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Lyric Table
Title: Winter of a Spring Bride
Fandom: LotR
Characters: Finduilas, Denethor, Boromir
Prompt: 28: Through long December nights, we talk in words of rain or snow; while you, through chattering teeth, reply and curse us as you go.
Word Count: 455
Rating: G
Summary: Finduilas finds the snows of Minas Tirith beautiful, but ultimately chilling.
Author's Notes: Not my characters, Tolkien's. Having Boromir born on February 26th is a pet fanon of mine, based upon certain other individual's birthdays and when they went after the Ring. The date is more properly connected with his death. All we know for certain is 2978, two years after his parents' marriage.
Finduilas had enjoyed her first winter in Minas Tirith. The heavy snowfalls obscured the environment, but once the precipitation let up (as it was more prone to do here than in Dol Amroth) it left not the stark, soggy, barren landscape of frozen mud and lingering fog, but rather a wonderland of bright snow, as if the White City herself were throwing on a thick new coat against the cold. The air was icily crisp and clear, save for where her breath created a fog of its own. In Belfalas, the folktales held that the one that could see one’s own breath would soon meet a spirit walking in the rains. But here, there were no winter rains; there was only the clean, cold, beautiful snow, and the people of Gondor going about their daily bustle with wreaths of mist drifting above their heads.
The downside to her fascination with snow was that the winter weather of the capitol was no less deadly than that of her homeland, and remained much more treacherous, besides. Like many of Minas Tirith’s nobles, its beauty often hid a chilled heart, and the cold of fallen snow would not drive one inside until it was too late. Many an evening would find Finduilas with her hands buried deep into a fur lining, rubbing them together, but still unable to work feeling back into them. She bundled herself in heavy dresses, extra undergarments, and thick cloaks, but still she found her nose dripping like the icicles hanging from the Citadel well into the spring thaw. Finduilas willingly bore this discomfort, though, so that she might enjoy the scenery. She did not even consider her illness entirely a bad thing, for her husband was willing to delay his returns to combat zone and courtroom so that he might help nurse her back to health.
It was her second winter in her new home that made her long once more for the constant rain and sea mists. The pregnancy had not been easy, and as she entered the third trimester, Finduilas found herself unable to spend an excessive amount of time in court, let alone in the cold. The snow outside her window seemed to mock her with its quiet sparkle and clear sky. And even with remaining inside and wrapped in blankets most of the time, Finduilas still had managed to develop a cold. Poor Denethor must have surely not known what to think of his snappish, tired lady, she had thought, in a more generous moment. The end of February, winter, and her pregnancy would come, but that year, Finduilas failed to see the beauty of the White City, bejeweled in its winter finery, awaiting her son like a bride.
Title: The Halls of Our Mothers
Fandom: LotR
Characters: Faramir, Eowyn, Denethor/Finduilas, Lothiriel, Arwen, and others
Prompt: 33: Your bones are sore and weak, but your will is as strong as concrete
Word Count:280
Rating: G
Summary: Faramir thought the old Rohirric saying rather ironic.
Author's Notes: Tolkien's characters. Possibly AU, depending upon how you interpret it. If you're interested: originally, I'd actually been hoping for a peek into Adrahil's head with this plotbunny, but that'll have to come some other time. These challenges have really sharpened my Faramuse, amongst others; I never tried writing from his adult perspective before I joined the comm.
When it comes to the afterlife, my wife’s people speak of the halls of their forefathers. I’ve always found this more than a little ironic. I dare not tell her so, for I hate to upset her, but my wife, surely, could understand why.
For one thing, one barely has to consider the current ruling courts to know how infrequently a hall is ever truly a man’s. A man might be Prince, Steward, or King, but he still tends to leave the running of a household to his wife, sister, or cousin. Long after my mother’s death, one could still feel her influence upon our court, and my father. My Eowyn, hoyden she may be, was still the only one left to challenge Grima’s control of her uncle and his court, making her mark through her resistance to a man’s control of her hall. She and my aunt also were the ones to get Lothiriel settled into her queenship, and were no small factor in putting Queen Arwen at ease with Minas Tirith, either.
Even if I were unwilling to admit all that to my wife, there is another bitter irony to that phrase that Eowyn knows as well as I: all too often, the child joins his ancestors before his father does. We have seen that bitter truth confirmed, even if we lived in defiance of it. I can only hollowly quote my wife, and her mother’s brother before her; there are no great words that I might say to ease this pain.
And so I send you to the halls of our mothers, little one, and I beg you tell the family that I shall follow you soon.
Title: Winter of a Spring Bride
Fandom: LotR
Characters: Finduilas, Denethor, Boromir
Prompt: 28: Through long December nights, we talk in words of rain or snow; while you, through chattering teeth, reply and curse us as you go.
Word Count: 455
Rating: G
Summary: Finduilas finds the snows of Minas Tirith beautiful, but ultimately chilling.
Author's Notes: Not my characters, Tolkien's. Having Boromir born on February 26th is a pet fanon of mine, based upon certain other individual's birthdays and when they went after the Ring. The date is more properly connected with his death. All we know for certain is 2978, two years after his parents' marriage.
Finduilas had enjoyed her first winter in Minas Tirith. The heavy snowfalls obscured the environment, but once the precipitation let up (as it was more prone to do here than in Dol Amroth) it left not the stark, soggy, barren landscape of frozen mud and lingering fog, but rather a wonderland of bright snow, as if the White City herself were throwing on a thick new coat against the cold. The air was icily crisp and clear, save for where her breath created a fog of its own. In Belfalas, the folktales held that the one that could see one’s own breath would soon meet a spirit walking in the rains. But here, there were no winter rains; there was only the clean, cold, beautiful snow, and the people of Gondor going about their daily bustle with wreaths of mist drifting above their heads.
The downside to her fascination with snow was that the winter weather of the capitol was no less deadly than that of her homeland, and remained much more treacherous, besides. Like many of Minas Tirith’s nobles, its beauty often hid a chilled heart, and the cold of fallen snow would not drive one inside until it was too late. Many an evening would find Finduilas with her hands buried deep into a fur lining, rubbing them together, but still unable to work feeling back into them. She bundled herself in heavy dresses, extra undergarments, and thick cloaks, but still she found her nose dripping like the icicles hanging from the Citadel well into the spring thaw. Finduilas willingly bore this discomfort, though, so that she might enjoy the scenery. She did not even consider her illness entirely a bad thing, for her husband was willing to delay his returns to combat zone and courtroom so that he might help nurse her back to health.
It was her second winter in her new home that made her long once more for the constant rain and sea mists. The pregnancy had not been easy, and as she entered the third trimester, Finduilas found herself unable to spend an excessive amount of time in court, let alone in the cold. The snow outside her window seemed to mock her with its quiet sparkle and clear sky. And even with remaining inside and wrapped in blankets most of the time, Finduilas still had managed to develop a cold. Poor Denethor must have surely not known what to think of his snappish, tired lady, she had thought, in a more generous moment. The end of February, winter, and her pregnancy would come, but that year, Finduilas failed to see the beauty of the White City, bejeweled in its winter finery, awaiting her son like a bride.
Title: The Halls of Our Mothers
Fandom: LotR
Characters: Faramir, Eowyn, Denethor/Finduilas, Lothiriel, Arwen, and others
Prompt: 33: Your bones are sore and weak, but your will is as strong as concrete
Word Count:280
Rating: G
Summary: Faramir thought the old Rohirric saying rather ironic.
Author's Notes: Tolkien's characters. Possibly AU, depending upon how you interpret it. If you're interested: originally, I'd actually been hoping for a peek into Adrahil's head with this plotbunny, but that'll have to come some other time. These challenges have really sharpened my Faramuse, amongst others; I never tried writing from his adult perspective before I joined the comm.
When it comes to the afterlife, my wife’s people speak of the halls of their forefathers. I’ve always found this more than a little ironic. I dare not tell her so, for I hate to upset her, but my wife, surely, could understand why.
For one thing, one barely has to consider the current ruling courts to know how infrequently a hall is ever truly a man’s. A man might be Prince, Steward, or King, but he still tends to leave the running of a household to his wife, sister, or cousin. Long after my mother’s death, one could still feel her influence upon our court, and my father. My Eowyn, hoyden she may be, was still the only one left to challenge Grima’s control of her uncle and his court, making her mark through her resistance to a man’s control of her hall. She and my aunt also were the ones to get Lothiriel settled into her queenship, and were no small factor in putting Queen Arwen at ease with Minas Tirith, either.
Even if I were unwilling to admit all that to my wife, there is another bitter irony to that phrase that Eowyn knows as well as I: all too often, the child joins his ancestors before his father does. We have seen that bitter truth confirmed, even if we lived in defiance of it. I can only hollowly quote my wife, and her mother’s brother before her; there are no great words that I might say to ease this pain.
And so I send you to the halls of our mothers, little one, and I beg you tell the family that I shall follow you soon.