Agape4Rivendell's Drabbles 1

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A collection of 100-word Middle-earth themed and non-canonical by Agape4Rivendell
An Ent-House
Arwen's Woe
Boromir's Lament
Boromir's Undoing
Dinledhwen. a tribble
Din's Drabble, Revisited
Disquiet, a tribble
For Gimli, a tribble
Fey Were His Thoughts
Frodo at the Battle of Bywater
The Lady and the Servant
Not Forsaken
Solomn Remembrance
Suspicious Sam, in 3 Parts
There was a Hobbit...
What Enemy is This?, a tribble
Where is Home?, a double drabble

Solomn Remembrance
A double-drabble

Looking out over the city, watching as the moon, skirted by dark clouds, endeavored to cast some light on the scene below him, Denethor watched and wondered if the people really understood or remembered what they were celebrating tonight. The Day of the Dead had turned from a feast of solemn remembrance, to a feast of carnality, a feast of depravity. The dead would ‘roll over’ in their graves, should they see the spectacle that lay before him. He shivered. Boromir and Faramir were somewhere in the crowd of revelers. He wished it were not so. ‘Grant them safety, Valar!’

To him, on this day of all days, he would sit in his mother’s terraced garden, thinking of her, of his grandfather Cranthir, his own father, Ecthelion, Finduilas…. Oh, even Thengel and too many others to even remember the names. Though remember them he did. Each one who had fallen for him, or at his command. The list had lengthened to the point that, if he said each name aloud, it would take days, perhaps weeks, to name them all. And so, he stood with the scent of flowers filling his nostrils, while the sight of debauchery filled his eyes.


A triple drabble for DDD... with love!       

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 foreboding.


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 the cold.”

“Endure and thrive, father, as the Elves.” He smiled. “So,” he said wistfully, turning towards Dinledhwen, “we have no need of going to the library.”

“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 life.

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 triple drabble

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.


Boromir’s Undoing  - 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 mentor.

A short while ago, I was grateful for these hands that helped release Gimli’s grief. Now they help to separate friends. Frodo must hate me.


Not Forsaken

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 it.

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 shake; no 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.


Boromir's Lament

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?


Suspicious Sam

“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 him?”

“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.”

Part II

“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.”

Strider smiled.

“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.

Part III

“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 can tell.”

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 him. 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 This?

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 the tree.

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 free himself.

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.”

Haldirriel smiled.

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!”


Arwen's Woe

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 one noticed.


An Ent-House

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.