Snippet Post

[alexcat.livejournal.com]

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[elladansgirl.livejournal.com]

“Yes,” Erestor replied, sounding a little more like himself than he had just a minute ago. “I gave it to him.” he added “for his birthday. He always kept it with him.” Erestor couldn't seem to look away from the journal. “He would always be writing something it in, whenever he had some free time that is. Why is it here?”

Wraith in the Mist

[zeedrippyvessel.livejournal.com]

Summary: Dwalin lived longer than any dwarf in history. By the time he passed, he was already legend. But something even older, moans on the mountain..

When Dwalin returned with Dís all those years to send her sons and brother to the fires, she ignored the gardens. The garden had been Gin's area of expertise and none had the heart to tend it. They were too busy rebuilding Erebor, making it strong again, a Dwarven fortress, a stronghold. Gems were again being mined, the wealth over-flowing to the rebuilt city of Dale and into Esgorath. Laketown was no more, the charred, burnt ruins completely submerged and dissipated beneath the waters, lost, and now forgotten, a rumor passing into legend. The old foundations from the original town were redug on the banks and the city was rebuilt. Again, men came to the mountain, bearing food, gifts. As in the old days, the dwarves had no need to grow their own grain, vegetables, it was brought to them, the men of Dale knew they were safe in the shadow of the mountain, that dwarven warriors there would come to their defense. And did.

Dragon sickness did not run in Dain's line. It was like the times of old, when Thrain ruled, before the dragon, Smaug.

Gin's Garden was choked with weeds, over run by brambles. Many of the stalks appeared dead. It was a gray, desolate place on the side of a gray, desolate mountain.

But over time, the weeds disappeared, the brambles removed. Dwalin noticed these small changes, as did Dís. She was the one who after digging through Thorin and Gin's chambers, found the small gardening tools and handed them to Dwalin. Bad enough her baby boy, her precious sunshine, fell in love with an Elf Maiden, but she felt beholden to her, this elf who saved his life once and followed him in attempt to save him again. Dwalin left the clippers, the trowel, spade and sheers on an old bench.

The next spring, things that initially appeared dead struggled from the ground and in the summer, color, buds burst forth. Over the seasons, Dwalin would leave food, fresh bread, a skin of wine. He would find the empty basket, the linen folded neatly within, on the bench when he returned.

Sometimes, if he listened carefully, he would hear crying, a broken-hearted sobbing, carrying on the wind. At times it disappeared, not heard in moons, making him wonder if she had finally retreated to Greenwood.

But eventually, the crying returned. It always returned.

And the people of Dale and the Dwarves of Erebor whispered of the Ghost on the Mountain.

He'd made a promise to Kili, a promise whispered when the twelve waited at the gates, waited while Thorin raged down in the treasure hall, wrestling with his conscience, fighting the Dragon Sickness. And now it was time to make good on that promise.

As he approached the small glade, he took in the newly risen buds, not yet opened. It was still early in the spring, a cool spring following a horribly wretched cold winter. He approached the bench and reaching into his fur jacket, he removed the scrap of cloth from it and set it on the bench.

“Lass, aye know ye kin hear me,” he began. “Aye'm growin' old. Mahal's Balls, aye'm older 'an any dwarf has evr bin. Aye'm o'a mind t'go visit m'kin an' a few places aye kin bare remember. If yew wanna tag along, aye wuld welcome t'comp'ny. Yer greivin' won git no better stayin' inna mist. 'Tis time, lass. Aye leave inna mornin'.”

He waited.

Nothing.

He took a deep breath. “Look! Aye'v no time fer niceties or sweet words! Yer grievin' has gone on long enough! Either shite or get off the pot!”

[larienelengasse.livejournal.com]

The ground beneath Gildor grew damp and warmer still, and he felt like he was starting to sink into a warm bath. But it was not water that warmed him so - it was his life’s blood ebbing from him and sinking into the thirsty earth. “It is done,” he whispered. His voice was weak and cracking, like dried leaves under a heavy boot. He was struggling to keep his eyes open, to watch the clouds, to smell the clean air and the green woods - he wanted the last things he remembered to be the woods and sky - but he was weary and he was in pain. He wanted to sleep. He wanted to rest. He wanted the pain to stop. He felt so much older than his years.

A shadow passed over his just-closed eyes, and he struggled to open them again but they were swelling shut. Was it a cloud passing the face of Anor, or was it something else?

“It is done.” His swollen lips once again formed the words, but he had no voice left. He could taste metallic blood on his tongue and it coated his throat. He coughed and pink spittle dotted his mouth as white hot pain spread across his abdomen. As his eyelids slid closed again, he heard the piercing cry of an eagle and he smiled. Perhaps it would collect him and carry him home to be buried. In his fading consciousness, he realized he didn’t know where he had fallen.