Leandro of El Senor de los Anillos, a Spanish LotR website, has graciously allowed us to use his LotR stories. He and Fat Middle translated them, and I (bmilder) edited them. There are only a few stories up currently, but eventually, all of the stories will be translated and archived here. If you can read Spanish, I recommend going to the website and reading the stories in the original language. Currently 15 stories, the last ten and the first five, are available in English here.
October 25th, 3018 of the Third Age
"Do you remember, Gandalf, when everything began?" It was Bilbo who spoke. He and Gandalf were walking through a beautiful garden, surrounded by high pillars adorned with creepers that twisted around them, and climbed high. With them there were Frodo, and Glóin, and his son Gimli. "Yes, Bilbo, I remember," answered Gandalf, and smiled. "But this adventure didn't begin when you think, at the front door of Bag End, but in Bree, at the Prancing Pony."
"How could this be?" Bilbo replied, curious. "I was there when I met Thorin by chance, and this meeting changed all the fortunes of the House of Durin, and led to other and greater ends beside. For I was on my way to the Shire, which I had not visited for some twenty years. I was weary, and thought to rest there for a while."
He paused and sat on the green grass. Bilbo and Glóin sat in front of him, but Frodo and Gimli remained standing. They were becoming good friends, from the very moment they knew that they were to be companions in this quest. Gandalf continued.
"Yes, I was weary, and thoughtful... and worried, terribly worried. I already knew that Sauron was plotting war, and intended to attack Rivendell. Maybe Elrond could have resisted him, if Sauron was alone. But I was worried, because of the Dragon: the Dragon Sauron might use with terrible effect."
"Thorin told me about your meeting," continued Glóin. "He said that you seemed tired when he stood before you, and said: 'Master Gandalf, I know you only by sight, but now I should be glad to speak with you. For you have often come into my thoughts of late, as if I were bidden to seek you. Indeed I should have done so, if I had known where to find you.'"
"Yes, and I was amazed," laughed Gandalf. "I had been thinking about your folk, and of Thorin and where he could be... And there he was! 'That is strange, Thorin Oakenshield,' I answered. 'For I have thought of you also; and though I am on my way to the Shire, it was in my mind that it is the way also to your halls.' Then Thorin said 'Call them so, if you will. They are only poor lodgings in exile. But you would be welcome there, if you would come. For they say that you are wise and know more than anyone else of what goes in the world; and I have much on my mind and would be glad of your counsel.'"
"I will come," said Gandalf, as if he was talking again to Thorin himself. "For I guess that we share one trouble at least. The Dragon of Erebor is on my mind, and I do not think that he will be forgotten by the grandson of Thrór." At this point, Gandalf seemed to wake, and he smiled again. "Poor old Thorin..." he muttered. "Well, where is Sam, Frodo? It has been hours since I saw him..."
October 25th, 3018 of the Third Age
"Gil-galad and Elendil met each other to talk about it. They both knew much about the situation and they foresaw the danger that Sauron would pose for the Middle-Earth, if all the free peoples wouln't ally against him. This was how the Last Alliance between Elves and Men was formed. They marched East, through Middle-Earth, gathering every Elf and every Man disposed to defend his life and liberty.
"For some time they stayed here, in Imladris, preparing themselves for the final battle where Sauron would be defeated, but also would Gil-galad and Elendil, under whose body would break his sword Narsil... But I must not anticipate the events," he rectified, seeing Aragorn looking at him intensely.
"I was saying it was here," he continued, "in Imladris where that army got ready for that last battle. There will never again be another army like that... Silvan, Sindarin and Noldor for the Elves... Númenóreans for the men... even Naugrim from Durin's folk..." Now, it was Glóin who straightened up proudly on his seat, with a special brightness in his eyes. Thereupon Elrond paused a while and sighed.
"I remember well the splendor of their banners," he said. "It recalled to me the glory of the Elder Days and the hosts of Beleriand, so many great princes and captains were assembled. And yet not so many, nor so fair, as when Thangorodrim was broken, and the Elves deemed that evil was ended for ever, and it was not so."
October 10th, 3018 of the Third Age
Before the first day's march was over Frodo's pain began to grow again, but he did not speak of it for a long time. Four days passed, without the ground or the scene changing much. Meanwhile, the five riders had gone east. They had lost all trail of the hobbits and that ranger. But they were not worried about them now. Another peril, even bigger than the strange man that attacked them on Weathertop, was coming.
One of the four remaining riders that were guarding the road between the Bridge of Mitheithel and the Bruinen had left his post, some days ago. An Elf Lord was coming from Rivendell. Perhaps four Nazgul could not confront that lord, who was bright and white to their dark eyes.
The Witch King was still wounded, but his pain was reduced to nothing when he was given this news. Without a sound audible to any mortal being, he angrily ordered three of his servants to fly east, and face that bright enemy. He and his two nearer wraiths would follow them more slowly. His dark thoughts became even darker. "Too many troubles for such an easy mission." They had to stop the Elf Lord and the hobbits. But he still didn't know the identity of that man, the ranger, who was even brighter than an Elf to them. He had not seen any man shining so much since...
September 30th, 3018 of the Third Age
Frodo, Pippin and Sam made their way back to the parlor. There was no light. Merry was not there, for he had gone out for a stroll.
The village seemed peaceful, almost too peaceful, although it wasn't so strange. It was getting cold and men, hobbits, dwarves along with other people would prefer to spend the evening at home, next to a warm fire.
This idea grew stronger in Merry's mind. He quickened his steps back towards the Pony. When he came to the door, beside the lamp, he lifted his gaze... and smiled. Despite being already so far from Hobbiton, the stars over Bree were the same, as fair as they were in the summer nights in The Shire.
With the violence of a lash, a terrible chill crossed his back. He turned around, looking at the shadows surrounding the road, and with a sudden perception he noticed another shadow even darker than the rest, despite its proximity to the lamp, and it slipped away again into that darkness from which it seemed to have emerged.
Curiosity superseded the pleasant idea of a fireplace in the hobbit's mind. Merry followed the shadow upwards to the road. Turning the corner, he noticed that there was nobody there; he encouraged himself to go on anyway. He heard whispering, hissing voices come closer and closer. He couldn't go further. Terror took possession of him. He had to alert the others. Without worrying about making noise, he broke into a run towards the inn.
Suddenly, something appeared behind him. A light sound, as a blow, came out from that form. For Merry everything became darkness.
September 22nd, 3018 of the Third Age
There it was when it all began: hooves. Nine riders galloped to the river Brandywine. Terror took hold of the Rangers. At the very borders of The Shire, where hobbits who knew nothing of the Rangers or Nazguls lived in peaceful ignorance, there was a battle that ended before it had begun. The Black Riders had been riding for many days, but they didn't show any signs of weariness. Meanwhile, the Dúnedain had intensified the guard, since Strider had assured them that there soon would be trouble. They prepared themselves for anything.
But nothing could have prepared them for this. Swift as a black wind, the Nazgul hastened to the Sarn Ford. Moments later, both guards fell, cold and languid. A third ranger who was called Bow saw the scene, and sounded the alert. This saved those remaining, since they could scatter themselves fast. But in spite of this, that Rider that bore the crown caught up to him. That man known by everyone as Bow, but whom only Aragorn knew the true identity of, fell beheaded.
The pursuit lasted all night, but thanks to the alert by Bow, most of them could fly away. The Black Riders had dispersed for the chase, and it wasn't till dawn that the rangers stopped hearing those...
Far to the South, Gandalf had begun to despair. Shadowfax didn't allow the old wizard even to approach him. Gandalf sat on the ground, and bowed his head. He thought about the urgency of the situation, about Frodo (today was his birthday, but where was he celebrating it?), about the Ring, about Aragorn, about the Nazgul... His desperation became evident on his face, and Shadowfax took notice of it. As a Meara, he couldn't allow anyone that wasn't Prince or King to ride him. But there was something superior in that old man. Shadowfax stopped his light trotting. Gandalf raised his sight, and their eyes met each other.
September 13th, 3018 of the Third Age
Gwaihir raised his head. His sharp hearing picked up the kicking of the horse's hooves, long miles down. Slowly but majestically, he took flight. Long before he began to descend, he already knew who was on the back of that horse. His beak and claws relaxed as he went down in a wide spiral.
Radagast stopped, smiling at last. He had spent the last days crossing through Mirkwood, warning every creature that considered him a friend. A lot of Eagles had been traveling through Middle-Earth, where they had begun to contemplate the actions of the dark hand of Mordor. What worried Radagast the most were the rumors about the Nine, each day nearer north.
He already knew a lot of things, but he still didn't know something very important: What had happened to Gandalf? Since they got separated, neither Elf, nor Man, nor Dwarf, nor any other creature had heard anything about him. Maybe the Windlord knew something...
Half an hour later, Radagast wasn't smiling anymore. The news that Gwaihir gave him wasn't good at all: the gathering of wolves and the mustering of Orcs; and the Nine Riders going hither and thither in the lands; and they heard rumors about that small creature that had evaded the vigilance of the Elves of Lorien, to the south.
"Do you know something about Gandalf?" Radagast asked, crestfallen.
"No, Radagast. No one knows anything about him."
"He knew something, Gwaihir. Something that would help us. But he set off to Isengard, and he never returned. You must find him, and when you do, you will tell him about all this news. Find out whatever more you can about the Nazgul. But don't delay, and fly swiftly to Isengard. If you don't find him there, ask Saruman.
In silent agreement, the biggest and fastest of the Great Eagles straightened up, and ascended from the ground with a simple flap of his powerful wings. Moments later he was lost to sight. Radagast rode his horse and set off in the other direction, thoughtful.
September 1st, 3018 of the Third Age.
At first, Frodo was a good deal disturbed, and often wondered what Gandalf could have heard; but his uneasiness wore off, and in the fine weather he forgot his troubles for a while. The Shire had seldom seen so fair a summer, or so rich an autumn: the trees were laden with apples, honey was dripping in the combs, and the corn was tall.
Autumn was well under way before Frodo began to worry about Gandalf again. That September 1st, Frodo was nervously pacing to and fro. He had had a dream, and although he couldn't recall the details, he was sure that Gandalf himself had appeared in that dream.
He tried to calm himself down and he sat at the porch. He lit his pipe and began to smoke, making some smoke-rings. Years earlier in this same spot, his Uncle Bilbo had been smoking his pipe, just before Gandalf appeared at that bend of the road, and their lives changed forever. It was in that adventure that the Ring was found, the same Ring that Frodo kept now in his pocket, and... No, he didn't want to think of it, now. Pushing these thoughts aside, Frodo closed his eyes.
Sam could be heard inside, moving the furniture. Despite being only a gardener, Sam offered to give a hand to Frodo in preparation for the move from Bag End. Frodo thanked him enormously for the help, and he could not refuse it. As a matter of fact, the visits of Lobelia Sackville-Baggins were more frequent each day, and Frodo had to be always vigilant so that neither her nor Lotho stole anything from Bag End. One day that Sam wasn't there, after the visit of Lobelia, Frodo had noticed that one of Bilbo's favorite jars had disappeared. He wouldn't let this happen again.
Frodo opened his eyes, frightened. Was that a horse neighing? He looked at each side of the road, but he didn't see or hear anyone. Then he noticed his hand: He was tightly clutching the Ring. He had nearly put it on, unconciously. Looking eastwards, his determination grew stronger this time. He put the Ring in his pocket and entered the house to help Sam. Gandalf would return on his birthday, and they both would set off to Rivendell.
August 15th, 3018 of the Third Age
Ancient legends talk about a race of dark-haired men, tall and strong, who built their homes and strongholds in rock. Few tales tell us about the destiny of these men, from whom there's nothing left today but the vague shadows who are their descendants, the Dunlendings.
These descendants inhabit the plains and hills of Dunland, to the west of the Misty Mountains, near the Gap of Rohan. They have few similarities with their forgotten ancestors, for they were great warriors, valiant in battle, but honorable and fair with their enemies. Nowadays, Dunlendings have become treacherous and cowardly. The Wizard Saruman didn't have a difficult time convincing the Dunlendings to join his armies in the treason that culminated with the imprisonment of his old companion Gandalf in the tower of Isengard.
But today, as if a mirage from another age, a tall, dark-haired man, whose courage in battle was building a legend alive, hastened through these lands. The few farmers he passed in his way looked at him with curiousity. But he didn't stop to talk to anyone. His determination guided him northwards, in search of a town as legendary and forgotten as the ancestors of those people.
As the night fell, Boromir stopped. He and his horse refreshed themselves whith the water of a stream that flowed from the rocks at the foot of the hill. A shepherd, with a little flock of sheep, passed aside, hurrying home, since it had become late for him. "Sheep," thought Boromir. Now, he understood. Last night he heard what was possibly the howling of wolves, but he had discarded that idea. Now, he saw that it was very possible that wolves were living in those hills. He started a fire, more for protection against wolves than for cold. This way he could avoid the danger.
Unbeknownst to Boromir, wolves were not the worst enemies nearby; there was one who lived on the other side of the mountains. But Saruman directed his vigilance north, east and south, never west, so he didn't notice the presence of that powerful warrior, the heir to the Steward of Gondor. Saruman's prisoner, at the top of the tower of Orthanc, did not look that direction either. Gandalf looked northwards, only northwards, although his thoughts were very similar to the verses that had brought Boromir on his impossible quest. Imladris, the halfling, Isildur's Bane... Words of fantasy for one, and too real and familiar for the other, but that tortured both of them.
"Doom is at hand." With this same thought in their minds, Boromir and Gandalf fell into a light and worried sleep.
August 7th, 3018 of the Third Age
The road leading from Moria to Lorien had never been so busy. Confrontations between orcs and elves had become more frequent (and more violent). However, two days ago both armies had begun to seek another objective. Strangely, that objective was the same for both elves and orcs.
Poor Skrarf was falling asleep, resting over his spear. He knew he would be even in greater trouble, if boss Bukrafha caught him sleeping at guard-time, but he wasn't able to avoid it. Skrarf had slept very little that last week at the camp. And that last day had been terrifying. The elves had launched a surprise attack and they had annihilated nearly the entire Orcish batallion. Skrarf had only survived due to his own cowardice, since when the other warriors had woken up and fought, he stayed, lying down in the floor, pretending to be dead. And when the elves started the pursuit of the few that had managed to escape, he hid in a small cave. He didn't sleep the whole day or night, and only many hours after everything had become calm, he dared to crawl away and return to the Mines.
Boss Bukrafha didn't know what to do to him. Skrarf's cowardice was something known by all, and made him the laughingstock of his own old companions. He couldn't send him to the front, but he didn't want him near the camp either. The only solution was assigning him a guard post at the east door. Elves would never dare to go there, and he could use the valuable guard-orcs to track the little creature that no one could find.
That "little creature" was none other than Gollum, who now was spying on Skrarf from some thickets. Gollum hadn't eaten anything but carrion since he was freed from the elves' vigilance. But now, he had in front of him a little orc, half asleep. The idea of eating fresh meat from a young orc again persuaded him.
One hour later, Gollum was devouring a nice piece of meat. That little, good orc was keeping a door in which Gollum had entered, dragging along the inanimate body of Skrarf. When Gollum had become almost happy, the alert was sounded across the whole cavern: the guard had disappeared. Gollum understood, and he slipped away downwards. That place reminded him of happier times, in another cave, far to the north. He could stay there, yes. He could live there eating good orcs and avoiding the bad ones. There were no evil elves with nassty burning ropes.
He only missed his Precious. Would he see it again someday? Suddenly, he smiled: something told him he really would see It again. In the caves there was something...
July 28th, 3018 of the Third Age
"Nob! Nob, come here! Where are you?"
"Well, what are you doing there, when I'm telling you to come here?"
Nob hurried through the door, and he nearly knocked over the fat innkeeper Butterbur, who was walking up and down in the kitchen, nervous, holding a letter in his pudgy hand.
"What do you want, Mr. Butterbur?"
"Do you remember when I told you to find someone who was up for a trip to the Shire? Did you pay any attention to me?"
"I swear it, Mr. Butterbur. I've asked every single Breelander about that, hobbit and man alike, but no one wants to go to the Shire..."
"Are you completely sure that you've asked everyone?"
"Well..." muttered Nob, blushing and bowing his head, "not everyone... You know, Mr. Butterbur, that those rangers aren't so trustworthy... You told me that yourself!"
"Yes, I told you that. And I still hold to my statement. Anyway, I haven't seen any of them in these parts since Spring... and I'm glad about it. But, if they haven't come by here again, why do you talk to me about them?"
"In fact, I only saw the one who's called Strider. I almost told him about it, but I remembered your words, Mr. Butterbur. And, to tell you the truth, I don't like his appearance either."
"You did well, Nob. For once in your life, you did well. Nothing in the world could convince me to trust Gandalf's letter to such a filthy, strange man. I wouldn't be too surprised if he's caught some day, robbing, or something worse... Although he seems to like our beer," he added, smiling. "Once, he told me that he never found a better beer in any of his long travels..."
Meanwhile, Aragorn was riding west. Almost exhausted because of the travel, he thought, "What I would give at this very moment for a good beer at the Prancing Pony!" But he couldn't turn aside from his road. He had to get to Rivendell as soon as possible, since they still hadn't had any word about Gandalf, and Aragorn had begun to worry about the fate of his friend, the grey wizard. The rangers had intensified the vigilance of the Shire, but at the same time, rumors surfaced from far lands, telling that the Nine were again abroad.
"Where are you, Gandalf? Why didn't you advise us of where you were going?" thought Aragorn, as he encouraged his horse to increase speed. "Hurry up! I've got to get to Rivendell quickly", and with this thought, there came another more pleasant thought, that made him smile. She could be at Rivendell...
November 10th, 3001 of the Third Age
"... I do not entreat you as a favor, Aragorn, but as a necessity. It's not a secret any more that Sauron is seeking the the Ring."
"And you believe that it is the same Ring that Bilbo has left to Frodo at the Shire."
"If you had seen Bilbo... if you had heard him calling it 'my precious.'"
"The same as Gollum years ago..."
"Exactly. And if I'm suspecting this, the Dark Lord will undoubtedly be suspecting it too."
"Very good, Gandalf, my friend. I have never seen you err, although you must listen to me if I tell you that these are dark days, and dark matters are occurring. Beware in who you trust, or you may very well fail; I fear that even a small failure may prove fatal."
"Will you help me then?"
"Aye. I shall reinforce the vigilance of the Shire. But I think we should make sure that it is indeed the One Ring before proceeding."
"And none better than Gollum to confirm it. You are right. I must speak again with him."
"And I shall go with you. But you're forgetting that someone else bore the Ring: my sire Isildur."
"Nay. I have not forgotten it..."
Over 1650 of the Second Age
"What's this? O, Annatar, my friend. What have you been plotting all this time?" whispered Celebrimbor to himself.
Celebrimbor had always had an odd feeling with Annatar. Annatar was fair and kind and it seemed that nobody would ever grow weary of hearing him speak. He spread an incredible feeling of security to those around himself, getting interested about everything and praising the work of everybody. But he had seemed especially interested in the work of Celebrimbor.
Celebrimbor and his smiths had finally finished their huge labor, a labor which could rival the work of Fëanor of old. And Annatar had always been learning from them, of their wisdom and their ways. At first glance, nobody would think that Annatar could learn anything of the Smiths, for the odd, fair stranger's wisdom could be perceived from afar. Nevertheless, he learnt from them and he helped them for more than a hundred years.
But one day he disappeared, and nobody heard about him for decades. Celebrimbor grow curious, for Annatar seemed strangely worried and eager when he saw him part, almost as if he were concealing something. Then he realized that the stranger had never mentioned his plans or origin. Indeed, nobody knew Annatar's identity. But Celebrimbor decided to find out.
And then, hidden behind some trees, he could watch Annatar holding a ring against the sky and staring at it. It was fair but unadorned; a plain and smooth ring, with no mounted gem that could disturb its radiant beauty. And, at the same time, it was powerful. Celebrimbor could feel it even from afar. More powerful than any of which the Smiths had forged before. More powerful even than the Three...
Then, Annatar spoke. His voice was powerful though he wasn't shouting. Those words remained forever engraved in the mind and the heart of Celebrimbor. Then he knew the identity of that stranger he loved so much, and he also knew how enormous was the betrayal. He, Celebrimbor, had prepared the way for the victory of the Enemy, and those words sentenced that victory. Those words were taking away all for the world he had known. All was lost.
Ash nazg durbatulûk, ash nazg gimbatul,
Year 1 of the Third Age.
... but for my part I will risk no harm to this thing: of all the works of Sauron the only fair. It is precious to me, though I buy it with great pain.
Isildur left the pen and he looked the palm of his hand. There was that scar the Ring had left when he took it from Sauron's hand. It was truly the pain that remained forever. That pain reminded him Sauron and his darkness. And although Sauron had departed, the pain was still there.
He stared at the treasure for a few moments. Then he remembered when he took it for the first time from the severed finger of Sauron. He remembered that his first impulse had been to throw it to the fire from which it had emerged, in the accursed mountain. Had he done so, that scar would no longer exist, nor some scars of his heart that never will be healed.
Then he took the Ring in his hand and bending the head, he closed his eyes. The Ring made him forget his pain. My precious, he whispered.
February 28th, 3003 of the Third Age
"At last you’re back, Gandalf! It has been months since I had news from you."
"Yes, we are back, but I regret we’ve returned with empty hands."
"We? Who is with you?"
"My dear Bilbo, haven't you missed me?"
"The Dúnadan! Oh, my lord, forgive me if I’ve given that impression. Of course I’ve missed you."
“You need not to apologize, Bilbo. Gandalf and I have spent a long time in far lands, and still have much to do. We set out again at dawn.”
“But my lord, you have stayed but a few hours and yet you want to part. In your absence I’ve composed some verses inspired by the story you told me about, and yet I see I shall have no time to read them to you.”
“Bilbo, the little time we’ve had together has been enough to make us good friends, and nothing is more important than friendship. Of course I shall hear your verses! And Gandalf will listen to them too.”
“I must say I would like to hear them. Bilbo’s skill with poetry continues to improve each day.”
“And yet you always find flaws in them, old grumbler. But a day will come when it will not need criticism.”
“And you think today is that day? Let’s hear them, then.”
Gandalf and Aragorn sat down. Solemnly, Bilbo stood and with a voice they had never heard in him, he recited:
All that is gold does not glitter,
Bilbo’s face filled with worry, noticing that neither of them said anything. Shaking, nervous, he asked:
“My dear Bilbo, I told you once and today I repeat it again: you are no longer the same hobbit that departed from Bag End those long years ago. I am impressed; I will never criticize your poetry ever again. I swear it.”
“And you, my lord Aragorn, what’s your judgment?”
“Today a halfling has achieved what neither elf nor man has achieved before. You are my master, and I bow before you, Bilbo. Let me learn them, and henceforth these verses will accompany the name of the heir of Isildur.”
August 12th, 3001 of the Third Age
When Uncle Bilbo told me he would shortly be celebrating our next birthday with a party of special magnificence, I didn’t feel as surprised or excited as the eager hobbit invitees. I felt worried. Never before had we given such a party. In fact, we seldom received any guests at Bag End. But, as he put it, he had made up his mind, and there was little point in arguing with him.
Yes, his words had been merry, as usual. But his eyes had been conveying his inner anxiety since that day when Gandalf came to visit him for the last time, months ago. While he asked me to help him writing the invitations for the party, I noticed how he kept his right hand in his pocket the entire time. I knew he was fingering his ring, but I suspect he was doing this unconsciously…
The Tolkien Trail | El Senor de los Anillos