Jubilee Instadrabbling 2025 by Lindariel

First Age 457, Gondolin

Maksar burst into Glorfindel's scriptorium, waving a cleaver. "Glorfindel! Get that cat of yours out of my larder, right now!" he shrieked.

Glorfindel blenched, following meekly as his chef led him to the granary. "What has he done?" he mumbled as they approached the door.

Maksar threw open the door and pointed accusingly to a small inky figure crouched on the blood-spotted floor.

"But see, Maksar! Your granaries will never be infested again," Glorfindel asserted, laughing.

Galehuine continued eating the mouse he'd just killed, ignoring the Elves. He hadn't tasted anything this familiar since he left the plains of Angband.

Chapter End Notes

"Galehuine" is the name Glorfindel has bestowed upon Rútaura, the first in what I foresee as a long string of re-namings.

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Years of the Trees circa 1300, Menegroth

Elwë Singollo hesitated in the doorway. He settled his grey cloak more firmly on his shoulders; it was cool in this cavern, much cooler than the midsummer night outside.

The chief engineer called from inside, "come, lord, see what your treasure has bought you."

Elwë took a deep breath and stepped into his new throne room. His eyes followed the walls up, and up, and up to the domed roof. And then he gasped, for he could see the stars even more clearly than if he were standing in a clearing in Neldoreth.

"Here is your Menelrond," said the Dwarf.

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Fourth Age 24, The Shire

Frodo struggled to pick up the heavy hamper by himself. Wrapping her hands around one handle, Rosie tugged and said "let me help, silly!"

Working in tandem, they managed to move their trove of windfalls to the shade of the Party Tree. Halfway home!

Elanor hurried up to them. "What are you doing?" she demanded.

"Sam-Dad said we could eat the hurt ones," insisted Frodo, brushing away a fly from a particularly bruised one.

"If you think you're eating that many apples all by yourselves, you can stow that with your other delusions," Elanor scolded. "You'd be sick until Yule!"

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First Age 457, Gondolin

Turgon walked through the assembly, steps measured, eyes ahead. His white cloak swirled around him like an improbable snowstorm on the warm mountain breeze, his dark hair streaming out behind him unbraided.

He placed the capstone on his father's monument and stood a while, hands still holding the cold stone. He closed his eyes, seeing first his father's face and then, shatteringly, that of Elenwë.

After a moment, Idril walked up and laid her hand over her father's hands. "Come away, father."

"I don't know which is worse," he said to her, "tomb or no tomb," as tears finally came.

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After traversing many craggy mountains and countless rivers, Ungoliant finally stopped to rest. A long valley cleft in the foothills offered her cover and a place she could populate with the terrors of her own spinning. She crouched and laid her eggs, brooding on Morgoth's treachery.

As she waited for her children to hatch, a new enemy appeared. At the edge of the sky it hovered, then began to rise. Not for her the beauties of the first sun rising above Beleriand; she only saw food!light that she could never reach, a power greater than the darkness of her legacy.

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Fourth Age 121, South Ithilien

"My mother's people always say 'the cure for anything is salt water,'" said Legolas to Gimli. "We are putting that ancient adage to the test these days."

"We have tried the tears," replied Gimli, looking over his shoulder upriver, toward the north. He sighed again for the restored splendor of Elessar, reposing eternally in Rath Dínen this last year.

"We have tried the sweat," continued Legolas, grasping the rudder of his little ship, smoothly carved of Ithilien birch, as the deck rocked beneath their feet.

"And now we must try the sea," finished Gimli, as he cast off the line.

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First Age 455, Gondolin

Húrin and Huor could barely breathe in the tower room that was their guesthouse. As soon as the chatelaine left them alone, they bolted for the night air beyond their balcony door. 

As the boys stood at the balustrade they could see much of the south side of the city of Gondolin, which seemed to stretch endlessly beneath them. They watched woodsmoke carrying spark after spark emerge from stone chimneys that dotted every structure. They squirmed, waiting for the inevitable fires to break out, not realizing that they were seeing for the first time the advantage of a slate rooftop.

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Very early Third Age, Imladris

Elrond shucked off the green-embroidered robe, groaning.

"How about the blue one?" suggested Erestor. "The sleeves are shorter, and you won't blend in with the trees."

Elrond pointed to his brightest robe, discarded several changes ago. "That one, I guess. If I'm going to feel like I'm on fire, I suppose I should look the part."

"You weren't ready for this, were you?" Erestor concluded.

"No, I never thought I would care for this sort of thing. Too busy fighting. But Celebrían! Is she not perfect, Erestor?"

"Yes, yes," Erestor soothed, smiling unnoticed as he handed Elrond the red robe.

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First Age 500, Beleriand

The eaves of Brethil had been so scarred by the passage of Glaurung and Orcs that it seemed they would never recover. The blasted earth itself retained the marks of passage of the wyrm for several seasons, and Galadriel doubted her ability to ever heal it. At last she flung herself face-down into a shallow depression and focused her entire hröa harder than she ever had on cleansing the soil to encourage new growth. She felt the poisonous dirt respond beneath her and leapt up as a spray of pink flowers sprung from the restored earth to bloom beneath her.

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