Wir sagen euch an den lieben Advent; sehet, die erste Kerze brennt...
As promised, here comes the first installment of my "I would like to do an LJ christmas calendar but I don't have time for preparing 24 contributions so I'll just go for the four Sundays" thingy.
Yay?
As it's only one day, I come bearing several gifts to make up for that!
Firstly, have a ficlet. Today, I'm catering to the Silmarillion crowd. More exactly, the "Maglor through the ages" crowd. Even more exactly, the "Maglor and Daeron through the ages" crowd.
Whether you want or don't want to see slash in that is up to you.
Ficlet under the cut, yay! Beta'd by leany75 and ladyelleth, thanks to you two!
Note: I'm too lazy for a proper header. Nobody dies and nobody has sex. Slight warning for silly historical off-spins. Maglor and Daeron belong to Tolkien, I'm just playing with them and not making any money. Stockholm belongs to the royal house of Sweden. Or the people of Sweden. Whatever.
How do I explain that Mags and Dae are in Sweden? Well, firstly they had to be in Skandinavia, because that's where the custom of the Christmas tree originated. It didn't get out of Skandinavia and (Protestant) Germany until the late 1830s.
And how did they get to Sweden?
The answer is: Jean-Baptiste Bernadotte, also known as Karl XIV. Johann. Look him up in your history books and you'll understand how this is a brilliant way of ensuring BOTH that Mags and Dae were in France for the Revolution and that they potentially got to Sweden in 1810. HAH. (Bernadotte's son Oscar was very fond of music and composed quite a bit of stuff himself, too. ^___^)
Ok. 'nuff babbling. A story of 600 words shouldn't need an introduction of 200 words. This is not Your Free History Lesson, anyway.
By the time they left rehearsal, their instruments wrapped safely against the cold of the Swedish winter, it was snowing again. It was only afternoon, but the streets were well-nigh empty, the early dark driving all but the most industrious businessmen to their warm houses. The few people still out could be counted by the fingers of one hand: Servants or messengers perhaps, hurrying through the snow; and a light-haired man who stood at the street corner they were approaching. At first Daeron thought that he was talking to a bunch of smaller, huddled figures, but soon his eyes told him instead that the man was surrounded by a small forest of fir trees. He blinked, then nudged Maglor. "Look there! Is that one of the trollen they have in this country?"
Maglor squinted into the direction Daeron was pointing out. Eventually, he laughed. "No, that looks very much like a normal human."
"Well, what is he doing with the forest?"
"Telling the trees stories about trollen, probably," Maglor said wryly. When Daeron gave him an angry look, he sobered a bit. "No; I think he's selling them."
"Selling trees? In the middle of winter? Who plants trees in the winter?" As if to underline his point, the snow began falling more heavily. Already a thin sheet of ice had formed on the lake Mälar, though it was too wet yet to allow the snow to stay. The streets, on the other hand, were another matter. When they were alone, like now, the Elves were tempted to walk over the snow rather than through it.
"I'm afraid they're not for planting." Maglor explained.
"What do you mean, not for planting?" But as they came closer, Daeron too saw that the trees had been cut off at the base. He gasped. "They are dead!"
Maglor grimaced. "Not quite yet; they're still green…"
"But they'll die soon! What did he cut them for?!" Daeron stopped walking, clenching his free hand angrily.
"I think it's for the holiday," Maglor said and tried to get Daeron to walk on.
"Can't be. They never killed trees for Noël in Paris."
"But we are not in Paris anymore."
"So what, do you think they need more firewood here? But you wouldn't take young fresh trees like these for firewood!" Daeron wouldn't budge, and he looked inclined to strike the poor tree-seller down. Maglor steadied him with a hand on his shoulder, just in case, before he replied. "You wouldn't indeed. No, I think I've heard tell that they put them up in their halls and decorate them with candles."
"Why would they do that?" Daeron looked confused; then suddenly he narrowed his eyes as he got an idea. "Have you told them of Laurelin and Telperion?"
Maglor gave him a pained look. "Why do you always think everything's my fault? No, I didn't! And even if I had, this wouldn't have anything to do with this. From what I heard, they've been doing this for years."
"Well, where did they get the idea?"
"How am I to know?"
"You always know everything about mortals!"
Maglor was secretly relieved; they were back to bantering, familiar ground. He gave Daeron an experimental little push, and the Sinda finally began walking again.
"No I don't," Maglor dared to protest.
"All right, but you talk like you do."
"I do my best." He grinned. "Hush, now, we don't want to scare the poor man."
They managed to get past him without further incidents, though the look Daeron threw the tree-seller as he greeted them was furious enough to make a few snowflakes melt and sizzle.
Secondly, here's some Swedish Christmas music to go with that.
Dotter Sion, fröjda dig
Those who've hung around this journal last year will know this already, so here's a second one for you (and the others, too):
Gör porten hog, gör dorren bred
Both sung by the wonderful Malmö Chamber Choir.
And thirdly, there's a pic to the story, too! Incidentally, this solves the problem of how to combine the "Christmas" prompt with "The Extended House of Finwë". Clicky the thumb to get to the big picture and see Lyra fail at facial expressions! (And light and darkness, but that's old.)
That's it for today. Stay tuned for next week's Christmas special!
Yay?
As it's only one day, I come bearing several gifts to make up for that!
Firstly, have a ficlet. Today, I'm catering to the Silmarillion crowd. More exactly, the "Maglor through the ages" crowd. Even more exactly, the "Maglor and Daeron through the ages" crowd.
Whether you want or don't want to see slash in that is up to you.
Ficlet under the cut, yay! Beta'd by leany75 and ladyelleth, thanks to you two!
Note: I'm too lazy for a proper header. Nobody dies and nobody has sex. Slight warning for silly historical off-spins. Maglor and Daeron belong to Tolkien, I'm just playing with them and not making any money. Stockholm belongs to the royal house of Sweden. Or the people of Sweden. Whatever.
How do I explain that Mags and Dae are in Sweden? Well, firstly they had to be in Skandinavia, because that's where the custom of the Christmas tree originated. It didn't get out of Skandinavia and (Protestant) Germany until the late 1830s.
And how did they get to Sweden?
The answer is: Jean-Baptiste Bernadotte, also known as Karl XIV. Johann. Look him up in your history books and you'll understand how this is a brilliant way of ensuring BOTH that Mags and Dae were in France for the Revolution and that they potentially got to Sweden in 1810. HAH. (Bernadotte's son Oscar was very fond of music and composed quite a bit of stuff himself, too. ^___^)
Ok. 'nuff babbling. A story of 600 words shouldn't need an introduction of 200 words. This is not Your Free History Lesson, anyway.
By the time they left rehearsal, their instruments wrapped safely against the cold of the Swedish winter, it was snowing again. It was only afternoon, but the streets were well-nigh empty, the early dark driving all but the most industrious businessmen to their warm houses. The few people still out could be counted by the fingers of one hand: Servants or messengers perhaps, hurrying through the snow; and a light-haired man who stood at the street corner they were approaching. At first Daeron thought that he was talking to a bunch of smaller, huddled figures, but soon his eyes told him instead that the man was surrounded by a small forest of fir trees. He blinked, then nudged Maglor. "Look there! Is that one of the trollen they have in this country?"
Maglor squinted into the direction Daeron was pointing out. Eventually, he laughed. "No, that looks very much like a normal human."
"Well, what is he doing with the forest?"
"Telling the trees stories about trollen, probably," Maglor said wryly. When Daeron gave him an angry look, he sobered a bit. "No; I think he's selling them."
"Selling trees? In the middle of winter? Who plants trees in the winter?" As if to underline his point, the snow began falling more heavily. Already a thin sheet of ice had formed on the lake Mälar, though it was too wet yet to allow the snow to stay. The streets, on the other hand, were another matter. When they were alone, like now, the Elves were tempted to walk over the snow rather than through it.
"I'm afraid they're not for planting." Maglor explained.
"What do you mean, not for planting?" But as they came closer, Daeron too saw that the trees had been cut off at the base. He gasped. "They are dead!"
Maglor grimaced. "Not quite yet; they're still green…"
"But they'll die soon! What did he cut them for?!" Daeron stopped walking, clenching his free hand angrily.
"I think it's for the holiday," Maglor said and tried to get Daeron to walk on.
"Can't be. They never killed trees for Noël in Paris."
"But we are not in Paris anymore."
"So what, do you think they need more firewood here? But you wouldn't take young fresh trees like these for firewood!" Daeron wouldn't budge, and he looked inclined to strike the poor tree-seller down. Maglor steadied him with a hand on his shoulder, just in case, before he replied. "You wouldn't indeed. No, I think I've heard tell that they put them up in their halls and decorate them with candles."
"Why would they do that?" Daeron looked confused; then suddenly he narrowed his eyes as he got an idea. "Have you told them of Laurelin and Telperion?"
Maglor gave him a pained look. "Why do you always think everything's my fault? No, I didn't! And even if I had, this wouldn't have anything to do with this. From what I heard, they've been doing this for years."
"Well, where did they get the idea?"
"How am I to know?"
"You always know everything about mortals!"
Maglor was secretly relieved; they were back to bantering, familiar ground. He gave Daeron an experimental little push, and the Sinda finally began walking again.
"No I don't," Maglor dared to protest.
"All right, but you talk like you do."
"I do my best." He grinned. "Hush, now, we don't want to scare the poor man."
They managed to get past him without further incidents, though the look Daeron threw the tree-seller as he greeted them was furious enough to make a few snowflakes melt and sizzle.
Secondly, here's some Swedish Christmas music to go with that.
Dotter Sion, fröjda dig
Those who've hung around this journal last year will know this already, so here's a second one for you (and the others, too):
Gör porten hog, gör dorren bred
Both sung by the wonderful Malmö Chamber Choir.
And thirdly, there's a pic to the story, too! Incidentally, this solves the problem of how to combine the "Christmas" prompt with "The Extended House of Finwë". Clicky the thumb to get to the big picture and see Lyra fail at facial expressions! (And light and darkness, but that's old.)
That's it for today. Stay tuned for next week's Christmas special!