Golden Farewell
Abandoning the illusive quest for sleep, Frodo wrapped himself against the chill and slipped from Bag End, to settle with tea and pipe upon the new bench by the gate.
In a hawthorn down the lane, blackbird broke the silence and others swelled his chorus, as Anor crept stealthily from behind the hills, to paint the grey sky, palest gold. In the valley woodsmoke mingled with morning mist as fires were stoked for first breakfast and cows lowed mournfully for milking. Within Bag End a babe fretted.
Frodo committed all to memory on this, his last dawn in the Shire.
END
THE SOLDIER'S DREAM
Faramir presumes that all soldier's dreams are troubled islands. Within Ithilien's close-quartered hideaway sleep is oft salted with cries and his men huddle about fires in the wee hours; weary eyes red-rimmed within pale faces.
He remembers his enemies varied faces, their pain, surprise and fear, resignation, even sometimes their relief. If any killing could be considered easier it would be orcs for they have little humanity left, but these men of the South ride the high-cresting wave of his dreams with their fading eyes.
He wonders, when the time comes, what his enemy will find in Faramir's departing gaze.
END
For the prompt - To Cut YOURSELF
It all belongs to JRR Tolkien. I am only borrowing for a few moments and promise to return it, more or less intact.
HERITAGE
Estel eyes the kit with trepidation. Soap and fat little brush are innocuous but the knife looks lethal and why a pot of cream?
Elrond instructs his heart-son. "Wet the brush and apply lather with a circular motion." Estel feels confident in this at least.
"Now scrape the knife against the direction of hair growth, pulling the skin taut." Estel fights laughter as Elrond demonstrates the facial contortions required.
"Ouch!" He presses a finger to the nick and Elrond holds up the pot.
"Where did you learn about shaving, Adar?"
"Isildur." The name reverberates ominously between them.
END
LOREMASTERS
The Shire did not produce paper, making it an expensive commodity.
Of course, Bilbo Baggins could afford it but packages from Rivendell were always welcome. Sometimes they came with the carter, via Bree, but on other mornings he would find a carefully wrapped package on the doorstep; perhaps left by some passing traveller to the Havens. It seemed Loremaster Elrond remembered a stray comment, in which Burglar Bilbo declared his love of writing.
Now, as Bilbo sat in his study, he heard Frodo in the kitchen, carefully slicing the smooth, creamy sheets into a size more suited to hobbit fingers.
END