Hoarding

Atop Bag End Frodo surveyed the West Farthing. Never had there been such a harvest.

The Shire shone like some magical dragon hoard. Yellow gold wheat fields whispered beside flowing silvered barley, hedgerows glowed copper and dripped blood garnet berries, as though land could not contain all the life pulsing within.

Following last year's ruin these excesses seemed miraculous. Jam pans bubbled sweetly in kitchens and early apples were pressing. The harvesters were called and soon barns would groan with their bounty. Then would come parties.

Frodo hoarded this memory, knowing next harvest would be his last in the Shire.

END

KILLING STORM

Within Imladris shortening days bring quiet as birds depart and mammals scuttle to the safety of dark burrows. Mountains, once shelter from winter's excess, now funnel autumn breezes, swirling dry leaves into clattering vortexes. First snow ices surrounding peaks while residents shelter from rain storms that erase trails and drown river meadows.

Foraged wood feeds fresh kindled hearths, offering sweet incense to threatening skies. Instruments are tuned, embroideries stretched, quills sharpened, arrows fletched and knives honed as residents prepare for winter's dreadful siege.

Outside, autumn dives headlong into killing storm but inside ageless life endures, calmly listening for dooms' footstep.

END

CROWDED WITH EMPTINESS

Fastred's chins quivered and Elanor cried openly as she clutched the worn Red Book to her bosom. All last evening Sam's children had begged him to stay, to move in with them. But, as though Rosie's love had been the dam, her death allowed the sea to breach his soul, salt breeze beckoning.

He watched the grey gulls circling high about crumbling elven towers, knowing at last why Frodo had taken this road, crowded with emptiness, to The Havens.

It was time for this last Ringbearer to take the ship that runs West of the Moon, East of the Sun.

END