A Hobbit és a Gyűrűk Ura között

Nemrégiben terjedt a hír, hogy tervben van egy új sorozat, amely a Hobbit és a Gyűrűk Ura közötti történéseket ölelné fel. Quendi kategóriás versenyzőink így azt a feladatot kapták, hogy írjanak egy-egy rövid történetet a Szövetség egy tagjáról az adott időszakból. Két kedvencünket tesszük közzé, érdemes elolvasni őket. :)

Maybe you have heard that a new LOTR TV series is planned. Set in Middle Earth, the television adaptation will explore new storylines between Tolkien’s The Hobbit and The Fellowship of the Ring. We asked our competitors to imagine and write down a short story set in that timeline about any character from the Fellowship. Here are our two favourites, they are really worth reading!

1, Thorongil - by Erevanur

Thorongil walked from the meeting deep in thought. Destroying the Corsair’s fleet in the Havens of Umbar would be no easy task. Yet try as he might, his thoughts kept straying. It was a beautiful spring day and he wondered if the Mallorn leaves had begun to fall in Lothlorien, and if they were, was Arwen now at this very moment walking amidst their golden leaves. He wondered if she had spared a thought for him in all this time. He had thought of her often since they last parted. He stopped at a balcony and looked out over the white city. It could be his, he thought as he looked down at the ring he wore, but what right had he to claim it. He tapped the ring absently against the stone railing of the balcony while he made up his mind. It had been too long he decided, since he had been home. He would do this one last task for Ecthelion and then he would return to the north. He felt good about the decision, the sound of laughter drew him from his thoughts and he looked down. Below the balcony was a garden and playing in it was Finduilas and her young son Boromir. Thorongil smiled at the scene and was content to watch them in silence, when suddenly someone grabbed his arm pulling him away from the railing.
“Don’t think I don’t know what you’re up to.” Denethor seethed, but Thorongil could only stare at him blankly, uncertain where this sudden attack had come from.

“I’ve been watching you since you first arrived, I’ve seen how you wormed your way into my father’s council. And now Mithrandir shows up warning us about a sudden threat from Umbar.”
“I don’t…” Thorongil started to say but Denethor cut him off.
“I know who you are… Aragorn.” He spit the name out as though it left a bad taste in his mouth while grabbing Thorongil’s hand and lifting the ring of Barahir between them. His point made he released Thorongil’s arm and continued. “I can see it now, plain as day, you and that… Istari, you mean to usurp me.”
“You misunderstand.” Thorongil said diplomatically.
“What other reason could you have for wanting to lead Gondor’s forces to attack Umbar, for insisting that I stay behind? You’re the son my father’s always wanted, brave and strong, not scholarly like me. You mean to claim victory over Gondor’s enemies for yourself so that you can return and claim the throne.”
Thorongil stood in shock, he had no idea what to say in the face of such accusations, but he sensed denying them would only add fuel to Denethor’s argument. If he was going to have any chance of explaining himself he would have to try a different tactic.
“Come here,” Thorongil said peaceably as he stepped back over to the balcony railing, “I want to show you something.” Denethor hesitated a moment before joining him, though he stayed a step back from the rail. He followed Thorongil’s gaze down into the garden and his face softened ever so slightly as he caught sight of his wife and young son. “Perhaps you do not know this about me, but my own father was killed when I was but two years old. I never really got the chance to know him, but I saw how deeply his passing affected my mother. That is the reason why I insisted you stay behind, because you have a wife and child who need you, and I do not.”

In the garden below Finduilas caught sight of them and waved. Denethor inclined his head in acknowledgement.
“You needn’t worry, if I survive the battle to come, I will to return to the north.” This time it was Denethor’s turn to stand in shock unsure of what to say. “Farewell Denethor, I do not believe we shall meet again.” And with those final words Thorongil left Denethor standing silently on the balcony. A few moments later Finduilas approached carrying Boromir in her arms.
“Was not Lord Thorongil with you? I thought I saw him.” She asked innocently.
“He was, and now he’s gone.”
“Gone where?”
“My father has asked him to lead our armies to Umbar and destroy the forces that are massing there.” He said with no emotion, but Finduilas looked worried.
“What of you? Are you also to sail for Umbar?”
“No, it was decided that I should remain here.” He said and missed the look of relief on his wife’s face.
“Come,” Finduilas said with a smile, “Let Boromir teach you the new game he’s come up with.”
She said as she took her husband’s hand and lead him away.

2,  An unexpected guest - by Curuvane

First Hall of Moria, T.A.2994

“BAROOM!!!”
Nithi, son of Nár, Gatekeeper of the East-gate, looked up at the great brass horns, shining high above him in the light of the high eastern windows. The horns had only been installed last week, replacing the old horns, which had long been lost. Nithi loved the sigh of them above all. Most of his brethren had a deep love for gold,
silver, gems, or even the refound mithril. But Nithi loved above else brass. And of all he had ever wrought of it, or ever had seen wrought by others, he loved the new Horns of the Great Gates of Khazad- dûm best. Although… maybe that had also something to do with the fact that they aided him in his job. There were visitors coming to
Moria. Their messenger to King Dáin Ironfoot had returned.
As the large gates slowly opened, the messenger was greeted by the sight of a full Dwarvish welcome, worthy of a messenger between Dáin II, King of Durin's Folk, and the highest of his vassals, Balin, Lord of Moria. In the middle of the welcoming committee stood a very old looking dwarf with a long, white beard. He already had seen 231 years, which was very well at the end of the life span of a normal dwarf, as well as a respectable age for a dwarf of Durin’s Folk. But despite that, he jumped up and sped down the grand stairway, running down
the steps to the messenger with his arms spread wide and an even wider grin on his normally so reserved face. But the messenger and he knew each other too well. They had been through so much already.
“Cousin!!!” Lord Balin cried out. “It’s been too long!”
The messenger stopped, spread his arms, and braced himself.
“Balin!” he cried out as well, as he embraced the old Lord of Moria.
“Aye, aye! I got them, cousin.” Óin said. He opened the bag on his side and pulled out some rolls of paper.
As Balin opened them, he saw not the letters from his liege lord as he expected, but instead copies of the old songs of his people. For a moment, he stared blankly at them, before dropping it, reaching into Óin’s bag, putting the ear trumpet to the dwarf’s ear, and shouting it: “IT’S BEEN TOO LONG!”
Óin raised an eyebrow and thought back. He remembered Balin waving him goodbye, shouting one last thing to him. “Go and take the song!” Although, on second thought, ‘donnae take too long’ might very well be what he actually said. He wanted to say something to excuse himself, but Balin was laughing his apologies away.
“It is okay, my cousin.” he laughed, and he clapped him on the shoulder. “Just tell me, did ye bring the documents?”
“Of course!” Óin said, lifting another bag off his shoulder and presenting it to his lord.
“Wonderful!” Balin took the bag, rumbled through the contents, then with a content smile handed the bag to one of his servants who had only just reached him. Then he turned to Óin. “Has anything
special happened on yer road?”
Óin’s face brightened and he nodded. “Aye, cousin. I have brought a visitor!” Balin’s eyes widened, as his cousin turned around and shouted over his shoulder: “Lad!”
From in between the guards, a broad dwarf stepped forward, with an oaken-haired beard, reaching to just below his collarbones. “My liege.” he said formally.
“Cousin,” Óin said, “may I introduce to ye: Gimli, son of Glóin, my brother.”
Gimli was sat at the Lord’s table, as the drums were beaten and the brass horns were blown, and the cooks brought in their dishes to show off their prized roasts. Gimli was accustomed to the feasts at Erebor, but there, though he was of Durin’s line, he was but a distant cousin of the king. Here however, he was the Lord’s cousin, and sat directly at his table. At 115 years of age, he was well considered an adult dwarf, but due to him spending his years in the Blue Mountain Halls and Erebor alone, he had seen little of the world, and the growing realm of Khazad-dûm, reviving the most ancient halls and ruins of his people, spoke to the sheltered dwarf’s imagination, and the sights lit dreams of ancient glory in his heart like a spark to a lake of oil.
Balin looked at his nephew and smiled at him. “Impressive, nay?”
Óin knew that his nephew was of a stern, sometimes even grim nature, but now, his brother’s son was almost beaming. “Aye…” he almost whispered. As he looked on, he saw pillar after pillar, lit by torchlight, going on until the far distance where his Dwarven eyes saw not. But even beyond that, he could see the darkness of the
unused space of the hall. “So grand…” he whispered.
Then, far outside, a cloud moved away from in front of the moon, and a beam of crystalline light made its way through an unobstructed path in the solid rock, cutting through the darkness, and into the wall
above a great door, behind the seat of Lord Balin.
“This, laddie, is the Twenty-first Hall.” Balin said, with a smile of pride playing on his ancient face. He stood and turned to the door where the light ended. “And that, is where I keep my court: the Chamber of Mazarbul.”
At those words, two Dwarven guards pushed open the door, revealing a small podium, and on it, wrought out of stone and the silvery mithril, a small, stone throne, beautiful and elegant in its simplicity, and a perfect reflection of both the regrowing Dwarven realm, as well as its ruler.
Gimli got up with a face of radiant awe. “May I… see?” he asked.
Lord Balin nodded. “Aye. But ye are still the Lord’s cousin. So ye may only tread where the guards deem it safe, laddie.”
As Gimli left the table, Balin felt a hard tug at his sleeve, strong enough to turn him halfway around. Óin was standing there, his face sterner than Balin could ever remember seeing him, his ear trumpet raised in one hand. “I might be half deaf, cousin, but I know the whispers the guards speak.” the old dwarf spoke.
“What are ye…” Balin began, but Óin dared interrupt him.
“Donnae play tricks with me, cousin! I know ye too well for that!” He leaned in closer, until his mouth was a mere inch from the other dwarf’s ear. “I know what the guards speak of. I know that Azanulbizar was only safe because the high number of yer guards.” he whispered.
Worry grew readable in Balin’s eyes. “I… I donnae…”
Again, Óin interrupted his cousin and lord. This time, with only one word: “Goblins”
Lord Balin went silent for a while. He let go a deep sigh, before looking his cousin, friend, and trusted adviser back in the eyes.
“Aye.”
“How bad?”
“Very.”
Óin’s eyes stared deep into the Lord’s. “How bad?”
“The damned beasts have taken to ravishing our outermost posts, as well as taking on single dwarves roaming through Khazad-dûm.”

Óin sighed. He looked at the darkness at the edges of the Hall, then back at the doors to the Chamber. “I thought I brought the lad to a beautiful new home…”
“Khazad-dûm is beautiful!” Balin snapped.
“But it innae a safe home.”
Balin sighed, pondering this thought for a minute. “…the lad must go back, aye?”
“I fear so, cousin. Winter will soon be upon the mountain. Then he must go back.”
Balin looked over his shoulder, seeing Gimli appear again, and seeing his cousin’s face beam with utter joy for the first time. “Let him stay a short while. Prepare yer things to bring him back to Erebor. As soon as ye’re done, bring him home.”
It was a week later, that Balin said his farewells to Óin, Gimli, and a company of eleven other dwarves. With much ceremony, the Lord of Moria handed his young cousin a shoulder bag with in it the last
tidings to his liege lord King Dáin.
“Tis now November, so I think ye’ll be able to get safely out of the last bits of the mountains, ere the snow blocks yer path.” Balin spoke to Gimli. As Gimli bowed and turned to walk away, Balin turned to Óin, and the smile on his face was replaced by a look of worry.
“I take it the last news wannae that good?” Óin spoke.
Balin shook his head. “Go now, cousin. I urge ye.” His eyes spied the valley in front of them. “Donnae take the river. Anyone can take a river. Take the mountain passes to the North. It’ll only be a wee detour, but I reckon it’ll be safer. Just call it a sightseeing tour.” he added with a small wink.
Óin sighed, but nodded. “Aye. I will.” Then, he grasped his cousins arm and they shook hands.
As the group of thirteen left the valley, the farewell group in front of the great East-gate started to disband. Nithi, the Gatekeeper, walked up to his lord. “My Lord, will ye come with us?”
Balin stood silent for a moment, before shaking his head. “Nae. I will have a look in Kheled-zâram ere I go back. The lake is nearby anyways, so now might be as good a time as e’er. Ye know? It was that very pool that granted my ancestor Durin his vision. Maybe it’ll give me some insight as well…”
Then, Balin started to descend the stairs to the Mirrormere.

A few miles further, past the first bend in the mountain path, Óin stopped. Immediately, Gimli stopped as well and turned to his uncle.
“Are ye alright, uncle?”
Óin nodded, though doubt was clear on his face. “Tis merely…” He paused, leaning heavy on his fighting staff, the same one he had carried years ago, when reclaiming Erebor. “Onar!” he cried out.
One of the guards stepped forwards. “Aye, master Óin?”
“I will return to my cousin Balin. It… Call it an odd feeling.” He turned to his nephew. “When yer old enough, ye might grow a certain feeling of… destiny. Of being needed somewhere.” He paused again. “Balin is my cousin, and my lord. I must be with him.”
“Then I’ll come with-” Gimli started, but Óin interrupted him.
“Nae, nephew. Balin made ye messenger to the king. Ye must go on to Erebor. But donnae worry: ye’ll return to Khazad-dûm. I know it.” He laid a hand on his nephew’s shoulder. “Now go, Gimli. And deliver the messages to the king. And whenever yer duty allows ye to return, there will be a grand feast in yer honour!” The old dwarf
turned to the guards. “Vig! Nír! Ye two help this old dwarf get back to his home. The rest of ye, follow Onar and protect Gimli, for Onar is yer captain, and Gimli is Balin’s messenger. Now go!”
Gimli embraced his uncle and gave him a small smile. “Until next time, uncle.”
Óin smiled back. “Until next time, laddie.”
Gimli and his nine guards left the last reaching heights of the mountains, he could see in the distance the green fields and the dark shades of the forest. It would be long until he could see the Lonely Mountain again, but his mind was already there, fulfilling his important mission. But also, his mind wandered to his uncle and
cousin, and the growing colony. How it would thrive! He couldn’t wait to return…
As Óin and his two guards turned the last corner, he heard what he had feared most. The feeling of foreboding dread that had suddenly come over him, the feeling that urged him to return to Balin, now made sense. In the distance, on the other side of the lake, he saw Dwarven soldiers running down the great stairs. And to his left,
in the direction of the river that flowed out of Kheled-zâram, which the Humans called the Silverlode River, he could already smell it, even though he could not yet see it.

“Are ye ready, lads?” he asked Vig and Nír. He gripped his fighting staff tightly. He recognised the sounds, and he recognised the smell. Battle… and Orcs…
“Oh Balin…” he whispered as he started running back.