It seems like such a little thing, but I have been unable to get any other writing done while I fretted about it (ok, the holidays were in the middle of that, and surely did not help) But honestly - not so much as drabble has crossed my laptop in the meanwhile. And I am bursting in two different places!
Now I am anxious to catch up, both personally and over at the LoTR 100, where I am woefully behind and owe much feedback. And my two TM muses are fit to be tied (and although I would happily let one of them tie me up if that was what rocked his world, the other one scares me to bits).
And I have some writing in my "small" inbox that i have been hatefully slow about responding to and I beg your indulgence - especially mrkinch.
Flick, I am looking for that outline.
And Seasalt -- I sent you some early bits, but they bounced from the address you indicated was your real address, so I sent them to the other. Did you get them? (not trolling for feedback, just concerned that comcast has decided to re-route my mail to the outer darkness as it did for a week this summer...)
Anyway -- here is the problem child:
Characters: Denethor, (Thorongil)
Disclaimer: if only they were mine....
Notes: my story answers the request, but I think it failed the actual spirit. I am sorry, secret solstice sister - I tried.
My request was for Mahtan/Aule or Denethor/Thorongil fluff.
I have twice written the Mahtan/Aule, but it wants to be something very different than you asked for - no matter how I try to disguise it, it wants to be an (Aule)/Nerdanel story.
So, I moved on to fluff -- but, well -- fluff is just not in my nature in print. Or, as Jim said when I asked him to give this a quick beta - "Sweetie, I'm afraid your fluff is steel wool."
I also had another hundred words that was supposed to follow this, but this end kept screaming "The End." And it made Jim say -"You're one sick puppy." so if you want to know the other end, you will have to ask...
The heat shimmer of the late afternoon made the white city sparkle. It was beautiful but ethereal, insubstantial… as though the entire mountain had risen out of a tale, half in and half out of the real world. Denethor wondered if this was what the world was like for the eldar – then shook his head to dismiss the foolish thought. The eldar themselves were nearly a fantasy tale to him, and the only man at this gathering who might have any knowledge of them, his rival, was not going to be allowed to spoil this day.
He looked instead at the very substantial hands of his father, gripping the balustrade of the balcony. Those hands were the key to Ecthelion’s character – strong, but gentle; firm but comforting – the grip looked whisper light, but Denethor knew that whoever sought to take anything unwilling from that grasp would learn the meaning of steel. His eyes traveled up to his father’s face and basked in the smile that met him, eyes sparking with delight.
He had bested his rival at last. Though he was stout of heart, a cunning commander and keen of limb and mind, it seemed to him his father’s favor always fell first upon the man from the north who had become a thorn in his side. “You both fought well,” Ecthelion would say, but the unspoken thoughts Denethor was sure he read in his eyes - “But Thorongil’s brave heart, unexpected ploy or brilliant strategy pleased me best” would ring for days in his heart, dogging his steps, keeping him from sleep. Though everyone denied it, he was not blind. How – how could the steward dismiss him so? He was stalwart and willing – and his own child, born to his blood. Yet whatever he achieved, it seemed to Denethor that the old man was never able to see him, so dazzled was he by the light of the eagle’s star.
But now he had done what Thorongil could never do, given his father the gift he wanted most in the world.
“The Jewel of War,” Ecthelion smiled, briefly clasping his arm. “An heir for the House of Hurin.”
Denethor beamed in return and leaned back on the rail, watching the guests inside nod to his Lady Wife and greet his newborn son, anointed today with the chrism of office, and secured in his birthright. He had slicked the oil onto the tiny forehead with his own hand and given the babe his name. “Boromir,” he breathed with pride. “My son.”