#i write surprisingly little about finrod

[zealouswerewolfcollector]

White Daffodil

My entry for this year's @myslashyvalentine is a gift for @i-did-not-mean-to. I'm not sorry for the angst. Beta'd by @melestasflight <3

Post-apocalypse AU, Finrod/Caranthir, 3993 words, T

On Ao3

The sky was slate-gray overhead as Caranthir and Dog walked among the dying trees. A good sign - no deadly red storm on the horizon. The traps had been empty. Nowadays, Caranthir would be lucky to catch something once every few months. Since the Collapse, plants and animals had been slowly dying out in these parts. But there were still plenty of mushrooms.

Dog was looking for mushrooms when he found the wounded stranger buried under dry leaves and branches. Despite the severity of his injuries, he still desperately tried to bat off Dog’s curious snout. Caranthir called her back. The stranger fell unconscious.

Caranthir briefly debated the wisdom of taking the stranger home. He didn’t want to have a dying man in his house. Even if he survived, there was no telling what he would do or what kind of a person he was. Caranthir had seen many atrocities committed by people who looked like angels. If anyone could look like an angel covered with so much blood.

He waited a while and tended to the stranger’s wounds however he could. The stranger kept breathing stubbornly. Caranthir sighed, put him in the cart along with mushrooms, and rolled him home.

The stranger woke in phases. First, he muttered something, called for someone, sang a note, but when Caranthir spoke, he turned away. 

The next time he woke up, he stared at Caranthir with his sea-green eyes.

“Is he safe?” he asked.

“Who?”

The stranger didn't answer.

It went on for long days, and all the while, Caranthir looked after him, treating his wounds, washing him, and giving him water and liquids to drink. Slowly, his fever went down, and his gaze became more focused.

Caranthir was eating when the stranger opened his eyes again. He sniffed the air and sat up a little.

“What’s in the bowl?” he asked.

“Stew,” Caranthir said around a mouthful.

“What’s in it?”

“Whatever goes into a stew,” Caranthir said, annoyed by the suspicious tone.

If the stranger was so chatty when he still hadn’t recovered, Caranthir was afraid to imagine him healthy.

“May I have some?” the stranger asked.

Caranthir filled a bowl and brought it to his guest. Dog livened up, leaping up to the stranger and yapping happily. The stranger drew his feet to himself.

“What beast is that?” he asked.

Caranthir stared at him. “A dog.”

“Looks more like a wolf.”

“It’s a dog. She wants some stew. Come here, girl, you’ve had your share.”

After Dog went away, the stranger relaxed and dug in.

“It is good!” he cried after the first spoonful. Caranthir bristled at the surprise in his voice. “Where did you find so many vegetables?” the stranger asked.

“I grew them.”

“You grew them!”

“That’s what I said.”

The stranger kept staring at him, expectant. His eyes were bright and curious. Caranthir began speaking almost against his will.

“I have a greenhouse,” Caranthir said. “I grow my food. I go scavenging for everything I need to keep it functioning – from generators to fertile soil. The soil here is mostly corrupted. Nothing grows except mushrooms.”

“Mushrooms,” the stranger said, eyes glazing over. “They grew in the caves. We tried to grow other things, too. Not everything did, but what we had was good.”

“You lived in a cave?” Caranthir asked and immediately regretted it, afraid the stranger would go on monologuing forever.

“It was a cave system,” the stranger said. “I founded a commune there when the Collapse was just beginning. Then I… trusted the wrong people.”

He put the bowl away.

“Thank you for the stew. I’m tired. Would you mind if I went back to sleep?”

Caranthir shrugged. The stranger closed his eyes, and for a moment, Caranthir regretted not hearing his monologue. There was something enticing about the stranger’s voice hoarse and weakened as it was. In a better life, he would have sung.

---

The stranger was up and smiling serenely when Caranthir brought him his breakfast the next morning.

“What are you so happy about?” Caranthir snapped without meaning to.

The stranger shrugged. “I am alive. The sky is gray, so no red storm today.”

“Is that enough?”

“It is for me.”

He brushed away a golden lock from his face and met Caranthir’s eyes. There was a sharpness about him underneath the soft words and looks – a honed edge that he concealed with smiles. Caranthir had a frightening thought that he wouldn’t mind cutting himself against it.

“I forgot to thank you yesterday,” the stranger said, “for saving my life.”

“I almost didn’t,” Caranthir admitted. “I almost left you there to die. I wasn’t sure you would survive.”

“I was sure I wouldn’t,” the stranger said merrily. “But miracles happen. There is still good left in the world.”

Caranthir wasn’t particularly fond of such talks. He put the tray down and turned to leave, but the stranger’s voice stopped him.

“What should I call my savior?” he asked.

Caranthir hesitated before giving his name. The stranger certainly wouldn’t stay for long, and Caranthir didn’t want to get to know him better. Telling him his name seemed like crossing a line.

“Caranthir,” he said anyway.

“Caranthir,” the stranger repeated slowly, tasting the word.

Caranthir shivered.

“What’s your name?” he asked to avoid thinking about his reaction.

The stranger smiled. “I have many names.”

Caranthir didn’t know if there was vanity or playfulness behind his words. He disliked both. He had a few names, too, but he wasn’t gloating about it.

“Choose one,” he said curtly.

“Finrod,” said Finrod, unbothered. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

Caranthir doubted it. He only grunted in acknowledgment and left.

---

A few days later, while Caranthir was working in the greenhouse, he heard Dog growling outside. He hurried out to find Finrod there, leaning on a broom, trying to slowly back away from Dog.

“What are you doing here?” Caranthir asked.

“I just wanted to see the plants,” Finrod said. “Can you please call her off?”

“Come here, Dog,” Caranthir said. “Down, girl, it’s fine.”

“You named your dog Dog?” Finrod asked.

From his tone, it was clear he didn’t find it funny.

“What’s it to you?” Caranthir asked, suddenly defensive.

Finrod’s face twisted and then settled on a smile. “Nothing. It’s just strange, is all. To name your dog that.”

“I didn’t name her,” Caranthir said, “and she isn’t mine. I mean I never wanted a dog. I used to have cats. But now all the cats have fled south, and most of the dogs too. Dog found me. I didn’t want her to stick with me, but she did.”

“Just like me,” Finrod grinned.

“Not at all,” Caranthir sputtered.

Finrod just shrugged as if he was generously deciding to let Caranthir believe he was right. It was maddening.

“You can’t be here,” Caranthir said curtly. “You aren’t allowed to come inside the greenhouse. You will upset my plants.”

“Oh. All right.”

“And you shouldn’t be walking anyway. You can barely keep yourself on your feet. Come on, I’ll help you back to bed.”

“Thanks,” Finrod smiled.

He slung an arm around Caranthir’s shoulders. His fingers were warm when they gripped Caranthir’s arm.

---

Caranthir occupied a small part of an abandoned villa, rendered mostly unusable by the Collapse. Most of his possessions were in the villa, but he often slept in the shed. He had found out sleep came easier there than in the main building, haunted by the past. But now Finrod was in the shed, and Caranthir didn’t sleep well in the large, ornate bed. Especially when Finrod screamed. It was so loud that Caranthir could hear him even when he sought refuge in the farthest rooms of the villa. Dog did too. Sometimes, she joined Finrod and howled mournfully. It had to wake Finrod up because he would fall silent.

In the morning, he was cheerful and talkative as if it hadn’t been his bloodcurdling screams that had kept Caranthir up all night.

Within a couple of weeks, Finrod was out and about. He turned out to be an inquisitive person by nature, which Caranthir disliked. Finrod kept asking questions about everything and tried to look for answers himself if he didn’t deem Caranthir’s satisfactory.

He went on expeditions into the decaying guts of the building and came back with treasures – mostly books, but also a painting of a seaport, a set of silver spoons, a golden necklace, a warm coat and many other trinkets. He gave most of these to Caranthir and hung the painting in the shed.

He didn’t mention wishing to see the greenhouse again, though Caranthir noticed him glancing in its direction from time to time. But he was glad Finrod said nothing.

Caranthir guarded his greenhouse jealously. He spent hours there every day, looking after his plants, making sure everything was functioning. Sometimes he just sat there among the greenery, away from the outside chaos, in a place that was his only. He didn’t want to share it with anyone else.

---

Finrod volunteered for foraging missions, looking for mushrooms and anything that still grew in the dying forest, checking the traps on the off chance something had been caught.

He found an old box of pasta in the ruins of the villa and made dinner one night. Caranthir supplied cherry tomatoes and basil from his greenhouse.

One morning, Finrod asked Caranthir to cut his hair and offered to do the same for him. Caranthir refused. He liked his way the way it was, and he didn't think he could sit still while Finrod touched him. But he did agree to give Finrod a haircut, fighting against the disturbing thought of keeping a lock of his hair.

Finrod somehow roped Caranthir into some sort of a book club. They each would take a book from the pile Finrod had saved from the villa, meet to discuss it when they were done reading, then exchange the books. Despite himself, Caranthir became fond of those nighttime talks in front of a fire. He was drawn to Finrod’s clever and passionate speech. The shadows of the flames danced on his face as he spoke, alternatively hiding and highlighting the claw marks on his skin. Caranthir watched, mesmerized, feeling as if he’d been transported into a book about a noble king. At times, he found himself angry with Finrod for making him look forward to these meetings because he was going to miss them when Finrod inevitably left.

---

It seemed like Finrod had made it his mission to find out everything he could about Caranthir. He was relentless in his questioning, undeterred by Caranthir’s brisk or avoidant answers.

“You never told me about your family,” he said once.

“I never told you anything,” Caranthir said, even though it wasn’t entirely true. “I haven’t heard from my family for a long time. I don’t know if they live. There is nothing more to tell.”

He didn’t like to think about it. He hadn’t been particularly close to his brothers, but he still missed them sometimes. If they survived the Collapse, he didn’t know where they would have gone. He couldn’t go looking for them. He couldn’t abandon the greenhouse, and it was nearly impossible to travel for long. The roads were dangerous. Even if you escaped the gangs, there were always the storms. If you didn’t have shelter during red storms, you were as good as dead.

“You also never ask me about myself,” Finrod said. “Aren’t you curious who I am? Why did I appear half-dead on your doorstep?”

“No,” Caranthir said. “I don’t need to ask. You tell me everything without prompting.”

Finrod laughed. “Well, that’s just not true. What do you know about me?”

“You have three siblings. You were born by the sea. You hate dogs. You led a commune, which you lost because you wanted to help a friend. You got into serious trouble, probably with a gang. Or maybe with one of those cults that grew like mushrooms after the Collapse. Your friend’s girlfriend saved you, but you were injured and then separated from them during a storm.”

“Huh. So I do talk a lot,” Finrod said lightly.

“But you are blessed with the amazing ability of not being able to hear yourself talk,” Caranthir said. “The rest of us aren’t so lucky.”

The truth was Finrod hadn’t really offered the information openly, but Caranthir had pieced it together from passing mentions and from Finrod’s nightmares.

Finrod clutched at his book with a hand that was shaking a little. It took him a few attempts to open it. Caranthir almost moved to help him but restrained himself. He hadn’t considered that putting all he knew about Finrod together might upset him. He wasn’t happy about the fact that he was upset too.

He got to his feet and strode to his greenhouse to calm down.

---

“I don’t hate Dog,” Finrod said over breakfast the next day.

Caranthir frowned. “What?”

“You think I hate Dog. I don’t. I am just a little wary of her.”

Caranthir saw something more behind Finrod’s smile. He didn’t ask.

“Good,” he only said.

“Have you always been this charming?” Finrod asked.

Caranthir didn’t appreciate the sarcasm and let his blank stare show it.

“If you don’t like my company, you may always leave,” he said.

Finrod was going to leave anyway once he fully recovered. He would probably return to his commune to take it back or he would go to find his friend. Or maybe he’d go looking for greener pastures.

“I was just joking,” Finrod said.

It was infuriating he could smile so calmly when Caranthir was trying to be rude to him. Even more infuriating was the sudden realization that Caranthir’s face was attempting to mirror the smile.

Caranthir looked away.

“It wasn’t funny,” he said.

“I’ll do better next time.”

Caranthir lost the battle against the smile.

---

Finrod had to be having the loudest nightmare to date. Caranthir closed his ears, but he could still hear him. Even the Dog’s howling didn’t wake him up.

Unable to take it anymore, Caranthir got up, determined to put an end to it, but then the noise abruptly stopped. Yet, Caranthir hesitated to go back to sleep. Mad at himself for doing it, he went out of the house to check on Finrod. With Dog in tow, he approached the shed, and knocked but received no answer. Concerned, he pushed the door and peeked inside. Finrod wasn’t there.

“Damn him,” he muttered and stroked Dog’s head. “Where do you think he is, girl?”

Dog yapped and began running. Caranthir followed her to the greenhouse. He couldn’t believe Finrod would do it, but sure enough, the lock was messed with, and he could see a figure inside.

He stormed in, startling Finrod, who was crouched over a strawberry plant.

“What are you doing here?” Caranthir yelled.

Finrod got to his feet, stumbling a little.

“I was-I was just curious,” he said.

“It is locked for a reason!” Caranthir cried. “The plants are very fragile. Who allowed you to go inside?”

“I’m sorry. I just needed– I wanted to see the plants. I wanted to see life.”

Finrod ran a shaky hand through his damp hair. He was wearing only shorts, and Caranthir could plainly see the scars decorating his body. He refused to let himself be distracted by it.

“You had no right to come here,” he said. “It is my greenhouse.”

“You disappear here every day for hours,” Finrod said. “I just wanted to see what keeps you so busy.”

“So you betrayed me because you were bored?”

“Betrayed you?” Finrod laughed – a cold sound. “You don’t know what betrayal is.”

“You don’t know enough about me to make that claim.”

“I just wanted to see the plants. I wanted to get to know you better.”

“You will leave in the morning,” Caranthir said. “If not, Dog and I will make you.”

Caranthir almost expected Finrod to tear up, to ask him to reconsider but instead, Finrod’s face grew stony. Guiltily, Caranthir thought his eyes looked especially striking now.

“Fine,” Finrod said. “I won’t stay where I am unwanted. Thank you for your hospitality.”

He walked away, his golden hair shimmering under the faintly glowing sky.

---

Caranthir didn’t sleep that night. He was still angry, but as the dawn neared, he became ashamed, then fearful. He remembered Finrod’s screams echoing in the silent night. He remembered Finrod’s words. I wanted to see life.

The moment the first rays of the sun fell through his window, Caranthir strode out of the villa.

The shed was empty.

Finrod hadn’t taken anything with him. Caranthir stood frozen for a moment, then ran out. Whistling for Dog, he began looking for something – a trace that Finrod could have left, but there was nothing.

“Find him,” Caranthir begged Dog. “Please find him.”

He gave her a shirt of Finrod’s to sniff and followed her as she ran. But just moments later, Dog stopped and raised her snout up, then whined fearfully.

“No,” Caranthir pleaded as if he expected Dog to tell him that she was mistaken.

But Dog was never wrong in such cases. A red storm was coming.

“It is still a few hours away,” Caranthir said. “We’ll look for him until we have to return home.”

So they did, but they couldn’t find Finrod. The smell of the impending storm had messed up Dog’s senses. Despairing, Caranthir dragged his feet back. He wondered if Finrod would find cover or if Caranthir had condemned him to death. He couldn’t breathe properly. He told himself it was because of the approaching storm.

He usually rode these out in the greenhouse, but now he hesitated to enter. He could see Finrod crouching over the strawberry, a leaf between his fingers, his eyes half-closed as if he was drawing strength from the plant. He could see his pallor, his uneven breathing, the sweaty hair stuck to his temples.

There was still some time until the storm. Barely realizing what he was doing, Caranthir dashed into the greenhouse, went to the farthest, separate section, picked a single white daffodil and locked the door from the outside.

He put the flower on Finrod’s cot, closed Dog in his bedroom in the villa, then went out. He and Dog had looked for Finrod in the forest. Caranthir ran in the opposite direction now. He searched the rare buildings that were still intact. He checked inside the hollows of rotting trees. He resorted to calling Finrod’s name and pleading with him to answer. There was no response.

The storm was closing in. The air smelled faintly of sulfur. Caranthir could taste the electricity in the back of his throat. If he died in this storm, there would be no one left to take care of Dog and the greenhouse. There would be no one left to look for Finrod and help him if he’d managed to survive.

Caranthir hurried back home, looking around hopelessly for any sign of Finrod. When he reached the villa, he feared the storm had caught up with him, and he had been struck by lightning, so strong was his shock.

The shed door was open.

Caranthir ran to it and stopped at the threshold. Finrod was inside, standing by the cot, staring open-mouthed at the white daffodil. Caranthir knew it had to be the first flower he had seen in years.

“I will leave,” Finrod said without turning to Caranthir. “But there is a red storm coming. I don’t know if you would allow me to wait it out here. I promise to leave as soon as it’s over.”

“You really think I would let you die?” Caranthir snapped.

He hadn’t planned to sound rude. He had planned to apologize, but nothing ever happened as he planned.

“Wouldn’t you?” Finrod asked.

“No,” Caranthir said, softer. “Stay.”

Finrod took the daffodil and brought it to his face. He closed his eyes and breathed in the scent.

“Will you?” Caranthir asked. “Stay.”

Finrod slowly turned to him.

“You grow flowers,” he said.

Caranthir shrugged. “They also have a right to live.”

His face felt hot. He turned away from Finrod, but he knew even his neck was blushing.

“Why were you hiding it from me?” Finrod asked, approaching.

“Because I knew you would like it.”

“So?”

“And I knew I would like it that you liked it. I didn’t want that.”

“Why not?”

Caranthir said nothing. Finrod put a tentative hand on his shoulder, but Caranthir threw it off.

“You are going to leave once you feel well enough,” he said. “You’re going to find someplace else, someplace better. People like you always do.”

“I am not going to find a better place than this.”

“Great fucking compliment,” Caranthir spat, turning around.

Finrod laughed. “What I mean is, what if I have already found a better place? The best place.”

“Sure, here, in the middle of nothing, with a dog that you are afraid of and a man who is gloomy and bitter.”

“You aren’t bitter,” Finrod said. “You’re just honest to a fault, blunt and irritable.”

Caranthir glared. “I would have preferred bitter.”

“But you aren’t. I am.”

“You?” Caranthir asked. “Let’s hold hands and kiss under the rainbow you?”

“I am,” Finrod said. “I’m bitter because I was ousted from the place I founded. I’m bitter because I was betrayed. And I’m bitter because I don’t know what it says about me as a leader, as a person, that out of all those who lived there, who claimed to love me, only ten fucking people followed me. I will forever be bitter. Had I been less bitter, perhaps I wouldn’t have left you after one stupid argument.”

“You came back,” Caranthir noted.

“Yeah, well. I’ve managed to grow a self-preservation instinct.”

“I like you better this way,” Caranthir said. “When you aren’t performing.”

“You like me?” Finrod grinned.

“You know what I mean.”

“I do.”

Finrod stepped forward and pressed his lips to Caranthir’s. It took him a moment of hesitation, but Caranthir responded, catching Finrod by the collar and pulling him closer, his teeth drawing blood from Finrod’s lips and from his own.

Caranthir drew back, trying to catch his breath. “Sorry,” he said, his tongue running over his lips.

“Don’t be,” Finrod said with conviction.

He looked out of the window.

“We better hide,” he said. “The storm will hit soon.”

The sky was burning red overhead as Caranthir and Finrod ran to the greenhouse. The fiery clouds were charging, filling with electricity that they would soon rain down on every unlucky creature outside.

Caranthir locked the greenhouse door and checked the insulation. It would hold. He turned to Finrod who was standing still, wide eyes looking at the greenery.

“I had a terrible nightmare,” he spoke. “I was dreaming about my friends. I have lost many. Violently. I just had to see something alive when I woke up. I felt like my heart would stop if I didn’t.”

“You can come here as much as you like,” Caranthir blurted out, but he didn’t regret it when Finrod’s hopeful look turned to him.

“Thank you,” Finrod said.

“Or you can come to me,” Caranthir offered impulsively.

He held his breath until Finrod smiled and gave a slight nod.

They walked to the flowerbeds. Caranthir saw Finrod wipe a tear away as he took in all the colors and the scents.

“How beautiful,” he whispered. “And how utterly like you to make something so beautiful.”

The praise made Caranthir’s face feel hot. He sat down. Finrod joined him, and they spoke about flowers for a while. Then they silently listened to the howling wind outside, safe and warm in the greenhouse.

The storm raged above as they lay side by side among daffodils and hyacinths and watched the darkening sky. Caranthir closed his eyes and took Finrod’s hand, and he did it gently.

[annoyinglandmagazine]

Bilbo was taking surprisingly well to Valinor. Of course he’d been expecting it to be an adjustment, elves were very different creatures to hobbits after all, but he was certainly in fine comfort here. He’d always got the impression that elves had very- well for want of a better word elven ideas about what constituted a home, it was not his place to criticise but sleeping in trees seemed to lack a sense of cosiness to be perfectly honest, but Elrond seemed to have gone to a heartwarming effort to make his surroundings more familiar.

He and Frodo had been given spacious yet hobbit proportioned chambers in the building (practically a castle really) his wife had made for their household, a display of generosity that he should have come to expect yet still took him off guard. The rooms were filled with lush wall hangings, rugs and throw blankets, each pieces of art, and there were ever so many places one could sit and work away at whatever took their fancy or simply gaze out at the stars or waves crashing against the rocks.

Despite the seeming peace and tranquillity of his surroundings he was not oblivious to the fact that there was tension in the halls. He was proven right when Elrond came in one day after going down to the city, somewhere the hobbits had still not quite worked up the nerve to go themselves as they knew they would stick out like sore thumbs and were not fully prepared to be bombarded with questions and stares.

The Lady Galadriel’s brother Finrod had become familiar company however, when he was not too busy teasing his sister that is, and seemed genuinely eager and impressed with all they had to say. He even seemed enthusiastic about Bilbo’s attempts at poetry, though when he heard a reinterpretation of an ancient romance ballad about the flame haired princess being freed from her tower by a valiant elven prince he had to cover his mouth politely before bursting into a fit of laughter when he met Elrond’s eyes. He apologised profusely afterwards, though Bilbo was still trying to discover what had been so funny.

On this day however Finrod was not in attendance, it was just some of Elrond’s household, his wife and Bilbo in the corner writing a new poem about Beren and Luthien (a little overdone perhaps but still an incredible story). Elrond hung his cloak on the stand by the door and adjusted some invisible flaw in his braid work before picking up a book and silencing all the numerous proceedings in the bustling communal area with one casually uttered sentence from the window seat.

‘I decided to invite my parents over for dinner.’

Glorfindel dropped the plant pot he was holding with a crash, the only noise in the stifling silence. Everyone seemed to take that as their queue to leave whatever they were doing and walk calmly, run like their lives depended on it for the doors, some even for the windows. All except Bilbo that is, he wanted to hear what it was that made all these dignified and battle hardened immortal beings scatter like young hobbits pillaging Farmer Maggot’s grounds.

Glorfindel spoke and his voice was definitely trembling, goodness what could this be about? ‘Which- which parents would these be Lord Elrond?’

Elrond didn’t look up as if he hadn’t noticed the panic he’d unleashed and twirled his bookmark about his fingers while replying absentmindedly. ‘Hmmm? Oh, well I really didn’t want to start off on a note of picking some over the others after so many millennia apart so I thought it best to meet them together, clear the air and all that rather than leave things fester. I’m quite done with letting things go unspoken you know.’

‘You what.’ The Balrog Slayer trembled and shook, he who had laughed in the face of the Nazgûl.

‘What in all the lands of Arda could have possessed you to- Elrond! Are you trying to get us all killed?!’

‘Oh, peace Glorfindel, my family aren’t going to kill each other or you.’

‘Elrond your families killing each other is how you got one of them! Which is still severely fucked up by the way and so ridiculously unhealthy I don’t even know what to do with it.’

Elrond huffed at Glorfindel’s hysterics, ‘Honestly, it’s fine. It’s just dinner. They’re hardly going to sour their first meeting with me since before the destruction of Beleriand just to be petty.’

Bilbo privately thought that there was very little certain family members wouldn’t do to be petty, especially where ill advised family dinners were concerned. Tonight should be entertaining at least. He wondered if the elves, with the wisdom of many ages would be able to restrain themselves.

Glorfindel sighed and leaned forward onto his hand muttering something that, despite Bilbo’s incomplete fluency in the language, sounded suspiciously like swearing. ‘Well I suppose there’s nothing we can do now except send as many to safety as we can spare and pray to every Valar we can think of.’

‘And hide the breakables,’ Elrond chimes in lightly seemingly unperturbed by the very dangerous individual who was looking gradually more and more murderous. ‘Naneth used to throw things at the wall after receiving letters from Atya. Best hide any weaponry as well. Maybe serve something that doesn’t require sharp cutlery?’

Glorfindel inhaled slowly several times while staring down his significantly younger lord. ‘I hope you know Elrond, that the only reason I am not throttling you right now is that I do not want to upset the Lady Idril by causing injury to her only grandchild. She terrifies me, perhaps more than you and your parents but it is a fine fucking line.’

As Glorfindel headed out to try and pull the house into some semblance of readiness for the seeming impending disaster Elrond lifted his gaze from his novel and stared out at the rolling ocean before him. While only moments ago he had seemed light and teasing, as if he were secretly aware of and enjoying the turmoil he’d caused, something Bilbo had become more and more accustomed to seeing from him since their arrival on these shores, now he appeared every inch of his years, an ages long loss lined in those bright eyes and a trace of hesitance that was even more alarming.

 ‘Are you quite alright lad?’ Elrond’s mouth moved into familiar expression of amusement at being referred to as such by one so many times his younger and that was something at least though his eyes didn’t change.

 ‘Everything’s alright, it’s only just- well it’s been so long Bilbo. I know coming from me that may sound unusual to you, but I’m talking about things that happened in the First Age of the world, in Beleriand for goodness sake, that entire continent hasn’t existed for over seven millennia. So it’s just hard- I’ve spent so long imagining this day and I truly have no idea how it will go. It’s been so long since I’ve had parents and now- I might finally get that connection again but what if it fails? They haven’t seen me since I was a child, some of them anyway, what if they don’t like the person I am now?’

 ‘Any parent would be proud of having someone like you for a child, Elrond. I’m sure it will go splendidly, why they must have missed you dreadfully, I can’t imagine being separate from Frodo for so long.’ He was touched deeply by this elven lord opening up to him about such worries and resolved to try his best to make tonight go without a hitch. Glorfindel must have surely be overreacting after all, it couldn’t be that hard, could it, to prevent a few people (he was admittedly still unclear on the circumstances that led to Elrond’s parents being referred to as seemingly distinct groups) coming to blows at a reunion with their son?

[cilil]

❝ He remembers that day all too well, of course. He remembers visiting the bustling port of Alqualondë together with his brothers, excusing himself when they started arguing in the evening and sitting down at the dock to cool his feet in the water and read. He remembers being caught off-guard by the swift and surprisingly silent arrival of the Alquilda, the ship he now knows to be one of the most famous and infamous, feared and revered ships that sail the oceans of Arda. He remembers Eärwen calling out to him, mistaking him for a sailor or dockworker, and telling him to catch the mooring line, which he caught with his face instead of his hands because he kept staring at her. ❞

𓊝 Characters/pairing: Finarfin x Eärwen, Finrod, Angrod, Aegnor, Galadriel 𓊝 Synopsis: Finarfin tells his children how he fell in love with their mother, the (in)famous pirate captain Eärwen 𓊝 Warnings: / 𓊝 Oneshot (~1.8k words)

AN: I have @camille-lachenille to thank for inspiring this one. Also fair warning, there isn't any on-screen pirate stuff happening, I just had this cute little scenario of house hubby Finarfin telling his kids about their cool pirate mom in mind and had to write about it ^^

"Atya?" 

"Yes, Artanis?" 

She looks up at him with wide eyes, alight with the same sort of inquisitive curiosity Arafinwë has come to know so well. Behind her stand her older brothers, quiet but equally eager to witness the conversation unfold. 

He can tell that they have been talking among themselves and wonders if his boys put their sister up to whatever she is going to ask next. 

Artanis wastes no more time. "Can you tell me about Emya again? Please?" 

Arafinwë is careful not to let his smile falter for even a split second, nods and closes the book he has been reading. It's not that he doesn't enjoy talking about his beloved Eärwen — he could do so for days, and his brothers would surely tease him for it if they didn't feel similarly about their wives — but he knows their children miss her as much as he does and at times feels guilty that stories are all he has to offer. 

For the moment, at least. 

As soon as he places his book on the nearest table, Artanis climbs on his lap as if to take her due place on her personal throne. Findaráto, Angaráto and Aikanáro take it as their cue to follow, making themselves comfortable on the armrests of his armchair and at his feet. Arafinwë takes a moment to look at them, admiring their small, young faces, and strokes Artanis' hair absentmindedly. Time and time again he marvels at how lovely, smart and brave they are, sees their mother's grace and fire within them. 

I haven't even begun talking and I'm already getting sentimental, he silently chastises himself. 

Four pairs of eyes look up at him expectantly. Arafinwë clears his throat. "Is there any specific story you would like to hear?" 

Findaráto shakes his head, then rests his chin on his knee. Angaráto and Aikanáro exchange a glance before they do the same. Artanis, however, nods without hesitation. "Yes, please tell us about the first time you met Emya." 

Arafinwë's smile brightens. It's one of her favourites, he knows, and something tells him that she's already looking forward to sweeping an unsuspecting nér or nís off their feet as well one day. 

He remembers that day all too well, of course. He remembers visiting the bustling port of Alqualondë together with his brothers, excusing himself when they started arguing in the evening and sitting down at the dock to cool his feet in the water and read. He remembers being caught off-guard by the swift and surprisingly silent arrival of the Alquilda, the ship he now knows to be one of the most famous and infamous, feared and revered ships that sail the oceans of Arda. He remembers Eärwen calling out to him, mistaking him for a sailor or dockworker, and telling him to catch the mooring line, which he caught with his face instead of his hands because he kept staring at her. 

Eärwen never let him live it down, and neither would Artanis if she knew. 

"Years ago, your mother was already known as Lady Eärwen the swashbuckling swan-maiden, while I was but a young prince," Arafinwë begins his tale. "It was on a summer evening that I met her at the docks of Alqualondë. The sea was calm, and the Alquilda bound for the shores of home. Standing atop its bow and underneath swift sails, hair billowing in the wind, was Lady Eärwen and she came upon me as swiftly as upon her enemies." 

"It must have been meant to be, that she just happened to toss me a mooring line like a thread of fate, binding us together in spite of whichever tides may come. Your uncles say I was quite literally roped into the tale of a pirate princess and they may well be right — I certainly don't mind." 

Findaráto rolls his eyes at the last sentence, but can't suppress a grin. Artanis meanwhile takes no offence to her father's narration, hanging on his every word like a tiny kraken clutching a stray boat. 

"I was immediately fascinated by her, bewitched as if I had met a siren," Arafinwë continues, his eyes sparkling with mirth. Truth to be told, he isn't even exaggerating by much — his infatuation was immediate and strong. "Forgetting all about my feuding brothers, I embarked on my most daring adventure as of yet: I asked Lady Eärwen if she would join me for a drink at her favourite local tavern. Though perhaps I should rather say it was I who joined her, given that, in my haste, I had forgotten that I was woefully unfamiliar with our surroundings." 

"We talked and laughed and drank until the early morning hours, and it was the loveliest night I had ever had. It pained me to say goodbye to her at sunrise, but Atar was getting worried about my whereabouts and Ammë had begun sending out servants in search of me after Fëanáro and Nolofinwë mentioned they hadn't seen me since the previous day." 

"Lady Eärwen and I met again the next day and the day after and the day after that too, every day she stayed in Alqualondë. Yet in time all good things must come to an end, and she had to return to the sea eventually — something she had warned me about in the very beginning, but I didn't mind then and don't mind now. When we parted at the docks, she promised me that we would meet again and that she would send for me when the time came. To show me that she meant it, she gave me this–"

Arafinwë reaches for the necklace he always wears, a fine silver chain with a little swan pendant made of mother-of-pearl. The children have seen it before of course, but at least for little Artanis this moment never gets boring. 

"I returned to Tirion, slightly heartbroken but mostly hopeful, and I had faith that my lady would keep her word, especially now that her little swan kept me company. Every day I thought of her, every night I dreamed of her. To prepare for her return, I asked Fëanáro to help me make a gift for Lady Eärwen as well. It too would be a swan pendant, that much was clear, but we spent much time pondering which material would be best. In the end we settled on amber; not only to match the colours I had chosen for my future house, but also because at times small things become encased in amber, fleeting moments captured and preserved forever, like the feelings I had for her." 

It is at this point that the boys audibly groan, but Artanis shoots her brothers an angry glare. "Let Atya be in love! It's not like he can help it!" 

"Thank you, my little princess," Arafinwë laughs and places a small kiss on her parting. 

Artanis appears to appreciate the gesture, but has her mind on other things. "I want to hear how Emya came back to you." 

"Of course." He hurries to focus on the story once more. "Well, one day many months later, I found a seagull sitting on my windowsill, carrying a letter in its beak. I was overjoyed to find that it had been written by none other than Lady Eärwen, telling me that the Alquilda was once again heading for Alqualondë and that she would love to see me there. Without hesitation, I packed my things, borrowed the fastest horse I could find from Atar's stable and rode out to meet her, speeding across the plains of Valinor as if the hunters of Oromë were after me. And indeed, she was there when I arrived. She was waiting for me at the docks where we had first met." 

Arafinwë smiles wistfully. "Everything was exactly as it had been, we picked up where we had left off. And as for how it went on... well, the rest is history." 

He looks at his children, the greatest and proudest achievement of his and Eärwen's union. They sit in contemplative silence, their young minds pondering the story they heard before yet never understood in its entirety and wouldn't for some time, not until they grow up and fall in love themselves. 

Artanis' eyes are glowing with joy and excitement, and she claps her little hands. Arafinwë knows she has almost no memory of her mother, so these stories mean a lot to her. He takes her into his arms, also gathering her brothers, and they remain like this for a while. 

When he and Eärwen got married and decided to have a family, they knew already that her sea-longing would come back in time and sunder them for a while. Arafinwë was ready for it; before proposing, he asked her father for her hand, and Olwë took him aside to ask if he knew of his daughter's origins. She had told him of course — that her mother was a Maia who took the shape of swans and other sea-birds and couldn't live without the air and sea and that she, Eärwen, had become who she was because she had been beset by the same longing. 

Olwë confided in him, telling him how he had raised his children alone when she was absent, then asking again if he still wished to marry Eärwen. Arafinwë said yes. He meant it then just as he means it now, and his only regret is that their younger children barely remember their mother. 

Eärwen didn't take her decision to return to the sea lightly, of course. She spent years living with Arafinwë in Valinor while the Alquilda rested in the port of Alqualondë, lovingly maintained by her crew. Yet after their fourth child was born, she slowly felt the sea-longing return, and he was ready to keep his promise to let her go, as he had once said to her as part of his marriage vows. He had known all along what it meant and he would neither see her suffer nor go back on his word, he had sworn to himself. 

Every few weeks or months, birds from all over Arda arrive at his house and bring letters from Eärwen, detailing her adventures. Arafinwë reads all of them to their children and tells them everything he knows about the birds and the lands she's visiting. One day, when they're all old enough, they'll sail together, she promised him on the day she left. 

At times he wonders if the sea-longing will come for their children too one day. He is a prince, a politician and a diplomat, hardly fit to be a pirate or a sailor, but he will follow his family across the seas of Arda if he has to. At least, as Arafinwë often told Eärwen in jest, he knows how to use a sword and is the youngest of his father's house, unlikely to be crowned king any time soon, if ever. 

And until the sea calls for the Elflings he's now lovingly cradling in his arms, they are safe at home with him. 

Etymology: Alquilda - silent/hushed swan - referring to the silent swiftness of the ship, as well as being a pun on mute swan (the species) which are known for being monogamous and using the same nest every year

Thanks for reading! ♡

taglist: @elanna-elrondiel @i-did-not-mean-to @just-little-human @numenhore @urwendii

[sallysavestheday]

@undercat-overdog prompted me for a writing update, so here’s one last New Year’s exception to my principle of This Blog Is Mostly Other People’s Gorgeous Art:

Word count for the year: 42,712

Number of stories posted to Ao3: A robust 74 (shortest was 128 words, longest was 1,572 words; ficlets are my thing, folks). All are Silmarillion (or adjacent) or Lord of the Rings.

Most popular story: I don’t track hits (mental health recommendation!), but the most popular by kudos are my Legolas/Gimli fics, for sure. Light a Little Fire in Me and Deep in the Ancient Forests of the World are the top two there. In the Silm fandom, Sweet Falls the Rain (Maglor, Elrond, and the tender pains of parenting) and A Lightning Kindled (my Russingon-Glorthelion angst monster).

Fic I spent the most time on: Probably Settle Your Wild Heart (Celegorm/Aredhel, two ways), my first multi-chapter, 1,000+ word fic.

Fic I spent the least time on: Surprisingly, This Blood Will Tell (a Thranduil backstory with a twist) which I wrote in a mad overnight fugue state from a fabulous prompt by @gellalaer.  

Favorite thing I wrote: Still my Glorthelion series, The Flower and the Fountain. I had a mad month of Glorthelion earlier this year, and have recently added a few new fics to that series. I love those guys!

Story I’m most proud of: Probably Fugue: Three Voices, Four Entries, about an arsonist Fëanorian Erestor and all the twins in his life, building off a character idea of @idrilsscribe‘s. It’s very dark, but with a sort of happy ending.

Funniest: Tough choice here; depends on your tastes. Avant Garde (Maglor premieres a new work) or the series The Importance of Peer Review (anthropologist Finrod wreaks havoc Arda-wide).

Saddest: Also tough, since I kill people off all the time in very canon ways. I think History Will Be Kind To Me, For I Intend to Write It (Pengolodh, Eöl, Aredhel, Turgon, ‘nuff said), or To This, He Had No Answer, in which I killed a child to introduce Finrod to mortal death.

Least Popular: Call Me Out of the Gloaming, by kudos. This is rarepair Egalmoth/Rog, and was very fun to write for @antares0606.

Favorite Opening Line(s): This is hard, because I write in so many different moods. But here’s a taste from My Bones Divide and Shake, the first fic in my series about Celegorm and Oromë:

Celegorm will never find words to tell the story. It is beyond speech – a tale better suited to the ecstatic shriek of the mouse as the owl stoops, or the hare beating a mad tattoo before the crouching fox. His mouth cannot shape the sounds his heart makes in the sudden silence of the clearing, or sing the surge of his blood behind his eyes as he is claimed and set apart.

Favorite Closing Line(s): Similarly challenging. Have a little miserable Maedhros at the Nirnaeth in The Quality of Mercy is Not Strained:

On his knees in the curdled mud at the edge of the field, Maedhros stares down the hollow years ahead and takes the lesson. Doom is not a matter of semantics. Pity and mercy have never been the same.

Top Scenes from Anywhere You Would Choose to Have Illustrated: Oh, anything! I am not a visual artist and greatly admire people who are (hence my general rule on this blog about the proportion of images vs. words). Maybe the Celegorm & Oromë stuff, or pregnant Melian in Blood of My Blood, Bone of My Bone, or Maglor playing silence in 4′33″.

New things I tried: Everything! This is my first year sharing anything I’ve written, and it’s been fun seeing what resonates with others.

Fic-writing goals for 2023: Keep doing it when I feel like it; don’t do it if I don’t.

Favorite Thing(s) I read: So many favorites are already in my pinned Masterlist post or my fic recs posts. Go read them all! Three recent delights towards the end of the year are:

Tell It Slant, by Kaz, What Joy We Might, by Cherepashka, and The Hopes and Fears of All the Years, by Verecunda. Not sure about tumblrs for those folks, but if you know them, tell them I love those works!