Fluffy Thingamajig

They’re walking arm-in-arm through the streets of Minas Tirith, as they have so many times before.  It’s wonderful to see him again, she thinks—letters are great, but there’s something about talking in person.  They chat as the go, telling each other of what’s happened over the months.  He regales her with tales of patrols and skirmishes, of his home and family.  She tells him of time spent in Bree, and of patients (stubborn and otherwise) and an eccentric but kind old (well, all right, older) gentleman that she’d come to be fond of.  They bring up jokes old and new and their laughter fills the air.  It’s a grand thing, she thinks.  Nothing better than dusting off a good joke.  She recognizes the route they’re taking; indeed, she scarcely needs to think about it, after so many years.  They head into the sixth circle, toward the Houses of Healing.  She’s always liked it here.  The area around the Houses of Healing is fresh and green.  Here, the air is made sweet with the breath of trees and flowers and familiar herbs. 

A few healers—one or two near her own age—call out to them as the pair passes.  One, a tall girl called Mordis, chuckles and teasingly asks when the wedding is.  Merendis grins cheekily and jokes back that she won’t be invited, thank you very much.  Even so, she has to ignore the faint blush that rises to her face, which  just makes Mordis grin.  It’s not exactly a secret to the women of the Houses of Healing.  Once upon a time, she would have just laughed it off, without getting all red in face.  But things had changed.  Those jokes, well-meaning as they are, hit a little close to home.  Over the months, she’s become keenly aware of just how dear he is to her—in snatched letters and hastily-written lines, all more precious to her than silver or gold or a thousand fine dresses.  She glances up at Condir, and frowns slightly.  She knows that look.  The way his eyebrows furrow, the look in his clear green eyes, the way his nose scrunches up (which she’s always thought endearing)…  That’s the face he makes when there’s something on his mind, and he’s thinking of how to breach the subject.

Still, Merendis doesn’t press him.  He’ll tell her when he’s ready.  Which comes sooner than she expected.  

“Can we talk?” he asks. “…In private, I mean?”

Mmhmm, definitely something on his mind…  

“Of course,” she replies.  “Everything all right?”

They walk in relative quiet for a few moments.  He leads her to a grand old oak tree, and the friends settle themselves down in its shade.  She glances over at him.  Condir’s running a hand through his dark hair, beautiful green eyes narrowed as if in thought.  He really is handsome, she thinks.  Too late, she realizes that she’s staring; sheepishly, she averts her eyes.  

“Merendis…  There’s something I need to tell you,” Condir murmurs, giving her hand a gentle squeeze.  His face is flushed, and she can’t help but notice the way that brave Condir squares his shoulders.  He fixes her with those green eyes, and her heart skips a beat.  He continues, voice soft and steady, telling her how glad he was to get her last letter.  How much it had meant, after a trying day, to read the inspiring words of someone so dear to him.  He pauses, just for a moment, and brushes some dark hair from her eyes.  The movement is familiar, affectionate, something he’s done a hundred times before.  And yet…

“I know this is…rather sudden,” he says at length. 

Her heart begins a drumroll against her ribs, even as she puts a hand on his shoulder.

“I want you to know that no matter what happens, I’m happy to be your friend.  But over the months, Merendis, my feelings for you have changed.  Your last letter gave me the courage I needed to say this.”

And suddenly she’s all too aware of how close they’re sitting, how Condir’s gaze softens as he looks at her.  He moves closer still and earnestly takes her hand in his.  Her heart pounds so hard and fast that for a moment she thinks it’s about to burst.  Hope swells in her chest, warm and bright.  She hardly dares even to breathe. 

“I love you.” His voice is steady, sincere.

He loves her.  He loves her…!  He continues speaking.  He loves her for her kindness, her courage and strength.  He loves her for her wit, her eyes, her smile…  Her eyes widen.  Her heart leaps as he murmurs those words—words she’s longed to hear, hoped that she might hear—for months now.  Her vision blurs, and she roughly wipes her eyes with the back of one hand.  And before Condir can ask if she’s all right, or before she can give herself a second chance, the words come rushing out of her.  She loves him.  She loves his courage, his heart, what a gentleman he is.  She loves how kind he is.  And she loves him for his beautiful eyes, for his laugh…  She’s rambling and she really doesn’t care. He relaxes, takes a breath, and smiles at her.  He has a wonderful smile.  She squeezes his hand, face alight.  

“Can I…”  He hesitates, just for a second.  “Can I kiss you?”

She grins.  She knows her face is burning, but doesn’t care a whit.  

“I thought you’d never ask.”

He chuckles and shifts, drawing her closer to him.  Gently, he cups her cheek with a hand; she reaches up to put a hand on his shoulder.  Condir closes the distance between them, and as their lips meet—

“…dis?  Meren…”  

She blinks, and the next thing she knows, she’s not in Minas Tirith at all, but curled up on a bench.  Afternoon sunlight slants through the windows.  The pop and crackle of the hearth fills the still air.  She rubs her eyes and stares down at the knitting in her lap—the beginnings of a shawl that she’s making for Mama.  She can’t quite squash the disappointment that washes over her, or the longing that pierces her heart.  Merendis shakes her head briefly, as if in an attempt to clear it.

“Merendis?” the voice persists.

She glances up almost sheepishly at the mustachioed man before her, fine hat in his hand.

“Sorry, sir, did you say something?” she asks, rubbing the back of her neck.  "I was…just thinking, is all.”

Premton’s smile turns knowing, and she suddenly has the feeling that she’s about to be teased within an inch of her life.

“Oh, is that so?”

“Need I remind you, sir,” she begins quickly (perhaps a little too quickly), summoning that cheeky smile, “that we had a deal?”

Clothing Exchange

Be it known herewith that my house and chest are full of more wearable garbage than should exist in the entirety of Middle-Earth. I know which of these aforementioned clothes are never used because they belong to me, and am more than assured that there are others in our kinship who have similar problems with wardrobe.. Assured, because the clothes being worn by many in our kinship are not fit to attend a tea party with a grungy orc.

Therefore, I am hosting a clothing exchange. Whatever is not claimed within the week, shall be sold or burned, depending on the quality of the wear. Simply leave what you don't want in the kinship chest; marked "Clothing", and claim whatever you want.. Let us try to improve the quality of wear.

Thank You!

~Boppin

Raechal's Decision, or, A Matter of Fact and Opinion

It is not an easy thing to admit you've been wrong. No one ever wants to find out they've done something stupid with the conviction of their whole heart involved. But I am at that very point in my life, and now I must simply turn around and face it.
Unora tried to tell me I was wrong in the first place, she trusts people so willingly on the sweet simplicity of faith. But I always need something more, I need evidence, I need some facts, and maybe I would like just a little proof.

For instance, how long would you say you might have to know someone before you could say that you really, truly know them? It could be someone you just met, or someone you've admired for a long time without ever talking to, or even someone you have lived your whole life around. But when would you say that you actually, in complete honesty, knew them?

For simple-minded people, this is a simple question. All you really need is to be acquainted with the person, then whenever their name is brought up in conversation you could very easily say, "Yes, I know that person" without any further involvement in their personal life.

For more honest-thinkers, in order to say they know a person, they would like to know something about that person, like what their favorite things are or how they commonly behave in public.

I suppose, getting down to it, it just depends on what kind of person you are, and when you feel satisfied that you know someone 'well enough'.

Two people who enjoy a common subject may be very glad to say they know each other every time they get together to discuss that one topic alone, never feeling any need or desire to discuss other aspects of their individual lives; content to share in this one thing without the potential risks of disagreement on other matters that might prove a division to their mutual respect and understanding.

But I'd like to think that when it comes to relationships that matter to us, we depend on a greater knowledge of those we interact with; We all like to know the people we trust better than the people we may meet on occasion.

In the constitution of one's family, strong individual relationships are not only pleasant to have, but essential to each person within that unit and, indeed, to a greater society at large. Without such bonds of trust and respect, as well as a fair amount of compassion and understanding, there is apt to be an overabundance of contention and disorder within the home. Thus, a lifestyle ideal to development within a larger community of society is abolished on that one principle - that without the constructive relationships discovered within the family, one does not develop the attributes needed to contribute to a grander population, nor is any moment in such an individual's life ever truly happy. The conclusion is most certainly a world in a very sorry state.

No matter who you are or what your manner of thinking, we must all agree that our individual relationships are as varied as the people with whom we share the round hours of our day. Certainly however, whether in friendship, companionship, or kinship, individual sacrifice is required to maintain every personal association.

How far one might go to extend their relationships depends entirely on the individuals and circumstances involved. In the case as so often happens between strangers, there is truly no other way to gain a friendly correspondence until a chance is taken by one or both individuals.

As human beings, we are wary of the unknown and often drawn to one another by observation; In the instance of two strangers standing in the same room, one will likely ignore and avoid the unknown temperament of the other until drawn by a smile or other sign of friendliness that may induce curiosity to investigate - likewise an aggressive sign may just as well deter any opportunity for future acquaintances. The differences between the two, must be determined by a sense of judgement.

Yes, judgement, a word never to be handled lightly and often used to subject others to a conscious feeling of inferiority. Yet, judgement is an absolutely necessary thing in regards to our individual choices, and self-preservation. A person with an impaired sense of judgement is prone to make bad decisions and regularly place themselves and their relations in harm's way. But even people who have a perfectly intact sense of judgement, may be deceived by false ideas and conceptions - whether conjured by others or self-imposed.

So now you see we come back around to the point. Based on unpleasant experiences that, for the lengthy telling of them I will not relate here, I passed judgement on a certain group of individuals and have persisted in my opinion of them, though my friends have argued fiercely against it.

I have no intention of excusing myself for any perceived misconception, for I feel I founded my opinion on very solid facts and evidences. But I will say that the judgement I concluded on was incorrect, and I feel guilty only for the frustration that the effort in disproving it has caused my poor friends, most especially Unora. She and I are not of the same mind on many matters, and I daresay it has shown to be nearly impossible at times for the one to ever properly communicate her mind to the other. Nonetheless, our friendship has persisted, and perhaps her simple faith and my good sense make a better match then most people give credit or care to believe.

Still, it remains that my mind has changed in respect to one thing - People are seldom what they appear to be from cover to cover, and a great deal more difficult to read than books. Even should you know a person's behavioral pattern, you must still know their history and personality to know what to expect, and even so, people are prone to surprising you. It would take a very keen person indeed to say they 'truly' knew someone and maintain their honesty in doing it. But whatever the case may be, I feel confident that there is no alternative to this fact: it took a book to change my mind, though I still don't understand quite how, and I have made a different resolution - that is to follow the new path that is set before me wherever it may lead. 

Such are the writings of a single entry in a small Riddermark Leather-Bound Journal. Perhaps misplaced by its previous owner, the journal lays inconspicuously at the foot of one wicker chair in Lilliway Tooke's Shire home on Pleasant Street... but no name is written, and it's rightful owner is nowhere to be found...   

 

February Kinship Challenge: "Here's to the Intermediate"

    Have you ever felt caught in between? It's hardly a question that needs asking; surely we all have at one point or another. Whether it is between the beginning and the end, night and day, one goal and the next. Milestone after milestone we find ourselves in the middle, never obtaining.

Let me create an image for you. There is a girl - nay, a woman. Perhaps she sees herself as merely a girl at times, destined  never to be grown; her features aren't greatly defined, her build is short and petite, her figure shapeless. Maybe she doesn't like how her nose is an agitated shade of red most of the time, or that her eyes are always tired and half closed. Then she is proud of her hair; long and flowing, varying in shades of auburn, red and gold. Her interests are as coming and going as the phases of the moon, her motivation as fickle as the autumn weather. At times her talent flows freely, she is outgoing and excitable. At others, it seems but a distant memory, and she is reserved and quiet.

Should she be one way or another, left or right and intently so? I say not! Where she might have a temperament, she is also many times that cheerful and almost constantly eager to please. In the flaws of her appearance - which may well be endearments in the eyes of others - she has found humility, which glows brighter than any face a person can posses by good genes, and is likewise not passed down by parents but blessed on far fewer by good grace.  By her demeanor she can lift the spirits of a room as much as five women of good breeding that she might think herself less than. She is always striving, always growing.

We are not whole in spite of our flaws, we all whole because of them. The day needs the night, the sky would be naught without the clouds and the storms, happiness is only appreciated wholly if it follows sadness. To think yourself whole or complete would on the contrary leave us far from it. For imagine a world where there are no intermediates - we only have the summer and winter, the night and the day, the old and the new, the wise and the dull, and consider for a moment what tragedy it might entail!

While this girl sits and ponders in the waning evening light, considering what chances have not come or what chances have gone by, indeed not considering what simply is... she does not realize something very clearly right in front of her - that in between the night and day, something happens that is far more beautiful than the beginning or the end.

She does not realize that she is the sunset, and the sunrise. The autumn and the spring. She is in between, yes - and no less whole. For we are all perpetually in between, and the sooner we realize that our ending is just as arbitrary as our beginning, the sooner we will find comfort in what it means to simply live.

Here's to the intermediate.

                            -Sir Prempton Heatherly

February Kinship Challenge: "The Worth of Souls"

Who knows the name of every man, woman, and child?

  There are people that have existed without being included in the written records and the great legends of mankind. These are the stories of countless millions who have lived and died, who have left seldom even their names to be recounted in history. Among these, are those once called father, mother, grandfather, grandmother... Unheralded in the grand halls of life for the great deeds of a simple existence, theirs becomes to us a personal lost legacy. 
 
   My mind has often given thought to such seemingly ordinary people; those common warriors who have fought on the battlefield of life, giving much but very little remembered. How can we call them common to whom so much is owed? But I speak of others as well, those who surround us daily to whom we seem to have no earthly connection, those who pass by us without so much as a thought, those who seemingly are as far different from us as could be reckoned.

 While my heart and mind have been brought to reflect on these things, I feel to ask the questions that come as a result -
 Who are they? Who knows their name? Who knows their story?

   I have known many men and women throughout the course of my life, only a small portion of whom I have been acquainted with by name. But I could never look on a single man or woman as if he or she were common. 
So many stories surround us constantly, one page of which we could not write in a single day. For contrary to the fanciful ministrel, who may write his stories - inventing a hero with some thought and filling the rest of his tale with other characters on a whim - there is no single person in this story to whom we may give more attention than the rest.
Those people who I would speak of today, would be nameless and seldom given description in the tales of the ministrel - these are the characters that will be forgotten in an instant or even given time, - but I would show you that no such thing exists in this world; I would have you know, that no man or woman, or child named or unnamed, is ever forgotten by the hand that wrote the true story.

And here I would give you an example of a woman of the race of men. She is herself no extraordinary example, accounting herself only as one of many who struggle from day to day to do, in her words, "only the best they can."
 She is certainly no hero in her own eyes nor one of greatness or important deeds in this world. She lives a life unnoticed by many and is content to let it be so, if only she may seek to please the one person she loves most.

 Though she wields no sword, no shield nor bow, she strives to uphold two titles worthy to be bestowed upon her; Defender - of the Home, and Guardian - of Virtue. 

Despite her contentment to live a quiet life, however, she, like many others in this world have been discouraged at times, feeling forgotten among the multitudes of the earth and weighing her worth to be of no consequence in the history of mankind. What sad feelings of worthlessness are so often the destruction of the most beautiful of souls. Though her efforts are to the end of pleasing that one, she cannot without much mental exertion forget the voice of peers who measure her by a wordly definition of greatness. Little does she know how such a degrading standard mocks and imposes itself even upon those considered great in this world... But the one who knows the worth of souls, for He has payed the price for each one, would not stand to let us believe such a deception.

 Thus, the woman who I have placed as an example here, not alone in her words at a time when she at length acknowledged the impossibility of pleasing both the one and the world, was inspired to write the words of a humble creature in saying;

"I'm just One Sheep in the Fold.
I'm not the sheep that is to lead...
with that beautiful, bright bell.
Nor am I the sheep that falls behind...
that the Shepherd always stays to tend.

I'm just One Sheep in the Fold.
I'm sorta shy, but I won't go astray...
Because I know I'm safer here,
and here is where I was told to stay.
But I'm still, just One Sheep in the Fold.

There's nothing particularly special about me.
Why am I so needed that the Shepherd would seek me if I lost my way?
I've given a bit of good I'm sure, giving what I can.
But it's not very much compared with what others give...
I'm just One Sheep in the Fold.

Yet somehow the Shepherd knows just which sheep I am.
He makes me feel like I'm the only sheep he tends.
Among all these great sheep I know, He seems to know me from all of them...
And He finds me even when I'm not lost.
He cares about me, just One Sheep in the Fold;
He worries about me, even when I'm well.
He carries me, even when I know my way.
He listens to me, even when I've got nothing to say.

How can one sheep among so many be worth so much?
I might never know.
But today and forever, I feel lucky...
Just to be One Sheep, in my Shepherd's Fold."  

I have seen that all are heroes who live worthy and try to do what is right. I have been shown how to value the one as much as the multitude, and to tend for them as the One has tended to me. 
Let us then always remember, that there are no "middle-sheep" in the greatest kingdom men shall know, and there are none who are unimportant in the unfolding story of this world. Let every man treasure his brother, treating with regard his neighbor, and living as best he can to honor the name he bears.

~ Skalithor Mountainzephyr
Father, leader, and friend.

February Kinship Challenge: "Our Imaginary Friend".

Perchance we traveled late one eve, through a forest glen,
and spied a funny looking woman of the race of Men.

Her clothes were loose-fitting, like something you'd wear at night,
Yet she was in the middle of the forest with nary a house nor a bed in sight.

She sat aloft in the trees, watching as we drew near,
It was so unexpected to see her, I asked; "How'd you get here?".

Her hair was short and eyes so bright, I couldn't help but smile,
With a cheerful shrug she replied; "I've been here for awhile."

"I climbed this tree on spur of thought, imagining I was someone new;
Like an elf or a tree spirit." she said. I smiled, "Hey, I do that too!"

We talked for an hour or so, getting to know our funny friend,
Yet by and by the sun was set, and I knew our meeting must end.

I asked, "Have you anywhere to go where you will be alright?"
"I have," she said, "And it's not far, but this is where I'm spending the night."

This puzzled Taivian and I, as you might think for sure,
As fun as imagining is, reality must be considered; and a tree was no place for her.

"Why?" I asked, she smiled broadly with the funny charm of a clown,
Finally she admitted, "I don't know how to get down.".

~Aivah
P.S Taivian drew the picture, I just colored it.

February Kinship Challenge--"Friendship Across Distance"

This is Amdiriel, a dear friend of mine.  I tried to capture her likeness as best I could--it's been a few years or so since I saw her last.  You might be thinking to yourself that that's a name of Stoningland (or Gondor, as some folk call it), and you'd be right.  How did I meet a woman of Stoningland?  Well, it all started a few summers back...

I can still remember it quite clearly.  After all, it's not every day that you get a visitor from all the way in Stoningland.  After helping out around the farm in the morning, I'd gone over to visit Wigmund, my master.  As usual, we spent some time going over the songs and tales he'd taught me most recently, until I could rattle them off in my sleep.  Like he always says, a minstrel's mind is just as important as his voice or his instrument.  Or maybe even more so, for where would I be if I forgot a tale?  Then we really got down to business.  That day, he taught me songs of Brytta Léoffa, son of Fréalaf, and how he earned his name from helping those who needed it most.  

Ah, right, on to meeting Amdiriel.  Master Wigmund had just released me for the day, and so I met up with Léofstan and a couple of friends to head down to the tavern and relax a little.  Well, who should we bump into on the way but Eardwulf and his wife Elwen (she was from Stoningland, you know).  But there was someone else with them--a short dark-haired girl that Elwen introduced as her brother's daughter, who was going to visit with them for the summer in Cliving.  I'll admit, at first, I wasn't quite sure what to make of Amdiriel.  Oh, not that I thought her a bad sort--but she was rather quiet, is all.  Or so I thought at first.

As the days passed, Léofstan and I soon became friends with Amdiriel.  We showed her around Cliving and all the best places to visit.  We even introduced her to Swiftstride and Thunderhoof, which she liked very much. She soon began to show a keen interest in the Riddermark--especially its stories.  I was eager to tell her what I knew, for there's nothing quite so grand as someone hearing a real rip-roarer of a tale for the first time, and I have to admit that I was proud to share the stories that people of the Mark loved so well.  I sang of Eorl and how he became the first king, of Brego his son, and of Aldor the Old and his long reign.  I told stories of kings and shieldmaidens, of brave riders and even crofters and other simple folk.  I even snuck in a few tales of the adventures (or should I say mischief?) that Léofstan and I got up to.  And in return, she told me of Stoningland--of her home and her family.  And let me tell you, you wouldn't think her quiet when she found something she wanted to talk about!  She spoke of books, and how much she loved to read them.  She spoke of them like they were a precious treasure, finer than gold or silver.  Books, she said, could take you to wonderful places if you only let them.  She talked of certain tales, and how opening the pages of a book was like meeting with an old and dear friend, how the writing was like making a picture with words.

She talked of one day writing down the tales that danced in her mind--and the frustration of staring at a blank piece of parchment and trying to get the words out.  And she even taught me something of letters!  I'll admit, Master Wigmund wasn't quite sure what to make of that...  Reading and writing isn't very common among the Eorlingas, save for learned folk.   He said that the songs and tales would fall out of my head, that writing them down would make me forget.  But I'm not so sure that's right.  I love my craft, but I don't think there's anything wrong with books.  A minstrel's voice might fade, but ink and parchment will last for a long time, and so will the songs and stories that we love.

But all good things have to come to end, I suppose.  And in time, that long and happy summer ended, and my new friend left with it.  Back to Stoningland, back to the town and family that she loved so.  She promised to write to me--and that if I ever came to Stoningland, I was to come and visit, which I readily agreed to.  After all, does distance mean anything to friendship?  

And I'm happy to say that we still send each other letters as often as we can.  She's a scribe now in Stoningland, responsible for writing down facts and figures--and she tells me that she's writing a book of stories, as well.  Stories of the Mark!  And not just tales of the kings, either, but the sort of tales that I told her.  Can you believe it?  A whole book of the folk-tales I'd heard as a boy...  There will even be pictures--and she said that she's adding my name to the book, so that all who read it will know of her friend Gladwine son of Léofwine.