Chapter Text
Leavetaking
Gilraen and her escort mount and prepare to depart. Dawn is near, but the grey mist of morning hides it.
The Master of the House has come to see them off, and she gives him her hand in farewell. "My thanks are little enough return for years of shelter, yet I offer them nonetheless."
"They are more than sufficient, Gilraen. But will you not remain?"
"There is no longer any victory it is possible for us to share, Master Elrond. In the end, one of us will lose a child. I will not stay to see who it must be."
[For Imhiriel, who wanted drabbles about "a meeting between Gilraen and Elrond, any time, any topic" for her birthday.]
First Meeting
"Be welcome to Lorien, Heir of Isildur," Celeborn said, yet his cold stare belied the words. Galadriel said nothing, only met Aragorn's eyes, and he gasped like a man plunged into icy water. So you would ask my granddaughter to make Luthien's choice. And what if Arwen consented? Have you the courage to take her life?
He broke free from her gaze and looked down at his hands, relieved to see that they were not trembling. If it were her own free choice, he thought, yes. If she gave me her life, I would hold it close as my own.
[For fliewatuet, who requested drabbles about pre-Ring-War Aragorn for her birthday.]
Family Resemblance
He watches Arwen as she cuts the arrowhead from her brother's shoulder, her eyes as steady as her hands on the surgeon's knife. Before she asks, he presses a cloth into her outstretched hand and she blots the blood sliding down Elladan's arm.
Later, while they put the stillroom in order, Elrond draws his daughter into his arms and kisses her hair, smooth and shining as the obsidian tool she wielded on her brother's flesh. "It is well that there are two healers to care for the two hunters in this family." Her rare smile illuminates the grave grey eyes.
[For nutterzoi, who wanted drabbles featuring Elrond and a family member as a birthday present.]
Overheard at a Wedding
"Truly a queen, this one; like Celeborn in seeming, but in all else as imperious as her mother."
"A delightful conceit, to dress Elrond in silver and Celebrían in black."
Mirror images of ebony and mithril, the couple dances in the centre of the Hall of Fire, at the centre of all gazes. Jet beads are woven into Celebrían's silver plaits, while Elrond's black hair is held back with mithril clasps.
"They say she led him a merry chase – would not agree to his suit until he'd bested her in archery."
"I'll wager any child of these two is strong-willed."
[A Celebrían drabble, for Rainsong's birthday.]
Drums in the Deep
Doom. Doom, doom.
The dwarves huddled around Balin's tomb did not stir. By now the baneful drumming was a constant background to their restless, nightmarish sleep.
"It's louder," Ori said suddenly. "The orcs must have reached the Great Hall."
Bor silently inspected the barred door to the Chamber of Mazarbul. "It will hold for perhaps ten minutes against a ram," he said. "Less if they have a cave troll."
The drumbeat began to accelerate. Orcish shrieks reverberated in the hall.
Laying his axe aside for a moment, Ori took up the Book of Records to write its final entry.
[A dwarf drabble for Marta's birthday.]
Dark Memory
The torch went out, and the thick warm darkness of Moria fell over them like a stifling blanket. Aragorn knew they could not build a fire while they rested, yet his spirit craved light.
"How far do you reckon we are from the Dimrill Gate?" His whisper floated on the hot air.
Halbarad's shrug was felt rather than seen. "The orcs know; I do not. Sleep now, and I shall take first watch."
Sliding down the wall, Aragorn shifted his leg by silent degrees until it grazed Halbarad's knee. Anchored by that mute proof of companionship, he drifted into sleep.
[A belated birthday drabble for Alawa, who wanted "something Aragorn and Halbarad."]
The Fourth Attempt
Three times one of these feeble worms has tried to steal from him – he, Smaug, descendant of black Ancalagon! Now their bones lie scattered like the jewels they sought, and their blood leaves a pleasing stain on his treasures, the hue of red gold.
More of them are about now; he can smell the sneak-thieves' nervous stink. Dwarves, and something else he cannot place – not sickly elf, nor rancid man.
Whatever it is, here it comes now, pattering down the "secret" way. Smaug's tongue flickers in anticipation of tender meat. Come along, thief number four. I am ready for you.
[For Anglachel, who wanted anything involving the number 4, Denethor, and/or a dragon - I managed two out of three!]
A Ranger's Life
The open sky your roof and the moon for night-candle. A grey cloak for bedding, shelter and concealment all alike.
For weeks you hear no voice other than the eternal wind scouring the dry grass on the hills. No eyes meet yours but the opaline glare of wolves just outside the ring of firelight. Rough wool, sodden leather, chilled steel are all that your fumbling, chilblained fingers touch.
Your reward? A sullen stare from a fat innkeeper as he grudgingly draws you a pint; respectable women pulling their skirts and children aside as you pass them in the muddy lanes.
[A birthday gift for fileg, who said "my keyword is Ranger."]
Downfall
He thought that he could outrun the storm and return to the ships before the wave fell. The captain warned him - We cannot wait for stragglers - but how could he leave Lissuin behind? One last time, he had to try to persuade her.
And this time, he succeeded - even his wilful young wife was daunted. "Our pride has cost us," she admitted.
They foundered the horses trying to reach Andunié in time; for nothing. Now they huddle in the lee of the city wall. Water falls from the black sky, rises up from the black sea, blows sideways on the wind. From under her cloak she watches him. "I cost you a chance to live. I am sorry."
He is past sorrow, past anger. He feels only regret that the two of them will never see the shores of Middle-Earth. "We are still voyaging together," he tells her, and it is true. Together they will discover what - if anything - lies beyond the wave.
The roar is so loud it is past hearing - not a noise, but a blow. They do not look up, but cling to one another and hope not to be sundered.
[A double drabble for Arquen, who wanted tales of the downfall of Numernor.]
A Gift
Youngest of his family, Pippin was accustomed to well-worn birthday tokens. He stared unbelievingly at the packet wrapped in yellow paper and red ribbons. "Is that really for me, Mr. Baggins?"
"Of course, my boy! It's my birthday, what else should I do but give presents?"
One fierce rip and Pippin clutched a bright sword and shield. They were tin, and the sword-tip was blunted; but they were still dwarf-make and fine weapons.
With a yell of challenge Pippin ran toward the mob of children under the Party Tree. "Look at me, Merry -- I'm the Bullroarer! Watch out, goblins!"
[For Hobbit Lass21, who asked for wee!Pippin.]
'Go not to the Elves for counsel, for they will say both no and yes.'
Arwen balanced Galadriel's silver vessel in her hands. Starlight reflected from the water inside cast wavering light on her face.
"Will you look in the Mirror?"
"I wished to see the future of this love… but now I wonder if that is wise. You said once that the Mirror was dangerous as a guide of deeds."
"It may be; but only you can say whether you want guidance."
Slowly Arwen raised the ewer and tilted it. The silver sang as water spilled in a thin stream on to the grass. "I will choose for myself, no matter what may come."
[For Ithildin's birthday, "something with Elves."]
A Memory of Loveliness
Denethor watches his son with painful amusement. "Arbelethiel is lovely tonight." The boy reddens, but agrees firmly.
"Do not be hasty, Faramir. I was many years older than you before I met your mother. Some said she was too young for me, but I have never regretted waiting until I was certain I had met the only woman for me."
He realizes what he has said is true, not merely an argument mouthed for prudence. He remembers Finduilas' slenderness, wrapped in her blue mantle. Perhaps he will pass it on to one of his sons, should they take a wife…
[For Astara, who wanted Denethor and/or Finduilas.]
Chosen
Aragorn stared at the ground, so certain he wouldn't be chosen that he failed to hear his name called. Mallor had to repeat it twice, his voice rising each time. "Pay attention, clothhead -- do you want to join the next company to the Lonely Mountain or not?"
"Aye, sir!"
"Don't let it go to your head," Mallor warned. "You're not the Chieftain yet. Keep your mouth shut and ears open; you're only there to learn."
Halbarad saw the young Ranger's jaw clench and flicked him a sympathetic smile. "You'll enjoy the journey, lad; 'tis long, but not too toilsome."
[Ainu Laire wanted "Aragorn drabbles" for birthday presents. This could be seen as a prequel to my story In the Wild.]
The Hour of our Meeting
The only relief for the restlessness plaguing Bilbo since his return from the Lonely Mountain was a long walk. When his chair by the fire at Bag End became more confining than cosy, Bilbo would travel the paths of the Shire and remember all the other roads that branched off from them.
Today he found himself humming the silly ditty the Elves of Rivendell had loved to sing. It seemed almost like Elvish voices were echoing his; Bilbo stopped to listen. A faint harp trill floated over the hill and resolved into the opening notes of the Lay of Leithian. Bilbo dropped his walking stick and ran, shouting breathlessly, "Hello!"
The music halted suddenly, and so did Bilbo. It was no use; he'd scared them off, and now he'd never see another elf… He turned back toward the path, stooping to pick up his hat.
"Are you Bilbo of the Shire?" A towering, golden-haired elf smiled down at him. "Elrond has spoken of you often. I am Gildor Inglorion."
Remembering his manners, Bilbo bowed. "Elen síla lúmenn' omentielvo."
Gildor laughed. "A scholar! Too seldom in these days do we meet one who knows our tongue. Come and share our meal."
[For Marion, who wanted something about "young Bilbo." She gets a double drabble, since I couldn't condense this to a hundred words!]
Of Tuor and his coming to Vinyamar
Lichen paints the walls and moss dyes the carven channels of water green. The presence chamber is bare, but not empty; his arms and shield hang above the dais and the air trembles with fate's nearness. In the great chair, shadowed by swan's wing, Tuor dreams of water falling into a fountain in a white court. A woman dances beside it, golden hair swinging, her bare feet alighting only briefly on the stone.
When he wakes, he remembers little of his dreams, but the whisper of feathers tells him he will bring more than a message to the Hidden City.
[For Imhiriel, who wanted Tuor and Idril, "preferably happy." She also corrected a canon error in the first version of this, for which many thanks!]
No spring can last
Arwen turns the Elessar over in her hands, watching the soft shimmer of spring light under fresh leaves. Life undying the stone cannot bring, here in Middle-earth; but it has given Rivendell lasting bloom, unblemished fruit, and leaves fallen without rot.
The hands holding it are gifted with healing, but they can do nothing more for the woman in the bed. Arwen brings the stone to her eye and looks through it: refracted in the crystal, her mother's face is eased of all its pain and suffering.
When she lowers the jewel, the sheen of tears in her sight remains.
[For Loquacious, who wanted drabbles about the Elfstone jewel.]
Sea Change
The jewelled sands of Eldamar were rich and strange; Fallinel was not used to sifting gems through her fingers instead of shells. But the water was the same that touched the shores of Middle-Earth, rolling and breathing in its restless sleep, the same winds tangled her hair, and the tall white towers of Avallone would make a fine sea mark.
So she sailed her white-winged ship far to the north along the coast of Araman until slick salt ice choked the waves, and south into waters glittering with their own light, until her eyes shone brighter than that reflected sheen.
[This is for Sangfroid101, who wanted drabbles about the Teleri.]
Interment
Denethor had imagined his wife lying in state in Rath Dinen, waiting silently for him to rejoin her, but Finduilas' quietly unyielding will had won her way in death as in life. Now he stood on a headland by the sea - a foolish place to bury one's dead - and watched her body lowered into a grave beside her father and mother.
His young sons stood by him, one at each hand, and his grip left marks in the nap of their black velvet tunics. How old would they be when his body was laid on a stone bier?
[For Celandine Brandybuck, who wanted drabbles with the Steward of Gondor's family.]
Orc's Best Friend
The Orcs hate the stars, but their mounts do not. The Wargs watch for the Hunter and the Great Wolf passing overhead; they sing to them and to the waning Moon in voices as cold as their pale eyes. The Orcs shiver and slacken in their drinking.
Vark walks over to kick his steed in her slatted ribs; Warg and rider snarl at each other. "Shut up that yowling! D'you want those juicy little pullets to know we're coming?"
She falls silent, but her eyes shine brighter corpse-green as she promises herself One day my cubs will feed on Orc-flesh.
[One for Khazar, who wanted to see "the bad guys in action."]
Release from Bondage
Elwë has known time to stretch beyond measure before. Then, it was slow and sweet as honey dripping from the hive; now it is dark and bitter with grief. The bright jewel hanging about his neck sheds no warmth. He and Melian pass each other silently in the halls of Nargothrond, thronged with the ghosts of memory: Luthien laughing, dancing, raising voice in song.
Will time ever gather speed again? Or will he be trapped in it like a fly in amber, until his life fades at last, and he goes to the Halls that will be empty for him?
[For Narwen Almiriel, who wanted Melian and Elwë.]
At swim, two brothers
The Anduin was low and the grass on its banks tawny as a lion's coat in that late summer. The brothers crossed mud and pebbles on wincing feet; once in, Faramir could have stayed in the cool water forever. A small fish flickering in the shallows, watching slow shadows pass overhead… "Daydreaming again?" A grip on his ankle dragged him underwater, and he kicked Boromir in the stomach before they surfaced together, sputtering.
When Boromir's body floats past in this same river, Faramir remembers that day, and how the dry grass speckled their backs as they lay in the sun.
[For Shadow975, who wanted a (more or less) happy moment for the brothers Mir.]
Crownless
Aragorn sat comfortably cross-legged, oiling his knives, but the weariness he usually wore as easily as his grey cloak seemed to lie heavy on him tonight. Halbarad studied his friend's remote face. "What troubles you?"
"The men we killed..." Aragorn scoured at the runes etched on his blade. "They were not evil, only hungry and misguided."
"True," Halbarad agreed. "But they did evil to the people of the Angle."
Aragorn rubbed his brow, smearing it with oil. "Killing bandits is little use when I can do nothing about the reason they plague Arnor. I must be ready to face the Dark Lord soon, or this land will be ruined past saving."
"When you do, I will stand with you."
Aragorn smiled, and some of the lines scored on his face smoothed away. "I know, old friend. And I hope you will stay with me for counsel after that day comes."
[A drabble and a half for Fliewatuet, "pervy Ranger fancier."]
Homecoming
It is harder than Eldacar foresaw to return to his father's land. For ten years now he has ridden as one of the Rhovannim, and the hunting bow comes easier to his hand than the sword. If Gondor does not want him, why trouble with them? Let them have Castamir and choke on him.
Then his old dream of Osgiliath's fall returned: he watched the Dome of Stars crack and shatter again, and woke himself by crying out. Staring at the tent ceiling, he remembers Ornendil, and the only question left is how best to kill Castamir: quick or slow.
[A Kinstrife drabble for Dwimordene's birthday.]
Kin Strife
"The girl is useless, Valacar." I retreat into the tapestry shadows. "She refuses to even touch a needle!"
"Vidumavi's people revere other skills, Mother. They teach their princesses to shoot three arrows into the same target at a gallop, and sing the deeds of their ancestors for fifteen generations. She will learn the ways of Gondor; only give her time."
I straighten my back and sweep forward. Let my husband try to appease his mother; I will show this seagull-shrieking woman that a daughter of the North is as proud as she.
Or I shall kill her, and return home.
[For Marta, who wanted "uncivilized" peoples' opinions of the more civilized.]
Untitled
Watches lengthen with the nights and are doubled as well. Firith is the most dangerous season, bringing darkness to hide the Deceiver's creatures but no snow yet to hinder them.
Still, Mevenneth finds a secret pleasure in this time of year, and the damp, sour smell of beech leaves underfoot. It is cold at night now; cold enough that she shares a blanket--and other comforts--with Beredur. In the morning their pail of water is webbed over by ice.
The thin sickle of autumn's last moon hangs ready to reap the year's turning. Mevenneth watches it pass and sings.
[For fileg, a thank-you for her Hallowe'en present.]
Sibling rivalry
With an expert flick of the wrist, Faramir loosed his stone. It bobbed over the water like a heron, skimming the surface once – twice – six times before plummeting into the river.
"Lucky throw!" Boromir thumped his brother's shoulder, ungracious in defeat.
Faramir elbowed back. "The wise man does not believe in luck," he quoted sententiously.
"He who wrote that never had a horse killed under him in battle."
"Likely not, considering he was an Umbari eunuch."
Boromir winced. "That would alter one's expectation of fortune." He bent to choose another flat pebble from the strand. "Best out of seven instead?"
[A birthday present for the lovely & talented Altariel.]
Well begun is half done
"Begin with your name."
Begin, my master says -- as if I had not pressed ink-sticks, bound soft marten hairs into bristles, pulped paper rags for more than a year before he let me merely hold a brush in writing position.
I take up the brush, dabble it in ink, draw it over the page. Transfixed by the shock of dark ink on creamy paper, I strain to recall all his teaching. Move from the elbow, not the wrist. I trace the last stroke of lambe simply, not daring to flourish, and hold my breath.
He considers. "A good beginning."
[For Meril, who wanted to see a student (any kind) learning something in Middle-Earth. The speaker is Tasariel from my story Fading Leaves.]
The Fenced Land
It was the longest journey of his life. Yet Beren never knew how many days it endured; he saw no sun or moon, only the unchanging dim twilight of magic. Pursued by snarling shadows, he stumbled through a ceaseless misery of sucking mire and grasping thorns.
A twisted root toppled him headfirst to the ground. He lay waiting for death, until a whisper of air breathed against his cheek. When he lifted his head and saw the stars through dappled leaves, it was a deliverance almost as great as his first sight of Luthien dancing with flowers in her hair.
[For Marta, who wanted journey drabbles, and Harad or Doriath if possible.]