FIC: Small Tokens (LotR)
Title: Small Tokens
Author: Galadriel (caras_galadhon)
Fandom: LotR
Pairing: Thorongil, Boromir, Finduilas/Denethor (pre-slash)
Rating: PG-13
Archive: Lothlorien and sons_of_gondor.
Feedback: Always appreciated.
Disclaimer: I have a vivid fantasy life, but I do not pretend to be JRR Tolkien, nor do I pretend to own his characters.
Summary: The House of Húrin welcomes a small blessing.
Notes: Written for the seans_50 June Film Challenge using The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring as inspiration. Many thanks to savageseraph, First Among Fishes, for the early beta. Notes expanding on all embedded historical references are available at the end of the story, organized in order of first appearance.
Small Tokens
By Galadriel
Thorongil could not remember seeing the White City in such high spirits since Denethor had married the Lady Finduilas. Not one building -- from the meanest peddler's stall to the richest Councilman's household -- lacked for deep blue and white banners and ribbons fluttering in the breeze. As he had made his way to the Seventh Circle, he had been greeted by the smiling faces peculiar to a People too long at war. Fear and weariness still lurked around the edges, but a curiously careful, almost foreign hope appeared to have crept into one and all.
By the time Thorongil was admitted to the Steward's inner chambers, he was festooned in flowers, and had been plied with sweets from the street vendors all the way up to the Steward's personal chefs. He was just brushing sugar from the corners of his mouth as the guard on duty ushered him inside Finduilas' suite of rooms, where he was welcomed by the very source of the City's joy.
Mother and child were settled amongst pillows and blankets on the wide, canopied bed, Finduilas still bearing the tell-tale marks of fatigue these seven days since the little boy's birth. Denethor, meanwhile, attentive as always, hovered close beside, keeping watch over all his loves -- city, wife and son -- fatherly pride undimmed even by Thorongil's presence.
"Give him to me but one more time," Denethor wheedled, beaming at his wife, "The sun is warm and he could use the air."
Finduilas chuckled and shook her head even as she gestured for Thorongil to come closer, patting the mattress, beckoning him to sit. "It is a wonder the poor babe gets any sleep," she murmured, chucking the child under the chin. "Every time he begins to settle, Denethor gets it in his head that he must show him to the people once again."
A quick glance at Denethor confirmed Finduilas' words; the man was as puffed up with pride as the globefish that Finduilas' brother had shown Thorongil on his last visit to Dol Amroth. Thorongil smothered a smile, thinking of how easily one well-placed prick would deflate Denethor; and he found himself biting his lip harder as he let the full weight of that thought roll over him.
After a moment lost in thought, and a curious glance from Finduilas, Thorongil shook his head, releasing himself of unbidden images of debauchery. He blinked, belatedly remembering his mission. A quick pat to hidden pockets, and he retrieved a small bundle of clean, carefully wrapped rags tied up with twine. "A small token for the new heir from his friends, the Rangers." He placed the bundle in Finduilas' lap, holding his arms out in invitation to be passed the babe so she could unknot and unwind.
She smiled as she laid her firstborn in Thorongil's arms, her smile growing as the baby shifted in his blankets, yawned once and opened his eyes. His tiny brow seemed to furrow as he glared up at Thorongil, sizing him up as if he had already sized up the characters of a thousand men in his few days in the world. A small fist appeared from beneath a wrinkle in the cloth, rising into the air briefly before sinking back amongst the swaddle. His brow smoothed, and Thorongil swore that the little baby smiled at him before he closed his eyes and went back to sleep.
Tugging at the twine, Finduilas chuckled. "He does not cry. Not when he was born, and not since." She glanced at her husband, her eyes lighting up as she took in his form. "He is already as stalwart as his father." A gasp slipped between her lips as the wrappings unfurled and Thorongil's present tumbled into her lap. Three small silver clasps, each hand-shaped, hammered and finished with a carefully-etched White Tree -- roots, trunk and branches all -- winked up at her. She lifted one clasp between her fingers, holding it up to the light to better take in the detail. "These are most beautiful." She offered the clasp to Denethor, and he rose from his seat near the window, crossing the floor to settle on the opposite side of the bed.
"But not much use to a baby, are they? Too many sharp corners." Denethor shook his head, handing the clasp back to Finduilas. "He will not be able to use them until he is much older."
Finduilas shook her head, patting Denethor's hand, twining her fingers in his own. "But he shall wear them well once he is able." Her smile was dazzling, and Thorongil found himself almost dizzy under the strength of it. "Thank you," she murmured. "We are indeed fortunate to have such friends as you."
Thorongil nodded, wholly pleased. "They are no more than pretty baubles, but perhaps they will stand in well enough until he is at an age at which we Rangers can better plight our troth to... to..." He hesitated, searching his mind for an answer he did not have. "What is his name?"
"Boromir," Denethor finally looked across the bed at Thorongil, his face softening as his gaze slid over his wife and son. "His namesake, the son of my own namesake."
"And that of the Long Peace." Finduilas sighed, reaching out to stroke the small patch of fuzz that stood in for hair on her child's head. "We must not forget the House of Bëor and the man who brought about the Peace."
"Boromir," Thorongil breathed, letting the word roll along his tongue, surprised to hear a name of his own ancestry echoing once again within these white walls. "Boromir. May you birth sons as famous as Cirion, and may your own time before the Halls be as remarkable and peaceful as that of the Lord of Ladros himself." He leaned over the babe, drawing in his scent, letting it flood his senses, memorizing it for always.
The child stirred, the little fist surfacing once again, latching onto strands of Thorongil's hair with a surprising strength for one so small. Thorongil did not try to untangle himself, but rather took it as a sign to lean closer, gifting the boy with a gentle kiss even as he whispered, low and soft, "Know now and always that the Eagle of the Star is at your beck and call." He sighed, the tiniest tug on his hair seeming to tug directly at his heart. "Would that I will be worthy enough, lucky enough to stand beside you as you grow." Thorongil glanced up, catching sight of both parents watching over his almost-silent blessing.
Thorongil smiled as he handed the baby back to his mother, trying and failing to ignore the fluttering of wings in his chest as the child let go of his hair. "He will bring the City good fortune, of that I am sure. He already shines as bright as a jewel, and no doubt his heart will prove out both faithful and true." Without thinking, Thorongil reached out to brush his fingers once more over the baby's cheek, feeling that same trapped bird flap its wings against his heart as soon as he touched the boy's skin. "Welcome to the world, Boromir of Gondor."
END
(June 30, 2009)
Historical Notes:
The Seventh Circle: The highest level of Minas Tirith, housing the Steward's lodgings, the King's House, the Citadel, the Guard's barracks, the Court of the Fountain (where one would find the White Tree), Merethrond (the Hall of Feasts), the Tower of Ecthelion, and living quarters for guests and workers.
Three silver clasps, etched with the White Tree: The clasps that will eventually adorn Boromir's leather surcoat in Peter Jackson's films. You can see them here. (Scroll down to "Clasp Detail.")
Boromir I: Boromir I lived approximately five hundred years before the Boromir of the Fellowship. He was Gondor's eleventh Ruling Steward, heir of Denethor I, and just like his descendant, he had troubles with Orcs. During his father's rule, Osgiliath was invaded, and in the ensuing war, Boromir drove back the threat, but was also severely wounded by poisoned weaponry. As a result, Boromir's life was shortened, and he passed away at seventy-nine, having served twelve years as Steward. He was succeeded by his son, Cirion.
Denethor I: The tenth Ruling Steward, father of Boromir I. It was during his rule that Sauron returned to the West of Middle-earth from his exile in the East, disrupting nearly six hundred years of peace in Gondor and beginning what would eventually become the War of the Ring.
Boromir of Ladros: The very first Boromir in Middle-earth. He was the grandson of Bëor the Old, and thus directly descended from some of the first Men to journey to Beleriand. Boromir was Lord of Ladros, and ruled there during The Long Peace. As Thorongil is also of the House of Bëor, Boromir of Ladros is, in fact, a direct ancestor of the man who would later restore the kingship to Gondor.
The Long Peace: A time of peace in Beleriand, during which Morgoth was contained in Angband by the Noldor. It lasted for one hundred and ninety-five years, until Morgoth broke free of his captivity and assaulted his captors and their allies. Beleriand was never at peace again, and sank beneath the waves with the end of the First Age.
The House of Bëor: The oldest of the three Houses of Men who remained allies of the Elves during the wars against Morgoth in Beleriand. All three Houses were gifted for their loyalty with the island of Númenor, thus becoming the Númenórians who would later return to Middle-earth and found Arnor and Gondor.
Cirion: The twelfth Ruling Steward of Gondor, son of Boromir I. Arguably one of the more famous of the Stewards, Cirion asked for aid from the Northmen against the attacks from Sauron's minions. As a reward for their help, Cirion gifted Eorl the Young and his people with Calenardhon, the land to the north of the White Mountains. Calenardhon was thus renamed Rohan, and Gondor and Rohan swore fealty to each other in perpetuity.
The Halls: The Halls of Mandos, where the spirits of the Peoples of Middle-earth go to await their eventual fates after passing out of the world.Crossposted to seans_50, sons_of_gondor, athelingas, rugbytackle.
Author: Galadriel (caras_galadhon)
Fandom: LotR
Pairing: Thorongil, Boromir, Finduilas/Denethor (pre-slash)
Rating: PG-13
Archive: Lothlorien and sons_of_gondor.
Feedback: Always appreciated.
Disclaimer: I have a vivid fantasy life, but I do not pretend to be JRR Tolkien, nor do I pretend to own his characters.
Summary: The House of Húrin welcomes a small blessing.
Notes: Written for the seans_50 June Film Challenge using The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring as inspiration. Many thanks to savageseraph, First Among Fishes, for the early beta. Notes expanding on all embedded historical references are available at the end of the story, organized in order of first appearance.
Small Tokens
By Galadriel
Thorongil could not remember seeing the White City in such high spirits since Denethor had married the Lady Finduilas. Not one building -- from the meanest peddler's stall to the richest Councilman's household -- lacked for deep blue and white banners and ribbons fluttering in the breeze. As he had made his way to the Seventh Circle, he had been greeted by the smiling faces peculiar to a People too long at war. Fear and weariness still lurked around the edges, but a curiously careful, almost foreign hope appeared to have crept into one and all.
By the time Thorongil was admitted to the Steward's inner chambers, he was festooned in flowers, and had been plied with sweets from the street vendors all the way up to the Steward's personal chefs. He was just brushing sugar from the corners of his mouth as the guard on duty ushered him inside Finduilas' suite of rooms, where he was welcomed by the very source of the City's joy.
Mother and child were settled amongst pillows and blankets on the wide, canopied bed, Finduilas still bearing the tell-tale marks of fatigue these seven days since the little boy's birth. Denethor, meanwhile, attentive as always, hovered close beside, keeping watch over all his loves -- city, wife and son -- fatherly pride undimmed even by Thorongil's presence.
"Give him to me but one more time," Denethor wheedled, beaming at his wife, "The sun is warm and he could use the air."
Finduilas chuckled and shook her head even as she gestured for Thorongil to come closer, patting the mattress, beckoning him to sit. "It is a wonder the poor babe gets any sleep," she murmured, chucking the child under the chin. "Every time he begins to settle, Denethor gets it in his head that he must show him to the people once again."
A quick glance at Denethor confirmed Finduilas' words; the man was as puffed up with pride as the globefish that Finduilas' brother had shown Thorongil on his last visit to Dol Amroth. Thorongil smothered a smile, thinking of how easily one well-placed prick would deflate Denethor; and he found himself biting his lip harder as he let the full weight of that thought roll over him.
After a moment lost in thought, and a curious glance from Finduilas, Thorongil shook his head, releasing himself of unbidden images of debauchery. He blinked, belatedly remembering his mission. A quick pat to hidden pockets, and he retrieved a small bundle of clean, carefully wrapped rags tied up with twine. "A small token for the new heir from his friends, the Rangers." He placed the bundle in Finduilas' lap, holding his arms out in invitation to be passed the babe so she could unknot and unwind.
She smiled as she laid her firstborn in Thorongil's arms, her smile growing as the baby shifted in his blankets, yawned once and opened his eyes. His tiny brow seemed to furrow as he glared up at Thorongil, sizing him up as if he had already sized up the characters of a thousand men in his few days in the world. A small fist appeared from beneath a wrinkle in the cloth, rising into the air briefly before sinking back amongst the swaddle. His brow smoothed, and Thorongil swore that the little baby smiled at him before he closed his eyes and went back to sleep.
Tugging at the twine, Finduilas chuckled. "He does not cry. Not when he was born, and not since." She glanced at her husband, her eyes lighting up as she took in his form. "He is already as stalwart as his father." A gasp slipped between her lips as the wrappings unfurled and Thorongil's present tumbled into her lap. Three small silver clasps, each hand-shaped, hammered and finished with a carefully-etched White Tree -- roots, trunk and branches all -- winked up at her. She lifted one clasp between her fingers, holding it up to the light to better take in the detail. "These are most beautiful." She offered the clasp to Denethor, and he rose from his seat near the window, crossing the floor to settle on the opposite side of the bed.
"But not much use to a baby, are they? Too many sharp corners." Denethor shook his head, handing the clasp back to Finduilas. "He will not be able to use them until he is much older."
Finduilas shook her head, patting Denethor's hand, twining her fingers in his own. "But he shall wear them well once he is able." Her smile was dazzling, and Thorongil found himself almost dizzy under the strength of it. "Thank you," she murmured. "We are indeed fortunate to have such friends as you."
Thorongil nodded, wholly pleased. "They are no more than pretty baubles, but perhaps they will stand in well enough until he is at an age at which we Rangers can better plight our troth to... to..." He hesitated, searching his mind for an answer he did not have. "What is his name?"
"Boromir," Denethor finally looked across the bed at Thorongil, his face softening as his gaze slid over his wife and son. "His namesake, the son of my own namesake."
"And that of the Long Peace." Finduilas sighed, reaching out to stroke the small patch of fuzz that stood in for hair on her child's head. "We must not forget the House of Bëor and the man who brought about the Peace."
"Boromir," Thorongil breathed, letting the word roll along his tongue, surprised to hear a name of his own ancestry echoing once again within these white walls. "Boromir. May you birth sons as famous as Cirion, and may your own time before the Halls be as remarkable and peaceful as that of the Lord of Ladros himself." He leaned over the babe, drawing in his scent, letting it flood his senses, memorizing it for always.
The child stirred, the little fist surfacing once again, latching onto strands of Thorongil's hair with a surprising strength for one so small. Thorongil did not try to untangle himself, but rather took it as a sign to lean closer, gifting the boy with a gentle kiss even as he whispered, low and soft, "Know now and always that the Eagle of the Star is at your beck and call." He sighed, the tiniest tug on his hair seeming to tug directly at his heart. "Would that I will be worthy enough, lucky enough to stand beside you as you grow." Thorongil glanced up, catching sight of both parents watching over his almost-silent blessing.
Thorongil smiled as he handed the baby back to his mother, trying and failing to ignore the fluttering of wings in his chest as the child let go of his hair. "He will bring the City good fortune, of that I am sure. He already shines as bright as a jewel, and no doubt his heart will prove out both faithful and true." Without thinking, Thorongil reached out to brush his fingers once more over the baby's cheek, feeling that same trapped bird flap its wings against his heart as soon as he touched the boy's skin. "Welcome to the world, Boromir of Gondor."
END
(June 30, 2009)
Historical Notes:
The Seventh Circle: The highest level of Minas Tirith, housing the Steward's lodgings, the King's House, the Citadel, the Guard's barracks, the Court of the Fountain (where one would find the White Tree), Merethrond (the Hall of Feasts), the Tower of Ecthelion, and living quarters for guests and workers.
Three silver clasps, etched with the White Tree: The clasps that will eventually adorn Boromir's leather surcoat in Peter Jackson's films. You can see them here. (Scroll down to "Clasp Detail.")
Boromir I: Boromir I lived approximately five hundred years before the Boromir of the Fellowship. He was Gondor's eleventh Ruling Steward, heir of Denethor I, and just like his descendant, he had troubles with Orcs. During his father's rule, Osgiliath was invaded, and in the ensuing war, Boromir drove back the threat, but was also severely wounded by poisoned weaponry. As a result, Boromir's life was shortened, and he passed away at seventy-nine, having served twelve years as Steward. He was succeeded by his son, Cirion.
Denethor I: The tenth Ruling Steward, father of Boromir I. It was during his rule that Sauron returned to the West of Middle-earth from his exile in the East, disrupting nearly six hundred years of peace in Gondor and beginning what would eventually become the War of the Ring.
Boromir of Ladros: The very first Boromir in Middle-earth. He was the grandson of Bëor the Old, and thus directly descended from some of the first Men to journey to Beleriand. Boromir was Lord of Ladros, and ruled there during The Long Peace. As Thorongil is also of the House of Bëor, Boromir of Ladros is, in fact, a direct ancestor of the man who would later restore the kingship to Gondor.
The Long Peace: A time of peace in Beleriand, during which Morgoth was contained in Angband by the Noldor. It lasted for one hundred and ninety-five years, until Morgoth broke free of his captivity and assaulted his captors and their allies. Beleriand was never at peace again, and sank beneath the waves with the end of the First Age.
The House of Bëor: The oldest of the three Houses of Men who remained allies of the Elves during the wars against Morgoth in Beleriand. All three Houses were gifted for their loyalty with the island of Númenor, thus becoming the Númenórians who would later return to Middle-earth and found Arnor and Gondor.
Cirion: The twelfth Ruling Steward of Gondor, son of Boromir I. Arguably one of the more famous of the Stewards, Cirion asked for aid from the Northmen against the attacks from Sauron's minions. As a reward for their help, Cirion gifted Eorl the Young and his people with Calenardhon, the land to the north of the White Mountains. Calenardhon was thus renamed Rohan, and Gondor and Rohan swore fealty to each other in perpetuity.
The Halls: The Halls of Mandos, where the spirits of the Peoples of Middle-earth go to await their eventual fates after passing out of the world.Crossposted to seans_50, sons_of_gondor, athelingas, rugbytackle.