Stories of Arda - Lord of the Rings Fan-Fiction Archive

Written for the JulieFiannaArchive July challenge where we had to use the following line in a story: “The music swirled around him, filling his mind with an overwhelming desire to...”

The music swirled around him, filling his mind with an overwhelming desire to knit and feel the fine woolen strands caress his skin as the yarn wrapped his fingers in a loving embrace.

Haldir swore under his breath as Lady Galadriel's song ended and he realized he held his empty hands before him in the proper position to continue entwining two non-existent needles in their joyous dance of creation. Thoroughly embarrassed, he snatched his hands back to his sides, noticing those around him doing the same with their hands. And to think he had actually been looking forward to hearing these pompous elves of Valinor show off their Valar-enhanced skills by competing with songs of power in the Hall of Fire!

Suddenly Lord Glorfindel rose and began strumming his harp before the restless crowd. Haldir groaned as he felt the music thrill within him once again, and the first strains of a song about sheep herding filled and possessed the horrified audience.

Summary: After Finarfin is made king of the Noldor, he is tasked with making amends to the Teleri for the kinslaying, but this is not what he expected!

When Arafinwë assumed the crown after the rebellion and kinslaying, he knew there would be repercussions. He had agreed with Olwë that the Noldor would have to make reparations to the Teleri – especially to those who had lost much with the deaths of their menfolk. But this was not what he had expected! Arafinwë was only one elf, and after weeks of daily, sometimes hourly reparations to those who had suffered losses, he was tired! Sighing heavily, he knocked on the door of the next family.

Written for the ALEC "Missing You" contest where it won first in the General category.

Summary: The Galadhrim weren’t the only ones who felt a sense of loss when they left their homeland.

I remember the touch of your smooth hands, the gentle caresses, your firm grip. I remember the wonder of your song as it filled and surrounded our home with deep melodies carried on the ever present breeze. I remember how I held you close, protecting you in my strong limbs from that which would part you from me, and how your nimble limbs protected me and my own from that which would drag us down and destroy us. You dwelt with us since the time of our birth and the births of so many of our foremothers. I watched your children blossom and grow, planting seeds of their own, and I mourned when they died defending us, watering the sorrowful dirt with the rain of their blood and tears.

Now I stand silent and mournful in the punishing wind. My limbs are not nearly so strong as they once were. My rough skin peels and cracks with the beatings of weather and torrents of passing seasons. Yet I will never forget you, WE will never forget until the last leaf falls and the last blossom shrivels and dies on the unforgiving ground. Slowly, solemnly, we will sing with voices you gave us long ago, sing of your memory until the last of us falls.

Oh, how we mellyrn will miss you, our beloved Speakers. East and west are both the same to us, yet may you find trees in your West to love you as did we.

Written for the JulieFiannaArchive January writing prompt where we had to use the following sentence in a story: “Under the cloak of darkness and heavy fallen snow, Haldir and his brothers left no sign of their wake as they crossed the dale and disappeared into the dense forest far beyond their home.”

By the Valar! They were warriors after all! The subject of battle axes was bound to come up in conversation sooner or later and the comparison was really only intended to be a figure of speech. If only the Lady of the Golden Wood hadn’t chosen that particular moment to enter the hall…

Under the cloak of darkness and heavy fallen snow, Haldir and his brothers left no sign of their wake as they crossed the dale and disappeared into the dense
forest far beyond their home. It was many many leagues to Cirdan and the markets at the Grey Havens. This time their folly would cost them several strands of pearls…

A note for those who don't get it: In addition to being a weapon, a battle ax is also defined (according to Merriam Webster) as being a woman who is "sharp-tongued, domineering, or combative". And darn if that description doesn't fit Galadriel at times!

Summary: A time of change can come upon one whether one wants it to or not.

I feel it in the water.

I feel it in the earth.

I smell it in the air.

Much that once was is lost,

for none now live who remember it.

–LOTR Fellowship of the Ring

oOoOo

Desperately, Haldir sprinted through the forest. Ducking branches, dodging trees, his strong agile legs ate up the distance back to the safety of Caras Galadhon. Desperately, he looked about for aid, for reinforcements, for anyone who could help him. But to his great dismay, no one answered his call. There simply was no one there.

He was alone.

Clutching the burden tighter against him, he felt wetness against his hand as it seeped through his tunic. He swore under his breath as fear and anger clenched violently in the pit of his stomach.

He had to make it! He just had to! There was so little time now. So very little time… and he knew what was coming next.

Screaming for aide, he soon picked up the scent and knew to his horror it may be too late.

As he cleared the open gates, the child in his arms screamed aloud, wailing furiously. Haldir looked down at his hand pressed up against the child and thought he might be sick.

He had to press on. Had to reach the healers. Nearly doubled over from the shear brutal torture, revulsion roiled through him as he took the last few steps, arriving at the healers’ tent and Lord Elrond, master healer of Imladris.

Mustering his remaining strength, Haldir thrust the screaming child into its adar’s arms.

“Sweet Eru, what has this child been eating?” Elrond wondered aloud, pure disgust written all over his fair face as he took his wailing son, leaky diaper and all from the March Warden.

Scowling menacingly as he peeled his stinking commander’s uniform from his body, Haldir knew not nor cared.

oOoOo

Written for the ALEC Changing Seasons contest. No one ever specifed to me what kind of change it had to be, so...blame my muse.

Now go back and reread the quote and find a whole new meaning in the words. Especially the evidence of change and “what once was is lost”…LOL!!!!!

He had wanted to impress Olwë with the beauty and majesty of Tirion. He wanted to stimulate some sort of interest in grand structures and fine craftmanship instead of the wooden huts and fishing industry to which the Teleri had been accustomed. He had hoped to build a strong economic union with Alqualondë with trade and commerce flowing freely between the two realms. He had hoped to foster greater understanding between the Noldor and the Teleri, strengthening the bonds already existing between the two clans. He had encouraged his children to do all they could to build strong realtionships with the princes and princesses of the Teleri. But this, this was not what he had intended!

Turning to his wife as she lay very much awake beside him, King Finwë growled, “Honestly, it is the faintest waning of Telperion already! How much longer can this go on?!”

Patting him consolingly on the shoulder, Queen Indis replied, “Arafinwë has your stamina, my love. Perhaps after we break our fast with our guests, we can have the servants move his bed a little further from the wall.”

Summary: When the Noldor left Valinor, not all of them took their dearest treasures with them to Middle-earth.

When first I heard you, I heard sweetness and tales of far away and the lilt of the lirulin and the hum of life in the trees and grass. I felt the Two Trees delight in the power of your voice and I reveled in drops of starlight as they fell from the strings of your harp like dew on the grass at the waning of Telperion.

Your music and song ensnared me from the beginning while your strength and beauty and gentle grace kept me by your side. I followed you into an exile you did not deserve along with your brothers and their wives. I labored along with you in making a new home out of the nothingness that became the greatness of Formenos.

When the Trees died, you kept me close, guarding me against the unending Night. In spite of the darkness which surrounded us, I felt safe and secure in your presence, in your warm embrace. Our return to Tirion brought me such hope that we could live in familiar surroundings again in a place where the very buildings still echoed with music you created. You felt that hope, too, and together we created a hope, a promise for the future.

But then came the oath. Before we could tell anyone of our joy of our new little song intended to change the laments around us to dancing, you swore the oath. You followed an atar who cared only for the creations of his hand and not for the creations of the love of his heart. You followed him into exile taking with you the works of your hands, leaving behind the works of your heart. You followed him in the curse he laid upon himself, and cursed our love echoing his vile words.

You forgot the joy we once had. You forgot the music we made together. You forgot the song I carried.

Now you are gone, and I linger here in a faint resonance of the joy that once was between us. Maitimo’s wife and I dwell with Nerdanel in her atar’s house for you took our families with you in your desperation to follow your atar and fulfill your oath. Together we will raise the little son and daughter you left in my care.

Every day they will play in the garden of music you and your ammë created behind her atar’s house. Every time the wind blows, our little ones will hear echoes of your great works in the wind harps and the statues you sculpted to make music in their own right – creations which will forever remember the touch of your hand and the sound of your voice. My beloved Macalaurë, how it grieves me that the creations of your heart will never know either.

Summary: Not everyone appreciates holiday gatherings and the cause for celebration.

With a long-suffering sigh, she tightened her grasp on her reluctant husband’s arm, dragging him further into the press of people.

“They are loose-fitting and comfortable, very much like what you wear every day by choice,” she patiently pointed out.

“I am tired of the Noldor and the Vanyar and their ridiculous need for public celebrations every few months to acknowledge the occurrence of this natural phenomenon or that. Honestly! I understand the science behind the days growing shorter and longer and I can assure you that the Valar have nothing to do with it,” he groused.

“I am not part Vala though and it is still your people’s decision to choose to have festivals for these occasions, not mine,” she triumphed.

“I am feeling very much like introducing you to the true meaning of mortal blood if you do not cease your complaints,” she promised not unkindly.

He muttered something foul in an obscure tongue, to which she replied with the authoritative voice of an irate mother as she shoved him through the front door of the royal lodgings in Eldamas, “I do not have to understand the language to know that that was not only impolite, but downright rude, Eärendil!”

Glaring at her mutinously, he began unfastening his cloak, only to stab himself with the pin.

"Eärendil,” Elwing demanded in exasperation as she helped him out of his cloak. “What troubles you so? Why do you hate festivals so much?”

After a smirking Vanyarin servant took their cloaks away, Eärendil withdrew his thumb and examined it as he insisted, “It is not that I… Well, perhaps I do, but…”

Sighing heavily, Eärendil explained in deflated tones, “It is just that… bad things always happen on days of festival. My grandfather’s grandfather was murdered on a day of festival. I lost my childhood home and my childhood for that matter when Gondolin fell on a day of festival. Tirion was deserted when I arrived here on a day of festival to bring tidings of the exiles and beg for aid for us all. Why should I view a festival as a good thing?”

“I will tell you why festivals are good, Tuorion” came a low female voice from the next room.

Eärendil frowned as he turned and Elwing led him into the parlor where the three kings sat with their queens and various children of their lines. Upon making the couple making their obeisance, Finrod led them to seats near Elrond and his family while Ingwion pressed glasses of wine into their hands.

Confused, Eärendil took a sip of his wine and looked about for the speaker. It had been a very very long time since anyone had called him Tuorion.

Galadriel smiled radiantly at the two peredhil. “Gladly. So, as I said before, festivals are good. When folk gather for festivals they find an easing of their troubles. For a time, they put their cares aside and join with their kith and kin in celebrating or at least acknowledging something greater then themselves. It is a sign that folk feel safe and that they have hope.”

“But why must they have a gathering every three months or even more often than that? Can they not just stay home and have an extra dessert and leave everyone else out of it?” Eärendil replied long-sufferingly, clearly not in the mood to be discussing this subject with anyone.

“Eärendil, do you not remember the first time the refugees at Sirion celebrated a festival?” Galadriel asked.

He pondered a moment and then nodded, uncomfortable that all were looking at him and listening to this discussion.

“Yes. It was the first successful harvest, I think. Everyone was so grateful that there would be enough food and we would not have to eat only fish for another winter,” he said. “But, these folk here in Valinor have not had to live on only fish before and wonder where their next meal would come from. They have always had plenty year in and year out, and few if any have ever wanted for anything. So, why bother?”

“Not so,” King Ingwë answered. “During the Darkening before the rising of the sun and moon, we did have times of fear and doubt and uncertainty and hunger. We celebrate each harvest now because we do remember those times. We celebrate the longest night of the year, for example, because we know that the days will only grow longer for the next several months and we give thanks for the lengthening of the days. We celebrate the longest day of the year because we know that our crops will grow with the blessing of that light.”

Eärendil shifted uncomfortably in his seat at these comments. “But why celebrate the lore of the stars and the sun and the moon? We do not have parties every time it rains or every time the sky clears after a storm.”

“No we do not celebrate these minor events in our lives, unless the rainfall has been too rare or too heavy,” Arafinwë grinned at him. “However, I rejoice to see my people, who are the scientific ones, I might add, celebrate at any festival. Their joy fills the air after so many years of sorrow and hardship many yéni ago. I also know they are mindful of the importance of treasuring family and friends and all who contribute to making our society strong for we remember the times when we all were bereft. Juxtaposing the celebrations alongside astronomicalphenomena makes it easier to set the occasion for celebrating.”

“In Endórë,” Galadriel added, “wenot only celebrated the changing of the seasons and the shift in length of days, but we also celebrated the first time we saw Gil-estel appear in the sky. On that night every year since, the Noldor, the Sindar, and even the Nandor give thanks for the blessing of that star and the hope it brought to them that Morgoth could be overthrown and that help was on the way.”

Staring at her in bemusement, Eärendil scoffed. “You jest. My flying Vingilot is not a reason for others to celebrate. I am not a cause of celebration.”

Galadriel nodded, laughing merrily. “That night you were. Do you have any idea how many children born on that night each year bear “gil” or “estel” in their names?” she asked.

Eärendil’s cheeks colored with embarrassment. Elwing triumphantly jabbed him in the arm with her elbow.

Ingwë smiled. “With Elrond and his family finally present on this side of the ocean and the last of your kin and Elwing’s now reborn, I think that you will find that any excuse to gather will be a welcome occasion. The circumstances of your life have never before allowed you to know what it is to have many generations of your family present together. Perhaps tonight will change your mind, young one.”

Then Ingwë stood, immediately followed by everyone present. Proudly he raised his glass to the large assembly. “Tonight, my fellow rulers and my children, I give thanks for the presence of all of you here. This is the first of what I hope and pray will be many festivals where all of my kin and my fellow rulers and their entire families are all assembled to celebrate, remember, and rejoice in each other’s company.”

Many hours later, Eärendil and Elwing stood on a balcony overlooking the city and the crowds still milling about the lamp-lit streets.

Elwing leaned over and whispered in his husband’s ear. “My love, I hope that one who has a night of celebration dedicated to him will come to appreciate gatherings such as this.”

Reaching over and taking her hand, he gently kissed it, then drew her into his embrace. Pressing her head to his shoulder, he wistfully replied, “Thank you for forcing me to come here. I have never been with my whole family before this night. Our parents and many grandparents and son and grandchildren, our aunts and uncles and cousins…all who did not choose mortality in our families are here. I…we…we are so isolated by necessity where you and I dwell by the sea. I have forgotten, or perhaps Ingwë is correct, and I truly have never realized how many lives are a part of mine and how many of which I am a part. I pity my adar for he never has and never will know those who came before him. It should not take a festival to make those of us here in Aman find the time to come together.”

“But if those are to be the only times for us to gather,” he continued, “then I hope there are many festivals to come.”

Giving her a small smile, he nodded his gratitude. In reward, she wrapped her arms around his neck, enticing him back into the house with a seductive kiss and the passionate promise of much more.

I remember the first real storm I ever saw after the death of the Trees in Valinor. How I watched fascinated by the thrill and the terror of the bright loud unknown, hurrying and striking around me. The sky had grown black much like the horizon darkened before me this day as the Host of the West waited before the gates of Angband. I heard a great rumble in the distance which drew ever closer and more raucous like the pounding of the hooves and metal-clad feet marching menacingly toward us. I recall sudden claps and loud booms as if in portence of the swords I now see, clashing shields and rending armor. The hail pelted us as we ran for the shelter of the house, but there is nowhere to run from the arrows pouring down upon us now. My armor deflects and I duck beneath my shield, but that is when the swords and spears come at us from the front and sides, striking us like the lightning which cut the sky and felled the trees in grandfather’s orchard. The ever-present rain would at least cleanse as much at it washed away, but the rush of wetness I feel now only cleanses dirt from my armor as it washes my strength away from me. Soon I lie utterly spent in the dust, moistening the parched soil with my life’s blood, like the gentle lingering rains caressed the plants after the storm had passed. As my own sky darkens once more, I hear the keening wail of my grandson’s grandson as he drops to the ground beside me, grasping my hand, calling to me. The winds used to howl through the trees making a sound like his shrill cries. I strive to tell him not to worry for it is just a storm and it will soon pass, but I cannot form the words. Perhaps when the calm returns, we will walk amongst the trees and I will show him that all will be well once again.

Hold you again. You have returned to us! Nice Precious! Precious loves us! Precious holds us! On our finger once again.

Precious loves us. Makes us strong. Poor Sméagol no longer alone. Glad we are. Yesss! We are together again. Gollum! Gollum!

Written for the ALEC "A Seed Is Planted" challenge where it made a spectacular showing of dead last. But, I've been wanting to write this particular story for years, figuring it will take place eventually anyway...so, nyah...

Summary: Who ever would have guessed that something so small would have resulted in something so large - again?

Author’s Note: This story is told in snippets from a series of articles. Jump in and all will become clear as you read…

Dr. Julianna Meyers of Duke University announced today that she has successfully cloned a human. According to Dr. Meyers, the clone, a female, was created from the DNA derived from a strand of blonde hair from an unidentified donor. Born last week to a surrogate mother, the child appears to be healthy and normal although with a slight superficial anomaly which was easily corrected with minor plastic surgery.

Dr. Aaron Tertius and Mrs. Kailani Grace Finley announce the birth of a daughter Nerys Leilani Finley on April 2, 2011. The baby weighed 8 pounds 11 ounces and was 22 inches long at birth. Little Nerys was welcomed home at 2818 Valhalla Place in Morrisville by four brothers ages 16, 12, 9, and 6.

Morrisville Middle School has something else to be proud of this week in addition to the wrestling team taking first in the state: seventh grader Nerys L. Finley’s science fair project earned her national honors and a trip to Washington, D.C.. The project, a study in refracting light, caught the attention of not only science fair judges, but also some top scientists at MIT who…

Talk about hard to catch! Senior class president Nerys Finley will certainly have a lot to talk about in her speech as valedictorian of her class at graduation this year: she’s going to the Olympics – again.

“Anything a boy can do, I can do better and I’ll prove it,” the ambitious Finley said in a recent interview.

And prove it she has! The track and field star is a hopeful to medal in the javelin, the high jump, and numerous foot races.

Morrisville native Dr. Nerys L. Finley has a tough decision to make this Saturday. Will she go to MIT where she will receive her doctorate in physics or will she find herself thousands of miles away accepting the Nobel Prize for Applied Physics for her work in light refraction and textiles? The former Sports Illustrated swim suit model admits that though she always believed in herself, she never expected to win the Nobel Prize – at least not yet. In an interview from a photo shoot in the Philippines, Finley said…

Many hearts around the world were broken last weekend when Swedish born actor Keller Bjorn, winner of multiple Academy awards married model Dr. N. Leilani Finley in a private ceremony in Rio. The “prince of the silver screen” and the blonde bombshell tied the knot before a small gathering of family and friends in a simple beach wedding.

Heartthrob Keller Bjorn and his bonnie belle Dr. Leilani Finley announce the birth of their daughter Kelly Brianna on September 2 at an undisclosed hospital in New York City. The baby is the first child for both Bjorn and Finley.

Gone are the days of the greens, browns, whites, and blues for our military’s camouflage apparel. Starting this spring, the military will have a new look which encompasses all environments: grey. Odd you say? Dubbed “silvan grey” by creator Dr. N. Leilani Finley, the fabric actually blends into all environments, concealing the wearer with such a complete and total chameleon effect that only infrared sensors can locate the wearer and even then that is not entirely accurate if the wearer is garbed head to toe and masked in the material as well.

She’s borne many titles in her life: Nobel Prize winner, Olympian, US Senator, fashion model, professor, inventor, wife, and mother. Most of us would die happy if we could claim even half of these, but for Senator Nerys Leilani Finley of New York there is one more title she strives to add to her list of accomplishments – President of the United States. That’s right. The smart southern belle from North Carolina threw her hat into the ring today for the upcoming presidential elections. Always ambitious, the…

Finishing the article with his morning tea, he quietly took out his scissors, clipped this most recent story, and affixed it to the next empty page of his scrapbook. As he closed the book, another older clipping fell to the floor.

Rare Archeological Find Indicates Civilization Predates Previous Earliest Findings

Scientists at a secret dig site located somewhere between Nova Scotia and Switzerland announce a find of monumental proportions.

“This changes all previous notions of civilization as we know it, to the point of providing solid proof that humans on earth were predated by a more advanced humanoid civilization. We’ve found thousands of artifacts including buildings and DNA samples,” said Dr. Cameron Alexander of Emory University, the chief anthropologist working the site.

Annoyed beyond belief at this morning’s latest irritating development in the Finley saga, Thranduil swore loudly as he picked up the errant article and shoved it back into the book.

Tolkien said that Galadriel was a match for both the loremasters and the athletes in Aman and she desired to have a realm of her own to rule without tutelage, so why should her clone be any different? Nerys and Leilani were the closest I could come to in meaning to Nerwen (man-maiden), Artanis (Noble woman), and Galadriel (maiden crowned in a radiant garland).

Leilani (Hawaiian) pronounced lay-LAH-nee. Means "heavenly lei or royal child of heaven ". A "lei" is of course the Hawaiian necklace of flowers, shells, or feathers which symbolizes regard and love for the person to whom it is given.

Note: Written for ALEC's Celebration of Life challenge, but submitted there as one story. Here it will be posted in two parts.

Summary: A young King Ingwe ponders a new annual festival celebrating the innocent joys of the Elves' new life in Valinor.

The blessing of the Two Trees mingled in their fullest radiance, bestowing precious light in abundance. Crops grew, trees bore fruit, livestock bred, and many elflings recently added unto the houses of the Vanyar were brought forth for presentation. The holy Valar themselves came down and walked among us, casting their approving eyes on all they met. Vanyamar is at last fully wrought and I, Ingwë Ingaran and Vanyaran, am content.

As I stand here on the balcony from which I will address my people who gather in the square below, I feel at peace. There is no place that I would rather be at this moment than where I stand now. My people have followed me from darkness and dread along the uncertain, untried road across Endorë to Aman, to Tirion, to our new and final home here in Vanyamar.

No more will evil threaten us. No more will we struggle on untrodden paths through wild and dangerous lands. No more will we know fear. No longer will doubt nor dread cloud our bright minds. No more will darkness trouble us. The stars are gone as well, obscured by the greater light of the Trees, but we no longer crave their guidance to direct our path through the wilderness. Uncounted years of travail are behind us, and now at last, at long last, we know a peace and security which will never end.

Dwelling at the feet of the Powers themselves, nothing can assail us. We shall grow and thrive as never before deemed possible! Already have my folk entered into the service of the Valar, learning lore we never before imagined.

My wife sets my second born son into my arms, so that I may present him to my folk. The babe coos in delight against my chest. I never knew my heart could hold such joy! I raise him so that his eyes look upon the sea of faces arrayed below us in the packed square. Never have I seen so many elflings in one place! Never did I know there could be so many Vanyar – and I thought we were many in Cuiviénen!

Already Lord Manwë has decreed that this day shall be celebrated every year in festival as grand as what we share in now.

I stand in such awe of all that I have seen and heard that I cannot wait to see Athar Cuilë next year and even a thousand yéni from now. From now until the end of Arda itself, we shall keep this day and celebrate our learning and lore and abundant blessing; we shall celebrate untainted life!

Note: Written for ALEC's Celebration of Life challenge, but submitted there as one story. Here it is posted in two parts.

Summary: Festivals can be a grand time for all and the first time attending is often the best.

The chatter of insects and frogs sings music to my ears as they welcome the darkness this clear night. The delightful sound of many elflings fills the air as they gather with the adults to enjoy the music and dancing.

Savory smells fill the air. My mouth waters in anticipation of the succulent food. Meat ripe on the bone dripping in sweet red elven wine begs me to indulge. This is indeed a rich harvest abundant in life.

This will be my son’s first festival. I look over at him across the bushes as he crouches impatiently, fairly drooling in anticipation of the feast before our eyes.

We will devour it all, eating until we can eat no more and then save the rest for later.

At last our captain gives the command. Arrows fly as we leap into action. My young Uglug will taste his first elf tonight.

Author’s Note: No elves were harmed in the writing of this story – that came later.

Written for the ALEC MidSummer Frolicks contest where it came in second place.

Summary: Sometimes summer family reunions can be constructive – literally!

The sun lingers longer in the sky each day. The eldest grandmother shows us to the place where we will play. Her choice is lovely for its empty loneliness. Grasses frolic about in the breeze. Gaily they twist and turn their delicate stalks. We apologize to them for coming here. They do not like us much. The trees and bushes rejoice and seek to be near us. We tell them to stay away for now.

My kin of the wood meet like this every year. Joyfully we lay down our burdens. Each of us has been gathering bits and pieces all year in preparation for this. We are so excited!

We move about much in our impatience. The Eldest grumbles and calls us “hasty”.

When the time of deciding is over, she calls to us. In groups of two, she herds us to our places to play.

My friend Rowan smiles at me. She and I will work together this time. The Eldest says Rowan is calm like deep roots. She is a good match for me to settle my impatience.

Moving with the ease of many years’ practice, we go back and forth to our supplies, making as we go. Using the bones of dead trees and lost branches we make four flat pieces. We lash them together with little vines and stand them up. One of them has a small swinging piece to be a door. It will keep the animals out and the wee folk in.

Rowan mixes mud and pebbles together. Her gnarled hands move like roots seeking water. I love watching her blend the earth and stones! I help her shape a place to put her hollow stem of rocks and mud. This time we will put it in a corner. I like it in a corner better than in the middle of a side.

I collected many stray feathers in my travels since last time. Feathers are so very soft, but hard to catch! Especially when they snag on branches and lay on the forest floor! I like the blue ones the best. I place handfuls of them on top of Rowan’s little mats of straw. Eldest says beds like this are the best. I have never slept on feathers before. It would take so many feathers to make a bed for me! The birds would have to change feathers for years!

Next Rowan places a flat rock to be a table. I collected some smaller ones to be chairs. Then we build a canopy for our little house. It will keep out the rain. Eldest says the mud and pebbles Rowan fashioned must stand out above the canopy like a tall tree. She says this is safest and makes certain this is always so.

Carefully we break our remaining sticks into tiny pieces. We stack small neat piles of them near our little house. We always have so very many left over! Eldest says this keeps the trees of the forest safe in their winter sleep.

Last we make a garden of plants which have flesh surrounding their seeds. Each one of us speaks to the seeds and kisses them before we put them in the earth. Soon the lovely flowers will bloom and bear fruit.

After many turns of sun and stars, we finish. Eldest inspects our work. With a gratifying Harruummph! Barroom! she blesses each house. We all smile our pleasure and join her in a song which lasts deep into the night.

I have never seen the wee folk come to a house we have made. Eldest says they seek them in autumn when the trees grow weary and lose hold on their tired leaves. Perhaps one day, Eldest will let us stay and see. But not this time.

Now it is time to wander and begin the gathering for next year. With joy I catch my first blue feather. And my journey has only just begun!

The Eldest smiles at me, shaking her head. I am being hasty again. I stash my feather and begin singing the feather song as we melt into the forest once again.

Note: A friend of mine recently took up making fairy houses. To me the most logical folk in Middle-earth to construct houses for the “wee folk” would be the Ents.

Summary - Sometimes the cost of friendship is not evident until long after the events that mark the beginning of it, as Finrod comes to learn.

The child clung to him, pudgy fingers wrapping his newly pressed robes in a strong grip. Joyous laughter, eyes full of glee followed him everywhere he went in the settlement. Occasionally he managed to elude the grasp, but then wails and a pitiful pout always drew him back within reach of the little one.

As the boy grew, he continued to follow his idol at every opportunity. Letters arrived each month telling of the boy’s determination to be just like him in every way he could from the braiding of his hair to the learning of his writing and numbers to his wielding a willow bow and a wooden sword.

When the boy became a young man it only seemed right he should enter into the service of his chosen role model. The epitome of politeness and generosity, the youth bowed more deeply, sat straighter, fought more courageously in battle, and leant the might and skill of his hand whenever possible – all in emulation of the one he served.

When the young man took a wife and sired a child, he gave that son a name in remembrance of that one who meant so much to him. He even taught the boy Sindarin and Quenya in the hopes that one day his son might serve his lord as well as he strove to do himself.

At last the ultimate test of his strength and prowess placed him on the field of battle side by side with the master he loved so well. Many hundreds had fallen around them, but so long as his lord continued to face the foe, he would as well. Many an orc died on the blades of those two, but the enemy grew bolder the longer the battle raged. Cut off from the main part of the army, the master was surrounded with few of his guard remaining to protect him. Six orcs rushed in a united assault, but the servant, joined suddenly by more of his own kind, threw himself in the enemy’s path in a last desperate attempt to protect his lord.

As the red blood sprayed upon him, Finrod Felagund screamed. He awoke, struggling wildly to reach out to the man from his dream, even though he knew it was too late to save him.

“Barahir, Edrahil, help me hold him before he bleeds out!” the voice commanded.

Briefly more blood sprayed, but then a great weight pressed on his shoulder, side, and leg.

“No! Valar, NO!” Finrod yelled, thrashing to free himself. “He did not! Eru, no!” But his cries turned to wails as he sobbed, “No. No, he did not…Barandir…Barandir…No…no.”

“My lord! My lord,” Barahir cried, trying to call him back to the present. Roughly, he grabbed Finrod’s chin and turned his head to look into his eyes. “Finrod, Barandir is dead. The orcs cut him down. There is nothing you can do for him now. Barandir is dead. We had enough trouble as it was bringing you out of the fray.”

Barahir took a deep breath, then spoke more softly as Finrod stilled. “The blows he took were meant for you, my friend. Had he not been there when he was…We…We…” Tears dredged trails through the grime on Barahir’s face, dripping onto Finrod’s. “We would have lost you, too, my lord, and that…that would have been a blow from which neither your folk nor mine would ever have recovered. Now please, please lie still that the healers may tend you, lest young Barandir’s sacrifice be in vain.”

“But why…” Finrod wept. “Why did he do it? He was given so few years, why… did he do this? Why? I am not-”

His voice proud, Barahir quietly interrupted, “My lord, “Any one of us would have done the same and considered it a great honor. You have earned our love and our respect many times over. Now be at peace and rest that you may grow strong again, so that my son and his sons may have the privilege and honor of serving you as have I.”

Finrod choked on his tears, heaving desperate painful breaths. Gently Barahir smoothed his hair away from his face while his strong hand held the hand of Finrod’s uninjured arm.

When the healers finally relented in their ministrations some time late, Finrod weakly commanded, “Edrahil, remove my ring and give it to me, please.”

Carefully Edrahil lifted the damaged hand, cradling its mangled arm to his chest as he removed the ring as gently as he could. Finrod hissed in pain, gasping and panting as he finally closed his good hand over the ring.

“I am here, my lord,” came the weary reply from somewhere to his right in the darkness of the cave.

Barahir did as he was asked, inhaling sharply in surprise as the ring slipped over his finger. “My lord?” he questioned in awe. “What…?”

Finrod closed his hand over Barahir’s, the last of his strength fading as he spoke. “Barahir, take this ring in token of my oath to you. I…I swear…I swear to you that I will aide you and your descendants in time of need, in any way that I can. You and yours have but to ask. You…you have but to ask.”

Summary: The best laid plans of mice and men and elves and dwarves and wizards can be very surprising…

Warning: This story is AU, so my apologies in advance for stepping on any sensitive toes.

“I led Isildur deep into the fires of Mount Doom, the one place it could be destroyed... ” Elrond paused, meeting the eyes of each of the lords and sovereigns assembled there. “It should have ended that day, but evil was allowed to endure.”

“More than one thousand years have passed since then,” Erestor observed. “There is no evidence that evil stirs yet again.”

“But I believe…No, I have foreseen that it will return,” Elrond added emphatically.

“Elven foresight is not to be trusted, my Lord Elrond, or so your folk are so fond of saying,” one of the Dwarves reminded him with a scowl.

Elrond bristled, but the Dwarf raised his hands and placated, “But I agree with you. We have fought this evil for too long. We love these lands too much to allow this threat to go unanswered.”

“My people are leaving these lands,” Elrond responded. “The Elves do not have the strength to oppose this evil on our own and neither do the Dwarves.”

Mithrandir took a sip of his wine, carefully setting down his crystal goblet as he offered, “Perhaps the answer lies with Men then if the Elves and Dwarves have not the might to answer this challenge.”

Elrond glared at Mithrandir. “Forgive me, but Men are weak and easily succumb to promises of greatness and all of the glamours of evil. The history of Númenor is written in the blood of those who thought the might of Men could answer any challenge. I do not see the descendants of my own brother’s people providing the sheer strength necessary to answer a threat which may not surface for millennia. Too much can happen: plague, strife… we simply cannot count on Men to provide a solution to this threat either.”

Argeleb flashed a knowing smile at his uncle many generations removed, then rose from his chair and began to pace, gesturing as he spoke. “Lord Elrond does have a point about the return of evil… and it is true that we must be ready to answer this challenge though we know not when it shall arise.”

He paused as if deep in thought, then continued in deliberate tones. “Uncle, however much I admit I gained under your tutelage in my youth, there are things which I have learned in the libraries of my own people – things which my people learned from the Elves of Valinor who visited Númenor and which my people further discovered for themselves. I have found many notes pertaining to certain experiments which were conducted before the fall of Númenor. Lord Glorfindel, among others, has confirmed the research and even Lady Galadriel and the exiled Noldor here have lent their vast knowledge and experience to what we are about to propose. Please understand that it will be up to those with longer lives – the Elves, the Dwarves, and Mithrandir to see that what I…WE propose carries through to the appointed time when the answer to the threat will be needed.”

The King of Arthedain stopped and bowed to one of the Elf-lords. “Lord Gildor Inglorion, if you would please…” Argeleb returned to his seat as Gildor arose and began to speak.

For many days, the council discussed the proposal, presenting arguments back and forth, offering options and suggestions. Some questioned the morality of it, but none questioned the need. When all was said and done, each party departed with clear knowledge of the task at hand and the responsibilities which lay ahead of all of them at the distant time and place to be determined when the threat once again grew great.

A few years later in 1601, King Argeleb II, on the advisement of the Elves and Mithrandir that all was in place, granted his permission and some land, and so the project was begun.

Many hundreds of years later found Elrond glaring at a seemingly errant wizard. “Mithrandir, Why did you bring them here to Imladris?! It was supposed to be your task to check up on them and guide them as necessary over the years to see that things happened as we hoped they would according to the plans we made many ennin? ago. ”

Smiling unrepentantly, Mithrandir replied, “Elrond, we both know that the time is nearing when there will be need. I believe that the time is ripe for testing our research to see that it still holds true to the original purpose. Now it is your time to guide as we determined long ago. This is what we have been waiting for. Now is the time to set in motion all that we have planned. The Dwarves are playing their appointed part in this. Now it is time for you to begin to play yours. They await your translation.”

Elrond looked away, looking long out the window as the afternoon waned. “Very well,” he finally sighed. “Take me to them and I will see what guidance I can provide.”

“ …And that wound will never fully heal. He will carry it the rest of his life,” Mithrandir lamented as he and Elrond entered the library.

“ And yet, to have come so far, still bearing the Ring, the hobbit has shown extraordinary resilience to its evil,” Elrond observed with no little wonder.

“It is a burden he should never have had to bear,” Mithrandir declared angrily.

“Did we not plan for this? Elrond retorted. “Did we not send you to check up on them and nurture them and guide them through the many generations? Did we not commit Gildor and his folk to many ennin of homeless wandering for the sole purpose of making sure this did not fail? Their observations, protection, and guidance were very difficult to provide to these curious creatures without revealing their real purpose, without influencing development too much. Why Gildor even told me that our little subject called him on this with the comment that one should ‘not go to the Elves for counsel, for they will say both no and yes’.” Elrond paused, looking Mithrandir squarely in the eyes.

“I know this has been difficult, but say not to me that Frodo should never have had to bear this, for what have we borne trying to see to the welfare of all of Middle-earth? How many have died in the attempt at bringing this to fruition? You yourself agreed to the implementation of all of this!”

The wizard nodded in profound sadness. “Yes, Elrond. Yes, I did agree to it and I have aided it in coming to fruition. Yet, I have grown fond of these creatures…” He sighed, casting a sorrowful gaze back in the direction of his young charge’s bedroom.

“Still…Frodo must make the choice himself to carry the ring to Mordor. However, I will do all I can to support him in this endeavor for which he was appointed… for which, by our careful planning, he was bred.”

Author’s note: Yes, the Hobbits were genetically engineered to be used for the sole purpose of destroying the ring. I warned you I might step on toes. I just didn’t specify how hairy they might be…

Also, there are many familiar phrases used from the movie and the book The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring. If you’ve seen the movie or read the book, you know which ones these are and trying to use a method of denoting these within the story was most distracting to my beta. So there. Nyah.

Many thanks to Fiondil for the beta and for helping to provide me with some of the necessary quotes.

Written for the ALEC "Boo!" contest (had to write about something that would scare, unsettle, or frighten someone in Middle-earth) where it won first place.

Summary: Sometimes the deadliest weapon an enemy wields does not possess a blade as the Elves of Lothlórien and Lasgalen discover to their dismay.

It storms every night here. Strange that everywhere else, the clouds and the sickly rain do not touch, but over Mordor...Over Mordor it storms every night.

The stars never shine and the sun seems to flee in despair. The clouds never go away – even during what passes as day time here. And it storms every night.

I noticed a few days after we arrived from Lothlórien how much my mood had darkened to match the storms. But this is war. Are we not all supposed to have darkened moods? However, for the Silvans, for the Galadhrim, and for the Sindar who chose to make the ways of the true elves of Middle-earth their ways, the darkness and storms seemed so much worse. Are the Noldor and their followers so used to conflict that it does not influence or touch them or…or disturb them the way it does the rest of us?

The Noldor were driven here from Valinor by violence and hatred and conflict. All they have done and all they have wrought since they have been here has been conflict. Kinslayings and betrayals and subjugation seem to be all that they know or understand. It is no wonder that they have fought so many wars and shed so much blood in their many ennin of occupation of Middle-earth! But...but to not be touched by the present darkness…How far have they fallen? How far will we fall for having followed them into this Light-forsaken place of doom and dread?

I dream about the Noldor and their heinous crimes often since I have been here. Their crimes weigh heavily in my dreams like the ever present thunder. And when I do not dream of their insidious deceits and betrayals, then I dream of the great price we will pay for foolishly following the Noldor into this so-called Alliance. What were Amdir and Oropher thinking bringing us here?

For five nights in a row, I dreamt that our families were slaughtered in their homes while we were away fighting here – our mothers, sisters, aunts, wives, children…The insidious lightning burned the trees of our beloved homes.

Sometimes I dream that we go to battle and prove how great the true elves are – those of us who are uncorrupted by the influence of the Belain. I see our vast armies of Lasgalen and Lothlórien charging forth in a glory of arms, smiting the enemy, leaving behind in the dust the Noldor and graceless men who blindly follow them.

I am not alone in my dreams. Every ellon I have spoken with since my dreams started has spoken of similar dreams as well. Every time we dream like this, it is during a storm. Some say foresight is not to be trusted. It is drilled into us from our youth, but what if our dreams are foresight? What if so many of us dreaming this means it will be true? What if we stay here and our homes are destroyed? Or maybe if we fight and prove our prowess in the face of battle (as my daeradar’s adar believes will be the case), then the pompous Noldorin idiots in their heavy shiny armour will respect us and our ways, and we personally will end this war before a year passes – before our homes can be invaded and destroyed.

I never knew such animosity toward the Noldor until this war. The thunder rumbles in the distance and a putrid rain dampens our clothes and our morale even as I ponder this. Just like the Noldor have smothered us. The rumbling of my comrades matches the rumbling of the storms.

I am restless in my gear even as my brothers-in-arms fidget nearby. The true kings have mustered us to battle. I do not see the Noldor ready to stand at our sides!

I line up far back in the ranks, for that is where my family has been assigned. To my left is a Sinda who married my cousin and to my right is my younger brother. I nod to them, their feral grins answering me in return.

The thunder rumbles again, shaking the ground, rattling my teeth with its force. Orcs lie ahead of us, but all I can see in my mind is the Noldor who brought this battle upon us. My anger toward them grows greater than my hatred toward the orcs. With every flash of lightning, all I can see is the death and destruction wrought in the tales my edair have told us of kinslayings and red blood and the curse of the Belain in what they wrought in the elves of Valinor.

Someone behind me yells, “Let us fight! We will show them who are the better elves!”

Mutters rise to grumbles and then to shouts all around me. The cacophony grows, echoed by the thunder, and our anger flashes in the sordid sky in time to the storm.

Our glorious kings Amdir and Oropher sound the advance. And not a moment too soon for we are every one of us eager to prove ourselves, prove our worth, prove our superiority to the Noldor!

We marched to our slaughter. Half of the ellyn of Lasgalen and Lothlórien were lost to us in that battle. King Gil-Galad of the Noldor tried to stop us, tried to restrain us, but we would not listen. Indeed we could not. So filled with rage were we - rage misdirected at the Noldor - that we were incapable of stopping ourselves. After the battle, as we sought to heal our wounded and bury our dead, we asked ourselves, I asked myself, why I hated the Noldor so much? Why was I so enraged at them that I charged into battle like that? Why were we so enraged?

A Noldorin healer, trained in Valinor by the Belain in fact, saved my life and that of my little brother. As I watched the solemn grey eyes of my savior, I wondered why in those moments before battle I hated him and his kind so much. They stand to lose just as much as we do if this war is lost. They are our kin, our own race. They are our allies. How could I hate them so?

Many of us asked these questions of ourselves again and again as we regrouped and mourned our lost and licked our wounds, heads hung in shame.

It took us many months of battle and conflict to understand what happened that night. And the understanding, when it came, brought horror not just to us, but to the Noldor as well.

When the storms come at night, they bring rage. They fill our dreams with lies and half-truths and things we wished were true and things we feared would become so. We learned not to fight at night during the storms if we could help it.

We also learned that the Noldor were not as deeply affected by this as were we. When we were in the Noldorin camp, we were not touched by the whispered lies of the storms. Our sleep was restful and our dreams were true.

Some proposed that perhaps the Noldor were immune because of their previous dealings with the Belain. Some speculated that the Noldorin king had some mysterious power about him that kept his people safe from the malicious influence.

Our folk soon mingled with the Noldor in one huge camp instead of in smaller camps sorted by the different elven realms. King Gil-Galad has ordered us to only fight side by side with the Noldor, if at all possible, and not during the storms.

Deep in the Third Age of this land, I still fear the rumble of thunder and the memories it brings - even safe in Lórien where a Noldo wields a different kind of power to keep us safe. Some wonder why we would trust a Noldo to rule and guide our realm, but those who took part in the Last Alliance do not question this. Orcs and Uruks can be killed with arrows and swords, but the storms in our dreams slew us.

Summary: Some things, by necessity, have to be difficult and complex -- especially where the Noldor are concerned. However, even they will at times agree there is a simpler solution.

Written for the ALEC Theme of "Simplicity Itself" for January 2012 (before ALEC went defunct and the competition was never held):

Description: Situations and circumstances can often be as complex as we choose to make them. January's challenge is to explore events, situations, circumstances or their answers or consequences which might seem complex or insurmountable from one perspective, but from another is "Simplicity Itself."

“Well, Istadan, you are the loremaster, you tell me how we call this one. Or, well, I guess it is this two, is it not?”

“Sûlion, are you not a loremaster in your own right? I mean, Doriath did have such things did it not?”

“Yes, I am. And yes, Doriath did, however...we were not as concerned about writing things down as just remembering them.”

“However, nothing. If you had done your job properly in Doriath, then you would be in possession of these details already,” Istadan reprimanded his counterpart.

Istadan sighed wearily. ”We are recording this officially. You need to use Quenya!”

“Very well then,” Sûlion amended in a huff, over enunciating each word as he restated his complaint. “Nelesta this, canasta that, tolosta of another...are you satisfied now?”

Sûlion sat in silence for a time then muttered again. ”Who did we anger so that we were given this ridiculous task?”

Istadan set down his pen. ”It is not ridiculous, and our only fault which landed us in our current predicament is that we both survived the downfalls of our respective kingdoms.”

“Pretty much, yes. But you should have done this years ago and you did not, so I have no sympathy for you.” Istadan replied.

“Noldo, Vanya, and Sinda or would you folk call it Teler in this case since the Trees were involved and the blood lines are the same between the places but the location is all that is different?”

“Very well.” Sûlion made a note, and then asked, “Does a Maia have lineage?”

“You are a Noldo. You know these things because they are tiny annoying details and they matter to you. Remember?”

The apple core flew back across the table and hit its intended target dead center.

“Good luck with that,” Sûlion added for good measure. ”We only have one clan of them from our side to deal with.”

“Oooh, I like that one! I have learned the best cursing in Quenya since I started working with you,” Sûlion observed.

“So, friend,” Sûlion added a great deal of emphasis to that last word. “Now that we are finished with all of these necessary details, what would be the proper term for this one?”

They both sat in silence for a long time flipping through pages of genealogies and looking over each other’s notes.

Author's Note: This conversation had to have taken place at some point. After all, Elrond and Elros were a little bit of everything: Vanya, Noldo, Sinda, Maia, various tribes of human... LOL!

These are the only fractions Tolkien gives us and 'half' is per- which is an adjective prefix.

Summary: When spring comes to Lothlórien, sunshine and flowers are not the only things to arrive with it.

Beams of sunlight danced through the trees, filtering through the fine golden mist which hung over the beloved mellyrn of Lothlórien. Buds of boldly delicate yellow flowers hung in glorious bowers from the trees, signifying the arrival of spring to the Golden Wood. Not that winter ever truly touched this land, but spring still bowed elegantly before the elves here every year without fail. This year was no exception.

Lady Galadriel made her way through the trees to the spring whose joyful effervescence provided the substance of the Lady’s Magic Mirror. Dipping her silver ewer into the water, she drew some forth and poured it into the awaiting basin, her dainty white sleeves shimmering in gentle waves with each movement of her arms. As she turned to draw more, she noticed dust alighting on the surface of the water she had just poured. Setting down the ewer, she lifted the basin and swished the liquid around a few times to cleanse the container, then emptied the basin on the grass nearby. Replacing the basin in its holder, she again began filling it, this time chanting with each ewer-full, the spell which would bring her Mirror to life.

Once the chant was complete, she bent to activate the mirror and noticed a yellow film swirling on the surface of the water. Her delicate brow furrowed as she frowned. Lifting the basin again, she poured out the contents, then proceeded to chant the spell and fill the basin again. As she bent to breathe on the water and thus call the Mirror to life, a gentle breeze rustled the leaves overhead and she inadvertently choked, coughing as a fine gold dust sprinkled down and clouded the water once again, thus ruining the spell.

Frowning more deeply, irritation lining her face, she poured out the water, and drew more, chanting the spell more loudly than before. Just as she breathed life upon the water, the leaves trembled again and the water turned opaque. Swearing in each of the elven languages she knew, she stepped away from the basin and looked around her, biting her lips in anger. As she turned, she noticed that her snow white dress now bore yellow smudges and spots in every place where it had brushed against something else every time she had filled her basin.

Sneezing violently, she wiped her face on her dirty sleeve, cursing and swearing under her breath all the while. She hurled the water away in annoyance, then grabbed the ewer and drew water again. This time, she did not even finish filling the basin before the dust appeared again. Thoroughly disgusted, she upended the basin and left it lying upside down on the ground. Casting the ewer to the ground she raised her arms in sharp protest and called upon Nenya, crying out the powerful words which summoned clouds and obscured the sunlight. The sky well-nigh turned black as vast torrents issued forth from the heavens.

Many shouts of joy and relief drifted down from the trees and not a few folk cheered as the rain brushed the leaves and telain washing them clean. With a self-satisfied smirk on her face, the lady made her way back to her own talan and changed her clothes.

When the storm finally ended, the lady, adorned in another gauzy white dress, made her way to the shimmering spring. Replacing the basin, she retrieved the ewer and filled the basin, fairly singing the spell of seeing. As she bent to breathe on the water, an enormous cloud of golden dust billowed up on a stray breeze and doused the lady, the basin, and all of the rest of Lothlórien in a celebratory shower of fine golden dust as the trees rejoiced in their bliss.

With a shout of irate rage, which was echoed by hundreds of voices across Caras Galadhon, the lady threw down the basin and the ewer again and stomped off. Suddenly a song lifted from one talan and then was taken up by many others filling the dense air with melodic words of irritation and despair. Thus as they did every year, the elves began their cries of Noe 'ni Ast Vall: The Lament of the Golden Dust.

Note: No trees were harmed in the making of this tale though the author did suffer grievous upper respiratory allergic reactions.

Eclectic Whimsies by Ellie