Harry Potter and the Potions of Passion

This story is a Valentine's gift to my husband Richard, and was written with suggestions from him.

Chaos ensues when Harry gets Hermione to help him make a love potion.

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Snow lay thick on the ground at Hogwarts. Through the windows of the Gryffindor common room, Harry could see it fall in flurries of flakes as big as the palms of his hands. He was glad to be indoors in the warmth, where a cheerful fire blazed in the hearth and his friends were busy doing their homework, playing games or chatting in small groups.

He turned again to the book that lay open before him on the table: the Half-Blood Prince's copy of Advanced Potion-Making. Where was he going to get Ashwinder eggs, frozen or not? It wasn't as if Snape kept them in his cupboard... or was it? Hermione might be able to help, but it was unlikely she would approve of the use he intended to put them to. He turned to the index. The eggs were mentioned on several pages. 'But I don't have ague,' he thought. 'Wait a minute – bites, stings and burns... jinxes... the eggs are used for lots of stuff. Madam Pomfrey will have some in the hospital wing.'

"You're deep in thought, Harry," remarked Hermione.

"I want to get some Ashwinder eggs," he said quietly. "And I don't think we'll be able to nick them from Snape."

"You could send an owl to Slug and Jiggers," suggested Hermione, "unless you want them in a hurry. They're not that hard to get hold of. What do you want them for, anyway?"

Making it up as he went along, Harry said, "I thought it would be funny to make a love potion for Malfoy."

"What?" asked Hermione, her mouth slack with surprise.

Harry tittered. "Can you imagine Malfoy in love with Millicent Bulstrode?"

Where was Colin Creevey with his camera? Harry would have given anything for a picture of the look on Hermione's face at that moment. It was somewhere between fascination and revulsion. The curl of her lips and the creases round her eyes were hilarious to see.

"That is so gruesome, we just have to do it," she replied. "But why not just buy it from Weasley's Wizard Wheezes?"

"I want to do it myself," explained Harry.

"Would you like me to help you," she asked, "or do you reckon you can handle it yourself?"

She jerked her head at the book.

"The Prince has made notes on the subject," said Harry, "but I'd appreciate your help with this. It doesn't mention bezoars, after all."

Hermione grinned. "Very well," she said, with a conspiratorial grin. "Let's do it. We'll have to work quickly. I'll set it up in Moaning Myrtle's toilet."

***

They sneaked in together, under the Cloak of Invisibility, then Hermione went to get the other things they would need.

"What are you up to, Harry?" asked a high-pitched ghostly voice.

"Oh, hello, Myrtle," said Harry. "How's it going?"

"Well, I've been sitting in the U-bend, thinking about my death," she replied. "The usual. What have you got there?"

"Ashwinder eggs," said Harry. "We're making a potion."

"I remember the last secret potion you made," said Myrtle, with a giggle. "Hermione went all hairy, like a cat. What's this one for?"

"A love potion," Harry replied.

Myrtle giggled. "How sweet!" she replied in a sickly tone.

She swung back and forth like a pendulum in front of Harry, then looped the loop and dived into a toilet with a splash.

Harry pulled a face and waited for Hermione to return.

After a while, she came back and announced, "You've got to cast a spell in which you mention the name of the intended to make this work. Do it when I say."

"Okay," said Harry. His face fell. How was he going to convince Hermione to agree to this? The Weasleys had love potions for sure, but not Amortentia, which was what they were making. He watched carefully as Hermione worked. He'd have to do this again when she wasn't looking.

When the potion had taken on the prescribed mother-of-pearl sheen, and the steam rose in the spirals described in the book, Hermione bottled it and passed it to Harry.

"Can I watch?" she asked. "This I've got to see."

"Yeah," said Harry.

"Now cast the spell."

Reluctantly, Harry held up the bottle, tapped it with his wand and said, "Draco Malfoy amat Millicent Bulstrode!"

"Now how are we going to make them drink it?" she asked.

"Have we got enough for another bottle?" asked Harry.

"Yes," replied Hermione, and gave him another bottle of the stuff. "Now let's go!"

"We can do it tomorrow at breakfast," he answered.

***

Early the following morning, Harry put the Cloak on, and carefully put the bottle meant for Millicent and Malfoy in his right pocket. The one meant for Cho was in his left. He crept into the Great Hall where the breakfast things were being laid out and waited for the others to arrive.

When the Slytherins had taken their seats, Harry sneaked over and dropped some of the potion into Malfoy's and Bulstrode's drinks. Then he went to the Ravenclaw table and did the same to Cho. After that, he slipped into an alcove, pulled off the Cloak and put it in his pocket.

He sauntered over to the Gryffindor table behind a group of latecomers and sat down as nonchalantly as possible. Hermione, who was seated opposite him, looked with interest at the Slytherin table.

To her vast amusement, gasps of astonishment and cries of "What? No way!" had broken out.

Harry grinned back.

"What's going on?" asked Ron.

"See for yourself," said Hermione.

Draco Malfoy, it seemed, had eyes only for Millicent Bulstode, whose bulky body loomed across the table from him.

"Oh, that's revolting!" cried Ron. "She's drooling over him."

"Look at the expression on Pansy Parkinson's face," sniggered Harry. "She looks more like a pug than ever!"

"They're holding hands across the table!" crowed Hermione. Her feet beat a tattoo of gleeful gloating.

"Oh my life!" said Harry, revolted. "If they snog, I'll throw up."

He was so caught up in the mayhem he'd unleashed on the Slytherins, who were crying out in consternation, he forgot all about Cho.

"Someone's slipped you a love potion, Draco," warned Pansy, with tears in her eyes. "People are laughing at you. Look at Potter. He's laughing at you!"

"Shut up, Parkinson," snapped Malfoy. "Millicent is beautiful and you're just jealous!"

"Beautiful?" cried Pansy. "She looks like the back of a b-arrrgh!"

Pansy spent the next few minutes fending off a flock of bats that kept flying out of her nose. She screamed and lashed out at them until Snape made his way over and called, "Finite incantatem!"

"What is this nonsense?" demanded Snape, who didn't look that much different to the bats himself.

The others went quiet.

Snape turned to the Gryffindor table. "Twenty points from Gryffindor!" he said.

"What about Prior Incantato?" asked Harry.

Dumbledore appeared at Snape's side. "He's right, Severus," said Dumbledore.

With a scowl, Snape checked all the wands on the Gryffindor table, then gave them back the twenty points.

Dumbledore checked the wands on the Slytherin table. "It seems your wand cast the Bat-bogey Hex, Malfoy," said Dumbledore. "Twenty points from Slytherin."

Snape scowled and returned to his seat.

"It is forbidden to cast spells outside of the classroom, Malfoy," said Dumbledore.

"But she insulted my Milly," replied Malfoy in a plaintive tone.

"Indeed," said Dumbledore, and returned to his seat.

Harry watched as Professors Dumbledore and Snape exchanged words. The thunderous look on Snape's face would have been funny if it wasn't aimed at him. Harry returned to eating his pancakes.

***

What with classes and the need to practice Disapparation, Harry barely noticed Cho mooning over him for the rest of the day. Besides, he had detention to do for Snape, who had decided that an answer given in class was not polite enough.

By the time he remembered the potion he had made and thought of seeking Cho out, he couldn't find her.

He couldn't turn to Hermione, but it occurred to him that one person would be able to help. He went to the girls' toilet on the second floor and called for her until she came.

"Oh, there you are, Harry!" Myrtle crowed. "That potion trick you played was very funny. Peeves thinks it's hilarious!"

"You didn't tell him, did you?" he asked nervously.

"Of course not!" she replied. "If you got expelled, I wouldn't see you again, and I do like having you around."

"Myrtle," he asked, "could you do me a favour?"

"What is it?" Myrtle's pearlescent glasses glinted in the flickering light.

"Can you find out where Cho Chang is?" he asked.

"I'm here," said a familiar voice. Cho stalked out of one of the stalls, her face streaked with tears.

"Oh, hello Cho," said Harry, embarrassed.

"Why did you do it, Harry?" she demanded. "Did you think it would be funny to get me mooning over you like Millicent Bulstrode over Draco Malfoy? Is that what I am to you? A joke? Well, I hope you enjoyed it!"

"I..." spluttered Harry. How could she possibly think he was playing tricks on her?

"You can't even find it in your heart to say sorry!" she snapped.

"Well, I am sorry, Cho," he said in a small voice. "I never meant to make you feel like this."

"Of course not!" she snarled. "You wanted to make me feel like this!"

Cho twisted her golden face into a soppy mockery of infatuation, knocked her knees together and hugged herself.

"No!" cried Harry. "Not like that! I just..."

"You just what?" snapped Cho, her arms folded and her tone belligerent.

"I wanted you to love me," he said simply.

"Amortentia just makes people obsessed, you fool!" she declared. "It doesn't last, Harry. I suppose I ought to thank you, though: I still liked you till you slipped me that potion. Now I can't bloody stand you!"

Harry stood aside as she flounced out. He felt as though she had slapped him in the face.

"Oh, that's really bad, Harry!" simpered Myrtle, who looked very happy. "Do you want to stay here with me for a while?"

"No thanks," muttered Harry, and slunk back to the Gryffindor common room.

On the way there, Millicent Bulstrode pushed past him, stony-faced, to the toilet he had just left. Tell-tale tear tracks on her face left him in no doubt as to the humiliation she felt. He bowed his head and crept along, feeling rather guilty, but just as he reached the stairway, he beheld a most gratifying sight.

Draco Malfoy sat on the corner at the top of the stairway that led to the dungeons where the Slytherin common room was. Hugging his knees, he looked as though all his worst dreams had come true.

The crash of falling armour heralded the approach of Peeves, who took great delight in taunting Malfoy about the events of the day.

"Millicent Malfoy, a beautiful name;

"'Twas but a potion – oh, what a shame!

"There won't be a wedding, no cake to be had

"'Cos Millie don't love 'im, the poor Malfoy lad!"

The poltergeist cackled wickedly as he chucked bits of armour at Malfoy until he had driven him downstairs to his common room.

Harry grinned. Cho hated him now, and when Hermione found out, she'd be furious; but who could feel bad when Malfoy was getting what he so richly deserved? Harry scampered back to the Gryffindor common room, gloating all the way.

The End.

Release

Written for the Teitho writing contest.

Rating: R, for gore.

After the war of the Ring, Aragorn freed the slaves of Núrn and gave them the land for themselves. But what did they do with their freedom?

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Release

Near the still sad waters of lake Núrnen, a community of sorts had grown up. Composed of slaves culled from captives of Gondor and other lands, it was responsible for feeding Sauron's armies and the maintenance of food and other supplies for his realm. Though the tower of Barad-dûr lay far to the Northwest, its lord was not distant from this place. His Eye was everywhere, it seemed.

The weight of his rule lay heavily on the people. The sensation of being constantly watched; the demands to produce enough food, textiles, leather goods and equipment to satisfy Sauron's needs; and the random punishments to ensure compliance made it impossible for people to become friends with each other. Love was an alien concept in this place. The idea that people might join together in common cause for any reason seemed to threaten the Dark Lord, so any sign of genuine affection was seized upon as an act of treachery. In this dark land, where despair reigned supreme, integrity was despised and decency outlawed.

This place was all Bandon had ever known. Born to a slave woman who had survived a raid on Ithilien, he had been sired by an Orc, and he hated each day of his miserable life. A pariah among slaves who mistrusted each other on principle, he had carved out a name for himself as a cruel but efficient slave-driver. His ambition was to create a realm for himself in Núrn as a subject of Sauron, and he had come close to its fulfilment when that man came with his rag-tag army of rebels and destroyed the Dark Lord.

The possibility that Sauron could actually be defeated had never occurred to him. Now that he faced losing everything he had worked hard for over the years, Bandon was afraid – and very angry. As he watched the victor lead his army through the district in his shiny armour, Bandon felt hatred bubble up inside him like the fires of Mount Doom.

This man had the power to take away his authority and give it to someone else. From his vantage point in one of the storage huts, Bandon could see him talking to some of the people, who were pointing in his direction. He knew what would happen. Well, he was ready. Like a Balrog of old, he would stand his ground with a whip in one hand and a scimitar in the other. He grasped his weapons firmly and waited, crouched in a battle stance.

They did not come. They did not even look in his direction! How dare they ignore him! He had it all planned out – oil spilt on the floor and soaked into the bales of hay and straw that filled the building, which he intended to set on fire when he had despatched as many of the strangers as he could. But first he had to lure them inside. How could he effect a glorious exit that would live long in the memories of all those slaves who dared to look down on him and call him 'Goblin-man' if his enemies would not come forth to fight him? He could see they had bows – he would be shot if he ran out and insulted them. This was intolerable!

Curiosity led him outside.

The man who led the rebels looked at Bandon with eyes the colour of storm-clouds. “Put the weapons down, Bandon,” he said.

Bandon could not abide the stern gaze of the regal man who sat on the large rusty brown horse who snorted where he stood, but stayed calm beneath his master. The dull clatter of the sword as it hit the hard-packed ground of the rough village square, followed by the soft thump of the whip, were the only sounds he could hear. Even the breeze had stilled for the moment.

“These people say you are the overseer here,” the man stated. “What say you?”

Bandon's mouth jerked and twitched as he tried to think of a reply. He felt as though he had been ordered to the Cracks of Doom; one wrong word could be the end of him. “I was,” he croaked. “I think you're in charge now.”

“I am,” replied the man, his tone firm. “I have given these people this land as their own. From this day forth, there will be no more overseers, and what they produce will be for themselves. Do you understand?”

“Yes sir,” affirmed Bandon.

“You may go now,” said the man, his grey gaze impassive and unreadable.

“Go where?” asked Bandon. Confusion furrowed his wart-dotted brow.

“You are free,” said the man, and turned his horse away.

The Goblin-man stood where he was for a moment, with his head on one side. All of his life, Bandon had taken orders. What would he do now? He was lost. This man had taken more than his authority away – his identity was gone. In the previous regime, he could torment others at will. He did not know how to do anything else, nor did he want to. Fear was the basis of his power. With that gone, he had nothing. The thought of working the fields with the others appalled him. Besides, he had never been one of them.

A shudder racked his body, and he bent down to retrieve his weapons.

They were gone.

Agony sliced through his side. Red sparks danced before his yellow slanted eyes. He slumped to his knees. Thick dark blood pooled around him. He turned his head to see who had dealt the blow. The furious glare of a man he had once whipped to within an inch of his life met his pain-clouded gaze.

“No-one will punish me for this,” said the man. The purple scars on the sides of his cheeks rose and fell as he spoke.

Something shifted within Bandon and slipped downwards. His hand moved to the open wound, and encountered something he knew should have been inside him. He was coming undone. The fear he had felt earlier was nothing like the way he felt now. A creeping horror coupled with the certainty of doom overwhelmed him. “I should have finished you while I 'ad the chance,” he gasped.

“I am glad you did not, Goblin-man. Freak!” shouted the man, his eyes wild with fury as he brandished the dripping scimitar. “Now is the hour of my revenge!”

“Well I 'ope you enjoy it!” croaked Bandon, his broken teeth bared. Darkness took him into its cold embrace and set him free indeed.

The End.

The Haunting of Bag End

Written for LOTR Community Challenges. 
Theme: "Send It In a Letter "

Elements: An Anonymous Letter

Author's Notes: For years, Bilbo was plagued by the Sackville-Bagginses, who wanted to get Bag End, his home, off him.

A flurry of anonymous letters prompts Bilbo to discover who sent them – and put a stop to it.

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The Haunting of Bag End

The greyness of an overcast day led Bilbo to light his lantern much earlier than he would usually have done; the cosy glow of the fire that blazed cheerfully in his parlour hearth was not bright enough to permit him to read the mysterious missive that had been left on his doorstep.

For the third time that week, a sharp rap on his front door at twilight had roused him from his afternoon smoke (which always followed his afternoon tea and scones), but when he opened the door, no one was there.

The first time this had happened, he had only noticed the cheap paper scroll when he stepped on it as he scanned the lanes to see who could have come.

Annoyed that the bearer of the letter had simply vanished into thin air, Bilbo snatched it up and brought it inside. He went into the kitchen, broke the seal and opened it out.

To Bilbo Baggins of Bagg End

From a Friend

Mr. Baggins be you warned, that a Ghost will come to hornt you at Bagg End.

Leeve at wonce! Then you will be Safe.

This was scrawled in grey ink on grubby paper, which had evidently been torn from a larger sheet.

With a snort of amusement, Bilbo took the letter into the parlour and tossed it into the fire. Those foolish Sackville-Bagginses! Did they really believe he would fall for such a trick? Honestly! He knew Otho's writing was spidery with elongated letters; this could not be his work, but Lotho? Possibly. That boy was sullen, a bit of a bully and none too bright. Bilbo would have bet Bag End it was he who had sent the letter, but whether the lad had delivered it himself was uncertain.

It occurred to him to ask Hamfast Gamgee, his gardener, if anyone of note was staying at the Green Dragon. Then he went back to smoking his pipe.

***

The following day, Mr. Gamgee had come to rake the leaves from his lawn, but Bilbo completely forgot about the letter and ended up having a merry chat with the old fellow instead.

That evening, the knock had come again, and Bilbo found himself chasing the letter halfway down the path as a stiff breeze blew it away. Reminded of the previous night, he opened it, saw the same message there, took it inside and burned it.

Today, he had spoken to Mr. Gamgee, who told him that the S-B's and their son were indeed staying at the Green Dragon.

“A right little ruffian he's turnin' out to be, beggin' your pardon,” said Mr. Gamgee. “Orderin' folk about and findin' fault with everything. It's a wonder they can get anyone to work for them at all. They're nothing like you, Mr. Bilbo.”

“Really?” asked Bilbo. “What else has he been up to?”

“He only went and tore a few pages out of the guest book when he thought no one'd notice,” said Mr. Gamgee. “They caught him red-handed, but Missus S-B gave them three silver pennies, so they let it go.”

Bilbo huffed with frustration.

“Mr. Bilbo?” asked Mr. Gamgee, his honest old face creased with concern.

“I've been getting funny letters,” Bilbo replied in irritated tones.

“Beggin' your pardon, but what sort of letters? I'm only askin' in case it's something I can help you with.”

Bilbo sighed. “Some badly-written bilge about a ghost coming to haunt Bag End. If I hadn't burned the confounded letters, I would have been able to confront the S-B's and embarrass them into putting a stop to this; but with no evidence, what can I do?”

A wide grin spread across Hamfast Gamgee's face. “If the ghost comes, we can haunt him!” he declared.

Bilbo turned to his friend with a matching expression. “Hamfast Gamgee,” he said, “you're the finest Hobbit in the Shire!”

The gardener had gone home shortly afterwards, and nothing had transpired that evening, though Bilbo stood tensely waiting by the door, ready to fling it wide open and catch young Lotho in the act.

Today, however, the now-familiar rap had sounded, and he had waited till his pipe was spent before he trotted to his door, opened it, and found the letter. This time, it read,

To Bilbo Baggins, Impostor

From the Ghost

Leeve now or you will regrett not heeding my Warning!

“Honestly!” Bilbo said aloud, and put the letter to one side.

Since the S-B's were still at the Dragon, he could bring this letter to the inn and match it with the torn remains of the missing pages in the guest book. In fact, he would do so after dinner.

A hard knock on the door roused him, and he got up to answer it. Only one? He stood on the threshold of the parlour doorway and waited for the next. He was about to return to his armchair when another knock came.

Absently, he patted his waistcoat pocket where his Ring was kept. The sheer effrontery of the idea that occurred to him at that point made him grin from ear to ear. Oh, the fun he would have – and the little brat thoroughly deserved it!

Bilbo slipped the Ring on and crept quietly up to the door. After a while, a third knock came and he flung the door open with such force, it banged on the wall.

There before him stood a shrieking apparition clad in grey rags, the rotting teeth in its greenish pale face exposed. It raised its arms, but when Bilbo screamed in fright, it turned and fled.

For a moment, Bilbo stood panting, then realised that this must be Lotho dressed up. His heart beat like a blacksmith's hammer, and he hesitated.

“Gotcha!” cried a familiar voice as a dark figure leapt upon the fleeing one.

The Ring! Bilbo pulled it off and put it back in his pocket, then put the door on the latch and went to investigate. The weight he had put back on after his return from his adventures slowed him as he ran, but a few minutes later, he arrived at the stile, where Hamfast Gamgee had Lotho Sackville-Baggins by the earlobe.

“I've got 'im, Mr. Bilbo,” said Mr. Gamgee. “Caught red-handed, you are!”

The gardener had pulled down the hood of the old cloak Lotho was wearing, and Bilbo could see that Lothos' greasy curly mop of hair had traces of the thick creamy substance that was smeared all over his face.

“Oh, this is excellent!” crowed Bilbo. “Come, Mr. Gamgee, you have done me a great service, and deserve a nice flagon of ale. Let me lock my door, then we shall go together to the Green Dragon.”

“Lemme go!” shouted Lotho.

“At the Dragon,” answered Mr. Gamgee with an anticipatory grin.

Bilbo grinned and hurried home, the sounds of Lotho's protests like music to his ears. A few minutes later, he accompanied Mr. Gamgee and his charge to the Green Dragon to confront Lobelia and Otho with their son's misdeeds. He patted his coat pocket; the anonymous letter was in there, ready to wave at that insufferable woman. He would show everyone who the impostor was, and that would be the end of it.

A laugh from Mr. Gamgee broke into his thoughts. “Heh! I don't know how you did it, Mr. Bilbo, but there was a haunting of Bag End, all right! But who haunted who? That'll be a tale worth the telling for many a year!”

The End

In Deepest Sympathy

Written for LOTR Community Challenges. 

Theme: Letters

Elements: Letter of condolence

Author's Notes: Features my own fanon, with ideas borrowed from Jay of Lasgalen.

Thranduil struggles with the wording of a letter to Elrond after Celebrían sails to Valinor.

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In Deepest Sympathy

Light from the lanterns in the study of Thranduil king of Mirkwood blazed steadily. Brighter than candles, they never flickered. He could not write while distracted, and often locked his study door when working on important documents. At this moment, he was alone in the room with the parchment before him on the desk. Blank and square, its emptiness challenged him, and demanded the application of the ink-filled quill that rested in the grip of his right hand, which hovered less than an inch above it. Where were the words? They would not come.

Exasperated, he put the quill down, got up and went to the bookshelves that took up most of the back wall on either side of the door. Thranduil prided himself on his book collection. Though he and the Sindar nobles who led his people had taken on many of the customs of their Nandor subjects, the love of learning had never left them. These books were his own; copies were available in the palace library. Accounts of the travels of explorers – Elves, Men, and even Dwarves filled several rows. Poetry took up half the space between the midsection and the ceiling on the right hand side of the door. The rest was reserved for a set entitled “The Books of Knowledge,” a collection of facts about the animals, minerals and plant life in all Arda. Many of the pages in these books were left blank on purpose so new facts could be added as they came to light.

Arms akimbo, Thranduil stood and gazed at the books, silently demanding answers from them. “Songs of Sorrow,” a slim black volume, caught his eye. That was the one! He picked it up, went back to his desk, and thumbed through it.

A dirge for Denethor lord of the Laegrim, The King Of The Hill, had some lyrics that seemed appropriate. Besides, Elrond had thanked him profusely for the copy of “Songs of Sorrow” sent as a Yule gift some years before. Applied to the loss of Celebrían, the words on the page before him seemed to fit better than anything he could contrive himself.

For love of freedom and of truth

The flower of Elven grace and youth

'Gainst forces vile and uncouth

Valiantly fought

With fell intent the Orcs assailed

Their cruel master's will prevailed

All efforts made to thwart them failed

They all came to naught

We his kin think of him still

Denethor, king of the hill

With a few alterations, he could compose a fitting verse to demonstrate his great regard for Celebrían. His own wife had been friends with her for many years, and was very upset by the events that had occurred the previous year. Ai! The thought of it cut him to the quick.

It occurred to him to ask his lady for help with this. Though his courtly training had prepared him to deal with any eventuality, including partings and death, Thranduil found that applying courtly terms and stock phrases to a situation that involved a friend did not feel right. Elrond had probably heard them all.

Memories of his own experiences of loss and how he had been treated came crashing into his heart and mind. 

“He will find comfort and rest in Mandos.”

“One day he will return. You will see him again when you heed the call and go to Valinor.”

“His end was quick.”

“He is at peace now.”

The snarl on his father's cooling face, the blood of Orcs mingled with his own on his exposed teeth did not bespeak a peaceful passing. The foul image of his father's ruined body had haunted him for may years, and now it had returned with a vengeance.

When he thought about it, he realised why: he felt the same impotent rage now as he did then. The relationship he and his family had shared with Elrond's had now become a source of pain that eclipsed the pleasure they had once enjoyed; Elrond's problem was theirs, too.

Tears welled in the Elvenking's eyes as he realised this, and he sat down to weep for a moment. “Ai, my brother, I am sorry for all this,” he declared aloud. “I just wish I could do something to make it all better!”

When his grief had abated, the words he needed came to him. In fact, he could not have stopped them if he tried; a torrent of promises built on sentiments he held dear filled his heart and mind, and he snatched up his quill to set them down on the parchment. With the back of his fine-boned hand, he wiped his eyes, and began to write.

To Elrond son of Eärendil, Lord of Rivendell

From Thranduil son of Oropher, King of Mirkwood

My dear friend,

my household is saddened at the news that the lady Celebrían has decided to sail to Valinor. Ever have my people held her in the highest regard, and they sing of their hopes that the lady will find peace among the Ainur.

I feel your loss, for Celebrían is as a sister to myself and my wife, and our children consider her a kinswoman. It is easy to say you will meet her again, but I understand that you would very much prefer to keep her here if you could. I felt that way when my father died.

As I consider how to make things more tolerable for both of you, it occurs to me that there are things I could send to Valinor to remind her of how much she is loved. I will have a tapestry made that depicts the times she came to my realm with you and your children, and send with it letters and gifts from my family. Círdan can put them on the next ship that sails.

Legolas has asked if he can take a barrel of Dorwinion with him when he goes to Rivendell. He insists on lending his aid and support to any plans you have for dealing with the Orcs. If there is anything else you require, please let me know. Mirkwood stands shoulder to shoulder with Rivendell in this matter, and you can rely on us for all the assistance you need.

Your friends are with you now and forever.

A grimace tightened the muscles of his cheeks and jaw as Thranduil read over his letter. It was warm and personal, and said what needed to be said without rubbing salt into the wounds or trivialising the situation. It felt right.

In fact, if memory served, Elrond had sent a letter just like this to him when he returned from the battlefields of Mordor many years before. The king jumped up, opened the drawer above the leg-space arch and rooted around till he found the small brass key he was looking for. He picked it up and went to the chest where his personal papers were stored. It creaked when he opened it. There among the piles of letters was the scroll he was looking for. Wrapped in red ribbon, it was yellow and crumbly with age. Gingerly, he took it out and opened it.

From Elrond son of Eärendil, Lord of Rivendell

To Thranduil son of Oropher, King of Mirkwood

My dear friend,

my household is saddened by the news of your father's death. Ever have my people held him in the highest regard, and they sing of their hopes that he will soon be released from the halls of Mandos.

I feel your loss, for Oropher treated me like a son when Rivendell was being founded. His generosity and assistance will never be forgotten by my people. It is easy to say you will meet him again, but I understand that you would very much prefer to have him here if you could. I felt that way when my brother died.

As I consider how to make things more tolerable for both of you, it occurs to me that there are things I could send to Mirkwood to remind you of the debt we owe him. I will have a tapestry made that depicts the times he sent us the food and supplies we so desperately needed, and send with it letters and gifts from my household. Erestor, who is acting as steward of my realm, will send them with the next despatch rider.

Lindir has already composed a dirge for him, which is enclosed. If there is anything you require, please let me know. Rivendell stands shoulder to shoulder with Mirkwood, and you can rely on us for any assistance you may need.

Your friends are with you now and forever.

He had never been able to bring himself to read the words of the dirge. It was written on the outer sheath of parchment. Thranduil took a deep breath and held it open to his view for the first time.

For love of freedom and of truth

The flower of Elven grace and youth

'Gainst forces vile and uncouth

Valiantly fought

With fell intent the Orcs assailed

Their cruel master's will prevailed

All efforts made to thwart them failed

They all came to naught

Amid loud shouts and voices harsh

Fell Oropher, king of the marsh

A sharp braying sound startled the king for a moment, then he realised that he had made it. The sense of unreality that had temporarily overwhelmed him began to lift.

“So much for originality!” he said with a snort. “He is a minstrel; he should have made more of an effort. But maybe he just could not find the words...”

Wrapped in thought, Thranduil retied the scroll in the ribbon, replaced it in his chest, then locked it.

He scattered some blotting powder onto the letter he had written and blew it away, then rolled it into a scroll for despatch the following day. For reasons he would never be able to explain, he grinned for the first time in ages.

The End.

The Love of a Lord

The path of true love does not run smoothly, as Losgael discovers when reality collides with her dreams...

On a rainy afternoon in the sewing room in Imladris, Losgael, one of Celebrían's ladies-in-waiting, was working hard on an item of clothing. There were several other women in the room, each of whom was similarly engaged.

The clothes worn by the residents of Imladris were made by the ladies who lived there. Some were for the nobles, others for the servants and others who dwelt there. Most of the textiles used there were made from locally-grown fibres, using either flax or cotton grown in the fertile valley. Sometimes they used nettle fibres, for they were strong and versatile. Silks were imported from Rhûn, either as yarns to be woven into cloth or as ready-made fabric. No-one was idle in Imladris, all of the residents were employed in some useful task, usually according to the needs of the moment and the skills each person had.

With a frown of concentration, Losgael put gold thread through the eye of the needle. Supplies were not infinite, so she had been given a ration. It was possible to trade for more, but she decided to be creative with what she had been allotted. Since this shirt was for one of the most noble Elves in Imladris, a member of Elrond's household, she wanted to make it as beautiful as she could. The one who wore it would wear it with pride on special occasions, and people seeing it would say that love was woven through every part of it. And so it was, for Losgael loved the lord she was making the shirt for, though he knew it not.

“That is lovely, Losgael,” opined Celebrían, looking over her friend's shoulder. “Who is it for?”

“I would rather not say, my lady,” Losgael replied, blushing.

As each stitch went in, it was becoming more and more obvious who the intended recipient of the shirt was. Had her lady already guessed? Looking into her eyes, Losgael saw the twinkle of recognition and a pledge to say nothing.

“It is excellent work, and the gold goes so nicely with the sky-blue colour of the shirt. My Elrond would be happy with such a garment,” Celebrían smiled.

“Oh,” said Losgael, looking like a rabbit confronted by a fox, “my lady...”

“The colour does not quite match his eyes, though,” Celebrían teased, her eyes sparkling with mischief as a wicked grin spread across her face.

“Well,” Losgael replied, “I had someone else in mind.”

“Indeed?” asked Celebrían, sliding closer to her friend, as if hoping to share a whispered secret. “Do tell.”

“He is a great warrior,” Losgael said in a clear voice, so all of the ladies could hear.

“That would describe many of the Elves here,” said Brethilgwen absently, who was responsible for all the textiles in the house of Elrond. She was currently sewing buttons on a coat for a stable-hand.

“He is handsome,” teased Celebrían, putting an arm around her friend.

“He is handsome indeed,” spluttered Losgael, turning a deeper shade of crimson.

“Which also describes the Elves of Imladris,” Brethilgwen added with an arched eyebrow.

“I am not going to tell you!” Losgael insisted. Really, this was too much! Why could she not make a shirt for someone without starting tongues wagging? These ladies needed to find other things to occupy their time.

Celebrían sensed that continuing this might start an argument, and did not want to add to Losgael's distress, so she moved away. “I will cease my efforts to prise your secret from you, Losgael,” she said, her voice gentle.

“Thank you,” Losgael replied quietly, slowly exhaling as she fought for self-control. She had no desire to be laughed at, after all. People might say she was aiming too high if they found out who she had set her heart on.

The other women paid closer attention to their own work, and Losgael continued her task in peace. Finally, she was finished, and as she admired the shirt, she held it so that only she could see the front panel. Golden elanor flowers twined around each buttonhole, and the brass buttons shone like polished mirrors. Stars and other symbols of Valinor and the house of the object of her affections were scattered in ordered profusion all over the garment, and sparkled like the sea did on a sunny day. She had seen it long ago, when she lived in Sirion, but she preferred not to think of those times, for the memories of her life there were as bitter as they were sweet. Losgael put her hope for happiness in the future, which she hoped to share with one of the most famous Elf-lords in the history of Arda.

Glorfindel knew nothing of this, of course, and she determined not to let him know until he had seen her gift and acknowledged the labour of love that had gone into it. As Losgael went to his room to put the new silk shirt on his bed, she hoped nobody would notice her or ask awkward questions about her presence in his quarters.

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