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

In true hobbit fashion, I celebrate my birthday by writing people stories, according to prompts that they give out. An author's experience is so much less without people who are kind enough to read and review her work, so I appreciate the opportunity to give as much as I can back to them. This year the number of prompts was small, and I may not have had time to do them justice, but I'm quite pleased that I was able to get them all out in time for my fandom-birthday!

GoldVermilion: Something involving salamanders.

Marta: How the events of The Hobbit impacted a character who wasn't directly in The Hobbit.

Dreamflower: Cousin-fic: Frodo, Merry, and Pippin, pre-, during-, or post-Quest. Bonus if Frodo is taking care of his younger cousins in some way or another.

Larner: A story in which Frodo grows totally frustrated with someone he loves dearly. What is the situation, why is he frustrated, and how does he get his point across about how obtuse the other person has been?

Captain Facepalm: Bilbo was a precocious wee Hobbit child whose early adventures highly favoured his Took-ish roots. Tell us an early tale of our favourite Hobbit before age, wisdom, and maturity turned him into a stodgey homebody.

Linda Hoyland: Aragorn and Faramir have an adventure with the hobbits.

Periantari: Sam being comforted from Merry, Pippin or Rosie after Frodo departs to the Undying Lands.

Melkor did not understand the other Valar. One song, and then they were all done creating, using only the ideas they’d already had in the Music. But when he had sung, it was to show that so much more could be done, and the Music need never stop! Even now, when he was limited and could no longer create life (curse the one who had taken it from him!) he could make new things, things he hadn’t dreamt of when all he’d sung was deviating from that sickly boring master plan…

For who could not tremble at the dread beauty of the orc, especially when his kin glimpsed that last trace of elf in him, twisted only enough that they hesitated to take his life, just the right amount of time for him to slip his knives between their ribs and twist them…

Yes, the orc was a marvelous thing, and the trolls had been delightful to breed, but no, Melkor could not stop. He could feel it in his veins, that this would be another master-work, to take what was there and make something new, something that would make elves wail and men’s jaws drop at the majesty.

It was said that the salamander was blest by Aulë, to suffer the heat of the forge and not perish, through the stoking and the quenching. Perhaps they did not live in the fire, as the tales had begun to tell, but they were resistant to the heat.

A small, slippery creature that could tolerate high temperatures was hardly a creature worth fearing. Even if he bred them large, there was little fearsome about them…

Unless he could use that fact. If they could survive the fire that no others could, what if they made that fire in their belly, breathed it out in a gust of flame… his foes would never see it coming.

Yes. Time to create something new once more. He would have his agents collect all the lizards they could find—and yes, salamanders. So many salamanders.

Ecthelion surveyed the men who had just entered the antechamber. He had, of course, seen the new delegation when his father had received them formally in the Steward’s Chair, but a wise man did not rely on first impressions alone.

Their dress was rude, but no ruder than that of the Rohirrim, or indeed of some of the southernmost fiefs of Gondor, where men took olives and grapes as their riches rather than silk or gold. And the man at the head of the delegation met his eye and did not flinch.

“My lord,” said he, bowing low, “my name is Branor, son of Harmon. I represent King Bard of the Kingdom of Dale.”

“Well met, Branor, son of Harmon,” said Ecthelion. “My name is Ecthelion, son of Turgon II, Steward of Gondor. I understand you have come here to negotiate trade between our realms.”

“If it is agreeable to you, my lord. I believe you will find that both Dale and Gondor will find trade beneficial.”

“I hope to find the same,” said Ecthelion. “Yet I fear that the proof of benefit lies upon you and your delegation. After all, Dale was founded but lately, on the ashes of a dragon’s ruin and its former glory. Gondor has survived, even prospered”—for there was no activity of the Shadow of late, enough so that even his son Denethor had misgivings—“without your presence. Our climes are more temperate, and we can make wine and oils, and grow fruits that I deem your lands cannot bear. We have much to offer you, but have you anything to offer us that we cannot already buy, or make ourselves?”

Branor smiled. “My lord must have visited the archives, and the old agreements ere Dale was lost. Our lands may not be as rich in fruit as yours, but Erebor has been restored.”

“And we are happy to trade with the Dwarves for wrought metal when a few of them journey so far south.”

“Not often enough, I deem. And while our kingdom may have been lost to us for a time, our industry, and our crafts, never diminished. If anything, you will find that now is a new time of bounty for Dale, not only in the mountain, but also in the hands and the minds of its people.” He gestured to one of his attendants, who removed a black cloth from an object he had brought in. Underneath was a marvelously wrought box, with a circle on its face and a single bar that pointed straight up.

“Long ago we made clock-towers to tell us what the hour was. Now our craftsmen make them for the mantel.”

“A fascinating device,” said Ecthelion, “although we of Gondor have long favoured the sun, stars, and the hour glass to tell time. The bells are rung out all over the city. It is, however, a curiosity.”

“Perhaps, then, you—or your children—will find these more to your liking.” Another attendant brought forth three more items: first, another box, which he told Ecthelion to open.

Two equal halves slid apart, and from the midst of the box sprung a white enameled tree in flower, large enough that if Ecthelion had not seen it with his own eyes, he should have thought it could not fit in a box so small.

Next, a silver swan, which had wheels cleverly hidden in its belly so that its neck stooped and its wings fluttered if you pushed it along the ground.

And finally, a brass horse and his rider, who tipped back and forth from hind to fore on a set of springs, perfectly balanced.

“My lord,” said Branor, “Dale can give Gondor the gift of dreams, of fancy gone free in youth, ere age and cares weigh down on them, the ability to imagine a better future—if, of course, you find that of benefit.”

Admittedly, not all in Gondor would find it so, but Ecthelion would have given his eye-teeth to play with such toys as a child. Alas, Denethor was already too old to play with toys, but perhaps his children could play with such as these and dream of a day when the White Tree would bloom once more.

“Branor, son of Harmon,” said Ecthelion, “it would give me pleasure to begin negotiating terms.”

Why’d you drag me out to this grove in the middle of the night? It’s not haunted, except for uni kids running out for a smoke.

We investigate the paranormal. And trust me, this definitely counts as paranormal.

Right. Why is this paranormal? It’s pretty bloody normal to be freezing on a night like this.

I looked it up. They wanted to build a mall here, off the bypass. Had the leasers signed up—H&M, Marks and Spencers, Disney. Never even got so far as cutting down the first tree.

Yeah, but it kept on getting worse. Forklifts stuck in the muds of a sudden rain. Tree limb fell and broke the arm of the bloke using the chainsaw. They went bankrupt over it, and the forest is still here.

The forums always think it’s aliens. But this time, I think they might be right.

You don’t believe anything without evidence. The mall sounds like coincidence.

Could still be a coincidence. But I caught it on tape, nothing like the recordings I’ve done before. I’d know if I was hearing gibberish when I cut back home through here.

No, I went out to the graveyard. Forgot to turn my mike off, and then caught this when I went through here. At least, I think it was here.

Half those languages have accents within them anyway. Could be Cornish, or one of the other dead languages. Could still be a ghost.

No. But if the gibberish you heard was right, if it’s picked up on this tape? Maybe.

A/N: This is the first time I've tried to work on Sindarin, so the translation is a little rough and I probably only got half the lenitions right. Roughly, the recordings, if translated, will play back this:

“Mr. Frodo, I’m in a bit of a bind.” It was the night before Sam’s wedding, and even though he ought to be relaxing—between the ale and the fact that they were out of the Green Dragon, walking back to the Hill—he just looked more nervous than ever.

“I rather thought the point of tomorrow was to get you in such a bind,” Frodo remarked.

“Well, yes, it is. But I overheard Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin talking about summat, and I’m feeling worse than ever! Mr. Frodo, they mean to sing me and my Rose off the Party Field!”

“Yes, I admit that reminding her that everyone knows precisely what happens after a married couple retires would be a tad embarrassing.”

“And the worst part is, I don’t see as I can stop it! I can deal with my cousins, just fine, but yours? They’re gentry, Mr. Frodo, and it ain’t right!”

And of course, the wedding went perfectly. Sam and Rose looked so happy that Frodo wondered if either one of them would mind quite as much if they were sung off. He did feel a little bad for his cousins, for the scheme he was about to put into place. But he’d promised Sam, and to be quite honest, Merry and Pippin would probably be delighted to revenge him for this afternoon.

He made sure not to do it when Sam was around—and tried his best not to do it when anyone else who might take concern was looking. But when he knew Merry or Pippin was there, even if they were just passing him while dancing, he started to gaze off into nothing, worry at his shoulder, or touch the back of his neck. He couldn’t bring himself to do anything with the finger, but if he timed things right, he shouldn’t need—

Next, Pippin caught him picking at his third helping of wedding cake (actually Frodo’s fourth, but he had been sure to eat that quickly and discreetly), and informed him that he was Not Allowed to ruin Sam’s wedding by being sad himself, then pressed him into at least three dances.

So far, so good. The more Merry and Pippin were focused on him, the less they could focus on keeping Sam and Rose from departing for Bag End.

But Frodo still made sure to excuse himself after Pippin stopped paying attention to him. Truth be told, he was a little tired, but he did tire a little more easily now, and if he could relax now, he could make it up to his cousins later.

Finally, an hour and a half before sundown, Frodo began to stare at the ground and bite his lips together. This time (as he hoped) both cousins came at him from either side, and took him aside.

“I’m not going to leave, if that’s what you’re thinking! It’s Sam’s wedding!”

“Yes, and you fainting in the middle of it will make it such a fine occasion!”

“That’s it. We’re taking you to the inn early. You’re not well, and clearly you need someone looking after you.”

And, after a bit of token protestation, Frodo let himself be led off to the room where he and his cousins were staying. They ordered him some beef tea, and Merry informed him that he was going to sit on Frodo if he tried to get up before he was well.

It was fifteen minutes till sundown, far too late for them to make any difference now, and all the rest and coddling had given Frodo a bit of a second wind. “Good thing I’ve just been play-acting this whole time, then.”

“My dear cousins, I hope I never take ill in that way again, but I do think that the sheer joy of this occasion would overwhelm any illness I had. However, I was not going to have you two use the advantage of your position to humiliate Sam and Rose by singing them off.”

“But—” said Pippin. “Yes, we wanted to do that, but why would you trick us?”

“All part of the rules of the brydlop. You have to be as indirect and polite about it as possible, don’t you? If I’d started making idle conversation to you all the time, you’d have known something was up and avoided me.”

Merry waggled his finger at Frodo. “You, my dear cousin—are—terrible!”

Frodo really wished that the post were faster. It was two weeks till his annual camping trip with Merry, and Merry had picked the worst of times to be horribly tweenish. Frodo had picked out the sites months ago, he’d dried fruits and bought cheese and cured sausage, and since he knew where the best spots were for fish and game, he’d half planned out the meals! Why in all of Middle-earth didn’t Merry want to go?

The first response to Frodo’s enthusiastic itinerary had been a remarkably short note (for Merry, at least), asking if it was all right for him not to attend. Which, of course it was, but why wouldn’t Merry want to? It wasn’t as if he’d developed a sudden fear of moths at the campfire. He’d quite enjoyed every past visit. So Frodo had responded that of course, it was all right, but why on earth wouldn’t he want to go—and then Frodo began describe the sun setting over Lake Evendim and the coolness of the summers in Northfarthing.

As the letters kept passing back and forth, the date of the trip drew closer, and still Merry was being cagey—and highly unreasonable! Clearly he wanted to stay, but he hadn’t yet given a reason, and Frodo couldn’t even think of one!

It had been a week since Frodo’s last letter, and he finally up and asked Merry what the matter was with him, if he had broken his arm again but didn’t want him to know. And since there was now a good chance that no matter what, the whole trip was going to go awry, he was going to have to write Merry another letter, even without a response.

I’m afraid I was too short with you in my last note. You don’t want to go camping with me, that’s clear, but I honestly cannot see why. You’ve always enjoyed it in the past, and I assume that hasn’t changed. I hope I’m not being presumptuous in saying it’s not me, either.

I just think you’re being a little obtuse about this. You’ve always had fun in the past with me, and there’s nothing to keep that from changing—nothing but your own attitudes.

There may still be something I haven’t thought of. Just let me know why you don’t want to go. I shall do my best to persuade you otherwise, but if I just know, I shall be at peace.

He got up, left his study, and walked out to Bywater. Yes, the post would deliver and pick up, but he needed the walk, and he wanted to get his letter out as soon as possible. But he caught the mail-trap along the way, and the faint hope sprung into his heart that perhaps Merry had written, and, even better, would let him know that he’d had a change of heart and would be packed and ready to go in two weeks’ time.

After a short wait at the post office, the mail was sorted and the posthobbit was able to get Frodo his mail. There was a note from Folco, and—yes! One from Merry.

I’m sorry I haven’t been good at explaining myself. I only didn’t want to cause you any hurt, or to make you think I didn’t care for you as much as I have (I do—if anything, even more!). And if I want to stay behind and not involve you at all, it’s only because you haven’t shown any interest in the other things, at least, not around me.

Look. There are parties at Brandy Hall, and I know I’m not old enough yet, but the lasses in their dresses are so pretty, and I might as well get a head start on learning how to talk to them now.

And this year, at least, I’d rather stay home and go to some of the parties than go camping with you. That doesn’t mean we never have to go camping again, but—I don’t want you to just assume I’m going to always want to do things with you, Frodo! I’m not a little lad anymore, and while obviously Mum and Dad still have a say, I rather fancy the idea of being master of my own time.

So I hope you’re not hurt, and I hope I haven’t made things worse than waiting to say this. I do want to see you sometime soon, just not for a whole week. Not right now.

Drat. Drat. Frodo knew a dozen ways to fix this, to put off the camping trip to another week, to come by and accompany Merry on some of the days, but—

No, it was clear. Merry was growing up. And unfortunately, as Frodo knew all too well, part of growing up was wanting to change things from your younger routines. And, when he tried to read through all the tweenish language in Merry’s letter, he realized that Merry had a point. Frodo had been assuming too much of Merry, and treating him as if he were still younger.

Frodo asked the posthobbit if he could borrow a pen and paper. He crumpled up the letter he had been planning to send.

I received your letter today. You’re quite right—there was no reason for me to assume that you would always want to go camping with me, and worse, I think I had started treating you as an accessory in my own plans rather than a hobbit in his own right, with his own desires.

Believe it or not, I do remember when I was your age, and how I hated (and still do hate) being controlled, and how sometimes I wanted to change things up a bit just to see how they would go. I do know that you love me, and I love you, so I hope you can forgive me, my dear cousin.

Should you be interested in camping in the future, just let me know and we’ll set a date. In fact, I daresay you’re old enough to plan the whole thing yourself, if you’d like!

Enjoy the parties, and the lasses in all their pretty dresses, and always remember that punch is stronger than you think it is, and don’t do anything terribly stupid!

P.S. No matter how beautifully dressed she may be, make sure you always look a lass in the eyes. When you do that, she’ll know that you’re more interested in her mind and her heart than in her form.

Frodo nodded twice to himself, and posted the new note. When he got back to Bag End, though, he kept the maps out and began to look them over. It had been some time since he had gone on a solo trek, hadn’t it?

It was cold, bitter cold. Bilbo pulled his jacket around him tighter. It wouldn’t do to chatter his teeth—wolves had keen ears.

They had taken three whole sheep this time, but the snow on the ground turned to his advantage. It was simple enough to follow the blood on the snow—too simple, for the best tracker in the Shire. Now all he had to do was scout out the wolf den, and then creep back and alert the others—(if there had been any others, Bilbo allowed himself to think with a sulky pout)—so they could attack the den. No matter. The others would be there when they were needed. He just needed to make sure he didn’t get caught—his scent was downwind, so as long as he didn’t make much noise… He crept forward under the shrubbery, to get a better glimpse of the scene ahead. There it was—the head wolf, standing guard. Over what, though? He edged forward a little more…

“Ouch!” Stupid thorns! He’d been spotted. The wolf advanced, turned on him, and—

His aunt gave him a stern look. “Bilbo Baggins! Were you playing at the Fell Winter again? In my rosebushes?”

I’m telling you, that new King of ours is mighty strange. Very lordly at the banquets, or so the serving lasses tell me, but you wouldn’t believe what I saw the other night!

What? No, I wasn’t drinking! What kind of a cook would I be if I was? Wine dulls the palate, and the mind! No, I really did see this, by the White Tree!

Well, I do realize now it was in part my fault. The pheriannath love food, you see, so I let one of them into the kitchen once, and he asked where that door led, and I told him. Meaning no harm, of course, and no harm was done of it, but that’s how he found out about the tunnels that the servants and workers use on occasion, when they need to get somewhere fast and out of the lords’ and ladies’ ways.

And he must have gotten in there when my back was turned, and found the other entrances, because otherwise I’m not sure how this would have worked.

And yes, I do hope it was the pherian’s idea, and not the King’s, because—heavens! How could a King come up with an idea like that and still have time to be King?

So the pherian comes in a week later, with the King in tow, insisting that he’s found some sort of lost treasure and His Highness must see it himself, which made me wonder, but the King trusts the lad and all and I confess I rather trust him as well, so I didn’t think harm would come of it, and oh! would I come to regret that!

No, this one wasn’t the Ringbearer, otherwise I’d have thought nothing of it! Sometime later two more pheriain come in—no, not the Ringbearer—and say they can’t find their friend, but they know he was muttering something about the hidden passages and treasure, and could they take some of the potboys, split up, and see if they could find them? And they’re heroes, so of course I said yes, but I confess I was a little concerned at the loss of my potboys.

I don’t know how they managed this without being spotted by any one of us, but maybe the Powers were with them. They must have been!

An hour passes, and who should show up here but the Lord Faramir! He demands to know where the King is, hears I might know something about it, and says he’s needed immediately and every last one of us must go into the passages to find them. So I banked the fires, and hoped desperately that no one would come needing my skills, and we must have scoured the passages, every last one of us.

We must have looked for another hour still, and then through the main hallways besides. I don’t know what half the lords must have thought as we walked through—deferential as we could manage, but I couldn’t hide my nervousness. The Lord Faramir is kind, so I don’t think he would send me home, but I might no longer be head cook if the King disappeared on my watch, through my door!

And who should be there but all four pheriain and the King himself, with a wonderful spread prepared. For all of us! He commended us on staying through and continuing to cook for the defenders during the whole siege—as if we’d ever asked for recognition!—and that the Halflings had all cooked while we were looking for them, since they said I’d never have let them if I was there. Then he invited us to eat.

Now, I don’t know if they did anything differently because the stoves were twice their size, but the pheriain cooked very well, I think. Their food was not nearly as well-flavored as mine, but it let the simplicity of the food itself shine through. I think I rather like it, though it’s not good enough for court—not yet.

And after it was all done, his highness asked if I could make a meal—a court meal—for the other servants, and serve it to them first.

So you see why I said the Powers must have been working for them, and the King mustn’t have come up with the idea. But he went along with it—he and the Lord Faramir too, for that matter!

Sometimes Rosie had to sit down and tell herself, over and over again, that she couldn’t do nothing about it. It had been a hard lesson to learn, mostly from her mum, whether it was too much rain in the sky or Jolly sulking in his room.

But it was hardest with Sam (as Mum had said it would be). He had told her everything he could—everything, she was fairly sure, but she hadn’t lived none of it with him. And seeing as it had been naught but a month since Mr. Frodo had departed, Sam was managing remarkably well. But Rosie still wanted to do more.

Only when she tried, that made things worse, because then Sam felt as he ought to be grieving, and then Rose felt as she ought to do more.

But this was a case where she couldn’t do nothing about it. She’d already done all she could.

But if Rosie couldn’t do nothing about it, that didn’t mean that no one could. So one day while she was at market, she had the posthobbit take a couple of letters for her, asking Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin if they couldn’t come by a night and take Sam out to the Green Dragon.

They didn’t even respond—they just showed up one night, a week later, with panting ponies. She hadn’t told them why she wanted them to come and take Sam out, they just seemed to know.

Sam protested a little, but once Elanor began screaming and fussing (very rare for her!) and it seemed only Rosie could calm her down this time, he consented to leave.

She fell asleep before Sam came back, but in the morning he looked a lot better.

It was but the third time Éowyn had been out riding, and Théodred had left her side. Éomer was still too short to stay by her and steady her, too short even to avoid getting knocked by the horse’s legs. Yet, even if he had tried, Théodred would not have let him.

So Éomer stood there, fists balled at his sides, and watched Éowyn begin to slide from the saddle. She managed to recenter herself the first couple of times, but her legs were short and the fall from the horse was so far…

Éowyn fell to the ground with a whump. Éomer immediately ran to her. She was breathing heavily, and tears were in her eyes. Éomer threw his arms around her and glared at his cousin.

“Back in the saddle,” said Théodred. “See, she’s breathing better already.”

Éowyn began to shake her head, but Théodred picked her up and put her back on the horse.

“No son or daughter of Eorl should fear to ride,” he told her, looking her straight in the eye. “Did you not tell me you wanted to ride just like your father and mother?”

“Then ride.” He nudged the horse forward, and slowly, began to back away from Éowyn once more.

“She has stopped. She was not hurt gravely. And I can tell you, when your father comes back, he shall do just the same when he teaches Éowyn.”

“It did,” said Théodred. “And have you not learned to keep trying, even as you fail?”

“So it will be with your sister. Even Eorl had to be taught how to ride when he was a youth. I have no doubt that one day she will ride as well as ever man or woman of the Mark did.”

Celeritas' Birthday Bash 2013 by Celeritas