Inklets - Serious...4

Serious 1  2  3  4  Light or Humorous 1  2  3  4 
Collections of vignette tales, too long for drabbles and too short for short stories.

My Name - Pippin's Sunshine
And what shall I fear now that IT is gone? - Dandyb
A Letter - Dandyb
Estrangement - Agape4Rivendell
The Sound of Drums - Harthad
The Parting - Harthad
Sound Carries - Harthad
Sounds of Home - Linaewen
Elros' Gift - Agape4Rivendell
Morning's Pain - Agape4Rivendell

My Name
Double Drabble for Sméagol + 3 words

“Our precious. Oh so close.” Yes, Sméagol knew the way to the Black Lands. He wondered why his master wished such a path. Yes, he knew his precious was close, it invigorated him. Gollum was making plans to reclaim his present.

Master had heard him and woke with a start. Gollum ignore all the hobbit said. Then, “…Sméagol. That was your name wasn’t it?”

A light flashed in Gollum’s eyes. “My name…” His name seemed like something out of a long forgotten dream or legend. Too long had he been alone without friend, now someone knew his name. A friend.

Frodo looked at the miserable creature who pawed at him with pity. Even he knew that this was merely a skeleton of the hobbit-like creature who had once lived.

Frodo knew he had to be careful, the ring’s lure was powerful especially to one who had “owned” it for so long.

Frodo hoped Gandalf had been right. This poor soul might still respond to kindness. In the Dead Marshes, he took his chance. Gollum seemed to ignore Frodo until he said Gollum’s name. Frodo saw Gollum soften.
For a time, Sméagol seemed almost happy. Almost cheerful…eager to please…. Eager to save his precious.
-Pippin's Sunshine


And what shall I fear now that IT is gone?
Frodo POV.
Post-quest / Pre-Havens

There is no easy answer to that question, even now. How many years have I strove to fill each page of Bilbo's book with the stories of our journey? One too many I sometimes think. There are parts of our story that even now I dread writing in the still of the night and have to put down the feather to warm my fingers with a hot cup of rosehip or peppermint tea from the pot. And not just from the chill of winter; for even during the summer nights the words are hard to put to paper. When the ink is dark and looks like blood stains across the page and I toss it into a heap into the corner so that I would not see the words that the page contains. When my stomach lurches and fear rises up into my throat closing it off from being able to accept another breath.

Ah, but I should burn my quill on these nights.

For the pain that grows within me is much too strong to take. But alas I must continue to return to Uncle's desk in the still of the night and continue what he started. I promised.

Even now I cringe at the thought of that last glance that hit Sam and I on the Plains of Gorgoroth and I could no longer struggle to standing again. And _He_ wasn't even looking at me. I can still see Him in my minds eye and my shoulder turns as cold as the dark within me. At first I think that it is fear that chills my bones, but far to soon even that fear turns to need? Jealous? Want? Towards a craving that I can no longer control even though the object tied to that need was destroyed. Those answers and guesses are much too fanciful. Especially for a simple hobbit such as I.

I wish that was all there was to fear. For I have faced that.

No. What I fear is that I have lost too much of myself atop of Mount Doom and that Bag End will no longer feel like home. That each sound of a bird outside my window will lose it's pure song and turn into the harsh calling of a carrion crow. That the dust of the plains will forever be what I taste even as I try again to wash it out with peppermint flavored teas. Until the day that I dread the most. When even the rosehip and peppermint teas no longer contains anything worth tasting.

That nothing is left of home for me anymore.
That is what I fear.

- Dandyb

A Letter

I sat at my desk and took out a fresh trimmed quill and stirred it into the inkwell. This was something I had been meaning to do for several times during the long year that had passed. Especially now when it came to writing this chapter of the Red Book. It was time perhaps. My Dearest Faramir. Neat well practiced letters stained dark against the parchment caused the corners of my lips to turn upwards. There was nothing like seeing a field of white broken by ink. If just the greetings sent to a friend.. A friend.. The thought took me by surprise. I paused as I looked at the name, and drew a line through it and started again.

My Dearest Boromir

I must admit, even to myself that this would be an odd letter to send, as the recipient would not be able to read the words written. But there is a time that the heart knows that no matter if the words are read or not, that perhaps the external healing that one seeks can only be found within oneself.

Guided as we were, as even Old Gandalf would attest, by fates hand each of us found ourselves saying and doing things that we now regret. Things that would never have been spoken if some hand of the Valar had not thrust them into our mouths.

I remember well our last meeting upon Amon Hen. The flash of fire and pride that shone in your eyes, that burn and that need to save your family and friends. I did not understand it then. But I do now. I suppose in a sense it was that same fire that drove me from my home to begin the journey in the first place. I think; it is sometimes not forgiveness that we seek, but understanding. I wish that there was a way to tell you now, and even if I were able to send this back to Gondor to your brother, it would not reach the one to which the words were really meant.

There is no need for the former, because my friend,
I understand.

Frodo Baggins.
The Shire.
 - Dandyb

"Indeed in nothing is the power of the Dark Lord more clearly shown than in the estrangement that divides all those who still oppose him. " Haldir, Lothlorien, FotR

Estrangement Or
Was It Really Denethor’s Fault or the Dark Lord’s?

How I long to hold him in my arms, as when he was a babe. Not oft did I think beyond those moments. The feel of him was so right. My heart would soar.

Two sons! How could I be more blessed? My sister had three daughters birthed to her; her husband is still bitter. Yet I was blessed with two sons. I still wonder at the grace of it.

I would listen as he spoke his first words, garbled, yet delightful. Ada seemed easy enough, but when he called Boromir, B’eer, I lost my heart to him. Im’hil still loves the boy, even after his name was butchered. Who could not love him?

He stands before me now and my heart aches. I would have him imprisoned in his own quarters, anything to protect him, but the Enemy draws nigh and I must use him, in whatever way I can.

He will not understand; he will think I send him to his death. Is his regard for me so little? I know it is. Not only the wizard has come between us.

I give him his orders; he obeys. B’eer already lost; I will hold F’ah, if I can.


A/N – First, I have a two-year old grandbaby who absolutely butchers names. I have a list of LotR names that she has graciously told me how to pronounce. Boromir is B'eer and Faramir is F'ah and Imrahil is Im'hil. Giggles
Second, I wonder if, according to Haldir, it is really Sauron who caused the estrangement between Denethor and Faramir? Whispers of Sauron instead of whispers of the Ring?
- Agape4Rivendell


The Sound of Drums

The city of Minas Tirith is a proud one, and beautiful. If you have ever been there, in it's past years, you would know that it is a city of splendor.

But no more.

There is no laughter, no song, no wondrous beauty. Cold, hard stone surrounds the barren streets.

My home was once a marvelous capital, a jewel in the kingdom of Gondor.

It is about to be overrun with filth.

The tall, proud walls smash and the stone falls, crushing my fellow soldiers. Fire leaps up on the streets, and we can not put it out.

Will not put it out.

Maybe, we almost want it to burn. To start over. Make my city beautiful again.

But no. We have to keep fighting, for the hope that Minas Tirith can be a jewel in the future.

Will be a jewel.

The orcs come clambering in, vanquishing my comrades. I fight madly, keeping that spark of hope in my heart.

We think we have won. We have cheered and shouted.

Then it comes.

The orcs have planned something.

The noise wafts up to where I am. Our cheers die.

The orcs are lifting up a battering ram that looks like a wolf's head. They have stolen the cheers out of our mouths and returned them along a terrible noise, one that strikes fear into my heart.

The sound of drums.
- Harthad

The Parting

September 22, 1482

The fragrance of sea-salt hung in the air by the Grey Havens. Samwise Gamgee lifted his head up and gazed into the sky, watching the gulls wheel around. He turned to try and see the Tower Hills, where he gave the Red Book to Elanor.

It seemed like yesterday when he was reading stories to her, about Frodo, and the Ring. Now she was all grown up, probably reading tales to her own little ones.

Sam wiped a tear away that threatened to roll down his cheek.

How could it be, that when he knew that he would never find healing in the Shire, he was heartbroken to leave it?

Frodo's words came back to him, and he understood how his master felt, all those years before.

"My dear Sam, you can not always be torn in two, you were meant to be solid and whole, and you will be."

Sam felt like he had been healed, at least for a little while, but now the burden was back.

His eyes stared out at the sea, trying to catch some glimpse of Valinor.

He stared out with determination, with love, and with sadness.

Sam knew what was to be done.

He lifted his foot to place onto the wooden floor of the boat. . . . . .

- Harthad

Sound Carries

The darkness is overpowering as we step over the threshold of the doors of Moria. Gandalf has finally figured out the password and we were able to get in. Although this place doesn't look much better. . . .

I stick close to Merry as we make our way through the winding paths and tunnels. There is hardly any light coming in; the air is hot and stuffy which makes it difficult to breathe. Which makes sense, as we are under a mountain. I wonder if the dwarves who live here think it is a gloomy place with no light.

I think our danger has gotten more perilous since we entered. There are skeletons lying about, skeletons the size of dwarves! It seems that they will not give us a warm welcome after all. . .
Gimli is beside himself with sadness after seeing the tomb of his cousin, Balin. Gandalf picks up an old, worn and dusty book to maybe find out information as to how he died.

"There are drums in the deep. . . . . we cannot get out!"

I wander over to a well carrying Gandalf's hat and staff. I am quite getting bored and just a little nervous at all this talk of doom and death. There is a skeleton in old faded rags of clothing that has a gruesome smile. It is holding a piece of rock in it's hand. Curious, I reach out and touch it.


That one touch sends it down the well.

The whole skeleton follows it by the force of gravity. I turn to my companions with a fear-filled face. Gandalf runs over and grabs his hat and staff.

"You Fool of a Took! Throw yourself in next time and rid us of your stupidity!"



The drums are coming. . . . . we cannot get out.

- Harthad

Sounds of Home

Boromir sat under a tree, legs stretched out before him. Weary after long hours of trudging under the hot summer sun, the shade provided him welcome respite.

The resonant buzzing of cicadas filled the air, first growing loud, then ebbing away to begin again from another place. One strident fellow claimed the branches above Boromir’s head for his own, his drumming music bold and insistent.

Boromir smiled, pleased at the sound and filled with contentment. This song was common throughout Gondor, from the trees of his City to the fields and woods approaching the Sea.

He was far from home, but the sounds of home were with him, even here.
- Linaewen

Elros’ Gift

He sat astride his horse, looking down upon Minas Tirith from Mindolluin’s heights, and choked as tears closed his throat. He could see Elros’ influence in the architecture and was nonplussed. That his brother’s presence could be felt so markedly was staggering. He slipped from his mount, knelt on the grassy slope, bending over holding his sides, and wept, inconsolably.

When the wound in his heart closed to a dull gash, he stood. His eyes narrowed; his breath slowed. He examined the immense edifice before him, and began to smile. Marble. Everywhere. Various shades. He remembered how they had argued over Cirdan’s stronghold at the Havens. He thought pearls placed in every space in the palace were quite enough, but Elros had wanted marble everywhere. His smile broadened.

He looked further. Post and lintel construction dominated the individual buildings. His brother’s love for columns was apparent, as they seemed to run rampant through the various structures he could see from this distance. Columns, and this time he laughed uproariously, obelisks. He could see the tall spires of marble obelisks slicing the sky.

Tears once again closed his throat. He had not thought to encounter his brother in Minas Tirith’s architecture.


A/N – This occurs in the Third Age 2043. I’m pretty sure the Muse said it was early morning of the day of Eärnur’s coronation.

- Agape4Rivendell

Morning's Pain

Not many knew the shadows that haunted him. The face he showed was still. Burnt there by fire and smoke. And a father’s madness.

Faramir grimaced. Pain shot through him. He shouldn’t have stayed at his desk into the morning’s wee hours. The king’s hands had healed everything but the hip. The only outward showing of the devastating fall from the flaming pyre.

The king’s mind was focused on bringing me back from the dead, not on a hip. And the arrow in my shoulder, and the Black Breath. Obvious. A bitter chuckle escaped. The hip, not so obvious.

His gait had changed. I wonder how long before my liege discovers it. His heart and mind are on Gondor and its needs. I cannot ask for more than I have already received.

He hobbled to the window. Morning! Already? He had yet to start on the contracts that were due in but an hour’s time. He lowered his head, eyes clenched shut as another spasm of pain ran from his hip to every part of his body.

When the spasm stopped, he walked to his cupboard and pulled out a fresh tunic. He didn’t have time to go to his rooms to bathe. He found the willow bark tea as he had left it last night, before he fell asleep sitting up. He swallowed it, cold.

Tasty. Just what my stomach needed. In fact, his stomach rejected most foods since the Hallows’ incident. Incident. He laughed. Tears fell. Anger roiled inside that stomach. Pain wrenched through it. How am I supposed to eat when my own body attacks me?

Enough of this! I have been saved from death. I have someone who holds me dear. Ah, Éowyn. If only you were here now. Come back soon, love. Come back soon.

- Agape4Rivendell


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