#and you can see the ring of barahir on his hand. naturally i had a moment | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

polutrope · 5 months

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hello 💌 i’d like to request a prompt from the modern au list: beren/lúthien and 27. thank you 🥺

27. Meeting significant other’s family for the first time Thank you for the prompt! I'm sorry, this became something sad and sentimental. Advisory for deceased and sick parents and general parent-child angsty feelings. ~1.1k, Rated G. Posting these to AO3, here. Prompt list (prompts closed). Beleria Cast of Characters

Beren reached for Lúthien’s hand and inhaled deeply of the crisp night air. It was cool, but not so cold they needed gloves, and her slender fingers twined between his were hardly touched by the cold. He turned a wistful smile on her.

“What is it?” she said. Her grey eyes caught the light of the street lamp and twinkled.

“Oh, I was just remembering the first time you had me to dinner with your parents.” Beren chuckled.

“I’m glad you’re laughing,” said Lúthien, and her tone hardened. “I still haven’t forgiven my dad for how condescending he was with you. Ugh, he can be such an ass.”

“Yeah,” Beren said thoughtfully. It was true: Elu had been, well, awful. And Beren hadn’t felt comfortable visiting again for months, not sure that he could withstand further implicit — but blatantly obvious — rejection of himself and his background. He’d borne it bravely the one time, but his carefully reconstituted sense of self-worth was more fragile than it looked.

But Elu had repented of his attitude. As Mayor he’d even spearheaded Beleria’s initiative to make it easier for immigrants like his parents had been to get secure, meaningful employment in education and healthcare and sustainability — it was how Beren had found his position with the nature conservancy.

And Elu loved Lúthien as much as Beren did, with a depth of history that he could never understand.

“Listen, birdie,” said Beren, stopping their progress down the sidewalk to look into her eyes. “Parents aren’t perfect. But trust me: you’ll regret it when something happens to him if you’re still holding on to those grudges.”

She frowned, then shook the mood off with a frustrated flail. “I’m sorry, babe. You’re right. I just… Like, I know he’s trying to hide it but I can tell he doesn’t want to let me go. I don’t want to see him every week! But then I feel guilty. Once a week isn’t that much, but with everything else… ugh, I’m sorry. I’m being selfish.”

“Nah, you’re not,” said Beren. “My dad drove me nuts when he was still around. I mean, he’s the reason I went into oil and gas. You think I wanted that? I hated it, it went against everything I believed in, and it drained me of motivation to do anything else. But he worked so hard all his life, fled his home with a hundred dollars and the clothes on his back and built it all up from there. I couldn’t just not do what he wanted for me. But I resented him for it. Every day. It’s a shitty thing to say but I don’t think I would have gotten out of Dorthon if he hadn’t died. Still, I miss him.”

Beren blinked back the press of tears behind his eyes and absently rolled his thumb over his dad’s ring that he always wore. They didn’t talk about Barahir often — it was Emeldir’s worsening condition and the constant paperwork and phone calls and visits required just to get her the minimum of care that took up most of his time and energy.

Lúthien stopped them again and cupped Beren’s cheek with her free hand. “Hey,” she said, “I want to meet him.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ve put up with my — insufferable, insane, but beloved — parents dozens of times, but we’ve never visited Barahir. Let’s go. Maybe even have a Yule dinner with him.”

Beren smiled. “Yeah, okay,” he said. “That would be nice.”

As usual when Lúthien got an idea in her head, she was eager to realise it at the earliest opportunity. They made the drive out to Dorthon the weekend before Yule, cancelling other plans with Elu and Melian in order to do so (they’d left it to Melian to pass the news onto her husband).

There was snow coming down on the highway when they reached the mountains, but Beren was as ever impressed by Lúthien’s skill behind the wheel. He shouldn’t be. There wasn’t much she wasn’t good at, but she had a humility that made you forget it.

“How much farther to the exit?” she asked, and Beren fumbled for his phone to check the map.

“Uuhh, Exit 27. No wait. 26b.”

“Okay, how far is that?”

“I can’t tell… oh shit!”

“Oh shit, what!”

“Shit, shit, that’s it,” said Beren, frantically pointing at the right side of the road.

Lúthien remained far calmer, expertly crossing three lanes and sliding into the exit lane not a moment too soon. “Dammit, you’re the worst navigator!” she said, but she was laughing.

Shortly they were bumping down the gravel road to the river where Beren and his sister had scattered Barahir’s ashes three years ago. The snow continued to accumulate, at least an inch thick now, and Beren chewed his lip nervously.

“Stop worrying,” said Lúthien. “We’ll get out of here fine. And if not, well! We’ll have to walk.”

They pulled over beside the rough trail down to the river. The world was still and silent as they stepped from the car except for the crunch of their boots in the fresh snow. Beren bundled his scarf around his neck and grabbed the bag of cold turkey sandwiches from the back seat.

The sun set even earlier up here and the sky was already turning grey by the time they got to the river.

“I hope we don’t have the wrong spot,” Beren fretted. All they’d left to mark his dad’s last resting place was an engraved wood slice nailed to a pine tree. “Maybe we should just pick a spot and have the sandwiches and go, it doesn’t really matter—”

“Is this it?” Lúthien interrupted. She brushed her gloved hand over a slab of wood to reveal the inscription, its crude letters filled in and white with snow.

In memory of Barahir Escarra 1970 to 2020

Beren’s throat closed over at the sight. “Yeah, that’s it,” he said.

He couldn’t stop the tears springing to his eyes. At once Lúthien was at his side, winding her arms around him, and he clung to her while his tears spilled freely. Each little river momentarily froze on his skin and he found he welcomed the sting of their cold salty tracks: they made his grief and relief and love into something physical, emotions he could truly feel as they left him.

“I’m glad we came,” he said, sniffing and laughing meekly at his state. “Thank you.”

Lúthien squeezed him and buried her face in his jacket. She was crying, too.

#beren #luthien #beren x luthien #bluthien #holiday prompts #beleria au #modern au #my fic

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jengajives · 3 years

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Alright so Finrod tho

Finrod squinted beyond his line to the mass of dark, tarnished metal boiling on the horizon.

There were so many. Too many.

They couldn’t hold. They were going to lose the pass.

He raised his spear, the silver banner flapping loudly from its haft, and roared a rallying cry. It was answered by the guard around him, and the rest of the army behind.

They could not lose the pass.

On the other side of the river, Orodreth’s infantry were holding, but Finrod’s own forces were taking the brunt of the assault and being crushed beneath it. A wedge of orcs was starting to plunge between the ranks, forcing himself and his company against the river and the others to the hills. Soon the goblins would have the two forces separated and come down on them like a hammer against an anvil.

Finrod didn’t fancy the idea of drowning in all this armor, nor of being cut down and hewn in the shallows of Sirion, so he shouted for horns to blow, for the company to push back toward the hills with all their might.

He took the forefront of the assault with his guard around him. The soldiers needed someone to follow.

He wasn’t nearly as fearsome in battle as some of his cousins, but he was no terrified youth, either. He was a foe the orcs knew to fear. And he would lead his people to triumph or fall in the attempt.

There was so little left. They couldn’t lose the pass.

Rising to meet them was a shield-wall of steel and wood, bristling with spear tips, weeping arrows. The Elves fell on it like waves against a cliff.

Finrod batted shields aside, shattered wooden hafts of spears against his mithril-coated arms, and plunged his own ringing weapon in wherever armor looked soft. Black blood spattered the banner his spear bore until it hung heavy and dripping. His fingers struggled to grip a handle so slick with gore. On every side, his people fell.

The orcs crushed them back. No matter how many they killed, more would swarm forth and rally, clashing against the Elves with more ferocity each time, like the sight of their fallen brothers heightened the natural goblin bloodlust and drove them mad. Soon Finrod’s host was losing land. Slowing being pushed back to the edge of the water until even the King’s heels were damp and they were fighting in the shallowest flow of the river.

Screams faded into the sound of a heartbeat. A shield crashed into Finrod’s chest so hard his breastplate buckled, and he went wheeling to the ground in a breathless flash of red and white. When he landed on all fours, before he could scramble back or reach for his fallen spear or even think about catching his breath, a jagged blade took him in the side and screeched against his armor until it caught the weak part beneath the arm and pushed right through.

White-hot pain erupted in Finrod’s side. He screamed, twisted to grab the blade and yank it free, shooting sparks from the metal-clad palm of his hand when the sword jerked back on its own, slicing him even through the protection.

He managed to turn and look into the yellow eyes of the goblin that was going to kill him before the stroke fell, just so he’d know what was own death had looked like.

The orc grinned with metal teeth, and a hatchet took it suddenly in the throat.

With a scream that turned rapidly to a gurgle, the creature feel, and from the midst of shrieking orcs came a new shape in a spray of black blood.

The newcomer had no heavy armor, just a leather breastplate with thick layers of chainmail beneath, and wore no helm on his head. Instead, his dark auburn hair flowed free about his shoulders, and his dark eyes gleamed as he held aloft a dripping sword in one hand and another small throwing axe in the other. The orcs fled him like he was a specter, and soon others emerged from the ranks like him, hardy and wielding stout weapons of iron and steel. Men, come to fight alongside their immortal brothers. Finrod felt lightheaded.

The first Man offered a large hand that was certainly plenty calloused beneath leather gloves.

“Your Highness. Can you stand?”

Finrod could only stare, entranced, as this new company of Men hacked a perimeter around them. His throat felt dry.

“Who are you?”

“Barahir, my Lord. Son of Bregor of Bëor’s house. My people are here to help in whatever way we can, sir.”

From somewhere in the direction of the mountains, horns sounded, but they weren’t Finrod’s. He recognized the orcs’ screams of terror.

Barahir moved his outstretched hand closer to remind Finrod it was there.

“Your Majesty, can you stand?”

It was then Finrod realized he was bleeding, heavily enough to see it drip from his silver armor. He spoke unsteadily with this new knowledge very, very close to the forefront of his mind, but tried to smile.

“I don’t see why not.”

“Good. We must move quickly to get you and your people to safety.”

When Finrod accepted the hand, he was shocked by how warm and firm its grip was. Immediately his trust was given to this Man in its entirety.

“I can manage,” Finrod said when Barahir offered him an arm to lean on, despite how much he wanted to take it. He could walk on his own and it was best not to further hinder a soldier so obviously capable as Barahir. Finrod watched him draw back and fling his second hatchet into a break in his line with exceptional speed and accuracy. Men closed in to fill the gap as soon as the hatchet passed them by.

“We can cut a path back to your main force,” Barahir said with alarming calmness. “Stay close to me. I’ll protect you.”

If Finrod had been any prouder, he would have insisted he did not need protection, but he was a practical creature and an honest one, and he knew he was too weak to stand his own now against even the smallest orc. And Barahir to him seemed mighty and sure; deep in his heart Finrod knew he would come to no harm in this Man’s care.

“Lead on,” he said with a solemn nod.

Remarkably, Barahir grinned at him. There was a gap between his front teeth. Somehow Finrod’s knees grew weaker.

Barahir raised his sword. “Protect the King!”

Around him, the lightly-clad soldiers gave an answering shout. Like a fluid machine they closed ranks, putting shields on the outside of the ring with pikemen behind them, keeping Finrod and the last remnant of his guard in the middle. Barahir stayed close, too. Every once in a while he’d venture to the edge of the guarded circle to shout orders and provide support for the wounded, but as the ring around them tightened and the soldiers providing protection thinned, he began to spend more time in the center at Finrod’s side.

When Felagund stumbled and his mouth began to taste of iron, Barahir was there to catch him.

“Nearly there now,” he said in a low, steady voice. “Hold on, your Highness. I’ve got you.”

Finrod wanted to say something back but his head was spinning, so he let himself lean on Barahir as the sounds of battle dimmed around him and each shuffling step brought an ache to his head.

“Take it easy,” Barahir said. There was an edge of nervousness to his voice; blades hacking to get in on every side.

The few remaining Men formed up tight, a thin line around Finrod and Barahir. The Elvish guards with any strength left to bear weapon joined them and together they cut at the incoming enemy with horrible ferocity.

Just as the ring began to be battered apart, the main part of Finrod’s host fell on them like a silver tide, and Elvish swordsman washed around them with blades white and fell.

Several glittering soldiers rushed to retrieve Finrod from Barahir’s arms, though he wasn’t happy to go. He spit a mouthful of blood and stood unsteadily, forearm braced against a soldier, to face the Man.

“You must retreat south down the river.” Barahir pointed as if he worried Finrod had forgotten where the river actually was. “We can cover your retreat.”

“I won’t stand by while others give their lives fighting our battles,” Finrod said weakly. His attempt to stand up straight didn’t work out all too well; soon he was nearly staggering into the other guards, though he did manage to keep his footing. “We’ll stand with you, Barahir.”

“No.” The remainder of the Men gathered around, the horns of their host blew loud just to the east. “Many of your soldiers have fallen. You don’t have the strength to hold the pass.”

“I won’t-“

“King Felagund,” Barahir said almost pleadingly, and laid a hand on his shoulder. “You need medicine. Your people need respite. Leave this to us, and return to safety while you still can.”

The look in his muddy eyes was so steadfast that Finrod cracked almost immediately. His voice warbled.

“When will I see you again?”

“If I have been blessed with any luck,” Barahir said fervently, “then it will be soon.”

He smiled again, but this time it was remarkably sad.

Finrod looked on him and loved what he saw, and at once he was stricken by the need to do something to thank this Man, this valiant hero who had paid much to save his life. He fumbled to unbuckle his gauntlet.

“Here-“ Beneath the silver armor upon his slim finger he wore the ring crafted for him back in Valinor- the one set with green emeralds that sparkled like the deepest pools. He pressed it firmly to Barahir’s hand, and folded his fingers around it.

“If ever you find yourself in need,” Finrod said, “Nargothrond is open to you. I owe you a life debt, Barahir son of Bregor, and I will not quickly forget it.”

Barahir looked at the ring with the astonishment of one who had never beheld great riches. After a moment, he managed to shake his head, slack-jawed.

“I cannot take this!”

“It is a gift.” Finrod nodded to himself. “A poor symbol of my gratitude, but all that I have to give.”

He hesitated.

“Save one thing...”

Then with shocking nervousness, he leaned down and placed a light kiss on the lips of Barahir the captain of Men, before the two of them went their separate ways.

#jenga makes junk #fanfic #fic #writers #finrod felagund #finrod #barahir #orodreth #silmarillion #finrod x barahir

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veliseraptor · 5 years

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Would I Were As Steadfast, 1.5k, finrod/curufin, this is real rough but I’m sick of staring at it so here goes nothing

---

Finrod was up late, drafting a letter to his sister. Nargothrond seemed almost too quiet. The calm, he thought, before the storm.

The door opened quietly and he looked up, then back down. “I wasn’t sure whether to expect you or not,” he said. His cousin didn’t smile. Finrod sat up, set down his pen, and stood. “I suppose I shouldn’t have wondered.”

Curufin’s dark eyebrows arched, both rising ever so slightly. “Meaning?”

“Nothing.” Finrod sighed. “I suppose it would be useless to ask…” he trailed off.

“Ask what?” Curufin’s voice was deceptively gentle. Finrod closed his eyes and shook his head.

“Never mind. What did you want?”

“You’ve gained a suspicious nature, cousin,” Curufin said lightly. Finrod could see the tension in him, though. Before…in Aman, he might not have. Even three months ago, he might not have. They knew each other a little better now. Perhaps too well. Finrod shot him a tired look, and Curufin smiled thinly. “I have no intention of asking anything concerning the human whelp.”

Finrod drew himself up. “That ‘whelp’ had a father who was a good friend of mine.”

“The son is not the father.” Curufin’s voice and expression briefly betrayed exasperation. “You are being unaccountably foolish about this. What the boy intends is…impossible, on any number of levels. You must see, Findarato, that Elwë does not intend him to live. With things as they are-”

“Do not plead diplomacy with me,” Finrod said sharply. “I do not doubt Elu Thingol intended Beren to fail. That does not mean I am required to watch him do so and lift no hand, nor does it remove the bond of friendship and oath of aid between myself and his house. You know that.”

For a moment Curufin looked as though he would argue, and then glanced aside and exhaled, shaking his head. “I suppose I might have expected as much. We shall see what tomorrow brings, I suppose.”

What are you planning, Finrod thought. What are you going to do? You and your brother will never allow me to commit forces to retrieve a Silmaril for hands other than yours, not willingly. There was no point in asking, though. “I suppose we shall,” he said, keeping his voice deliberately neutral.

Curufin watched him, seeming to be thinking. “Come to my rooms with me,” he said, suddenly .

“I have a letter to finish,” Finrod said blandly. Curufin took a step nearer, gaze that intent, intense stare that nearly unnerved Finrod but also…

“Finish it later.” Finrod met his cousin’s gaze squarely and found a trace of unaccustomed impatience there.

“It’s to my sister.”

“All the more reason.” Finrod gave Curufin a sharp look, and his cousin merely looked amused. “I jest, Findarato. You have a long day ahead of you if you purpose to help your human. Allow yourself a few moments’ peace.”

“You seem a strange one to speak of peace,” Finrod remarked. Curufin smirked.

“Am I? I am hardly the brawler that – say, Tyelko - is.”

“A disinclination I suspect has more to do with the physical than the temperamental,” Finrod said, with a rather pointed glance down the few inches that separated his cousin from him. An old tease, and Curufin allowed himself just the slightest hint of a sardonic smile.

“I’d think by now you’d have come up with some fresher material, cousin.”

“Why should I, when the old is still ripe?” There was, he was aware, a strange sort of fragility to their teasing. An undercurrent of something unfamiliar. “Kurvo-”

“Don’t be tedious, cousin,” Curufin cut in. “You have duties, yes. You have letters to write and business to attend to. You always have. Is that what you want to do?” He took another step closer, near enough for him to reach out and brush Finrod’s jaw with just his fingertips, and then drew them away. Finrod caught his wrist before it fell to his side.

“A glass of wine,” he said, firmly. “No more.”

“No more,” Curufin agreed, with a slight glint of triumph in his eyes that frustrated Finrod, irked him. “Just a glass of wine, and then you may return to your duties, and I to mine.”

Curufin’s wine was slightly too dark for Finrod’s taste. He drank it anyway, a full glass in a few swallows. Curufin raised his eyebrows.

“Such eager consumption is uncharacteristic of you, cousin.” Curufin sipped at his glass. Finrod held his out for more, savoring the rush of wine to his head on an empty stomach, the warmth spreading from his stomach.

“It’s been a…trying day, I think you’ll agree.”

Curufin’s expression did something curious, but Finrod could not quite identify it. “I’d sooner not speak of that.”

Finrod didn’t really want to, either. He let it go, and as Curufin did not seem about to, poured his own second glass. He took a gulp, held it in his mouth, and swallowed. Curufin was watching him sidelong and Finrod cast him a look.

“If you are going to criticize…”

“I would never.” Curufin lifted his glass in Finrod’s direction and had a sip of his own wine. Finrod gave him a flat look.

“You seldom do anything but, in my experience.”

“Now. That’s not precisely true.” Curufin sounded delicately affronted. Finrod gave him a flat-eyed stare, and Curufin’s mouth twitched at the corners, though barely. “You don’t always find my counsel unwelcome.”

“When I want it, I shall ask for it.”

“You seem in a poor mood.” Curufin’s eyes were sharp, looking at him over the rim of the glass. “Perhaps I ought to leave you to your…brooding.”

“You invited me to join you, cousin. Not I.” Finrod looked down at the wine, deep red. The color of fresh-spilled blood. Be at peace. You need not run ahead to the worst.

It may come to you on its own.

“If you’re simply going to sulk…”

“I am not,” Finrod said, perhaps a little sharply. “And I will thank you to stop – whatever it is you are doing.” Sometimes he thought Curufin saw him as a piece of metal, to be hammered at until it bent into the shape he required. An unusually stubborn piece of metal, perhaps. Sometimes he wondered if Curufin saw anyone as anything else.

“Whatever it is I am doing. Indeed.” Curufin’s voice was almost a drawl, and his eyes remained opaque, nearly expressionless. Finrod set down his glass and stood in a sharp motion.

“I am in an ill mood to entertain your games, Atarinkë.” The choice of name was deliberate, perhaps a bit petty, but he felt tense and edgy. He had even before Curufin had come, and with him it was only intensified. “Goodnight.”

Curufin didn’t reach for him. His voice was clear enough, though. “Wait.” Only he, Finrod thought, could make a request sound a demand, and yet still a request as well.

Against his better judgment, Finrod turned. “What do you want, cousin?”

Curufin looked at him, head cocked a fraction to the side, corners of his lips turned down in a slight frown. His gaze, sharp as a knife, pulled Finrod as it always did – like the sucking draw of the sea’s treacherous undercurrent. “Many things, cousin.” His voice was soft.

“And just now? Of me?”

“Many things,” Curufin answered, in the same tone. Finrod’s jaw clenched.

Curufin’s fingers traced characters on his chest, but if he was writing words Finrod could not identify them. His touch was light, skilled, reminding him as always of the way Curufin’s fingers ran over metals, seeking out small flaws in need of correcting.

His fingers ran over to Finrod’s shoulder and down his arm, over his hand until they brushed the ring he’d given to Barahir, resting again where he’d taken it from years ago.

“You’ve made your choice,” Curufin said, after a moment, quietly. “Your plans. The discussion you will have with your lords tomorrow is…a formality, nothing more.”

Finrod closed his eyes. “Yes.” Will you ride with us? He half wanted to ask, but did not want to know that the answer would likely be no. “Nargothrond will aid Beren son of Barahir in his quest.”

Silence, for several long moments. Finrod felt a cold foreboding sink in his heart. “I see,” Curufin said finally, barely audible. He shifted, rolled over, pulling his hand away. “Goodnight, cousin. Rest well.”

“And you,” Finrod said, after a moment, frowning very slightly. “Tomorrow…tomorrow we can speak of this further.”

“Yes,” Curufin said, after a few silent breaths. “Tomorrow.”

Had he known?

Sitting awake – he’d taken first watch, his eleven and Beren all sleeping – he looked up at the stars and wondered. Lying with him that night, bodies pressed together, teeth in Finrod’s neck hard enough to leave a lingering ache even speaking with Beren the next morning…had Curufin also made his decision, and known…

He swallowed his bitterness, his rage. What had he expected, in truth?

You knew there was no other way it could end.

Finrod’s left hand made a fist. He clenched his jaw and hardened his heart. And did not mourn for the impossible.

#finrod/curufin #the silmarillion #silmarillion #a wild fic appeared #noldor are the best dor #been a while since i wrote this trainwreck #and this fic is OLD but again sick of staring at it

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