Peace Denied

Eomer eyed the bound leader of the Dunlendings. Hatred spewed from the man's eyes. "Why have you done this?" Eomer asked, his horror nearly overpowering his self-control.

"For decades you have oppressed us!" the man spat. "You hemmed us in, killed our women and children! No more!"

Eomer shook his head, glancing towards the village where the bodies of women and children lay ravaged and broken. "The oppressed have become the oppressors. Your actions are no better than those of whom you accuse. There were better ways to seek peace."

He stepped back and with regret let his sword fall.

Light of the Evenstar

Aragorn sat with his head bowed to his knees, the weight of what they set out to accomplish resting heavily upon him. Of those present, only one knew of the full burden he carried. It was the one who was not there, however, that occupied his thoughts.

She had not come; he had known she would not. They had said all there was to say.

Rising, the Company made to depart in the darkness. Then did he see her, a slender figure in the shadows with the light of Eärendil shining down upon her.

The vision of her sustained him.

Departure

It was never enough, staring across the Sea. He had wandered long in self-exile, but the time had come to return, to face whatever judgement awaited him. He could not forever put it off. There would be no peace for him until he faced the wrath of those whom he had wronged.

His hands ached as he formed the wooden planks with which he built his small boat. The scars had never healed, would never cease to hurt. Maglor hung the sail and gathered what provisions he could, then pushed off from the shore.

It was time to return home.

Author's Note: This drabble is Silmarillion based. Maglor is one of the sons of Fëanor who wrongly took one of the Silmarils from Eonwë, herald of Manwë, thus burning his hands. He threw the Silmaril in the Sea where it yet remains. Maglor's fate is unknown.

Discordant Symphony

The notes of discord were subtle at first, confusing him until he grew silent in the disharmony. Growing in intensity, the chords climbed the scale, and something in the music drew him, enticed him, and beckoned to him to rejoin the song.

The melody of the others was purer, sweeter and innocent, but the song of Melkor was powerful and mighty. Mairon struggled within himself, drawn to both. More voices united with Melkor, compelled by the beat, the rhythms. He was torn!

A whisper of thought — You must choose.

So he did, adding his voice to the cacophony of sound.

Author's Note: Mairon was Sauron's original name. His choice was to side with Melkor, and thus he turned to evil.

First Milestone

Why had he looked forward to this? Experienced warriors bore them with pride; the novices gazed upon them with envy. Legolas had been no different, but as he gazed at the strange apparatus, like two spoons at the end of a pair of shears, he doubted the bragging rights would be worth the pain.

He glanced at the arrow sticking from his thigh, and when the healer inserted the device into his leg to ease the removal of the arrowhead, Legolas finally knew the cost of such badges of honor.

He hoped his first battle scar would be his last.

Rude Awakening

Aragorn watched with dismay as the young woman stormed from the room, her hair billowing in her wake like a dark cloak. He grimaced as the door slammed behind her and stood in shock, blinking in her wake, his ears ringing from her loud accusations and affronted complaints.

Where had the adorable cherub gone, with chubby legs and dimpled smile? When had she grown so tall and developed such…feminine adornments? And since when had she sharpened her tongue so that it cut his heart to the quick?

He suddenly realized he was ill prepared to deal with an adolescent daughter.

With a Single Glance

The first time he laid eyes upon her something inside him knew she was the one. The way her hair cascaded over her shoulders caused his breath to hitch. The look she cast him from under lowered lashes sent a shock of warmth through him, her grey eyes enticing yet demure. And her smile… He fell in love with her smile the first instant her lips curved upwards.

They spoke; he discerned her feelings for him mirrored his own. Elrond would make her his bride and mother of his children.

But first… With much trepidation he knocked on Celeborn's door.

Bittersweet

The elves strove to make the day memorable. There were banners, plenty of wine and good food, music and song; and many of the renowned made their appearance. And yet, while Frodo appreciated the effort made by his hosts, in his heart this day would never be the same. He was better now, his hurts healed — all but one. He longed for home.

For a year they had been here, and the air was fresh, the weather pleasant, and even the rain felt wholesome. But in his heart, Frodo yearned for the Shire, to spend one last birthday among Hobbits.

Unbearable Parting

Death. It was something Legolas had never truly understood, never accepted, yet now he stared it in the face. Where once had been life, now he looked upon frozen features, pale and blank, and knew beyond doubt that the shell that had once housed his friend was empty.

Gone. For an elf, death was not the end — was not final, not forever, and thus there remained some hope. But now…

He looked again at the frozen face, cold and lifeless, and at last knew that their goodbyes had been the end.

And it was then his soul screamed in denial

Imminent Defeat

Hope was lost. What could mere Men do against such hate and evil intent? Outnumbered more than five to one, what chance did they have? Not even the Deeping wall could keep out such a hoard for long, and Théoden knew it, though he would never acknowledge such to anyone, not even himself.

In the dark with the rumble of thunder and countless orc feet, there was no denying the outcome of this battle. Yet Théoden lifted his chin and narrowed his eyes, the gazes of his men upon him. He would show no fear.

"Let them come!" he cried.

Triple Drabble. Exactly 300 words.

Heritage

Eldarion glanced up at the sound of snickers. Several of the nobles' sons, all of them older than himself, stood nearby watching him. "What is so funny?" he asked, turning back to braiding his horse's mane.

"Surely you are not going to ride like that?" Belvindon asked. The boy stepped closer, fingering the black and white ribbons in Celegur's mane, then he sneered in disgust.

Eldarion felt uncertainty creep up his spine. "The elves' mounts will be braided with ribbons as well. It is tradition." He felt a spark of pride flare to life in his chest, but it quickly dimmed as the boys laughed.

"This is a festival for Men," another said. "As the king's son, you should ride as a Man, not garnish your horse with girlish adornments!"

Eldarion's heart sank for a moment, but then the spark of pride ignited once more. "I may be a Man," he stated with confidence, "but I also have the blood of the Eldar in my veins. I will ride as I see fit."

The boys walked away, laughing, but Eldarion ignored them. He spoke quietly to his elven-bred horse, determined to show everyone that to ride in elven fashion was as honorable as riding as a Man. With agile fingers, he continued weaving the hair as he had been taught, tying off each braid with an alternating color of ribbon.

When Eldarion rode towards the fields, many stared in wonder — including the group of boys who had jeered at him — for the prince rode with his horse adorned in the manner of the elves, but it was not this that caused a stir of whispers in the crowd.

Eldarion sat his horse, using neither rein nor saddle. With head held high, he smiled as the ribbons fluttered in the breeze.

Barreling Out of Mirkwood

Galion fidgeted nervously. He had no explanation for the thirteen missing dwarves, and he was not about to tell his lord about the sampling of the wine he and the captain had enjoyed. He only hoped none of those who had come to help with the unloading of the barrels had said anything…

The barrels! Galion's eyes widened as he recalled his helpers saying the barrels felt heavy. And with his lord having any and all questioned about the escaped prisoners, one was certain to mention…

Galion saddled his horse and headed for Imladris. Perhaps Elrond would take him in?

Author's Note: The following Drabble is based on an original character in the story The Prince and the Shepherdess.

Unexpected Trek

Uialel entered the room, capturing his gaze with an icy stare. Apprehension curled in Auros's belly. "What is it?"

"They are here," she told him, arching a brow.

Alarm tightened his chest as her meaning became clear. "Both of them?" Oh, please, not both visiting at the same time. Anything but that!

"Yes." She held his gaze, and he read her thoughts clearly. They would be his problem to manage.

"Dammit, Uialel! I'm a sheep farmer, not a lordling tender!" Auros exclaimed.

His wife glared.

Swallowing hard, Auros stood and strode to meet his future son-by-marriage and Elrohir's twin brother.

Changed

Do not look at me as if I have lost my mind! I am a child of Mahal and will always move to the rhythm of stone. Oh yes, my father thinks I have lost my mind, but bah! Let him think it! One cannot go on such a journey as we have traveled without finding himself changed.

Though I am a dwarf, I consider the elf my friend…and a good friend at that. Never find a better one, though I would never tell him it is so! Mocked by my own I may be, but I do not regret!

Reunited

He had trudged through dank swamps and up rough terrain, been chased by black riders, seen a strange flood with no rain, and rested in a pleasant valley with plenty to eat — only to be dragged out into the wilds again and left!

In time, he had returned to the valley but it was not the same without…

"Mr. Frodo!" a cry came, setting his ears to twitching. "It's Bill! He made it back!"

The pony nickered and nuzzled Sam's chest. Of course he had made it back! Hobbits were not the only ones to go there and back again.

Observation

I share a look of disbelief with my brothers as those beneath us chat as though they take a casual stroll. Yrch follow them; we can smell them! Yet the strange elf with them has dared to sing with no heed of the danger pursuing them. The dwarf seeks to begin an argument with the elf. The small ones–halflings they must be–debate the comforts of sleeping in a tree. Only Aragorn speaks wisdom, while the other Man holds his silence.

I shake my head. These are the ones Elrond entrusted with the fate of all? We are doomed!

Master of Imladris

"Lord Elrond!"

Elrond paused, closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He turned slowly but with enough momentum to send his robes swirling about him impressively. "MASTER Elrond," he corrected. Damn Peter Jackson and those movies!

The elf hurrying in his wake blinked. "Oh, well, I thought since you were the son of Eärendil who was the son of Idril, daughter of Turgon, son of Fingolfin, who was son of Finwë that that would make you a 'lord', my lord."

"You have been speaking to Erestor, haven't you?"

"Aye, my lord."

"And he's been drinking again, hasn't he?"

"Ummm…"

Author's Note: I have had it pointed out to me on several occasions that Tolkien always referred to Elrond as 'Master Elrond' in canon. Couldn't resist poking a bit of fun. ;)

100 words

Night Vigil

Legolas paced back and forth, stopping every so often to glance at the tower. Nothing. He walked faster.

Hours passed. They felt like years! Surely his feet should have worn a path into the stone jutting out from the seventh level.

Long into the night, he waited. Ithil rose, turning the city silvery grey.

Finally, a cheer rose from the guards. Legolas looked over his shoulder. They unfurled a banner, raising it high from the Tower of Ecthelion. Legolas smiled and hurried down to the sixth level and the Houses of Healing.

Gondor had a prince. And Aragorn a son.

: - :

Distant Trees of Home 

Spring Year 3020 Third Age

Legolas looked over his shoulder at the distant trees fading in the distance. He sighed at the sight. For more years than he cared to count that land had been his home. It hurt to watch it growing smaller bit by bit. In time, he knew, it would fade from sight utterly. The thought left him hollow inside. Empty, and a bit frightened, though he would never show it or speak of it to anyone. Facing front, he looked between his stallion's ears, refusing to look back anymore. A new home awaited him. New trees, new friends, and hope. Ithilien.

Warning: mild sexual innuendo between married persons

Wicked

Wicked. A word he previously had associated only with evil. A slow smile tilted his lips. There was no other word for her when she looked like this, however. Her sensuous eyes trailed over him, inviting – no, promising – such wicked things to come. His smile widened with an invitation of its own. He crooked a finger.

She shook her head, backing away, her loose dark hair falling in waves over her form. Her fingers crept to the ties of her nightgown. The fine linen slipped from her shoulders, and she eased it down, her tongue darting out to tease him as it ran over her full lips.

Oh sweet Elbereth. He stood, unable to bear not touching her another moment. Her eyes flashed as she fled him, her eyes urging him on. He stalked her as a hunter after an elusive, yet glorious prey, until with a soft chuckle, he captured her, drawing her against him.

His hands ran down her back, over the curves hidden by her hair. She looked up with such trust, such desire, he groaned and captured her lips with his own. Sinking with her to the floor, he managed to speak only her name.

"Arwen."

200 words

Treasured Moments

By Nieriel Raina

Aragorn watched as she flitted from flower to flower in the garden below. Once he felt he had strayed into a dream. Now that dream was reality. He smiled.

Everything he had faced - long years of wandering the wilds alone, battles fought, enduring weather unfit for beasts, the scars on his body - all was worth the joy of having her for his own. His wife.

She looked up, as if she knew where his thoughts drifted. The moment their eyes met, hers shone with a light, pure and radiant, full of love for him, a rugged ranger turned king. Some believe such a love is only fit for bedtime stories told to children. But he knew better. He had lived it. And now they reaped the brief rewards.

With hasty strides, he hurried down the steps to the garden and swept her into his arms. She smiled up at him and twined her arms around his neck.

The world faded. The past flickered. All they had was the moment.

He led her up the stairs, back to their rooms. Only a moment in the long years of the world, but such moments would be treasured and never forgotten.

200 words, minus the poem.

Brink of the Sea

: - :

Swirling colors.

An array of texture.

Moving forward then back,

just like the waves of the Sea.

: - :

Something touched his arm, pulling him back. Legolas jumped and looked down.

"You all right, lad?" Gimli stood beside him, a concerned look shadowing his face.

Legolas took a deep breath and ran his hand through the ends of his hair. "Aye." He nodded, and then gestured at the dancing court ladies. Their skirts billowed around them like sails caught in the wind. "Beautiful to watch, is it not?"

Gimli harrumphed, running his hand over his beard. Then he folded his arms across his chest. "Pah! Tall, flimsy creatures on stilted legs! And all that material! A waste, if you ask me. Trousers are far more practical." He nodded as if agreeing with himself. "It's a wonder they don't fall over each other."

Legolas smiled. Gimli never failed to shock him with his dwarven outlook on life. And that foreign outlook had once again brought him back from the brink of the Sea. He nodded, then he laughed as he realized what Gimli had said.

Legolas's grin turned wicked, and he nudged the dwarf with his elbow. "Are you saying that you would prefer Lady Galadriel in trousers?"

Gimli sputtered, and Legolas's grin widened as the dwarf's face flushed red.

Dance of Steel

Glorfindel's lips tilted into a feral grin. He lunged forward, his blade ringing against his opponent's weapon. Ah, the thrill of sparring with someone his equal. He spun, darting in again, only to leap back to avoid the slash of sharpened metal.

Erestor smiled back. They could do this for hours until one was disarmed or compromised. Which one did not matter, so long as they could engage in the sword dance without the concerns of fighting one not their equal.

And so they continued the dance of steel, bantering calls ringing out in the dawn light.

200 words

A Marvelous Day

Like smoke, fog rose over the meadow, dissipating as the sun climbed higher into the sky, leaving the glen appearing as a sparkling green jewel accented with a glorious sprinkling of flowers. Legolas dropped from a tree and walked amidst the colors. The dew dampened his boots. Oh what a marvelous day!

Bending, he scooped up a handful of the fragrant blooms: yellows, purples, reds and blues. With a grin, he headed back into the wood on swift feet. Arriving at a large oak, he put the flowers between his teeth and quickly climbed up to a talan set among the branches. He left the blossoms in prominent place, sure to be seen, knocked and scampered away before he could be caught.

From another tree, Legolas watched a maiden lift the flowers as a smile graced her fair face. Legolas grinned as her eyes searched for the giver, but he remained hidden until she retreated. Perhaps next time he would bring his lyre and sing for her, thus revealing his identity to she who'd captured his heart.

Until then, he'd content himself with thoughts of her beauty, her laughter and the way his heart beat faster when she was near.

Author's Note: This drabble is not part of the Undying Friendship series. If it seems familiar, it is because I based it on a scene from the movie City Slickers.'

Exactly 100 words

A Blink In Time

Elrohir watched the young woman place her hands to the small of her back, leaning to stretch sore muscles, tight from weeding her garden. As the sun sank behind her, it revealed her form to him through her thin linen dress. He let his eyes caress her dark hair and imagined what it would be like to hold her in his arms and kiss her soft lips. To know what it was like to truly live.

The sun winked out. Elrohir rode on, but part of him always remembered the girl he had loved for that brief moment in time.

200 words

A birthday gift for Thundera Tiger

Great Effort

Thranduil watched the dwarf closely. Gimli son of Glóin remained courteous to everyone, respectful and polite in all ways. Thranduil could find not one excuse to expel the dwarf from his presence, at least not without causing enmity between himself and his youngest son. He sighed. He did not like it, this friendship that grew between Legolas and the dwarf. Such things never came to a good end.

Legolas threw back his head and laughed at something the dwarf said, the bright sound echoing in the chamber. There had been little laughter in these halls since Legolas left for Rivendell so many moons ago - little reason for mirth in the preceding months of war and fire. The laughter was echoed by those seated near the unusual pair.

Thranduil did not like it, this acceptance of the dwarf by his people. He wished it gone, fair riddance! But Legolas had invited it to stay for a time.

The laughter continued as the dwarf used his hands with great animation to tell some story. And while Thranduil glowered at it, Legolas looked up at him, his smile slowly slipping from his face as their eyes met.

With great effort, Thranduil smiled.

The Decision

He showed no reaction to the announcement; his face remained an emotionless mask, the expression of a warrior who had protected the wood for many Long Years. He had known it would come; the Lady's departure would be the herald of a diminished world.

Haldir now had to choose his course — to follow his Lady into the West or to remain behind with Lord Celeborn and renew the southern forest of Eryn Lasgalen.

Looking out across the vast sea of dark trees, their song called to him, pricking his heart. There was no choice to be made. He would stay.

Author's Note: This is not meant to be part of anyone's particular universe, but was inspired by a couple friends' interpretation of Thranduil.

Exactly 200 words

Refusal

The messenger arrived with no warning. No announcement proceeded him; he just appeared one sunny day. There was no doubt his purpose or message, even before it was given.

"The Valar call you home," Eonwë said simply, the authority behind the decree ringing clear in a voice of steel intent.

The recipient of the message met the directive calmly. The demand was plain. There was no room to misinterpret it, but he had made his choice long ago and had no intention of abandoning his home. If anything, he was more bonded to this world now than he had been in ages prior.

Still, he pondered the words, as if he actually considered them. Then one side of his mouth quirked up as his chin lifted. He shook his head.

"No."

Turning his back on the Herald of Manwë, Thranduil straightened his jacket, casting a casual glance at Galion who held the door for him. Without looking back, Thranduil climbed into the limousine, followed by his assistant.

As he sat back, his eyes met Eonwë's one final time. To his surprise, the Maia smiled and lifted a hand in a parting wave as the car pulled away from the curb.

His Horse-lady

June

Year 3020 Third Age

Faramir brushed back a drapery and glanced out the window. He watched his wife's gold hair trail behind her as she walked down the path to the gardens. He smiled. How different his life had turned out from what he imagined it would be. Never had he considered he might be married to such a courageous woman as Eowyn of Rohan.

Eowyn stooped to stroke the head and ears of a wolfhound before continuing on her way, the hound at her heels. His rustic wife was far from ordinary. How many could claim to have killed a Nazgul, let alone the Witchking himself?

But it was not because of her bravery in battle that he loved her. Her spirit captivated him. The most courageous thing he thought she had done was to leave her people and marry him, the quiet, unexpected Steward of Gondor.

He had been surprised when Aragorn kept him in place as Steward, but he enjoyed the task. He loved Ithilien and knew the land well. For many years this land had been as a mistress to him: calming him and cradling him in her soothing embrace.

Eowyn stopped at a gate and looked knowingly over her shoulder towards the window where he stood. She smiled. Her hair caught in the breeze and streamed over her shoulders even as her skirts were swept back, revealing her trim form, and making Faramir's heart skip a beat. How lovely she was! While Ithilien had soothed and comforted him, his wife lit a fire within him, making him burn in ways he had never imagined possible.

Letting the drapery fall back into place, Faramir hurried to the door and down the path to join his wife. Catching her up in his arms, he kissed her, not caring who saw them. He would never tire of kissing her perfect lips or caressing her creamy skin. Hand in hand, they strolled about the garden, until unable to contain his passion, he tumbled his wife under an apple tree far from sight of the path.

The proper ladies of Gondor would have been appalled. His horse-lady just laughed and pulled him closer, trailing her hands down his shoulders and back before reaching between them to undo his belt.

No, it was not the life he had thought to live, but he would not trade it for anything.

Hide the Knives

Minas Tirith

Year 9, Fourth Age

Aragorn peered cautiously around the door. Thanks be to Ilúvatar! She slept!

With silent steps he crept into the room, across the floor and to the bed. He gazed down upon his beloved and the precious bundle safe against Arwen's side – his newborn son. Sitting with care on the edge of the bed, he reached out to touch a soft cheek, caress a tiny hand, note the dark swath of hair. The babe was beautiful. He smiled.

A soft intake of air caught his notice and he glanced up at his wife. He felt the blood drain from his face, and his hand moved of its own volition to protect certain parts of himself. For a moment, he considered fleeing once more. Then she smiled and reached for him, drawing him down to lay beside her, their infant snuggled between them.

"Does this mean you forgive me?" he asked, taking her hand and placing a kiss on her palm.

"I fear it is I who must beg forgiveness, my husband. I fear I said things – awful things – that I have no intention of implementing." Her eyes lowered meaningfully to his trousers.

Aragorn began to laugh. He supposed his order to have all the knives removed from their quarters had been a bit rash. Relief filled him as he laid his arm around her, drawing her closer without disturbing their son. "I have never seen you so angry. I feared you would never look at me again."

She smiled up at him, a mischievous light filling her eyes. "I have never experienced such pain before. At the moment, it seemed to be your fault. And I could only think of one way to prevent it from happening again." They laughed.

She looked down and stroked the top of the babe's head. "Now I see it was a beautiful gift you gave me."

"He is a fine son. He will do Gondor proud."

"Like his father. But what shall the people call their new prince, Estel? You need to name your son."

He traced a finger over the gentle point of tiny ear, seeing so much of both he and his beloved in their child. "Eldarion. Eldarion, they will call him, for he will be a legacy of your people, even as he rules mine."

Arwen smiled then pressed a kiss to Eldarion's head. "Son of the Eldar. It is a good name."

Author's note: While I am aware that most believe elves did not experience pain on the same level as Men when it came to child bearing, I do believe they experienced much discomfort. I also think with Arwen's choice of mortality, her mixed heritage, and having never experienced such a thing before, the experience may have been much more than she was expecting.

300 words

The Beast of Terror

Erestor glared at the pieces of ripped parchment littering the floor of his rooms. That had better not be the remains of some important document! A glance towards the table in the corner revealed it was indeed the list of winter stores, an inventory he had spent the better part of a week cataloguing.

That was it! The final straw! The beast HAD to go!

Eyes narrowed, he followed the trail to where it disappeared under a heap of bedding that hung haphazardly from what had been his neatly made bed. Beast! Little Terror! He glared at the disarray before reaching to grab a suspicious lump. He cursed as instead of the culprit, he pulled out a half chewed slipper — his favorite! The Evil Brute!

Scowling, he knelt on the floor and flipped up the jumbled bedding. His other slipper peeked out, at least what remained of it. Monster! Foul beast of Morgoth!

He bent over to look beneath the bed, coming nose to nose with the little monster. A fuzzy face, dominated by shining brown eyes, tipped to the side. A small pink tongue darted out, catching him right on the mouth, even as a shaggy tail wagged, followed by a soft 'arf'.

Erestor scooped up the puppy, shaking his head as his scowl melted into a reluctant smile. He ruffled her ears, even as he scolded the small terrier. "You should not be in my room, little terror," he told her. "And this time, your masters will not get away with their lax supervision!"

He marched down the hall in search of her owners; Isilmë wiggling in his arms.

To their dismay, the young sons of Elrond spent the next four days reprising the list of winter stores, whilst Erestor supervised, the pup sound asleep on his lap.

Summary: Legolas and some of his people find the heat of Ithilien cause to seek respite at the end of a hard day of work under the sun.

Respite

By Nieriel Raina

Mid Summer

Year 1, Fourth Age

The heat was scorching. Legolas wiped his brow on his sleeve and glanced up from his work. The late summer sun beat down on him as he and several of his people labored to repair a boundary fence. They all dripped with sweat as they lifted stone after stone and stacked them to make the wall. It would be back breaking work on a cool day. And this fence did not lie under the shade of the trees of his beloved Ithilien, but in a large meadow, under the glaring sun.

Pulling a leather tie from his pocket, Legolas joined several others in tying his hair back at his nape as the Men of Gondor did. It did not hold the long strands back as securely as his braids, but it was cooler and held his hair off his neck. He bent to his work, the ponytail, as Faramir's daughter called it, falling over his shoulder as he heaved another flat stone into place.

Another hour they worked, and one by one, each of them stripped off their tunics, baring their upper bodies to the sun. Boots came off, leggings were rolled up. Even after ten years living in this southern land, Legolas and his people still struggled to adjust to the intolerable heat when out from under the forest's protection.

Finally, the last stone was laid, and they began picking up discarded gear, while chatting amiably amongst themselves. Tulus, an elf from Lothlórien who had given Legolas his fealty, sidled over, his fingers working to release his silver hair from its bonds. "Well, my lord. A day well spent."

Legolas nodded. "The wall is sound and will hold for many years." He tugged at the waist of his sweat-dampened leggings. "By the stars, it is hot!" He glanced up at the sun again. "Well after midday and the temperature yet climbs!" He scooped up his tunic and wiped his face on the soft cloth. "I miss the north. I would welcome winter over this heat!"

Tulus grinned. "And I miss the cool Golden Wood. But we still have compensations here unlike those back home."

Legolas raised a brow, though his lips quirked into a small grin. He knew exactly what his friend was going to suggest.

Tulus tipped his head in the direction of the tree line two leagues east of them. "The falls are not far."

Legolas glanced at the others. Many lounged on the ground or stretched sore muscles. He stooped and picked up his boots. "Not far at all."

He cast a surreptitious glance at Tulus, noting the other still looking longingly towards the trees. Shaking his head and grinning to himself, he bolted for the tree line. "Last one to the falls owes me a drink!" he called over his shoulder.

He only looked long enough to see the others racing after him.

Tulus overtook him about a hundred yards from their destination. He ran straight towards the drop-off, dropping his clothing before he reached it and launched himself over the edge. Legolas heard him splash into the deep water of the pool below.

Taking the path to the base, Legolas stripped from his leggings, throwing them to the ground beside his boots, tunic and knife. He headed into the fast flowing stream, away from the pool and to where one of many smaller waterfalls raced down the rocks. Standing under the pounding coolness, he let the strains of the day fade. Here, under the shade of the trees, away from the stifling heat, he felt most at home.

The water trickled down his face, collecting on his lashes, and he blinked the moisture away. Nearby, he heard the sound of the others arriving, many jumping into the pool still clad in their leggings as Tulus had done. Others gathered at the creek's edge, dropping their gear and undressing. Laughter filled the air, and Legolas closed his eyes.

It had been a good day.

End

Thanks for reading!

Shortly after arriving in Rivendell with Frodo, Sam stumbles across a mystery. Could it be elvish magic at work?

Elvish Magic

By Nieriel Raina

Sam peeked around the corner and down one of the halls of the Last Homely House before slipping down the passageway. He was on a mission.

Since arriving in Rivendell, he had seen many strange things, but none as disconcerting as his recent sightings. Many strange people could be seen wandering the halls, paths and valley: elves, of course, since it was an elvish place; and a few men like Strider, tall and dark;  and dwarves, though they weren't completely strange to Sam since they traveled often through the Shire on the road to and from the Blue Mountains.

But it was the elves that had poor Sam discombobulated. He had overheard Strider say something about Master Elrond's son returning home last eve, and since then he had seen the dark haired elf on several occasions. That wasn't the mystery in and of itself; rather, he had seen the elf speaking to Strider in the library as he passed by the doorway on his way to take an apple down to Bill, lodged in the stables. Yet, when he arrived, there was the elf! And he had changed his clothes to boot!

There was simply no reasonable explanation for it all, to Sam's mind. And it hadn't been just that occasion; several times today he had seen the elf in one place, only to come across him again somewhere else, wearing different clothing and doing something completely different from what Sam had seen him doing the time before. 

Sam just knew some elvish magic was at work.

Now, as he followed the son of Elrond, his mind wandered back to the time, back home in the Shire, when he thought he saw an elf in the woods. Come to think of it, that elf looked an awful lot like the one he was currently trailing, if indeed it had been an elf he had seen.

"Elf magic, for sure it is," Sam muttered, as he shuffled on, glancing this way and that.

"What is elf magic, little one?" a cheerful voice asked from beside him, causing him to jump and his neck to jerk his head up. Way up.

"Well I'll be," Sam gasped as his gaze collided with that of the elf he had been following. "How'd you get here again when you were just…"

Sam looked back to the retreating figure he had just been following. The elf was still there, walking down the path towards the garden, yet here he was beside Sam too!

"Beggin' your pardon and all, sir, but I thought, I mean, well, how can you be there," Sam pointed at the retreating figure, "And be here too?"

The elf frowned in confusion, his eyes following Sam's finger to the dark haired elf just slipping out of sight. Then he began to laugh. "Elladan! Elladan, come here!" he called.

Sam watched, wide eyed, as a duplicate of the elf beside him retraced his steps towards them. Standing side by side, he glanced between the identical faces. "Elf magic," he whispered in awe.

The two beings smiled at one another. "You must be Sam," the elf who had stopped him said. "Estel described you well enough. I do believe you have been confusing my brother and myself for the same person. Let me assure you, there is no elvish magic at work in this; there are two of us. I am Elrohir. This is Elladan. We are the sons of Elrond."

"Well I'll be!" he exclaimed. "Twins! Never crossed my mind that elves could have twins. We hobbits now, they pop up now and then, but elves? No sir! I had me no idea." Sam bowed awkwardly, somewhat disappointed to have not seen elvish magic after all. "Pleasure to make your acquaintances."

His mind scrambled over what Elrohir had just said.

"Pardon me for asking, but I don't be knowing anyone called Estel. Sounds like an elvish name, and I've not been here long enough to get to know any of you very well. How could he know me well enough to tell you about me?"

Elladan answered after a glance at his twin. "You call him Strider, I believe. Estel is Aragorn's elvish name. My father gave it to him when he was only a small child."

Sam nodded. It would make sense, he supposed, that that ranger would have an elvish name if he had stayed here as often as he had claimed. And no surprise at all that the Man would have yet another name!

But now his mind was wondering something else. "I don't suppose either of you have ever been to the Shire before? I thought I had seen me an elf once, in the woods. Seems he looked a lot like the two of you."

The twins glanced at each other and they both smiled.

"Perhaps," was all they would say. 

~ . ~

"Da? Did you ever find out who that elf was?" little Frodo asked Sam as soon as he concluded his tale.

Sam let his eyes wander over the rest of his children. "Well, now, I talked to Strider about it once, and he did say that those sons of Elrond had come to the Shire once or twice to bring messages to the rangers a-keeping watch over us. So I suppose it was one of them I had seen."

Young Frodo nodded his head. "I think it was."

Elanor tilted her head, looking disappointed. "So, you never did see any elvish magic, Da?"

Sam smiled slowly, throwing a wink at Rosie. "Maybe I did, but that is a story for another time. Now, off to bed with you!"

As the youngsters scampered off with Rosie following behind to tuck them in, Sam reverently closed the Red Book. "Elvish magic, indeed!" he chuckled.

end

Rating: G

Summary: Pippin endures the worst kind of torture – standing guard during a Council meeting in Gondor.

Written for the Tolkien Tango Prompt #36: Notion. And for Golden who issued the challenge: "What does a guard on duty do?"

"When You Gotta Go…."

By Nieriel Raina

Lake Evendim

Year 15, Fourth Age

Sticklebacks! Pippin fretted. This sort of thing would never happen in the Shire! He rocked back on his heels, caught himself and drew himself back to complete attention. Why did guards need to stand so straight anyway? He gritted his teeth, and kept his eyes straight forward, but within him, the battle had begun.

Whenever he visited Gondor, he was called to duty as Guard of the Citadel, and this visit was no different. Always proud to serve, he was, even if it meant standing guard during important meetings between the king and his council.

Except for today. Right here, right now, he could care less about formality or duty. Only honor held him in place. Well, to be truthful, his sense of dignity held him rooted to the stone floor. Leaving was out of the question. Guards did not abandon their posts!

He squirmed. He tried not to, but could no longer hold still. Biting his lip, Pippin tightened his fingers into tight fists, forcing himself to endure the worst sort of torture imaginable. It was worse than listening to the old Gaffers discussing lineage! His eyes began to water. If these diplomats did not hurry with their business...

He fought the urge to huff. They debated trivialities! He could tell them what was truly important – guards' schedules, that's what! Not these silly notions about treaties with Harad – HARAD! Those barbarians would never be peaceful! – or trade routes to someplace called Edhellond. Where was that? And how could they sit for so long without stepping out?

Oh why had he drunk a whole pot of tea before coming on duty? Granted, the biscuits served for breakfast had been dry, but the whole pot? And then he had been rushed and forgotten to visit the privy. Now he suffered, needing desperately to relieve himself when he very simply, could not.

Sighing, he shifted his weight on his feet, trying to remain inconspicuous in his slight movements. Across the room from him, Faramir poured a glass of water from a pitcher set on a tray for that purpose. Pippin nearly groaned. He pressed his knees as closely together as he could manage without being obvious. Not very practical, these Men of Gondor and their long meetings.

The last time he had needed to go so desperately had been when he and Merry had been taken captive by the Uruk-hai and carried across Rohan with few stops. And if this meeting did not end soon, he'd be standing in a puddle!

Pippin strengthened his resolve. He would not endure that humiliation again!

Another lord poured some water into a glass; the sound of it trickling causing Pippin to bite his lip…hard. How could they sit and drink and drink and not have to go!? Standing rigid, his eyes straight ahead, he was so intent on holding it that he almost failed to hear Strider call to him.

"Peregrin Took?"

Pippin's head snapped to the king. Strider smiled at him kindly. "I have just remembered I forgot a document on my desk. Retrieve it for me, if you please. The one right on top."

Pippin inclined his head as relief filled him. Finally! Just the excuse to leave the room he needed. He spun on his heel, grateful for the reprieve. Thankfully, the nearest privy lay on the route to Strider's office.

He took exactly five steps, his eyes widened, and then he ran.

Ten minutes later, he returned, empty handed to find the session had just dismissed. He approached Strider. Oh, but how he dreaded facing him! He glanced around at the lords, but none seemed to take note of his failure. Yet he felt it just the same. If he had not drank that tea, he would not have needed to stop by the privy, and he could have returned in time to let Strider know there were no documents at all on his desk!

With a heavy heart, he faced the king. Funny how he'd never really noticed how formidable Strider looked in those fancy robes of his. He swallowed heavily and bowed low.

"I-I…" he fidgeted, casting his eyes on his toes. "I'm sorry I took so long, but there was no paper there. I looked everywhere, even under the desk. I would have looked in the drawers, but you said it would be on top and it wasn’t on top. Nothing on top but an inkwell and a quill. Well, and that lacey doodad thing your lady wife makes you put under your drinks…"

A hand grasped his shoulder, and his eyes snapped up to meet laughing blue-grey eyes.  Strider leaned close and whispered, "There was no paper."

Pippin frowned. "But…"

Strider winked. "You looked rather pale there. Are you feeling better now?"

Warmth rushed to Pippin's face. "I-I…well, now that you mention it, yes, but…"

Strider grinned at him. "Do not worry, Master Took. I did not need the parchment. I just thought to give you reason to see to your needs. I have been in that position myself all too many times. These lords of Gondor talk way too much."

To that, Pippin wholeheartedly agreed.