SilliMarilli

But everywhere he looked he saw the signs of war. The Misty Mountains were crawling like anthills: orcs were issuing out of a thousand holes.

FOTR: The Breaking of the Fellowship

~oOo~



~oOo~

I no longer smell the smoke, though I doubt not its acrid scent yet clings to my dress and hair. My very skin bears its traces and I know myself not unmarked.

Ai! Nienna of the Countless Tears, have pity on us, I pray!
( Continued here )

You will meet many foes, some open, and some disguised; and you may find friends upon your way when you least look for it.

FOTR: The Ring Goes South

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~oOo~

Whatever could that be?

I halt of a sudden upon the path and my son bumps into my leg.

"Ammë?" he asks, peering up at me.

But I spare him no mind, for a great shouting and an ox bawling in vexation has reached my ears. Down the line of ploughmen and cotters comes the sound of voices raised in anger. Heads turn as men scramble away from their source and a murmuring as the wind rising through the pines runs through them.
( Continued here )

'Few now remember them,' Tom murmured, 'yet still some go wandering, sons of forgotten kings walking in loneliness, guarding from evil things folk that are heedless.'

FOTR: Fog on the Barrow-Downs

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~oOo~

"Ara-gost, Ara-vorn, Ara-had," my son laboriously recites, checking over his work, for I have set him to putting to memory the lines of the Kings of the Northkingdom and the Chieftains of the Dúnedain.

We sit together after the evening meal, my lord's table lit by candles, he with his lessons and I with my journal. For it has rained all through the day and looks to continue through the night. My child has been restless. He played upon the floor about the hearth, lining his carved figures into battles and I was much pressed to pay no heed to his harsh yells and the clatter of his toys. When that no longer held his mind, he donned the rough quilted tunic I had made for him, its folds filled with river-sand to accustom his young limbs to the weight, and took up his wooden sword.
( Continued here )

'But I must admit,' he added with a queer laugh, 'that I hoped you would take to me for my own sake. A hunted man sometimes wearies of distrust and longs for friendship.'

FOTR: Strider

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~oOo~

The sun beats upon my head so that the hair on my neck is a torture. I cannot bear to wear a scarf about my head and so have abandoned it. Still, though I wear my hair in a braid as always, errant strands cling to my skin. They itch and tickle and I push at them, wishing I had thought to coil their length atop my head. Ah, but it is hot! My very shift seems as a second skin pasted to my back. The current rushes burbling against my knees as I gingerly balance my bare feet on the river stones. The distant rattling beat of a woodpecker echoes over the river and, when I scoop up cool water and pat it upon my face and beneath the line of my shift, I search the trees for the bird's telltale flicker.
( Continued here )

Legolas stood before the gate and turned his bright eyes away north and east, and his fair face was troubled. ‘I do not think that any would come,’ he answered. ‘They have no need to ride to war; war already marches on their own lands.’

ROTK: The Passing of the Grey Company

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~oOo~

"Have you naught you would say, Master Bachor?"

The man sighs, running a hand through his dark hair.

"I am unsure whether any word of mine shall have a bearing on this matter, my lady," he says.
( Continued here )

It was the pride and wonder of the Northern Line that, though their power departed and their people dwindled, through all the many generations the succession was unbroken from father to son.

LOTR: Appendix A: Annals of the Kings and Rulers

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~oOo~

There they are, my lord leading his horse up the dusty path with my son perched atop. Edainion's fingers twist deeply in the horse's mane as he squeals.

"Mamil! Mamil!" he cries when he catches sight of me. "Look! I ride at'inya horse!"
( Continued here )

The further you go, the less easy will it be to withdraw; yet no oath or bond is laid on you to go further than you will. For you do not yet know the strength of your hearts, and you cannot foresee what each may meet upon the road.'

FOTR: The Ring Goes South

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~oOo~

I cup the wick with its bright petal of flame in my palm. A mist creeps down the river and throughout the meadows of our home, muffling the sounds of nightfall. Indoors, we are comfortable, with the fire to warm us and our beds awaiting our slumbers. By rights, it is my lord's voice that should call the blessing, but in his stead it is I who give thanks.

"Thanks we offer to the One for the giving of his gifts," I say. "I name my lord, son of Arathorn, Lord and Chieftain of the Dúnedain, and am blessed for the strength of his will that shelters his people against the Shadow and preserves his life where his foes would claim it."
( Continued here )

'Only a Ranger!' cried Gandalf. `My dear Frodo, that is just what the Rangers are: the last remnant in the North of the great people, the Men of the West.'

FOTR: Many Meetings

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~oOo~

The next morning, I awoke early. The sky lightened slowly in the frame of the solar's windows and I, curled upon my side, watched the sun's rising and listened to the soft sounds my lord made as he slept.

A thing I have learned of him, my lord takes his pleasure most oft upon his awakening. Atimes, I would rouse to his lips upon the ridge of my ear and his hands upon me, calling softly to me. Others, he would stretch his limbs to find me waking and so draw me to him to gentle himself fully alert. And then there were the mornings when I awoke before my lord and held myself as if I slumbered still. For I knew, should I rise from the bed we shared, 'twas not likely I would feel his touch that day.
( Continued here )

The Men and Dwarves were mostly talking of distant events and telling flews of a kind that was becoming only too familiar. There was trouble away in the South, and it seemed that the Men who had come up the Greenway were on the move, looking for lands where they could find some peace. The Bree-folk were sympathetic, but plainly not very ready to take a large number of strangers into their little land.

FOTR: At the Sign of the Prancing Pony

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~oOo~

My lord sits in the dappled and shifting shade where the limbs of the old oak spread out above the stone wall. There Halbarad has carried his chair and the wind stirs the leaves to dancing above his head as he sits and looks out upon the folk of the village. Crows and rooks raise their harsh cries over the stubble of the fields where we set the beasts of the Angle to graze. My lord has asked me to stand with him and so I do, just within a raised hand's distance from the back corner of his chair where his Steward would be placed had he one. There I listen to the cawing echo deep against the line of the forest. Let the black-winged birds cock their glittering eyes to the ground and peck at the furrows. No longer do the children and dogs chase them away. We leave off our long battle and surrender the fields to them, for we have already carried off the greater prize. Rings and bushels of grain stuff our granaries full to the bursting and we can afford to relax our vigil against them.
( Continued here )

Indeed there is a power in Rivendell to withstand the might of Mordor, for a while: and elsewhere other powers still dwell. There is power, too, of another kind in the Shire. But all such places will soon become islands under siege, if things go on as they are going. The Dark Lord is putting forth all his strength.

FOTR: Many Meetings

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~oOo~

"My lady," Elesinda says. "Shall I save this or put it to the geese?" She tips a bowl toward me with the heels and scraps of bread, near half a loaf.

"Yes, save it and let it dry," I say. "The plums ripen quickly and we could make a pudding of it."

She smiles and I know she thinks either of Halbarad's love of sweets or my attempts to cozen my lord, or perhaps both. Either thought brings a fondness to her face and I am well pleased.
( Continued here )