Thank you! From the kiss asks.

32. … to wake up.

Towards dawn, the winds had died down completely. Tuor sat back, allowing Eärrámë to drift on the current. He let his eyes fall shut a moment, not yet wanting to wake Idril and Voronwë below deck, but feeling weariness tugging at him. 

Already the weight of age was upon him when they set out from Sirion; and though whatever enchantment was laced in the waters about Valinor that kept them from reaching its shores also seemed to keep away the outward signs of old age, his spirit was now, nearly twenty years since they had set forth, keenly aware of the passage of time. 

Reluctantly, his eyes squinted open—then widened, and he straightened, blinking at the eastern horizon. There, squinting back at him, was a twinkle of light that grew brighter and brighter even as the stars wreathed around it faded before the coming dawn.

Struck at first with wonder, Tuor watched as the star slid up into the silver-blue sky. Then rousing himself from his awe, he flew across the deck and with long strides clattered down the stairs to the cabin where his lovers slept. 

Idril and Voronwë were yet deep in dreaming, curled up to either side of the wide space where Tuor had lain; but their feet had bridged the distance between them, Idril’s slender foot resting over Voronwë’s ankle. Tuor scarcely restrained himself from leaping into the bed and rousing them with a shout, but opted instead for quietly crawling between them. 

He placed a kiss on each of their mouths. Idril stirred at once; Voronwë required further coaxing from the both of them, sighing and returning Tuor’s kiss in his sleep before he at last peeled open his eyes and realised he was not dreaming.

Then he shuffled his body so he was flush against Tuor, even as he tilted his head to the other side and dragged Idril down for a kiss. 

“Wait,” said Tuor, laughing. They broke their kiss and looked at him with matching expressions of disappointment. “Wait — come up to the deck. There is something you must see.”

Thank you! Am I ever not up for them? From the kiss asks.

36. … to give up control

“Here.” Without looking, the Noldo flung one arm back, proffering a wooden flute. “You play that.”

Daeron accepted the instrument and twirled it between his fingers. “Hm. I would rather not.” It was simple enough for a child. It probably was for a child. “How about that lute?” He used the flute as a pointer to indicate which he meant.  

Maglor threw a sharp glance over his shoulder. “No. Strings are my signature.” He moved gracefully between several other instruments—or it would have been graceful, had his trailing red robe not caught under the frame of an absurdly large harp. What madness had possessed someone to travel with such an instrument, Daeron could not guess. 

“Very well,” said Daeron. “Why don’t you play the lute and I will sing?”

“Absolutely not!” Maglor cried. He tugged his robe free. “I will sing.” 

“You said strings were your expertise.”

“They are. And vocals. Here,” he stretched forwards to grab what looked like an oversized aulos. “Is this more suitable for you?”

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Thank you! From the kiss asks.

12. … in grief.

Lórien was not altogether silent, nor altogether empty, when Queen Arwen strayed there after the passing of King Elessar. She was not alone, wandering through the woods, though whether she heard the melody that drifted through falling golden leaves, Daeron did not know. For bowed with the burden of old age, she never lifted her head to hearken to his music.

“Go to her,” said a familiar voice, and Daeron turned. “Do you think it only chance that has brought you to her, or her to you, in this moment?”

“And you?” asked Daeron, his grief displaced by surprise to see this wanderer again, here and now.

“I have cause to love her also,” said Maglor. “But I do not think it is I who should sit by her when she breathes her last.”

So Daeron padded silently over the gold-flecked ground, and lowered himself beside the mound of Cerin Amroth. Arwen smiled, not opening her eyes, but whispering, “Thank you, for seeing that I do not die alone.”

Daeron would never know if Arwen had known who it was bowed over her and wept when at last she left the world, but he was comforted that she had died with a smile on her careworn features. 

A long while passed before Maglor came to grieve beside him. Then Daeron turned to him, and when Maglor lifted a hand to his face, Daeron accepted the touch. He was moved anew to tears to feel its gentle pulse against his skin, and the warm breath against his lips was a soothing balm. 

He accepted the kiss from this erstwhile lover, this ancient enemy, and was filled only with relief that here was one who had endured as long as he and knew the immeasurable depths of what it was to lose and lose and, always, to live on.

For live on they must, who hold in themselves the tales of all those who have passed away. 

I should note that this is a concept I’ve wanted to explore for a while, since seeing this gorgeous art of Arwen and Maglor by @silmaspens. I love the idea of Maglor being with her when she dies, but being me I love even more the idea that it’s Daeron. Or why not both!

“You look familiar,” says Voronwë when they first meet.

“Why, you’re the very image of your father! How could we doubt your identity?” says Idril when he asks why he’s been so easily trusted.

“Oh, lovely, another one,” mutters Maeglin.

Turgon never says anything, only looks at him like he’s seen a ghost.

Tuor wants to shake someone by the shoulders and ask, Who is it you see in me? Who is the father I never met? Why do you know him and I do not?

Thank you! I hope this one appeals to you, my fellow enjoyer of elf visions. Featuring more Teleri indecisiveness and foresighted Daeron, this time as a child. Prompt list.

980 words, rated G.

“Why do you wait for him?” 

It is the way of children to ask questions, and many generations of them have kept Beleg curious on the journey from Cuiviénen. But Daeron never stops asking questions. Nor does a single answer satisfy him. He will ask the same question again and again, of as many ears as will listen. His latest: Why do you continue to search for Elwë? 

It is not a question the Lindai like to ask themselves. Waiting and searching for their chieftain is simply what they do. So this child, standing no higher than Beleg’s hip, has sent ripples of disquiet through the settlement. 

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