Written for the “Characters You Never Write” Challenge at Tolkien_Weekly

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“We secured passage for you on a ship to Pelargir. Her captain is a trustworthy man.”

He kept his voice to a whisper, for Bergil slept nearby. “I will not flee like a common thief.”

“By ancient law, your life will be forfeit. Leave now, before they put you in irons.”

“And be doubly cursed as both coward and traitor?”

“Think of your sons!”

“You risk much for my sake, yet still I must refuse.”

After his friends had left, he polished his boots and brushed the black and silver tabard. Then he stood beside the bed, watching Bergil sleep.

"Boromir, are you sure this is the way to the Black Gate?"

"Look, there's one of those little symbols for enemy fortress right there, past the crossroads."

"I think that's the symbol for a campground."

"'Tis an enemy fortress. I can read a map; I am highly trained in orienteering."

"Then why did it take you 120 days to get to Rivendell?"

"It is wrong to speak ill of the dead, Gandalf."

"Well, technically, I am dead too, so I am allowed. Here, Aragorn, you're the ranger, you read the map. And you two in back, stop bickering or I will turn you both into garden gnomes!"

"But Emeril is on, and all Gimli wants to watch is World Wrestling Federation Smackdown."

"One more word and I turn off the TV."

"WWF is on?"

"When we stop for gas, Boromir can sit in back with the dwarf. Legolas gets the front seat. Everyone happy? Good. I won't have to do anything drastic."

For the “Late” challenge at Tolkien_Weekly

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The dead rustled like a forest in winter as the rangers made their cold camp. Aragorn knew he must rest against the morrow’s need, so he cast himself on the ground, soon falling into uneasy dreams.

Red fire encircled the walls of stone; while above, the white banner was hidden by smoke. Too few, the defenders had broken and fled. Setting aside the white rod, the steward took up the black orb in its stead.

Aragorn awoke and lay staring into the starless sky. He begrudged his body these hours of rest, hours stolen from the lives of other men.

For the “Diligence” Challenge at Tolkien_Weekly.

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Long ago, she had learned that this was her lot—to wait in this safe haven until the menfolk came.

Fair or not, this was her fate, as the hours and days spun a lengthening thread, yet she was not idle as she waited. She bowed her dark head over her work, and her weaving slowly grew, inch by gleaming inch, the silken threads cunningly twined where the simplest pattern would have served.

Then suddenly, her waiting ended with the sound of shouting and booted feet. “Yer supper for Her Ladyship, you filthy tark!”

At last, the menfolk had come.

For the “Renewal” Challenge at Tolkien_Weekly.

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As jagged as an eggshell, the broken dome rose before him. Below in the City, chisel rang on stone, but here no mason labored. Faramir knew not why he had returned here. This place held no secrets, only things that were better left hidden. He knew that his father was gone, beyond any hope of healing.

Yet his heart lifted when he saw the green vines, tender in their newness, that twined across the ruins. Fine tendrils grasped the stones, and among the heart-shaped leaves, white flowers turned toward the sun.

Morning glory, folk called them, and also steward’s trumpets.

Written for the birthday of Just_Ann_Now who requested a tale about Thorongil in Rohan.

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“Your name?” Thengel asked, stifling a yawn. These hungry hire-swords were drawn to Edoras like flies to a manure heap.

“Thorongil, Sire.”

“Who is your lord, and why have you left his service?”

“I travel on errantry, Sire.”

Or was sent away in dishonor. Why does he not name his lord? Thengel pointed to the huge scabbard slung across the stranger’s back. “Why do you carry a second sword? It must hinder you greatly during battle.”

“’Tis an ancient heirloom. I carry it for… good luck.”

Thengel cleared his throat. “Marshal Todric will send word if we need you. Next!”

A fic of two hundred words, written for the “Fixed-Length Ficlet” challenge at LOTR_community.

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Old Forlong did not lie to his men. Though he lacked the foresight of his lord, he knew the likely outcome of this fight. The armies of Gondor would be trapped on the plain between the mountains and river, their path of retreat blocked by the corsairs.

He had always felt as a father to his people, and what father would order his sons to march to a needless death? Though many were willing to go, in the end he chose only two hundred, the oldest of his soldiers. Grey-bearded and grim, they shouldered their axes and set out for Minas Tirith.

“So few? Only two hundreds?” Lord Denethor glared like a stoat with its foot caught in a snare.

“Yes, sire.” Forlong deemed that the less he said, the better.

“I expected a full two thousand or more.”

“They were all that could be spared. We had word of the corsairs.” He hoped that his sunburned skin hid the flush of shame. Despite his many years, he was not well-practiced in lying.

“And you need to guard your borders.”

“Yes, sire,” old Forlong replied. The lie was bitter on his tongue, but not as bitter as speaking the truth.

~*~

'Forlong!' men shouted. 'True heart, true friend! Forlong!' But when the men of Lossarnach had passed they muttered: 'So few! Two hundreds, what are they? We hoped for ten times the number. That will be the new tidings of the black fleet. They are sparing only a tithe of their strength. Still every little is a gain.'
--Minas Tirith, The Return of the King

Cast above the tide, a tangle of seaweed and wood steamed in the sun. Imrahil and the children searched among the wreckage.

“Look, Uncle Imrahil!” Faramir pointed to a curved plank that jutted from the sand.

“From a Southron ship, by the looks of it,” Imrahil replied slowly. “Perhaps she was wrecked in the storm.” Frowning, he glanced toward the sea that gleamed like a mirror of hammered silver.

“Maybe they were corsairs?” Boromir said with a hopeful look. “And they swam ashore with long knives in their teeth.”

Dark head bowed, Faramir traced a finger along the strange carvings on the plank. “Why are ships called she? They’re not beasts or people.”

“Because—“ Imrahil stopped. He could recite a dozen lewd jokes on the subject, but he did not know the true reason. Why were ships called she? “We will have to ask the loremasters,” he told the child.

Boromir slashed at the air with a stick. “Uncle Imrahil, Faramir and I need swords if we’re going to fight the corsairs.” This was only the third time he had asked for a sword that day.

But the day is still young, Imrahil thought, trying not to laugh.

Written for the Tolkien_Weekly "Teatime" challenge.

“Ooh, I want one of those.” A shadowy finger pointed to a raspberry tart.

He didn’t like raspberries, didn’t like them at all, but ever obedient, the Man took a bite.

“How does it taste? That used to be my favorite.” The disembodied voice echoed in his head.

“Uhm, mmm,” the Man replied through the crumbs. If only, just once, the Lord would point to the cream puffs instead.

“Now I want some tea. Remember, exactly two lumps of sugar.”

The Man sighed to himself as he poured. The Mouth of Sauron. Little had he realized exactly what that entailed.

Written for the Tolkien_weekly "River" Challenge.

“No man ever steps in the same river twice,” their father said as Faramir dipped a wary foot in the water then waded into the shallows.

“Why not?” Boromir looked up from digging a hole in the sand.

“The river is always changing—and so is the man.”

“But it’s still the Anduin, isn’t it? And I will never change.”

“I daresay you will not, my son,” Denethor said with the faintest glint of a smile.

Squinting against the sun’s reflected glare, Faramir watched the dreamlike sway and the flickering gleam and shadow as the river flowed over his feet.

Written for the Tolkien_weekly "Cup" challenge

Grima was not the only Rider to watch her eagerly when she offered them the stirrup-cup. Bright with amber and silk, she would make a proud ornament for her husband’s hall, and her dower horses would number in the hundreds. It would be a great honor to join with a daughter of Eorl, and her soft woman’s flesh would bear her new husband’s weight and then bear him fine sons. She held much that these Riders desired.

At first, she was pleased by their longing; yet later, she thought it an empty thing, like a stirrup-cup that had been overturned.

Éowyn held out a handful of silvery grass. “Clover and sweet timothy—the right and proper fare for young horses. Once those rocks have been cleared, this will make a fine hayfield.” The north wind had loosed her hair from the braids, and silken streamers whipped about her face. The seemly housewife’s coif had long since fallen, unnoticed, to the ground as they walked. Among the blenched grasses and the branches despoiled of any greenery, her rosy face and golden hair were the only traces of color.

The wind rose and fell with the rustle of dry seed heads.

“I fought a battle here,” Faramir told her, though “battle” was too grand a word for that fight. It had been no more than the chance meeting of a few unlucky men. He remembered how the air had shimmered with the pulsing of the insects. He pointed to a linden tree. “We buried the fallen over there.” It seemed he could not cross a field without stumbling on these shallow graves and seeing again the faces of the slain.

“Then we must build a high cairn to mark the place where they rest.” Éowyn’s voice sounded thin and harsh in the cold air, but the press of her gloved hand was warm upon his arm. He rarely spoke of his days as a Ranger; yet when he did, she understood as only another soldier could. He often thanked the Valar for sending him such a wife.