Mathoms: LOTR GiftFics

ahem

2007-03-14T15:50:10Z

Can anyone point me in the direction of a site that deals in Tolkein fic, by any chance?

If there's anyone out there still watching this list, that is?

ahem X2

2006-01-15T20:25:23Z

As so many folk seem alive... would it be considered unseemly to suggest a Ficathon?

ahem

2006-01-15T12:27:27Z

I was just wondering- is anyone still out there on this list?

Sad

2005-11-28T10:31:14Z

Just went to subreality.com, and thought I'd go to Kielle's Tolkein page, only to find the registration for it had expired. I should have expected it to happen, but... I dunno.

It just made me very, very sad.
:(

quiet cough

2005-05-24T10:55:28Z

Is it long enough since the last Ficathon to start begging for another one?

mathoms @ 2005-02-26T23:48:00

2005-02-26T23:57:08Z

Dear person I am writing for and apologies especially because I think I may possibly know who you are. I am trying, I promise. And I'm not going to give up because I know its there somewhere, its just that every attempt I've made so far has progressed a short distance and then reached an abrupt stop. But there are little flickers of words and pictures that will eventually become something whole I swear. And furthermore I think I may actually have an ending now, I just have to get to it. And possibly it will only be five hundred words long when I do and possibly it will be five hundred bad words and it will be awful. But whatever they turn out to be I know they're in there somewhere and I'm determined to get them out. But it will be late, later, even. And I'm very, very hideously sorry for that. :(

mathoms @ 2005-02-26T17:40:00

2005-02-26T21:51:12Z

Title: Harvest of the Sea
Holiday Requested: Harvest
Character(s) Wanted: I would like a story featuring the sons of Imrahil(Elphir, Erchirion and Amrothos) at some point while they are young.

I'm so sorry it took so long. My sincerest apologies to whosever's request this was. School got so busy and I got a bit of a mental block on this story. The earliest version of it involved Corsairs and and the dates were a little bit later but it just wouldn't work. It was a bad cross between POTC and LOTR, lol. I think this works a bit better, I'm hoping at least. :)

Gulls wheeled and cried as they circled the steep cliffs off the Bay of Befaelas. The wind blew seaward, whipping the hair and bringing colour to the cheeks of the harvesters working in the fields bordering the cliffs. Overhead the sky was the hard blue of early autumn, with white wisps of cloud stretching across the horizon.

Below on the shore Elphir scuffed his feet at the edge of a tidal pool, feeling the cool water pool between his toes. He scowled as he searched the pool for spiny urchin. He should be out with his father and cousins, hunting down the Corsairs! Instead he was on an errand for his mother, looking for urchins so she could make her purple dye. She treated him like a baby, his mother, even though he was twelve years old! Surely his cousins Faramir and Boromir had been allowed on hunts when they were his age, helping to defend Gondor against orc attacks. He had begged to be allowed to go with the men when they had heard of Corsair raids further down the coast but his father told him that he had to stay with his mother and younger siblings.

“Next year, Elphir,” his father had said, ruffling the hair of his eldest son before swinging into his saddle. He and his men had left earlier in the day and weren’t expected back until the feast day.

“Elphir!” His younger brother Erchirion came running up, his arms filled with tiny marine creatures. He had been sent on the same mission as Elphir and Elphir was supposed to keep an eye on him. “Did I get the right ones?”

Elphir stifled a sigh of annoyance as he nodded towards the baskets. “Put them in there, Erchirion, I’ll check them in a moment. Why don’t you go and get some more?”

“Alright,” his brother eagerly dumped his armful and got ready to go looking again. He noticed the object lying beside the basket; puzzled, he asked his brother. “Why did you bring your sword down here?”
“You never know when you might need one,” answered Elphir with the superiority of someone three years older.

“Won’t rust get on it from the salt water?” said Erchirion doubtfully. “The tide is starting to come in. Anyway, Daenia is taking me and Amrothos around to the next islet; she said there might be some of the seal folk there. Do you want to come?”

Elphir was tempted; it was always fun looking for seals. “I’ll come,” he said, pulling up his basket past the high tide mark and buckling on his sword belt. He followed his brother around the cliffs to where his other brother Amrothos, only five years old, was waiting with his nursemaid.

In the distance, a group of rocks gleamed blackly as white spume from waves crashed up on them. That was their destination, a home for a colony of seals. Elphir shielded his eyes and squinted as he looked for the dark shapes that were usually found around the rocks. He and Daenia were the stragglers of the expedition, Erchirion and Amrothos had gone running, dancing in and out of the cold surf. “Do you think they’ll still be here, at this time of year?” he asked her. Daenia was the daughter of a local fisherman and knew the area, both land and sea, like the back of her hand. She was the one who had first brought Elphir and his brothers to see the seals earlier in the summer.

“I think so, it’s still fairly early in the autumn, although-,” she answered him, brushing back her black hair that whipped around her face.

“Although?” Elphir questioned.

“Nevermind,” she said, giving him a sideways look. They continued to walk, talking for a couple minutes and then falling silent. They had almost reached the rocks before Elphir realized that something was different about them today. The barking and splashing noises that were usually present were wasn’t there and the absence made the call of the seagulls sound raucous in the silence. He could see that there were shapes around the rocks and the beach but there was no movement from them.

“Oh,” said Daenia as they neared the colony, her voice hesitant. “I shouldn’t have brought you here today, they’ve already finished-”

“Finished what?” asked Elphir as Amrothos came barreling up, burying his head in Daenia’s stomach. Daenia picked him up quickly as he started to cry. “The harvest has already happened.”

“Elphir! Elphir!” Erchirion was calling to him. His brother was kneeling by a motionless seal. Elphir joined him, but he spared an angry glance at Daenia who was trying to comfort Amrothos. Perhaps Daenia hadn’t known that this would happen, but why had she brought them out here on this day, when she knew what the scene might be like if there had been already been the harvest of the sealfolk.

“He’s still alive,” said Erchirion with a wavering voice, when Elphir reached him. “Can you help him?”
Elphir looked down at the seal. The animal’s dark eyes usually a liquid black were filled with a hazy gray film. It’s sides heaved up and down as it struggled to breathe and the bottom half of it’s body looked liked it had been crushed by a heavy object. He looked back over his shoulder, Daenia was there, still trying to calm a crying Amrothos. He felt like crying himself, the beach was a mess of red matter and bits of seal that the hunters hadn’t wanted. But he couldn’t cry, he was twelve and that was too old to cry. He knew the harvest was a fact of life; the meat and fur from the sealfolk helped them all survive during the long winter months. Still, it was a hard scene to witness and one that Erchirion and Amrothos didn’t need to see yet.

Daenia shook her head when Erchirion repeated again, desperately, “Can we help him?”

It was obvious that the seal was going to die, there was only one thing that they could do to help, but Elphir didn’t know how to explain it to his already upset brother. He looked to Daenia for help, she was the one who had gotten them into this situation. Fortunately, she seemed to understand his unsaid plea. She put her arm around Erchirion’s shoulders and started to steer him away from the seal. She led them down the beach, distracting them as they walked. “We’ll go and find some urchins that might help him, all right? We’ll have to go look for them though, I don’t see any around here.”

Elphir stayed with the seal.

When his brothers and Daenia returned, bearing a load of shells and urchins, Elphir told them that the strangest thing had happened while they had been gone. The seal had started moving towards the ocean. He hadn’t wanted to stop the animal, seeing as it was hurt, and he watched as the seal got to the water’s edge and swam away. Erchirion and Amrothos brightened as they heard this, especially after Elphir showed them the marks in the sand that lead to the sea.

“Maybe he felt that he could heal better in the water,” Daenia suggested, as Elphir finished his story. Everyone agreed that that was probably the reason.

They traveled back to where they had left their baskets as it was getting late in the afternoon. As they picked up their baskets to go, Elphir told them to go ahead, he would catch up in a moment. Daenia gave him a sympathetic look but Elphir was oblivious to it. As soon as they were out of sight, Elphir drew his sword out of his sheath and walked towards the water. This wasn’t what he had brought his sword down to the shore for, but the idea of defending against imaginary Corsairs seemed childish in face of the seal’s suffering. His father had explained to him before what a man’s duty was to a dying animal; he had to end the pain.

In the end, though it was difficult, he had done what was required.

He knelt in at the edge, the water swirling around him. He watched as the red on his sword washed away and glittering sand grains gathered on the metal. He didn’t care if it rusted.

OT: NEW Obscure Fic Community

2005-02-14T22:04:50Z

I hope you don't mind if I post this here. I've created a new community for the more obscure bits of LotR fanfic. Y'all seem to have tastes that are in keeping with what the com is about. In fact, I got the idea to create it after reading the wonderful fics from this challenge. So...

If you have a hankering for tales from the more oscure corners of Middle Earth, then lotr_hinterland is the place for you! This community is meant to be a place for fanfic and discussion about the inhabitants and lands we just don't often hear much about (Easterlings need stories, too! And Dunlendings, Variags, Beornings, Breeland hobbits, pretty much any variety of dwarf...You get the idea).

We welcome fanfic of all genres (including gen, het, and slash) and all ratings. Non-members can post to the community. So even if you only have one story that fits the bill and don't want to join another community, go ahead and post! We want your obscure fic!

For more details, read the community info.

mathoms @ 2005-02-11T01:48:00

2005-02-11T07:12:56Z

My belated entry straggling in...hope it was worth the wait for the requester. It's a little shaky on the holiday connexion, but hopefully the challenge was answered to your satisfaction! :)

Title: To Be Brave
Author: Nishy
Rating: G
Words: 1,956
Request: Some kind of reflection into the Haleth people, and their interactions with Caranthir and the other Feanorions (Sawain/Samhain).
Notes: Haldan is the nephew of Haleth (son of her twin brother). Moryofinwe is Caranthir's father-name, thus Mori. Aran is Quenya for King--the Haleth people were said to follow no lord or master before she became chieftain, so a "king" was probably, to them, something other people had to worry about. Be gentle, I've never written Feanorions or Haleth-ians before ;).

The Elves, they said, were a wild and savage folk. Cold right down to the core. Pretty faces with placid expressions, but to look in their eyes was to see madness and whispers of dark deeds. Long, lovely fingers which took most joy in curling round knife hilts or the throats of the unwary. They lived so near, the Elves--some less than an hour's ride north--but who had ever seen one? The Elves hid themselves and watched, walked without making sound, haunted every shadow. They made their presence known in subtle ways, like malevolent gods.

Haldan laughed and said he was not afraid. He bragged to his playmates (or as Aunt Haleth called them, his packmates--for she said they had the manners and habits of wolf pups) that he had once seen an Elf, who had come to speak with his grandfather. Elves were only funny-looking men, he declared, taller and thinner and paler than they ought to be, with a walk like they were dancing. The other boys swore they had no more fear than he, but their eyes shone in admiration and they always let him lead their adventures.

He had seen the Elf, to be fair. At a distance, hooded and cloaked, but the tall shape had seemed harmless enough. The long white hands on the reins had not spooked him, nor the queer glide of its steps, and he knew in his heart that he would be just as brave at two paces as he was at fifty. He didn't detail the circumstances to his friends, of course, because they weren't blessed with that same innate faith in his abilities (their own loss, naturally).

The woods to the north, too, were target for some suspicion. Little Branthor swore that was where Elves hid to carry out their spying. Women liked to go between the trees in twos or threes to collect things for their medicines and dyes, but rarely alone. Children were scolded for venturing there without a parent nearby. Haldan's father and grandfather, however, strode tall in that wood, and so did he. If Elves lurked there, he imagined they were like honey-bees: give them no cause for offence and they would extend the same courtesy. Besides, it was no good setting snares in the middle of the village.

That was why he was out, today. It was a feast day, a farewell to autumn and a chasing-out of the spirits that came at the death of natural things. Haldan could add a rabbit or two to the offerings, if his snares had proved lucky, and his mother cooked rabbit like no one could.

It was early, the woods quiet; he found the solitude more restful than eerie, though it was a misty morning with little sun. This was Haldan's hour--he walked alone, daydreaming without interruption. He imagined himself a great hero of his people, invincible; then he dreamed of being made the ruler of them, an aran like Grandfather said the Elves had. And then (once he could be certain he was out of sight of the village), in his most private fantasy, he pretended to be one of the Elves, practicing that queer gliding walk and laughing as musically as he could manage. In his mind's eye, he painted himself tall and slim and white as a snow-drop, near as lovely as a maiden (but not quite!), ageless as the mountains. What power he would have! How he could frighten--or delight--the people of the village, at his slightest whim!

His fancies ran far, and he nearly wandered right past the spot where he'd set the first snare. A bird above him chattered at its neighbors, shaking him from his dream before he went too far astray; but then, his snare lay empty, so he did not thank the noisy creature.

As he straightened to go on to the next trap, the bird went silent. A moment later Haldan could feel it too--a change in the air, something that pricked the hairs at the back of his neck and made the mist seem suddenly chill. He hardly dared to breathe, turning very slowly around; he was certain he sensed the weight of eyes, of something looking at him. It was there, just in the corner of his vision--

A doe stood there, greyish in her new-grown winter coat, watching him warily. Haldan could have laughed with relief. "Brave enough for Elves, but weak-kneed over a deer! Some Aran you'd make," he scolded himself, if only to hear his own voice. The doe seemed to decide he posed no threat, returning to its perusal of the undergrowth. Now that he thought of it, she might have been the same doe he'd spotted a few times over the summer a little east of here, with her tiny dappled fawn. It was hard to say with her new coat. He glanced about to see if the fawn was near, but his eyes caught on something else entirely.

Too late, he thought--birds don't go quiet over a browsing deer.

A pale, fierce face stared back at him. Haldan stood as still and stiff as the trees, feeling as though the mist had frozen all over his skin. His blood was full of ice too, and the pit of his stomach. The apparition raised a hand to its mouth, indicating that he should be silent; Haldan watched in mute horror, and didn't dare do anything else. At the edge of his vision he saw movement, what might have been the readying of a weapon--the ghostly figure was not alone.

Branthor had been right, and Haldan had been foolish, for it could be no mortal creature opposite him. That was an Elf. It must be.

Honey-bees, he reminded himself frantically. Let them be and they'll do the same. Let them have their deer, and they will have no grievance against me, and I can go home--

Today they bid autumn farewell, and accepted the coming of winter. Haldan knew a new fawn stayed with its dam through to its first spring, and winter was a challenge for even grown creatures. Even grown men. He had a brief image of the fawn, stumbling in snow, bleating for its mother like a lost lamb. Did fawns bleat? Did it matter? Why was he thinking of it at a time like this? He couldn't even be certain this was the same doe. But if it were...

So this is what it feels like to be brave, Haldan thought for the briefest of moments; then he shouted, running towards the doe, and threw a stick that had somehow made its way into his hand. The doe startled and leaped away like a bird taking flight; the Elf's spear missed Haldan by less than half a metre, then quivered where it had lodged itself firmly in a tree. He shuddered to think what force it must have been thrown with. Perhaps he would soon experience it firsthand.

The spear-Elf swore, or at least Haldan thought he did--the word was beautiful, but the accompanying tone made it clear he was not chatting about the weather. The first Elf said something back, more calmly, and got snarled at for his trouble. To Haldan's horror, yet another melted out of the brush and joined the conversation. And all three were staring at him. He stood frozen, unable to run even when the spear-Elf drew closer to retrieve his weapon, giving him a look fit to kill.

"What are you playing at? Does it amuse you, to spoil a clear shot?" His attempt at Men's language was strangely clumsy for a creature of such grace, heavily and strangely accented, with emphasis in all the wrong places. "Believe me, little beast, you do not want the anger of Elves on your foolish head!"

"It's only a child, Curufinwe." The third Elf, yellow-haired like Haldan's mother, had a better grasp of the language. He crossed to peer at Haldan as well, dismissing him with a glance. "He will not hurt you, boy. But back to your village now, for it is rude to disrupt someone else's hunt."

Haldan took a stumbling step backwards, trying to make his body obey him long enough to flee. He might have made it, but just then the first Elf he'd spotted crossed into his vision again, still staring hard at him. He froze again, feeling sure that his worth was being taken, his soul analysed and his thoughts calculated.

When this Elf spoke, his accent was barely noticeable, though the musical voice would never have been mistaken for human. "You were checking your snares. Surely you did not act out of pity for the deer?"

Haldan gaped like a fish. Eventually it occurred to him that he was actually meant to respond, and he stammered something unintelligible. The gaze persisted.

"Or are rabbits less worthy of life than deer? Less important, do you suppose?"

He remembered the flash of courage before throwing the stick, and gathered his wits. "She has a fawn. We--we come now into winter, and..."

The spear-Elf--Curufinwe--laughed without mirth. "And your people say that Eru loves little children, and beastlings are practically your brethren. Come, Mori, you know the folly of such creatures in youth. Send it home, and we'll be off." He was shushed by the fair one, but not before Haldan caught the sting of his words. Creature. It.

"The spear could have gone through you," the first (Mori?) observed, calmly. "Is a fawn's life worth your life?"

"Maybe it will grow to be a great and ancient stag. Or the mother whose descendants feed mine," Haldan said, uncertainly. Mori's eyes burned through him again, laying his thoughts bare. Maybe he was a lowly beast, beside these high graceful people.

"Maybe you will grow to be a king, and it will be the meat of your coronation feast." The comment seemed more strange than cruel, as if someone whispered ghost-words behind the ones spoken out loud; it gave Haldan a shiver down his spine. "Maybe Eru will grant you rescue someday, as you have granted its mother."

Curufinwe huffed impatiently and turned to disappear into the forest. The yellow-haired Elf paused a moment longer, looking between his hunting-companion and the boy, then went more calmly after. Only the strange, cool Mori was left, and in a way Haldan thought him the most frightening of all.

Mori gave him one last piercing look, and then, as if by magic, a dagger appeared out of his sleeve. Haldan flinched instinctively, but the Elf only turned it to offer him the handle. He edged forward wide-eyed to take it, wondering whether there was something about it he was meant to see.

"You tell tales to frighten one another around the fire, do you not? Tonight is a good night for it." Mori gave him a strange, wild smile. "Tell them what you found in the forest. There is your proof--show them my dagger, and tell them the treacherous, eerie Elves count you a friend."

Haldan gazed dumbly at the dagger in his fingers, trying to make sense of it all. Counted as a friend by--not the Elves, maybe, not Curufinwe or the yellow-haired one--but by Mori, anyway. Mori with his cold dark expression and queer eyes, who looked right through him and did not find him lacking.

"I will tell them--"

But when he looked up again from the dagger, there was nothing, only falling leaves in the sudden chill breeze.

He tucked it away and went to find his next snare, remembering what it was like to have been brave.

mathoms @ 2005-02-06T19:51:00

2005-02-06T23:52:33Z

To my Mathoms person: I'm sorry I haven't finished your story yet. It should be finished by the end of this week. Thanks for being so understanding.

Bright Fire

2005-02-01T20:54:01Z

Deep apologies for the lateness; I'm afraid the requestor had to wait far longer than this little ficlet deserves. I didn't fit in everything they asked for, but I did manage a post-quest Beltane (or the equivalent) with Merry and Pippin visiting the Rohirrim. Hope you enjoy it!

[Rated G.]

All day and night the twin bonfires had burned. At midnight, they had roared and leapt high as a man. Now as the ragged edge of dawn showed in the east the flames had slumped down into embers, but the air above them still shimmered with heat.

Merry and Pippin sat on the hillside sharing a blanket, the dewy grass cold between their toes. The constellations had faded into the paling sky; only the morning star lingered just above the serrated edge of the White Mountains. It had taken most of the night for the herds of Edoras - every horse, cow, and sheep - to pass between the needfires for luck. Now the animals had been driven back to their folds or turned out on to the open grassland for the summer, and the valley was nearly silent. The hobbits no longer had to shout over the low drone of cows and sheep, punctuated by the sharp high squeals of excited colts.

Most of the people were gone as well. The young Rohirrim who'd vied with each other to see how high they could leap over the sinking flames had long since paired off and vanished into the night. The mothers who had carefully passed their babes over the embers for luck had gone home carrying chunks of smouldering wood to rekindle their own hearthfires. A few were still dancing, the King of the Mark and his Queen among them. The violets and blue mountain columbines that starred Lothiriel's unbound hair were slipping out one by one to lie strewn on the grass behind her. Two or three giggling children darted among the dancers like sparks, brandishing red-dyed horsetails on tall poles.

Pippin yawned. "I can't believe they started those huge fires with only a bow-drill. What's wrong with flint and steel, anyways?"

Merry shrugged. "All Eomer would say is that it's 'how things are done' for this festival. If Eowyn were here we might get a plain answer."

"It's an impressive sight, all those animals passing between the fires," Pippin said. "Perhaps we should do the same to mark the season at home."

Merry laughed. "There aren't so many herds in the whole Shire. A few cows and ponies and a flock or two of sheep wouldn't have the same effect."

"Do you think the fires are low enough for us to have a go now?" Pippin asked.

"Ah, you could jump farther than that if you had to. Remember Moria?" Merry teased. Pippin cuffed his ear lightly, Merry pushed back. In the course of the playful scuffle turned shoving match that followed, the hobbits tumbled the rest of the way down the hillside. At the bottom, tousled and grinning, they got to their feet and stretched muscles stiff with chill.

Merry brushed dirt and grass off his breeches and eyed the charred logs, glowing cherry-red. "Ready, Pippin?"

"Good luck, Meriadoc Brandybuck; may you be blessed with increase, as Eomer says." Pippin winked.

"The same to you, Peregrine Took," Merry said. "A Thain needs a large family, you know."

"One, two, three--"

Clasping hands, the hobbits jumped together. Sparks scattered in the light of sunrise.

delayed post

2005-02-01T03:14:59Z

I'm very sorry about the delay - RL caught up with me last week in the form of a sick child and sick beta. I'm at work late tonight without access to my story but I will be able to post it tomorrow before noon CST.

Thanks for your patience, mathom-person, and I apologize again.

Mathoms Holiday Fic: A Drink For The Dead

2005-01-26T17:13:58Z

Title: A Drink for the Dead
Author: Karigan Rohanna
Challenge: Holiday Mathoms Challenge
Rating: G
Word Count: 1,693
Warnings: OCs, a lot of Adunaic
Summary: In the reign of Tar-Telperien, it is the day to remember the dead with feasting.
Request: A Numenorean holiday for the dead.
Notes: This fic features 2 things I like very much; OCs and Adunaic. The Adunaic come from the Ardalambion Article, as did all the names of all the OCs. At the bottom is a key to all the Adunaic used. I hope it meets the desires of the requester! Edit: I made a silly typo in the summary. Sorry.

Two boys, tall, dark haired and tall, made their way down the road towards the city of Armenelos, clad in their finest clothes. They were on foot, both clad in black and gray, making jokes as they passed by others on the road, waving. Going to the city was a glorious thing, especially for lads of twelve and thirteen. Behind them, considerably farther behind, was a girl, crowned with curly brown hair, only ten at oldest, trying vainly to keep up with their progress without ruining the long hem of her dress.

"Agrahil," the girl complained wearily, "you are walking to fast. Slow down!" This was what she got for agreeing to keep an eye on the boys. She should have ridden with Ammî and Attô, and all the other adults, instead of having to walk on foot. "I am going to ruin my dress!"

"You will only ruin your dress because your legs are so short, Miyi-Nithil." The older of the two boys turned, flashing his sister a grin. She flushed, picking her skirts up in one hand and hurrying faster, trying to catch up.

"Oh don't be so unkind to poor Zamîn, Agrahil. She's so young, you know. It's her first festival, you could at least appreciate that." Ulbar stopped, turning around, and Zamîn hurriedly dropped her skirts so he couldn't see her ankles and tried to walk quickly anyway. Her third cousin was so very nice, after all...

"If you'd just walk slower I'd be able to keep up." Zamîn said, eyes darting around to see if anyone else on the road was noticing the trouble. No one yet. Good. "It's just that Agrahil walks too fast to keep up with!"

"Agrahil is very inconsiderate." Ulbar agreed, as Agrahil protested noisily. "...if I cannot make him slow down, shall I carry you, if you like. You are yet light enough that I can carry you." Zamîn's eyes darted back and forth, considering this proposition. Ulbar was very strong. She had seen him pick up Agrahil, after all. And it would save her dress. But on the other hand...

"I don't think Ammî would like that much." She said after a moment. "You know she would be if she found out. I might miss the next festival."

"Your mother is a terribly strange woman." Ulbar agreed languidly, offering Zamîn his hand. She took it after a moment, and he began a leisurely pace down the road.

"You humor her too much." Agrahil complained, trying to match the slower pace. "She's only a girl." Zamîn resisted the urge to stick her tongue out at him. It probably wouldn't impress anyone.

"It's her first festival, give her peace." Ulbar returned, rolling his eyes. "Ignore him," he told Zamîn. "Your brother is only trying to irritate you."

The drew nearer Armenelos, while Zamîn tried not to get too excited at the sight of tall towers and buildings that shone in the sun. Even Agrahil appeared to have forgotten his earlier irritation, for they all fell silent as they drew near the gate that opened into the city.

Zamîn mentally reviewed the instructions she had been given to see that Agrahil and Ulbar followed. Follow the crowds to the gates of the king's house, listen to his speech, and then go where the feasting tables were set up, and find the fifth table, the one where their whole village would be feasting. It would be decked in blue and silver, Ammî had said.

They passed through the gate of the city without much talk. "The gate is for show, you know," Agrahil said as they passed underneath the arch high, high above. Zamîn stared up at the curving stone until they moved on. "We have nothing to fear here. That is why Armenelos has no doors for its gate."

"...what about bandits?" Zamîn asked, looking around her at the crowds of men on foot and on horses. "You've heard Îbal talk about how he was robbed by thieves once on a festival day. He came back bruised and hurt."

Ulbar's hand tightened around hers, and he leaned down to whisper in her ear. "I'll keep you safe, Zamîn, just stay close to me." Zamîn didn't mind staying close to Ulbar at all, and kept in his shadow as they made their way towards the crowd assembling before the King's House. They were all looking at a tall balcony, high above the ground, waiting. It was very loud as many people were crushed together in the courtyard and street, all hoping to have a look at the balcony.

"When Tar-Telperien arrives on the platform," Ulbar told Zamîn, "I shall lift you up on my shoulders so you can see. Then you can see for all of us." Zamîn smiled, grasping Ulbar's hand tighter as the crowds pressed in thicker around them. She could see Agrahil on the other side of her.

The sun rose to midday, warm and sticky among the throng, and Zamîn began to grow hungry. The crowds pressed thicker around still, before the doors to the balcony began to open. The crowd let out a roaring sort of cheer. "This is it!" Ulbar shouted to Zamîn, bending so she could climb onto his shoulders.

Tar-Telperien was a beautiful woman, Zamîn thought, as she stared at the woman clad in beautiful white clothes trimmed in gold, wearing a circlet for a crown. Belted to her waist was a long ceremonial sword, as tall as Zamîn was. She was the tallest woman Zamîn had ever seen, and she stood alone on the platform, reaching out one slender hand to still the shouting so she could be heard. Zamîn had heard stories of Tar-Telperien, the eldest daughter of the last king, who had taken the throne because her brother Isilmo had not wanted it. She had heard stories, about her being proud and unwed. Agrahil had described her as 'a fair maid', but as Zamîn looked at her, she thought she looked like the hero of her own story, brave enough to stand up there alone.

"People of Anadûnê!" Her voice echoed over the hush that had fallen over the crowds, strong and beautiful. Zamîn felt pride surging through her. This was the woman to whom some of last summer's grain she had helped harvest had gone to, in her beautiful city. This was her queen. "People of Anadûnê! We come here on this day to remember those who have walked before us. This day, each of you shall remember the lives of those whose steps have trod a path before yours. For some of you, this is the last time you shall ever lift the cup for the fallen. Do not fear Êru's gift to us, to his Êruhînim, to the Adûnâim. For each of you, a time will come, when, freed of your plowshares and fields to tend, when freed of the rigging of your ships or the tools of your crafts, we shall raise a glass to the life you have lived! Feel no sorrow, cry no tears, for one day, you shall join those who have come before, far beyond the pains and struggles of this life. Honor the noble dead! Honor the great days of their lives!"

Zamîn echoed her cry, with the rest of the crowd, "Honor the noble dead! Honor the great days of their lives!" Someone began the cry of her name, "Tar-Telperien! Tar-Telperien! Long may you rule as queen!" Zamîn took that cry up as well, chanting the name excitedly. She watched the distant face of the fair woman, who held out her hand, calling for their silence, waiting as the crowd died out once more.

When all was silent, she turned, gesturing for a man, a little younger than she, to come forth. They seemed near of height and appearance, from what Zamîn could see. He bore a goblet in hand, which he handed slowly and with great sobriety to Tar-Telperien, who turned back to the crowd, raising the silver and gold goblet high.

"Drink freely the toast to the fathers who built your houses and the mothers who gave you birth, who stand no longer beside you! Drink freely to the friends with whom you laughed deeply and shared much, who rest quiet against the hills! Drink freely to the wives you kissed and the husbands you loved, and the children you miss! Raise your glasses this day for those who have long lain quiet, who paved your paths to this day! Honor the noble dead! Honor the great days of their lives!"

Raising the fair goblet to her lips - no fairer than Tar-Telperien herself, Zamîn thought - the queen drank the wine, her dark hair tumbling behind her as she raised her head high, to drink the full measure of the glass. The sun shone down upon her, lighting up the gold of her circlet and the goblet in her hands, making her seem to shine like the sun. When the goblet was empty, when she lowered her head and stood once more before the people, she made a sweeping gesture with the goblet in hand, hand passing over the full width of her audience. "Go, go feast, and drink, and value the gift that Êru has given his zirân Êruhînim!"

There was cheering, and much more chanting, as Tar-Telperien stood and watched the people slowly trickle out. Ulbar let Zamîn off his shoulders, grinning at her stupidly, and Zamîn smiled back. He put his arm around her, pulling her close so she would not get lost, and with Agrahil they began to steer their way towards the great tables where they would feast and drink in memoriam.

Zamîn wondered who the beautiful Tar-Telperien would drink for.
---
* ammî - mother
* attô - father
* Miyi-Nithil - 'little girl'
* Anadûnê - Númenor
* Êruhînim - children of Eru
* Adûnâim - Númenóreans
* zirân - beloved

Holiday Mathoms: In Light and Song

2005-01-25T15:46:14Z

Request: spring equinox; arwen/aragorn, or hobbits; rating, G-R; slash/non: for a/a, obviously no slash (but gen is fine, it doesn't have to be explicit). for hobbits, I'll take anything (slash/het/gen)and, well, this is what came of it.

Notes: I wrote about hobbits, if only because I am much more comfortable with them than I am with Aragorn and Arwen. Set March of 1421, Shire Reckoning. Not using hobbit-month names, if only because I am stubborn like that. Oh, and beta thanks to lindelea1 - who was brilliant as she ever is.

There is an emptiness that comes in the time between the rising and the setting of the sun, a sky that seems to cling to winter though it is now upon the threshold of spring, where bitter grey cloud-cover often stretches for as far as a hobbit's eyes can see. Sam knows that they, at least two out of their three (and soon to be four), have hearts all hoping on turning this place from smial into home, and there had been work throughout the turning of the years, when the days were shorter, darker, and cold. There is still work to be done, though, there always seems like there is work to be done: airing out rooms that had been left closed only to gather dust through the long winter, and letting in clean air.

Some days seem bleak. But at least they have come.

Frodo keeps mostly to himself, with his writing and his thinking and going out on long walks as if in need of remembering the long lay of the land. He had gone too far beyond any hope of ever coming back, Sam knows – and it seems, almost, now that he has come full circle through darkness back to light, he is uncertain of what he needs to do. And it is a need, Sam knows, as clear as Rosie's want of putting light and laughter back into Bag End's long halls, with thrown open windows and letting in cool fading air. He supposes it might be more, more than just that, as there is life growing in her, and Sam knows what luck he has been given, in this seeming-new world. It won't be long, now, and he'll know for certain if his little one is to be his little lad, or his little lass.

And the days are turning – shaking off the cold of winter, and March has come, with its shadows and its hauntings, as well – Frodo, ever busy with his writing, and his remembering, and bouts of a lingering illness that cling even as spring has begun to blossom full about them. It does not seem to matter that the days are brighter now, as colour twists itself through shadow, giving hue back to green gone lifeless, cold and grey. Flowers bloom, and Sam is busy often, as busy as Frodo, tending to the gardens – theirs, rhododendron in shades of pale blue and rosy pink, day lilies opening their petals to the sky, with the irises and daffodils giving off such light as they blossom, and with scents so pale and sweet and varied, like candies, or fruits, or fine perfumes. The flowers are all strong, and their roots go deep. They will live, and they will flourish, and they will grow stronger.

Hobbits are those like flowers, Sam knows. They have that same strength.

The planting is half-through, and there will be a great spring festival down in Hobbiton, to celebrate new life and coming out from the darkness of the year just past, it and all of its troubles. Sam has seen the merry-making himself, and how the hobbits there prepare for the festivities – garlands of bright flowers and ribbons, too, white and gold and green, all twisted together.

It is a small enough welcome to the season: thanks given for the planting, hope of a grand harvest, and blessings on all the growing things that will come to them in the year yet to come. Rose is coming to the end of her term, though she is still in fine spirits, and Sam knows she would be going, and would have danced, if she would be able. But in her state, it is not possible, though his Rose is not at all weak, not in Sam's estimation.

They will have company, and celebration of their own – Frodo's cousins will come for a visit, and they'll bring with them talk of things abroad, through the breadth of the Shire and land beyond even those borders, though they will bring talk of the Bucklanders, too. It won't be long, and they'll come as they often do, ever charming as has become their wont. Well, he supposes, there will be some dancing, at least, for their own spring celebration, and for Rose's amusement, though it will hardly be anything so grand as what they'll be missing down in town. And Rose, Sam knows, won't be the only one who won't be dancing – well, Sam himself won't be so lucky, but Mister Frodo, he knows, won't be so easily lured. Oh, and Sam does worry –

Well. There will be song to fill the smial, at least, as Pippin has as clear a voice now as Sam has ever remembered, and there will be festive cheer a-plenty, perhaps more than what would be missed. It will be all that his Rose will be wanting, and hopefully, even more.

Sam is now out sitting in the garden, tending to the growing things, pulling carefully at choking weeds, and thinking perhaps too much. It is while he is sitting there, though, hunched down in rich dark earth, amidst the colours of spring, that he hears something coming from deep in Bag End, out through the windows and even the wide-opened door.

Something that sets his heart to soaring – song.

His hands are dirty and thin sweat is on his brow, though he wipes at it, likely leaving a dark smudge across his brow. But he rises, and walks on into the smial, listening to the sound of luring song, sweet as laughter, though the words are not all clear. It is in the parlour that he finds his Rose, and his master, Rose sitting in Frodo's own comfortable chair, bundled against the chill in the air, and Frodo sitting in a thinner seat, dressed richly as is his wont: a fine dark suit with bright copper buttons that lend colour to his cheeks.

And they sing, a merry song, Rose and her smile and a sweet, clear voice, like bells ringing out of memory, and Frodo's tones, softer, like something made of time. What a welcoming for spring, Sam thinks, and for all new life.

– and isn't that all that is wanted? New life, and hope beyond all else that has been given. In two days, the 19th will have come, and they welcome spring with wide-opened arms – a year past, and he and his master had managed to free themselves from the march of the Orcs, and had put themselves right on the road that would take them to Barad-dur. And had it only been four days, when it had felt a life, between then and when they had come to the Mountain of Fire, when he had almost lost his Frodo, and Frodo had lost himself? He remembers it too clearly, and that thought puts such an aching in his chest, and such tears in his eyes.

In two days, yes, spring will have been welcomed. And four days beyond that, and it will have been a full year since It had been lost, and all had come close to its end. Sam knows too well the importance of anniversaries, and the coming of certain dates – he worries of all that is possible, of all that might still haunt Frodo, when the year turns itself around: that Frodo will never fully heal, and all that has been fought for will have been for naught.

He must have made some sound, as Rose looks to him, then, and her smile and her laugh is more than enough to bring him out from such thoughts, back to a room where warm sunlight pools at his feet, and the smell of new spring is hanging in the air. She is radiant, eyes bright, which only adds to the warmth of her smile, and the swell of her belly, ribbons between her hands.

Rose says, "Mister Frodo thought that Bag End was in need of some cheer."

He sees that they have been busy, the both of them, twisting ribbons in long braids, like those that he had seen down in Hobbiton, like those that Frodo would remember, from time before. All bright and fair, they are, but there are darker ones, too, blue and red and brown, and a long bit of purple so dark that it almost seems to be black. The chirping of birdsong leaks in from the outdoors through the opened windows, a snatching of sweet tune, and Frodo's hands, long and pale, work as quickly as Rose's seem to, smaller than Frodo's, and tanned.

"Well, Mister Frodo is in the right of it," Sam says, back, and smiles. He nods his head, and Frodo rather absently bobs his head in return, though he then grins, and chuckles.

"I suppose it must be good seeing I still have sense in my head."

Sam smiles, and Frodo is smiling back at him, a smile that Sam is certain he remembers from before: before Frodo had seemed so intent on saying his goodbyes and had gone away, before there had been pain and darkness, Fire and ash, before Frodo had been less than fully whole. All Sam has wanted, and almost all he wants still, is to give him back his home. "Well, sir, you're far more sensible than those cousins of yours, so that must count for something."

Frodo chuckles, and turns to the ribbons his hands are still working at, as though his attention had been misplaced. He doubles back, loosening a knot, then reworking it until it is flowing smooth. Something to be kept, Sam thinks. That's what he wants to give. Something that Frodo won't be willing to leave behind, if he ever were to think of leaving.

And Sam oughtn't worry, he knows, but he does – day by day, as time goes on, there ever is that fear that Frodo will leave them – that Frodo will leave him – never to return.

"Come sit with us, Sam," Frodo says then, looking from bright ribbon to pale hands. Sam feels like a lack wit, standing there with nothing to say, naught but a foolish smile upon his lips, and then he nods, as Frodo continues, busy braiding the purple-black ribbon into a flowing knot of blue and yellow and white and green.

"Spring has been waiting," Frodo says.

"That she has been," Rose says, and Sam feels that she glows.

"Well," Sam then says, "let's not keep her waiting any longer than we have."

deep breath

2005-01-22T22:35:00Z

Holiday Requested: A celebration of the founding of Rohan -- could be either marking the anniversary of Eorl's ride from the north, or Brego's building of Meduseld.

Character(s) Wanted: Eomer and Eowyn (A/N: Theodred snuck in there too)

A huge thank you to Joey for beta-ing this, even though I ended up rushing him.

Hope you like it.

Fire, Earth, Gold, and Horses

Horses and dragons curled around the pillars, carved into the wood, gold against brown. Her eyes followed sprawling, twisting knots as they curled over themselves in infinite paths. Meduseld was beautiful in the twilight, torchlight deepening every groove and carving.

"Eowyn, are you coming? It’ll be starting soon." Eomer stood half way down the steps, waiting for her.

"Sorry." Her eyes lingered on the spiralling carvings as she turned and joined him. They went down, through the houses to come out on a wide plane.

Burning torches had been set in a wide circle at the centre, throwing shadows dancing across the grass. A great bonfire was piled just beyond it, not yet lit. Musicians were setting up to one side, and a few test strokes on a fiddle were played before being drowned out by thumps as people set barrels on their trestles that sat on the long lines of tables. A tent which presumably held the food was set up a little way away. People were already taking their places around the circle. It was getting crowded.

"I’d forgotten it was so big," Eowyn said quietly, taking it all in.

Theodred came up to them, smiling. "You two here? Good. Father told me to make sure you got a good place. Come, it’ll start in a minute."

They made their way through the crowd, to a slightly raised platform where King Theoden sat. He nodded at them and gestured to the seats set on either side of his. People had filled around half of the circle of torches, and were waiting, excited.

"They get the show over with at the beginning," whispered Eomer, "Before they open the barrels and while the men still know which end of a horse to face."

Eowyn grinned and was about to answer, when a great gong rang out. The assembled crowd fell silent.

A horn was blown, and from around a ridge at the far end of the plane a small group of riders in black galloped up, weapons raised. Their horses had been blackened with soot, their rider’s faces also. Black cloths covered the saddles and bones were strung across their backs. The leader had on a great and ugly helmet; fearsome twisted metal and spikes protruding from all angles, and the horse he rode had a ram’s skull hanging around its neck. They charged into the middle of the circle of torches as the crowd cheered and hissed.

"The Wainriders at Celebrant," whispered Eomer to his sister.

The riders went round the ring, snarling at the assembled people and leering at small children.

A second ring from the gong and another horn. Another host of riders came from the behind the ridge. Their helms were silver, and blue and silver had been plaited into the manes and tales of their horses.

"The Gondorians with King Cirion, yes I can tell, now hush." Eowyn gave her brother a little push as he leaned in to explain again.

The second host entered to cheers, and rode around the ring, gilded arms and helmets catching the firelight. The other host rode just ahead. They parted and took their places on either side of the ring. The crowd went quiet.

Quiet drumming slowly grew faster, the tension building with the audience’s anticipation. A few people shouted and started to take sides.

With a clash from the musicians, the two hosts reared and rode towards each other. They met in the centre, arms clashing in their pantomime. They circled and charged and rode around each other, shouting and brandishing their weapons.

Another clash and the host of Gondor began to fall back, drawing into the centre as the Wainriders rode around them again, joyous in their impending victory and jeering at their Gondorian counterparts. They circled closer. The crowd waited with baited breath. Most of them had seen this many times before, but it would still quicken their pulses. Drums echoed beating hearts, as the circle of Wainriders closed in. Closer and closer they drew, bones slapping against the flanks of their beasts as the circle tightened...

A horn rang out, loud and true through the silence, making more than one man jump. With a great shout, riders erupted from all around the circle, some galloping around the ridge whilst others trotted through the parting crowds. They snatched up the blazing torches as they rode through, gold and green bright in the firelight. Eorl’s men. With a sudden roar the bonfire beyond the circle was lit, flames shooting upwards into the night sky. The enemy host drew back as the two forces joined and advanced. For a second Eowyn could almost see the real battle as shadows stretched and yawned around them, gold and silver glittering as the riders clashed and circled and clashed again.

Another great clash from the gong and the battle was won. The Wainriders rode off behind the ridge as the crowd cheered and moved in to greet the forces of Ciron and Eorl alike, as they raised their weapons in their staged victory.

Men dismounted, people flocked towards the tables which had been set during the show, and mothers ushered children to their beds to tired-eyed protests. The night had just begun.

_________________________________________________________________________________________

The feasting was showing no signs of stopping two hours later, as Eowyn excused herself from the table. Eomer too had risen from his uncle’s side a little earlier, and was now trying to out-drink his friends at another table. There was a cheer as another round of tankards was drained.

People danced around the stand set up for the musicians. Pipes were in full swing, accompanied by the previously drowned out fiddle. The music washed through the air, carefree and cheerful.

Eowyn made her way to the stand, standing by it and watching as people whirled and stamped and laughed around her. She swayed gently to the music, content just to watch and embrace the feeling.

"What’s this? Can’t have you standing here so sad, Lady Eowyn." Theodred came over, slightly out of breath and smiling. "Come, we must dance."

"Oh, no. I don’t dance." She smiled half-shyly.

"Nonsense, it’s an occasion."

"Fine then. I can’t dance."

"Neither can most of the people here. Come on, humour me."

He took her hand and led her into the throng, encouraging her as she stood and looked awkward. He guided her through a few steps, a spin. She tried her best, feeling very embarrassed as she moved with him and copied the movements of those around her. Her movements gradually lost their stiffness and after a while it was easy. The dance wasn’t about grace or beauty, it was about joy and celebration and the simple thankfulness for their land and their people. To exult in existence.

The music ended and they stopped, out of breath and flushed. They moved off a little way as the next piece started, and sat on the grass, looking at the bonfire. Eomer and two others joined them, a little unsteady on their feet.

"Who won?" Asked Theodred.

"Ealo and Firmest are still at it," said Reon, who had come with Eomer, and whose nose was a rosy shade of pink in the flickering light. "You been dancin’?"

"Yes, as you well know, having watched," Theodred grinned "Though I doubt you have the stomach to dance now. I saw that Esnesib of yours up there."

"Eh, go boil your head."

Theodred frowned a little and shot a glance at Eowyn, but she laughed and rose to speak to some friends standing across by the tables.

"Surprised you got Lady Eowyn to dance though," said Reon, looking after her.

"Oi," Eomer gave him a playful shove with his boot. "Mind what words the drink might make for you."

"I hold my ale better than you, son of Eomund," replied Reon, grinning cheekily. "Honestly though," he said, turning back to Theodred, "You’re the only poor bugger this one ‘ll let near her without breaking his legs."

Theodred laughed. "That’s enough talk from you for one night, thank you very much. Go and have another drink Reon, maybe it’ll work that gut of yours up to talking to your little lass out there and you can make less of a kind gesture."

They lay back one the grass and watched the sky.

"’s getting lighter."

"Mmm," said Eomer, eyes closed.

"The Sun will be up soon. We’d better get a good spot." Theodred stood up and brushed himself off. "Come on," he said, offering a hand to help his cousin up, "Let’s find Eowyn and we’ll get up the hill. You don’t want to miss the best part."

Eomer hauled himself to his feet and eyed his companions.

"You two coming?"

"We’ll get up in a minute."

They left them there and found Eowyn still talking with her friends. The three of them made their way up the steps to the great hall. Below them, people were out on the roofs of their houses and on the slopes, looking to the east as the sky gradually grew lighter.

They found a spot and looked out over the landscape in the dim fresh light that comes just before dawn. The land stretched out below them, mountains behind, the great planes of Rohan below, the river Snowbourn glinting grey-silver in the distance. The sky went grey, then pale gold, then there came a shout as the first rays of the sun broke over the horizon. The three of them watched in silence as it broke and gradually grew higher, bathing the assembled watchers in its slow warmth. The Mark stretched before them, green and gold. Seeing that, the night of celebration was a mere shadow to what this land meant to its people. A celebration of victory at Celebrant, and the gift of land given by Ciron of Gondor to the Eotheod. A land of beauty and light; the Mark of the Riders. A celebration of life and joy and land. Of Fire and earth and gold and horses.

Holiday Mathoms Challenge - Warrior Bride

2005-01-16T23:42:51Z

Author: Mordelhin
Title: Warrior Bride
Challenge: Holiday Mathoms Challenge
Word Count: 600
Rating: PG-13
Warning/s: slash, human sacrifice, kind of dark (but there is romance, honest!)
Summary: Set in Dunland, in the years 2757-2758 of the Third Age.Wulf's lover, Calum, must be sacrificed to ensure victory over Rohan.
Written for this request:
I'd like a Valentine's Day kind of holiday... about the Rohirrim or any of their ancestors (branches of Men) (I especially like stories about Dunlendings). Rating can be from PG to R. I'm going to make it a little bit harder this time as well by asking for slash. So basically this is a request for a romance story between two men/boys who are from a race where physical affection is not seen as often.

I. Prophecy

Gildas the Seer said:

When the black wolf bathes in the blood of the white dove, his enemies shall scatter like witless sheep before him. The usurpers shall be cast out of the ancestral lands, and the wolf shall take up the golden throne, and sharpen his fangs on the bones of the children of the forgoil's king.

Her words fall upon my ears like shards of ice. The blood in my veins freezes. Do I listen to this crone, milky eyed and crooked with age? Must I cut out my own heart to avenge the murder of my father?

II. Courtship

I first saw him tending his flock on a green hilltop in my father's country. His sorrel hair blew free in the morning breeze, and his eyes sang to my heart of love. I could have commanded his obedience, taken him then without leave. But it was his smile that I longed for, not his tears.

Hours turned to days, days to weeks, and he did not seem to tire of my company. And one day, playful touches turned to caresses, caresses to a deep embrace.

"Calum," I whispered, hardly daring to hope.

"Yes, my lord," he answered, and smiled.

III. Request

I would not tell him of the seer's words. Yet hear of them he did; and once his choice was made, I could not shake him from it.

My lord, I would gladly give my life for you to avenge your father's death, and to regain that which was taken from our people. But, pray grant me this. I wish to marry, so that I may pass swiftly from this life upon the tears of my bride, like a leaf carried away upon a gentle stream.

But no maiden of the village stepped forward to be widowed in a day.

IV. Matrimony

That day, my spear hand held a bouquet of herbs: rosemary, parsley, and sage. My shield hand held Calum's. We made our vows, and were draped with the cord that would bind us unto death. A loaf was broken above my head, though this union would be a barren one and brief. Yet those nearby still gathered the crumbs for good luck.

That night, we lay in each other's arms as if for the first time. As morning approached, seed mingled with sweat, sweet release with bitter tears. Our love was unbounded, our wedding bed a bier, awash in grief.

V. Sacrifice

When dawn came, Calum stood shivering in a thin, white garment. But his voice did not waiver.

For my country, and my people, and my lord.

But his eyes spoke to me of more -- of a love that was and should never have been -- and those words would echo in my heart until the day it beat its last.

One stroke of the axe, and his lifeblood spilled down the stone and into the ceremonial bowl. I bathed my hands in the warmth of it, then bowed my head to catch the tears that would speed him on his journey.

VI. Revenge

I challenge him before the very doors of Meduseld: Haleth, son of Helm.

Your head shall be wergild for my father.

My words still ring in the cold, clear air when he falls on his knees before me. But in this moment I think not of how the straw-heads robbed us of our land. Nor do I think of my father, bloodied and broken by a single blow of Helm's hand.

Your head for the head of my bridegroom.

Below, blood runs in a crimson stream down the stone steps. Above, the whine of dove's wings echo among the parapets.

END

Notes: I took enormous liberties here with the idea of a Valentine's Day type of holiday. This story is based on the Indian story of Krishna and Aravan. Aravan was sacrificed by his people to win a war, and his last wish was to marry. Lord Krishna took on a female form, granted his wish, and became a widow the next day. In India, there is a festival in Koovagam which celebrates this story. Men (gay, straight, and eunichs) take part in a wedding ceremony during which they "marry" the deity Aravan for a day.

Wulf was the son of the chieftain, Freca. He led a successful invasion of Rohan in the year of the Long Winter. Calum is an OMC. It is a Celtic name, which means dove. And for the record, I doubt the Dunlendings actually took part in ritual human sacrifice.

Ficathon Entry ("Midsummer Solstice")

2005-01-14T11:20:05Z

Well, here we are. Am I first?
Sorry to anyone upset by the imagery in this- I've been agonising about posting it ever since 26/12.
Tolkien owns the world, not me. Don't sue.

Oh, and whoever this was for? Enjoy...

The two brothers stood facing each other, centre of the circle, centre of the world.
Neither saw anything else but the other.
It was always this way, every time the ceremony took place.
One in purest white, the other in brilliant, dazzling yellow.
Sun and moon, night and day, first and second... perfect symmetry, as always.

This year, something was wrong.
You wouldn't have seen it, looking in.
What you would have seen was two people gazing into each other's eyes.
Two people barely breathing as the sun rose on the longest day of the year.
Two boys in the centre of a circle of men.
Two brothers, taking part in a ritual as old as anyone still living could remember.
Looking in, it would have been perfect.

But one of the brothers was troubled, and the other knew it.
He didn't show it, and his brother didn't show it, but he was troubled nonetheless.
Wordless conversation drifted between them as the sun rose.

~What is it, my brother?
~I shall tell you later.

Words unspoken, words between brothers, words between friends.

Slowly, as every year, the ceremony finished, and the mood lifted.
The midsummer day ceremony was over, and preparation could begin for feasting, for merriment, for laughter and friendship.

The men left.
The boys remained.
Sun and moon, night and day...
As always.

Finally, when they were sure they were alone on the ceremony hill at last, the words were spoken.

"I dreamed, this night."

His brother nodded agreement.

"Indeed you did- you woke me with your moaning, Anarion."

Anarion raised an eyebrow.

"Indeed, Isildur?"

"Indeed, my brother. I thought I might have to smother you before you woke the entire palace."

Anarion looked troubled, and his brother placed a hand upon his shoulder, but the frown did not leave his brow.

"I dreamed of great, grey ghosts watching us at the ceremony this morning, three of them. They should have been men, but were... not so."

Now it was Isildur's turn to be troubled.

"How so, my brother?"

Anarion moved away from his brother, finding his touch suddenly uncomfortable in the face of the memory of the previous night's horror.

"Huge they were, my brother. Huge and grey and shadowy, and yet... they moved as men, and were formed in the shape of men, and talked as men. And yet..."

Silence fell upon the boy. His brother took up the fallen conversation.

"...And yet they were somehow not men. They were dressed as if they were long-dead and risen from their tombs, and their footsteps were as mist, and their voices were as the wind across an empty battlefield."

Now it was Anarion's turn to raise an eyebrow.

"Brother, that is how they were. Exactly how they were. How..."

"I have dreamed the same dream this past night, my brother. I awoke from it to find you thrashing and moaning as if one possessed, and I knew in my heart that it must be that you were dreaming."

"And you woke me not?"

Isildur shook his head, and turned from his brother, gazing up at the skies.

"No, I thought you might think me... silly. And everything went perfectly today, did it not?"

Indeed, anyone looking at the skies would have found it hard to disagree. They were perfect midsummer's-day blue, without a cloud to mar them, so far removed from his dream of the previous night that-

There was a sudden, violent shuddering which pitched the two boys sideways, and then a roar on the air, a roar mightier than any beast, a roar that started loud and grew louder by each passing second until it seemed it rang against the heavens.

"What on..."

The very earth the two brothers stood upon shook, and the ceremony hill writhed like snakes placed on hot coals. The two boys looked at each other in mute horror, and could not speak as the sky suddenly turned darkest black. Forks of lightning ripped the sky from horizon to horizon, and the roar grew ever louder, impossibly louder.

~This is the end, Isildur.

He could not say it, could not bring himself to say it, but Anarion thought it nonetheless.

~This is the end of the world.

Great cracks appeared in the ceremony hill now, great cracks that stretched to Gods-knew where, great cracks that howled the earth's anguish at the two boys, now separated by a great gulf, the maw of some hideous, unknown, roaring beast.

~This is the end, Anarion.

He could not say it, knew he would not be heard over the roaring, nightmare tempest that their world had so suddenly become even if he could have brought himself to say it, but Isildur thought it nonetheless.

Thought it as he watched three great, grey spirits rise into the hideous, storm-wracked skies, three great,grey shadows that should have been as men but were somehow not...

Thought it as he watched the wall of water rising impossibly, inexorably into the skies, an emerald-green monolith of foam-capped death that would surely engulf him, his brother, his world...

Thought it as the earth trembled again and Anarion his brother was shaken sideways, as Anarion his brother toppled shrieking into the seemingly bottomless chasm and was lost forever...

"ANARION!!!"

His voice was lost as the wave crashed down.

*

"Isildur, brother, wake up!"

The young prince awoke with a start, sheathed in sweat, his limbs entangled in his bedsheets like a snare, his brother's concerned face gazing down at him from a halo of candle-light.

"You were having a nightmare."

Isildur could only nod, mutely, the shattering, ultimate horror of his dream still strong in his mind. Anarion smiled.

"You are worried by the ceremony tomorrow, yes?"

Another mute nod, but less horror now, the nightmare fading before his brother's calm voice.

"I am, too. I hope the weather is better than it was last year. Remember last year? It soaked me through."

Isildur allowed himself a faint smile now.

"You looked like a great drowned rat in a dress."

Anarion raised an eyebrow.

"You're a fine one to talk about drowned rats in dresses. I could have sworn you were one."

The nightmare was gone now, only a memory, and a rather silly one at that. What had it been about, Isildur wondered- something about the ceremony? Something about his brother? Something about...

He shook his head, the nightmare lost to wakefulness.

"I'm sorry to have woken you, brother."

Anarion smiled.

"Just get back to sleep, my brother. Everything will be fine, just you wait and see."

Isildur nodded, and lay back on his bed.
Yes, he thought, everything would be fine.

Everything would be fine...

By Request: Holiday Mathoms 2004

2004-12-14T14:34:50Z

Sign-ups are now over -- thank you and watch this comm!

I tried to think of something that would be a little different from other holiday exchanges going around right now, that would still give you plenty of creative room. And much as we all love December holiday stories, let's face it: you've probably have had your fill by the time the season rolls through! So here's the idea:

For the story you'll receive:

1) Pick any holiday that doesn't take place in December. Make sure there could be a some sort of Middle-Earth equivalent.

2) Choose the star(s) of your story. This can be, for example:

one or two characters

a pairing

a family

a culture/people (ie. Rohirrim, hobbit, etc.) and, if necessary, a time period

heck, even a particular item ;)

3) Pick a rating (ie. PG) or a rating range (ie. PG-R).
4) Do you have a problem with or a preference for slash, or no preference?

For the story you'll give:

1) What is the highest rating you're willing/able to write?
2) Is there any Tolkien material you feel you cannot write well (ie. a particular species or character)?
3) What can you write, source-wise: LOTR, Silm, both, or movie-canon only?

Sign up in the comments to this post by this Monday (12/20) and you should have your assignment by the following day. (All entries will be screened but I'll keep a public tally of how many participants we have so far.) The rules:

All resultant mathoms must be posted in this community by January 25.

All resultant mathoms must be at least 500 words long. That's five drabbles, you can do it! Hell, if you wanted to DO five drabbles, you could I suppose. A gift is a gift, and several small gifts are just as nice. ;)

Don't sign up if you're not serious.

If you can't finish, let me know ASAP.

Also, one request: please try to ask for something that hasn't been done a million times over already? We're a creative lot, I think, and "obscure" doesn't seem to be a problem around here...

PS: Psst. The more the merrier! Pass this link around!

Official Request

2004-12-08T09:25:13Z

Oh Redpanda, ye who art mighty amongst the free peoples of Earth, a request we ask of thee.

Set up the challenge already!

:)

Excuse Me...

2004-12-07T06:52:17Z

...Is there a challenge this year?

ahem

2004-09-24T03:38:36Z

As the 3rd Age Ficathon seems to have ended (all hail all those who wrote in it, btw), might I suggest a challenge?

Or is that bad form?

Third Age Ficathon -- Castamir and Gondor's Civil War

2004-07-23T08:07:40Z

The request: Castamir the Usurper, 21st king of Gondor and establisher of Umbar as a seperate nation from Gondor, or his sons and/or wife.

With thanks to freedomfry for her invaluable betaing.

And an extra helping of apologies for this being ridiculously long in coming.

i. dulce et decorum est
His mother probably told him the stories first, but Castamir remembered it best from one of the older cousins. He heard the tales sitting at her feet in a sun-lit courtyard, toy soldiers scattered in a circle around him. Her plaited black hair fell over her shoulders as she leaned forward, thrilling him with hushed tales of the exiled queen and her ten familiar cats.

Nine black and one white – which everyone knew – but his cousin whispered a new version: that the nine were for lost members of the old blood, Numenoreans who left long before the flood and built a kingdom of their own out of sand and sea, salt and gold. And sure enough, where did she go, the loveless queen adrift in her brass-bound boat? Why south, of course, flying before the North Wind, south and east toward the rising moon, the great white cat pointing the way on the prow. Blood was blood, the cousin concluded, it carried long life and wisdom, and the right to kingship. Blood counted more than even lines drawn on a map, and so Umbar was theirs by more than just conquest.

ii. some of the time it was the weather
He didn’t consider himself a superstitious man. Compared to his men, perhaps, he was not, but all sailors are superstitious creatures, so on his first voyage he dug and scratched with his belt knife at the forward rail as they sailed, carving the rough lines of a cat.

His luck held through battles against the Southrons and through stormy explorations far down the coast. He was never lost, and his crews took more enemy ships than any other. And so Castamir became the youngest Captain of Ships. Meanwhile, the King grew old, and the people eyed his only son, the son of a Rhovanion woman, askance. The son, Vinithariya, took a Gondorian name, Eldacar, but still the people grumbled, and Castamir listened.

iii. the broken wall, the burning roof and tower
The Dome of the Stars glittered under the bright autumn sun and the pennant of the King of Gondor fluttered in the breeze, but there was otherwise little movement from the encircled city. Small, sleek river-cutters patrolled the banks and carried messages, darting around the greater ships holding the Anduin, which casually but steadily fired their ballistas at the lower pier walls. Ungainly flat-bottomed siege ships carried catapults that flung great rocks over the upper walls and into the city. The huge warehouses near the river that kept the city’s stores had largely been destroyed in the past month, and the ships fired lazily, their only goal to keep morale, and the defenders’ heads, low.

On either bank, small towns of tents and campfires clumped, the fighting-men within them idle; rumor said Osgiliath would capitulate within a week. Of course, rumor had said this for the past several weeks, but everyone knew the city was running out of food. The bridges were destroyed and the fleet controlled the river. Everyone knew the resistance ended here.

Castamir had camped on the Pelennor, though he could have stayed in the City; he would not leave the battlefield until the city surrendered. “I am not King while Vinitharya has one foot on Gondor’s soil,” he had declared. His sons ordered Minas Anor and Minas Ithil for him, and he directed the siege from a large red pavilion pitched on a low rise where he could oversee the river and all the country round. In spite of his words, that night, after many months of siege, he did leave the camp, riding under cover of darkness to the White City and back in the space of an hour. He came back bearing a large sack, but what was in it, no one discovered, for he disappeared into his tent and was not seen again until morning. That night his guards kept an uneasy watch, eyeing each other nervously as their Captain’s voice carried from within, though he was known to be alone inside, and strange lights cast brief, flickering shadows against the red canvas.

He emerged in the early morning as the camp began to stir, face as grey as the sky. The rising light over the Mountains of Shadow deepened the dark circles under his eyes, and his expression was cold and stern as stone as he stared out at the elegant city, fair flower of Gondor’s kingdom. His captains and aides came to him, suggesting parley, and their weekly offer of good surrender terms; but his eyes never left the Dome, which seemed to twinkle with its own light though morning shadows lay thick over the river-valley.

“Burn it down.”

They protested. Surely they had not heard him right.

“Vinitharya will never surrender. Burn it down.”

And so Dome was broken, its palantir lost, and the King put to flight, carrying the broken body of his eldest son North to his mother’s people. Osgiliath was taken.

iv. cry woe
From the wide plains of Lebennin they dragged his body toward the Erui river, to the light ships waiting in a long line of sails unfurled for flight. The chest-strap of their father’s breastplate had broken, and it banged loosely against him as they stumbled away, ducking the irregular rain of arrows. All round them were men running, men killing, and the thunder of cursed Northern hooves. They were trapped on dry land, black smoke billowing across the water as the fire-arrows of the enemy reached the first of the ships.

They drew survivors to them in straggling groups, bloodied and with shields cloven. The beaten men offered their shoulders to support their king’s body, but the two brothers refused to relinquish their burden, although blood soaked the younger one’s tunic. Vinitharya had surprised them with a larger force, had fought his way deep into their lines and cut Castamir down before his sons’ eyes. Now behind them the field was heaped with the dead and dying, both their own and their enemy’s; much of the best blood in Gondor, watering the fertile Southern farmlands.

The ordered retreat hovered on the edge of becoming a rout, some men already breaking and sprinting for the boats to escape before the spreading flames cut them off entirely. The group around the two princes held firm, the rear rank brandishing scrounged enemy spears – their own long since shivered or cast – from behind a locked shield-wall as they edge slowly but steadily toward the river.

Shouts rose behind them; the king's own guard driving a hard, suicidal charge against the enemy flank, holding back ranks of archers from Ithilien and Lossarnach swordsmen with their ferocity. They angled their retreat south down the river, aiming for the boats furthest from the spreading flames and closest to the open river. The younger brother stumbled along, seeping blood with every step.

One more flight of arrows fell among them, one glancing off the elder brother's mailed shoulder, and then they were splashing through the shallows and climbing over the side of the boats, handing their king's body in with care. The last men put their shoulders to the keel and pushed off from the shore; then the oars came out and they slipped into the running stream, flying south to the Anduin.

The younger prince leaned heavily against this brother, their father's body at their feet, as they looked back on the ruinous field. Some few other ships had also pulled away, but the others burned along the shore, the water around them thick with ash. Long spears flashed on the plain, the horsemen riding down those who still stood against them, corralling those who threw down their weapons. A fierce storm of arrows flew from the last lingering boat, rallying a furious defense long enough to gather a few more men, wounded but still free and fighting.

"Bastard barbarian half-blood." The elder spat a curse into the water, but the last boat finally pushed out into the river, oars biting deep even as horsemen plunged out into reddened foam after them.

"We'll hold them at Pelargir, brother," the younger said weakly. "They won't drive us from there."

v. O dearly bought, yet glorious
They did not hold them at Pelargir.

Being too few in number, they fled back to Umbar, that ancient refuge for the proud enemies of Numenor. Vinitharya kept his Gondorian name, Eldacar, and re-took his Gondorian throne for himself and his sons.

But many years later, a black-sailed fleet left the harbor of the white pillar of Ar-Pharazôn, globe-reflected moonlight a great beacon lighting their way north; and the grandsons of Castamir the usurper-king fell upon Pelargir on the Anduin. They hacked their way up the quay and through the hastily-scrambled defenses, reaching the king's son and his guardsmen. They cut down their hated rival and despoiled the bodies, and so were revenged for the defeats of their fathers.

And the enmity of Gondor and Umbar, hard upon the borders of Mordor, continued on.

Quotes:

1. “Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori” – “It is sweet and right to die for your country (fatherland)” – from poem, same name, by Wilfred Owen, WWI

2. “And some of the time you would say it was luck, / and some of the time you would say it was weather.” – Mungojerrie and Rumpelteazer, “Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats” by T.S. Eliot

3. “A shudder in the loins engenders there / the broken wall, the burning roof and tower / and Agamemnon dead.” - William Butler Yeats, “Leda and the Swan”

4. “Cry woe, destruction, ruin, and decay: the worst is death, and death will have his day.” – Shakespeare, Richard II 3:2

5. John Milton, “O dearly-bought revenge, yet glorious! / Living or dying thou hast fulfill’d the work for which thou wast foretold”

Ficathon-Fic III

2004-07-11T03:47:55Z

Apologies for this being so late.
Apologies for referencing the burning of Meduseld (which never happened in canon but happened in my first fic for this ficathon).
Apologies for not being Tolkien but using his characters.

And this isn't the story I set out to write. That was... brighter. This... isn't. And it's rated R for just that reason.

Dunno who it's for, but enjoy nonetheless.

"Soon after, the winter broke.Then Fréaláf, son of Hild, Helm's sister, came down out of Dunharrow, to which many had fled; and with a small company of desperate men he surprised Wulf in Meduseld and slew him, and regained Edoras. There were great floods after the snows, and the vale of Entwash became a vast fen. The Eastern invaders perished or withdrew; and there came at last help from Gondor, by the roads both east and west of the mountains. Before the year was ended the Dunlendings were driven out, even from Isengard; and then Fréaláf became King."

The children grew restless, he could feel it- could see it in their eyes. This was no day for any child to be cooped up, let alone a child of the Mark. The early summer sun shone brightly, and a cool wind blew across the plains, whispering adventure to those ears eager to ear it.

The loremaster closed his book, gazed out across the children with rheum-encrusted eyes.

"All children of the Mark must know this story. Do you know why?"

Not a one of them spoke, a little fearful of the old man. His temper with those who answered him incorrectly was legendary- their fathers had known his wrath, and probably even their grandfathers. He seemed truly ancient to the children, almost a living ancestor- snow-white hair tumbling down to his waist in waves, his beard too.

"Anyone? Does anyone know why all must know this story?"

Still not a single child spoke. The loremaster nodded to himself, affirming something to himself.

"All must know this story, as all must know that Eorl was first King, and that Helm was the Hammer-Hand, and that Léod was slain by Felaróf, the Mansbane. All must know it, as it is a thing that should not be forgotten."

By the looks in their eyes, the children did not understand- they never did, the loremaster thought to himself, a little ruefully. For a moment he considered telling the rest of the story, the true reason it should not have been forgotten, but he did not. The day was bright and beautiful- it did not need spoiling with dark, ugly memories. He smiled to himself and rose slowly to his feet.

"Remember this story, children, and remember it well. You are dismissed."

They seemed shocked at first- they had thought he would storm at them, roar at them in fury for their silence- but then seemed relieved. Almost as one they rose and surged for the exit, a babbling, laughing tide. The loremaster watched them go, and then turned away. The pain in his chest reminded him that he would never be as they again.

There was a cough from behind him.
That was unexpected.
The old man turned, and saw a little girl, a little girl with long blonde hair. For a second, he-
No.
It was not her. It was just a girl, one of the children he had been telling the Stories to. He raised one massive, bushy eyebrow.

"Yes, child?"

She shifted from foot to foot, nervous. Something glittered behind her eyes, something strange and wondrous.

"Why..."

She faltered, turned to go. This was interesting.

"Go on, child."

She turned back, looked straight into his eyes, a cornflower-blue gaze that pierced him from long years ago.

"Why should it never be forgotten?"

The loremaster smiled to himself. There was always one.

"Why should it not be forgotten? Wulf was defeated, and we won. Why should he not be forgotten?"

The loremaster sat back into his chair again, and motioned fr the girl to sit. She did so, and he cleared his throat. Would he still remember, after all these years? Would he still remember the smells, the sounds, the...

Of course he would.
He always did.

"We had the Dunlendings on the run, of that there could be no doubt..."

It seemed as if the story told itsself.
It always did.

*

The soldiers rode in silence, plumes of breath rising into the cold night air like ghosts. The Dunlendings were broken, fleeing before them, but this was no glorious victory. Too many good men lay dead and too many lives had been destroyed for that.

Meduseld itsself, the great golden hall of legend, had burned. Hundreds of years of history...
The barbarian princeling had burned it himself, had thrown the torch that destroyed it. Oh, it would be rebuilt, and be as glorious as before, but...

Rumour had it that when Fréaláf and his men had arrived at Meduseld they had found the barbarian sitting on the great throne there, sitting in the ruins, snow in his hair, maddened eyes staring dully at nothing, surrounded by the corpses of his own lieutenants, slain by his own hand as they tried to get him to flee. Rumour had it that Wulf had merely sat as meekly as a kitten as Fréaláf had strode towards him, sword in hand, and that he had not flinched as the sword struck his head from his body.

Rumours abounded in these days. Rumours as dark and-

The soldiers drew to a halt as they saw the fire. Was this one of their men, or one of the foe?
As silent as spirits haunting ancient tombs, they moved as one to surround the fire. Only when they were sure the man sitting by it was of the enemy did they move into the circle of light, spears ready.

He was young, this man, barely old enough to grow more than a scattering of reddish hairs upon his chin, barely old enough to have been summoned to war, barely as old as some of the soldiers' firstborn sons.

Young, yes, but coward, no. As the soldiers surrounded him he rose to his feet, his sword ready despite the sling on his other arm, despite the barely-healed gash across his forehead. He glared defiance at them in the firelight, glared defiance at them and all their people.

He would have been slain by the soldiers there and then, but their captain stopped them. Why, they did not know.

"You know you are beaten. Put down your sword, boy."

The Dunlending's sword did not waver, even as the captain of the Mark removed her helmet and stared into his eyes.

"Put down your sword. Enough blood is shed in these lands already to drown them for eternity- put down your sword."

A signal from her was all it took for the soldiers to raise their spears. They didn't like it, but they did it. When Feanwen daughter of Helm the Hammer-Hand spoke, all listened. All remembered her father, and something of him lingered in her that cleaved like burning iron to their souls.

Still the Dunlending's sword did not waver. Feanwen shook her head.

"In another world, we could have been friends. In another world, I could have been your Queen. Put down your sword."

The young man sighed, as if something deep inside him was broken, and his sword fell to his side. Feanwen nodded, and stepped forward.

"What is your name, boy?"

The Dunlending stiffened at this.

"I am no boy. I am Reth, son of Bryn, cousin of Wulf himself, and I am a lord among my people, as you are a princess of yours."

Feanwen shrugged, a smile upon her lips.

"My apologies. One so young will always be a boy to me."

Reth bristled.

"So young? I am not so much younger than you, princess."

At this Feanwen chuckled.

"I am far older than I was when my father began this terrible war between our peoples. I forget it is only five years have passed since."

Reth's fury seemed to sag here, seemed to falter, and the boy he must have been before the war showed through in his eyes, which glistened with tears. Feanwen strode to him and brushed them away with one gloved hand, brushed away them and the grime of war away forever. Their eyes locked.

"Only five years since and only one since your people invaded my lands."

Reth's eyes widened at this, and he gasped out, but she continued.

"Only one year since your people invaded my lands, and burned my city. Only scant months since your people drove my father to a horrible, freezing death."

Blood began to bubble forth from the young Dunlending lord's lips, bright crimson where it fell upon the snow.

"Mere weeks since we slew your villainous Wulf and fixed his head upon his own sword. Scant days since I discovered that this war, this ugly, hateful plague upon my land, this blight..."

Feanwen laid the Dunlending to the ground, drawing her dagger from his side, not breaking his gaze for one second.

"...this foulness was all because of me."

Reth choked now, coughed up more blood. He lay now in a rapidly-spreading pool of his own blood, his skin greying rapidly. Feanwen still gazed into his eyes. Something terrible danced behind them, something that should never have had to be.

"Reth, I said that in another world we could have been friends. It is a shame that we were born in this one."

The soldiers watched in silence as she kissed the young man gently on his blueing lips, watched as she rose to her feet and drew her sword.

"It is a shame that we were born to hate each other."

With that, she drove the sword through his chest, drove it right through him and into the snow below.
Then she too began to cry.

*

The girl was enraptured, the loremaster could tell.

"And that, young one, is the truth."

He stood once more, wincing at the pain his chest. This would probably be the last child he ever told this tale to, the last-

"Why did she do it?"

His eyes widened. None of the children had ever-

"Why did she kill him? She didn't have to- he was beaten, the Dunlendings were beaten. She didn't have to kill him. She said enough blood had been shed to drown the lands already. Why spill more?"

The loremaster smiled. They always had so many questions, the children he told this tale to...

He stepped forwards, placed a hand on the girl's shoulder.

"Enough blood had been spilled to drown the land, so what was the blood of one arrogant boy, eh?"

The girl looked confused. The loremaster would have said more, but realised enough was enough. Better to leave her with some questions unanswered, better to leave her with some truths to find out for herself.

"When you grown older, you will realise that sometimes, there are some hurts too great to be forgiven, some pains too great to ever be forgotten."

The girl frowned, and the loremaster continued.

"When you grow older, ask yourself this question- an entire country at war, a kingdom ablaze, thousands dead... and all because of you. What would you do?"

He left the girl there, and walked out of the hall.
She would be the last he would teach, the last he would tell the story to.
It did not matter.

She would tell others.
He was sure of that.

Apology

2004-07-09T03:47:56Z

Due to my über-hectic social life recently, the third fic I promised to write has been delayed somewhat.

I'll try and get it done soon, honest!

Third Age Ficathon : The Days of the Stewards

2004-06-23T19:24:00Z

Assignment: Mardil Voronwe, first Ruling Steward. Any point in his life.
:)

Notes: I'm sorry this is late; I didn't get my assignment until after the deadline. Kill my mail server. Mardil and Vorondil were always interesting to me, so I wrote this story trying to connect them together. Its maybe not as interesting as it could be, but I hope it pleases. Enjoy. :)

Mardil stood atop the tower and looked over the king's city - his city, now, until the king returned. Would it be a noble from one of the provinces, who would come forth to claim the kingship? Some forgotten cousin of Earnil's? Someone from the northern kingdom? Could he, the tiny voice that sounded oddly like his wife, whispered in the back of his mind, be the one to become king? He had lineage to the kings, like any one of the others. It was only that there had been so many stewards in his family line that held him back...

His fingers trailed over the cord of the hunting horn his father had cut from the kine he had caught in Araw. Mardil could still remember Vorondil's words when he had given it to him. When the king returns, this horn shall sound, and all in Gondor shall know the king has come, and the steward welcomes him home. He almost didn't want to blow it, as he smoothed his fingertips over the dark horn itself, tracing the silver piece at the mouth.

He yet had no use for the horn, by his father's purposes. To call it out when the king returned - but did that not mean an end to Mardil's purpose, his destiny, his life as a steward and his hold over the throne? As a steward beneath a king he would serve small purpose indeed compared to the duties he held now. They were not small duties, but he knew how to discharge them. The training for such duties, to hold the king's place in his absence, had permeated his childhood. What of his cousins or some foreign Northman could say that was the same?

It seemed a pity, now, that he had never heard the horn his father had crafted specifically for the days of the stewards. Why wait until the return of a king? Why live life waiting for someone who might never come? Gondor's affairs could not be lax, waiting for a king to come and straighten out the treasury or reorganize the armies. There was no reason to believe that an heir to the throne still remained. If Mardil himself was not good enough for it, what man would be? Two generations, and no one would step forward, and no matter how the scribes and historians scratched over the records, they could find no one suitable.

Why live life waiting for a king who surely could not come unless he rose out of the mud? Looking over the city, Mardil knew he could not live his life with the expectancy of giving this, his country, to some ill-bred stranger. He would hold the throne. He would hold it for Gondor, not some king who would never come. They needed a strong steward, a strong lord, to govern them with a decisive hand. He knew what needed to be in Gondor, and he would see it done.

This was not the time between kings - this was the time of stewards. No king was coming, but he would hold the throne as a steward, remembering the kings who were no more. Mardil was no king, and he did not wish to be one; he was a steward, by heart, by name, and he would see the days of Gondor's glory. The kings were dead, and Gondor would have none others, though their days of glory and need for strong governance were not yet over.

Raising the horn to his lips, he let a brassy call into the air, ringing over the city, heads turning to see what news was afoot. The horn of Vorondil sang clear, calling all to flock to the banner of the stewards, to sing the praises of the new lords of Gondor, the governance of those who remembered the kings.

The days of the stewards had come.

Mathoms: LOTR GiftFics

*ahem*

*ahem X2*

*ahem*

Sad

*quiet cough*

mathoms @ 2005-02-26T23:48:00

mathoms @ 2005-02-26T17:40:00

OT: NEW Obscure Fic Community

mathoms @ 2005-02-11T01:48:00

mathoms @ 2005-02-06T19:51:00

Bright Fire

delayed post

Mathoms Holiday Fic: A Drink For The Dead

Holiday Mathoms: In Light and Song

*deep breath*

Holiday Mathoms Challenge - Warrior Bride

Ficathon Entry ("Midsummer Solstice")

By Request: Holiday Mathoms 2004

Official Request

Excuse Me...

*ahem*

Third Age Ficathon -- Castamir and Gondor's Civil War

Ficathon-Fic III

Apology

Third Age Ficathon : The Days of the Stewards

ahem

ahem X2

ahem

quiet cough

deep breath

ahem