Linda's Lord of the Rings Fanfiction

With grateful thanks to Raksha and Virtuella.

The late afternoon sun bathed the narrow country lane in a golden glow. Newly reaped fields stretched as far as the eye could see like an enormous patchwork quilt. The hedgerows were laden with an abundance of wild berries, which three small figures were collecting in baskets almost as large as themselves.

“Come along, May, and get your basket filled. We don't have all day.”

“But, Ma, I’m tired!”

“I am sure your sister is too, but look how many berries she has picked!”

Bell paused for a moment and rubbed her back. The new baby was due any day now, but she was determined to harvest the last of the elderberries and make some jam before it arrived. Her elderberry jam was a great favourite with the lads, while Hamfast loved a drop of elderberry wine on a cold winter night.

“Ma, I’m tired too!” Eight-year-old Daisy put down her basket. “I like blackberries better!” To illustrate the point, she plucked a handful from the hedgerow and stuffed them in her mouth.

Bell sighed. Maybe they had come too far with the baby so near and the girls unaccustomed to walking more than a mile or so from home.

“Ma, why are elderberries black?” Daisy enquired.

“I’m sure I don’t know, Daisy. Now come on, just a few more berries to pick and we can go home.”

“I’m hungry, Ma!” four year old May complained.

“You should have eaten all your dinner then!” her mother retorted.

“There was too much cabbage and I don’t like cabbage,” the little girl retorted.

“Those were your Da’s prize cabbages that you were eating,” said Bell, plucking another umbel of berries.

“I don’t like cabbage and I’ll never like cabbage not until the king comes back!” May retorted, using an expression she was wont to copy from her elders. “I don’t like elderberries either; they taste and smell funny and make you feel sick!” the little girl pouted. She looked as if she were about to hurl the contents of her basket into the hedge.

“May!” her mother said in a warning tone.

“The bogey man will get you!” said Daisy somewhat gleefully. “Da told me a story where he comes to take naughty little girls away!”

Bell sighed again. The girls were usually so good. Why, today of all days did they have to be so unruly? Her backache was steadily getting worse and it was getting late. The sun was starting to sink in the western horizon and a low mist was forming over the surrounding fields, heralding the approach of autumn. She forced herself to smile. “Let us gather the berries from just one more bush, girls and then we’ll go home. If you are good, you can have mushrooms for tea.”

“Hooray!” May danced round gleefully. She did not see the exposed tree root and tripped over on it, falling to the ground with a loud cry before bursting into tears.

Bell knelt to comfort her daughter only for a sharp pain to stab through her belly. She knew that sensation all too well, having given birth to four children. The last two had been born really quickly and Mistress Primrose had said it was likely to be the same this time. The fifth was about to make its appearance at a most inopportune moment. She forced herself to remain calm. The Cottons' farm lay nearby. If she and the girls could but reach there, Farmer Cotton would send for the midwife.

“I can’t walk, Ma! My ankle hurts!” May sobbed while her mother tried to coax her to her feet.

Bell felt like bursting into tears herself as she thought of what to do next. Maybe if she asked Daisy to run to the farm? It was only a few lanes back, but still a long way for a little girl on her own.

Suddenly a stranger loomed out of the mist and climbed over the hedge to reach them. He was the tallest person Bell had ever seen, even amongst the Big Folk, a rough looking fellow in well-worn garments of dark green. The stranger's hair was dark and shaggy and his big hands seemed quite powerful as they reached towards her.

“The bogey man!” screamed Daisy starting to run.

Bell tried not to show the terror she felt. “If you want money, I have none!” she cried. “Please let me and my girls go on our way.”

The man dropped on his haunches, immediately appearing less threatening. Bell noticed that for all his fearsome appearance, the Big Man's deep grey eyes were kind.

“Come back, Daisy!” cried Bell, causing the child to freeze in her tracks.

“Peace, mistress,” said the stranger. “I was passing by and could not but help notice you and your daughter appear to be in distress. May I be of some assistance? You have my word that I mean you no harm.”

“Could you fetch help from the farm, sir?” Bell asked.

“I will take you there myself,” said the stranger. “If you could just hold on to your little one, I will carry you both.”

Bell took a deep breath and decided to trust the stranger. She bit back a cry of pain as another contraction seized her. “Thank you, Mister…? She said once the pain had subsided.

"I am called Strider; at your service;" the tall man replied. "I am a Ranger."

Strider scooped up Bell and May in his arms as if they weighed nothing at all and made his way towards the Cottons' farm with great long strides. Daisy trotted along behind doing her best to keep up.

Strider appeared to reach the Cotton farm in minutes. The dogs started to bark at the approach of a stranger. Lily Cotton came out, her sons clutching at her skirts to investigate the noise. She gasped in alarm at the sight of the stranger carrying Bell.

“It’s alright, Lily,” Bell called from high in Strider’s arms. “Could Tom fetch the midwife please; my baby is on the way. This stranger helped me when I took poorly in the lane and May twisted her ankle.”

“Come in!” Lily cried, beckoning them through the doorway, which Strider entered with some difficulty. "It’s straight to the bedroom with you, Bell! I’d lend you one of my old nightgowns. Tom will have Mistress Primrose here in two shakes of a lamb’s tail. Sit down, mister; I’ll fetch you a drink and a bite once I’ve sent Tom to the village.”

“I’m hungry too!” May complained.

“You shall have some bread and jam and a nice glass of apple juice,” Lily smiled.

She bustled off outside once Bell was safely ensconced in the bedchamber.

May started to cry once the door closed behind her mother. “Let me bind your, ankle, little maid,” said Strider. “It will hurt you much less then”

May nodded shyly. She whimpered for a moment as Strider gently felt her foot, but was smiling happily and sitting on his lap by the time Daisy came through the door panting with the effort of trying vainly to keep up with Strider.

***

Mistress Primrose arrived within the hour and disappeared into the bedroom together with Lily. Farmer Cotton took the boys outside to play despite the gathering dusk, which left Strider with the two little girls in the Cotton’s kitchen.

Bell’s cries from behind the closed door grew louder. Daisy and May looked increasingly scared. Lily bustled back and forth but never stayed long enough to tell them what was happening.

“What’s wrong with Ma?” May asked.

“She’s giving us a new sister or brother,” Daisy explained. “She cried like that when you were born.”

“I don’t want a new brother or sister!” May pouted.

“Shall I tell you a story?” Strider volunteered. After accepting a mug of ale and a hunk of bread and cheese from Lily, he had retired to the chimney nook to smoke his pipe.

“Yes, please!” chorused the little girls.

“You wanted to know why elderberries were black, did you not?” said Strider.

“You were listening!” Daisy said accusingly. “Ma says it’s rude to listen to folk talking and you’ll hear no good of yourself!”

“I was concerned about your mother,” Strider said mildly. “I thought you might need help. Now do you want to know why elderberries are black?”

“Yes!” said Daisy, while May thoughtfully sucked her thumb.

“Once upon a time, long, long ago Elbereth the Star Queen was placing the stars in the sky,” Strider began. “She was robed in a gown of gleaming silver and around her neck was a long necklace of shining pearls. As she went from star to star, one of the points of the stars caught on her necklace and broke it. The beautiful pearls fell down to earth, and as they fell they took on the colour of the midnight sky.

Yavanna the Bountiful caught the pearls as they fell and was about to return them to her sister when she noticed a tree sobbing pitifully. The tree called to her for help as all the other trees in the wood were bearing berries, while the poor Elder bush had none. Yavanna took pity on the tree and gave it her sister’s pearls, which ever since have been elderberries.”

“Did that really happen?” asked Daisy.

“So the Elves say,” said Strider with a smile.

Just then Lily entered the kitchen, a beaming smile on her face. “Your ma has someone she wants you to meet, girls," she announced. “Come on!”

Daisy and May followed her into the bedroom where their mother was sitting up in bed clutching a shawl wrapped bundle. Bell looked tired, but she was smiling. ”Daisy, May, meet your new brother,” she announced holding up the bundle, from which a small red face peered. “I think this little one will share your Da’s love of growing things, since he almost arrived when we were picking elderberries!”

“What’s his name, Ma?” asked Daisy.

“Samwise, Samwise Gamgee,” Bell replied smiling lovingly at her baby son.

Co authered with Raksha the Demon

Estel could scarcely contain his excitement as he ran to the banks of the Bruinen. His lessons for today had been cancelled, since as Master Elrond and his advisers were entertaining King Thranduil and his retinue from Mirkwood. It was a perfect day for swimming so Estel made his way to the river. He loved to swim, and he knew the perfect spot - deep, but not encumbered with too many underwater rocks or strangling weeds. As he swam with the mild current, Estel wondered what Thranduil and his folk would be like. Master Elrond had said that Estel could meet Thranduil after the feast tonight. In all his thirteen years, Estel had never met Elves other than those of Imladris, who he believed must be the grandest and wisest Elves left this side of the Sundering Sea. But still, Elves who lived in forests and in caves would be worth knowing; and he had heard the great tales of the valour of the Mirkwood Elves in the battle of Erebor.

After one last, lovely dive into the River's cool depths, Estel returned to the shore, shook out his wet hair, and stretched out on the blanket he had left under his favourite tree. The warm sun would soon dry his soaked body; all he had to do was wait, and enjoy the sensation of the heat on his naked skin.

“What is that creature?” A strange voice startled the boy from perhaps twenty paces away. Estel had very good hearing; and the speaker was not troubling to lower his voice. The language was slightly different from the Sindarin he knew so well, a Silvan variant that Estel had studied last year. Estel raised his eyelids just enough to peer out through his eyelashes; a trick that Elrohir had taught him. He saw a group of some three tall Elves, divesting themselves of their raiment; perhaps to take a swim as well. This was awkward. Estel was close to manhood now, too old to play possum and jump up to ambush them, as he had done in jest with his tutors and friends many times. Best to stay quiet awhile, and then make a show of awakening slowly, so as not to embarrass those who were surely his foster-father's guests.

"It looks like a leafless Ent, or a very strange frog!" the speaker said with a laugh.

"Come, Lalforn, you have seen Men before, and their young ones!" Another voice said, perhaps deriding the first speaker. "I have heard it said that Master Elrond has often fostered the sons of Men."

"I suppose then, that this is the latest in his collection," the first speaker said. "I have never seen a child of Men unclothed; such a graceless, puny thing."

Another voice added: "You are right there, Lalforn, the sprout is an odd-looking sort; long legs and arms, but no breadth to the rest of him. How do they manage then, to grow enough to father others?"

More laughter. Estel felt his cheeks burn, and prayed that they could not see. He would have to get up and defend himself, or say something, soon, but what? He wished he could return to the river's comforting embrace and not come out until these strangers were gone!

"Have a care, you two;" said a third voice, perhaps older than the others. "He might be able to hear you."

"So what if he can,Legolas," the one called Lalforn answered; and Estel could hear the derision behind the words. "He would not know our tongue."

"Are you certain?" The third speaker asked, with some sternness. "The Lord Elrond would not raise fools. And even if he cannot understand us, he can hear your tones if he wakes. We are guests here, it is ill done to mock those of our host's household, especially a lad so young. And I have heard that this poor lad is fatherless, the more reason to treat the child kindly rather than laugh at him."

Oh, that was the worst! The mockery was cruel, but Estel found the pity intolerable. Burning with humiliation, he stood up and scrambled into his clothes as hastily as possible. He tried to march away with head held high; but the look of sympathy on the face of the oldest of the three destroyed what little dignity he had. Estel turned and ran for home.




000

Gilraen was walking past her son’s closed door. Estel was growing up and was allowed some privacy now he was almost a man. Gilraen sighed. Often she wished that Arathorn had lived long enough to give her a daughter too. A child who would not grow away from her and ride into danger would have been such a comfort. A muffled sob made the woman pause. Estel may not be a small child any longer, but her boy still had need of his mother! She found the lad lying sprawled across his bed, his face buried in a pillow.

“Estel, what ails you?”

The boy did not answer.

Gilraen sat down on the edge of the bed and put her arms around her son. Estel sighed, but did not attempt to move away. “What ails you?” she repeated.

“Nothing.” Estel gave a loud sniff then determinedly dried his eyes with his sleeve.

“I thought you planned to go swimming while your tutors were meeting with King Thranduil? Estel, I know there is something wrong. You cannot deceive your mother!”

“Never again will I go swimming when strangers might be nearby!” Estel  exclaimed before blurting out the whole story. Gilraen’s features became grave as she listened. Long had she feared something like this. The Elves in Master Elrond’s house had never treated either her or Estel with anything other than kindness and respect, but Gilraen had always known that she and her son were not of the same kind as the other inhabitants of Imladris. Once she had asked if some playmates of his own kind from amongst the Dúnedain villages could be found for Estel, but Master Elrond had said it was far too dangerous and might lead to the Enemy discovering her son.   “Nana, why did he call me a ‘thing’?” Estel asked fixing her with wide grey eyes, so like his father’s.

“He and his fellows are ill mannered and ignorant. King Thranduil’s folk were long suspicious of outsiders, I am told, while Master Elrond has ever welcomed strangers, ” said Gilraen. “Unlike Imladris, they are not protected from the forces of Darkness. And you are no ‘thing’: you are a child of Eru just as much as are they. You are different than an Elf, but of no less worth.  Many would count you fair amongst Men, my son.”

“Why do you never speak of my father?” Estel demanded. “Did he do something wrong?”

“Indeed not!” Gilraen said fiercely. “You father was a good man and a brave warrior. I was proud when he asked me to wed him and grieve still for his death. I promise I will tell you more when you are older. He would be proud of you, were he still living, Estel, as proud as you make Master Elrond and me.”

Estel sat up straight, his usual high spirits almost restored. Gilraen studied his face, the boyish chubbiness already giving way to the fine boned structure of a Man of Númenor.  Her little one would come of age in just a few more years.  She could see her own father in his face, as well as Arathorn.  Later she would speak to Master Elrond and tell him it was time Estel accompanied his sons on their visits to the Dúnedain villages, if only occasionally. They would have to think of some tale to explain his presence, but her boy was Edain--human-- and needed to see others of his kind. As for the Elves who had mocked her kind-hearted and courteous son...Gilraen forced down her fury.   Right now she would gladly make a gift of them to the hill-trolls, but that was not possible.  Gilraen smiled coldly.  Master Elrond loved her son too.  Once he learned of their churlish behaviour, and she would make sure the Elf-lord learned of it, the King of Mirkwood would have to send another envoys.  Those cruel strangers would never again set foot in Imladris,except for the one called Legolas, who had spoken on her son's behalf.

Pride of Place

This story is co- authored with Raksha the Demon

Pride goeth before destruction, and an haughty spirit before a fall. - Proverbs 16.18 – The Bible.

These characters all belong to the estate of J.R.R. Tolkien. This story was written for pleasure and not for financial gain.

“Welcome home, my son!”

Denethor frowned slightly as his father seized him in a bear hug that nearly crushed his own ribs. It was a rather vulgar display.  Surely the Steward of Gondor's greeting to his heir should be  more dignified .  But his father insisted on treating Denethor like a child.  Denethor saw his father's arm reach up to try to pat him on the head, a gesture that Denethor detested.  Usually he would have nobly tolerated it, but this night his fatigue and hunger sharpened his impatience.  He swerved away with as much aplomb as he could manage.

“I hear you have performed great deeds of arms against the Easterlings,” Ecthelion smiled. “You must dine with me tonight. I have a new captain I should like you to meet. Thengel commended him to me most highly."

“As you wish, sire.” Denethor struggled to hide his irritation at being expected to dine with some Rohirric clodhopper.  Worthy allies, the sons of Eorl, but incapable of conversation that did not centre on the merits of their horses.  Thengel was an exception.   He had taken on the manner and speech of Gondor during the many years he had spent in exile, and had a Gondorian wife of high blood, the fair Morwen.  Most of Thengel's messengers and envoys were barely able to speak Westron, and daunted by the usage of more than one fork.  And now his father had given a Captaincy to one of them?" 

Denethor would be kind to the man.  There had never been enough time for him to master the Eorling tongue, but he could sing The Slaying of Scatha, one of Thengel's favorite songs in that language - all ten verses with chorus!  His father liked the song too, despite understanding it less than did Denethor; and had been known to bang on the table with his hand to match the steadily quickening rhythm of the refrain.  Denethor smiled The Rohir captain, doubtless lonely for the grassy plains and Golden Hall of his own country, would surely be cheered by the song.  And, Denethor realized, the Steward would be pleased.

With luck, Denethor considered on the way back to his own chambers, the Rohir captain would be awed by the splendour of the Steward's Residence, and not speak much at all.  The Rohirrim were at least courteous folk; and mighty warriors. 

Denethor’s mood improved as he prepared for dinner. His manservant praised him on Gondor’s latest victory while he helped Denethor don a shirt of finest linen and a richly embroidered velvet tunic. Ah, but it was good to be home!  Much as Denethor appreciated the respect of his soldiers in the field, he had missed the greater comforts and deference that was afforded his high station here at home. 

With a few moments to spare before the meal, Denethor moved to the window, for the view it afforded was one of his favourites.  His chambers overlooked the Court of the Fountain, where the most sacred symbol of Gondor, the White Tree stood. Denethor’s heart swelled with pride. He was heir to Gondor with all her history and splendour. The White Tree might be withered, but the spirit of Númenor was not!

Denethor had been told since childhood that the blood of Westernesse ran truer in him than in the sons of other families. Even his own kindred marvelled at his ability to see deep into the hearts of Men. Surely the renewal of the strength of Númenor within him portended a great destiny?  Denethor drew himself up, aware of the power that was his and the greater power that he would hold one day.  Prince in all but name, but never King, he would use his prowess to protect Gondor.

Denethor slowly made his way to his father’s private dining chamber. Ecthelion was alone. It seemed that punctuality was not one of the Rohirric Captain’s virtues.

Denethor was just about to take his seat when a very tall stranger entered, clad in the black and silver of the Guard.  The Steward stood up; and, as often happened when he stood up hastily, an old wound in the right knee caused him to stumble.  Denethor moved towards him; but the stranger was both quicker and closer; and reached Ecthelion first.  All Denethor could do was watch while the unknown Captain held out his arm for Denethor's father to grasp. 

Ecthelion thanked the man, then lightly clasped the stranger's supporting arm until they reached the high-backed chairs.  Denethor kept his mouth shut; scarcely able to credit all he had seen.  The stranger had not even bowed!  The manoeuvre of Ecthelion's taking the Captain's arm was easily done; the Captain's demeanour completely relaxed, the Steward's attitude trusting.  This had happened before; perhaps more than once.  Denethor knew then that this night was not the first occasion that the outlander had dined with Denethor's father. 

"Are you well, lord?" asked the stranger, in slightly accented Sindarin.  Denethor bristled, remembering how his father had brushed off his own advice to use a cane.  The Steward seemed to be pleased by the man's attention. 

"In good fettle, Thorongil," Ecthelion replied.  "Come to table, Denethor; don't dawdle."

"Yes, Father,” Denethor said clearly and in a slightly louder tone than was usual for him.  A subtle reminder was needed here.  Just who was the outlander and who was Ecthelion's only son and thus heir to the rule of Gondor?

Ecthelion turned west; his hand still on the stranger's arm.  Denethor and the man called Thorongil turned west at the same moment.  The moment of silence seemed very long.  Then, the ritual having been observed, Denethor sat down in his usual chair at his father's right hand; glad that it was still vacant.  His father's new friend waited until Denethor was seated and then took a seat farther down the table.  Denethor shot him a quick look.  The man had a soldierly bearing, and was certainly no Rohir, with those Dúnedain grey eyes and dark hair.  And what was that odd silver star that the fellow wore so close to his Captain's sigil?

“Denethor, meet Captain Thorongil,” said Ecthelion. “Is it not amazing to see the two of you together? You are as alike as close kindred!”

“I am honoured to meet you, Lord,” said the Captain. “Your fame precedes you throughout Gondor and other lands. And your father has told me much of your great deeds,” Thorongil continued. 

The accent seemed more Northern than Eorling, Denethor noted.  And the name of Thorongil's father had not been given, as was customary in an introduction.  If the man had been abandoned by a scoundrel sire, was he now trying to attach himself to Denethor's father?  Ecthelion was usually a good judge of character, but he had a kind heart and a weakness for strays. 

Thorongil inclined his head graciously before raising it to meet Denethor's questing gaze.  Most men stood back, or dropped their eyes when Denethor turned even half the power of that gaze upon them.  But this man gave no ground.  He gave no challenge either; though Denethor thought, without knowing exactly why, that the stranger actually could have had he cared to do so.  What secrets lay behind those seemingly guileless grey eyes?   The Northern eagle would bear watching.   

“I have been glad of Thorongil’s company while you were away, my son,” said Ecthelion. “He knows much of lore and legend.”

Dinner was served. First, at his father’s bidding, Denethor recounted the details of the campaign against the Easterling incursions. The conversation then turned to the great battles of old.  Denethor spoke of the Last Alliance, a subject that Denethor knew well from constant study.  Discussion of the Siege of Barad-dûr and its end had always enthralled him.   How could it not?  The story evoked the rise of the Númenoreans in Middle-earth and Gondor's glory of old, a shining hour when the strength of Elves failed and Isildur defeated Sauron with one daring sword-stroke.

“You tell the tale well, my son,” said Ecthelion. “You should hear Thorongil tell the story; though.  He speaks of the deeds of Elves and even Dwarves as well as the valour of our own people.  Why, it is almost as if he had heard the tale from one who fought there!”

Thorongil coloured slightly and lowered his eyes.

Dwarves fighting beside the armies of Men?  Denethor repressed the urge to take the Northerner to task for obviously embellishing what was written. He was the heir to the Stewardship and a lore-master of note; and he would not lower himself to correct some vagabond sell-sword, however self-assured the fellow was. 

Denethor favoured Captain Thorongil with a lordly smile.  One day, he would rule when this nobody was long forgotten.

Good King of Cats

Good king of cats, nothing but one of your nine lives - Shakespeare- Romeo and Juliet. 1.1

Aragorn cautiously squeezed his lanky frame through the low door of the barn; it was surprisingly roomy within. A few goats were penned at the far side, while a ladder led up to a loft, where presumably grain and hay would be stored. More bales of hay were scattered around the ground floor. The Halflings seemingly required more food than Men, despite being but half their size. Aragorn was loth to trespass on Hobbit property, but could no longer withstand the fierce storm that raged outside. He would shelter and depart as soon as the rain had ceased.

He threw his pack down upon a nearby bale of hay, and then shook himself, the better to shed excess moisture from his hair. Then opening his pack, he took out his spare garments and started to divest himself of his dripping clothing.

A sudden rustle in the hay made him start and hastily cover himself. Then he laughed, seeing the watcher was a large ginger cat. The animal emerged from where it had been sleeping and started to wash its whiskers, all the while eying him curiously.

“What strange creatures you must think us, Puss,” said Aragorn, pulling his dry shirt over his head. ”We must appear to you that we shed and re-grow our fur at will. Are you sheltering from the rain too? Or do you live here to keep the mice at bay?”

The cat mewed and came nearer.

“Are you hungry?” Aragorn asked the cat. “You are fortunate that I have just purchased provisions from Bree, and have fresh meat to spare.”

Finishing dressing, he rummaged in his pack and took out some fresh bread and bacon. He threw some scraps of meat in the cat’s direction. The ginger tom devoured them greedily. He then approached Aragorn and rubbed his tawny head against the Ranger’s knee. Aragorn stroked the soft ginger fur and was rewarded by the sound and steady rhythm of the cat's contented purring.

The rain did not subside and Aragorn decided to spend the night in the barn. He pulled his blanket round himself and tried  vainly to sleep. A dryness in his throat was worsening, and when he lifted his water bottle to drink, he was seized by a violent fit of coughing. He sighed in dismay, realising he had picked up an infection from the crowded common room of the Prancing Pony. Wishing to prevent the spread of infection to the Hobbits, Aragorn decided to leave the Shire. He rose, with the intention of leaving; but found he could hardly stand. It seemed he had caught the dreaded “Fever”, for which even Elves had no cure .It could be a deadly contagion, even for a strong man like Aragorn, but the most at risk were the very young and the very old. While common folk blamed it on the malign influence of the moon, the Wise believed it was carried in the breath. It was too late to matter to Aragorn now how one might catch it. He was infected and would have to remain here, caring for his needs as best he may.

By dawn, Aragorn was shivering violently. He could not get enough warmth from even two borrowed blankets he had found in a corner.

Suddenly, something soft and warm landed against his chest. The cat stretched himself across the Ranger and settled to sleep.

“Thank you, Puss,” Aragorn croaked gratefully. Soothed by the animal’s presence, he fell asleep.

When Aragorn awoke it was bright daylight. A family of Hobbits surrounded him.

“It’s one of them Big Folk!” said one who appeared to be the father, though he would not even have reached to Aragorn’s waist had he been able to stand.

“Is it dangerous, Milo?” asked a tiny, stout female, obviously the mother.

“Marmalade likes him, so he must be a good sort,” said a small Hobbit girl.

Aragorn was seized by a fierce coughing fit. Frightened, Marmalade fled to the far side of the barn. Aragorn then started to sneeze.

“Isn’t it noisy?” commented a little boy. He was about an inch shorter than his sister, with especially hairy feet.

“I think he has caught that fever we all had last month,” said the father.

“The poor thing looks quite ill, ”said the mother. ”That fever’s right dangerous. It killed several others as well as poor Cousin Dora two months back. Would you like some tea and hot broth, Master?” she asked addressing Aragorn timidly. “I am Mistress Peony Burrows, this is my husband, Milo and my two youngest Myrtle and Minto.”

“Thank you, Mistress,” Aragorn croaked. “I am Strider, a Ranger. I meant no harm. I was sheltering from the storm when the Fever laid me low.” Exhausted, he sank back against the hay.

***

The next few days passed in a blur of shivers and aches for Aragorn. The kindly Hobbits brought him warm drinks for which he was grateful and food, the sight of which turned his stomach. Marmalade stayed constantly at his side, a soothing presence. More than once, Aragorn buried his aching head in the cat's silky ginger fur.

On the fifth day, Aragorn awoke feeling much better. The Hobbit woman approached, carrying a bowl of something that smelled delicious. Aragorn devoured it greedily. Marmalade eyed him reproachfully, but was soon mollified when Aragorn shared some morsels of beef from the stew.

“Would you fancy a slice of my peach pie now?” enquired Mistress Peony. “I baked it only this morning.” She beamed approvingly at Aragorn’s empty bowl.

“That sounds delicious, Mistress,” said Aragorn, reaching out a hand to caress Marmalade. The ginger cat scrambled on to the man’s lap and purred contentedly.

“I’ve never known our cat to act like that before,” said Peony. ”Doesn’t like strangers, he don’t. I’ve often told my husband that even were the King to come back, our Marmalade would have none of him!”

.A/N The Fever is a type of influenza. In “Web of Treason” Aragorn mentions he caught it when in the North.

Marmalade is based on my cat Leo.

Peony Burrows is a Baggins; her husband Milo is Frodo's first cousin (his mother's sister's son), Merry's father's first cousin, and Pippin's father's second cousin (on the Took side -- one of the Old Took's daughters having married into the Brandybucks).
She and her husband and sons can be found in the Baggins of Hobbiton family tree in Appendix C in ROTK

'I gave Hope to the Dúnedain, I have kept no hope for myself. – Gilraen, The Tale of Aragorn and Arwen- Tolkien.

Dedicated to the memory of all beloved Mothers no longer with us.

With grateful thanks to Raksha and Deandra

Aragorn awoke with a start. A feeling of bleak emptiness was gnawing at his soul. It were as if part of it had been torn away. He immediately sensed that what he had long feared had happened; his mother had passed beyond the circles of the world. 

Guilt and grief overwhelmed him. He should have remained at her side. It had been all too clear to him that Gilraen was fading; overwhelmed by a lifetime of care and sorrow. She had told him herself that they would not meet again in this life. He had not wanted to believe her, but her foresight had proved correct. He remembered clearly that final morning when he had embraced his mother for one last time, and begged her to have hope. He had offered to stay longer, but she had urged him to go and continue to fight the evil that threatened them all.

Overcome with sorrow, Aragorn wept, as memories of Gilraen swam before his eyes. She had always been there for him, teaching him to be proud of his human heritage in a house full of Elves, comforting his childish sorrows, and calming his youthful insecurities as he grew to manhood, always offering him unconditional love. If he closed his eyes he could see his mother now, smiling with pride at his achievements.  

Not waiting until morning, Aragorn tied up his bedroll, extinguished his campfire, mounted his horse, and rode through the bleak winter landscape of Eriador to pay his final respects to Gilraen. A pale sun, devoid of warmth, rose over the eastern horizon, piercing the grey mist and illuminating the skeletal forms of the bare trees.   

The earth on his mother’s grave was freshly dug. They had buried her but a few hours before he arrived. His kinsman, Halbarad greeted him with a warm embrace. “Your mother did not suffer,” he told Aragorn. “As the days grew shorter, she simply grew weaker. My sister, who stayed with her, said Gilraen would have nightmares of darkness encompassing the land. Sorrow overwhelmed her. She could not endure to live through such days of darkness and died quietly in her sleep.”

Halbarad and the other villagers withdrew, leaving Aragorn to pay his final respects at his mother’s grave. Aragorn stood there, lost in thought. Gilraen was renowned for her foresight. Was there truly no hope, no escape from the darkness from the East? Sauron grew ever stronger. Would any escape enslavement or death at the hands of the Dark Lord? At least no one could hurt his mother now, but that was but a cold comfort for the loss of the woman he had loved so dearly.

He remained but a day, and then urged his horse on to Imladris. Elrond had assured him his welcome would always be warm, despite the shadow of his love for Arwen that hung between them.

It was Arwen, rather than her father who came forth to greet him. “My heart sensed your sorrow,” she said, drawing him against her in a close embrace.

“Alas, Arwen,” said Aragorn. “I fear that my mother’s sorrow will engulf us all.” He rubs his eyes wearily, trying vainly to blink back the tears that welled up within him.

“Nay, Estel, take courage. Your mother was a good and wise woman, I grew to love her too, but all foresight is merely a glimmer of what lies ahead. My heart foretells that, although darkness will come, the light that lasts through it will shine all the stronger. Your mother rightly hailed you as the hope of Men, as your valour will play a great part in the final victory.”

Arwen’s eyes shone as if she saw something that others could not. Aragorn felt heartened. Maybe sorrow would one day give way to joy. He had hoped that his mother would live to see him take the throne of his ancestors. Alas, that she would never see her son wear the Silver Crown; but he would continue to strive and wish for a future with Arwen at his side. What better way to honour Gilraen’s memory than to restore the glory of their people and fulfil the hope he had been born to bring?

A/N This is an expanded version of a ficlet that was written for the AA List prompt “Sorrow”.

The characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate. No profit has been, nor will be made from this story

With grateful thanks to Raksha.

Drawing the Eye

The two grey-cloaked men entered the chamber; its stone walls were cold and unwelcoming.  The room had been Théodred's private room, but bore scant trace of its former occupant. It was bleak and sparsely furnished, holding only a rough pallet and a table and a chair.  A meagre fire burned in the hearth, the flames offering little light and less warmth. 

Moving purposefully, Aragorn approached the table and carefully set the covered object he carried down upon it.

"Is this wise?" Halbarad asked anxiously. He lit the lamps, a frown creasing his pale face.

"Probably not, but it must be done. Remember, as the Heir of Elendil, I have the right to use the Orthanc-stone.  The message you have brought me tonight from my Lady rekindles the fire in my blood. This is one of the trials I must overcome if I am to become what I was born to be!"

"I do not doubt your claim on the Stone, but to press it this night? You are weary after your labours of the past days. At least take rest first!" Halbarad pleaded.

"Would that I could, but time is a luxury we do not have. You need not stay, Halbarad; go and rejoin the others."

"I will not leave you," Halbarad said staunchly.

"Thank you, kinsman." Aragorn clasped the other's shoulder. "Your presence will give me comfort, but I must ask you to remain silent, and above all, do not approach me, lest our Enemy espy you from the stone."

Halbarad nodded reluctantly. He sat down upon the pallet in the far corner, his eyes never leaving Aragorn, and his limbs tense, ready to rise swiftly if needed.

Aragorn seated himself in front of the stone and flung aside the cloth that covered it. At first, the palantír seemed filled with heavy mist.  Then a pinprick of light widened, became a sullen glow, which gradually burned away the mists, to reveal a great lidless eye. The great eye fastened upon him.  Aragorn was suddenly hit by a wave of ancient malice that rocked him from head to toe.  But if Sauron thought to cow him with such evil, as if the Lord of the Dúnedain were a young hobbit or simple Bree-man, then their adversary would soon learn otherwise.  Aragorn smiled grimly.  Let it begin!

Aragorn stared at the Great Eye locked in combat as fierce as any passage at arms. The hours passed as Halbarad watched his lord sit still as if turned to stone, hardly seeming even to breathe.

The first glimmer of dawn lightened the eastern sky when Aragorn drew Andúril and rose to his feet.

The Great Eye vanished from the globe, its attendant fires slowly dissipating. The air in the room suddenly felt cleansed. Aragorn threw the cloth over the palantír. He swayed on his feet. Halbarad caught him before he could swoon and half dragged, half carried his kinsman to the pallet. Once there, he drew off his cloak and wrapped it around Aragorn. He uncorked his water bottle and coaxed Aragorn to swallow a draught. The Heir of Isildur was trembling and ashen faced. Halbarad placed a comforting arm around his shoulders.

As daylight entered the room Halbarad clearly saw his Chieftain's haggard features. Aragorn seemed to have aged by decades overnight and looked every one of his eighty-eight years. "I fear tonight's struggle has cost you dearly," said Halbarad, unable to hide his concern.

Aragorn managed a grim smile. "The attempt had to be made to draw Sauron's attention," he said. "I told the Dark Lord; 'I am here, Sauron, I Aragorn son of Arathorn the heir of Isildur; he whom you have long sought and believed was slain.  Behold!  I bear the tokens of my lineage, the star of Elendil and the sword that was broken! This sword now reforged shall once again mete out justice to you. I am coming to Minas Tirith to take what is my rightful inheritance!' The struggle was hard, but my will prevailed."

"The Valar be praised, we have hope at last!" Halbarad exclaimed. "Sleep now Aragorn, rest a little while you may."

Aragorn lay back on the pallet and closed his eyes. He found, though, that he was too weary for sleep. Halbarad was already snoring loudly. He regarded his kinsman with a wave of affection.  They had shared many adventures together over the years, but drawing Sauron's Eye had been Aragorn's hardest trial yet. A sudden flash of foresight chilled his blood. Halbarad would not live to see the outcome of this struggle. Aragorn wished he could send his kinsman back to the relative safety of his home with his wife and children in the North. Yet he knew Halbarad would not leave his Chieftain's side as the hour of Aragorn's destiny approached.

Aragorn had chosen this course.  He must now follow his path to its bitter end.