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phynckeArc: The First Age Tales
Title: The Morning Fog
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
phyncke
For: OEAM Writer's Circle*
Pairing: Fingolfin/Ariannon (slash implied), Fingon mentioned.
Rating: G
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, they are the property of JRR Tolkien and his estate, and I have borrowed them for my own amusement and for yours I hope.
Warnings/Note: Stuff about the weather and please look at the icon before reading this story.
Beta:aglarien1
Summary: The king faces the morning in contemplation from the Mithrim fortress wall; fog like pea soup.
I am falling,
Like a stone
Like a storm
Being born again,
Into the sweet, morning fog
Kate Bush, The Hounds of Love
Each morning was a Hithlum greeting, the fog, above the wall, the peaks, a silent testimony.
Fingolfin awoke earlier than most in the citadel, except perhaps the breakfast cook, or mayhap the watch who stood on the wall. Most definitely he would be up before his lover, who slept on peacefully beneath the comfortable down coverlet. The king might take a moment to watch him there, his auburn hair fanned on the pillow, red lips slightly parted, so free in sleep, as in his daily life.
But then the king would slip out of the room to dress in his simple clothing to greet the Hithlum morning. He liked to do this, to remind himself of the lands which surrounded the capital, of Middle-earth beyond, and the menace imminent upon which he would meditate. This had become his routine each day, a focus, a comfort. Sometimes he thought of his wife, so far away in the Undying Lands; other times he would ponder a vexing issue which remained unresolved or a debate with Fingon. Other times he would think of nothing…and listen to the wind whistle along the stones of the keep.
Today, as he grabbed his fur lined cloak and stepped out onto the rampart, he walked right and wound around to the hill side of Mithrim fortress. He passed one of the guards, murmured a greeting and turned the corner to take up a private vantage point upon Ered Wethrim. The fog was a palpable thing, rolling down from the peaks to shroud the lower hills. An enemy could hide in such cover. This fleeting thought passed through the king’s mind. They could be caught unaware by Morgoth, set upon before they knew it. This was not good.
Still, he liked the fog. It had a calming beauty to it, a serenity, and at this hour a quiet that made him contemplate his life.
“Good morning, Sire.”
Fingolfin leaned on the granite wall. “Hello there, Alcarien. All is well this morning?”
“Yes, Sire. Nothing moves out there but the mist, as far as I can reckon.”
“That is good.”
“Yes, Sire. Good morning to you.” The sentry moved along to complete his circuit of the wall.
“And to you.”
The king turned his thoughtful gaze out upon the mountains, unable to pierce the dense mist layer blanketing the landscape. The clouds had moved down, and now he found that they were creeping across the plain approaching the walls. Soon the fortress itself would be covered in the stuff. This happened each day as the fog traveled its path over Mithrim Lake. If the weather was fine, it would dissipate; but on a rainy day, it lingered, creating an atmosphere of gloom and doom. Such weather dampened the spirits of all in the castle and set the king’s temper on edge. Much as he liked his morning commune with the mist, it had its time and place and should not exceed that. Ariannon liked to tease Fingolfin that even HE could not control the weather much as he might like to through force of will and angry pacing.
To the east, over the peaks, the Noldor king could see the clouds lighten with the sunrise. It would be another cool, yet glorious day here in Hithlum territory. The mist would burn off by noon and the dew would glisten on the grassy plain, making it glow like gems. He really loved this land in all its elegant wildness and wonder.
He breathed the cold air and exhaled, letting the small cloud of his own breathe float for precious seconds before turning to go. The tea would be ready; Ariannon might be delightfully disheveled within, and the day could no longer be held back by this moment.
His steps resounded on the stone as he walked inside and back to his duties.
*The beginning…of his day.*
Author's Note:
“Alcarien” is derived from the word alcar in quenya signifying glory.
Note:*
This story was originally written for a prompt on tripledogdare and is to find its inspiration in the icon used while posting.
Icon is used while posting and is by ashen_memories.
Title: The Morning Fog
Author:
phynckeFor: OEAM Writer's Circle*
Pairing: Fingolfin/Ariannon (slash implied), Fingon mentioned.
Rating: G
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, they are the property of JRR Tolkien and his estate, and I have borrowed them for my own amusement and for yours I hope.
Warnings/Note: Stuff about the weather and please look at the icon before reading this story.
Beta:
aglarien1Summary: The king faces the morning in contemplation from the Mithrim fortress wall; fog like pea soup.
I am falling,
Like a stone
Like a storm
Being born again,
Into the sweet, morning fog
Kate Bush, The Hounds of Love
Each morning was a Hithlum greeting, the fog, above the wall, the peaks, a silent testimony.
Fingolfin awoke earlier than most in the citadel, except perhaps the breakfast cook, or mayhap the watch who stood on the wall. Most definitely he would be up before his lover, who slept on peacefully beneath the comfortable down coverlet. The king might take a moment to watch him there, his auburn hair fanned on the pillow, red lips slightly parted, so free in sleep, as in his daily life.
But then the king would slip out of the room to dress in his simple clothing to greet the Hithlum morning. He liked to do this, to remind himself of the lands which surrounded the capital, of Middle-earth beyond, and the menace imminent upon which he would meditate. This had become his routine each day, a focus, a comfort. Sometimes he thought of his wife, so far away in the Undying Lands; other times he would ponder a vexing issue which remained unresolved or a debate with Fingon. Other times he would think of nothing…and listen to the wind whistle along the stones of the keep.
Today, as he grabbed his fur lined cloak and stepped out onto the rampart, he walked right and wound around to the hill side of Mithrim fortress. He passed one of the guards, murmured a greeting and turned the corner to take up a private vantage point upon Ered Wethrim. The fog was a palpable thing, rolling down from the peaks to shroud the lower hills. An enemy could hide in such cover. This fleeting thought passed through the king’s mind. They could be caught unaware by Morgoth, set upon before they knew it. This was not good.
Still, he liked the fog. It had a calming beauty to it, a serenity, and at this hour a quiet that made him contemplate his life.
“Good morning, Sire.”
Fingolfin leaned on the granite wall. “Hello there, Alcarien. All is well this morning?”
“Yes, Sire. Nothing moves out there but the mist, as far as I can reckon.”
“That is good.”
“Yes, Sire. Good morning to you.” The sentry moved along to complete his circuit of the wall.
“And to you.”
The king turned his thoughtful gaze out upon the mountains, unable to pierce the dense mist layer blanketing the landscape. The clouds had moved down, and now he found that they were creeping across the plain approaching the walls. Soon the fortress itself would be covered in the stuff. This happened each day as the fog traveled its path over Mithrim Lake. If the weather was fine, it would dissipate; but on a rainy day, it lingered, creating an atmosphere of gloom and doom. Such weather dampened the spirits of all in the castle and set the king’s temper on edge. Much as he liked his morning commune with the mist, it had its time and place and should not exceed that. Ariannon liked to tease Fingolfin that even HE could not control the weather much as he might like to through force of will and angry pacing.
To the east, over the peaks, the Noldor king could see the clouds lighten with the sunrise. It would be another cool, yet glorious day here in Hithlum territory. The mist would burn off by noon and the dew would glisten on the grassy plain, making it glow like gems. He really loved this land in all its elegant wildness and wonder.
He breathed the cold air and exhaled, letting the small cloud of his own breathe float for precious seconds before turning to go. The tea would be ready; Ariannon might be delightfully disheveled within, and the day could no longer be held back by this moment.
His steps resounded on the stone as he walked inside and back to his duties.
*The beginning…of his day.*
Author's Note:
“Alcarien” is derived from the word alcar in quenya signifying glory.
Note:*
This story was originally written for a prompt on tripledogdare and is to find its inspiration in the icon used while posting.
Icon is used while posting and is by ashen_memories.
