On The Subject of Pie, by cairistiona
Mar. 10th, 2012 08:44 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
cairistiona7.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
b2memB2MeM Challenge: O65: Roles and Names of Aragorn, "Son"; Smells, "Soap"
Format: Ficlet
Genre: H/C, fluff
Rating: G
Warnings: Vague mention of a wound
Characters: Aragorn, Elrond, Barliman Butterchurn, er, Butterbur
Pairings: None
Summary: Written mostly because I wanted Aragorn h/ccccccc. And all I had for prompts were the smell of soap and the fact that Aragorn was a son. And I was also craving peach pie. And Embarrassed Aragorn is so doggone cute. So... make of this what you will!
Edit: Consider this version AU, as![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
radbooks kindly pointed out in a comment on my own LJ that it more likely that Barliman's father or grandfather would have been the innkeeper at this time in Aragorn's life. So, thank you, Radbooks, and a revised version to come in April, when I post to the archives. :)
“Estel,” a voice came softly, breaking into his slumber. Or he supposed it was slumber. He felt... disconnected. Like he was floating somewhere, and he feared that coming back to earth would be unpleasant. So he frowned and kept his eyes shut.
“Son, can you hear me?”
Elrond. It was his father’s voice. He should answer.
A hand touched his cheek, and he smelled the clean scent of soap and athelas. “Estel, can you wake up for me? Can you open your eyes?”
Such a simple request, that. To open his eyes. He tried... he tried so hard, but they would not answer. He whimpered, frustrated and embarrassed. He hated disappointing his father...
“Shh, my son. Do not fret. All is well, all is well.” The hand moved from his cheek to his hair and then he felt Elrond lay a kiss on his brow.
He took a deep breath and finally pried open his eyes. Elrond smiled down at him. “Ah, there you are.”
“What...”
Another touch, this time a hand laid softly on his shoulder. “You were on duty, patrolling with Elladan and Elrohir.”
Memory rushed back. A wooded ridge. Ambush. Arrows. A sharp pain in his leg. Burning, numbness, darkness. “Orcs,” he murmured. “Brothers... all right?”
“They are, though worried, as you can well imagine. They are not most pleased that you were so wounded on only your second patrol, but there was no way to avoid the attack, from what they reported. I will send them in later, after you’ve slept some more.” He patted his arm. “Fret not, for you will be well, in time. The arrow was poisoned, which is why you no doubt feel your mind is not quite connected to your body. That will pass, and the wound itself is not overly serious. Had it not been for the poison, you likely could have bandaged it and kept on with your duties, the wound was that shallow. As it is, you will rest for a few days and allow us to wait on you hand and foot as though you were a guest in the best inn in Bree, and no doubt by week’s end you will be climbing the walls and demanding to be released from your convalescence.”
“In... Bree?”
“There is an inn there, or so I’m told by those who travel through there. The dwarves praise its ale, and Elladan admits that the pies there rival even those prepared in our kitchens.”
“Sounds... nice.”
“I’m sure it must be,” Elrond said briskly. “But it must await your custom for some other day. Sleep, now, and rest so you can start climbing the walls sooner rather than later.”
Estel nodded. He couldn’t imagine climbing anything at the moment. Sleep beckoned, and he drifted lazily toward it. “Ada... love... you.”
Darkness enfolded him before he heard Elrond’s reply, but not before he felt his Ada squeeze his hand.
~~~
The young Ranger sat quietly in the corner, looking with interest around the keeping room, which was homey in a way that all good inns should be. Not that he’d had much experience with inns of any sort, but he liked the feel of this place. The innkeeper... what was his name? Barliman Butterchurn? No... that was wrong. Butterbur! He blushed a bit. How excruciating would it have been if he’d addressed the man as Master Butterchurn!
Said bustling innkeeper hurried over with a plate and set it before him. “Peach today, and you’re lucky to get some as that was the last pie made from the last of the peaches this year. There won’t be any more until next summer. Would you like anything to go with it? Some cheese or perhaps a plate of cold meat?” he asked, not unkindly but the rush of words was undergirded with an odd reserve that made Aragorn feel all the more shy and out of his depth.
“No, thank you. Just the pie, thank you,” he stammered, and immediately felt his face burning again. He cleared his throat and wished he might think of something more clever than please and thank you.
“Then it’ll be three pence, since all you had was the pie and the ale.” He seemed to disapprove of Aragorn’s meager appetite, which did nothing to ease Aragorn’s discomfiture, but it was more a matter of not emptying a nearly hollow purse than filling a hollow belly. He carefully counted out the coins and despite their paucity added another few for good measure. Barliman did seem kind, after all, despite his cool demeanor, which warmed slightly when he counted the coins and found the extra. He nodded. “Enjoy your pie. And... well, yes, then. Come again.” The words once more came in a tumble, as though the man felt he must say it quickly lest he decide to withhold the invitation entirely. Aragorn was left with the distinct feeling that Butterbur might be happier if he didn’t come again. He wished he knew what he’d done to offend.
Aragorn waited until the man moved off and then took a small bite, then immediately took a larger bite. He remembered his father’s words, so long ago. Elladan admits that the pies there rival even those prepared in our kitchens...
He shut his eyes with pleasure. Oh yes. He would definitely come again, even if Butterchurn didn’t especially want him to.
Format: Ficlet
Genre: H/C, fluff
Rating: G
Warnings: Vague mention of a wound
Characters: Aragorn, Elrond, Barliman Butterchurn, er, Butterbur
Pairings: None
Summary: Written mostly because I wanted Aragorn h/ccccccc. And all I had for prompts were the smell of soap and the fact that Aragorn was a son. And I was also craving peach pie. And Embarrassed Aragorn is so doggone cute. So... make of this what you will!
Edit: Consider this version AU, as
radbooks kindly pointed out in a comment on my own LJ that it more likely that Barliman's father or grandfather would have been the innkeeper at this time in Aragorn's life. So, thank you, Radbooks, and a revised version to come in April, when I post to the archives. :)“Estel,” a voice came softly, breaking into his slumber. Or he supposed it was slumber. He felt... disconnected. Like he was floating somewhere, and he feared that coming back to earth would be unpleasant. So he frowned and kept his eyes shut.
“Son, can you hear me?”
Elrond. It was his father’s voice. He should answer.
A hand touched his cheek, and he smelled the clean scent of soap and athelas. “Estel, can you wake up for me? Can you open your eyes?”
Such a simple request, that. To open his eyes. He tried... he tried so hard, but they would not answer. He whimpered, frustrated and embarrassed. He hated disappointing his father...
“Shh, my son. Do not fret. All is well, all is well.” The hand moved from his cheek to his hair and then he felt Elrond lay a kiss on his brow.
He took a deep breath and finally pried open his eyes. Elrond smiled down at him. “Ah, there you are.”
“What...”
Another touch, this time a hand laid softly on his shoulder. “You were on duty, patrolling with Elladan and Elrohir.”
Memory rushed back. A wooded ridge. Ambush. Arrows. A sharp pain in his leg. Burning, numbness, darkness. “Orcs,” he murmured. “Brothers... all right?”
“They are, though worried, as you can well imagine. They are not most pleased that you were so wounded on only your second patrol, but there was no way to avoid the attack, from what they reported. I will send them in later, after you’ve slept some more.” He patted his arm. “Fret not, for you will be well, in time. The arrow was poisoned, which is why you no doubt feel your mind is not quite connected to your body. That will pass, and the wound itself is not overly serious. Had it not been for the poison, you likely could have bandaged it and kept on with your duties, the wound was that shallow. As it is, you will rest for a few days and allow us to wait on you hand and foot as though you were a guest in the best inn in Bree, and no doubt by week’s end you will be climbing the walls and demanding to be released from your convalescence.”
“In... Bree?”
“There is an inn there, or so I’m told by those who travel through there. The dwarves praise its ale, and Elladan admits that the pies there rival even those prepared in our kitchens.”
“Sounds... nice.”
“I’m sure it must be,” Elrond said briskly. “But it must await your custom for some other day. Sleep, now, and rest so you can start climbing the walls sooner rather than later.”
Estel nodded. He couldn’t imagine climbing anything at the moment. Sleep beckoned, and he drifted lazily toward it. “Ada... love... you.”
Darkness enfolded him before he heard Elrond’s reply, but not before he felt his Ada squeeze his hand.
~~~
The young Ranger sat quietly in the corner, looking with interest around the keeping room, which was homey in a way that all good inns should be. Not that he’d had much experience with inns of any sort, but he liked the feel of this place. The innkeeper... what was his name? Barliman Butterchurn? No... that was wrong. Butterbur! He blushed a bit. How excruciating would it have been if he’d addressed the man as Master Butterchurn!
Said bustling innkeeper hurried over with a plate and set it before him. “Peach today, and you’re lucky to get some as that was the last pie made from the last of the peaches this year. There won’t be any more until next summer. Would you like anything to go with it? Some cheese or perhaps a plate of cold meat?” he asked, not unkindly but the rush of words was undergirded with an odd reserve that made Aragorn feel all the more shy and out of his depth.
“No, thank you. Just the pie, thank you,” he stammered, and immediately felt his face burning again. He cleared his throat and wished he might think of something more clever than please and thank you.
“Then it’ll be three pence, since all you had was the pie and the ale.” He seemed to disapprove of Aragorn’s meager appetite, which did nothing to ease Aragorn’s discomfiture, but it was more a matter of not emptying a nearly hollow purse than filling a hollow belly. He carefully counted out the coins and despite their paucity added another few for good measure. Barliman did seem kind, after all, despite his cool demeanor, which warmed slightly when he counted the coins and found the extra. He nodded. “Enjoy your pie. And... well, yes, then. Come again.” The words once more came in a tumble, as though the man felt he must say it quickly lest he decide to withhold the invitation entirely. Aragorn was left with the distinct feeling that Butterbur might be happier if he didn’t come again. He wished he knew what he’d done to offend.
Aragorn waited until the man moved off and then took a small bite, then immediately took a larger bite. He remembered his father’s words, so long ago. Elladan admits that the pies there rival even those prepared in our kitchens...
He shut his eyes with pleasure. Oh yes. He would definitely come again, even if Butterchurn didn’t especially want him to.
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Date: 2012-03-10 03:59 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-03-10 04:58 pm (UTC)