Disclaimer: I believe everyone knows the drill. I don't own Middle-earth, nor any of the characters created by Tolkien. I do, however, claim several yet to come in this story, for Tolkien never mentioned such nor wrote about them. I hope he forgives me this.
Being the Ninth Part of . . . .
With The Rising and Setting of Anar
Miran was barely able to contain the fits of laughter that were tickling their way from his heart, up through his throat, to where they wished to burst forth from his lips. Only by covering his mouth was he spared.
Below him, through the shady boughs of the tree in which he hid, crept his sister. Anara was a beautiful lass, not quite in her tweens she was developing only as a rare and beautiful flower can in a land without evil and fear. She was a rare beauty, but not so much in this land as in places far away, for all who dwelt in Valinor had a rich and cleansing hue to them.
Anara peered about her often, her blue eyes, which were the color of the sky, searched the land and flowers and trees for a brother who had done a great wrong.
"Miran," she spoke finally, glancing here and there. "I know your close, Isilda Miran," she said, using his full name as she often when irritated with his antics. Hands on her hips, Miran couldn't help but note how much she resembled their mother. "If Father hears about this he'll have your hide. You know it as well as I. Come out now and at least admit what you did." She stopped and looked up into the trees exactly were her twin hid.
Miran, with a gasp of playful fright, flattened himself against the tree's trunk. The she-hobbit sighed and shook her head.
"I see you, Ira," was all she said.
With a grin, Miran poked his head from around the trunk, his golden curls catching a ray of sun and glinting. "You're no fun, Ana," he pouted. "I was merely enjoying the cool afternoon."
"While others toil over tasks assigned to you," she said, irritated and highly displeased. "Did you know Dorian is out there right now doing the chores you so carelessly neglected."
Suddenly, the glint in the hobbit-youth's eyes vanished. "I told him to let them be. I'd do them in good time."
Anara glared up at her brother. "Yes, well, Dorian's heart has always been too large for the lot of us. Come on down and we'll finish the chores together," she said with a gusty sigh, for common was the case when days ended as such.
With more agility than any hobbit should posses, Miran scrambled down from the tree's high branches until his furry feet were flat upon the ground. He grinned down at his sister, who was less than an inch shorter than he, and with a shake of her own head of golden curls she smiled fondly at him.
Miran opened his mouth to say something, something of which Anara would never hear, for a shout suddenly rang out from far away and both siblings immediately recognized it.
Anara dashed off first in the direction of the Smial, her footsteps light and swift. Miran came after not a moment later but soon passed his sister, as his legs were longer and stronger.
"Ana! Ira!"
Miran could hear the voice clearly now, high and sweet with an Elvish quality to it. But no Elf was he, merely their older brother Dorian, whom the twin's adored beyond all measure and loved with a fierce and protective passion.
"Here we are, Dorian," Miran called, spying his brother upon the well-worn path leading deeper into the wood. A walking stick was held in the elder hobbit's hand and his usual soft smile was broadened slightly, to hold some secret joy that could be seen even in his silver-hued eyes.
At Miran's cry, Dorian turned his gaze to the fore and his sightless gaze came to rest upon, and then pass over, the younger hobbit.
"Ira, Ana," he said, as Miran approached and grasped his older brother by the hand, indicating that he was here and listening. "You would not believe . . ." he broke off.
"What is it, Dorian?" Ana asked, coming up from behind her twin, barely out of breath and none the worse for the wear.
Dorian's smile broadened. "I cannot say. Come with me and I shall show you."
Miran and Anara looked at the other in obvious confusion but realized without a spoken word that they would get nothing further from their brother. Together, the three turned and made their way to the Smial.
Frodo followed his father, his slightly smaller hand grasped in Drogo's. Neither could help but look at the other on the short trek from the Shore up the winding path to the Smial, though no matter how hard they tried, neither could manage a single word.
Gandalf and the others had remained behind, knowing that it was best for Frodo to deal with this alone, away from prying eyes and listening ears. Bilbo hadn't seemed too aware of late and had greeted Drogo as if the two had just seen eachother yesterday. He had then found greater pleasure in the dream worlds now occupying much of his latter years.
As the two hobbits neared the hobbit-hole that was simply referred to as the Smial (it being the only one in all the West), a soft melody, like that of a summer's breeze, came to greet them upon their entrance.
The hobbit woman sat upon an elegantly carved rocking chair and to the lull of her music she rocked harmoniously back and forth. As Drogo continued forward, Frodo held back, letting his father's hand slip away and only at the last did Drogo stop and peer at his son. But he said not a word, seemingly understanding without asking, and with a nod of his head Drogo approached his wife.
Frodo watched the exchange, fighting back the tears, for this was his mother, his father. His.
Primula turned, then, and her eyes gleamed. She looked back to her husband and something passed between them that Frodo could almost, but not quite, understand. Drogo helped his wife to her feet and it was then that Frodo saw something that caused his eyes to grow wide and his heart to skip several beats.
His mother was large with child.
But the thought vanished almost immediately, as his mother's sobbing voice came to him, almost out of one of his dreams:
"Frodo . . . my son . . ."
Dorian halted suddenly.
"What is it?" Miran hissed, for it seemed to him that his brother heard something. He tilted his head to the side and strained his ears, hoping to catch what it was the elder hobbit heard. He was, however, doomed to disappointment. With a sigh, Miran glanced over at his brother—
And paled visibly. Dorian was crying.
"Oh, Dorian, what's the matter?" Anara cried, fearfully, reaching up and grasping her elder brother's hand.
"Don't you hear?" Dorian asked softly. Neither twin could however, though neither was that surprised. Ever since they could remember, Dorian had had the uncanny ability to know things—things that others, even with their sight, could not. He'd always brushed it aside as being able to hear. But who could hear such things as . . . "Mother," Dorian said, and his face held a strange cast to it, like one who mourns and yet rejoices at the same time, "She's crying."
Without a look, Miran raced for the Smial that was just barely within view but was halted at a suddenly shout from his brother.
"Wait, Miran," Dorian called, and the twin stopped in his tracks to look back at his brother and sister. "She's well. She does not weep."
Miran frowned. "But you said—"
Dorian's sightless eyes gazed out into the distance, past the Smial and beyond even the Shore. His gaze extended to a land he had never known, only heard about in tales told to him by his father.
He squeezed his sister's hand tightly, in a reassuring sort of way and with a sigh, one in which held great relief, said softly so as she could barely hear, "Our brother has come home."
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