Slightly Seasonal Drabbles; Apart.
Hello! Nice to see us all back! I was going to post these last night but LJ was down for planned maintenance.
This is a set of six drabbles written for a set of challenges that began '(s)he picked up the....' at tolkien_weekly. They are a sequel, some 20 years or so later, to The First Time Ever I saw Your Face.
Apart
Glorfindel, Gilraen
Rated G
Seven drabbles, the last two a diptych, so 700 words.
He picked up the pen but did not dip it into the ink. Instead he gazed blankly at the unsullied page.
Was there any point in writing, he wondered. What could he say?
The great Lord Glorfindel lost for words would have made her smile had she seen him. But then, if she had remained in Imladris, there would have been no cause for him to write to her.
Declarations of undying devotion were totally unacceptable; they had agreed this at the beginning. And what repercussions if any eyes but hers read them! Perhaps best not to write at all….
She picked up the book and pondered, again, on who had put it in the chest. She recognised it, of course, and wondered who had dared to take it from the library of Imladris and send it to her.
Whoever it was they knew her well, for it had been under her thick winter cloak, ensuring that she wouldn’t discover it straight away and immediately send it back.
It must have been Erestor, Mirineth, or Glorfindel, for only they would have known the significance; she was carrying it the day they had first kissed… and they had returned it together.
He picked up the knife and, holding it by the blade, he turned it to and fro so that the pattern on the handle caught the candlelight; silver inlaid with simple gold flowers.
It had been a gift, of course. Gilraen had given it to him after she had watched him wielding a fighting knife for the task. Like the giver it was beautiful, practical, and not overly adorned.
Picking up the quill again he used the pen knife for its intended task. Perhaps, he thought, he would write after all for, then, he could look forward to a reply.
She picked up the cloak again and held it to her face. It was soft and smelled of herbs and, somehow, of sanctuary; and each breath took her back to Imladris.
Glorfindel had said she should have a winter cloak of deepest blue, sprinkled with diamond stars, to represent her name. But she had laughed and said that would be too frivolous for a lady of the Dúnedain.
Now she remembered a walk in the garden whilst snow was falling, the flakes on her shoulders catching the lamplight, when he had smiled and said that, clearly, nature agreed with him!
He picked up the stone without conscious thought. It was worn smooth by time and now both shape and size were perfect.
Glorfindel found himself transported by memory; he saw himself showing a small, dark haired, child how to choose the perfect stone. It seemed but yesterday and yet Estel was now a man full grown and returned to his own folk.
Of course his mother had accompanied him; but Imladris was strangely empty without her.
Taking a deep breath Glorfindel swung his arm and, almost angrily, sent the stone skimming across the surface of the lake skip, skip, skip…
She picked up the glass and held it so that the light shone through it, red as rubies.
The flames of the bonfire flickered and danced so that it seemed almost a shame to drink the wine when the effect was so beautiful.
She had missed this celebration of the turning of the year whilst she was in Imladris; yet over time she had almost forgotten.
It was good to be back but, oh, how she missed Glorfindel. Perhaps that too would fade in time. But not just yet. She raised the glass towards Imladris in silent acknowledgement, and drank.
He picked up the glass and held it so that the light shone through it, red as rubies.
The flames in the hearth flickered and danced so that it seemed almost a shame to drink the wine when the effect was so beautiful.
She would be celebrating yule amongst her own people this year. A more vigorous and urgent celebration by those whose time was so short that every year was precious.
He missed her. Better that he think of her only as memories. But not just yet. He raised the glass towards The Angle in silent acknowledgement, and drank.
........
Disclaimer: The characters in this story do not belong to me, but are being used for amusement only, and all rights remain with the estate of JRR Tolkien.
.......
I don't think this is quite the end of their story - in my head canon they certainly do meet again.
This is a set of six drabbles written for a set of challenges that began '(s)he picked up the....' at tolkien_weekly. They are a sequel, some 20 years or so later, to The First Time Ever I saw Your Face.
Apart
Glorfindel, Gilraen
Rated G
Seven drabbles, the last two a diptych, so 700 words.
He picked up the pen but did not dip it into the ink. Instead he gazed blankly at the unsullied page.
Was there any point in writing, he wondered. What could he say?
The great Lord Glorfindel lost for words would have made her smile had she seen him. But then, if she had remained in Imladris, there would have been no cause for him to write to her.
Declarations of undying devotion were totally unacceptable; they had agreed this at the beginning. And what repercussions if any eyes but hers read them! Perhaps best not to write at all….
She picked up the book and pondered, again, on who had put it in the chest. She recognised it, of course, and wondered who had dared to take it from the library of Imladris and send it to her.
Whoever it was they knew her well, for it had been under her thick winter cloak, ensuring that she wouldn’t discover it straight away and immediately send it back.
It must have been Erestor, Mirineth, or Glorfindel, for only they would have known the significance; she was carrying it the day they had first kissed… and they had returned it together.
He picked up the knife and, holding it by the blade, he turned it to and fro so that the pattern on the handle caught the candlelight; silver inlaid with simple gold flowers.
It had been a gift, of course. Gilraen had given it to him after she had watched him wielding a fighting knife for the task. Like the giver it was beautiful, practical, and not overly adorned.
Picking up the quill again he used the pen knife for its intended task. Perhaps, he thought, he would write after all for, then, he could look forward to a reply.
She picked up the cloak again and held it to her face. It was soft and smelled of herbs and, somehow, of sanctuary; and each breath took her back to Imladris.
Glorfindel had said she should have a winter cloak of deepest blue, sprinkled with diamond stars, to represent her name. But she had laughed and said that would be too frivolous for a lady of the Dúnedain.
Now she remembered a walk in the garden whilst snow was falling, the flakes on her shoulders catching the lamplight, when he had smiled and said that, clearly, nature agreed with him!
He picked up the stone without conscious thought. It was worn smooth by time and now both shape and size were perfect.
Glorfindel found himself transported by memory; he saw himself showing a small, dark haired, child how to choose the perfect stone. It seemed but yesterday and yet Estel was now a man full grown and returned to his own folk.
Of course his mother had accompanied him; but Imladris was strangely empty without her.
Taking a deep breath Glorfindel swung his arm and, almost angrily, sent the stone skimming across the surface of the lake skip, skip, skip…
She picked up the glass and held it so that the light shone through it, red as rubies.
The flames of the bonfire flickered and danced so that it seemed almost a shame to drink the wine when the effect was so beautiful.
She had missed this celebration of the turning of the year whilst she was in Imladris; yet over time she had almost forgotten.
It was good to be back but, oh, how she missed Glorfindel. Perhaps that too would fade in time. But not just yet. She raised the glass towards Imladris in silent acknowledgement, and drank.
He picked up the glass and held it so that the light shone through it, red as rubies.
The flames in the hearth flickered and danced so that it seemed almost a shame to drink the wine when the effect was so beautiful.
She would be celebrating yule amongst her own people this year. A more vigorous and urgent celebration by those whose time was so short that every year was precious.
He missed her. Better that he think of her only as memories. But not just yet. He raised the glass towards The Angle in silent acknowledgement, and drank.
........
Disclaimer: The characters in this story do not belong to me, but are being used for amusement only, and all rights remain with the estate of JRR Tolkien.
.......
I don't think this is quite the end of their story - in my head canon they certainly do meet again.