"They can keep their Heaven. When I die, I'd
sooner go to Middle Earth."
George R.R. Martin
Introduction
Not only
would I prefer to go to Middle Earth when I die, I wish it was a holiday destination
for the living!
Like many Tolkien fans, I have read The Lord of the
Rings numerous times – and each time, without fail, I turn that last page
with a tinge of sadness. I never want to leave Middle Earth. As a writer of
epic fantasy, I have created my own worlds – and I enjoy weaving stories within
them – but my first love will always be Middle Earth. There is a grandeur to
Tolkien’s world that few have been able to match, a detailed history that makes
us believe that it actually existed. I like to think it did.
This is
my first attempt at fan fiction, and one I embarked upon so that I could go
back to Middle Earth and take a long holiday there. I will be publishing the
story in parts on this blog every two weeks - and you can also download each part as a PDF on my website: http://www.samjcharlton.com/LOTR_Fan_Fiction.html.
This fan fiction is called The Witch of
Angmar, and it’s free to download and read. I had great fun writing it, and
have tried to be as true to Tolkien’s world as possible – while throwing in a
few elements of my own.
Here’s
what it’s about:
Over two
hundred and twenty years since the destruction of Sauron, and the beginning of
the ‘long reign of peace’, evil stirs in Middle Earth once more.
Our tale
begins in the Shire and with the celebrations of the one-hundred year
anniversary of the passing of the last members of the Fellowship into the West.
Rose Fairbairn and Pericles Took – descendants of Samwise Gamgee and Pippin
Took – learn that their bloodline could mean their deaths. The sister of the
Witch-King of Angmar has awoken from a three thousand year sleep from her cold
tomb deep in the Mountains of Angmar. Aided by the goblins of Moria, Morwyn
of Angmar rebuilds the fortress of Carn Dûm, and plans her revenge on those who
slew her brother.
Follow Rose and Peri’s adventures as they travel north
with a female ranger, Salrean, into the lost Realm of Arnor. During their
journey they will discover the truth about the new threat to the people of
Middle Earth – before they must travel north to face the Witch of Angmar
herself.
To start us off – here’s the
first installment!
The
Witch of Angmar
Legacy
of the Fellowship
Part
One
Fireworks
UPON THE ONE-HUNDRED YEAR anniversary of the death of King Elessar and the passing
of Legolas and Gimli into the west – something happened in the Shire that
brought the ‘long reign of peace’ to an end.
Many
said that this was the moment that darkness crept back into the world. Yet,
some whispered that darkness was always there, even in ages of happiness and
prosperity. In such times, it just hid in the shadows, and bided its time.
So
it was, in the year 1641, by Shire Reckoning, of the Fourth Age, that Rose
Fairbairn, a young hobbit female, journeyed to Hobbiton. It was a trip she had
made many times, from her home in Westmarch, on the far western borders of the
Shire. Her family were the Fairbairns of the Towers, and Rose was the only
child of Rowan and Ruby Fairbairn.
On
a bright, late summer morning, Rose loaded up her father’s wagon with sacks of
potatoes, bunches of spring onions and carrots, and crates of cabbages. It had
been a bountiful summer, and the Fairbairns had a glut of produce to sell
beyond their home in the Tower Hills.
“Ma,
they’re letting off fireworks tonight, in honour of Gandalf and the hundred
year passing of the Fellowship,” Rose informed her mother as she heaved the
last sack of potatoes onto the wagon. “Why don’t you and papa come with me
today? We can stay at the Green Dragon and make a holiday of it.”
“A
holiday?” Ruby Fairbairn put her hands on her ample hips and surveyed her
daughter with exasperation. “Since when have we Fairbairns taken a holiday?
That’s an indulgence for other, richer folk!”
Rose
sighed and glanced about her. The wagon and the stocky pony waiting patiently
in front of it, stood before the white-washed gate of the Fairbairn hobbit
hole. Around them rose the lush green curves of the Tower Hills. The hills were
pock-marked with similar dwellings; although the Fairbairns had by far the
largest and most beautiful home, with an extensive garden out front, filled
with roses, honey-suckle, pastel-coloured lupins and stock. Rose’s family also
owned much of the patchwork of fields that spread down the hillside beneath
them.
“We’re
not poor,” Rose frowned. “Why should other folk get to enjoy the celebrations
and not us?”
“If
we’re more prosperous than our forebears, it’s because we work harder,” Ruby
sniffed, her hazel eyes narrowing. “Now enough of this nonsense and off you go.
You will need to reach the market by mid-afternoon if you want to have a chance
of selling everything.”
Rose
sighed and climbed up onto the front of the wagon. There was never any point in
arguing with her mother. Ruby Fairbairn was always right. Even her father said
so. Rose flicked the reins and the pony moved off.
“And
don’t think about spending gold on a bed at the Green Dragon either,” her
mother called after Rose. “The weather’s mild. You can sleep in the wagon.”
Rose
bit her tongue and flicked the reins again, urging the pony into a brisk trot.
They set off along the lane that wound its way down through the fields.
Ruby
Fairbairn watched her daughter go and shook her head. At twenty-seven, Rose was
in the middle of her tweens – a trying time. Yet, Rose had an impetuousness
that Ruby had never been afflicted with at the same age. Her daughter
questioned everything; a trait that could be very tiresome.
For
her part, Rose was still chafing from her mother’s parting comments. The
Fairbairns’ meanness was legendary in Westmarch – and there were times when her
mother’s penny-pinching ways aggravated Rose.
As
always, she looked forward to her trips to Hobbiton. It may not have been an
adventure, not like the one her great, great grand-father Master Samwise had
been part of over two hundred and twenty years earlier, but it was her chance
to travel across the Shire, see fresh faces and hear new stories.
The
road east was reasonably well travelled these days; used mainly by those
trading between Hobbiton and Westmarch. Rose recognised a few faces on her
journey down the hill, and waved as she passed. She was a familiar sight on the
road, for both her parents preferred to stay behind and tend the fields rather
than journey to market. They did not fear for her safety, for the Shire had
never been as safe as now. Over two centuries earlier, King Elessar had issued
an edict, forbidding Men from entering the Shire. Ever since then, the land had
been blessed with a long peace. Rose felt not a twinge of fear setting out on
her own, for the horrors that had once stalked Middle Earth, even shattering
the tranquillity of the Shire, were nothing more than old stories in the Red
Book her father kept in his study.
Once
she left the Tower Hills behind, Rose took the road that cut across the Far
Downs. Here, the landscape undulated in a sea of grassy hills. A warm breeze
caressed Rose’s face and she sighed. She adored summer; the smell of warm
grass, the sound of insects, and the whisper of the wind. Last winter had been
one of the harshest in living memory, even the Brandywine had frozen and those
in Westmarch had heard tales of hungry wolves, the biggest seen in centuries,
appearing on the fringes of the Shire. It had been a relief when the spring
thaw arrived. Now, after months of balmy weather, summer was drawing to a
close. Soon it would be harvest, and then the slow decline back into freezing
winter.
Mid-morning,
Rose opened a cloth-wrapped parcel of food and helped herself to a slice of
bacon and egg pie – elevenses. Her mother had also made her a door-stopper ham
sandwich for lunch with a couple of blackberry tea cakes for later in the
afternoon. Rose finished her slice of pie and rewrapped the rest. Although she
loved her mother’s cooking, she knew there was enough food here to last her
until she returned to the Tower Hills tomorrow. If she continued eating in this
fashion she would soon be as stout as her mother.
It
was getting towards three o’clock in the afternoon when the pony and trap
rattled into Hobbiton. Locals looked up from their gardens as she passed. They
were the frank, open faces of hobbits, with twinkling eyes and ruddy cheeks.
“Good
afternoon young Rose!” an elderly hobbit called out to her from where he was bent
over, weeding his carrots. “And how are your parents keeping?”
“Very
well Master Robin, thank you!” Rose called back cheerfully. “Will you be at the
celebrations tonight?”
“Wouldn’t
miss it for the world,” Master Robin replied. “See you there!”
Rose
followed the road into the heart of Hobbiton, and skirted the edge of Bywater
Pool. She made her way up to the Party Field, where the monthly Hobbiton Market
was held. A number of tents and marquees spread out over the grass, their
awnings flapping in the breeze. Rose drew up outside the field. She got down from
the cart and led her pony across the field. She set up her stall where she
always did, next to where Marroc Brandybuck hawked his cheeses.
Marroc,
a chubby-cheeked hobbit about the same age as Rose’s father, waved merrily at
her. A crowd of hobbits, eager for some of Marroc’s fine cheese, clustered
around his stall. Rose unlatched the back of the wagon and began setting out
her produce, listening to the gravelly tones of Marroc’s voice as she did so.
“Yes,
try this one Bertha – the flavour’s quite unique. I soak it in wine as part of
the ageing process. It goes particularly well with ham!”
“Yes
Marroc,” Bertha Proudfoot replied with a hint of exasperation in her voice,
“but what I’m after is a cooking cheese. How well does this one melt?”
Eventually,
some of Marroc’s punters left his stall and wandered over to Rose. The quality
of her parents’ produce was well known in Hobbiton and soon she had a number of
customers. As always, the potatoes were the first to go – Westmarch spuds were
renown throughout the Shire.
The
shadows were starting to lengthen and the sun cast a golden hue over the party
field when Rose spied Pericles Took making his way up the hill towards her. The
sight of Peri, who was only a year older than her, made Rose go both hot and
cold all at once. He had a way of both infuriating and embarrassing her. There
was something in his impish smile that made her feel as if he was laughing at
her.
“Fair
Rose!” he called out as he approached, causing Rose to blush deeply. “How goes
it?”
She
hated him calling her that. Decades earlier, the female Fairbairns had been
breathtakingly beautiful – folk still talked of the fairness of Elanor,
daughter of Master Samwise and Mistress Rose, who had been as beautiful as an
elf-maid with long golden hair and alabaster skin. The legacy of ‘Elanor the
Fair’ was a difficult one to live up to. Ruby Fairbairn was plain and plump,
with a good humoured, ruddy face but little beauty. Her daughter, Rose, had
thick light brown hair and large hazel eyes. She knew her face was too round to
be called fair. Pericles called her such to mock her.
“Afternoon
Peri,” she said coldly. “As you can see I’m very busy so unless you want to buy
something I suggest you move on.”
“That’s
not much of a welcome, is it?” Pericles Took stopped before Rose and picked up
a cabbage. “Not the way you should treat paying customers.”
Rose’s
gaze narrowed, and Peri grinned back at her. He was one of the handsomest young
hobbits in the area, with a mop of brown hair, twinkling green eyes and a
sensitive face. He always looked slightly unkempt, as if he spent his life
sleeping rough in a haystack. Rose had not seen him do a day of work in his
life. His parents ran the Green Dragon, and apart from pouring ale behind the
bar on the odd evening, Peri appeared to wander through life doing what suited
him, and little else.
“Are
you going to buy that cabbage?”
“Perhaps.”
“Well,
make up your mind and put it down if you’re not interested.”
Peri’s
grin widened.
“You’re
in a viperish mood this afternoon Rose – what ails you?”
“Nothing.”
“Are
you staying for the celebrations tonight?” Peri nodded towards the other end of
the Party Field, where a group of hobbits were setting up tents and long wooden
tables, and draping streamers over the Party Tree. “It should be great fun.”
“I
will.” Rose replied reluctantly.
“Shall
I get my parents to make up a bed for you at the Green Dragon then?”
Rose
shook her head.
“Ma
won’t allow me to spend money on the Inn – I’ll be sleeping in the wagon
tonight.”
Peri laughed at that and Rose tensed as cold
shame washed over her. She should never have told him – he was always teasing
her about her mother’s meanness.
“Why
am I not surprised? See you tonight then.”
With
that, Pericles Took put the cabbage down and walked off, whistling as he went.
Rose
watched him go, and fought the surge of irritation that always followed a
conversation with Peri.
By
the time Rose packed up, as the sun slid beyond the western horizon, she had
sold everything but three cabbages and one bunch of carrots – her mother could
hardly complain about that.
Hobbits
were now starting to gather around the party tree, and the cheerful notes of a
bone whistle and the strains of a lyre drifted across the Party Field towards
the market stalls. Rose parked the wagon and pony under the boughs of oaks on
the far side of the field. She unshackled Pepper and tethered him to one of the
trees so that he could graze a little. Then she gave him a nosebag of oats and
a bucket of water. Glancing up at the
sky, Rose saw that it was a mild evening and the sky appeared clear. It would
not be so unpleasant to sleep outdoors after all, although she would miss a
soft mattress.
With
her pony seen to, Rose made her way across the field towards the Party Tree.
The sun was setting in a blaze of pink and gold, promising good weather on the
morrow. She had a pocket full of coins after the market but was loath to spend
any of it – her mother would check her takings meticulously upon her return to
the Towers. Yet, a cup of ale and a nibble to eat would not cut into her
takings much; it was an important celebration after all.
It
was a century since the last members of the Fellowship of the Ring: Legolas the
Elf and Gimli the Dwarf had sailed away into the west from the Greyhavens. A
century of peace had reigned. These days, there was little talk about what went
on beyond their borders – and truthfully, few hobbits cared.
Old
Largo Proudfoot had dressed up in a long grey wig, beard and cloak and was
frightening the young hobbits with a deep, booming voice as he told them of
Gandalf and his great adventures.
“You
shall not pass!” he roared and slammed his staff into the ground as he mimicked
Gandalf the Grey facing the Balrog in the Mines of Moria. Then, he had promised
them a few fireworks later, in honour of the great wizard himself.
Watching
the awestruck faces of the young ones, Rose smiled. She too had sat captivated
when her father read her sections of the Red Book as a child; he also had acted
out some of the most exciting scenes.
The
dark deepened and torches flared into life around the Party Field, illuminating
the festivities and creating a warm beacon in the centre of Hobbiton that drew
every hobbit in the area to it. A full moon rose into the inky sky.
Hobbits
were famed for knowing how to throw a party.
Long
tables groaned under the weight of food and drink. There was music, dancing,
laughter and singing. Rose watched, in amusement, as the local mummers group,
dressed up as Elves, Orcs and Men, acted out scenes from the past. They were a
foolish sight, a group of hobbits reciting scenes from lives they had never
seen, and tripping over their costumes as they did so; yet the acting was fun
to watch nevertheless. One or two of the actors were so drunk that they were
bungling their lines, and causing the other members of the troop to glower at
them.
“Er,
you shall not have the ring, foul ringwraith!” the hobbit playing Frodo
protested, waving his wooden sword and staggering backwards as a dark figure
cloaked in black strode towards him, hissing under its breath.
“Be
gone! Be gone!”
The
terrible acting was causing onlookers to snigger but, oblivious, the drunken
hobbit continued to stagger backwards, and crashed onto the table next to Rose.
Cups, crockery, food and drink went flying. The hobbit gave a squeal and
flailed about like a cast beetle.
“Bongo
Bracegirdle!” One of the other actors, dressed as Gimli the Dwarf, waded
through the melee and yanked Bongo off the table by his ear. “You’re a
disgrace!”
Rose
was so engrossed in the mummery, and the additional entertainment that went
with it, that she did not notice Pericles Took weave his way, carrying two
tankards of ale, through the crowd towards her. It was only when he sat down on
the bench next to Rose, and nudged her with his elbow, that she realised he was
there.
“Here,”
he passed Rose a tankard. “Let us make a toast to those of the Fellowship – who
risked their lives so that we may live in peace!”
As
usual, there was a trace of mischievousness in his voice. Yet, his face was
serious enough.
“Wouldn’t
it have been wonderful to have known them all,” Rose sighed, taking the tankard
Peri offered her. “Bilbo, Frodo, Sam, Pippin and Merry. Their blood runs
through our veins. Do you think we’d be capable of such bravery if put to the
test?”
Peri
shrugged, as if the thought had never occurred to him. “We’ll never know.
Thanks to them, the Shire is enjoying ‘the long peace’ – long may it last!”
“But
don’t you ever wonder what goes on beyond our borders?” Rose asked, taking a
sip of ale and regarding Peri over the rim of her tankard. “Wouldn’t you like
to visit the places they did? To see Rivendell, the Misty Mountains, Edoras and
Minas Tirith?”
“I
suppose I would,” Peri admitted with a smile. “If I were the adventurous type.”
“But
you travel farther than most. You’ve been to Bree, whereas I’ve never been any
further east than Hobbiton.”
“Bree’s
not that interesting,” Peri replied. “Just full of strange, tall folk who look
down their noses at hobbits.”
“Do
they?”
“There
was a reason King Elessar forbade Men from entering the Shire,” Peri gave her a
pointed look before turning his attention back to the actors. “Men are not
peace-loving like us.”
Rose
frowned. This was the most serious statement she had ever heard Peri utter –
and yet there was a tone of superiority in his voice, as if he knew better than
she, that chafed her.
“Still...
I do not think this isolation is good for us,” she said eventually.
That
caught Peri’s attention. He turned to her, wide-eyed and a touch annoyed. “Why
would you say that?”
“We
live as if the rest of the world doesn’t exist,” Rose continued, “which would
be fine, if it didn’t. If dark times ever come to the Shire again, none of us
will be equipped to deal with it.”
“My
my, what depressing thoughts,” Peri mocked her. “You certainly are glum these
days Fair Rose.”
“Don’t
call me that.”
“What,
‘Fair Rose’? That is your name after all – Fair Rose Fairbairn.”
“We
both know I’m not fair, so just stop it,” Rose felt her face heat up as she
spoke. Why did every conversation she had with Peri Took end in an argument?
The
surprise on his face just angered her further. Rose slammed down her tankard
and stormed off, leaving Peri staring after her.
The
party continued on until late. Eventually, as the fires died away to smoking
embers and the torches burnt down in their brackets, well-fed, inebriated
hobbits stumbled their way out of the Party Field towards their hobbit holes.
Rose
wandered back to where her wagon awaited her, shadowed under the boughs of the
old oaks. The pony was dozing and it snorted at Rose’s approach. She whispered
soothingly and fed him a handful of oats – not that he needed it. After a
summer of rich grass, Pepper the pony was beginning to resemble a barrel.
“Good
boy,” Rose stroked Pepper’s sleek neck. He still had his summer coat, although
he became shaggy during the winter. “Folk are strange, are they not?”
The
pony merely whickered gently in response, and Rose smiled.
“Present
company not included of course. You’re the best companion a hobbit could wish for
Pepper.” She stroked the pony’s furry ears and gave him a slap on the rump
before turning away.
Her
eyes stinging with fatigue, Rose climbed up on the wagon. She arranged the
cloak she had brought in case the weather turned nasty, and some empty sacking,
to form a bed of sorts. Then she lay down with a sigh and gazed up at the starry
sky. It was a warm night without a whisper of a breeze. In fact, it was so
still that Rose felt a little unnerved.
It
was as if the world were holding its breath.
Rose
was listening to the silence, and wondering what it meant, when a sound – the
whisper of footsteps on grass – startled her. She bolted upright, her heart
hammering, and saw the outline of someone standing before her.
“Sorry
if I scared you Rose,” Peri’s voice cut through the still night. His speech was
slightly slurred, meaning that he had imbibed more than his share of ale during
the celebrations. Rose’s relief that it was only Peri was short-lived before a
surge of irritation overshadowed it.
“What
is it?” she snapped. “You’ll get a reputation, sneaking up on folk in the
middle of the night!”
“I
came to apologise,” Peri continued, as if she had not reprimanded him. “I
didn’t mean to upset you earlier. When I call you ‘Fair Rose’, I really do mean
it. I think you are beautiful – fair as a summer’s dawn. As pretty as a field
of…”
“Peri,”
Rose interrupted him sharply. “You’re drunk.”
“Maybe
I am,” Peri replied, a touch annoyed that his monologue had been interrupted,
“but many say that a hobbit speaks the truth when he’s had a drop too much.”
“Or
that he speaks complete drivel,” Rose replied, although she could feel her
mouth lifting at the edges as she tried to supress a smile. Peri was
incorrigible.
“As
I was saying,” Peri attempted once more. “You are fairer to me than…”
“Rose
Fairbairn and Pericles Took?”
A
new voice, female and coolly assertive, caused Peri to choke mid-sentence. Both
hobbits whipped round towards the voice, their gazes settling upon a tall,
cloaked shadow that had stepped out from behind one of the oaks. Rose’s throat
constricted with sudden terror – the shadow was far taller than any hobbit she
had ever seen, and the voice was different too, of a lower timbre than most
hobbit females.
This
was no hobbit.
Peri
obviously had come to the same conclusion, for he backed up against the edge of
the cart and let out a stifled squeal.
“Quiet!”
the figure stepped out into the moonlight and pushed back her hood. An oval
face with high cheekbones and dark eyes held Peri fast. “You will wake all of
Hobbiton!”
“Who
are you?” Rose managed, her voice quivering. She stretched out her hands,
fumbling for a weapon in the back of the wagon, but found nothing but sacking.
“Answer
my question first and I will answer yours,” the woman replied coldly. “Are you
Rose Fairbairn and is your companion, Pericles Took?”
Rose
nodded mutely.
“Then
I am Salrean, daughter of Rendur.”
“But
who are you?” Peri managed. “Men are
forbidden in the Shire.”
Salrean
gave a quiet laugh at that. “I am one of the Dúnedain. My
father is chieftain of Farnost. ‘Tis true that men are not welcome here – but
in case it had escaped your notice Pericles, I am a woman.”
Rose
stared at the stranger with awe. “You’re one of the Dúnedain?”
The woman
nodded.
“But what
do you want with us? How do you even know our names?” Rose demanded.
“I made
some enquiries in Buckland. I have discovered that you both, and Marroc Brandybuck, are the last direct
descendants of the Fellowship,” Salrean began solemnly, “and I am here to warn
you. After I speak with you, I will seek out Marroc.”
“Warn
us? What about?” Now that Peri had overcome his shock at seeing a woman in the
Shire, and a frightening one at that, he was regarding Salrean, daughter of
Rendur, with suspicion.
Looking
upon him, Salrean sighed. It was a weary sigh; of someone who had obviously
travelled far to find them.
“May
we sit together on the wagon?” she asked. “‘Tis a long tale and we might as
well be comfortable while I tell it.”
Seeing
as this woman did not appear someone to be crossed, Rose nodded. She shifted to
one end and sat with her knees pulled up in front of her. Peri climbed up and
sat down next to Rose.
“Should
we trust her?” he whispered to Rose. “She might mean us harm.”
Before
Rose could reply, Salrean jumped up lightly into the cart and settled down,
folding her long legs underneath her.
“Yes
you can trust me Master Took,” she replied with a wry tone. “If I’d meant you
harm you’d both be dead by now.”
Rose
swallowed painfully. That sounded less like an assurance and more like a
threat. Yet, there was something about the woman’s manner that appeared
sincere. Her lack of sweet words and any attempt to ingratiate herself, made
Rose instinctively trust her.
“Well
then,” Rose hugged her knees to her chest and regarded the newcomer. “What of
this tale?”
Salrean
sighed once more. The moonlight accentuated the angles of her face. In
daylight, Rose imagined the woman would be attractive, but now she looked
almost harsh.
“As
I said before, I am here to warn you,” Salrean began softly, “But first, to
understand why you are in danger, you must first hear a little of ancient
history. My tale begins in the Realm of Angmar – where evil stirs once more.”
End of Part One
Look out for Part #2 - published here on Friday 5 July!
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