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Title: Into the West She had believed her Elven senses fading. Her choice had been made long ago. How could she regret the noble husband at her side and the babe at her breast? Yet one autumn night, she awakes sobbing, feeling as if her very soul has been torn asunder. Estel holds her close, grey eyes filled with love and concern. "What ails you, beloved?" he asks. "My father's ship has passed into the West," Arwen replies. Aragorn kisses her tenderly, knowing that no words can ever ease such sorrow. He can only love her and strive every day to make her sacrifice worthwhile.
Title: All that Remains: Challenge 107 Author: Linda Hoyland Fandom: LOTR Characters: Ivorwen, an old nurse Rating: PG Warnings: None Disclaimer: These characters all belong to the estate of J.R.R. Tolkien. This story was written for pleasure and not for financial gain Notes: With thanks to Raksha Word count: 600 It was quiet; much too quiet for Idril's liking. She had expected hushed voices and weeping , but not this deathly silence. She had been visiting her sister, who was laid low with her rheumatism when the news came that Arathorn had been slain. Idril was saddened by these tidings but not at all surprised. Such was the lot of the Dúnedain women. The villages were full of old women, but very few of the menfolk got to die in their beds. Her first thoughts had been for both her bereft lambs, Gilraen and Aragorn. She had come as a nursemaid when Dame Ivorwen's eldest was but a babe in arms and had accompanied Gilraen when the dour Arathorn had claimed her as his bride and taken her away. Idril had been determined to see that Arathorn treated her little girl properly. Gilraen deserved a decent husband and much to her surprise, Arathorn had made her girl happy. But where was she? And where was the little lad? Such a lively little fellow was young Aragorn, and so bright for his age. Why hadn't he run to her like he always did, full of questions and lively chatter? His toys were scattered around the room, Idril started to tidy them away almost without thinking. It was what she did every day. But where were his favourite wooden horse and the stuffed dog that he fell asleep clutching each night? Her lambkin would be so upset if he could not find "Huan" at bedtime. She wandered into the bedchamber and noticed that the casket Gilraen kept on her dressing table was gone. Had some cruel thief taken away her lady's jewels while she mourned her husband? Idril knew what she would do with the scoundrel if she caught them! But would a thief not also take the silver backed looking glass that Gilraen had treasured since she was a child? Idril flung open the wardrobe. Gilraen's cloak was missing, as was the gown she had worn at her wedding to Lord Arathorn. Idril recalled the day of her marriage as if it were yesterday and the hopes and fears she had confided in her old nurse as she had dressed her for the ceremony. What had happened to her lady and little Aragorn? Tears pricked Idril's eyes and she fought to hold back a rising sense of panic. She must get help, tell all the neighbours, organise a search party. "They are gone." Idril spun round and came face to face with Dame Ivorwen. "Gone? Where?" Her tone was unusually harsh. "We must find them!" Ivorwen shook her head sadly. "Those of us who love them must let them go. This is no longer a safe place for the heirs of Elendil." "But where are they? I must go to my lambs." "I cannot tell you where they are, only that they are safe." Ivorwen said sternly. "I would never betray my lady and her little one!" Idril said fiercely. "I know, Idril." Ivorwen's tone softened. "But the fewer who know, the safer they will be. Now return to your sister and try to forget that you ever knew that Arathorn fathered a son." Idril remained silent for a few moments, struggling to keep her composure. At last, she said. "Will I ever see them again?" "Maybe," said Ivorwen. "Maybe." "Maybe?" Idril protested. "How can I bear not knowing I might never see my little ones again?" "We must bear it, Idril," said Ivorwen. "If I can bear it, so can you. All that remains to our people now is hope."
“This is where I used to live?” Aragorn asked curiously. “I do not recall it at all.” “You were only two when you left,” said Ivorwen. “This is where the Chieftains of the Dúnedain used to dwell.” She placed the key in the lock. It was stiff from lack of use and Aragorn had to help her. Eventually the key turned and the door swung open with a protesting groan. It seemed almost as if the old house slept and was loth to reawaken. Within, everything was covered with a layer of dust. Aragorn sneezed. “It distressed me too much to return here after you and your mother left,” said Ivorwen. “Also it helped reinforce the rumours that we put abroad that you had succumbed to a fever, if the house was obviously neglected.” “I understand,” said Aragorn. “Would you like to live here, or would you prefer to remain with your Aunt and Halbarad?” Ivorwen asked. Aragorn looked around the dusty rooms. The house had a heavy, oppressive air, almost as if it recalled his father’s death and the flight of the grief stricken Gilraen. “I would prefer to stay with Aunt Inzilbeth,” he said. “Let this house be used by a family who have need of one. Better that the Enemy believes that the Chieftains have gone for ever.” He fell silent, thinking that he would indeed be the last of his line if he could not win the fair Arwen’s love. They entered a large room, furnished with comfortable chairs and a spinning wheel near the dusty window. “This was your mother’s favourite room,” said Ivorwen. “She would sit and spin here while you played with your wooden horse. “She still loves to spin,” said Aragorn. He closed his eyes for an instant and suddenly he could see a young woman in a blue gown seated at the wheel. A man was standing in the doorway, but he could not see his face clearly. Was that Arathorn, his father? Did he really remember, or was it just a dream? “I have seen enough, grandmother,” he said. “This might once have been my home, but it feels but an empty shell now. A family with young children will bring back light and laughter. Ivorwen lingered for a moment, lost in memories. Then she carefully locked the door again and walked out into the spring sunlight with her grandson.
Title: The Enigma of Thorongil Author(s): Linda Hoyland Rating: G Fandom: Lord of the Rings Character(s): Denethor, Aragorn Summary: Denethor seeks to impress his father’s favourite captain. Warnings: none Denethor paced the Merethrond impatiently. Stars! Why was it taking the fellow so long to respond to his message? No doubt, Thorongil would have an excuse as usual about being about urgent business for the Steward. Denethor was baffled why his father was so taken with the sellsword captain. No doubt, Thorongil had grown up sleeping on straw in some northern hovel and was eager to make his fortune, but why did he have to come here and make such an exhibition of himself? Always, Thorongil was trying to ingratiate himself with the Steward, with the men, or even with the common folk. The fools were taken in by him too. He could hardly fault the common folk for falling for the northerner’s charm and smooth tongue, but his father was renowned as a man of wisdom! Where was the key to the enigma of Thorongil? How could Ecthelion prefer the counsel of a sellsword to the word of his son and heir? Denethor glanced upwards at the magnificent chandelier lit in honour of the Mettarë feast. Thorongil would be quite overawed. Surely, he had never seen the like before. He would not even know what it was! “You summoned me, my lord?” Denethor started. Why must Thorongil always move like a cat? “I wanted to show you our feasting hall at its finest,” Denethor said pleasantly. Thorongil looked around him until his gaze came to rest on the chandelier. Denethor waited expectantly. “A fine chandelier!” Thorongil remarked. “It reminds of the house where I was brought up. My kinsman had two that were lit every evening in the winter. I used to amuse myself trying to count the candles. Is there anything else, my lord?” Thorongil went on his way whistling cheerfully. Denethor could only watch him stride away. Title: Kindled Flame It was the most exquisite fragrance that caught him utterly off guard: so fresh and sweet, unlike the cloying perfumes that the other maidens usually wore. His heart lurched when he looked into her clear grey eyes; and his stomach churned. Was this love, the feeling that had eluded him for so long? When she agreed to dance with him, he felt as if the very stars had fallen from the heavens and were bathing him in their radiance. The feel of her delicate hand in his, her breath warm against his cheek intoxicated him more than the strongest wine. Would that the dance would go on forever! When the music ended, he was loth to relinquish her hand. In the depths of winter, she shone like sunlight in spring. Then he caught sight of her father glaring at him. Stars! She was so young. How could he ask her to wed him? He was as old as her sire! But how he wanted her. His body ached with longing. He had never trembled before the fiercest foe, but now Arathorn felt terror. Would she reject him? Gilraen met his gaze. Her smile kindled the light of hope within him. Title:And this is my Beloved Her scent never failed to intoxicate Aragorn. It was both sweet and refreshing, especially when borne on the wind from the mountain. She was always beautiful, but never more so than in the moonlight, when the soft glow illuminated her graceful curves. Aragorn liked to caress her shapely form. How he loved her and how he hoped she would flourish now she was his to cherish! Surely, her presence here meant that his reign would be blessed, and that he could hope for children to continue his line. Aragorn started as he became aware that another had joined him. He turned his head and saw that Faramir was beside him in the Court of the Fountain. “The scion of Nimloth looks especially fair tonight, sire,” Faramir remarked. “She does indeed.” Aragorn smiled at his Steward then returned to contemplating the White Tree.
Title: The Miracle "It was magic, I tell you!" Ioreth said. She was enjoying a much- needed cup of tea together with Ivorwen, another of the women who served in the Houses of Healing, who had just arrived to carry out her duties. "What was, Dame Ioreth?" "The way the Lord Elfstone cured Lord Faramir of the Black Breath, it was a miracle! You know how we tried everything, but in vain. Well Lord Elfstone just crumbled some kingsfoil in a bowl of hot water and let Lord Faramir breathe it and he woke up he did, right as rain! I saw it with mine own eyes. The king has returned and has the hands of a healer, just as the old rhymes say!" "You must have been dreaming. There has been no king in Gondor for well nigh a thousand years. The old rhymes are just fantasies to amuse children." "But Lord Faramir is sitting up and eating and taking. So too are the Perian and that strange woman from the North who was dressed in men's garb. So are all the others suffering from the Black Breath. Go and see for yourself! If only you had been there!" "I was enjoying a well- deserved rest," said Ivorwen. "I had been on my feet day and night tending the wounded. Maybe you should get some rest too?" "I will when I've taken our Lord Faramir some more broth. How it gladdens my hard to see him mending! You should go and see him too. If anyone deserved a miracle, it is our Lord Faramir! Such a nice polite young man." Ivorwen sighed resignedly. "I will and then I will speak to the Warden and ask what remedy he used against the Black Breath. There has to be a scientific explanation for this!" A/N. Because of BTME and other pressures on my time, I fear I'm very behind with answering comments. I should like to thank you all and assure you that I do greatly appreciate them. Written for a "Great Tales" challenge and posted in honour of Tolkien day. Title: Weary of Waiting Why must it ever be my fate to wait upon the will of men in shadowed halls? Always I am told to be patient, for such is the lot of a woman. Am I supposed to sit idly by while the men ride off to fight and die? And wait for what? Until the enemy from Mordor are upon us and we are slaughtered like so many helpless sheep? For one brief instant, I sensed hope had come to me, yay to all of us, in the form of Aragorn son of Arathorn. He like all the others, though, bade me sit at home and think of duty. Now he is gone to his death in the Dwimorberg . I am left behind once more. Left by my menfolk to sit and wait for death while they ride out to theirs. Hope has long since fled from this land. I, Éowyn daughter of Éomund, am a shieldmaiden. I can fight as well as any man. Better by far that I die with my sword in my hand, winning renown and being remembered in song and story. I will not wait here be slaughtered. No more waiting! I shall ride to glory!
Title: The Price of Fame Author(s):Linda Hoyland Rating: G Fandom: LOTR Character(s): Aragorn, Faramir Summary: Aragorn and Faramir read what is being said about them. Warnings: none Word Count: 100 Author's Notes: With thanks to Raksha King and Steward perused the ballad- sheet, their features convulsed with mirth. “Strange, after so many years of trying to keep my identity hidden, to hear my name on every street corner,” said Aragorn. “More curious still, I do not recall slaying a dragon and rescuing a Haradri princess!” “Such is the price of fame, my lord,” Faramir replied. “Neither do I recall snatching the Ring-bearer from the Witch-King’s lair as the minstrels proclaim! You truly saved a Princess, my beloved Éowyn. ” “Will Men remember us for what we did not do, rather than what we did?” Aragorn mused.
Title: Lost and Found Author(s): Linda Hoyland Rating: G Fandom: LOTR Character(s): Aragorn, Gilraen Summary: Gilraen finds a lost treasure. Warnings: none Author's Notes: For Litlover12. As you did not specify a prompt I used one you entered in the prompt contest. Hope you enjoy it. "Arathorn was noble and brave, a truly great man," Gilraen said wistfully. "Long have I yearned to speak of him. He would have been so proud of you." "Do you have any of his possessions?" asked Aragorn. "I should like to hold something that was once his." "I have only a few things that I was able to snatch up when we left our village in haste. That wooden horse that you always liked was your father's." Aragorn smiled. "I still have his sword. It should be yours to wield now, my son." Gilraen unlocked an oaken chest beside her bed and lifted out a cloth wrapped bundle, which she handed to her son. Aragorn took it reverently. "I shall endeavour to always bear this blade with honour," he said. He carefully unwrapped the sword, freeing it from its dusty shroud. As he did so, a gleaming metal object fell to the floor. Gilraen bent to retrieve it. "Well I never!" she exclaimed. "Your father gave me this brooch when we were wed. It pure mithril. How I cherished it, but I feared it was lost forever. I was not laid eyes on it for almost twenty years!" "It gladdens my heart your treasure is restored to you, mother," said Aragorn. "My father gave you a precious gift indeed." "The brooch was but a foretaste of the treasure beyond price that Arathorn later gave me." "What jewel was that?" "Why you, of course, Aragorn!" Gilraen smiled lovingly at her son. |
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