LotR/Hobbit fic -- Beds
Elven lords and their beds.
Elrond, Thranduil, Galadriel, Celeborn
The beds of Rivendell are made of wood and heaped high with white linens. They have pillows of goosedown and thick duvets for when cold winds blow down the valley in winter, fluffy blankets of finely woven lambswool that last for a century with proper care. Even with the windows open in winter, the beds of Rivendell are warm.
Lord Elrond's windows do not face the mountains and the most beautiful vistas. They face instead an inward courtyard, fountains and perfectly placed trees that are not ornamental at all. Each apple and cherry which reaches branches bejeweled with spring flowers bears fruit as well, fruit for the tables of Rivendell and to be preserved in cordial spirits to warm the next frost. Lord Elrond's windows open into the branches of his fruit trees. Beyond is a fountain, and the paths where all pass back and forth. He can see the life of Rivendell from his window.
Lord Elrond sleeps alone. Only twice in his life has he loved, and both are lost to him. His bed, high and white and warm, is for him alone. Most days he does not wish there were anyone there. There is so much to do, each day full to the brim with the needs of elves and Dunedain, of the doings of his children and his people, of his library and his lore and the work of garth and orchard, field and hunt. The plenty of Rivendell is hard won. That he turns his mind to the world outside is another heaping on an already full platter.
In the evenings there is the hall and the fire, song and poetry, play and story, and an open door to all who come -- elves and dwarves and halflihgs and Dunedain and even the occasional wizard. All the knowledge of the world comes to Lord Elrond's hall. If at the end he seeks his bed alone, most often he is satiated on music. Music, Elrond knows, endures. Stories are more solid than flesh, and far harder to break.
King Thranduil's bed is horn, carved only a little to support the weight of furs and wools that cover it. He sleeps beneath white fox furs, winter caught and flawless. Many have shared that rest since Morwen of Lindon returned to her people and her rolling waves, leaving behind a son with sea-gray eyes and a breath of salt through halls beneath the earth. After all, what is a century in the time of the elves? A summer love entered into too quickly that could not last. She could not love the green cathedrals of the woodland, and he will not seek the sea. This is his home, and it has grown to him and he to it.
And so the others have come and gone, friends and lovers, even a minstrel of Gondor drawn by unearthly music to the realm beneath, returning at last to tell fantastic stories of the autumn lord. Few believed his stories, but his songs are sung in Gondor yet.
Sometimes, sprawled amid the scattered furs with friends seen from time to time, half-walking in a twilight dream, the illusion that he holds fades. His perfect face is ravaged and scarred, his shoulder seamed with long ago burns, and he is that thing which elves will not bear above all else -- ugly. And yet the hands do not still, long strokes against his spine, and he turns his marred face to the pillow. This is love, warmth that endures like stones, not the summer-bright passion of growing things, or the heat of the autumn stag in rut. In the morning he will wake, vigorous spring.
The elves of Lorien sleep in trees, and the Lord and Lady are no exception. Their talan is high in the branches of a mallorn, a white platform with curtains of silk and a canopy that can be opened alone to see the stars, for there are no other platforms above it. It is piled high with bright, soft pillows made by Galadriel herself. Right now they are green and gold. Another year they may be azure or scarlet. She is changeable as the seasons, and as predictable.
They do not sleep apart when they are in the same place, not after nine thousand years, and if they are not quiet it is unremarked, for nothing is more rude in Lorien than to acknowledge hearing that which passes in another talan. Besides, if they wish to speak privately to one another, they have only to speak without words. If at times another joins them in their lush aerie, that must also pass unremarked. After all, it has been nine thousand years, and if they wish to share the treasures they have found it is because they are generous with these waters that pour out in such abundance. This is a spring that never runs dry.
Sometimes, though, they go apart in summer. They walk through the meadow and lie down in the tall grass, finding lazy pleasure in familiar beauty, the curve of a pale shoulder, a fall of silver-gilt hair against golden grass going to seed. As the first stars appear she lies on Celeborn's breast, listening to the beating of his heart. "You are the only bed I need," she says.
Elrond, Thranduil, Galadriel, Celeborn
The beds of Rivendell are made of wood and heaped high with white linens. They have pillows of goosedown and thick duvets for when cold winds blow down the valley in winter, fluffy blankets of finely woven lambswool that last for a century with proper care. Even with the windows open in winter, the beds of Rivendell are warm.
Lord Elrond's windows do not face the mountains and the most beautiful vistas. They face instead an inward courtyard, fountains and perfectly placed trees that are not ornamental at all. Each apple and cherry which reaches branches bejeweled with spring flowers bears fruit as well, fruit for the tables of Rivendell and to be preserved in cordial spirits to warm the next frost. Lord Elrond's windows open into the branches of his fruit trees. Beyond is a fountain, and the paths where all pass back and forth. He can see the life of Rivendell from his window.
Lord Elrond sleeps alone. Only twice in his life has he loved, and both are lost to him. His bed, high and white and warm, is for him alone. Most days he does not wish there were anyone there. There is so much to do, each day full to the brim with the needs of elves and Dunedain, of the doings of his children and his people, of his library and his lore and the work of garth and orchard, field and hunt. The plenty of Rivendell is hard won. That he turns his mind to the world outside is another heaping on an already full platter.
In the evenings there is the hall and the fire, song and poetry, play and story, and an open door to all who come -- elves and dwarves and halflihgs and Dunedain and even the occasional wizard. All the knowledge of the world comes to Lord Elrond's hall. If at the end he seeks his bed alone, most often he is satiated on music. Music, Elrond knows, endures. Stories are more solid than flesh, and far harder to break.
King Thranduil's bed is horn, carved only a little to support the weight of furs and wools that cover it. He sleeps beneath white fox furs, winter caught and flawless. Many have shared that rest since Morwen of Lindon returned to her people and her rolling waves, leaving behind a son with sea-gray eyes and a breath of salt through halls beneath the earth. After all, what is a century in the time of the elves? A summer love entered into too quickly that could not last. She could not love the green cathedrals of the woodland, and he will not seek the sea. This is his home, and it has grown to him and he to it.
And so the others have come and gone, friends and lovers, even a minstrel of Gondor drawn by unearthly music to the realm beneath, returning at last to tell fantastic stories of the autumn lord. Few believed his stories, but his songs are sung in Gondor yet.
Sometimes, sprawled amid the scattered furs with friends seen from time to time, half-walking in a twilight dream, the illusion that he holds fades. His perfect face is ravaged and scarred, his shoulder seamed with long ago burns, and he is that thing which elves will not bear above all else -- ugly. And yet the hands do not still, long strokes against his spine, and he turns his marred face to the pillow. This is love, warmth that endures like stones, not the summer-bright passion of growing things, or the heat of the autumn stag in rut. In the morning he will wake, vigorous spring.
The elves of Lorien sleep in trees, and the Lord and Lady are no exception. Their talan is high in the branches of a mallorn, a white platform with curtains of silk and a canopy that can be opened alone to see the stars, for there are no other platforms above it. It is piled high with bright, soft pillows made by Galadriel herself. Right now they are green and gold. Another year they may be azure or scarlet. She is changeable as the seasons, and as predictable.
They do not sleep apart when they are in the same place, not after nine thousand years, and if they are not quiet it is unremarked, for nothing is more rude in Lorien than to acknowledge hearing that which passes in another talan. Besides, if they wish to speak privately to one another, they have only to speak without words. If at times another joins them in their lush aerie, that must also pass unremarked. After all, it has been nine thousand years, and if they wish to share the treasures they have found it is because they are generous with these waters that pour out in such abundance. This is a spring that never runs dry.
Sometimes, though, they go apart in summer. They walk through the meadow and lie down in the tall grass, finding lazy pleasure in familiar beauty, the curve of a pale shoulder, a fall of silver-gilt hair against golden grass going to seed. As the first stars appear she lies on Celeborn's breast, listening to the beating of his heart. "You are the only bed I need," she says.