Immigrants. Chapter Eight
4 May 2012 07:29 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
curiouswombatI said in a comment on ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
aliana1's journal about characters taking over stories that at the time
Tindómë wants to know why she can't commit murder, Legolas is digging his heels in and refusing to have sex with someone in particular even though he was happy enough, a couple of chapters ago, to shag a random member of King Olwë's court, and Gimli is refusing to tell me whether or not to allow any of the Telerin ellyth, who have money on it, bed him! This is without Sam trying to give me recipes for really good banqueting food!
This is that chapter...
If you need them, previous chapters are here
Immigrants Chapter Eight
Word count 2,090
Rating PG
Betaed by the inestimable Speaker to Customers
is here;
Chapter Eight
“Spiced pears,” said Sam. “I put a good lot down meself, and I made sure that Master Elrond’s cooks had the right recipe, if you take my meaning, this year – they say as they can certainly provide some. Go nicely with the cold ham, and a good bit of cheese. There’s a lady elf makes a very good bit of cheese, like a well matured Bywater, that she sells at the midweek market.”
“Mushrooms,” mused Frodo, “one of the great pleasures of living in Valinor is the year-long mushroom season. I can still wield a spoon to make a pot of mushroom soup, and Tharhîwon will make the fennel and mushroom tartlets…”
The two aged hobbits seemed to be enjoying planning the Elven banquet at least as much as the elves were enjoying building the bonfire and would enjoy the fun to be had after the feasting.
“And I have a good fruit cake to bring,” Sam was saying. “Not enough for everyone, of course, but I made a spare when I made our Yule cake back at the equinox. I know Gimli likes a good rich fruit cake; we can make sure it’s put where he’s sitting. And old Gandalf – he’s partial to a bit of my fruit cake too, as long as it’s got good marchpan on it and sugar icing.”
He paused in his slow bustling, for a moment, and looked out the window as if at something far away.
“Do you think Miss Tindómë, um, Mrs. Tindómë,” he corrected himself, “might take the recipe from me? It would be good to think that someone knew how to make Gimli and old Gandalf a proper fruit cake, after I’m gone… And I know your menfolk do much of the cooking but your womenfolk mostly bake, so it might be better given to her.”
Legolas did not really want to think of Sam dying, and yet the hobbit did not seem too sad about it; he genuinely seemed more worried that no-one would make what he saw as a proper Yule cake for Gimli or Mithrandir. He must expect to see his Rosie when his fëa left his hroar. Legolas was not too sure about relying on Tindómë to make such a cake but, if it would comfort Sam to give her the recipe…
Probably not any better to give it to Ithilienne, either, although making pancakes with her, Haldirin, and Tharhîwon the other night had been good fun and good eating. It had taken Legolas’ mind off the feeling of Ithilienne’s hand in his, the eroticism of seeing her parents and her aunt and uncle most certainly enjoying the desires of the body together on the beach in the moonlight, and that muttered remark of hers.
He was, on reflection, glad the younger ellyn had been there – although he was sure that he would have been able to control himself, and not press her for more than a restrained goodnight kiss. But making pancakes together, and eating them with honey, had made him feel as if he, too, was little more than an elfling and it had been a good way to end the day.
Adar, of course, would have pointed out that Legolas was little more than an elfling – but then Adar was many yéni old. And, no matter what Adar had said during that last visit to Eryn Lasgalen, Legolas felt so much older than Ithilienne, her brother, and their friend; he had fought, since he was younger than the two ellyn, against the darkness of Dol Guldur, against the spiders, the orcs, and other horrors that beset what was then Mirkwood. He had guarded Gollum, travelled to Imladris to explain how he had let the strange creature escape, spent time in the presence of the One Ring, felt it try to corrupt his fëa, fought battles alongside Aragorn and Gimli, alongside the Rohirrim, alongside the Army of the Dead, alongside the army of Gondor…
He had stood at the very gates of Mordor and felt the hatred, the malice… No, Legolas knew he was no elfling, and somehow he felt too old; too old to flirt with such an innocent as Ithilienne. But he would dance with her tomorrow night, and kiss her, and hold the thought of it close to his heart until the next Solstice celebration.
………………………………..
At much the same time as Sam was considering gifting her with his fruit cake recipe Tindómë was contemplating murder. She did wonder whether dispatching her husband-mother off on another lap around Mandos’ Halls could be considered the Elven equivalent of justifiable homicide, but she thought probably not – the penal code didn’t seem to be that complex. Had she known about the impending fruit cake recipe she might have considered making it with added poisoning – except that, generally, such simple spices as deadly-nightshade and hemlock just didn’t cut it when given to Elves…
Rumil’s naneth did not approve of tomorrow’s Solstice celebrations. In fact she DID NOT APPROVE in capital letters. There had never been any such frivolity, just because it was the longest night, when the Galadhrim had lived in Lothlorien; the whole thing sounded totally uncivilised, the sort of thing Men, or Dwarves, might get up to, and she was shocked and appalled to think that her sons would even think of participating!
Tindómë had been caught somewhere between shocked and appalled herself – or possibly more shocked and amused – at the possibility of Dwarves not only dancing to the beat of the drums, but bedecking themselves in ribbons, swapping them for kisses, and indulging in the desires of the body under the trees. Or amongst the rocks, which was more likely for the Elves this year, and also slightly more Dwarvish than the trees would be. She must share the mental image of cavorting Dwarves with Legolas, he would be amused whilst sympathising with her over Rumil’s mother’s… existence… uh – attitude.
Ithilienne had unleashed her grandmother’s deluge of disapproval by asking if she would like to see the new dress, made with Lithôniel’s assistance, ‘For the Midwinter Celebrations’. And Haldirin had immediately joined in the conversation, sounding totally innocent, to ask if his grandparents would sit with their family for the feast or accompany Lady Galadriel.
Not that ‘That Elleth’, as Tindómë thought of her, had not heard of the upcoming festivities; she had simply assumed that her family would ignore it all, and she clearly did not approve of Her Ladyship deigning to attend. She had made her feelings on the whole subject very, very, clear in a diatribe that had gone on for a very long time – it felt like hours.
Rumil had been almost glacially calm, so not a good sign as his mother must surely know, even if she still didn’t know him very well; it would have been a bad sign from any Elf. Eventually, when she had either finished, or possibly just stopped for breath, he thanked his naneth for giving her opinion but, he said, he was very proud of his beautiful daughter, and hoped she would spend the whole night dancing… and collecting enough ribbons from ellyn to make a cushion to brighten her bedroom, just as ribbon cushions made by Tindómë and Lithôniel were scattered around the living room and their bedrooms.
He was equally proud of his son, he said, and hoped he would win any wagers on who would get rid of their ribbons fastest – he had a family reputation to uphold, after all, even if his father and uncles had earned much of it in a different setting.
Orophin, looking much more sombre than usual, had backed Rumil.
“If you do not wish to celebrate with us then perhaps you should just return to Tirion ahead of Her Ladyship,” he said, adding, “For I see no point in you remaining here if you disapprove so much of Rumil and I, our wives, and his children. “
‘Ouch!’ thought Tindómë.
Then another, quiet, firm voice joined the conversation. Adar Thorontor said little by comparison to his wife; Tindómë had thought within days of first meeting her in-laws that Rumil, even if his colouring came from his mother, was clearly his father’s son.
“I am proud of you both, my sons. You have grown into skilled warriors, it is clear that you both have the wives the Valar intended for you; both couples are so very well suited. My grandson and granddaughter are a joy to me and I hope to get to know all six of you better in the years to come.”
He took his wife by the arm, and steered her towards the door. Tindómë could guess the private conversation between the two of them, through their bond, as fleeting expressions crossed both faces.
At the door Adar Thorontor turned back, briefly and added, “I would be proud to join you, or to sit with Her Ladyship, but it may be better for us to do as you suggest, Orophin. In which case I will, most certainly, join you for your Solstice celebrations another time – I would like to learn more of the ways of my distant kin, which you have come to embrace.”
The door shut behind him and all six in the room said nothing for a minute or more. Finally Ithilienne broke the silence.
“Oh. Well I guess I can eat the sweetmeats we made to give her then…”
But Tindómë thought her mother-in-law had succeeded in spoiling the sense of anticipation somewhat – especially for her sons.
…………………………………………………..
Haldirin went to the hobbit hole with a spring in his step. It looked likely that he would win this wager with Tharhîwon even though the odds were only poor.
“Ha!” he greeted his friend, “You will end up cleaning my boots for a week – I am almost sure. Adar and Orophin finally spoke out. I think my daer-naneth will avoid the feast tomorrow. She might even be on the road back to Tirion by then.”
Tharhîwon pulled a face. “I really thought she would want to be there with Her Ladyship,” he said, “but I won’t be sad to lose this one – I would not want to ask her to dance anyway…”
Gimli appeared and joined them. He must have heard their conversation as he picked it up. “Aye – she’s finding change difficult, that one,” he said. “But now,” he added, “you won’t have to ask her to dance… so I have a proposition. The lad thinks I am stupid and that I would not know that he has money on me asking Her Ladyship for the first dance. But I think I might put a few coins on you, young fellow.”
He looked at Tharhîwon. “After all,” he went on, “you’ve known Her Ladyship for longer than almost anyone else who might ask – she wouldn’t think it odd if you asked her…”
Haldirin was so used to hearing the Dwarf refer to Legolas as ‘the lad’ that he did not even think of it as odd, but he could see Tharhîwon trying to stifle a smile at that point. By the time Gimli stopped speaking it was Haldirin who was grinning.
“You so should!” he said, unconsciously mimicking his mother’s speech. “And I would wager with Legolas between you and Gimli. I would not only let you off the boot cleaning, I would happily split the winnings with you – go on…”
“Why not?” Tharhîwon said. “As long as all I have to do is ask, and she can say no if she wishes, provided it is noted that I asked.”
The three shared conspiratorial handshakes and then went to eat second supper with Sam and Frodo.
…………………………………………………..
Midwinter morning was dry, bright, and sunny. Legolas had happily agreed the wager with Haldirin; he was sure he could persuade Gimli that it would save Her Ladyship from all manner of embarrassment if he was to ask her to dance.
The fire was ready for the evening, tables were being brought out to the grass above the beach, and small lights were being strung in the trees and bushes; just like home… either home. All his own people were finishing their last few preparations; there was a real feeling of anticipation – and if Tindómë’s smile was brighter than almost anyone else’s, since her husband-mother had decided not to attend, then Legolas could not blame her.
He still had a couple of gifts to wrap, but everything was going according to plan… until the strangers arrived.
…………………………………………………
daer-naneth - grand-mother.
Disclaimer: The characters in this story do not belong to me, but are being used for amusement only, and all rights remain with the estate of JRR Tolkien. And Joss Whedon if he ever recognises his Key...
aliana1's journal about characters taking over stories that at the time Tindómë wants to know why she can't commit murder, Legolas is digging his heels in and refusing to have sex with someone in particular even though he was happy enough, a couple of chapters ago, to shag a random member of King Olwë's court, and Gimli is refusing to tell me whether or not to allow any of the Telerin ellyth, who have money on it, bed him! This is without Sam trying to give me recipes for really good banqueting food!
This is that chapter...
If you need them, previous chapters are here
Immigrants Chapter Eight
Word count 2,090
Rating PG
Betaed by the inestimable Speaker to Customers
is here;
Chapter Eight
“Spiced pears,” said Sam. “I put a good lot down meself, and I made sure that Master Elrond’s cooks had the right recipe, if you take my meaning, this year – they say as they can certainly provide some. Go nicely with the cold ham, and a good bit of cheese. There’s a lady elf makes a very good bit of cheese, like a well matured Bywater, that she sells at the midweek market.”
“Mushrooms,” mused Frodo, “one of the great pleasures of living in Valinor is the year-long mushroom season. I can still wield a spoon to make a pot of mushroom soup, and Tharhîwon will make the fennel and mushroom tartlets…”
The two aged hobbits seemed to be enjoying planning the Elven banquet at least as much as the elves were enjoying building the bonfire and would enjoy the fun to be had after the feasting.
“And I have a good fruit cake to bring,” Sam was saying. “Not enough for everyone, of course, but I made a spare when I made our Yule cake back at the equinox. I know Gimli likes a good rich fruit cake; we can make sure it’s put where he’s sitting. And old Gandalf – he’s partial to a bit of my fruit cake too, as long as it’s got good marchpan on it and sugar icing.”
He paused in his slow bustling, for a moment, and looked out the window as if at something far away.
“Do you think Miss Tindómë, um, Mrs. Tindómë,” he corrected himself, “might take the recipe from me? It would be good to think that someone knew how to make Gimli and old Gandalf a proper fruit cake, after I’m gone… And I know your menfolk do much of the cooking but your womenfolk mostly bake, so it might be better given to her.”
Legolas did not really want to think of Sam dying, and yet the hobbit did not seem too sad about it; he genuinely seemed more worried that no-one would make what he saw as a proper Yule cake for Gimli or Mithrandir. He must expect to see his Rosie when his fëa left his hroar. Legolas was not too sure about relying on Tindómë to make such a cake but, if it would comfort Sam to give her the recipe…
Probably not any better to give it to Ithilienne, either, although making pancakes with her, Haldirin, and Tharhîwon the other night had been good fun and good eating. It had taken Legolas’ mind off the feeling of Ithilienne’s hand in his, the eroticism of seeing her parents and her aunt and uncle most certainly enjoying the desires of the body together on the beach in the moonlight, and that muttered remark of hers.
He was, on reflection, glad the younger ellyn had been there – although he was sure that he would have been able to control himself, and not press her for more than a restrained goodnight kiss. But making pancakes together, and eating them with honey, had made him feel as if he, too, was little more than an elfling and it had been a good way to end the day.
Adar, of course, would have pointed out that Legolas was little more than an elfling – but then Adar was many yéni old. And, no matter what Adar had said during that last visit to Eryn Lasgalen, Legolas felt so much older than Ithilienne, her brother, and their friend; he had fought, since he was younger than the two ellyn, against the darkness of Dol Guldur, against the spiders, the orcs, and other horrors that beset what was then Mirkwood. He had guarded Gollum, travelled to Imladris to explain how he had let the strange creature escape, spent time in the presence of the One Ring, felt it try to corrupt his fëa, fought battles alongside Aragorn and Gimli, alongside the Rohirrim, alongside the Army of the Dead, alongside the army of Gondor…
He had stood at the very gates of Mordor and felt the hatred, the malice… No, Legolas knew he was no elfling, and somehow he felt too old; too old to flirt with such an innocent as Ithilienne. But he would dance with her tomorrow night, and kiss her, and hold the thought of it close to his heart until the next Solstice celebration.
………………………………..
At much the same time as Sam was considering gifting her with his fruit cake recipe Tindómë was contemplating murder. She did wonder whether dispatching her husband-mother off on another lap around Mandos’ Halls could be considered the Elven equivalent of justifiable homicide, but she thought probably not – the penal code didn’t seem to be that complex. Had she known about the impending fruit cake recipe she might have considered making it with added poisoning – except that, generally, such simple spices as deadly-nightshade and hemlock just didn’t cut it when given to Elves…
Rumil’s naneth did not approve of tomorrow’s Solstice celebrations. In fact she DID NOT APPROVE in capital letters. There had never been any such frivolity, just because it was the longest night, when the Galadhrim had lived in Lothlorien; the whole thing sounded totally uncivilised, the sort of thing Men, or Dwarves, might get up to, and she was shocked and appalled to think that her sons would even think of participating!
Tindómë had been caught somewhere between shocked and appalled herself – or possibly more shocked and amused – at the possibility of Dwarves not only dancing to the beat of the drums, but bedecking themselves in ribbons, swapping them for kisses, and indulging in the desires of the body under the trees. Or amongst the rocks, which was more likely for the Elves this year, and also slightly more Dwarvish than the trees would be. She must share the mental image of cavorting Dwarves with Legolas, he would be amused whilst sympathising with her over Rumil’s mother’s… existence… uh – attitude.
Ithilienne had unleashed her grandmother’s deluge of disapproval by asking if she would like to see the new dress, made with Lithôniel’s assistance, ‘For the Midwinter Celebrations’. And Haldirin had immediately joined in the conversation, sounding totally innocent, to ask if his grandparents would sit with their family for the feast or accompany Lady Galadriel.
Not that ‘That Elleth’, as Tindómë thought of her, had not heard of the upcoming festivities; she had simply assumed that her family would ignore it all, and she clearly did not approve of Her Ladyship deigning to attend. She had made her feelings on the whole subject very, very, clear in a diatribe that had gone on for a very long time – it felt like hours.
Rumil had been almost glacially calm, so not a good sign as his mother must surely know, even if she still didn’t know him very well; it would have been a bad sign from any Elf. Eventually, when she had either finished, or possibly just stopped for breath, he thanked his naneth for giving her opinion but, he said, he was very proud of his beautiful daughter, and hoped she would spend the whole night dancing… and collecting enough ribbons from ellyn to make a cushion to brighten her bedroom, just as ribbon cushions made by Tindómë and Lithôniel were scattered around the living room and their bedrooms.
He was equally proud of his son, he said, and hoped he would win any wagers on who would get rid of their ribbons fastest – he had a family reputation to uphold, after all, even if his father and uncles had earned much of it in a different setting.
Orophin, looking much more sombre than usual, had backed Rumil.
“If you do not wish to celebrate with us then perhaps you should just return to Tirion ahead of Her Ladyship,” he said, adding, “For I see no point in you remaining here if you disapprove so much of Rumil and I, our wives, and his children. “
‘Ouch!’ thought Tindómë.
Then another, quiet, firm voice joined the conversation. Adar Thorontor said little by comparison to his wife; Tindómë had thought within days of first meeting her in-laws that Rumil, even if his colouring came from his mother, was clearly his father’s son.
“I am proud of you both, my sons. You have grown into skilled warriors, it is clear that you both have the wives the Valar intended for you; both couples are so very well suited. My grandson and granddaughter are a joy to me and I hope to get to know all six of you better in the years to come.”
He took his wife by the arm, and steered her towards the door. Tindómë could guess the private conversation between the two of them, through their bond, as fleeting expressions crossed both faces.
At the door Adar Thorontor turned back, briefly and added, “I would be proud to join you, or to sit with Her Ladyship, but it may be better for us to do as you suggest, Orophin. In which case I will, most certainly, join you for your Solstice celebrations another time – I would like to learn more of the ways of my distant kin, which you have come to embrace.”
The door shut behind him and all six in the room said nothing for a minute or more. Finally Ithilienne broke the silence.
“Oh. Well I guess I can eat the sweetmeats we made to give her then…”
But Tindómë thought her mother-in-law had succeeded in spoiling the sense of anticipation somewhat – especially for her sons.
…………………………………………………..
Haldirin went to the hobbit hole with a spring in his step. It looked likely that he would win this wager with Tharhîwon even though the odds were only poor.
“Ha!” he greeted his friend, “You will end up cleaning my boots for a week – I am almost sure. Adar and Orophin finally spoke out. I think my daer-naneth will avoid the feast tomorrow. She might even be on the road back to Tirion by then.”
Tharhîwon pulled a face. “I really thought she would want to be there with Her Ladyship,” he said, “but I won’t be sad to lose this one – I would not want to ask her to dance anyway…”
Gimli appeared and joined them. He must have heard their conversation as he picked it up. “Aye – she’s finding change difficult, that one,” he said. “But now,” he added, “you won’t have to ask her to dance… so I have a proposition. The lad thinks I am stupid and that I would not know that he has money on me asking Her Ladyship for the first dance. But I think I might put a few coins on you, young fellow.”
He looked at Tharhîwon. “After all,” he went on, “you’ve known Her Ladyship for longer than almost anyone else who might ask – she wouldn’t think it odd if you asked her…”
Haldirin was so used to hearing the Dwarf refer to Legolas as ‘the lad’ that he did not even think of it as odd, but he could see Tharhîwon trying to stifle a smile at that point. By the time Gimli stopped speaking it was Haldirin who was grinning.
“You so should!” he said, unconsciously mimicking his mother’s speech. “And I would wager with Legolas between you and Gimli. I would not only let you off the boot cleaning, I would happily split the winnings with you – go on…”
“Why not?” Tharhîwon said. “As long as all I have to do is ask, and she can say no if she wishes, provided it is noted that I asked.”
The three shared conspiratorial handshakes and then went to eat second supper with Sam and Frodo.
…………………………………………………..
Midwinter morning was dry, bright, and sunny. Legolas had happily agreed the wager with Haldirin; he was sure he could persuade Gimli that it would save Her Ladyship from all manner of embarrassment if he was to ask her to dance.
The fire was ready for the evening, tables were being brought out to the grass above the beach, and small lights were being strung in the trees and bushes; just like home… either home. All his own people were finishing their last few preparations; there was a real feeling of anticipation – and if Tindómë’s smile was brighter than almost anyone else’s, since her husband-mother had decided not to attend, then Legolas could not blame her.
He still had a couple of gifts to wrap, but everything was going according to plan… until the strangers arrived.
…………………………………………………
daer-naneth - grand-mother.
Disclaimer: The characters in this story do not belong to me, but are being used for amusement only, and all rights remain with the estate of JRR Tolkien. And Joss Whedon if he ever recognises his Key...
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 04/05/2012 07:01 pm (UTC)I sympathise with Tindómë over her mother-in-law - I know the feeling. Mine never approved of anything, including me ...
Oh, and I remember the spiced pears recipe. I made it last Christmas - it was lovely!
no subject
Date: 04/05/2012 07:19 pm (UTC)I am lucky - I get on well with my mother-in-law; although this could well be in part because, even luckier, I only see her every three or four years, if that, as she lives in Australia these days.
The spiced pears came into my mind as I was eating some of our last ones, with a nice bit of cheese and a couple of oatcakes, when the chapter began to take shape in my mind - and it seemed such a very hobbitty recipe!
no subject
Date: 05/05/2012 11:49 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 05/05/2012 02:38 pm (UTC)So I am about to post it again, for both of us!
ETA - Here you are (http://curiouswombat.livejournal.com/312628.html).
no subject
Date: 04/05/2012 08:56 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 04/05/2012 09:39 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 04/05/2012 09:39 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 04/05/2012 10:27 pm (UTC)It is something of a family joke that I make the second best fruit cake on the island - I once put one into The Show (The Royal Manx Agricultural Show) and came second. My Mum will tell you it is really only third best - she wasn't competing...!
no subject
Date: 05/05/2012 11:47 am (UTC)Da-da-da-daaaaa! I wonder who it is?
My favourite bit of this chapter was Sam's wanting to hand his recipe down to Tindómë, and Legolas' surprise at Sam's calm acceptance of death.
no subject
Date: 05/05/2012 02:35 pm (UTC)Quite!
And I just thought that Sam would really want to make sure that someone here knew how to make proper, hobbit-style, food. And that, just as his family is his 'immortality' back in The Shire, his recipes are, here.
no subject
Date: 07/05/2012 10:35 am (UTC)- Erulisse (one L)
no subject
Date: 07/05/2012 11:20 am (UTC)This chapter is approaching recipe fic - but somehow hobbits and lovingly described food just go together.