The Argonath guards Gondor's backgate. Thence to the East, death; to Southward, home; to the West...
Boromir feels accusingly the stony gazes of the kings of Westernesse: Anárion... and Isildur. But the kings abandoned us. The Stewards were more faithful, kept Gondor with living men. The Rohirrim are surer guards than memory wrought in stone, Théodred more certain a help than—
Aragorn glances sharply west. Boromir sees naught there, yet a shiver takes him. Premonition, whispering water-swift, leaves him cold: Seek not strength without—Rohan shan't deliver Gondor.
Salvation lies inward when you're alone...
Forgive me, Frodo, hobbits cannot understand...
More like to the swift sons of Eorl—Tanaqui
I thought no man could rival my cousin, until the Steward’s Heir came to discuss the raids across the river and see our defences for himself.
They were a matched pair, wheeling away from the éored to race their horses across the wold, laughing. At night, as sparks wheeled upwards, our dark-haired friend exchanged tales of valour, sang his songs and listened to ours, toasted old heroes and drank to new exploits. When we faced the orcs at last, his horn joined our music; his blade wrought skilful havoc.
Saruman’s treachery robbed both our lands of their brightest and best.
Loquacious - I will like a story about the Elessar, the stone, not the king, though the king may be included too.
(Note: an attempt to explain why Arwen took such a convoluted approach to giving the Elessar to Aragorn. Why give it to Galadriel, who may not see Aragorn for years and years, when Arwen will very likely see him in Rivendell?)
“Is there not a prophecy?" my granddaughter asked me, after she received the stone from her mother. "That we will pass it to one who will bear its name?" I told her Olórin's words.
Years later, she came and thrust it at me. “You must take it back, you must,” she pleaded.
I did not understand what troubled her, though she returned Olórin’s words to me, over and over: You shall hand it on when the time comes.
“You, you, you!” she cried at last. “Not me. You. It is the prophecy. And Aragorn is the one. He must be.”
TZA - I'd either like a gap-filler about Eowyn that focuses on a different area than fanfics generally do and isn't dark and/or depressing or something involving Elfhelm.
Fighting Spirit ~Nessime
Théodred was at a loss. Twas several months since his father had brought the orphaned younglings to Edoras; still the girl would not warm to his overtures. Not so the lad, haunting Théodred’s footsteps, eager to hone his warrior-skills under his cousin’s tutelage.
He puzzled over this as he led his horse toward the stables, this winter-day’s exercise with his éored done.
Yelping, two stable-boys raced past, the last stumbling as a snowball hit him squarely between the shoulders. Round the corner came the girl, eyes blazing; she let fly another snowball.
Enlightened, Théodred smiled. She too hath a warrior-heart…
~Note: the inspiration for the snowball-wielding Éowyn came from Dagmar’s wonderful drawing of a young Éowyn, likewise titled Fighting Spirit. ~N.
Elcalion - I'd like something Elven - especially 1st or 2nd age if anyone wants to write one.
By Any Other Name ~ Vistula (also for Ithiliel Silverquill)
“Beggin’ your pardon, sir.”
He stands before me, hands wringing nervously. His wounded Master sleeps and somehow he’s found the courage to make his approach.
“Ai, Master Gamgee.”
He trembles in fear – or perhaps excitement – I cannot tell which, but presses on. “I’ve a question, if I’d not be too bold?”
“‘Tis ‘bout your name. I remember hearing Mister Bilbo tell of an elf warrior by that name. One who died. Fighting a…um…”
“Balrog. Were you named for him, sir?”
I laugh gently and embarrassment takes him. “Come…since Frodo sleeps, I will tell you my story.”
Maedhros - I will welcome whatever involving Maedhros or Celebrimbor. Did I mention I like angst? ;)
Glitter, shine slick with it, my precious—red as my hair, bright as guilt. I can do no right, giving and taking with the left hand only. Let me then seek that creature that is most in me now—iron, fool's gold, rock for the metal-minded to grind himself against.
So sing, brother, sing your dirge—you were ever moved by water, and now 'tis in your mind. We go to our native elements—Father to flame, you to sea, I to earth, and all of us to the air of memory. Fitting, fitting. Lay me down not gently below.
Ithiliel Silverquill - I especially love Erestor and Glorfindel (not slash) and the sons of Fëanor. Come to think of it, anything with Elves is wonderful.
Kenaz - I'd love something about Glorfindel and Ecthelion. Slash is acceptible but not required. All I ask is that it happens well before the fall of Gondolin. I don't want angst or balrogs on my birthday
Mysterious jedi - If anyone feels like writing a Faramir and Aragorn friendship (definitely not slash) drabble, that would be really cool.
Werecat - If anyone feels like writing a drabble for me, I'd like something that involves the animals of Middle Earth. (And what a surprise that was.)
Not necessarily cats, I'll take anything from squirrels to fell beasts. As long as it does not involve any animal cruelty, that is. Fell beasts need a hug too.
"Carefully, Bergil!" Beregond calls, struggling against a father's natural feeling to shield his son from destruction. He's seen worse already. Too late to spare him aught... Still, there're other dangers: their home lies ruined, crushed under a hail of stone like so many in the First Circle.
Heedless of him, Bergil burrows through the rubble by the one standing wall. Wiping filthy hands, Beregond pleads, "Bergil, be–" just as his son whoops, dragging forth a thin, dust-coated cat.
"Told you she'd be waiting!" Bergil crows, triumphant. Ammië meows, and for one lad in this shattered city, the world's righted.
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.