I posted these on my LJ several weeks ago. Thought I'd put them here too ...
MERCY
It’s there, the Meneltarma, it’s on the jagged edge of her vision as she clambers, panting desperately, up the mountain.
The Wave is roaring: yawning mouth of Darkness. The Wave is coming to claim her.
She might just make it. The Meneltarma, out of reach, white pillar pointing toward heaven.
Manwë, Varda. Her heart is slamming against her ribs. Have mercy!
The thunder of the Wave is behind her. She feels its icy rage.
Terror flairs in Tar-MÃriel. The Wave looms over her, slams down.
Her last thought is a fragment, torn away, but clean and pure, like light:
Have mercy.
BABY’S GOT BLUE EYES
‘Gracious,’ said Aunt Dora. ‘What HUGE eyes that child has.’
Primula laughed, and danced little Frodo on her lap. ‘As wide and blue as the Sea!’ she said gaily, and the baby chuckled, as if he agreed. He grinned at his mother, and grabbed at her dark curls.
‘The Sea?’ said Dora dubiously. Hobbits did not care to mention the Sea.
‘Why not?’ said Primula. Her infant son’s eyes were the colour of a summer sky. The Sea was a mystery, but the world was big enough for any number of mysteries.
And she held Frodo close against her breast.
MIRRORMERE
Many generations of hobbit-children have been enchanted by Gandalf’s tales, sitting expectantly on Anduin’s banks or, centuries later, by fireplaces in cosy smials. Gandalf fondly remembers little Bilbo, eyes widening in wonder at a wizard’s smoke-rings curling into dragon-shapes and swan-ships.
Now, in Bilbo’s parlour, a hobbit-lad approaches Gandalf shyly, like a deer in moonlight, tense and graceful. This Fallohide boy seems as supple as velvet but Gandalf senses iron within.
Frodo holds out his hand. ‘I’m Bilbo’s heir, sir.’ His eyes glow as deep as the Mirrormere.
Gandalf nods slowly. ‘Yes,’ he says smiling, ‘indeed you are.’
EVENSTAR
Arwen gazes down upon the gardens of her white city, flushing pale gold in the spring sunlight. Briefly she lifts her eyes to the far-off Mountains of Shadow: shadowed no more, for the Nameless Land was long reclaimed, and a faint semblance of spring came even unto Mordor.
Yet a faint shadow touches her mind. She feels the delicate pressure of her mithril crown, and she sighs. Does the sweet Ringbearer still live in the Blessed Realm, she wonders, and how often do my mother and father remember me?
This is part of her sorrow: that she can never know.
STAR OF HOPE
She remembers the golden sun-stars blooming on the hill of Cerin Amroth and the circlet of niphredil with which he crowned her black tresses. She remembers his grey eyes, hazy with love, later becoming as remote and clear as the Sea.
The mallorn trees protect her with their leaves falling like golden tears. The dying Queen no longer feels the winter cold which seeped into her bones and stole away her heart’s blood. She imagines she still hears Elven-voices.
Through the branches of naked birches, she sees one pale star shining.
Her lips move, one last time. She whispers: “Estel.â€
DAISIES ARE OUR SILVER, BUTTERCUPS OUR GOLD
‘I would much rather,’ said Di, ‘have a simple flower name, like Rose.’
‘Why?‘ Pippin asked, intent on twining a creamy-pink peony into her dark ringlets.
‘Diamonds are so hard,’ Di explained. ‘Like that mith-- what-do-you call it?’
‘Mithril,’ said Pippin, frowning in concentration.
‘I am not an Elven princess,’ said Di. ’I don’t wish for gems or gold. I’m not a glittery sort of person, Peregrin.’
‘I’ll tell you what you are, sweeting,’ said Pippin, cheerfully. ’You’re my Queen of the May.’
His lips brushed hers, satin-soft.
And a blush as rich as rubies blossomed on Diamond’s cheek.
CELEBRATION AND MEMORY
‘So when’s the new baby due, Sam?’
‘February, thanking you kindly. And I hear that Mistress Estella’s going to make an honest gentle-hobbit of you at last, Master Meriadoc.’
‘It’s about time,’ said Pippin. They laughed. The port wine glowed in crystal cups.
‘Well now,’ said Sam. ‘A toast.’
‘To Merry’s new bride!’ cried Pippin.
‘It’s 22nd September today, friends,’ said Sam. ‘That’s a good day for a toast.’
Merry said softly, ‘Bless you, Sam.’
Pippin nodded, his eyes suddenly brilliant.
Sam raised his glass.
‘To new beginnings,‘ he said. ‘To spring that always comes again. To Frodo.’