Her Ring
"Do you see my ring?" the Golden Lady asked of him. Sam wondered greatly at what she meant by it. Her fair hands were lifted up, the moonlight lighting them, no - her own luminesence lifting from them, a shimmer and a shine. A daughter of both moon and sun she seemed. There was no ring to be seen, no bearing of any gilt burden to weigh upon her grace. Her hands stayed free, but for one of them. A star seemed to light upon it, a star from the heavens shone upon her hand, a blessing of the nighttime.
- Primula
Samwise's fancy:
He watched her swaying in time to the music; the pastel ribbons in her hair flowing in the air like a fluttering rainbow. Warmth permeated his entire being when he looked upon the glory that was Rosie Cotton. His gaze never left her form, not even when Frodo prodded him into a dance with her. His arms went about her slim waist, and he was lost to her charms. All he could focus on was her sparkling eyes, and her rosebud lips that released her laughter. It was music for his soul; it was magic that drew him to her.
The lady of light:
He looked upon her countenance and his heart seized within his chest. He was blind to his companions. Nothing existed for him at this moment but her. She was beauty incarnate, the most glorious thing he had ever seen. More radiant than mithril, more beautiful than any jewel he had ever unearthed with his callused hands. He was infatuated with the elven queen, and for the rest of his life he would love no other. Although his sorrow for Gandalf was great, she had healed him with her glance alone. He wanted this moment to last forever. He was hers.
- samwisegirl
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.
Faramir
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.
Eomer's Eyes
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 iron fist.
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
'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 always hope.
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.
Faramir
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.
Eomer's Eyes
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 iron fist.
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
'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 always hope.
- boriel
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?
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?
-onónë
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 after winter. So true.
“Dada !” – 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.”
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 after winter. So true.
“Dada !” – 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
Lockholes
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."
Lockholes
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."
- Primula
Sweet Mithlond
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?
Sweet Mithlond
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?
- Primula
Namarie.
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 his sight.
Sadly the elf turned his eyes to face a world suddenly diminished.
Namarie.
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 his sight.
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 of year.”
“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.
“Faramir?”
“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!
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 of year.”
“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.
“Faramir?”
“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!
- MerryK
Against the Battlement Double-Drabble
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.
Against the Battlement Double-Drabble
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.
- Eruvanne
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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, Mr. Bilbo."
"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."
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, Mr. Bilbo."
"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."
- Auntkimby
Nice
"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.
Nice. A polite way of telling her that she wasn’t pretty anymore. That she was on the shelf.
Rosie 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.
Nice – pah.
Rosie 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.
Nice
"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.
Nice. A polite way of telling her that she wasn’t pretty anymore. That she was on the shelf.
Rosie 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.
Nice – pah.
Rosie 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.
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.
- Primula
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 golden Elanor.....
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 sky.
And all the while, he dremes still upon a white ship, sailing.
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 golden Elanor.....
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 sky.
And all the while, he dremes still upon a white ship, sailing.
- jan-u-wine
This Shining 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 be lost?
She was a plucked flower in his hand, beautiful and perfect and beginning even now to die.
Yet it was she that had chosen.
This Shining 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 be lost?
She was a plucked flower in his hand, beautiful and perfect and beginning even now to die.
Yet it was she that had chosen.
- Primula
