B2MeM: Drabble collection
Mar. 25th, 2006 07:36 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
illwyndTitle: Dreams and Nightmares
author: illwynd
Disclaimer: Not mine! Gosh, I love those two words.
Summary: various dreams and nightmares of other paths.
Rating: PG for dark themes
Notes: I think this fits today, dunno why though. Drabbles, double-drabbles, and a half-drabble. There may be a bit of mingling of sources here, but not too bad.
Living Dream (belatedly dedicated to my friend Manveru)
In Irmo’s garden of living dream, Nienna walks, sometimes. The beauty of Lorien is perfect, splendid in all ways. Life flourishes as it once did. Irmo wonders why, in this unspoiled place, she still weeps. He does not hear what she hears; the sobs and pleas of the injured and dying, the dirges of the grieving, the gasping breath of despair touching a thousand hearts, the near-silent hum of a world in pain. She walks, and imagines the world as it might have been, unmarred. She walks, and weeps, and dreams that no discord had ever come into the Song.
Bittersweet
After the council, Elrond sat long in thought before sleep crept over him. The tense meeting between Estel and the stranger from the south brought to mind a long-abandoned path, and in his dream he saw its final ending. No man of Gondor had come so far north, so near to their estranged kin. Arnor, never divided but again besieged, had sent its prince to seek counsel. The man, never named Estel and not betrothed to Arwen, would not travel with the company.
The Fellowship would go with less hope. But Arwen would be safe.
Elrond’s waking smile tasted bitter-sweet.
Dreaming of Sleep
Gollum dreamed. Mostly dreams of fish, or juicy fresh meat, but sometimes there were other dreams, forgotten upon waking. Dreams of sunlight that was warm and welcome, dreams of friendly faces, dreams of pleasant things. There was comfort in those dreams, and he would feel light and happy for the rest of the day, dark as his days were at the roots of the mountain. The other dreams, dreams of his grandmother, the whispers that had driven him away, those made him twitch in his sleep, and put him in a nasty mood, and made him hungry. The rarest dreams were the shortest, and the worst. He would sometimes dream that he felt Deagol’s fingers curling around his throat, and he would feel himself becoming weak, and letting the precious thing fall from his grasp. His eyes would darken on the sight of his friend holding the shining thing up to the light, smiling. In his sleep he would smile as well, and would dream no more that night, for his dream was of death long ago, and rest, and peace. Those dreams were awful, and when he woke he would hold his Precious tightly, never wanting to let go.
In the Dark
Gandalf stared out across the sea, standing next to the other ringbearers at the Havens. He looked at the old hobbit beside him, and suddenly he remembered an odd, forgotten dream that had come to him years ago, after his suspicions were confirmed and he had returned briefly to Imladris. He had dreamed of quiet footsteps in darkness, and ripples lapping in a pool. He heard stumbling, and the sound of a hobbit picking himself up and dusting himself off without pause. He did not pick it up! Gandalf watched as Sting’s light illuminated the cave, and the two figures within. He watched the riddle game progress, and he saw Bilbo falter for words, unable to come up with another riddle. He had nothing in his pocket.
Sting clattered to the ground unused, and Gandalf wanted to shut his eyes on the scene before him. Gollum, wandering after the last of his meal, put his hand on the ground.
“Ah! The Precious? Did we drop you? Must be more careful, gollum…” When Gandalf woke, he had shuddered and sought Bilbo, who was dozing peacefully. If all fates are half-chance, Gandalf thought to himself then, lucky number he had been indeed.
Neither
Pippin had fallen asleep waiting for Gandalf to return to their rooms in Minas Tirith. The Lord of the City had said something after Faramir had left once again; it had been only a chance comment, like a private thought put to voice, and not meant for his ears, but still Pippin couldn’t get it out of his mind.
“I ought to have never allowed either of my sons to chase a riddle! Would that I had not, and they were both still here beside me!” Denethor had muttered bitterly.
Now that sentence haunted his dreams and troubled his sleep. He dreamed of setting out from Rivendell months before, with eight companions, but no horn sounded in the valley. He dreamed of walking ever southwards, with kin and friends and the dwarf and two elves, the other surely a mighty elven warrior, but still the change put him bereft of the kindly companionship of one he wouldn’t have known to miss. It also put the company without the one among them who knew of journeys in high places. Pippin dreamed of a mountain, and of blue-white cold, and of death. When he woke in the morning sun, he still shivered.
Bright Halls
The first night under the eaves of the Golden Wood, the occasional murmurs of grief that echoed around the camp did not disturb Gimli’s sleep. He had laid down to dreams grateful for the respite. Now, in dreams, he was happy. The Fellowship again was entering Moria, and once through the doors they had been met by Balin’s folk. They were escorted through long passages to the great halls, and the halls of Khazad-dûm were lit with great lamps. They were led to a room with long tables adorned with all the foodstuffs a hungry dwarf could dream of, and plenty of ale, and the ancient workmanship of the walls around him was by itself a feast for the eyes. Better still was the sight of Balin, alive and well, and others of his kin that Gimli had known or met. The fellowship had rested there in those fine halls for days, hearing tell of the original struggle with Orcs, and the dwarves’ triumph, and their subsequent work, and at last when it was time to head onward, they left untroubled, and their number was still nine.
Gimli woke in the darkness of the wood, with tears wetting his face.
Final Journey
Merry had long wished to make this journey, and as he and Pippin passed the borders into Gondor, they shared a smile at their memories, and headed onward to meet again their friends. But Merry’s dreams that night were dark. He saw this same journey, taken alone, to Rohan only. He saw the White Lady, solemn Queen of her people, who sat alone. They spoke of ruined Gondor in the south, and the doomed battle they had both missed. Only Pippin’s presence and the far-off sight of the White City, glorious in the dawn, could shake away his waking terror.
To Dust
Bilbo had been in Rivendell, without his Ring, for years before Gandalf told him the true nature of the Ring. That night, he had not slept soundly. He had been thinking just before sleep of how close he and the Ring had come to the Necromancer, passing only to the north of his fortress on the forest road. He had shuddered to think of what might have happened. His dreams managed to envision other bad ends. He dreamed of a stone crashing down onto his helm during the Battle, and of the blackness that followed, though he did not wake from it this time. He dreamed of seeing himself appear again suddenly in the midst of the crows’ feast, unmoving. He watched the dwarves and the Lake-men lower him into the grave and cover him with earth, the Ring still on his finger; magic or not, it had been his, and they would not have robbed him of it even in death. He dreamed of some distant day, when the ground had changed and his bones were dust; a golden Ring lay on the ground unguarded, and an eye wreathed in flame sought it with the wrath of long waiting…
Listen…
Frodo watched as the distant havens dwindled. He thought of the life he might have lived, comfort in the Shire. That life, however, was separated from him by more than the green rushing waves, and his dreams that night sang of stars above the sea-mists, shining on the farthest shore.
author: illwynd
Disclaimer: Not mine! Gosh, I love those two words.
Summary: various dreams and nightmares of other paths.
Rating: PG for dark themes
Notes: I think this fits today, dunno why though. Drabbles, double-drabbles, and a half-drabble. There may be a bit of mingling of sources here, but not too bad.
Living Dream (belatedly dedicated to my friend Manveru)
In Irmo’s garden of living dream, Nienna walks, sometimes. The beauty of Lorien is perfect, splendid in all ways. Life flourishes as it once did. Irmo wonders why, in this unspoiled place, she still weeps. He does not hear what she hears; the sobs and pleas of the injured and dying, the dirges of the grieving, the gasping breath of despair touching a thousand hearts, the near-silent hum of a world in pain. She walks, and imagines the world as it might have been, unmarred. She walks, and weeps, and dreams that no discord had ever come into the Song.
Bittersweet
After the council, Elrond sat long in thought before sleep crept over him. The tense meeting between Estel and the stranger from the south brought to mind a long-abandoned path, and in his dream he saw its final ending. No man of Gondor had come so far north, so near to their estranged kin. Arnor, never divided but again besieged, had sent its prince to seek counsel. The man, never named Estel and not betrothed to Arwen, would not travel with the company.
The Fellowship would go with less hope. But Arwen would be safe.
Elrond’s waking smile tasted bitter-sweet.
Dreaming of Sleep
Gollum dreamed. Mostly dreams of fish, or juicy fresh meat, but sometimes there were other dreams, forgotten upon waking. Dreams of sunlight that was warm and welcome, dreams of friendly faces, dreams of pleasant things. There was comfort in those dreams, and he would feel light and happy for the rest of the day, dark as his days were at the roots of the mountain. The other dreams, dreams of his grandmother, the whispers that had driven him away, those made him twitch in his sleep, and put him in a nasty mood, and made him hungry. The rarest dreams were the shortest, and the worst. He would sometimes dream that he felt Deagol’s fingers curling around his throat, and he would feel himself becoming weak, and letting the precious thing fall from his grasp. His eyes would darken on the sight of his friend holding the shining thing up to the light, smiling. In his sleep he would smile as well, and would dream no more that night, for his dream was of death long ago, and rest, and peace. Those dreams were awful, and when he woke he would hold his Precious tightly, never wanting to let go.
In the Dark
Gandalf stared out across the sea, standing next to the other ringbearers at the Havens. He looked at the old hobbit beside him, and suddenly he remembered an odd, forgotten dream that had come to him years ago, after his suspicions were confirmed and he had returned briefly to Imladris. He had dreamed of quiet footsteps in darkness, and ripples lapping in a pool. He heard stumbling, and the sound of a hobbit picking himself up and dusting himself off without pause. He did not pick it up! Gandalf watched as Sting’s light illuminated the cave, and the two figures within. He watched the riddle game progress, and he saw Bilbo falter for words, unable to come up with another riddle. He had nothing in his pocket.
Sting clattered to the ground unused, and Gandalf wanted to shut his eyes on the scene before him. Gollum, wandering after the last of his meal, put his hand on the ground.
“Ah! The Precious? Did we drop you? Must be more careful, gollum…” When Gandalf woke, he had shuddered and sought Bilbo, who was dozing peacefully. If all fates are half-chance, Gandalf thought to himself then, lucky number he had been indeed.
Neither
Pippin had fallen asleep waiting for Gandalf to return to their rooms in Minas Tirith. The Lord of the City had said something after Faramir had left once again; it had been only a chance comment, like a private thought put to voice, and not meant for his ears, but still Pippin couldn’t get it out of his mind.
“I ought to have never allowed either of my sons to chase a riddle! Would that I had not, and they were both still here beside me!” Denethor had muttered bitterly.
Now that sentence haunted his dreams and troubled his sleep. He dreamed of setting out from Rivendell months before, with eight companions, but no horn sounded in the valley. He dreamed of walking ever southwards, with kin and friends and the dwarf and two elves, the other surely a mighty elven warrior, but still the change put him bereft of the kindly companionship of one he wouldn’t have known to miss. It also put the company without the one among them who knew of journeys in high places. Pippin dreamed of a mountain, and of blue-white cold, and of death. When he woke in the morning sun, he still shivered.
Bright Halls
The first night under the eaves of the Golden Wood, the occasional murmurs of grief that echoed around the camp did not disturb Gimli’s sleep. He had laid down to dreams grateful for the respite. Now, in dreams, he was happy. The Fellowship again was entering Moria, and once through the doors they had been met by Balin’s folk. They were escorted through long passages to the great halls, and the halls of Khazad-dûm were lit with great lamps. They were led to a room with long tables adorned with all the foodstuffs a hungry dwarf could dream of, and plenty of ale, and the ancient workmanship of the walls around him was by itself a feast for the eyes. Better still was the sight of Balin, alive and well, and others of his kin that Gimli had known or met. The fellowship had rested there in those fine halls for days, hearing tell of the original struggle with Orcs, and the dwarves’ triumph, and their subsequent work, and at last when it was time to head onward, they left untroubled, and their number was still nine.
Gimli woke in the darkness of the wood, with tears wetting his face.
Final Journey
Merry had long wished to make this journey, and as he and Pippin passed the borders into Gondor, they shared a smile at their memories, and headed onward to meet again their friends. But Merry’s dreams that night were dark. He saw this same journey, taken alone, to Rohan only. He saw the White Lady, solemn Queen of her people, who sat alone. They spoke of ruined Gondor in the south, and the doomed battle they had both missed. Only Pippin’s presence and the far-off sight of the White City, glorious in the dawn, could shake away his waking terror.
To Dust
Bilbo had been in Rivendell, without his Ring, for years before Gandalf told him the true nature of the Ring. That night, he had not slept soundly. He had been thinking just before sleep of how close he and the Ring had come to the Necromancer, passing only to the north of his fortress on the forest road. He had shuddered to think of what might have happened. His dreams managed to envision other bad ends. He dreamed of a stone crashing down onto his helm during the Battle, and of the blackness that followed, though he did not wake from it this time. He dreamed of seeing himself appear again suddenly in the midst of the crows’ feast, unmoving. He watched the dwarves and the Lake-men lower him into the grave and cover him with earth, the Ring still on his finger; magic or not, it had been his, and they would not have robbed him of it even in death. He dreamed of some distant day, when the ground had changed and his bones were dust; a golden Ring lay on the ground unguarded, and an eye wreathed in flame sought it with the wrath of long waiting…
Listen…
Frodo watched as the distant havens dwindled. He thought of the life he might have lived, comfort in the Shire. That life, however, was separated from him by more than the green rushing waves, and his dreams that night sang of stars above the sea-mists, shining on the farthest shore.
