You have kept your honor
You have kept your honor, Son of Gondor. Your King bids you, Go in
Peace. No more worries lay upon your weary head as the hope of your
father. Isildur's Bane lays beyond your reach. No longer do you have to
be the intermediary between your father and your brother. No longer do
you have the cares you carried in life. You are free to explore the
White Shores. You can go to the far, green country. Enter the halls of
your ancestors and be at peace. Lay down your worries and your cares,
leave them here, Son of Gondor.
Living in the shadow of your brother and never measuring up in your
father's eyes has had to have been unbelievably difficult for you,
Faramir. Always trying to find some way for your character to shine
through for your father to see, yet, time after time he has not wanted
or cared to know what lies in your heart. Even having your brother's
love and support can never make up for your father's callous disregard.
How your heart must have been crushed when you found out Boromir had
died. But, don't despair, Faramir, in his heart your father loves you.
Beautiful eyes that see so much. Kind and warm when looking at those
you love and respect. Eyes that see to the soul of strangers allowing
you to know their heart. When an enemy you meet, your eyes flash
lightening and throw thunderbolts their way. They taunt evil with a
glare that dares it to try it's very hardest. May I never know what
those looks feel like. I would only see your eyes look on me with that
wonderful healing warmth in their fathomless depths. Those looks have
sustained me through tough times as nothing else could. Eomer's Eyes.
A drabble for celeborn
Here they stand, strangers in our lands. Never before has a
Dwarf entered Lorien. Something hunts these eight. No longer can we
hide in the beauty of our own flets; the outside world knocks with an
Such turmoil I see in these hearts. One will have much suffering to
bear before he finds peace. Two shall be tested to their very
endurance. Sorrows will engulf three, threatening to tear their
alliance apart and innocence lost will befall the remaining. And what
of the one fallen already? Do they have the strength to go on without
him? They must.
'Wingfoot' the Horse Lord named him, and tis true. Never before have I
seen one of human descent so determined to finish a task. The pace he
sets tires even elvenkind.
His face betrays his thoughts; the burden
sits heavy upon him - he is worried. Not just about the captives, but
about the choices that he's had to make these last hours. He fears he
choses wrongly, but there is no right choice.
And now he is told that they are dead. I can
see he does not believe it, does not want to give up all hope. There is
Drabble for Merry
Undercover work… spying really. Conspiring against their beloved Frodo.
But spying and conspiring for the best, Merry reminded himself. Soon
the five of them would be at Crickhollow and the tale would be told.
Miraculously, Pippin hadn’t spilled the beans… and Sam had done an
exemplary job of digging up information, until he was caught. Merry
thought of the well-laid plans now in motion. He didn’t know all the
details of Frodo’s flight, but he knew he mustn’t go alone. And
whatever was out there tonight, Frodo wasn’t alone. Merry smiled. It
would be all right. What were friends for?
Spring After Winter
He stood at the gate of the Bag End garden. This winter had been
entirely too long. The apple trees were barely budding when they should
be in full flower by that time. He recalled days not so long ago when
there had been no sun, too, walking despairingly in bitter darkness.
When the sun then shone again for him, he then said he felt like spring
. So true.
!” – a fair voice drove away the ghosts of the past. Sam opened his
arms and embraced his toddling little daughter. “Come, sun-star, I will
show you my garden.”
- Rosie Cotton
Michel Delving's white chalk earth was packed, cold and hard. Fatty
knew no matter how he shifted he would sit in water that dripped down
the walls with nowhere to go. It was no wonder that his cell, little
more than a storage closet, had been abandoned long ago. The darkness
was unbearable, the food scarce. He sat with bowed head, listening to
the weeping of other prisoners, newer ones. There was a movement from
the cell next to his. Something poked him; something hard, pointy, like
the end of an umbrella.
"Don't worry, youngster. They'll soon get theirs."
Sweet were the breezes across the sea, fresher
than anything ever
scented, even beyond the memories of fresh, rain-driven springtimes mad
with blossoms and dew. Bright were the waters with the sunlight
sparkling and dancing across them, and above the seabirds danced as
well. The gold-brown-grey of the sand swirled amid the waves as they
ever-reached their way up towards the land. What finer birthing place
could creation ever conceive for the maiden voyage of such ships? What
further beauty could this dying land give, than to place its timbers
upon the gentle waves and watch them as they found eternity?
As a salty breeze tenderly tousled his golden hair, the elf kept watch
from his tower high on Emyn Beriad. His ageless eyes gazed out over the
Gulf of Lhun and swept westwards across the sea to behold an elven ship
on it's last journey. The setting sun had bathed it in golden
splendour, a final benediction for the brave Ringbearers, Frodo and
Bilbo. Like a graceful swan in flight, sails swelling in the evening
wind, the great ship rode the sparkling waves before vanishing beyond
Sadly the elf turned his eyes to face a world suddenly diminished.
- Daisy Gold
No Escape (a double drabble)
Aragorn hesitated, wondering if it would be
easier, not to mention less embarrassing, to let things flow. But the
wondering was for only a flash of time, and then he stepped forward to
where his Steward stood.
“Faramir, I hear you have been making plans.”
Faramir looked quite innocent. “Plans? But, of course; it is that time
“Not this year,” said Aragorn smoothly.
“But my lord,” answered Faramir, “it is expected, it is tradition.”
“Then I will break tradition. I am the King.”
“Even if he is turning one hundred, a King must have his birthday
celebrated,” responded Faramir firmly. He paused, and then asked with a
twinkle crouching in the corner of one grey eye: “Surely you are not
embarrassed by your age?”
Aragorn looked sharply at him, and then sighed. Well, there would
be no escape, not even now. He would once again have to face the jokes,
worst of all the “undead” ones, for the sake of Gondor and tradition.
And yet—he might give in on this, but there was one thing that he would
not tolerate again.
“Yes, my lord?”
“No birthday candles.”
Faramir suppressed a smile. “As you wish, my lord.”
A/N: I don’t know how far back the
tradition of putting candles proportionate to one’s age on birthday
cakes, not to mention the challenge of blowing them out in one breath,
goes…but it went well for this story. This was inspired by the fact
that Aragorn is actually quite old, though he doesn't look it. Happy
Birthday, Aragorn, born March 1st, 2931!
Standing against the battlements at Helm’s Deep, sixteen-year old
Eorllic gazed into the coming storm. Darkness was approaching but it
seemed unlike night and unlike a storm and he knew not why. But he had
grown accustomed to the unforeseeable and the incomprehensible. Ever
since he his father had died suddenly three years earlier, Eorllic had
been the man of the household, facing the trials that any father would
need to meet. Often he had questioned why such a heavy burden had to be
laid upon his young shoulders but he had learned that sometimes things
merely can’t be controlled.
The fear of death began to grow on him. What would his family do
if he died? His mother, his little sister, and two baby brothers. “Oh,
Father,” he thought, “I can’t do it. I’m not strong enough.” Suddenly,
the tears began to flow down just as freely as the rain. All the fear
and grief of a thirteen-year old boy poured out as the young man stood
against the battlements. A hand was laid on his shoulder and Eorllic
turned to see a man with dark hair and blue-gray eyes. In those
piercing eyes, he found compassion and consolation.
Flowers for Bilbo: A Drabble for The Birthday
A hesitant knock came at the round green door
of Bag End. Bilbo opened it to see a plump, apple-cheeked lad with
grubby hands and feet shifting nervously on the step, his hands
concealed behind his back. Before Bilbo could speak, the youngster held
out a somewhat wilted bouquet and squeaked, "I've brung-brought, I mean
to say, the first pansies from my own garden, sir, for your birthday,
"Why, thank you, Sam. They're lovely. I think these will look perfect
in the blue vase. What do you think?"
The child's face glowed. "Aye, sir. It would at that."
"Thain Peregrin, do you think I am pretty ?" Pippin looked puzzled,
both bewildered by the formal salutation and the strange question
itself. "Mistress Rose, I think you’re still one of the nicest
Hobbitladies in the Shire."
Rosie looked as if she had had a mouthful of sour grapes.
. A polite way of telling her that she wasn’t pretty
anymore. That she was on the shelf.
Gamgee loved her Sam as much as ever, but recently she had discovered
that she longed to get some acknowledgement that she was still
covetable from someone else than her spouse.
looked at Sam, the little silvery curls at his temples and all over his
brown head, at Pippin, the little wrinkles of many a laughter engraved
deeply in his face – and at Goldilocks, her sixthborn, the happy bride
of the day.
Suddenly she felt terribly old and tired.
- Rosie Cotton
Gollum in the Lake
- a double drabble
What was it? What was this fumbling about on the gravelly strand that
edged his lovely dark waters? It was not a goblin, he could see that,
yes he could see it and it could not see him. Gollum's pale, large eyes
narrowed with thought.
It was not a goblin, yet not a monster of any kind either. He sniffed
the air that it stirred up, sniffed scents of pipesmoke caught in
woolen twists, campfire and the tang of mountain air washed in rain.
What was it, that sat flummoxed upon the pebbly shore? A tiny glimmer
of something shone in the recesses of Gollum's mind, glimmered and was
lost; a firefly at midnight, quenched... an ember of some fire long
forgotten lest it burn. He frowned, and sniffed again.
It spoke. Not goblin-speech, no.... He knew
the words, understood them. He was drawn to it, as a fish drawn to the
wiggling tips of fingers because it seemed as the memory of something
else, something real, filled with substance.
He dipped his hands in the waters and paddled them a bit. Perhaps he
would find out.
A Tale of Two Cities
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times...
Mayor of Hobbiton, he was, Master Under-the-Hill, husband to the
loveliest Rose as e'er bloomed in all Four Farthings, father of
Yet, for all that, whether beneath a yellow Sun or a moon-washed
night, still naught (with a "naught" that
promised.......*everything*) but Bag End's gardener,
Hamfast's *simple* son.....
The rich brown of the Shire soil blossomed, flowered, *bore* beneath
the gentle *knowing* of his touch, field and forest earth-singing
beneath a lamb-clouded
And all the while, he dremes still upon a white ship, sailing.
Ember Burns my Hand
For Beren and Luthien
When at last he met her eyes again it was like falling into the sea.
Wild and shining and deep with an ancient love he could barely
comprehend; a jewel of the heavens that he’d captured with the net of
his heart. The star forever upon his brow.
Why, he wondered, were all the finest and brightest things in life
so rendered with pain, if only in the knowing the years would so soon
She was a plucked flower in his hand, beautiful and perfect and
beginning even now to die.
Yet it was she that had chosen.
The Mouth of Sauron's Realm
The parched landscape was begging for water as
the fire came to devour what little life there was pushing up through
the drifting dirt. The troops fighting the last remnant kept attacking,
never for a moment breaking rank. Flames raked their faces and smoke
filled their lungs as the battle went on. Dodging smoldering brands and
falling boughs flung by the enemy, the true devastation of this Land of
shadows finally sank home to the wanderers from afar. Even the hope of
soil from elvish gardens couldn't begin to fill the need for water..
They longed for relief.
- Doctor Gamgee