B2MEM prompt:  The Hobbit, Thorin Oakenshield.

Gandalf, the Instigator of Mad Careers

            Gandalf sat in a corner of the Prancing Pony, nursing his drink and examining the three parties of Dwarves who sat about the room, each stubbornly ignoring the others, wondering which might lead him to his goal.  For ninety-one years he’d carried the parchment map and key he’d received from a dying Dwarf he’d found in the dungeons of Dol Guldur, having promised the poor creature solemnly that he would deliver these to his son.  But how was he to determine who that son might be, when he had no idea as to who the Dwarf had been?

            “Ought to have paid more attention to the lineages of Dwarves and less to those of Men, Elves, and Hobbits,” he muttered to himself as he took another sip of his beer.  It was sour, and he grimaced.  One would think that with as many Hobbits as lived in the Breelands the ale would be better here.  Perhaps he should whisper a suggestion to the innkeeper that he look to purchase his barley from that Thistlewhite farm near Staddle, and that he look to employ a Hobbit as brewmaster rather than trying to brew it himself.  Friend Ferny had no talent at turning grain, hops, and water into a drinkable draught.  Perhaps Ferny’s son-in-law, that Butterbur lad, would do better?  Ferny was a suspicious sort, but he did dote on his daughter and so tolerated her young husband’s assistance in running the inn.  Certainly the quality of the food had improved markedly now that his daughter and young Butterbur ran the kitchen, and the rooms were more comfortable and the linens at least clean.  As long as he didn’t bequeath the place to that awful brother of his!  The Wizard shuddered at the thought of Bob Ferny as the proprietor of the Pony, self-serving sot that he was.  Nor was his expected bride likely to civilize the wretch.  Gandalf pitied the woman and any children the two of them might produce.

            He returned his attention to the three parties of Dwarves.  Those near the fireplace were from the Iron Hills, that he’d already established.  Those near the door were from the Blue Mountains northwest of the Shire, and the third party two tables from him he wasn’t certain of.  They’d been traveling with those from the Blue Mountains, and had been familiar enough with them on arrival.  They also seemed to know those from the Iron Hills, and had greeted them as if they were kinsmen.  But there were marked differences between the three parties that indicated that this third group of Dwarves was the odd party out somehow.

            Gandalf directed his attention to each group in turn.  All were of Dúrin’s blood, that was plain.  But even among the descendants of Dúrin the Deathless, those who’d taken up residence in different quarters of Middle Earth tended to be clannish to the extreme.  Those in the party by the fireplace were mostly mature Dwarves, craftsmen, miners, and merchants if Gandalf was a proper judge.  Those by the door were much the same, although they were accompanied by a group of younger warriors, armed with maces, battleaxes, and short swords.  But the thirteen at the near table….

            What were they, exactly?  The leader was venerable enough and richly dressed, with symbols indicating he was possibly descended fairly directly from the line of Dúrin.  He was too well dressed to be a mere smith or miner, although he undoubtedly did some craftwork, and probably quite fine work at that.  The others in his party all deferred to him, and Gandalf suspected that all were fairly closely related—there was just something about all of them that spoke of family ties.

            The leader and a few of those of a similar age had the bearing of warriors to them, although the Wizard doubted any of them had actually had to raise an axe or sword for many decades.  Certainly the fat one couldn’t have faced an enemy greater than a cruller or a stein of ale for the last century at the very least!  And the two young ones who sat close to the leader might have blooded an axe once or twice, but he doubted they were much seasoned in war.  There was something decidedly young and excited about them that spoke of relative innocence.  His curiosity piqued, Gandalf decided he would do well to eavesdrop on the crew of them.

            Another Dwarf entered the room—a carter, from the looks of him, and approached the table where the thirteen sat apart.  “I’ve had the innkeeper’s son-in-law carry your instruments up to your rooms,” he advised them, although his attention was mostly on the white-bearded leader of the group.  “Now, I’ll not be trying to tell you your business, but carrying such things as viols and drums and that great harp of yours, Thorin, will be folly if you follow through on your goal.  How you think you’ll get them through the mountains and across the Great River I have no idea.  If you’re wise you’ll find someplace to store them and leave them here in the Breelands or someplace similar.  Otherwise, they’re likely to be little more than cord wood once you reach the Lonely Mountain—if you live to get there, that is.”

            The Lonely Mountain?  Could these be----?

            “Thank you, Borgin,” the leader answered.  “We will take your words under advisement.”

            Borgin shrugged, bowed low and wished them a fruitful journey, and went to join those who hailed from the Blue Mountains.  As he sat down near the door one of those from near the fireplace rose and made his way over to speak with Thorin.  “Well, Oakenshield, we need your decision tonight, for we’re leaving first thing in the morning to head eastward over the High Pass.  If you want our company, the thirteen of you need to be ready at first light.  Dáin will not thank us if we allow you to travel unaccompanied over the Misty Mountains, not with such an unlucky and unpropitious number to your party.”

            “But you will be wanting to head northward toward your home,” answered one of the others in Thorin’s group, “while we will be looking at traveling down the River Running to the Lonely Mountain.  We’ll still be a party of thirteen at that point, and so no better off than we would be if we went the whole way on our own.”

            “Perhaps, Balin, but none of those from the Blue Mountains or from my company wish to go with you rather than home.  Erebor was nothing to us, after all.”

            “Well, it was—and is—something to us!” rejoined Thorin Oakenshield in a tight voice.  “My grandfather was King there, there Under the Mountain, and my father would have been so after him, had he not disappeared when he tried to find his way back a century past.”

            “And no one knows what became of your father Thráin.  Is it to be the same with you?” the Dwarf from the Iron Hills demanded.  “Did the Dragon eat him, do you suppose?  Or perhaps the Necromancer got him!”

            “If he didn’t fall afoul a spell set by those accursed Elves in Mirkwood,” muttered one of the other in Thorin’s group.

            There was a general mutter of agreement from most of those at the table.

            One of the young Dwarves commented, “You really should have allowed Gimli to come, too, after all, Glóin.  He wanted so to come with us!”

            “And risk his mother’s ire?  I think not!” grunted one of the other older Dwarves.  “He’s barely into his seventh decade, after all.  If your uncle and your mother have granted you leave to go along, that’s one thing.  But without his mother’s blessing Gimli isn’t setting foot outside the Blue Mountains.”

            Balin gave the two youngest in the party a sideways glance and snorted.  “Although with his training as a warrior, Gimli would probably prove a better choice of traveling companions than Fili and Kili here.  At least he knows which end of the haft to hold when he’s using his battleaxe!”

            The older Dwarves except for Thorin laughed, and the two youngsters were furious.

            “We’ll wait here for four more days.  We did ask some of Glóin’s wife’s kinsmen to join us, and that will give them the chance to arrive if they’ve decided to join our enterprise.  But if they choose not to come after all, I suppose it must be the thirteen of us in the end,” Thorin told their guest.

            The Dwarf from the Iron Hills shrugged.  “So be it, then.  I will so advise Dáin.  But how a mere thirteen of you think to take on Smaug….”  He gave them a wry look and bowed, turning to return to his own party.

            Gandalf thought once more about that map he carried in his satchel.  At the mad old Dwarf’s insistence he’d removed from the secret compartment hidden inside the shards of the stout walking stick that his jailers had allowed him to keep by him, certain that they were useless as a weapon to the poor prisoner, considering the wreck they’d made of his hands.  “The Lonely Mountain,” he whispered to himself.  “And so that was Thráin I found there in the Necromancer’s dungeons, Thráin who gave me the map and the key!  Thráin was the keeper of the last Ring of Power forged for the use of the Dwarves, and so it is that Sauron has it back!”

            A ghost of a plan was forming in the Wizard’s mind.  They call me an instigator of mad careers, he thought.  Well, I do believe I shall do just that.  We of the White Council will need a diversion if we are to force the Necromancer out of Dol Guldur and to show his true colors—I shall use these Dwarves to provide just that diversion.  And something tells me that this is the one time when Smaug might be removed as a threat on our northeastern flanks once the final battles are joined.  Now, to think of the perfect one to make a fourteenth to their party.

            With that he rose to his feet.  He made certain his tall blue hat was firmly fixed on his head, and with his staff in one hand and the mug of sour beer in the other, he stepped forward to join Thorin’s company.  “I must admit,” he said, as he loomed over the thirteen Dwarves, “that I could not help overhearing your conversations, and sympathize with your dilemma.  Let me introduce myself to you:  I am Gandalf the Grey, at your service.”  His reputation, he noted, was definitely known by the Dwarves, as they all straightened most respectfully, even Thorin himself.  Good, he thought.  He continued aloud, “Certainly I appreciate that for Dwarves a party of thirteen would be seen as most unpropitious.  If you could give me an idea of just what kind of adventure you have in mind, I am certain that I can help find the perfect individual to serve as the proper fourteenth participant in your quest.  Now, did I indeed hear you say something about a dragon?”

            And just why, he thought, do I find myself feeling that the best place to find that fourteenth individual is somewhere within the Shire?

B2MEM prompt:  Fellowship of the Ring, Pippin.

Cursing—and Blessing—the Stubbornness of Young Tooks

            There was no reason he could think of to go further than the doors to meet those approaching the Last Homely House, not with Bilbo so upset at the news that his former ward was seriously wounded and in grave danger.  In light of these facts, Gandalf had chosen to stay within Elrond’s halls by the old Hobbit’s side.  Aragorn was a more than competent healer, after all, taught by Elrond himself, and Glorfindel a powerful Elf lord in command of a good deal of magic.  The twins were abroad at the moment, and Elrond was efficiently marshalling the place to have all in readiness once the Dúnadan and his charges arrived.  So it was that Arwen had gone forth instead with the party sent to carry Frodo from the Ford to the house, intending that her presence should assist Aragorn to shore up his own flagging energies.  Certainly between them she and her beloved should be able to help the dear Hobbit fight the influence of the Morgul shard until he could be brought under Elrond’s personal care!

            He wished he had dared to haunt the region of Amon Sûl until the others came there—he would have given the Nazgûl a second show of lightning and thunder to singe their black garb!   But it was good, he knew, that he’d led the four on his tail away, so that the whole of the Nine weren’t there when Aragorn’s party was attacked.

            So, Frodo and Sam hadn’t been able to get away from the Shire undetected, eh?  He wasn’t surprised that one of their two reported companions was Meriadoc Brandybuck, as young Merry had been Frodo’s shadow most of his life.  The younger Hobbit had allowed Frodo to go as far as Hobbiton without him, but would refuse to allow his beloved older cousin to go any further without his protection. 

            No, Gandalf wasn’t surprised that Merry had come, too.  He’d expected the perceptive young Brandybuck to ferret out Frodo’s secret, in fact.  And he’d expected that at least one other would come as well, perhaps either Fredegar Bolger or that Folco Boffin.  He’d perceived years ago that young Fredegar had to him a core of fine steel that would serve him well at need.  Unfortunately, the lad’s mother Rosamunda had suspected the same core, and fearing where it might lead her chick, she’d sought to bury it under a heavy shroud of adipose tissue.  She’d taught her son to eat in response to almost any disturbing issue, with the result that even plump Hobbits happily called him Fatty. 

            But in the end it wasn’t Fatty Bolger who’d made the fourth in the party.  No, it had been—Pippin!

            Gandalf shook his head at that idea.  Peregrin Took, wandering the wilds of Middle Earth?  He shuddered at the mere thought of it!  So deeply did Pippin resemble the Wizard’s deeply missed friend Gerontius, but without the Old Took’s steadiness of character and ready discernment.  Not, of course, that Gandalf had known Pippin’s great, great grandfather when he was a child—he’d not met Gerontius Took until he was a Hobbit grown and already assuming many of the duties of the Thain of the Shire.  But Pippin was still only a tween, and far from the most responsible tween the Wizard had ever met.  Somehow the lad had become precious to him, however, perhaps due to that resemblance to his progenitor.  Or perhaps just because he was—Pippin, often foolish but loving Pippin.

            There was a whistle from the stand of beeches on the far side of the bridge.  The bearers were approaching!  Bilbo, who’d been sitting, warmly wrapped, on the bench beside which Gandalf stood, raised his head, his face pale with concern.  When at last the forerunners could be seen, the Hobbit rose to his feet, his body tense under Gandalf’s hand, which was now resting on Bilbo’s shoulder.  Together they watched as the four Elves carrying the litter hurried toward them, Aragorn and Arwen on either side of the still form lying on it tightly wrapped with blankets, each with a hand resting on Frodo’s breast.

            Bilbo started to step forward, but then thought the better of it.  The bearers came abreast of them, and paused very briefly so that the old Hobbit could look on his beloved fosterling’s face.  Gandalf could hear the sharp intake of breath as Bilbo took in the greyness of Frodo’s skin, the blue lips, the sunken, shadowed eyes, the hollows of the once rounded cheeks.  Then they were hurrying inside, granting Hobbit and Wizard but a swift glimpse of Aragorn’s gaunt features before they were past.  Bilbo shook off Gandalf’s hand and hurried after them, intent on being at Frodo’s side from the beginning.

            But Gandalf lingered, watching for the others to arrive.

            At last he heard another whistle indicating the approach of the rest.  It took another twenty minutes counted by a Dwarf-made clock before he could hear the strike of horse’s hooves on the track into the valley.  Soon he could see Asfaloth, and on his back two small figures, childlike in the growing gloom of the day.  Behind him were armed warriors, two consulting with Glorfindel.  Glorfindel was giving them only partial attention, however, as he kept glancing behind him, where a small but sturdy figure was leading a skewbald pony laden with packs and what scant supplies remained to the new arrivals.  Now at last Gandalf was moved to step forward to assist as he could.  Once Asfaloth arrived before the doors he stopped and cast a look over his shoulder at his riders as if concerned for their welfare.  Glorfindel shrugged off his companions and reached up to aid Merry Brandybuck to alight from the stallion’s back, and Gandalf reached for the other Hobbit who’d been seated with him.

            Pippin’s eyes were wide with anxiety, and as Gandalf lifted him down he cried, “Oh, Gandalf, here you are at last!  We’ll be safe now, I know it!  Frodo!  Is he here already?  Can they help him, do you think?  He’s held on so far, but when I saw him fall from Asfaloth’s back I was afraid that the river would sweep him away!  Did you make the water rise up like that when the Black Riders rode into the river?  You must have made it look like there were white riders in it—that had to be you!  Merry’s been a brick, and he won’t admit his feet hurt him.  But we were all frightened, even when we chased the Riders back in when the river started to rise.  Oh, Gandalf!”

            The Wizard found himself falling to his knees and holding the dear young fool close to his chest, feeling him tremble with mixed worry and relief, not surprised at all when Pippin burst into unexpected tears.  “They stabbed Frodo, and it was terrible, Gandalf,” the young Hobbit whispered.  “Strider says they were trying to turn him into one of them with that awful knife of theirs.  They can’t really do it, can they?  The Elves can help him, can’t they?”

            Oh, the dear, worried child!  But even as he held Pippin close and murmured soothing words into his ear, the Wizard became aware that Pippin held that same core of fine steel within him he’d always sensed in Fredegar Bolger, and was both glad and at the same time further alarmed, knowing how likely it was that that core would be tempered by a fire that Peregrin Took could not yet comprehend.

B2MEM prompt:  Return of the King, Denethor.

Denethor’s Choice

            “But I say to thee, Gandalf Mithrandir, I will not be thy tool! … I will not bow to such a one, last of a ragged house long bereft of lordship and dignity!” 

            Gandalf felt his heart still within him as the Steward of Gondor uttered these words.  So, this was what Denethor truly felt about the possible return of the King to the throne of Gondor, then?  And he counted Isildur as being second to his younger brother Anárion, even as Meneldil allowed his uncle to name him Gondor’s King and leave to assume the High Kingship in his father’s place, but at the news of Isildur’s death refused to place himself under Valandil’s authority as Isildur’s heir?

            I pity you, Denethor.  By all of the laws and customs in place when Gondor and Arnor were founded, the eldest child is the rightful heir.  Thus Aragorn’s lineage has ever been superior to the heirs of Anárion and Meneldil in spite of what Gondor’s people have accepted.  And as a direct descendant of Fíriel daughter of Ondoher, Aragorn certainly has more right to the Winged Crown than either Eärnil or Eärnur had.

            You once told Boromir that Gondor was a land of such royalty that no Steward could look to take the Crown, even if the time since there was last a king should exceed ten thousand years.  Yet you would be the King in all but name in spite of that pious utterance.  When did you accept that this was true of yourself?  Or is it merely that you know that the Heir to Isildur is the one you knew as Thorongil, and you refuse to bow to the one you saw as your rival, even though he did all he could to prove his loyalty to your father and that he had no desire to supplant you?

            He watched the father draw his knife and approach the bier on which Gandalf had laid Faramir, and saw how immediately Beregond interposed his own body to protect his beloved Captain.  He saw how Denethor stepped back; saw the fury—and the relief—visible in his eyes.

            I told you, Faramir, that your father would remember his love for you before the end—and even in his current madness he holds some gladness that others protect you from his own despair!

            Yes, Denethor, there is hope there for your son.  The one who bears the Healing Hands approaches the White City even now, and with the blessing of the Valar and the Creator he will be able to offer life once more to Faramir.  If you will only wait to see!

            But at the last the little embers of hope that had remained in Denethor’s being were smothered by the despair engendered by the Enemy’s artifice and the terrible pride that ruled Denethor’s mind. 

            “But in this at the least thou shalt not defy my will:  to rule my own end!”

            He was tempted—oh, how he was tempted!—to forbid this act.  Certainly, as one of the Istari and now the White, the head of his order, he possessed the power to assume such authority.  But, to do so would be to deny Denethor the right to use his free will, that great gift given His Children by the Creator Himself!  But just as the Valar had not stopped those who chose to take Fëanor’s oath from following that doomed Elf out of Aman, even so he would not further interfere in Denethor’s actions against himself.  At least the Steward had not struck out against the one who had stood between himself and his son, accepting that the hope for Faramir Beregond still perceived might indeed be there for the stricken Man.  And from watching the unfolding of history, Gandalf knew that out of the evil of this act of self-destruction the Creator could still bring great good.

            No, he’d been wrong—there yet remained one small bubble of sanity within the Steward, the recognition that in his current mental imbalance he should in the end work against the one come to take the rule of both Gondor and Arnor into his own hands, the realization that such an action would cause instability within the realm at a moment when it needed to begin to heal.  And in his choice, Denethor was excising the potential for growth of a cancer that could otherwise consume all of the West.

            He will grieve for you, Denethor.  He sought to embrace you as the brother that never was granted him during his lonely childhood, and deep in his heart he still wishes to do so.  But in great part for the honor he held for you then, he will cherish your son for you.

            And, deep within him, he realized that that small bubble of sanity that had not yet been totally overwhelmed within Denethor had heard that last thought, and was answering, I know.  Nasië.  May it indeed be so.

            And as the madness that had taken Denethor snatched the torch from his guard and set fire to the oil and wood beneath him, Gandalf offered Denethor the one small mercy he felt free to grant—he called upon Narya’s power to cause the flame to take the Man swiftly.

B2MEM prompt:  Return of the King, Witch-king.

And Just What is Death?

            “Old fool!  Old Fool!  This is my hour!  Do you not know Death when you see it?”

            Gandalf sighed.  You ask me to fear death?  But I have already died, and been sent back to fulfill my task!  How can I still fear the thought of death when I know to what it leads?  And this from you, who so feared the thought of death you accepted Sauron’s trap, and thus no longer properly live at all?  Is not every second of your existence an exquisite torture of weariness and frustration?  You no longer have a true body to rejoice in, nor any hopes or dreams to strive for, nor any loves to make life worth living.  Only an existence of slavery under one you loath, with but one power left to you—the power to make others rejoice to be free from the bonds of their bodies.

            I rejoice to be able to enjoy as well as envy, to love as well as hate, to laugh as well as curse.  And being able to enjoy, to love, and to laugh, I find I do not wish to envy, hate, or curse all that often—if at all!

            While you….  Just what makes life such as you know it worthwhile?  Why, you do not even remember the name granted you when you began it!

            Perhaps it is time for you to let go this shadow-life that you might be reminded just why you once enjoyed living enough to wish not to die and leave that pleasure behind.  And perhaps you might also find yourself remembering who you were born to be….

 *

            And all lifted their heads to listen more closely to the defiant music of horns, horns blown in challenge in the distance!  The Rohirrim had come at last!

B2MEM prompts:  Shirish--Halimath (September); Return of the King, Witch-king.

The Final Reckoning Approaches

            “You have it all now, all protected just in case a rain might choose to fall before you reach the Shire?” asked the Dwarf who’d accompanied him this far.

            The Wizard peered back over his shoulder at the heavily wrapped bundles that filled the back of his cart.  “I am certain of it, Mali.  And I thank you for the use of your workshop for these last few weeks.”

            “I hope that the Hobbits of the Shire will appreciate all of the care you have taken to make of this a display to be remembered,” the Dwarf returned.  “Be certain to convey my respects to the Esteemed Burglar on his birthday, won’t you?”

            “I most certainly shall.  And again, thanks for all the hospitality and aid you have granted me.  And, believe me—Bilbo Baggins will be most gratified, as I’ve tried my best to duplicate the fireworks I set off for his grandfather’s last birthday within the Shire and to do them at least one better.”  So saying, he tipped his hat to Mali, and shaking the reins, chirruped to the brown mare that Halbarad of the Dúnedain had loaned him for this purpose, and the vehicle started off with a slight lurch, heading south and west toward the Breelands and the Shire.

            He’d spent almost a month here in the mountains north of Fornost with Mali, whose people had lived here for most of the past millennium.  Mali’s ancestors had been gladly welcomed by the Dúnedain of Eriador to colonize the highlands here in thanks for the manner in which the Dwarves had helped fight the forces of Angmar, and the Dwarves had definitely profited by that acceptance. They were not as wealthy or as prominent as, say, those of Dúrin’s lineage who lived in the Blue Mountains or the Iron Hills or once again within Erebor under the Lonely Mountain, but they had more than sufficient resources to allow themselves to trade with the Men, Elves, and Hobbits who dwelt in portions of Eriador where Dúrin’s folk would not go and to do well by it.  And Mali was always pleased to aid the Wizard in his artistic endeavors and learn more secrets of the nature of his explosive powders and fiery compounds with each visit.

            It was a beautiful day in the early part of the season of Fall-of-the-Leaf.  Halimath, the Hobbits called this month when the days reached equilibrium once more, and the produce of their fields came to their final, glorious and abundant ripening ere the cooling weather sent the stalks and vines into their winter sleep.

            Halimath had seen the birth of two of Gandalf’s favorite Hobbits—the gregarious, now unpredictable, and delightful Bilbo Baggins, and his more thoughtful, gifted, responsible, and gentle kinsman Frodo.  And this year Bilbo had let the Wizard know that he would be retiring soon, and intended to leave the Shire and Bag End to Frodo’s capable and caring attentions.

            “And that ring, too,” Gandalf murmured to himself around the stem of his pipe.  “He’s promised to leave his so-called birthday present to Frodo as well.  And he’d best do so.  I don’t like what I believe that ring is doing to the old fellow!”

            Some hours later he guided the horse down the twisting track to the plain that lay below the ancient stronghold of Fornost.  Once more he looked upon the site of that last great battle between the Witch-king’s army and the allied forces of Arnor, Elves from Imladris, Lórien, and Lindon, Dwarves, and Hobbits from both the Breelands and the Shire.  He drew back on the reins, and the mare gladly paused to recover her breath and rest before they should go onwards once more.  He sat on the bench of the cart, and images of that battle replayed themselves before his mind’s eye.  The cost had been high.  Twenty-five Elven warriors had fallen in that struggle; nearly twice that number of Dwarves had lost their lives, and nearly five times that number of Men.  And of the forty Hobbits who’d left the Shire led by Bucca of the Marish, only Bucca himself returned home again, accompanied by a single Hobbit from the Breelands who’d been bequeathed lands in the North-farthing by a fallen friend who’d lived in Hobbiton beneath the Hill.

            Gandalf had known that Hobbit, and had visited his widow and blessed their children.  He knew that both Bilbo and Frodo were descended from both Bucca and Landro Baggins, and was glad that their courage and honor was manifest in both of their living descendants.  “Bilbo lived through as bad a fray in the Battle of the Five Armies,” he said aloud.  “I only pray that Frodo never has to know such harrowing events.  He’s too gentle a soul to face such a trial.”

            Shivering at the thought of Frodo Baggins forced to take part in a battle, he shook the reins and spoke to the mare, who was glad of the rest granted her and shook herself briefly before resuming the journey, as eager to spend a few days in the lush surroundings of the Shire in the glory of Halimath as was the one driving her.

            Once Gandalf was well on his way, a shimmer of brilliant late-afternoon light coalesced into the figure of a shining Maia.  His eyes sad, Eonwë watched after the retreating form of his incarnate brother, grieving that Olórin’s prayer must be denied.  Gentle Frodo Baggins might be, but it was judged that his courage and endurance might—just—prove sufficient for the task appointed to him in the too-swiftly approaching future.

            And if the prophecy proves true that no Man shall be able to fell the Witch-king himself, yet we deem that perhaps there is still another hand that will be able to aid in cleaving  the sinews that bind him yet to existence in this world, the Maia thought.  He bowed after the Istar, and then disappeared from view once more, hurrying to report to his own lord that one more step was being taken to the final reckoning with Melkor’s former lieutenant.

B2MEM prompt:  Shirish--Shiriff.

The Unlikely Shiriff

            Gandalf sat at the kitchen table in Bag End opposite Frodo, a bottle of wine and an empty cake plate between them.  “Lotho Pimple has applied to become a Shiriff?” he asked, not quite believing what Frodo had told him.

            “Yes, that he has,” the Hobbit assured him.  “When I received the summons to Michel Delving from Will Whitfoot to discuss the application I was as surprised as you appear to be.”

            “But why would the Mayor seek to discuss this with you?”

            “Well, I’m the family head for the Bagginses now, and he is nominally still a Baggins.  And as the Baggins family connections carry a good deal more weight throughout the Shire than do those of the Sackvilles, Will is far more concerned with my opinion of Lotho’s suitability than he is with that of Otho as the Sackville.”

            “But what of the family head for the Bracegirdles?  He is in the Bracegirdle family book as well, isn’t he, due to Lobelia’s birth?”

            Frodo shrugged.  “I’m afraid that Benbo and his son Benlo are just as appalled at the thought of Lotho as a Shiriff as I am.  They don’t want such a bully and thief as he’s proved himself over the years serving in such a responsible position, after all, and further bringing shame to the Bracegirdle name.  As for the Thain and the Master, well, Ferumbras and Uncle Rory as well as Paladin and Uncle Sara are all against the idea.”

            “Why would he even wish to become a Shiriff?  Lotho doesn’t particularly like having to walk about the Shire the way Shiriffs do, and I can’t imagine him happily heading off through brambles and bogs in all weathers in search of strayed cattle or sheep, much less trying to help lift ponies out of ditches or gullies.”

            Frodo nodded as he took another swallow of his wine.  “And can you imagine him trying to jolly a farmer who’s had a half or two too many into going home to bed before he becomes too much of an embarrassment by becoming maudlin and repetitive, or, worse, belligerent and wishing to break up the common room in the inn?”

            The Wizard shuddered.  “Or trying to break up a dispute between the mister and missus when they reach the stage of breaking crockery?  Why would he want to be a Shiriff, anyway?  Just wanting to look rather jaunty with a feather in his cap, do you think?”

            The youthful Baggins shrugged.  “He might be drawn by that idea in part, but I strongly suspect that he thinks it will give him more authority than Shiriffs really have.  He’ll be the one who gets to throw others out of the inn instead of someone like Evert Strawflower in Bywater or Noki Brown down in Hardbottle telling him he has to go home and him having to do so because they’re the local Shiriff.”

            Gandalf considered the glass he held for a moment.  “So, Will is going to have to tell Lotho he’s not suitable, then.  When do you think he’ll do so?”

            “He’ll be meeting with Lotho tomorrow to tell him.”

            Gandalf sipped at his glass of Old Winyards before commenting, “I don’t envy him that.  Lotho’s not going to take that rejection well.”

            “I know, and he’s going to blame it mostly on me, you know.”  Frodo drained the rest of his wine and set down the empty goblet with a decided click.  He shrugged again.  “Not that I care much that he will hate me that much the more—considering he’s resented me since before I came to Bag End, it’s not as if I weren’t used to it by now.”

            But Gandalf had a premonition that perhaps Frodo—and the Shire as a whole--shouldn’t dismiss the resentment of Lotho Sackville-Baggins quite so lightly.  He sensed an ominous darkness growing around the son of Lobelia Bracegirdle Sackville-Baggins that he didn’t quite understand as yet….

B2MEM prompts:  Fellowship of the Ring, Barliman; Shirish--Second Breakfast.

The Blessing of the Brew

            The pounding on the door to the inn went quiet before Barliman Butterbur had to leave his own rooms to answer it.  Good—he blessed the day that he chose to take on Nob as his main Hobbit-of-all-work about the place.  With Nob willing to deal with those who pounded on the door this late at night, Barliman rarely had to get out of bed any more.

            But it appeared that tonight the newest guest at the Prancing Pony was more intent on argument than on accepting Nob’s guidance to a room.  He heard the rumble of a low voice that grew increasingly loud and demanding, while Nob’s answers were growing shriller with alarm by the minute.  Barliman rose and put his comfortable (if rather shabby) dressing gown on over his nightshirt, took up the stout cudgel he kept on the clothes press, and went out to his parlor door just as Nob began desperately pounding on it.

            “Mr. Barliman, sir!” cried the Hobbit.  “You must come out—Mr. Gandalf here is in quite the state!”

            Gandalf?  The Wizard was here at the Pony tonight?  Whatever for?  Before he could open the door it was grabbed out of his hand and pulled wide, and there on the threshold stood the old fellow, his grey robes sodden with the rain falling over the Breelands that night, his hair and beard looking particularly wild and fierce, and his eyes intent.  The innkeeper was so alarmed he dropped the cudgel on the floor with a loud clatter.

            “The Hobbits from the Shire!” Gandalf demanded.  “Have they been here?  Where are they now?  And what’s this about spooks and horse thieves?”

            “What’s this about, Mr. Gandalf, sir?  What for are you shoutin’ at me and the help the way you are?” Barliman asked.  “If you can keep to but one question at a time, perhaps we might be able to answer them for you in order, like!  Nob, go off to the kitchen, stir up the fire a bit, and put the kettle on.  Hurry with you, now!  And bring us a plate of bread and butter, and perhaps some cheese or slices of ham—you don’t mind if the ham’s cold, do you, Mr. Gandalf?  Yes, some ham will do, and some of that seedcake as we’ve put by for second breakfast tomorrow morning.  Will some Shire black tea do for you, Mr. Gandalf, or would you rather have some Buckland grey?  We do have a blend they put up in Archet as well, but it’s not as full-bodied as the grey or black tea, I’m afraid.  I could have Nob stir you up an egg or two as well, we’ve more than enough for second breakfast, I’m certain.  Well, Nob, why are you standin’ about?  Off with you and see to it as Mr. Gandalf has a good plateful and a hot mug t’warm him up a bit.  Why, you’re all wet, Mr. Gandalf, sir!  Come here into my rooms and I’ll fetch a towel for you to dry yourself with.”

            So saying, he took the Wizard by the wrist and drew him into his own rooms, rapidly fetched a towel from his wash stand, and fell to seeing Gandalf dried and settled comfortably in a chair with a blanket over his shoulders and his hat steaming itself dry by his small but adequate fireplace, keeping up a steady stream of talk all the while so rapid that Gandalf couldn’t manage to squeeze in a single word.  “It’s good as the Missus is away,” Barliman was now saying, “over Combe way visitin’ her sister, you see.  All this bother as we’ve seen hasn’t touched her, or not yet, at least.”

            Finally Gandalf could bear no more.  “Barliman Butterbur,” he barked.  “Will you be still, or shall I have to change you into a statue to get a moment in which to ask a question of any kind?”

            The innkeeper’s face was indignant and rather frightened, but at least he went quiet.

            “The Hobbits of the Shire I told you were coming out to Bree,” he began.  “Did they come?  When?”

            “They got here yesterday, and left this mornin’, they did,” Barliman answered in a squeak of dread.  “Left just after elevenses.”

            “So, they are off to Rivendell?  I only hope that it’s not too late,” Gandalf prayed, his worry clear to be seen.  “Did they go by way of the Road?”

            “I’m certain as I couldn’t tell you,” was the answer.  Then, with a different tone to his voice, Butterbur added, “Although I’m certain as that Bill Ferny could tell you.  He watches everything.”

            Gandalf shook his head in frustration.  “I can’t understand why Frodo waited so long to leave the Shire.  Why, I told him in that letter I had you send him for me to leave as soon as he could!”  Something in Butterbur’s expression gave the innkeeper away.  “Didn’t you send it right away as I told you to do?”

            “Well, it wasn’t all my fault, don’t you see?  No one was headin’ that way for days, you understand, and I was kept so busy—I’m sorry, Mr. Gandalf, sir, but I did try!”

            “You forgot?” shouted Gandalf.

            “Well, like I was tellin’ Mr. Underhill when I give him the letter, one thing drives out another----”

            Gandalf stood up to loom over the Man, his beard and eyebrows bristling furiously.  “Why I ever trusted you with that letter----”

            “I’m that sorry, sir, but I plumb forgot!  I’m a busy man!”

            “I swear, Barliman Butterbur, that the only reason you remember your very name is because people yell it at you all day long!  That letter was important!  I told you at the time!  Who knows what mischief might come of it having been delayed?”

            At that moment there was a tap at the door, and without waiting for an answer, Nob entered with a heavily laden tray he set on the small table in the corner.  He gave wary glances first at his employer and then at Gandalf, nodded toward the food, and retreated for the door, saying, “I’ll leave the two of you to it, shall I?”  He then scurried out the door and closed it firmly behind him.

            Gandalf watched after him, gave a sigh, and fell back onto the chair again, pulling the blanket around himself as he returned his attention to Butterbur.

             “Why isn’t Harry Goatleaf on duty at the west gate tonight?” he demanded.

            “We don’t know as to where he’s got himself off to, but suspect as him went off when them Southerners as we believe stole all the horses and ponies from the stable last night.”  Barliman took a breath before adding, “Someone had to of let them through the gate in the night both in and out of the village.  At least I suspect as Lindor Greenwillow won’t let in folks as is likely to knife people in their beds.”

            Gandalf’s face paled.  “Someone was knifed in his bed?”

            “Well, it wasn’t for lack of tryin’,” Barliman admitted.  “Last night, here at the Pony, if you’ll believe it!  Someone broke into a room in the north wing and hacked the beds and what was in them to pieces!”  He nodded to add emphasis to his description.

            “The north wing?  Where the rooms for Hobbits are?”

            “Yes, but no one was in the beds—only bolsters and extra quilts, you see.”

            Gandalf reached out and clutched at the front of the innkeeper’s dressing gown in desperation.  “The Shire Hobbits—they didn’t take that room, did they?”  He read the answer in Butterbur’s eyes, and let go, his gaze searching the Man’s face.  “Where were they?”

            “Them stayed in the parlor, sleepin’ on the floor instead.”

            “They weren’t hurt, then?”

            Barliman shook his head.  “No, thank the stars.”  He took a deep breath.  “It’s all more’n a bit of a muddle, don’t you see.  There’s been all kinds of folks comin’ up the Greenway from the south for months.  And last night we had a full house, but we did have the one room with four beds and the private parlor there in the north wing.  So when this Mr. Underhill comes in and asks for beds for four and a private parlor for Littles, I gave them that.  They were nice folks, not stand-offish or nothin’ like that, and three of them went into the Common Room and was sociable.

            “Only it seemed as they was getting’ too much attention, see?  There’ve been all kinds askin’ about Hobbits comin’ through and wantin’ news, not least that Strider fellow.”  When Gandalf straightened again, his eyes widening, Barliman appeared to think it was due to the Wizard being further alarmed.  “Oh, dear, but it wasn’t for lack of warnin’, but I have to admit as he got to them in spite of me tellin’ him to leave them be and tellin’ them as him was a Ranger and likely up to no good on his own part.  But they took up with him in spite of what I said.  It’s not my fault,” he added, almost prattling now in his terror for what Gandalf might say or do at this news.

            “They went with Strider?  Is that what you are trying to tell me?”

            “Yes, but as I was sayin’, I tried to warn them off him----”

            Gandalf threw back his head and laughed in relief.  “They went with Strider!  Oh, bless you, Barliman Butterbur!  Bless you.”

            “Like to end up killed in their sleep, they are,” Butterbur worried, not certain what to make of the Wizard’s reaction to his news.

            Gandalf sprang again to his feet, and pulled Barliman to his as well, drawing the innkeeper into his embrace.  “It’s the best thing you could tell me!  If they’re with Strider, they’ll be in the best of hands.  He’ll get them through to Rivendell if anyone can!  Praise be, they’re as well off as they can be, considering the dangers they’ve faced so far!  I’ll tell you this—I’m going to lay a spell of special excellence on all you brew here at the Pony, a spell of excellence for seven years, do you hear?  I can’t tell you how much reassurance your news gives me!”

            Barliman Butterbur couldn’t believe his ears or his eyes.  The Wizard wasn’t going to turn him into a toad or a doorpost, but was going to put a spell of excellence on his beer and ale?  Who would have thought it possible, considering how much worry that letter and Gandalf’s earlier anger had cost him?

            “I’ll stay the night, then,” Gandalf said, loosing the innkeeper and finally reaching toward the tray to take up the teapot and a mug.  “I’ll stay the night and leave right after second breakfast.  It will be the first time I’ll have slept in a proper bed since I was last here, now that I think on it.  Yes, a good night’s sleep and perhaps a quick bathe, and a couple of good meals before I have to take to the road again.  Oh, and I’ll owe you for stabling, too—Bob took Shadowfax in hand when I arrived.  You’ll not lose anything more from me being here tonight.”

            Barliman shook his head at the wonder of it, and poked his head out the door to call for Nob.

B2MEM prompt:  Fellowship of the Ring, Arwen.

Realizations of Vision 

            As Merry, Pippin, and Sam, followed by a discrete honor guard of Elves, lead Frodo into the dining hall, Gandalf swiftly scans the room to gauge reactions.  The Men from Rhovanion and Eriador watch the arrival of the Hobbits with curiosity, those from the Eotheod murmuring to one another with surprise while the chief of those from Dale rises briefly to his feet in respect, but seats himself with a flush when he notices no one else follows suit.  The three Dúnedain of Aragorn’s people outwardly show little more than idle curiosity, although the youngest’s eyes are fixed upon Frodo as an Elf separates him from the others and leads him to the head table to sit by Glóin, who watches the process of seating the Hobbit beside him with politely disguised interest and pride.  The Prince of Mirkwood sits at the far end of the high table from the Dwarves, his curiosity undisguised at seeing a Perian also seated at Elrond’s own table.

            The Wizard now fixes his attention on Frodo himself as the Hobbit takes stock of the room, and notes with surprise that although Frodo realizes a number of different races are present at this meal, he barely sees any but the Elves and Gandalf himself.

            He feels the edge of Elrond’s thought touch his own.  He has not managed to throw off all of the effects of having been injured by the Morgul knife, comes the Peredhel’s observation.

            And I strongly suspect that those effects have been enhanced by the power of the Ring, Gandalf agrees.

            We perhaps should not have allowed the Ring to remain with him.

            But Gandalf gives a barely perceptible shake to his head, aware that Frodo’s attention is fixed on Elrond, Glorfindel, and himself where they sit in the seats of honor.  You remember how it was when you had It taken from him when first he came, how Its absence affected him.

            Elrond’s agreement is grudging.  The distress felt by the Hobbit at that separation had been terrible to see, and could have possibly killed Frodo had it gone on much longer.  Elrond notes, Yet he sees us not with the sight of his eyes, not at this moment, but with true Sight, as if he, too, were of the blood of the Eldar.

            I know.  He is seeing us by the Light of our Beings, and he barely registers the presence of those who are mortal.

            Lindor approaches the dais from behind, and leans down to murmur into Elrond’s ear, and the attention of the Master of the Feast is drawn back to more mundane details.  But Frodo’s attention has been caught by another who is attendant at the meal—his eyes are now fixed upon the form of the Lady Arwen where she sits in her canopied chair opposite that of her father.  The Hobbit’s mouth has fallen open in surprise, and his eyes are wide with awe.  The artist in him admires her beauty and grace; the nobility in him is inspired by the gravity of her expression and the depth of her apparent experience, wisdom, and venerability; while his masculinity is stirred by her sheer female perfection.

            Surely not, Gandalf thinks with a sinking feeling.  We cannot see yet another mortal losing his heart to Elrond’s daughter! 

            It has happened with almost sickening regularity in the millennium and a half that the Wizard has dwelt here in the Mortal Lands in this guise, that those young Men who have come here to Elrond’s house, and particularly those with the purest Dúnedain heritage, have found their hearts stirred by Arwen Undómiel.  When Aragorn also found himself falling head over heels in love with her, at first Elrond had hoped that it was simply more of the same; but had to admit that this time the attraction felt was far deeper than had always been seen before in the young Man’s ancestors.  At last he was moved to speak with this son of his heart, to test the depth of the stirring, and realized that this time the love was true and fixed; and even more alarming that, for the first time, Arwen felt at least a vague stirring of her own in response.  Not long afterward the newly realized Chieftain of the Dúnedain peoples of Eriador had left Rivendell to return to his own people to take his expected place among them, and soon enough after that Arwen had returned to Lothlórien to her grandparents’ keeping once more.  And when Gandalf had suggested that the young Man be allowed to sojourn among the Rohirrim and the people of Gondor for a time so that he might come to a greater appreciation for the natures of those who would hopefully become his allies and perhaps even his own subjects as well as those of their enemies, Elrond had agreed with an alacrity that was in its own way almost desperate.

            It had proved to be fruitless, of course.  Aragorn had in the end come to the kingdom of Celeborn and Galadriel, and there had encountered their granddaughter upon the mount of Cerin Amroth, where Arwen realized that her own heart indeed answered his, and the two of them had plighted their troth in despite of the will of her father and the doom they drew upon themselves.  It was a doom that Aragorn had taken to himself with full gladness and humility, although the Wizard doubted that Arwen would appreciate its full implications until Aragorn finally surrendered to his own mortality and she realized that her bliss was now lost to her until she accepted her own death and followed him beyond the Circles of the World.

            There could be no mistaking it, though—Frodo Baggins, Hobbit of the Shire that he was, is as smitten by the Lady as had been any heir to Elendil and Isildur, although Gandalf notes with some relief that it falls far short of what Aragorn feels for his beloved.  He nudges the attention of the Elf who is to serve those at the high table to act, and sees with more satisfaction that at last Frodo’s nature as a Hobbit is asserting itself as a full plate of food is set before him.  And, as his mortal nature is encouraged by the meal he consumes, Frodo begins seeing more with mortal sight, realizing that the one who sitting by him is a Dwarf, and finally finding Sam, Merry, and Pippin where they sit together at the lower table.

            On retiring to the Hall of Fire after the meal, however, Frodo begins again to flag, although he rallies briefly at the reunion with his beloved Uncle Bilbo.  But he swiftly fades into dreams inspired by the music he hears about him, and once again he is responding more to the Lights of Being he perceives in those around him than to their physical seemings.

            Aragorn comes in, having finished the conferences he’s held with Elladan, Elrohir, and the Dúnedain scouts who’ve accompanied them.  The Man had intended to come to the feast, of course, and is dressed for it in robes that Arwen had wrought for him.  These robes rival anything ever worn by Elendil when he sat in full majesty in his capital of Annúminas, the Sceptre in his hands as evidence of his rule over the survivors of Númenor, their progeny, and those who’d dwelt here in these lands who’d accepted Elendil as their Lord and King.  Jewels flash from amidst the rich embroidery against the cloth of silver, white samite, and the most royal of blues.  Frodo’s attention, however, fixes solely upon his face with delight and relief as Aragorn comes to greet him and is led away by Bilbo to consult on the poem the old Hobbit intends to present this evening before the company, and he apparently fails to take in the Man’s costume at all.

            Once Bilbo begins to recite, Aragorn moves to stand by the chairs of Elrond and Arwen as they sit to hear the evening’s entertainment.  Gandalf starts to smile at the sight of them until he realizes that Frodo’s eyes are again fully open, and once again his attention is fixed upon Elrond’s daughter, seeing her again by her Light of Being.  Curious, the Wizard slips his own awareness into the Hobbit’s mind, and realizes that he is seeing not just the Lady this time, but the three of them, Elrond, Arwen, and Aragorn as well.  But he sees the Man not as he knows him as a mortal, but as the Warrior Guardian of his true nature, seeing the robes he wears as if they are the ancient armor he will one day wear when he faces the Dark Lord’s threats directly.

            “Elendil’s armor, in black and silver with glints of blue!” the Wizard murmurs to himself, his attention caught by the image he sees through Frodo’s eyes.  “That armor was wrought for him here, in the forges of Imladris!”

            And he shivers with awe.  Is this foresight of what is to come?  Or is it simply an unconscious recognition by the Hobbit of the royal claim Aragorn had placed upon Arwen’s love?

            There is one thing of which he is now certain—Frodo will not speak openly of the attraction he now feels for the daughter of Elrond, not here within Rivendell, at least.  He does not consciously acknowledge the bond to be sensed between mortal warrior and the half-Elven maiden, but he will not trespass upon it.  For Frodo is certainly as noble a soul as is the foster son of Elrond Eärendilion!

B2MEM prompt:  The Silmarillion, Aredhel.  Thanks to Fiondil for proper accentuation and spelling.

White Ladies

            “Our White Lady is drawn by the foreign Man,” Gandalf overheard one of the Riders in Théoden’s hall confide to another.

            White Lady!  The words drew a memory into his mind’s eye, of days spent in company with Oromë and those of the Children chosen to ride with him in the Hunt.  Once it was the sons of Fëanáro who had been chosen to come, and with them came their cousins Turucáno and his sister Írissë, Findecáno having chosen not to come that day for some reason none had ever told.  Perhaps there had been an argument between Maitimo and his beloved cousin about the bad blood lying between Fëanáro and his half brothers, or perhaps the ellon’s father or grandfather had required his attendance that day.

            He, Olórin, had held the horses to be ridden by the Children.  The red intended to be ridden by Írissë had been restive, and was watchful as Huan followed at his master’s heels.  Just as the silver-clad elleth threw her leg over the horse’s back, Huan had come too close for the red’s comfort, and it reared up in temper.  Írissë ought to have been spilled unceremoniously upon the ground, but instead she had held on with knees and arms, and by sheer willpower had forced her steed to turn away from the hound it had sought to trample and to settle among the rest.  And then she’d begun to sing, calming the horse further, drawing its attention away from its discomfort toward the hound and to its growing bond with its rider.  The Maia had been very impressed.

            “Ar-Feiniel has mastery over her mount,” Macalaurë had commented with admiration in his voice.

            “Too stubborn to allow herself to be thrown by a mere horse,” agreed Russandol, half-grudgingly.  Maitimo had never been particularly fond of Írissë, as Olórin now recalled the scene.

            Things had not gone fully well for her in the end, however.  Just as Írissë had refused to be thrown by her horse that day in the Hunt, so she’d refused to give in to the cold and dark experienced in the crossing of the Helcaraxë, as stubborn in her decision to survive as had proved Artanis.  For one who had ridden freely by the sides of the sons of Fëanáro in Aman, the final retreat into the hidden realm of Gondolin had proved too much, and Aredhel, as she was now named anew, chose to leave her brother’s safe haven to seek the company of her cousins once more.  But she’d been caught by Ëol and had become his bride, either willingly or unwilling.  Gandalf tried to imagine her as she must have been then, the White Lady of the Noldor held to the shadows of the dark Elf’s trees.  No wonder Aredhel had decided to return to her brother’s protection with her son in search of relative freedom once more, only to die so horribly, protecting her brother from her husband’s spite and leaving Turgon yet alive, only to be betrayed in the future by her son’s successful stab at vengeance.

            The Wizard returned to current contemplation of the White Lady of Rohan.  Yes, she was following Aragorn’s progress about the room with worshipful eyes, unaware as yet that he had long ago given his heart into the keeping of another, and that no matter how courteous and attentive he might seem, it was fatherly feelings toward one so young and valiant rather than attraction that motivated him.

            She will be hurt when she realizes that he cannot love her in return, Gandalf thought.  He prayed that her end should not mirror that of Aredhel so long ago, to have her shining presence hidden beneath the dark of forests so dense that her light should be stifled.

            But not all forests are darksome, he heard in the depths of his heart.  And where true love is, dwelling in a foreign land in an unfamiliar setting is not captivity, but freedom to widen one’s experiences.

            He returned his attention to Éowyn once more, his hope for her strengthened, and his curiosity at her possible future piqued.  One he could think of who might bring the White Lady of the fields of Rohan to love the beauty of trees, remembering the sheer happiness a boy had shown when describing for the Wizard his first visit to Ithilien at the side of his brother and father….

Written for the B2MEM Five Cards, Five Characters prompt:  TTT, Fangorn.

A Wordless Encounter

Fangorn,

the Eldest,

sees him first,

the new White Wizard

come to supplant his brother.

For Saruman has forsaken his purpose,

and has forgotten also his very beginnings.

Dwelling in Orthanc, he would rule all others,

crushing those who would live free with iron fists

borne by the Uruk-hai, sent to level fastnesses and kings.

(I)

But Saruman of Many Colors has forgotten more than beginnings;

he's forgotten how even small roots can fell walls.

The forest's memory is longer than his own,

and it intends to redress many wrongs

wrought upon its groves and trees.

And Mithrandir, grey no longer,

watches Treebeard pass by,

knows Hobbits come

to encourage

justice.

Written for the Five Books, Five Characters card:  The Silmarillion, Námo, and Ecthelion of the Fountain, who died slaying Gothmog, Lord of all Balrogs.

Born Again

              And why have you come here, Olórin?

            The confused fëa so newly arrived within the Halls of Mandos examined Lord Námo’s visage with dawning recognition before looking down to find itself no longer vested in living flesh—nor, it thought wryly, in the blackened ruins of what had been living flesh ere it fell with the Balrog.

            The Balrog!  But what had become of it, once his brother?

            The eyes of the Lord of the Final Healing were filled with the fell light that often could be seen there when he thought on the evil of which those who inhabited Arda were so capable.  He lies below, awaiting judgment.  And now here you stand before me, you who took upon yourself the flesh of a Man, and who must now know the fate that awaits mortals.  But why you had to come before me as did Glorfindel or Ecthelion of the Fountain, your hröa burnt away by the flames of a Balrog----

            The amaranthine eyes of Námo looked on the fëa of the former Wizard with compassion as the Vala leaned forward to breathe upon it, and it took flight, found itself floating as if over a great ocean, moving ever closer to a great Light it recognized from long ago—or had it been mere seconds?  Stars were born and died; constellations wheeled within atoms; the song of a single voice was lifted in harmony with----

            Well come, my good and faithful servant!  In you am I well pleased.  The spirit of Olórin found itself enfolded within the arms of Love Itself, saw joy and pain, grief and delight, anguish and solace embodied in the One who held him.

            After a great time, or was it far too soon? he heard the question he’d dreaded and longed for:  The battle is not yet won.  Would you wish to see it through?

            He answered, Let it be in accordance with thy will.

            Again he felt the agony/ecstasy of being clad in the flesh of a Man, and was carried on Manwë’s winds back to the peak of Zirak-zigal, his again living eye examining the infinity enclosed within a single crystal of snow, his body shuddering as its first breath filled his renewed lungs with freezing air, its muscles contracting against the burning cold of the ice on which it lay.

            And so was born Gandalf the White, a long, lanky body expelled from the Timeless Halls onto the waiting slopes of Middle Earth, where once again it must inspire others to stand against an immortal evil.

B2MEM prompt:  Astron (April) on the Shirish card.

Murmurs of Encouragement

            “And where is Pippin?” Gandalf asked Merry, found sitting before the tent the cousins shared, polishing the belt buckle for his dress uniform.

            “Pippin?  Gone to the enclosure where Frodo and Sam are still sleeping.  He wants to be certain they have reason to awaken today, just in time for the feast.  Lord Erchirion was escorting him.”

            The Wizard noted that Merry no longer appeared as taut as a drawn bowstring.  Aragorn’s assurance that morning that Frodo and Sam would awaken today had obviously relieved his anxiety for his beloved older cousin and the gardener who’d become so dear to all of them.  Still, the Brandybuck must have wished to go with young Peregrin to see for himself that Aragorn hadn’t been exaggerating the condition of the two who’d come so near death at the foot of Oródruin.  But Meriadoc had learned patience in the last few weeks, patience and forbearance.  He’d been able to spend many hours at the bedsides of Frodo and Sam, while it had only been yesterday that Pippin had been able to rise from his own sickbed to hobble assisted to look on the occupants of two more sickbeds, two who were so precious to him that he’d sacrificed the last of his youth for them.  That Merry had allowed him to go alone was an unspoken acknowledgment that Pippin was indeed now an adult who deserved his own time with Frodo and Sam.

            Gandalf laid his hand on Merry’s shoulder and smiled down into the Hobbit’s eyes, proud of what each of these small ones had accomplished, and set off to follow Pippin’s trail.  As he approached the enclosure, he met Erchirion of Dol Amroth returning to the camp.  Prince Imrahil’s second son nodded a greeting.  “I left young Sir Peregrin at the enclosure for the Ringbearers,” he said.  “He brought some blooms to brighten the place for when they awaken.  He tells me that Lord Samwise is a gardener in his own land.”

            “That he is, and perhaps one of the greatest of gardeners in all of Middle Earth,” Gandalf agreed.  “Always the gardens of Bag End have been beautiful, but he has managed to bring even more beauty there since he took over his father’s place.”

            “Perhaps one day I shall be able to see such wonders for myself.”  Smiling, Erchirion gave a brief bow and continued on his way.

            The guard on this side of the enclosure saluted and pulled aside the fabric that served as a door, allowing the Wizard to enter.  He saw Pippin standing between the two beds.  One thing was unexpected—the Took was facing Sam rather than Frodo, and he was holding a bunch of flowers near Sam’s nose. 

            “Look, Sam,” he was saying in a coaxing voice, “look what I found.  There must have been a home here at one time, just south of here.  There are a lot of flowers growing there, as if there used to be a garden.  Here!  Here’s a stalk of bluebells, and one of grape hyacinths.  And daffodils—oh, I can’t wait to see you looking down on the daffodils growing there.  Narcissus, too, I suspect, although I don’t always tell them apart right, not like you do.  I’m not certain what kind of lily this is, but I did bring a sprig of lily of the valley, too.  Which do you like better, the lily of the valley or the other one?  It’s a soft orange color, Sam, and has spots.  Smells sweet, doesn’t it?  And what about these apple blossoms, or these yellow ones?”

            He leaned over the sleeping gardener with the flowers held carefully to one side so they wouldn’t get crushed, and pressed his cheek against Sam’s, whispering into his ear.  “You have to wake up today, Sam, you have to!  You can’t believe what a feast they have planned for your birthday!  Yes, I know your birthday was two days ago on the sixth of Astron, and you’re thirty-nine now, but we’re celebrating it today.  And soon we’ll go home, back to the Shire, and you’ll be able to kiss Rosie and finally ask her to marry you.  I know you didn’t do it before we left, in case you wouldn’t—in case we never got to go home again.  But now we shall!  And wait until you see Strider—you won’t believe it!  Strider and us!  And Lord Faramir can’t wait to see you again!”

            He straightened, tears streaming down his face, but smiling hugely as he said more loudly, “Wait until you see it all, Sam!  Now, wake soon, for I’m hungry, and I won’t be allowed to eat until you do!  This is the one birthday present we all want, you know—for you and Frodo to wake up to see all that’s planned for today!”  He set the flowers down on the table between the two beds with the blossoms toward the gardener’s nose.  Gently Pippin leaned over Sam again and kissed his cheek, then turned to Frodo and carefully smoothed away an errant lock of hair from where it covered his eye before leaning forward to kiss Frodo’s forehead.  “You, too, Frodo,” he whispered.

            Frodo stirred, turning his head a bit with a slight frown as if of concentration on his face.  Then the sleeping Baggins shifted onto his back.  Pippin looked up to meet the Wizard’s eyes, his own wide with hope.

            “Yes, Pippin,” Gandalf said in soft tones, “even now they’re stirring.  Best hurry, if you’re to be in your uniform when they come forth!”

            There were more tears, but the young Hobbit’s face was shining with relief as he nodded and scurried out of the tent as quickly as his healing injuries would allow him, off to spread the word that the sleepers would indeed awaken soon, soon!  Gandalf watched after him briefly with fondness, then turned to look down at Frodo, whose face had smoothed and was even smiling now as the scent of the flowers Pippin had brought reached him.  He’d awaken very soon, perhaps within minutes, and he was still capable of pleasure!

            As for Sam, he, too was smiling, but rather than stirring he appeared to be slipping deeper into a final dream.  Gandalf allowed himself to peek at what images the gardener entertained, and realized that Sam was dreaming of Rosie Cotton smiling at him with promise.  So, he realized, it is not just Aragorn who has one who loves him as dearly as life itself watching over him from afar!

            With that thought in mind, he sat himself on the stool that stood between the two beds, to await the awakening of the two great heroes of the Age.

 *******

            Far away in the Shire, Rosie Cotton paused in the act of slipping a covered basket into the hands of Marigold Gamgee, her head turned as if listening to news carried from afar on the renewed west wind they’d enjoyed for the last two weeks.

            “What is it?” Marigold asked in an anxious whisper.

            “It’s Sam,” Rosie murmured.  “It’s Sam!  He’ll be comin’ home!  Yes, he’ll be comin’ home now!”  The worry of the last few months of worsening conditions under Lotho Pimple fell away from her face.  “You’ll see—our Sam, he’s comin’ home to us—to me!”  And her face was alight with renewed hope as she left her friend to carry the food she’d smuggled into the village into the raw brick place into which Marigold and the Gaffer had been moved.

From the Shirish card:  N-38, First Breakfast; G-51, Yule; and O-62, Solmath (February).  For Shirebound for her birthday!

Yuletide Cheer

            The Wizard drew near to Aragorn in order to murmur into his ear, “We will need a camping place that is sufficiently sheltered to allow for a fire.”

            The Dúnadan met his gaze, his brow creased.  “Do you think it wise, Gandalf?  We are not that many days out of Rivendell, you know.”

            “And we’ve seen no eyes, friendly or unfriendly, for three days.  Nor do I sense any hint of anyone within a day’s march of here.”  At Aragorn’s continued expression of wary concern he continued, “It’s the turning of the year, my friend, and without some acknowledgment of that fact I fear we shall suffer rebellion from at least the Hobbits.”  Gandalf cast a look behind them at the rest of the party, save for Legolas, who had gone before them as scout.  Boromir walked just behind Merry and Pippin, watching the two younger Hobbits with concern of his own.  Merry appeared stoic, his intent to remain steadfast in spite of his personal misery plain to eyes accustomed to reading Hobbit sensibilities.  Pippin was singing softly to himself, but the tune did not appear to give him much comfort.  Sam walked behind those three, patiently leading Bill while looking thoughtfully toward Frodo every few minutes.  Gimli walked at the end of the line for the moment, as far distant as possible from the Elf, attentive to any hint of sound behind or on either side, one of his smaller throwing axes in his hand, his large battle axe strapped for now to his back.  Frodo walked alone, before his cousins and behind Ranger and Wizard, his eyes veiled, his naturally pale features set.

            Aragorn said softly, “Frodo feels guilty, as if he is responsible for his kinsmen and Sam—indeed, all of us—being out here in the wild rather than comfortably among our own as the year turns.”

            Gandalf nodded his agreement.  “Elrond feared this would happen, so he made provision that we should know at least some pleasure this day.”

            Aragorn raised an eyebrow, and then smiled.  “I’d wondered why he sent evergreen boughs,” he admitted, adding confidingly, “That one package has a distinctive odor.”

            Gandalf’s eyes crinkled as he smiled in return.

            A chirp of a nightjar, and Wizard, Ranger, and Frodo looked up to see Legolas standing above them on a limb to the first tree they’d seen for hours.  A graceful slither, and the Elf was on the ground, indicating he’d seen no signs of any other wanderers anywhere near, and no indications that orcs or wolves had been recently in this barren area.  “The only trail I’ve seen is of two riders who came this way perhaps two weeks ago,” he said.  “As the shoes are similar to those of horses I saw among the northern Dúnedain who visited Imladris while we sojourned there, I suspect they were left by those sent this way in search of word of the Enemy.”

            Aragorn nodded.  “Yes, Halbarad sent Halladan and Faradir this way when we were seeking signs of the Black Riders after the flood at the ford,” he admitted.  “Have you seen aught of a place where we can perhaps take refuge for a day and a night, somewhere that is safe for us to have a decent fire?  As the year turns in the coming night, it would be good for morale should we make somewhat of a holiday of it.”

            The Elf cast an understanding glance at the four Hobbits, and nodded.  “I saw a sheltered place ahead perhaps a quarter of a league.  Let me go examine it again.  It’s the most secure spot I believe I’ve seen in this bare land, and what fire we might light will not easily show, as long as our fire is kept smokeless.”  In a trice he’d melted into the surrounding lands, and Aragorn gave the signal to the rest to take a few minutes’ respite.

            “Not even a decent tree to be seen,” muttered Sam Gamgee as he resettled one of the bundles perched on the pony’s back, giving the one Legolas had visited a scornful glance.  “There you be, Bill my lad,” he said, his tone conciliatory.  “Soon we’ll be giving you a decent first breakfast, and then perhaps we’ll have one for ourselves as well.”  He looked up at the greying sky and added, “Not as I’d truly think it first breakfast, seein’ as we was walkin’ all night long,”

            Gandalf, Aragorn, and Boromir all saw the wince that Frodo couldn’t hide at Sam’s words.  Boromir came forward to join Aragorn and the Wizard as Merry and Pippin closed around their kinsman.  “Master Baggins appears even more solemn and withdrawn today than I’ve seen him yet,” he confided.

            Aragorn looked purposely off toward the horizon, murmuring, “He would rather all of us were safely home this day with our loved ones, to celebrate the turning of the year in comfort.”

            “Hobbits celebrate mettarë?” Boromir asked.

            “They certainly celebrate the turning of the year, which they know as Yule,” the northerner told him.  “Tonight there will be bonfires in all of the villages and settlements throughout the Shire, with much feasting, dancing, and music of all kinds.  There will be many parties, and a goodly portion of the inhabitants will wait to greet the first to come over the threshold of their homes with food and drink and gifts.  Families exchange presents, and the children are allowed to be thoroughly spoiled.  Or so Bilbo has assured me many times since he came to dwell in Rivendell seventeen years past.

            “Knowing how the Hobbits especially will be missing their loved ones at this season,” he continued, straightening some, “Lord Elrond made shift to supplement our stores with something appropriate for the holiday, or so Gandalf has just assured me.”

            “Then we shall need wood, I must suppose,” suggested Boromir.

            Gandalf nodded.  “Indeed.”

            Soon the Gondorian and the Hobbits were all busy scouring the area for such fuel as they could find to carry with them to their new camp, and once Legolas returned with reassurance that the place ahead was sufficient to their needs all reformed the line to move forward once more with what little they’d been able to find so far.

            The spot chosen wasn’t far from a gully, at the bottom of which ran a cheerful stream.  Here more wood washed from the slopes overhead could be found, and they soon had enough to keep a fire going all day and through the coming night as well.  While Sam saw to the preparation of a slightly more substantial first breakfast than they’d known for the last few days, Gimli cared for Bill, and Merry and Pippin decorated the hollow in which they were to camp with the greens to be found in an elongated bag from among their stores.  After setting out the bedrolls, placing that of the Ringbearer near the fire as he’d noted was customary, Boromir settled himself near to the Wizard and began going through his gear, making certain all was well with it, while from time to time watching the two youngest Hobbits as they decided just where they should settle the various garnishments they pulled out of the bag.

            Frodo had rummaged about within his own pack and pulled out a bundle that he opened as if to check its contents, closed it and considered it carefully, then stowed it once more.  He offered to help Sam, who made it clear he’d prefer to do things himself this morning, and at last came over to sit near Gandalf.  “And you meant what you said, that we are to hold to this course for forty days from Rivendell, before we will cross over the mountains to the course of the great river?”

            “I fear that we must, Frodo.”

            “But it will be Solmath—February--long before we begin to turn east!  I never dreamt Mordor was so far to the south.”

            “Actually, it is much further south of the Shire than it is east of it.”

            “Aunt Eglantine will surely disown me, having allowed Pippin to come along on this fool’s journey.”

            “I would not be the least surprised to learn she will threaten to do so once this business is finished, Frodo Baggins.  However, once she is assured her son is hale enough, I strongly suspect she will forget about you and focus more on him.  Oh, I am certain he will feel the sharp side of his mother’s tongue some, but at the same time she will be spoiling him terribly to make up for all of the feasts and banquets he’s missed during his travels.  But then, the fault isn’t yours—if anyone’s, it’s mine, and you know it.  I’m the one who assured Elrond that it would be best to allow the two of them to travel with us, after all.  Better than sending him home tied up in a sack as he indicated would have to be done to keep him from following after.”

            Frodo sighed.  “He’d not have made it home in any case, not if I know Peregrin Took.  The first time they released him to relieve himself he would have slipped away from them and would be haring after us anyway.”

            “So, there you have it.  Far better to have him openly with us rather than skulking along behind us and falling into who knows how many scrapes!  Besides, you need him to see to it you laugh at least once a day, my dear Hobbit—you are becoming altogether far too serious, you know.  Not, of course, that you don’t have good reason to be concerned.  But we all do better for a good laugh at reasonable intervals.”

            Frodo grimaced and looked away.

            “Why don’t you go ask Aragorn if you can aid him in finding what might be foraged around here, Frodo?” the Wizard suggested.  “He’s right over there, near the path down to the stream.  I think he’s considering setting a snare or two, if nothing else.”

            The Hobbit muttered something, and shrugging, rose to follow Gandalf’s suggestion.

            Boromir watched after Frodo, remarking, “He does feel responsible for the danger we are all in, I deem.”

            Gandalf drew out his pipe and filled it carefully, husbanding each shred of leaf as if it were infinitely precious.  “That he does.  But then he’s always been a most responsible sort, and from his youngest days as Bilbo has assured me has been true of him.”

            “His—people—must be very proud of him.”

            Gandalf gave Frodo’s retreating figure a thoughtful glance.  “I believe I saw him but once when he was a babe, and not again until he’d come back to Hobbiton to Bag End to live as Bilbo’s ward and heir, over twenty years later.  Even that one time it was from a distance.  I’d met his parents a time or two, not that they were quite—comfortable with our acquaintance.  But then, most Hobbits tend to view me with suspicion, considering me quite a bad influence.  Look what I did to Bilbo, after all—inspired him to becoming involved with the Dwarves and a Dragon, turning him from the height of predictability and therefore respectability into a marked eccentric.  And they blamed me for Frodo’s appearance of sudden change of fortune, when he announced he’d come to the end of his money and would be leaving Hobbiton to go back to Buckland once more. 

            “Merry’s parents fostered him after his own parents’ deaths, and they love him as if he were indeed their first son.  They didn’t want to give him up into Bilbo’s care, but had to admit it was necessary in the end.  They would grieve indeed to see him as he is now, much less what he is likely to come to as the quest requires still more of him.”

            “He may not survive it, you know.”

            The Wizard met the warrior’s eyes.  “This quest is likely to cost any or even all of us our lives.  Would you turn back now, knowing you may never sit in the Black Chair with the Steward’s Rod in your lap?”

            Boromir gave a mirthless laugh.  “I need not have come so far from my home to know that to be true, Mithrandir.  Each time I face Mordor’s creatures that is true.”

            Gandalf sighed.  “You have the right of it.”  He glanced back at Frodo where he now stood speaking with Aragorn, then back toward the campsite where Merry and Pippin were arguing over where a swag of ivy might best be displayed before turning to Boromir once more.  “If they could understand what is at stake, I suspect that Merry’s parents at least would be very proud of Frodo—if they could get over their terror for what might befall him, their son, and their nephew, that is.  As for Paladin Took and his wife—well, they are quite a different kettle of fish.  Paladin thinks himself quite worldly, which means he questions all tales of things he’s never seen himself.  He has no time for tales of Mordor and distant lands and possibly returning kings.  He’s the Thain and the Took now, quite a big responsibility in itself, seeing to it that his extensive family is properly cared for and that the borders of their lands are watched.  He fails to think further afield than Bree, and thinks of that only because he visited there a time or two many years since when it was still safe to travel so far and he was merely concerned to turn a bit of a profit from the excess wool and grain from his farm in Whitwell.  Now that he’s succeeded his cousin Ferumbras as the nominal head of the Shire and as the patriarch of his family, however, he has too many real problems to solve, as he sees it, to pay attention to what he thinks of as children’s fables and ghost stories.  He and Eglantine indeed must be out of their minds with anxiety with their son gone missing along with Merry and Frodo and Sam.  And, when they get back----”

            “If they are able to return,” cautioned Boromir.

            Gandalf shrugged.  “If and when these return, I doubt either of Pippin’s parents will wish to believe a word any of these four should attempt to tell them of what they went through, much less why they left the Shire to begin with.  It’s not going to be an easy return for young Pippin, and he knows it.  But it didn’t stop him from demanding to come along.”

 *******

            They ate the meal that Sam had prepared with better cheer than they’d known after such meals on previous mornings.  One hamper they’d not opened until today proved to hold fresh eggs and sausages, a rather larger ham than they’d expected, some bread that tasted almost fresh, and even some preserved strawberries of excellent quality.  Gandalf offered to take the first watch, and the rest took to their bedrolls soon enough.  Pippin was the first to awaken in the early afternoon, and he set the fire burning merrily once more before taking kettles, pans, and water bottles down to fill them at the stream. 

            The rest were far less gloomy than they’d been at the end of the previous night’s walk, and Boromir awoke feeling quite refreshed.  When Pippin began entertaining the party with what Merry insisted was a most inappropriate version of a typical Yuletide carol even Frodo smiled some.  Sam served them slices of ham warmed in his skillet alongside potatoes that had been cooking in the coals for some hours and fried slices of cored apple.  Bill appeared happy with his share of the apples and the grain poured into his nosebag, and Legolas had managed to bring in some partridges that all expected to eat the following morning.  Meanwhile they had some excellent tubers Frodo and Aragorn had dug up down in the gully to set by for the future, and a sizable haunch of beef was turning on a spit over the fire for their holiday supper.

            Then Frodo came to Sam with a rough cloth bag.  “Bilbo gave me these,” he explained.  “I thought we could all share them with our evening meal.”

            Boromir peered into the bag with curiosity, and his expression soured at the look of what was there.  “Bits of wood?” he asked.

            Sam gave him a glance of reproof, sniffing appreciatively at the contents.  “Wood?  I’d say not!  They’re dried mushrooms, and excellent morels, I’m thinkin’.  Old Mr. Bilbo was most generous, givin’ these to Mr. Frodo like that.  And you don’t know as how great an honor it is to have my Master willin’ t’share in such bounty.  There some things as Mr. Frodo just don’t tend to share easily, you see.”

            The dried mushrooms were combined with sliced potatoes and such dried vegetables as formed part of their stores and the drippings from the roasting meat to make a rich and savory vegetable stew that Sam served that evening alongside the sliced beef, with stewed apples soaked in wine and honey for afters.

            Boromir was eating his stew with pleasure when he found in it his first slice of mushroom.  He fished it out with his knife blade, eyed it distastefully, and casually flicked it to the ground, to the horror of all four Hobbits and a cry of “You shouldn’t waste them like that!” from Aragorn.  Wizard, Elf, and Dwarf all turned to watch the small drama with interest, and Gandalf noted that Frodo’s eyes were wide with both shock and fury.  Frodo Baggins, he remembered, particularly loved mushrooms, and as Sam had noted he did not share his mushrooms with just anyone.  For someone to not realize just how much of a sacrifice Frodo had made in having Sam include these in the meal to the point of throwing them on the ground was an affront that Gandalf feared Boromir could not yet appreciate, but which he very well might rue in short order.  For Gandalf also had heard Bilbo boast of just how inventive his lad could be when taking vengeance….

            “Oh, no you don’t!” Pippin said as the Gondorian speared another mushroom out of the stew, and he reached out and took it from the knifepoint and popped it into his own mouth with all signs of satisfaction.  Merry was looking with interest between Frodo and Boromir, and at one point shared meaningful glances with Aragorn, who merely shook his head, watching Pippin’s antics with a measure of yearning.  The Dúnadan also liked his mushrooms, the Wizard remembered.

            Deciding that it might be best to provide a distraction, Gandalf lit his pipe again, and fell back on his old trick of turning his smoke rings different colors and sending them here and there about the hollow, and even turned the flames of the cook fire green and red.  The others began to laugh, and even Frodo managed to crack a smile, but still he appeared to count every slice of mushroom Pippin rescued from Boromir’s knife tip.  Stories were told and songs were sung, and Aragorn was coaxed into singing a lay about the first meeting between Thingol and Melian and how the Elven lord stood entranced by his first glimpse of the one who had finally stirred his heart.  By the time all were ready to sleep for the night rather than resuming their journey, Gandalf hoped that Frodo would realize that no offense was intended and let the matter go.  Certainly the Baggins returned to his bedroll as if he felt exhausted, returning Boromir’s wishes for a pleasant rest readily enough.

            Gimli took the first watch that night, with Merry set to relieve him at the third hour.  But when Gandalf woke to take the third watch of the night, he found himself relieving not Merry but his older cousin.

            “I was feeling wakeful and thought Merry could do with some more rest,” Frodo said, smiling easily.  “So I rose and took over from Gimli.  It was the least I could do for my Merry for Yule.”

            He’d also apparently done a fair amount of tidying up about the campsite, Gandalf noted.  The mugs from which they drank their morning tea were all washed and set out neatly on a larger stone near the fire pit, and the two kettles, already filled with water, stood near the flames of the cook fire to warm some for washing once all were awake.

            Near each bedroll was a neat pile comprised of a face cloth, toweling, and a bar of scented soap--Frodo’s gift, Gandalf realized, to each of them.  He smiled, and placed a cloth pouch of pipe weed on top of these for each of the Hobbits, Aragorn, and Gimli, and a flask of wine each for Boromir and Legolas.  When he awoke, Merry proved to have a whetstone for each of them, while Pippin had small packets of sweets that he’d brought from Rivendell.  Sam had handkerchiefs for everyone, at least three each—he swore that Bilbo had insisted that these would prove useful for all of them.  Gimli gave each of them a bead on a cord to carry for luck or protection, each bead hand carved of a different gemstone.  Aragorn provided packets of sweet biscuits for them all, and offered in addition a new pair of leather laces to Boromir, who accepted them with surprised thanks.

            They ate a leisurely first breakfast, enjoying the partridges Legolas had taken the day before as well as some fish Frodo brought up from the stream.  Afterwards they reluctantly burned the greens in the fire while Pippin sang a song customarily sung at the lighting of the Yule Log as he scrubbed the pans and metal plates and cups at Frodo’s direction.

            As he brought one of the sprays of evergreens from the east side of the hollow, Merry noted, “That’s rather strange—I could swear I put the yew over there yesterday.”

            It was after they finally resumed their way southward that Boromir cursed.

            “What is it?” Gandalf asked.

            “There appears to be something in my boot,” he was told.  The Gondorian pulled out of line, sat down on a stone, and pulled at the lacing for his right boot—only to have it suddenly break on him.  Three times he shook it out, ran his fingers over the inside of the boot, put it on, took a few steps, then sat down anew before he finally found that a pebble had somehow worked its way under the thick layer of leather that padded the inner sole of his footwear. 

            Once he finally had one of his new laces in place and properly tied they started anew.  Within a short time he was having to remove his other boot, and finally his sock.  Somehow a yew needle had worked itself into the knitted fabric, and it had been irritating the arch of his foot.  The irritation continued, and at last he found a fir needle was somehow caught in the seam of the leather and was poking through the sock into his leg.  Then he found a bit of horsehair through the seam of his trousers, irritating his inner thigh.  And when he stood up, it was to find he’d somehow managed to sit upon a mash of holly berries that no one had seen upon the rock before he’d sat upon it.

            When the lacing of his pants broke as he went to change to his spare trousers, he cursed again.  Aragorn smiled smugly as he caught Gandalf’s eye.  “I suspected that he might well need some new laces today,” he whispered to the Wizard.  “Anyone who is disrespectful toward Frodo’s mushrooms tends to know remarkable runs of bad luck, you will find.”

            Gandalf gave Frodo a suspicious look, but found that the Ringbearer appeared properly commiserative regarding Boromir’s distress, although did he indeed have a sprig of evergreen needles in his hair?

Written for the B2MEM prompt "Thrimidge" (May) on the Shirish card.

Toasts

            Bilbo woke from one of his frequent dozes to find Gandalf seated across the tea table from him, waiting patiently.  The Hobbit sighed and stretched.  “I did it again, didn’t I?”

            The Wizard nodded, smiling.  “But what do I have to do that gives me more pleasure than waiting to continue our conversation?”

            “When I don’t even remember precisely what we were speaking of before I dozed off?”  Bilbo sighed and rubbed his eyes.  “I’m not even certain what day it is.”

            “May first—the first of Thrimidge.”

            “I wish I knew what Frodo is up to today.”

            Gandalf’s expression went distant, and then smiled.  “He’s officiating at Sam’s wedding at this moment.”

            Bilbo’s eyes widened in pleasure.  “He’s finally marrying Rosie, is he?  And Frodo is officiating?  How wonderful!  It calls for opening a bottle of Old Winyards if anything does!  My last bottle is there, in that cupboard.  Won’t you fetch it for me?”

            By the time Gandalf returned to the table Bilbo was dozing off once more, but he jerked himself awake again as the Wizard dropped the bottle noisily on the table top.  Bilbo squinted up at his companion and gave a crooked grin.  “It happened again.”  He sighed, watching as Gandalf removed the cork.  “Little Samwise Gamgee is finally marrying the one person he’s ever loved.  But why is Frodo officiating?  It’s not as if Sam were a Baggins.  I’d expect him to call upon Griffo’s services as village head, or perhaps Will Whitfoot as Mayor.”

            “Frodo is deputy Mayor, or so I have been told,” Gandalf said, pouring the last of the wine from the bottle into the two glasses they’d been using earlier for more mundane drinking.  “Do you think that Sam would agree to anyone else saying the words at this point?”

            “Humph!  Certainly not!  And it’s been exactly a year since Aragorn was crowned King of Gondor, isn’t it?  Do you believe that the decision to marry Rosie today was deliberate to commemorate that occasion?”

            “Why, you are right!”  Gandalf smiled more fully as he handed one of the glasses to Bilbo.  “To Sam and Rosie on their wedding day, and to Aragorn on the first anniversary of his accession to the throne of Gondor!”

            “And to my dear boy as deputy Mayor for the Shire!” Bilbo said, clinking his glass against the Wizard’s.  “May all of them know the joy of the day!”

            “Indeed,” Gandalf murmured as he lifted his glass to sip from it.  He watched the Hobbit take a drink and sit back more comfortably, then reached out to rescue Bilbo’s glass before it had the chance to drop from the slackening fingers as Bilbo once more drifted into a light sleep.  “And to you, my dear, dear Bilbo, you most remarkable of Hobbits!”

B-13 on the Five Books, Five Characters card:  Nerdanel.

Invitation to Comfort

            “My lady?”

            The voice was that of a Maia, but it held a timbre to it that Nerdanel did not recognize.  Nor, when she turned from the statue she was working upon, did she recognize the visage—or at least not this particular combination of features.  There was something—alien—to be seen there, as if he had seen life as she had never known it to be.  It was only when she looked into his eyes that she was able to put a name to one she had once known well. 

            “Olórin!  It is many yéni since you have visited me!”

            He smiled, and even the unmistakable warmth of that smile was alien to her memory of him.  Oh, as with most of his sort, when he’d smiled the last she’d seen of him it had been enough to move the heart.  But now the smile was somehow more—present, far more akin to the smiles of the Children than she’d ever seen in any Maia, even this one.  “Oh, indeed, my lady.  I have only recently returned to Aman after a long absence.”

            “On Lord Manwë’s business?”

            “Yea, he it was who sent me forth.”

            “And is it true that he sent you to Endorë?”

            “Yes.”

            She went still, searching his eyes.  As always, she saw the great sea of compassion that he contained, although now it, too, had changed in some ineffable manner to become more real, more rooted in the here and now.  “And does he still haunt the shores of the Sundering Sea as I have been told he has since his great sin?”  She knew she did not have to name the object of her inquiry.

            “I am told that yes, he primarily does so, although he has been known to spend decades in visiting various lands throughout Middle Earth, studying its peoples, learning and correcting their lore, and counseling all to avoid the errors he and his brothers committed.”

            “Decades?”  The word was not one she knew.

            “Tens of years as told by the Sun, Lady Nerdanel.  It is a measure commonly used in the Mortal Lands.”

            She added the word to her vocabulary and returned to her primary subject of inquiry.  “You did not see him?”

            “I caught sight of him four times during the many years I dwelt there, but he never allowed me to approach him.  The last time I saw him was as we sailed from Mithlond—he watched the ship depart the Firth of Lhûn, and wove a song to aid us upon our way.”

            She looked down at the pendant opal she wore upon her breast.  “His stone has never dimmed,” she murmured, fingering it gently.  “I would so hope he will one day return to my comfort.”  She looked up to meet his gaze, and realized that he now understood her grief as he could never have done before.  “I lost so much when Fëanáro spoke his oath, and our sons were moved to echo it.”  Yet she said it without blame for any of those who’d uttered those words.

            Then her tone became more cheerful.  “But you are returned here again, and I suspect that you have many tales to tell.”

            Again he gave that warmer, truer smile, the smile of one who has known labor and danger, findings and losses, laughter and tempers and accomplishments to remember.  “Oh, indeed, my lady!  I lived the while in the guise of a Mortal, one of the Second-born, and traveled throughout the lands of the Free Peoples on the Elder King’s errand.  I have seen much, and have learned to love more individuals than you perhaps can imagine ever having been.  I have seen children born into this world, and have held those whose fëar broke free of their hröar, and must heed the call of the Doomsman, assuring them that they were now free to answer it as they could.  And I have seen wonders of self-sacrifice that have led me to awe.”

            She was entranced by his words.  “You lived as one of the Second-born?  You must tell me what they are like!”

            His smile became conspiratorial.  “Oh, but if you would like you shall have the chance to meet at least one of these, although he is not a Man.  For I have come not to share tales, but to bring an invitation.  As I said, I returned on one of the ships built by Círdan the Shipwright in Mithlond, along with many of the Eldar who have chosen to return to the Blessed Realm.  And among them were the Ringbearers, the three who bore the three Rings of Power wrought by Celebrimbor for those who ruled the Eldar of Middle Earth.  And there were two more—two who, for a time, carried the One Ring that was crafted by Sauron himself, intended to rule all who dwelt in Endorë.  He was robbed of It at the end of the Second Age when Isildur of Gondor cut It from Sauron’s own hand using the broken blade of his father’s sword.  Then It slipped from Isildur’s finger, betraying him to his death at the hands of orcs, but It found Itself at the bottom of the River Anduin until not quite six hundred years ago, when It was at last found by a fisherman pulled from his boat.  Four have borne It since that time, although it wasn’t until a few years ago that we learned Its true nature and sent It to Its destruction. 

            “Two of those four accompanied us to Tol Eressëa to know both their reward and healing for what griefs the One Ring caused them.  We would like very much for you to meet at least Frodo, if Bilbo is not able to entertain you.  Bilbo is quite elderly for his kind, you see, and may not remain much longer within the Circles of Arda.  But I am certain that Frodo would very much like to meet you, and I would like him to be there when you meet two of those who are now very close to him.

            “One of these you have great reason to wish to know better, I believe.”

            “And why should I wish to meet Elves newly come from Endorë?”

            “He is Elrond Eärendilion, formerly Herald to Ereinion Gil-galad, most recently the Master of Imladris----”

            She had straightened, and her face had paled.  “And own brother to Elros Tar-Minyatur of Atalantë, who was fosterling to my son.”

            “Yes.  And he dearly wishes to meet the one he thinks of as his daernaneth—the mother of the father of his heart.  Know this—he bore Vilya, the Ring of Sapphire, helping to keep many safe from the treachery and enmity of Sauron and his allies.  He, too, is recovering from many griefs and much weariness.  In time he will come here to Aman, but he is not yet ready for that further journey.  And he is newly reunited with his wife, who has dwelt on the Lonely Isle for many yéni, since Sauron’s creatures took her prisoner and dealt grievous wounds to her body and spirit.  Neither he nor his wife’s mother will agree to leave her side at this time.”

            “And who is his wife’s mother that she would perhaps think to come to Aman proper?” she asked.

            His visage had changed, become rougher, bearded, with shaggy brows over his intense dark eyes and his extraordinarily large nose.  He gave the impression of great age and sagacity as well as immense compassion and humor.  “You knew her once, Finarfin—Arafinwe’s daughter, Artanis, although she is better known now as Galadriel.  She, too, was one of the bearers of the three Elven Rings, Nenya, Ring of Adamant, and she used it to protect Laurinand, the land she and her husband Celeborn ruled together at the end, known more recently as Lórien, the Golden Wood.”

            Her lips trembled briefly.  “So,” she said at last, “Artanis has indeed been granted the right to return.”

            He nodded.

            “And who bore the third of these Elven rings?” she asked.

            He looked down briefly before answering, “I did.  Círdan gave it into my hands upon my arrival in Middle Earth.”  He held up his hand to show a broad band in which was set a great ruby.  “Narya the Great, Ring of Fire, the Kindler.”

            She set her hand upon it, felt the manner of its forging, the weight of it.  “But it is now shorn of its power.”

            “Indeed, it is so.  Will you come, my Lady Nerdanel, and speak with these four?  You can appreciate better than most others, I believe, just how bereft all feel who have borne such artifacts of power, now that the power is past.  And I hope that they will all be able to offer you comfort as well, comfort and hope.”

            She examined his current form.  “And this is how you appeared there, there in the Mortal Lands?”

            He gave a self-deprecating shrug.  “Indeed.  Will you accept their invitation to call?”

            She stood, and turned to examine the unfinished statue she’d been working upon, then shook her head with decision.  “It is of little import if this is finished soon, I suppose.  But if this Bilbo is likely to soon depart the Circles of Arda….”

            She took up a tarp and draped it over her work, set her chisels aside and called for her apprentice.  “See to it these are cleaned and properly cared for.  I find the one with the red handle needs sharpening.  I will be gone for some time.  How long?  As long as it takes me to bring—and find—comfort, I suppose.”

            She leaned forward to confide, “Some have come to bring me comfort, and perhaps to receive it in return.  Wish me well!”

            The apprentice watched with widened eyes as the strange figure of the Mistress’s guest led her out of the workshop toward the house to pack for her journey.

For Kaylee and Baylor for their birthdays.  Beta by RiverOtter.

Self-blame

            Lindir greeted the golden-haired son of Thranduil of Mirkwood as Legolas’s party entered Elrond’s house.  “You and your fellows are most welcome, Thranduilion,” he said with a profound bow.  “I grieve that Elrond himself cannot be here at the door to greet you more in keeping with your station, but you will find yours is but one of several parties newly come to the Last Homely House, and we have had to offer aid to one who suffered a deadly wound as well as many who have been harried by the Enemy’s creatures of many kinds as they approached the valley.  And such news as has already been shared has proved dire, filling all with foreboding.”

            The younger Elf sighed as he accepted the greeting offered.  “And I fear I bring more of the same,” he admitted.  “Although,” he added, “it may prove that this is but a brief respite to our journey, for the one I must meet with is Mithrandir rather than Lord Elrond.  It is to the Wizard my errand must be explained.”

            “Then you are in luck,” Lindir said, “for he is here now, although he sits at this moment at the bedside of the Master’s wounded patient.  All have been in terror for what might befall this one in the end, considering the nature of the wound as well as how long ago it was suffered.  Only this morning was the shard of the weapon used removed from the victim’s shoulder.  But this was the second time that the wound has been probed, and the skin had begun to knit again.  We hope that tomorrow he will rouse—he has remained unconscious the entire time he has been within these walls, and Gandalf feels himself responsible for the injury this, his friend, has taken.

            “I suspect that your news can keep a day or two until the Master’s patient begins to demonstrate he recovers.  I doubt not that all will be too distracted to give proper attention to your message before they are assured he will live and prosper once more.”

            The Mirkwood Elf nodded his acceptance of this intelligence, and found himself glad that he would not be called upon to tell what had happened in his father’s realm immediately.  He felt suddenly tired, and he would rejoice for the chance to bathe, eat, and rest before he must admit the failure of his people in the charge laid on them by the Grey Wizard.  He laid his hand on Lindir’s shoulder to halt the musician’s intent to lead his party to the guest wing.  “One thing more—we are being followed shortly by still others, both Men from Esgaroth and Dale and Dwarves from Erebor.  Be so advised.”

            “I will let the Lady Arwen know that the chambers for Dwarves will be needed.  Thank you.  Now, if all of you will come this way….”

 *******

            Legolas felt far more hopeful when early the next morning he began to inquire as to where he might find the Wizard.  “He will need to know that the creature is fled,” he murmured to himself after receiving word that Gandalf was to be found in the nearest room within the healing wing, attending on his wounded friend.  “I hope that the wounded one is not the Dúnadan,” he continued as he went past a section containing a series of rooms in which Men tended to be housed.  “I would grieve deeply should Lord Aragorn’s life have been placed in danger.”

            He was therefore much relieved to see Aragorn son of Arathorn standing outside a room, speaking to three—were there indeed three of the Periannath here?  He stopped in amazement, his mouth falling open in his surprise.  Only one Perian had he seen in yéni, the one who had accompanied Thorin Oakenshield to the Lonely Mountain, and who had given his adar that magnificent emerald necklace that Thranduil was so proud of after the Battle of Five Armies.

            The Man, the Elf noted, appeared to be recovering from great travail, his face still worn.  Yet his voice was calm and full of authority.  “Yes, I agree with Master Elrond he will most likely awaken today, and perhaps within a couple of hours.  But none of us will do him any good hanging over his bed until his eyes open.  All of you require rest, as does Bilbo as well.  The old fellow has barely left his side since we arrived, you know.  Sam, I rely on you to get Bilbo to his rooms and make certain he lies down.  He’s weaving just sitting there in a chair!  And then, once he is asleep, you are to return to the chamber given you and do the same.  Now,” he said, allowing the others no time to argue, “that is what you are to do.  Go, get something to eat and get some rest yourselves.  Gandalf can watch over him.”

            “And what about you?” asked the stoutest of the three.

            Aragorn gave a tired laugh.  “Do you think I have not received similar orders?  A wise individual knows when to accept orders when they are for the best for everyone.  Now, off with you!”

            The two smaller figures nodded reluctantly and headed off toward the main section to the place, perhaps to visit the dining hall or the kitchens, while the remaining Perian turned to enter the room, Aragorn patting his shoulder as he went through the doorway.  The door closed quietly after him.

            Legolas spoke.  “You are well, mellon nín?”

            Aragorn turned, a look of surprise followed by one of pleasure on his face.  “You have just arrived, have you?  They had not told me!”

            “Late yesterday afternoon.  And there are Periannath here in Imladris?”

            The Man smiled.  “Yes—five, actually.  One has lived here for seventeen years, while the others only arrived a few days past—with me.”

            The Elf thought on this for the moment.  “Then the one who is injured is a Perian as well, and was, I assume, wounded under your watch.”

            Aragorn’s face grew grave.  “Yes, although I have been assured I must not blame myself.  There are forces now in movement beyond the control of Man, Elf, Dwarf, Hobbit, or Wizard, you will find.”

            “And Mithrandir is within, by the side of the one who was so sorely hurt?”

            “Yes.  You have news for him?”

            “I do—grave news indeed.”

            “Is it news that cannot wait?”

            Legolas considered.  “There is nothing that can be done about it,” he answered carefully.  “Or not immediately.”

            The Dúnadan gave a brief nod.  “Then perhaps it would be best to keep it for the council to be held, I believe, tomorrow.  We all worry for the recovery of Frodo, you see, and if I have felt responsible for him being wounded, Gandalf feels trebly so, for it was he who charged Frodo to bring his burden here to Rivendell, and he who failed to meet him and his companions in Bree as was intended.  Right now Gandalf watches over Frodo as he lies in healing sleep, and it would not do to add to his burdens at the moment, I deem, particularly if what you would say to Gandalf would possibly be distressing to Frodo as well.  He may be asleep, but even an unconscious mind might take in uncomfortable words and twist them into evil images that could impede recovery.”

            The Elf indicated his understanding.

            At that moment the door opened again, and the Perian Aragorn had named Sam came forth, leading another of his kind after him.  “You heard Master Elrond and Mr. Gandalf and Strider here, Mr. Bilbo—we’re all to rest that we not be too anxious when Mr. Frodo wakes up again.  Now, I’m charged to see you to your own rooms afore I go off to mine.  Tell you what—you can give me that cup o’ tea as you wanted t’give me earlier as I refused then, see?”

            The smaller, older Perian growled, “But I feel so guilty, knowing that if I’d not left that for him to deal with he’d not have been so wounded!  Oh, all right, Samwise Gamgee.  Although I never thought I would see the day I was taking orders from the gardener!”  He nodded up at Aragorn.  “And if I’m to rest, you’d best do so as well, lad.  You’ve been as attentive as the rest of us, and with less sleep!” 

            He caught sight of Legolas at that moment, and stopped, his attention arrested.  “My word,” he whispered.  “You’re here!  All the way from Mirkwood!  And do you still like honeycakes, my Prince?  If so, I will see to it some are sent to your rooms with my compliments, as I remember I took one or two from your plate on occasion.  Welcome, welcome to Rivendell, and I so hope to see more of you before you must away again!”  With that he suffered himself to be led away by his companion, his face alight.  “And that,” he confided, “is one of the Princes of Mirkwood, Sam my lad!  Who would expect to see him here in Master Elrond’s house?”

            Legolas watched after the two Periain, much surprised.  “Is that,” he asked the Man, “the one who accompanied Thorin Oakenshield so long ago?”

            The Man nodded, his smile doting.  “Oh, yes, Bilbo Baggins, late of Bag End in the Shire.  I see he recognizes you!”  He sighed, watching after the old fellow.  “Ah, but I do need to do as he says and find my own bed again.  I was up much of the night.  Some of my own people arrived two hours after sundown, and two of them were in quite a bad way.”

            “Beset by enemies?”

            Aragorn’s voice was grim as he answered, “Suffering from the Black Breath.  Oh, yes, my friend, the Nazgûl have been here in the north, and hounded us from Bree to here.”

            Legolas could barely find words to say in his astonishment and dismay.  “They—they are here?  In Eriador?  Whatever for?  For these are accounted empty lands!  What could they possibly be seeking here in Eriador?”

            The Man checked to see that the door was firmly shut and spoke in a tight voice.  “What indeed?  That will be revealed in council, and as I said, most likely tomorrow.  Know this—they bore with them Morgul blades, and it was with one of those that they wounded the Hobbit over whom Gandalf watches.  And another was used on one of my Men who was on guard at the Sarn Ford—Faradir was forced to give him the mercy stroke, as they found they could not bring him here in time.”

            The Elf closed his eyes and shook his head in grief.  “Alas!  For indeed dire news appears to abound in this house!”

            Aragorn gave a stiff nod.  “Yea, so it appears.  But you will find that hope is also to be found.  It may appear slight, but it is there, and to be sought after the more surely.  Go in and speak with Gandalf, but do not speak words of evil or despair around Frodo, I beg of you.  Adar Elrond managed to remove the shard of that curst blade and to turn the spell that Frodo not become a wraith, but it was far too near a thing in the end.  He should awaken within a few hours, but at this time needs to hear only words of cheer to further counter the evil that almost took him.  I hope to see you again soon, although it might not be until tomorrow.”

            The two clasped one another’s wrists, and Aragorn son of Arathorn departed toward the wing where his quarters were maintained.  Legolas watched after the Man before finally turning to the door himself and rapping on it softly, then opening it and entering.

            The room was large and well appointed, Centered between the windows on one side and the door to a balcony on the other was a great bed crafted from what appeared to be elm wood, with a depiction of Estë, Lady of Healing, upon the headboard, her face turned down to watch over the sleeping patient who lay beneath the fair blankets and her hands held out in blessing.

            As for that patient….

            “It is a child?” he found himself asking aloud.

            “No more than are you as one of the One’s Children,” came the answer, and he looked up to meet the eyes of the Grey Wizard, who sat in one of the chairs beside the bed, turning his unlit pipe between his hands.  After a moment he continued, “Although Frodo here fully embodies the child-like grace common to many—but, I admit, not all—Hobbits.  Nay, he has fifty years behind him, and should be considered to be of much the same age as the Dúnadan.  Or you.” 

            As one of Thranduil’s children Legolas knew the story of Aragorn son of Arathorn well enough, the history of both his lineage and the hopeless love he knew for Elrond’s daughter, and the possible destiny that might be his should all come together rightly.

            “Until the Battle of Five Armies I knew not that any Periannath yet lingered in Middle Earth.  It is many yéni since any have been seen in the valley of the Anduin.”

            “But that does not mean all died in the times of drought and wildfires,” Gandalf commented, setting the pipe down on the table to one side of his chair.  “No, instead they emigrated to Eriador and established themselves here, west of the Misty Mountains.  Most live now in the Breelands and west of there, in the Shire.”

            Legolas returned his fascinated gaze to the still form lying in the bed.  Certainly the sheer size of the bed made the creature appear that much the smaller, proportioned as the bed was for the forms of wounded Elves or stricken Men.  This Perian—Hobbit—barely seemed to make an impression on the mattress or pillow.  The face was well formed, the nose aquiline, the hair as dark as that of the Dúnadan, but the skin paler, even taking into consideration the time he had suffered from his wound.  There were bandages wrapped about his left shoulder and breast beneath the white nightshirt he wore, and the glimpse of a woven chain that somehow appeared to have been wrought for an Elf, Man, or Dwarf rather than for one so small.

            The lips were pale, but conveyed sensitivity.  Brows were delicate and finely arched.  And he was very thin, far thinner than his companions.

            “He still strikes me as one who is very young and vulnerable,” the Elf commented softly.

            Mithrandir sighed, reaching for the mug that sat on the table near his pipe.  “I know.  Perhaps that is merely a matter of him being a Hobbit.  But he is far stronger than he looks—he must be, to have fought the effects of a Morgul wound as he did for over two weeks!”  He sipped at his drink, staring thoughtfully at the Hobbit.  Finally he set the mug back on the table.  “Most Hobbits tend to appear vulnerable, you will find, and most Big Folk, as they call us, find themselves doing the best they can to protect them, even when they don’t really need any protection at all.  It appears to be a talent granted their race, this ability to bring out a protective streak from others as it so often happens. 

            “But Frodo here, somehow he inspires others to care deeply for him beyond the norm even for Hobbits.  You’d best be on your guard—Aragorn has already sworn fealty to him.”

            “What?”  Legolas could not imagine the Dúnadan doing such a thing for one who looked such a child.

            Gandalf smiled, his eyes still searching this Frodo’s face.  “Oh, yes, Aragorn swore to protect Frodo by his life or death, there in Bree.  You’ve not seen Frodo awake and in his full dignity as yet.  As noble a young lord as you’ll ever hope to encounter.  He managed to capture my heart and loyalty some decades back.  And you will find he will do the same to you before you even realize it.  As for his companions or Bilbo—they would do anything for him!  He draws out the loyalty and native nobility of others.  And he thinks deeply.

            “And I suggested he come here with his burden to lay it before Elrond and seek his advice.  I laid the journey upon him, and then wasn’t there to protect him as he needed when the Nazgûl made their attack.”

            “Aragorn has already admitted to me that he’s been told he did all he could to protect him.”

            “Yes, I know.  But he still feels responsible for Frodo being wounded, as do I.  We all feel as if we should have done more and spared him this.  And at the same time I’m told he blames himself for his own foolishness when he is bearing a burden of such great magnitude that he cannot ever be expected to fully fight its influence!”

            At last the Wizard looked up again to meet Legolas’s gaze.  “But I must assume you had news to give me before the council that will most likely be called tomorrow morning?”

            Legolas took a deep breath as he considered what he had to tell of Gollum’s escape as well as what he’d already been warned of the possible inadvisability of speaking such ill news within the hearing of the wounded Perian, conscious or not.  No, he decided, the Wizard already was too heavily burdened with feelings of guilt due to his inability to help protect this Hobbit, and there was, after all, nothing that could be done to rectify the matter at this time.  He would not add to that burden by sharing the news now—it would indeed keep until the morrow.  So, he merely said, “We will discuss it then, Mithrandir.  But I, too feel guilty at the moment for not having been able to keep a proper guard on someone I’d promised to watch over.”

            Gandalf gave him a swift, searching glance, and then gave a single nod of acceptance.  “Then I will learn what you would say then.  But I would advise you, also, not to blame yourself overmuch.  None of us is able to foresee all that is ill that will happen to us or those we would watch over.”

            Legolas gave a wry smile and withdrew, returning back to his quarters to discuss the matter with those who’d come with him from Mirkwood.  And as the day progressed he found himself more than once marveling at the thought that Aragorn Arathornion had vowed himself to a Perian!

For Kitty for her birthday.  Beta by RiverOtter.

Aching for Comfort

            “Really, Frodo—you spend much of the day in Faramir’s archive looking up details on old laws for Aragorn, and now I find you in the Great Archive?  Do you not long to spend the afternoon with your friends down by the Anduin?  You used to be quite the swimmer, according to what Bilbo, Merry, and Pippin have all told me.”

            Frodo looked up from the ancient codex he’d been perusing, his eyes shockingly passionless and nearly empty, Gandalf thought.  “Go down to the Anduin with the others?  Why?”  His voice was quiet and rather flat.

            “It’s been a hot day, and I would think you would wish to be out of this city of stone for a time.”

            The Hobbit’s voice grew tighter as he turned his eyes back to the Tengwar script he’d been reading.  “It is cool enough in here, I’d think.”  He closed the volume suddenly and shoved it to one side.  His voice was low as he spoke.  “And what could I do there, there by the river?  I can barely make it from one end of the Sixth Circle to the other.  I could not walk so far, and am loath to ride when the others chose to walk.”  There was a look of near desperation in Frodo’s eyes when he looked back to face Gandalf’s concern.  “And I am not certain that I can swim now, as weak as I’ve become, Gandalf.  This is what the Ring has left of me—I walk any distance only by going slowly and deliberately.  I cannot dance a full set and stand afterwards.  I cannot bear to stand for long periods of time, and doubt I could help with the harvesting of the apples from Bag End’s orchard were I home—not that I have a home any more.  I cannot eat until I feel full, and must watch even what I drink if I would not have it make me ill.” 

            He turned deliberately away from his friend.  “I am little more than a shell any more, I find, and I fear to go home to the Shire, even.  The Ring has left me unfit for polite company, and I am so changed by what I have seen and endured I do not feel that I fit in anywhere I have ever heard of here in Middle Earth.  I do not know if I will ever again find a place for myself, even amongst those I love more dearly than life itself.  Perhaps this is what I am destined to be now, a little considered volume in someone else’s library, to be consulted from time to time to tell how things once were, dry words to beguile the time until the weather grows more favorable and the reader puts me back upon the shelf to go out and live more fully, with a few additional thoughts to ponder in the spare moments afforded between the activities of living.  For I don’t feel today as if I am truly living, Gandalf.  I don’t feel that I will ever truly connect with life again.  This is where I belong now, here amidst the old records, amidst the dry words and half-forgotten memories.”

            He turned back to his book, and squeezed his eyes shut, his right hand once again kneading at his left shoulder, his brow furrowed at the pain and emptiness he felt.

            And what could a mere Wizard say to offer comfort to the Ringbearer?  After all, Gandalf himself had set Frodo’s feet upon the path he’d walked, the path that had so nearly brought him to death and the loss of his very soul.

            He found himself wishing he could face his Masters and berate them, demanding that Frodo be granted the peace and happiness the Hobbit so deeply deserved.  Aragorn had his reward, and had married Arwen beyond all hope.  Sam would return to the Shire and claim his place as Rosie’s husband.  Merry and Pippin had learned much, and once they’d come to their destinies as Master of the Hall and as Thain to the Shire they would be honored beyond all others.  Why should Frodo alone be denied the comfort he had so dearly earned?

            All he could do was place his hand upon Frodo’s shoulder, and at last Frodo relaxed some, lifting his own hand from where it had clutched at his shoulder to lay it briefly on Gandalf’s in acknowledgement of the desire to comfort.  And at last Frodo opened the book again, and set himself to read….

My Easter gift to all.  And who better to embody the nature of Resurrection?

Finding Warmth

            It was confusing to find himself once more clad in the body of a Man, for it seemed that he’d been free of such limitations for ages of the world.  The energy needed to renew a fána for him to wear and to see him within it had been considerable, and he felt desperately weak at first.  How was it that this body functioned once more?  Oh, yes!  These were lungs, designed to take in breath and to release it again.  And the heart, which was there, needed to beat that the blood within his renewed body might circulate properly.  But how was it that one caused them to begin to function correctly?  There was a portion of the brain that controlled them under normal circumstances….  Ah, here, in the stem to the brain!  Yes, tweak this particular unit and….

            He felt the heart begin beating anew.

            A gasping breath, a great one as his eyes opened, looking down on a single crystal of snow, no longer a perfect six-sided structure, damaged and broken by the battle that had waged over it.

            Oh, but yes—there had been a battle here, between his old self and the Balrog, until he had managed to throw it down, its ability to rise up again destroyed, its back broken in its fall, its body’s integrity failed, and his former brother was freed at last of the shape he’d held for well over three ages of the Sun.  Confused and robbed of the fury that had fueled his being for so long, the Balrog had risen up as a tall shadow, staring bemused at the unaccustomed sight of Arien overhead in her fiery chariot until the last wind of their battle blew him apart and what remained of his fëa fled the Circles of Arda.  And he himself had followed after….

            A second gasping breath, and pain assaulted him from the cold air he'd just taken into his lungs.  That awoke the realization that the heat of his reawakening was swiftly dissipating, and that it was freezing all about him.  His head moved slightly, and he realized he did not lie on the ice and snow that had comprised the glacier that had covered this place when he’d fought his fallen brother, for the heat of their battle had melted and boiled that away for the most part.  No wonder the single snowflake he’d seen so far was no longer perfect as it had been!  But where along the edges of the cleared rock ice had formed to mark the event, under him what little moisture had begun to gather anew was escaping upwards in rapid columns of steam.

            But the stone was still stubbornly cold, and his new skin was shrinking from it!  I must rise, his mind told him.  His body would not abide growing too cold, and he was certain that the one of his Masters who welcomed those who left their bodies would be most aggrieved to find him returning anew before he’d quite become accustomed to living as an incarnate being once more!  Almost he laughed, but he found he was shivering too much for the laugh to quite escape his lips.

            His hand twitched, and his fingers were reaching.  When his old life had burned away he’d been holding what remained of his staff, and he’d been wearing a source of warmth.  Almost he could remember its shape.  If his new body had been returned to the same place, as seemed evident, he should find it, whatever it had been.

            Hard and cold.  All he lay upon was hard and cold, and it was stealing the warmth of his body away from him.  But, no—not all was cold beneath him!  There was something that was warm, and growing warmer swiftly under his hip even as he focused on its presence.  Yes!  It was there!  He must grasp it!

            He struggled to sit up, to shift himself enough to take it into his hand.  His fingers were cold and clumsy, however, and it still lay beneath the flesh clothing his buttocks as he fought to change his position.  I must hold it in my hand!  At least his thoughts were growing clearer as he realized what it was he must do next.  With renewed determination he finally sat up straight, and his shivering increased as the freezing breeze assaulted more of his skin.  I must rise to my knees! he realized with a sinking feeling.  I cannot hold it in my hand if I am sitting upon it!  Unless I think to brood upon it like a hen.  This time the laugh engendered by the thought was uttered, although it sounded a bit cackling to his ear, considering how violently he was shivering by this time.

            It took so much effort to shift his knees beneath him, but finally it was done, and he scrabbled ineffectively at the ground before his almost frozen fingers encountered it.  At last he managed to hold it on his palm, and his hand began to warm.  But what is it?  What am I to do with it? his awareness demanded.  He lifted it up, looking down at the brightness of its golden, circular shape, at the great red stone that it held.

            A ring!  It is a Ring!  But there were memories of the horror that was associated with rings—or at least with a particular Ring.  He must have nothing to do with that Ring!

            But this one was familiar to him, and sought to reassure him.  Do not hesitate to take Me to yourself, to use Me, to warm yourself by My power!  I was intended for you, to your use in particular.  Do you not know Me?  So long have I abided upon your hand!

            And he found himself setting it upon the finger that had replaced the one on which he had worn this Ring, and knew its familiar shape upon it, felt its acceptance of his mastery.  Narya!  I wear Narya again, the Ring of Fire!  And with it I shall again kindle hearts anew to hope and action—starting with my own!

            And the ring he now wore delighted to spread its warmth throughout his body even as a shadow spread itself over him, and he looked up to see the reassuring warmth of the feathers adorning the body of Gwaihir as the Great Eagle descended over him.  Automatically he reached out for the staff that lay beside where he’d lain upon the cold of the mountaintop.  It was time to be up and doing----

To all with thanks, unfortunately a bit late for Thanksgiving.

Reasons for Thanksgiving

            Two days after the feast thrown on the Field of Cormallen to honor Frodo and Sam as the Ringbearers, the Fellowship gathered at a place by the small tributary to the Anduin that ran alongside one side of the encampment.  Here the trees, mostly beeches and elms, drew back from the water.  There were a few drifted logs suitable to sit upon by the various sized individuals within the group, and a great stone that accommodated Aragorn’s long legs and that seemed suited to his nature as well as his new dignity as King-elect.  Frodo could not seem to sate himself on the changes to be seen within his Mannish friend, for there was so much relief and gladness to be seen in his face and demeanor, and so much of his habitual grimness seemed to have fallen away.

            On this afternoon they were joined by the Sons of Elrond and two of Aragorn’s kinsmen, Halladan and Hardorn, who were younger brothers to his slain cousin Halbarad, who’d fallen upon the Pelennor.  As the Hobbits understood it, Halbarad had been second to Aragorn amongst the other Rangers and their people, and had served as Aragorn’s Steward when he must be away. 

            “So, it’s over now,” Sam commented.  He sat alone on a shorter log, turning a piece of wood that had been smoothed by the water between his hands, seemingly soothed by the wood’s resemblance to a nesting bird.

            “The long war with Sauron is over,” agreed Gandalf.  He was packing his pipe with pipeweed, which he’d been given by some of the Grey Company.  He gave Aragorn a meaningful glance.  “Now, to see what will be made of the time of relative peace that has been earned.”

            “You can be certain that it will be well spent,” the Man returned.  “Halladan, do you have some leaf you can spare?”

            “I have some from Bree,” the Man said.  “But it’s not the quality of that from the Shire, I fear.”

            “I am grateful to have any at all,” Aragorn responded.  “Although we will have to look into why there is such a lack of leaf from the South-farthing.  The reports we’d had from our contacts in the South-farthing was that the harvest was exceptionally good last summer.”

            “You have contacts within the Shire?” asked Pippin, intrigued.

            “Of course.  One of our Rangers managed to save a child who fell into the Brandywine three years ago, and his father, who I believe is one of the Goolds, has kept us apprised of conditions in the area ever since.  He was very pleased with his own prospects as last summer progressed, but mentioned that someone he called Pimple was buying up as much pipeweed as he could manage for some purpose he would not divulge.”

            The other three Hobbits looked to Frodo, whose brow furrowed with concern.  “Lotho is buying up pipeweed?  But why?  He has his own plantations, as well as shares in at least two of those that are known for Old Toby, and two more that produce Longbottom Leaf.  As it is, several of our Hornblower kin resent his attempts to tell them how to manage their fields.  As for the Goolds, they won’t deal with him at all!”

            “He’s always fancied himself a farmer,” Merry commented.  “Which, considering he’s never bothered to do a day’s work in the fields himself is laughable.  At least you, Frodo, have always worked alongside everyone else, and know how to use both a hoe and a scythe.”

            “When I was allowed, at least,” Frodo muttered.  He sighed.  “A bit of family business once we get home again, I suppose.  Not that Lotho Sackville-Baggins won’t hide behind his status as the Sackville, of course.”

            Halladan looked at the Hobbit with surprise.  “You are related to this Pimple?”

            Frodo gave him a harried look.  “One of my cousins, and, he believes, my most logical heir.  His father was Bilbo’s cousin and should have been his heir, only Bilbo adopted me in that capacity instead.”

            “Didn’t you say that you sold your home to him?” Aragorn asked.  “Certainly there cannot be two Lotho Sackville-Bagginses, could there?”

            Pippin made a gagging sound.  “Perish the thought!” he said.  “One of him is too many, the self-satisfied bully and prig!”

            “I’m just thankful that he’s not my primary heir any more than Otho was Bilbo’s,” Frodo said.

            “But who is your primary heir, then?” Pippin asked.

            “Just never you mind, Peregrin Took.  I had that well in hand with the Goodbodies and with Brendi as my personal lawyer long before I sold Bag End to Lotho and his dear mother.  Already they’ve been learning they don’t have anywhere as much power over the family or those on the Row as they’d like to have believed, and it pleases me a good deal to think on that.”

            “Then you don’t particularly like this Lotho, then?” Halladan asked.

            “Nobody with any common decency does,” Merry said.  “As Pippin indicated, he and his mother are both far too interested in power over others.  Thieves, bullies, and pretenders after good breeding, the both of them.”

            “Well,” Aragorn said as he got his pipe packed to his satisfaction, “I will simply thank the Powers that I have any leaf at all to smoke today.  Gandalf, my friend, if you would set it alight, please.”

            “And what will you do when I am gone back to my own place, Arathorn’s son?” the Wizard demanded.  “Oh, all right.”  He made a gesture, and briefly a flame danced over the bowl of Aragorn’s pipe before the leaf began to smolder.  Gimli appeared impressed and Legolas amused.  Gandalf watched as the Man puffed at his pipe to get it going, and smiled.  “I must admit that there is pleasure to be found in needing to do little more than such parlor tricks for this time,” he said.  “I rejoice to be done with facing down evil creatures.”

            “I’m just glad to find we are all alive, considering what we’ve all been through,” Pippin announced, stretching only to wince as one of his injuries pulled at his chest.

            Merry nodded.  “I don’t know what I would have done had I been forced to go home to tell your parents and mine why you didn’t come home with me,” he said.  “And I’d have been terrified to have to visit the Gaffer to explain to him what might have happened to Sam.”  He closed his eyes, shaking his head at the thought of it.  “And Mum and Dad would never have understood if Frodo didn’t come home, too.  Oh, my dear Cousin, how thankful I am that you awoke again.  I was so frightened that you might not do so.”

            Frodo gave a twisted smile and looked away.

            Sam sighed.  “I’m glad as Mr. Frodo and me will be able to go home again after all, and I’ll be right glad to get back to work on a garden again.  They can say what they please about Mr. Frodo and me bein’ Princes of the West, but all I want to rule is a bit of earth as is my own, and that’s a fact.  I wasn’t raised to be above workin’ with my hands, I wasn’t.”

            “What about you, Frodo?” asked Pippin.

            Frodo paused a moment or two, but on realizing that Pippin wasn’t going to allow the subject to drop, he said, “I suppose that I am thankful that it’s over and done with, and that the Ring’s destruction served indeed to bring Sauron down as had been hoped.  But I still wish that there had been no need for anyone to go on such a terrible journey.”

            “As do all of us, dear Frodo,” Gandalf said gently, laying his hand upon the Hobbit’s frail shoulder.  The Baggins gave him a pained smile before dropping his gaze to the backs of his hands.

            Gimli looked from Wizard to the Ringbearer and back, and cleared his throat.  “I must say that I am grateful to have been able to see so many enemies of all of the Free Peoples destroyed for good and all, and to have done so at the side of so many worthy individuals.”  He gave a surprisingly gentle clap to Legolas’s shoulder.

            The Elf responded with a look of pleased surprise before responding, “And I find myself thankful to have put behind me some of my prejudices against dealing with mortals,” he said.  Somehow the smile he bestowed upon the Dwarf seemed particularly warm.

            One of Elrond’s sons laughed and stretched languidly.  “I am grateful to find that our long quarrel with the orcs of the Misty Mountains no longer compels me to seek out their kind for destruction.  I doubt we will be free of them all anytime soon, but at least there is now the knowledge that all of the evil we know from them is their own and no longer directed by malevolent powers that we could not hope to vanquish by force of arms.”  He smiled gently at Frodo.  “And for this we have you to thank, Master Frodo.  Bilbo has always sworn that you were the best that the Shire ever produced, and how right he has proved!”

            Frodo’s expression became slightly haunted, and he turned away.

            “And I rejoice,” his brother added, “that we can now look to the wounds inflicted by Mordor possibly healing, and the dark places reopened to the light once more.  May the Powers be blest that have so blest us!  And I rejoice also to know the chance to tell dear Bilbo how his beloved former ward has been able to remain to his comfort ere he must depart this life.”

            All were relieved to see the discomfort in Frodo’s expression relax as he looked up gratefully to meet the half-Elf’s gaze.  “I am glad,” he said softly, “that I did not leave him bereft.  It pains me to admit that I never thought of how badly my death might have hit him, there when Sam and I thought the creeping fire would take us within minutes.  I remember, however, the fleeting appreciation of how hard the loss of his son would hurt the Gaffer.  I am so very, very thankful he doesn’t have to face that after all.”  He took a sip from the mug that one of the peredhil had set beside him, closed his eyes, and rubbed at his shoulder, which appeared to be aching. “I am so very glad that neither the Gaffer nor dear Bilbo has that grief to face,” he murmured.  “So very glad.”

            “As are we all,” Gandalf said, once again reaching to gently grip the Hobbit’s shoulder.  “I grieve for the pain that Denethor knew at Boromir’s loss, but am so grateful that Boromir was given the reassurance he needed to know that it was not his own failing but the malevolent will of the Ring Itself that led to his actions, and that he was able to do what he could to protect Merry and Pippin here.  The orcs having been given the time to recognize that Merry and Pippin were indeed Halflings, at least they were not slain out of hand, but were given relatively good treatment, or at least as good treatment as orcs are capable of dealing out.  I know that the pain of his brother’s loss will trouble Faramir for some time, but he is great-hearted, and will recover well—of this I am certain.”  He turned to smile at Aragorn, although his hand did not loose Frodo’s shoulder.  “You will have the best of Stewards at your side, my beloved friend.  He is not Halbarad, but still one who will love you even as did your cousin, and offer much the same support.”

            Aragorn gave a wry smile.  “From what I read of the grief in his heart as I recalled him to life, it appears that Denethor referred to him as a Wizard’s pupil.  Well, I rejoice that if Faramir did learn from at least one of the Wizards that it was from you, Gandalf.”

            Frodo’s discomfort relaxed a bit more, and his smile was more heart-felt.  For this most of all Gandalf was quietly grateful, that Frodo’s own self-blame could be forgotten by the Hobbit, if only for a few precious minutes.

Written for the B2MEM "Entering Spring" prompt.  For Lavender Took and Curious Wombat for their inspiration and encouragement.

Spring Returned

            Gandalf sat within the enclosure that had been erected for the healing Ringbearers, watching the two Hobbits sleep once more after a half day of wakefulness.  A full year it was now since the Wizard had visited Frodo Baggins in Bag End and proved just what ring it was that the Hobbit had possessed since Bilbo had left It behind in the Shire after the Party.  It had been gentle early autumn when four Hobbits left the shelter of the Crickhollow house and the Shire accompanied by five ponies, the leaves beginning to turn colors and to loose their holds from the branches they’d graced through the warmth of summer. 

            It had been full winter when the Fellowship left the comfort and safety of Elrond’s vale to begin the long journey south and east toward Mordor.  The turning of the year had occurred while they were on the road, far from home, family, and friends, the midwinter feast far from the bursting banquets they could have known had they stayed in their own lands.  There had been no squealing children running about their feet, no imperious older kinsmen sending them on errands they ought to have pursued themselves.  They’d had no flowing bowls of punch or mulled wine, and there had been no sprigs of mistletoe under which to kiss a pretty sweetheart.  Not that there was any chance of meeting any of womankind, not in the wild lands lying at the feet of the Misty Mountains.  They’d spent the winter traveling through bleak wilderness in the foothills of the range, until they came to the season’s cold heart in the pass of Caradhras.  Ah, but what a near disaster that choice had proved!  How close they’d come to knowing the deaths of all the Fellowship, even its stalwart pony!

            Spring had finally come, and with it the destruction of the Black Tower and its dread Master, and due primarily to these two, these two who had almost been lost so many times along the way!  How much they owed to the two of them, Frodo and Sam, and to Sméagol, who had been lost, but to the destruction of the Ring Itself. 

            “How do I feel?” he cried.  “Well, I don’t know how to say it.  I feel, I feel” – he waved his arms in the air – “I feel like spring after winter, and sun on the leaves, and like trumpets and harps and all the songs I have ever heard!”

            That was what Sam had said when he first awoke earlier today and leapt from his bed.  Ah, how typical of the gardener, to realize his life reflected the turning of the season so well!  And, like the plants he so loved, he would indeed sprout out and blossom, and soon!  His was a hardy root, Gandalf decided, one that had managed to weather the frost that had sought to destroy him and who would rejoice ever in the springtime as he took his desired bride and seeded the Shire with his delightful and equally hardy progeny.  Bless them all! the Wizard thought.

            And Frodo has survived as well, he thought, turning his attention to the Hobbit lying in the other bed.  But if Frodo had survived the frost, still he would bloom but once.  No, there would be no joining with another, no bridal bed of any sort, no children to carry on his line.  If there was to ever be his equal it must be done as it had been to produce him – a careful blending of the best of the Stoor, Harfoot, and Fallohide lines until at last the perfect specimen resulted.  A glass filled with clear light for eyes to see that can – that was how he’d seen Frodo back in October, in Elrond’s house when the Hobbit had awakened after the removal of the Morgul shard.  A blossom of Light he’d be, and the only Hobbits to fully appreciate the beauty of that blooming would be those closest to him, and even they would not see its full glory, or so Gandalf judged.  For he suspected that when Frodo’s blooming was at its greatest he would not be there in the Shire for his own kind to look upon with amazement or awe.  Few of his own kind will ever appreciate just what a wonder he has proved.  And I suspect that it will be quite some time, if ever, before Frodo himself will appreciate that fact.

            He took out his pipe and turned it between his hands.  Gerontius had given him his first pipe and presented him with his first pouch of leaf with which to fill it.  Now he looked down upon his old friend’s great grandson.  He would have treasured you, Frodo Baggins, just as he treasured Bilbo.  Just as I do.

            The Wizard smiled sadly, and stroked the sleeping Baggins’s forehead.  “Sleep on, dearest Frodo.  You endured beyond Hope, and have earned your rest.  I only pray that at least a few of the denizens of the Shire appreciate just what a wonder you are, before you leave them.”

            Hope Unquenchable, and Endurance beyond Hope.  Two great blooms from a small land.  But they were enough, along with that other one, the one who was born this side of the Misty Mountains.  They were enough, enough to usher in a spring many had feared would never come.

Written for the LOTR Spooky Atmosphere challenge.  For all whose birthdays I've missed in the past two months since my hard drive died.  Note--this particular story is rated R.

Dreams of Conquest

            “Master?”

            Saruman looked up from the reading stand where he stood over the book he was studying to turn cold eyes upon the servant who’d interrupted him.  He ignored the stone table that lay between him and the door as well as its ghastly contents.

            The servant had to willfully pull his gaze away from the table and what lay upon it, focusing his attention on the Wizard and swallowing down the bile that burned his throat.  “Master, I grieve to interrupt you, but Gandalf the Grey has arrived and demands to give you his report.”

            Saruman sighed.  He might order his servant to turn away Radagast the Brown with no reason given, but all that such an action would do with Gandalf would be to rouse his curiosity to a point that he would brush past anyone seeking to deny him entrance to Orthanc to begin an active search of the tower from top to bottom for his superior, a search that the Chieftain of the Istari had no desire to see instigated.  He looked down briefly at the words written on the page he’d been reading, and with reluctance he closed the book and lifted it, then slid it into the hidden compartment within the lectern where he’d first found it, and sealed it with the Word of Power he’d had to use to retrieve it when first he’d realized where it was concealed.  Hiding his own frustration to be drawn away from his chosen studies behind a mask of arrogance, he left the dungeon room, again using a Word of Power to seal the door so that it would not be easily seen, much less opened, by anyone else during his absence, and preceded the servant back up the long stairs to the public rooms of the great keep.  “You have offered him refreshment?” he asked.

            The servant answered, “Yes, he has both food and a goblet of wine to occupy him, Master.”

            “Where did you leave him?”

            “In your study, where you entertained him during his last visit.”

            This was not so good, perhaps.  In the intervening time since the Grey Wizard’s last visit Saruman had been scouring his new home for all books and scrolls of lore left by the scholars of Gondor who had previously inhabited this tower, and had been gathering them into the room that had become his personal study and primary laboratory within the place.  Saruman knew that for the most part his fellow Wizard would respect proper boundaries and would purposely avoid reading such notes as his superior had left upon his desk or work surfaces, but he would undoubtedly look to see titles to scrolls and volumes that Saruman had added to his library.  Most were sufficiently innocuous as to bear scrutiny, of course.  But there were a few that the White Wizard had discovered that he did not wish to share knowledge of with anyone else. 

            He quickened his step.

            Gandalf was seated in a comfortably cushioned chair, a goblet of wine in hand as he read from a volume bound in fine royal blue.  He looked up with a smile as Saruman entered the room.  “As beautiful a volume of the Lay of Leithian as I have ever seen, my friend.  And you found it here?”

            Relieved that his fellow Wizard had apparently gone no further than this exquisitely presented version of the ancient poem, Saruman allowed himself a satisfied smile.  “One of those who lived here in the Steward Boromir’s day was given to the study of the rule of Morgoth over Middle Earth, and I found this in the rooms in which he dwelt.  There were a number of volumes there that he appears to have transcribed and bound with his own hands.  He was quite an artisan, as you can see.”

            “Indeed,” agreed Gandalf.  “How well his writing conveys the evil of Morgoth.”  He straightened and declaimed,

“‘A king there sat, most dark and fell
of all that under heaven dwell.
Than earth or sea, than moon or star
more ancient was he, mightier far
in mind abysmal than the thought
of Eldar or of Men, and wrought
of strength primeval; ere the stone
was hewn to build the world, alone
he walked in darkness, fierce and dire,
burned, as he wielded it, by fire.

‘He 'twas that laid in ruin black
the Blessed Realm and fled then back
to Middle-earth anew to build
beneath the mountains mansions filled
with misbegotten slaves of hate:
death's shadow brooded at his gate.
His hosts he armed with spears of steel
and brands of flame, and at their heel
the wolf walked and the serpent crept
with lidless eyes. Now forth they leapt,
his ruinous legions, kindling war
in field and frith and woodland hoar.’”

            Shivering, Gandalf closed the book and set it by.  “I’d wished to speak with you about the orc activity in the Misty Mountains, and when I read the verses, ‘and fled then back to Middle-earth anew to build beneath the mountains mansions filled with misbegotten slaves of hate’ it made me shudder.  There are so many new breeds of Orcs to be found on both sides of the Hithglaer that it is frightening.  Radagast and I have each counted at least six new varieties different from those with which we’ve been familiar.  There is one that is much smaller than any we have seen before, one that forms burrows under the soil when it cannot join larger communities in the more familiar cavern systems.  I fear that the Enemy is now making orcs out of Hobbits!”

            “Out of what?  Do you mean the Periannath?  Why on earth would he seek to turn such creatures into orcs?”

            Gandalf stiffened somewhat.  “Their name for themselves is Hobbit, and out of respect for their sensibilities that is the name by which I shall refer to them. As for why he would seek to make orcs of their stock—well, that has always been the means by which the Dark Lords have added to the abilities of their slaves, by seeking to incorporate the capabilities of whatever victims they can lay hands upon.  And remember what happened during the abduction of Elrond’s wife—she was purposely targeted, and it was made plain that the intent was not only to twist her into an orc, but to breed more orcs from her.

            “The new orcs that Radagast and I have seen show the effects of Dwarves, Men, and Hobbits as well as Elves having been integrated into Sauron’s breeding campaigns.  Radagast has seen an increase in smaller orcs with the ability to follow trails of scent much as hounds do, while I have seen more powerful warriors in the area of northern Rhudaur with clearly Mannish features.  Both of us have seen more with Dwarvish tendencies, with shorter bodies but more powerful shoulders, all of them with beards, which had not been that commonly seen in orcs until the last decade or so.”

            Saruman found himself very interested.  “If one could actually breed features of the various races into orcs—one could possibly build an army that would demonstrate the slavish, brutal nature of orcs that nevertheless could know the endurance of Dwarves and the desire to win at all costs seen in so many Men, as well as greater tolerance of daylight than orcs commonly show, allowing one to move one’s army both night and day.”

            “You see the danger we are in?” questioned Gandalf. 

            “Danger?”  It took Saruman a moment to realize how close he was to allowing his grey fellow to realize how interested he was in seeing such a breeding program started under his own supervision.

            “If the Enemy should take such an idea into his own head, how much easier it would be for him to move vast armies into position no matter what the weather or time of day!”

            “But if we could learn how it is that he interbreeds Men, Dwarves, Elves, and others together, perhaps we could—”  He paused to temper his argument in a manner that would not excite suspicion in Gandalf’s brain.  At last he suggested, “Perhaps should we learn how such breeding is done, we could then reverse the process and assist those who were brought to the estate of an orc to recover their natural state and mind.”

            But Gandalf’s face was grim, and he was already shaking his head.  “If,” he said solemnly, “most orcs nowadays are bred for rather than twisted by torture and other unspeakable and unimaginable acts, then how could we reverse such situations?  If they were born the way they are, there is no means of returning them to a healthy state, as they never knew a healthy state to begin with.  Or do you intend to capture each and all of the Enemy’s orc slaves and seek to breed the orc out of them?  How many generations do you think it would take to return these to Elves, Men, Dwarves, Hobbits, or whatever form their diverse bloodlines may have made of them?  And what do you do with the orc you use in the experiment?  Simply destroy it once you have its offspring?

            “No, my friend—you are suggesting a futile course of study, one doomed to failure.  And remember that it is likely that too much study on the actions of the Enemy is likely to lead us to become like him.”

            Did Gandalf truly shudder while making that pronouncement?  Saruman found himself feeling amused.

*******

            When Gandalf indicated he would not stay but had hopes of reaching the Anduin within a few days so as to be in Lórien as soon as possible, Saruman did not seek to persuade him to stay at least the night.  He saw his guest to the door with a feeling of relief.  The less time Gandalf the Grey stayed within the Ring of Isengard the better!

            “Grey fool!” he muttered to himself as he watched Gandalf disappear out the main gates.  Only then did he return inside and close and bar the door behind him.  He ate the meal his servant had prepared for him, not even noticing what it was he ate, much less whether it was well or ill cooked.  When at last the servant had retreated with plates and cup, he headed back to the lower levels, allowing himself to reenter the room with the stone table and its ghastly burden.  On it lay the desiccated corpse of an orc—a female orc that had been with child.  The corpse of the child was sealed within a glass jar of some preservative liquid, and that jar also sat upon the table at its mother’s feet. 

            He had found records of this chamber in the private rooms of the scholar who’d transcribed and bound the copy of The Lay of Leithian that Gandalf had been reading from, and he had found the Word of Power that opened the door in a list of spells of opening that the Grey Wizard had been building some centuries past when Gandalf had been studying such words and spells throughout the various cultures and peoples of Middle Earth.  He’d taken the list when he’d found it in Gandalf’s papers while they were both visiting the White City.  When his fellow Wizard missed it, Saruman had suggested that the servants on loan from the Citadel had thought it merely a scrap of waste paper and perhaps used it to lay a fire in Gandalf’s room. 

            At least Gandalf has proved useful for some things, he thought.  In moments he had the book out and open again upon the lectern, and once more he was reading the notes made on the research done by this particular scholar on the breeding of orcs.

            Soldiers at the garrison between Calenhardorn and Dunland had found a small colony of orcs not far north of their fortifications, and in cleaning it out they had found nearly hidden corridors leading back to what were obviously breeding chambers.  Some of the females freed there had appeared to be from Gondor and Dunland.  Those who appeared to be Dunlendings were of no particular caste; but those who appeared to be of Gondorian stock were clearly of high Dúnedain breeding.  Most of these true women were totally out of their minds; the few who were able to speak somewhat coherently faded in and out of awareness of what was happening to them.  But some who appeared to be women proved to be products of breeding women with orcs, and their response to the caring actions of those who thought themselves the saviors of these individuals were so violent as to defy understanding.

            The woman who was most articulate and who demonstrated the greatest compassion for her fellow breeders they overlooked for some hours because she appeared most orc-like.  Not knowing what to do with these women and those of their offspring that could be found, the soldiers in the end brought them to Orthanc and gave them into the keeping of those who dwelt in the tower. 

            Eventually all who appeared to be true women, no matter what their behavior, were sent back to Gondor, where in time all were placed in the House for Unquiet Minds in Lossarnach.  But the scholar who’d recorded these events in his private accounts was given the care of those who appeared orc-like.  Six had been pregnant when brought to Orthanc, and he housed them in the deep cells and halls under the Keep.  When the time for birth became imminent he brought them up to this, his laboratory, and here he removed the twisted infants, cutting each out of its mother’s womb while she was yet alive, then preserving it in a jar full of alcohol and other chemicals, and finally dissecting what remained of the mother’s body.

            The body that lay there upon the stone table, Saruman learned, was that of the orc-like woman with the most Man-like and lucid mind and spirit.

            How he applauded the work of that scholar, who’d died shortly after opening the body of his last victim, after recording how she begged for the life of herself and her child, and who had died cursing him for his lack of humanity,

*******

            The hour was late, the sky greying beyond his windows, when Saruman finally took to his bed, thrilled with what he’d learned from what that orc-woman had told the scholar so long ago about the manner in which she and her sisters in torture had been treated by those who’d directed their breeding so as to produce children that would grow to be the most vicious of orcs.  “We could do it today!” he told himself as he pulled over himself the animal skin with which his bed was covered.  “We could do the same as the orcs themselves have done, and create such an army for ourselves!  If only Gandalf would listen to how we could breed new uruks capable of bearing with sunlight with which to fight the Enemy’s orcs that cannot move in comfort ’neath the light of day!  Ah, but think of it—to fight the Enemy using his own weapons….”

            And he fell asleep, dreaming of standing upon the balcony, looking down upon the army he himself had created, sending them off southward to attack his enemies.