Tales from Saranna's archives

[Saranna]

halfir was kind enough to say he liked this one, so I have started with it:

The Last Ringbearer

“Come away, Dad, do. There’s nothing more we can do here.” Robin Gamgee tugged anxiously at his father’s arm, but Sam remained still, silent, gazing down at the mound of fresh-heaped earth at his feet.
Robin looked up at his brothers and sisters standing round. Most were weeping, but Elanor stood dry-eyed, looking at her father. Her golden hair shone, reflecting the darts of sunlight that pierced intermittently the shadow of the Mallorn branches. Rose Gamgee had been laid to rest beneath that tree, the gift of Galadriel.
Elanor moved suddenly, and the group of mourners, who had seemed frozen in their places in sympathy with their father’s immobility, began to stir too. “Come along, Dad, come into the Hole, please,” begged Elanor. She looked around for her husband, and Fastred came to stand with her. Together they urged the older Hobbit away from Rosie’s grave. But a great sob burst from Sam, and he pulled free of their guiding hands.
“Rosie-lass, my Rosie!” he cried, and tears flowed freely down his lined face. “Oh Rosie, why have you gone without me?”
At last his family managed to guide him towards Bag End, and Elanor sent her daughters ahead to boil up the kettles and make tea. Sam stumbled between his helpers, as if blind and lame. He was muttering to himself now, and his grandson Elfstan let out a stifled exclamation that brought his mother’s eye on him.
“Sssh now, let your Granddad be.”
“But Mum – I mean Mother – I mean – did you hear what Granddad said?”
Elanor waved him off and would not listen to him until all the family - all who were there at the burial, that is – were inside, and her father was seated in his comfortable chair by the fire, a cup of tea at his elbow. While everyone applied themselves to toast and jam and cake, and several grandchildren tried to encourage Sam to taste some of his favourite dainties, Elanor led Elfstan aside.
“Now, son, what did you mean? I am sorry to shush you as I did, but I had no desire to see your Granddad further upset.”
Elfstan nodded, and tears sprang to his own eyes. “Poor Granddad! It seems dreadful without Granny, mother!”
“And so it is, dear.” Elanor wiped the youngster’s tears – he was still in his Tweens, after all – and urged him to speak up.
“Well – it is what I heard, mother, though I cannot believe it. Granddad said, soft and low but I heard him plain enough, he said, ‘The day is done, and farewell to the stars.’”
“Oh!” Elanor sat down on the nearest chair, and looked across the room to where Sam now sat, staring into the fire, a piece of untasted toast in his hand and a cooling cup of tea on his side-table. “Oh, Dad.”


The summer of the 61st year of the Fourth Age was heavy with unspent thunder and shadowed with unyielding clouds. The Fairbairns stayed for a couple of weeks at Bag End with Sam, but after that Elanor began to long for her own home, and for the sight of the Downs rearing up away beyond her window. She asked Sam to come with them, but could not persuade him.
“No, no, you be off my dear, I am happy enough here for a while.” He laid his hand on the volumes of the Red Book that stood in their accustomed place beside him, always within reach. “I have young Frodo here, and he shall have Bag End after I am gone” – he waved away the protesting noises this remark brought – “I shall be along to see you all one of these days soon, don’t you worry.”
Elanor was worried, none the less. Still she and Fastred and Elfstan and the other children packed up their bags and loaded their wagon and made themselves ready for home. Only Elfstan clung to his grandfather at parting, and wept. “Granddad, Granddad.”
“Don’t take on so, me dear,” said Sam, patting his curly head kindly. “Why, I have promised to come over there and see you all, have I not?”
Elfstan looked up then, his sobbing quieted, and he spoke low so that only Sam could hear him.
“But Granddad – is it really true that the day is done?”
Sam started, and clutched at the youngster’s arm. “Who’s said that to you?”
“You said it, Granddad, not to me but I couldn’t help hearing, and I remembered the Red Book stories, and it sounded – wrong, Granddad.”
Sam smiled, and drew his grandson into his arms. “Tis not done yet, my deary – but 'tis drawing near.”
He would say no more, and Elanor came to hug her father and to give instructions to Frodo Gardner, her brother, about how Dad would like things done, and to bundle the last-minute luggage and young hobbits into the wagon. Soon they were heading away over the Water, planning to pass Bywater and meet up with the East Road after a brief stop to see Cotton’s farm once more. Sam waved to them until they were out of sight, then turned to grin at his son Frodo.
“Well lad – now we shall have some peace for a bit.” They went into the garden together, and set to work.

Summer thickened slowly into autumn, bringing some breaks in the clouds over the Shire, and a few fair days. Winter was deep and bleak that year, and Sam spent many days indoors, reading in the Red Book. As the blue skies of spring opened up above the Shire, one by one the golden leaves of Mallorn fell to rest upon Rosie Gamgee’s grave-mound, and whatever wind or breeze came by, there they lay, a golden coverlet in honour of the hobbit-woman who slept beneath. Sam went twice daily, morning and evening, to stand beside his wife, hat in hand and his grey-curled head bowed in silence. For a while Frodo Gardner came too, but gradually began to excuse himself because of the many tasks that the new season brought – digging and planting, and hobbit-children to shoo away from Bag End’s new-seeded vegetable patches. Sam did not mind; he was proud of his strong son, who bore the name of his dear lost master and whose broad hands brought wealth from the rich soil of the Shire. He was happy standing alone beside his Rosie.
Then one night in mid-April the great storm that seemed to have been building all through the winter suddenly broke. Black clouds came up from the west, like fleets of Corsair ships, Sam thought. All across the Shire the hobbits battened themselves down in their holes and little houses. The beasts stood lowing and bleating unhappily in byre and field, as the clouds rumbled above them and the spears of lightening began to flash through the gloom. Then it came at last – the rain long-expected, like cataracts out of the sky. Sam and Frodo Gardner looked out the round windows of Bag End to watch the storm, and saw the paths and roadways of the Hill flowing like small rivers, on and on down into the Water and off to Bywater Pool.
“”Twill overflow, that Pool, Dad – we shall have floods for sure.”
Sam nodded. “You know, son, ‘tis just as Mr. Bilbo used to say about Roads. These little streams flowing into the Water, and the Water off away south, and all the rivers and streams into one another, Brandywine and Bruinen, Anduin and Greyflood – all flowing together into the Sea at last.”
Frodo looked sharply at his old Dad – there was that dreaminess in his voice again, that Old Granfer Gamgee used to tell his grandchildren about. “Always a dreamer, your Dad,” he used to say.
“Come on Dad – let’s draw some beer and sit cosy by the fire,” said Frodo, shuttering the windows and drawing curtains over the shutters too. Sam came willingly enough, and they had a merry evening’s talk by the bright fire – the fire where Gandalf the Wizard had once tested the Ring, though Sam did not mention this to his son. They talked instead of the land, of Sam’s other children and his grandchildren, and of Frodo’s plans for the summer. They went peacefully to bed as the winds and rain and thunder began to die away.

The next morning Frodo Gardner woke early, but found that his father was up before him. Sam was finishing his breakfast in the parlour, and piled beside him were several bags and bundles.
“Dad! What are you doing? Don’t say you are going off, just like that with never a word!”
“Not without a word, my dear son. I have been up a while, Frodo, and been to visit your mother. Do you know, after all that storm the Golden Leaves are still there, covering her as soft as satin on a baby’s cradle. That’s the Lady, Frodo; she has done this for Rosie. I know I can leave her safely here with you, Son.”
Frodo sat down across the table and looked into his Dad’s face. There it was still, the dreaming look. “Where are you going, Dad? Will you – will you come back again?”
Sam reached across and took his son’s hand. “Well, me dear, first off I’m going to see Elanor – here in this bundle is some things for her to keep.”
Frodo looked about the room, and gasped. “Dad! The Red Books – you are never taking those away!”
“Well, yes Frodo me dear. Don’t be vexed, but they are better off with Elanor. You are a worker of the soil, first and foremost, you have your Granfer’s skills in that. And I leave Bag End safe with you, I know. Elanor, and young Elfstan – why, they will know just how to care for these books and add to them over the years too, no doubt.”
Frodo nodded. “That’s right Dad, they will. But you talk as if you are going away forever, not just for a visit to Undertowers.”
Sam leaned back and fiddled with the business of lighting a pipe of Longbottom leaf, saying nothing until it was sending up smoke at a good rate. “I had a dream last night, Son. I’m not much of a one for dreams, but I knew this one, because Master Frodo - well he had it too. He told me about it often enough those last years before he went away. There was rain in it, like we had last night, but when it drew away there was a wide fair land such as I have never seen in all my journeyings, Son. Green and silver and filled with music, and I knew they were there, Mr Frodo and old Mr. Bilbo, and the Lady, Son, the Lady standing bright and golden as a Mallorn herself.”
Silence fell in the old parlour, except for the ticking of the clock on the mantel.
“And that’s where you are going, Dad?”
Sam nodded.

At the door of Elanor’s house in Undertowers the whole household was gathered, and a noise arose such as could only be produced by a hobbit family in a confloption. Children and grandchildren were pressing gifts upon Sam, all of which he politely but firmly refused. Some were weeping and some were silent, some were shouting and others whispered. In the midst of it all Sam stood, steady as a rock, receiving and giving out hugs and kisses.
“Dad, Dad, won’t you change your mind and stay here with us? Why must you go off in this way?”
Sam held Elanor close, and said, “My dear, my dear, we had all this out last night, and believe me I know how it looks to you. But I’ve no more choice than Mr. Frodo had, bless him. I hear voices calling me, Elanor dear, and I have to answer them. You would not have me stay to dwindle away into misery, my dear?”
Elanor shook her head, tears trickling down her cheeks and off the end of her shapely nose. “No Dad – no.”
A little apart from all this welter of emotion stood two sturdy ponies, with young Elfstan holding them by the headstalls. The harness of each was polished to perfection, and over the shoulders of one a pair of fine saddlebags held the small amount of gear that Sam had been persuaded to take with him. Slowly the old hobbit managed to make his way in that direction, a tumble of children and others crowding after him. He nodded to Elfstan. “All ready, me dear?”
“Yes Granddad, just as you said. Here is Bill XI for you to ride, and my pony is called Fatty Lumpkin – we always have one called that, too.”
Sam patted the lad’s cheek, and swung himself up onto Bill without a trace of the hesitation he had felt in his youth. Elfstan was mounted too, and a sudden hush fell on the assembly. “Well, I’m off. Take care of yourselves, my dears, and never forget me. Have a care to those books, and see that the stories of what we saw and did, and what Mr. Bilbo learned from the elves, is never lost, do you hear?” Everyone nodded. “Goodbye then,” said Sam awkwardly, and wheeled his pony before anyone could stop him. Off along the road he galloped, and Elfstan had to spur Lumpkin to a heroic effort to catch up. Behind the travellers, the household stood gazing into the West long after the dust of the ponies’ hooves had settled.

Once out of sight of Undertowers, the riders slowed their pace to make their way through the Tower Hills. Elfstan gazed up at the Towers in wonder - they had dominated his childhood, but he never tired of hearing his Granddad speak of them, telling him bits of Lore that he had gleaned from ‘Old Mr. Bilbo’ when he had been a hobbit-lad. They did not speak only of elves and of ages past, but also of the quiet lands of the Shire, of family and friends, and Elfstan was so beguiled by his Grandfather’s silver tongue that the sound and scent of the sea came upon him as a sudden shock. Raising his eyes, he looked ahead and saw the Havens, the mighty mansions of the elves of old, grey as mountains and high as the sky. “Oh, Granddad! We are there!”
Sam said nothing, and the two urged their ponies forward until they were clopping over paving-stones that had been laid before the Shire was founded, along winding lanes and straight avenues, down, down to the quays. Here the grey sea lapped endlessly against the mighty stones, and the voices of elves long departed seemed to issue from the bills of the swooping gulls. The two hobbits dismounted and tied up the ponies, then moved to stand on the very brink of the quay.
“There’s no elves here, and no boats! You’d best come home with me, Granddad,” said Elfstan fearfully. For answer, Sam pointed downwards. There, riding up and down with the swell, a boat was tethered. Elfstan cried out, “Granddad! You can’t go across the sea in that!”
A small grey boat it was, light-built and flimsy looking. Sam smiled reminiscently and patted Elfstan’s shoulder. “It won’t sink, lad – I’ll come to no harm in that, for I have travelled in such before. She has sent it, the lady, and she won’t let me drown, not now. It is time for me to go, my dear.”
Elfstan wept bitterly in spite of Sam’s encouraging words, as they shared their last embrace. Then Sam scrambled down a rope ladder to the boat, and as soon as he was seated the vessel sped off down the Gulf of Lune towards the open sea. As it went, Elfstan heard his grandfather’s voice one last time, calling; “My day here is done lad – but don’t you never bid the stars farewell – you hear?”

Elfstan reached home the next day, after a lonely night’s camp near the Havens. They all came out to meet him, and eager hands led the ponies away to the stable. Elanor looked at her son.
“Well, he’s gone,” Elfstan said.

[Baphởmet]

Wonderful! Magnificent! I thoroughly enjoyed getting to read this I'm glad you decided to share it with us. I love how the last journey of Samwise and his family mirrored the last journey of Frodo and Bilbo. The language is simple and well-crafted without being unnecessarily flowery and overstated (much like this comment is becoming). I hope you find more of your work to share with us!

[Marceline]

Oh, Saranna, this is simply beautiful. I swear I'm not crying, it's just a bad allergy day!

So glad you have kept this and could share it with us here. I can see why halfir liked it. <3

[Raisins]

Honestly that was beautiful and I had to stop myself from reading it more than once at work today when I started I had this feeling it was going to turn on my waterworks and it most certainly did. Thank goodness the friend I'm staying with has ventured off to bed of they'd be asking why I was crying like the sad lump I am.

Absolutely beautiful, even if it is sad. I can't wait to see what else you have stored away.

[Saranna]

Thank you for al those kind comments @Ambivalent Octopus and @Tarawen and @Fuin Elda the praise of the praiseworthy!

[Saranna]

Not all my tales come with celebrity recommendation, but Verlyn Flieger liked this one.

Harad; a tale of Hope

PART ONE
Journeying towards the west, the sun at last left the courtyard in shadow. On a palm-leaf mat in the coolest niche within the colonnade, Olaro stirred, yawned, opened her eyes. Dreamily she watched the tumbling waters of the fountain at the centre of the square enclosure, until she became aware of the weight pinning down her right arm. She looked at the child and found him still sleeping, one thumb loosely lingering in his pink little mouth, his lashes soft on his deep brown cheeks.
Olaro lay still, letting her mind reach far away, over the rooves of her master’s compound, beyond the oasis, north across the scorching desert toward the unimaginable lands of the north.
Jari, she whispered. Jari. Two circles of the moon had passed since he had marched away, he and all the other able men of their caran, led by the Master on his great white horse. Olaro had asked the Mistress why they had to go, where they were going.
“Hush, girl. You do not need to know. They go, they will come home. You mind your work.”
But when?
Little Karenko wriggled, jiggled, jabbed one elbow and one knee into Olaro’s tenderest parts, and was at once awake, clamouring, jumping, dribbling all over his nursemaid. Olaro stood up, gathered the Little Master into her arms, and carried him to the fountain, where she dabbled his small hands and feet into the basin and scooped up water in her own hand to cool his face. Then she straightened his white tunic over his dark chubby knees, arranged his gold bracelets and anklets and hair-braids as tidily as she could, and stood him on the beaten earth of the courtyard. He wanted to bend down and dig his clean fingers into the soil, but Olaro took him firmly by the hand and marched him towards the colonnade and the door that led from it into his mother’s quarters.

Jari trudged on, and on. His legs and back were aching, his feet were sore in their worn sandals, and his corselet of overlapping bronze plates weighed more heavily with every mile. When they had first set out from the oasis, he and his comrades had marched cheerfully, and even the dry wastes of the great desert had not diminished their spirits. They marched to glory and riches, the Master had told them. He had allied himself with the Strong Lord of the north, who would reward them all richly when his evil enemies were destroyed. One whole cycle of the moon it had taken them to cross the desert, seeking ways along the wadis, detouring to ensure that they passed though all the oases and exploited every source of water.
The journey was hard, but Jari and his fellow marchers had chatted, sung marching songs, camped happily together each evening, and watched in wonder as more and more carans of warriors came in from all directions to join them. Some even rode upon Oliphs; Jari was wary of the huge, blundering beasts. He kept as far away from them as possible. Soon they were a great army, and they marched along a real road, old and broken in places, but once a mighty road. It led them ever northward. The men could see ahead a dark line on the horizon that grew higher and darker with every mile they travelled. Jari asked his brother, Kor, what it signified.
“That is where the mountains lie, Jari. The Strong Lord has his kingdom beyond them. We march to his aid against the evil usurpers from beyond the sea.” Kor had always been the one to listen to the old tales and legends when they were children. Jari was about to ask more about these usurpers when their officer rode back along the line of march, calling out to the men.
“Close up. Close up; there is a river ahead, and the bridge is narrow, form a double line and no wider!” Some of the men were slow, and the officers laid on with their whips until all were in rank. The rhythm of the march picked up again.
It took many hours for the great army to cross the river. Jari had not seen a river before, and he peered down over the edge of the bridge to see the water flowing by. It seemed far clearer than the waters of the oasis where he lived. Kor pushed him on, and they came across into land that was slightly less barren than their familiar desert. Here Jari raised his head for the first time since they had begun the river-crossing; the mountains looked very near. Beyond them he thought he could see a plume of black smoke. He turned to point this out to Kor, but before he could speak a shadow passed across the bright sun, rushing at speed through the highest reaches of the sky. Some looked up, but most cast themselves on their faces. A few tried to run back across the bridge, but the officers got busy with their whips, though they too seemed afraid. The shadow whirled about, far to the south, then came back over them, stooping low. A terrible scream came from it, and men began to wail and howl. Some threw themselves into the river, and Jari saw one disappear beneath the waters. Only when the flying shadow had vanished into the north – towards the smoke, Jari noticed – could the men be persuaded to resume the march. There was a good deal of muttering in the ranks.
That was when Jari had begun to feel weariness, aches and soreness, and to find his armour so heavy and burdensome. Since then he had staggered on silently, and all about him the rest were silent too. In his heart, a secret and deadly fear was growing. What Lord, he wondered, sent out such dreadful messengers? He thought of Olaro far away, and wondered if he would ever see her again.

In the compound, the days drifted by in sameness and expectation. It was a dwelling of women now, save for small boys and aged men who had not marched away. Olaro tended to young Karenko, fed and washed and clothed him, slept with him at noon and at night, and twice a day led him to his mother, who displayed little interest in her offspring. Only one day in every ten did the Mistress allow a brief respite. Olaro, leaving the Young Master in the care of one of the Mistress’s ladies, would spend a mere two hours in the tent of her own family beyond the high mud-brick walls of the master’s stronghold. Karenko would scream and cry and try to run after her, but when the heavy gates swung shut behind her, she was free. She would thread her way between the tents and huts until she came to the edge of the settlement, where the widows lived. Here her mother dwelt, and cared for Olaro’s two small daughters.
One afternoon, siesta past, Olaro made her usual difficult escape from her young charge, and came to the tent of her mother. The two little girls were outside, sitting on the ground and playing some complex game with palm leaves. Olaro stood to watch them unnoticed, and her heart jumped.
My sweet ones – how you grow! And how little I see of your growing.
Just then Sala, the eldest, looked up and squealed, “Mama! Rana, it is our Mama!” Both children leapt to their feet and ran to Olaro, flinging their arms about her knees and shrieking like desert hawks in their excitement. From the tent came Olaro’s mother, Ola, ready to rebuke her noisy granddaughters. Her cross expression changed to a broad smile when she saw her daughter.
“So, it’s you! Come and tell me all the news, we hear nothing out here, nothing. Sala, fetch juice for your mother, and Rana, bring a cushion for her.” Ola seated herself on a low stool by the mouth of her tent, and soon the four were chatting together. The girls were full of questions; when would their father be home? And their uncle? Why were all the men away for so long? Olaro had no answers for them, and in the end the talk became everyday, gossip and shared experiences. Events so far away could scarcely be imagined.

Jari and his companions were treading at that moment through a world of nightmare. To their right rose high black mountains, dry and forbidding, and from beyond them came the persistent black smoke, together with rumbles of something like thunder, and occasional flashes of flame. To their left lay a greener landscape, equally alien to these desert dwellers, dense growths of trees and of lower-growing plants that they could not name. The whole host was restless and uneasy. The Oliphs and horses were almost uncontrollable, hating the smell of the smoke and the narrowing of the way between mountains and woodland. The men had no idea now where they were, how far from home or what the lands were through which they marched; Jari had asked Kor, but his brother’s lore did not extend so far.
This day was worse than before – Jari kept thinking he saw movement in the trees to the left, but when he turned to stare, all was still. He tugged at Kor’s arm.
“We are watched, brother,” he hissed. “Do you not feel it?”
“Hush! You will have the officer here again. Have we not been whipped enough already? Hush!”
Jari subsided obediently; Kor was, after all, the elder brother and head of their family. But still he felt that eyes were following his every step.
Towards noon Jari saw that ahead of them the road vanished into a cleft, where the wooded lands drew near the dark mountains. He was no war leader; but he felt a terrible wrongness as the troops marched unhesitatingly towards that narrow way. He cast a desperate glance behind, filled with an urged to turn and run back down the road, away from the dreadful mountains and the thick forest, back to his familiar desert home and his faraway wife and daughters. Olaro, he moaned softly.
He turned his face forward, still plodding, plodding, and was taken by surprise when his brother beside him let out a sudden exclamation. “Uff!” Kor said, and his hand grasped Jari’s arm. Then all at once he fell, so that Jari stumbled over him and the men behind collided with Jari. “Kor! Kor!” he shouted. Then he saw the great arrow through his brother’s body, green-feathered and sharp. It had pierced a gap between the plates of Kor’s armour, and now his brother lay convulsing, his life pouring out into the dust of this alien road. Jari found that he was sobbing. He knelt down, taking no notice as all round him more men screamed and fell, or screamed and fled, as Oliphs trumpeted and horses galloped away riderless. He lifted Kor into his arms and held him, murmuring softly, meaninglessly, until the convulsions stopped and Kor’s staring eyes emptied. Then he looked around.
The attack was coming from the forest. Arrows flew all around him, strange tall men in green and brown garments wielded swords and knives and were hacking his countrymen to death. Jari sprang up, drew his sword, and began to swing it wildly at the ambushers. He got in one lucky strike, and laid one of the Northerners low. Two more cried out and came running towards him, and he broke away, running furiously along with some of his surviving comrades into the strange lush forest. Stumbling and leaping through the thick leaves underfoot, he suddenly saw a dip in the ground ahead, and resolved to plunge into it and hide. Two things happened at once, then. Jari thought he saw small people in the hollow, round-faced and gaping. Even as he tried to make sense of what he saw, a pain like lightning passed through his neck and he found himself falling. Dimly to his ears came the cry, “Mumak!” Then nothing. Nothing more.

Olaro heard the cries as she was feeding the Little Master his breakfast. “They are coming! They are coming!” Scooping up the child, she went to the window and threw the shutters back. Below in the outer courtyard she saw people gathering, noblewomen and servants, all listening to an old man who had come in through the compound gate, now swinging open behind him. “They are coming!” He repeated. “Come and see.”
Olaro swung around and headed out of the door, down the stairs and into the corridor. Here she met still more people heading for the courtyard, and ran along with them, across the yard and out through the great gate. Through the settlement they went, to the edge of the oasis, and there were all the villagers gathered, gazing northwards. Olaro moved to stand beside her mother and daughters.
“Mama,” whispered little Rana, “is our dada coming home?”
Olaro shook her head, and stared across the desert. There she could see the approaching cloud of dust that had alerted the old man to the approach of a band of travellers. It grew larger as it came nearer. But - -
“This cannot be the caran,” someone said, “the dustcloud is too small.”
Olaro reached out and took her mother’s hand; the older woman looked into her eyes, and said nothing. Sala and Rana pressed against their mother. The noise and excitement in the waiting crowd died away; and the dust drew nearer.









PART TWO

Olaro looked up as a shadow fell across the open patch of ground outside her tent. She scrambled hastily to her feet as she saw that it was the Master, tall and strong in his fine robes.
“No, no, sit, old nurse, sit. You need not stand for your little nursling.” He reached for a second low stool and seated himself, so that she too might sit and rest.
“What does the Master wish?” she asked formally, but there was a lilt of laughter in her voice, and Karenko smiled back at her, his eyes filled with love for the woman who had cared for him all through his childhood.
“What do I always want, Olaro? I want your listening ear, your wise words, your thoughts. Who is a man to trust in these strange new days, if not his dear old nurse?”
This time they both broke into open laughter, and the children playing about the tents paused, astonished to see the great man giggling like a boy with the old widow Olaro. One of them came a little closer, but Olaro shooed him off.
“Keep away, little curious one! Your old amma is not in need of your help; I must speak to the Master.”
The little boy slipped back to his playmates, and soon their chatter arose again. Olaro turned back to Karenko.
“Now, master. What brings you?”
“News from the North, mama –no, I will name you mother, Olaro, for so you were to me. News, I say, from the Great King Elessar of the North, he who caused the Strong Lord to be slain by means of little magic people from beyond the edge of the world. He wishes to come here.”
Olaro pressed her hands over her mouth in astonishment. The Master spoke of legends, of tales from beyond her dreams – and he wanted her thoughts! How could she even have thoughts about this? Karenko watched her expectantly.
“I cannot tell, Master, any thoughts on such great matters as these. Who is this pale King to me, but the Lord of those who slew my Jari and his brother? What thoughts may I hold of him other than thoughts of hatred?”
Karenko nodded. “I know what you have suffered, you and so many women of our people. Yet now this King has ruled for a score of suns, and they say he has spread peacefulness across his own wide lands, and seeks now friendship with those beyond, east and south as far as he may journey.” The young Master shook his head. “These are strange times, when the usurpers from the sea seek friendship.”
Olaro felt tears beginning to burn her eyes. “I cannot speak more of this, Master. My grief will never leave me. I thank all the gods that my daughters have grown strong and found good husbands, I thank them for little Karo there, but I can never do other than hate those who took my Jari from me. I fear I am no help to you, Master.”
Karenko patted her shoulder, and rose. She tried to stand, but he held her firmly on her stool. “I am sorry, mama. I will go and seek the counsel of my advisors, though I wish they had more wisdom to offer.” He set off back towards the inner compound behind its strong walls, pausing to send little Karo to his grandmother to hug and comfort her.

Before a moon had passed, Olaro’s daughter Sala came for a brief visit. She worked as a body-servant to Karenko’s wife Olla, and that young lady’s demands were heavy.
“It is good to see you, mama,” said Sala as she rested herself on a cushion at Olaro’s feet. “Where is my naughty little Karo?”
“You should have told me you were coming; his father has taken him to see the master’s new horses from the south. “
“Oh! How annoying. Why can my lady not let me know when I am to be free, so that I might see my child and my husband and my mama all together? A servant’s life is hard.”
Olaro nodded, and hugged her daughter. “But ours is a good Master – in some settlements there is much cruelty, and people are sold away from their families as slaves. We do not have such bad things here.”
“No, you are right, mama. But I must tell you the news – such grand news I have for you.”
“Go on then, daughter.”
“Well, our master has sent messages in return to those from the northern King, and he in turn has replied again, and – well, in short, mama, they are to come here! This great King and his wondrous Queen and his little Prince and Lords and Ladies and all – to our oasis!”
Olaro shrank away from her daughter, and lowered her head. Sala prattled on for a while until her mother’s silence alerted her.
“What is wrong, mama? What distresses you?”
“They killed your father, Sala. These pale ghosts of men out of the north – what have we to do with them? They killed your father!”
Olaro burst into bitter tears, and it was long before Sala could comfort her. Little Karo came back with his father Tani, and Olaro gradually forgot her sorrow in caring for him; Sala and Tani had to return to their duties. But when it was time to sleep that night, Olaro lay wakeful and tense until the dawn.

After this she tried to forget about the pale King, and no one dared to mention the coming visit to her again. Yet after a few more moons had passed, the day came when there began to be a great stir and bustle about the whole settlement. Servants rushed about the Lord’s house, cleaning and sweeping and polishing; cooks laboured in the great kitchens; widow women from the tents about Olaro’s were drafted in for work they had been spared for many years. Olaro refused to go. She heard that the lady Olla was for beating her because of this refusal, and that the Master had been angry with his wife. She was sorry for that, but she would not lift one finger for the King who bore the blame for Jari’s death. When at last the day dawned on which the master looked to see his guests riding out of the North, Olaro stayed in her tent, and kept little Karo close by her side.

The boy fussed and wriggled and pleaded to be allowed to go with his playmates to watch at the edge of the oasis. Olaro hardened her heart and ignored his wailing. She heard a great shout go up towards evening, but stayed where she was. Then footsteps sounded on the baked earth outside, and the flap of the tent was lifted. Turning, she saw a head and shoulders thrust through the gap.
“Oh!” Olaro sprang up, filled with embarrassment. Karenko said,
“May I come in, mama?”
“Master, Master, it is not fitting for you to enter my poor tent. You should be greeting your guest.”
“He is not here yet – the dust of his journey can be seen. And I would have you with me, mama, when he draws near.”
She shook her head. Little Karo tugged earnestly at her skirts. She shook her head again. The master held out his hand and said quietly, “Please, Olaro – for me.”
Karo scampered eagerly ahead, and Olaro paced slowly; yet all too soon she was standing at almost the same spot where she had waited twenty suns ago, to see the return of the caran and to learn that Jari was dead. Once again, she waited amid her people to watch the approach of a cloud of dust – but this was a mightier cloud by far than that long-ago memory. Gradually it drew nearer, until those waiting could make out riders and marchers approaching. At the front they saw a splendid figure on a great horse, bearing a huge standard of black with silver signs upon it; a tree, seven stars and a great crown. Murmurs began to wash about among the crowd, comments and questions.
“Is that the King?”
“No, foolish one, Kings do not carry their own flags!”
“Which is the King?”
Olaro looked up as the noise of the people around her swelled louder. The advancing party had halted. Two men rode forward, passing by the flagbearer and pausing halfway across the space that now remained between the oasis and the riders. Each raised to his lips a silver trumpet, and blew upon it notes of surpassing sweetness. Cries of wonder and admiration came from the people of Karenko, but Olaro stood silent and still.
The flagbearer urged his mount forward until he was perfectly placed between the two trumpeters. He cried in a mighty voice “Behold the coming of Aragorn the King Elessar, Telcontar, Elendil’s heir of Gondor! The King begs leave to enter your realm, Lord Karenko.”
Loud approval greeted this courteous address, and Karenko stood forth, arrayed in his finest garb, and motioned his own Crier forward. “Karenko Lord bids welcome to his lands the King of the North! Let all now come to greet him!”
Karenko stood waiting while the three foremost horsemen from the North swung their mounts around and filed off to one side, where they wheeled to face across the front of the Gondorian troop. Then from the midst of them came riding on a great black horse the tallest man that any of the people of the oasis had ever seen, taller even than their Lord. He was arrayed in tunic and hose of the finest cloth, all green and silver, and upon his breast blazed a great green stone. A simple coronal of wrought silver graced his brow, and he bore no arms. When he was near enough to Karenko that each might clearly read the other’s face, the King halted his mount, smiled, and spoke.
“My Lord, I offer greeting. I would learn of you and your people and your land.”
Karenko replied, “You are welcome, King.”
Elessar, to the delighted amazement of the oasis folk, swung himself down from his horse and walked toward his host. Ancient he seemed, yet young as morning. His eyes were grey and his skin fair; dark hair tumbled about his shoulders. Never looking away from Karenko’s face, he lowered himself to one knee and said, “I salute the soil of Harad, and her people who live upon it, and her Lord who rules here.”
As he stood, a great shout of approval went up, and Karenko moved to greet the king. The two clasped hands, and their faces were filled with smiles. Olaro’s son-in-law Tani came forward at the Lord’s request to lead the great horse away; then Elessar turned and motioned with his hand, and all his people moved slowly towards the oasis edge. As they came, the ranks parted, and at the great sigh of wonder that arose around her, Olaro looked up to see, riding out ahead of the party, a silver horse and a grey pony. Upon the horse rode the fairest lady Olaro had ever seen, tall and proud, dressed all in white and silver and with her long hair streaming down her back. At her side rode a young boy, a Prince of the north whose face was so like his father’s that none could mistake their kinship. These two came to where the King and Lord stood, and dismounted. Olaro watched for a while as greetings were exchanged, as more and more of the Pale Ones came and were welcomed and handed over their horses; but at last she could bear no more, and stumbled back to her tent. In her sorrow, she forgot even little Karo, and sat unheeding on her stool in the gathering night; her neighbour, seeing this, took Karo into her own place to sleep.
Towards the middle of the night, when the sounds of feasting and merriment were dying away inside the Lord’s compound and the huge stars were filling the velvet sky, Olaro was still sitting miserably, alone with her thoughts outside the tent. She was too absorbed to notice the approaching footfalls, and started when Karenko’s voice said softly, “Mama.”
She began to rise, but he put out his hand to stop her. She realised that there was someone standing behind him, but could not see who it was in the glow of her small fire.
“My Master, you should be with your guests. Do not trouble yourself about me.”
“But I must, Olaro. There is someone here who wishes to speak with you.” Smiling, he turned to his companion, who came forward and said in a sweet, low voice, like water running in a silver fountain,
“Greetings, Olaro.”
A cry escaped her lips as she recognised the northern queen, her white raiment hidden now beneath a dark cloak.
“Lady – Queen – Majesty, I - oh, please, I beg you, take this seat.”
The Queen sat down upon Olaro’s second-best stool as readily as if such were her usual seat. Karenko somehow had vanished. Olaro dared not speak.
“I am Arwen, Queen to Lord Elessar, and known to some as Evenstar.”
“I greet you, my Lady. I – what can you want with me, a poor old nurse?”
Arwen smiled. “Not so poor, I think, for your Lord Karenko bestows upon you a great wealth of love.”
Olaro nodded. “That is true, Queen. But – how did you come to know of me, and to visit me here?”
Arwen leaned forward and laid her hand upon Olaro’s arm. The old woman shook at the gentle touch, wondering at the flow of warmth and calm that passed through her. “I saw at dinner that your master seemed downcast. He looked now and then toward the door, as if expecting one who did not come. When I spoke to him of this, he told me of you, and I sorrowed for your sorrow, and so am come to speak with you.”
Looking into the deeps of light in the Queen’s eyes, Olaro was afraid. Out of her fear welled up the old anger and grief, and she snatched her arm away from the hand that rested on it.
“What can you know of grief and sorrow, great lady? How can you understand the life and loss of one such as I?”
Arwen sat still as stone. She spoke again, her voice even more gentle than before.
“I come to lay at your feet my regret and to bid you forgive us for your husband’s death. For I too have lost many that I loved, and shall not see them again.”
The fury in Olaro’s heart died away as quickly as it had come. She sat spellbound in the moonlight as Arwen told of all that she had lost – of her mother’s pain, and how her mother departed to the eternal lands beyond the sea. Of her father, a mighty lord among those elphan whom Olaro had always believed to be mere tales for children, and how Arwen had bidden him goodbye forever for the love of the King. Tears gathered in her eyes as she listened, and she reached out her hand. The Queen took it, and when she had finished speaking, the two sat handfast for a long time, as the stars wheeled above them and their tears reflected the crystal light of the moon. At last Olaro broke the silence.
“I have found forgiveness in my heart, Queen, thanks to you. Now, I believe it is time for me to attend my Master’s feast, and help him to welcome our new friends.”
Arwen smiled. They rose, and walked toward the compound together hand in hand.

[Baphởmet]

Oh this is even more wonderful! I absolutely love this! Taking that kernel from Faramir after the Haradrim raid in Ithilien about the true nature of the people to the Far South and their true motivations for fighting and doing what they did. I think you played this beautifully. The emotions are simply and pure, the descriptions are lively and evocative. Without relying on a hundred adjectives and metaphors, you captured my imagination and painted a magnificent picture. Well done!

[Raisins]

Honestly this is beautifully moving and I am glad that today I have art and taxes to do so nobody can see me weeping over such a beautifully written story.

I love that you've added to the question that Faramir asks that are the Easterling a truly evil and that you paint such a colourful and deep picture of their life and their sorrow and pain as well as eventual forgiveness

[Saranna]

@Prometherion and @Fuin Elda Your comments are wonderfully moving too - it's all one asks, that someone should enjoy what one's written and understand it.

[Saranna]

[No sniffles this time I hope.]

Barliman Butterbur is a canny fellow;

Bright white his apron shines, and his cat is yellow.

Barliman is not the kind to water down the cider,

He has a smile for all who come; Hobbits, Dwarves - and Strider!

Barliman is famous for his ale as dark as Fangorn

And from his kitchens there come forth such pies as dreams are made on.

Through old Barley’s coffers pass coinage by the bushel

Silver pennies, copper pieces - scooped up with a shovel!

Long may Barley’s pony prance, long may he delight us

With foaming mugs and platters heaped and pewter of the brightest!

Good old Barley Butterbur, a kind and jolly fellow;

Bright as roses are his cheeks, and his cat is yellow.

[Saranna]

[I've never found the name of this Lady:]

I laid a lawn when my house was new,
Faithfully fed its dark slow greening.
Borders rampant with feverfew
Rosemary, lavender, medlar leaning

Kingsfoil, comfrey spreading sweet;
These I nourished about its border.
I nursed my lawn through the summer heat,
Banished the fallen leaves’ disorder,

Watched it sleep through the winter’s chill
And trimmed it anew with spring’s returning.
Through my children’s games my lawn flourished still,
Its green blades cheerfully, stoutly rising

Till the Shadow rose in the eastern sky
And the city’s gardens sickened, dying
As our children died at the Steward’s cry
On the sullied grass by the Rammas lying.

I left my house for the western shore
And there I listened to dark waves lilting,
Tearless for all that had gone before,
Dry as the grass in my garden wilting.

One came to us there unlooked for, speeding,
His stumbling horse all lathered wended
While he waved and shouted, “Now ends our grieving!
The King returns and the Shadow’s ended."

[Marceline]

@Saranna, I am late to the party with reading your latest tale and poems, but I am so glad to have finally had time to read them. The story is simply beautiful. At first, I had no idea it was connected to Middle-Earth. The word "Oliph" was a clue, but the realization on my part was gradual. Whether intentional or not, you drew me in first by characters, then through an understanding of the context. So well done!!

Your poems are a delight. I love the use of Tom Bombadil's song structure for a far different character!

[Saranna]

Thank you @Tarawen it's kind of you to comment, especially so positively! I sometimes try to use the verse structures of Tolkien, the hardest was the Ann-Thennath mode used for the tale of Tinuviel as Aragorn gave it at Weathertop. Very strict. I did a verse or two but it was tricky. I may publish it here anyway.

[Marceline]

You have my respect for even attempting to match a tricky meter - I gave up on poetry of any sort long ago. And you know we’ll be delighted to read it if and when you are ready to share!

[Saranna]

OK but when I get home again, I'll be away from tomorrow to June 8th. Take care everyone.

[GalenAranor]

Saranna, I'm so glad you're still writing. How are you? I hope you're travels went well.

[Raisins]

I am not normally one for poetry (my Prof for creative writing in University had a right nightmare with me and the poetry section) honestly though I quite enjoyed both of those. The metering is fun especially for Barliman I'm admittedly reading it a bit like a cantering horse and I find the lines work well with it not sure if you meant it to be read that way but it seems to suit it?

The second poem is quite somber comparatively but still soothing and kind. Reminds me of a witches house reading it (perhaps because I recognize a lot of the herb names and am working on creating something very similar to the vision you've laid out in the poem at my new home.

[Saranna]

This is the attempt at Ann-thenath that I mentioned above. I am moderately pleased with it on re-reading but I can't work out a way to avoid the repeated 'seized'. Thanks for your comments @Fuin Elda and your greetings @GalenAranor I survived my first travel away from home since before Covid, but some of it was anxiety-making due to folk not sticking to the rules.



Ann-thennath of awakening

In soft dark skies the stars were bright,
Shining on Helcar deep and chill,
And on the shore a sudden light:
The Elder children wakening.
Along the bay, upon the hill
They woke into the silent night
To wonder at the ocean still
And Orocarni shadowing.

The voices of the Quendi woke,
Echoing in the startled air
As each in turn to other spoke,
A thousand questions murmuring.
When all at last had woken there,
While on the shore the wavelets broke,
The company of Eldar fair
Began their years of wandering.

But shadows moved among the trees
As they were watched by cruel eyes;
Horror and fear their young hearts seized
At pattering footfalls following.
And some were seized, with smothered cries
That caused their loved ones’ hearts to freeze,
By minions of the Lord of Lies.
The children trembled, shivering.

Then from the rushing waters strong
They learned to weave their voices’ sounds,
Lifting to the high stars their song
That left the forests trembling.
So Orome a-wandering found
The kindred waited for, so long;
In him they saw, and gathered round,
The light of Aman shimmering.

[Marceline]

@Saranna, well done!! The mode is instantly recognizable, and the subject matter you chose fits it so beautifully. I have no great suggestions for avoiding a repeat use of "seized" except maybe "snatch'd" for the second instance of the word. Even still, that doesn't quite fit, does it?

My point is... This is wonderful as it is and you are to be praised for your work here!

[Saranna]

@Jwaein Thank you so much that's very kind. So glad you enjoyed it! I don't know whether I will ever try that mode again, it's very constricting. :)

[Androthelm]

@Saranna that poem is so good! As was said the mode & style match the content beautifully. I'm especially fond of the -ing endings on the tail of each stanza. Even if you don't write like that again, you've certainly got something here!

[Raisins]

@Saranna Another absolutely fantastic poem! And I agree it's quite the restrictive mode but you've done it quite wonderfully as has been said. Can't wait for the next bit of writing from you

[Saranna]

Thanks @Androthelm and @Fuin Elda everyone is very kind. I'll try another: (searches)

This one may either appeal or appal. In my long-ago youth I was deeply impressed by Chesterton's 'Lepanto' because of its sounds. I knew nothing of the history. Here I have written a LotR reworking, which I showed only to halfir and did not publish in the threads since it may be construed as touched with racism. I'll risk it today I think.


Ringwar; a poem revised by Saranna of Imladris

White fount falling in the Court of the Sun,
And the Lord of Minas Tirith is brooding as it runs;
There is shadow like the mountains in that face of buried tears,
It stirs the forest darkness, the darkness of his beard;
It thins the blood-red crescent, the crescent of his lips;
For the greatest realm of Arda is ravaged now by ships.
They have dared the shores of Gondor up the windy Bay of Bel,
They have dared the Mouths of Anduin from the Sundering Ocean’s swell,
Denethor casts his arms abroad for agony and pain,
And cries aloud for Boromir who comes not home again.
Saruman the turncoat is looking in the glass;
The shadow that is Sauron sniffs victory at last;
From evening isles fantastical rings faint the Valar’s song,
And the Lord within the White Tower is hiding from the sun.

Dim drums throbbing, in the hills half heard,
Where after silent centuries Ghân-Buri-Ghân has stirred,
Where, risen from a weary seat and half surrendered stall,
The old King of Rohan takes weapons from the wall,
Joins the last and lingering Ranger to whom the bird has sung,
That once went singing southward when all the world was young.
In that enormous silence, tiny and afraid,
Plodding along a winding road two hobbits’ fates are laid.
Dark clouds rising as Rohan rides far,
Aragorn and Théoden are going to the war,
Stiff flags straining in the night-blasts cold
In the gloom black-purple, in the glint old-gold,
Torchlight crimson on a host of shining arms,
Then the horses, then the trumpets, then to Meduseld he comes.
Théoden laughing in the brave beard curled,
Spurning of his stirrups like the thrones of all the world,
Holding his head up for a flag of all the free.
Elessar beside him there!
True heir of Isildur!
Théoden of Rohan
Is riding to the sea.

Above all rides Eärendil, blessed herald star;
(Aragorn and Théoden are going to the war.)
The dark lord watches ceaselessly, his being knows no ease,
His being that is hiding from the sunsets and the seas.
He shakes the walls of Barad-Dûr, his minions’ spirits freeze,
As he strides across the cruel stone and howls for victories;
And his voice through all of Mordor is a thunder sent to bring
The foul and ancient steeds that bear the Nazgûl on the wing.
Cave-trolls and Uruk-Hai,
Deformities of wing and eye,
Whose strong obedience broke the sky
When Isildur was king.

They rush in dreadful tides beneath the red clouds of the morn,
From the tower where their Shadow lords shut up their eyes in scorn;
They tread the long roads from the South, they skirt the Nurnen Sea,
Where fallen skies and evil hues and eyeless creatures be,
Round them the Orc-folk cluster and the Mountain’s ashes fall,
Filled with a growing sickness, an ancient sickness foul;
They stumble deep in fear across the blue cracks of the ground,--
They gather and they tremble and to Sauron’s will are bound.
And he saith, "Break up the mountains where the Gondor-folk can hide,
And sift the red and silver sands lest any bone abide,
And seek the wandering hobbits night and day, not giving rest,
For that which was our trouble comes again out of the west.
We have set the seal of misery on all things under sun,
Of knowledge and of sorrow and endurance of things done.
But a noise is in the mountains, in the mountains, and I know
The voice that broke my tower-walls three thousand years ago:
It is he that knows no yielding; it is he that fears not Fate;
It is the heir of Isildur that clamours at the gate!
It is he whose loss is laughter now he counts the wager worth,
Put down your feet upon him, that our peace be on the earth."
For he heard drums groaning and he smelt winds far,
(Aragorn and Théoden are going to the war.)
Hidden, quiet though,
Samwise and Frodo,
Soft through Ithilien,
Are carrying the Ring.

Dain is in his Mountain in the lands of the north
(Théoden of Rohan is girt and going forth)
Where the Running glitters and the lake-tides lift,
And the Wood-folk labour and Beornings Shift.
He shakes his lance of iron and descends his seat of stone;
The noise is gone through Wilderland; the noise is gone alone;
The North is full of sneaking things with fangs and burning eyes,
And dead is all the innocence of anger and surprise,
And Goblin killeth Wood-folk in their small and homely rooms,
And Goblin dreadeth Woodelf with a newer face of doom,
And Beorning hateth Orc and Warg as fierce as hate could be --
But Aragorn of Gondor is riding to the sea.
Aragorn calling through the paths of the Dead
Urging on the oathbreakers, the harbingers of dread,
King’s voice that cryeth bold!
Dúnedain, to me hold!
Aragorn of Gondor
Is riding to the ships.

Denethor’s in his closet with despair about his neck
(Aragorn of Gondor is armed upon the deck.)
The walls are hung with velvet that is black and soft as sin,
And little fears creep out of it and little fears creep in.
He holds a crystal sphere that has colours like the moon,
He touches, and it tingles, and he trembles very soon,
And his face is as a fungus of a leprous white and grey
Like plants in the high houses that are shuttered from the day,
And death is in the Palantir, the end of noble days,
But Aragorn of Gondor has landed at the quays.
Aragorn is hunting, his hounds have bayed--
Comes now to the Pelennor the rumour of his raid.
Wave upon wave, ha! ha!
Wave upon wave, hurrah!
Aragorn of Gondor
Has come to Rohan’s aid.

Rohan came in secret before day or battle broke,
(Théoden of Rohan was hidden in the smoke.)
The hidden room in Gondor where the Lord sits oft in fear,
The secret window whence the world looks small and very dear.
He sees as in a mirror on the monstrous twilight sea
The shadow of his cruel slaves whose name is mystery;
They fling great shadows foe-wards, making field and homestead dark,
They veil the gallant onset of the Riders of the Mark;
The Corsair ships seem palaces of cruel, black-bearded chiefs,
And below the ships are prisons, where with multitudinous griefs,
Many captives sick and sunless, all a labouring race repines
Like a race in sunken cities, like a nation in the mines.
They are lost like slaves that sweat, and in the skies of morning hung
The stair-ways of the tallest gods when tyranny was young.
They are countless, voiceless, hopeless as those fallen or fleeing on
Before the Dark Lord’s horses when Isildur was slain.
And Denethor grows witless in his quiet room in hell
Where a piercing eye looks inward through the lattice of his cell,
And he finds his hope forgotten, and he seeks no more a sign--
(But Théoden of Rohan has burst the battle-line!)
Aragorn pounding from the slaughter-painted poop,
Purpling all the ocean like a bloody pirate's sloop,
Scarlet running over on the silvers and the golds,
Breaking of the hatches up and bursting of the holds,
Thronging of the oarsmen up that labour under sea
White for bliss and blind for sun and stunned for liberty.

Elessar! Elessar!
Aiya Valaina!
Aragorn of Gondor
Has set his people free!

Gandalf sees his comrades set their swords back in the sheath
(Théoden of Rohan is borne homeward with a wreath.)
And he sees across a distant sea a green and shining plain,
Where he shall dwell forever now, his suffering not in vain,
And he smiles a smile of quiet joy for fear and pain allayed
(But Théoden of Rohan by Meduseld is laid.)

[Saranna]

I wrote this one after mistakenly referring in a discussion to the Seven Wizards instead of the the Five. I didn't want to waste the concept. I have kept the introduction although I am no longer a librarian of Imladris and @Serveanthesia how are you now?

I, Saranna of Imladris, transcribe here a tale that I found written, in an antique hand, upon several frail sheets of parchment of great age. They were lying amid other ancient scrolls and volumes in a dusty cupboard in a forgotten corner of the library of Elrond, where Serveanthesia and I went one day to clean and tidy.
We agreed that it should be shown to Master Elrond and Lord Glorfindel, who received us graciously and bade us rest while they studied our find. Honey-cakes and wine were brought to us, and we sat in silence, feeling a little self-conscious and very dusty, while the Waters of Bruinen roared outside the window and the two Lords pored seriously over the sheets, handling them with great care.
At last they looked up at us. “This is a find of great importance,” Master Elrond declared. “It confirms a rumour that I heard long ago, from Cirdan of the Havens, and so I have reason to believe the tale it recounts. Of your courtesy, Lady Saranna, do you make a fair copy on fresh new parchment, and then would you, Lady Serveanthesia, work at the restoring and preservation of these sheets; for this may be the only written record – written by I know not who – of the Last Two Istari.”
Serveanthesia and I curtsied, set down our goblets, received the sheets with care, and retreated. Now I have made my copy, and my dear colleague is working with all her skill on the preservation of the treasure. So now the tale may be seen by all here in the Library at Imladris. It is called

Better late

Cirdan the shipwright stood, tall and straight as a carven pillar in the halls of Manwe. His right hand was raised in farewell as he watched the traveller moving slowly away into the east, leaning upon a staff and picking his way cautiously like one who had never before trodden the green earth. As well he might, the elf-lord reflected, and so did his brethren before him. He counted them over once more, naming them in his mind as if sending after them a blessing and hope for their success. Curumo, Olorin, Aiwendel, Alatar, Pallando – five Istari from beyond the sea. Then something tugged at his memory. Five? But did not Lord Ossë speak to me – of seven?
The last Istar was out of sight now, and Cirdan turned back to his dwelling and his work. Not for many of the speeding years of Middle Earth did the matter came back to his mind. He thought often of the Istari, whom men now called Wizards, but his mind ran chiefly on the one called Olorin, the last-comer, he who bore now in secret the Ring Narya. Cirdan would shake his head as he thought of the troubles and sorrows that might lie before this great one.
After this long passage of time, when Middle Earth lay under an uneasy peace and the shadow had not yet reformed in Dol Guldur, Cirdan was seated at his ease one day upon the green slopes above the cliffs that framed the Havens. He gazed out toward the west, and took simple delight in the loveliness of sea and sky. His reverie was broken at length by the sound of a mighty cry.
“Master Elf! Cirdan!”
Master elf, indeed! Frowning, the ancient elf-lord arose, and peered over the edge of the cliff. There, seated upon a fair-sized island as comfortably as one of the Eldar might have rested upon a stool, was a familiar figure. Putting aside his resentment at being so casually named, Cirdan bowed respectfully, and said, “Welcome, thrice welcome, Lord Ossë” – for it was indeed the Maia. Vast and wild he was, shimmering blue and green as the seas he loved, and he smiled at Cirdan.
“Time and tides have brought me to you again, old friend. How goes the world with you? What news here on the shores of Middle Earth?”
Cirdan opened his mouth to answer, but from the recesses of his memory came other words, unbidden. “Master – what became of the last two Istari?”
The effect of his words was greater than he could have dreamed. Never did he expect to see, upon the face of one of the great ones, the servant of Ulmo, a look of stupefaction. “Oh!” said Ossë. “Oh.” And with a mighty flick and a huge splash, he was gone. It was long before Cirdan saw him again.

Along the strand of Ilmarin, two figures wandered. “Olgarnon,” said one, “how much longer do you suppose we must wait? Though Time passes not here, I sense that far across the seas, in mortal lands, there are great deeds awakening. When shall we be called to play our part?”
“I do not know, Panortir. But we must await the commands of our Lord Ossë”
The two meandered on, looking out across the sea to the lights that twinkled upon the Lonely Isle. They spoke of the long suffering of the Eldar, and touched yet again upon when they would be sent to play their part in the healing of Middle Earth. Suddenly their shared reverie was broken by a great wave that surged over the sparkling shore and washed about their feet. They retreated hastily up the beach, and not a moment too soon as it proved. With a great slither and shlurp, the normally imposing figure of Ossë came ploughing up out of the waters, to land in an undignified heap at the feet of his two servants.
“Oh – there you are – thank goodness. Quickly now, upon my back, or we shall be too late for the work you have to do.” Clumsily the two Istari scrabbled up and clung as best they might to the slippery back of their Lord. Back into the sea he sploshed, and headed East as if the Great Enemy himself were in pursuit.
Olgarnon struggled for a while to retain his elegant pointed hat, but lost it before they had passed Tol Errësea. He ventured to address Ossë. “My Lord, why such haste? We are glad (here Panortir nodded) that at last we may carry out our service; yet this tumultuous journey is not quite what we had expected.”
Ossë blushed a vivid deep aquamarine. Indeed, he mumbled, and the Istari had to ask him to repeat his words. “Time, Time,” he said, “Time may be the ruin of all. For it fleets and it flows in mortal lands, and oh, my brave ones, I fear too much of it may have passed before I bring you there!”

After a wet and uncomfortable journey –but they felt it would be rude to complain – Panortir and Olgarnon at last descried ahead a towering cliff, and could hear the cries of seabirds that swirled about them. “Are those the Grey Havens ahead, Lord?” asked Panortir. Ossë’s reply puzzled him.
“I do hope so – but who knows what may have happened by now? I fear we have gone adrift among the Enchanted Isles.”
At length they were passing up an inlet out of the open sea, between cliffs topped with rolling green hills. They looked about expectantly for elegant elven buildings, and were taken aback when Ossë emitted a great fishy groan. “Too late, too late,” he moaned, and flung them off his back onto a small stone jetty, not at all as elegant as they had expected. “We must decide quickly,” he said. “For I have delayed too long, and the world you were to serve has rolled away into the mists of history. Here, now, things are quite different.”
“But do Mortals and Elves still need our help, my Lord?” Olgarnon asked.
“Oh indeed – they always shall – but whether you will find any Elves now is another question. I must away before anyone sees me – so you will have to decide, quite without knowledge of the world I leave you in, whether it is your wish to stay. If I find my way back to where and when I should be, it will be beyond even my powers to come to you again.”
Panortir and Olgarnon looked at each other. Then they turned back to Ossë. “We will stay, my Lord,” said Panortir. “We will learn what needs this world has now, and walk among the people, and help them.”
“Well done,” said Ossë. “May the Valar protect you always.” And he was gone, leaving the last two Istari standing uncomprehendingly upon the shores of Cornwall in the 21st century of an age quite other than that they had expected.

The two friends turned away from the sea and began to walk along a track that led up over the green hills. As they went they passed one Mortal, but he cast only a cursory glance at them and did not speak. Panortir wondered greatly at the plugs that the mortal wore in his ears, and the strings that dangled from it and went into his pocket. “Did you hear a strange sound, as of dimly-heard song, coming from that person?” he asked Olgarnon. But they could make nothing of it. At length they came down the far side of the hill into a settlement, cottages and houses built along the side of a stream that flowed down to join the inlet of the sea. Upon some of the buildings words were written, and it was fortunate indeed that the Istari chosen to help with the troubles of Middle Earth, had been gifted with the knowledge of all tongues, and of all possible tongues. They read the writings aloud to each other, but could not be certain of their meaning. “Museum of Witchcraft”, “Home-made pasties”, “Fresh Cream Daily”, “Ye Olde Tea Shoppe”. At last came a word that they knew, inscribed upon the door of a tiny cottage – Rivendell. But it did not resemble the Last Homely House as it had been described to them. Olgarnon had noticed something else. Outside each house there stood a metal container of huge size, large enough to hold several persons – indeed, through the windows that lined the sides of each of them, he could descry seats. Each container sat upon four wheels constructed of a substance novel to him. And each stank hideously. “Are these objects the work of the Dark Lord?” he asked Panortir. But before the other Istar could answer, the door of the nearest dwelling opened, and the two shrank back into the shadow of the next building. They felt instinctively that they needed to know more before revealing themselves. A person came out of the door, and walked toward the metal container. Pointing one hand at it, she caused a bleeping sound and a simultaneous flashing of lights, lights of a deep amber colour, at the corners of the container. “Magic” hissed Panortir, but Olgarnon motioned him to silence. They watched in horror as the person opened a concealed entrance in the side of the container, and climbed in. After some moments, a noise like the yelling of an orc-horde arose from the container, and it began to move. It roared away from them along a smooth road, over a bridge and out of sight. “Angband work!” snarled Olgarnon, but received no answer. Turning, he saw that Panortir had swooned and was lying at full length upon the ground. As he wondered what to do, a voice came from above him, and he looked up to see a woman beaming kindly at him through an upper window.
“Need any help, me 'ansum?” she enquired in an outlandish accent. Olgarnon nodded dumbly, and before he knew it she had emerged from her house, helped him to raise up the insensible Panortir, and led them both inside. The two Istari sat dumbly side by side on a comfortable couch, while their rescuer disappeared into a smaller chamber, muttering something about, “A nice cuppa and a slice or two o’ saffron cake and cream.” She reappeared in no time, bearing a huge tray, and the smells that came from that tray were a great improvement upon those that had issued from the metal container. The Wizards sat up and began to feel - - yes, this must be hunger, each realised simultaneously. Here in Middle Earth, they were subject to the needs of their mortal incarnations. They said very little to their hostess while they munched their way through several slices each of cream-slathered cake, and drank many cups of tea.
“Well, now, I do love to see folk enjoy their food,” beamed the lady. “I don’t recall to have seen you about here before, were you looking for the Folk Festival, for you'm certainly dressed for it me dears, 'tis over to Tintagel not here in Boscastle, do 'ee see?”
Panortir was gazing in silent fascination as she talked – he had just realised that this was his first sight of someone old. Olgarnon endeavoured to take up the conversation, determining to feel his way until he could see what sort of world they had landed in. “Yes, that is it,” he said, “we took a wrong turning and found ourselves here in your charming village; and my friend was weary, and hungry, so I am indeed grateful for your kindness, madam, in succouring us.”
“How old-fashioned you do talk! Mind, I like that, and I daresay it fits in well with these folk and myth shenanigans over to Tintagel. If you would like, I can give you a lift there, 'twould be no trouble.”
“A lift?” wondered Olgarnon.

Twenty minutes later the two Istari were clinging desperately to one another in the wide rear seat of one of the snorting wheeled containers. In the front seat, the lady wielded an incomprehensible array of implements that were somehow fastened into the inner surface of the device. Panortir was near-hysterical, and Olgarnon was beginning to wish they had taken up Ossë’s implied offer of a return to Aman. At last their well-meaning friend swung the circular device shar0ply round, and the container plunged into a wide green field, bordered with ancient hedges, and filled with a huge throng of people. “Yer ‘tiz!” she announced cheerfully. The Istari scrambled thankfully out of the box, and Olgarnon managed to remember his manners sufficiently to thank her. Then he leapt back in terror as the metal contraption began to move again, swung itself about in a series of leaps and jerks, and carried their benefactress away. Panortir grabbed Olgarnon’s arm, whispering, “Brother, brother, what dreadful place is this?”
The other Istar looked around. In truth, the surroundings looked less fearsome than he had expected. There was a loud and inexplicable noise filling the air, not unlike a greatly magnified version of the sound that had apparently emerged from their first Mortal that morning. Yet the booths that filled the field, draped in cloths and coverings of many hues, and the folk who moved about the place, seemed cheerful and welcoming enough. As the pair stood staring, one of the Mortals came up to them, a young woman dressed in a flowing green gown, who smiled at them. “Hey guys, how’s it going?”
Panortir looked over his shoulder in the direction taking by the roaring container. “It has gone,” he replied thankfully. But the young woman was now seizing each of them by the elbow, and dragging them further into the field. “You’ll be wanting the Wiccan stall, I can see. Cool costumes, fellas, anyone would think you were real wizards, ha, ha!” Panortir opened his mouth to reply, but a sharp look from Olgarnon made him close it again. He looked ahead and saw a large group of men and women, dressed in garments very similar to those he and his brother had acquired once designated Istari, who were all gathered in a circle and chanting.
“Hey, here’s two more for you – don’t conjure anything I wouldn’t!” and their guide was off and away at once. Kindly faces turned to the newcomers, and one large red-faced fellow came and embraced them both. He wore a tall pointed hat decorated with stars, and pinned to the front of his robe was a large shiny brooch proclaiming “Gandalf Lives!” Thank the Valar for that, at least, thought Olgarnon. Their new friends drew them into the circle and began the chant again. They also passed around large mugs of some foaming beverage, which the two wizards greatly enjoyed. After they had had several of these tankards, things began to seem hazy to them, and eventually they lost all track of what was going on. By the time the stars were opening in the darkening sky, both Istari were snoring gently on a heap of straw behind the stall. The Wiccan gathering kindly slipped away without disturbing them.

Olgarnon awoke with a dreadful pain in his head, and found Panortir still asleep beside him. It was morning, and the field was empty. White clouds scudded across a bright blue sky, but Olgarnon found it was rather unpleasant to look up into the brightness. Just as he discovered this, Panortir sat up suddenly beside him, and moaned. “Oh – oh my head! Brother, what is wrong with my head?”
“I do not know, Panortir, but I can assure you that something equally unpleasant is wrong with mine.”
“What shall we do, brother? Where are we to go? And whom are we to help?”
“Pssssst!” Both the wizards jumped at this sound. They looked around, but could not see where it came from. “Pssssst! Over here.”
Under the hedge that bordered the field, a diminutive figure crouched, and was urgently beckoning them to come over to it. They arose cautiously, and staggered to its side. It stood no more than 2 feet high, and was dressed in a rather brightly-green set of doublet and hose. Its elegant ears were delicately pointed and its hair plaited about its face.
“Who are you,” asked Panortir, “are you an Elf-child?”
The being snorted. When it spoke, its voice was a curious blend of the musical speech of the Eldar, and the cosy chat of the tea-and-cake lady. “Child, indeed. I be dwindled, b’ain’t I? Dwindled to a rustic folk, and never an Istar have I see these thousands of years, my masters. Be you come to take us oversea, back to Elvenhome as we still recalls?”
Olgarnon noted the wistful sound behind the surface bravado in the small being’s voice. He spoke gently.
“Master Elf, for so I deem you to be, I fear that it is not within our power to carry you hence. The Havens are no more, and we two are adrift in this land as are you. Did I hear you say ‘we’?”
The small Elf nodded. “There be some few of us still, a-hiding from the mortals who refuse to believe in us – and hence comes our littleness, so I do believe. If’n no-one never looks at you, you tends to become smaller.”
Upon hearing this sad notion, Panortir spoke up. “What can you mean, Master Elf? How can it matter who ‘believes in’ you? You are of the Eldar, though small in stature, and are due the honour and respect of mortals.”
The small one stared up at him for a moment, and his voice broke as he replied, “They calls us – us, that once walked with heroes and kings – they calls us “Piskeys”!”
The two Istari were deeply shocked. Neither could speak for a moment, but then Olgarnon asked, “What is your name, Sir Elf?”
“I am Garen, and I come of the house of Finrod, so I do, though none be left to believe it!”
“Then of your courtesy, Garen of the House of Finrod, do you lead us to the dwellings of your kind. For I think, once we have talked and learned from one another, that my Brother Istar and I may have found our calling.”

And so it came to pass that in the popular tourist site of Tintagel, a new emporium was shortly opened, run by two gentlemen of respectable appearance, whose garments tended towards the opulent but could never quite be called eccentric. Their establishment was called The true elf-lore – and many came to purchase their volumes of tales, elegant sculptures and models, and stunning pictures, all revealing the true glory and splendour of the lineage of the Eldar. And so as many years rolled by, it came to pass that more and more who learned of them would exclaim, “I believe it all, I know it is true!” And the hearts of the two respectable gentlemen were glad. Why, when Garen and his kin came to visit, they were so tall as to pass with ease along the streets of the mortal town, and all looked at them and greeted them pleasantly. And the blessing of their presence was felt again along the Western Shores of Middle Earth.

Here ends this strange, almost incomprehensible tale. It may be that the Lords of Imladris understand more of it than I – and of course they are right in their command that it be preserved for all to learn from it. But who wrote it down? And what does it mean? I, Saranna, cannot tell.

[Raisins]

I remember that from so long ago and I absolutely loved it then Nd I love it still. Very much in theme with Tolkien's own way of writing I think I would have very much missed the introduction had you removed it.

[Baphởmet]

@Saranna that was amazing! I loved not just the "explanation" of wizards number 6 and 7 but also their interaction with the modern world. It came across as very honest but very humorous too, highlighting that there doesn't need to be a dichotomy favoring one or the other. And there was a wonderful cozy feeling in the way you had them integrate into the modern world, finding a way to be a part of it while also remaining somewhat detached and ethereal. Well done!

[Saranna]

@Baphởmet I'm so pleased you enjoyed it and it's very kind of you to make such positive comments. Always cheering when somebody does that!