A triple drabble for DDD... with
The Elf looked over his shoulder. He knew he had heard something, a
tittering? It was the only description he could find for the sound he
heard. Trees looked back at him with nary a hint of what they hid. But
he knew they hid something. He stood perfectly still, hoping that
whatever had made the noise would be tricked into repeating it. But no
sound came. He looked sharply about him. There should be sound! The
trees, at least, should respond to his query. Nothing. His skin started
to prickle. Yet, he felt no menace.
Again, the sound came, pleasant and soft. He let his defenses down. He
knew who it was. And he was glad. For had not she been the scribe and
historian for all of Mirkwood and the Wood Elves? Had not she been
archivist, beloved friend who showed him so many delightful tomes from
his father’s library? Had not she been the one to regale him with tales
of old? Ah, ‘twas good to hear her voice, raised in laughter. Too many
times, of late, had her voice held fear. The spiders had increased
their range, Orcs even, cruel, hateful creatures, had dared to set foot
in his beloved forest. But now, there was joy in that voice. It did his
heart good. He did his utmost to sneak up on her and knew he succeeded
when he heard her yelp of fright as he grabbed her hand from behind the
bush where she was hiding.
It was DDD, Dinledhwen, Drabble Diva of the boards. He hugged her
furiously, chiding her for the fright she had given him. She laughed,
her wondrous laugh and they walked back towards Thranduil’s hall. He
considered what he might do to ‘pay her back’ for the moment’s
Another serial drabble - more like an inklet, perhaps, but we'll
keep it with the rest.
Just before the entrance, he pulled her towards him, pointed to
the top of the hill and shouted, “Watch out! Spiders!”
She screamed, putting her hands over her head. He could hear her
cursing the lack of a weapon.
Clutching his sides from the laughter that threatened to choke him, he
chortled, “You should see your face!”
She screamed again, but at him and beat his chest with her hands,
half-yelling, half-laughing. “You are impossible!”
He ducked, tried to stop her by taking hold of her arms, and pulling
them towards her sides, but she was strong and fought nearly as well as
he did. Suddenly, he let her go; Thranduil was walking towards them.
“Legolas. You have come back from patrol? Is all well?”
“Father!” Legolas smiled in joy, giving her a quick look as he strode
forward. Both men hugged. “All is well. The patrol has returned with
good news. No sign of Orc within the perimeter of Mirkwood at this
time. There were signs of a large band that must have passed a
fortnight ago, but no fresh signs. Spider activity has lessened also. I
was going to take Dinledhwen to the library to look up a flower that I
found. Look! Is it not beautiful? There was a small field full of them.
I’ve not seen their like before. Have you?”
“Yea and more have I seen in the far reaches of Lothlórien. I am
surprised you found ones so far north. I did not know they could endure
“Endure and thrive, father, as the Elves.” He smiled. “So,” he said
wistfully, turning towards Dinledhwen, “we have no need of going to the
“We could,” she said shyly, “press it in one of the ancient books and
display it, once it is dried?”
I put my hand on his shoulder. Not to pull him
away from the tomb. Not to bid him stand and prepare to fight. But to
somehow say, ‘I know what you feel.’
Some wonder why warriors cry. I do not. I never question such a thing.
Gimli’s tears do not surprise me. I have lived with tears my whole
So I comfort him in the way a man does, a fellow warrior. I know he
understands, for he does not pull away. His shoulder loses some of its
tension. It slumps. I have allowed him to grieve.
Sometimes, a warrior needs permission to grieve. Balin’s Tomb
supercedes every need or want that came before this moment. It is
terrible in its telling, haunting in its silent cry, wicked in its evil
end. The horror of it is silence and dust and bones bereft of flesh.
Tears fall from my eyes. I did not even know this warrior. Gimli’s
witness of grief is enough to give me permission to cry, to share in
his grief. One warrior for another. It will not be the last time.
My esteem for Dwarves raised the moment Gandalf’s staff lit the halls
of Dwarrodelf. Never had I seen such a city before.
It seems the essence of Middle-earth lies in its vastness. The men of
Gondor crafted huge statues, the Argonath; towering cities, Minas
Tirith, Minas Isil; and a great civilization.
So, too, I have now discovered, did the Dwarves. The size of it
astounds. From such little creatures. The magnitude of it I find
unsettling. Would Gondor be built if we had been such?
I will look differently upon my Dwarven friend. Gimli seems to
recognize this as he stands, nods his head to me, and clutches his axe.
We battle together.
Fey Were His Thoughts - a
The stairs are broken. I look to my right and my left; there is no
escape but forward. The chasm is deep. The Elf has no trouble; neither
does the wizard. Yet, the little ones will never make it. It is too far.
I scoop them into my arms. I jump, while thoughts of Faramir chide me.
‘You never think. Just act. Someday you will kill yourself with your
foolish bravery. It is not bravery to die. To leave Gondor bereft of
her favorite son. To leave me…’ He never finished the sentence.
I, however, finish the jump. Aye, ‘twas difficult, perhaps foolhardy,
but the Halflings would have no chance otherwise. I land in Legolas’
arms. His eyes shine with the fear of what I have done. I pat him on
the back as I swallow my own heart, lodged in my throat.
How or why the Ringbearer is still on the wrong side, I do not know. I
know only that he must be saved. Too late! The chasm widened by my
jump! “No rope!” I hear Sam moan. I judge the distance. Aragorn, even
alone, could not make such a jump; neither is there the possibility
that he can toss Frodo that far.
So these hands have failed Gondor. The Ringbearer will carry the ring
with him to the bottomless pit and Middle-earth will fall. Is that not
what Gandalf said? And I have been the unwitting agent.
Another sundering crash; there is little left to the rock that holds
the King of Gondor and the Hope of Middle-earth. Yet, has not Aragorn
told me there is always hope! The rock sways. Surely, they will fall.
Yet, the rock is falling towards us. I reach out my arms; these hands
catch the little one and I am redeemed.
- a double drabble
Fathomless miles fall before my eyes. I see the wizard hanging on and I
can do nothing; I am holding the little one. He strains and I find it
incredible that he would almost pull me with him; such is his ardor to
help Mithrandir. But it is folly. I cannot let him try. The bridge will
collapse. So much of it is already gone. A lost cause, I know.
Mithrandir struggles, stares as we freeze in horror, barks at us to
run, and then, in a moment, a heartbeat, a breath – he is gone. He has
let his hands free. He falls. He falls.
The Halfling screams pushing against my arms: arms that are there to
save him, not hold him back, and I find I must pick him up and carry
him away ere he too falls prey to those bottomless miles. I expect him
to pummel me in his anger and grief. But he holds on tightly, little
hands clasping the cloth as he continues to scream the name of his
A short while ago, I was grateful for these hands that helped
release Gimli’s grief. Now they help to separate friends. Frodo must
Tightly I hold onto Gimli. He struggles, tears at my arms, but I will
not let him go. He bellows invectives at the Orc that chased us from
his cousin’s burial ground, at the Balrog that tore Mithrandir from us,
at the dreams that died in the space of a moment. I will not let him
return to that dark pit, that cave that would claim us all if we let
The grief of these last hours’ envelopes him and he falls. He cannot
fall far. I have him. Held tightly in my arms. I will not abandon him.
Frodo at the Battle of Bywater
I tried to tell them…
Stop, please. Do you not see what is happening here? We cannot hurt
each other. We cannot resort to violence as they do. There must be some
way, some better way to resolve this. Put away your swords, please.
But no, they could not listen. They would not. And now Hobbits lie dead
upon the road. And my beloved Shire will never be the same. Pain floods
my heart as I see the Ring continue its horrid reign. We will never be
free of the evil it created. All has changed.
I cannot bear it.
“He fell?” Théoden whispered. “It cannot be.”
He fell back hard onto his throne, the throne given to his fathers by
the fathers of this man. And now he was fallen. It was too much to take
in. He had just been with them, just a few short weeks ago, for
Théodwyn’s troth pledge. And now he was fallen. He started to
tears came, just shaking. And then the moans began.
Théodred stood by the throne, appalled at his father’s distress.
The man had been friend, yes, but not that close.
“What now for the Éorlingas?” Théoden moaned.
SAM - Just wanted a little
description of him before I began...
Staunch, Steadfast, Simple, Solemn
Allegiance, Affection, Adventurous
(not), As good as gold
Meritorious, Muddler, Mighty (in
heart), Minstrel (even surprised Frodo!)
The Lady and the Servant
She came upon him unawares, smiling at the sight. His face turned a
raging red. She waited for his bidding. He picked himself up from the
ground. She walked forward. He stepped back. She swiped his back and
arms. He held his breath. She whispered his name. He nearly fainted.
She walked him back. He sighed.
“What’s this on the back of your neck?” Frodo wondered. He pulled a
yellow star-shaped flower from behind one of Sam’s ears.
“Elanor,” Sam whispered, “or so she called it.”
“What were you doing – rolling in it?”
Sam’s face turned red and he ran.
"What are you laughing at, Haldir?"
Boromir questioned him.
"The song my friends are singing."
"What is it? I am not familiar with the tune?"
At that moment, Celeborn stepped from the flet onto the stairs, giving
a withering look that immediately quelled the singing.
….except for one voice, off in the distance, some poor Elf who had not
seen the look! Haldir translated.
“There was a Hobbit had a dog and Frodo was his name-o…
F R O DO F R O DO F R O DO ooooh…”
Haldir and Boromir both burst into laughter.
He closed his eyes, waiting for breath to
return. He had hoped it had been a dream, but it was not. He was a
prisoner. Filaments of web surrounding his body did not lie.
He had been on patrol; the spiders had attacked. His warriors had stood
their ground, but there were too many. His sword had been ripped from
his arm by the sticky filth. He pulled his knives, the beautiful,
ivory-handled gifts from his mother. They did not save him. He hoped
they were not lost.
A sour laugh escaped his lips. He hoped he was not lost.
I know ‘tis not my place to complain. For, in truth, I have been the
one who has inherited the noble look of Númenor. I have
inherited the strong arms, quick reflexes, and great eyes of the men of
Westerness. Yet, there is one thing that I have not inherited. And I
find it most irksome.
Perhaps none notice. My strong jaw line, my muscular arms, my full
lips, all command attention. It is such a little thing that vexes me.
And yet – I cannot let it go!
Why, by the Valar, does Faramir have hair more luxurious than mine?
“I don’t trust him, Mister Frodo. I won’t be sleeping none too soon
tonight. But you sleep. You need it. I’ll just sit here beside you.”
“Sam,” Frodo sighed heavily. “Lord Elrond himself picked him to be one
of the Fellowship. Would he not have known if there was danger from
“That sounds right and all, Mister Frodo, but as my old Gaffer would
say, ‘You can’t stand behind a cow, no matter how friendly it seems.”
Frodo could not help but laugh aloud. “Sam, dear Sam. I will listen to
you then, if that is how you feel.”
“But Sam, I promise you. Gandalf has said words over Bill. He will be
protected now. You need not worry.”
“There are wolves, Strider. I remember Bilbo’s tales of the wolves.
‘Twas only the eagles that saved him an’ the dwarves from them.”
“I don’t think an eagle could pick up Bill,” Sam muttered to himself as
he patted the pony’s nose. “Probably not even an oliphant could lift
him, bein’ as he’s gotten so fat.”
Strider’s smile grew wider.
“I believe we should keep Bill here a little longer,” Boromir chimed in.
Sam looked up in hope.
“Minas Tirith, Mister Frodo. Do you think we’ll ever see it?”
“That is not our destination, Sam.”
“Well and I know it, Mister Frodo, but it sounds like a grand place.”
“He does not stop talking about it, does he?”
“No, that he doesn’t, but he loves it as much as I love the Shire; I
Sam’s eyes dreamed and Frodo smiled.
“I’m missing the Shire already. Spring is coming right quick and the
flowers I planted under Mister Bilbo’s windows should be close to
blooming. Do you suppose we might be home in time for the harvest?”
‘Tis the middle of Laer and the sun is hot; I
have taken to hiding in the pools near my father’s home. My mother, I
am told, created these pools to help ease the effects of the scorching
heat upon her children. My body leans against the confining walls. To
have known her. Even now, I have only the memories that my father
passes along to me. Some sense of her fëa that still dwells within
I want more. I want to touch her. To speak her name. No, in truth, I
want her to speak my name. Legolas.
Disquiet, a triple drabble
Irritably pulling parchment from a drawer, he dipped his quill in the
ink and furiously wrote:
‘My heart longs to write, yet my mind is so filled with a thousand
details that I scarce can even think where to begin.
I miss Faramir. I want one of my sons by my side. Boromir has been gone
overlong and I begin to fear for him – fear for the fearless! If my
heart were not so heavy, I would laugh at the thought. Never have I put
the name Boromir in the same thought or missive with fear. Even as a
lad, headstrong and fearless, he would frighten Finduilas with his
antics, walking atop the escarpment, climbing down walls as shortcut to
the first circle (she did not know I had done the same even after my
youth), swimming in whirlpools on the great river – so many foolhardy
adventures. Yet, fearless he was. And taking Faramir with him. Her
heart twice assailed.’
He paused for a moment. ‘Mayhap that was another cause of her despair.’
He shook his head. ‘Nay! Much of that happened after she passed.
Was it her passing that gave my sons the freedom to disregard safety?
Nay again! Not sons, for Faramir is the wiser. It is hard for me to
think this, but he is, at least in the ways of caution. ‘Twas Boromir
conceived the adventures and Faramir’s love for Boromir (who could not
love him?) that bid him follow into danger.
Of course, I could not stay them. ‘Twas good training for the both of
them – to stretch themselves beyond their own familiarity.
Until these dreams, these accursed dreams. Boromir would not consent to
Faramir’s following him on this fear-filled quest.
Fear! There it is again. I fear for Boromir. Where are you, my son?’
What Enemy is
His hand caressed the knife handle at his back
as he slowly pulled it upward and out of the scabbard. Nothing else on
the warrior’s body moved. His eyes were slits as he crouched low behind
There had been only the slightest of movements, but it was enough to
command the Marchwarden’s attention. Without moving his head, his eyes
swept from side to side. ‘There!’ he thought. ‘Something does move
beyond the compound. Where are the guards?’
Slowly, he stepped forward. Arms encircled him from behind and he
cursed himself for being such a fool as to have been caught unawares.
She laughed low.
His skin prickled as he heard it; senses fully alert now, he tried to
free himself from her hold, twisting and turning.
She would not allow it.
Trying to use his legs to trip her, he felt her arms tighten their
hold, felt her feet press more firmly into the ground. He could not
She laughed again.
Furious with himself, he sighed. He felt her arms loosen and he
flung himself away. Quickly, he lunged with the knife. She stepped
aside more swiftly than he expected and he found himself upon the
ground, dead pieces of leaves flying up into his face, into his eyes
and his nose, causing him to gasp for breath.
She sat down hard upon his back.
He tried to free himself once again, but she pulled both his arms
back, holding fiercely to his hands. His shoulders hurt from the
pressure she exerted on them. He stilled again.
She was not fooled a second time.
His mind whirled with plans of escape, yet not one would suffice.
He scowled miserably. Laying his head upon the ground, he spoke the two
words that cut – “I yield.”
For Haldirriel on her birthday.
Where is Home?
The air and sea smelled so clean and fresh, now
that the storm had passed; she wanted to throw herself into the waves,
feel the water wash over her and cleanse her as it did the beach. But
that was not possible. She was with child. Everyone knew a woman with
child was not allowed in the water.
She had so missed her home, the sea, and her father. When Denethor
finally acquiesced and let her return to Dol Amroth for the summer, her
joy was beyond telling. Yet, once she arrived, she had found that she
carried the future Steward and was immediately prohibited from the sea.
Next, she discovered her father, unaware of her return, was in
Pelargir, arranging some sale or the other with the shipbuilders there.
Lastly, her own room was in the midst of disarray as a long-overdue
renovation had been ordered before her father left.
A tear fell, then another and another. Sitting on the wall
overlooking the bay, she chided herself; she was a full-grown woman and
hardly fit for sulking, but nothing could stay the tears, once they
began their downward fall.
Standing, she stamped her foot. “I want to go home!”
Did they not notice?
She sat, day in, day out, the embroidery needle in her hand, stabbing
the thread through the fragile fabric. It screamed, as she could not,
as the needle dove into its very being.
Stab, then pull the thread through.
She watched them ride out, their calls loud and boisterous, as she
remained behind. She listened to the gossip of the brave deeds they
did, saw the wonder in her maidens’ eyes.
Stab, then pull the thread through.
She cried out to join them. Her eyes, burnt dry by the same fire
that burnt in theirs, closed. Her heart withered inside her. She knew
only endless sorrow.
Stab, then pull the thread through.
They killed Orcs; she could only stab fabric until her fingers bled. No
When had he found this place? He could not
remember, but it had become home to him. It had held her. If anything
makes a place a home, it is having the love of one's life next to you,
standing in sleep at your side, holding you in the midst of the
waterfall, watching as Entings play. Not their own, not yet, but he had
hoped. Hope waned. After he had created this place, this home for them,
Fimbrethil left him. Shuddering at the thought of her, he stepped into
the waterfall, letting the silver drops fall, hiding his tears.