Day 1 - Join The Party
Aug. 1st, 2023 06:36 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
grundyscribblingTitle: Join The Party
Author: Grundy
Rating: FR13
Crossover: LotR/Silmarillion
Summary: She's not the blonde he was looking for...
Word Count: 1285
Note: Not what I'd intended to start with, but I'm pressed for time this evening...
Gwindor looked around the crowded square. Perhaps this time she would be here…
His brother jostled him good-naturedly.
“You’re scanning the area like we’re out on patrol, not on a pleasant outing at a festival!”
Gwindor sighed.
“Habit,” he shrugged, hoping Gelmir would interpret that as meaning habit from Beleriand, not his habit of constantly looking for her in every crowd and around every corner.
He had no wish to hear his brother’s opinion on the matter yet again. He knew his brother did not understand – could not understand. His mate Thorwen had died in the battle. (They hadn’t been bound at the time, but they’d had a fair idea it was in their future.) So his brother had no idea what it was like to be sent back broken and hideous, and then have to watch as his beloved fell under the spell of another.
With hindsight, spell was painfully accurate. His Faelivrin was as steadfast as Thorwen. He should have seen it sooner, perhaps she might have been saved. The wretched man had failed her in the end, as he’d no doubt been intended to do by Morgoth.
Gwindor had heard the full story several long-years after he returned from the Halls. At first he had cursed Agarwaen for his failure. But once he’d calmed down, he realized the mortal would no more have been able to thwart the master of Angband than Gwindor had himself. That didn’t mean that some small part of his didn’t believe the son of Húrin should have tried harder.
Gwindor also didn’t begrudge his brother’s current happiness (though he was annoyingly smug by times), but he did regret that he had been unable to find Faelivrin in the Halls. But he was certain she wouldn’t be held there forever. She’d return eventually. And then…
King Finderato had said that love could be delayed but not denied. Gwindor believed it.
“Don’t be silly, he’s not looking for enemies, he’s looking for someone in particular,” Thorwen giggled, passing each of them a cup of the wine she’d just gotten at the stall of the vintner’s guild.
“Oh?” Gelmir replied, raising an eyebrow.
“Try the wine – they say it’s one of Prince Aikanaro’s new varieties,” Thorwen urged.
Gwindor shot her a grateful look. She must have realized a moment too late who he’d be looking for. Then he took a hasty sip himself before his brother could start.
“Not bad,” he said. “Though I suppose we’d have to ask some of the older generation if it matches the fabled pressings of his grandfather.”
“Not bad? Damned good is more like it,” Gelmir said. “What has you so preoccupied even the best wine we’ve tasted in several years can’t distract you?”
“I heard several people in that last dance square saying the newly arrived princes were walking the square,” he offered.
“Surely not!” Thorwen gasped. “Not when they’ve been kept safely tucked away save for that one public audience – and all but the little girl hustled in before the city was awake to notice them.”
“I imagine they thought it best the girl be seen,” Gelmir shrugged. “Make sure everyone knew she wasn’t about to give birth after all.”
“I can’t believe you fell for that ridiculous rumor,” Thorwen sniffed, her previous merriment dulling somewhat. “The Noldor are terrible to invent such things about a child mourning her sister.”
“That ‘child’ may be out here as well,” Gelmir grinned. “One of the bakers was telling anyone who’d listen that he’d seen them all.”
“She’d be easy to spot if she wasn’t so little,” Thorwen said, now looking about herself. “But she’s a fool if she’s at this end of the square with all the Noldor and their wagging tongues.”
“So let’s try the other end,” Gelmir suggested. “You’ll blend right in, at least!”
Thorwen smiled, for the farther they went, the more Sindar surrounded them. It might have been unusal to see so many of them at a festival in Tirion, but no doubt they were as keen to catch a glimpse of their newest princes as the Noldor.
Then Gwindor caught a flash of blonde hair. His heart leapt, but crashed just as quickly. If Faelivrin were so close, he ought to be able to feel her fëa – unless he had truly lost her.
A few more steps proved it was not Faelivrin – though the likeness to both Prince Gildor and King Finderato strongly suggested it was one of her kinsmen.
Gwindor would have drawn back had not a startled voice suddenly proclaimed, “wait, I know you!”
He looked down to find the shortest nis he had ever seen looking back at him. She too looked like enough to Faelivrin to be kin. There was no blonde to give her away, though – she had wrapped her hair tightly in a cloth that matched her dress perfectly. It wasn’t much of a dodge on closer look, but it was enough to explain how she could move quietly through the crowd without being noticed at once.
“At the rate you’re going, you’re going to know half the square,” the blonde man snickered.
“The Sindarin half, at least,” a dark-haired man muttered.
“I don’t believe we have met, my lady,” Gwindor replied politely.
“We haven’t, but Uncle Gildor knows you,” she replied airily.
“Stars of Varda, did she just say Uncle Gildor?” Gelmir demanded in shock.
“She did,” another dark-haired man – identical to the first – replied. “And while she has evidently heard enough about you to recognize you, we have not.”
“Gwindor Guilinion at your service, my lords,” he replied. “Or should that be my princes?”
Gelmir’s mouth dropped open in rather gratifying shock, though he closed it swiftly at a fierce poke from Thorwen, who was doubtlessly ordering him silently not to embarrass her in front of Thingol’s heirs.
“Eluchil,” Thorwen said, dropping a very respectful curtsey.
“Oh, no, don’t start that,” the girl groaned. “We’ve been having such a good time, but if you start getting all formal, everyone else will too.”
The blonde man grinned.
“Arador Inglorion,” he introduced himself. “I think the one who doesn’t care to be formal will answer to Anariel from friends of my brother, but she’s been using ‘Buffy’ with anyone she doesn’t know so everyone can carry on as though we’re not really who we are.”
“It is my mother-name,” Anariel said firmly. “He’s my cousin. And those are my brothers.”
Where under the stars did her mother come up with such a name? Gelmir asked.
“California,” Anariel replied brightly – surely aware that her answer could only lead to more questions.
Thorwen didn’t say anything aloud, but the valiant effort Prince Arador was making not to laugh suggested the princes had heard whatever she’d said to her mate.
“Prince Elrohir, Prince Elladan,” Gwindor nodded, trying to salvage the situation. “My apologies, we did not mean to disturb you if you were in no mood to be recognized.”
He would have turned to go, but a small arm wound itself through his.
“No, it’s fine. You should stay,” Princess Anariel informed him with a grin. “In fact, we should find a way to sneak you back in with us whenever we go.”
“Indeed, Uncle Gildor will find it highly amusing,” one of the twin princes agreed.
The gleeful mischief on Princess Anariel’s face suggested there was more to it than that – he’d seen that look on Arafinwion faces often enough to know it well. He also knew he was unlikely to resist it.
Besides, he would never hear the end of it if Thorwen missed out on making the closer acquaintance of the princess her people sang of almost as much as Lúthien these days.
Author: Grundy
Rating: FR13
Crossover: LotR/Silmarillion
Summary: She's not the blonde he was looking for...
Word Count: 1285
Note: Not what I'd intended to start with, but I'm pressed for time this evening...
Gwindor looked around the crowded square. Perhaps this time she would be here…
His brother jostled him good-naturedly.
“You’re scanning the area like we’re out on patrol, not on a pleasant outing at a festival!”
Gwindor sighed.
“Habit,” he shrugged, hoping Gelmir would interpret that as meaning habit from Beleriand, not his habit of constantly looking for her in every crowd and around every corner.
He had no wish to hear his brother’s opinion on the matter yet again. He knew his brother did not understand – could not understand. His mate Thorwen had died in the battle. (They hadn’t been bound at the time, but they’d had a fair idea it was in their future.) So his brother had no idea what it was like to be sent back broken and hideous, and then have to watch as his beloved fell under the spell of another.
With hindsight, spell was painfully accurate. His Faelivrin was as steadfast as Thorwen. He should have seen it sooner, perhaps she might have been saved. The wretched man had failed her in the end, as he’d no doubt been intended to do by Morgoth.
Gwindor had heard the full story several long-years after he returned from the Halls. At first he had cursed Agarwaen for his failure. But once he’d calmed down, he realized the mortal would no more have been able to thwart the master of Angband than Gwindor had himself. That didn’t mean that some small part of his didn’t believe the son of Húrin should have tried harder.
Gwindor also didn’t begrudge his brother’s current happiness (though he was annoyingly smug by times), but he did regret that he had been unable to find Faelivrin in the Halls. But he was certain she wouldn’t be held there forever. She’d return eventually. And then…
King Finderato had said that love could be delayed but not denied. Gwindor believed it.
“Don’t be silly, he’s not looking for enemies, he’s looking for someone in particular,” Thorwen giggled, passing each of them a cup of the wine she’d just gotten at the stall of the vintner’s guild.
“Oh?” Gelmir replied, raising an eyebrow.
“Try the wine – they say it’s one of Prince Aikanaro’s new varieties,” Thorwen urged.
Gwindor shot her a grateful look. She must have realized a moment too late who he’d be looking for. Then he took a hasty sip himself before his brother could start.
“Not bad,” he said. “Though I suppose we’d have to ask some of the older generation if it matches the fabled pressings of his grandfather.”
“Not bad? Damned good is more like it,” Gelmir said. “What has you so preoccupied even the best wine we’ve tasted in several years can’t distract you?”
“I heard several people in that last dance square saying the newly arrived princes were walking the square,” he offered.
“Surely not!” Thorwen gasped. “Not when they’ve been kept safely tucked away save for that one public audience – and all but the little girl hustled in before the city was awake to notice them.”
“I imagine they thought it best the girl be seen,” Gelmir shrugged. “Make sure everyone knew she wasn’t about to give birth after all.”
“I can’t believe you fell for that ridiculous rumor,” Thorwen sniffed, her previous merriment dulling somewhat. “The Noldor are terrible to invent such things about a child mourning her sister.”
“That ‘child’ may be out here as well,” Gelmir grinned. “One of the bakers was telling anyone who’d listen that he’d seen them all.”
“She’d be easy to spot if she wasn’t so little,” Thorwen said, now looking about herself. “But she’s a fool if she’s at this end of the square with all the Noldor and their wagging tongues.”
“So let’s try the other end,” Gelmir suggested. “You’ll blend right in, at least!”
Thorwen smiled, for the farther they went, the more Sindar surrounded them. It might have been unusal to see so many of them at a festival in Tirion, but no doubt they were as keen to catch a glimpse of their newest princes as the Noldor.
Then Gwindor caught a flash of blonde hair. His heart leapt, but crashed just as quickly. If Faelivrin were so close, he ought to be able to feel her fëa – unless he had truly lost her.
A few more steps proved it was not Faelivrin – though the likeness to both Prince Gildor and King Finderato strongly suggested it was one of her kinsmen.
Gwindor would have drawn back had not a startled voice suddenly proclaimed, “wait, I know you!”
He looked down to find the shortest nis he had ever seen looking back at him. She too looked like enough to Faelivrin to be kin. There was no blonde to give her away, though – she had wrapped her hair tightly in a cloth that matched her dress perfectly. It wasn’t much of a dodge on closer look, but it was enough to explain how she could move quietly through the crowd without being noticed at once.
“At the rate you’re going, you’re going to know half the square,” the blonde man snickered.
“The Sindarin half, at least,” a dark-haired man muttered.
“I don’t believe we have met, my lady,” Gwindor replied politely.
“We haven’t, but Uncle Gildor knows you,” she replied airily.
“Stars of Varda, did she just say Uncle Gildor?” Gelmir demanded in shock.
“She did,” another dark-haired man – identical to the first – replied. “And while she has evidently heard enough about you to recognize you, we have not.”
“Gwindor Guilinion at your service, my lords,” he replied. “Or should that be my princes?”
Gelmir’s mouth dropped open in rather gratifying shock, though he closed it swiftly at a fierce poke from Thorwen, who was doubtlessly ordering him silently not to embarrass her in front of Thingol’s heirs.
“Eluchil,” Thorwen said, dropping a very respectful curtsey.
“Oh, no, don’t start that,” the girl groaned. “We’ve been having such a good time, but if you start getting all formal, everyone else will too.”
The blonde man grinned.
“Arador Inglorion,” he introduced himself. “I think the one who doesn’t care to be formal will answer to Anariel from friends of my brother, but she’s been using ‘Buffy’ with anyone she doesn’t know so everyone can carry on as though we’re not really who we are.”
“It is my mother-name,” Anariel said firmly. “He’s my cousin. And those are my brothers.”
Where under the stars did her mother come up with such a name? Gelmir asked.
“California,” Anariel replied brightly – surely aware that her answer could only lead to more questions.
Thorwen didn’t say anything aloud, but the valiant effort Prince Arador was making not to laugh suggested the princes had heard whatever she’d said to her mate.
“Prince Elrohir, Prince Elladan,” Gwindor nodded, trying to salvage the situation. “My apologies, we did not mean to disturb you if you were in no mood to be recognized.”
He would have turned to go, but a small arm wound itself through his.
“No, it’s fine. You should stay,” Princess Anariel informed him with a grin. “In fact, we should find a way to sneak you back in with us whenever we go.”
“Indeed, Uncle Gildor will find it highly amusing,” one of the twin princes agreed.
The gleeful mischief on Princess Anariel’s face suggested there was more to it than that – he’d seen that look on Arafinwion faces often enough to know it well. He also knew he was unlikely to resist it.
Besides, he would never hear the end of it if Thorwen missed out on making the closer acquaintance of the princess her people sang of almost as much as Lúthien these days.
