The Alphabet Book for the King’s Children

            “What is it?” asked Melian of her uncles as her brother Eldarion unwrapped the present they’d brought.

            “It’s a book,” Eldarion said as he unfolded the last bit of silk that had been used to protect it.

            “It’s an alphabet book and history for those who are children to the King Returned,” Elrohir explained as the boy opened the volume.  “It was prepared by the Lady Estella, wife to Sir Meriadoc Brandybuck, Sword-thegn to Éomer King of Rohan and Master of Buckland in the Shire, and it was bound by Lord Samwise, the Mayor of the Shire.  All of us hope that you enjoy it.”

            The title page was decorated with a map of Middle Earth in bright colors.  “How beautiful!” Melian breathed.

            Eldarion turned the page.  His sister stood behind him, looking over his shoulder to see it as he read aloud what was written.

A

Arnor is the name given the ancient North Kingdom of the Dúnedain.  Here ruled of old Elendil Amandilion as High King of the northern lands of Middle Earth.  After his death in the War of the Last Alliance, his older son Isildur claimed his Adar’s role as High King, leaving the youngest son of his brother Anárion as King of Gondor.

In time Arnor was divided into three realms, of which only Arthedain survived.  Until the reign of Arvedui the Heirs to Isildur ruled as Kings of Arnor, but after the final defeat of the Witch-king of Angmar, Arvedui’s son Aranarth would not accept the designation of King, but named himself merely the Chieftain of the Northern Dúnedain.

For a thousand years there remained a King with no Kingdom in the northern realm, and a Kingdom with no King in the southern one, until Aragorn Arathornion came into his own.  Accompanied by his kinsmen from Eriador, he rode through the Paths of the Dead to the aid of those who defended Minas Tirith, now Minas Anor once more, after which he led the Army of the West to the final battle of the War of the Ring, during which the Hobbits Frodo and Samwise brought the One Ring to Its destruction in the Sammath Naur.  Aragorn was accepted as the King of Gondor and then the King of Arnor as well.  He married the Lady Arwen Undómiel, and together they reign over the Reunited Kingdom founded by their ancestors,  Elendil and his sons, Isildur and Anárion.

B

Before Beleriand sank beneath the Sea, early in the first Age of the Sun, Bëor befriended Finrod Felagund, Lord of Nargothrond, a cavernous realm lying beneath the hills of Taur-en-Faroth.  Like brothers were they; but Men age, die, and are buried while Elves remain as they were lest they are slain.

Bëor begat Baran, who begat Boron, who begat Boromir, who begat Bregor, who begat Bregolas and Barahir.  Fighting against Morgoth beside Finrod, Barahir bravely battled orcs and fell beasts, and beat back black enemies, saving the life of Finrod, who swore to grant any boon begged of him by whoever bore the ring he bestowed upon Barahir as a token of the debt he owed the Man.  So it was that when Barahir’s son Beren beseeched him to aid in the quest for a Silmaril that he might be betrothed to Lúthien Tinúviel, Finrod agreed, leaving his people bereaved, for he was captured and beaten and battered to his death.

But it is said he was blest with a swift release from the Halls of Mandos, and that he serves now beside his father.

C

Cirion, Ruling Steward of Gondor following the death of his father Boromir, could think of few strategies to protect his country from impending attacks from the Balchoth, who had entered Rhovanion from the east.  “It is cavalry that we need!” he said.  “Can we call upon our cousins, the Northmen, to come to our aid?”

“Courage is needed,” he was calmly advised.  “Long ago they withdrew into the far north after the coming of the Necromancer into the lands east of the Anduin.  But they may be summoned.”

Crafty and courageous was the rider who finished the journey to the folk of the Eótheód to summon the canny warriors of Eorl the Young.  Carefully and cautiously they rode southward, hidden by the clouds of mist provided by the Lady of Lórien at the advice of her husband Celeborn, until they reached the Fields of the Celebrant where they could hear Cirion’s troops in battle against the foe.  Eorl gave the command, and the Eorlingas blew their horn call and their cavalry charged into battle, catching the Balchoth between the two armies..  The combined forces of Gondor and Eorl’s folk conquered the invaders, the few survivors careering in confusion back through the lands by which they’d entered the realms of the Free Peoples. 

“Our lands are cleansed!” called Cirion.  “We shall celebrate by ceding to you the now empty lands of Calenhardorn for your own, and ever may we call upon one another for aid when enemies threaten us.  Ever shall we conjoin in common cause when invaders threaten our nations.”

The people of Eorl cried and chanted in their joy!

            Melian reached out to touch the picture of Cirion and Eorl congratulating one another that illustrated the page.  “How cunningly it is colored!”

            Eldarion merely smiled with pleasure, remembering tales of the horns of Rohan sounding their calls across the fields of the Pelennor at cockcrow.

            “Oh,” remarked Melian when Eldarion turned the page.  “The Doors of Dúrin!  I remember them from the book Captain Peregrin brought to Ada.”

            Eldarion nodded and resumed reading aloud.

D 

Deep are the waters of Kheled-zaram, the Mirrormere, where Dúrin’s Crown lies mirrored in stars before the eastern doors of the great Dwarrow-delf of Khazad-dûm, the most ancient of the Dwarf kingdoms, where Dúrin the Deathless awoke in the depths of time and where he ruled seven times ere his Dwarf miners delved too deeply, disturbing the dreams of the great demon of fire and shadow that dwelt beneath the roots of the mountains, a demon that came to be known as Dúrin’s Bane.

Those Dwarves that had lived there were all dead or departed soon after their King’s death, and only orcs, cave trolls, and other creatures of the Dark, all save dragons, disturbed the darkness that now filled those deep-delved halls and passages.

But the day came when, driven by desperation, the Fellowship of the Ring came that way, daring the western Doors of Dúrin that had been wrought by Narvi and Celebrimbor, Dwarf and Elf artisans of unparalleled skill, and further daring the dangers hidden within the dark halls that now filled this ancient dwelling of the Dwarves.

There Gandalf fell and died, drawn down into the deep places by the Balrog’s whip, but not before he destroyed his dangerous enemy.  And atop the roof of the mountains he deigned to return to us, now clad in the dignity of being the newly designated White, to drive away despair and to inspire estel within us once more, desiring only to see Sauron and his devices destroyed that we might again stand free of desperation once more.

E

Evil ever and again emanated from the gates of Angband, the ebon fortress of Morgoth, the Black Enemy, emerging in the forms of orcs, wolves, vampire bats, and engines of destruction dragged by enormous beasts enslaved to Morgoth’s will.  Ever and again did the Enemy’s creatures and constructions seek to eliminate or enslave all who dwelt within Middle Earth, Elves, Men, and Dwarves. 

“Enough!” exclaimed Eärendil, enraged at the evil wrought on the world and its peoples.  “We who are the Eruhini are not equipped to fight a Vala on any sort of equal footing.  Nay. I shall sail west to enlist the Powers themselves to come to our aid, for only they could ensure any sort of victory.”

Earnest about his errand, he set sail westward; but ever he would emerge from fog or night to find the east before him once again.  And so it continued, as each time he would realize the error of his course and correct it, early on he would again find his ship sailed eastward once more.

He was lost amidst the Enchanted Isles when Elwing found him, bearing to him the Silmaril stolen earlier from Morgoth’s Iron Crown by Beren and Lúthien.  Enriched by its light, at last Eärendil, Elwing in his embrace, engaged upon the final leg of their embassy of hope, at last encountering the Blessed Realm where they entreated the aid we needed.  He then embarked upon a new voyage, his brow encircled by a diadem enclosing the Silmaril he’d returned, now to serve as the Star of Hope, the Gil-estel.

F

From the Forodwaith and Bay of Forochel in the far north to Far Harad and further beyond to the south, the truest and finest treasure known is friendship.  So it was that Finrod Felagund embraced Men and Dwarves as brothers and so enriched his kingdom of Nargothrond; and Fingon labored to rescue Maedhros from the walls of the mountain fastness where he’d been fastened by Morgoth himself to the stones with a fire-forged staple and freighted with chains.

So friendship grew within the Fellowship of the Ring, as Elf and Dwarf forgot their differences, two Men who it was feared might prove rivals instead fought frightful foes at one another’s backs, and four Hobbits proved as forceful as their fellows, fulfilling the Wizard’s predictions.   The friendship between Frodo and Samwise certainly fulfilled their quest, as each found strength in the other to forge ahead when fear and enforced fasting would have had them fall and the quest to fail.  Without their faithfulness we would still face a fearful foe behind the fences of Mordor.  Instead, Sauron’s formidable fortress has fallen beyond fear of repair.

So it has been with our beloved King Aragorn Elessar, who as well as his familiar, beloved cousin Halbarad, has come to count among those he has chosen as brothers the likes of Faramir son of Denethor and beloved brother to Boromir of blessed memory, Frodo Baggins from the Shire, and Éomer King of Rohan.  Fealty, full wisdom, faithfulness beyond fear, and fearlessness in the fight are enshrined in these four.  Full worthy of praise are they all to be considered as fellows in his fraternity!

            The faces of these four smiled from beside that of their beloved Ada in the illustration, and Eldarion stroked each one gently with his finger.

G

Gerontius Took granted Gandalf the Grey full guest privileges at the Great Smial in Tuckborough in the Shire.  Gandalf and Gerontius had grown to be close friends, nearly always glad to greet one another.

But most gentlehobbits glared at Gandalf, given his reputation as a bad influence.  How many gullible young Hobbits, mostly Tooks, mind you, had gladly gone off on adventures goaded, the gaffers assured everyone, by Gandalf’s glib tales?

Even Gerontius’s own children grew restless, and two left their father’s home, one having disappeared completely and the other gone to sea, although one glorious day he returned home again.

Many years had gone by when Gandalf appeared again within the Shire, and a few days later all found Bilbo Baggins missing, having gone off with Gandalf and a gaggle of Dwarves to fight a dragon and regain a treasure.  But he, as with his Uncle Isengar, returned again, having gathered a gob of silver and gold and one small golden ring.

But then he was gone again!  “Glad that Frodo has more sense than to go off into the wild!” the gaffers told the gammers.  But one day all awoke to find Frodo gone, too, along with part of his small gang of friends, Sam the gardener and the apparently gormless sons of the Thain and the Master.

Gone they were for more than a year, until they returned also, clad in glorious garb, girded with swords, Merry and Pippin grown to giants (by Hobbit standards, at least)!  Gone was timidity, and they guarded their folk against the greedy Men who’d invaded the Shire at Lotho Sackville-Bagginses invitation, goading them until all were captured or fled away.

“Glory be” shouted the gaffers and gammers together.  “The goons are gone at last!”  And they gushed their grateful thanks to Merry, Pippin, and Sam, few realizing that it was nine-fingered Frodo Baggins, garbed in the graceful grey-green cloak gifted him by Galadriel and with the Evenstar’s gem at his breast, who truly deserved the glory and their gratitude.

H

Halflings, or Hobbits, ’tis said, hail originally from across the Hithaeglir, from the valley of the Anduin.  Hither they came into Eriador, hurrying away from famine and fire, or so it’s told.  Their homes they hollow in banks and hillsides, finding holes more comfortable than houses.  And fields they farm and tend, growing all forms of herbiage, looking to huge harvests to feed their hungers.  Great heed they give their fields and flocks and their handiwork, and much help they give one another as it is found needful.

Hearty eaters they prove, the Halflings.  And hearty drinkers also, for they grow hops and barley in profusion to brew ales and beer in huge vats and barrels.  ’Tis said that no one who visits a Hobbit’s home, either a humble hole or a great smial, comes out without having hunger for food, fellowship, and comfort met.  Hospitality rules in the Shire.  They have as healthy an appetite for happiness as they do for food, and will sing in harmony, play, and dance with abandon.

Hobbits are almost all great-hearted, and ’tis said that even their great ones still retain a delightful humility, refusing titles such as Sir or Lord that are so coveted in other peoples and lands.  And, although rarely do they produce heroes, still such as they do are among the most greatly honored in all of Middle Earth.

I

Inspired perhaps by Irmo, Isildur slipped out of his grandfather’s house in intense silence, intending to infiltrate the Garden of the Tree in Armenelos with the intention of retrieving at the very least a fruit of the White Tree of Númenor.  From the inferior position of prisoner, Zigûr had risen in importance until he had become Ar-Pharazôn’s most influential counselor.  It was obvious he intended to drag the inhabitants of the Land of Gift into immorality and sin, involving them in impious acts and isolating them from interaction with those dwelling in the Immortal Lands of Aman.  He had imposed upon the land an immense temple and invested himself as High Priest, invoking Morgoth under the title of Giver of Life.  He imprisoned all he could take of the Faithful, immolating them along with innocents and those he saw as his rivals in Pharazôn’s court upon Morgoth’s altars.  Now he was insisting that Pharazón fell and burn the White Tree of Númenor to prove he was now independent of the influence of the Powers, declaring its garden inviolate as he’d done with the holy places upon Meneltarma.

“It shall not be so!” Isildur intoned softly as he followed his intended path over the sacred mountains.  “In this Zigûr shall not win!   I shall not allow the lineage of the White Tree to fail!”

He managed to slip into the garden undetected, but ere he could escape with his prize he was interrupted.  Zigûr’s guards and the evil being himself sought to intercept him, and injured him seriously before he managed to evade them.  Somehow he managed to inure himself to the pain, although he had little idea as to how he managed to return to his grandfather’s house. 

“Ah, ion nín,” his father intoned, “it is an ill wound you have taken!”

Isildur whispered, “But it is imperative none of our people should forget the importance of the White Tree as the image of the faithfulness inherent in its original Kings and inhabitants.  I fear soon we must abandon this island and return to Middle Earth to reestablish our people there, taking with us the seedling of Nimloth the Fair.  And the inhabitants of that land shall be inspired by its presence to do no ill to others, but shall improve themselves and their children that we increase in honor and good intent.”

Jewels were Fëanáro’s passion.  First he crafted jewels just for their beauty—jewels as limpid as pools and as solid as the earth and as sparkling as the stars.  Jewels that under light appeared to have fire just below the surface, or in which light appeared to move, even jump, if their position was shifted but a little.  Some of his jewels were smooth in one’s hand, and some were jagged or sharp edged.  Some were the green of juniper, and others brought to mind jungles.  Some reflected light, and some refracted it into rainbows.

But it was in creating jewels that held and gave off light that he found his chief joy.  Fëanorean  lamps were widely sought after and jealously held.  He finally sought to equal the Trees of the Valar for both light and beauty, and crafted three great jewels that rivaled the light of Telperion and Laurelin at their zeniths, one silver, one gold, and one jointly silver and gold, its brilliance unparalleled.

But Melkor was jealous that this one, one of the Eruhini, had managed to produce creations that rivaled those of his fellow Valar, for he had not aided in the construction of the great Lamps, which he felled; nor in the raising of the two Trees, and thus had no part in lighting this world.  So he sought out Ungoliant, whose appetite for Light and disdain that light should enlighten others equaled his own, and together they slew the Trees, Melkor jabbing them deeply with his spear and Ungoliant jabbing them again with her mouth parts, sucking the Light out of them as if it were juice.

The Trees might have been restored had Fëanáro not become so jealous regarding his own creations.  But he would not give them up even for his own people, much less for others.  It was not his only jealousy:  he equally was jealous of his father’s second wife and her children, making cruel jests, jeers, and threats at their expense.  When he drew his sword against his own brother, however, he’d gone too far, and he was exiled for a time along with his sons and joined by his father Finwë, taking with him the Silmaril jewels and many of other creations he had once joyed in and locking them in his vault.

Melkor coveted the Silmarils for his own, and when Fëanáro was summoned away by the other Valar he came stealthily to Fëanáro’s keep, slew Finwë when he would have protected all that his son possessed, and stole the three Jewels of Light, leaving the gates to Fëanáro’s fortress and the doors to his vaults ajar, the jambs bent and broken along with the locks.

“I demand justice!” cried Fëanáro as he stood beneath the juttering light of torches before the Valar and his own people.  “I demand justice against Melkor, whom I now name Moringotto, the Black Enemy, for the death of my father and the theft of my jewels!”  He crafted an oath, in which his sons and even his half brothers joined, to journey after Melkor and to harry him with war until the great jewels of the Silmarilli were returned to them.  Even faced with the judgment of the Lord of Mandos, the greater part of the Noldor set off on the journey eastward across the grinding, jagged ice of the Helcaraxë back to the Mortal Lands where they would join in war against Morgoth and his armies.

But Fëanáro was slain soon after the burning of the ships of the Teleri upon the hither shore, and he died joylessly, even as he had lived since the deaths of the Two Trees.

            Melian’s eyes were sad.  “So the War of the Rings was not the first great war, then.”

            Her father shook his head.  “Alas, no.  Nor is it likely to be the last great war, either, for we do not appear to remember the lessons against fighting due to envy or for power over others easily.  Although I believe that the War of the Rings will be the last fought against one of the Powers, for the Valar have sworn not to set foot bodily in the Mortal Lands as the last time they did so, in the final battles against Melkor, too much was lost.  Beleriand sank beneath the waves, and all is different now from what it was then.”

            “But Sauron survived, and continued on to become the Lord of Mordor, and he would have been ruler of all the world had he been able,” Eldarion said.

            “And now he is gone, thanks to the endurance of Frodo and Sam,” the King answered.

            Both children nodded their understanding, and looked back to the book as Eldarion turned the page.

K

“Kept it,” the mad Dwarf muttered past broken teeth.  “They took my knife and all else, but they let me keep my knobbly stick.  What’s left of it, at least.”

Gandalf was glad that the injuries to the Dwarf’s face kept him from calling out, or the keepers of the dungeons would surely have come by now.  But it was increasingly hard to make sense of what he said, particularly as he had apparently been kicked frequently in the head and face, his jaw broken, and many teeth knocked out.

“Who are you?” he asked, keen to know who this Dwarf had been.

The Dwarf grew vague, his clouded eyes now askew.  “I don’t know.  But you do ken my son?”

Ken his son?  How would I ken his son when I don’t ken who he is? Gandalf asked himself.

The Dwarf stumbled closer.  One knee had apparently been broken and had knit badly, and his ankles were both twisted.  As for his fingers—they were a wreck, and one was missing completely.  “Take them!” he pleaded.  “Take them to my son!  My son—my kindred—they will know what to do with them.  Take them!”  And he held out the fractured remains of what he’d called his knobbly stick. 

“But who is your son?” Gandalf asked.

The Dwarf wept.  “I don’t know!” he keened.  “They’ve beat me hard enough to knock it all out of me.  But my son—he must have them—the key, the----”

But what it was the son must have besides a key the Wizard could not see he no longer knew.  “Take them!” he whispered as he slid down the bars to his cell.  “My son!  The King….”

That was the end of it.  None of the spells Gandalf knew for opening worked on the lock, and the mad Dwarf now lay still on the rocky floor.  If only I could take him with me!

He reached through the bars, and knew at once that it was too late.  The Dwarf was dead.  He took the shards of the knobbly stick and crept out of the dungeons, and finally out of Dol Guldur altogether.  Only when he was safely well within the Elven King’s domain did he examine what the Dwarf had insisted he take away with him.

  “Why, this is hollow!” he said, surprised.  And by twisting one of the rough knobs he got it open.  Inside in a hollow he found a roll of parchment and a key.

            “But how do they know it happened this way?” Eldarion demanded of his father.

            Aragorn Elessar shrugged.  “I cannot say for certain, but I suspect that during their return to the Shire from Minas Tirith that Merry got the full tale of it from Gandalf.  Merry was as eager to learn the rest of the story as Frodo used to be.  I doubt, however, Frodo would have asked.  He was still too wounded from his own bearing of the Ring, and had little desire to know more of the evils Sauron and his creatures had committed on others.”

            The two children exchanged meaningful looks.

            Again, Eldarion turned the page.

L

Light of stars lay across the shore of the great inland lake known as Cuiviénen, limning as if with fire the waves that lapped gently and languidly at the shore, and giving outline to the forms that lay in pairs there along the shoreline, where soon the Firstborn would awaken.

Lids twitched; lashes fluttered.  At last eyes opened, and the nascent Elves lay upon their backs, looking up at the glory strewn across the dark sky above them.  Laughing, they lifted themselves up and embraced one another, already in love with this world in which they found themselves and the ones they’d been laid by.

            “Ooh, I like this one,” Melian declared.  “Short and lovely and so sweet!”

            Eldarion looked back at their father, rolling his eyes meaningfully and mouthing, “Girls!”

M

The Mellyrn are the trees that grow in Laurinand, which in time came to be known as Lothlórien, which means the Dream-flower.  They are amongst the mightiest of all trees that shed their leaves, although they are never fully naked as are most of their kindred.  Their bark is silver, as is true also of the underside of their leaves throughout the spring and summer; but in the fall of the leaf the leaves turn golden and so they remain until spring, at which time as the trees’ golden flowers bloom in profusion they finally fall away, making way for a new year’s growth of silver leaves. So it is that within Lothlórien one makes one’s way through columns of silver floored by gold and roofed by fluttering silver and green brightened by the sweetness of the trees’ golden blooms.  It takes half a millennium for a mallorn to come to maturity, at which time it stands more rods tall than any other tree, and it can support not only a myriad of personal flets but also mighty halls, such as housed Amroth and Nimrodel, Celeborn and Artanis Galadriel, each in their time of mastery over their land.

To many of the Sindar and wood Elves who dwelt in Lothlórien the origin of the mallorn was a mystery.  Haldir, one of the march wardens of that land, told the Hobbits of the Fellowship that he did not know if any mellyrn grew upon Tol Eressëa or within the Blessed Lands of Aman.  In this he was mistaken.  Mellyrn seedlings and the nuts from which they grow were given as gifts by the Elves of Tol Eressëa to the Men to whom was given the island nation of Númenor, and groves of the trees grew on the hillsides overlooking the great harbor of Eldalondë.  In turn Tar-Aldarion of Númenor, who had married the Lady Erendis, brought such seeds and seedlings to Middle Earth and made gifts of them to Ereinion Gil-galad.   Gil-galad made further gift of them to his kinswoman Galadriel Artanis, who brought them to Amroth and Nimrodel and saw them planted in the region where they established their realm, which to this day is known as the Golden Wood.

The last known gift of a mallorn nut was made by the Lady Galadriel to Master Samwise Gamgee, now Samwise Gamgee-Gardner, Mayor of the Shire and current Master of Bag End, who planted it in place of the great oak long known as the Party Tree of Hobbiton, and where its tree now flourishes, the only mallorn known to grow and thrive in a mortal land between the mountains and the Sea.

            As Eldarion turned the page he paused.  “Someone else wrote this one,” he noted.

            “Uncle Sam!  That is Uncle Sam’s writing,” whispered Melian.

            Aragorn, who was swiftly scanning the writing, nodded.  “And who now living in Endorë knows the subject better?” he asked.

N

Nasty things, the Nazgûl.  Not anything those as are faint of heart need to know much about, perhaps.  From what Lord Strider and Gandalf and Elrond tell us, most was once from Númenor, or descended from Men of Númenor.  Naught but extra young Lords as no one needed there, they sought new lands to make their own.  Each had a notion to be a great nabob, to create a nation to be reckoned with.  Each was afraid of dying as is natural, and wanted to avoid being put into a necropolis if’n it were at all possible.  So, they sailed back to Ennor and each found a new land and people as pleased them, and each named hisself King—or Ghansi, or whatsoever name they give their rulers in those parts.  “All shall fear my name!” each believed.

New Kings, new nations, new victims for Sauron.

Disguising hisself as Annatar, he come to them, kneeling afore them, naming each of them “Great Lord of all Nations,” and nattering at them as to how each could be greater than the rest.  So, he cast his net about them, offering each a new nature, one of unnatural power, telling them as “All shall know they are naught before your presence.  None shall withstand you!”

And they bit!  More fools them, the nameless git.

For, as they took his rings, they lost their names, their selves.  Nameless (’cepting for Khamûl, who took over Dol Guldur when Sauron was known as the Necromancer), they now lost all else.  No bodies, no forms save for what cloaks and armor could give them, no love, no honor.  Their lands mostly fell to naught, their nations dissolving.  Only Angmar was left, although it was perhaps enough to harry Arnor to naught.

They was not dead, but neither was they alive.  No notions of their own was left to them, as it was in Sauron’s name they now served, them enslaved to his will.

The one as was named Witch-king of Angmar thought as no Man could kill him.  No, but a daughter of Man and a Hobbit served instead, and now he was no more!

And when three as was naught but Hobbits sneaked into Sauron’s unnatural nation and brought his Ring to the Sammath Naur and It fell into the Fire at last, the rest of the Nazgûl fell, naught now but guttering flames as at last all Sauron had wrought fell to ashes and ruin, his own notions of power now fallen to naught, never to rise again.

            This time when Eldarion turned the page, Aragorn went still, and he said, softly, “Oh.”

            “Ooh!” Melian said, smiling.  “This one copied my favorite books!”

            “I know,” her father answered, his voice particularly gentle.  “Sam sent most of those from the Shire when you were born.  Many were given him as he was growing up, and there were other copies of the same books in Bag End he and his children can read.”

            A sheet of a different paper had been carefully trimmed and glued to the proper page for the book.  On it in a neat yet particularly lovely hand was written:

O

“Open!” 

“Edro!”   

“Annon edhellen, edro hi ammen!  Fennas nogothrim, lasto beth lammen!”

But the doors failed to open at Gandalf’s command.  He tried every spell of opening he could think of, in Elvish, in ancient Quenya, in Dwarvish, and in every other tongue of Men, Elves, and Dwarves that he could think of.  One must have been in the tongue of the Onodrim, for it went on and on and on, but still the Doors of Dúrin failed to open!

He made mystic signs.  He spoke faster, or slower.  He varied wording.  The doors would not open.

“Open!  Open!  Edro!  Edro!”   And he repeated these simple words in every other language on Middle Earth and perhaps a few from Aman and other places.  The doors still did not open.

He threw his staff on the ground in disgust, and sat down on a log, pondering on the ornate inscription we had all seen.  Then Gandalf, Olórin, laughed.  “I have it!” he cried.  “Of course!  Of course!  Absurdly simple, like most riddles when you see the answer.  The opening word was inscribed upon the archway the whole time.  Merry was right when he asked what Speak, friend, and enter might mean!  The operant word should not be translated as speak, but rather as say!”

How wonderful it is to think that those doors, created jointly by the greatest craftsmen of Elves and Dwarves, operated not on command or as a result of power expended, but instead on the properties of friendship and openness.  When we named ourselves friends, then and only then did the doors open.

            Beneath the sheet was written in Sam’s writing, “I found this amongst Mr. Frodo’s writings, after he was gone.  We all decided as it should be included.  He’d love to of helped in the making of this book—of that we’re all certain.”

P

Peregrin Took, at 27, proved most perceptive and persistent.  First, he perceived that his peerless and pensive Cousin Frodo Baggins proposed to quietly leave the Shire to pursue a project of his own, perhaps in hopes of finding Bilbo.  Then he noted that his perspicacious cousins Meriadoc Brandybuck and Fredegar Bolger were also aware of Frodo’s plans, and were plotting with the patient and practical Samwise Gamgee, preparing to see to it that when Frodo proposed to leave, he should not do so unaccompanied, for they were persuaded that he would not be able to persevere without at least Merry and Sam’s company to help protect and provide for him.

So, Pippin poked his sharp Took nose in amongst the plotters, proceeding to point out he had no plans at all to remain behind!  They tried to persuade him he must stay home, but he pooh-poohed that!  These had made a pact years earlier that if they were making plans that it was likely their parents would disapprove of, then only if all gave permission could anyone tell anyone else.  Pippin pouted, then suggested he just might prod his sister Pervinca into poking around, and that there was nothing to prevent her from telling their parents.  Now, Merry’s parents might have been persuaded not to impede the plan should they understand a good part of the circumstances that compelled Frodo along the path he’d chosen; but Paladin and Eglantine Took were another plot of pansies!  Permit their precious Peregrin to putter around Outside?  That would be beyond the pale!

So, Pippin was permitted to join the plotters, and when the day came he was ready with his pack on his shoulder.

True, he often proved (or at least played at being) a fool of a Took, but he could prod Frodo into laughing when no one else could, he persevered in his practice with the sword he was given, he proved plucky when they fought orcs, he found himself planning ways to prove to Aragorn he and Merry were still alive when they were captured, he helped prod the Ents along the path of war against Saruman in his treachery, and in the end he protected several who were in peril of death, and even managed to impale a troll!

Praise Peregrin Took, the Wise Fool who prevented many from perishing pointlessly!

            Eldarion laughed.  “Sir Merry wrote that!”  

            Laughing also, his father replied, “I am certain you are correct, ion nín!”

Q

Quickly and quietly, the Hobbit hunter homed in upon his quarry.  The deer raised its muzzle, questing on the wind as to the nature of the possible danger.  But the forest had gone quiet, and the hunter was wisely downwind, and thus the deer’s querying had been fruitless.  Quietly the hunter raised his weapon and sighted, and quickly the arrow sped, and the quarry had fallen to its fate.

Quietude, after all, is one of the gifts of the Creator to the Hobbit.  No matter how many quirks a Hobbit displays, or how quixotic his temper, no matter how the many quaffs of beer or ale he might have taken makes him querulous or quarrelsome, the quality of quietude instilled within him from his birth still protects him from detection—as long as he chooses to remain quiet and still.

So the Big Men learned to their detriment.  They might easily find their quarry if he was angrily on his way to confront them, or if he was within his quarters.  But, let him be within a natural area, quiet and still, they might pass quite close to him and never have the chance to enquire as to the source of the stone or arrow that took them whilst their own quarrels were still within their crossbows’ mountings.

So, the Big Men quartering the banks of the Brandywine and the borders of the Tooklands found, as they found themselves quitted of their lives by the quietude of their intended quarry.

R

Rangers of the North have ridden the Road east and west through the Shire for time beyond remembering.  They are often rough looking, with rugged features and their clothes often ragged.  But, although we have seldom trusted them, still we have known they are not ruffians.  They are respectful toward us, the few times they agree to speak, and often they run true ruffians off completely, or take them in hand, wrapping them with rope if needed.

We did not realize these in reality were the King’s Men we were required to aid by the rules of the charter issued by Argeleb the Second to Blanco and Marcho.  Nor did we realize that they have protected the regions of the Shire and the Breelands for uncounted years. 

Now we rejoice to know that one of these Rangers reigns over us as King of the Reunited Kingdom, and are assured he will rule well and wisely.

S

The Sundering Sea has ever separated the Undying Lands of Aman, which are sacred to the Powers who dwell there, from the Mortal Lands of Middle Earth.  Still, until the end of the Second Age of the Sun skilled and seasoned sailors could sail their ships close enough to look upon the shores of the Enchanted Isles and to see the reflected glint of Sun and stars from the Tower of Avallonë on Tol Eressëa.

That stopped with the sailing of the ships of Ar-Pharazôn from the Star Isle of Númenor for the shores of Aman.  He believed that if he and his army set foot upon those shores that they could steal what they believed were the secrets of immortality from the Powers and the Elves who dwelt there, shunning the idea that it was a fatal mistake for a mortal to step ashore, and that the life of each would be suddenly shortened from what he would have known had he stayed safely at home.

Forewarned, the Faithful had sailed from ports on the east side of the island, standing offshore until they saw the promised destruction of their home.  Suddenly they were blown eastward by the ensuing storm, and a great wave slammed its weight upon the Star Isle until it slid beneath the waves.  Middle Earth was now fully sundered from Aman, and became a sphere, or so we are told.  And now only ships sailed by Elves may find the Straight Path to the Undying Lands.

T

They say time heals all wounds.  This is both true and not true.  Scars may begin to fade, but a simple twist can reawaken the ache.  New thoughts and memories crowd one’s mind, but then one remembers, he is gone, and the pain returns.  We may seem to recover better each time, but only because new things can distract us.

In Ithilien Men found a tantalizing glade filled with clematis and even trillium, but the blooms hid the remains of orcs’ feasting, with split bones and skulls of true Men who’d been taken in the woods.

The Ring had showed Frodo this thing, trying to trick him into taking the Ring to stop it, but at the time Frodo had still been able to resist It.  But Frodo remembered one other thing—two Men had escaped, and his tale led Rangers very familiar with this portion of the forest to help them escape from the trap in which the orcs had taken them.  They were so grateful when they found us in Minas Tirith to thank Frodo, but they still ached with the loss of their comrades, and they confessed that the fear still took them when they were in the dark.  Even twilight could awaken the terror.

Many years ago Frodo Baggins left the Shire for the final time, and although we have hope he is healed, still the pain he knew then haunts us.  I glance into his study, and there is no question but that it belongs to Sam now; different tomes lie about, and Frodo’s theses are replaced by letters to family and village heads.  Sam’s always simple wisdom is now tempered by what Frodo and Bilbo taught him, and he is proved the Mayor our land required for the final healings.  But it was Frodo that started the process, teasing out the lies and tricks used by Lotho and his toadies to take almost all of any value from our land, our people. 

We still grieve his absence, but rejoice for the time we were given with him.

U

Unhappiness spread far and wide throughout the Undying Lands after Melkor and Ungoliant so utterly slew the Two Trees of the Valar and all light other than fire and stars was lost to its inhabitants.  Urgently the Valar sent to Fëanáro, urging him to offer up the three Silmarils so that their light might serve to undo the evil done, but he utterly refused.  Instead he uttered ugly threats and curses against any who thought to usurp his right to the creations of his hands, which he sealed within his vaults.  At last he was formally summoned, and only his father remained within the walls of his keep.

There Melkor repaired in utter secrecy.  He laughed at Finwë’s defiance, and utterly destroyed him with but the utter least of his power, leaving the ugly remains outside the vault from which he took the three Silmarils.  At that he and Ungoliant fled urgently away, crossing the Helcaraxë to Middle Earth where Ungoliant continued unto the uttermost south, finally hiding herself within a cave overlooking the Sea, while Melkor, now named Moringotto or Morgoth, raised his fortress of Angband over the pits of Utumno, stubbornly wearing an Iron Crown in which he set the three Silmarils even though its weight and the heat of the stones on his unworthy head were an utter torture for him.

But the Valar has saved a unique fruit from each of the two trees, and of the one from Telperion they made a craft to sail the Seas of Night to offer silver illumination to all of Arda equally.  Their servant Tilion sailed it, and under his captaincy it offered a light that could be utilized by those who dwelt particularly within the Mortal lands.  The greater vessel they created from the fruit of golden Laurelin offered both warmth and light, and Arien accepted its rule.  And so both the Undying Lands and Middle Earth now received proper light once more under the vessels of the Moon and Sun.

When Eärendil the Mariner came unto his manhood, he decided it was time indeed for those who had suffered since the deaths of the Two Trees to be avenged, and on taking counsel with his wife he set sail southward, following up on rumors that of old Ungoliant had fled that way.  He found her lair and uttered his challenge, and in the ensuing fight he slew her.

He returned unto his home again to take counsel with Elwing.  Over the utterly exhausting centuries of battle against Morgoth untold numbers of Men, Elves, and Dwarves had lost their lives.  As Morgoth was of a different nature from the Eruhini, it was decided he must seek the aid of Morgoth’s equals to defeat him utterly.  And so he set sail again, now westward, hoping to come to the Uttermost West to enlist the strength of the Valar against their unruly and now unwanted brother.  But until Elwing came to him in the shape of a sea-bird, he could not find his way.  Only by utilizing the light of the Silmaril she brought unto him did he at last come unto those distant shores.

His own ship the Valar refashioned, and with the Silmaril bound now upon his brow he, too, sailed the Seas of Night to herald the hope of his successful voyage, descending only to fight the Lord of Dragons in the final battle with Morgoth.  And the estel he offers fills us yet when we look up to behold his Light.

V

“Valiant Lord your father named you in your cradle, but he could as easily named you Lord with Vision,” Gandalf commented quietly as those who’d chosen to fight for the relief of Caer Andros marched westward.  “Although I doubt Denethor would have viewed those who found they could not march to the Black Gates as worthy of being offered a viable and still necessary goal to pursue.”

“Visiting violence on those who are terrified does not instill them with valor, or so I have found.  They are virtuous Men, all of them, even the most timorous.  I value them too much to victimize them further when they have realized they have each reached his breaking point.  Better to send them off to do the work of virtuous Men where they can if they have not the vigor to face the viciousness of Mordor.  At least—at least those have the greater chance to survive their task, and knowing that they do indeed possess valor—just not necessarily the sort of valor needed to face the source of our greatest terrors.

“And as for Denethor,” Aragorn added, “for all of his wisdom he ever failed to value compassion as it deserves.  So it was that he belittled Faramir’s choice to aid Frodo as he did, wishing instead that Faramir had violated Frodo’s trust and brought both Ringbearer and Ring to Minas Tirith by force.  And that lack of trust in his son’s compassion nearly cost Gondor its so valuable new Steward!”

He sighed, watching the tail end of the column of those who’d chosen to go to Caer Andros turn to follow the rest.  “After all,” he murmured in a low voice, “there is the chance our path may well prove vainglorious.  But we must do what we can to offer those two valiant if terrified Hobbits what time they need to do what they can.”

“Those two, and perhaps the third, vicious as he might be.  Gollum will do his best to keep the Ringbbearer always within his vision.  But I still believe Gollum himself has his own part to play, violent or otherwise, ere the end.  And now,” Gandalf said, turning to Pippin Took, who stood nearby, “I see you have numbered yourself with those with the valor to fight before the Black Gate.”

“Valor or stupidity?” Pippin asked.  “But I have a more viable stake in what happens here than those do.  After all, it’s my cousin and our friend who are in need of time and distraction!  It’s all I can do to support them as they, I hope, approach the end of their journey.  And I would validate the trust all have shown me in allowing me to come in spite of my very little appreciation of what it was all about.  But,” he continued more diffidently, “Do I have to fight alongside the rest of the Guards of the Citadel?  After all, I’ve come to be very close to Beregond by now, and I’d like to face this fight by his side.”

Aragorn knelt to look into his earnest face, and clasped him firmly by the shoulders.  “Oh, my most vibrant and valiant of small knights, in this battle you may choose whatever position, whatever company you wish.  And may the Valar look on you with favor.”  He leaned forward to kiss Pippin’s brow, rose, and returned to being the Captain of the Army of the West, the leader of this final valiant if perhaps ill-favored assault on Mordor’s strength.

            As Eldarion turned to the next page, Aragorn scanned the writing and began to laugh with delight.  “Bless Sam!” was all he would say before his son started again to read.

W

I wish I understood as why anyone wants to be a Dark Lord.  First one as wished that was Melkor, who as I understand it was intended to be the Head of the Valar, with help from his brother Manwë.  As the Valar are those of the greater Powers who helped sing this universe and Arda into Creation and who entered into this Creation to watch over it, that would make him almost Lord of All already, right?  So, why would he want more than that?

But, no, not enough to please the likes of Melkor.  What his right job was intended to be we don’t rightly know.  Manwë was given the winds and breath and all to do with air; Elbereth is all about Light, and stars in especial.  All the other Valar have well described jobs.  Why didn’t Melkor give hisself a good, well respected job, like Lord of Restful Nights or the like?  They call him the Dark Vala; was that because he was intended to be in charge of the dark times, or was it because he just went wrong?

Then, they all seem to like waste places.  Melkor, once he took a form and finally decided he’d work as King of all the Mortal Lands, took the barest place there was to live it, working up towers and dungeons as far north as one could get, there where there’s snow and ice most of the year, and bare walls of stony mountains all about. 

But then he was conquered and led away and all that land went below the wave along with the nicer lands of Beleriand, and his lieutenant Sauron decided as he’d be the next Dark Lord.  So he took the wasteland of Mordor, raised the mountain walls, wiped it clean of almost anything pretty what grows well in dry areas, woke up Orodruin, and that was it.  I’m told as Minas Ithil was as beautiful as the Moon itself, a wonderful city when Isildur lived there.  But see what those Wraiths did with the place!  There was still plants and water there when we saw it, but nothing that wasn’t poisoned and twisted to kill or sicken those weak enough to seek anything there to eat or drink, and even the light what it reflected was weird and sickly.

As for Saruman—well, we were told that until recently Isengard was a right lovely place.  But once Saruman got the idea of getting his wizardly hands on that Ring all that went right out the window!  The water what the Ents poured into the place was bubbling like a cauldron when Merry and Pippin first got a good look at it after the dams was built to pour the water from the nearby river and streams into the place to wash it out.  Then when Saruman, or Sharkey as they was naming him when we got home, reached the Shire he intended to turn the whole country into still another wasteland, working on filling all the streams and even the Water with poisons, and filling the air with filth what couldn’t be breathed.  We’re wonderful lucky to have got there afore he poisoned it all!

Anyways, I wouldn’t want to be Lord of All for all the gold as was in Smaug’s hoard.  Too much work, and too many folks as would want me to be conquered and sent away behind the Walls of Night, too!

X

            “Dearest of dearlings, have you figured out a proper topic for X?”

            “A topic for X?  Well, not exactly….”

            “Not exactly?  What do you mean by that?”

            “Well, X isn’t exactly a popular letter.  It’s rarely used even in the Common Tongue, and to be quite honest I cannot find a single word that starts with it, not in any language in any book Grandda Gerontius, Bilbo, Frodo, or you own.  I’ve explored all of the grammars Bilbo and Frodo used when studying the Elvish languages, but didn’t find any in any of the volumes they had here, in the Great Smial, or in Bag End.  Nor has Folco found anything in any of the books he has!  He used to copy for Bilbo, you know, back before his mother tried to curry favor with Ferumbras by snubbing the old fellow.  I’ve even gone through those extra books Sam sent me last week.  They turned out to be lists of words that are used rarely—extremely rarely from what I can tell, in Sindarin and Quenya.  Not even a single example!  Not even the Rohirrim appear to have used X all that often, and certainly not at the beginning of words.

            “I’ve even tried the works that are written in Adûnaic.  Now, there was an exercise in futility.  Frodo’s library of books written either in or about Adûnaic is extraordinarily sparse in number, and the attempt he made to put together a dictionary was anything but exhaustive.  In fact, it ran to a mere twenty loose pages, and he’d not yet put those into alphabetical order.

            “Now, there are some languages that might be useful, but I hope I may be excused from going through tomes on the Black Speech, because Bilbo and Frodo didn’t have any of those.  In fact, the only examples of Black speech I’ve found includes what was on the Ring and a few words someone explained to you all at one time or another, such as Sharku meaning Old Man.  But although I did find some of Frodo’s notes indicating he’d found at times he could understand orcs in the Black Speech perhaps because he was carrying the Ring at the time, I think we can excuse him for not wanting to make a grammar or word lists for the tongue.

            “I did find an extract from something Bilbo copied in Rivendell that indicates there are languages in countries far east of Mordor that appear to have used X to begin words, but other than that note there’s nothing.”

            “Hmm.  It sounds as if your attempt to find X words was exhaustive, but only served to exclude it as something it’s even possible to do.”

            “Both exhaustive and exhausting, my love.  Perhaps we should just put a large red X on that page in the book and be done with it!”

            “No—wait!  I have an idea!  Let me do this one, dearling.  Oh, but I’m getting excited now….”

Y is for Yule – by Elanor Gamgee-Gardner

Yule is the name generally given in most of the northern lands to the days surrounding the Turning of the Year, when the days no longer grow shorter.  Instead, the Sun begins rising earlier each morning, rather than later as happens between Midsummer and Yule.  In Gondor they use the older names, Mettarë and Yestarë, for the days we call First Yule and Second Yule, denoting the ending day of the old year and the first day of the new one, which serves the same purpose.

The Elves, who measure time in yeni, or in 144-year bunches, rather than in single years of the Sun as mortals do, still respect the days of Solstice, when the arc that the Sun travels each day reaches its greatest height in the summer and its lowest in the winter.  After the Summer Solstice the arc begins to flatten again and the daylight hours grow shorter, and after the Winter one the arc begins to rise and the daylight lengthens again.  The Elves of Rivendell hold special observances on those days, as they do in the spring and fall when all is in the middle, and days and nights are equal in length, which they call the equinoxes; and Legolas says that it is much the same in his father’s realm on the far side of the Misty Mountains and the Anduin.  Dwarves also observe Yule, although they have a different name in their own language for it.  In some lands a single day marks the Turning of the Year, while in others there are two days, with the actual moment of the turning marked at the midpoint between sunset and sunrise between them.

We are told by the Dwarves, Elves, and those Men who travel between different lands that in most places the Winter Solstice is used to mark the ending of the old year and beginning of the new year.  I suspect that this is true because the New Year is always about Hope, and the Winter Solstice marks when we have both Hope and Faith that the days have stopped growing shorter, that they will from now on grow longer, and that in spite of what cold days lie ahead, that Spring—and Summer and Fall and even next Winter—will each come in its proper time.  The cycle is reborn with all of its new hopes and potential problems; but at least this coming year we will have the chance to do it all better!

So, for all of Uncle Lord Strider announcing that the New Year starts now in the Spring on the anniversary of the downfall of Sauron, the peoples of Middle Earth, for all their nods of apparent appreciation for what Uncle Frodo and my dad did in climbing the Mountain, will still think of the true New Year starting at Yule.

            Melian’s brow wrinkled as she looked at the final page.  “Frodo wrote this,” she noted softly.

            A brief notation indicated, This was found in that kist given to Frodo’s use that Gimli brought home to the Shire.  It does not appear that Frodo ever went through the kist once it arrived in in Bag End.  Again, it feels that this ought to be right for the final entry.

Z

Ah, Zimraphel, how I wonder about you!  Always I heard the story told that your cousin Calion forced you to marry him, and that in so doing he usurped the throne that ought to have been yours as Tar-Míriel, fourth Ruling Queen of Númenor.  Now in an obscure codex I learn that—perhaps—you had become enamored of your cousin long ere your father died, and planned together that after his death the two of you would ally yourselves and seek to see the visions of those who rebelled against the mortality chosen for them by Elros Tar-Minyatur fulfilled.

Which is true, Zimraphel?  Were you married by force, or by mutual consent?  Did Calion take the Kingship with your body, or did you grant it to him along with yourself, and was it you who chose for him the name of Pharazôn, or Glorious?

Either way, Zimraphel, I find myself pitying you.  To fear death as at least he did is such a folly, as my late companion Boromir was wont to put it.  How often I found myself wishing death would free me of my own burden.  After what the Ring has taught me I do not doubt the report that many of the Eldar grow to see their immortality as a burden, particularly as they see so many and so much they have loved succumb to time and destroyers and fall to ash and dust.  I wonder if that is why the Ring Itself allowed Gollum to take It that one last time, perhaps foreseeing in a darkened corner of Its awareness that only he could take It to Its dissolution.  How often I find myself wishing that he had taken me as well as the Ring with him!  Can even the Powers themselves know such spiritual exhaustion as I have known, as the despairing from amongst the Elves have known?

To fear death, Zimraphel, is itself a delusion.  We do not know—not for certain—what awaits us after we quit the body; but it has to be better than to be so crippled in body or spirit that one cannot find or hope to possess joy and satisfaction any longer within this life!  How I miss the joy I knew when I was younger, when my body was supple and I knew that the ache at the end of the day would dissipate within a reasonable time, and that I would wish and be able to dance again on the morrow.  But Sauron, or Zigûr, as you knew him, robbed both of us of that chance for normal joy.

Finally, Zimraphel, why did you climb Meneltarma at the end?  Was it to flee the already present flooding?   To find a place high enough to perhaps see what became of your husband and his cursed fleet?  To stand in the sacred High Place again as the rightful ruler of Númenor, to cast off the fanciful name your husband had granted you as you were subjugated to his vanity and his domination and to offer intercession for your land and people as you knew was of old expected of the rightful monarch?   Did you expect for the Creator to hear your prayer and set aside His wrath at your people and their choices and allow Númenor and its inhabitants to survive? 

Were you fleeing death, or perhaps were you seeking it?  Did you hope your own death in the sacred precincts would propitiate the Powers and allow forgiveness for the building of that ziggarut of a temple constructed by Zigûr?  Or did you simply wish to stand above all others, hopeful that your own death would somehow mean more than those of the rest—the sailors and woodwrights and shepherds and seamstresses and those who tended the gardens and the city of the Dead?  Did you hope that either Aulë or Ulmo would accept your own death and body as a sacrifice whose meaning you imagined in your heart?

How I wish I understood, truly understood, your heart and mind as you fled, Zimraphel.  You dwelt close to Zigûr within your husband’s court.  Did he offer to violate you as his Ring has done to me?  But at least all of my life I have known that Sauron is a liar by nature, that he holds only sufficient truth to him to make his lies more believable to his victims.  Certainly I have learned that the “truth” offered me by his Ring was always twisted, always showing meaning far from what was true, as was the “truth” he allowed the Seeing Stones to show to Saruman and to Denethor.  Did you realize this?  Did you realize that the worship of that temple he built was empty, and could not bring Melkor back into this world, no matter how many were burnt to that avowed purpose?  Did you even think to protest your husband’s granting of permission for the twisted creature to even build such a place, much less to offer such a distortion of worship?

Well, I bid you farewell, Zimraphel, or Míriel, whichever you preferred at the last.  I must find it within me to appreciate that my own offer of sacrifice was not accepted, and to find ways to live in spite of the emptiness that too often I find within me as I anticipate returning home.

That is, if there remains a home for such as I am now….

Author’s notes

            I’ve done a variety of lead-ups to the holidays and Christmas over the years, including a number of Advent calendars and even a set of stories reflecting the candles on the Menorah.  Certainly the winter solstice has always been a season fraught with meaning in all cultures of which I am aware.  Bilbo has given Frodo lessons and celebrated the Shire in which he lived.  Frodo and Aragorn have prepared for feasts and have counted things.  In other people’s schemes, we’ve done additive words and explored the Tarot deck. 

            So, this year I’ve had the Hobbits of the Shire prepare an alphabetical history for the King’s children, one that touches on a number of subjects primarily interesting to the authors interspersed with others that are more of historical meaning to the intended recipients of the work.  I decided not to restrict myself to drabbles this year, but did try to keep each chapter fairly short, and found that even Frodo had contributions to make.

            Much of the more arcane material, such as the history of Mallorn trees in Middle Earth, can be learned by reading extensively in the HoME series, although one can also consult the Encyclopedia of Arda, for which I am heavily grateful.   And I also wish to thank Surgical Steel for bringing to the attention of many that in at least one version of the Pharazón-Zimraphel story perhaps Míriel was not as unwilling to marry her cousin as the official version tells it. 

            In my-verse Frodo is often suffering from bouts of depression after the remaining Fellowship members repair to Minas Tirith, and he often feels that his willingness to sacrifice himself to see the Ring destroyed was not accepted by the Powers; thus his rather maudlin ramblings in his consideration of the motivations behind Míriel’s run up Meneltarma when the great wave took her.

            I hope that this stimulated thought as well as amusing and diverting the readers.  May we never run out of inspiration in the beloved Professor’s works!