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Old Took’s Luck
The evening in Ithilien turned out warm, quiet, and, to everyone’s surprise, windless — a rare gift for this time of year. The sun was already dipping behind the dark, jagged crowns of the trees, flooding the forest with a thick, honey-golden glow. It was for this light that street painters took to the open air, hoping to capture the reborn silhouette of Osgiliath, its pale ridgeline visible on the horizon.
The company had wandered into an old pavilion from the days of stewards and kings — a round rotunda wrapped in ivy. The whitewashed columns shimmered in the halos of torchlight, thoughtfully lit by Boromir after he’d stashed away the game Pippin had brought.
As agreed, everyone had brought a board game dear to their people. Boromir took an immediate dislike to the one chosen by the hobbit: he was never fond of games where pure chance decided the outcome — and Old Took’s Luck was precisely that sort.
Gimli, on the other hand, was delighted. The moment he heard the rules, the dwarf shook his mug of ale and burst into booming laughter:
“Now this is a proper pastime! Ale in one hand, dice in the other!”
Boromir sighed heavily and exchanged a glance with his brother. The light-hearted excitement stirred memories of very different dice cast by fate — the kind that life itself seemed to throw, back when he was just a boy of five or six, and tiny Faramir had first appeared in their home.
Boromir remembered that first day — the echo of footsteps in the corridors, the soft weeping behind the door to the bedchamber, the scent of fresh wood from the cradle, carved by the finest craftsmen of Gondor. He had peeked timidly into his mother’s room: Finduilas lay half-reclined on the pillows, trembling from exhaustion and joy, while on her chest lay a tightly curled little bundle, gently snuffling in sleep.
A boy of five, almost six, Boromir had no idea what to do with such a fragile miracle. He had brought his favorite wooden soldiers — he wanted to build a fortress on the rug, to show his brother how the drums of the City beat. But the moment he made them clatter, the infant’s face scrunched up and he began to cry. His mother’s smile faded for a moment, and Boromir felt a helpless sting — as if he’d rolled the dice and thrown a bad cast.
The next day, he tried a different approach — tiptoeing to the cradle and, as he’d seen the nursemaids do, whispering ever so softly:
“Don’t be afraid, Faramir. It’s me. Your brother.”
The baby turned his head, and for a heartbeat the corner of his tiny mouth twitched — perhaps a smile, perhaps another grimace. It was just like a game of luck: would the right face appear on the dice? Sometimes Boromir got it — and joy surged through him, like he’d rolled two shining sixes; but sometimes Faramir would begin to cry, and the boy would flee, cheeks burning with shame.
And so he grew — each new day like another throw of the dice, trying to guess: would his brother smile or weep?
“Babies are fussy, my son,” their father would say. “Be patient. Stay near him.”
But Boromir couldn’t help thinking that Faramir was governed by strange, hidden rules — rules he didn’t understand. Ever since, games of chance had struck him as a cruel reflection of that childhood lottery.
That was why, now, with nearly all the tokens facedown save for the cursed “12,” Boromir’s heart beat with unease. It seemed that two sixes would seal the game in his favor — but the dice stubbornly showed a four and a six. Give up? Never. That wasn’t the way of the Guards of the White City. He rolled again — and heard Faramir chuckle quietly.
“Brother, relax. Just enjoy yourself.”
“Maybe that works in the Shire, under their soft little sun,” Boromir muttered through gritted teeth.
“I mean, look — half of my tokens are already flipped,” Pippin said with a shrug. “You’ve only got one left. That makes you the winner.”
“Winner, is it? These cursed dice are mocking me! I didn’t think such a trivial game could torment me this much.”
Faramir raised a finger toward the hobbit — the sign of their secret alliance — then snatched the dice from his brother and winked.
“For Daddy’s new boots.”
He blew on the dice and rolled. The bones danced, bounced — and landed neatly: six and six. Boromir blinked in disbelief. Pippin cheered. Faramir, grinning with satisfaction, flipped the “12” token.
“See?” he whispered, flashing the hobbit another thumbs-up. “C-oalition.”
“Or perhaps our father truly does need a new pair of boots,” Boromir muttered with a huff of laughter.
Their laughter echoed beneath the ivy-covered dome. The game dragged on for another good half hour, and in the end, it was the alliance of Faramir and Pippin that claimed victory. The coalition had worked.
Dwarven Gold
Returning to the table, Boromir noticed a new item placed before him — a tightly tied pouch of plain, unbleached cloth. Identical ones lay in front of every player. Gimli, smugly stroking his thick beard, had already begun explaining the rules:
“In each pouch is a scatter of stones. The goal: be the first to gather five gold nuggets. Draw as many as you like — but beware! The gold is identical in weight and shape to ordinary pebbles. Get greedy, and if you pull two of the same worthless stones in a turn, you lose everything you’ve drawn that round. Stop in time, and you keep your haul. There are also rare gemstones:
Emerald — lets you draw two more stones immediately.
Schorl — if you draw two black stones in a single turn, each player must give you one of their schorls.”
From the very start, luck seemed to have abandoned Pippin — his bag now clattered like a forge bellows, filled to the brim with black stones.
Boromir, convinced that fortune had already made her choice, went all in.
Faramir stuck to his cautious plan: never more than one “risky” stone per round. Each turn, he tried to coax his brother into doing the same.
“That’s enough, you already pulled one gold. Leave fate alone,” he whispered, gently catching Boromir by the elbow.
“And when am I supposed to win, then?” Boromir huffed, pointing at the single yellow nugget in his pile — while Faramir already had four. “You only need one more!”
He plunged his hand into the pouch again.
And Faramir, watching him, couldn’t help but recall how much their habits had changed since childhood.
When Boromir was eight and Faramir had just turned four, they used to stage “sieges” in the courtyard of Minas Tirith. The elder would build a fortress out of bricks, always “forgetting” one small gap in the wall so that the little “assault trooper Faramir” could find the weak spot and win. Sometimes, Boromir — playing the role of a grim commander — would order his wooden soldiers to “retreat” at the exact moment Faramir raised his stick-sword.
But as soon as his brother got older and won his first honest victory, eyes shining, he declared, “This time, you didn’t let me win on purpose!” From that moment on, Boromir only let him win when Faramir himself couldn’t yet see the path to victory. In all other cases, he played to win — so his brother would know the thrill of a true battle.
That evening, however, the memory offered no help: the temptation to take one more risk won out.
Boromir reached into the pouch for the third time — and when he opened his hand, there lay another gray stone.
“So much for luck,” Faramir said quietly, without a trace of mockery.
“Well… it was worth a try,” Boromir sighed, tossing all his stones — even the single gold nugget he had earned — back into the communal pile.
The outcome was predictable: the brothers’ cautious strategy didn’t earn them the win. Victory went to the host of the game — a roaring Gimli.
He carefully poured his five golden “pebbles” back into his pouch, nudged his mug of ale toward Boromir, and declared in his deep voice:
“Remember this, Men: gold favors the brave — but luck favors the dwarf.”
Perudo
Boromir laid out hollow bone cups on the table — one for each player — and poured out a clatter of dice: five per person. He had chosen this game without hesitation; neither he nor Faramir had played it to death yet.
He had first learned it from the corsairs of Umbar, back when he was a fourteen-year-old lad serving aboard a patrol ship guarding Gondor’s southern coasts. It had been his first long voyage, months away with a sword barely his own — while nine-year-old Faramir stayed behind, counting the days until his brother’s return. Ever since, Perudo smelled of sea salt, pitch in the hold, and the bitter tang of separation.
The rules were simple: each player rolled their dice in secret beneath their cup, then took turns announcing a bet — the total number of dice showing a certain value across the entire table. The next player had to either raise the bid (by quantity, face value, or both), or challenge it by calling “dudo!” — “I doubt it!” If they were wrong, they lost a die. If they were right — the bidder did.
Faramir hated Perudo… or rather, he hated it when he had to play against Boromir. As a child, he had grown up trusting in his brother’s unwavering honesty: Boromir had never lied to him — not about monsters under the bed, nor about wins and losses in games.
Now, sitting across from him, Faramir still believed every word — even though bluffing was half the game.
Boromir, of course, knew his brother’s weakness all too well and barely hid his grin whenever Faramir fell for the most obvious traps.
Making a bid after Boromir was torture: should he trust his innate truthfulness — or do the math, like their steward-father had taught them?
“For the love of the Valar, just count, will you?” Boromir laughed, watching his brother squirm.
“What?” Faramir lifted his cup. Only two dice remained underneath. “Why did you drag me into this? This is pure gambling!”
“Imagine if there were gold at stake,” Pippin giggled, elbowing Boromir.
“He’d explode on the spot,” Boromir agreed. “Make your call, brother — two paths: three sixes, or…”
“Two ones!” Faramir suddenly blurted, leaning back in his chair. “Just… saw it.”
The bid leapt straight to wilds — ones counted as any value named. All eyes turned to Gimli. It was his move.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” the dwarf growled.
“What?” Faramir spun his cup nonchalantly. “Two ones are entirely possible.”
“Pfft. And what do I do now?”
“Don’t believe me — and call it.”
“They’re definitely there,” Gimli groaned, staring at his still-covered cup.
“Or do you think I’m bluffing?” Faramir added innocently, mimicking Boromir’s signature solemn honesty. “Tell me, friends — when have I ever lied?”
Boromir and Pippin were shaking with laughter as the dwarf squirmed, and Faramir casually tapped his cup with smug rhythm.
In the end, Gimli chose to raise the bid — and escaped unscathed.
Pippin, however, wasn’t so lucky.
Whether lost in the game or fooled by the “honest Gondorian,” the hobbit raised the bar to four ones.
There were only two on the entire table…
And both were under his own cup.
Nainë Mandë (Dice of Fate)
The evening was winding down when Faramir — flushed from ale and anticipation — shook a bag of brown velvet over the table. Something inside clattered, dry and wooden, like tiny barrel-shaped batons.
“A game where no one can argue!” he announced cheerfully, giving the bag another shake, prompting Gimli to cautiously slide his mug farther from the splash zone.
Boromir put on his most intrigued face. His brother had a talent for unearthing games that seemed known only to library mice and silver-haired aunties.
Faramir handed each of them a thin wooden board with rows of random numbers — from 1 to 90. The rules were simple: draw a number blind from the bag and mark it off if it’s on your board. First to cover them all wins.
No bluffing, no betting, no sneaky ways to sabotage your opponent — in Faramir’s opinion, the perfect “family” game.
The brothers had learned Dice of Fate from their nursemaid, old Nan. Sitting by the hearth, she’d click the little barrels against the side of the bag, handing out nutshell halves and copper coins in place of tokens. Serious-eyed little Faramir always got the “hero’s coins”; Boromir used to dream of the day when he’d earn copper too — the mark of a true man — but for now, contented himself with his humble nutshells.
Snapped out of his reverie, Boromir realized Faramir was launching into an impassioned explanation of why he’d chosen this particular game, voice brimming with earnest nostalgia.
Meanwhile, Pippin was quietly giggling, sneaking glances at Gimli.
“Seven — that’s a pickaxe, straight up!” he bellowed in his best dwarven bass and elbowed Boromir.
The ale buzzed pleasantly in Boromir’s head, and the Steward’s eldest son couldn’t resist:
“You want all of Gimli’s number associations? Easy! Thirty-three — like twin mountain sapphires, fused together…”
“And forty-four!” Pippin cried, catching on. “A pair of quartz crystals, exactly!”
They were so caught up in mocking the game boards that it took them a moment to notice Faramir had fallen silent. Lips pressed thin, he already looked like he regretted bringing his cozy little family ritual into the circle.
“If you two are quite finished mocking…” he said softly, but firmly. “Can we get back to the rules?”
“Oh — sorry, brother. You were telling a story, weren’t you? About the nutshells?” Boromir said sheepishly, raising his hands in apology.
“Nutshells?” Pippin squeaked.
Faramir’s ears flushed — a sure sign his feelings were stung.
“Not nutshells, they were— never mind. It was a sweet little tale, but who cares, right? Let’s just play.”
“Are you upset?” Boromir asked gently, leaning toward him with a guilty smile.
“Why would I be?” Faramir replied coolly, fiddling with the tokens and refusing to meet his brother’s eyes.
“Well, sorry for interrupting,” Boromir said in a conciliatory tone, touching his brother’s shoulder.
“What are you apologizing for?” Faramir snapped, jerking away and casting a sideways glare at Pippin.
“Me?!” Pippin gasped, pressing both hands to his chest in exaggerated outrage.
“No…” Faramir sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Let’s just play.”
“No, no — tell it!” Pippin pleaded, leaning in with genuine curiosity sparkling in his eyes.
“I’m telling,” Faramir said with deliberate calm, straightening his back. “The rules of Dice of Fate…”
Boromir rolled his eyes discreetly — an all-too-familiar scene.
Ever since the brothers had reached the age of “semi-legal drinking,” a certain less-than-charming trait had begun to emerge in Faramir. The moment wine shimmered ruby at the bottom of his cup, the wise, measured commander transformed into an easily offended youth. The first time it happened was at Boromir’s sixteenth birthday: by his third mug, Faramir had launched into a tirade about Sindarin verb conjugations, and when met with disagreement, went entirely silent — mentally recording the names of all “phonetic offenders.”
It had since become a family joke — though not one the subject ever found particularly amusing.
Tonight, however, things were following an unfamiliar pattern: luck danced around Boromir like a sunbeam. Every other barrel he drew matched a number on his board, and Faramir’s brow darkened by the minute. Pippin shook the velvet bag like a maraca; Gimli kept opening his mouth only to shut it again, hiding his laughter.
“Seventeen!” Faramir called, eyeing his brother’s board. Boromir, snorting, raised a hand — then immediately slapped it over Pippin’s mouth before he could burst.
“Are you serious?” Faramir sighed.
“If I could rig this, I would!” Boromir protested. “But it’s just draw and mark.”
“How many do you have left?” Faramir leaned over — then bulged his eyes. “Six?!”
“It’s not about who’s fastest,” Pippin reminded him, still jiggling the bag. “You could get stuck on one number for eternity. I’ve only marked one so far.”
“Go on, chase the champion,” Faramir muttered. “Six! I’ve only got three. All right, no questions here,” he nodded at the ever-stoic Gimli, whose board also showed six blank spots. “With hands used to pulling gold from rock, no wonder his luck’s steady. But you, dear brother — where’d you get that fortune? Sell your soul?”
“Oh, for the Valar’s sake!” Boromir laughed. “They’ll all hit seventy-seven eventually — you’ll see.” He pointed at the number on his board.
At that exact moment, Pippin drew the next barrel. His hand trembled, eyes sparkled, breath came short.
“What is it?” Faramir asked warily.
“…Seventy-seven,” Pippin whispered — and then dissolved into laughter so violent Gimli slapped the table and Boromir doubled over, wheezing.
Faramir glanced at his half-empty board, rolled his eyes toward the rafters of the pavilion, and raised his mug — not yet suspecting that he, in the end, would be the one to win this game.
The table now stood empty. On its stained surface, only drained dice cups and half-finished mugs remained, glinting faintly in the dying torchlight. The four unlikely companions — two Men, a hobbit, and a dwarf — had drifted off to their chambers, each carrying with them the quiet aftertaste of the night, and the spark of camaraderie they’d come to share.
Your day’s been carved in heavy stone
With burdens resting on your shoulders wide
But soon the evening claims the city
And daylight burns in amber tide
Together we sigh, and bid the blazing day: “Take flight.”
Each game that night had stirred some childlike memory:
Boromir and Faramir glimpsed the echoing corridors of their youth;
Gimli heard the hammer of his father ringing through stone;
Pippin saw the green hills of the Shire — and Merry, laughing beside him.
In play, they returned for a moment to simpler years, when time was counted not by hours, but by new adventures and sunburnt cheeks.
There is a hidden place we keep
Where childhood lingers, deep in the night
Where stories flow and laughter spills
In ways outsiders never get quite right
And we gather again round the table’s warm light…
Even the brief spat at the end — like old yard fights over a rag-stuffed ball — burned hot and vanished quick, leaving only shared laughter and a sharp edge of friendly rivalry.
The crackle of fire and rustling leaves
Will echo that summer we never retrieve
Of golden stripes and whispered talk
Let’s meet again, take that same walk
And into the starry sky, our voices weave…
As they parted for the night, they knew without saying: they would gather again — more than once. There would be teasing jabs, desperate rolls, and victories, fair or otherwise.
And while the stars dimmed gently over Ithilien, a chorus of fading voices could still be heard, carrying one simple promise:
“Until next time.”