2. February 2004
Loquacious: A story set in Arnor, when it still has a king.
Arnor Ascendant—by Dwimordene
The crowning is done. A sunset king for the sunset towers, the last of his line: Valandil, son of Isildur, King of Arnor, and High King of the Dúnedain. Annúminas is thronged with folk come to celebrate the day, and the streets are loud with joy.
And the king himself? "He looks well," says one man, the belt of his knighthood stark against dark livery.
"Very like his father," says another, alike attired, and raises his glass. "The king is dead."
"Long live the king." Ohtar and Estelmo, smiling, drain their cups, content that their service was not in vain.
High King and Halfling—Marta Argeleb settled into his throne and glared at his advisor. Why today, of all days... "We found a hilly region beyond the Baranduin, your majesty, and --" Argeleb raised one hand for silence, massaging his temple with the other. He had wanted to dismiss the court, but Marcho was persistent. The king was none too pleased with the woolly-toed nuisance standing before him. Luckily, he knew the quickest way to gain some peace. He sighed heavily. "Just speed my messengers, acknowledge my lordship, and this land is yours -- what did you call it again?" Marcho smiled warmly at that. "The Shire."
Zimraphel: Númenor, any time in its history.
Their faith and courage burned brightly in Arda’s darkest hour. Therefore the Valar gave them rich reward: wisdom, power, life enduring beyond mere mortals’ measure. 'Twas my task to mentor them.
Theirs was the Land of Gift - a haven safe from the evils of the Dark One - where they grew wise and fair. They had learnedtheir lessons well - or so I thought. But memories, like their lives, proved too short.
Now they harken to a new mentor - one who broke faith with me. And in my heart I know that once again they will learn their lessons well.
Long Live The King - Jay of Lasgalen Elros Tar-Minyatur is dying - Númenor mourns. Our first King, surely to be our greatest King, who wrought all around us. Unheralded, for no message was sent, sails are sighted from Lindon. Rumour abounds. A mighty Elven lord, say some. The herald of Gil-Galad, say others. No. This is just a grieving brother, facing the final, bitter parting from his long-sundered twin. A brother - surely questioning the choices made so long ago. Words are unspoken; sorrow replaced by love and acceptance. The eyes of one grow dim, closing beneath the tender caress of the other. The King is dead.
Lanthiriel S: The first official meeting, and subsequent relationship, of Eowyn and Queen Evenstar (especially after Eowyn witnesses that enthusiastic film kiss!).
Shield and Standard—by Dwimordene
Fear should have died before the Black Gate. And yet the field seems set again for the clash. And as before, there was little time to prepare, nor room to maneuver now. Things shall unfold as they will.
Shield and Standard, steel faces the star of kings: the one has delivered victory, the other, hope; the one sees him as in a mirror, the other knows the depths of him. Ah, they speak!
"I am glad you are come," both say at once, then laugh. And happily embrace.
And Aragorn breathes again, relieved. Hope has once more won the day.
Raven and Gold—by Marta
"May I introduce Eowyn, Lady of Rohan?"
Faramir's eyes twinkle with pride as we stand before the Queen. So this is the one who stole the new king's heart so many years ago? 'Tis hardly surprising. She is surpassing fair, Elven grace and Numenorean passion embodied.
Yet what does she see in me? Shield-maiden spurned? Nazgul-slayer? Oath-breaker? Last daughter of a cursed house, fit only for dogs and squalling children?
Faramir's hands shelter mine. What else might she see? Beloved of the Steward? Daughter of kings? Lady far from home facing a new world, for love?
"'Tis an honour, your majesty."
Dandelion clocks—Alawa That Ithilien summer’s day had seemed endless, when, amidst a field of gold, Eowyn had shared with them her folklore. Laughing they had torn apart the sunny faces, petal by petal, to prove their husbands’ love, then chased their children through the puff-ball clouds stirred up by telling the hours. Later, as evening fell, her needle had recalled the bright yellow circles transforming into gossamer globes; how each starry, grey-threaded seed reached beyond the rim waiting for the wind to carry it away. This Arwen remembered dimly as through a veil she watched the hollow stem returning to the soil.
Nessime: How about the quiet heroes of the Shire Occupation - the ones who defied the ruffians openly or covertly?
Fear! Fire! Foes!—by Marta
Awake! Fear! Fire! Foes!
The call resounded across the Buckland, waking those who would hear. Danger -- it did not matter what sort -- had come.
Fatty collapsed against the door-bolster, heaving for breath. The mile-long sprint had been too much for him, the hobbit family thought. If they only knew.
If they knew what Fatty had seen, they would have froze where they stood. No bell would have rung.
Black horses. That cursed wind that stole his breath. Pillow-feathers flying, doors broken in, and the blood-curdling scream.
They little guessed the danger. Yet that brave, stuttering hobbit saved the Shire. Until tomorrow.
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.