#do i giggle as the eärendil call-forward

[squirrelwrangler]

Ingwë gripped his mother’s shoulders and pulled her close to him, foreheads touching as he pleaded for the final time. “If I don’t return- if you cannot stay, Mother, if you cannot stay in the village,” and the young man could not articulate which dire outcome he feared more as more likely, that his tribe force his family out by a formalized banishment or the absence of communal aid or via the internal grief of his absence drive his mother to despair, “then you go to Rûmilo. You go to the Tatyar. The journey is quick. Is safe. You take the goods that I left for you, the knives, you trade. Phinwê left some pottery in your name. They will help, the Tatyar. And if you cannot settle in their village, go further. The next village is Elwê’s. His brothers lead. Promise me, Mother. You take Indis to them. Do not stay in this place.” Years of negligence and cruelty from his people forced Ingwë’s whispered words in a cornered snake’s desperate hiss. “Go to them. Elmo’s spouse is gravid; soon their first child will be born. A new mother will welcome you and Indis. Someone to help nurse, if nothing else. They have food to share, a place at their fire. Please, promise me.”

Crying, Maktâmê kissed her son’s brow. “Stop. This fear, do not carry it with you to the land of the gods. We shall be safe, your sister and I. We are provided for. Go with hope, my son. With joy and excitement. Explore this new land that they have promised with the same wonder that filled your father and I when we first stepped away from the lakeshore. The beautiful light when we first saw the stars.” Her voice shook. “When Imin lit fire and gave us all warmth and light. The Powers promise greater than that. Go. See if it is true.” A thumb smoothed away the deep creases of his brow. “Look forward, as a brave scout of our people. As Alakô’s son, fleet-footed light and sure, Star-beacon. A torch is for the unknown path before us. Look forward.”

Ingwë closed his eyes and willed his heart to steady and slow its rhythm. “I promise.” 

[arofili]

For the prompts: 41 with kidnap dads?

(Also requested by @ilya-boltagon!)

41. Meeting the Family of Origin

Elrond wanted to plan for this. He wanted to have several days to spend with each of his parents, talking them through this meeting, reassuring them that it would be alright, that they weren’t monstrous or uncaring, that he had put just as much work into his relationship with that one parent as he did all the others, that he loved all of them. It would be tense, and he didn’t expect them to become one big happy family, even after all these long ages, but...he hoped it would be the beginning of some understanding. Some softening of hearts, some hope for the future.

Unfortunately, it seemed that was not going to be the case.

Maedhros’ return from the Halls of Mandos, last of all his brothers to be free in Aman, was a quiet affair. Well, as quiet an affair as it could be with six brothers, his mother, Huan, his husband and father-in-law, and lastly Elrond himself in attendance. But it was no grand event like Fingon had described his own release to be, and the celebrations were mostly kept to a minimum when Maedhros himself expressed a fervent desire to be alone with Fingon for a few days. Or years.

Elrond, who had wanted much the same thing when he had at last reunited with Celebrían, could hardly blame him. And even when Maedhros and Fingon were at last open to receiving visitors, he waited awhile to call on them.

But though the readjustment was slow—nearly as slow as Maglor’s reintroduction to society, in fact—it did at last happen. Except, just when Elrond was beginning to entertain the notion of reconciling his foster fathers with his birth parents (which would, hopefully, be made easier since Fingon had made every effort to befriend his great-nephew Eärendil), those two separate parts of his life crashed together unexpectedly.

Elrond and Celebrían were having Maedhros, Fingon, Maglor, and Maglor’s wife Ezellë over for dinner when a knock came at the door. Elladan, not knowing any better (or, not knowing how to turn his grandparents away), let the surprise visitors in—and Elrond’s heart sank as he watched the smile freeze on Eärendil’s face and morph into a scowl on Elwing’s.

“Please,” Elrond said, rising to his feet and ushering this third set of parents into his dining room before he could panic, “come in! You are more than welcome to join us.”

“Are they,” Maedhros said stiffly. Fingon grasped his arm. Maglor looked like he wanted to sink into the floor. Ezellë smiled winningly to Elwing, the only other elleth in the room (Celebrían had vanished with Elladan and Elrohir, her irritation prickling across their marriage bond, though Elrond knew she was more anxious than truly upset).

“We can come back another time,” Eärendil said, still smiling, though his eyes were cold.

“I insist,” Elrond insisted against his better judgement.

Celebrían reappeared, embracing her mother-in-law (whom she knew much better than Elrond did) and pulling up new chairs for the new guests. The frosty mood thawed a bit, and Elrond allowed himself to relax, just a little.

Too soon.

“So,” Fingon said, valiantly attempting to begin an amiable conversation, “who’s sailing Gil-Estel tonight?”

“I do get some nights off,” Eärendil said, pointedly not looking at Fingon’s board-stiff husband. “And more of them, these days, now that my son is returned to me.”

Maglor flinched at the word “returned.” Elrond did not blame him.

“More of them now that there are less elves in Middle-earth,” Elrond offered. “Not many Men recognize the star for what it is, anymore.”

There was an awkward silence.

Celebrían asked Ezellë to pass the bowl of cantaloupe, and offered some to Elwing. She accepted, glaring at Maglor all the while.

“So,” attempted Maedhros, staring into his half-eaten chicken. “Elrond. Has your brother written to you recently?” He grimaced, immediately realizing that was a bad question to ask.

“His brother?” Elwing snapped, turning her icy stare from Maglor to Maedhros. “The one who passed beyond Arda, without visiting his mother first?” Her eyes darted furiously between Maglor and Maedhros, as if Elros’ Choice had somehow been their fault.

“Ereinion sent me a letter a fortnight ago, before he went hunting with Uncle Tyelkormo,” Elrond said, trying and failing to get back to safer waters.

“Uncle...” Eärendil muttered.

“Ereinion is his brother through Russandol and I,” Fingon said lightly. “They were there for each other after...the rest of us were all...lost.”

“The herald position was mostly for formality,” Celebrían added.

Another silence. Then:

“Are we really going to do this?” demanded Elwing. “Sit here and pretend everything is fine, that we don’t all hate each other?”

“Naneth,” Elrond said weakly, but she ignored him.

“I don’t hate you,” Maglor mumbled.

“I do,” Maedhros growled, eyes sparking, and Elrond’s heart broke a little. “Certainly I will admit our wrongdoings at Sirion, but that was Ages ago, and Maglor and I have paid dearly for those crimes—but you have not, for abandoning your sons to us you view as ‘monsters’—”

The table erupted into chaos. Ezellë excused herself as everyone else argued, Elrond and Celebrían trying in vain to calm them down. Somehow Maedhros and Maglor turned on each other while Fingon pleaded for understanding with Eärendil and Elwing insulted everyone including her husband.

Elrond came near to tears trying to settle things between before it turned into a food fight or a Fifth Kinslaying, and he was about to call the whole disastrous dinner off when—

An ear-splitting horn blast caused everyone to jump and turn toward the noise. Ezellë lowered the trumpet, handing it back to Elrohir with a murmur of thanks, and she raised her eyebrows.

“I believe I am the eldest here, surpassing even Maitimo by a year, not counting the complications of rebirth which I was not subjected to,” she said smoothly, “which gives me every right to call the lot of you children.”

They all bowed their heads in shame.

“Not you, Elrond, Celebrían,” she added as an afterthought. “But the rest of you...please. This is like Fëanáro and Ñolofinwë at their...not their worst, but only because that was nearly as bad as the incident that started this whole feud.” She turned to Elrond. “Elerondo. Yonya. Let now the child scold his parents! I am sure you have much to say.”

He shook his head. “Well, yes and no. This is...not the family dinner with my many parents that I had hoped for, but I cannot say I am surprised.” He smiled with no small amount of resignation. “But I love you all, and I know you argue because you love me also.”

“I would say ‘from the mouths of babes,’ but you have been alive much longer than I,” Fingon said wryly. “I apologize, Elrond; we truly have been childish.”

You weren’t the problem, Elrond thought, but Fingon’s apology spurred Maedhros’, and by the end even Elwing sighed and admitted she shouldn’t have shouted— “Though I still think we should not ignore all that has passed.”

“Next time let’s plan an evening like this,” Celebrían said firmly as their guests filed out. “Because there will be a next time.”

“I look forward to it?” Eärendil said, a little nervously.

At last they were all gone, and Elrond sighed, letting himself lean into his wife’s arms.

“That could’ve been better,” he murmured.

Celebrían opened his mouth, but he kissed her before she could speak.

“It could have been a lot worse, too, I know,” Elrond added. “Thank you for taking this all in stride, melindë.”

She smiled into their kiss. “I knew things were complicated when I married you—and to be honest, meleth-nîn, I’ve been preparing for something like this since I recovered and met Elwing and Nerdanel.” She giggled. “At least my parents weren’t here, or the Second Kinslaying and the hair incident might’ve come up, not to mention—”

Elrond laughed. “Your mother is as intimidating as half my fathers combined,” he joked. “Just be grateful that you did not have to ask any of them for my hand!”

[nuclearr-wessels]

Tolkien Secret Santa 2019

title. so comes snow after fire (5+1)

wordcount. 1851

pairing. éowyn/faramir

summary. newly-wed éowyn and faramir experience their first joint winter in ithilien – five times they undertake winter activities and one time they don’t. @officialtolkiensecretsanta​

≿————-　❈　————-≾

The first rays of sunlight had hardly touched the white hills of Emyn Arnen when a delicate food stepped onto the ice of the glistening pond behind the house where descendants of Húrin lived. “Careful,” Faramir cautioned, but Éowyn was already whirling around on her skates. “I haven’t done this for so long,” she uttered. Her nervous breathing made the air crystalize in an instant, and Faramir held out a hand.

“It is strong enough,” she said to him. Her face was earnest, but her legs trembled. It was seldom to see such stark concentration on her face. It was delightful.

“Careful,” Faramir repeated, but Éowyn, serious as ever, signalled him she had control. “I can manage it. I can… Come on onto the ice!”

“It would have been more thoughtful had I stepped onto it before you did,” Faramir said with a nod, arms swimming as he slid forward. He could not stop his amusement from tainting his voice.

“Because you are heavier than I?” asked Éowyn, probably to distract herself. She gasped when she did stumble over her feet and fell right into Faramir’s arms. The surprise took them both down.

≿————-　❈　————-≾

Not even crunching, the ice stayed strong, Faramir noticed. Then he looked into Éowyn’s bright eyes beside him. “Hello,” he greeted playfully.

“Are you hurt?” she blurted out, and her stern eyes made him blush helplessly and swallow down any drollery he might have had left. The White Lady of Rohan possessed the gallantry of a chevalier. Her attentive eye noticed his bashfulness, so she softened and steadied his cold chin with elegant hands to face him. “It seems to me neither of us is qualified to lead the other, clumsy as we are,” she smiled.

“You have done this before,” Faramir said softly, “whereas I have never worn these shoes.”

“There are skates,” Éowyn laughed and rolled around to get them onto their feet again.

“They are extremely… slippery,” Faramir said, holding her hands tightly to keep himself steady.

“That is the idea,” Éowyn explained. “You move with the flow of the ice. You should see the pirouettes my brother can do.”

“I am afraid I don’t even know how to move forward,” Faramir sighed and looked up through lose strands of hair. “Please,” he smiled, “take the lead.”

Éowyn returned the smile just as brightly before returning to her seriousness about the task. “It will be my pleasure. Hold on tight!”

≿————-　❈　————-≾

With this year’s last carriage, a package had arrived for Faramir and Éowyn. It was a wooden box. Inside of it was a letter, on top of smaller boxes and thick cloths. “It is from the Shire. From Merry and Pippin!” Faramir read with joy.

“How sweet! Do you mean to say the whole box?” Éowyn asked in awe.

“Yes,” Faramir said and opened the letter to read it to Éowyn. Pippin sent them one of the Shire’s most traditional winter recipes. “’For apple cider. And some of the best apples I could find, so that you can start to brew right away’,” Faramir read. He narrowed his eyes when he continued: “’How cruel it would’ve been if you had no apples at hand to try this out immediately’.”

“What a friend,” Éowyn smiled.

Merry on the other hand had sent them herbs from Buckland and recommended to either ’brew a tea or smoke them in your favourite pipe’.

Faramir lowered the paper. “Small devil.”

“Don’t be mean,” Éowyn laughed, taking the bags of herb from the box. “Merry knows all about weed and smoking.”

“That’s what has me worried,” Faramir said.

“There is no need to worry, beloved,” Éowyn reassured him and took a deep breath as she opened the bag. “My Merry would never – Oh.”

They did brew the apple cider but could not stay awake long enough to taste it. The sweet scent mixed with the bitter smoke of the herbs. “Small devil,” Faramir laughed when he collapsed onto the kitchen table. Éowyn leaned onto him, pipe smoking in her hand. She giggled sweetly ere falling asleep on his chest.

≿————-　❈　————-≾

Éowyn helped shovelling snow just like Faramir, and it warmed his heart to be able to call this golden-hearted woman his wife. He would’ve loved her equally if she had stayed inside in the warm chambers, but he would not have been this flustered by her strength, as he was now. The iron shovels were heavy even to fit men, but Éowyn used them as though they weighed nothing.

Faramir could hardly get his own work done. Face boiling, he preferred to clear the path on the Western side of the house.

“Here,” Éowyn said when they had sat down onto the snow mountains with the other servants. She handed him a warm cup of apple cider. “A strong beverage for a strong worker,” she smiled, cupping her own drink with both hands. She looked tiny in all those pelts, and her knuckles were pink from the cold.

Faramir thanked her and silently sat down by her side, cup steaming merrily between his hands. Ahead, the house’s warm lights were dancing at the end of the snow path.

“I must say,” Éowyn said somewhen, “that I was tempted to hollow out this very mountain and make it our winter residence. I heard houses of snow are surprisingly warm inside, once there are people living inside of them.”

“So you’ve heard?” Faramir asked and swallowed. If his Éowyn would be inside with him, his love for her would melt down the whole mountain, he was sure.

“Yes,” she said softly, “so I have heard.” Her head came down to rest on Faramir’s shoulder, glowing with adoration.

≿————-　❈　————-≾

He knew an Elvish recipe for sweet pastry.

Neither Faramir nor Éowyn were especially talented when it came to cooking, but Faramir did know a thing or two about baking, which was what he yearned to do with Éowyn ever since he had stepped into their house’s kitchen, and now that dream of his would finally come true. Éowyn hurry-scurried through the room like a bee in spring, but Faramir was not only enchanted by her – this dough was delicious even on its own. Time after time, he would stand by the oven and nick a tiny bit of the Elvish miracle.

Sighing, Éowyn gave him a playful look over the table. “If this hobbit keeps stealing dough, there won’t be enough for the biscuits,” she said.

“I can hardly claim to be a hobbit, lazy and truant as I am,” Faramir replied.

Éowyn laughed. “You are not truant! You’re hard-working and sweet.”

“Thank you,” Faramir said and bowed overdramatically. Right afterwards, he nicked another bit of dough from the bowl, making his wife gasp in mockery. “You filthy thief,” she said.

“Am I not ‘sweet’?” he asked, standing up to embrace her.

Éowyn’s eyes scanned his like two sapphire hawks. “You are,” she whispered and reached for his hand, sticky from dough. Without looking down, she kissed Faramir’s fingertips, one by one, tender and careful. Then she guided his fingers to ghost over her puffy lips, melting into the touch.

Oh, Son of Gondor, catch your breath.

“Yes,” Éowyn whispered with a gleeful giggle that made her eyes shine brighter than any stars in the night sky – oh, Eärendil would have fallen silent in awe. She took his hands in hers. “True it is,” she repeated, “you are indeed very sweet.”

Faramir felt like falling onto his knees and marrying her all over again.

Just as he wanted to shower her with every kind of poetic metaphor that came to his mind, Éowyn’s face formed a frown, and she asked, “What’s that smell?”

“The first baking sheet,” Faramir gasped.

≿————-　❈　————-≾

The sun was low, but neither the horses nor their riders were thinking of going home. Éowyn’s white robes were flying as she put Windfola to a trot. She smirked over her shoulder as Faramir still thought about her request.

“A Rohirrim is challenging me to a horse race?”

“Do not receive it ill, my love,” she smiled, stopping and caressing her horse. It was her element after all.

“I do not,” said Faramir, “but the unfairness of the situation can hardly escape you.”

“Let’s see if you can escape me, Steward of Gondor. To the White Mountains!” Not wanting to lose, Faramir stormed after her, up the hills, hooves swirling up snow dust that drew wondrous patterns in the wind. Éowyn seemed to fly, but always made sure her husband would not fall too far behind her. On top of a hill, right beneath the pastel coloured sky, they stopped side by side, breathing hard as their laughter cut the fresh air. How beautiful a land! Every tree in sight, every blade of grass was glistening with ice, dreaming frozen dreams.

“Oh, to be here with the White Lady of Rohan,” sighed Faramir, leaning sideways to rest his forehead against Éowyn’s. She smiled against his yearning lips. “To be here with my beloved,” she answered, kissing him tenderly ere lashing down the hill, white robe blending into frozen ground.

≿————-　❈　————-≾

The raging snowstorm, a phenomenon not uncommon despite Gondor’s mild winters, did not permit them to go outside that day. Instead, Faramir and Éowyn stayed inside all afternoon, and not only that; they had hardly left their chamber. There was enough firewood to keep them warm until nightfall.

When that time of day had come, Faramir had pulled a blanket over his beloved and caressed her tired face. Éowyn was so beautiful, so graceful the dying light of the fire that he could not help but kiss her. Tender hands stroked wavy strands of hair back into place, and as Éowyn did this, the robe slid down her shoulder to reveal a bit of her fair skin.

Faramir was awed, enchanted by his lady’s beauty. Helpless, he bent down to her shoulder, fondling every inch of it as she sighed contently beneath him. Her voice reassured him his kisses were placed well. Here by the fire, Faramir saw to his wife’s needs, and he withdrew when he felt her tremble and light the silent chamber with her glow.

“What about you?” Éowyn asked him with rosy cheek, caressing his face.

“I am fine,” Faramir assured her with a heavy breath and a smile. Both were tired after all, despite having done nothing today. Faramir silently snuggled up to her, resting his head on her lovely chest, where it was warm and safe. He closed his eyes as he embraced her under the soft blanket, feeling sleep prevail over desire.

Éowyn’s stroked his hair. Her voice was like velvet when she said, “My eternal beloved, you make smile so much. What fortune, what bliss to be able to be with you! I am forever grateful. Faramir.”

“So am I,” said Faramir. He held onto her as though to never let her go, and she did the same. Whilst the snowstorm howled, they blissfully sang each other to sleep.

≿————-　❈　————-≾

My giftee will be tagged on the 24th – I hope you enjoyed it. Thank you to everyone reading. Have a nice, wondrous and safe winter ♡