Untitled Pre-Quest drouble
Word Count: 200
Characters: Smeagol, Deagol, Granny, anonymous dead guy of Gondor-not Isildur!
Source Text: LotR, bookverse
Rating: Gen, but PG-13, I reckon, for implied nastiness and semi-graphic description of an extremely dead body.
Disclaimer: Written for love, not money.
Author's Comments: Smeagol always did like shiny things. (My much belated contribution to the March Spring challenge-birth, renewal, growth, flowers, eggs, bunnies, chocolate, taxes. Well, I got eggs, birth, and flowers in there, sort of.
It was the birth of something, Granny knew.
Snowmelt swelled the Great River, and the Riverfolk, searching the banks and reeds for eggs and flowering iris, found a Man.
He had been dead a long time, and he stank. His peeling skin was dark with rot, his eyes like cloudy moonstones beneath his half-closed lids, cold hands still clutching the broken arrow-shaft that had taken his life. But he wore a sparkling stone engraved with a tree and stars on a silver chain around his swollen throat, and Smeagol's fingers twitched with the wanting of it.
"Leave it!" Granny commanded. The River brought it, let it take it away.
But that night Smeagol was caught sneaking out of the Burrow, knife in hand, to pare away the rotten flesh and brittle bone and take what he desired. Granny thrashed him with a switch even though he begged for the bright thing, and Deagol cried in sympathy. No shiny bauble was worth the plague it might bring to her hearth.
The river rose again in flood, taking the Man and his cursed trinket away. Smeagol never spoke of it again.
But it had been the birth of something wicked, Granny knew.
A Dream in the House of Beorn
Word Count: 200
Source Text: The Hobbit
Characters: Beorn, Bilbo, assorted bears
Disclaimer: Still poor, still writing for love
Author's Comments: Pretty much what the title says, written for The Hobbit challenge *mumblemumble* months ago. Procrastination? What's that?
Bilbo was rudely dumped out of his warm bed, his breath a frosty cloud in the cool air. Above him was the pale moon, and around him were shadowy shapes of bears, and a wild reek like a kennel of damp hounds.
"Is it a Goblin?" growled a low voice. A hairy paw rolled him about, and a wet nose snuffled his hair. "It doesn't smell like a Goblin."
"It's a cub," said an old sow-bear, her eyes glittering. Bilbo had horrible visions of himself crushed into a maternal, ursine bosom and carried off to a cave to live on grubs.
"It's a hare!" said the voice of a younger bear, horribly eager. "Let's eat it!"
"Do not be hasty, my friends." A great black bear rose up, huge and terrible, and shook himself like a man shrugging off his cloak. Beorn held the trembling hobbit high before the assembled bears. "It is a hobbit, and my guest!"
There was a pause. "So we can't eat it?" grumbled the young bear.
Bilbo squeaked and awoke, surrounded by snoring Dwarves. What a dreadful dream! But the bedclothes smelled faintly of damp hounds and frost, and Bilbo shivered. A dream? Perhaps not!