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b2mem2018-03-08 09:40 pm
idleleaves) wrote in b2mem2018-03-08 09:40 pm
Entry tags:
'Til Morning by IdleLeaves
B2MeM Prompt and Category: Daily prompt of "Create a fanwork inspired by a favorite song or other piece of music."
Format: Ficlet
Genre: Vignette
Rating: All Ages
Warnings: None
Characters: Fingon, Ereinion Gil-galad, OFC (Fingon's wife)
Creator’s Notes: Not really inspired by, but written with Loreena McKennitt's "Ancient Pines" on repeat to set the mood.
Summary: Fingon & Ereinion, after the fall of Fingolfin.
Fingon wakes to near-darkness. At first he's not sure that he's even slept, but the moon has, indeed, travelled some distance across the sky. Míreth has moved, as well, closing what space there had been between them and curling against his side with her hand on his chest. Fingon places his hand over hers and lies still, but restlessness gets the better of him and he slips out of bed to stand at the window.
There is little more light outside than in, with the moon a thin, cold crescent and the stars dulled by drifting cloud. The courtyard fires have been extinguished, yet the wind still carries a song: a lament for a fallen king. Though the singers' voices are unfamiliar, their grief is not. Fingon rubs a hand across his eyes.
Fingon turns on his heel, and passes through the halls to the door of his young son's bedchamber. He pushes the door open, silently, and leans against the frame. Ereinion is sprawled in sleep, as always, one hand flung above his head and the other clutching the blankets. Fingon bows his head, for a moment, and when he raises it Ereinion's eyes are open.
"Go back to sleep," Fingon says, gently.
Ereinion neither protests nor obeys; instead, he holds out his arms. Fingon sighs, and the bed creaks as he sits beside his son and gathers him into his arms. "Too tight," comes Ereinion's muffled complaint. Fingon loosens his grip.
"Why are they still singing?" Ereinion asks, his voice soft and sleep-slurred.
"Hush," says Fingon. It's a question for morning, not moonlight.
Ereinion moves to lie down again, but holds Fingon's hand in his own and refuses to let go; he slides over as much as his bed will allow, making space. Fingon slips under the blankets and curls around his son, and it takes only minutes before Ereinion's breathing becomes soft and shallow as he falls back to sleep. Fingon lies beside him with his eyes open to wait for dawn.
Format: Ficlet
Genre: Vignette
Rating: All Ages
Warnings: None
Characters: Fingon, Ereinion Gil-galad, OFC (Fingon's wife)
Creator’s Notes: Not really inspired by, but written with Loreena McKennitt's "Ancient Pines" on repeat to set the mood.
Summary: Fingon & Ereinion, after the fall of Fingolfin.
Fingon wakes to near-darkness. At first he's not sure that he's even slept, but the moon has, indeed, travelled some distance across the sky. Míreth has moved, as well, closing what space there had been between them and curling against his side with her hand on his chest. Fingon places his hand over hers and lies still, but restlessness gets the better of him and he slips out of bed to stand at the window.
There is little more light outside than in, with the moon a thin, cold crescent and the stars dulled by drifting cloud. The courtyard fires have been extinguished, yet the wind still carries a song: a lament for a fallen king. Though the singers' voices are unfamiliar, their grief is not. Fingon rubs a hand across his eyes.
Fingon turns on his heel, and passes through the halls to the door of his young son's bedchamber. He pushes the door open, silently, and leans against the frame. Ereinion is sprawled in sleep, as always, one hand flung above his head and the other clutching the blankets. Fingon bows his head, for a moment, and when he raises it Ereinion's eyes are open.
"Go back to sleep," Fingon says, gently.
Ereinion neither protests nor obeys; instead, he holds out his arms. Fingon sighs, and the bed creaks as he sits beside his son and gathers him into his arms. "Too tight," comes Ereinion's muffled complaint. Fingon loosens his grip.
"Why are they still singing?" Ereinion asks, his voice soft and sleep-slurred.
"Hush," says Fingon. It's a question for morning, not moonlight.
Ereinion moves to lie down again, but holds Fingon's hand in his own and refuses to let go; he slides over as much as his bed will allow, making space. Fingon slips under the blankets and curls around his son, and it takes only minutes before Ereinion's breathing becomes soft and shallow as he falls back to sleep. Fingon lies beside him with his eyes open to wait for dawn.
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