Still on the Quest

I actually wrote something lately! Then I went and submitted the things I wrote to and couldn't tell anybody about any of them except for my brilliant beta janeturenne. Of course, the good thing about giving is that you receive too, so let's start with the prezzies I got:

For Holmestice I was given Most Peculiar which is a lovely character study of Watson by lelek.

For Yuletide I was given In This House Everything Is Twice, by Jay Tryfanstone, which is based on the book The Children of Green Knowe by Lucy M. Boston.

( And then there were the things I wrote for other people: )

"What on earth is an arboreal ape doing in the library?" The girl with frizzy hair asked. "And why is it chasing that butterfly?"

"Hey, Potter! When did you turn Weasley into a monkey?"

The sound of the ensuing chaos echoed down the halls and penetrated the large, nail-studded door which protected a certain small room. The figures slumped in the battered chairs there didn't move. Chaos was a normal state of affairs for any large building stuffed with adolescents. It wasn't until the poltergeist squeezed frantically through the keyhole and took refuge in the chandelier that the tall man in black reached for the pile of straws on the table.

"No fair transfiguring mine to be the longest straw this time, Minerva," he warned. "You'll take your chances with the rest of us."

"Or what?"

"Or I'll stop dosing the Weasley twins' pumpkin juice of a morning. Now draw."

If you're wondering why this happened, it's in response to the challenge I mentioned here

I'd seen his ilk before -- the proud ones, too smart for their own good in some ways and damnfools in every other. They make poor officers and no wonder, since they can't respect a senior for the uniform, and they're too quick to see the men beneath them as figures on a ledger. But even the worst of 'em has a heart, much as it surprises them to learn it, and he wasn't the worst, no matter how much he might want to be. Hid his hurt with sharp-edged humor, and only took his turn watching over my charge when there was little chance of the patient waking and looking at him blank-eyed. He joked that being forgot was a cruel fate for a man who wanted fame, made light of his sorrow until he'd nearly convinced himself. But I know better.

It wasn't fame he missed but friendship.

It near stopped my heart to see Watson in that opium den, and I did not breathe again until I heard him say that he came only in search of a friend. Better a mission of mercy than a fresh descent into the coils of poppy! But I decided almost at once that it would be less than fair to send him back to his wife with the sickly-sweet smoke still in his hair and the temptation lying ready in his surgery. Accordingly, I let him know of my presence, and arranged that he should spend the night in my company. This he did, thank God, and I believe that the long drive to Kent cleared much of the taint from both our lungs. His nightmares were mild, and easily settled with a touch on the shoulder and a quiet word.

Would that mine would be so quick to fade!

I think I've forgotten what it means to feel warm, Mr. Frodo, and begging your pardon, but it's made me fratchety-like. I'm not best pleased with Mr. Merry or that rascal Pippin, fooling with my spices and all; nor Gandalf and Strider, neither, insisting on no fires day nor night and no matter how much rain or wind. That Boromir still treats us like children half the time, and as for the Elf and the Dwarf! Pride, Gandalf calls it, the way they go on at each other like tweens peacocking in front of a pretty lass. Making an uncomfortable journey worse for all of us is what I call it, and so would my Dad. A Dwarf does this, and an Elf does that, and nothing being done while they flap their gums. Let 'em do something useful I say, and until then they're all leaf and no taters.

Hush, now, little one, your mam needs a mite more sleep, I'm thinking. So come along with your old dad, and we'll watch the night together for a while. Softer than Gandalf's beard you are, and sweeter than all the flowers of Ithilien, and why you'd want to come to a plain hobbit like Sam Gamgee I don't know. But you're here now, and as pretty as the stars in the sky. Come along with me, and I'll show you them.

There, there, no need to fuss. I didn't drop Mr. Frodo on that mountain and I shan't drop you, neither, for all that there's no more bones to you than a lump of dough waiting to rise. I'm strong enough to carry you. I'll carry you to the high towers of Gondor or to the Sea, if that's what you wish for most. I'll carry you to the moon.

I shall be off to a friends house tomorrow, and am frantically attempting to bake my contribution to the festivities tonight. Friday and Saturday I have to work. It should be interesting, as all the darling children will be out of school and bored. By two o'clock I expect to be dragging half of them down from the lighting fixtures and telling the other half that they can't sleep in the library. But I shall be thinking of you all and missing you... So here's another holiday sesquidrabble to tide you over:

archerlass asked for this one.

Holiday

Not much use in roasting a goose this Yule, I suppose. Tis too much trouble to travel now, with all these Men about, and better for my girls to stay where they are. And my lads can't leave their families neither, for all that Chief Pimple says the rules make things safer. I've a bit of ham laid by, and taters in the bin and it'll do. If my Sam were home he'd be mixing up some sage dressing like his mother's. I never saw a hobbit to beat that lad for adding a bit of this or a touch of that, and he'd find a goose, if I know him, if it meant working long past sunset to earn the coin for it. "What's Yulefeast without a goose to share, Dad?" he'd ask me, if he were here.

But it's the sharing, not the goose, that makes the Yule.



ETA: Is anyone else having trouble getting to their friends list?

Ithilien

The flowers made Smeagol sneeze, they did, and the light hurt his eyes, though the Yellow Face was hidden for a long time behind the nearby mountains, and crept out well after the sky had turned blue. He did not like this land, in spite of crunchy birds and careless rabbits. The hobbitses weren't careful here; they forgot that touching left a scent on frond or leaf. Sam-hobbit made a foolish fire while Master was sleeping, and Smeagol had to go quite far to find a hollow tree for his bed. He dreamed Sam called him to share the food, but he covered his ears to keep from hearing the quiet friendly conversation of the two friends. He did not want to taste the mingled herbs and meat. It reminded him of long-ago picnics beside the river, of makeshift meals, and a shared spoon and other things now best forgotten.


( links )

Towers of Men

They’d left the boats in Osgiliath and set up camp for one more night so as to reach the Gates in the morning. Pippin, sent to fetch the Walkers for supper with the soon-to-be-king, found Sam scowling across the Pelennor fields at the distant spires.

“Is that it then?” the gardener asked sourly, nodding toward the city, which was stained pink by the fading light.

“Yes,” Pippin said proudly. “Minas Tirith. Minas Anor now.”

“And I suppose they’ll be having us sleep near Strider?”

“I expect so. In the palace, if not nearby.”

“And that would be near the Gate?”

“No, of course not. It’s all the way up at the top.” Pippin pointed to the high banners, scraps flickering like distant flames in the glow of sunset. “It’s a great honor, Sam.”

“To you it is, perhaps,” Sam grumbled, “But to me it’s just more blessed stairs to climb.”

( links )

Departure

The last time everything in Bag End had reminded him of Bilbo, but now Frodo looked around him and saw Sam. Sam was the mended chair, and the vase of chrysanthemums on the desk. Sam was the song Rosie was singing in the kitchen and the clack of the baby’s rattle, the smell of the bread, baked fresh for their journey and the sweet scent of the kingsfoil he’d planted by the window. Sam was the neatly cobbled mends in the cloak resting now on Frodo’s shoulders.

Sam was here, with the scent of ponies on him, bending to pick up the packs by the fireplace. “Are you ready, Mr. Frodo?” he asked, straightening with the burden, the pale line of the scar on his forehead barely visible under his tan and sunbleached curls.

Frodo picked up the Red Book and took one last look around.

“Yes, Sam,” he said.


( links )