Preface: A "drabble" is a short piece of prose of exactly 100 words. A double drabble (exactly 200 words) is a "drouble". A "tribble" has 300 words. A "quabble" has 400 and a "quibble" 500. More than that and you've got yourself a "ficlet".
Drabbles and any variations thereof that are posted here were counted with MS Word.
Drabbles Written for
"Lothíriel – The Tenth Walker! Novel"
Assorted Drabbles of Rohan
"Riders and Horses"
Swords and Sisters
He could not help but feel admiration.
She was slender, almost slight of build. In the beginning just holding the sword with one hand and moving it in a simple arc had made her arm tremble painfully.
Now, after hours, days, weeks and months of practice, endured with a discipline that bordered on stubbornness, she moved with the effortless grace of a wild cat. Her muscles rippled under the skin, her eyes gleamed with a dangerous light.
Yes, he was proud of his sister.
Éowyn would wield her sword with no less splendour than any of the shieldmaidens of old.
Sisters and Brothers
“Singing and destroying, that’s all you care about,” she screamed at him, after he ended his speech about how a lady should behave properly, especially in public. Most especially in front of his men.
“What I endure here means nothing to you! You can always ride away! Whereas I…” Her voice trailed off into tears.
He looked at his sister, dishevelled and distraught, angry and embarrassed at the rebuke.
Suddenly he felt foolish. She had only challenged him to a little sword-play. And she was right. He could leave Meduseld. And he was all too often glad for this freedom.
She was too sleepy to follow the debate. And besides, she already knew where they would end up. Moria, she muttered to herself, pulling up her blanket, trying in vain to find a comfortable spot between fire and hard boulder.
The Misty Mountains loomed dark against a sky that was alight with stars. The quiet murmur of voices – Gandalf's scratchy baritone, Legolas' clear tenor, Boromir's cool northern inflection, Gimli's raucous drawl – was strangely soothing.
Even as she drifted off to sleep, she grew aware that something had changed.
For the first time in her life, she felt at home somewhere.
One More Time
He sees how the division breaks formation, how the warriors stop in their tracks, how they turn to watch something just beyond his field of vision.
He tries to breathe, tries to move, wanting to see what they are looking at, horrified and unnaturally still in the heat of battle.
But he cannot.
No breath, no movement is left to him.
His vision fading in grey and black, his world breaking apart, he seems to hear his niece’s voice, safely back in Rohan.
And on the verge of death, Théoden lingers, longing to see her sweet face one more time.
He thrust open the door and strode across the room, his leather coat billowing around him. He pulled her into his embrace. Desirously he let his hands roam over her body.
She allowed herself to be towed to the bed. She allowed herself to be laid down on the mattress. His hands pulled at the fabric of her dress. Finally the dress was open and gaping.
In the ensuing silence she felt she could hear three heartbeats. Hers, Éomer’s and the ones of her unborn child.
She reached for her husband’s hands and placed them gently on her rounded belly.
There was nothing he could do. They would not even allow him to carry the cauldron with hot water. To be sure, it was not a thing a king customarily did – he was also not sure if was able to carry anything without spilling it at the moment.
His knees were weak with fear. Thus the hero of the War of the Rings was reduced to walking up and down the corridor; shivering and scared… he swallowed hard.
There was already too much blood.
She was already much too weak.
How should he ever survive without his wife? Without his Lothíriel?
A Hero of Rohan
He stared at his wife, trying to ignore the stinking mess in the bucket between them. He stared at his wife, trying to ignore the screeches of the soggy bundle.
His natural inclination was to turn tail and run. Run. As far as his feet could carry him. Or at least out of the nursery. Out of the royal apartments? Out of the Palace of Meduseld?
But, as always, courage, love and inbred Rohirric stubbornness won out.
He forced a smile upon his lips. “Here, let me take him!”
He regretted it instantly, as his son vomited on his shoulder.
Horsebreeding – a tribble
“He was born late in the autumn and yet he is a strong stallion,” Éomer told me. He ran his hand lovingly along the gleaming flank of Hiswa, who turned his head towards his lord and snorted in low-pitched agreement. Hiswa was a noble horse; and Hiswa knew his worth.
“His sire was Snowmane. And Snowmane’s sire was Lightfoot. Hiswa is a worthy son of a noble line of Mearas. I could go on and on for hours about the various extensions of their line.”
Éomer paused for a moment and smiled at me. “Your Mithril is also the descendant of a very worthy line of Mearas. You might be interested to know that she is in no way related to Hiswa.” He glanced at the white mare that was tossing her head impatiently. “She’s a little headstrong, but a fine horse nevertheless.”
I winked at Éomer. By now I knew enough about horse breeding to know what he hinted at. “And why might you choose this time and place to tell me all that?”
“It seemed opportune,” Éomer answered, his face absolutely straight as he watched Hiswa prancing towards Mithril who did not seem altogether averse to the stallion’s attentions.
I raised my eyebrow at the love-struck horses. Then I turned back to my husband. It was a warm summer evening. We were in the middle of the wide and lonely plains of East Emnet and it seemed to me that we would remain here for some time to come. “And what, my lord, might we do until we get the chance to ride back to Edoras?”
A wicked gleam rose in Éomer’s dark eyes. The wind tousled his hair as he reached out for me. “You know, my love, I just might have something in mind for that!”
oooOoooTo Obey Nature
Her buttocks were generous and inviting. Gently rounded, they gleamed in the sunshine, like peaches. And like peaches they were to the touch, so soft were they, and they seemed to him even sweeter. By now he had grown so long and hard that he appeared almost monumental. He was impatient to be inside her, to master her, to make her his. Nature had taken over control of his being, there was no heed left to pay to his surroundings…
The fence, from which Éomer watched contentedly how his prized stallion got ready to stud his sister's mare.
Béma – The Hunter
“I am sure that I have seen him once,” Éomer said abruptly. “Some say that the Valar have turned from us, that they forgotten us…”
He trailed off, hugging her to him. It was obvious that he did not believe what some did. Lothíriel snuggled up to her husband. “Go on, leofest, tell me!”
“I was but a lad… riding out on the plains. A courier ride, all alone. There was a storm coming on, a cloud of thunder and rain. And as such clouds are wont to do sometimes, it took form. It loomed above me in the shape of a great hunter… and it seemed to me that he turned to me… that he bowed to me. And the wind… it was as if there were words in the wind…”
“What were the words?” His wife asked.
“Éomer Eadig, I call thee, mythmaker I dub thee, in thee the oath of Eorl shall return.”
“Then lightning flashed and the storm was upon me, and I was not sure if I had seen anything at all… or if I had only imagined things, in my fear of the tempest…”
He shuddered against her. She felt an icy shiver run down her spine, an intangible feeling of awe that stole her breath away and made her heart race.
“Did you ever tell anyone about this?”
He shook his head. After a moment’s silence, he answered. “No. There was no one. Only my sister. And she was… so emotional, different… some called her deviant. I could not burden her with this…”
“But now you have told me,” Lothíriel whispered and buried her face against his chest.
Éomer laid a gentle kiss on her forehead, blowing away a few strands of her dark hair in a gentle sigh of relief.
“Yes, now I have told you.”
Strangers in the Night
His fingers travelled down her naked body.
"And then we rode South," he took up his tale after having bestowed a fiery kiss.
His fingers delved.
"You are trying to evade me," she accused him. The venture had been dangerous and there were new scars on his body.
"I am?" He moved closer to her.
"Men!" She tried to move away. "Alleged to be steadfast…"
She had been afraid that they might be like strangers to one another, after such a long time…
He looked into her eyes.
Question met answer.
"Never," he whispered, and took her.
"I will not disgrace myself over a girl," Danso spit, glaring at Taliesin. The harper-boy shrugged. "What do you deem worthy to disgrace yourself over, then?"
Danso – well aware that both of them would do anything and everything for Solas – scowled at his friend. Taliesin had such a glib way with words. And he knew exactly how to rile him, who still did not really belong to the court of Meduseld.
"'Tis the way of heroes to ride to war for their maidens – and to fall for them," Taliesin said simply. "Harpers only ever get to stay behind and mourn."
She dreamed of his hands on her body. Lost in her dream, she pulled the blanket away, turning her ripening belly towards him, pushing against him, trying to guide him to the fertile plains below the swelling that was their growing child… she wanted him so much… She wanted to cool her heated skin with the sweat of shared desire.
But in her dream, even as she turned, she was aware that he was not there. It was Grimsir, who reached for her, who touched the skin between her legs and alleviated her needs.
Éomer was lost.
She woke, screaming.
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