Trenern Thint o Ennorath


Short Accounts of Middle-earth


Short character studies under 500 words.




Peace Denied


Eomer eyed the bound leader of the Dunlendings. Hatred spewed from the man's eyes. "Why have you done this?" Eomer asked, his horror nearly overpowering his self-control.


"For decades you have oppressed us!" the man spat. "You hemmed us in, killed our women and children! No more!"


Eomer shook his head, glancing towards the village where the bodies of women and children lay ravaged and broken. "The oppressed have become the oppressors. Your actions are no better than those of whom you accuse. There were better ways to seek peace."


He stepped back and with regret let his sword fall.





Light of the Evenstar


Aragorn sat with his head bowed to his knees, the weight of what they set out to accomplish resting heavily upon him. Of those present, only one knew of the full burden he carried. It was the one who was not there, however, that occupied his thoughts.


She had not come; he had known she would not. They had said all there was to say.


Rising, the Company made to depart in the darkness. Then did he see her, a slender figure in the shadows with the light of Eärendil shining down upon her.


The vision of her sustained him.







It was never enough, staring across the Sea. He had wandered long in self-exile, but the time had come to return, to face whatever judgement awaited him. He could not forever put it off. There would be no peace for him until he faced the wrath of those whom he had wronged.


His hands ached as he formed the wooden planks with which he built his small boat. The scars had never healed, would never cease to hurt. Maglor hung the sail and gathered what provisions he could, then pushed off from the shore.


It was time to return home.





Discordant Symphony


The notes of discord were subtle at first, confusing him until he grew silent in the disharmony. Growing in intensity, the chords climbed the scale, and something in the music drew him, enticed him, and beckoned to him to rejoin the song.


The melody of the others was purer, sweeter and innocent, but the song of Melkor was powerful and mighty. Mairon struggled within himself, drawn to both. More voices united with Melkor, compelled by the beat, the rhythms. He was torn!


 A whisper of thought — You must choose.


So he did, adding his voice to the cacophony of sound.





First Time


Why had he looked forward to this? Experienced warriors bore them with pride; the novices gazed upon them with envy. Legolas had been no different, but as he gazed at the strange apparatus, like two spoons at the end of a pair of shears, he doubted the bragging rights would be worth the pain.


He glanced at the arrow sticking from his thigh, and when the healer inserted the device into his leg to ease the removal of the arrowhead, Legolas finally knew the cost of such badges of honor.


He hoped his first battle scar would be his last. 





Rude Awakening


Aragorn watched with dismay as the young woman stormed from the room, her hair billowing in her wake like a dark cloak. He grimaced as the door slammed behind her and stood in shock, blinking in her wake, his ears ringing from her loud accusations and affronted complaints.


Where had the adorable cherub gone, with chubby legs and dimpled smile? When had she grown so tall and developed such…feminine adornments? And since when had she sharpened her tongue so that it cut his heart to the quick?


He suddenly realized he was ill prepared to deal with an adolescent daughter. 





With a Single Glance


The first time he laid eyes upon her something inside him knew she was the one. The way her hair cascaded over her shoulders caused his breath to hitch. The look she cast him from under lowered lashes sent a shock of warmth through him, her grey eyes enticing yet demure. And her smile… He fell in love with her smile the first instant her lips curved upwards.


They spoke; he discerned her feelings for him mirrored his own. Elrond would make her his bride and mother of his children.


But first… With much trepidation he knocked on Celeborn's door.







The elves strove to make the day memorable. There were banners, plenty of wine and good food, music and song; and many of the renowned made their appearance. And yet, while Frodo appreciated the effort made by his hosts, in his heart this day would never be the same. He was better now, his hurts healed — all but one. He longed for home.


For a year they had been here, and the air was fresh, the weather pleasant, and even the rain felt wholesome. But in his heart, Frodo yearned for the Shire, to spend one last birthday among Hobbits.





Unbearable Parting


Death. It was something Legolas had never truly understood, never accepted, yet now he stared it in the face. Where once had been life, now he looked upon frozen features, pale and blank, and knew beyond doubt that the shell that had once housed his friend was empty.


Gone. For an elf, death was not the end — was not final, not forever, and thus there remained some hope. But now…


He looked again at the frozen face, cold and lifeless, and at last knew that their goodbyes had been the end.


And it was then his soul screamed in denial





Imminent Defeat


Hope was lost. What could mere Men do against such hate and evil intent? Outnumbered more than five to one, what chance did they have? Not even the Deeping wall could keep out such a hoard for long, and Théoden knew it, though he would never acknowledge such to anyone, not even himself.


In the dark with the rumble of thunder and countless orc feet, there was no denying the outcome of this battle. Yet Théoden lifted his chin and narrowed his eyes, the gazes of his men upon him. He would show no fear.


"Let them come!" he cried.







Eldarion glanced up at the sound of snickers. Several of the nobles' sons, all of them older than himself, stood nearby watching him. "What is so funny?" he asked, turning back to braiding his horse's mane.


"Surely you are not going to ride like that?" Belvindon asked. The boy stepped closer, fingering the black and white ribbons in Celegur's mane, then he sneered in disgust.


Eldarion felt uncertainty creep up his spine. "The elves' mounts will be braided with ribbons as well. It is tradition." He felt a spark of pride flare to life in his chest, but it quickly dimmed as the boys laughed.


"This is a festival for Men," another said. "As the king's son, you should ride as a Man, not garnish your horse with girlish adornments!"


Eldarion's heart sank for a moment, but then the spark of pride ignited once more. "I may be a Man," he stated with confidence, "but I also have the blood of the Eldar in my veins. I will ride as I see fit."


The boys walked away, laughing, but Eldarion ignored them. He spoke quietly to his elven-bred horse, determined to show everyone that to ride in elven fashion was as honorable as riding as a Man. With agile fingers, he continued weaving the hair as he had been taught, tying off each braid with an alternating color of ribbon.


When Eldarion rode towards the fields, many stared in wonder — including the group of boys who had jeered at him — for the prince rode with his horse adorned in the manner of the elves, but it was not this that caused a stir of whispers in the crowd.


Eldarion sat his horse, using neither rein nor saddle. With head held high, he smiled as the ribbons fluttered in the breeze.





Barreling Out of Mirkwood


Galion fidgeted nervously. He had no explanation for the thirteen missing dwarves, and he was not about to tell his lord about the sampling of the wine he and the captain had enjoyed. He only hoped none of those who had come to help with the unloading of the barrels had said anything…


The barrels! Galion's eyes widened as he recalled his helpers saying the barrels felt heavy. And with his lord having any and all questioned about the escaped prisoners, one was certain to mention…


Galion saddled his horse and headed for Imladris. Perhaps Elrond would take him in?





Unexpected Trek


Uialel entered the room, capturing his gaze with an icy stare. Apprehension curled in Auros's belly. "What is it?"


"They are here," she told him, arching a brow.


Alarm tightened his chest as her meaning became clear. "Both of them?" Oh, please, not both visiting at the same time. Anything but that!


"Yes." She held his gaze, and he read her thoughts clearly. They would be his problem to manage.


"Dammit, Uialel! I'm a sheep farmer, not a lordling tender!" Auros exclaimed.


His wife glared.


Swallowing hard, Auros stood and strode to meet his future son-by-marriage and Elrohir's twin brother.







Do not look at me as if I have lost my mind! I am a child of Mahal and will always move to the rhythm of stone. Oh yes, my father thinks I have lost my mind, but bah! Let him think it! One cannot go on such a journey as we have traveled without finding himself changed.


Though I am a dwarf, I consider the elf my friend…and a good friend at that. Never find a better one, though I would never tell him it is so! Mocked by my own I may be, but I do not regret!









He had trudged through dank swamps and up rough terrain, been chased by black riders, seen a strange flood with no rain, and rested in a pleasant valley with plenty to eat — only to be dragged out into the wilds again and left!


In time, he had returned to the valley but it was not the same without…


"Mr. Frodo!" a cry came, setting his ears to twitching. "It's Bill! He made it back!"


The pony nickered and nuzzled Sam's chest. Of course he had made it back! Hobbits were not the only ones to go there and back again.







I share a look of disbelief with my brothers as those beneath us chat as though they take a casual stroll. Yrch follow them; we can smell them! Yet the strange elf with them has dared to sing with no heed of the danger pursuing them. The dwarf seeks to begin an argument with the elf. The small ones–halflings they must be–debate the comforts of sleeping in a tree. Only Aragorn speaks wisdom, while the other Man holds his silence.


I shake my head. These are the ones Elrond entrusted with the fate of all? We are doomed!





Master of Imladris


Author's Note: This is AU silliness and NOT part of the UFS


"Lord Elrond!"


Elrond paused, closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He turned slowly but with enough momentum to send his robes swirling about him impressively. "MASTER Elrond," he corrected. Damn Peter Jackson and those movies!


The elf hurrying in his wake blinked. "Oh, well, I thought since you were the son of Eärendil who was the son of Idril, daughter of Turgon, son of Fingolfin, who was son of Finwë that that would make you a 'lord', my lord."


"You have been speaking to Erestor, haven't you?"


"Aye, my lord."


"And he's been drinking again, hasn't he?"




Author's Note: I have had it pointed out to me on several occasions that Tolkien always referred to Elrond as 'Master Elrond' in canon. Couldn't resist poking a bit of fun. ;)





Night Vigil

Year 18, Fourth Age


Legolas paced back and forth, stopping every so often to glance at the tower. Nothing. He walked faster.


Hours passed. They felt like years! Surely his feet should have worn a path into the stone jutting out from the seventh level.


Long into the night, he waited. Ithil rose, turning the city silvery grey.


Finally, a cheer rose from the guards. Legolas looked over his shoulder. They unfurled a banner, raising it high from the Tower of Ecthelion. Legolas smiled and hurried down to the sixth level and the Houses of Healing.


Gondor had a prince. And Aragorn a son.





Distant Trees of Home



Year 3020 Third Age


Legolas looked over his shoulder at the distant trees fading in the distance. He sighed at the sight. For more years than he cared to count that land had been his home. It hurt to watch it growing smaller bit by bit. In time, he knew, it would fade from sight utterly.  The thought left him hollow inside. Empty, and a bit frightened, though he would never show it or speak of it to anyone.


Facing front, he looked between his stallion's ears, refusing to look back anymore. A new home awaited him. New trees, new friends, and hope.









Author's Note: Suggestive themes between married persons.



Year 3019, Third Age


Wicked. A word he previously had associated only with evil. A slow smile tilted his lips. There was no other word for her when she looked like this, however. Her sensuous eyes trailed over him, inviting – no, promising – such wicked things to come. His smile widened with an invitation of its own. He crooked a finger.


She shook her head, backing away, her loose dark hair falling in waves over her form. Her fingers crept to the ties of her nightgown. The fine linen slipped from her shoulders, and she eased it down, her tongue darting out to tease him as it ran over her full lips.


Oh sweet Elbereth. He stood, unable to bear not touching her another moment. Her eyes flashed as she fled him, her smile urging him on. He stalked her as a hunter after an elusive, yet glorious prey, until with a soft chuckle, he captured her, drawing her against him.


His hands ran down her back, over the curves hidden by her hair. She looked up with such trust, such desire, he groaned and captured her lips with his own. Sinking with her to the floor, Aragorn managed to speak only her name.








Treasured Moments



Year 3019, Third Age


Aragorn watched as she flitted from flower to flower in the garden below. Once he felt he had strayed into a dream. Now that dream was reality. He smiled.


Everything he had faced - long years of wandering the wilds alone, battles fought, enduring weather unfit for beasts, the scars on his body - all was worth the joy of having her for his own. His wife.


She looked up, as if she knew where his thoughts drifted. The moment their eyes met, hers shone with a light, pure and radiant, full of love for him, a rugged ranger turned king. Some believe such a love is only fit for bedtime stories told to children. But he knew better. He had lived it. And now they reaped the brief rewards.


With hasty strides, he hurried down the steps to the garden and swept her into his arms. She smiled up at him and twined her arms around his neck.


The world faded. The past flickered. All they had was the moment.


He led her up the stairs, back to their rooms. Only a moment in the long years of the world, but such moments would be treasured and never forgotten.





Brink of the Sea


Swirling colors.

An array of texture.

Moving forward then back,

Just like the waves of the Sea.

March 1

Year 6, Fourth Age


Something touched his arm, pulling him back. Legolas jumped and looked down.


"You all right, lad?" Gimli stood beside him, a concerned look shadowing his face.


Legolas took a deep breath and ran his hand through the ends of his hair. "Aye." He nodded, and then gestured at the dancing court ladies. Their skirts billowed around them like sails caught in the wind. "Beautiful to watch, is it not?"


Gimli harrumphed, running his hand over his beard. Then he folded his arms across his chest. "Pah! Tall, flimsy creatures on stilted legs! And all that material! A waste, if you ask me. Trousers are far more practical." He nodded as if agreeing with himself. "It's a wonder they don't fall over each other."


Legolas smiled. Gimli never failed to shock him with his dwarven outlook on life. And that foreign outlook had once again brought him back from the brink of the Sea. He nodded, then he laughed as he realized what Gimli had said.


Legolas's grin turned wicked, and he nudged the dwarf with his elbow. "Are you saying that you would prefer Lady Galadriel in trousers?"


Gimli sputtered, and Legolas's grin widened as the dwarf's face flushed red.





Dance of Steel



Glorfindel’s lips tilted into a feral grin. He lunged forward, his blade ringing against his opponent’s weapon. Ah, the thrill of sparring with someone his equal. He spun, darting in again, only to leap back to avoid the slash of sharpened metal.


Erestor smiled back. They could do this for hours until one was disarmed or compromised. Which one did not matter, so long as they could engage in the sword dance without the concerns of fighting one not their equal.


And so they continued the dance of steel, bantering calls ringing out in the dawn light.





A Marvelous Day


Author's Note: Legolas is only in late adolescence in this story.


Like smoke, fog rose over the meadow, dissipating as the sun climbed higher into the sky, leaving the glen appearing as a sparkling green jewel accented with a glorious sprinkling of flowers. Legolas dropped from a tree and walked amidst the colors. The dew dampened his boots. Oh what a marvelous day!


Bending, he scooped up a handful of the fragrant blooms: yellows, purples, reds and blues. With a grin, he headed back into the wood on swift feet. Arriving at a large oak, he put the flowers between his teeth and quickly climbed up to a talan set among the branches. He left the blossoms in prominent place, sure to be seen, knocked and scampered away before he could be caught.


From another tree, Legolas watched a maiden lift the flowers as a smile graced her fair face. Legolas grinned as her eyes searched for the giver, but he remained hidden until she retreated. Perhaps next time he would bring his lyre and sing for her, thus revealing his identity to she who'd captured his heart.


Until then, he'd content himself with thoughts of her beauty, her laughter and the way his heart beat faster when she was near.


Author's Note: This is a tale of young first infatuation. Legolas in the UFS does not have a serious romance until he sails West.





A Blink In Time


Author's Note: This drabble is not part of the Undying Friendship series.  If it seems familiar, it is because I based it on a scene from the movie City Slickers.


Elrohir watched the young woman place her hands to the small of her back, leaning to stretch sore muscles, tight from weeding her garden. As the sun sank behind her, it revealed her form to him through her thin linen dress. He let his eyes caress her dark hair and imagined what it would be like to hold her in his arms and kiss her soft lips. To know what it was like to truly live.


The sun winked out. Elrohir rode on, but part of him always remembered the girl he had loved for that brief moment in time.





Great Effort


A birthday gift for Thundera Tiger



Year 3019, Third Age


Thranduil watched the dwarf closely. Gimli son of Glóin remained courteous to everyone, respectful and polite in all ways. Thranduil could find not one excuse to expel the dwarf from his presence, at least not without causing enmity between himself and his youngest son. He sighed. He did not like it, this friendship that grew between Legolas and the dwarf. Such things never came to a good end.


Legolas threw back his head and laughed at something the dwarf said, the bright sound echoing in the chamber. There had been little laughter in these halls since Legolas left for Rivendell so many moons ago - little reason for mirth in the preceding months of war and fire. The laughter was echoed by those seated near the unusual pair.


Thranduil did not like it, this acceptance of the dwarf by his people. He wished it gone, fair riddance! But Legolas had invited it to stay for a time.


The laughter continued as the dwarf used his hands with great animation to tell some story. And while Thranduil glowered at it, Legolas looked up at him, his smile slowly slipping from his face as their eyes met.


With great effort, Thranduil smiled.





Black Cloth To Mourn


Panguil looked down at his fine robes. The green and yellow colors of his lord's house were now meaningless. Everything he had ever known was destroyed. Gone.


Stripping the garments from his body, he began grinding the roots necessary to dye the cloth. Over and over he soaked it, until finally the color was a consistent black. Then he donned them again, vowing to always mourn those he had lost in Gondolin.


With one last look back at the grave he had tended, its golden blossoms waving in the wind, Panguil turned and headed out to find the other survivors.


Author's Note: Panguil is a character in my Undying Friendship series. His story has not yet been told in full, but he insisted I write a short teaser. He was a member of Glorfindel's household, thus the reference to the green and gold of the House of the Golden Flower. 





The Decision


He showed no reaction to the announcement; his face remained an emotionless mask, the expression of a warrior who had protected the wood for many Long Years. He had known it would come; the Lady's departure would be the herald of a diminished world.


Haldir now had to choose his course —  to follow his Lady into the West or to remain behind with Lord Celeborn and renew the southern forest of Eryn Lasgalen.


Looking out across the vast sea of dark trees, their song called to him, pricking his heart. There was no choice to be made. He would stay.







Author's note: This story is not related to the Undying Friendship Series, but a stand alone AU.  A belated birthday gift for Jael and Aearwen.


The messenger arrived with no warning. No announcement proceeded him; he just appeared one sunny day. There was no doubt his purpose or message, even before it was given.


"The Valar call you home," Eonwë said simply, the authority behind the decree ringing clear in a voice of steel intent.


The recipient of the message met the directive calmly. The demand was plain. There was no room to misinterpret it, but he had made his choice long ago and had no intention of abandoning his home. If anything, he was more bonded to this world now than he had been in ages prior.


Still, he pondered the words, as if he actually considered them. Then one side of his mouth quirked up as his chin lifted. He shook his head.




Turning his back on the Herald of Manwë, Thranduil straightened his jacket, casting a casual glance at Galion who held the door for him. Without looking back, Thranduil climbed into the limousine, followed by his assistant.


As he sat back, his eyes met Eonwë's one final time. To his surprise, the Maia smiled and lifted a hand in a parting wave as the car pulled away from the curb.





His Horse-lady


Year 3020 Third Age


Faramir brushed back a drapery and glanced out the window. He watched his wife's gold hair trail behind her as she walked down the path to the gardens. He smiled. How different his life had turned out from what he imagined it would be. Never had he considered he might be married to such a courageous woman as Eowyn of Rohan.


Eowyn stooped to stroke the head and ears of a wolfhound before continuing on her way, the hound at her heels. His rustic wife was far from ordinary. How many could claim to have killed a Nazgul, let alone the Witchking himself?


But it was not because of her bravery in battle that he loved her. Her spirit captivated him. The most courageous thing he thought she had done was to leave her people and marry him, the quiet, unexpected Steward of Gondor.


He had been surprised when Aragorn kept him in place as Steward, but he enjoyed the task. He loved Ithilien and knew the land well. For many years this land had been as a mistress to him: calming him and cradling him in her soothing embrace.


Eowyn stopped at a gate and looked knowingly over her shoulder towards the window where he stood. She smiled. Her hair caught in the breeze and streamed over her shoulders even as her skirts were swept back, revealing her trim form, and making Faramir's heart skip a beat. How lovely she was! While Ithilien had soothed and comforted him, his wife lit a fire within him, making him burn in ways he had never imagined possible.


Letting the drapery fall back into place, Faramir hurried to the door and down the path to join his wife. Catching her up in his arms, he kissed her, not caring who saw them. He would never tire of kissing her perfect lips or caressing her creamy skin. Hand in hand, they strolled about the garden, until unable to contain his passion, he tumbled his wife under an apple tree far from sight of the path.


The proper ladies of Gondor would have been appalled. His horse-lady just laughed and pulled him closer, trailing her hands down his shoulders and back before reaching between them to undo his belt.


No, it was not the life he had thought to live, but he would not trade it for anything.





Hide the Knives


Minas Tirith

Year 9, Fourth Age


Aragorn peered cautiously around the door. Thanks be to Ilúvatar! She slept!


With silent steps he crept into the room, across the floor and to the bed. He gazed down upon his beloved and the precious bundle safe against Arwen's side – his newborn son. Sitting with care on the edge of the bed, he reached out to touch a soft cheek, caress a tiny hand, note the dark swath of hair. The babe was beautiful. He smiled.


A soft intake of air caught his notice and he glanced up at his wife. He felt the blood drain from his face, and his hand moved of its own volition to protect certain parts of himself. For a moment, he considered fleeing once more. Then she smiled and reached for him, drawing him down to lay beside her, their infant snuggled between them.


"Does this mean you forgive me?" he asked, taking her hand and placing a kiss on her palm.


"I fear it is I who must beg forgiveness, my husband. I fear I said things – awful things – that I have no intention of implementing." Her eyes lowered meaningfully to his trousers.


Aragorn began to laugh. He supposed his order to have all the knives removed from their quarters had been a bit rash. Relief filled him as he laid his arm around her, drawing her closer without disturbing their son. "I have never seen you so angry. I feared you would never look at me again."


She smiled up at him, a mischievous light filling her eyes. "I have never experienced such pain before. At the moment, it seemed to be your fault. And I could only think of one way to prevent it from happening again." They laughed.


She looked down and stroked the top of the babe's head. "Now I see it was a beautiful gift you gave me."


"He is a fine son. He will do Gondor proud."


"Like his father. But what shall the people call their new prince, Estel? You need to name your son."


He traced a finger over the gentle point of tiny ear, seeing so much of both he and his beloved in their child. "Eldarion. Eldarion, they will call him, for he will be a legacy of your people, even as he rules mine."


Arwen smiled then pressed a kiss to Eldarion's head. "Son of the Eldar. It is a good name."


Author's note: While I am aware that most believe elves did not experience pain on the same level as Men when it came to child bearing, I do believe they experienced much discomfort. I also think with Arwen's choice of mortality, her mixed heritage, and having never experienced such a thing before, the experience may have been much more than she was expecting.





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