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An Alphabet Book for the King's Children  by Larner

            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.





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