Darkness

Disclaimer: I do not make any money off of any of this; I'm just having a bit of fun.

Posted in honor of the Gondorian New Year.

Pippin couldn’t breathe. He was slowly being pressed to death; a crushing blackness enveloped him. He knew he must be in terrible pain, but could not feel more than a tingling. Even that grew less and less as time passed, although he didn’t know how long he’d been like this. He had the oddest sense of detachment from the entire world- events he couldn’t quite recall spun around him while he remained still, trapped in the darkness that was his prison. Though he could tell that there was a great roar of noise outside, all sounds were muffled, and he could not tell what was happening.

I’m back in Old Man Willow, Pippin thought blearily. A strange blend of fear and relief flooded his consciousness. There was no way out this time. It was still winter, that he was sure of, and Tom Bombadil would not be bounding along the path to the Withywindle to gather lilies for Lady Goldberry until the spring. He was certain that Merry, Frodo, and Sam weren’t there this time, either, although he couldn’t remember why.

He was rather unnerved to find that he was relieved about his predicament. He remembered the awful, creaking voice of Old Man Willow in his ear, and how he had wished to block the words out, but what the Willow had said had implanted itself in his mind. The Willow’s words had been full of malice and hate, but there was one thing that he had said that Pippin recalled now- that Pippin would remain trapped forever, and would eventually forget everything and become as a tree himself. The very idea had terrified Pippin then, but now, to his vague horror, it didn’t seem so bad. A forever full of forgetting all the terrible things that had happened and slowly becoming like a tree didn’t seem so bad to him now.

Why was he thinking that? There was nothing terrible to forget. Pippin struggled with his mind, fighting against the black curtain that had been thrown across his memory. Where had he been before this darkness? The lack of air was making it harder and harder to think, as was that loud unidentifiable cacophony. There was a battle… in a white city… Minas Tirith! And then… then he had come with the soldiers to… the Black Gate! And a messenger had come out bearing Frodo and Sam’s belongings! A wave of despair crashed over him. Frodo and Sam were taken, along with the Ring. Merry would be dead soon. Perhaps it was better that he would forget- Middle-earth was doomed, and there was no point in fighting Old Man Willow this time.

It seemed that Old Man Willow sensed that Pippin was not putting up a fight, for the sounds outside suddenly lessened, and a dead silence fell. Relieved, Pippin allowed the darkness to gain the upper hand. Perhaps dying was like going to sleep, he thought, and black thoughts settled in his mind.

Pippin had no sense of time in his prison, but it seemed that hours and hours were passing, his consciousness flickering from awareness and back throughout that time. He had lost all feeling in his body, and felt more detached than ever. He was certain that he was ready to die. Suddenly, a cry from the outside world rent the air, so loud that it even penetrated through Old Man Willow clearly.

“Pippin!”

It was a deep, gruff voice calling his name. It sounded so familiar, yet he could not place it.

“Pippin!”

The voice was closer now.

“Peregrin Took, where are you?” The speaker sounded desperate. Pippin wanted to call back, but there was barely enough air left in his lungs to keep him alive. He lay still as the voice called again and again, and soon felt vibrations- footsteps. Somebody was coming, standing right next to Old Man Willow. Pippin wished he could warn the person about the danger of the Willow, but he could do nothing. Through the side of the Willow, he heard a strangled gasp.

“No!” the voice cried.

Pippin felt somebody place hands on the side of Old Man Willow- and suddenly, a crack opened. It grew wider and wider, until he felt the crushing pressure upon him lessen little by little. He found that he could take deeper breaths and did so; a surge of unexpected pain clawed at his chest and he nearly cried out. The feeling was returning, and with it came a terrible pain.

He was lifted up by strong arms and carried for a short distance before being set down. “Oh no,” the same voice said. “No, no, this isn’t right!” Pippin cracked his eyes open and saw a choked, brown sky above him; he had been rescued from his prison. Who had saved him?

As he breathed, the pain mounted, and his vision began to blur. Unconsciousness was beginning to claim him as he saw someone standing over him. He was taller than a hobbit, but shorter than a Man. He had a long brown beard. Could it really be who he thought it was?

“Tom?” Pippin whispered. As he lost consciousness completely, the person standing by him began to shout.

“Aragorn! Legolas! I’ve found him!”

Sméagol’s grandmother had many fine things, he recalled. She had precious jewels, obtained by trading with the dwarves from some forgotten long-ago. There were lovely necklaces of filigreed gold and silver, brought back by certain adventurous relatives from far-off places. There were lovely stones of crystal from the River, cut in such a way that they shone when held in the light. Sméagol was especially fond of these: he would take them out of their boxes and place them in the window-panes on bright mornings, watching them sparkle and cast rainbows against the walls, and then go hunt for crystals for his own, inspired by his grandmother’s stones.

But perhaps the finest, or strangest, things his grandmother had were the things that had been discovered in the River-bank long ago. A Man’s skeleton had been found, clad in rusting armor. It was forgotten who had found it, but whoever it was had brought the bones and armor home and polished them up.

The bones had been scrubbed thoroughly and left to lay in the sun, bleaching them a bright white. Then, the long, thin bones, such as the fingers and forearms, had been skillfully carved into melodious flutes, which would produce a lovely, rich sound when blown. The skull itself had been made into a bowl. The jaw was removed and the remaining part of the skull had been carefully cut and sanded until only the bowl-shaped top half was left. This was then mounted to keep it from rolling, and was smoothed and painted. The rest of the bones had beautiful designs carved on them and had been enameled with many different colors. Some bones told stories, some were nature scenes, and some were incredible, intricate designs.

Sméagol loved to look at the bones. He had taught himself to play well-known tunes on the flutes. He would fill the bowl with water every morning for his grandmother to wash in, mesmerized by the bright colors painted on the outside as he carried it from the house to the River and back. He would tell himself stories from the bones, making things up if he didn’t know who the people were or what they had to do.

But what delighted Sméagol even more than the bones was the armor. That same person who had carved the bones so beautifully had restored the armor, carefully polishing it and removing the rust. Most of the armor had been melted down to use for tools, for metal was hard to come by nowadays, but the breastplate had been kept intact, for it was an excellent mirror. Sméagol would often go to the breastplate and look at the faint design that had escaped the ravages of time. It was a tree; its branches stretched high overhead, and its roots spread out beneath the trunk. Above the branches were seven rayed stars, and below the roots were what appeared to be seven smooth, rounded stones.

Sméagol wondered who the Man was that had been wearing this armor who had died so far from home and left his body to the River. He longed to fill in the pieces of this story, and so it was that the place where the bones had been found, a lovely stretch of the River with a willow tree and reedy banks, became his favorite place to fish and explore.

Note: I wrote this last year after viewing fireworks over the Rhein for Johannisfest. That's where my inspiration stemmed from.

Three tall figures were watching the goings-on of Hobbiton from a stand of trees on a high hill. A bustle of activity was centered around a great tree in the middle of a clearing. The tree was hung with lanterns, and many lights were being lit on the ground to scare off the darkness of the approaching night. There were many tents with tables beneath them, heavily laden with food and surrounded by chattering hobbits. A small band played a cheery, fast-paced dance and the dancers swirled about.

The smell of hobbit food drifted up to the figures in the trees and caught the nose of the youngest of the group. His stomach gave a loud growl. One of the others, Halbarad, laughed softly.

“Well, that won’t do,” Halbarad said, smiling in the growing darkness towards the offender. “When viewing a hobbit-party, one must do as hobbits do. Feel free to eat.”

The youngest, Falborn, blushed furiously. “Thank you, sir.” At a mere fourteen years, still very early in training, he felt quite embarrassed and quite awkward around the older, more experienced Rangers, especially those like Halbarad and the Captain. He took a bit of dried fruit from his pack and sat on the hillside, eating as quietly as he could to avoid attention again.

Falborn was unsure as to why he had been called to join these two to a journey to the Shire. He was the youngest Ranger in training, and he couldn’t help but wonder. Was there going to be trouble for the Halflings?

While he was pondering these things, the two other Rangers seated themselves and waited.

“Do you think we should tell the lad what we are doing here?” Halbarad said quietly to the Captain.

“No,” the Captain said. “Don’t you remember your first time seeing this? Would you have wanted to have everything spoiled by knowing what was coming?”

“No,” Halbarad admitted. “No, I would not have wanted that.”

The last rays of the sun finally vanished, and night settled in like a dark blanket.

“Ah,” the Captain said, his keen eyes picking out a tall grey figure moving amongst the hobbits, “it is time.”

Falborn heard this. “Time for-” he began, but was cut off by a loud whistle and a bang! He leapt to his feet and his hand flew to his dagger at his belt, but the Captain reached up and caught his hand.

“Peace,” he said calmly. “There is nothing to be frightened of. Look at the sky.”

Falborn stared at the explosion of bright white against the night sky in awe until it faded away.

“What is it? Has Earendil knocked a star from the sky by accident?”

Both Halbarad and the Captain laughed at this. “It is not that,” Halbarad said. “Mithrandir’s fireworks are a sight to see, and are always strange and magical when you first see them. Come; join us back on the ground.”

Falborn lowered himself down, still staring at the place where the white light had been. “Will they all be like that? White explosions?”

“No,” the Captain said. “Mithrandir told me himself that there would be fireworks tonight, and I am guessing that he sent up a simple one to let us know that he is going to pull out his real tricks soon.”

Sure enough, another rocket flew into the sky shortly afterwards. A burst of song accompanied this one instead of a jarring bang- scintillating birds flew in a flock and swept about the large tree in the clearing before vanishing as the first white light had. The next was equally stunning: a forest of green trees with sweet-smelling flowers that fell from the branches nearly to the ground. Falborn could smell the lovely scent as the wind carried it to him. He found himself wishing that he was among the hobbits so he could cheer, clap and laugh along with them. He gasped as bright butterflies fountained up, allowing himself to relax the sense of guardianship he had already begun to grow, staring in awe like a child again.

Next to him, Halbarad smiled. He had reacted in exactly the same way when he had first seen Mithrandir’s magic, and he had been nearly twice Falborn’s age. The amazement never really wore off, he thought to himself as pillars of roaring fire became eagles, swans, and ships. Mithrandir’s fireworks were never the same. He made each so that they would be entirely different from the next, and that was what made it truly astounding. Halbarad nearly leapt out of his skin when one firework exploded with the sound of a raging army with a forest of spears. So did Falborn. They looked at each other and laughed at their foolishness.

The Captain, having known Mithrandir for years, had seen the fireworks many times before. He had never seen the fireworks reflected in water, however. He watched, fascinated, as a red cloud spilled golden rain, and then looked at the Water to see the reflections, mesmerized by how the slightest ripple made the reflected cloud shiver, break apart, and reform again. He almost didn’t notice the next firework until Halbarad grabbed his arm.

“Aragorn!” he breathed, “Look!”

He wrenched his eyes away from the Water and looked up at the sky. There was a white tree, leafless and dead. Then, small buds appeared and opened, raining a shower of white upon the hobbits below. Seven stars formed above the branches, and seven stones beneath the roots.

“Thank you, Mithrandir,” Aragorn whispered, staring at the Tree in awe.

Note: This double drabble was written while on a whale watch off of Cape Anne in Gloucester. Something about the sea-spray inspired it. :)

“Think of me when you use this, Elanor,” dad said to me as he pressed the strange shell, a conch, into my hand. It looked like an enormous snail shell crowned with rounded bumps, open on one end and spiraling in on itself. I ran my finger along the soft pink interior and the creamy outside, the shell smooth beneath my fingertips. I forgot to tell him I didn’t know how to use it, so sad I was at our parting. I set that shell on a shelf and looked at it every day, wondering what dad had meant.

Some weeks later, I found Ruby’s little son sitting on the floor, the delicate shell pressed to his ear. I nearly scolded him for taking it without permission, but what he said stopped me.

“Auntie Ellie! Grandpa Sam is talking to me!”

Once everyone was gone, I took the conch and held it to my ear. I could hear the sea roaring, telling tales of white shores and foaming waves. For a moment, as if it was granted by some higher power, I glimpsed two hobbits embracing by the shore. I wept with joy, knowing that my dad was whole again.