written_leaves (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
written_leaves) wrote2009-12-15 10:37 am
written_leaves) wrote2009-12-15 10:37 am
Tolkien Drabbles, Collected
A small stack for Middle-earth
A/N: I seem to have left a scattering of drabbles wherever I've gone, like bread-crumbs on a trail through the forest. Here are a few with 'serious' intent rather than parody.
The Calling Forth of the Dead
The terrible grey, a mist of fog and fear was all around them. A nightmare that seemed to never end; the dim shreds of banners and spears always on the edge of sight, never fully there. The echoes of ghostly voices, a presence, not of evil but rather of the ghostly cobwebs of dishonor clinging, dragging across their souls.
A cold, dead stone of memory stood before them. His voice was raised, a single living voice among the Dead, the only voice that could grant them their release.
The light of morning broke at last, tearing away the crumbled shrouds.
-
The River
The River was the best way for them to travel and avoid any pursuit, but it was fraught with its own perils also. Great slime-ridden rocks rose up all frothing from the deep, white foam surging around them in endless striving. Other rocks could be seen below the clear waters, vague shapes, to Sam's mind, they threatened to rip out the bottoms of their boats. Icy, stony dragons hidden away, malicious. The waters of the Anduin were swift and deep, deeper than the cold, running fears of all the world it seemed to Sam. No, he did not care for boats.
-
Her Ring
"Do you see my ring?" the Golden Lady asked of him. Sam wondered greatly at what she meant by it. Her fair hands were lifted up, the moonlight lighting them, no - her own luminesence lifting from them, a shimmer and a shine. A daughter of both moon and sun she seemed. There was no ring to be seen, no bearing of any gilt burden to weigh upon her grace. Her hands stayed free, but for one of them. A star seemed to light upon it, a star from the heavens shone upon her hand, a blessing of the nighttime.
-
Lockholes
Michel Delving's white chalk earth was packed, cold and hard. Fatty knew no matter how he shifted he would sit in water that dripped down the walls with nowhere to go. It was no wonder that his cell, little more than a storage closet, had been abandoned long ago. The darkness was unbearable, the food scarce. He sat with bowed head, listening to the weeping of other prisoners, newer ones. There was a movement from the cell next to his. Something poked him; something hard, pointy, like the end of an umbrella.
"Don't worry, youngster. They'll soon get theirs."
-
Sweet Mithlond
Sweet were the breezes across the sea, fresher than anything ever scented, even beyond the memories of fresh, rain-driven springtimes mad with blossoms and dew. Bright were the waters with the sunlight sparkling and dancing across them, and above the seabirds danced as well. The gold-brown-grey of the sand swirled amid the waves as they ever-reached their way up towards the land. What finer birthing place could creation ever conceive for the maiden voyage of such ships? What further beauty could this dying land give, than to place its timbers upon the gentle waves and watch them as they found eternity?
-
Gollum in the Lake (a double-drabble)
What was it? What was this fumbling about on the gravelly strand that edged his lovely dark waters? It was not a goblin, he could see that, yes he could see it and it could not see him. Gollum's pale, large eyes narrowed with thought.
It was not a goblin, yet not a monster of any kind either. He sniffed the air that it stirred up, sniffed scents of pipesmoke caught in woolen twists, campfire and the tang of mountain air washed in rain. What was it, that sat flummoxed upon the pebbly shore? A tiny glimmer of something shone in the recesses of Gollum's mind, glimmered and was lost; a firefly at midnight, quenched... an ember of some fire long forgotten lest it burn. He frowned, and sniffed again.
It spoke. Not goblin-speech, no.... He knew the words, understood them. He was drawn to it, as a fish drawn to the wiggling tips of fingers because it seemed as the memory of something else, something real, filled with substance.
He dipped his hands in the waters and paddled them a bit. Perhaps he would find out.
-
Flame of the West
"I name you Anduril."
Aragorn lifted up the blade before his eyes, turning it in the light to see the flashing of the fire on the blade. For all his long life it had lain, the shards of a kingdom shattered by the desire of a Ring; now it was whole, restored and renewed, strengthened with the resolve of his will.
He would carry it forth from Rivendell, where its shards had once been borne by the witness of its downfall, protecting the one whom would finally destroy that defiled, devisive gold and his kingdom would be healed at last.
-
Merry
The streets faded in darkening haze, a grey mist rose from the ground, crept out along the stones beneath him. He could barely see. Tendrils brushed across him; cobwebs of ice. It was so very cold. He knew he should be weary, but numbness filled his sight, his hearing, his soul. The funeral procession lights ahead flickered and went out; ghostly specters danced on the edge of his failing sight. He was no longer following the procession, he was a part of it. It was for him.
Within the mist, one face he knew: Pippin.
"Are you going to bury me?"
-
Under the Earth
Cold it was, and dark, not with the natural cold of winter. Many were the treasures there, many were the bones of men who had borne them in battle and in fealty. Gold there was, chains, brooches, rings. Ever it brooded under the earth, ever recalling betrayals and deaths of old.
Deaths gloriously terrible; fear at treachery had been like meat and drink to behold, but it had been so very long ago. Blood gone to dust. The arm pulled itself along by its fingers toward the waiting sword. Again, to be slaked in eternal repetition of that moment... again...
-
A/N: I seem to have left a scattering of drabbles wherever I've gone, like bread-crumbs on a trail through the forest. Here are a few with 'serious' intent rather than parody.
The Calling Forth of the Dead
The terrible grey, a mist of fog and fear was all around them. A nightmare that seemed to never end; the dim shreds of banners and spears always on the edge of sight, never fully there. The echoes of ghostly voices, a presence, not of evil but rather of the ghostly cobwebs of dishonor clinging, dragging across their souls.
A cold, dead stone of memory stood before them. His voice was raised, a single living voice among the Dead, the only voice that could grant them their release.
The light of morning broke at last, tearing away the crumbled shrouds.
-
The River
The River was the best way for them to travel and avoid any pursuit, but it was fraught with its own perils also. Great slime-ridden rocks rose up all frothing from the deep, white foam surging around them in endless striving. Other rocks could be seen below the clear waters, vague shapes, to Sam's mind, they threatened to rip out the bottoms of their boats. Icy, stony dragons hidden away, malicious. The waters of the Anduin were swift and deep, deeper than the cold, running fears of all the world it seemed to Sam. No, he did not care for boats.
-
Her Ring
"Do you see my ring?" the Golden Lady asked of him. Sam wondered greatly at what she meant by it. Her fair hands were lifted up, the moonlight lighting them, no - her own luminesence lifting from them, a shimmer and a shine. A daughter of both moon and sun she seemed. There was no ring to be seen, no bearing of any gilt burden to weigh upon her grace. Her hands stayed free, but for one of them. A star seemed to light upon it, a star from the heavens shone upon her hand, a blessing of the nighttime.
-
Lockholes
Michel Delving's white chalk earth was packed, cold and hard. Fatty knew no matter how he shifted he would sit in water that dripped down the walls with nowhere to go. It was no wonder that his cell, little more than a storage closet, had been abandoned long ago. The darkness was unbearable, the food scarce. He sat with bowed head, listening to the weeping of other prisoners, newer ones. There was a movement from the cell next to his. Something poked him; something hard, pointy, like the end of an umbrella.
"Don't worry, youngster. They'll soon get theirs."
-
Sweet Mithlond
Sweet were the breezes across the sea, fresher than anything ever scented, even beyond the memories of fresh, rain-driven springtimes mad with blossoms and dew. Bright were the waters with the sunlight sparkling and dancing across them, and above the seabirds danced as well. The gold-brown-grey of the sand swirled amid the waves as they ever-reached their way up towards the land. What finer birthing place could creation ever conceive for the maiden voyage of such ships? What further beauty could this dying land give, than to place its timbers upon the gentle waves and watch them as they found eternity?
-
Gollum in the Lake (a double-drabble)
What was it? What was this fumbling about on the gravelly strand that edged his lovely dark waters? It was not a goblin, he could see that, yes he could see it and it could not see him. Gollum's pale, large eyes narrowed with thought.
It was not a goblin, yet not a monster of any kind either. He sniffed the air that it stirred up, sniffed scents of pipesmoke caught in woolen twists, campfire and the tang of mountain air washed in rain. What was it, that sat flummoxed upon the pebbly shore? A tiny glimmer of something shone in the recesses of Gollum's mind, glimmered and was lost; a firefly at midnight, quenched... an ember of some fire long forgotten lest it burn. He frowned, and sniffed again.
It spoke. Not goblin-speech, no.... He knew the words, understood them. He was drawn to it, as a fish drawn to the wiggling tips of fingers because it seemed as the memory of something else, something real, filled with substance.
He dipped his hands in the waters and paddled them a bit. Perhaps he would find out.
-
Flame of the West
"I name you Anduril."
Aragorn lifted up the blade before his eyes, turning it in the light to see the flashing of the fire on the blade. For all his long life it had lain, the shards of a kingdom shattered by the desire of a Ring; now it was whole, restored and renewed, strengthened with the resolve of his will.
He would carry it forth from Rivendell, where its shards had once been borne by the witness of its downfall, protecting the one whom would finally destroy that defiled, devisive gold and his kingdom would be healed at last.
-
Merry
The streets faded in darkening haze, a grey mist rose from the ground, crept out along the stones beneath him. He could barely see. Tendrils brushed across him; cobwebs of ice. It was so very cold. He knew he should be weary, but numbness filled his sight, his hearing, his soul. The funeral procession lights ahead flickered and went out; ghostly specters danced on the edge of his failing sight. He was no longer following the procession, he was a part of it. It was for him.
Within the mist, one face he knew: Pippin.
"Are you going to bury me?"
-
Under the Earth
Cold it was, and dark, not with the natural cold of winter. Many were the treasures there, many were the bones of men who had borne them in battle and in fealty. Gold there was, chains, brooches, rings. Ever it brooded under the earth, ever recalling betrayals and deaths of old.
Deaths gloriously terrible; fear at treachery had been like meat and drink to behold, but it had been so very long ago. Blood gone to dust. The arm pulled itself along by its fingers toward the waiting sword. Again, to be slaked in eternal repetition of that moment... again...
-