An "Aragorn coming of age" drabble

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Destiny

Imladris’ pure air fills his senses. All the same, yet everything changed in a mere hour. Isildur’s Heir… Chieftain of the Dunedain…. His hand settles on the hilt of the broken sword. His destiny lies before him like the many endless roads he walked. He need only step upon it to embrace his fate.

Arnor… the old kingdom. His kingdom. He must know this land of his ancestors…his people.

“You are going?” A quiet voice turns his head.

“I must find my destiny, Adar. It is not here.”

A warm hand settles on his shoulder. “Namarie, ion nin. Journey well.”

This was written for the challenge to drabble the Silmarillion. It was the only way I could think of to drabble a chapter like "Of Beleriand and its Realms," which is mostly a geography lesson! ;-)

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With careful touch, his hand drew long strokes; lines shaping the blank canvas into Beleriand.

Flat…colorless, he thought, adding the wavy path of the River Sirion. Nothing of the splendor and majesty that once lived here.

Girdle of Melian his hand carefully scripted the words, void of the strength and power of the Maia that created it.

Angband. Shivers of dread swept through him. Although Melkor’s stronghold was gone, the name still carried a strong, persistent evil.

Ered Luin. That, which was the east, now is the west.

Beneath the water Beleriand now lay. Only this map would remember it.

Here are two companion drabbles, the first is a double the second, a single, for the birthdays of Annmarwalk (who wanted drabbles of the "Brothers 'Mir") and Aeneid who wanted a "Boromir Lives!" AU drabble).

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The Steward

His hand, strong and commanding, lies over mine. My grip tightens on the hilt of Anduril, the ceremonial words slipping easily from my lips.

When I pictured this scene as a boy, I expected to receive such words and not to give them. I understand clearly at last who stands before me and it strikes awe deep in my heart. Such a feeling is strange to me; I cannot keep it from my face as I finish my pledge.

His eyes meet mine; kindness, strength and nobility clear in his gaze, his words of acceptance so familiar.

“…valor with honour,” His eyes narrow as he finishes his statement, “oath-breaking with justice.”

He smiles at my surprise, his hand coming to rest on my shoulder.

“There is no vengeance, Boromir, son of Denethor.”

How many hundreds of years needs it to make a steward a king? My prophetic, childhood words return to me. Gone is the unkempt Ranger from the North. Before me I see my King, returned at last.

Standing, he sheaths the sword before beckoning me to rise. Together we turn to face the people.

“Behold!”

His voice rings clear and true across the Citadel.

"Boromir! Steward of Gondor!"

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The Brother

Pride wells within me as I look at the men before me. Boromir and Aragorn, side by side, face the exuberant crowd.

I study my brother's face and see acceptance, loyalty. More than that: devotion even our father never inspired in him. Can I read his heart? Still, always, my brother, but he is different somehow.

How many hundreds of years needs it to make a steward a king? Ever have I remembered his words, clear after so many years. Yet discontent I see not in my brother's face. Perhaps, now, the years that have passed do not matter anymore.

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Note: The line from LOTR is "Valor with honor, oath-breaking with vengeance." I thought "vengeance" was not very "Aragorn-ish" and could see him changing it.

Written as a birthday double drabble for Meril who wanted something with Eomer and Theódred.

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Challenge

“You will not succeed.”

Éomer squared his shoulders. He stopped and stared his cousin in the eye. “I will.” He turned away, but not before he saw Theódred shrug and shake his head.

Éomer easily climbed over the three rail fence before him. "You worry too much." He crossed the large paddock, halter in hand.

“I care not if you break your fool neck, only that it will be I who has to tell father of it.” Theódred rested his arms on the middle rail and looked over the fence. “You must first catch him.”

Éomer ignored him. He slowly approached the spirited gray stallion and, after a brief, silent stand off, haltered him. He smiled triumphantly. With the ease of one born to horses, he grabbed a handful of mane and vaulted to the animal’s back.

Powerful muscles bunched beneath him and Éomer turned his overconfident gaze to Theódred. He squeezed his legs firmly into the horse’s sides. “You were…”

He found himself lying on the ground, admiring the blue sky above him, and at a loss as to how he got there.

A shadow crossed his sight, followed by the smiling face of Theódred. "I told you so."

An Ithilien-Fourth Age drabble.

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Garden

With care the elf brushes earth around roots, his soft words encouraging the delicate flower to grow. Sitting back, he runs a light touch over its petals, remembering his recent words to Ithilien’s Prince. Green things will grow here again, Faramir, it shall be my gift to you and your Lady. These gardens will drive the memory of the Shadow away.

He reaches into his bag, gently pulling out another tender shoot. “Mae gala,” he whispers, planting the flower.

He glances up, seeing the Prince approach. The man smiles, his eyes scanning the burgeoning landscape around him.

“Hannon le, Legolas.”

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Mae gala - "Grow well"

A drabble birthday challenge to use "4" or "40" along with Hobbits in a drabble.

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Companions

Laughter reaches my ears, so carefree facing what lies before us. A smile turns my mouth. I have not known beings such as them before and curiosity settles over me.

Frodo, Ringbearer. His strength will be tested. The weight of his burden already shows on his face.

Samwise, never far from Frodo. Loyalty is his strongest trait.

Pippin, happiness undampened by the Shadow. His joy reminds us all why we are fighting.

Merry, steadfast friend, a trait unexpected in one so young.

Four small periannath sit before me, so simular but different too. Our Fellowship is better with their presence.

A Legolas and Gimli companionship double drabble.

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Miss

“Legolas?” Gimli slowly approached the elf, looking back and forth between his friend, and a gold-feathered arrow lodged in the tree in front of him.

Gimli wiped an oiled cloth over his axe and stared up at the troubled elf. “It matters not, my friend.”

Hesitantly, Legolas reached out, running his fingers over the arrow’s feathers before pulling it from the tree. “Nay, Master Dwarf, it matters greatly.”

Gimli rolled his eyes in exasperation. “You missed one shot, Legolas! Your next arrow found its mark. Nothing ill came of it!”

Anger replaced bewilderment as Legolas looked down at his friend. “If the next one had missed too, you’d be dead, elvellon.”

“Bah!” A mischievous glint appeared in the dwarf’s eyes. “No dwarf is ever blindsided by an orc!”

Anger dissolving, Legolas mouth curled slightly in amusement. “Your ego is formidable, Gimli.”

The dwarf’s grunt was non-committal. “So is your bow.”

Legolas lifted the arrow, staring at its head. “I’ve not missed since I was a novice.”

Gimli nodded and turned away. Stepping over the body of a slain orc, he paused, looking back at his friend. “No one is perfect, Legolas.”

Smiling, Legolas returned the arrow to his quiver.

A one year anniversary double drabble

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Anniversary

The Fields of Pelennor, long cleared of the horror and devastation that had once littered them, lay warm under the spring sun. Though faint, battle scars could still be seen, despite the land’s recovery. Aragorn’s hands tightened on the cool, stone wall. Men had been victorious, but at a great and terrible price. Pulling his gaze from Pelennor, he let it wander over the walls and courtyard surrounding him. What once was cold, impassionate stone was now sprinkled with color and life as the flowers and plants Legolas had gifted the city took hold and flourished. His gaze settled on the willowy and delicate form of the White Tree. One year has passed since he brought the sapling down from Mindolluin. The tree’s blossoms, delicate and beautiful, fluttered in the cool breeze.

For the time comes of the Dominion of Men. Unforgotten, Gandalf's words echoed in his head. Much they had achieved in the year passed; yet much more there was to do. Acknowledging the guards, he crossed the courtyard, pausing to allow one hand to lightly brush an outstretched branch. Purpose lending strength to his stride, Aragorn returned to the Hall of Kings, and the duties he had there.

A challenge to write a drabble with the Twins and Legolas together. It started as a double drabble..but quickly grew to a quadruple drabble. (g) Oops...*giggle*

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Elrohir pulled the well-fletched arrow tight against his cheek, released and watched with satisfaction as the shaft sped across the course and struck the target’s center with a resounding thud. He turned, a mocking smile playing at his mouth. “Your turn. Or you can concede now and avoid the shame.” His smile broadened as he watched Legolas eye the distant target for a long moment, before pulling an arrow from his quiver.

“’Tis not an easy shot,” Legolas replied, his eyes narrowing in concentration. He released the arrow. It flew straight towards the target, deftly splitting Elrohir’s arrow in half. He smiled broadly. “But not overly difficult either.”

“Perhaps it is you who should concede, muindor.” Elladan laughed.

Shaking his head, Elrohir’s gaze shifted to his brother. “Care to defend Imladris’ honor?” still smiling, his voice took on a challenging note, “or mayhap your aim is less sharp than your wit?”

All three laughed, as Elladan strung his bow and took Legolas’ place in front of the target.

Elrohir watched his brother take aim until a rustling in the bushes grabbed his attention. His smile faded as a small figure darted out into the range. “Elladan!” He turned and was relieved to see his twin lowering his bow.

“Peace, muindor, I see him.”

All three elves stared silently at the small figure standing in the middle of the range, a guilty expression on his face.

Elrohir cleared his throat. “Come here, Estel.”

The dejected six year old slowly crossed the range, stopping in front of him. Head lowered, he mumbled, “Sorry, Elrohir.”

Elrohir glanced at Elladan and Legolas, their sympathetic expressions mirroring his, before he knelt and placed both hands on the boy’s shoulders.

“Estel, look at me.” He kept a stern demeanor as the youngster looked up. “How many times has adar told you to stay away from the archery range?”

“A lot.” Estel muttered. “I was playing.”

“And you did not notice where you were, little brother?” Elladan added softly.

Elrohir smiled as the youngster nodded slowly. “We will not tell adar…this time. His gaze turned somber. “But do not let it happen again.”

A smile lit up Estel’s face as he nodded emphatically. “Oh, I won’t! I promise!” He turned and darted down the path.

Elrohir stood, sharing a laugh with the other two before he pointed at the target. “I believe it was your turn, muindor?”

muindor - brother

adar - father

<>Echoing in my ears, the Black Speech of Mordor blankets my soul and chills me even more than the coldest fogs of Mirkwood.

“The Ring must be destroyed.”

“I will take the Ring to Mordor…though, I do not know the way.” Quiet and unsure, the innocent hobbit’s words pierce the bitter cold of dread in my heart like a ray of sunshine on a winter’s day, and stays my anger towards the dwarf.

His courage against such overwhelming odds inspires me. Following the Ranger's lead, I pledge him my bow - a decision I know is right.