I used to think that Elves knew everything, Men could do anything, Bilbo would always take care of me.  I thought my life in the Shire would go on forever – days of sunshine to wander the land I loved, cold, dark nights gathered around the fireside drinking beer, roasting apples and sharing stories, and a world so safe and secure nothing could upset it.  Even when Gandalf explained the golden snare I held, and the shadowed fate of Middle-Earth suddenly came, dark and real, into my cosy Hobbit-hole I still thought another would take the burden.

Now I’ve grown up.

As we climb the stairs of Moria, I swallow dust and grope for the step in front of me.  In the darkest of nights I gaily dance through the uneven paths of Mirkwood but here I am bereft of vision, hearing – even touch dulls and fades.  For the first time I know what it is to be truly alone.  Do mortals live always in this silence?  I shiver and wonder no longer at the dark grimness of our Men.

“Do not be afraid,” whispers Aragorn – and I feel something on the edge of my utter aloneness and I am comforted.

There is no darkness here; I feel it in the sun-warmed air and hear it from these fair, green trees.  No Shadow overwhelms this land, no close menace binds these Elves.  Yet still a chill prickles over me and I draw my cloak closer as I watch the Bruinen flow, clear and laughing.  I carry the darkness within me, a shadow of guilt and shame.  Aragorn’s reproaches burned no more than my own  – and no excuse, no justification can quench these.  We have indeed failed – and now, in this council on the edge of the world, I have darkened hope.

How can I be cold when a fire burns within me? How can I hold my hands to the fire in front of me and feel no warmth? A bitter, creeping chill holds me tight and freezes my heart until breath seems to fail me. Pippin presses against my side seeming to find warmth in me, though. I wrap my cloak around him, glad to share something I can not feel. Across the circle the Ringbearer huddles against Aragorn and through the heat-waved air I watch the chain that bears his burden… and shiver as ice-cold fire burns my soul.

They say we must choose when our father leave, choose to stay and die a mortal death or sail to those who love us and who wait… choose to be mortal or Elf, we who have never been either. 

Father does not ask, but he knows – and knows our choice will tear him in half again - and we do not tell. 

We made our choice when we rode into battle on the Pelennor - rode with a star for Elendil bound to our brows, rode to save the world of Men, rode with our brother, Estel… hope of mortals.

AN:  I wrote this for Elena Tiriel who asked, over at HASA, for a birthday drabble concerning the Oath of Eorl on the Hill of Awe.  I wrote it from the perspective of Eorl's esquire.  The scene can be found in 'Unfinished Tales'.

*************************

I gave the spear to my lord and watched him plant it in this silent hallow; watched too as he offered his sword to the gods before paying an obsequy to the ancient grave.  I listened little to his words though as he swore fealty and friendship on behalf of us, now and forever.  I needed not – there was nothing else to say to those who gave us a world, a hope, a future.  Instead, I watched these dark men who speak in tongues unheard and carry the light of the stars - and are now a part of us

The way grows darker and dimmer.  The trees drip damply on us and I shiver.  Frodo asks,

“Are you cold?”

I shake my head fiercely – no!

I am – cold, damp and scared of these trees that breath malice – but no colder than he.  I am not here to be looked after – to be the baby.

“Scared?”

I force a smile.  “Of this overgrown firewood?”

It has taken every threat and promise I could command to convince Merry that I should come.  Always I have trailed him, trying to catch up and I will be as old as them, I swear

It was just after the fifth hour that you suddenly stopped and turned pale.  The goblet in your hand slithered to the floor in a pool of spilling red.

“Faramir?”  I asked

You scarcely breathed but in a thread of voice said, “Boromir…  I hear his horn.  He is calling, Father.”

I stepped to where you stared unseeingly out a window and watched you anxiously.

Suddenly your head went down.

“It blows no more, Father.”  You turned and looked at me, eyes blind.  “He is gone.”

Tremors shook you and I reached for you and held you… my only son.

I watched you sleep in Lorien, - a fevered, restless sleep; hand clasping and unclasping sword-hilt, lips muttering broken, unheard words.  I watched as you lay awake, darkness in your eyes.  You carry your own peril into Lorien, but I sorrowed for your danger.  You are of my own kind – Mortal, weak and yet powerful.  We are to whom the Ring sings its silent song.

Power….  Knowledge….  Strength….

I hear it too – its dark promises and shadowed call.  I know its power.  I guard myself, gird myself and fight my frailty - yet cannot save you. 

I watch you fall.

I hear the stones lament them:

deep they delved us; fair they wrought us; high they builded us; but they are gone.

My eyes see the holly-trees' thickly-clustered berries but my mind sees a tall city, streets thronged with hosts of fair Elven-folk.  As I watch, I see it fall in flames and war and hear the clash of steel and a hundred voices crying out in loss,

They are gone.

In the cold, thin winter sun, I shiver in pity and dread.  Soon may travellers in all Middle-earth hear only this lament of trees and stones.

They are gone…

It was here he fell - he of the golden hair and golden heart.  He fell in flames and darkness against a being of ancient evil, fell to save those of us that fled.  The eagles brought us back his body – burnt and bloody and broken.  We laid it on the turf here and raised a mound over it.  He was a prince of the house of the golden flowers – and the golden flowers came to be his shroud.

Here, here is one of his flowers.  Tuck it into your hair, child, and remember the one who died for you.

Through darkness and mire I drive him; through forest and briar he drives me.  He is my prisoner - or I am his….  I can not remember.  Can not remember warmth, sufficient food, ease.  Can not remember when I did not hold him, drive him, drag him.  Always in my ears are his moans and snufflings.  Always in my nose is his smell – reeking of dark things and dark places.  Always in my eyes are his eyes: they watch me and hunger for my throat.

In the dark hours I watch what the ring has made him… and I fear.

The road is long and dark and the wind blows cold.  He wraps his ragged cloak around him as he trudges past candle-lit windows and smoke-drifting chimneys.  Now and then, a dog barks uneasily at his presence or a horse whickers restlessly.  In fitful patches of moonlight, he catches glimpses of a sturdily built henhouse or a neat vegetable garden and remembers another scattering of small cottages, far up in the north - a place of his kin where he is welcomed at gate and door.  With grim smile he rests his hand on a broken sword and strides on.

Okay - I'm cheating.  This is actually a double-drabble but I didn't think it was strong enough to stand on its own.

*******************

“More toast?” calls Pip from his place by the fire.

“No, Pip, I am fine,” I reply and smile as I watch him spread a thick layer of butter onto his eighth piece.

It is rare indeed that I will turn down food - but for now I am content to watch him eat.  For the first time in what seems like forever we are safe.  We have a roof of sorts over our head, a fire to keep warm by and enough food to fill our bellies.  Treebeard‘s Ents are on guard and our swords lie unneeded on the table.

Pippin comes over and flops into the chair beside me as he swallows a last doubled-over mouthful of toast.  I look at him - hair all tangled, clothes tattered and torn, black, sooty streaks across his face and hands greasy with butter and bacon fat – and blink back tears.  He is warm and fed and happy, this precious small cousin of mine, after all the nights I dreamt of losing him and all the days I watched him be brave through hunger and hurt.  I want to hug him but instead I say,

“You do look a fright, Pip.”

Strong you will be, strong and unyielding: strong in friendship and in muscles. Strong you will need to be: strong enough to work alongside me with metal, fire and stone: strong enough to face the power of Melkor. Loyal I will make you too, and hardy, for you are my children and I would have you live long lives and love truly. You will toil without tiring, just as I do: and I will teach you all my skills and crafts. Together we will make this land more beauteous than ever was – but first I must create you, my children.

He looks as delicate as the faint traceries of mithril that shine in walls far underground, yet, like that metal, his strength is beyond testing.  He shines with that same unearthly beauty too – fairer than anything else on earth.  Mithril fair and mithril strong is my friend the Elf.

He has all the solid strength of an oak: deep-rooted, immovable and long-growing.  Unyielding he can seem, yet, like the oak, a living warmth beats through him.  I find a beauty in him - as in a gnarled and rough-barked oak.  Oak hardy and oak strong is my friend the Dwarf

Sometimes in the darkness I call him Aragorn.  When all are asleep, I stroke his hair and whisper it so softly it does not even stir his dreams.  Watching him in the thin light of his bedside candle I mourn for all that has been lost.  We have taken his father’s name from him, let memories fade beyond childish recall, and taken from him his home and kin.  Yet still do I see my husband in every soft line of his face and in the proud courage of his heart.  I brush his cheek and whisper,

"Aragorn son of Arathorn."

“How many, Frodo?” asked Bilbo.

His nephew coloured guiltily and looked down at the almost empty plate.  Only three jamdrops remained in rather crumbly glory on it:  clearly this afternoon’s tea party would be celebrated without any of Daisy Proudfoot’s renowned biscuits.

“Nine, I think.”

Bilbo snorted.  As heedless a ‘tween as his nephew was, he didn’t expect downright lying from him.

“I ordered two dozen – and don’t tell me a dragon ate them!”

A small fat Hobbit edged out from behind the cider barrel and raised a jam-smeared face to look at Bilbo.

“Please, Mr Bilbo – I et twelve.”

In the days of Belecthor I (2655) tariffs rose steeply…

Boromir crossly pushed away the book he had been set to con. Who cared what had happened so many years ago? From across the table, Faramir’s slate taunted him. He had been rewarded with sweetmeats and sent early to play, whilst Berenthir had lectured Boromir and set him fusty pages of dates to learn. Lazy and an idler, Berenthir had called him. Remembering, Boromir scowled and dug his boots into the matting. Just let him look to his head come the days of Boromir II!

…trade treaties were negotiated with…

He balances easily on the horse, lets the reins fall loose and feels his clothes and hair whipped back by the wind. He is free. Ahead of him stretches blue skies and endless plains of whispering grass and, as the sun beats down on him, he is happy. He rides away from the dark tendrils that curl about sleep and make his days an endless test of mettle. He rides on a dreamer’s quest when all his hard-won soldier’s logic tells him that the time for dreams is past… and yet dreams he still. Behind lies darkness: ahead lies hope.

Father smiles proudly at him because he is a warrior, a swordsman.

The people call his name as he rides into Minas Tirith after another successful battle.  They throw flowers before him; bold-eyed girls blow kisses; matrons hold their brats up to see him ride by.  They love him.

The council listens to him.  All the history of our land is at my fingertips, battle tactics lay out before me like a chessboard – yet they listen to someone almost unlettered.

And I… I curl my lips around his name … Eagle-star… and wish for a way to unfeather this cuckoo.

^{AN:  Written for Tolkien_Weekly's Lust challenge.  Lust is *not* something I write so this was the best I could manage.}

***************

Outside: thunder rocking cities: lightning red, gold and terrible, tearing down from beneath eagles’ wings; darkening clouds that swallow all light.

Inside: a thousand candles’ light catching and splintering in jewels that shine on white undraped bosoms; swirling music and bodies that sway to it; groaning sounds of coupling; sweet smell of sex and perfumed oils.

Beyond: A king, a mighty king, sailing into the Forbidden Seas, trumpets blowing defiance to gods he no longer believes in.

Beneath: torn robes; flesh branded with red bruises; the thrusting need of the gold-decked one above; dark howl of claiming.

Left: green waves.

“My lord, this is madness!”

For an unmeasurable moment, Eärnur glanced at his steward then turned to take his gauntlets from his page. As he pulled them on Mardil stepped into his vision again.

“And the city, my lord? Your people? What of them?”

Eärnur held his sword up to the light and watched the runes flare bright against the duller steel.

“One would think you had no faith in me,” he said.

“Not by the hand of man will he fall,” Mardil quoted.

Eärnur smiled at him, arrogant and beautiful in his strength.

“Nay, by the hand of king!”

______________________________________________

_{Mardil is quoting Glorfindel, who, after the Witch King had scared Eärnur's horse into embarrassing flight in the great battles in the north, said,
"Do not pursue him! He will not return to this land. Far off yet is his doom, and not by the hand of man will he fall."}

Here gold, silver, diamond, jewels from far land and fair prince. Here crown from long-dead king, shining silver corselet of brave knight, swollen bags of golden coins and jewel-rimmed goblets.

The great worm swung his head, ragged wisps of smoke escaping as he snuffled at his treasure.

“Mine,” he rumbled, deep within his throat. “Mine.”

With a groan, he dragged himself forward, belly sliding stickily. Red stained the spilling hoard and ran in channels down its sides. With a last effort, he unfolded his bat-like wings and spread them over his treasure. Lovingly, he rubbed his snout against it.

“Mine.”

Thranduil strode his fury out along the path. How could his son have been so careless, so foolhardy, so foolish!

He paused looking out across the great dark river, one hand resting on the comforting bole of an oak. Anger burnt through him. Would the boy never understand how little room there was for mercy in a world that offered them none?

He is young, the tree comforted and Thranduil sighed. Young he was, but the darkness grew ever closer and no longer could Thranduil shelter him. His son must ride tonight for Mithrandir and the consequences of his kindliness.

Doom, doom, doom, beats the drums and doom echoes my heart. We are doomed, all of us here – from Balin, our king, to the beardless baby that clutches at my breast and cries because I have so little to give. It has been long since I have drunk, longer since we dared fetch food, and my milk is drying. She cries now, the little thing. I pull my cape around, as though I can hide her from her fate. Rocking her, I softly whisper-sing the words Ori taught me,

Far over the misty mountains cold,
To dungeons deep and caverns old…

AN:  The last two lines are, of course, taken from 'The Hobbit'.

I remember the noise… people screaming, calling out to gods in voices made sharp and ugly with fear. I remember the smell of the burning city; dark sour smoke curled around us and sank deep into our skin. The smell of fear I remember too: sweat, vomit and sweet clinging blood.

My father stayed to fight; my mother was torn from me in a swirling, surging flood of people. Buffeted and tossed by the running crowd, my cries were lost in the confusion.

'Nana!’ I wailed - but in that panicked, fleeing city there was none to hear or care.

AN:  The fall of Gondolin.

Loving a Book Lover

“Faramir, it is a beautiful day!”

“Ummm…,” said Faramir as he turned another page.

“Too lovely a day to stay inside reading,” Éowyn said emphatically, coming to kneel beside the couch.

Faramir continued reading, shutting out Éowyn as he had learnt to shut out Boromir’s attempts to disturb his reading.

With a hiss of disgust, Éowyn sat back on her heels.

“We could go for a ride – Meleth is simply eating her head off.”

“Later,” offered Faramir as he turned another page.  Soon she would go away and-

Faramir closed his book.  Boromir had never tried that to distract him.

The Chieftain of the Dúnedain

AN:  This is actually a double drabble.

*********************

As Halbarad tamped the leaf down in his pipe, he watched Aragorn.  He was sitting away from the fire, his eyes on the stars.  Elf-raised he wore his cloak fastened loosely and pushed back over his shoulders, not seeming to notice the chill air.  As fair as a tree in the first flush of spring there was yet a gravity in his face that told of the man he would become.  He moved with as much grace and strength as any Elven lord Halbarad had ridden with, and in his eyes burnt the light of the Elves, but sitting here in this camp of men he was at ease.  Some of the men were wary of him, but that would soon pass and the boy would lead them, as had his father and his father before that.  Cupping his hand around the wavering light of the spill he had taken from the fire, Halbarad hid also his smile.  Unfitting it might be to call the Chieftain of the Dúnedain a boy, but when you had cradled him as a fragile baby and swung him laughing through the air when he took his first staggering steps you undoubtedly had the right.

AN:  For Alexis, who asked for Boromir, Faramir and Elboron.

I try not to see him as my brother reborn: to live for another is a burden no child should bear.  Still, it is Boromir who smiles down at me from the top of the tree he was forbidden to climb; who weeps fierce tears and refuses all comfort when his pony dies; who struggles determinedly, struggles until his hands are rubbed blister-raw, to master the sword; who ventures, shaking, into the darkened tomb of his fathers; who pets his little sister when she cries and offers her all his best-loved toys.  Impudent, fierce, determined, brave, loving Boromir… and Elboron.

In golden sun in golden wood a golden queen walks; walks in twilight, through shadowed vale at fall of day.  A golden queen in dusk of land her voice rises, entwines with stars and sings joy to man and land.  Sings of beauty does she, beauty and an ever-falling darkness; of bravery and of despair; of hope and of those who no longer have need of hope.  The leaves of her golden home drift and fall as she sings; fading as all that is Elven must fade – and still sings the golden queen, sings until a golden fire is burnt.

Above me, the sky has darkened to the colour of a grey goose’s feather and soft lights line the edge of the harbour.  He is not coming.  The words echo through me.  It is they that make me shiver, not the freshness of the breeze off the harbour.  I pull my cloak around me, as though that will warm me.  The sky is leaden now and a lonely seabird’s call pierces the quiet.  Beyond it, I hear the creak of ropes and turn away.  He is not coming. 

Suddenly, Elrohir is beside me and takes my hand.  He has come.

AN: Actually a double drabble. The first three lines are, of course, by Tolkien.

“He cannot stand alone!” cried Aragorn suddenly and ran back along the bridge. 

“Elendil!” he shouted.  “I am with you, Gandalf!''

“Gondor!' cried Boromir and leaped after him.

I followed him in the darkness of Moria without thought and without reservation.  My sword followed where his led, and, when all hope was lost, I fled from that evil place at his word.  Strange it seemed even as I ran that I – I the leader; I the commander; I proud, bold Boromir, prince of Gondor – should ever follow this rough ranger who claims to be the heir of my lands.  Strange it seemed indeed, yet still did I follow him.

Now we walk in the brightness of noonday sunshine, and again do I follow him.  One of the small ones, Sam, clasps his arms round my neck and I carry him, just as I once carried my stubborn little brother while ahead of me trudges the ranger, similarly burdened.  I watch his tall figure as though he was an elder brother, loved and long obeyed.  Heir of Elendil, with what elvish magic do you bind me? I ask, but feel no fear.  Instead, I feel the love of brother long missed.

The sun caught in the water ripples and echoed back in dancing lines of light.  From the far side of the river, a hidden bird sent showers of gleaming notes across the slow flowing water.  With joyful abandon, Boromir peeled off his clothes and cast them on the grass.

“Théodred, come on!”

“Patience, princeling,” said Théodred with a smile, draping the last of his clothes on a sun-warmed rock – and then yelped as a two large handfuls of water hit him.

With a rush they were both in the water, washing away the stains of blood and battle and death.

AN:  A double drabble

A stone city and a stone husband, they gibed when I married Denethor.

 In truth, I miss the rolling ocean and the way our city spills down to the shore.  I miss the rollicking boisterous ocean breeze that would of a sudden rush through streets clattering doors and tumbling down people’s carefully arranged goods.  I miss the openness of a sky that spreads as far as an ocean runs.  But… there is strength in stone… strength, and beauty too.  My husband’s people build walls to protect them, and towers to guard them, but they carve each wall with flowing designs.  High arched doors lead into passages of smoothed and patinated stone; shades of stone spread complicated patterns across courtyards and even streets.  Oh, there is beauty in stone…  beauty and warmth….  At night, as the mountain’s chill winds blow down upon us, I hug the city walls as I walk to visit my husband and feel the gentle touch of warmth; warmth embracing me like a memory.  In my husband, too, I find the strength, beauty and warmth of stone; I miss the gaiety and grace of those I left behind, but know that I choose the strength of stone.

Stone, they call it.  Rock, they call it.  They speak of it as though it was of as little life as a smith’s anvil or the bones of yesterday’s dinner.  They see beauty in the trumpery of glittering glass and gold, in the brief fluting colours of flowers, in some curve of body or shape of brow… they know nothing of the true beauty of the Earth’s heart.  They have never seen light dancing over shawls of ribboned rock or seen the sunset’s colours shade through stone… or felt stone’s enduring strength: a strength that will outlast all mortal pain. 

He never dreamed of power.  Curled in sheltered leaf-strewn clearings and on narrow beds in wayfarers’ inns he dreamed of green Rivendell, of steep slopes and soft-leaved oaks and beeches.  He dreamed of Elrohir and Elladan challenging him to contest, of hunting on days when the cool winds were beginning to sweep down from the mountains; of stories of days long past by leaping fires.  He dreamed of Elrond, who stood as father to him, and of days when he had looked at him with pride.  He dreamed of one beloved and the golden-leaved trees she had dwelt among.

He never dreamed of power.  On quiet country roads as he watched the smoke from his pipe drift upwards, beside fires of resinous pine that sparked and burnt in flares of red and gold, during hot noonings spent in shade of hedge or tree he did not dream of power.  He dreamed of a time of peace, of fertile valley and small village lying peaceful under scarce moonlight; of children growing unshadowed by fear or threat.

He has never dreamed of power, but now it is offered to him in a bright sword.

“…only you have the power to wield it”

They began as opposites – the lover of trees and the lover of stone.  One moved with the light elegance of a breeze through leaves; one stumped along with the solid endurance of a lump of granite.  One talked of things unseen, of things barely dreamed; one saw only that which may be carved or built.  Both spoke of a history threaded with enmity, misunderstanding and a shunning of other.

How did they find the paths between them, the links that would bind them together to the end of the earth and beyond?  They found them in beauty.  They found them in a Dwarf’s admiration for a beautiful Elven lady; in an Elf’s slow understanding of the beauty to be found underground and in carefully carved rock.  They found them in strengths.  They found them in an Elf’s ability to run faster, see further and hear quicker – and in his patience to wait for those who could not.  They found them in a Dwarf who would not give up when attempting a task too hard - and in the endurance that allowed him to succeed.

They ended as one – one small boat that sailed the last Sea to the land beyond.

Only Legolas now is able to leap lightly over the obstacles that strew their path.  Gimli trudges on grimly, disdaining help and swatting away the Elf’s proffered hand.  He is slow but determined and seems to have the strength and endurance of the rock he loves.  Despite his age, Gandalf seems to move almost as lightly as Legolas.  Boromir realises that he is not needed there.  The Halflings, though, do need the help and do not refuse it; all understand that at times courage cannot replace length of leg. 

Without a word, the two Men and the Elf apportion the work of lifting and carrying between them.  Pippin becomes Boromir’s special task.  With the pricklings of resentment that have become his daily companion, he blames Aragorn for not trusting him with Frodo and the Ring.  Yet in his heart, he knows that he chooses Pippin as if by helping this youngest Hobbit he can make up for not being able to help his brother.  Back in Gondor Faramir faces many dangers and Boromir may no longer come to his aid, but, for a moment, as he clasps Pippin in his arms to lift him over a rock he is comforted.