Meadow Flowers & Butterflies by StarSpray

Restoration & Rebuilding

Written for the Saturday instadrabbling session for the Restoration & Rebuilding challenge

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Prompt: video on restoration of Whychus Creek

Much of Ithilien was still green and healthy, and what damage there was would be restored quickly. But there were parts in North Ithilien, closer to Minas Morgul or the road to the Morannon, that were dry and desolate and and yet poisoned. Little water flowed there, for many streams had been stopped up, and what water there was had been fouled so that it did little good to the trees trying to grow back, or to the grass and flowers trying desperately to take root again.

Legolas and his people sang many songs of health and growth and life, and they called upon the Men of Ithilien and upon Gimli's folk to help them clear the blocked stream beds. When in a rush clear clean water spilled down one dry rocky bed a cheer went up, and Legolas thought that he could hear the very earth sigh in relief.

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Prompt: When the storm has passed, put your energy into rebuilding your life. Don't waste time looking back. - Leon Brown

It was a surprise for Sam to look up one afternoon and find that he had planted his last tree. He had been all over the Shire—it felt as though he had walked as many steps between the Farthings as he had walked from Bag End to Mordor—and now he was done, at least for now. There would always be a need for planting, but let these first saplings grow a bit first. He gave the earth around this last tree—an elm—one last pat, and stood, grunting as his back twinged.

Back home, he showed Frodo his box. "I didn't expect to have any left," he said. "What do I do with the rest?"

"You could put it in your own garden, you know," Frodo said.

"Oh, but that don't seem right. Anyway it doesn't need the help." The gardens of Bag End were thriving, in fact, even with Sam's frequent absences.

"Toss it in the air and let the wind take it, then," Rosie said. "Magic elf dust will go where it's most needed, I suspect."

Sam brightened. "So it will!"

He went the next windy day to the Four Farthing Stone, and poured the last of Lady Galadriel's gift into his palm. He held it for a moment, thinking of the Lady and of the mallorn trees of Lórien, and then he flung it in the air. It hung for a second, a tiny brown cloud, before the wind picked up and it vanished.

Rebuilding & Restoration 2

written for the Sunday session of Restoration & Rebuilding instadrabbling

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Prompt: “Pick Yourself Up” by Nat King Cole

The day had been full of skirmish after skirmish, as Easterlings and Southrons flooded into Ithilien. They had felled one mûmak  but there had been three more to take its place; Mablung was nearly ill with exhaustion by the time they managed to find a safe place to make camp. He wished for the sturdy stone confines of Henneth Annûn, though it was miles away.

But as lots were drawn for the first watch Captain Faramir moved among them, murmuring words of encouragement and recalling the deeds of their long-ago ancestors who had fought longer and worse battles, and yet emerged victorious. Mablung’s shoulders straightened almost of their own accord as Faramir murmured a good night to him, and was able to swallow his rations without choking. Overhead the clouds cleared, and the moon shone like silver on them.

Family Business

Hamfast is starting to despair of any of his children taking up gardening—until Sam is old enough to start digging in the dirt.

Written for Back to Middle-earth Month 2020 for the prompts "a character's education begins" and "He was interested in roots and beginnings..."

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By the time young Samwise was old enough to start pottering about their little garden, Hamfast had begun to despair of any of his children following in his footsteps. His older sons had learned dutifully enough, it was true, but Hamson had gone off to Andy's as soon as he was old enough to pester Hamfast and Bell into allowing it, to learn the family roping business—which Ham couldn't begrudge, really—and Halfred did the weeding only half-heartedly. He'd had no luck at all coaxing Daisy out except to pick bunches of flowers, and May liked making mud pies better than hoeing.

But Sam sat by Hamfast as he knelt down to thin out the carrots and watched with interest—and he listened, too, while Hamfast explained the importance of thinning and what kind of soil was good for the carrots, and when they could expect to harvest. Of course Sam was still far too young to understand all of that, but it was clear before long that he wanted to, and that he had gotten that bit of Hamfast that loved the rich earth and growing things. When Hamfast allowed it he dug into the dirt with eager hands and a determined set to his chin.

From that day on Ham could go no farther than his tool shed without Sam trailing along behind him, and trying to copy all that he did. But it wasn't until harvest time that it became clear that Sam was a born gardener—Hamfast had never seen someone take so much pride in a basket of carrots and potatoes. Bell cooked them up in a stew that night with a couple of rabbits that Halfred brought home, and Sam practically glowed at the praises heaped on his vegetables.

"He'll make a mighty fine gardener one day," Ham told Bell later. "You mark my words, he'll have the nicest plot o' land in the Shire!"

The Silent Street

Faramir stops before the Hall of Stewards on an errand in Rath Dínen.

Written for the 2019 Back to Middle-earth Month Bingo for the prompt "I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him" on the In the Words of Shakespeare card.

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Rath Dínen was one of the few places in Minas Tirith untouched by the battle—at least at first glance. The only sound as Faramir walked down the street was that of his own boots on the stone, echoing off of stone buildings and tombs and monuments. Behind him, out of sight and hearing, the citadel and city were a flurry of activity. Those who had fled before the battle were returning home, and preparations were being made for the return of the king to claim his own.

There was only one thing they needed that none but the Steward could retrieve. The Winged Crown had sat upon the tomb of the last king Eärnur for nearly one thousand years, placed there by Faramir's own forefather.

But before he arrived at Eärnur's tomb, Faramir came to the charred pile of rubble that had once been the Hall of Stewards. He stopped before it, gazing at the blackened stones. Some work had been done to clear them away, and his father's remains, such as could be found, were placed in a casket where the pyre had been. The other tombs had been uncovered, and were little damaged. But no other work had been done, or would be done for some time. Repairs to the houses of the living were more important than any splendid tomb.

He did not clearly remember coming here before. Ecthelion had died when he was still a babe in arms, and of his father's final madness he remembered only snatches of heat and harsh voices, but whether those were from life or from dreams he could not say. Perhaps it was both. He would have preferred to remember nothing at all. Or better—that his father had never looked into the palantír at all. He could see it sitting beside the casket, covered in a heavy cloth. The king, perhaps, would come for it later.

Faramir sighed as he looked on the casket that held Denethor's remains, and turned away. Let the dead keep themselves. His concern was for the living.

Fires of Resistence

Rebels make trouble for Sauron's armies in eastern Rhûn.

Written for the 2019 Back to Middle-earth Bingo for the prompts "Rebels against Sauron in the East" on the Original Characters card, and "Haze" on the Color Burst: Purple card.

Mild warning for allusions to human sacrifice.

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The air was thick with smoke, as soldiers ran frantically through their camp to try to douse the fires that kept springing up, now here by the armory, now there in the food stores. They were hunting also for those who set the fires, but could not find them. It was difficult to see small figures in the hazy darkness as they darted from shadow to shadow, tinderboxes in hand. Sparks flared, flames caught, and they were gone, like wraiths.

The temple to the Dark Lord stood over the scene, dark and jagged stone on plains where no stone should be. In daylight one could see that it was stained with soot and ash, and inside the floors were rust-brown with old blood, and the smell of it permeated the building. Priests in black robes and gilded, hideous masks chanted ugly words and brandished jagged knives. Many wore rings set with gems that seemed to glimmer of their own accord with a pale, unnatural light. When they spoke, you obeyed—or else you were served up on a golden platter to the Dark Lord of the Black Land, where mountains spewed fire.

If any were inside the temple on this night, they did not emerge. Sarnai darted into the shadow of the temple to crouch around the corner. The stone was cold against her back. Before long she was joined by Gerel and Kulan. They were all dressed in their darkest clothes, with cloths tied around their faces so that only their eyes were visible, glinting in the intermittent fire and torchlight. Their role this night had been distraction, and now they waited, holding their breath.

Something cracked over their heads, and the statue of the Dark Lord that stood atop the entrance to the temple came crashing down, breaking into many pieces on the steps, as arrows rained down after it onto the heads of the officers and soldiers that had come out of the west to conscript the sons of eastern Rhûn, forgetting that the daughters were warriors also. A great cry went up, and those conscripted boys abandoned their posts and fled into the darkness, where their sisters waited to spirit them away into the woods to the north or away into the vast steppes where one could wander for days without seeing another soul, and even the Dark Lord's lidless eye could not see all.

Funny Little Thing

A strange man comes into town looking for livestock.

Written for 2019 Back to Middle-earth Month bingo, for the prompt Animal Companion on the Original Characters bingo card.

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News passed quickly through the animals of the woodmen living in the vales between the Anduin and the Greenwood. The biggest gossips were of course the horses and ponies, for they had more opportunity to travel between the villages and so learn all the most interesting pieces of news, which they then passed on to the dogs that lived in the stables with them, and the cats, and sometimes even birds and mice, although the chickens were never very interested and wild birds had their own concerns, and the mice did not often come out to hear the news for fear of the cats.

So the animals in the village of River Bend were aware of the stranger that had come down out of the mountains well before he arrived in their home. As was the nature of gossip, especially among animals, he was not quite as the tales said. He was somewhat smaller, though not by much, and hairier, although again not by much, and he did not smell exactly like a bear, although it was immediately agreed that he did not smell quite human either.

The people greeted him in the usual way, with a mixture of wariness and welcome. It soon became clear that he had staked a claim of land out for himself somewhat north of them, just on the other side of the river, and as the animals all knew, he was looking for livestock: for hounds and horses, and cows and sheep.

Crooked-tail had listened to the rumors about the big strange man come down out of the mountains, but without much interest. He was curious, of course, but he was the smallest of his litter—and with a crooked tail to boot—and everyone was sure that the stranger would choose one of his bigger and prettier brothers or sisters to take away with him across the river. You had to be big and strong to survive across the river, where there were bears and orcs and other things that would swallow up a too-small puppy in one gulp. But when their master whistled for them he trotted out into the yard behind the rest, but he did not reach their master before being distracted by a butterfly that flitted across his nose, begging to be chased.

He had almost reached the fence around the garden when a large hand closed around him, lifting him disconcertingly high by the scruff of his neck. It was the stranger of course, with his not-quite-human and not-quite-animal musky smell. The skin around his eyes creased with laugh-wrinkles as he held Crooked-tail up in front of his face. Crooked-tail wiggled and licked his nose, making him chuckle—a nice sound, deep and rumbling.

"You're a funny little thing," he said. And then to the master, "I'll take this one."

Back Again

Primula and Mirabella happen to be in Hobbiton when Bilbo returns.

written for the Objects challenge series for Tolkien Weekly on LJ

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Stick: Back Again

Bidding had just begun on an antique walking stick, and Primula was trying to hide a yawn behind her hand, when a commotion went up at the bottom of the lane. "What--an auction?" someone squawked.

"Oh goodness," Mirabella exclaimed, laughing, "that's Bilbo!"

"Cousin Bilbo?" Primula repeated, rising to her toes to see over the crowd. And indeed, there he was, perched atop a heavily-laden pony, dressed in strange and travel-stained clothes, including a green hood that was far too large, and looking perplexed and halfway to furious at the proceedings.

But what a story he must have to tell!

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Ball: Taking Inventory

After Bilbo tossed everyone off his property, only Primula and her mother remained behind--Mirabella being, after all, Bilbo's aunt. Bilbo had snatched up the list of all that had been sold, and was almost incoherent with frustration. "Even my father's golf balls!" he exclaimed, waving the paper over his head. "And my finest silver, and my favorite wardrobe--"

"That's what you get, for not telling anyone before running off," Mirabella said. Primula giggled at Bilbo's sputtering, and then even he had to laugh.

"Where did you go?" Primula asked.

Bilbo's eyes lit up. "Into the Wild!" he said.

- -

Leaf: Daydreams

Primula lay in the grass beneath the Party Tree, humming tunelessly and daydreaming about adventures as she watched the leaves dance in the breeze. She didn't particularly want to have one herself, but she was rather curious about what lay beyond Buckland. Maybe Rory would take her to Bree.

Shouting from the lane caught her attention, and she sat up just in time to see a lad duck through the hedge out of the way of a runaway cart. "That was close," she said.

"A bit," he agreed, and sauntered over to join her. "Hullo, I'm Drogo Baggins."

"Primula Brandybuck."

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Knife: Keepsake

"Cousin Bilbo, is that a sword?" Drogo exclaimed as he and Primula entered the parlor, where Bilbo was in the midst of hanging something that did indeed look like a sword over the mantelpiece.

"Hullo, Drogo!" Bilbo stepped down to admire his handiwork. "It's a knife, really—Elvish, you know—but swordlike enough for a hobbit!"

"But wherever did you get such a thing?" Primula asked.

"A troll hoard!" Bilbo replied cheerfully, and laughed at the looks on their faces. "Come into the kitchen, we're just about to have tea. Plenty of seed cakes, Drogo, I know you like them!"

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Key: Cultural Differences

"You don't carry a house key?" Primula exclaimed as she and Drogo strolled down the lane through Hobbiton. "But how do you get inside if you get home late?"

"I open the door," Drogo replied. "What would it be locked for?"

Primula thought about this. "No reason, I suppose," she said. "It's different in Buckland."

"Oh, well. You're right on the borders there. Outside them, even!" Drogo shook his head. "And right on the Old Forest, too! My mother tells stories…"

Primula laughed; Drogo grinned. "They probably aren't true. There are no goblins. But the trees are a bit queer..."

- -

Ring: Treasure

When Mirabella and Primula were preparing to leave Hobbiton to return to Buckland, Bilbo came with a small chest. "I have no use for these sorts of things," he said, handing it to Mirabella. "It came out of the Lonely Mountain, you know. The dwarves call them mere trinkets!"

Inside the chest was a small pile of gleaming jewels and delicate rings and bracelets and chains. "Oh, Bilbo!" Mirabella exclaimed.

"They'll make lovely birthday gifts," Bilbo said. "And perhaps something for Primula's wedding day?" His eyes twinkled as Primula blushed. "Drogo's a good lad. I'm very happy for you both."

Housewarming

But it was clear, to Belladonna’s amusement, that not everyone was pleased that she had come to live in Hobbiton.

written for madmaenad on tumblr, who requested "lady hobbits being passive aggressive about housewarming presents."

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Those first few weeks after they moved into Bag End were quite busy for Belladonna and Bungo. It was a rather extravagant hole for only the two of them, but that was all right–Belladonna loved a bit of extravagance, and they both loved parties, Bungo being an excellent cook. And there were a great many guests trooping up and down the Hill in those weeks, between Belladonna’s rearranging the rooms and Bungo’s work with Halfred Greenhand in the garden.

Most of the ladies who came for tea with Belladaonna were very nice and welcoming, bringing pies and breads and the occasional small, decorative mathom as hole-warming gifts. But it was clear, to Belladonna’s amusement, that not everyone was pleased that she had come to live in Hobbiton–-the Famous Belladonna Took who had, it was rumored, gone on dozens of adventures, even going so far as the shores of the Sea, before she was even a tween!

(This was nonsense, of course. Belladonna had been twenty-six when she had visited the elf Havens.)

The general disapproval made itself known, aside from gossip over garden gates and hedgerows, in the form of several rather interesting hole-warming fits Belladonna received. No one, however, could match Lavender Goodenough. She presented Belladonna with the most hideous vase she had ever seen, painted a horrendous shade of green and positively wobbly in shape, half as tall as Belladonna herself. “It’s an old thing, my Uncle Otto had it from a dwarf some years ago,” Lavender said amiably, taking a delicate sip of tea. “I hardly ever use it–it’s a bit too big for my parlor, you know–but you have such a lovely garden, I’m sure you’ll have bunches of flowers to bring inside. And I thought it would interest you, being dwarven and everything. Do you still entertain dwarves, Belladonna?”

“Oh yes,” Belladonna said brightly. “All the time!” She didn’t, of course, but if that vase was dwarf-made then she was a goblin. The lie was worth the look on Lavender Goodenough’s face, though, and when Belladonna told Bungo about it later he laughed and laughed. Even the dullest of hobbits would know how insulting it would be to connect a dwarf with something so ugly and ill-made.

They repainted the vase a much nicer shade of green, and set a large bowl on top of it in the garden surrounded by daisies and bluebells, to serve as a birdbath.

Jubilee

written for the 2023 Jubilee instadrabbling event

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Prompt: An image of Notre Dame being rebuilt, with scaffolding covering much of the spire in the middle

The lower levels of Minas Tirith were a maze of scaffolding and half-rebuilt walls and half-repaired roads. There was much to do and all of it needed going sooner rather than later. There were far too many families who had returned to find they had no homes to return to within the city walls. The builders and masons of Gondor were skilled, but too few in number.

So it was that when a great party of Dwarves arrived, headed by Gimli the King’s Friend, a miniature army in themselves from the Lonely Mountain, a great cheer went up.

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Prompt: Gift-giving: From hobbits to Galadriel to Sauron (excuse us, Annatar), there is plenty of gift-giving in the Legendarium. Create a fanwork that features gifts or their givers.

Most gifts for the Company were easy—the Elessar, the sheaths, the bow, the little box of soil for the gardener—but Galadriel spent many hours in troubled thought concerning the Ringbearer. His road was the hardest and most dangerous. What could she give him to ease his way?

It had rained that evening, but as she watched the sky the clouds cleared, and Gil-Estel shone down. Ah, of course. Estel. Galadriel nodded to herself and rose from her seat. A small phial she needed, and water from her mirror, and a song of light and hope and strength…

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Prompt: “People rescue each other. They build shelters and community kitchens and ways to deal with lost children and eventually rebuild one way or another.” ― Rebecca Solnit

The coming of the dragon was a terrible thing to behold. The people of Esgaroth fled up the river into the forest where the Woodelves welcomed and sheltered them as they awaited the end of the dragon’s rampage. There was nothing else to be done, no way to rescue those caught in the flames of Dale and inside the Lonely Mountain, though the roar of the flames and the cries of the people echoed across the water.

At last, Smaug vanished inside the mountain and did not reemerge. Some few Dwarves that had been out in the hills surrounding when he arrived came stumbling to the western lake shores, already tearing at their beards and wailing for the loss of their home and kin. And Men, too, women and children and some few warriors had escaped into the thick reeds along the shore, hiding until it was safe enough to make their way farther west. Girion’s widow led them, grim-faced with grief, with her young son at her side and her daughter on her hip.

Slowly, Esgaroth filled up again. The Dwarves did not linger, but the Men of Dale remained, and though smoke still rose from the Mountain, and fear hovered like mist over the water, life went on.

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Prompt: Clean Up: Alas, the party's over, and someone has to clean up. We're playing Chip the Glasses Crack the Plates in honor of those brave souls. Create a fanwork that deals with cleaning up, whether it's routine chores, the aftermath of a party, or perhaps even the beginning of a new Age.

Sharkey—Saruman—was gone, and so was Wormtongue, and all the rest of the Big Men had been chased off thanks to Merry and Pippin, and the Lockholes were opened and everyone in them set free and returned to their families. Now the hobbits were left at last alone again. Sam looked around and saw that with so much to do no one seemed to know where to start.

Well, he had many ideas, but first of all: “Let’s get these horrid things torn down!” he said, pointing to the nearest crude brick thing that could only generously be called a house. “The bricks are all right; we can build proper hobbit houses and re-dig proper hobbit holes, so everyone’s safe and snug by wintertime.” There would be no one left out in the cold that winter, not if Samwise Gamgee had anything to say about it

The reminder of coming winter spurred everyone into action, and soon the whole Shire was busy as an anthill, harvesting bricks and chopping firewood out of the trees that had been left to lie. And once the snows thawed, Sam thought as he rolled up his sleeves, the real work could begin—there were quite a lot of trees to plant, and gardens to set right. He thought of the little box of elvish soil that the Lady had given him—he wasn’t sure what he would use it for, yet, but she had known what she was about, that Lady Galadriel!

Message on Weathertop

written for the Meet & Greet instadrabble event

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Passwords/secret codes

The Riders were closing in. Gandalf stood for a moment uncertain, looking out from Weathertop over the Road and surrounding countryside. Behind him Shadowfax pawed at the ground, sending pebbles clattering over old and cracked flagstones. Somewhere out there, perhaps near Midgewater Marsh, Frodo and his companions, and Aragorn—thank the stars Aragorn had found him!—were making their way east. If Gandalf knew Aragorn, he would come to Weathertop, hoping just as Gandalf had hoped, perhaps, for a meeting.

Well, that could not happen. But he could leave a sign. He picked up a stone and etched a few lines upon it, setting it atop a pile of other stones of similar size and shape. It would mean nothing to anyone else.

A chill swept over the hill. Harsh voices called out and were answered; Shadowfax neighed a challenge. Gandalf picked up his staff, Narya warming on his finger.