within the wide world and a terror even then of losing It to another.  Although It was just awakening, yet It still had such a hold upon him!  Even after he realized he would not likely survive the destruction of the thing, and his further appreciation that the only way he could even see It destroyed would be for himself to fall with It into the fire, yet he persevered, in the end so scoured that he truly did not mind the realization that he must die himself to see the quest achieved, as he desired only rest and freedom from Its torment there at the end.  He was disappointed to wake to the realization that he was yet alive within this world, I think.

            What griefs he has known since, the worst being the realization that he has no further place within the world as he found it.  He looked into the heart of Saruman, seeing what he had been intended to be, and recognizing another whose very being had been scoured away by the lust engendered by the Ring, and he knew pity.  He was granted no wife, no child of his body and spirit, no new family to replace that stolen from him when he was but a child.  He received little honor and less understanding from his own people for all he had sacrificed for them.

            That was the worst, I suspect--that sacrifice of his identity as a Hobbit of the Shire.

            So, come my friend--come now and know the final act of transformation.  Realize now that if you have lost yourself as a Hobbit of the Shire and a mere mortal from Middle Earth, it is merely the prelude to finding yourself as you are now capable of being.  There is still so much for you to know, and to do, and to be....

To my nameless critic.  True, my last ficlet might have done as well for this card; but in it I was focusing a good deal on the aspects of sacrifice in Frodo's experience.  True, the Death card presages transformation as well as does the card of the Hanged Man; but not all transformations are necessarily desirable ones.

Death

            Prince Imrahil and his son Elphir stood by Mithrandir and Éomer of Rohan upon the battlefield, looking down at a hideous yet still kingly helm.  “They tell me he named himself to you as Death,” the Prince commented.

            “So he did,” admitted the Wizard grimly.

            “It would appear,” Elphir said with forced lightness, “that in this case he was mistaken.  Rather than wreaking your death, he found his own.”

            “And so he did indeed.”  With a sigh, the Wizard turned his attention to the black pool of fabric that had given the wraith what form he’d known, stirring and shifting it with the butt of his staff.  “A noble he was once in Númenor, and a descendant of Elros Tar-Minyatur.  But he desired to be powerful and a King in his own right, so he sailed east, returning to Middle Earth and founding the nation of Angmar.  He came to fear death.  When one calling himself Annatar came to him bearing a gift that promised immortality, he accepted it.”

            “And what did that profit him?” Éomer asked as Mithrandir uncovered a spiked gauntlet over a flattened glove of black leather.  “He did not remain a Man.  Nay, he became instead a wraith, no better than a barrow-wight or those who haunted the Paths of the Dead.”

            The White Wizard twisted his left hand into the fabric of his robe, lifted the gauntlet and glove, and shook them over his protected palm.  All looked with revulsion at the blasted metal that fell out, all that remained of what had been the Nazgûl’s Ring of Power.  “I fear you are wiser than he was.  Sauron’s gift transformed him not into the godling he sought to become, but instead into the very form he’d feared most, trapping within the plane of mortality a spirit intended to eventually go free while allowing the body to lose its integrity.”  He shook his head.  “Not all transformations are for the good, or so he found, but too late.  Trying to cheat death, all he did was to enter into it without the benefits of being freed from the Circles of Arda.”  He lifted what remained of the ring and examined it.  “Mayhap, now that your sister’s blade has freed him at last from the spell of this, he will be able to find himself once again.”

 *

            And outside the Bounds of Arda a belatedly released spirit sought to remember the name it had once borne.

Temperance

            “He reminds me now of you.”

            Glorfindel turned his attention from the slight form of the Ringbearer looking eastward over the parapet to meet the grey gaze of the newly made Queen of Gondor.  “And how is that, Arwen?” he asked.

            “He no longer fears.”

            The Elven warrior turned back toward the Hobbit, answering quietly, “It is hard to maintain fear when you have already passed through greater terrors than you had ever imagined.  Rather he must learn anew how to embrace joy.”  His eyes were thoughtful.  “We were able to bring him to your father’s care barely in time--he was upon the verge of becoming a wraith himself.  But I strongly suspect that he would have thanked me more had I given him the mercy stroke rather than saving him for what he has done, much less what is yet to come.  He has more grief to embrace, I fear, before he can reach freely for joy again.  Oh, he will do much good along the way, but I doubt not he will little thank me for my part in saving him, not until he at last finds his peace.”

            The Evenstar gazed on the Hobbit with compassion as overhead her grandfather did the same.  “May he indeed find just that--his peace,” she whispered, her hand rising to the jewel at her throat.

The Devil

            He looked down at the creature with dispassionate curiosity, interested to see what yeni of possession by his creation had made of it.  The shape was yet that of most sentient beings, and still stubbornly corporeal.  He did not remember it taking that long for those gifted with the Rings intended for Men to have been reduced to the status of wraiths, but he believed it had taken less than four centuries, as Men counted time.

            Most interesting!

            But there was one trait that he recognized--this one’s hunger for the Ring was most overpowering.  Why, it even considered, and nowhere as secretly as it believed, finding the Ring and keeping It for itself!

            Zigur laughed to himself.  Ah, this Gollum had much to learn if it believed it possible to cheat the Lord of Mordor--the intended Lord of all of Middle Earth!  The Ring was awake now--awake and seeking to respond to his call.  He would send forth his servants to bring It back to him, for the sooner It was again upon his finger the more certain his victories.  But It would seek ever to come back to Him, now that It was no longer held a prisoner in Ulmo’s realm.

            But first he needed to know where to seek, and the name of the thief that held it.  A little pressure....

            “Shire!  Baggins!”

The Tower

            The tower of Barad-dûr falls, as do the Towers of the Teeth and the walls adjoining the Black Gate.  As for the Gate itself--it shivers to pieces, and falls into the gaping pit that has opened to swallow up all of the signs of the might of Mordor.

            But the true fall of Mordor takes place away from walls erected by sentient beings, there where Orodruin tears itself to pieces.  The mountain is caught in a case of indigestion of cosmic proportions, forced to swallow the foulness formed in its fires an age and a half past.

            And at its feet huddle the two refugees, those guilty of bringing that abomination back to Its source.  Balefully, the fires released from within the mountain creep toward them, seeking to soothe its distress somewhat with their relative innocence.

            But in the end they are plucked away, and Aulë is there to calm the agony felt by the earth, reassuring it that never will it again be so abused as to bring forth such evil.  However, one last fiery stone and tendril of smoke and ash is flung after them, a reminder that the earth itself resented the torment it had known under Sauron’s tyranny, and could resent those who caused it distress--before at last it relaxed and slept under its true Master’s hand.

When Archetypes Love:  Emperor and Hanged Man

            “Dad, will you keep an eye on my Rosie and little Elanor for a time?  I should be back in a fortnight.”

            “Yer Master--him’s leavin’ the Shire, ain’t he?”

            “Yes, Dad.  Mr. Frodo’s leavin’--and for good.  He’ll be stayin’ with old Mr. Bilbo and the Elves.”

            The Gaffer watched after his son as Sam turned to labor his way back up the lane to the door of Bag End, almost as if he were an old Hobbit himself.  My poor bairn, he thought.  My poor, dear, addled lad.  This is what comes o’ tyin’ yer heart to yer betters--pain when them must go off on their own.  Well, mayhaps him and the lasses will come back down t’the Row--fill up the ol’ hole and brighten it right up.

*******

            Rosie came down to bring him some supper.  Had to allow as she was a right fine cook.  Sam had chosen well where to find a love amongst the maidens of the Shire.  “Well, m’lass, Sam tells me as Mr. Frodo’s gone off t’be with old Mr. Bilbo.  And which of his kin gets the hole?”

            Her eyes were bright with unshed tears of mixed loss and pride.  “Him’s left it t’us--to me and my Sam.  Master Frodo--he’s adopted Sam--adopted him as his brother.  Said as there was too much love atween them to give Bag End t’any other.”

            Flabbergasted, Hamfast Gamgee stared at her in disbelief.

For Addie for her birthday.

The Star

            Where are you, my elusive Eagle of the Star?  Who are you, and what are you?  Why did you come?  What do you want?  Does your star ascend or descend?  Or is it fated to fall in a brilliant shower of fire?

            You are no Rohir, for all you came to us from Thengel’s court.  There are those who, looking at you, have been willing to swear that my father must have played my mother false, and that you and I must be brothers by blood.  You are fluent in Sindarin and Quenya as well as Rohirric and Adunaic, although you use phrases uncommon to either Gondor or Umbar.  Those who have come to us from the North, those we have ever referred to as the Lost, respond to you with far more deference than they show to me or my father.  Oh, there is no question they respect us and our orders; but they stand straighter when they come before you, and are quicker to follow orders, although they also are more likely to question you as to your intent.  There is a feeling of familiarity between you and the other northern mercenaries.

            So, I wonder, do they see you as their Gil-Estel?  Do they guide themselves by your light?  But no fixed star are you--a wandering planet, rather.  Nor, I find, can I track you within the Palantir of Minas Anor.  All I find when I would look upon your doings is a brilliant light and sometimes the disapproving face of a woman of great beauty.

            I wonder--by what star do you set your own course?

The Moon

            She woke as he closed the door to her chamber and approached the bed.  Blinking the sleep from her eyes, she glanced at the window to judge the time.  “You were long looking in on our sons tonight, my beloved lord husband.”

            “I crave your pardon, Finduilas, but I admit I tarried tonight in Faramir’s rooms.  He was restive, between the brightness of the Moon and the new tooth he is cutting, and his nurse had lifted him from his cot to carry him up and down the room.  She told me he kept reaching for the moonlight, as if he could hold it in his little hands.  When I looked within, I was struck by the sight of his head, silhouetted against the window, with the circle of the Moon behind it.  It was as if it formed a nimbus about him.”

            “That is most strange and wonderful, for I just woke from quite the dream about our younger son, Denethor.  In it he was a man grown, tall and noble, and crowned with a circlet of moonstones, clad in a milky white that caught Ithil's glory.  And he stood at the side of a great Lord and Lady, both crowned with living stars, and they embraced our son with great affection.”

            “Boromir did not appear in this dream?”

            “He did, but as a spectator, as if he watched from a great distance.  But he watched with full joy, standing with Anor’s hand upon his shoulder.  I wonder what such a dream might foretell?”

            Denethor shrugged.  He slipped under the bed coverings and placed his arm about her thin shoulders.

The Sun

            Denethor watched with pride as his firstborn stepped forward to accept the baton of command from Lossenglad, taking upon himself the rank of Captain-General of all of Gondor’s forces.  He smiled to see that today Boromir had chosen to wear a red mantle rather than the sober black and silver ordinarily worn by his officers, his horn hung from a new baldric, its silver accents reflecting the Sun’s beams in all directions.

            A new day was dawning for Gondor in its long struggles with its many adversaries.  Boromir would shine like Anor herself, and would put to flight those of their enemies who preferred to strike at Gondor from the shadows.  With Boromir in command, the light of victory would gleam into every hollow and fold of the land!

For Chibi-Amber for her birthday.

Judgment

            All watched the trial of Beregond of the Guard with interest.  Those who observed the trial being conducted by the new King were split between those who felt that the Guardsman should be executed and those who favored banishment.  Under the Lord Steward Denethor, of course, he would undoubtedly have been condemned, and would have gone from the Hall of Kings immediately out to the Court of Gathering where he would find a hastily spread circle of sand.  There a friend would loosen his shirt’s collar and perhaps bind his eyes that he not have to see the shadow indicating the headsman’s sword was in motion.  He would then be guided to kneel, and would not rise again.

            Most felt that death would be preferable to the ignominy of banishment, and were certain that, should the King Elessar offer him the choice, so he would choose.

            But Elessar pardoned Beregond to live considering his courage and skill shown before the Black Gate, forestalling the choice.  All saw him blanch when the doom of banishment was spoken.  However, that proved not the end of the affair--anything but!

            Captain of the White Company, a new force to be formed to serve their beloved Steward Faramir?  That the new King should have found the means both to meet the letter of the law so as to punish the man for the crimes of leaving his post without leave from captain or Steward and spilling blood within the Hallows and at the same time reward him for his loyalty to Faramir himself--that presaged a new age indeed!

The World

            “Have you ever been welcomed home by the ringing of silver trumpets?” Boromir had once asked Aragorn.  “One day we shall approach the White City, and the watchmen upon the walls shall take up the call:  ‘The Lords of Gondor have returned!’”

            That had been long ago, during the time of respite the Fellowship had known within Lothlórien, and the Man born to be King of Gondor and Arnor reunited had found himself willing to believe indeed that such a thing would happen one day.  How strongly he was reminded of it now, as the cavalcade in which he rode approached the walls of Minas Anor once more after some months spent making a progress in the southern reaches of the realm.

            It was not Boromir but rather Boromir’s brother who rode now at his side.  Some lengths ahead of them rode Eldarion and Elboron, the two of them plainly pleased to be returning home at last.  They’d been talking together, the two youths, and now both reached down to pull out the horns they’d been gifted by Prince Imrahil during their visit to Dol Amroth, horns purposefully reminiscent of the one that Boromir and before that his father and forefathers for hundreds of years had borne.  They lifted their horns, and at a nod given by Elboron sounded them together.

            The bray of the two horns, both taken from the same wild kine, was answered by the calls of silver trumpets upon the wall, and the King found his heart twisting with the ache of the memory, then lifted up at the welcome he sensed in those notes.

            “We are home again,” he heard from the Man who rode at his side.  “Rejoice, my beloved Lord and friend.”

            And for a moment, as he looked on Faramir’s face, he saw Boromir’s wide and reckless smile, and was glad.

Author’s Notes

            I’d wished to keep this series within the boundaries of the timeframe and characters covered in The Lord of the Rings, and for the most part I succeeded in remaining within those parameters.  I apologize for the inclusion of Eärendil, but would like to note that he was, in his way, a solid influence within the story, particularly in the nature of the Phial of Galadriel and in the star seen from Mordor that helped to ease Sam’s immediate distress and fear.

          Some were surprised that, having identified Arwen as the Empress, I failed to follow with Aragorn as Emperor.  First, I fear that I’d always intended to use Aragorn as the Star, Faramir as the Moon, and Boromir as the Sun; and it was a distinct pleasure to surprise some by placing Sam in the role of Emperor instead.

          It was also a pleasure to be able to write from so many different points of view, and to look at the strength of the women who ever are left behind to hearten their own while their husbands, sons, and/or brothers are off to war in the person of Esmeralda Took Brandybuck.

          I thank those who chose this theme for this Advent Calendar series for giving us the chance to examine our beloved characters in terms of the archetypes they can be identified with.  And I thank all who read and commented on the series.  May it continue to entertain in future readings.  Bless you all.