: My birthday is on January 3rd. Tuor and Idril are two of my favourites, therefore I'd like to see a scene involving this, IMO, sadly under-written couple. For this birthday drabble I'd prefer a happy moment between the two, but a dark/sad/angsty scene will be welcomed as well.
I did not understand why he named our son so, there in the White City, with only the music of fountains and waterfalls and streams. I did not know then how my husband yearned for the endless shifting sea.
Leaving the boat pulled high above the tide line, they cross the white sands: my great, golden-haired love, hair bleached silver by salt spray; our small son holding his hand, a little damp in places but laughing. He breaks free of his father and comes running towards me.
“Mama, we sailed for miles
and papa let me steer!”
Well named indeed.
Jay of Lasgalen
: I like the twins, Legolas, Thranduil, or any combination thereof. I prefer friendship to slash. I'll be 45 !!! so a mention of that number would be great.
Their anger frightened me. Looking into their eyes, I saw the passion of Men mingled with the persistence of Elves. Yet I understood why they must go. My heart was heavy, but I would not ask them to stay.
We each must grieve in our own way. I provided warm cloaks of my weaving and lembas
to sustain their quest.
The horses stood ready. I embraced first one brother, then the other. Elrohir murmured, “Take care of father while we are gone.”
“Take care of yourselves, and return soon,” I replied tartly, “or all my care will not be enough.”
“Forget it! You don’t understand…”
You’d been a boy then on the cusp of manhood, and I already your senior by many centuries. The ritual was simple but barbaric, the meaning unclear.
“I do not see how mingling our blood will change things, mellon-nin.”
“I said forget it.”
Many long roads we have walked together since. You never again spoke of that moment though I know it burned your heart for many days. Your silence grieved me. I never meant to hurt you.
But now, as your warrior’s blood slips between my fingers and touches my heart, I finally understand.
: I'm turning 30 in 2005. WOOHOO! I would love a drabble involving 30 year old elveses, menses (uhhh... yeah), and hobbitses. Pick either, I don't have a preference. Make it happy, or a warm fuzzy.
Pippin tried hard not to notice Merry’s surreptitious preparations. Though still a ‘tween, he knew it was silly to get excited about a surprise birthday party. After all, he was a Knight of Gondor and a veteran of the Battle of Bywater. Besides, he had his own worries: how to find presents for everyone with the Shire in such a state.
In the end, Merry’s plans almost went awry, and the best birthday present was not one Pippin had chosen.
“Oh Mr Pippin,” Sam cried, when he and Frodo had ridden up at last, “you should see it! It’s flowered.
[We don’t know the exact date of Pippin’s birthday, but in The Return of the King
, LoTR Book 5, Ch 1, Minas Tirith
, Pippin tells Bergil on 9 March 3019: ‘I am nearly twenty-nine…’ The Party Tree flowered on 6 April 1420.]
“Rosie’s late.” Sam’s face creased in thought.
Frodo’s hand paused in mid stroke, a droplet of ink dangerously close to falling onto the page. He scrutinized his friend carefully. “Oh? I’m sure she’ll be back soon…probably gossiping with Marigold…”
“No, that’s not it Frodo. She’s late
.” Sam cleared his throat, cheeks coloring. “Ummm, she hasn’t had her…ah…her...monthlies yet.”
Frodo nestled the quill in its holder. Understanding dawned slowly in sky-blue eyes. “Oh, you mean that
Nodding, Sam flushed with embarrassed pride. “Aye.”
“Congratulations Sam!” Frodo cried, clasping his friend’s shoulder warmly. “When is she due?”
: I'm pretty easy to please as I'm a big fan of anything F/E-shipping. Elves are good too, especially if it involves the elves of the Grey Havens or the twins. Oooh...or something out of Dol Amroth...eek...can't decide. Surprise me
Day Trip from Dol Amroth
Beyond the long harbour wall, the wind picked up. Éowyn clung to the side as the dinghy leaned over. Was it meant to do that? A glance at Faramir’s absorbed, smiling face as he handled mysterious ropes to return them upright brought reassurance, and the knowledge that here was yet another task at which he was proficient.
“Grandfather taught us,” he explained, putting one hand on the tiller, while his other arm drew her close. “Boromir and I used to spend summers exploring the coast.”
Later, he put that childish reconnaissance to good use so he could demonstrate other skills.
Watches of the Night
I will not weep.
Sewing rests forgotten in her lap. A candle sputters, dims, dies. If she notices, she doesn’t care.
In silence, she envisions him, riding out that morning beneath banners floating high in the crisp autumn air. He’d rested tall in the saddle, as much an image of kingly splendor as the untried King riding at his side. She wonders how, once, she could have considered this other lord fair. Could she not now see that her husband was to him like the sun is to the stars?
She smiles – lights the lamp.
I need weep no longer.
: My birthday is January 13th. I would love drabbles about the palantíri: any time, any place, any one of them (or all). Otherwise, you won't go wrong with some F/E 'shipper joy.
The Sleep of Stone
In the beginning was mute dullness, until the Fire. Thought rooted deep into the stones, made of them a mirror, a glass sublime to catch its likeness. Then the bones of the earth saw, and all the earth was seen in them.
Pitilessly pure, their reflection–stone knows no falsehood. Yet even the palantíri
grew dim, near-sighted: the subtle glass cracked as the globes fell to foes or fire.
In the new age, not all things can be renewed: shards they are now of a vast Bygone. Elessar looks west once more into the Anor-stone, then lets it fade forever.
A Case of Mistaken Identity
“Merry, Pippin, come see what Prince Faramir’s sent for the garden!”
Sam could barely contain his excitement and led them toward the display.
“Imagine, a wedding gift… clear from Dol Amroth the note says.”
Veiled in silk, the treasure lay hidden. The hobbits crowded around as Sam removed the cloth.
Blanching, Pippin stumbled backwards with a gasp – covering his eyes.
“No! Put it away!” Visions of the Eye and memories of blinding torment flooded his mind. “Please!”
Confused, Sam slowly complied. “What’s wrong, Master Pippin ‘tis only a gazin’ ball…”
Trembling, Pippin turned and fled. How could he ever explain?
: I would love to read a fic about uhm let me think...Eowyn and Arwen. Gen would be prefered in this case though femslash is okay as well.
(pair of drabbles) — Tanaqui
Even as I offer the greeting cup, it is easy to see why she captivated him, and that my challenge was a poor, weak thing. She is beautiful, wise beyond my years, graceful in speech and action.
As for me, I sought only a marriage that would bring me status and honour, carrying me far from the dreary days of the decline of the Mark; a chance to do great deeds and win renown, and to be loved by a man who was worthy of my love.
I smile warmly at her. I have no reason to envy my new friend.
When my brothers spoke of her, carefully, I was not troubled: he had been true to me through many years while countless fine ladies set their caps at him. Yet, as she steps towards me, bearing the greeting cup, I see I might have had reason to be afraid. She is like a newly opened flower: fair and filled with joy, yet with the hidden strength that sends pale green shoots forcing their way out of dark earth towards the sun.
She smiles and I see only welcome in her eyes. I have no reason to fear my new friend.
Telling the Hours
The weaver's hands tell time: they've spun hope's measure—thirty-eight years in black and silver, and patience's thread—nine months each time. But a new hour plays upon the loom now.
Her hands—white and smooth—have not changed, and Arwen, worried, watches Éowyn's gnarled fingers ply their needle. "You needn't fear," Éowyn says, smiling.
"You're ill, Éowyn."
Hands go still, but the smile broadens, saddens. "For a little while."
"Not I, but Faramir, deserves your worry." Thin hands clasp Arwen's, squeezing. "Mark me, Evenstar, 'tis a gift, for there's no worse in life than to be left behind."
This is a work of fan fiction, written because the author has an abiding love for the works of J R R Tolkien. The characters, settings, places, and languages used in this work are the property of the Tolkien Estate, Tolkien Enterprises, and possibly New Line Cinema, except for certain original characters who belong to the author of the said work. The author will not receive any money or other remuneration for presenting the work on this archive site. The work is the intellectual property of the author, is available solely for the enjoyment of Henneth Annûn Story Archive readers, and may not be copied or redistributed by any means without the explicit written consent of the author.