i Nili o i Ardanolë Newsletter:

Your source for Lord of the Rings News, Updates, Poetry, Art, Parody and Satire.


Issue 57, Volume 3, 9 July 2005.

Editors: Perian, Xara. 
Chief Correspondent: Prongs.
Columnists: Lady Morrigan Shadow, Padfoot, Cerridwen.
Archivist: Ivy.
Contributor(s): Gimli, son of Gloin, Some Random Gondorian.

In this issue:

Gimli's Decorating Tips by Gimli son of Gloín.
Beornings in Disguise: Forgotten Features of the Men of the Mark by Perian.
Hobbit to Human Years by Xara.
Middle-Earthian Ettiquette - Part III by Some Random Gondorian.

In every issue (or thereabout):

Fanfiction: This Fortnight: Recollections: Chapter Two by Perian.
Ask Samwise.

Find past archives or contribute at http://inili.iwarp.com/

NOTICE: (Yes, this should be in the Classifieds, but people might take more notice here) - the i Nili Newsletter staff is currently open to additions. Requirements: You must be a fan of Tolkien and have some basic writing skills, and  few free hours every once in a while to combine them. If you would like to be a part of it, write to Perian@HotPOP.com
Gimli’s Decorating Tips
By Gimli, son of Gloin.
   As a dwarf, I have a tendency to get into a lot of arguments with elves – especially a certain elf whose name I will not mention for legal purposes, though I am sure you all know of who I speak. The pompous tree-lover put his name under copyright! Can you believe it? You can be sure we argued about that as well. So for my purposes I will call him… Leggy (HA! Didn’t think I’d find a way around that one did you? So sue me!).
   Anyway, Leggy and I have this ongoing argument about aesthetics in a common dwelling space. Now I understand that there is a general prejudice towards dwarves and our appearance. One may ponder “What does an unshaven, cave dwelling, axe-hewing dwarf have to say about how I should fashion my home?” (This is a direct quote from you-know-who). I thought that bringing everyone to the great Mines of Moria would enlighten them to our excellent taste. Unfortunately, the goblins, skeletons, the balrog, and of course, Gandalf plummeting to what we thought was certain death, completely took away from the beauty. So I have taken it upon myself to create a detailed list on how to create a truly fashionable dwelling – without lacy, gauzy, wispy, elfish… things. And especially without the colour green!
1. It is best if you can start off with a natural cave. I understand these are rare, but do your best!
2. Stone pillars should be used as support. If no support is needed, they make great decorations, and also work as back scratching posts.
3. Furniture should also be made of stone. Sometimes it is proper to just roll stones into your house and place them in different areas. This is common among the younger generations – a form of post modern art, I am told.
4. Don’t use the same colour of stone for everything! A common mistake among amateurs is assuming that all stones are the same colour. Though this may be true for say, trees and such, there is actually a large variety when it comes to stones. Place light and dark stones together to create contrast and depth to a room.
5. In addition to contrasting colours, it is important to carve in stone. This takes much skill and practice. It is, in fact, a great art form of dwarves and a great way to impress guests – even elves.
6. Many ignorant humans and elves assume that caves are gloomy. (Yet they find Fanghorn forest beautiful. Where is the logic, I ask!) Dwarves are aware of the lack of natural light, so we compensate through using treasure as decorative objects throughout the home. It may take quite a lot of treasure to create a less gloomy ambiance, which is why dwarves are often stereotyped (unfairly, I might add) as greedy.
7. If you happen to hoard…er… gather more treasure than needed, I would suggest creating a treasure room for safe keeping. You may find that some guests admire your decorations a little too much. It is a good idea to keep back-ups for unexpected disappearances.
8. I understand that some of you may be working with fewer resources. In that case you may employ accent decorating. This involves placing a few well chosen stones and treasured items in easy to view places. The creation of a treasure room is still advised.
   Even Leggy himself would have a hard time finding fault with my flawless decorating tips. By following these simple steps, you will soon find yourself living in a dwelling of comfort and artistic splendour!
Beornings in Disguise: Forgotten Features of the Men of the Mark
By Perian.
  Of all the peoples of Middle-earth it is the Rohirrim who are most often hailed as deriving directly from historical sources rather than those of a more fantastic nature. Their language gives a clear link to the Anglo-Saxons, and their culture can be linked to the Celts (both of which this newsletter has discussed at length in prior issues - if you are interested, take a browse through the archives). But while the very human aspect of the Rohirrim is lauded, their other features tend to be ignored or even to remain completely unnoticed. After all, when one thinks a thing does not exist, it is much easier for that thing to be present without being seen.
  The Rohirrim are mentioned by Boromir in The Fellowship of the Ring, but are not seen until the second chapter of The Two Towers. It is here that most of the neglected information about them is revealed. Now, I'm not sure exactly why it has been neglected. Do people skip this conversation in a frantic scramble to find out what has happened to their hobbits, or at least the lembas they were carrying? Do they think they will know this scene well enough to gloss by it? Are they flipping back and forth between pages, wondering why they thought Aragorn suffered a broken toe in this chapter? Whatever the reason, a few gems of Rohirric information have long remained hidden in the rough upon the fields on the edge of the Fangorn Forest. Among these?
  The Rohirrim are closely related to the Beornings. As a matter of fact, they were originally one and the same, until after Sauron fell for the first time and the men of Gondor invited them down for lunch and a bit of wildmen conquering. This, the relation to the Beornings that is, would explain their suspiciously fond feelings toward horses. Beyond that, however, it does raise a question as to whether they can turn into bears from time to time. One can certainly see a brief parallel in the movies when Théoden is lumbering down the steps of Edoras in his heavy furs, though in theory a Beorning would never dream of adorning himself in the skin of another animal. It's a point unresolved, but worth pondering.
  Like the Beornings, the Rohirrim have no fondness for dwarves. In fact, they appear to harbour a great deal of contempt toward them. Never have they let one ride upon one of their horses, with the exception of Gimli, and that being only when Legolas agreed to carry him upon Arod. Almost they seem to have a kinship with the elves in this dislike of dwarves. In their height and fairness an elvish air can almost be seen. Almost, but not quite; for in one important thing they bear no resemblance to elves: The Rohirrim are illiterate. Oh, they have lore and songs enough, but no written word. This does not prevent the words they use from having integrity. More integrity than the words of other men, in fact, for according to Éomer the Men of the Mark do not lie.
  Each of these attributes is quite astonishing in and of itself for a human to bear, but when amassed they cease to seems strange at all. By lacking pointy ears, extrasensory perception, longevity and pipeweed, the Rohirrim have been classified as one of the most normal peoples in Middle-earth when in reality they are extraordinary beyond realization.

Hobbit to Human Years
By Xara.

  It have always puzzled over the conversion of hobbit to human years. "How old," I ask myself, "Was Frodo really when he set out?" Fifty makes us tend to think of a middle-aged, greying hobbit with lines around his eyes, and yet, hobbit's coming of age is at 33, so this could not be the case. So I have determined to finally make a hobbit to human years conversion line, to find out once and for all!
  To start, we need to list what we know already. We know that the hobbit's coming of age is at 33, and this would supposedly correspond with human's coming of age at 21. We know also, that the tween hobbit years correspond with those difficult teen human years. We know, for Tolkien said it, that 50 is the age at which a hobbit begins to settle himself down. And in addition, we know that the average life expectancy of a hobbit is 100. Now, with a little research I was able to discover that the average life expectancy of a human during the 1940's when Tolkien was writing Lord of the Rings was around 60. So now, let us see if we can put something together from all that.
  If hobbits generally live to be 100, then 50 is obviously half their lifespan. So, if we follow the same token, if people in Tolkien's time generally lived to 60, then the corresponding age for 50 hobbit years must be 30 human years. Now, if we divide 50 by 30, we come up with the number 1.666666 etc. And if we divide 33 by 21 we get 1.5714285. It's not perfect, that's certain, but then Tolkien probably wasn't worrying about little mathematical details when he was writing. This at least proves that our estimations are pretty close to what Tolkien himself imagined. So now, for the actual conversions chart itself.

Hobbits     Humans

0                 0

20-29         12-19

33               21

50               30

75               45

100              60

125             75


Middle-Earthian Etiquette - Part III
By Some Random Gondorian.

  Dwarves: Why most peoples in Middle-earth dislike these tactless, greedy, aggressive little men no one will ever know. In detail, at least, as it usually has to do with the lodging of axes a bit lower than is proper to mention in the history books. When you decide to try on dwarves, take them one at a time, and once you have befriended that one introduce it to no one unless you have a shaft ready to defend the dwarf against its own words.
  What to say: Bow at the middle - some practice in toe-touching before you set out to meet a dwarf would be beneficial - and offer your services, even if you do not know what services you are offering.
  What not to say: 'I've never been there. I get claustrophobic in musty, damp dungeons.'
  Do not: Try to get on the dwarf's good side by malediction toward elves or other historic enemies of dwarves. They are promiscuous in their loyalties, and it is difficult to know what strange alliances a dwarf has made.
  If all else fails: Jump.
  Eagles: Though these recluses are rarely seen, there is no creature in Middle-earth, short of we, ahem, noble Gondorians, whom it would be more beneficial to make acquaintance with. If you can arrange for one to owe you a favour, even better. You might do this by discreetly shooting one and then removing the arrow. On second thought, don't try.
  What to say: You are not likely to have a chance to say anything at all, as Eagles have a great fondness for turning up as you, the leading character of your own story, are losing consciousness.
  What not to say: 'Let go of me!'
  If all else fails: Yes, that is what the Eagles are for.
  Elves: Damned perfect elves; too good to resent, too beautiful not to love, too tall to sneak a kiss from. And well-off, AND immortal. Some peoples have all the luck.
  On first meeting: This is a love-hate relationship. Love-hate-love. Hate. Back and forth and back and forth. Do not take my word for it; look at the archaeological evidence. The Doors of Durin, for example, were made jointly by elves and dwarves, but only Gimli is on speaking terms with them at this point. Sméagol, a hobbit, calls them cruel, while Samwise, also a hobbit, says they are wonderful folk. Do not be startled by strong feelings for them, one way or the other, or both ways at once.
  What to say: Break the ice with a joke - chances are that no matter how old it sounds to you, it is incredibly new and witty to them. Try it in their language, then they will refrain from talking about you behind your back in the elvish tongue.
  What not to say: One-liners. After a few thousand years of unearthly beauty, they have heard them all.
  If all else fails: Wait a few centuries, you will be able to get on the elves' good side again.

Neverwhere by Neil Gaiman
Reviewed by Perian.

  Rarely does urban fantasy work, I'll be the first to admit. Harry Potter managed it by sending the young wizards and witches off to a medieval castle for the majority of the text. Likewise with the Chronicles of Narnia. So, startlingly, did Neverwhere, a story of the London which 'falls through the cracks' by Neil Gaiman. Unlike the other two, Neverwhere is a far cry from being a children's story (I'll make note here that it should not be read as a bedtime story, due to some rather unpleasant thug scenes) it should not be read as a b- er, pardon. Speaking aloud in parenthesis does rather confuse writing. The point is that it's not for the squeamish.
  Neverwhere - the world of the homeless, the street waifs, the dregs of society and the other elements such as custom, legend, and even the odd alleyway which has disappeared from the 'real' world - is a curiosity worth exploring.

This Fortnight: Recollections (continued)
By Perian.

Chapter Two: A Long Expected Party.
"I'll tell my ma when I go home
The boys won't leave the girls alone
They pulled my hair, they stole my comb
But that's all right till I go home.
She is handsome, she is pretty
She is the bell of Belfast city
She is courting one, two, three
Please won't you tell me who is she?

Albert Mooney says he loves her
All the boys are fighting for her
They knock at the door and they ring at the bell
Sayin' 'Oh my true love, are you well?'
Out she comes as white as snow
Rings on her fingers and bells on her toes
Old John Murray says she'll die
If she doesn't get the fellow with the roving eye.

I'll tell my ma when I go home
The boys won't leave the girls alone
They pulled my hair, they stole my comb
But that's all right till I go home.
She is handsome, she is pretty
She is the bell of Belfast city
She is courting one, two, three
Please won't you tell me who is she?

Let the wind and rain and the hail blow high
And the snow come tumblin' from the sky
She's as nice as apple pie
She'll get her own lad by and by.
When she gets a lad of her own
She won't tell her ma when she goes home
Let them all come as they will
For it's Albert Mooney she loves still.
I'll tell my ma when I go home
The boys won't leave the girls alone
They pulled my hair, they stole my comb
But that's all right till I go home.
She is handsome, she is pretty
She is the bell of Belfast city
She is courting one, two, three
Please won't you tell me who is she?"*

  "Mmm, haven't heard that one in a while."
  "It's your song, luv," Merry replied with a wink as he pulled on his waistcoat.
  Ivy threaded her fingers through the buttonholes and pulled him toward her. "No, it isn't. It's 'Tell Me Ma'. Come here, you wool-headed pretty-boy." She fluttered her lashes and wrapped her arms around his shoulders, clasping her hands behind his neck.
  "That isn't what I meant," he murmured in a tone which seemed more fit to delivering a sonnet than a correction. A few sprung curls later their lips were locked together. Clearly, nothing could enter or interrupt their reverie. This didn't stop many methods of interruption from being tried. The first was a series of blueberries pelted their way. Then a jar of spiders was released in the corner of the room. Next came a roaring cacophony of contraband moose-horns. Even a crock of sauerkraut opened in their vicinity didn't manage to part the Brandybucks.
  "We're going tae be late," Ishlad lamented, looking dejectedly at the pair.
  "You two go on ahead," Matti said with a trace of a sigh in her voice. "I'll keep working on getting them to come, too."
  "Na, it's a'right," said Ishlad. "I'll help."
  "That is exactly what you said on the twenty-seventh of June last year when we were trapped in the culvert," Perian pointed out.
  "And I did help you out of it, didn't I?" he demanded.
  "Yes," replied Perian amicably.
  "So what's yer point?" Ishlad asked.
  "That you have said it before," replied Perian, not comprehending his exasperation. She tilted her head to the side, watching him steadily. Matti's gaze shifted back and forth between them, expecting a row. At last the silence was broken. "The most marvellous thing has happened," said Perian. "I've had an idea."
  After a long (four minutes) and dangerous ("I think it's under the - eeew! The spiders all swarmed to the cupboard below the sink!") search, the devious trio had returned to the doorway of the common room, pressing flat against the frame as they prepared their final, desperate act, and eavesdropped.
  "Aren't we supposed to be getting ready for something?"
  "It wasn't important, I'm sure."
  "Ai, the dinner-party!"
  "Oh, yes, that," Merry's voice became glum.
  "Don't tell me that you're not looking forward to it," said Ivy. "You love parties, whatever the sort."
  "Yes, I do, but..."
  "The first hour of a conversation is never interesting anyway," Ivy allowed, curl-springing once more. "It's all 'how are you' and talk of the weather."
  "NOW HEAR THIS!" a voice reverberated through the room, and all of Bagshot Row for that matter, causing the window panes to rattle. "You are already twenty minutes late, and if you are not walking down the path to Bag End in the next five you shall suffer the consequences!" Matti entered, holding a megaphone and aiming it toward them. "And three of those minutes don't count! Ha!"
  The elder Brandybucks ignored her. They were accustomed to such antics. A mental note was made in both minds to melt the megaphone in "The Fires of Mount Doom" - the local blacksmith's shop by the same name, at least.
  "Seventy-five seconds and counting, ye salivating sluggards! Har, har, har!"
  "Good one, Matti."
  "Thanks, Mum. Now, are you coming?"
  "In a minute."
  "You have a half of one! Wait, less!" Matti gleefully raised the megaphone once more to her lips. "This is your final warning! Your waistcoat is purple-polkadotted now, you know. Mmm. Blueberries. And in ... Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one and a half, one... Release!"
  "Finicky, finicky, finicky, finicky, fae... down, down, domine!"
  Xara rose from the table with a grin. "The progeny of Tom Bombadil have arrived," she said, excusing herself. She crossed the wide, shelf lined hall and silently opened the door to one last chorus of "Workie, workie story-wrote, and tand too-mote!" and three figures with their arms interlinked. One by one they tossed their stained cloaks over her outstretched arm, then the two who were shod, the tallest and the smallest, sat down to remove their shoes while the third relieved Xara of the cloaks and ran down to a guest room with them. "Where have you been?" Xara asked. "Dinner was to be served nearly an hour ago."
  "Making pickles," replied Matti, sending both her companions (as Perian had since returned) into gales of laughter.
  Xara knew better than to ask what Matti meant. "Where are your parents?" she inquired instead.
  "Oh, they're coming," she said. "I think they dropped back 'cause of the singing, but they should be here soon. Can we go eat now, Xara? I'm starving."
  "And you wish to be safely hidden in a crowd before your parents arrive," Xara guessed from ample past experience.
  "That, too," Matti conceded with a gap-toothed grin.
  "All right, go on, but don't start eating anything in the kitchen or Frodo will have your hides. Raid the pantry if you must." Almost before she had finished speaking, Matti grabbed ahold of Ishlad's cuff hem and was dragging him down the hall. Perian lingered, looking awkwardly at Xara. "Yes?" the latter prompted.
  "I was going to inquire unto you about something," Perian looked uncomfortable, then grinned sheepishly. "But I cannot recall what." Without another word she sprang off after the others.  
  Perian had just vanished from sight around a curve in the hallway as Ivy and Merry Brandybuck entered the light of the glass lanterns which sat on either side of the garden gate. Xara waved to them and Ivy broke stride with Merry to run to her friend. Xara found herself enveloped by a strong embrace and an overpowering stench. She wrinkled her nose. "What in the Shire is that smell?"
  "Oh! Sorry!" Ivy said, backing away to a comfortable distance. "I think it's vinegar."
  "Dare I ask?"
  "It was the truants again," explained Merry. "They filled the fire-suppression sprinklers with vinegar and..." he plucked a few green particles from his still-damp hair. "...Dill."
  Standing back even yet, Xara nodded thoughtfully, now realizing what Matti meant by 'making pickles'. "Well," Xara made a show of considering their condition, pinching her nostrils closed, "I suppose we could seat you beside an open window." She watched their looks of embarrassment with more amusement than she would admit even to herself. "In the back room."
  Ivy looked for a moment as though she were going to kick her friend's shins. Then she thought better of it. Instead she wrapped a sodden-sleeved arm around Xara's shoulders and began to walk down the hall with her, resisting all attempts Xara made at shaking her off. "So sorry we're late," she said as they made their way to the kitchen with Merry following close behind. "You know how it is when the Shirethings come together for a Purpose. Perhaps we should try to do something about them, but between your duties with the newsletter, and all the responsibilities I have..."
  Ivy paused for a split second as it dawned on her that in truth she had very few responsibilities since she had given up captaining and acting and settled down. "...Making sure that the neglected articles are published..." she tried, then frowned. It wasn't enough. The immortal equivalent of a mid-life crisis suddenly settled upon her. "Xara," she cried, clutching her friend's jacket, "my life has no Purpose! I'm not changing the world with my presence as once I did. I... I'm going to be bored if this continues!" she said shrilly, the whites of her eyes showing. "What shall I do? I cannae properly procrastinate when there's nothing I'm supposed to be doing. Help me, please!" She stopped, breathing slowly and deliberately to calm herself. "Never mind," she said with effort. "I'm okay."
  "You're sure?" asked Xara, wondering whether she dared wriggle out of Ivy's grip yet.
  "I ... see. If you ever need my help, let me know, all right?"
  Ivy gazed at the lighted doorway to the kitchen. A chorus of voices rose in song and laughter, drifting out. The room was cheery and inviting. A perfect menace to someone wanting a serious conversation. "Can we talk about it later?"
  "Yeah," Xara replied. "I'll be in the library once everything has calmed. Tomorrow, nine p.m. your time?"
  "My time?" Ivy's brows arched. "Xara, you've been working too hard lately. You really must learn to overcome stress."
  As Ivy breezed nonchalantly into the kitchen, Merry fast behind her, Xara stared in bewilderment. "I need to...?" She shook her head. Sometimes she had grounds to be very grateful for her partner's solid predictability. Yes, he could lapse into obsession and gloom at times and even have his odd spells, but there was always time to prepare. The dates of Frodo's fits were inked into the calendar at the beginning of each year, along with birthdays and anniversaries. This was one of those 'praise predictability' moments. It allowed her to enjoy unpredictability more.
   On the low countertop sat Matti, watching her parents enter through a cloud of smoke and a puddle (for there were not enough people for it to be called a sea) of heads, and trying to ignore the sound of Perian munching a carrot beside her. When she spoke it was in a low tone so that her parents would not hear her straight away. "You know, I've been wondering-"
  "Have you? Bravo!" Perian clapped - vigorously, though with the carrot still in hand it made little noise.
  "Yes," said Matti, resisting the urge to glare. "I've been wondering whether-"
  "You mean, your wondering even has a topic? Even better!"
  "Will you listen to me?" Matti demanded, eyes flashing. Perian nodded meekly. "I've been thinking," she shot a warning glance at Perian, then turned to look again at her parents, chin in hand, "if, since me Dad's a Brandybuck, and me Mum's pseudonym has always been Brandybuck, even before they met and even though they've never been married, does that make me an inbreed?" Silence. Matti turned toward her companion, who was sitting with a hand still clamped over her mouth. With a royal wave of her arm, Matti released her demand, saying, "You may reply now, you know."
  "Oh, right. As I see it, technically only your name is, not you."
  "You're sure about that?"
  "Positive. How can a mix-breed be an inbreed?"
  "True, that!" said Matti. So absorbed in their conversation did they become that neither noticed Ivy coming their way until she was between them, saying softly, "You are in so much trouble, Matthia Máire. Just you wait."
  Perian's brows flew as Ivy drifted away. She exchanged a glance with Matti, who grinned and commented, "This could be fun."
  Xara stormed into the room at that moment, waving her hands in the air and throwing open the windows , subjecting those gathered to a burst of cold night air. "How many times," she fumed, "do I have to remind you," she paced across to where Gandalf, Frodo, Sam, Prongsie, Matthias and Paddy were sitting, "not to smoke in my house!?!" She seized pipes from the hands and mouths of Frodo, Sam, Gandalf, and Paddy. "I thought I had confiscated these. Where did you get them?"
  "Found 'em when I was doing a bit of gardening," Sam mumbled. "They were buried in the beet patch, they were. It's by no fault of mine that they had to be taken out for this year's crop to be put in."
  "Samwise Gamgee," said Xara warningly to the tiny fellow, "don't tell me that beets grow four feet deep."
  "'Round here, I wouldn't put it past 'em, if they had a mind to."
  Frodo hid his face in a paper and chuckled. Gandalf, somewhat oblivious to what was developing, continued to suck at the smoky air and puff it out the side of his mouth in ever more frail rings as he stared at a handful of cards. Xara continued to stare at a reddening Sam, her brows descending like storms over the twin valleys of her eyes. She shook a pipe threateningly at him.
  "Do you have any kings?" Gandalf suddenly asked her.
  Xara blinked at him. "Er, no, I'm afraid I don't. The only technical king in the Shire is Pippin. Is Gondor lacking one again?"
  "No, but my hand is," he said, waving a fan of red-backed cards.
  "Oh, well, I'm afraid I can't help you there, either. Sorry."
  "Where is Pippin, anyway?" asked Paddy. "I thought he and Eo'star would be here tonight."
  "No, they're off discovering," said Ivy.
  "Discovering what?" asked Prongsie.
  "I didn't ask, as I don't want to know."
  Prongsie sniggered. "I taught you well."
  "Oh, no, it's nothing like that," Ivy promptly corrected. "As much as I would enjoy it, their relationship is ... different. Don't ask."
  There was a sharp crack and a yelp. A clay pipe fell in ash-speckled pieces to the floor as Xara snatched the paper out of Frodo's hands. "You were reading The News From Bree again!" Prongsie, Paddy, Rob and Sam dropped their cards in shock, not noticing the peeks Gandalf was stealing of them as they watched the unexpected quarrel. "If there is one thing... all right, there are several things I won't allow inside Bag End, but reading a copy of that filth, that wretched News From Bree, tops them all. Why, it's ... it's..."
  "A capital offence?" Ivy suggested.
  "A capital off- no it isn't! I would never kill a hobbit!"
  "You looked as if you were about to," said Ivy. "Okay, a being kicked out for the night offence, maybe?" She wasn't about to let this kind of entertainment fade away. Not in an Age.
  "Hmm, yes, that sounds about right. Care to?"
  "Oh, no, I would never rob you of the enjoyment. I have Merry, who I can kick out at any time I like."
  "How often does that happen?" Frodo asked nervously.
  "About once a night," Ivy replied with a smile that showed most of her teeth. Frodo quailed, at least until Merry added,
  "Whenever she decides to send me out for chocolate."'
  "All right, out with you, Master Baggins!" said Xara, whapping him lightly with the paper. "You may come back when this piece of wasted tree limb is demolished forever more - No, wait! I take that back." She grinned. "I have a better use for you."
  "Careful, Mister Frodo," said Sam. "Remember what happened the last time we heard that."
  *Acknowledgements: Tell My Ma, Irish Traditional.

Ask Samwise.

  Dear Samwise the Brave,
  What is someone, like me, to do when everything that I've worked for seems to be slipping away?
  Dear Fan the Faithful,
  Grab on to what you can. As for what goes, well, it's not so bad as you think. You'd be surprised as to how much you let go of that comes back to you when strife is over, and that's a fact. Sometimes you have to let happens what will to make it easier to return to what you want later, like my good pots I wouldn't have been able to carry up Mt. Doom. Don't you worry.

WANTED: A life, if you find one that's not yours I'll gladly take it...as long as its a good one. [I have one you could borrow for a time. It would be deemed good, as such things go. It is, I must admit, mine, but you can use it, if you like.]


Of Names, Part VII. (Key: q.= Quenya, s. = Sindarin, where known.)
naug: (s., noun) dwarf. Naugrim, nogothrim.
(n)dil: (noun) friendship, devotion, platonic love. Amandil, Earendil, Elendil, Mardil.
(n)dur: (noun) devotion. Earendur.
quen, quet: (q., verb) say, speak. Quendi, Calaquendi, Laiquendi, Moriquendi, Quenya, Valaquenta, Quenta Silmarillion.


  Dear Editor,
   Wow...where is everyone?  Well, anyways, I'd just like to say that even if there isn't as much as there used to be in this still-wonderful newsletter I still do enjoy reading it.  I also think that you should keep up the good work.
  Dear Fan,
  I can't speak for everyone else, but as for myself, I'm here and probably will be for a good long time more. Don't worry! So long as we still have readers (and it easy to forget from time to time when we hear from naught, so your feedback is more appreciated than you can imagine; thank you so much - even just an occasional 'Hi; still reading!' is enough to give us the heart to go on), we will continue. If the hobbits can make it to Mt. Doom and back, we can write about it from time to time, eh?
  Once again, many thanks from everyone here at the newsletter. 'Tis discourteous of me to wonder where contributors are, so long as you and your counterparts still contribute!




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