The Return

Faramir led Éowyn along the rocky path (no blindfolds needed now, yet still he bid her cover her eyes, that the surprise might be greater) to the cavern behind the waterfall.

Pausing, he contemplated the past. Had it truly been but two years since hobbit here had borne Isildur’s Bane about his neck? Since quiet word had stayed arrows that gangrel creature might live, who would carry ring and finger together into the fire?

Drawing his wife to the spray-drenched window, he caught her hands in his, uncovering her gaze to the glory of rainbow sunset dazzle. “Happy birthday, beloved.”

Strange to Us

Voice of stone in my soul. They are gone. They are gone.

Gone across a sea I have never seen. How could they bear to leave, when the world is so fair? Leave new grass to sprout, new trees to spring from seed, grow to sapling and towering giant, never savoring their greenness? Leave their works of creation to fall into ruin? Leave, knowing even the bedrock will mourn them?

Old as I now realize I am, with these younglings for companions, still I am only beginning to learn to love this Middle-Earth. I do not ever want to leave.

That Which Is Fairest

Three strands she gave me, ere we left Lorien.

One, radiant as warm gold. Another, cool luster of mithril. The third… ah, the third! Some metal never mined, mithril and gold both, yet surpassing either. So must the light of the two trees have shone, caught mingled in jewel-stuff.

I had thought their faces ugly, bald cheeked and bare chinned. Fair to each other, I supposed, but never to my eyes matching the comeliness of full luxurious tresses.

Then I beheld her, and realized I had been blind. Her gift opened my eyes. Now I see so much more beauty.

Another Name

There he is, I hear them whisper, thinking I cannot hear. That Ranger. That Strider.

An apt enough description. Many long leagues these legs have traveled, many miles remain before I reach journey’s end. Very well then, Strider will I be, in this place.

The inn is warm, the beer excellent. But I sit alone. They watch me, eyes suspicious, voices wary.

Would they honor me, if they knew my heritage, if they realized that daily I risk death for their sakes? Would it matter?

Telcontar will I surname my sons. That we may remember the purpose and the price.

The Hobbit, Chapter 18 – The Return Journey

Victory after all. A gloomy business.

Beorn bears wounded Thorin from the battlefield. Bilbo comes to Thorin’s bedside, and they are reconciled before the final farewell. Bitter adventure, to end so.

Thorin is laid beneath the mountain, Arkenstone on his breast, Orcrist a watchlight upon his tomb.

Many partings along the road. As payment for burglary, Bilbo bears away only two small chests, one filled with silver, one with gold. And – one magic ring.

Looking back, snow gleams on mountain peak in place of dragon fire. The Took is tired, ready to sleep. The Baggins is ready to be home.

LotR, Appendix B (The Great Years, 3018-3019)

My hand inscribes the numbers on the page. 3018. 3019.

I record the dates, from Gandalf’s arrival in Hobbiton, until the moment we watched Gollum vanish into the fire. Our journey was the heart of the story.

Yet so much else happened during those days. Our friends at war in Rohan and Gondor. And others embattled, in Mirkwood and Lorien, Dale and the Lonely Mountain. I have researched the events, and record them all, appended to Frodo’s account.

Now I am ready to pass the Red Book on to Elanor. May this history endure, and the Great Years be remembered.

A Father’s Choice

“Please, Father, don’t make me leave with Mother and the girls. I’m old enough! I want to do my part.” His eyes plead.

Oh my son, you do not know what you ask. We who stay within these walls are doomed; we fight on for honor’s sake, not for hope of victory.

But innocence does not negate courage. Too young this hour has come upon you, yet you meet it valiantly. Your small flame longs to shine against the darkness.

How can I deny you, my son? Though the Shadow takes us both, still I will not quench your fire.

Kindred Spirits

Amidst the floods of joy and sorrow of my reunion with Elrond, I barely noticed the little stranger. But later we were introduced. Oh, how I recognized the pain I saw in him! Here was another who had fled a life grown unbearable. Another with pain too deep for surcease.

I knelt before him, our eyes level. “Welcome,” I told him. “You and I both know the bitterness of the Shadow. But there is healing here. I have found it.”

He returned my gaze, and saw the memory of living death, in my living soul. And he began to hope.

Legacy

I remember a happy day beneath the Mountain. I was but a child of ten years. My mother took me for the first time to the gem-cutter’s cavern, and held my hands beneath hers on the tools as we shaped the rough jewels. For the first time I knew the joy of creating beauty with my touch.

That night, Smaug came.

With wind and fire he invaded, driving us panicking into the night. He took my home from me. Do you know what home is to a woman of the Dwarves? It is our bedrock, our foundation, our roots deep as the roots of the mountain. When I left my home it was as if the ground turned to sand constantly shifting under my feet. When I lay down to sleep I felt the earth tilt and tremble, and there was no solidity to be found anywhere. Through our years of wandering I learned to keep my balance amidst the constant unsteadiness, but without my home, I could never be truly stable.

For a hundred years I have endured thus. When we came here I even managed to carve out a secure enough place that I was able to master my body to my will, force it to accept a husband, even come at last to fertility that I might conceive. For I needed sons.

You are young now, my Fili, my Kili, but you will grow. When you come to maturity, you will join my brother when he returns. He dreams of gold, but I know that is the least the worm stole from us. I will teach you to hunger and thirst for retribution. And when you have spent your toil and blood, and the dragon lies writhing in his death throes, then will your mother be avenged.

Namesake

Sam knelt by the bedside. Rosie, tired and glowing, smiled down at the red, wrinkled newborn nuzzling her breast.

“Are you sure?” she asked. “It’s what we always planned to name a boy, but that was before…”

Before a white sail disappeared into the sunset, never to return.

Could he bear to keep that name alive? To hear and say it dozens of times each day? How much easier to let it fade into dear, dim memory.

But what other name was there for his eldest son? He blinked back tears, but spoke with firm certainty. “His name is Frodo.”

Farewell

I pause, hands on the stern of the beached boat, ready to thrust it into the water, and look back to where the forest springs up at the edge of the sand. Finally I am free to answer the call that has sung in my heart all these years. But now the trees call with equal intensity, and I stand poised, torn between competing songs, the land of my birth, rich with beauty and wonders yet untasted, and the land of my destiny, mystery and promise beyond the waves.

Gimli shifts impatiently, still uncomfortable with the motion of the boat. “What are you waiting for?” But then he sees my face, and understands.

“Ah, indeed, it is a fair world we leave, my friend.” Our eyes meet, sharing grief and joy. Then he turns to gaze toward the western horizon. “But what awaits is fairer still. Or at least, so you have convinced me.”

I know his words for truth. With a last farewell to all I have known, I shove the boat through the waves and leap aboard, turning the sail to catch the wind. Together we sail West, while around us the ocean thunders the music of creation.

The Sundering Seas

I can fight to keep you no longer. Daily you fade, till now I can nearly see sunlight through your skin. Your eyes are empty of joy. The wounds of your body have healed, but I fear a deadlier weapon pierced your soul.

Few of the Eldar could have survived the trials you bore. So joyful was I at your rescue, that you yet lived. But now I see our parting was merely delayed.

Your fea already prepares to depart. Will your hroa make the journey also?

Some wounds can never fully heal. Not this side of the Sundering Seas.

Blood Brothers

We were born in the same hour, beneath the brilliant desert stars. They pierced my ear and his and mingled our blood. I drank his mother’s milk, and he mine. Before I walked I rode his back, and slept nestled in the curve of his trunk.

When we came to maturity they taught us the art of war. We rode to battle and our foes fell before us. They tattooed my flesh and his with the record of our kills.

Now spears have pierced my heart and his. Again our blood mingles, and we share the hour of our deaths.

The Beginning of a Beautiful Friendship

Such curious creatures. Newcomers to Bree since last my wanderings led here. Most like Men in appearance, yet shorter than Dwarves, beardless and Elven-eared.

I was relaxing at the Prancing Pony when a group of them took the table beside mine. They began to engage in the oddest practice – burning dried leaves and inhaling the smoke! Despite myself, the fire in my nature was fascinated; I asked if I might partake. Suspicious at first, when my enjoyment of the experience became obvious, they welcomed me as one of their own.

Perhaps tomorrow I shall see how they like my fireworks.

Heirs of the Oath

Deep night reigned outside the firelit hall, the king long since retired, yet still the Steward’s heir held forth, tale following song in the warm companionship of ale. Eomer sat spellbound with the rest, entranced by this vivid guest. Theodred, beside him, watched with enjoyment also, yet Eomer sensed in his cousin reserve, observation rather than revelry.

“Why so thoughtful, brother? Tonight is for merriment!”

Theodred smiled, eyes still on Boromir. “Someday we shall stand as Cirion and Eorl to each other, he and I. I would know the measure of the man to whom I will give my oath.”

* * *

The name of Eru echoed through the silence, as once before in this holy place. Elessar stood wreathed in flames of setting sun, oath renewed forever.

Then he descended from the star-flowered mound, and in twilight the two kings and their companions made their way down the stair. Once withdrawn far enough speech no longer seemed desecration, Aragorn turned to Eomer. “Now we stand as Cirion and Eorl to each other. May we always prove faithful heirs to their friendship.”

Eomer nodded, mute. Heirs also to two others, who never stood thus. To them too may we prove ever faithful.

Pity

It knows me so well now. At first its promises were laughable – a Hobbit lord of Middle-earth! But soon it offered dearer possibilities – places and people I love preserved undecaying…

But I withstood, and now raise my hand to fling it into the fire. The reflections on the tiny circle catch my eye. So beautiful, so vulnerable. So afraid. I feel its terror pulse like waves of heat from the molten stone below.

It pleads, entreats, begs, only to survive. Failing, it grows desperate, and grovels whimpering before me. Master…

I am no destroyer.

My hand falls.

Forgive me, Gandalf….