1. Nan Elmoth:  Seduction

Elu Thingol, Melian

 Caught in a Web

            Sweet Yavanna!  And what is this?  I cannot move, not even my eyes!  All that I am is caught within a spell I cannot break. 

            Yea, if I am honest, I do not desire to break this spell.

            From whence this vision that has captured me, hröa and fëa, and my heart as well?  Whose magic is it that holds me still, so I can neither withdraw or draw nearer the woman I see?

            But I give myself to you, and will be guided by you, Melyanna; and the works of my hands and my mind and my heart will ever be dedicated to you, and blessed by your acceptance.  Will you have me?

2. Losgar:  Defiance

Macalaurë, a former friend

In Defiance

            His path was lit for a time by the flickering of the flames from the burning ships behind him.  Carefully he searched the ground for the signs that his friend had indeed gone this way, for although Olwíon had not sought to hide his trail, still little enough could be seen easily under the light of the stars.

            But at last he saw a figure that was indeed moving blindly northward, the glimmer of its being barely discernible in the dark.  He breathed a sigh of relief, and increased his speed, calling out as he drew closer, “Olwíon!  Olwíon!”

            Olwíon paused in his steady trudge, and Macalaurë saw that he stood rigidly, his hands balled into fists.  Again he increased his pace until he at last caught up with his friend.  He put his hand upon Olwíon’s shoulder and forced him to turn about.  He saw that Olwíon’s face, even as seen under the starlight, was markedly pale and stiff, and the tracks of tears shone dimly.

            “And where do you go, gwador nín?” Macalaurë demanded.

            Olwíon pointed the direction he’d been heading.  “Back,” he said, his voice strangely rough.  “They will have to come that way, will they not?  For they will follow, and you know it as do I.”

            “And you think to brave the cold and ice of the way, alone?”

            Olwíon shook his head in dismissal of the question, asking instead, “Why did he not send the ships back, Macalaurë?  Why did your father insist they be burned?”  He raised his chin as he looked up toward the now familiar stars.  “He has done much to us in his defiance, but I will no longer follow as I did.

            “He has made of me a rebel against the Valar, who ever treated us well and with love and care.  He put a sword in my hand, and in Alqualondë I found myself slaying my own kind.  And it was not only men and mariners I slew, but mere boys, and even a maiden who’d come to the ships merely to bring her brother a meal sent by their ammë!  He made of me a thief and a murderer, and even a sailor myself.  And he told us that the ships would be sent back to bring the others.

            “They stayed behind, my father and my brother, at my insistence.  They stayed behind that those who brought them here would be better experienced to ferry them after us in more safety than in the case of ourselves.”  He took a long, painfully ragged breath before hissing, “And he betrayed them!”  He gestured toward the now dim glow southward.  “He has burned the ships, and my family will have to come this way.  And, think you, what are the chances they will survive the journey?”

            He straightened, shaking his head and squeezing his eyes shut.  “Nay, I shall no longer follow Fëanáro.  My path is now plain—my family comes that way, and I shall go to meet them.  I defy your atar and his madness at the last.  Never shall my hands be cleansed of the stain of my betrayal of the Valar and of the lives I’ve stolen, for I have wakened from the spell he cast over us all.”

            Macalaurë swallowed heavily, trying to clear his throat of the tightness he experienced.  At last he managed, “But you have are not prepared for the cold and the way.  You do not even carry a bow with which to bring down birds or game with which to feed yourself, and your cloak is nowhere warm enough!”

            But Olwíon continued to shake his head, although he now opened his eyes again, and Macalaurë could see they were dark with grief.  “And is it any better for them?  I would rather die upon the way than to continue as we have, following a madman.”  His voice gentled somewhat.  “Nay, gwador, I shall no longer be shackled to your atar’s will.  And if I die—well, then I shall die and so come to Lord Námo’s halls the sooner, and perhaps find myself freed of my guilt at the last.  I will gladly face the feär of those I slew and offer myself up to their judgment.”

            With that he shook off Macalaurë’s hand and turned resolutely away, and the son of Fëanáro made no further attempt to stay him, but watched him disappear into the darkness.

3. Vinyamar:  fear of change

A Sindar Elf

Reluctance

            When the time came to follow their Noldo lord to the secret place where he had decided to build a new city and stronghold for them, Nerwion hid himself away.  Only at the insistence of his adar had he accepted a place within Vinyamar, as he had been happy living within the glades of the forest as they’d done before the Fire-eyes had arrived.

            Much change had the Noldor brought with them, and he’d watched the raising of the city in awe and suspicion, grieving for each tree felled to make way for another building to be raised, weeping as the earth itself was made to offer up its bones with which to construct yet another wall.

            And they would now leave this place, wrought with much labor and care, to hide away from the rest of the world?  Nay, not even for the fear of Morgoth would he leave his home again.  Let the others seek the vain illusion of safety; he would rather take his chances in the open, where he might see the coming of enemies.

4. Mithrim:  victory over fear

an Elf

A Victory over Self

            And just what do we do here, beset as we are by these foul creatures that Moringotto has twisted from the will of Eru?  Ay—how my body trembles and my bowels melt within me as they approach!  Their very stench is an assault upon the senses.  Surely they shall slay us all, to the very least of us!

            Yet our lord would bid us face them in defiance.  I must steel myself.

            I loosen my sword in its sheath, gripping its hilts with reluctance.  The last time I drew it, it was against my own kind, there in Alqualondë, when the Teleri would not grant us the use of their ships.  Bright was their blood as it was shed by this blade, there beneath the glimmer of the unfamiliar stars and the crystalline lamps that burned to illuminate the quays.  Will the blood of these beasts be as red, think you?  Although it is more likely, I deem, that my own blood shall be drunk by them.

            How can he stand so steady, our Lord Fëanáro?  How can his gaze remain so true, his eyes gleaming in his wrath?

            But, can I do any less?  Nay, I shall stay my desire to flee—his example heartens me!

            They draw closer, and I feel the skin upon my scalp shrink, my very hair standing up as the terror seeks to fell me even before the enemy closes with us.  I draw the sword I bear, raise it….

 *

            Ay!  But how is it we prevail?  Never mind that—we move forward, and the blood of these creatures of fell spellcraft lies not red but black upon the ground as our blades release their fëar from their hröar.  My terror is now overwhelmed with the realization that we may yet—nay, are, in triumph over our foes!

5. Menegroth:  isolation

Galadriel, Melian, Elrond

The Daughter of your House

            “And what do you see in your scrying, my child?”

            She’d straightened to find the Queen of Doriath behind her, her eyes strangely shadowed, the stars usually to be seen there veiled as if she’d already divined the answer to her own question.

            She’d turned and inclined her head in reverence, glad for the excuse to avoid the still piercing gaze of the Lady Melian.  “Little enough,” she’d answered.  “As is too often true, I cannot tell if what was revealed is of the present, the future, or what might or might not come to be.  All that I am certain of is that it was not of things that were.”

            A shapely finger under her chin had raised her face, and she saw that the command in the Queen’s visage would brook no evasion.  “Tell me.”

            She’d taken a deep breath, and began, “I saw your daughter dancing in a glade near Menegroth, and a figure approached her, one with a distinct Light of Being, but a Light that pulsed with the beating of his heart and the rhythm of his breath.  No ellon, he; but at sight of her his Light flared mightily and bent to her, touching her fëa.  She turned toward him and her own Light flared in response, although she was taken by confusion and fled him.  But beyond them I saw her cradling his body, and saw that although he was now missing a hand yet his Light of Being shone the stronger and purer at her touch.”

            Melian had given a deep, shuddering sigh.  She’d whispered, “Then the day long foreseen approaches.”

            “You have seen that the daughter of your house should give her heart to one of the second born?  But how would a mortal find his way inside your Girdle, my Lady?”

            “It is not as if it has not happened before.  Yea, did not Túrin once breach it?  Nay, it is not possible to fully isolate one’s loved ones from what comes from without, and particularly if the will of Eru is involved.  Even if,” she added, “the Lord of this realm seeks ever to hold that danger at bay.  In time the future will come when it will, and nothing can stay it.  Ever there must be change, no matter how closely we seek to keep all things as they are and have been.”

            And she’d seen the accepting grief in the Queen’s eyes.

 *

            Now it was the eyes of the husband of her absent daughter that compelled her answer.  “And what does your mirror show you that causes you to turn away from it so abruptly, my lady?”

            How could she tell him that she’d seen what she’d seen once before—a familiar and beloved maiden dancing beneath trees to music that was heard only in her heart, music that grew the louder as one with the pulsing Light of Being of a mortal Man approached her and espied her, his Light flaring mightily, bending toward her to touch her fëa?

            But she could not totally veil her heart’s knowledge from Elrond of Imladris, for foresight and the ability to divine hearts were two of the gifts that had been revealed in both of the sons of Eärendil and Elwing and their progeny.

            She tried to soften the blow.  “He who approaches the daughter of your house shall be as if mantled with nobility and honor beyond the measure of other Men—yea, even beyond the measure of most of the Eldar remaining within Middle Earth as well.  And his Light of Being shall be as pure as was that of Beren.”

            “No,” he said sternly, shaking his head.  “Not even for the sons of my brother would I allow my daughter to spend her life’s grace if I can avoid it.  I ask you to allow Arwen to remain here, safe within the borders of Lothlórien, well away from the heirs of Isildur.  Mayhap here she might yet find one to stir her heart.”

            She felt a bittersweet amusement sweep through her.  Arwen’s heart, stirred by one those who lived in this land, all of whom she had known for many yeni?  Nay, if her heart had not yet been stirred by one of the Galadhrim, it was unlikely that would change in the future.  She sighed, her eyes compelling his attention.  “Remember this, child—not even the isolation that Elú Thingol sought to force upon his daughter, whom yours so closely resembles, was able to stay Lúthien from the doom of her choice.”

            His eyes squeezed shut as he turned away from her, seeking to hold the grief at bay.

6. Lake Helevorn:  Greed

Celegorm, Curufin, a servant

To Better Oneself

            When the servant returned with the bottle of wine Celegorm had desired from Orodreth’s cellars, he found Celegorm and Curufin sat together in the room in which the former received petitioners within his suite in Nargothrond.  Celegorm was saying, “I know not where Caranthir is at this time.  Probably he is still dreaming of the view of the depths of Lake Helevorn from the walls of his keep in Thargelion.  Great were the lands he lost when we were driven from our holdings by the Dagor Bragollach.”  He gave the servant a glance.  “You may set the bottle there beside our goblets.”

            With a graceful inclination of his head, the servant obeyed his master’s directive, then stepped back to wait discreetly by the door for further commands—and to listen.

            Curufin commented, “With Finrod taken away by his attack of nobility and honor, the way is now open for us to become all but the rulers of Nargothrond.  Orodreth has no appreciation for guile, and no real experience in the ways of rule.  He will not question our advice, nor that many who followed us here from Himlad already think of us as their lords.  We wield great influence here.  See how easily we convinced many not to follow Finrod on his fool’s quest?”

            Celegorm took up the bottle, breaking the seal and removing the cork, and pouring out a measure for his brother and himself.  Setting the bottle in its place once more with the cork beside it, he handed one cup to Curufin and lifted the other to his lips, sipping deliberately as he thought.  At last he lowered his drink and murmured, “Indeed, it is as you say, muindor nín.  Orodreth is weak enough, and easily led.  None has ever given him much thought in the past, accustomed as they were to approach Finrod directly or to beg our intervention when he would most likely rule against their desires.  Let Orodreth wear his crown and sit in ceremony upon the King’s seat.  It shall be the two of us who in truth rule Nargothrond from this time forward.”

            The servant’s lip curled in smug pleasure.  If his master and his master’s brother followed through upon this plan, that made him the one all would approach in their quests to gain the ears of Lords Celegorm and Curufin.  He could command much wealth should he let it be known—discreetly—that he ruled access with the two sons of Fëanor who dwelt here in the halls of Orodreth.

Day 7--Belegost:  overcoming prejudice

Day 9--Nargothrond:  considering betrayal

Finrod Felagund, Dwarves of Belegost

Negotiations

            “Lord Olcharin,” began Berdgard, who had the duty of door warden, if Olcharin remembered correctly.  “Lord Olcharin, Duvri sent me here to fetch you.”

            Olcharin glared at the other Dwarf, and turned back to the wall of the passageway that led to the newest delvings.  Others might be content with rough-hewn walls when passing from the levels where their folk dwelt to where they sought for minerals, jewels, or ore; but Olcharin preferred to see all smoothed and pleasing to both the eye and the touch.  He set his chisel against the stone, adjusted its angle, and gave a sharp tap, and an offending lump obligingly fell before the stroke.  Two more strokes, and he was pleased with what he had wrought.  He rubbed the surface and gave a satisfied nod before turning to face Berdgard.  “What is it?” he asked.

            Berdgard rubbed his hands together uncertainly.  “We have a visitor,” he said.  “Yes—a visitor.  A visitor.”

            Olcharin realized his curiosity was being piqued.  “Well,” he said gruffly, “out with it, then!  What sort of visitor is it that has you so out of countenance?”

            Berdgard took a deep breath and explained, “Well, it’s an Elf.”

            Moments later Olcharin was stalking off to the chamber where visitors and petitioners from outside Belegost were generally received.  What on earth did an Elf wish with him that could not be dealt with by one of those Dwarves who crafted fine armor or jewelry?  He was a fair enough artisan, but Olcharin’s greatest love was the delving—the search for veins of whatever ore or stone that was wanted at the moment; the breaking apart of the matrix to reveal a jewel of great value; the change of scent to the earth as one came near a deposit of iron, and the feeling when the tip of his pick struck not bedrock but, instead, the hollow over a bed of crystals.  He might be the Lord of Belegost, but he was first and foremost a delver, one who ever dreamt of opening new diggings, or of creating passageways between here and there.

            He wasn’t certain as to how he was to deal with an Elf.  Uncanny creatures, Elves, with their great height and grace, their own hearts attuned not so much to the earth as to that which sprang from it.  Or, at least that was as he understood the way of such creatures.  Trees and stars—those were the first things toward which their attention turned.  What did such creatures want with Mahal’s children?

            Duvri lingered near the door to the reception chamber.  Olcharin fixed his chamberlain with a stern stare.  “And why did you send for me and not for Narvi or Dombur?” he demanded in low tones.

            Duvri shrugged, glancing behind him at the still closed door.  “He doesn’t wish the services of those who craft armor or ornaments,” he explained.  “He asked to speak with the one who has the greatest affinity with delving.”

            Olcharin was startled at this.  “But what does an Elf want with a delver?”

            Shaking his head, Duvri pursed his lips.  “I don’t know, my Lord Olcharin.”

            “Did you offer him refreshments?”

            “Yes—ale and cakes.”

            “Should be enough for now.”

            “Shall I see more brought for you?”

            Olcharin thought a moment, and shrugged.  “Doubt I shall be with him long.”

            Duvri looked thoughtful.  “Well, if you’re with him more than a quarter of a candle mark, I’ll send some in for you.”

            “Good enough, I suppose,” Olcharin said, turning his attention toward the door.    He straightened himself, and nodded. 

            Duvri pulled the door open, announcing, “Olcharin son of Darvin, Lord of Belegost,” as his ruler stepped into the room.

            Their visitor rose politely as Olcharin entered, and the Dwarf found himself wishing the Elf had remained seated.  Never had he seen so tall a creature.  Nor was he dressed as did the Elves who dwelt in the surrounding region.  No simple greens and browns for this Elf—he was dressed in robes of blue the shade of aquamarine accented with tourmaline.  His hair at the temples had been worked into complex braids into which emerald, garnet, and sapphire beads had been threaded, and a circlet of strands of silver, gold, and mithril worked together bound his brows.  And his eyes….

            Never had Olcharin seen such brilliance in the gaze of any creature, as if this one had looked so long into the source of pure Light that said Light had filled him. 

            Well, at least now he knew precisely what had so unnerved Berdgard!

            The Elf was bowing deeply to Olcharin.  “My lord, it is good of you to leave your own work so as to speak with me.  I am called Findaráto Arafinwion, although here I am perhaps better known as Finrod, Lord of Minas Tirith.”

            Not certain he could easily wrap his tongue around that first name, Olcharin gave an abbreviated nod.  “My Lord Finrod.  And why did you come here at this time?  I am told you expressed no interest in the products of our forges or workshops.  And, please—sit!”

            Finrod lowered himself back into his seat with marked grace for one so tall to sit so low.  “I thank you for your courtesy,” he replied as Olcharin settled himself into his own chair.  His bright eyes were examining his host closely, which Olcharin found somewhat uncomfortable.  “As you know, the Black Enemy has been doing his best to increase his armies, and the day will come when he will assault these lands again.  A message has come to me from Lord Ulmo that I will do well to find a new dwelling place for my people, one far more easily defended than my current keep in the Pass of Sirion.  I have found a place that is suitable, beneath the highlands of Taur-en-Faroth, where the River Ringwil meets the Narog.”

            Olcharin grunted.  “Rough lands there—not truly suitable for building.”

            “I do not intend to build.”

            The Dwarf was caught by the simplicity of the Elf’s statement, as he realized Finrod’s plans.  “You would delve beneath the mountains there?”

            Finrod’s shrug was as casually elegant as the inclination of his fair head.  “Even so.  By delving his halls beneath the hills of Doriath has Elú Thingol protected his people for many yeni.  Many have gathered to me and call me their Lord and King.  But my citadel of Minas Tirith is not large enough to house all in safety.”

            “And why did you come here—to me?”

            For the first time Finrod smiled, and that smile moved Olcharin in a manner such as he’d never known previously.  “You are indeed the children of Aulë, or Mahal, as you know him.  To you and your people are opened all the ways of the earth itself.  We are the children of the stars, and although we formerly of the Noldor are as great craftsmen in our own right as are you, we have not the experience to easily open passages through solid stone, nor to choose which stone pillars to leave and which to smooth away when taking a natural cavern and making of it a great hall.

            “I will grant you an equal share of all jewels and ore as might be found as we craft our city beneath the mountains, and my own people shall labor beside you and at your direction.  We offer you trading rights and our friendship, an alliance that benefits both your people and ours.  For we find we grow more foodstuffs than we can consume ourselves and would gladly offer it to you and yours that it does not go to waste….”

            Olcharin found himself listening as Finrod laid out his plans; and when the Elf produced a map of the mountains with outlines indicating where natural caverns had been found, he became even more intrigued.  “We think to set great doors here, approached by a narrow path above the river canyon, a path that can be easily defended,” Finrod explained.

            “You could put a bridge here and make it easy to bring in wains of grain and other goods.”  The Dwarf pointed to the place where the proposed doors looked out over the Narog.

            But his guest was shaking his head emphatically.  “And make it easier for Morgoth’s orcs to approach my very doorstep?  No, I think not.”

            Once more the Dwarf felt his heart warming toward the Elf.  Caution must not take second place to expediency, he knew.  A wise individual this Finrod was proving.

            Duvri joined them, and soon others were called to join the conference.  A meal was brought and then cleared away, and still the talks went on.  At last, when the illumination provided by light shafts dimmed and torches and lamps were lit, all leaned back in their chairs, nursing great massy cups of the finest wine Olcharin had in his cellars.  “Then, shall we drink to it?” the Lord of Belegost asked their guest.

            “Indeed!”  The Elf rose once more to his considerable height, raising his cup.  “To Nargothrond that shall be!”  All took deep gulps from their cups.  Finrod then added, “And to the people of Belegost—to whom we shall ever be indebted.”  And again he bowed deeply with a respect that Olcharin sensed was not feigned.

            After Berdgard had been dispatched to lead the Elf to one of the guest chambers designed to house those of larger stature than Dwarves, and the rest of those gathered began to scatter to their own abodes within Belegost, Duvri remained at Olcharin’s side.  “A most interesting challenge he offers us.  I hope that we do not find ourselves betrayed by these creatures in the end, however.”

            Olcharin snorted.  “Perhaps some Elves will prove untrue, but I sense this is not the way of this—Findaráto Arafinwion, or Finrod Delver of Caves or however he chooses to name himself.  Nay, I think we may accept his word as he has given it.  No traitor to himself or any other do I find him.”

            “And an equal share in whatever ore and jewels that might be found in the delving?  It should prove quite profitable.”  Duvri suddenly turned his attention fully toward his Lord.  “And you will reserve the right of first choice, will you not?”

            Olcharin laughed.  “But of course!  After all, he approached us as the petitioner.  Nay, I’d not betray our own folk in that way.”

            Both smiling with satisfaction, the two Dwarves at last quitted the room, abandoning it to those who wanted only to finish their own work so they might retire to their well-deserved rest.  Yes, it should prove most profitable to ally themselves with the likes of this Finrod, both in goods and friendship.

            Olcharin smiled as he trudged with satisfaction toward his own chambers.  And to think he’d thought the Elf uncanny when he’d met him!

8. Dorthonion:  Identification with one’s land, country, or culture

a survivor of the Dagor Bragollach

Where Shall We Call Home?

            This was my home—where I was born and bred, where I knew every leaf in the forest?  But it is all gone!  Only smoking stumps are left of great trees, and less of the village where I danced about the bonfire at midsummer with my Blai!

            Did she survive, she and our children?  Where will I find them?  And my father and his sister—are they still among the living?  Or did the great dragons consume them with their fire?

            Wait—the cavern in the gully—they must have gone there!  I must search and find them, if they managed to make it that far.  And even if I find them yet alive, still we must leave this land ere all is overrun indeed by Morgoth’s great goblins.

            But where shall we go?  Do they have midsummer bonfires elsewhere than in Dorthonion?  Will we find the silver trout in other streams that we so love here?  Do they make the blood sausages that my little Ari coos to be given?  Will they understand our speech?  Will they welcome us elsewhere, or seek to turn us away?

            Ah—but where shall we call home when all we knew and loved has been destroyed by the Black Enemy’s creatures?

10. Gondolin:  “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.”

Frodo Baggins, Sam Gamgee

Memories

            “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times….”

            Hearing those words, Sam Gamgee looked into the study to see his Master bent not over the Red Book or the foolscap that he used when he was writing out his drafts, but instead over a large tome written in Sindarin that, if he recalled correctly, Frodo had been reading the evening on which old Gandalf had arrived two Aprils ago, intent on testing that awful Ring.

            “You all right, Master?”  Sam asked.

            Frodo gave a brief sideways glance and murmured, “I’m fine, Sam,” and turned his attention back to his book.

            “And what’s that as you’re reading?”

            This time Frodo turned to look more directly at him.  “It’s a history of the fall of Gondolin.  You remember—it came by Quick Post from the Bounders at the Brandywine Bridge shortly after Yule, there before….”  He didn’t finish, but gave a wry grimace of a smile.

            “That last Yule afore we left the Shire,” Sam finished.  “Oh, yes, I member it well enough.  Who wrote it?”

            “Glorfindel did, apparently at Master Elrond’s request.”  Frodo sighed, reading over the page.  “Did you realize that Gondolin was attacked during their Midsummer’s celebration?” he asked after a moment.

            Sam found himself shaking his head.  “No, I didn’t.”

            “It was to have been a time of joy, but instead it became a time of terror as the army sent by Morgoth arrived, led by Balrogs and dragons.”

            Sam felt himself shivering, and saw that his Master’s cheek was particularly pale.  Both now knew all too well just what Balrogs were truly like.

            Frodo continued, “He starts by describing the beauty of the city as all began gathering to the gardens surrounding the King’s house as dusk fell, and how the walls and surrounding mountains echoed to the sound of fair singing and laughter, and how a maiden he admired had begun to dance, drawing her friends to follow her in the measures—and then it all turned to chaos.  He was not certain that she survived the first assault, the dancing girl.”  His voice trailed off, and he turned his attention back to the book.

            Sam withdrew, knowing that his Master’s thoughts, as his own, were turning to Minas Tirith as the one place they’d seen that could have perhaps equaled the ancient Elven city hidden in the Encircling Mountains, although it wasn’t quite the same.  Gondor’s Minas Tirith was well visible to all rounding the foot of Mindolluin, after all, not hidden high in a circular valley as had been Gondolin.  But to imagine it all burnt to ruin—it didn’t bear thinking of!

            He took one last glance at Frodo, and realized that Frodo’s own thoughts had slipped away from both Gondolin and the King’s City, and that he was contemplating his own best and worst of times.  Sighing, Sam closed the door and left his beloved friend and Master to his memories of the quest.

11. Himring:  sacrifice

Frodo Baggins, Glorfindel

Planning for Contingencies

            Glorfindel found the Ringbearer, bundled warmly against the icy cold, sitting on a bench overlooking the Bruinen.  He looks almost transparent, the Elf thought.  He is not fully recovered from the effects of the Morgul blade, even though it has been several weeks since Elrond removed the shard from his shoulder.  He glanced upwards at a cloudy sky that reminded him of the inner shell of an oyster once it was opened to allow the retrieval of a pearl, then down to meet the thoughtful gaze of the Hobbit.  Frodo did not rise, merely giving a brief nod of acknowledgment and indicating that the Elf might sit beside him.  Glorfindel smiled inwardly, admiring Frodo’s apparent realization that in the light of the importance of the task he had taken upon himself, considerations of differences in rank between them tended to be superfluous when they were alone together.

            Only once Glorfindel was seated did Frodo speak.  “I am glad you found me here,” he said.  “I had some questions I would ask you.”

            Far more direct than is his kinsman Bilbo.  “I will be glad to answer that which I can,” Glorfindel responded.

            Frodo returned a thoughtful stare toward the river.  He considered his first question for a moment.  At last:  “Did you know Maedhros?” he asked, turning his attention back to his companion.

            “Maedhros?”  The Elf was taken by surprise.  “I knew him when we were young, living in Aman, before the Trees were slain.”

            “But did you know him here, in the mortal lands?”

            “I saw him during a few of the battles we fought in the earliest days of our arrival.  However, I would not speak with any of the sons of Fëanáro, so great was my fury towards them for their betrayal of us by allowing the burning of the ships.  So many of those who braved the Helcaraxë failed to survive, and it is difficult to remain in charity with those who have left one to hold the dying in one’s arms as the cold takes another victim.”

            “So, you never heard him speak after you arrived here?”

            Glorfindel gave a shrug.  “Perhaps a time or two when our armies fought side by side.  But once we were dwelling in Gondolin and he in Himring there was little chance for conversation.”

            Frodo gave a brief smile at the irony of the statement, and again turned his gaze on the silver flow of the Bruinen, his expression once more thoughtful.

            “Why the interest in Maedhros?” Glorfindel at last asked.

            “I have been thinking of him rather a good deal, I suppose.  He is the only one I can think of who directly approached a mountain of fire, is all.”

            “If you would wish to know more of him from one who knew him well, you might ask Master Elrond.”

            The Hobbit appeared startled as he turned his face up once more to meet the Elf’s eyes.  “What?”

            Glorfindel smiled down reassuringly.  “Elrond and his brother Elros were brought out of the ruins of Sirion by Maedhros and Maglor, after all, and fostered by them through their childhood.  Also,” he added as Frodo appeared to be absorbing that intelligence, “the Master of Imladris has also climbed the heights of a volcano, at the end of the War of the Last Alliance.  He at least knows Oródruin as it was then, although I doubt me not that it has changed a great deal in the ensuing years.”  He contemplated the pale face of the small being at his side.  “Are you considering the strategy you might use to rid Arda of your burden?”

            Slowly, Frodo nodded, although he didn’t speak.

            The Elven warrior continued, “There was an entrance cut, perhaps half to two thirds of the way to the top, that led into the Sammath Naur, Sauron’s own forge, or so Elrond has told me.  It was a chamber that encircled the shaft through which, when the mountain erupts, ash and lava escape from the depths of the earth below.  It is lit by the fires of the molten stone beneath.  It would be the best place, perhaps, to stand over the fire to see the Ring dropped into it.”

            Frodo’s face had gone somehow paler, appearing to have no blood coursing beneath his fine skin, and his breathing was now rough.  He swallowed deeply as his eyes dropped, and suddenly Glorfindel knew—understood the reference to Fëanor’s eldest son.  “So,” the Balrog-slayer ventured in a soft tone, compassion filling him, “you consider that it may come to you needing not to drop the Ring, but to take It into the fire.”  As Frodo raised haunted eyes to meet his own, Glorfindel found himself taking the Hobbit into a comforting embrace.  “Remember,” he whispered into a gently pointed ear, “I, too, fell to and with fire.  The pain passed swiftly, and it was Another who held me after that.”

12. Falls of Sirion:  reaction to Nature

Dwarves of Belegost, Finrod, a Man of Beleriand, Elves of Minas Tirith

The Gifts of the Valar

            Olcharin, Lord of Belegost, and Finrod of Minas Tirith, followed by those who’d chosen to come with them, carefully picked their way up the half ruinous path their guide followed toward the southern cliffs of the Andram.  “I thought,” Finrod confided to the Dwarf, “that of all I know, you would best appreciate this place and the wondrous care that went into its making.  It was here that Turgon and I came together, and here that Lord Ulmo spoke to us, encouraging us to hide our realms and peoples for their safety.  This would not prove a good place to found the city that I purpose to see built; but it helped to spark my imagination, and better fitted me to appreciate the site on the Narog where I would see my new halls opened.”

            Olcharin saved his breath for climbing, giving only a brief nod to his companion as they approached what appeared a rocky defile.  Off to the east he could hear the roar of the River Sirion as it poured through its canyon at the bottom of the cliffs.

            Their guide was a Man, and so far he’d not uttered a word within the hearing of the Dwarves.  What he must think of this mixed company that had hired his services for the day Olcharin could not guess.  But he must find it strange to see those of the Khazad and Elves side by side!  He was quite tall, although nowhere as tall as the Elf by Olcharin’s side.  Nor was he as finely wrought as were the Elves Olcharin had met so far.  But he was apparently tireless as they climbed the rise, and his pace did not slacken as he stepped carefully over fallen stones upon the way.

            It was good land here, with solid stone beneath him that the Dwarf could appreciate.  The Man appeared merely indifferent to Mahal’s crafting, while the Elf who flanked Olcharin and Finrod to the left was peering upwards to follow the cries of the two birds circling overhead.  Olcharin paused briefly to crane his head, trying to identify what kind of birds they might be, and Finrod followed suit.  “Red hawks,” he said.  “A mated pair.”

            “How can you tell that?” demanded the Dwarf.

            “There are signs for those with eyes to see them.”

            Olcharin snorted, and hurried forward as their guide turned to follow the path around a standing stone up to the right.  Almost he caught up with the Man when he realized that they had arrived at the entrance to the cavern they had come so far to see.  “We keep a store of torches just inside,” the Man said at last, gesturing to the left.  “Would you have me accompany you further?”

            “If you will,” Finrod answered him, giving him his devastating smile.  Even this taciturn soul was not proof against that!  The Man’s expression softened slightly, and he went forward to bring out an armful of torches from just within the entrance, beginning to hand them to whoever pushed forward to receive one.  Olcharin wished he dared to take one also, but refrained.  Duvri seemed to take it as a personal insult if his Lord took any burden, no matter how reasonable, before any who were not of their people.  However, it was but a small thing in which to humor his chamberlain, he supposed.

            Half of the torches were soon lit with the rest saved for the return journey, and they began filing through the entrance and were soon out of sight of the daylight.  Some of the Elves appeared uncomfortable with the darkness, but Olcharin’s Dwarves were quickly commenting on indications of veins of ore; and they held up the progress of the company when a flash of violet indicated a cluster of fine amethyst crystals.

            Then the passageway they followed came even with the river itself, which ran through a wide channel half a fathom below them.  The rushing of the water over the stone was loud as they walked along their ledge, following its course further and further into the depths of the mountains.

            It was some time (and two stops for rest and refreshment for the Dwarves) before they became aware of a great echoing boom of water, and now no conversations were possible.  The sound grew more overpowering, and they began to notice a fine spray of dampness on their faces.  The way became slick in places, and the Dwarves found they, like the Man, had to watch where they placed their feet, although the Elves did not appear even to slow down appreciably.

            “Light!”  How he heard this exclamation from one of the Elves, Olcharin could not say.  But the observation was correct.  A distant grey glitter could be discerned, which grew increasingly brighter as they continued forward.  There was a last twist to the right----

            “Mahal’s Forge!” breathed the Lord of Belegost as he looked for the first time on the glory of the Falls of Sirion.  He looked up at the wall that loomed up hundreds of feet above them, and saw the masses of water that poured down it, overlit by daylight that appeared to be carried into the great cavern by the water itself.  Here there was but a veil of mist, while to the left was a steady pour, and to the right a series of stairsteps that twisted this way and that.  Over there the flow was interrupted intermittently by randomly placed spurs of rock jutting out of the wall behind; and off to one side it sluiced down in angled troughs, now and then allowing some to spill over the sides.

            Their guide now began to lead them further to the left, and still water poured down the wall opposite them, churning the surface of a great but relatively narrow underground lake below them that emptied out in the channel they’d followed to this site.  On and on they went, and still the water fell from the great heights above to the lake they skirted, and the light strengthened.  In places the mists were the color of steel, and in other a molten gold; but most wondrous were those places where rainbows seemed to blossom on every side, as if one had a choice of colorful paths that might lead anywhere, were they only substantial enough to support the weight of any of them.

            The path now led back into a great chamber, further and further away from the flow.  All finally gathered as far back from the falls as the chamber allowed, and they found they could now speak.  Duvri was huddling close to Olcharin, his eyes wide with wonder and awe.  “Never,” he said emphatically, “have I seen such a thing!  How Mahal has wrought the inner garments of the earth itself into the basis for such a wonder I could not begin to tell—but I praise him for it!”

            One of Finrod’s followers, who had walked with his lips parted in reverence for quite some time, turned and responded, “Lord Aulë did not create this display all by himself—nay, for Lord Ulmo has obviously had a hand in the crafting as well.  See—his waters play about the stone in delight at such a variety of ways to fall!”  And his fellows all indicated their agreement, their shining eyes even brighter in their appreciation for the works of the Creators. 

            Another Elf who had come from the Sindar laughed.  “And think you that Lady Elbereth had no part in this?  Does not her light play off of both water and stone?”

            As for the Man, he shook his head emphatically.  “Nay—it is the power that it all represents that is the greatest thing about it.  Yea—there is both power and majesty here.  Surely Lord Sulimo delights to visit here from time to time!”

            And who was to say which was most right?

13.  Balar:  unanswered prayers or pleas

Sam Gamgee, Elrond

Lilies and Sympathy

            Elrond entered the glass house and paused, realizing he was not alone.  Apparently small Master Samwise had found this place.  Well, of course he would!  He was both a Hobbit and a gardener, after all; it was likely the flowers here had been calling for him to visit them from the first—they loved to be admired and cherished, after all.

            The Elf moved closer in order to ascertain the focus of the Hobbit’s attention, and realized he was examining a row of potted lilies.  Elrond was not surprised to see that he was gently fingering each blossoming white lily in the row, turning the bloom this way and that, gently looking each leaf over for mealy worms or other pests, looking down at stamens and pistils, seeing that the anthers were full of pollen, and then leaning over to fill himself with their sweet perfume.

            “They are lovely, aren’t they?” Elrond asked as Sam straightened once more, a smile on his face.

            The Hobbit appeared startled, and gave the quick bob that appeared to serve him in lieu of a bow.  “I’m sorry, Master Elrond, sir.  Hope as I’m welcome here.”

            Elrond smiled reassuringly.  “Oh, that you are, and I must say that the flowers appear to be very pleased to have you visit them.”

            “Thank you, sir.  And I must say as I’ve been happy to find this place.  Didn’t realize as you’d have glass houses, although I can’t say as why I’m surprised.  You’ve been here a fair time, I’d guess, and I’ve seen some flowers and vegetables as shouldn’t be as fresh as they are were they t’come from the gardens, like.”  At Elrond’s nod, he continued, “And these lilies, these Elven lilies—I’m so glad t’see them in particular.  Make me feel more at home, don’t you know.  I mean, old Mr. Bilbo—he brought some home from his own adventure and planted them in Bag End’s gardens.  We have them growing ’neath the study window and under the lilacs, and a goodly number under my Mr. Frodo’s bedroom window, too.  He favors them a good deal—says as they remind him of his mother.”

            Elrond grew more solemn.  “Do they really?  A good part of why I grow them is because they were a favorite of my own mother.  She grew them outside our tower home, and always had forced starts of them in the winter in her solar.  They comforted her when my father was away on voyages.”

            “She gone, then?” Sam asked, sympathy plain in his voice.

            “Many yeni, now.  When the Feanorians came hoping to claim the Nauglamir and the Silmaril in its center from her, she took it and threw herself out of the window, and shifted into the form of a great sea bird and flew west with it, in search of my father.  It was told us by Lord Eonwë when he came to lead the armies that fought Morgoth in the War of Wrath that she found him, and with the light of the Silmaril to guide him, he was able to bring their ship at last to the shores of Valinor, and so he was able to fulfill his quest.  But the cost of that success was that they could not return to us.”

            “Did you miss them?”  Sam’s voice was gentle.

            Elrond looked into his earnest brown eyes and smiled sadly.  “Oh, yes, that we did, my brother Elros and I.  Círdan sent Elves from Balar to aid us, once he was aware of the attack on Sirion; but they arrived too late to protect us.  By the time they arrived all was done.  Our mother was fled, and too many were dead, and Elros and I had been carried away.  It was true that Maglor and Maedhros were very kind to us, but it wasn’t the same as being with our parents.”  He sighed, and turned his gaze on the lilies, brooding on them.  “We used to pray that the Powers would send them back to us, our adar and naneth, but they never returned to our comfort.”

            He felt a hand on his, and realized that Samwise Gamgee had drawn close; and he accepted the comfort of the Hobbit’s company.

14.  Armenelos:  religion—freedom, heresy, or rites

Aragorn, one of the Faithful in Umbar

The Warning

            He’d taken the name Peredrion when he decided to explore Umbar and Harad as a trader.  He’d been given a letter of introduction to one of the Faithful within Umbar who could serve as a guide and assist him to gather the documents he would need to enter Harad and form a caravan.  He found he quite liked Zimrakil, a man some years older than himself, whose quiet, somewhat wary appearance masked a wit like a dagger’s edge.  But it was the man’s quiet fury at what Sauron had done to his land and people that impressed him most.

            There was one part of the city that Zimrakil had avoided showing to his guest, however, always seeming to have an excuse to take a different route or look at another site.  One day Aragorn’s curiosity got the better of him, and he rose particularly early and slipped out of his lodgings so as to investigate on his own.

            Zimrakil found him near noon, not far from the Temple that had proved the most notable building in the area.  Aragorn was leaning on a low wall in a noisome alley, still vomiting, when his guide came upon him.  Without a word the Umbari pulled his hair back and supported him until at last the retching ended.

            “So, Peredrion, you would not be deterred from exploring this area on your own?” he murmured as he examined his charge.  “Not wise—not wise at all.  Quite dangerous, even.”  He led Aragorn to the shadow of a building, and began carefully checking to make certain they were not being observed before he indicated they should quit the precincts.  “You will note the Temple of the All-seeing One,” he said aloud as he guided the visitor to his city through a crowded square.  “The architecture is remarkable….”  And such talk he continued to give until they were back in more pleasant—and safer—regions.

            He took his charge into a public inn and ordered drinks, and directed Aragorn to a table in the corner.  Only after they’d given the boy serving them a few coppers for the tray that held the stoneware jar of palm liquor, plate of local flat bread, and bowl of olive oil he’d brought them, did Zimrakil finally address his companion in a low, intense voice.  “I did not take you to that part of the city, Peredrion, because I did not wish you to see—that.  It is to this that the Enemy has brought Umbar—to offering up lives for his purposes.  Mostly they are slaves or criminals who end up there, but more than one man intent on earning the approval of the Eye has presented a younger son or daughter upon his altar.  Usually it is a son who would question his father’s authority, or a daughter who would wish to refuse a marriage that would be likely to prove—unhappy.”

            “But why?”  Aragorn could not bring himself to say more.

            “Who can say?  But it appears to be a continuation of what he began in the great temple he had built in Armenelos on the foundered isle.  Somehow he is apparently able to add to his own personal power by each death offered to him.  And he grows in strength and evil intent day by day.  And this is not the only temple built to his worship in Umbar.”  He leaned closer and whispered, “In Harad they call him the Death Eater.”  He sat back and cautioned, “You must be very careful not to draw the attention of his priests—they are very—enthusiastic—in their devotion to him, and grow increasingly inventive in their public harangues intended to drive the populace to increase their offerings.  And recently they have begun snatching victims off the streets.  It is not wise to wander the city alone.  Had one of them found you in that alley before I did….”

            His pale, almost grey visage and set expression said it all.

15.  The Shire:  food

Sam Gamgee, Rosie

The Wedding Breakfast

            Sam awoke, and realized his hand lay across a most pleasing portion of his new bride’s body.  He felt full of wonder—in all of his imaginings of what last night might have been like, he’d simply not managed to capture the sheer powerful pleasure and emotion that went with lovemaking!  And how beautiful she was, lying there….

            Wait!  This wasn’t the time for mooning!  He’d planned for so very long what it would be like, their first morning meal together, once they were married.  No, it was time to get up and see to it that his planned first breakfast would be one she would remember always!

            Mistress Loren, who’d kept the house for them when the Fellowship had lingered in Minas Tirith, had given him a special gift for when he and Rosie finally married.  There was a stoneware jar filled with a dark brown powder, which she’d told him had come from Far Harad, and with it was a receipt for a drink to make with that powder.  “It will please you both, and is said to stimulate the appetites for not just food but for one another,” she had told him.  He rose as gently as he could so as not to wake her, pulled his dressing gown off the back of the chair and wrapped it around himself, and slipped down to the kitchen to prepare it all.

            In moments the fire was stoked and the kettle set over the hob to heat.  Eggs went into a pannikin of water to boil while a second pannikin held enough milk for two drinks and was set to one side to warm more slowly, while he cut thin slices of ham and set them to warm in the oven.  Now—the Cottons had brought fresh strawberries from their glass house.  Where had Mr. Frodo stowed them?  Ah—here, in the corner of the cool room!  Cut up in a moment, and sprinkled liberally with sugar, and with some thick, sweet cream in a small jug….

            Sugar and some of the powder mixed with a small amount of boiling water and stirred to make a thick syrup; add in the milk and heat it, stirring.  Aha!  Yes, he remembered the scent of it from his sojourn in Minas Tirith.  And if it did as Mistress Loren said----  He was smiling as he slipped out the side door with the garden shears he took from their peg by the door, and in moments had just the flowers he wished to use in his wedding breakfast bouquet.

            Out with the bed tray from the bottom of the first larder, wipe it down and set it with a cloth—just the thing, the cloth the Gaffer indicated had been on the tray for that first breakfast with Sam’s mum.  Such beautiful embroidery on it, and how pretty it looked with the two plates and the food upon it—and then the small vase of flowers.  Now, the drinks!

            Finally satisfied, he carried the laden tray to the bedroom.  Rosie was just sitting up and brushing her curls from her face, and her eyes widened as she saw him bearing in their first first breakfast together.  She looked at the mugs and sniffed deeply.  “Ooh!  It smells delightful!  What is it?”

            “I brought it back from Gondor, Rosie mine.  It’s a drink made from a powdered bean from far, far to the south.  Mistress Loren called it hot chocolate.”

            He settled the tray on his bedside table and slipped back in beside her, and settled the tray over the laps of the two of them.  They ate and laughed—and kissed, sipped their drinks and rejoiced in the unseasonal strawberries—and kissed, and ate some more….

            And one thing led to another.  Soon enough the tray was back on the table by the bed, and the two of them were sating themselves once again with one another.

            Oh, he thought in the last moments he could do so, he would have to write Mistress Loren and thank her for the gift of the chocolate powder and that receipt!

~(I)~

Recipe for Hot Chocolate (serves three)

1/4 cup sugar

2 tablespoons unsweetened cocoa powder (Hershey's is most available in the U.S.)

pinch of salt

1/4 cup hot water

2 cups milk

1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract

Mix dry ingredients in saucepan.  Stir in water. 

Bring to boil over medium heat, stirring constantly; allow to boil for two minutes, stirring constantly.

Stir in milk and heat, continuing to stir so milk and sugar don't scorch.  Bring to desired temperature.  Do not boil.

Remove from heat and add vanilla.

If you like mint hot chocolate, try steeping some mint leaves of your choice in the mixture as you boil the chocolate syrup, or substitute mint extract of your choice for the vanilla.

16. Arnor:  “A gentle breeze brushed the hilltop, combing the ruins.”

Aragorn, Elrohir, Halbarad, other Dúnedain

Building on the Ruins

            A gentle breeze brushed the hilltop, combing the ruins as Estel—nay, Estel no longer, now Aragorn son of Arathorn--breasted the crest of Amon Sûl in the wake of his uncle.  Halbaleg son of Dirhael had served in the stead of the Chieftain of the northern Dúnedain since the death of Arathorn, who, so advised by the Council of Elders, had named the brother of his wife the Steward of Arnor (such as Arnor was in these latter days).  Aragorn had seen the Man at least once a year since he and his mother were taken into refuge in the House of Elrond.  Now he knew why: Halbaleg and his wife were two of the seven witnesses who knew the truth of the survival of the son of Arathorn and Gilraen, and who would stand for his identity before the rest of the remnant of the people of Elendil, Isildur, and Valandil.

            It felt strange, to think of those names as being those of his own first forebears in this land.  He had learned them well enough in his childhood lessons of the histories of Middle Earth.  But to think of them as having been Men of flesh and bone such as his own, and from whom he himself was descended, and whose responsibilities were now become his own?  How was it that the passage of a mere day—the day of his twentieth birthday—had so turned his world upside-down?  Oh, he’d known that his real father had been a Man and a Ranger, and one of nobility and responsibility.  So he’d been assured by both his naneth and his adar often enough since his earliest years.  But since the age of two, his few memories of the Man who’d once swung him confidently up upon his shoulder each time he returned from a patrol had grown vague indeed, and he’d never thought of him as the last Chieftain of the Dúnedain whose name he’d had to learn along with those of all who’d come before him, Chieftains and Kings.

            He realized that his party had not been the first to arrive here.  Others had been awaiting them, and now Men began to rise from where they’d been sitting in the grass.  Nor were all of the tall shapes in the shadows remnants of statues and tumbled walls, he realized.  At least four Men and two women had been standing there, leaning on spears or staves, and now for the first time stirred.  One of the women at least he recognized—his Aunt Anneth, Halbaleg’s wife, who’d come a few times to Imladris to see him, usually for the odd birthday celebration.  The other—well, she reminded him of his mother, but older.  And the look on her face—was it hope?

            Aunt Anneth stepped forward, followed by a young Man who appeared near to his own age, his eyes measuring and uncertain as they met Estel’s own.  A few others also followed Aunt Anneth forward, each of whom he’d seen two or three times over the years.  These came to flank him, and turned to face the rest who’d gathered here.

            He felt Elrohir’s hand upon his shoulder, familiar and comforting.  And it was Elrohir’s voice that rose to break the silence.  “I come this day to return to the descendants of my adar’s muindor one of your own.  Behold, today we return the one we have ever acknowledged as the Hope of your people as well as our own that the Darkness will once more be defeated.  Indeed, such was his name when he dwelt with us as if he were son to our adar and our brother indeed, for the child’s name bestowed upon him was Estel.  As has been done with each of the Heirs of Isildur, he has been educated in the histories of Arda, in the ways of policy and judgment, of administration and leadership, in healing and warcraft.  You will find him a canny tracker and hunter, and a paragon with sword and dagger.  He speaks Westron, Sindarin, Quenya, and Adúnaic fluently, and is already skilled in the sifting of hearts.  Five years has he ridden out with our patrols to fight the enemies of the Free Peoples, and he has proved himself well.”

            An elderly Man who stood by the older woman who resembled his own naneth stepped forward, leaning upon the staff in his hand.  “You say that this is my grandson, the son of my daughter Gilraen and her husband Arathorn?” he asked.

            “Do you doubt my word, Lord Dirhael?” Elrohir responded.

            “We all stand witness for him, Papa,” said Uncle Halbaleg.  “We agreed with the wisdom of Elladan and Elrohir that the Enemy has sought too assiduously to end the line of the ancient Kings.  When he went comatose with the fever and it was believed that he’d died, we let that belief stand, and for his own protection as well as that of our people.  It was not only grief at her husband’s loss that took your daughter from us and into Elrond’s house, you see.”

            The woman was smiling tremulously.  “I certainly see our daughter’s expression upon his face, husband!  Aye, then I was right, and he was not taken from us forever!  Welcome, Aragorn!  Welcome home to your own people, Ari.”

            Ari.  How familiar that dear-name was, in spite of being spoken to him only infrequently during his youngest years in his adar’s house.  He felt his lip work as he tried to put together long set-aside pieces of his past and history, tried to join them together with what he’d once thought of only as matters of study for study’s own sake!

            “And what is to be done with him?” demanded a big bear of a Man with the stance of a tried warrior.

            Elrohir laughed easily.  “Take him and train him well, Baerdion!  He has learned all that we can teach him of our ways.  Now it is time for your people to do the same.

            “Ai—think of it this way:  you all stand now in the ruins of Amon Sûl, the Watchtower of the Winds.  I remember well when it stood as tall as Elendil built it.  Well, this tower can be built anew upon the ruins of Elendil’s own works, for his foundations still remain.  And so it is for the Northern Dúnedain—Estel here, Aragorn the Valiant, shall become the cornerstone for the rebuilding of Arnor and its honor; and, we hope, will bring together North and South once more.  No longer should there be a King with no kingdom here in the north and a kingdom with no King in Gondor.”

            Considering the weight of uncertainty he saw in so many faces, Aragorn was feeling a most inadequate cornerstone indeed.

            Then he realized that the only young Man in the company, the one who’d followed his Aunt Anneth and who must be her son, hers and Uncle Halbaleg’s, perceived his uncertainty and was beginning to feel sympathy for him.  He turned his attention back to him, and searched his face, those eyes as grey as his own, and suddenly he felt reassured he could indeed find a place among these people.  He smiled----

            And the youth, obviously surprised, looked back, his mouth first in an O of startlement, then his eyes growing warmer as he began to return that smile.

            He felt Elrohir’s hand squeeze his shoulder for a moment, and then his brother loosed him.  Aragorn swallowed.  He was now deemed ready, he realized, to fly on his own.  He took a step forward….

17. Bree:  gifts and exchanges

Frodo Baggins, Nob

A Prince’s Wardrobe

            “Are you certain, Mr. Underhill, sir?”

            A sigh.  “My real name is Baggins, Nob—Frodo Baggins.  And, yes, I am certain.  If you can find anyone who can wear these, please pass them on, for I have plenty of clothing at home that is far more appropriate to my station than these.”

            Nob held the garments given into his keeping, and rubbed a velvet sleeve between his fingers.  The fabrics were rich and rare, and the embroidery on each was exquisite.  This one, embroidered with what appeared to be two trees, one with blossoms like sunbursts and the other like crescent moons—how beautiful it was!  Suddenly an idea hit him, and he raised wondering eyes to the inn’s guest.  “Is this one Elven work, Mr. Baggins?”

            Mr. Baggins nodded, “Yes, that one is, and came to me from Greenwood the Great.  Most are from Gondor, however.  But how am I to be taken seriously doing business in the Shire if I’m wearing clothes that appear to be out of fireside tales?”

            At last convinced that Mr. Baggins did indeed mean to get rid of these beautiful garments, Nob returned with them to his own quarters behind the kitchens.  There he spent much of the night examining each item, gently rubbing the silks against his face, draping the velvets over his arms, wondering at the fine weaves and patterns, and imagining stories to go with each one.

            But just what had happened to Mr. Under—Baggins! that had led to him being given what appeared to be a prince’s wardrobe?

18. Wilderland: hospitality

19. Rivendell: meetings or reunions

Boromir, some pioneers, Frodo, Aragorn, the returning Grey Company

In Thanks for Welcome Shown

            Halladan, now officially the Steward of Arnor, looked over when one of his companions rode up alongside him.  “What is it, Evram?”

            The dour Ranger, who’d watched the borders of the Breelands for most of his life and who hoped to continue doing so in the future, nodded toward the back of the company.  “It is the Ringbearer, sir.  He says he wishes to stop for a time.”

            Halladan was immediately concerned.  “He’s not appearing ill or in pain, is he?”  Aragorn would have his hide if anything should threaten his small but beloved friend’s welfare before he returned safely to his own land.

            “No, sir.  But he was speaking to his kinsmen of a debt of honor.”

            Halladan was intrigued.  He looked at the sky, realized it was near to noon at any rate and they’d all do better for a time of rest and food, and gave the order to halt and dismount.  The Elves from Imladris followed suit and soon were seeing to the comfort of the mounts, and a few of Elrond’s guards as well as three of Halladan’s group set up a watch on the periphery of their noon camp.  Halladan dismounted and gratefully handed over his mount to one of the Elves who’d come forward to take it, and walked to where Frodo stood, rubbing at the ache in his thighs absently while examining a track that led westward off the Greenway past a lightning-blasted tree.

            Frodo was remembering:

            He, Aragorn, and Boromir, back in Rivendell some days before the Fellowship left the comfort of Elrond’s House, had spent a long, dark afternoon in the library, once again going over what maps of Mordor and the lands surrounding it could be found, trying to determine the best routes to take within it to reach Oródruin once one was past the Black Gates.  The debate between the two Men had only served, it had seemed, to give Frodo himself a headache, as they could not agree on where it might be feasible to enter Sauron’s land with the least likelihood of being captured.

            When Aragorn realized that Frodo was wincing each time one of the Men slapped the map they were currently examining, he wisely suggested that they leave off for the remainder of the day and get a drink together.  He’d led them to a small parlor where they might relax, requesting of an Elf they encountered along the way that a light repast for Frodo and drinks for them all be brought to them there.

            The food and drink had done much to ease Frodo’s discomfort, and Strider had turned the talk to Boromir’s journey northward from his home in Gondor.

            “Where did you stay along the way?” Frodo had asked.  “Were there many inns?”

            “Inns?”  Boromir had laughed, with a meaningful glance at Aragorn.  “What inns?  Tharbad is barely more than ruins, and other than a few small settlements and isolated farmsteads, I saw almost no signs of habitation along the way that were more than fallen walls or piles of rotting timbers and stones.  Mostly I slept wrapped in my increasingly ragged bedroll and my cloak wherever I felt it fairly safe to let down my guard.

            “A few times I did find a homestead where I would be granted a place in the cow byre or the barn for the night, but never more than that—well, save for one time.”

            He’d taken a deep breath and was obviously drawing up the image of this incident in his mind.  “About twelve days north of the crossing of the Hoarwell at Tharbad I found myself overtaken by a terrible storm, and I was soon drenched through and through.  I saw a track leading westward, marked by a lightning-struck tree.  Desperate to get out of the downpour, I set off to follow this way, and about eight furlongs off the Greenway I found a farmhouse surrounded by sown fields and a kitchen garden, with several outbuildings of various sorts.  A pair of herding dogs came out to greet me, and appeared to find me no threat—at least they allowed me to approach the dooryard.  A Man and his wife came out to meet me, and the Man spoke to me in Rohirric.  When I returned his greeting properly but switched to the Common Tongue, he followed suit.  He was from Rohan, from the Eastfold.  He’d married a woman who was half-Dunlandish, and his own folk would not accept her, so they’d set off northward past her homeland, where he was not welcomed, until they found good land that no one appeared to claim, and there they’d settled to carve a farm for themselves and their children.  They’d had time to build a comfortable house for themselves, and even had a small herd of horses of their own as well as a few kine and a small herd of swine.

            “He recognized the devices on my shield, and gave me a proper welcome as one who served the Lord of Gondor.  His wife appeared to be thrilled to be able to offer hospitality to someone of quality, and gave me the finest meal I’d had since I’d left the fortress at the foot of Amon Dîn.  They had a proper copper bath, and insisted I cleanse myself of the mud and dust I’d gathered, and she did her best to clean and refresh my garments.  I was given their son’s bed in the loft, and the child slept on a pallet near their own bedstead.

            “I had nothing to leave them in payment for their welcome and hospitality, but they gave me such provisions as they could spare before I left the next morning.”

            Well, Frodo had it in mind to see this family rewarded as he could.

            As Halladan approached the Hobbits, he saw that Sam had been rummaging through one of the bags his pony had carried, and now he approached Frodo with something cupped between his hands.  “Is this what you was wanting, Master?” he asked, holding whatever it was out to Frodo.

            The Ringbearer smiled, and held out his hands to take the thing.  The Man saw that it was a cloak brooch, quite a large one that appeared to be made of gold, with an embossed symbol of the White Tree of Gondor on it, inlaid in silver.  “That is beautiful,” he said admiringly.  “But what do you want with it now?”

            “I wish to repay a debt of honor,” the Hobbit explained.  “Would you mind accompanying me down this track, Lord Halladan?  If it is the one I believe it is, there is a farm down it, perhaps a mile and a half or so back.”

            Halladan exchanged glances with Evram, who’d followed him back to his station in the line near the Hobbits, and it was plain his fellow Ranger knew no more than he did.  “But how do you know there is such a place at the end of the track?” Halladan asked.

            “I was told of it last winter, just before we left Rivendell.  The one who told me of it felt he owed a debt here, and as I said, I would see it paid.”

            Several others had begun to gather, including Master Elrond.  Halladan considered, then hazarded, “That is no short walk.  Perhaps we would do well to ride—it would quicken the return to your meal.”

            In moments one of the spare horses was brought forward, and Halladan mounted.  Knowing how poorly Lord Frodo responded to being lifted up by others, he rode up alongside an ancient stump.  Frodo allowed Master Elrond to hold his hand to balance him as the Hobbit climbed upon the stump, and from there carefully clambered upon the horse’s back in front of the Man.  With an Elf going before them on foot, they started down the track, and within a quarter of an hour or so they found themselves arriving at a house.  A boy was out front, kneeling down to play with a half grown pup.  He and the pup both were paused, however, watching for the horse they could hear to appear from beneath the trees that overarched the approach to the dooryard.  The pup gave a surprised squeak of a bark, and immediately two more dogs came out of the house, both barking, placing themselves between the strangers and the boy.  A woman followed the dogs out of the house, wiping her hands on her apron; and a Man appeared from what appeared to be a byre, carrying a sturdy looking hay fork.

            He called out to them in Rohirric, and Halladan was surprised to hear Frodo reply in that tongue, quaintly accented, that they came as friends.  He then switched to the Common Tongue.  “I am sorry,” Frodo said, “that I know little more than that in your language, sir; but I learned it as we rode from Minas Tirith to Edoras among the King’s household knights.”

            The Man straightened in surprise.  “You know my Lord Théoden, then?”

            “Alas, no.  I grieve to tell you that he died in the early spring, fighting the creatures of Sauron as they attacked Minas Tirith.  His sister-son Éomer has succeeded him.  Prince Théodred died as the winter was fleeing, ambushed by enemies from Isengard.”

            There were cries of dismay from the Man, who turned to the woman, apparently to explain in a different language the import of the news brought by these strangers.  She, too, was distressed, and wailed her own grief, reaching out toward her husband.  In moments Halladan had swung down from the horse, and led it to a high mounting block intended, apparently, for the boy’s use.  There Frodo managed to dismount, and in moments was on the ground, bowing low to offer them his services.  All three appeared surprised both at his stature and his courtesy, although in moments they were being drawn into the house, and food and drink were produced very swiftly.

            Halladan, looking out of the window, saw the Elf who’d preceded them indicating he would bear word of their safety back to the company, and nodded his approval before returning his attention to their hosts.

            Frodo ate what was provided for him quietly and quickly, and thanked them for their courtesy and hospitality.  At last the farmer asked, “And how did you know that we were here?  We are not close to the Greenway, after all.”

            Frodo smiled solemnly.  “I was told what to look for,” he answered.  “Do you remember a visitor from Gondor last summer?”

            The wife looked to her husband, who translated for her.  Her eyes lit with pleasure.  “Bo-ro-mir!” she pronounced proudly.  “Lor’ Bo-ro-mir of Gondor!”  She said something else in her own tongue, rattling off the words very quickly, then with a glance indicated that the farmer should tell them what she’d said.

            “She says, yes, a good man, noble and proud.  He helped me with the stacking of the wood for the fire, and swept the kitchen for her.  He even helped with the drying of the trenchers!  He was plainly not accustomed to such chores, but did his best to help as he could.”

            Frodo was smiling more broadly.  “Yes,” he responded, “so we found him also.  We met in the fall, and he traveled with us when we went south and east.”

            “He did not come this way again?”

            But Frodo was shaking his head.  “We did not travel along the old roadway, and went east of the mountains when we could, traveling the remainder of the way to the northern borders of Gondor along the Anduin.  But he told me of his visit with you, and how of all of those he met here in the Wilderlands, you were the only ones to welcome him into your home and to give him a true bed to sleep in.  Your kindness meant a good deal to him, and he grieved that he could not repay your hospitality in a fitting manner.”  He paused to allow the husband to translate.  When the Man was done, he continued, “We were attacked by orcs near the Argonath, the Gate of Kings.”  The Man nodded his understanding and swiftly explained to his wife.  “He died there, defending my kinsmen.  Our companions committed his body to the river, not having time nor means to bury him fittingly, nor to return his body to his father for internment in the tombs of Minas Tirith.  The goods they could not carry with them they placed in a careful pile and set a boat over it all.  There were several battles, but in the end the armies of the Free Peoples, of Rohan and Gondor and the realms of the Elves and Dwarves and other Men who resisted Sauron’s assaults on us all, were victorious, and Sauron is no more.  Mount Doom tore itself apart as the tower of Barad-dûr fell into rubble.  When all was over and peace established again, some of Boromir’s soldiers made their way to Amon Hen and found the boat, which had not been disturbed, and brought what had been left behind to the White City.  Boromir’s brother gave to me this----” and he brought out the cloak brooch.  He examined it one last time, then raised his chin and looked the wife in her eyes.  “He felt he owed you a debt of honor, and I wish to repay it for him.  Please, accept this from me for his sake, for I do believe he would wish it to have come to you.”

            The woman, once this had been translated, looked at him with shock, more grief, and wonder mixed.  “She asks if you mean this?” the husband said.

            “I do.  It is the least that we can do in his memory,” Frodo assured them.

            At last she took it, turning it in her hands.  “She says that it is very valuable,” the husband said.  At Frodo’s nod, he asked, “And you do not wish to keep it yourself in his memory?”

            Again the Hobbit smiled sadly.  “I will never forget him.  He saved my cousins, and so it is I have them to his memory.  Please—please let this keep his memory alive for you.”

            They did not stay much longer.  They were given tins of honey and a smoked ham to take with them as they rode away, and soon enough they were returned to the rest of the company, and then were once again heading northward.

            But in later years, when traveling between Annúminas and Minas Tirith, Halladan made a point of turning off at the lightning-struck tree to carry the best wishes of the Ringbearer to the farmer’s family, and always the wife wore Boromir’s cloak brooch when she donned her cloak to see his party on its way.

20.  Misty Mountains, taking leadership

Pippin, the Fellowship

Taking Charge

            Peregrin Took followed in Gimli’s wake as the remaining Fellowship stumbled down the eastern slope of Caradhras.  He still felt in shock at the loss of Gandalf, as he knew they all did.  How could the Wizard have fallen?  What could they have done to save him?  Had they had a length of rope, perhaps would he still be with them?  And who was their leader now?

            Strider—Aragorn--was, he’d been told, the Chieftain for the Rangers, and had led the four Hobbits from Bree to the House of Elrond in Rivendell.  Boromir’s father was very important and was the ruler of his own lands at the moment, or so they’d been told; and Boromir himself had led the armies of his people.  Legolas was a prince, the son of the Elven-king that long ago Bilbo had set himself to protect in the Battle of Five Armies, and had led the way back down the pass from the snow atop Caradhras.  Gimli had led them through Moria alongside Gandalf and that glowing staff of his.  Due to his age as well as his position as Ringbearer, Frodo was the leader of the Hobbits and was the whole focus of the Fellowship; and when others were divided they kept leaving the final decision to him (not that Frodo felt as if his authority meant all that much out here in the wilderness where everyone else was far more experienced and knowledgeable than he was!).  When Frodo was distracted or tired, Sam would take over; and even though Sam was not gentry, Merry and he would gladly fetch and carry at the gardener’s command.  I mean, Sam just knew how to get things done!  Merry was still older than Pippin was, and had been bossing him around all his life, not that Pippin resented him for it—it was what older relatives did, after all!

            But now----

            Pippin realized that he didn’t hear the soft murmuring of reassurance from Sam to Frodo any longer, and turned around.  The two Bag End Hobbits had lagged far behind, and Pippin could see that Frodo was pale and gasping for breath, while Sam’s eyes were shadowed and staring.  The gardener’s face was still stained with dried blood from the wound he’d suffered in the Chamber of Mazarbul, and he appeared to stumble as Pippin watched.

            Why didn’t Aragorn do something for the two of them?  Frodo must be in pain from the blow to his chest—and Pippin still didn’t begin to understand just how it was that Frodo had survived the thrust from that spear!

            Enough was enough!  Someone had to take charge if Frodo and Sam weren’t to be left behind.  Pippin turned and called out, “Oi—Strider!  Frodo needs a rest!”

            He wasn’t certain that the Ranger heard the words he called—Men’s ears didn’t appear to be anywhere as sensitive as were those of Hobbits or Elves, after all; but at least he’d realized something was wrong.  He was stopping and looking back, and Pippin could clearly hear his cry of concern as he realized that in his own shock and need to lead them out of the dangers of Moria he’d forgotten that those two of the Hobbits might need some looking to.

            Good enough, then!  As long and Frodo and Sam received some care, Pippin was happy.

21.  Mirkwood: East and West

Thranduil, Legolas

That We Not Fade

            “So, you have deigned to return home at last, have you?”

            “Are you not happy to see me, Ada?”

            Softening:  “You know that I am, Legolas.  But to make the decision to leave off your duties to our own people to join this quest….”

            “And if the quest had not been successful, it would have meant the defeat of all, and certainly the destruction of what remains of our ancient realm.”

            A pause.  “I cannot disagree, child.  That is as it is, I suppose.”  Another pause.  “And what now, Legolas?  Did you bring with you your strange Dwarf elvellon?”

            “He, too, has returned to his own people to make his report to his Lord.  We are to meet in a week’s time to decide what we will do next.”

            “I find I do not fully understand you.  I have seen you stand at a Man’s side as if he were your own brother, as well as at that of a Dwarf whose family has never forgiven me of holding his party imprisoned for some weeks so many Sun-rounds past.  Will you not take up your proper place amongst us once more?”

            With a shake of his head.  “I cannot be as I was, Ada.  I have been as changed by what I have been through, I suppose, as are Master Frodo or Aragorn, who is now the Lord Elessar.  We have forged bonds amongst us, we who made up the Fellowship, that cannot be set aside to allow us to return to what we were before.  I fought with the armies of the West against the forces of the East in Rohan, before the walls of Minas Tirith, and before the Black Gate itself!  I have seen the Eastern Power thrown down and his stronghold not only crumble into dust, but have seen Lord Aulë open up the very earth to swallow up his armies and the signs of his former strength.  I have learned to love Men and Hobbits and, yes, even a Dwarf, as if they were indeed of my own family, and all of the warnings about opening my heart to those who must in the fullness of their times leave this life had no power to deter this.”

            Leaning closer, almost desperately:  “And I have been taken by the Sea Longing!  Do you appreciate that that means, Ada?  Oh, I will fight it, and for perhaps a yen I might hold it at bay.  But the day will come, I suspect after Elessar has quit this life, when I must give into it or fade away.  And know this:  I do not intend to allow myself to fade.”

            A swallow.  “Then you will leave us, Legolas?”

            “I fear I must leave Middle Earth one day, to take up a new life in the West.”  A brief pause.  “But I will never fully forswear the Greenwood, Ada.  I cannot.  I swear to you that I will seek out my daeradar, should he be reembodied, and will cleave to him as I have ever done to you.  It is my hope we will take for ourselves forested lands where those who agree to follow after me, and I hope you will eventually be among them, may dwell in peace after Men have done what they will here.”

            “Then you do not think highly of the future of Middle Earth in the days to come?”

            “Oh, all will appear much as it has for the three Ages of the Sun we have known all through Elessar’s time and that of his first children.  But the day will come when those who take control will not remember the terror of Mordor or the honor of Aragorn son of Arathorn and his reign of renewal; and as to what will become of the world then, who can say?”

            “I pray that such a day will not come, ion nín.”

            “Oh, it will come.  When the example of the Lord of the White Tree fades again as it has at least twice before, then it will come.”

            And his father rose and reached out to his son, taking him into his embrace, seeking to offer him such comfort as he could, and taking from the younger ellon such strength as he could offer.

22. Erebor:  refugees

Thorin Oakenshield

The Return of the Kingdom

            Quietly, reverently, Thorin moved through the passages and halls of his childhood home.  He’d been born here, here in Erebor.  These had been his grandfather’s rooms, and his parents’ had been there, across the passage.  He ran his fingers gently over the chipped carvings of the hammer and anvil, the crown and pattern of stars known as Dúrin’s Crown that had marked Thror as the heir to the rule of Khazad-dûm as well as being the King-under-the-Mountain.

            Refugees!  That was what they’d been when they’d come here to the Lonely Mountain, fleeing the influx of evil creatures that had broken into their ancient city and capitol under the Misty Mountains and slain the greater number of their folk.  Here they’d founded a new stronghold, far, they’d thought, from the reach of enemies.  But they’d reckoned without the malice of the Necromancer, far too close in Dol Guldur.  And how was anyone to appreciate then that the Necromancer was the ancient Enemy of all of the Free Peoples, Sauron the Great, Sauron the Deceiver, Sauron the Betrayer?

            The door to the King’s Chambers had been crushed to rubble by Smaug, and nothing remained, it proved, of Thror’s furnishings.  The dragon’s claws had gouged the floor, and the smoke of its breath had stained the walls and ceilings.  Gems that had studded the walls had been gouged away; the King’s drinking horn no longer stood in its niche; his crown was nowhere to be found.

            The Dragon had come here, summoned probably by Sauron himself; and the destruction of Khazad-dûm had been reenacted.  This time there had been so few survivors to flee north to take shelter in Dáin’s realm in the Iron Hills, or to make their way westward once more, petitioners at the doors to their distant kindred’s halls in the Blue Mountains.  The sons of kings—reduced to the rank of beggars and tinkers!

            “We shall be refugees no longer!” he growled to himself.  “Erebor shall be rebuilt, and once more shall Dúrin’s line rule here, here under the Lonely Mountain, and, I vow, one day also in Khazad-dûm!”

            And with his dreams of ancient glory enflamed by his visit to the King’s Chambers, he turned about with purpose, going to find the others and to order the building of a barricade across the entranceway.  No more enemies would ever enter here again, seeking once more to drive Dúrin’s folk out into the wilderness!

23. Dol Guldur:  “Everyone avoided the tower.  It was believed to have ...”

Gandalf

A Grim Purpose

            Everyone avoided the tower.  It was believed to have spells woven about it to detect those who wandered too close to its walls.  Certainly few who slipped from the shadows of the trees for a closer look were ever seen again—or at least not in recognizable forms.  There were rumors, of course, that some orcs that issued from it would hold their hands suddenly as if reluctant to strike down old comrades or kindred when they found themselves pitted against Thranduil’s forces; such were slain as swiftly and cleanly as possible so as to assure that the original fëa could break free of its slavery and hopefully find its way, if allowed, to Námo’s healing hands, and thus perhaps back to its original form when rehoused.  Not all residents of Mirkwood intended to heed the Doomsman’s call; but all hoped that the lost ones would do so.

            More victims, however, simply appeared to be slain there in some terrible manner, a manner a few who’d once spoken with the survivors of Númenor murmured appeared to resemble that known to those who’d died in Sauron’s temple in Armenelos.  Those who were particularly sensitive reported that those who died suffered unspeakably of dread and pain prior to death, and that this was intensified when at last death was granted to them.

            He who had built his tower stronghold over the foundations of Oropher’s citadel was called the Necromancer—one who drew power from the deaths of others and then used that power to craft his magics.  But how had he learned such arts?  Why did he draw to him such creatures as vampires and werewolves, wargs and orcs?  Why did the great spiders of Ungoliant’s get multiply so rapidly each time there was a new spate of killings behind those dread walls?

            And what of those who were kept, it was whispered, in vaults so deep underground that no light reached them, and little of fresh air—apparently just enough to keep a few alive?  Elves, Men, Dwarves, and even Hobbits had been taken from their homes and disappeared behind the maw that was comprised of the gates for the place.

            Gandalf looked from the shelter of his hiding place at those gates.  He’d spoken at length with those of Thranduil’s folk who kept an eye on the place from a safe distance, and the few who’d crept closer and then managed to escape with their lives, although they shuddered to speak of what they’d sensed.

            Lately, one of the Mannish servitors of the place had become lazy.  Described by the Elvish watchmen as a large lout of a creature, he’d apparently been charged with carrying out vats of filth to the midden pits.  Those who’d preceded him in this duty had always secured the postern gate through which they passed out of the walls surrounding the place once they were outside, but this one did not do so.  If the Wizard were lucky, he could use that laziness to his advantage.  Saruman refused to believe those who recognized the mind of Sauron as being behind the disappearances and the abominations that came out of the tower of Dol Guldur?  Well, Gandalf intended to do his best to settle the matter once and for all.

            There!  The postern was opening, and through it came a huge Mannish shape carrying a great barrel.  And as he stumbled forward he left the door open behind him.  He should just have time, Gandalf decided, to slip in before the fool could empty his barrel and return again.  Taking a deep breath to steady himself, Gandalf hurried forward.  Perhaps, if he was lucky, he could bring out one or more unfortunates from their prisons, or at least word of the fate of some of those who’d gone missing….

Rhosgobel: animals as symbols, omens or metaphors

Radagast, Aragorn

A Propitious Visit

            “I hear you!” called Radagast as he emerged from the woven trunks that comprised the walls of his house.

            The thrush whose loud and intense chirps had called him forth bobbed its head politely before it recommenced its communications.

            Radagast interrupted.  “So—someone comes?  And you are certain he comes seeking me?”

            A few shrill calls, and the bird stopped, cocking its head to one side.  A flight of wood doves landed nearby.

            “And why should I be concerned with the petitions of a mortal?”

            The thrush launched into a series of indignant cheeps and tweets, but paused as a raven arrived with its own news, and the Wizard’s attention was drawn away from the thrush.

            “And you, too, bring news of the coming of a wanderer in the forest, do you?” the Wizard asked the raven.  “And do not think that I give him more credence than I do you,” he suggested sharply, turning back for a moment to the thrush.  “Although he tends to say a good deal more with a lot less nattering,”

            As if affronted by such an accusation, the thrush launched itself across the clearing, although it stayed near enough to follow the conversation.

            “Cheeky blighter,” murmured Radagast, watching after it and shaking his head.

            A white owl ghosted into the clearing and alighted nearby.  Surprised to see this bird coming to him some hours after sunrise, Radagast examined it closely.  “So, with your wisdom you would see the one coming with your own eyes, would you?  Hmm.”  He gave the doves a surreptitious glance, but other than removing themselves to a different tree the other side of the door, they showed no signs of concern for the owl’s presence.  The owl gave a few hoots, and mantled, then allowed its feathers to settle.

            The Wizard was becoming increasingly curious about the Man approaching, and particularly as a great shadow indicated that high overhead an eagle flew.  Peering upwards, he asked, “And even the Great Eagles keep a watch over this one’s progress, then?  Most interesting!”

            As more birds took their places about the clearing in spite of owl and raven, he became increasingly curious and cheerful.  It would appear that all his friends were drawn by this one!  “I’d best prepare a meal for him,” he suggested, only to receive assurance from thrush and raven that this would indeed by advisable.  Before he could turn to go in once more, however, a great stag came out of the forest into the clearing before Rhosgobel, paused at the sight of him, and gave a great snort before continuing on its own way.  Moments later a white doe, accompanied by two white fawns, followed after their Lord, pausing only long enough to nod their respects.  They in turn were followed by a single young buck, barely old enough to boast its first set of antlers.  He smiled as it hurried after the others.  “And even the Prince of the Forest heralds his coming.  Most interesting indeed!”  With that he went within, and in moments smoke from his cooking fire could be seen rising from the midst of the canopy that rose over his houseplace.

            By the time the Man himself appeared, Radagast could leave the meal to its own devices to be again upon his doorstep.  The new arrival paused warily at the edge of the clearing, his eyes examining house and occupant, and noting the presence of all of the birds clustered about.

            The doves launched themselves from their tree as he finally stepped into the clearing itself, and circled about him three times, pulled away, circled him three times again, and then three more times.  Radagast could tell that there were seven doves in the flock, which he knew was itself propitious.  He examined the Man, saw past the worn green leathers he wore, noting the shining of the Light of Being he contained within him and how it was mithril pure save for about his hands, where it shaded to the blue of healing, and at last knew the identity of his visitor.  “Welcome, my Lord Aragorn,” he murmured, his head bowed with respect.  “And how may I serve you?”

            It was some days later he saw the Chieftain of the Dúnedain of the remnants of the North Kingdom on his way, laden with supplies and advice.  So—he who hopefully would be the King Returned was heading off once again in search of the creature known as Gollum, was he?  A move that indicated that the time approached for the next turning of fortunes for Middle Earth.  The end of the Third Age was coming.  Perhaps he would do well to seek the advice of the Chief of his own order?

            Radagast gathered his own pack and ordered his house.  At last pulling his great brown hat upon his head and taking his staff in hand, he headed toward the Carrock, where he’d cross the Anduin before heading southward.  It would take him quite some time, he knew, perhaps a year or better.  But, then, as a Wizard himself, he had nothing but time at his disposal.  And a flock of starlings and finches encircled him, while his thrush and the raven followed after, just in case he needed their advice and company.

25. Lothlórien:  “She knelt on the floor, carefully picking up the shards of glass. Why did it have to be this one that broke?”

Galadriel, Celeborn, the children of Elrond and Celebrían

Fragility

            She knelt on the floor, carefully picking up the shards of glass.  Why did it have to be this one that broke?  True, she had many phials in a variety of shapes, sizes, and colors.  But this one had just been given her by her daughter Celebrían, and she’d found it particularly pleasing—a delicate green glass, shaped like the shell of the moon snail, one that not only brought to mind the giver but also days long past when she’d rejoiced to spend hours at a time along the sandy shores south of Alqualondë, in the days before the slaying of the Trees.

            She picked up the last shard she could, and the slivers of glass she’d gathered lay in the palm of her hand, sparkling in the sun.  Down on the lawn at the foot of the mallorn in which she dwelt she could hear Arwen and her brothers, talking and laughing.  These three had chosen to accompany their mother here on her visit to the land over which her parents now ruled; and when she had left the Golden Wood to return to her husband and her home, Elladan, Elrohir, and Arwen had chosen to remain behind for a season, delighting in the depth of peace that covered Lothlórien.

            She smiled to hear the young people at their talk—until….

            She could hear the cries of dismay from her grandsons, and the corresponding lack of any sound at all from her granddaughter.  Yea, they too had felt the shock that had touched her own fëa!  Their naneth—her beloved Celebrían—she was under attack!  In the glimmer on the glass she held she could see the assault—orcs and wargs and at least one troll and even dark-visaged Men were overwhelming the troop of Elves that guarded Elrond’s lady wife as they descended the path from the Redhorn Gate!  They’d lain in ambush, awaiting them.  The guards were felled from above by rolled and thrown stones and by arrows and spears that fell upon them with no warning; Celebrían and her maidens were drawing their own swords and knives—those who knew how to wield them, at least—but had no chance against the superior numbers that descended upon them.  Celebrían herself swung her blade, and the head of a great Uruk rolled to the feet of her horse; but then a stone thrown from above took her in the temple----

            And she could see no more!

            Roars of rage and grief rose from her grandsons, and already the warriors of Caras Galadhon were boiling out of their homes, descending precipitously from their flets to gather near to Elrond and Celebrían’s sons and daughter. 

            And down from his tower study descended Celeborn, his face white with shock.  He looked from the doorway across the room at where his wife knelt still beneath the window in which she displayed her collection of phials.  “What have you seen?” he demanded of her.

            Galadriel realized that she’d clenched her hand in the throes of her vision.  She opened it to display the bloody shards of the shell bottle she’d been gathering.  “It is our daughter—the forces of Darkness—they have taken her!”

            Never, she thought, had she seen her husband’s face look so fragile.

26. Isengard:  not allowed to express one’s thoughts, creativity, or opinion

Gríma Wormtongue, Saruman

Subtlety

            “No!  You must not speak your own mind to them!”  Saruman leaned closer to Gríma as if to offer a secret in confidence.  “They must not know that your words, your advice, comes from me in the end.  But it is my thoughts that you will speak to them—my wisdom that you will impart, my will that you will see manifested.”

            Gríma said nothing of his own thoughts in return, nothing of how it was not the Wizard’s brilliance he wished to show forth in Edoras, but his own he desired to exhibit instead.  But in the end he knew it was better he submit to Saruman’s commands, for never would she deign to look upon Gríma for his own sake—she’d made that plain enough already!  Nay, if he was to take her as his own, he must continue to dissemble….

27. Rohan:  reaching beyond self for dreams

Eorl the Young

The Land of their Dreams

            As he followed their guide beyond the Mering Stream, Eorl surveyed the grasslands granted to him and those of his people who had followed him south from the valley of the Great River.  Cirion of Mundberg had given these unto them in thanks for their aid against the enemies of the Stonelands?  How perfect for his people and their needs!

            And Felaróf nodded his own head in recognition that this was indeed what the two of them had dreamed of for so very long—a land of their own where each might reign for what remained of his life….

~-0-~ 

A true drabble for Elena Tiriel for her birthday.  Please pardon its tardiness.

28. Gondor:  “There was no avoiding it; the letter had to be composed...”

various individuals from Aragorn’s court, Pippin, Aragorn

Breaking Protocol

            Galador, the Master of Protocol for the Citadel of Minas Tirith, had been droning on at the new guards and servants for the place for a good hour or better, and Pippin, himself named a Captain of the Guard (although he would exercise his rank for only a few more days), felt they had suffered at the Man’s apparently unstoppable words for far too long already.  “Will he ever give over?” he whispered to the boy who stood beside him.

            Lasgon, who’d been directed to serve the members of the Fellowship in their house on Isil Lane in the Sixth Circle for the past few months, shook his head.  “He is far too in love with the sound of his own voice,” he whispered back to the youngest of the Hobbits who visited the White City.  “I’ll wager most here have been in a stupor for the last three quarters of a candlemark!”

            Pippin snorted at the young page’s comments.

            At last even this Man had managed to say everything there was to be said at least thrice, and he dismissed them.  Pippin shook himself, and said, “Let’s gather the new pages together, shall we?”  Lasgon nodded assent, and within minutes they were leading the three new boys back toward their duty room.

            “But if you’ve been a page for two years,” one of the new youths asked, “why did you have to listen to the talk as we did?”

            “Because I’ve been working in the guesthouses since our Lord King Elessar was crowned,” Lasgon explained.  “Master Galador apparently believes that those of us who have served outside the Citadel itself have forgotten how to behave inside it.”

            “I’ll tell you one thing,” Pippin said, “if Strider is forced to suffer from such stiff behavior from you lot for very long, he’s going to forget how to be a person altogether.  And I won’t have that!  He and the Lady Arwen don’t deserve to be forced to be bowed and scraped to every moment of the day and night!”  He looked about the wide hallway between the business portions of the Citadel and the residential wings, and suddenly a wide grin spread across his face.  “Gather round, lads—and I’ll tell you what you are to do, at least once in a week!”

            And the four boys leaned in to listen to the Hobbit’s directions.

 *******

            The King had dropped back in the line to ride alongside Pippin for a time.  “I will miss my smallest Guardsman,” he said, looking down at Pippin, whose pony Jewel was larger than the other Hobbits’ steeds.

            “And I will miss you, although I intend to return to Gondor to serve you as I can whenever the opportunity offers,” Pippin assured him.

            Aragorn gave Pippin a wry smile.  “At least I can rest assured I won’t be having to deal with Hobbit mischief constantly.  Although I suspect that I shall miss even that!”

            Did Pippin mutter, “Don’t be too certain about that, my friend”?

 *******

            As he prepared for the coming day, Aragorn went into his bathing room and reached for the carefully prepared  twig he used to clean his teeth, unstoppering the small bottle of salt he used and shaking some into the palm of his hand.  Dampening the frayed end of the twig, he dipped it into the salt and started working it against his teeth and gums, and----

            “What is it, my love?” asked the Queen, looking into his bathing room in response to his shout of disgust.

            “Someone has replaced my sea salt with sugar!”  He was rinsing the end of the twig under a stream of water he was pouring from the ewer.  “Today it’s sugar in the salt, and the other day at table it was salt in the sugar!  Last week instead of a missive from the Farozi of Harad I was to have read to the Council I was given a picture done by the youngest daughter of one of the housemaids, and someone the week before sewed up the end of the sleeve of the shirt I was to wear.  Two of my stockings have eyes and mouths painted upon them to make them puppets for the hands, and three weeks past all of my small clothes in my clothes press had been replaced with yours.  One would think that the Citadel were swarming with Hobbits!”

            Arwen was laughing.  “I do believe, you who hold my heart, that young Peregrin Took has made certain that you will always be reminded of him, even if he is indeed returned to his own land and people.”

            “There is no avoiding it,” he muttered.  “I’d best be composing that letter of reprimand to him today!”

            But even he was smiling some as he went to breakfast with some of the more tedious members of his Council.

-~0~-

And with love to Lavender Took and Shirebound for their birthdays!

29. Mordor:  battling and overcoming one’s darkest hour

30. the Grey Havens: going home, departures

Oropher, Lord Námo, Elrond, Arwen, Thranduil, Legolas

To Go Home at Last

            From the moment he led his warriors forward, Oropher of Greenwood the Great knew he’d misjudged the time for the assault.  No!  Too soon—far, far too soon!  He could hear the unvoiced No! from all of the other commanders, both those of the Eldar and those of the mortal forces.  And his last sight of his son was of Thranduil’s face, white with the foreknowledge of the impending tragedy.  It was not the agony of his own mortal wound he felt in his last moments, but Thranduil’s grief at his fall that he endured as he let out his last breath.

            And those confused last moments he relived again and again for an Age of the Sun, ever watching the better part of his company fall around him, and himself last of all.  Sometimes he could hear a voice calling his name, but from whence the voice called he could not say.  He and other Elves, Men, orcs, trolls, Dwarves—their spirits were confused, tangled with one another; the hatred, the fear, the determination not to give over until the sinews and breath failed common to them all even now when they had neither.  And so it was that too many fëar were caught within the bounds of the battlefields, none able to break free from the frozen turmoil they’d died amidst. 

            And the torment of these lost ones pleased Mordor’s Lord as he rose again.  At his command their seemings were placed within the pools of the spreading marsh that slowly but inexorably engorged itself with the ground where the dead were buried; and these ghostly folk were given candles to mock the light of the stars Sauron could no longer reach for, small flames to signify the spirits whose own Lights of Being were bound yet to the wastelands where they had died.  And how those corpse-candles mocked the Hope that those unfortunates forced to travel through the marshes had ever thought held in the stars above, now veiled in Mordor’s reek.

******* 

            Elrond looked at the seal and handwriting on the missive pressed into his hands by Halladan of Annúminas, and felt his heart lurch.  Why does just looking on her writing hurt so? he wondered.  So many losses he’d known in his long life—his parents; Maedhros and Maglor, who had cared so for his brother and himself in spite of the violence of their meeting; his brother Elros; his beloved friend and patron, Ereinion Gil-galad; his wife, gone to Tol Eressëa these past how many years; and now his daughter, who like her uncle had chosen mortality; soon, his sons, whose final choice was not yet made but who were determined to linger by their sister for what remained of her life…. 

Reluctantly he broke the seal and unfolded the parchment, turning it to catch the light.

            It was not as he’d expected yet another farewell.  Nay, it was instead a request.

            I pray of you, my beloved Adar, that on the anniversary of the defeat of Sauron, you should gather those such as Glorfindel who have their own power, and that you should face toward where the Black Gates once stood, and sing such songs of power as you can find within yourselves for the dispelling of all lingering evil.  Many are the fëar caught yet in those lands, spirits of those who have not yet won free of Mordor’s spells.  For my beloved Elessar and I shall travel there to see them freed if it can be done, and we will do all within our power to aid them to heed Lord Námo’s call, wielding the power of the Elessar stone he now bears.  We would see that land a living land once more, and the Dead Marshes freed of the terror of the seemings of the dead.

            Will you do this for me?  And know that I have asked this also of our daeradar and daernaneth, as well as Lord Círdan in Mithlond, Lord Thranduil, and all folk of good will who yet linger in the hither lands.

            Would he do this for her sake?  Aye, that and more!  An unexpected smile played on his lips as he summoned Erestor, Lindir, and Glorfindel, asking them to spread the word that on the day of the new year all would gather on the slopes east of the Last Homely House to sing an end to the remaining Morgul spells….

 *******

            Oropher!  Heed my call!

            The voice was not distant this time, but instead was compelling beyond what the former King of the Greenwood had ever heard before.  He now knew which direction was west, and turned himself to follow that summons, noting that those of his people who’d fallen with him were now gathered about him, ready to follow him once more, and this time to salvation, home at last.

            And as King and Queen sang before the gate and waded barefoot in the shallows of the marshes, the spells that kept the dead imprisoned here fell away, and many stepped—at last—beyond the Circles of the World.

            Legolas, standing beside his father, lifted his own voice, knowing that when at last he gave way to the Sea Longing, he would find his grandfather awaiting him….

31. Valinor: "Against stupidity the gods themselves contend in vain."  Friedrich Schiller

The Valar

When Wisdom Fails

            Varda stood on the eastern balcony, watching the doings of those within the Mortal Lands who had just won the victory against Sauron.

            Manwë entered, attended by several others of the Valar, his face shining with relief.  “So it is that those of the Last Alliance have cast down Aulendil at last!” he exulted.  “Now they, too, shall be able to know peace as we do now here in Aman.”  He turned to Aulë and Irmo.  “You have advised them of what to do with that foul crafting of his, have you not?”

            Aulë crossed his arms, giving a single nod of his great head, while Irmo answered, “Yea, and so I have.  I sent a dream to many, and they know, as our brother here has instructed me, that It must be returned to the Fire at the center of Arda from whence It came in order to undo Its making.  This will release the portion of Aulendil’s spirit and will It holds in a manner that he cannot retrieve that power for himself, and only thus can all be assured that he cannot rise again.  I know that at least the peredhel Elrond, Ereinion Gil-galad’s herald, appreciates that this must be done, although he was not the only one to whom I sent this dream.  But I am certain that he will so counsel the other remaining commanders.”

            Varda’s expression was one of concern as she turned toward the others.  “And you sent this dream to Isildur son of Elendil as well?”

            “Indeed, so I did.”

            “He does not heed it.”

            The rest turned toward the Mortal Lands, looking within the cavern where Sauron had forged his abomination of a Ring.  Aulë’s face grew stiff with suppressed fury.  “He has sought to reproduce my own forge!” he growled.  “Does he think to supplant me in the minds of those who live within Endorë as the great Maker?”

            “Apparently he does, my beloved,” said Yavanna, laying her hand upon his shoulder, her own visage filled with compassion for her consort.

            “Listen!” counseled Nessa, and the rest grew silent.

            Estë’s face was intent.  “Lo, It speaks within Isildur’s mind!” she whispered.

            Nienna said nothing, although tears of regret flowed freely from her shadowed eyes.

            Tulkas did not laugh, and his usually joyful face was unnaturally stern.  “This is not good.”

            And they could hear Isildur’s declaration.  “Nay, I will not see any hurt come to this, the one creation by the Deceiver that is nevertheless fair and pure.  I shall take and hold it as weregild for my father and brother….”

            Vána looked to the rest.  “How can he do such a thing?  It is for good reason that our fallen brother’s lieutenant received that title!”

            Manwë looked to meet Námo’s eyes.  “What say you, brother?”

            The Lord of Mandos watched from afar as Isildur turned from the fire and walked out of the Sammath Naur, leaving behind an astounded Elrond.  He sighed.  “If the Ring is not destroyed now, today, then it shall be an age before the proper time may come again for It to face the Fire.  Much evil will come of Isildur’s choice, but in the end even more wonder shall we know as Ilúvatar brings about Its final destruction.”

            Aulë moved alongside the Doomsman.  “Fëanor at least captured Light within his creations.  My former apprentice instead has filled his with a will to evil and corruption.  Too well, it appears, did he learn from our brother.”

            Vairë sighed as she moved to her spouse’s other side.  “It shall bring him all too soon into your halls, my dearest one.”

            From his own realm Ulmo addressed them all:  If It should come my way, I shall do my best to dampen and contain Its evil.

            “As shall I!” vowed Aulë.

            “Then there is nothing else at this time we can do,” Manwë pronounced with finality, “save to wait, and watch.”

            All grieved at the shortsightedness of Isildur, whose wisdom this time appeared to have failed him.