Stories by Indil Salquende

Hobbit Hole

Merry closed his eyes, trying to recall through the pleasant muzziness of Frodo's excellent ale. Pippin had taken his turn with the musicians, pronounced his fingers quite worn out after accompanying an astonishingly fast Springle-ring danced by Primrose Goodbody and Nodo Proudfoot, and gone off to refill his tankard. Merry had become distracted by the sight of a tipsy Bardan Burrows attempting to juggle an egg, a gardening trowel, and his hat while balancing on one foot. Bard had proved surprisingly adept, until a clever fellow had suggested replacing the egg with the chicken that laid it. Everyone had approved of the idea, except for the chicken in question. Its squawks had alerted Sam, who rescued the outraged hen, sent Bardan to beg a mug of strong tea after a few sharp words, and gave Merry a dark look as he marched past, muttering something about "irresponsible Brandybucks" to the chicken tucked under his arm.

Once Removed

There's something not entirely hobbitish about Frodo, sometimes. Which is not to say that he's not a fine hobbit, one of the finest in the Shire, no matter what some may say. They don't know Frodo at all. They don't know anything. Frodo's my cousin, and my friend.

I don't know if I am Frodo's friend.

Friends of Old

So had passed his only encounter with the daughter of Elrond. He had never wished to meet her, for where his heart lay, she had first claim, and he could not usurp her place. Nor would he try. This he had sworn years past, to himself and no other, for his honor's sake and the sake of the Free Peoples of Middle-earth. Aragorn would be King. He would wed his Lady. Someday, long hence for mortals, but no more than the blink of an eye for the Eldar, the widow's veil would dim the light of the Evenstar, and extinguish it at last. But his grief would be that of a friend, and he would go on living unto the world's end. Such was the part of his people; such would his part be. The right was not given him to alter that path.

Night in Lorien

From the curved lip of the silver ewer, Legolas poured cups of the sweet water of Lothlorien. Better than wine, each drop was imbued with the clear memory of snow from the highest peaks, tender shoots of new grass, pale blossoms reflecting in quiet pools, and golden leaves borne on swift currents. Heart's ease it gave to him, of a sort, and he hoped it would do so for the others, though they were not of Elven kindred.