10. October 2004
Wondering about the White Lady – by Tanaqui
“Keep Lady Éowyn company for me while I am gone.” Faramir’s words ring in my ears as he departs at the summons I brought from the King. Bees hum loudly among the herbs as we look at each other uncertainly.
Merry told me of her grief and despair, kindness, valour, how pity for her awoke his courage.
Faramir’s stern face softens when he speaks of her; left unsaid that this new love gives hope amidst grief for those who are gone.
Who is she that she can capture their hearts so?
“Lady Éowyn,” I bow as I make our beginning.
Sharing ~ by Vistula
“Let’s see, cheese, some bread…” Eowyn paused in her storeroom rummaging, at the patter of bare feet.
It was one of the holbytla. Not a ring-bearer, he wore the livery of a Citadel guard.
“You must be Pippin,” she whispered. “Merry often spoke of you.”
The hobbit nodded, smiling. “I came to snitch a bite since the coronation feast isn’t for some hours yet.”
“Me too. I've attended many formal dinners and there’s never enough to eat or drink.”
“Shall we sup together then? I’d like to hear about Merry and your adventures.”
“Let’s. Here carry the wine.”
Faramir_Boromir: I would appreciate any words about Boromir
As a new soldier, as a trainee, as a son, as a commander, as a brother, as a figure of affection to his men, in Osgiliath, in Minas Tirith, travelling to Rivendell, fighting in Moria.... I'd just as soon not have death fic, ...something about the man when he is alive would please me best.
Brotherly love – by Tanaqui
He was so strong!
I remember his small, blunt hand slipped from mine, he tugged so hard. I gave chase, but he was through the door and crying, “Let me see! Let me see!” before we could make a more seemly entrance.
Still, the Lord Denethor was in a rare good mood and did not reprimand me.
Always a restless blur of rich velvets and dark hair, I remember. But that moment he was still. I watched my sweet boy lean over the crib and will not forget his words.
“I will always take good care of you, little brother.”
Little Ones ~ by Vistula
He hears them - teeth chattering in the darkness.
They’re cold, afraid. The creature in the water has shaken them, more than their stout hearts want to admit.
Enveloped in the creeping black of Moria, they shiver with more than cold. Horror curls about them like the musty air. Too proud to admit it, they huddle together finding little comfort in their mutual terror.
Strength can only be gained from strength.
“Merry. Pippin. Come here.” He coaxes gently, offering them protection against the night.
Eagerly, they obey nestling like children against his sides. Wrapped by his courage they sleep in peace.
Mag the Cook Remembers Boromir ~ by annmarwalk
Oh, he had a sweet tooth, our young lord Boromir! Whenever he returned home to us, safe and whole, I’d fix his favorites: breakfast cakes drizzled with ginger glaze; milky tea sweetened with honey and cinnamon; crisp duckling roasted with oranges and dates. He’d laugh, and kiss me, and call me his dearest Mag. I’d shoo him away, but not before he’d grab a handful of sugared almonds, for later.
Now, every year on his birthday, my lord Faramir bakes ginger cakes, with his own hands, in memory. Not as good as mine, but Faramir tries his best, bless him.
Arquen: I'd love a drabble from the POV of someone (other than Tar-Miriel) during the destruction of Numenor. Either one of the Faithful on the ships, or someone watching the wave descend upon the island. Thanks!
Triumph Incarnate–Elena Tiriel
Armenelos the golden? Nay! By My hand, armenelos the blackened!
I bade them burn the white tree. Reluctantly, they obeyed.
The acrid smoke shrouds the nimbus-wracked sky, split asunder by lightning.
I bade them betray their kindred, despoil, violate, sacrifice; willingly, they complied.
The foolish faithful shriek and wail... the charred charnel-stench arouses My passion.
I bade them breach the ban of the valar and, pridefully, their king voyaged westward.
The menacing wavecrest looms. My goal's at hand: to purge these paltry vermin who sought to subjugate Me!
Satisfied, I mount the ebon throne in My impenetrable Temple.
And Sauron, sitting in his black seat in the midst of the Temple, had laughed when he heard the trumpets of Ar-Pharazôn sounding for battle; and again he had laughed when he heard the thunder of the storm; and a third time, even as he laughed at his own thought, thinking what he would do now in the world, being rid of the Edain for ever, he was taken in the midst of his mirth, and his seat and his temple fell into the abyss. But Sauron was not of mortal flesh, and though he was robbed now of that shape in which he had wrought so great an evil ... yet his spirit arose out of the deep and passed as a shadow and a black wind over the sea, and came back to Middle-earth....
The Silmarillion, Akallabêth
What can be saved – by Tanaqui
The ship’s master shouts to the crew above the noise of the storm, directing their struggle with tangled rope and broken spar. I cannot see the other ships: swept apart, who knows if we will meet again?
I do not look back. I know our sweet isle is gone, though I see the wave crashing over it even with open eyes. I think I will never forget.
Another lurch the other way. I hurry down to the cabin to check the crate is securely lashed. I touch one precious leaf: a token of what can be saved to begin again.
Downfall -- a double drabble by Forodwaith
He thought that he could outrun the storm and return to the ships before the wave fell. The captain warned him - We cannot wait for stragglers - but how could he leave Lissuin behind? One last time, he had to try to persuade her.
And this time, he succeeded - even his wilful young wife was daunted. "Our pride has cost us," she admitted.
They foundered the horses trying to reach Andunié in time; for nothing. Now they huddle in the lee of the city wall. Water falls from the black sky, rises up from the black sea, blows sideways on the wind. From under her cloak she watches him. "I cost you a chance to live. I am sorry."
He is past sorrow, past anger. He feels only regret that the two of them will never see the shores of Middle-Earth. "We are still voyaging together," he tells her, and it is true. Together they will discover what - if anything - lies beyond the wave.
The roar is so loud it is past hearing - not a noise, but a blow. They do not look up, but cling to one another and hope not to be sundered.
Branwyn: For my birthday, I ask for words about the weaving of banners, spiderwebs, or intrigues. Thanks!
crafting a web of words--
cords of sinew, thread of silver
weaving a tissue of dreams--
cloth of nettles, cloth of gold
A net of warring duties – by Tanaqui
I am not blind. I see how you lay your traps.
One son you stole long years ago, with soft words. The other you could not corrupt, and fashioned your riddling dream to take him also. You set the halfling to spy on me; your anger was a sham for my men to report. You use me as your shield, even as you prepare the way for that Northern upstart. Always I mistrusted him; was I not right?
You would stand behind every throne: north, south and west.
The palantír shows your treachery. I will be the tool of none.
A Lesson in Mercy ~ Vistula
“Don’t kill it Da!” The child’s cry begged mercy.
A fraction away from his dire deed Sam hesitated, stone in hand.
Elanor stared with watery blue eyes, first at her father, then at the object of his determination.
Dewdrops sparkled in the spider’s web, just like the wet kiss of tears on his daughter’s face. Sam’s aversion toward the creature warred with the tug of a child’s words in his heart.
Defeated, he smiled and took her tiny hand, leaving the spider for another day. How could he not?
Unknowingly she’d woven a web of healing in his heart.
Skilled With A Needle ~ by annmarwalk
Throughout that rainy winter Faramir watched, fascinated, as Eowyn wielded needle and thread as skillfully as ever she had handled her sword.
“I did not spend all my time in the practice-yards,” she laughed. “Come evening, my nurse would sit on me to make me take up my needlecraft. I fought long, but finally surrendered, and now am glad of the skill.” She held up her handiwork, a small jacket as exquisite and intricate as a spider’s web.
A tapestry, Faramir thought. Each day, some new knowledge; a new thread added. We weave our lives together, a work in progress.
Cheryl: I'd like to see some friendship drabbles between Aragorn and Legolas. Before,during or after the Ring War is fine. No slash please. Thank you!
The King’s Summons – by Tanaqui (a drabble and a half)
A twig cracks under my foot; doe and fawn bound away, startled. Lord Legolas turns, his face clouded with annoyance. I care not, now I have tracked him down at last (and I have long grown used to teasing that I will always be a city guard).
“Your pardon, Lord.” I salute him. “Lord Faramir sent me to find you. The King requests your presence most urgently.”
“Is aught wrong?” He sets off, and I struggle to keep pace.
“Naught that cannot be amended by a draught shared to wet the new prince’s head, if I understand the message aright,” I pant.
He stops abruptly. “The Queen is safely delivered? A son?” I nod, breathless. A smile lights his face. Then he lets out a most un-elven whoop and is off again. His cry drifts faintly back to me. “Ah, Aragorn, I will drink Minas Tirith dry with you today!”
Bringing the sun – by Tanaqui
The snow is cold but I sweat as I follow Boromir to forge a path. Head down, intent, I startle when Legolas passes with a wave of his hand, running swift and sure over the snow.
Breathing hard, we reach the bend at last. The snow rears high, sharp crested. Boromir says wearily, “We cannot pass.” My spirit fails.
Then Legolas appears above us. “Take heart, friends. I do not bring the sun, but tidings. The drift is little wider than a wall.”
Boromir and I turn back to our task, renewed.
Legolas, my friend, you bring the sun indeed.
Reluctant King ~ Vistula
Laughter like the fall of moon silvered water, stayed the man’s steps. Aragorn sighed, shaking back his elven cloak, and turned to face his pursuer.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Legolas questioned, his voice touched with mirth. He crouched easily on the garden wall, watching the attempted escape with amusement.
“Away. Anywhere but here.”
“You cannot elude your advisors so easily.”
“I can if you don’t help them,” the fugitive king muttered.
“I suppose I could grant you a few hours – for old times sake.” Heart filled with understanding, Legolas relented, throwing him a rope. “Come on…”
Small Gifts ~ by annmarwalk
Legolas and Aragorn had traveled far together, and shared much: hunger and pain; songs and stories; bittersweet memories of the past, wistful longings for the future.
So if he chooses not to share this secret, then neither will I, thought Legolas. But when he spied a small flat stone, the ghostly image of an ancient fern-leaf embedded in the dark matrix, he knelt quickly and slipped it into his pack.
“Happy birthday, friend,” Aragorn’s eyes lit up, a sudden flash of boyish delight that warmed the heart. A small token, dear Estel, in earnest of what is yours by right.
Raksha the Demon: I'd love a Faramir drabble - Faramir meeting Elves after the Ring War (or Legolas in the Houses of Healing), Faramir and Eomer, Faramir and Aragorn's relationship, Faramir as a fighter/warrior, Faramir as a musician and/or singer, a Faramir-Gimli conversation, Faramir's relationship with Gandalf, whichever y'all would prefer. I prefer non-slash.
A warrior’s skills – by Tanaqui
He moves among them, speaks to each group in turn. Orders for tomorrow’s battle were given to their leaders; still he shares a jest, asks after news from home, lays a calm hand on a young shoulder.
“Give us a song, Captain.” The words carry across the cavern. Men turn to look.
“It’s been a while….” He smiles, apologetic, ready to move on.
“Don’t tell us you’ve lost your voice!” someone else calls.
“A song, a song!” The quiet beat of hands on hilts.
How can he not grant their wish, that a warrior should have more skills than weaponcraft?
Risk and Reward – by Tanaqui
His fingers shake as he unwraps this glorious gift. He fears what he offers in return will not be sufficient.
Lips touch gold and cream and pink, glowing in the soft candlelight; his tongue savours her sweet taste as he breathes her in. His movements are slow, deliberate, careful, though his heart and breath are quickening. Her face is turned to him like a day’s eye to the sun; her touch on him assures him she returns his love.
Making her his, and he hers, at last, is like a homecoming to a place he has only known in dreams.
Butterflies ~ Vistula
“I can’t do this.”
Aragorn pressed his forehead with shaking hands, surrendering to his nerves.
Swallowing a smile, Faramir poured him wine. “You can, m’lord. You’ve faced far worse things. Orcs and…”
“This isn’t the same,” Aragorn interrupted, taking the goblet. He nodded gratefully to the steward. “I’ve never presided over a council.”
“They’re only men and all support you.”
Seeing this insurmountable warrior wracked with anxious butterflies filled Faramir with an admiration for his king that no battle feat could ever match.
With a comforting hand on Aragorn’s shoulder he reassured: “Don’t worry. I’ll be right by your side.”
Family Traditions ~ by annmarwalk
By the time the household was roused by his littlest sister’s cries of “Papa’s baking! Papa’s baking!” Faramir and Elboron had been at work for quite some time.
Two kinds of ginger: ground for the filling, candied for the glaze. He watched his father’s strong, callused hands kneading the dough, until… “Smooth as a baby’s bottom!” they sang out in unison, laughing, as always.
Then came the moment when Elboron asked his question, as he did each year, knowing now that it was part of the tradition. “What was my uncle Boromir like?” And his father began to tell him.
This is a work of fan fiction, written because the author has an abiding love for the works of J R R Tolkien. The characters, settings, places, and languages used in this work are the property of the Tolkien Estate, Tolkien Enterprises, and possibly New Line Cinema, except for certain original characters who belong to the author of the said work. The author will not receive any money or other remuneration for presenting the work on this archive site. The work is the intellectual property of the author, is available solely for the enjoyment of Henneth Annûn Story Archive readers, and may not be copied or redistributed by any means without the explicit written consent of the author.