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Lord of the Rings Drabbles - Gen

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"A wizard never lies, my good Dwarf." That was what Gandalf had said, when Thorin questioned him. Glóin believed that, but there were many ways to stretch the truth. Take the present situation. Burglar? If the Hobbit in whose hole they now sat was a burglar, Glóin would eat his own hood. He tried to remember the wizard's exact words.

"I have found the one to be your burglar." Bilbo Baggins looked like a grocer, not a burglar. Maybe he would become one, and justify Gandalf's words? Glóin resolved to pay closer attention to just what Gandalf said, another time.

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How had the years rolled past so quickly? Estel had been a serious-browed toddler only the day before yesterday, it seemed, and now he stood before Elrond a grown man, or nearly so, waiting to take his blessing and leave. He looked more like Elros than had any of his ancestors, and that shook his foster-father. Abruptly Elrond said, "I have this for you." He brought out a sword, its pommel plain and its sheath dark leather, and placed it in Estel's hands. "This is no heirloom, but you are not ready for Narsil, nor is it ready for you."

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Silver bark is smooth and cool against his face. He leans against the trunk; his arms embrace only a fraction of the great tree's girth, but he fancies he can feel it quiver in response. Distantly he senses the sap rising to feed the mallorn's golden leaves. "Goodbye, my old friend," Haldir whispers. "I go west. Perhaps I will find your kindred there." A rustle comes from high above. It might be a bird, a squirrel, a gust of wind – but it is a last farewell from one who cannot leave. A single golden hair flutters, held by the bark.

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Fangorn looms before us: Gimli, Legolas, and myself. There are no more Orcs to pursue since the victory of the Rohirrim. Were our three days of weary pursuit across the plains of Rohan in vain, then? I think not, for we may yet find Meriadoc and Pippin. Those silly Hobbits. They have entered a wood where they must beware; even Legolas finds it disconcerting. But he should prefer this to traveling with the other pair of Halflings; the desert of Gorgoroth would be far worse. Here, at least, are green and living things. Frodo and Sam have the harder task.

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Your presence still lingers here, Ada. Even though to my knowledge you only visited Minas Tirith once, for my wedding, I expect to meet you around each corner. I do not regret my choice - for me it was no choice - but surely there is some irony in the fact that I now remain in Middle-earth, when long ago it was you who chose to stay. But you are present to me daily: I see you dimly reflected in Elessar, descended from your own great father. I see you in Elessar's son. Most of all, I see you in my memories.

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The Dead traveled behind us, then, and lent the speed of fear to our horses as we crossed the plains of Lebennin. Gimli withstood it well, though I could see that dread was upon him, as it was even upon my own Dúnedain. Only the Elves showed no outward sign of care at the company we kept.

They acted as they were bid, here at Pelargir, and swept the Corsairs from their ships. Their oath is fulfilled. Now I shall carry out my half of the bargain we made at the Stone of Erech, and set them free at last.

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They urged me to sleep, Legolas and Gimli, and the sons of Elrond also. But I could not sleep, not with time pressing upon us so. So instead I pace the deck of this great ship with its heavy black sail hanging useless as the men row. The sky glows red to the north; Minas Tirith burns.

Wait – is that a breath of air? It is! "Raise sails, all of you! The dawn comes, and we shall soon see the spike of the White Tower against the mountain. Make ready for battle, and hope our arrival is not too late."

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The old Hobbit stirred his tea. He lifted the acorn-handled spoon from the cup, stared at it, and said, "Do you know, I had four dozen of these before I went on my adventure."

Frodo knew what Bilbo would say next, but nevertheless asked obediently, "What happened to them?"

Bilbo set down the spoon and leaned back. "The Sackville-Bagginses, I think. Otho and Lobelia were so annoyed that I returned to Bag End." He grinned. "At least, my boy, it was only the teaspoons that went missing; losing the bottles of Old Winyards would have been far harder to bear."

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The pungent scent of pipe-weed that always seemed to cling to Aragorn's clothing woke Legolas when the Ranger was still in the midst of leaning down to tap his shoulder and tell him it was time for his watch.

"Does not Arwen object?" asked Legolas.

"To what?"

Legolas nodded at the pipe Aragorn held. "To the habit you have borrowed from the Hobbits. Or the Wizard?"

"She never has yet," said Aragorn. "If it offended her, I think she would have spoken."

"Perhaps. Or perhaps she is waiting until you can no longer escape before she tries to change you."

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The four Hobbits were all asleep, curled up together in a tumbled bundle of blankets. Gimli snored softly on the other side of the fire. Next to him Legolas made a rounded hump under his own cover, with only part of his face exposed to the chill night air.

Aragorn leaned back against the rough bark of a great oak and drew on his pipe. Beside him Gandalf did likewise, loosing a thin stream of smoke from his lips. They shared a thoughtful glance as Boromir paced restlessly across the moonlit space of the clearing in which they were encamped.

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The wind blew thinly through their fur cloaks as they rode into the fast-darkening afternoon. This night would be the longest of the year; it was a time to huddle indoors, over a fire blazing to remind everyone that the sun would return again. At midnight they would drink a toast to the light, then feast on honey-cakes, warm and fragrant with spices bought dearly from the south. The horses, too, would each receive a token cake. But that would be only if the éored reached home safely. The heavy grey skies, now shedding pale clots of snow, threatened otherwise.

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It was late, almost time for old Harry Goatleaf to shut the gates for the night, when they came in – a pair of Rangers as like to one another as newborn lambs, though newborn they certainly were not. They shook me off as I stepped to serve them, and went straight to the fellow Strider, off in the corner with a bowl of mutton stew. And then, if you’ll credit it, the man smiled, and rose and clasped hands with them, and called me over to bring ale for his friends. But I know if a Ranger smiles, best beware.

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When young Frodo Baggins finally sold us Bag End and went off back to his own people in Buckland, I thought we had won, but I was wrong. My foolish Lotho. Why did you ever turn to the Big Men? We Hobbits should stand on our own two feet, but when I did, they dragged me in here. At least I was able to give them something to remember me by.

With that thought, and a smile a trifle malicious, the old Hobbit-woman’s eyes closed. Even curled up on her hard pallet in the Lockholes, she clutched her umbrella firmly.

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It was nearly dusk. The last rays of the westering sun shone through the falling water at Henneth Annûn, splintered into fragments of multicolored light by the rushing drops, glinting off the damp stone. The caverns smelled of rock and moisture; no longer were there soldiers filling them with their noise and sweat. Faramir drifted through the once-familiar spaces. He recalled Frodo and Samwise there, terrified yet resolute, and his own resolve to assist them as he could. He had not been back to the waterfall since the end of the war; now he laid old ghosts quietly to rest.

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You chose well, Celebrimbor, to give me Nenya. I have the will to wield the Ring of Adamant, and to resist the suasion of Sauron. Oh, I am not fool enough to challenge him directly. Never fear that. But the Ring of Water – well, water can split stone or wear it away, given enough time, can it not? And on the other hand, it nourishes, it sustains all life. So I will wear this ring, I will use it to make a garden for those who wish to dwell at peace, and yet work against the arts of the Enemy.

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Always before when I returned to my uncle's halls, he had welcomed me as befits a kinsman and the Third Marshal of the Mark. But this time, in my absence, Wormtongue's poisonous words had at last achieved their purpose, and I had scarcely spoken of the strangers whom I had met on the plain when Théoden had me haled off to a cell, deemed a traitor. Even then, I hoped that my cousin Théodred would intercede for me when he returned from the Westmark. But hope failed; for the gaol-keeper told me that Théodred had been slain, ambushed by Orcs.

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Ithilien. Faramir knew this land well, but today, chasing a pair of Orcs with Mablung, they had found the decayed remnants of a farmstead he had never before seen, near a nameless stream feeding into the Anduin. The Orcs attempted to hide, but fruitlessly. Afterward Faramir wandered behind the broken walls into the overgrown garden. A plum tree shed its pale petals into the tangled dry remnants of last summer's growth, the first buds of leaves springing green on its twigs. He laid his hand on the rough bark, and promised that one day the land should be tended again.

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I didn't want it to end this way. I have failed, failed – Frodo has run off, I know not where, and the Orcs have taken Merry and Pippin. I tried, I did try, to save them, to atone. The blood fills my lungs, I can feel it there, I breathe shallowly but it will not help. Are they come back to finish me? No, it is Aragorn, kneeling by me. I have failed there too, I would not acknowledge him. Now, though, I can take this moment to confess, to beg him to do what I could not – my king.

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Too late, too late. The words beat in my brain as I fell to my knees beside him. He had sounded his horn, called for help – and I knew what that must have cost him – and I had tried to reach him, but too late. He was dying. I began to look at his wounds, knowing the futility of it, but he stopped me, told me that the Orcs had taken Merry and Pippin, that he had failed to protect them. And then – he called me his brother, his captain, his king. Boromir was the first to call me king.

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It had been more the remnants of filial loyalty that had persuaded Faramir to support King Elessar's commitment to rebuild Osgiliath than any feeling that the work was vital to the kingdom. Gondor had been overstretched for generations; it seemed to Faramir that the inhabited cities, the newly built towns of Ithilien, the roads and bridges in disrepair across the land deserved first call on the king's treasury. But today, watching the king and his queen stand on the newly-rebuilt bridge across the Anduin, blessing the efforts so far and those yet to come, Faramir was convinced of Elessar's farsightedness.

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Boromir took the steps two at a time. For once he had good news of the situation in Ithilien to report to the Steward and his council.

 

"So cheerful, my lad?"

He stopped abruptly, looking to see who had addressed him so. "Mithrandir. What brings you to Minas Tirith?"

"Your father's excellent library, and your brother," said the wizard. "But Faramir has been sent off to Rohan to negotiate a trade agreement, grain for the famine in the western provinces."

Boromir frowned. "Is that all he is doing?"

"I think not. But of that you may know more than I."

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Aragorn stretched his legs under the table and poured another cup of wine. Official business over, he could ask a question that he had wondered about for some time.

 

"When you first saw me on the plains of Rohan, chasing Orcs with Gimli and Legolas, why were you trusting enough to let us go, even giving us horses?"

His fellow king lifted the silver vessel engraved with seven stars and drank deeply. "I saw my uncle fall from authority to impotence under Gríma's influence," Éomer said. "How could I not recognize true royalty when I saw it, under whatever guise?"

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In my memory, my father is always at his forge. I know, when I stop to think about it, that this is not true; he slept, he ate. He took my brothers and me to see the Two Trees more than once, but what I recall of those journeys is the flash in his eyes and the sound of his voice, speculation on how he could capture their light into imperishable crystal of his own forging. As his longing to succeed grew more intense, he became less of a father, more the embodiment of his name: Fëanor, spirit of fire.

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His mother's family lived near the river. She told him of learning to swim, of being thrown from the bank by her elder brother so that she splashed fearfully, yet later coming to love the way the icy springtime waters closed over her head.

Gríma has never swum. All his life has been spent on the ground or on horseback – solidity. Until now. He has ridden to Isengard to meet with Saruman, who has promised him the desire of his heart, and he thinks, looking at the wizard, that this must be what it is like to dive into blackness.

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They scrambled along the crumbling clifftops, laughing, two dark-haired children.

"Careful!" The elder, a girl, put out her hand to stay her brother from slipping over the edge.

"My arms aren't long enough," he complained. "I can't reach the nest; you'll have to do it, Finduilas."

"I'll hold you so that you can stretch further. There."

He stood triumphant with the egg in his hands. "Now what?"

"Now we put it to one of the hens until it hatches. Carry it carefully, Im."

Imrahil rolled his eyes, but obediently cradled the fragile shell as he trotted behind her back home.

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Denethor remembers seeing his father Ecthelion take up the rod of the Stewards after his own father Turgon had died. The ceremony is grim, reminding all present not only of the Steward's death, but of Gondor's lack of a king.

As a child he held the white rod more than once in play, Ecthelion laughing at him. "So eager to bear this weight, my son?"

It had not seemed heavy then. It was but a wand of white-painted wood, capped with a golden knob. Now Denethor lifts it and feels the burden of centuries of hopeless guardianship descend upon him.

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They have been together all their lives. Amrod was first-born, by a few moments, but since then rare have been the times of separation. Both rejoice in the hunt above all, moving in tandem through forest and field after their quarry.

Amras first realizes that their cousin Artanis is the fairest maiden among the Noldor, her hair capturing the light of the Two Trees in living gold. When they kneel before her to proclaim their love, however, she laughs at them kindly, and says that she can marry but one. They withdraw their suit, with good will among them all.

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"Why are you here?" Éowyn demanded.

Faramir would have preferred to fob her off, but nothing leapt to mind. Though Théoden-King wished their negotiations to be secret, surely the girl herself might know?

"I'm here on behalf of my brother," he said.

"Doing what?"

"My father wishes him to be betrothed."

She nodded wisely. "My cousin has no sisters, so you speak of me to my uncle."

"Yes," Faramir admitted. "Do you mind?"

She shook her head. "Your brother is a great warrior, I have heard Théodred say it. If he will let me fight, then I should be happy."

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I have observed Elves more closely than any other Hobbit, I daresay, and noticed a resemblance which may not be flattering, but is worth jotting down. Elves are very like cats. Generally calm and watchful, even appearing lazy, but ever-aware of what goes on around them. When startled or angry, they can command a presence to seem twice as large and threatening as usual. One should not push the resemblance too far, however. I am far fonder of Elves than of cats, and I should not like to imagine Elrond's reaction if someone were to set him to catch mice.

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Merry stretched out his feet towards the fire. "We did well, didn't we, Pip?"

"We did indeed," Pippin agreed from his armchair. His hair was white, these days, and he had talked of an ear trumpet. Merry himself was creaky at the knees.

"The best years of our lives."

"No."

When Merry looked at him in surprise, Pippin said, "Not the best. The most important."

"True."

They had lost Frodo, after all, soon enough thereafter, and much of the quest and the war had been far closer to terrifying than exhilarating.

"I'm glad we were there together, in any case."

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The chill wind snapped with sleet. Aragorn had hoped that he would be able to spend Midwinter Night at the Prancing Pony, but his path had run otherwise.

He half-filled a pot with water, adding dried meat and vegetables to simmer into a hearty stew overnight. For now, he must make do with bread and cheese. He wrapped himself in his blankets and gazed at the fire, recalling his youth in Elrond's house, the candles and garlands, the roasts and puddings there. He regretted leaving none of them behind; only wished he could be certain of seeing Arwen once more.

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Éowyn found, at first, that she missed Rohan's plains, the sweep of grasses first green and then golden in season, the immensity of the skies above as she rode across the land. Ithilien, with its tree-grown hillsides, was strange to her — not unlovely, not at all, but she felt that the density of the woodland pressed in upon her spirit. It was not until she and Faramir took a month to ride together through their realm, he showing her all he knew of it, that she truly felt at home amid the ilex and oak, tamarisk and terebinth, cypress and cedar.

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"To your coming-of-age." Elrohir passed the filled wine goblet.

"Thank you, foster-brother," Aragorn murmured. "I confess to being somewhat overcome."

A rare smile lighted Elladan's face. "Shall we retell stories of the mischief you used to make?"

"How shall we ever choose from among so many tales?" chimed in Elrohir. "There was the frog incident when you were what, four?"

"And of course the jam disaster," added Elladan.

Aragorn flushed to have his childhood misadventures thus recalled, but he laughed nonetheless; it helped to make less intimidating the new duties and identity he had learned he would have to assume.

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Water was Númenor's birthplace: jewel of the sea, her five arms flung out like a star to let the waves caress them. From the bosom of the isle springs of sweet water flowed to quench her inhabitants' thirst and water their fields and orchards and vineyards in season. Winter rains might lash the island, but the sparkling drops and graceful rainbows of summer adorned her like the garments of a queen. Born from water, cradled within it, sustained by it -- it was only meet that the fair isle of Númenor should meet her final end beneath the great green waves.

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His years in the forests of his home had been but preparation for this, his true destiny, Legolas thought. The sigh of wind in the trees, the laments of small hunted things, the ripple of grass -- they were but foreshadowings of the wild crash of the sea, the cry of gulls, the ever-changing waves.

One day he would go sailing westward over the great ocean, tasting salt spray for many weeks before finally reaching the Blessed Land, but for now he was content to dwell upon the shore and assist in building the last of the ships of the Elves.

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"We would be delighted to have your family spend Yule with us, Mistress Gamgee."

Sam held his breath, hoping.

"Well, now," said his mother slowly. "I'll ask Ham; he's helping Mister Bolger with his barns today, over in Bywater."

"Send young Sam with your answer tomorrow, then." Old Mister Bilbo's eyes crinkled as he smiled.

"Please, Mama," Sam begged once he was gone.

His mother tousled his hair. "I expect we will, Sam. Yule is a time for families, but poor Mister Bilbo and Mister Frodo are alone up at Bag End, so we should go and bring them cheer."

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The stables were warm, compared to the crispness of the autumn air, and pungent with the scents of fresh hay, old wood, horses' sweat, and manure.

It was the last that Arwen sought. At her request a pile of it had been rotting in the south corner since mid-summer. She began to shovel the fertilizer into a wheelbarrow.

"My lady!"

She turned. A stablehand wearing a scandalized expression was hurrying toward her.

"Please, allow me to do this for you," he said earnestly.

Arwen stood back and spread her hands in acquiescence. She was as strong as he, and dressed suitably for the task, but she was becoming accustomed to the way these men of Gondor acted toward women. She would allow him to shovel and haul, if he insisted, but would prepare the earth of her flowerbeds herself-and none but she and Aragorn would tend the White Tree.

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"I fear Yule here is dull compared with Brandy Hall," apologized Bilbo. He had asked his young cousin to stay, thinking that Frodo might be happier away from the place of his parents' death this first year, but now he had second thoughts. "Living alone, I haven't gone in for big celebrations."

Frodo shrugged and kicked at the floor. "That's all right."

Bilbo repressed a sigh. "I'll tell you what," he tried again. "The Gamgees have two lads about your age or a bit older. Would you like to ask them over for the day?"

A happy smile answered him.

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Imrahil watched as the Steward's son adjusted his garments. Denethor's nervousness reassured Imrahil, if only slightly, that emotion did affect him after all.

"Are you ready?"

"I believe so, yes." Denethor took a deep breath. "I look forward to having you as a brother."

"And I you," Imrahil replied equably, although he remained doubtful about the wisdom of Finduilas's choice. His sister was convinced that Denethor loved her, but Imrahil wondered how that love would be shown over time.

"Remember, however, that you are taking the dearest treasure of Dol Amroth for your own; do not fail to cherish her."

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Fëanor was content until he bethought him of making jewels to capture the light of the Two Trees. Long he laboured, casting aside each failure though Nerdanel assured him they were lovely in their own right.

In time he discovered how to accomplish his aim, and wrought the first Silmaril. Two others he made to demonstrate that the first was no result of luck nor chance, but he would make no more after those. Such a glorious creation would have less worth were it common, and for that reason he refused to share with anyone the secrets of their making.

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Aragorn stretched out his legs comfortably and pulled at his pipe. It was good to be warm, not out in the midwinter weather. He had enjoyed fresh-baked bread and mashed turnips, the sort of food a Ranger did not often get, with his roast meat.

Tonight's company was small, but Aragorn enjoyed listening to the jokes and stories told, though he remained in his dim corner. Bree-men and hobbits were not comfortable with his sort; he would not intrude on them.

The innkeeper bustled past and refilled Aragorn's flagon.

"Thank you," said Aragorn, lifting it in salute. "Happy Yule, Barliman."