tanaquilotr (![[info]](http://p-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} tanaquilotr) wrote,@ 2004-09-01 21:10:00 |
|
Some old drabbles, for the sake of completeness
Paranoidangel wanted something about Elrond and Faramir
A refuge for the weary
He is wise: a master of lore beyond measure of Man. And it is no great matter on which I yearn to question him.
He has lived long years: since before the world was changed, before ever the Edain went Starwards. My concerns must be as passing ripples on a stream to him.
He is a master of healing, yet my hurt is naught: a burden of the heart.
Still, he also lost a brother in a far land, and learnt of it only later.
“Master Elrond, your pardon, may I beg a moment to speak of my brother, Boromir…?”
***
Riverotter wanted something dealing with Dol Amroth in the Fourth Age.
Returning from a wedding
Father and sons sat silently as dusk fell. A few brief sentences had been enough to share the day’s news.
The space around the chair seemed naked, stripped of its clutter of overflowing workboxes and abandoned books.
The woman paused at the door, catching the sombre mood, but the boy ran ahead, intent on his goal of asking his uncles for help making a toy boat.
As the child’s laughing questions restored the customary chatter, Imrahil stood and held out his arm to his daughter-in-law. He led her to the chair. “Why don’t you sit over here now, my dear.”
***
Flick asked for how someone, great or small, named or unnamed, would remember Boromir
Legacies
Faramir blinked in surprise as Pippin turned his blade and stepped inside his guard. When he had agreed to spar with the Halfling, he had not expected him to be so… competent.
“Where did you learn that?” he asked suspiciously as Pippin moved back.
“Boromir taught Merry and me some things.” Pippin caught the pained expression that flitted across Faramir’s face. “I’m sorry, my lord–.” he stammered.
Faramir raised a hand and smiled. “He was a good teacher. I should have remembered he taught me never to underestimate an opponent. Let us see what other legacies he left for us.”
***
Eämirë wanted a drabble about the Nirnaeth
Defiance
The Men of Dor-lómin hold the way, so that a new star may rise.
He is the last. Never has axe been so wielded, yet the enemy is as numberless as the tears. He falls, crushed beneath the weight of hewed hands that still cling.
His thoughts fly to wife and son and child-to-be. How will they fare? His wife will be a mother to their people; his son a warrior to make his forefathers proud; the babe’s fate he knows not.
Day shall come again: from the House of Hador will spring the last hopes of Men and Elves.
***
nutterzoi wanted Elrond and *a* family member
Mother and Son
She comes to meet me on the quay. Star-spray amidst the mist of the sea as it frets against the stones of the Swan-haven. Two ages of the world since our hands last touched.
I have been war captain and lore master, counsellor and comrade. Yet I am shy before her, wondering if my deeds will please her, make her proud. I am sad also I have brought no grandchild to gladden her heart. I fear, in truth, she may know none of them.
She takes my hands and smiles, and I find I have not misremembered all these years.
***
Dwim asked for Beregond or Bergil (or both)
New Home
Beregond watched anxiously as Bergil looked around the courtyard at the new-built officers’ houses, while the sound of drill-practice drifted through the gateway.
“No market?” the boy asked dubiously.
“Not yet.”
“No school?” That sounded more hopeful.
Beregond laughed. “That has been started. There are several families here.”
A boy came out of one of the other houses. He and Bergil eyed each other, before Bergil crossed to speak with him. Soon, Bergil turned and waved to his father. “Falborn is going to show me a bird’s nest!”
Beregond smiled. At last he has a chance to be a boy!
***
Gronyats said: I have been rather fascinated by Imrahil lately. I recall that Imrahil is a dreamer. I would love to read a drabble about one of his "dreams" or "visions".
Seeing
My family dream big dreams. It is the gift – or the curse – of our elven heritage.
Yet my visions are small.
My sons have survived the war. The laughter of their children fills my home and gladdens my heart. We have peace with Umbar, so they will never again face those same perils.
My daughter has made a marriage both honourable and pleasing to her. (It is well, too, that a man should like the father of his grandchildren!)
My nephew has found happiness amidst his grief.
My family dream big dreams. I see the present – and I am content.
***
Starlight wanted a drabble about cultural exchanges… or to hear about our favorite character.
A good custom
“A birthday present?” Faramir frowned. “You must be mistaken. My birthday is not for some months.”
“No, it’s mine.” Pippin explained. “Hobbits give presents to others on their own birthdays. It means we each get something most weeks. It’s a good custom!”
“Yes, I can see that.” Faramir laughed. “I shall have to remember it.” He bowed to Pippin. “My thanks and my best wishes for your birthday.”
Yet Pippin knew he had received the better gift when he saw the delight that lit Faramir’s face as he unrolled a little pencil sketch of Boromir that the hobbit had drawn.
***
Gwynnyd apparently likes pre-War Aragorn a lot. Hmm... I hadn't noticed... ;-)
Wandering in the Wild
Another night of hard cold. No breath of wind. On evenings such as these, he builds the fire and watches bright Eärendil sail westward.
He prefers the cold to the wet. The worst are the spring rains, when icy fingers find their way into all his gear and it seems he will never be dry. The stars are clouded then. On autumn nights, they come and go in the scurrying wrack, uncertain, unsettled, and he fears the lazy wind of the morrow.
Yet whatever the weather, always he is warmed by memories of a night of midsummer, and his Evenstar.
***
Gwynnyd also likes Pippin; there's so much more to Pippin than a bumbling clown. And I and Marta have her hooked on Faramir.
A prince among Halflings
It is the coronation of my King, but we also honour the Halflings. Two who saved all Middle-earth. And two who saved that dearest to me alone.
Merry comes cheerfully to greet us. His cousin holds back; we are both a little shy. When last we met, I did not know what had befallen, nor the part he played.
“Peregrin, son of Paladin,” my voice seems as stiff as my bow, “you have served Gondor well and her Steward thanks you.”
Yet more is needed. I kneel so our faces are level. “Pippin,” I take his hands, “I thank you.”
***
Lady Aranel wanted Legolas, Legolas, Legolas....
Cruel Caradhras
I did not feel the cold of the snows, nor fear the voices in the wind. My heart was as light as my feet when I went to find the Sun.
How could I know that the brightness I truly loved lived in those stout bodies and brave hearts, struggling with the elements of Arda?
I thought I loved the woods and the waters, yet it was not the trees nor the singing streams that made me fight the call of the sea.
I feel the chill of their departing and I fear the spaces where their voices will be.
***
And more Legolas, Legolas, Legolas for Lady Aranel....
And there make a garden
The steward watched as the elf paced around the room, passionately expounding his ideas. He wondered if this was some kind of test on the part of the King. At last, Legolas ceased speaking.
Faramir pointed to the map, covered with a tracery of notes and cross-hatchings added as the damage to the City had been surveyed.
“Did you have a particular part of the City in mind for these plans?”
Suddenly a smile lit Legolas’s face.
“I believe the Prince of Ithilien is in need of assistance planning the garden in Emyn Arnen he promised to the White Lady….”
***
Marta wanted something in some way involving a dwarf.
From the Eastern Force.
They are grim-faced, but we welcome them as comrades, for their hearts are true. Their reach is short but their blows fall heavy on our foes. Like the stones some say they spring from, they were made to endure.
Yet their grief for the Fallen is no less than ours.
The Worm, deep-wounded by Naugrim knife, flees the field, and the beasts of Angband follow. We shout our joy.
Yet they mark it not. We see them leave, bearing their lord: steps slow; voices deep; mourning, unmindful as the battle rages still.
Their hearts are spent, now weep we all.
***
Marta added that, if dwarves didn't inspire, she also wouldn't say no to something involving pre-Ring War Denethor.
Victory
Victory!
The fleet is burnt. The old enemy is defeated. Loud in the streets the people sound the name of the great captain who has wrought this triumph.
Yet he is not here to hear their praise.
Other tasks now call me, lord, and much time and many perils must pass, ere I come again to Gondor, if that be my fate.
The steward’s son listens to the message and bows his head.
Where has he gone? What other tasks outweigh needs of Gondor? What perils does he face?
When will he return?
May fate be kind indeed! he thinks.
***
Kristi wanted anything with Éowyn and Faramir in it. Éomer muscled his way in on this one too...
A good match
“Are you quite sure about this?”
Éomer cast an uncertain glance across the room at the grave young man talking to the King of Gondor. Yet Éowyn’s face glowed with more happiness than he had seen in years. Too many years.
“Quite sure.” Éowyn patted his arm comfortingly. “It is a good match.”
“I know that.” Éomer frowned. “But will you be happy?”
His voice trailed off as a dark-haired young woman approached Steward and King. “Who is that?” he breathed.
Éowyn laughed. “The noblest lady in Gondor, and soon to be my cousin. Would you like an introduction?”
“Aye!”
***
A drabble written for Cheryl to commemorate her horse Banjo
Pride
Éomer swallowed a curse and rubbed his knee. This one had been trouble from the moment he was born. From before. Hind legs first and still inclined to use them, it seemed.
He ignored Théodred’s gentle jibes and watched the week-old colt scamper around the small paddock. Grace and power were already evident amongst the caperings. Soon, the foal came back to his patient mother and butted her blindly. She nudged him hard, until he finally fastened on.
Firm handling. Patience. Love.
“I shall call you Firefoot, my friend,” Eomer murmured, “and teach you to use those hooves in battle!”
***
A new age
I watch as Elboron kneels and places his hands between Father’s. He rises Prince of Ithilien, Steward of Gondor. How strange to see his fair crown, in place of raven locks, bent by Father’s.
They both seemed as men in their prime, until the Prince gave back the gift.
One day, my father, too, will give back the gift. I cannot imagine the world without him.
Time wears slow here, yet I see suddenly the passing of an age. It is we who will carry the world forward. I am glad Elboron and his sons will be at my side.
***
First Anniversary
Éowyn examined the trays of seedlings and cuttings.
“How did you persuade the Herbmaster–?”
“I am Steward, my love. Besides, I told him you would spend less time raiding his stores if you had your own.”
She smiled up at him. “I have a gift also. Lend me your hand.”
He gave her a puzzled look but did as she bid. Swiftly she laid the strong, gentle fingers on her stomach. For a moment, he did not seem to understand. Then she saw his grey eyes go wide with shock. She laughed and he caught her delight.
“Happy Anniversary, fæder!”
***
The Greater Gift
I lean forward eagerly. The salt air is mingled now with a sweet fragrance I had near forgot: one all the elanor and niphredil and roses of Imloth Melui could not match.
The grey rain-curtain that drops its sweet dew on us draws back. How many years is it since I saw those white shores and the far green country beyond? Long years, weary years, since I trod the quays of the swan-havens.
Beside me, the Halfling gives a gasp of wonder and delight.
I touch his shoulder in thanks. He offered me the Ring. I took the greater gift.
***
Written for Raksha's birthday
Risk and Reward
His fingers shake as he unwraps this glorious gift. He fears what he offers in return will not be sufficient.
Lips touch gold and cream and pink, glowing in the soft candlelight; his tongue savours her sweet taste as he breathes her in. His movements are slow, deliberate, careful, though his heart and breath are quickening. Her face is turned to him like a day’s eye to the sun; her touch on him assures him she returns his love.
Making her his, and he hers, at last, is like a homecoming to a place he has only known in dreams.
***
Paranoidangel wanted something about Elrond and Faramir
A refuge for the weary
He is wise: a master of lore beyond measure of Man. And it is no great matter on which I yearn to question him.
He has lived long years: since before the world was changed, before ever the Edain went Starwards. My concerns must be as passing ripples on a stream to him.
He is a master of healing, yet my hurt is naught: a burden of the heart.
Still, he also lost a brother in a far land, and learnt of it only later.
“Master Elrond, your pardon, may I beg a moment to speak of my brother, Boromir…?”
***
Riverotter wanted something dealing with Dol Amroth in the Fourth Age.
Returning from a wedding
Father and sons sat silently as dusk fell. A few brief sentences had been enough to share the day’s news.
The space around the chair seemed naked, stripped of its clutter of overflowing workboxes and abandoned books.
The woman paused at the door, catching the sombre mood, but the boy ran ahead, intent on his goal of asking his uncles for help making a toy boat.
As the child’s laughing questions restored the customary chatter, Imrahil stood and held out his arm to his daughter-in-law. He led her to the chair. “Why don’t you sit over here now, my dear.”
***
Flick asked for how someone, great or small, named or unnamed, would remember Boromir
Legacies
Faramir blinked in surprise as Pippin turned his blade and stepped inside his guard. When he had agreed to spar with the Halfling, he had not expected him to be so… competent.
“Where did you learn that?” he asked suspiciously as Pippin moved back.
“Boromir taught Merry and me some things.” Pippin caught the pained expression that flitted across Faramir’s face. “I’m sorry, my lord–.” he stammered.
Faramir raised a hand and smiled. “He was a good teacher. I should have remembered he taught me never to underestimate an opponent. Let us see what other legacies he left for us.”
***
Eämirë wanted a drabble about the Nirnaeth
Defiance
The Men of Dor-lómin hold the way, so that a new star may rise.
He is the last. Never has axe been so wielded, yet the enemy is as numberless as the tears. He falls, crushed beneath the weight of hewed hands that still cling.
His thoughts fly to wife and son and child-to-be. How will they fare? His wife will be a mother to their people; his son a warrior to make his forefathers proud; the babe’s fate he knows not.
Day shall come again: from the House of Hador will spring the last hopes of Men and Elves.
***
nutterzoi wanted Elrond and *a* family member
Mother and Son
She comes to meet me on the quay. Star-spray amidst the mist of the sea as it frets against the stones of the Swan-haven. Two ages of the world since our hands last touched.
I have been war captain and lore master, counsellor and comrade. Yet I am shy before her, wondering if my deeds will please her, make her proud. I am sad also I have brought no grandchild to gladden her heart. I fear, in truth, she may know none of them.
She takes my hands and smiles, and I find I have not misremembered all these years.
***
Dwim asked for Beregond or Bergil (or both)
New Home
Beregond watched anxiously as Bergil looked around the courtyard at the new-built officers’ houses, while the sound of drill-practice drifted through the gateway.
“No market?” the boy asked dubiously.
“Not yet.”
“No school?” That sounded more hopeful.
Beregond laughed. “That has been started. There are several families here.”
A boy came out of one of the other houses. He and Bergil eyed each other, before Bergil crossed to speak with him. Soon, Bergil turned and waved to his father. “Falborn is going to show me a bird’s nest!”
Beregond smiled. At last he has a chance to be a boy!
***
Gronyats said: I have been rather fascinated by Imrahil lately. I recall that Imrahil is a dreamer. I would love to read a drabble about one of his "dreams" or "visions".
Seeing
My family dream big dreams. It is the gift – or the curse – of our elven heritage.
Yet my visions are small.
My sons have survived the war. The laughter of their children fills my home and gladdens my heart. We have peace with Umbar, so they will never again face those same perils.
My daughter has made a marriage both honourable and pleasing to her. (It is well, too, that a man should like the father of his grandchildren!)
My nephew has found happiness amidst his grief.
My family dream big dreams. I see the present – and I am content.
***
Starlight wanted a drabble about cultural exchanges… or to hear about our favorite character.
A good custom
“A birthday present?” Faramir frowned. “You must be mistaken. My birthday is not for some months.”
“No, it’s mine.” Pippin explained. “Hobbits give presents to others on their own birthdays. It means we each get something most weeks. It’s a good custom!”
“Yes, I can see that.” Faramir laughed. “I shall have to remember it.” He bowed to Pippin. “My thanks and my best wishes for your birthday.”
Yet Pippin knew he had received the better gift when he saw the delight that lit Faramir’s face as he unrolled a little pencil sketch of Boromir that the hobbit had drawn.
***
Gwynnyd apparently likes pre-War Aragorn a lot. Hmm... I hadn't noticed... ;-)
Wandering in the Wild
Another night of hard cold. No breath of wind. On evenings such as these, he builds the fire and watches bright Eärendil sail westward.
He prefers the cold to the wet. The worst are the spring rains, when icy fingers find their way into all his gear and it seems he will never be dry. The stars are clouded then. On autumn nights, they come and go in the scurrying wrack, uncertain, unsettled, and he fears the lazy wind of the morrow.
Yet whatever the weather, always he is warmed by memories of a night of midsummer, and his Evenstar.
***
Gwynnyd also likes Pippin; there's so much more to Pippin than a bumbling clown. And I and Marta have her hooked on Faramir.
A prince among Halflings
It is the coronation of my King, but we also honour the Halflings. Two who saved all Middle-earth. And two who saved that dearest to me alone.
Merry comes cheerfully to greet us. His cousin holds back; we are both a little shy. When last we met, I did not know what had befallen, nor the part he played.
“Peregrin, son of Paladin,” my voice seems as stiff as my bow, “you have served Gondor well and her Steward thanks you.”
Yet more is needed. I kneel so our faces are level. “Pippin,” I take his hands, “I thank you.”
***
Lady Aranel wanted Legolas, Legolas, Legolas....
Cruel Caradhras
I did not feel the cold of the snows, nor fear the voices in the wind. My heart was as light as my feet when I went to find the Sun.
How could I know that the brightness I truly loved lived in those stout bodies and brave hearts, struggling with the elements of Arda?
I thought I loved the woods and the waters, yet it was not the trees nor the singing streams that made me fight the call of the sea.
I feel the chill of their departing and I fear the spaces where their voices will be.
***
And more Legolas, Legolas, Legolas for Lady Aranel....
And there make a garden
The steward watched as the elf paced around the room, passionately expounding his ideas. He wondered if this was some kind of test on the part of the King. At last, Legolas ceased speaking.
Faramir pointed to the map, covered with a tracery of notes and cross-hatchings added as the damage to the City had been surveyed.
“Did you have a particular part of the City in mind for these plans?”
Suddenly a smile lit Legolas’s face.
“I believe the Prince of Ithilien is in need of assistance planning the garden in Emyn Arnen he promised to the White Lady….”
***
Marta wanted something in some way involving a dwarf.
From the Eastern Force.
They are grim-faced, but we welcome them as comrades, for their hearts are true. Their reach is short but their blows fall heavy on our foes. Like the stones some say they spring from, they were made to endure.
Yet their grief for the Fallen is no less than ours.
The Worm, deep-wounded by Naugrim knife, flees the field, and the beasts of Angband follow. We shout our joy.
Yet they mark it not. We see them leave, bearing their lord: steps slow; voices deep; mourning, unmindful as the battle rages still.
Their hearts are spent, now weep we all.
***
Marta added that, if dwarves didn't inspire, she also wouldn't say no to something involving pre-Ring War Denethor.
Victory
Victory!
The fleet is burnt. The old enemy is defeated. Loud in the streets the people sound the name of the great captain who has wrought this triumph.
Yet he is not here to hear their praise.
Other tasks now call me, lord, and much time and many perils must pass, ere I come again to Gondor, if that be my fate.
The steward’s son listens to the message and bows his head.
Where has he gone? What other tasks outweigh needs of Gondor? What perils does he face?
When will he return?
May fate be kind indeed! he thinks.
***
Kristi wanted anything with Éowyn and Faramir in it. Éomer muscled his way in on this one too...
A good match
“Are you quite sure about this?”
Éomer cast an uncertain glance across the room at the grave young man talking to the King of Gondor. Yet Éowyn’s face glowed with more happiness than he had seen in years. Too many years.
“Quite sure.” Éowyn patted his arm comfortingly. “It is a good match.”
“I know that.” Éomer frowned. “But will you be happy?”
His voice trailed off as a dark-haired young woman approached Steward and King. “Who is that?” he breathed.
Éowyn laughed. “The noblest lady in Gondor, and soon to be my cousin. Would you like an introduction?”
“Aye!”
***
A drabble written for Cheryl to commemorate her horse Banjo
Pride
Éomer swallowed a curse and rubbed his knee. This one had been trouble from the moment he was born. From before. Hind legs first and still inclined to use them, it seemed.
He ignored Théodred’s gentle jibes and watched the week-old colt scamper around the small paddock. Grace and power were already evident amongst the caperings. Soon, the foal came back to his patient mother and butted her blindly. She nudged him hard, until he finally fastened on.
Firm handling. Patience. Love.
“I shall call you Firefoot, my friend,” Eomer murmured, “and teach you to use those hooves in battle!”
***
A new age
I watch as Elboron kneels and places his hands between Father’s. He rises Prince of Ithilien, Steward of Gondor. How strange to see his fair crown, in place of raven locks, bent by Father’s.
They both seemed as men in their prime, until the Prince gave back the gift.
One day, my father, too, will give back the gift. I cannot imagine the world without him.
Time wears slow here, yet I see suddenly the passing of an age. It is we who will carry the world forward. I am glad Elboron and his sons will be at my side.
***
First Anniversary
Éowyn examined the trays of seedlings and cuttings.
“How did you persuade the Herbmaster–?”
“I am Steward, my love. Besides, I told him you would spend less time raiding his stores if you had your own.”
She smiled up at him. “I have a gift also. Lend me your hand.”
He gave her a puzzled look but did as she bid. Swiftly she laid the strong, gentle fingers on her stomach. For a moment, he did not seem to understand. Then she saw his grey eyes go wide with shock. She laughed and he caught her delight.
“Happy Anniversary, fæder!”
***
The Greater Gift
I lean forward eagerly. The salt air is mingled now with a sweet fragrance I had near forgot: one all the elanor and niphredil and roses of Imloth Melui could not match.
The grey rain-curtain that drops its sweet dew on us draws back. How many years is it since I saw those white shores and the far green country beyond? Long years, weary years, since I trod the quays of the swan-havens.
Beside me, the Halfling gives a gasp of wonder and delight.
I touch his shoulder in thanks. He offered me the Ring. I took the greater gift.
***
Written for Raksha's birthday
Risk and Reward
His fingers shake as he unwraps this glorious gift. He fears what he offers in return will not be sufficient.
Lips touch gold and cream and pink, glowing in the soft candlelight; his tongue savours her sweet taste as he breathes her in. His movements are slow, deliberate, careful, though his heart and breath are quickening. Her face is turned to him like a day’s eye to the sun; her touch on him assures him she returns his love.
Making her his, and he hers, at last, is like a homecoming to a place he has only known in dreams.
***
