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And now for something completely different:
Fluffy nonchallenge expansion Man-fic.
Title: "Up!"
Rating: G
Pairing:(if there are any) Imrahil/his wife, Ainaelin, and Denethor/Finduilas are at least implied, though it's mostly a gen family moment.
Summary: Imrahil's youngest is moving up in the world.
Warning:(if there are any) Keep the insulin dispensers to hand - I wrote something extra fluffy after my last fic. I don't always agree with Denethor, but that makes writing him more fun. Not my characters, though Ainaelin and Emeriel (or for that matter, Denethor's eldest sister,) don't get jack from canon, save their implied existence.
Denethor examined the hairy young thing seated upon the oversized mongrel before him. The creature stared back, running a hand under its nose and pushing back the shock of black curls.
Deciding it liked what it saw, the undersized being reached out dog-hair-covered hands towards the Steward. “Up,” it directed.
Obligingly, Ainaelin swept her offspring into her arms, fussing over how good it was with Elphir’s favorite hound. Glancing towards the heir of Belfalas, Denethor noted that his own inner relief at a narrowly-avoided disaster was clearly reflected upon his nephew’s face, at least until Amrothos, evidently bored of playing nicely and jealous of the attention given to the youngest member of his clan, started to poke at his eldest brother.
The untidy thing in Ainaelin’s arms continued to reach for him, Denethor noted worriedly. Certainly, it was probably in no worse shape than Boromir or Faramir had been at that age, but Denethor still had some difficulty in accepting that this mop-headed, sticky creature was a girl of his wife’s bloodline.
To be fair, he had never met Finduilas’s sister or seen his wife herself as a baby, but he had always assumed that little girls were supposed to be… pretty. Emeriel’s daughters would never play in the dirt with the dogs. At least, not in front of their uncle. Or so he supposed; admittedly, Denethor had not been too eager to visit his sisters’ children much during their youths. As a bachelor, he had never felt the need, and once his own boys were born, traveling as a family unit became too much of a bother. Denethor decided that this thing they called Lothiriel must be the result of some maternal flaw on Ainaelin’s part.
“Up!” Ignoring the kiss her mother planted upon her forehead, the little terror in question reached a questing hand out once more for her uncle.
“Well, it doesn’t get much ‘upper’ than you, Lord Steward.” Imrahil swung his daughter briefly into his own arms before offering her to his taller brother-in-law. Carefully, Denethor set her against his chest, pushing the curls from her eyes. Lothiriel giggled, and Denethor decided that she might just be pretty after all - if only her mother paid a bit more attention to such things...
The first two fingers of his freed left hand were caught firmly in a slightly grubby grip. “Up,” Lothiriel said contentedly, reaching with her free hand to twist the shining ring of office about her uncle’s third finger.
"Am I too late?" asked a somewhat sheepish voice from behind him, and his small passenger squealed with joy.
"I don't believe Lothi will be too put out," Imrahil said reassuringly.
"Nevertheless, it is not every day that my cousin turns three. I brought a small something from me and Faramir." Not yet taking the suddenly active bundle from Denethor's arms, Boromir rifled through a small drawstring bag.
"A pity that your brother couldn't join us." Ainaelin's words were kind and directed at her nephew, but her eyes had gone questioningly to Denethor.
"Unfortunately, the enemy will not wait, even for Lothiriel." Denethor tried to adjust his grip in as dignified a manner as possible. The little one seemed to have no patience, either.
At last, Boromir produced bright silk ribbon, tying it quickly into Lothiriel's wild mop. "Pretty?" she asked, tugging it askew.
“Very pretty,” her cousin reassured. Denethor was not asked for his opinion.
Lothiriel had hardly managed to get out her customary “Up” before she was pulled out of Denethor’s arms. The Steward barely had time to note the lack of warmth before his son had replaced the sticky dampness of a young child under his chin with the solid arm of a fellow solider slung over Denethor’s shoulder. The last time Denethor remembered being held like that, he had been terribly wounded.
“What’s it like out there, Boromir? Papa and Uncle won’t tell us anything.” Erchirion asked, sidling up on his cousin’s right and glancing carefully at the man to Boromir’s left.
“There’s a reason for that,” was all Boromir would say.
“Won’t you tell us a story?” the overly inquisitive boy wheedled, not noticing the look that passed between father and son.
“Let me sit down first,” Boromir compromised, releasing the Steward’s shoulder. “You’re getting big, Lothi.”
Boromir’s groan was for show, Denethor thought. There was no reason for Ainaelin to continue to look between the two men of Minas Tirith with concern for her nephew and irritation at her brother-in-law. So why did the sound bother him so?
“No up?” Lothiriel asked disappointedly.
Boromir tousled her already-rumpled hair, letting the three boys come to more or less of a standstill around him. “I’ll pick you up as long as I can, but that’s enough for now, Lothiriel.”
Title: "Up!"
Rating: G
Pairing:(if there are any) Imrahil/his wife, Ainaelin, and Denethor/Finduilas are at least implied, though it's mostly a gen family moment.
Summary: Imrahil's youngest is moving up in the world.
Warning:(if there are any) Keep the insulin dispensers to hand - I wrote something extra fluffy after my last fic. I don't always agree with Denethor, but that makes writing him more fun. Not my characters, though Ainaelin and Emeriel (or for that matter, Denethor's eldest sister,) don't get jack from canon, save their implied existence.
Denethor examined the hairy young thing seated upon the oversized mongrel before him. The creature stared back, running a hand under its nose and pushing back the shock of black curls.
Deciding it liked what it saw, the undersized being reached out dog-hair-covered hands towards the Steward. “Up,” it directed.
Obligingly, Ainaelin swept her offspring into her arms, fussing over how good it was with Elphir’s favorite hound. Glancing towards the heir of Belfalas, Denethor noted that his own inner relief at a narrowly-avoided disaster was clearly reflected upon his nephew’s face, at least until Amrothos, evidently bored of playing nicely and jealous of the attention given to the youngest member of his clan, started to poke at his eldest brother.
The untidy thing in Ainaelin’s arms continued to reach for him, Denethor noted worriedly. Certainly, it was probably in no worse shape than Boromir or Faramir had been at that age, but Denethor still had some difficulty in accepting that this mop-headed, sticky creature was a girl of his wife’s bloodline.
To be fair, he had never met Finduilas’s sister or seen his wife herself as a baby, but he had always assumed that little girls were supposed to be… pretty. Emeriel’s daughters would never play in the dirt with the dogs. At least, not in front of their uncle. Or so he supposed; admittedly, Denethor had not been too eager to visit his sisters’ children much during their youths. As a bachelor, he had never felt the need, and once his own boys were born, traveling as a family unit became too much of a bother. Denethor decided that this thing they called Lothiriel must be the result of some maternal flaw on Ainaelin’s part.
“Up!” Ignoring the kiss her mother planted upon her forehead, the little terror in question reached a questing hand out once more for her uncle.
“Well, it doesn’t get much ‘upper’ than you, Lord Steward.” Imrahil swung his daughter briefly into his own arms before offering her to his taller brother-in-law. Carefully, Denethor set her against his chest, pushing the curls from her eyes. Lothiriel giggled, and Denethor decided that she might just be pretty after all - if only her mother paid a bit more attention to such things...
The first two fingers of his freed left hand were caught firmly in a slightly grubby grip. “Up,” Lothiriel said contentedly, reaching with her free hand to twist the shining ring of office about her uncle’s third finger.
"Am I too late?" asked a somewhat sheepish voice from behind him, and his small passenger squealed with joy.
"I don't believe Lothi will be too put out," Imrahil said reassuringly.
"Nevertheless, it is not every day that my cousin turns three. I brought a small something from me and Faramir." Not yet taking the suddenly active bundle from Denethor's arms, Boromir rifled through a small drawstring bag.
"A pity that your brother couldn't join us." Ainaelin's words were kind and directed at her nephew, but her eyes had gone questioningly to Denethor.
"Unfortunately, the enemy will not wait, even for Lothiriel." Denethor tried to adjust his grip in as dignified a manner as possible. The little one seemed to have no patience, either.
At last, Boromir produced bright silk ribbon, tying it quickly into Lothiriel's wild mop. "Pretty?" she asked, tugging it askew.
“Very pretty,” her cousin reassured. Denethor was not asked for his opinion.
Lothiriel had hardly managed to get out her customary “Up” before she was pulled out of Denethor’s arms. The Steward barely had time to note the lack of warmth before his son had replaced the sticky dampness of a young child under his chin with the solid arm of a fellow solider slung over Denethor’s shoulder. The last time Denethor remembered being held like that, he had been terribly wounded.
“What’s it like out there, Boromir? Papa and Uncle won’t tell us anything.” Erchirion asked, sidling up on his cousin’s right and glancing carefully at the man to Boromir’s left.
“There’s a reason for that,” was all Boromir would say.
“Won’t you tell us a story?” the overly inquisitive boy wheedled, not noticing the look that passed between father and son.
“Let me sit down first,” Boromir compromised, releasing the Steward’s shoulder. “You’re getting big, Lothi.”
Boromir’s groan was for show, Denethor thought. There was no reason for Ainaelin to continue to look between the two men of Minas Tirith with concern for her nephew and irritation at her brother-in-law. So why did the sound bother him so?
“No up?” Lothiriel asked disappointedly.
Boromir tousled her already-rumpled hair, letting the three boys come to more or less of a standstill around him. “I’ll pick you up as long as I can, but that’s enough for now, Lothiriel.”