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

And as the Captains gazed south to the Land of Mordor, it seemed to them that, black against the pall of cloud, there rose a huge shape of shadow, impenetrable, lightning-crowned, filling all the sky. Enormous it reared above the world, and stretched out towards them a vast threatening hand, terrible but impotent: for even as it leaned over them, a great wind took it, and it was all blown away, and passed; and then a hush fell. The Field of Cormallen, Return of the King

His Ring had cried out to him unexpectedly when it was claimed by a creature so insignificant that he could have crushed out its life with his four-fingered hand.

His rage turning to fear, he forsook all other designs and sent his Wraiths flying toward Orodruin.

His power failed, the Ring having taken the greater portion with it into dissolution. The strategy of safeguarding his power by pouring much of it into his golden master-work now betrayed him.

His mortal form, kept alive all these years since his last death, collapsed. The walls of Barad-dûr shook; and the orcs and other minions screamed. He grasped the fading threads of his consciousness, trying to restore order, to no avail. The center would not hold!

His houseless soul watched the black-crowned body he had worn drop through the shattering floor. For Barad-dûr was falling! First his turreted central tower, highest in all of Middle-earth, then the other towers and steel-walled fortresses and courts, all slid down to the ground in a storm of dust and rubble.

His will, all that was left to him, bore him up into the darkened sky. He looked down on the fragments of Barad-dûr and howled out his rage in thunder. He prepared to cast down his wrath upon his enemies.

His hand’s semblance faded between the darkness and the intruding light. He could no longer scourge mortals, nor even defend what was left of his own self. He could do naught, no more, nothing! A new form could not shield him now; he had lost the power to enter one. When Manwë’s cursed wind sprang up and seized him, he had no way to fight it.

His spirit flailed helplessly as he was borne away. He looked his last on his scattering armies and the smoldering mountain. Sand and smoke hissed round his broken, fallen tower.

His rage, his bitterness, his fear and his hatred streamed out of him somewhere along the Straight Road. The stars wheeled high above him, the waves roiled beneath him, until he had passed beyond the Deeps of Time. He heard the Voice of the One summon him by his most ancient name. He remembered the resonance of that Voice, which had once poured forth the songs of creation. And the notes that had once been his in the Great Music arose in his heart, as the only greeting he yet had strength to make.

His wearied self, bereft of form and malice, fell before Ilúvatar’s throne. The being who had been Sauron returned to the hands of his maker, transfixed in the all-seeing gaze of Eru. The Flame Imperishable and the cold Void, Light and Dark alike, mingled in Ilúvatar’s eyes.

He scorned the path of deception. He would not beg; which left only one response: “As Thou wilt.”

The lore-masters of Middle-earth tell many tales of Sauron’s fate. Some say that he shared the imprisonment of his former master in the Void beyond the Doors of Night. Some say he returned to Middle-earth unrepentant, there to tempt and deceive the younger races. Others tell different tales, of Sauron walking Middle-earth as a lowly Man, secretly aiding the peoples he had once sought to conquer; or of his wandering through the Void by choice, waiting to warn the Valar of Morgoth’s awakening at the End of Days.

The story was originally posted to the Henneth-Annun email list as part of the Tarot Archetypes Challenge.

The author would like to thank Pandemonium 213 for beta-ing the story; her fascinating stories of Sauron can be found at SilmarillionWritersGuild.org.

Papers compiled by Tolkien in the 1960's have yielded an original name for Sauron, before he gave his allegiance to Melkor (a.k.a. Morgoth) – that of Mairon, which means "the Admirable", or "The Admirable One". This information was published in Parma Eldalamberon 17, p. 183; and was originally unearthed for me by Nath, via the HASA Research Forum.

Imrahil blinked as the towers fell and their Enemy rose up one last time, then wafted away powerless in the wind. The two hill-trolls that he had been fighting turned and fled, one with Imrahil’s favorite dagger buried between the scales covering the monster’s right shoulder. Imrahil would miss the dagger, but was glad to see the great troll’s flight.

Steadying himself on his stallion’s back, he patted the charger’s sweat-streaked neck. They were both unscathed; which is more than could be said for at least forty of his Swan Knights. There was much to do now. In a minute. He looked up, trying to understand, trying to believe. The Enemy was gone!

Perhaps it was weariness that brought sudden tears to Imrahil’s eyes. If only this war, with its brave hobbits and returning King, could have come a year, two years, three years earlier or more. The dead of Osgiliath would still live; as would Denethor. And Boromir. And so many others.

Imrahil straightened in the saddle. Every muscle ached, but he had much to do, beginning with the ordering of his men; seeing the living cared for and the dead counted and buried. He reached into his saddlebag and pulled out his kerchief. Sadly, it was stained with orc blood. He could not wipe his sweating brow with something so foul! He foraged deeper; wishing to face his Knights with a calm, ordered face. There it was; a piece of sturdy cloth. Imrahil unfolded it, and used half on his sword and half to dry his brow.

Much better! Prince Imrahil sheathed his sword. Now to work! Although the Shadow had departed, it had left a fiendish mess. A faint grumble startled him. Imrahil laughed; for he realized that the sound came from his own suddenly hungry stomach.

As the darkness fades, the dawn comes in cold and pale over the nest of sleeping Rangers. Faramir rises from his brief rest, stretches the stiffness out of his limbs. He looks over his men and frowns. They are all weary. There have been too many skirmishes and not enough Rangers to cover the borders and the River. The Enemy’s forces are massing. The Southrons are coming in force with their great mûmakil. All Faramir has to counter them are the valor and courage and lives of his Rangers, and the strategies he can devise – which will not suffice.

And yet, and yet…One cannot live out every day in dread. Despair is as vicious a foe as any Orc. Faramir knows he may one day die beneath an onslaught of foes too great to repel or outwit. But he will not yield to despair. So he hoards scraps of beauty and light in his heart, savoring their memory, delighting in new appearances. Now Faramir raises his head, to seize with hungry eyes, the gleam of Eärendil’s bright star in the grey-streaked heavens.

His men awaken. The perilous day, then another long night, awaits them all. And their Captain is ready.

This ficlet was originally posted to the Henneth-Annun email list on October 23, 2009; in honor of the birthday of Isabeau of Greenlea.

The Merethrond blazed with the joy of victory and the new hope that it brought to a weary people. Ecthelion had watched Denethor and Finduilas lead the dancers. He held his sleepy grandson on his lap, the child’s warm weight a comfort. For the hope that lit the faces of his captains and lords had left him. Hope had faded, fled from Pelargir and last seen heading into darkness.

I know where you went, Thorongil, but I know not why, the Steward pondered. Why, with Gondor’s victory assured and the gratitude of the entire realm, did you flee? You could have had it all; should have had it all indeed, the well-earned praise for your brave deeds in Umbar, and more. The kingship of your fathers was there, within your grasp; yet you turned your back on it. You turned your back on us.

He had wondered at the young captain’s lineage the first time he had met the warrior newly come from Rohan with Thengel’s recommendation. The man was no mere sell-sword; his perfect Sindarin and noble manner marked him as uncommon. Ecthelion had needed no far-sight to see the man’s Númenorean heritage in his height and stern, hawkish features so like those of Ecthelion’s own son. And then the stillness on the stranger’s face had broken; a look of pride had flashed like a bright war-beacon in those keen grey eyes when they first beheld the throne of the Kings rising behind the Steward’s chair.

Ecthelion had quietly searched out the ancient archives. Thorongil came from the North, but would not say where. When Ecthelion found a fragment of an old text that mentioned the hidden valley where, ‘twas said, the legendary Elven lore-master Elrond fostered the heirs of Isildur long after the North-kingdoms had fallen, he had added Mithrandir’s clear interest in the stranger, and came up with the line of Arvedui and Fíriel, daughter of Ondoher.

An interesting notion, the wizard had called Ecthelion’s assertion. But Mithrandir had never denied it.

Ecthelion had assured his old friend that he would keep his beliefs to himself until Thorongil chose to reveal his true station. And Mithrandir had smiled and quaffed more wine.

Ecthelion had hoped, as trust and respect grew between him and the Eagle of the Star, that Thorongil would confide in him. But although Ecthelion came to love the Northerner, Thorongil kept his secrets to himself.

I would have given you my allegiance, son of my heart; he thought, the admission both lighting and searing his soul. I would have set you above all, even the son of my blood. Would that I could see the realms of Isildur and Anárion united once more!

Denethor gave him a concerned glance as the music quickened. Ecthelion smiled over his sorrow. There was no reason to spoil the merriment; even if, as he suspected, Denethor was as pleased by Thorongil’s departure as Ecthelion was saddened.

He wondered what his son would do when their king returned. Pressing a kiss on his grandson’s brow, Ecthelion prayed that Boromir would live to see that day.

Éowyn’s son and daughter finally sleep, worn out by hours of lessons, riding, berry-picking and play. Éowyn sits by them in one of the garden’s shady nooks, watching the children’s chests rise and fall in the gentle rhythm of restful sleep. Elboron sprawls out on the blanket like a lazing puppy, his long legs relaxed and his sun-flushed face turned toward the late afternoon sky. Míriel’s small body reflects her father’s tendency to sharp, lean lines, elegant even in the deepest slumber. And like Faramir, Míriel has long, dark eyelashes; the definition of her cheekbones clear in the softness of a child’s skin.

They are so fair! The deep well of Éowyn’s love rises until it almost floods her heart. Oh, if only this moment could last forever! In just a handful of years, her little ones will grow up and ride away, too old to fall asleep on a blanket beside their mother.

But that is what she always wanted; that her children stand tall. So Éowyn drops a light kiss on their foreheads, leans back against the warm tree. She cannot capture such a happy day the way Faramir sometimes could, in words so beautiful that her heart would leap to hear them. She did not need to even try. Your father is the poetry; Éowyn thinks, tracking the play of sunlight and shadow on the children’s sleeping faces. And you are each a victory as great as any feat of arms. Through you, I will conquer time.

Fleeing the flames of a conflagration too terrible to recall, he plunges deep into cool waters. There he lies in abeyance, seeing a strange star shine far above him. There was a star, between him and the flames; but it is hard to think clearly and remember any more. Fires had crackled on the Pelennor; and in a land even darker. He had heard his father’s voice amidst the roar of other flames and the hiss of smoke, but where and how? Best not to think on it. Best to stay hidden under the water, safe from the fires.

But he knows, even in this strange state, that he cannot hide. He is needed elsewhere. He fixes his eyes upon that star that winks silver so high and far away. There was a king who bore the star, a king out of legend but real beyond all doubt.

Resolving to leave the haven, Faramir rises. Up through the green depths, up through the reeds, up into the air of day, he rises! He flies upon wings of silver fire, fire that blazes but does not burn. He rises, seeking the star of the king!

Faramir opens his eyes, to find himself in his own body. Instead of silver-flaming wings, he has a bandaged arm and untold bruises and a great weariness. A Guardsman snores on a pallet by the door. The scent of medicines pervades the chamber: poultices and powders, and something else, a cool draught of spring.

Faramir sinks back on the soft, clean pillows. The absent sun has returned and shines palely outside the window. How many have died in the days of darkness, crying for light? He will face that sorrow later. Now he remembers that dread dark land. Now he remembers the return of the King.

This tri-drabble was rather hastily written; and inspired by the Flight of the Phoenix drabble challenge at the Tolkien Weekly LJ Community. I also took some inspiration from some of the lines in Maya Angelou's poem "Still I Rise".

The children of Men grow with such haste! Isildur’s Heir had been a toothless infant but a handful of years ago; and this day he had missed his lessons to take out, unbidden, my most mettlesome horse. Mercifully, the stallion was wiser than the boy, and returned the child unharmed.

His legs and arms are longer now; and he has risen in height. But he is still a boy; and this day he asks me to explain the ways of men and women. I must remember Uncle Maglor’s words to me on the same subject. Was I ever this young?

He rides out this day to rejoin his father’s people. Isildur’s Heir sits tall in the saddle, wise and kindly and valiant. He will make a worthy King. I am well pleased by his progress, yet loath to see him leave. Is this what it means to be a father?

My foster-son is a King well-seasoned, with fair children of his own now. This day, they attend my wedding, to my great joy. In Isildur’s Heir and his son, I can see traces of Isildur and Elendil, and even my brother so long lost. How swiftly the years have flown…

Isildur’s Heir has come home for the last time. I sit at his bedside and hold his hand while the last moments of his life pass; breath by labored breath. Eldacar meets my eyes sorrowfully as we await his father’s passing. His heart stops and mine breaks. Valandil, my son!

Valandil, youngest and only surviving son of Isildur, was born in Imladris about ten years before the end of the Second Age; and apparently stayed there from childhood to manhood, when he took up the Kingship of Arnor (see HoME Vol 12, The Heirs of Elendil, as well as Appendix B, The Tale of Years: The Third Age, ROTK). Eldacar is the only son of Valandil mentioned by Tolkien; I have implied that Valandil might have had more than one child.

This piece is written as five drabblets of 50 words apiece - because I felt like it - and originally posted at HASA in honor of Dwimordene's birthday.

"They still speak of the beauties of Gondolin: the wide ways, the fountains, the finely wrought Seven Gates, the mallorns, the flowers, and the shining towers of the Hidden City.

There is no denying that Gondolin was fair. But on my very first day in the city that became my home, I saw fairer still. There she was, sitting at the king’s left hand. As soon as I finished delivering Ulmo’s message, my eyes found hers. Silver and gold, white birches and yellow mallorns, the great golden form of Glingal and the gleaming silver branches of Belthil above; all paled next to the maid with the fair hair and milk-white skin. I didn’t know, then; that she was the king’s own daughter; and if I had, I wouldn’t have cared. Most other Noldor stared at me, some with respect, some affronted at the nerve of a Man entering their city as Ulmo’s messenger. She was the only one who smiled; and her eyes, those grey eyes that go from soft to stormy, gave me fearless welcome.

I hadn’t seen too many women before then. Seeing her, I didn’t care if I ever saw another one. Thank you, Lord Ulmo, I thought; knowing now that I had not come here just to warn the Elves of Gondolin of coming doom. I had come here to find this maiden. And now that I had, I would woo her and win her and protect her from all harm. Didn’t matter that her tall cousin glowered down at me like a thunder-cloud. Didn’t matter that her father was King of this city and a high Lord of the Noldor. I certainly was a young fire-eater in those days, my boy, vowing to take Idril Celebrindal to wife!

But my luck, that had brought me from thralldom to the Hidden City, bore me up again. I did win her. Or she chose me as much I as I’d chosen her. I’ve never been quite sure. It was Idril’s choice to decide; lad, and you know that once she makes up her mind, no force can gainsay her.

Yes, Gondolin was a fair city. I could have lived out my life there well enough, if Morgoth had let us be. But he didn’t. And I salvaged the fairest treasures of Gondolin – you and your mother, my son. So let’s hurry; she’s awaiting us at the docks.”

Glingal and Belthil, metal likenesses of the lost Trees of Valinor, were made by Turgon in Gondolin, according to The Silmarillion (“Of The Noldor in Beleriand”). Notes to “Of Tuor and His Coming to Gondolin” in Unfinished Tales indicate the presence of mallorns in the Hidden City.

The narrator is, of course, Tuor, grandfather of Elrond; his story is told in more detail in The Silmarillion. As most of my readers know, he was the human who found his way to Gondolin as the messenger of Ulmo; and not only stayed in the Hidden City, but wed the king’s only child, Idril. The son to whom he is speaking is Eärendil, who will one day bear the Silmarillion to Aman and beyond. And of course, the tall cousin who glowered at Tuor was Idril's ill-fated cousin Maeglin.

A terrible keening sounded high above him and then shrilled louder and louder, descending. He dared not look up, besieged as they were by fire-bearing Haradrim, Orcs and others of the Enemy’s forces, but he knew the cry of the Nazgûl. Men he had known all his life screamed and died all around him while he struggled to hold the center. His own heart beat madly, nearly loud enough to drown out the screams. The Black Captain’s shriek filled the sky as Faramir strove to raise his sword in a last defiance.

And Faramir awoke, his heart pounding with the force of the memory. He could hear the howl of the autumn wind, fiercely striking the heavy glass windows. It took a few moments to understand that ten years had passed since the retreat. He now lay in his own bed in the Steward’s Residence in the Citadel, far from the Pelennor. The War was done; the Enemy defeated.

A fair head rose from the tangle of coverlets. Éowyn gave him a quick look, then placed a warm hand on his racing heart. “The retreat again?” She asked briskly, before stepping from their bed to rekindle the lamp. She too had endured such nightmares.

“Aye,” Faramir whispered. He pulled on a bed-robe, cursing as his arm caught briefly in one of the sleeves. He walked swiftly from the bedchamber, out in the hall past the surprised guards, and down to first his son’s room, then the chamber his little daughter shared with her nursemaid. Elboron and Míriel both slept soundly, undisturbed by the crying wind or indeed any evil at all. Faramir breathed easy once more. Returning to his bed, he took Eowyn into his arms, kissing her brow in gratitude and love. A last look out the window showed no black wings crossing the full moon. The City was safe.

You did not prevail, thing of Darkness, Faramir silently bespoke the lord of the Nazgûl. I defied you; and she killed you. The White City still stands, fairer and stronger than before! And our children live unafraid. The men you slew did not die for nothing.

He sank down into the pillows, thinking that he would reply to Pippin’s letter on the morrow. And then he would look in on the widows and orphans of the men lost under his command. Even the Steward of Gondor could not raise again the brave soldiers slain in the darkness. Sleep in peace, he bid them, his heart quiet but saddened.

Faramir held his wife close and drifted into slumber. Outside, beyond window and wall, the unforgiving wind wailed. In the bedchamber, the lamp shed a gentle glow, as its light chased shadows across the sleepers’ faces.

In another time, one that seemed as distant as the shores of Elvenhome, Aragorn reflected, he would have been fishing. He would have sat on a bank in Eriador or Rohan or in the Ered Nimrais, cooling his toes in the water, listening to the wind blow through the trees, concerned only with catching his repast and not being caught by his foes.

It had not been so long ago, Faramir remembered, that he would have spent such a morning as this out-of-doors, leading his men through the forest to scout the Enemy’s movements in Ithilien.

Aragorn looked around the chamber, noting piles of rolled parchment, scattered pages, chests not yet opened, and one weary Steward.

Faramir lifted his eyes from Steward Turgon’s modifications of King’s Laws Concerning Tariffs to Gondor’s new lord, who now stared glumly toward the narrow window high above them. The air was warm, close and filled with dust that surely went back to the days of King Meneldil.

The eyes of King and Steward met in mutual misery.

“Can that window be enlarged?” Aragorn asked.

“I see no reason why not, my lord.”

“Much larger, then. Perhaps two windows, closer to the ground so they can be more easily opened.”

A bird began to warble outside the window.

“A blackbird,” noted Faramir, envying the creature its merriment on this fine summer day. The bird’s song continued, a low-pitched query that rose and fell with gentle insistence.

The King sneezed. “Cursed dust!” He exclaimed as he sought, found, and used a kerchief. “Faramir,” Aragorn asked; “Are we not, as King and Prince-Steward, the highest lords of Gondor?”

“That is true,” Faramir answered, half-smiling. He could still find his fortune hard to believe, for he had become not only Steward to a King out of legend, but lord of a fair new princedom himself.

“Then I say, since we have labored so mightily in our quest to distinguish the subtleties of kings’ and stewards’ laws, that we not only deserve a brief respite, but bear the authority to permit it.”

Faramir found this premise quite tempting. Duty had long ruled them both. Should that duty hold sway over all aspects and hours of their lives, even in these bright new days of peace? He rose.

“And I weary of this dust!” finished the King, pounding his fist upon the worktable and sending up more still more dust-clouds.

“I have naught else that must be done this day, my lord;” Faramir said, after the King’s sneezes subsided. “And these scrolls, having awaited your return for hundreds of years, can surely wait another day or two.” The next official Council would not sit for another two months, plenty of time to sort the old laws on tariffs and more besides.

The King smiled ruefully. “I would hope so. My lady complains that I saw more of her during all the years of my wandering than I have in these weeks since we wed.”

Faramir thought instantly of his own lady, writing him joyful letters from Rohan, and the shared anticipation of their reunion. The duties of lover to beloved, husband to wife also held merit. And it was his duty and honor to look to his king’s needs, when possible. This need, for freedom and sunshine and a wife’s comfort, could and would be met!

“A valid complaint, my lord;” Faramir answered. “Let us leave this place.” He stretched his legs, stiffened from sitting so long, and felt the taut muscles contract.

A fierce grin flashed across the King’s face. He clapped the younger man’s shoulder heartily. Faramir held his stance and grinned back, thinking of similar touches from Boromir, and, long ago, from their father.

“Come with me, Faramir,” The King urged. “We can draw bows on the archery range, explore the gardens, and take lunch with the Queen. Arwen has told me that she wishes to know you better.”

“I am glad to come, Sire;” Faramir replied. He desired to learn more of Aragorn’s bride. Arwen Undómiel was not only his Queen, but a great lady of a storied line. He wondered whether any of the hobbits or elf or dwarf or wizard, would join them; then recalled that all seven had left the City to explore the Pelennor, carrying provisions for a day’s journey.

The summer air smelled sweet when they emerged from the Hall of Archives. Faramir thought of new winds blowing through the timeworn stones of Minas Tirith, stirring parchments and men. Aragorn took a deep breath, clearing his throat; then shook the last of the dust from his hair. A soft warble sounded from the windowsill. Faramir and Aragorn looked up to see the blackbird cock its yellow-billed head at them. Both men smiled; and quickened their step as the blackbird took wing.

*******

This story is a late birthday present to Linda Hoyland; who has written many fine tales of Aragorn and Faramir.

She knelt on the floor, carefully picking up the shards of glass. Why did it have to be this one that broke? Six exquisite miniature glass cats of different colors lined Gilraen’s dresser, a legacy of the lost Elven land of Eregion that Celebrian had not taken with her. A magnificent cut glass pitcher, which was supposedly made in Menegroth, shone in the center of the small table where Gilraen breakfasted with her son. Yet they held little worth to Gilraen, compared to the small glass horse that Aragorn had just shattered with one throw of his ball.

The glass horse had seemed clumsy and plain besides the Elven-made masterpieces. But Gilraen could still hear the pride in Arathorn’s voice when he gave it to her. The little horse was an heirloom in the House of Isildur. Legend said, Arathorn had told her, that Elendil himself had brought the glass figurine from lost Numenor, in remembrance of the many horses he had not been able to save.

Gilraen could not bear to leave it behind. In the year since Arathorn’s death, she had looked at the glass horse every day, sometimes touching it with a careful, wistful finger, recalling how it had reflected the candlelight from its place on the rough wooden mantelpiece of her home. The Dúnedain had scant use for pretty things; their wealth went to the keeping of arms, livestock, books, and people. But some families still kept a small treasure or two, silver belt-buckles, delicate brooches worn by princesses of Arnor, keepsakes from brighter days.

The glass horse was gone now. Gilraen’s shoulders began to shake as she swept up the last pieces and emptied them into the dustbin.

“Don’t cry, Mama”, Aragorn said. “Father Elrond will get you another horse.”

A great wave of anger flooded her heart. “It cannot be replaced, Ara-Estel! You should have been more careful!” How could the boy not see the pain that his recklessness had caused? How could her son claim that Elf as his father? She wanted to slap him. She wanted to weep.

Gilraen sank to her knees, then tightly clasped her shoulders.

“Mama?” Her boy looked up at Gilraen. She saw doubt in his eyes, and his lower lip quivered. Gilraen recognized the signs of confused fear that she had not seen since that exhausting journey from the only home he had ever known. Her only home too, for she was just a guest in this place. The Elves cherished Gilraen and treated her like a visiting princess, but she would never belong in the Elven house, no matter how many glass cats they gave her.

But none of that was Aragorn’s fault! He was so young, just three years old; too little to understand a boastful throw of the ball could hurt her so. Nor could he understand that it was not just the small glass horse she mourned, but also the greater loss of Aragorn’s father; and the home and good, useful life they had shared.

“Come here, Estel,” Gilraen said gently.

The child moved warily to her side.

“You must be more careful, my son,” Gilraen explained. “Do not throw the ball inside the house. You are growing big now; too big to behave like a foolish baby any more.”

“I’m sorry, Mama,” he whispered, true contrition in his voice.

“I know,” Gilraen answered, drawing him into the circle of her arms. “You are my good boy.”

And he was. No glass trinket was worth her little boy’s tears! It mattered not that she had lost her home and missed her people. To safeguard Aragorn, Gilraen would gladly have borne him to the halls of the Dwarves or the icy fastnesses of the Blue Mountains.

“Let us go to the courtyard, Estel,” Gilraen decided. “Bring your ball; and we will play with it.”

“Yes, Mama; we go, we go!” Aragorn squealed, pulling Gilraen by the hand. Her heart stabbed again with the thought that Arathorn should be walking with them. She squared her shoulders; and once more locked up her grief. She could never belong here; but Gilraen vowed that Aragorn would. She would make Imladris into a happy home for her son.

Author's Note:

The first stars of this solstice night peek out between clouds. The wind blows the sour tang of Orodruin’s distant fires. Another Mettarë begins in Minas Tirith. I am weaker than I was last year. I think of my young sons and wonder if I will see them bedecked in their Mettare finery a year from this eve.

Boromir shall wear a silver-trimmed black cloak over his blue tunic; little Faramir will wear a summer-green tunic and a grey cloak. Their father will be the center of all eyes, tall and kingly in Gondor’s black and silver.

Soon my ladies will bring my raiment. We shall proceed to the feast and then the Year’s End ceremony in our holiday best, sparks of colored cloth over pale flesh, torchlight and candles lighting our way under a darkening sky. I struggle now, to hold up my head, for He has come. Not my fair lord, but the other, the Enemy, whose hollow voice haunts my dreams and now my waking hours. He cozens, he taunts, warning me of the futility of this frivolity, that all it will lead to is fire. Fire, He swears, will darken the White City and burn all that I love, some day.

This harrowing began after Thorongil’s departure, shortly before Denethor ascended to the Stewardship. At first, the Shadow showed itself merely as an intruding presence in my dreams, malign but insubstantial, a whisper in the dark. Such whispers have lengthened, deepening into detailed threats, stabbing heart and head with cold terror.

And I stab back hard, with memories of the sea I love: the white walls of the Keep of Dol Amroth, the waves on the Bay, the deeper waters from whence Elendil’s sons came ashore on Middle-earth to further forestall Sauron’s purposes. I set us, myself and my husband and sons, our love and our pride, the Houses of Dol Amroth and Húrin, the Blood of Númenor and the free folk of Gondor, against Him. He cannot take it all. He cannot take us all.

Elbereth!

The pain and His hateful presence recede as the sun sinks outside my window. I hear the gulls cry, and I could weep with longing for the sea.

Denethor has asked me many times to return “home” and regain my health. But I will not leave him. Though I love Dol Amroth well, no place is home without Denethor. I will abide here, for better and for worse. I am the Lady of Gondor! No one, no Southron, Easterling, pestilence, nor ancient Enemy, shall drive me craven from my lord’s side.

Beneath the sullen sunset, I draw in my breath and with it the sweet scent of the herbs scattered throughout my chamber. The time when Light and Darkness meet to dance and to battle draws near. I shall wear my gown of silver, with the starred blue cloak that Denethor gave me as a betrothal gift, and the diamond Stewards’ Star on my breast. They have had to tighten and pad the gown; since I have lost some flesh in the last year. Most eyes will overlook the change.

No bracelets, the Star and the circlet of rank will suffice as adornments.

And perhaps, after the Ceremony of Year’s End finishes, and my lord and I are alone at last, he will lovingly pull off the cloak and help me out of gown and shift and I will have strength enough to share my body as well as my heart. Then, souls naked to one another, we can build walls of love strong enough to bar all shadows.

The tension between Steward and Wizard as they faced each other across the stone table terrified Pippin. It did not keep him from clinging to hope that both would survive, and poor Faramir too. And himself, and Beregond. But hope was growing dim.

And then Pippin’s head, and that of the maddened Steward, turned at the sound of a lady’s voice.

“Denethor!” called Lady Finduilas from the door. She did not speak as softly as she had when Pippin had met her on his arrival in Minas Tirith. Rather she swept into the House like a blue-grey wave off a stormy lake.

The Steward’s Lady reached them, spared Pippin a slight smile, then faced her husband. She spoke in Elvish now, her voice clear and carrying. Pippin remembered Gandalf telling him how the lady had been sickly most of her life and had almost died when her sons were small boys. Finduilas looked anything but frail now.

Denethor answered, also in Elvish. The two of them went back-and-forth, he imperious, she implacable, for what seemed an hour but was probably a much shorter time. Pippin was reminded of his own folk: it was said of Pippin’s Dad and Mum that when the Thain was on his high horse, only his wife could get him off it. Gandalf was just about holding his breath; while Beregond’s frightened gaze jumped from the Steward to Lady Finduilas, back and forth, as did Pippin’s own eyes. Only Faramir was peaceful; and Pippin knew they would all have given anything to have him sit up and start talking.

Denethor finally dropped his fierce gaze. He also dropped the palantir. Pippin dropped a sigh of relief. The Lady glided forward to reach Denethor. Lord and lady embraced, black and blue-grey cloaks mingling together. The Steward bowed his head over hers.

Years later, when Faramir sent word of his mother’s death, Pippin remembered the great Lady of Minas Tirith. He hoped that Lord Denethor was bearing up without her; he had rarely seen married folk so devoted to each other; particularly since Denethor, as proud and lordly as he was, couldn’t be too easy to live with. Pippin knew that he would always remember the scent of lavender she bore, along with the Elvish air that Faramir had too. Queen Arwen was beautiful, no doubt, but he could not imagine Minas Tirith without the Lady Finduilas.

Sundry Scrolls IV by Raksha The Demon