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eye_of_a_catWith thanks for giving me the opportunity to write things I wouldn't usually write and that none of you asked for Byron.
Lochley + teacup, for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
selenak:
They couldn't afford much back then. There was the furniture that came with the place once they'd signed the lease, laughing over how she'd misspelled the new name - a table, three chairs that didn't match, a bad with an uneven mattress and a rust-coloured sofa faded in the sun. It didn't matter, they told each other. It was temporary, they'd find somewhere better soon. And anyway, they had each other, and they'd have their careers worked out once they managed to get stationed somewhere together, and he thought all this was fun.
The day they moved in, they spent three hours combing through the things other tenants had left behind. Three books covered in dust told A Dramatic Tale Of Love, Heartbreak And Hope, and they read out paragraphs to each other in serious tones until she complained he'd ruined the ending and he started to laugh. There was a pack of playing cards missing the eight of diamonds and all the aces, and a bag of rice at the back of a kitchen cupboard that looked like it was starting to sprout things. And there were teacups, six white china teacups with matching saucers carefully wrapped in newspaper in a broken crate. "You think someone forgot to take them?" he said, and she shook her head.
Nobody else would understand, that was the thing. Their families would say it was too young and too soon, but there'd been no point in waiting when they could get stationed so far apart, and it felt good to curl up together in the afternoon and plan out their future.
Maybe it wasn't perfect. They argued a lot, argued about stupid things, and every time she swore she wasn't going to be the one to back down. Still, she would eventually - or he would, and afterwards it didn't really matter which. She knew they could get past that, though. The rest of the time was worth every screaming row they could ever have. And they'd have coped and things would have settled down, and it would all have been fine.
If it wasn't for the teacups, she'd have kept believing that.
It happened on a day that brought endless, miserable sheets of rain down from an unrelenting grey sky. She was sitting by the windowsill that was all dead flies and peeling paint, and he curled an arm around her shoulders - this didn't get to him, nothing got to him, he still thought living here was fun - and tried to cheer her up. "It's not so bad," he said. "We've got each other. And, hey, we've got six china teacups. What more does anyone need?"
She laughed. "That was so -" she began, and then realised. "Never mind."
"That was so what?"
"You just reminded me of someone."
It was Zoe, half-drunk and cobwebs in her hair and barefoot because she'd kicked off her shoes, scrabbling underneath the floorboards in that old hotel. She'd seen something just out of reach, and she was even more determined to get it for all the warnings that it wasn't worth trying, although they both kept laughing and she couldn't reach - "This could be someone's buried treasure! You'll thank me when you're rich." And when she finally got hold, and it was a box of old nails, she'd blown the hair back from her forehead and looked at it solemnly. "Nails," she said. "What more could we have asked for?"
He asked, of course. And she'd have told him eventually, she'd always planned to. Just not now.
It was the worst fight they'd ever had, worse than the time she smashed the kitchen light. It went on for so long that the neighbours banged on the walls, not that it made any difference, and she was sick with fury and tears and screaming at him to just, for God's sake, let this one go. When she gave in, telling him about Zoe was all the ammunition she'd got left.
"My God," he said quietly. "I didn't - I'm sorry. I had no idea." And in a sudden afterthought of irration, "How come you never said?"
"After the way you just acted, you're wondering why I never said?"
He rubbed at his face. "That's fair. It's just - I couldn't understand why you weren't telling me."
"You don't understand anything," she said.
The sun was pale through the clouds. She wrapped her arms around her knees to watch it, exhausted. He didn't reach out to touch her. "We'll make it work," he said.
But for the first time, they both knew he was lying.
----
Gimli + elves, formeg_the_ebmod:
Dwarves keep secrets like jewels, beautiful and bright and hidden from those who would not appreciate them. They did not sleep in the days after they were made; they lay awake in the darkness beneath stone, and they grew to love the gems, the ores, the seams of quartz, the very rock itself. The other peoples of Middle-earth do not know this.
Gimli learnt early in his life how to twist copper into thin filaments of fire, and how the brittle surface of slate could become smooth curves of ornament under his touch. His father stood beside him and laughed when frustration overcame his patience. "See with your hands, as you would in the dark," he said, and when Gimli allowed the liquid enamel to fall as it wished, the stars in Kheled-zaram shone just as he imagined on the curved face of a shield.
Naugrim, the elves called them, the stunted people. Once it was gonnhirrim, masters of stone. Once they came with gifts to trade for knowledge, the High-elves of old; once Eol brought his son to kneel in the sweating heat of forges and learn the secrets of metal. If the elves have forgotten this, the dwarves have not. Things of beauty should be loved, and those who can only see this as greed know too little to keep such things for themselves.
Gimli travelled the lands above ground, finding new things to carve and sculpt and mould. Middle-earth gives up its secrets generously to those who look - the sag of boughs under their own weight, the flicker of sunlight on fast-running water, the sharp, cold blue of shadows in snowdrifts. When his father left to recover the treasures of the King under the Mountain, Gimli begged to follow. He could fight. He would be no hindrance. And there were so many things yet to see: the halls of the dwarf-lords, the glittering caverns hewn from rock, and would it be best to use copper or bronze to mimic a dragon's scales? His father told him to stay. Next time, he said, you can follow me.
In Khuzdul, each word tells one of the secrets of the thing it names. The word for 'elves', which they do not speak to outsiders, might contain the sound for 'starlight', which they love even above the burning sun; it might slur into the sharp constonants of 'traitor', for what else describes those who turn against their teachers? Often it echoes the sound for 'second', since second-born they were and are and will remain. And spoken quietly, with the first sound stressed, it says only 'strangers'. The secrets of strangers are not known.
When his father returned from the Mountain, cursing the arrogance of wood-elves who throw good people into dungeons, Gimli forgot to care about their secrets for a time. It was not until many years later that Gloin prepared to leave for distant lands once again, and now Gimli followed.
"What are you taking me to see?" he asked, as fallen leaves crunched on the path beneath their boots. "What things could elves have to show us?"
"Secrets," said Gloin. "The ones our own eyes would hide from us."
On a road that curves like a river beneath the stars, they turned towards the place that elves call Imladris, and men call Rivendell. But the Dwarvish name for it is not known.
----
Grima, forkakodaimon:
Part of what they said about him as a child was true - he was, indeed, scared of the horses. Horses are large and heavy and quick to panic, and he'd once seen a stable-boy kicked backwards over a trough, breaking his arm. It was sensible, not cowardly, to be wary of things that could be dangerous. And whatever else they called him, he wasn't stupid.
It is not possible to avoid horses in Rohan, and so he took great care to watch them. He lay on his stomach in the sun, or tucked fists deep inside his sleeves when the wind blew bitter and cold, and learnt how to read the language of snaked necks and flattened ears that horses use with each other. While he was doing this, he noticed something else: the stallions, all power and muscle and strength, never led the herd. It was always one of the older mares, usually bony and scarred and slow, that decided when they would go down to the stream or away to new grazing grounds. The stallions only ever followed.
He never wanted to command troops in battle. He knew where his strengths lay, and it wasn't in the world of spears and shields. He never wanted a crown, or to be carried high by a cheering crowd - such things were fickle, given just as easily to some grinning idiot with a good sword-arm as they were to those who earned them. In his youth, he still wanted their friendship, but the chance of that was kicked out of him by words and boots alike, and when it had gone he did not much miss it. He did, however, want to lead.
"A wise choice, my lord," he learnt to say. Or "Understandable, yes, but would this not be best instead?" In return, the people of Edoras spoke well of the wisdom of Theoden King. For many years he did not care what they thought of him - let them scorn him if they liked, let them mock him when he wasn't there. Theoden himself called him wise, trustworthy, and a loyal servant of his king. And so he went on.
No doubt he would have known better than to trust Saruman, in other circumstances. That day the wizard came to Edoras, he never suggested he should be permitted to stay longer than the brief reception Theoden allowed him. And no doubt it would have stayed that way, if Saruman hadn't thanked him personally afterwards. "Theoden King is fortunate to have such a wise companion to lead alongside him," he said. "The Rohirrim must respect you greatly." The tight feeling in Grima's throat reminded him of long ago.
A colleague, Saruman called him. An ally. The words were like honeycomb, too rich and warm to hold between his fingers. A friend. When all else crumbled, he still had these things to clutch at. He had never desired a great deal. This, this was all.
So when the halflings dared look at him with pity, and Saruman turned that laughing, twisted face towards him - You do what Sharkey says, always, don't you, Worm? Well, now he says: follow! - what else could he do?
Lochley + teacup, for
selenak:They couldn't afford much back then. There was the furniture that came with the place once they'd signed the lease, laughing over how she'd misspelled the new name - a table, three chairs that didn't match, a bad with an uneven mattress and a rust-coloured sofa faded in the sun. It didn't matter, they told each other. It was temporary, they'd find somewhere better soon. And anyway, they had each other, and they'd have their careers worked out once they managed to get stationed somewhere together, and he thought all this was fun.
The day they moved in, they spent three hours combing through the things other tenants had left behind. Three books covered in dust told A Dramatic Tale Of Love, Heartbreak And Hope, and they read out paragraphs to each other in serious tones until she complained he'd ruined the ending and he started to laugh. There was a pack of playing cards missing the eight of diamonds and all the aces, and a bag of rice at the back of a kitchen cupboard that looked like it was starting to sprout things. And there were teacups, six white china teacups with matching saucers carefully wrapped in newspaper in a broken crate. "You think someone forgot to take them?" he said, and she shook her head.
Nobody else would understand, that was the thing. Their families would say it was too young and too soon, but there'd been no point in waiting when they could get stationed so far apart, and it felt good to curl up together in the afternoon and plan out their future.
Maybe it wasn't perfect. They argued a lot, argued about stupid things, and every time she swore she wasn't going to be the one to back down. Still, she would eventually - or he would, and afterwards it didn't really matter which. She knew they could get past that, though. The rest of the time was worth every screaming row they could ever have. And they'd have coped and things would have settled down, and it would all have been fine.
If it wasn't for the teacups, she'd have kept believing that.
It happened on a day that brought endless, miserable sheets of rain down from an unrelenting grey sky. She was sitting by the windowsill that was all dead flies and peeling paint, and he curled an arm around her shoulders - this didn't get to him, nothing got to him, he still thought living here was fun - and tried to cheer her up. "It's not so bad," he said. "We've got each other. And, hey, we've got six china teacups. What more does anyone need?"
She laughed. "That was so -" she began, and then realised. "Never mind."
"That was so what?"
"You just reminded me of someone."
It was Zoe, half-drunk and cobwebs in her hair and barefoot because she'd kicked off her shoes, scrabbling underneath the floorboards in that old hotel. She'd seen something just out of reach, and she was even more determined to get it for all the warnings that it wasn't worth trying, although they both kept laughing and she couldn't reach - "This could be someone's buried treasure! You'll thank me when you're rich." And when she finally got hold, and it was a box of old nails, she'd blown the hair back from her forehead and looked at it solemnly. "Nails," she said. "What more could we have asked for?"
He asked, of course. And she'd have told him eventually, she'd always planned to. Just not now.
It was the worst fight they'd ever had, worse than the time she smashed the kitchen light. It went on for so long that the neighbours banged on the walls, not that it made any difference, and she was sick with fury and tears and screaming at him to just, for God's sake, let this one go. When she gave in, telling him about Zoe was all the ammunition she'd got left.
"My God," he said quietly. "I didn't - I'm sorry. I had no idea." And in a sudden afterthought of irration, "How come you never said?"
"After the way you just acted, you're wondering why I never said?"
He rubbed at his face. "That's fair. It's just - I couldn't understand why you weren't telling me."
"You don't understand anything," she said.
The sun was pale through the clouds. She wrapped her arms around her knees to watch it, exhausted. He didn't reach out to touch her. "We'll make it work," he said.
But for the first time, they both knew he was lying.
----
Gimli + elves, for
meg_the_ebmod:Dwarves keep secrets like jewels, beautiful and bright and hidden from those who would not appreciate them. They did not sleep in the days after they were made; they lay awake in the darkness beneath stone, and they grew to love the gems, the ores, the seams of quartz, the very rock itself. The other peoples of Middle-earth do not know this.
Gimli learnt early in his life how to twist copper into thin filaments of fire, and how the brittle surface of slate could become smooth curves of ornament under his touch. His father stood beside him and laughed when frustration overcame his patience. "See with your hands, as you would in the dark," he said, and when Gimli allowed the liquid enamel to fall as it wished, the stars in Kheled-zaram shone just as he imagined on the curved face of a shield.
Naugrim, the elves called them, the stunted people. Once it was gonnhirrim, masters of stone. Once they came with gifts to trade for knowledge, the High-elves of old; once Eol brought his son to kneel in the sweating heat of forges and learn the secrets of metal. If the elves have forgotten this, the dwarves have not. Things of beauty should be loved, and those who can only see this as greed know too little to keep such things for themselves.
Gimli travelled the lands above ground, finding new things to carve and sculpt and mould. Middle-earth gives up its secrets generously to those who look - the sag of boughs under their own weight, the flicker of sunlight on fast-running water, the sharp, cold blue of shadows in snowdrifts. When his father left to recover the treasures of the King under the Mountain, Gimli begged to follow. He could fight. He would be no hindrance. And there were so many things yet to see: the halls of the dwarf-lords, the glittering caverns hewn from rock, and would it be best to use copper or bronze to mimic a dragon's scales? His father told him to stay. Next time, he said, you can follow me.
In Khuzdul, each word tells one of the secrets of the thing it names. The word for 'elves', which they do not speak to outsiders, might contain the sound for 'starlight', which they love even above the burning sun; it might slur into the sharp constonants of 'traitor', for what else describes those who turn against their teachers? Often it echoes the sound for 'second', since second-born they were and are and will remain. And spoken quietly, with the first sound stressed, it says only 'strangers'. The secrets of strangers are not known.
When his father returned from the Mountain, cursing the arrogance of wood-elves who throw good people into dungeons, Gimli forgot to care about their secrets for a time. It was not until many years later that Gloin prepared to leave for distant lands once again, and now Gimli followed.
"What are you taking me to see?" he asked, as fallen leaves crunched on the path beneath their boots. "What things could elves have to show us?"
"Secrets," said Gloin. "The ones our own eyes would hide from us."
On a road that curves like a river beneath the stars, they turned towards the place that elves call Imladris, and men call Rivendell. But the Dwarvish name for it is not known.
----
Grima, for
kakodaimon:Part of what they said about him as a child was true - he was, indeed, scared of the horses. Horses are large and heavy and quick to panic, and he'd once seen a stable-boy kicked backwards over a trough, breaking his arm. It was sensible, not cowardly, to be wary of things that could be dangerous. And whatever else they called him, he wasn't stupid.
It is not possible to avoid horses in Rohan, and so he took great care to watch them. He lay on his stomach in the sun, or tucked fists deep inside his sleeves when the wind blew bitter and cold, and learnt how to read the language of snaked necks and flattened ears that horses use with each other. While he was doing this, he noticed something else: the stallions, all power and muscle and strength, never led the herd. It was always one of the older mares, usually bony and scarred and slow, that decided when they would go down to the stream or away to new grazing grounds. The stallions only ever followed.
He never wanted to command troops in battle. He knew where his strengths lay, and it wasn't in the world of spears and shields. He never wanted a crown, or to be carried high by a cheering crowd - such things were fickle, given just as easily to some grinning idiot with a good sword-arm as they were to those who earned them. In his youth, he still wanted their friendship, but the chance of that was kicked out of him by words and boots alike, and when it had gone he did not much miss it. He did, however, want to lead.
"A wise choice, my lord," he learnt to say. Or "Understandable, yes, but would this not be best instead?" In return, the people of Edoras spoke well of the wisdom of Theoden King. For many years he did not care what they thought of him - let them scorn him if they liked, let them mock him when he wasn't there. Theoden himself called him wise, trustworthy, and a loyal servant of his king. And so he went on.
No doubt he would have known better than to trust Saruman, in other circumstances. That day the wizard came to Edoras, he never suggested he should be permitted to stay longer than the brief reception Theoden allowed him. And no doubt it would have stayed that way, if Saruman hadn't thanked him personally afterwards. "Theoden King is fortunate to have such a wise companion to lead alongside him," he said. "The Rohirrim must respect you greatly." The tight feeling in Grima's throat reminded him of long ago.
A colleague, Saruman called him. An ally. The words were like honeycomb, too rich and warm to hold between his fingers. A friend. When all else crumbled, he still had these things to clutch at. He had never desired a great deal. This, this was all.
So when the halflings dared look at him with pity, and Saruman turned that laughing, twisted face towards him - You do what Sharkey says, always, don't you, Worm? Well, now he says: follow! - what else could he do?
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2005-01-06 02:06 pm (UTC)The character needed that. Thank you for writing such an excellent little ficlet; I'm quite glad I picked Grima.
(no subject)
Date: 2005-01-06 02:16 pm (UTC)It's a shame the Scouring of the Shire didn't make it into the films - Saruman's death was one of my favourite moments. (Although I haven't seen the extended edition ROTK yet, so maybe they do something else with it?) I'm sure Grima valued appreciation more than power, really.
(no subject)
Date: 2005-01-06 02:23 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-01-06 02:40 pm (UTC)I'm so glad they filmed it somewhere, though. Poor Grima. I wonder what he was like pre-Saruman?
(no subject)
Date: 2013-01-30 02:50 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-01-06 09:05 pm (UTC)Speaking of which - did you got my mail at all? I've been experiencing mailing difficulties lately...
(no subject)
Date: 2005-01-06 10:29 pm (UTC)only discovered it NOW!!!!
Date: 2005-02-04 04:58 am (UTC)Don't worry about it :)
Date: 2005-02-06 01:35 am (UTC)Re: Don't worry about it :)
Date: 2005-02-06 06:03 am (UTC)