Fan Fiction

[Brannwen]

       Thanks guys......if I had had more time (I had to write it in a week! ) I could have made it better, but I didn't want to go back and fix it later.  

[*~*Háthawyn*~*]

I don't think it needs any fixing! It's really brilliant!

[Eloise]

Just trying to kick up some more interest in this thread
Anyway, in comparision to all the great fics already posted here, this one is really bad.  It's only the first draft and I know some things like the descriptions and the timescales will need to be fixed and I'll need to do some more research (all the information in it's from memory, I can't actaually remember where dwarves go when they die and I need to find out when gloin actually died but still.) Anyway, give me constructive critisism and I'll try to make it better! (oh yeah, and warning! It's incredibly cheesy! need to find some way to get rid of the clichés)

Gimli stared up at the doors of his kin. They weren't ones built for defence, but rather to make a statement. We're here they said We're here and we're proud. We're the dwarves. And nothing is going to stop us. Today, those doors were silently closed in mourning. Today the dwarves had been stopped, if only for a short time. Today was the funeral of one of their kin.
Gimli had said his farewells to Legolas a few days before, knowing his new found friend would not be welcome here. Especially not at this time. The dwarves here were some of the proudest in middle earth, and it was unlikely they would permit one of their enemies of the feud of the silmaril to be present. Legolas had gone north to visit his family in Greenwood, but Gimli had gone east. He'd almost expected to find this scene. It had been one in his darkest nightmares for many years.
For today was the funeral of Gloin. The old dwarf had passed away peacefully only a year after his son helped in the quest for the destruction of the ring. Gimli couldn't help but feel guilt. He'd been off exploring middleearth with his new friend when he should have been here. Now he wouldn't get a chance to say that final goodbye until he too came to the halls of Mandos.
The great doors swung silently open. Huge and ornate as they might be, they still required little effort to open, so well did they sit on their hinges. Gimli stepped inside, his head bowed. He didn't need to look up to know what he would see. A great entrance chamber, as fabulously ornate as the doors, with great murals depicting Durins line and their triumphs and failures. He kept his eyes to the ground until he reached the middle of the hall, the grey and white veins of the marble taking his full attention.
He knew that this hall was not as ornate as it looked. The slender cracks between the murals lead to rooms where hosts of dwarves could wait, with tightly drawn bows and unsheathed throwing axes, ready to push aside the great pictures for the ultimate ambush. He knew that now guards sat behind the murals, peering through at his lone pilgramige.
In the centre of the entrance hall was a stone stairway, leading down to a single room where the greatest dwarves lay in state. He slowly made his way down, the steps themselves were clad in the same marble as the hall above. The walls continued the murals of above, but now they had a more sombre tone. They showed Durin lying in state and the journey to the halls of Mandos, where they would be taken aside from the halls of the firstborn and await the ending of the world.
After a few minutes gentle decent, Gimli at last reached the chambre. There were no murals here, but faint geometric shapes traced the walls, barely raised above the surface as if they didn't want to intrude on this private scene. In the centre stood a small platform. Unlike the opulent marble floor, it was of simple granite, but as magnificently carved as the finest mural. It represented both the humbleness of the dwarf in death and the greatness of them in life.
Atop the platform, a lone figure lay. It looked frail and defeated, the slow onslaught of age had done what numerous battles had not and slain the gentle warrior. The figure's hair was silver grey and its face so lined Gimli could hardly recognise it. He had aged much in the last year and Gimli felt a wave of sorrow accompany his guilt. He should have been here, he could have. He should have made time, they'd passed close to the shire on numerous occasions, why could they not have come here? It was only a few miles more. And what were a few short miles to a wanderer who had covered so much of the earth? But there had always been some excuse, some reason, either his own or his companion. He'd always thought that when he came back, his father would be here, that he;d walk through those doors into open arms and the sound of his fathers booming laugh. They'd feast and talk of old times late into the night. Now he'd never get that chance.
Gimli dropped to his knees and removing his helmet, bowed down to his father one last time.

[*~*Háthawyn*~*]

It's beautiful, Eloise!!

[Brannwen]

Eloise, that is really, really nice! I like it a lot! Btw...your avatar is awesome!!

[Lothiel]

Well done, Eloise, well done!

[MirkwoodArcher]

I love it, Eloise!

[Linithiel]

It's wonderful, El!!

[River Daughter]

I love it, the description is wonderful!

[Arwen Evenstar]

This story was inspired by the book If You Give a Mouse a Cookie.

If You Give a Hobbit a Mushroom
If you give a hobbit a mushroom, he will want a mug of ale to go with it. He would then want another mug of ale, followed by yet another. After that, he would be a little tipsy, and would probably climb up on the table to start singing. He would sing a few songs, while drinking more ale, getting louder and more excited with each verse. He would finally get so excited, he would jump off the table in an effort to finish off his song impressively. But he would instead fall over into the chairs, having had more ale than he should.
He would then have a headache, from too much ale and from hitting his head on the chairs. He would want to rest for a little while, so his headache would go away. You would get him all settled in, when he would suddenly realise it was time for afternoon tea. He would then jump out of bed and dash to the pantry, forgetting his headache in his haste to eat.
He would open the pantry only to remember that he had eaten the last of the sponge cake after luncheon. So you would agree to help him make some, because he had his heart set on it, and you couldn’t bear to see him disappointed. He would eat some biscuits while cooking the cake, as he couldn’t wait until the cake was finished to eat. You would help him mix up the cake and get it in the oven, and while it was baking he would remember he needed to weed his garden. He would go outside, start pulling up weeds, then get hungry again. While washing the dirt off, he would start smelling the cake, and realise it was ready. He would run to the kitchen and pull the cake out, just as the clock struck for dinner.
He would hurry around the kitchen, getting the table ready for dinner, piling it high with food. He'd set the cake out to be eaten as soon as dinner was over, then sit down to eat. Just as he sat down, he would realise he left the mushrooms on the counter. He would bring them to the table and start to eat one. Then, of course, he would want a mug of ale to go with it.

[MirkwoodArcher]

It's brilliant, Arwen!  

[Linithiel]

That's so adorable!!

[MirkwoodArcher]

If this is any good, thank Elessar, Arwen Evenstar, Galadwen and Evenstar who helped me get over my writer's block last night.

Hirgon's Ride.

Hirgon left the gates of Minas Tirith on the swiftest horse in the city, Sulgeleg, yet knew that no steed would be fast enough. Even if Théoden agreed at once, the mustering of the Mark would take time. He could not look back at the city, for fear the thought would take root in his mind that this was his last sight of it. Despair had hung around the white walls of late and Hirgon had struggled to forbid it any shelter in his heart.

He would not stop on the journey, even for the briefest rest. How could he be at ease when his hesitation could end the white city? He rode fast, wishing he could go faster, heedless of the time of day, but conscious always of the passing of precious hours. His heart was a burden to him, heavy and cold. Away from the hopeless city, he began to feel the despair he had been so careful to resist.

Past the Druadan Forest he rode and through Anórien, the Ered Nimrais as awe-inspiring as ever to his left. He followed the Great West Road, Sulgeleg, great-hearted horse that he was, unprotestingly keeping to the fastest pace he could. At journey's end, the horse would be exhausted. At least Sulgeleg's welcome was certain. The men of Rohan would treat him well. Hirgon was sure he would find hospitality too. The Rohirrim would greet him with all honour and friendship, but perhaps they were themselves hard-pressed and perhaps their answer would be no. Then hope was lost and he must ride home to die with his people.

He did not come to hold them to the Oath of Eorl. His message asked them to honour friendship, not sworn words. They were men of honour and would not refuse him. They were men in peril and could not help him. The two thoughts came back again and again. Their oaths had always been kept and that would not change. Their oaths had never before asked so much with so little hope of victory. Hirgon could believe only good of the Rohirrim, but their own recent battles may have taken the best of their strength. His heart grieved for a noble people who must decide whether to fight with his when they had battles of their own to fight. The worst of it was that it could all be too late.

Gondor was his home and the first love of his heart. If it had to fall, he would have to be there to give his last breath defending it. He could not hide in some safe corner, even if one remained, and watch all that was dear to his people fall under the power of Sauron. He remembered the lifeless, hopeless eyes of Denethor. The Steward believed that all was lost. Hirgon could not believe that, not because he had any cause for greater hope, but because to accept such a thought was to surrender to Sauron. If hope were the only form of defiance, he would cling to hope. If, in the end, hope proved false, he would be no more dead than those who had accepted despair. The White Tree shone in his thoughts and he was determined that it should be his last thought.

Through Firien Wood he rode, beneath the Halifirien beacon. The Eastfold lay before him then and Sulgeleg pounded on along the road. Hirgon looked at the arrow he carried, aware of the weight of history it brought with it and of the long and faithful alliance it represented. When he presented it and saw Théoden's eyes, he would know the answer. If there remained any chance of defeating Sauron, it could only be in this alliance. The Gondorians and the Eorlingas together would fight with the great strength and courage they had always shown and the power of Sauron, relying on fear, not love, might falter. Once battle began, the allies would not distinguish between Gondor and Rohan. All would be brothers, fighting their common foe. He knew, as all men of Gondor knew, that any man of the Mark would defend a Gondorian's life even at the expense of his own. For his part, he would do the same for any of them. Old and deep lay the love between the two kingdoms.

He rode on and on, feeling the ebb and flow of hope as he thought of the hardships Rohan had faced and then of the loyalty they had always shown. At one moment, he felt guilty for doubting them, at the next for asking too much of them. On he rode, through Rohan, a land almost as dear to him as Gondor. He made for Dunharrow.

The Púkelmen beside the road were forbidding of aspect, but he did not hesitate. He was more troubled by the ill tidings he brought and the great boon he asked than by statues of any kind. The men who greeted him knew that no messenger from Gondor would have good news to impart. As two led Sulgeleg to the company of other horses and the kindness of the Rohirrim, another spoke words of welcome, sincere but sorrowful, to Hirgon. He was taken to see Théoden and all who passed him looked at him with sympathy or apprehension. No hostility, though. He was a brother and his sorrows were theirs.

He delivered his message to Théoden, glad to see the king's strength returned. The eyes did tell him the answer. They were the eyes of a man who knows the time has come to prove himself faithful. When the king knew all, he said that Rohan would muster and ride for Gondor. He expected it to take a week, and that was a blow to Hirgon's hopes, but that they would come, that Gondor no longer stood alone was a great comfort. He would bear home news that might stir his people to fight with more resolve. To hold a city against an enemy forever was a hopeless task. To hold it for seven days and expect help on the seventh would be easier. There was comfort, too, in the the thought that the sons of Númenor and the descendants of Eorl would be together, whatever the end might be. Many had been turned from oaths and friendships by Sauron, but this alliance he could not break. These men were true and would remain true. If death were certain, at least they would die as brothers, their honour and their loyalty intact.

Théoden bade him rest and he gladly obeyed. With the ache in his soul fading, he felt the aches of the journey and yearned for peaceful sleep. Tomorrow he would ride home and tell his people that the end was not certain and the battle not vain and that Sauron had failed to rob them of allies. Saying it, perhaps he would be able to convince himself that the white city could live seven days on such tidings.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

[Lothiel]

Beautifully written--well done Nen!

Well, now I suppose it's my turn... Inspiration hit me like a sack of potatoes last night, and I had to follow it up--ironically the inspiration came from pondering the quote in my siggy! lol

Well enough. If you want to read more about Ithilwen, check the RP bio thread, pg 4.

---

The day had finally come. Ithilwen frowned and glanced around at the company of Elves around her. Her loyal Súlvor snorted and pranced, arching his neck in un-gelding-like behavior. A small smile hovered around Ithilwen’s lips, then faded as she turned to look at her younger brother, Falasion. His dark brown eyes caught her grey-green ones and he nodded slightly.

I understand how you feel, my sister. It is hard to leave all you’ve ever known.

What is there for us besides a life where nothing here is but a memory?

There is life free from all cares, all pain, all worry. You shall be happy.

I shall not. I still long for adventure.

Ithilwen sighed heavily and looked down. Her golden-haired escort was looking up at her, questions lingering in his eyes as the company continued on the little-used road through the woodland glade. It would not be long now, and she wished she was not obliged to follow the path of her kin.

“A wearying duty,” she said aloud, then looked around hastily as various Elves eyed her strangely. Ithilwen shrugged. I am entitled to my own thoughts, she thought haughtily. Just as every Noldorin Elf before me had free thought, and could act accordingly. But I will not make the same dire mistakes they have made. I will forge my own path according to the ways of my Silvan friends from my home in the Misty Mountains.

The sparse woodlands became sparser, and dwindled into fields. In turn, these golden and brilliant green patches began to give way to the rockier terrain of the Western shores. The fair company raised their voices in an ancient hymn to Varda, the Star-Queen. Ithilwen gustily sang words her heart did not feel.

“A Elbereth Gilthoniel,

Silivren, penna míriel…”*

Ithilwen’s rich contralto voice supported the lofty soprano of her mother, Mírfaen, and rested confidently on the firm baritone of her brother. They had sung the hymn many times in three-part harmony; it was one of the family activities Ithilwen rejoiced in being a part of. A tear trickled down the Ithilwen’s cheek for past memories, and she raised a hand to brush it away. Tears are no longer needed, she told herself severely, once I step upon the deck of that ship, I will no longer feel heartache.

But what if I feel the keenest pain in life at leaving my home?

The nagging doubt assailed her once again, and she longingly wished she were riding Súlvor at full throttle through the Mirkwood forests, the heady scent of the pines in her nostrils, the wind caressing her face and running its fingers through her cropped, black hair. She wished she were walking once again among the Ents of the Fangorn, listening in amusement to their slow and deliberate manner of speech.

The soft murmur which rose as one from the rest of the company arrested Ithilwen’s attention and she re-focused her eyes back to the present surroundings. The company had rounded the final bend and were coming into the outer courtyard of fair Mithlond*. The Elves passed reverently through the now abandoned city and made their way to the outermost port, the song’s final words echoing hollowly in the deserted city. Ithilwen frowned once again, remembering the happy times she had spent with Falasion’s friends, the Teleri, in this once spectacular metropolis. She had been here in the times of it’s glory, both on holidays and as one of the elite messengers, the Riders, of Rivendell. Now all was deserted, and empty—already things were returning from whence they came. The Elven company silently passed through a series of arches surrounding the harbor, the sound of their feet on sand was now the only melody in the once merry Mithlond.

A shining white ship waited in the harbor, her silvery sails moving slightly in the gentle breeze. The white gulls called raucously overhead and the sweet and salty scent of the sea entered Ithilwen’s nostrils. “Oh,” she exhaled, smiling genuinely for the first time since she had started the journey, reveling in her love of the great sea. She dismounted slowly, and Súlvor shoved his black nose into her chest. Her smile faded and another tear escaped Ithilwen’s eye as she held her horse close. “I will miss you, my loyal friend. There shall never be another to take your place,” she whispered, caressing Súlvor’s black velvet neck. He snorted and shook his head, and Ithilwen sighed as she proceeded to unsaddle her gallant steed. Many of the company had already boarded the ship.

Ithilwen set Súlvor’s saddle gently down on a step, and then removed his bridle. She stood stock still, eyes closed. A gentle wind rippled through her cropped hair, and she raised her grey-green eyes to the sky. Her lip trembled and tears began to course down her face. She felt Falasion’s presence behind her, and did not twitch as he laid his strong hand on her shoulder.

“Go,” she said hoarsely, “go, brave Súlvor Darkwind--run free once again.”

Súlvor shook his mane imperiously and refused to move. Ithilwen began to weep and turned to her brother. He hugged his only sister, sympathizing with her acute loss. “We must go, sister,” he whispered and began to draw her near to the boarding area of the ship. The entire company was waiting on her, Ithilwen saw as they drew closer. Her inner heart was in turmoil, a boiling chamber of conflicting emotions. As she neared the ship’s deck with her brother, many visions flashed before her eyes. Ithilwen blinked and a rebellious streak rose within her; her feet refused to move. Falasion stopped abruptly, and looked at her.

“Come, sister, it is time to go. The time of the Elves has waned far to long, and is finally at an end.”

Ithilwen drew herself up straight and a purpose flashed in her eyes.

“No.”

Falasion stared in shock, as Mírfaen rushed to the deck-rail and her piercing brown eyes probed her daughter’s soul.

“I will not go. It is not right,” Ithilwen repeated resolutely, certain, at last, of the path she would take.

Falasion turned to his mother, concern flashing across his face. He turned back to Ithilwen.

“You must come with us. You cannot forsake the straight road when once it was bent and only now is opened to us!”

“I Oronti-Hísiëro nar marinya—vá vanya or i métima cirya. Vá vanya Númenna*,” Ithilwen said in a ringing voice. “I cannot go when another purpose calls me to stay!”

Pleading for them to understand her reason, she looked at her mother, then her brother. Mírfaen looked down at her feet and Falasion straightened up stiffly, nodding curtly at the fact. Mírfaen said some quick words to the nearest deck hand and stepped off the ship, walking resolutely to her two children.

“Ithilwen, my daughter, I too have seen your fate. I knew this moment would come though I fervently wished it would not. You will join us again one day, I am sure. Go, with my blessing—Nai i Valar varyal*.” Mírfaen embraced her daughter, tears shining in her eyes. “Come now, Falasion. It is time for us to go.”

Falasion quickly hugged his sister once more, smiled bravely at her, and followed their mother back onto the ship. Ithilwen swayed slightly as she watched the deck-hands untie the final ship from her moorings in the harbor. Her mother and brother had made their way to the rear of the ship and were waving as she drifted away and caught the current. Ithilwen raised her hand in farewell, and watched until the ship swiftly disappeared into the sunset.

“Namárië*,” she whispered to the world that was now completely empty of her own kind.

Ithilwen turned around and called to Súlvor, who was patiently waiting by the inner courtyard. He nickered and trotted over to his mistress, shoving his nose into her outstretched hands. Rapidly, and with a deftness born of long experience, Ithilwen saddled her loyal steed. She paused to look around her once again, at the empty Elven city and the listening silence of the ocean at sunset.

It is strange, she thought, that while my heart mourns the parting of my family, it is light with happiness at fulfilling the duty set to my by Iluvatar.

She smiled through her tears and stepping in the stirrup, sprang easily into the saddle.

“Hiruvan maranwënya*!”



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* ‘Oh Star-Queen Star-Kindler, white glittering, sparkling like jewels…” Sindarin
* “Grey Havens.” Sindarin
* “The Misty-Mountains are my home—I will not depart on the final ship. I will not depart into the West.” Quenya
* “May the Valar protect you.” Quenya
* “Farewell.” Quenya
* “I will find my destiny!” Quenya

[MirkwoodArcher]

Very sad and very beautiful, mellonen.