FIC: Mettarë (LotR)
Title: Mettarë
Author: Galadriel (caras_galadhon)
Fandom: LotR
Pairing: Aragorn/Boromir
Rating: PG
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 Fellowship marks Yule in Rivendell.
Notes: Written during the longest night of the year. Many, many thanks to empy. Notes expanding on all embedded linguistic/cultural references are available at the end of the story.
Mettarë
By Galadriel
"Yule is for children." Boromir turned his face from the small knot of Hobbits earnestly pressing spiced apples and ale into the hands of bemused Elves. He regarded the Ranger, newly seated next to him on the stone bench, searching his visage for some hint of the Dúnadan he purported to be. "I suspect it is for Halflings as well," Boromir grunted, "for they carry few of the cares of Men." A small motion caught his eye, drawing his gaze from the slow spiral of smoke drifting from Aragorn's pipe. Sam stood close to his Master, proffering a handful of nuts and dried fruit, slowly coaxing a wan smile out of hiding. Boromir frowned. "Most of them," he amended.
A soft rebuke issued from Aragorn's lips as he brushed his fingertips over a tiny wisp of moss wedged in the bench seat. "It is rare that Imladris sees Mettarë twice in a Coranar," the Elvish words tripped too easily off his tongue, "I think it brings them great joy to share in our little friends' celebration, and that is something hard-won in such dark times."
Boromir leaned forward, his hair brushing across his forehead and cheek, obscuring the expression on his face. "I have become accustomed to spending Mettarë hunkered down in snow and sleet with my men; we are our own Yuletide company. There are few days that lend themselves so well to Orc attack and ambush as the Long Night, and predictability does not dim their ferocity. Mettarë has not offered mulled wine, song, feast and favour since my childhood. Now it is naught but a marker of despair to be met with grim determination. Naught but a pat on the back and a shared wineskin, wet feet frozen during lengthy, dark watches."
He cast a glance at Merry and Pippin, happily tossing leaves at each other in lieu of snow, and lapsed into silence, the stream of words stemmed by visions of bloodied ice.
Aragorn nodded, reaching out to pat Boromir's shoulder, his fingers curving and squeezing the cloth beneath his hand. "War makes soldiers of us all," he murmured.
"And widowers," Boromir added, his lips settling into a thin, white line, "and orphans." He turned from Aragorn then, turned from the companionable clasp of hand into the grief he nursed like a living thing.
Aragorn tapped his spent pipe on the bench leg, dislodging a flurry of black, fluttering ash. "Even widowers and orphans need to lay aside their burdens from time to time. Even soldiers." His palm slipped from Boromir's shoulder as he stood, leaving him to his silence.
Boromir huddled further in on himself as Aragorn rejoined the cluster of celebrants. He did not stir, not even when Pippin tried to engage him in a game of leaf-tossing, and Gimli in conversation.
Eventually they left him be, drawn to the clear, warm sound of the Ranger's voice raised in song. The words were nothing Boromir had heard before, wanting the same lilting sound of the Elves' speech, rough around the edges, but carrying a strange heat that penetrated deeper, filling his breast even as the first few tears wetted his cheeks. He would have missed Aragorn's soft murmur, naming the song a winter's dirge, apologizing for the lack of second singer, the lack of the refrain of rebirth if it had not been for the unnatural hush that followed his last note.
Visibly shaken, the companions disbanded and retreated to more solitary pursuits soon after, leaving Ranger and Steward's son alone.
Silence settled in the courtyard like the spread and stain of blood over snow.
"Again." Boromir raised his head, a keen, unvoiced pain glittering in his eyes, "Please, sing it again."
END
(December 21-22, 2005)
Linguistic Notes:
Mettarë: The final day of the year. For the Dúnedain, this was December 21st, the longest night of the year, which corresponded with Yule. For the Elves, however, it came at the beginning of Spring on April 6th.
Coranar: "Sun-round," an Elvish (Sindarin?) word for one year.Crossposted to sons_of_gondor, athelingas, rugbytackle.
Author: Galadriel (caras_galadhon)
Fandom: LotR
Pairing: Aragorn/Boromir
Rating: PG
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 Fellowship marks Yule in Rivendell.
Notes: Written during the longest night of the year. Many, many thanks to empy. Notes expanding on all embedded linguistic/cultural references are available at the end of the story.
Mettarë
By Galadriel
"Yule is for children." Boromir turned his face from the small knot of Hobbits earnestly pressing spiced apples and ale into the hands of bemused Elves. He regarded the Ranger, newly seated next to him on the stone bench, searching his visage for some hint of the Dúnadan he purported to be. "I suspect it is for Halflings as well," Boromir grunted, "for they carry few of the cares of Men." A small motion caught his eye, drawing his gaze from the slow spiral of smoke drifting from Aragorn's pipe. Sam stood close to his Master, proffering a handful of nuts and dried fruit, slowly coaxing a wan smile out of hiding. Boromir frowned. "Most of them," he amended.
A soft rebuke issued from Aragorn's lips as he brushed his fingertips over a tiny wisp of moss wedged in the bench seat. "It is rare that Imladris sees Mettarë twice in a Coranar," the Elvish words tripped too easily off his tongue, "I think it brings them great joy to share in our little friends' celebration, and that is something hard-won in such dark times."
Boromir leaned forward, his hair brushing across his forehead and cheek, obscuring the expression on his face. "I have become accustomed to spending Mettarë hunkered down in snow and sleet with my men; we are our own Yuletide company. There are few days that lend themselves so well to Orc attack and ambush as the Long Night, and predictability does not dim their ferocity. Mettarë has not offered mulled wine, song, feast and favour since my childhood. Now it is naught but a marker of despair to be met with grim determination. Naught but a pat on the back and a shared wineskin, wet feet frozen during lengthy, dark watches."
He cast a glance at Merry and Pippin, happily tossing leaves at each other in lieu of snow, and lapsed into silence, the stream of words stemmed by visions of bloodied ice.
Aragorn nodded, reaching out to pat Boromir's shoulder, his fingers curving and squeezing the cloth beneath his hand. "War makes soldiers of us all," he murmured.
"And widowers," Boromir added, his lips settling into a thin, white line, "and orphans." He turned from Aragorn then, turned from the companionable clasp of hand into the grief he nursed like a living thing.
Aragorn tapped his spent pipe on the bench leg, dislodging a flurry of black, fluttering ash. "Even widowers and orphans need to lay aside their burdens from time to time. Even soldiers." His palm slipped from Boromir's shoulder as he stood, leaving him to his silence.
Boromir huddled further in on himself as Aragorn rejoined the cluster of celebrants. He did not stir, not even when Pippin tried to engage him in a game of leaf-tossing, and Gimli in conversation.
Eventually they left him be, drawn to the clear, warm sound of the Ranger's voice raised in song. The words were nothing Boromir had heard before, wanting the same lilting sound of the Elves' speech, rough around the edges, but carrying a strange heat that penetrated deeper, filling his breast even as the first few tears wetted his cheeks. He would have missed Aragorn's soft murmur, naming the song a winter's dirge, apologizing for the lack of second singer, the lack of the refrain of rebirth if it had not been for the unnatural hush that followed his last note.
Visibly shaken, the companions disbanded and retreated to more solitary pursuits soon after, leaving Ranger and Steward's son alone.
Silence settled in the courtyard like the spread and stain of blood over snow.
"Again." Boromir raised his head, a keen, unvoiced pain glittering in his eyes, "Please, sing it again."
END
(December 21-22, 2005)
Linguistic Notes:
Mettarë: The final day of the year. For the Dúnedain, this was December 21st, the longest night of the year, which corresponded with Yule. For the Elves, however, it came at the beginning of Spring on April 6th.
Coranar: "Sun-round," an Elvish (Sindarin?) word for one year.Crossposted to sons_of_gondor, athelingas, rugbytackle.