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

In Lórien, Finwë sat next to Míriel Serindë's motionless body, combing his fingers through his wife's long, dark hair.

“Fëanáro is growing so fast,” he whispered to her. “He ever is running from one shining thing to another, his eyes wide and his fingers reaching towards them. I wish you could see him, dearest; flourishing, bright, and strong—and curious. His favorite word is 'why', Míriel, and I fear that I'll not be able to give him all the answers he seeks.”

His hand paused its stroking and, weeping, he asked, “What do I say when he asks why you left us?”

The sound of splashing, punctuated by shouts of “Not like that!” and “Haven't you ever heard of teamwork?!” drew Elladan to the balcony overlooking Avallónë's harbor.

“Is our Perfectionist Erestor at it again?” he asked Glorfindel, who lounged on a chaise, reading in the sunshine.

Glorfindel nodded. “Of course. I'm surprised he doesn't have you out there, too.”

Elladan cuddled his granddaughter against his shoulder, shuddering. He patted her on the back and replied, “You must think me a masochist!”

“I'm certainly not bored enough to forgo babysitting for synchronized swimming!”

“Don't go in there again! It's forbidden!” Damrod glanced nervously at the trees that loomed only a few yards away.

Halmir shrugged off his friend's hand and worry, and stepped towards the shadowed verge where a lightning-struck stump was enwrapped with a flowering vine. “I'm not going into the forest. But I made a promise. I'm keeping it.”

Ignoring Damrod's continued protests, Halmir dropped to one knee and carefully set the sealed clay beaker on the flattened top of the stump, and called out softly, “A gift of thanks to Ghan-Buri-Ghan for the healing herbs that saved my daughter's life.”

The paths go nowhere—at least nowhere that we need to go. So we climb, one foot in front of another, making a new path over ledge and ridge and precipice. Up and up, then down, first east, then south, then east again. Sam thinks it's the scent from the Dead Marshes I'm following.

I don't have the heart to tell him that it's the Ring that pulls me in the direction we need to go. Perhaps it thinks it's coming closer to home, and so is “helpful”.

Erchirion snatched up a rock and flung it hard so that it skipped a half dozen times before it vanished into the depths of the fish pond. “It's not fair! I was supposed to go with Father to pick out my pony, not Elphir and Boromir!”

Another rock skipped across the pool, and he turned to see his cousin, who looked just as unhappy as he felt. “You got left behind, too.”

“That's what happens when you're the spare,” Faramir said, resigned, and gazed longingly over the garden wall for a glimpse of the Pelennor's horse fair.

“You told your friends that my ginger biscuits weren't any good?” Estella shrieked.

“Well, not in so many words,” Fatty prevaricated, wishing that he'd left the hole along with Frodo, Merry, and Pippin. He began to back away from his sister as tears of anger trickled down her cheeks.

“It amounted to that! I'm so humiliated! Everyone's—even Violet's!--biscuits got eaten—except mine!”

“Er, well, I'm sorry--” Freddie made a sudden grab for the full plate of ginger biscuits, and dodged out the dining room door, calling back, “But it left them all for me!”

Ondoher took a deep breath and dropped to his knees as he reached his destination. Far below in the Citadel, his generals met for the last time before they left to face the Wainriders, but here, his voice rose in supplication.

“Oh, Eru, I pray you will preserve my people unto better days. Father of All, please give them the faith that the Darkness will always succumb to the Light.”

At the end of his plea, he drew forth the seed from his pocket and planted it. “Give them hope,” he whispered, and returned to his duty below.

A/N: Ondoher was slain together with his eldest son and heir Artamir, and Gondor appeared defeated. The kingdom's fortune was reversed when General Eärnil, who had defeated the Haradrim, surprised the Wainriders and destroyed their army, ending their threat. With the deaths of Ondoher and his sons in battle, no direct royal heirs remained, so Arvedui of Arthedain claimed the throne of Gondor. Although Arvedui had a strong claim by his way of his wife Fíriel, who by ancient Númenórean law now should have become Ruling Queen, the throne was granted by the Steward Pelendur to the general Eärnil, a direct male-line descendant of King Telumehtar, who would reign as King Eärnil II.

This decision led to the reign of the Stewards in Gondor due to Eärnur, Eärnil II's only son, going off to battle the Witch King of Angmar at Minas Morgul without leaving an heir. Ultimately, this led to the return of "hope" in the Return of the King, Aragorn Elessar Telcontar in TA 3019. (Author's Note info summarized from Wikipedia entry.)

"I'm sorry to leave you here to entertain yourself, Magnus; but the dinner is only for members," Tomas apologized as he attempted to arrange his cravat. "Master Rogier asked if you'd accept an invitation for initiation."

His dark-haired guest shook his head, crossing the room to push his host's hands away from the silk. As his scarred, deft fingers plucked it into perfect form, he replied, "I truly appreciate the honor, but I will swear no more oaths." As Tomas put his plumed hat on his head, Magnus looked down at his scarred hand and whispered, "They bring only grief."

A/N: Somehow inspired by my very recent re-reading of Katherine Kurtz's TWO CROWNS FOR AMERICA--how it managed to give me a scene with a Feanorian, I'll never know!

aka "Thranduil's Wild Ride" inspired by Jael's "Not Fade Away" universe, and "THE WIND IN THE WILLOWS"

Eyes tightly closed, Legolas Thranduilion held on, white-knuckled, as the left gatepost veered far too close for comfort. He was sure that the ends of his fair hair snagged against the stones before they were past it. How would he explain to Lord Bannoth that after surviving into the Seventh Age, he was killed by his father's new toy?

With a clatter and a loud bang, the Daimler Horseless Carriage came to a lurching halt before the doors of their home. Legolas cautiously opened his eyes to see his father beaming at him through his driving goggles.

A/N: I had this mental image during my morning commute of Thranduil driving madly through the little village near their residence in England before they moved to America, nearly knocking over market stalls, terrorizing chickens and housewives, just like the Disney cartoon "Mr. Toad's Wild Ride" from THE WIND IN THE WILLOWS. I couldn't resist.

Núradan opened the door to the innermost part of the dye works. A miasma of rotting fish and worse filled the air. “I salvaged all that I could after the black ships headed up the river, but most of the dye was ruined.”

“No, my lord. We fought them off.” Núradan urged him to look over the railing at the many shallow, saline-filled pools that filled the room. Thousands of small mollusks crept across the stony bottom.

A/N: I postulate that the particular color of blue used in the heraldry of Dol Amroth is derived from a saltwater mollusk, much like the Tyrian Purple (aka Royal Purple) of our past was created from the secretions of a shellfish in the genus Murex, which inhabits the shallow waters of the Mediterranean Sea. It seems likely to me that the secret of how Dol Amroth Blue dye was made would be closely held, and that it would be of great concern to Imrahil that production of such a luxury good would be disrupted by the attacks of the Corsairs on the coastlines of southern Gondor.

Since we do not know how much damage the Corsairs did to Southern Gondor before Aragorn, the Grey Company, and the Army of the Dead fought them at Pelargir, I think it would have been one of the first things he checked on after he returned home after the end of Ring War and Aragorn's wedding.

Doron set his broom against the wall, and turned to see a Guardsman on crutches hobbling awkwardly towards him. “Sir?”

The guard reached for Doron's hands and turned them palm up, revealing several ugly, barely-healed gashes. “You hauled those stones off of me after that barrage knocked me and my squad from the wall. I'd have lost my leg if not for you.”

A/N: Posted in honor of Veterans/Remembrance Day. In times of war, there are all sorts of heroes, especially unsung ones.

Urhador shifted his daughter in his arms and surveyed the garden around their home. He would miss it sorely, especially the lavender blossoms that nodded by his wife's favorite bench, and he swallowed hard before he told Calathiril, “Say goodbye, little one. We leave tonight.”

At the quay, Cirdan looked askance at the pot filled with lilies tucked in Urhador's right elbow, opposite the sleeping Calathiril in his left.

Urhador explained, “Calathiril wants to take them to her mother,” then boarded the ship. Once they got to Tol Eressëa, they'd tend the flowers and wait for Idhorivor's Rebirth.

“That's from when I jumped out of the haymow at Whitwell when I was a tween.” Pippin pointed with his pipe to a scar on his left arm. “My cousins had just arrived, and I got impatient.”

“Ouch!” Faramir asked, “What about those, Papa?”, indicating the scars just visible above Pippin's furry feet, and on his wrists.

“Much older.” Pippin kissed Faramir on the brow and blew out the lamp. “I learned the hard way, patience is a virtue. Good night, son.”

Celeborn looked up from the letter he was writing as a leaf-laden breeze from the West blew in through the open window of his study. Leaves—beech, oak, and others—danced about the room before settling to lie in the corners and across the floor, as a final puff stirred his silver hair about his shoulders.

He shook his head, dislodging a leaf that had caught on the filigree circlet. It fluttered down to land on the parchment, smearing the wet ink.

Celeborn stared down at the dull brown mallorn leaf, and closed his eyes in grief.

A/N: Filemot (FIL-mot) noun, adjective. The color of a dead or faded leaf: dull brown or yellowish brown. [From the corruption of the French term feuillemorte, from feuille (leaf) + morte (dead). Ultimately from Indo-European root bhel- (to thrive or bloom) that gave us flower, bleed, bless, foliage, blossom, and blade.]

“That--that Frodo Baggins!” Mrs. Maggot planted her hands on her hips and glared at her husband. “Five times he's raided our fields and made off with our crops! Now the best mushrooms are all but gone! You hear me, Mr. Maggot; you stop that sneak thief, or you'll be answering to me!” She whirled and stalked back into the house, slamming the door behind her.

Farmer Maggot nodded, and turned back to the ravaged field. Lads raiding fields was part of farming, but that Baggins, who was all but a Brandybuck, was taking it much too far!

A burst of laughter from the rangers seated near the hearth caught Faramir's attention.

Before returning to his reports, Faramir indulged himself by thinking of what he missed most from his home.

“Why should we weigh down our packs with boots, of all things?” Pippin picked up the offending footwear and made a face. “I'd think by now, they'd know we don't wear shoes.”

When he made to toss them aside, Boromir caught his arm and shook his head. “Take them anyway, Pippin. If nothing else, if you don't use them, you can trade them away once we get to Gondor.”

Skeptical, Pippin stuffed them into the bottom of his pack. “If you say so, big man.”

A/N: I, personally, don't believe that hobbits never wear shoes or protective footwear. No matter how tough your soles, extended exposure to snow and sub-freezing weather will cause pain and damage. Sometimes shoes, boots or pattens will be a necessity, even for hobbits. Elrond knew they planned to go over Caradhras, so I believe that he would have provided protective footwear for that part of the journey, even if Professor Tolkien never actually mentioned it in the text.

Mrs. Butterbur nervously set her pie on the table, and took a quick glance at the competition. Goldenrod Underhill's entry was next to hers, all fluted edges and lattice sprinkled with sugar. There was even a pastry flower! What had she been thinking to compete against hobbits when it came to food?

She wrung her hands in her apron, all too aware of the flaws in her entry as the judges moved along, tasting slices. It didn't look half as pretty as the rest.

She stared in disbelief when they handed her the blue ribbon for the best-tasting cherry pie.

We stand on the walls of our city, in the glare of the sun, and watch the return of the army. From up here, you can see the truth of our losses. Where hundreds of the best of our men marched out with pride, mere handfuls of tired warriors limp up the road to the gates, burdened by defeat.

We meet them in the square, hoping to see a beloved face. Too few are the reunions of mother to son, wife to husband. Too many find only bitter disappointment.

A/N: Per Chronicle at Encyclopedia of Arda: In 1551 the Haradrim are defeated by King Vinyarion of Gondor, who takes the name Hyarmendacil II.

Boromir drew up his horse and paused on the eastern bank of the Fords of Isen. This was real start of his search for far distant Imladris. Until this moment, he could pretend that he'd been sent to Rohan to meet with Theoden, and to spend time with his friend, Theodred. Now....

“Boromir?” Theodred urged his mount closer and reached to clasp Boromir's wrist. “What is it?”

“I have the oddest feeling.” He looked back over his shoulder at the rolling hills and plains to the east. “As if I may never ride this way again.”

Sam scooped a ladleful of stew from the tureen that rested before him, and then paused as its aroma penetrated his distraction.

For a long moment he was back in Ithilien with Frodo, the coneys Gollum had caught bubbling away in his long lost pot over the small fire they’d built.

He filled his bowl and smiled at Rosie, who stared at him, a puzzled expression on her face.

“The last time I made rabbit stew, Mr. Frodo and I never got to eat it. I suspect the ranger patrol had it for their supper that night.”

The child of the one who planted me still comes each evening as the sun wanes, but I sense he goes soon to his final sleep. While small ones still climb my silver trunk, no longer do the Firstborn come across the grass in the starlight, to softly sing beneath my branches before they follow the sun into the west

My leaves still glow golden in the late summer sun, but something has changed this last season.

No longer do I sense, as I reached out with root and leaf through the earth and air, others of my kind.

A/N: Inspired by Celeritas’ comment on NaQuaWriMo drabble #14: Filemot at Stories of Arda: “...As for the drabble itself--how sad! Inevitable, of course, but I hope that this isn't early in the Age at least. I also have to wonder if this means that the Shire's mallorn has also died, or if it gets an extra lease on life.” This doesn’t exactly answer her final thought, but it’s what the Mallorn gave to me tonight.

Thorongil sniffed, intrigued by the aroma drifting from pitcher that Thengel, grinning, offered to him. “What is it?” He held out his empty goblet to the king.

“The cooks call it eggnog. Milk, eggs, and spirits. They only make it up during the week of the Sun Returning, and we all look forward to the treat. Especially me!”

Thorongil licked the creamy substance from his lips, appreciatively, and held out his cup again. “Mmmmm. Very good! More please?”

Year’s later, when he came to his throne, Elessar insisted on eggnog being served each Solstice, in memory of his generous friend.

The last tour group had returned to Wiseman from Santa’s Grotto, and Mr. and Mrs. Claus joined Glorfindel in the circle of Elves and Men beneath the stars.

Glorfindel, like the rest, held a candle in his hand, although only his was lit. A few minutes before midnight he spoke. “We come to acknowledge the Night, but also, more importantly, to hold fast to the promise that Day will follow the darkness. Auta i lómë!” He touched the flame of his candle to that on his left. As the light passed from hand to hand, the rest responded, “Aurë entuluva!”

A/N: This drabble was inspired by two fanfics written by Fiondil, which are found at the Stories of Arda fanfiction archive. The setting takes place as a “missing moment” in Elf Academy http://www.storiesofarda.com/chapterlistview.asp?SID=6388. The ceremony itself was inspired by the Winter Solstice ceremony described in Elf, Interrupted: Book One: Glorfindel Redux, (Chapter 89) http://www.storiesofarda.com/chapterlistview.asp?SID=5080. This drabble is posted with Fiondil's approval and permission.

“Auta i lómë!: "The night is passing!" Fingon cried these words before the Battle of Unnumbered Tears, to which his men responded, "Utúlie’n aurë!," which means, "The day has come!" At the end of that battle, the mortal Hurin of the House of Hador, who refused to admit defeat and served as the rearguard for Turgon, King of Gondolin, allowing him and the surviving Elves to escape, cried out “Aurë entuluva!” which means "Day will come again!"

“How is Rosie?” Aragorn peered around the edge of the door even as Sam opened it wide to reveal the King was in traveling clothes. “I hurried back as soon as the messenger got to Osgiliath.”

Sam pulled him over to the bed where Rosie sat up holding a tiny bundle to her breast. “Come and see! We’re naming him Tom, after Rosie’s Da.”

Aragorn wondered, when Sam placed the babe in his arms, if he’d feel as much awe when his own son was born.

A/N: According to the tale of Years, in Fourth Age 21, Sam, Rosie and Elanor traveled to Gondor and stayed there a year. Tom Gamgee was born in Minas Tirith before their return to the Shire. We do not know just when Eldarion was born, so I felt justified in having Aragorn respond as if Eldarion had not yet arrived in this ficlet.

“It’s snowing! Come and play with me, Glorfi!” Estel burst into the room where Glorfindel was curled up by the fire with a book and a mug of mulled wine.

“You know that I don’t go out in weather like this unless I’m on patrol, Estel,” he gently chided the boy. “Why don’t you stay in here to keep me company where it is warm?”

Glorfindel shivered as a memory of frigid, unforgiving ice and snow bloomed in his mind. Helcaraxe.

Gimli gently blew the remaining stone dust from the engraved image and turned it so that the light and shadow would more clearly define the design. He nodded approvingly. “That’s better, but it still needs something.”

Legolas, swathed in a leather apron, his long hair tied back out of the way, frowned at his friend. “It’s just the way I wanted it to look, Gimli. And I did it like you showed me.”

“Aye, laddie, you did. But you left off the most important part.” The Dwarf handed the carved white stone tile back to Legolas.

The elderly hobbit patted the bench on which he sat, inviting Barahir to join him. “Here you are, my boy,” Pippin said, offering the ten-year-old a be-ribboned box.

“But--I’m supposed to give a gift to you,” the lad protested even as his fingers curled around the gift.

“Your grandfather has been neglecting your education dreadfully! Hobbits, you see, give presents on our birthdays to show our affection for our friends and family.” Pippin puffed on his pipe and reached far back in his memory. “Now the most magnificent birthday celebration ever was when my cousin Bilbo Baggins turned eleventy-one….“

A/N: According to the Tale Of Years, in FA 63, Pippin and Merry gave up their positions in the Shire as Thain and Master of Buckland to their sons and traveled east to Rohan, where they were with Eomer at his deathbed. in FA 64 they traveled to Gondor, where they spent the remaining years of their lives. At the time of this drabble, Pippin is turning 95 years old, and Merry is about 102 years old. Tolkien never said what years they died, nor if one pre-deceased the other. But both were laid to rest in the House in the Rath Dinen, and when Aragorn finally passed away in Fourth Age 120, their bodies were moved to lay on either side of his tomb in the House of the Kings. Barahir is presumed to be the son of Elboron and grandson of Faramir, and was the purported author of the story of Aragorn and Arwen's courtship in the Tale of Years.

“Why do I have to learn to knit?” Damrod whined at his mother as she positioned his hands on the wooden needles.

“You’ve no sister to do it for you, and I won’t be around forever,” she told him sharply. “Now pay attention. This is how you make a knit stitch…”

Twenty years later, he sat near the fire at Henneth Annun, patiently knitting a new heel onto a worn woolen sock.

Damrod remembered his mother’s words. “I’ve no sister to do it for me, so my mother taught me how.”

Nov 30: Succession (TA 3019, August, Edoras, Rohan)

He laid faithful Guthwine on the table and reached for the other weapon that lay there. His calloused fingers trembled as they closed around the hilt of the sword, and he felt the regard of those who watched from the halls of his longfathers. The leather wrapping, the wire, the jewels, the runes that proclaimed the blade’s name; he took hold of the history of his bloodline in his hands.

Uncle, may I bear your sword with honor.

Éomer raised up Herugrim before him, and turned to face the people--his people--gathered under Meduseld’s golden roof.

“Westu Eomer hal!”

A/N: And so NaQuaWriMo comes to an end. It's been great fun coming up with a drabble each day, despite all sorts of things interfering. While we didn't get all the way to the Dagor Dagorath, I hope that my little episodes throughout the various eras of Arda were enjoyable and, perhaps, touched your heart in one way or another.

This drabble is really a speculative imagining of Eomer's coronation. Although he was King of the Mark immediately upon Theoden's death, Tolkien never seems to have assigned an official coronation date for him. I read a fanfic relatively recently that proposed that Eomer's kingship couldn't be confirmed until Theoden was properly buried in the barrow mounds at Edoras, and so I placed this moment of confirmation taking place after the funeral but before the Hobbits set of for Rivendell and the Shire. Maybe I'll expand on it (or other drabbles in this collection) in the future. Or maybe I'll leave them as they are--moments that tell their own story and hopefully inspire other stories in you, the reader.

Across Arda's Ages by Rhyselle