The Joy of Togetherness

Ithilien, Late Spring  13 Fourth Age (1434  SR)

Faramir sat up in bed and saw that Éowyn was already up and at the balcony and gazing on the sunrise.  He quickly got up and walked over to the balcony and slid his arms around her trim waist.  Even after more than fifteen years of marriage and two children born, she remained as trim and as beautiful as the day he met her in the Houses of Healing.  He kissed her neck, “You’re up early.”

Éowyn sighed contently and leaned back into the solid and strong form of her husband of these many years, feeling loved and protected. “I just woke up and the seventeen thousand things I had to do tonight for your birthday banquet just keep running through my head and I thought I best get up and start tending to them.”

“And yet here you stand idly gazing…” Faramir teased.

“The sunrise was just too beautiful to ignore…”

Faramir hugged her just a little tighter and kissed her neck and looked at the sunrise. She had taught him to look up from his duty to see the world around him, to wonder at its beauty.  Ithilien, whose beauty had been forsaken for years beyond count had come alive again.  She had helped reawaken this slumbering land.  True to her word she had become a healer and loved all things that grew and Ithilien shined under her hand.

“By the way, my love.  Happy Birthday.”  Éowyn turned in his arms and looked into his gentle blue eyes and leaned up to kiss him.  The kiss deepened and little more was heard from the Lord and Lady of Emyn Arnen until later that morning.

~*~*~*~*~*~

The day before…

Elboron sat in the kitchens watching Cook go about her business, “Déorhild, what do you say?  I want to do something special for Papa’s birthday.  Something he won’t expect.”

“Aye, young master Elboron,” Déorhild said a little non-plussed, “He certainly won’t expect that his own son and heir to have baked him his very own birthday cake!”

“So, you will help me do it?” Elboron asked, excitedly.

Déorhild looked at the tow-headed child looking at her so expectantly.  He was an endearing child, quick-witted and affectionate.  She generally could deny him nothing, though she had the reputation of being something of a dragon, he always managed to find that chink in her armour that found its way straight into her heart.  This idea was fraught with disaster, but she would watch over him to try and minimize the damage.  She looked at him, “Of course, young master.  But look you be here at early in the morning. No dawdling.  For this will take some time!”

Elboron hugged her, and kissed her cheek, “You are the best, Déorhild.  Together we shall make something special.”

Together they had made a mess, but they had also indeed made a cake.  Elboron arrived bright and early.  The morning kitchen staff gawked to see the young master measuring out flour at the behest of Déorhild. In the middle measuring out Elboron looked at Eóhild, one of the kitchen maids who frequently had put cakes by for him to eat, and then around to the rest of the kitchen staff.  “Can I ask all of you to keep a secret?” All within hearing bobbed a respectful nod, ready to hear what the young master, kind-hearted but mischievous had to say to them. Elboron, sensing he had everyone’s attention, announced, “I am going to make my papa a birthday cake. And I want it to be a surprise!”

“Aye ‘Twill be a surprise, that’s certain.” Eóhild said with a bemused smile on her face. 

Elboron looked at her, “that is exactly what I want!”

Déorhild then said, “All right be off with ya.  Back to your jobs and remember mum’s the word.”

There was a general murmur of assent and smiles and kindly looks directed toward Elboron.

“Right!” Déorhild said emphatically. “Let us make a cake! Let’s have the flour!”

Elboron wrinkled his nose as he tried to remember and then admitted, “I kinda lost count after talking to everyone...”

“No matter!” Déorhild said cheerily, “Dump it back into the barrel and we shall start again.”

And before Déorhild could instruct differently Elboron quickly upended the flour into the barrel, with predictable results.  The up-ended flour hit the flour in the container in a near-silent thwump producing a large puff of flour dust to fly up and coat the face of the little boy, who had been looking into the flour barrel as he dumped it back in.  Elboron immediately started coughing. 

Déorhild cast her eyes skyward, shook her head slightly and said, “And this, young master, is why we gently place the flour back a little at a time,” as she gently tapped the boy on the back as the dust cleared.

“But you didn’t say that!” Elboron said still choking a little.

“You did not give me any time to say!  Young master,” Déorhild gently admonished, “I know you want to do this yourself, but I ask that you allow me to give you some direction along the way.  Can you do that for me?”

Elboron looked at her with flour rimmed thick blond lashes surrounding his wide blue eyes and nodded his head.

“Good! Now close your eyes!”  Elboron obediently did as she asked and Déorhild blew on his face to loosen much of the flour still holding residence upon his face causing him to giggle.  She brushed off the stubborn remnants with clean kitchen toweling. That done she pushed aside his thick blond hair and planted a kiss on his forehead. “Now then,” she declared briskly, “Measure out that flour and let’s get on!”

They were making honey cakes.  It was his papa’s favourite, and truth be told it was Elboron’s as well.  Déorhild made sure that he had all the measuring jobs done properly.  When she turned to the stove to begin the process of making the heavy cream for the cake it got quiet behind her.  She turned back to see Elboron holding the honey dripper over his mouth rather than over the measuring cup. “Young Master!” Elboron started as if he were a guilty thing, which of course he was and sending the dripping stream of onto the side of his mouth and shirt. “That is not how we measure out honey!”

“But it looked so tempting.  I just had to drizzle some into my mouth!”

“Into the cup please,” Déorhild spoke in a pointed and measured meter, but she softened the effect with a smile as she wet her thumb and rubbed off the stickiness from his cheek and was rewarded with an aggrieved, “Déorhild! You’re rubbing too hard!”

“If I didn’t, you’d be a sticky mess!” and proceeded to dry off his cheek with the same kitchen toweling she had used to de-flour his face.

She did not however allow him to chop up the nuts to go into the glazing.  That she did quietly herself while having Elboron fetch more butter from the larder for the buttering of the cake pans.

With all the ingredients measured out they began the mixing.  Elboron attempted to crack the eggs and the first two were successful but he got a little overconfident with the third egg and the next five minutes were spent trying to fish eggshell out of the mixing bowl.   Déorhild cracked the last remaining eggs and beat them while she had him prepare the flour mixture under her watchful eye. Finally, the batter was done, and it was ready to go into the stove. 

“Now for the icing!” Déorhild exclaimed and Elboron’s eyes grew wide with anticipation.  At that Finduílas entered the kitchens.

“There you are!” Finduílas saw all the mixing bowls and ingredients strewn about the worktable. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing…” Elboron hedged.  Déorhild just eyed the boy, encouraging him with a pointed look to include his sister. He relented, “We’re making a birthday cake for Papa.”

“Oooo!,” Finduílas exclaimed, “Can I help?”

“Well…”Elboron hedged again, “We are just about finished…”

“Young Master…” Déorhild said sternly, “Your sister can help with the icing.  You can let her help.”

Elboron paused for a second and then said, “Yes, Ma’am.”  He reached across the table and grabbed a measuring cup inspected it for cleanliness, more to show Finduílas that he knew what he was doing and she needed to listen to him than any genuine concern for cleanliness , “you can measure out the powdered sugar!”

Finduílas smiled and walked over to the portion of the table where there was powdered sugar and bowl.

While this instruction was being delivered from older brother to younger sister, Déorhild looked up and she saw the Lady Eowyn standing just outside the kitchen archway.  She had been watching and had an indescribably happy look on her face.  Déorhild bowed slightly to her ladyship and motioned to the children. 

Eowyn smiled larger watching her children working together.  She mouthed to Déorhild, “I’ll come back later.”  Déorhild at first nodded, but then held up her hand in an effort to stay her ladyship.  She quietly slipped into the hall space where Eowyn remained in place, watching. “Please my lady.  The little master came to me yesterday wanting to surprise his father with a cake that he made him.  I could not say no.”

“Good Mistress Déorhild, no explanations needed.  I am quite happy with this!”

Déorhild smiled, “Oh and one more thing, my lady.  Can you not tell the Lord Faramir?  The young master so desperately wants this to be a surprise.”

“Not a word,” Eowyn vowed.  “I will come back later, and we will then discuss the matters which I sought you out.”  With that Eowyn slipped away and Déorhild went back to supervise the children.

“Now where’s the powdered sugar!” Finduílas proudly presented a near-perfectly leveled off measuring cup of the soft white sugar, “Oh well done, my lady!  Well done!” Finduílas preened under the praise of the usually stern woman.

“I showed her how!” Elboron exclaimed.

“And a very good job you did!”  The boy smiled. “Can you hand the rest of that butter, young master!”  Elboron handed her the small bowl he had retrieved from the larder.

Déorhild then scooped the requisite amount of butter into the mixing bowl containing the powdered sugar and set about mixing, giving each child a chance to stir after the sugar and butter were sufficiently mixed.  Next came the honey which was to be folded into the recipe, this time measured by Déorhild as not to tempt Elboron from drizzling honey into his mouth a second time. 

Lastly came the heavy cream, “Young master, hand me that bit of cream we set aside from the cake batter!” Elboron immediately tried to look too innocent which fired up Déorhild’s suspicions immediately. “Young Master Elboron,” she looked pointedly at the boy still trying too hard to look innocent, “where is that little bowl you were holding?”

Elboron looked around then admitted, “It was just a lit bit so I ate it.” He ended sheepishly.

Déorhild held her mouth shut and looked skyward, “Young master,” she reasoned, successfully reigning the temper that would have been unleashed on kitchen staff who had made a similar mistake, “I mentioned that we were going to use that for the icing.”

Elboron’s eyes grew troubled, “I’m sorry, Déorhild.  I guess I didn’t listen very well.”

Déorhild looked at the boy and sighed, “Ah well, it’s not the end of the world. Don’t you fret. Just listen a little better next time, Hmmm.”  she picked his chin to look into his blue eyes, “Do you hear?”

Elboron looked at her, “Yes, Ma’am.”

“That’s my good little man!  Well then would you like to see how we make heavy cream!”  Both children nodded enthusiastically. 

The icing was finished with no more mishaps.  Déorhild took a peek at the cakes rising nicely. She turned to the two children and said, “Now be off with you both and comeback in an hour and we should be ready to apply icing!”

The two scampered off and almost literally ran in their father.  Faramir raised an eyebrow, “So where are you two off in such a rush and coming from the kitchens.  You’ve not been bothering Cook, have you?”

“No, Papa! We haven’t,” Elboron shook his blond lock earnestly. Faramir dropped to a knee and looked at his daughter.

“Honest, Papa.  We haven’t.” Finduílas shook her head so quickly her ponytail whipped around.  Faramir spied some remnants of flour on Elboron’s tunic.  Curious indeed.

“All right, then.  You two run along and try to stay out of trouble!”

Finduílas tried to look innocent, “We do try to stay out of trouble, but it somehow finds us.”

Faramir just looked at his two children and shook his head but with affection in his eyes.

“Come on, Las!  I’ve got something to show you!”

Before they left, Finduílas kissed her papa on the cheek and said, “Happy Birthday, Papa!”

“Thank you, sweetling!” he hugged his little daughter.

“We have a surprise for you!” 

“Las!” Elboron shouted.

“Oh!  I wasn’t supposed to say!   You didn’t hear that, Papa.  Did you?”  Worry wrinkled her young little face as she pulled away from the hug.

“Hear what?” Faramir said quickly.

“Come on, Las!” Elboron said a little more impatiently and the two ran off to parts unknown.

Faramir stood up as he watched his children ran down the hallway.  Curiosity peaked, he then walked to the kitchens.  Immediately all activity ground to a halt and all bowed.  “Please, Please! Return to what you were doing.” Faramir quickly said, “Sorry to have interrupted. Good Mistress Déorhild, might I have a word.”

“Aye, my lord.  Of course.”  They walked over to the hall space near the archway entrance into the kitchens. 

Déorhild stood awaited her lord’s words, wiping her hand on her apron, reflexively.  Faramir looked at the older woman who been with them for many years. “I just saw both Elboron and Finduílas leaving the kitchens.  They weren’t getting underfoot, were they?”

“Oh no! My lord.  They are dear little things. High spirited at times, but dear.”

Faramir looked a little bemused, “That is good to hear…why was there a spill of flour on Elboron’s tunic?”

“Oh! my lord,  if I can ask to not tell you?  Young Master Elboron wanted to do something special for your birthday and he really wanted it to be a surprise for you.”

Faramir looked beyond surprised, “Yes, of course. Mistress Déorhild.  I will leave there, then.” His face held a bemused smile.  “Oh.  Please continue with your work!”

Déorhild bobbed a slight cursty, “If I may be so bold, my lord.  I and the kitchen staff would like to wish you a happy birthday.”

Faramir looked at the older woman and bowed his head with his hand on his heart, “Thank you, Good Mistress Déorhild and thank your staff as well.”

Déorhild nodded and returned to the kitchen.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

That evening

It was small in term of banquets but Faramir did prefer it that way, if he was honest.  Unfortunately, Éomer and Lothíriel had been unable to attend, but Aragorn and Arwen had and it was always a pleasure to be able to be in Aragorn’s presence as friends and not in their official titles of King and Steward.  Legolas and Gimli were of course in residence in Ithilien House as they so often were.  The main course plates had been cleared and the wine was flowing.  The Master Attendant Ingon tapped for attention and the hall fell quiet.  Aragorn stood with his goblet held high and proposed a toast, “Faramir, my counselor and more importantly, my friend.  We are all gathered here tonight to wish you the happiest of birthdays.  Raise your goblets to Faramir, Steward to the King and Prince of Ithilien!”

Faramir still blushed to his roots being put on the spot like this, even after all the years that had passed.  He stood and raised his goblet. “I will only say, thank you.  To my dear friends and my still-stunningly beautiful wife! Thank you!” He was about to sit when Aragorn directed his gaze to the main aisle. Walking up were Elboron and Finduílas and they carrying what looked to be a somewhat lopsided cake but the smiles on their faces more than made up for any lack of symmetry of said cake. 

They reached the head table and with the help of the Master Attendant they had it set right in front of Faramir. “Happy Birthday, Papa!” they both sang out.  Elboron said, “I made this cake for you Papa! It’s your favourite!”

Faramir was stunned.  “You made this!?  All by yourself?”

Elboron had an attack of honesty, “Well I made most of it, but I did have a lot of help from Déorhild.”

Finduílas chimed in, “I helped to make the icing!”

Faramir looked at his daughter, “And it looks delicious, my sweetling!”

Faramir glanced at Éowyn, “Did you know about this?”

Éowyn shook her head, “Not until this morning when I saw them in the kitchens!”

Faramir quickly navigated around the head table and wrapped both his children in a big bear hug, kissing them both on the head, “Thank you!  What a lovely thing to do!”

“Taste it, Papa!”  Elboron said.

The Master Attendant sliced off a piece and handed him the plate and a fork extended.

Nodding his thanks to Ingon, Faramir sliced a piece off the little slab. The first bite was…very good, but even if it had tasted like sawdust, he still would have loved it because it came from the heart.  “Wonderful!  I love it!”

He was gifted with two beaming smiles.  The best presents he could ask for on his birthday.

The Pain of Not Knowing

Mirkwood, April 3019 TA

Thranduil stood amidst ash, partially burnt tree limbs and burnt underbrush.  He looked around and saw wide sections of the forest that held only the burnt-out trunks of trees.  He felt the pain of the forest, the cries of the trees and the lingering memories of trees that been turned to ash.  He felt desolate.  They had lost- no, he stopped himself.  That was not true.  They had won, the free peoples of Middle Earth had vanquished Sauron the Deceiver.  He was unsure how, but he felt it the air.  But at what cost, they had lost so much in the process.   He looked around at the desolation.  The forest was and had always been a part of his soul since the day his father, Oropher had led them down the mountain and into the Greenwood.  His father, Thranduil thought and closed his eyes against the renewed pain of loss.  He had lost his father in a battle that had stripped his very soul.  Another “victory” against Sauron, he could only pray to the Valar that there was never another battle because he would not survive it.  Body and soul would be ripped asunder.  He was faintly amused that he had survived this one.  He stood rooted to the spot feeling the pain of the forest wash through him.  He was alive.  That would be the starting point. He reached out with his essence to touch the trees.  To say goodbye to those trees that lay as ash that would in the fullness of time would become an aid in growth for newborn trees.  He reached out to trees that had been traumatized, their spirits shy, hiding even from him.  In his heart he coaxed them to show themselves that the war was over.  There would no longer be fire.  Slowly he and the Greenwood would rebuild each other.

“Adar?”  He heard his oldest son’s voice; it was a balm upon his soul that his oldest sons, both Celebren and Sadron, had survived the firestorm that had been the battle amid the trees.  He closed his eyes and tried to quell the pain that he knew lived in his eyes at this moment. His child did not need to see that.  He could not burden him with such knowledge.

Celebren waited for his father to acknowledge his presence.  When Thranduil did finally look upon his son the depth of pain he saw in his father’s eyes almost floored him. He as Crown Prince, also held communion with the trees, the entire ruling family of Mirkwood did, but the communion was strongest within Thranduil.  “Celeborn is here.”

Thranduil looked at his son and bent his head in acknowledgement.  Celebren bowed and moved to see to other matters but Thranduil stilled his motion with his nearest hand.  Thranduil looked into the eyes of his eldest son and laced his fingers through Celebren’s silver hair, cradling his eldest son’s head. He gently leaned forward and kissed his son’s forehead and breathed deeply.  Celebren felt somehow renewed in spirit and when he looked for a second time into his father’s eyes he saw a kernel of joy trying to combat despair.  He heard his father whisper, “Celebren, my son.  You give me the strength to carry on, Hannon Le!”

Celebren was stunned.  Thranduil was not generally given to effusive praise and always seemed to him as a tower of strength and resolve.  But this battle under the trees had taken the last of Thranduil’s reserves. He bent, and voiced words from his soul.  “It has been my highest honor to have been of service to you, My King and my Adar.”

Thranduil bent hand on heart and strode towards Celeborn.  He saw the Lord of Light and he seemed changed somehow.  As if a secret sorrow was nestled within his heart.  Thranduil bowed to him, “My Lord Celeborn.” He looked up into ageless grey eyes that had possibly seen even more than he had. 

“Thranduil King, we meet again.”  Celeborn also looked around and viewed the destruction that the battle under the trees had brought.  He closed his eyes to the pain he saw around him.  A silent prayer to the Valar was said in his heart, “Please, I beg of you.  Let this be an end to it.”

The two elven lords just stood still for a moment joined by their silent recognition of the moment and all the sacrifice that had led to this moment of stillness and possibility of lasting peace.

It was Thranduil that broke the silence, “So, how shall we go forward from here.”  His voice devoid of any of the side or posturing that might have occurred in previous meetings.  While he and Celeborn were kinsman by way of Thingol, their relationship had had its share of misgivings and misunderstandings.  Too much had happened of late to give those sorts of grievances any sort of light.  Celeborn looked at him and he could see in the Sindarin Lord’s visage he held much the same opinion of the old injuries to pride and circumstance.  And yet there was more hidden in his eyes.  Thranduil was unsure that he wished to know; he bore too much of his own pain to carry still more from another, even a kinsman.  Thranduil motioned that they move off to a glade near by that was on the borders of devastation but somehow remained more or less untouched.  Thranduil’s attendant, Guildor motioned for his lord’s retinue to join and attend the King, but Thranduil turned to his attendant of long years to belay the standard action, stating, “No, my friend.  I do not wish that.  I need to be alone with my cousin.”

“As you wish, my king,” Guildor stated in all obedience, but with a concerned glint in his eye. He bowed and retreated.

Celeborn was a little taken aback by Thranduil’s use of the word “Cousin.”  Their relationship was a complicated one and for reasons dating back centuries Thranduil very rarely gave voice to their bond of kinship. “Lead the way.” He remarked cordially.

Entering the glade brought mixed emotions to Thranduil.  He could feel the joy of the greenery around but much of the innocence had been lost.  Many portions of Mirkwood for centuries had had their innocence corrupted, but much of the northern forest had been protected by Thranduil’s sheer force of personality and vigilance. But even in and among the northern enclave within Thranduil’s protection destruction had been wrought. The despair brought by the fires of battle still lingered in the collective spirit of these trees even though some, such as the ones ringing the glade, remained outwardly undamaged.  Thranduil closed his eyes and turned his face upwards, communing once again with the wounded spirits of the trees, each trying to heal the other.

Celeborn stood silent, waiting for his kinsman to come back to him.  He could feel a nascent stirring within him as all Elves are bound to Arda but the connection between Thranduil and his forest was a sight to behold.

Thranduil slowly came back to himself and looked on Celeborn, seeming more refreshed than he had when they entered the glade. “Pardon for the delay,” he said to his kinsman.

Celeborn deferred, “None needed.”

Thranduil motioned that they seat themselves on upon the springy grass in the middle of the glade.  Celeborn sat himself down and crossed his legs, refraining from commenting upon the ingrained informal ways of the Silvan elves.

Thranduil, whether he picked up upon Celeborn’s thoughts or he was merely expressing his own thinking, said by way of explanation, “Forgive the lack of formality, cousin.  I find at present I have not the strength for or desire to put up a show.”  He paused briefly, a slash of pain crossing his face.  All pretense gone, he looked at Celeborn, “I ask only as an adar, do you know what has become of my son?”

~*~*~*~*~

A/N:  I am probably going to turn this into a multi-chaptered story.