Bucky's slowly learning that love isn't a finite resource. aka, Bucky's first Christmas.
pairing - bucky barnes x female reader
warnings - none!! just tooth rottingly sweet fluff <3
word count - i'll check tomorrow, but i'd say 1/1.5k if I had to guess?
author's note - based on these two requests!! i'm also trying a new post format... what do we think?? I promised you i'd get a couple of xmas fics out before the 25th... I lied. apologies!! forgive me. title taken from the poem The Owl by Edward Thomas.
as always, if you enjoyed, please reblog!! reblogs are the only way to circulate my fics. thanks, angels <3
masterlist. inbox.
He whispers the words, timid and reserved, directly into your ear as if he's worried someone else will hear. It's only the two of you sat on the couch in your shared apartment, but Bucky's nervous.
Your head whips around in shock, trying to play it cool. Failed.
"Are you... are you sure?"
"Yeah, I'm sure."
You grin, big and blinding, the beams of it radiating into Bucky's bones. It settles into his muscles, eases the tension from his shoulders.
You try not to make a big deal of it, try to keep your excitement under wraps. But you've been waiting for him to say those words for almost six years.
"I want to do Christmas this year."
✵ ✵ · ✵ * · ✵
He hates the cold.
No, he's traumatised by the cold.
Years spent frozen, genetically modified and locked in a glorified freezer. Every gust of wind, every flake of snow reminds him of the darkest days with no light to be seen. His blood may run hot, but he feels like his heart is yet to thaw. He debates moving to the desert at least ten times a day.
Then he looks at you. How happy you are when winter comes around. The way your face lights up when it snows. And he figures that if it brings you this much joy... maybe he can tolerate it.
He bites back the chill, grits his teeth at the icy breeze, ignores the shudder of the cold all the way down to his bones. He grins and bears it, because you love it. He thinks you don't notice.
You do.
You've known ever since you met him. His demeanour changes when the winter comes around. He gets a little tentative around the autumn time, as if he's preparing himself for the worst. And then the first snow falls, and he's different. Guarded. Careful. Reluctant. He puts a fake smile on his face and pretends, but you're nothing if not completely in tune with everything Bucky Barnes.
You never asked, never pried. Just stood steadily by his side, regardless of the walls he'd placed around himself. Around his heart.
He broke down one night, wrapped up in bed with you. A chill had blown through your old apartments rickety windows and unearthed old memories, ice running into his veins. He was sure his tears were frozen as they dripped down his face.
You understood him better, since that day.
You've tried to suggest moving in subtle and not so subtle ways, but he won't have it. He knows this is your home. He knows you like it here. He knows he can stay, if he works a little harder on himself.
So, he tries. Every single day, he tries. And that's all that matters.
✵ ✵ · ✵ * · ✵
"Okay, so... ground rules. Hit me, Buck. We do this on your terms."
He thinks for a moment before turning to face you.
"I want it to be just us. No one else."
"Done."
"And I don't wanna do the whole Christmas dinner thing. Feels like too much all at once."
You fight the urge to burst into tears at how easily he's communicating with you, how effortlessly he's enforcing his boundaries. You've come a long way.
"Done. Agreed, by the way. Fuck Christmas dinner. We'll do our own thing."
He grins at you, leaning in to kiss you slowly, tenderly, leisurely. Like you have all the time in the world.
"I want to get a tree. And lights. We don't have to do all the ornaments and stuff, but lights would be nice."
"I have an artificial tree in the back of the storage closet... is that okay?"
"Perfect. I don't want to stand on all the pine needles, anyway."
Laughing, you shift closer to him, tangling your legs together on the couch.
"And no gifts for me."
"But Buck-"
"Angel. I don't want anything. I have everything I need sat next to me."
You roll your eyes, but you can't wipe the smile off your face.
"This isn't fair, suddenly."
"It's plenty fair. You stress too much when you buy gifts, and this is going to be a stress free Christmas. Understood?"
He hooks his fingers under your chin, forcing you to look at him.
"Understood," you whisper, swinging your knee over so you're straddling him. "Stress free."
Bucky tilts his head up to kiss you, gentle at first, then firmer when you roll your hips into his. He's a little distracted, admittedly. He got you to promise not to get him anything, but made sure you wouldn't ask the same. His mind runs a mile a minute, trying to wrack his brain on what kind of gift to get for the love of his life, the person that saved him and continues to save him every single day.
He comes up empty, but lets you kiss the thoughts away for a little while.
✵ ✵ · ✵ * · ✵
"My mom taught me this specific way to hang lights on your tree. Look, grab this end and I'll show you."
You're both still in your pyjamas, fire roaring, a jazzy Christmas melody playing from the radio. You decided you wouldn't put up your tree until the day before, to save Bucky from feeling overwhelmed. It's worked, so far - he looks plenty relaxed as he chuckles and rises from the armchair.
"You're tall, so hold this above your head so they don't tangle."
You work diligently, bottom lip pulled between your teeth as you concentrate. Bucky's happy to watch you, fighting the smile off his face every time you sigh in exasperation. Eventually, you step back and admire your masterpiece, satisfied and content.
"It's beautiful, baby," he whispers, wrapping his arms around you from behind.
He presses a kiss into your neck, then another, then another. Your eyes slip closed, and you sink into his embrace, feeling more at peace than you ever thought possible. You spend the evening by the fire, lying on the rug, room illuminated by the lights on the tree.
It's perfect in every way.
✵ ✵ · ✵ * · ✵
"Merry Christmas, angel."
"Merry Christmas, Buck."
His hand finds yours under the duvet, pulling you in close. You tangle yourself around him like lights on a tree, all encompassed by his warmth.
"What's the plan for today, Sergeant?"
He presses a kiss into your temple, propping himself up on his elbow so he can see you properly.
"I say we make some breakfast, spend all day on the couch, and then maybe make some dinner? I know we said we wouldn't do a traditional Christmas dinner, but it'd still be nice to take the time to cook something."
"That sounds perfect."
In the kitchen, you make pancakes with copious amounts of maple syrup, strawberries and pieces of banana strewn across your plates.
"My Mom made us pancakes every Christmas morning, you know."
"You've never told me that."
"I know. I kind of refrained from ever talking about anything festive, because I didn't want you to feel guilty."
"For making you miss out for so many years?"
"I haven't missed out, baby. I chose not to do Christmas because I love you. And that love takes precedent over everything else."
Bucky kisses you then, across the kitchen table, full and golden and so full of love you almost fall off your chair. He tastes like blueberry jam and syrup and coffee, and you wish you could bottle it up and stick a little under your tongue when you get homesick.
"What changed?"
"Hmm?"
"Why now? I would have been content to never do Christmas again, if it made you happy."
"Because I realised something, a couple of months ago. We were sat in the park, and you were laughing at that dog chasing the boomerang. The sun was making you glow, like some sort of angel, and I just knew. I can do anything with you by my side. I can't put my future on hold because of my past."
You're fighting back tears as you look at him, so happy and content. You never thought this was possible, when you first met him.
And here you are.
Celebrating Christmas, showing him your childhood traditions, making pancakes like your Mama used to. You're sat at the kitchen table as the snow falls outside and the warmth that Bucky's love brings is keeping the chill at bay.
It doesn't get better than this.
"I got you something," he murmurs almost sheepishly.
"Bucky-"
"Don't yell at me! I know it makes me a hypocrite, I know I said no gifts, I know."
You roll your eyes, but watch his every move as he gets up and leaves the room. You finish your breakfast and put both of your plates in the sink, turning on the tap so they can soak. When you turn around, Bucky has returned.
He's on one knee.
There's a ring between his fingers, glinting in the winter sun. You're both still in your pyjamas, warm and full, not quite having shaken off the heavy embrace of sleep just yet.
It's perfect.
"Maybe it's cliche to propose on Christmas day, but... I want to replace all of my old memories with new ones. Memories like this."
You walk over to him, kneeling down in front of him so your eyes are level.
"You've taught me what love is, baby. And I can never repay you for that. But I can certainly try. Every day, I can try."
There are tears dripping down both of your cheeks, Bucky's grin matching yours. The two of you are overwhelmed in the best way, unsure of how to process the gravity of what you're feeling.
"Marry me, baby. Let's do this forever."
You lunge forward and smash your lips to his, laughing into his mouth.
"Yes," you breathe when you pull away. "God, yes. A million times yes, Buck."
His arms wrap around your middle as he picks you up, twirling you in circles around the kitchen, both of you shrieking with joy.
Bucky slips the ring onto your finger when he puts you down, both of tilting your heads to admire it.
"I love you," you murmur, leaning up to press your foreheads together. "The cold can't touch you now, baby. This love will warm us forever."
The cold can't touch him now. Love will warm him forever.
love when men cry about body hair bc "it's hygiene" and yet 15% of cis men leave the bathroom without washing their hands at all and an additional 35% only just wet their hands without using soap. that is nearly half of all men. that means statistically you have probably shaken hands with or been in direct contact with one of these people.
love when men say that women "only want money" when it turns out that even in equal-earning homes, women are actually adding caregiver burdens and housework from previous years, whereas men have been expanding leisure time and hobbies. in equal-earning households, men spend an average of 3.5 hours extra in leisure time per week, which is 182 hours per year - a little over a week of paid vacation time that the other partner does not receive. kinda sounds like he wants her money.
love that men have decided women are frail and weak and annoying when we scream in surprise but it turns out it's actually women who are more reliable in an emergency because men need to be convinced to actually take action and respond to the threat. like, actually, for-real: men experience such a strong sense of pride about their pre-supposed abilities that it gets them and their families killed. they are so used to dismissing women that it literally kills them.
love it. told my father this and he said there's lies, damned lies, and statistics. a year ago i tried to get him to evacuate the house during a flash flood. he ignored me and got injured. he has told me, laughing, that he never washes his hands. he has said in the last week that women are just happier when we're cooking or cleaning.
maybe i'm overly nostalgic. but it didn't used to feel so fucking bleak. it used to feel like at least a little shameful to consider women to be sheep. it just feels like the earth is round and we are still having conversations about it being flat - except these conversations are about the most obvious forms of patriarchy. like, we know about this stuff. we've known since well before the 50's.
recently andrew tate tried to justify cheating on his partner as being the "male prerogative." i don't know what the prerogative for the rest of us would be. just sitting at home, watching the slow erosion of our humanity.
Crying right now imagining Astarion running into his still-living parents and/or siblings and while he doesn't recognize them at most beyond some weird sense of familiarity, they insist that he just looks so much like the son/brother they lost at far too young an age ;w;
apologies to the people in my inbox who were waiting on their fic requests! i had a major work accident and was a bit incapacitated for some time. I'll be churning out new work soon!
Summary: The lone shield-maiden in Eomer's Éored has been secretly in love with him for years, but has long accepted that that he can never share those feelings. At the feast of King Aragorn's coronation, she is surprised to learn that there may yet be hope.
Prompt: "It's like you never really see me. I'm standing right in front of you and you don't see me!"
Requested by and Dedicated to: @writefortherain-blog Thank you for making this request and giving me the opportunity to write for Eomer!
Word count: 2.4k
Content: Romance, angst, mutual pining, oblivious to love, jealousy, forbidden relationship, class division, shield-maiden, King Eomer, post-RotK
Rating: T (Teens and up)
Warnings: Some sensuality
To Read on AO3: Link
Taken
Third Age 3019 May 1
Minas Tirith
PART ONE
Downing that fourth cup of wine had been a mistake. Or was it the fifth? Sixth? The ridiculous dress with its rib-crushing bodice and neckline positioned nowhere near your neck, had also been a mistake, even though the local clother had insisted to you that it was in the "proper" Gondorian fashion. The entire evening and its inconveniences had all been for a failed end.
You finally jostled your way out of the packed feasting hall and stumbled outside to the courtyard, your compressed lungs and flushed skin rejoicing at their contact with the cool night air. One hand rose to massage your throbbing temple, and the other clawed irritatedly at the boning that caged in your unacceptably unfeminine frame.
"Never again," you seethed under your breath, as you crossed the white-stone pavement to move even farther away from the chaos you escaped.
It had been a painful decision to ride out to Minas Tirith with the rest of your Éored and attend the coronation of the returned King of Gondor. You despised grand affairs, knowing well enough the requirements rules of court would impose on you, unwieldy formal attire being just one of them. These were at least tolerable within Rohan, where you could find some comfort amongst familiar faces and settings. But as the lone female who rode in the company of the Third Marshal, you refused to be excluded from any undertaking by your Éored, however dangerous or unpleasant. Whether it broke your arm or shattered your heart.
"I can just go," you thought, casting a quick glance back at the great hall, alive and alight with the merry cacophony of a thousand revelers that would surely last until dawn. The two hours you already spent mingling to the best of your limited ability had to suffice, and it was doubtful your presence would even be missed.
But the call of a deep voice stalled your retreat, loud and commanding and instantly recognizable even across a distance as it shouted your name. The soldier in you succumbed to the instinct to obey your Marshal, to honor the oath you had sworn on your knees years ago.
The flickering flames of nearby torchlights reflected against the carved silver panels of the breastplate he donned over his lavishly embroidered tunic. Famously handsome even when caked in blood and grime, Eomer was breathtakingly resplendent bearing the regalia that befitted his station. King Eomer now, you reminded yourself, as you dipped your head in a bow.
“My lord.”
“Is something amiss? Why did you leave?” His narrowed eyes upon you were penetrating, his tone demanding rather than concerned. Lying to someone you had spent practically every single day of your adult life with was difficult, and even more so with an addled brain, so you knew you had to mince words carefully.
Fortunately, you had years of practice doing exactly that.
“I underestimated the potency of their vintage, and downed one cup too many.” You scrunched up your features in a grimace that just slightly exaggerated your pain. “I thought it best to excuse myself and retire for the night.”
“Perhaps if you rested a while and ate some food…” He rested a hand lightly on your shoulder. “It is much too early and the quarters would still be empty. I know you detest fraternizing, but just sit at the table with the rest of our men.”
You released a graceless guffaw and a puff of wine-tinged breath. “Half of them are already deeper in their cups than I, and getting sloppier by the second. I finally had to remind Héothain of his manners the second time he tried to sneak a hand down the front of my dress.”
“He did what?” Eomer’s sudden growl awakened you to your own carelessness and slip of the tongue. Smooth-cheeked Héothain was the youngest and newest addition to the Éored, and remained sorely lacking in experience with women. He should not be held accountable for his awkwardness amplified by insobriety.
“It was a silly mistake that caused no harm,” you insisted, pulling back as Eomer attempted to lead you off by the elbow. “Two sprained fingers taught him a lesson he shall not soon forget.”
Eomer glowered at you but remained silent for a pause, as he did whenever running through courses of action in his mind. “Then you can come sit by me at the King’s table.”
Your laugh in response to that suggestion was shrill and nervous, as he looked so serious making it. “I most certainly cannot… my lord.” You stated your defiance firmly, baring a toothless pertinacity against your leader, and underneath it a silent plea that the friend in him would understand. “There is no place for me amongst such esteemed company and truly, there is nothing in the world I would enjoy less at this moment.”
You sighed and braced one hand below your rib area, massaging a spot where the corset dug into a still-tender battle injury.
“Please. Let me go back to my room where I can be rid of these dreadful garments.”
“No.” The immediacy and sharpness of his refusal made you blink in surprise. “Not until you explain yourself to my satisfaction.”
“Pardon, my lord?”
“Hah, there! That is what I am speaking of.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand--”
“When did you cease to call me by my name in private conversation? Or last bother to converse with me at all?!” You took too long to answer, and he barreled on, hazel eyes flashing with the sudden rise of agitation. “Let me enlighten you, since I recall it well. It began after Theodred’s death, accompanied by a host of other changes in your behavior towards me that you think I have not noticed!”
You scrambled to concoct a rebuttal, another feint to keep him from uncovering your secrets. Alas, your dulled mind had frozen completely in the face of the horse-lord’s fury, which had never been directed at you in such a manner.
“You are misreading things, my lord, or else imagining them. I cannot say that I--”
“You cannot even look me in the eye these days of late!” Eomer snapped. “Nor can you stand to be in any room I am in for long.” He threw out his arm in the direction of the great hall. “Even now you rebuff any attempt I make to spend time with you.”
“I…I…” You stammered, rendered helpless before his unexpected wrath, cursing yourself for the poor timing of your inebriation. How could you put up your shields when your mind was struggling to pick out your own lies from the truth?
“If you are angry with me, I would have you admit to it now. I will no longer be played for a fool.”
Indignation pooled in your gut, crawling upward until it deepened the coloring of your already flushed face. “I confess to nothing! For what cause do I have to be angry?”
“Because you loved him!” Eomer erupted. As you gaped at his outburst, he gripped a fistful of his hair, and took in one sharp breath, steeling himself. “You loved Theodred,” he finally said, in a voice gone cold and quiet. “And you place blame on me for his death.”
The fire in your belly flared at the terrible accusation. “Theodred was murdered by Saruman, and only a traitor would fault you for that vile cur’s deed.” You shook a finger at him emphatically. “I am no traitor.”
“Did you love my cousin?”
“Of course I did,” you said stoutly. The prince’s demise plagued you still, for you had been the one to spot Theodred’s body amongst the corpses that littered the fords. And after he’d been borne away to Meduseld, you never saw him alive again, and all you could do was weep in the privacy of your quarters, which you did for weeks, mourning the loss of so much more than a dear friend and mentor.
“No one has ever shown me greater kindness than Theodred.” You held a hand over your heart as a different ache rose in you. “He believed in me at a time when no one else would, not even you."
Eomer had fallen silent, but you saw his cloaked shoulders rise and fall, broad chest heaving in the manner so familiar to you. It was the way he looked on the battlefield, where his blood ran hottest, and he was fighting to balance out the genteel lord and savage killer that both resided within him. He was so thoroughly upset with you.
“If I have made you feel like your cousin’s fate was in any way your fault, I am truly sorry,” you said. "But what sort of questions are these, and why are you asking them now?"
His gaze flicked back in your direction, leaden with anguish. "You should know why."
“I am telling you I do not, my lord, and I must beg you to explain why you are speaking so cryptically."
“You wish for me to explain in words something I have been trying to show you for years now?!” He gave a strangled laugh and raised his eyes and hands to the night sky. "Bema…"
“It is as though you never really see me,” he muttered, almost as though speaking to himself. “Here I am, standing right in front of you, and you do not see me!"
But you did hear his mumbled complaints, and suddenly it was all too much. Your sickening weariness, your aches both physical and emotional, your befuddlement caused by the six drinks and this man's unhinged raging as he launched yet another ludicrous accusation at you.
"Not see you?" you repeated, and something about just saying it rammed open the gate behind which you had caged up every real thing you ever wanted to say to Eomer, Son of Eomund.
"If such a thing were possible, I would wish it upon myself immediately!" you exclaimed. "But you are all I ever see, even when I do not wish to! Even when I flee from your presence, I can never escape a face that refuses to leave my thoughts!"
Oh Valar, no. STOP. Panicked, you bit down on your lip to imprison the words fleeing your mouth, so hard you tasted blood. But Eomer suddenly moved forward, encroaching on the space you desperately fought to maintain for your own protection, and his hazel eyes locked into yours to wrench away the last of your defenses.
"It hurts too much, can you not understand?!" you cried, managing one step back. "To remain in the presence of the one thing you most desire but will never have, to be taunted by a dream that will never be fulfilled, to watch as it falls into the possession of another while you can do absolutely nothing!"
He spoke your name, his voice oddly hoarse, and shame finally came crashing down inside you. Your hands flew up to hide your face and suddenly he grabbed your wrists, tugging your arms away only to replace your hands with his own, warming your cheeks with his calloused palms.
“Then see me now,” he ordered. “And know I have always understood how that feels. What great fools we have both been all along to deny ourselves our true desires.”
“Eomer, what--” The stroke of his thumb over the corner of your mouth drove the rest of the words away, and the parting of your lips and flutter of your eyes gave him the approval he sought.
His kiss tasted more glorious than they did in a thousand daydreams combined. It did not surprise you that he was completely unlike the other men you had kissed before. Whereas lesser men were greedy and sloppy in their hunger, the caress of Eomer’s mouth was deep and languid, almost worshipful in its exploration of your lips, as though he aimed to savor every small sensation and intended to carry on doing this with you forever.
His one arm looped around your waist to hold you covetously against him; his broad left hand traveled from your cheek to cradle the back of your neck, his long fingers burying themselves into your hair, tips grazing your scalp. It fired up a new heat in you that you had never felt before, not with such raw intensity, and a tremulous whimper escaped your throat.
But the sound of your own pleasure was your undoing, for it triggered an alarm in your head, one that caused you to break away from Eomer’s passion. You mumbled against his lips the words you had conditioned yourself for years to think around him.
“My lord, I cannot…”
He paused, his eyes still dazed and unfocused, caught in a state of bliss--one that you caused, you realized with a shiver. “You cannot… what?” he said thickly. Without waiting for an answer, he dipped back in eagerly to trail his mouth up your jawline, his tongue skimming the tender pulse underneath your ear.
You gave a small cry and pushed against his chest with more force, immediately waking his attention. His arm around your waist remained stubbornly secure however, and it took you physically prying the powerful limb off for you to slip free. Either due to shock or lingering delirium, Eomer did not resist.
“I cannot…” Your voice broke even as you clung to your resolve. “I cannot have you.”
His heavy brows furrowed. “What?” Within seconds the confusion lifted to uncover his dismay, layered with anger. “You would speak lies and nonsense again, after everything I told you?”
“It is the truth, Eomer!” You started backing away already, stepping faster and faster as he began to move and reach out for you. “You can never be anything more than a dream to someone like me. I cannot have what is already taken.”
“Taken? What--wait! No!” He started to run, but you had already turned heel and were sprinting full-speed towards the Citadel Gate. You had always been faster on your feet; there was no hope of him catching up if you refused to heed his orders. “Stop!”
His shouts of your name faded quickly, drowned out by the noise of the milling crowd you plunged into and the thunder of your own frantic heartbeat. You slowed to a walk but kept a quick pace, weaving haphazardly through the throng and on and on until you’d descended at least two levels. Only then did you duck into a side street and survey your surroundings.
Your escape succeeded. Neither Eomer nor any Rohirrim were anywhere to be found, at least for the moment.
You collapsed upon the nearest doorstep, exhaustion and aches finally overcoming you. As the chaotic whirlwind within you settled, so too did the reality of what just occurred sink in.
Eomer desired you, perhaps even loved you as you did him. But the King of Rohan’s love was not for you, a common soldier, to take. You had known that all along, and he did too. It was unkind of him to give you such false hope.
Raising your fingers to your swollen lips, you felt the ghost of his perfect kisses on them, and finally burst into tears over yet another memory that will grieve you until your trampled heart could bear no more.
To be continued...
A/N: Part 2, written in Eomer's POV, is in progress, but will not be posted until this hits a decent amount of notes. XD
being an older sister is: i bought you a sweater i wanted but liked better for you. i miss the nights i’d sing you to sleep. you don’t smile much anymore. i know you think i’m losing my mind. you tell mom my secrets and i’d still trust you with my last breath. i cry myself to sleep missing you. you’re the worst. please don’t stop judging me. i taught you how to do your eyeliner and now it’s better than mine ever will be. you have skincare and i have scars, such a different 15 that we had. our parents learned to be kind with your sadness. i will always be angry at the way they left me behind. i am happy they love you like i wanted to be loved. i know when you’re hurting. you look just like me. do you want to come on a walk with me? i don’t care that you have homework. come drive with me, one last time. you may never have me again. your hair looks stupid, go brush it. the only reason i’m alive today is you. i know my room is messy. you’re the only one who’s noticed i’m not ok. dad said we’re leaving in five minutes.
A/N: I’ve decided to do a part 3 as well from Tauriel’s pov. Coming soon. Enjoy!
Tags: @sotwk, @coopsgirl
The cause of the maryment resounding through the normally somber halls of the Mirkwood king was Yenearsira, the Winter Solstice. Marking the elvish new year.
Thranduil spent the rest of the morning seeing to his appearance, taking more care than usual to soothe every wrinkle from his robe and comb every freshly washed strand of his hair into place. He looked at his reflection approvingly in the mirror as he slowly adorned his legendary headpiece. The branches framing his cheekbones were now barren save for patches of tiny blue and white blossoms sprouting spontaneously throughout them. It was why his people treasured the crown so much, as it allowed them a small glimpse of the former beauty of their homeland.
Now, the trees were too sick to change in the seasons, and the forest had become too hostile for the migrating birds and elk to make it their haven in the Spring. The only creatures who dared take up residence in his dying land were the black ravens that cawed from the tree tops and the foul, massive spiders who made their webs in the dark caves. Even so, the snow still fell in thick sheets upon the ground.
After taking a moment to gather himself, the Elvenking deposited the necklace into the deep front pocket of his robe and strode out of his chamber to bless the festivities, signifying their beginning. Feren met him at the closed double doors that were the entrance to his throne room. For holidays, the space was cleared out to make way for the long banquet tables filled with food and a small stage that held the minstrels. At the end of the meal, the tables would be pushed back and the floor would be given to the eager dancers. At exactly midnight, the elves of Mirkwood would all gather out in the gardens and release fireworks high into the dark Winter sky.
Thranduil fixed his guard with a disapproving stare as he noticed Feren’s hands shaking as he passed Thranduil his ceremonial staff. “nervousness is not a good look on a soldier who bears the crest of the Woodland Realm.”
“Your grace…” Feren tried, but Thranduil pushed the door open before he could finish. All chatter in the room stilled, and heads bowed respectfully to their monarch. But Thranduil was not looking at them. His eyes were narrowed at the steps leading up to his throne in the distance… and at the smaller seat just to the left of it. Gifts and flowers had been left upon it by the festival goers. It was a tradition, he knew, to honor late members of the royal house at holiday gatherings, especially those following wartime such as this. It helped keep their spirit alive in the hearts of their subjects, and the gifts acted as a sort of offering to the deceased royal so they may aid the spirits of the recently fallen soldiers on their journey to the Halls of Mandos. The same tribute had been paid to his father long ago, during the dinner of Thranduil’s coronation. He recalled his wife herself had even placed a pearl necklace atop the former king’s throne for the safe passage of her older brother Ailwe, who perished on the fields of Mordor in Thranduil’s arms. Though he was a dear friend and loyal soldier, Thranduil did not cry. Nor did he shed a tear for his father. Thranduil never cried.
However, seeing that seat, void of the smiling elleth who had held his hand to calm him in fits of rage and sent amusing images through ósanwe to help break up the dullness of back to back council meetings made an insurmountable lump appear in his throat. He loved their bond. How, even when it seemed to outsiders like the two hardly spoke to each other in public, they’d take every opportunity to find rest in their private mental sanctuary where the troubles of the world could not get to them. Without her warm presence running over his fae, it felt cold and hollow like the hole left in the ground by a tree that had been pulled out by its roots. Continuing his slow strides up to his throne, eyes purposefully avoiding the seat to his left, the Elvenking gave the ancient prayer of goodwill and took the first sip from the first glass of wine poured that night, signaling the official start to the Elvish New Year celebration.
Only staying as long as was customary, Thranduil slipped out of the secret back exit of his throne room to be met by an apologetic Feren.
Eyes blazing, the king tried to keep his voice neutral. “I thought I ordered that throne destroyed years ago.”
“My lord, we tried, but the council insisted we keep it on hand for these occasions. It’s tradition…”
“Last I checked, it is I who gives the final say. Now get rid of it!” Came Thranduil’s retort.
“You’re not the only one who lost her, sire…”
The words escaped his lips before his mind could think better of it, and the next thing Feren knew his back was roughly pinned against the stone wall. Thranduil’s hand encircled his throat and pressed down with just enough force to let this insubordinate know that his words would not be tolerated. For a moment, Feren feared the king might actually strike him, but instead Thranduil shattered his empty wine glass on the wall right above his head. Without another word, he strode away, leaving a wide eyed Feren to stare at his retreating back.
Perhaps the biting cold should have bothered Thranduil more than it did, but his thick robes and knee-high boots proved capable of warding it off. That and the blazing anger he felt running through his veins. How dare he? How dare that lowly foot soldier tell him how to deal with his wife’s passing? He did not know her even a fraction as well as Thranduil did! If he had, he would understand how impossible it is to let such a light go. Thranduil loathed the idea of sharing her memories with his people. They were all he had left of her.
Without giving his direction much conscious thought, Thranduil looked up to find himself standing at the entrance to his realm.
“Your majesty, I did not think to see you here.” Came the voice of Cardon, one of Mirkwood’s border guards, as he leapt soundlessly from a tree and bowed low to his ruler.
Thranduil granted the young elf a polite nod and motioned him to return to his feet. “Take leave of your post for about an hour. You are dismissed.”
Cardon was no doubt curious as to why Thranduil would request such a thing, but knew enough about his king’s ill temper not to argue. Giving a shallow bow, he took his leave.
Once he was sure he was alone, Thranduil began searching for the object of his Winter escapade. It took him a while to find the statue, it having been covered up by decades of overgrown vines and now the falling snow. He hurriedly removed his sword from his belt and began cutting away the obstructions to reveal a beautiful face of marble. Tears froze on his lashes at the sight of his wife’s memorial being utterly forgotten in such a way. He gently caressed the statue’s cheek with his fingertips.
“I am so sorry, my love. I did not intend for it to be so long between visits…” He gave pause. It truly had been a long time since he had ventured this far away from his palace, and even longer since he had dared to gaze upon the statue. Thranduil had it built shortly after his queen's death. It was not a true grave, but a symbol of all she was to him and their people. Guardian of the realm and his heart.
Reaching into his pocket, Thranduil slowly, reverently, clasped the white diamonds around the statue’s neck. Standing back, he smiled.
It was a poor compensation for the moment that was stolen from him… but it was enough.
He still recalled the night, not at all unlike this one, when having the necklace created for her first graced his mind. She had dragged him away from the warmth of the palace into the cold forest, an action he found rather treasonous at the time.
“Where are we going that’s so important? We’ll miss the fireworks.” The young Prince grumbled, pulling his thick cloak tighter around his frame.
“To the stars!” The elleth walking in front of him turned her head to give a playful wink. Thranduil tried to be annoyed, but he secretly loved her ability to make life an adventure. Her smile disarmed him and he couldn’t help pulling her to him and kissing her firmly.
“How much further? I fear if we’re gone any longer your brother will think I’ve thrown you in prison.”
She giggled. “What reason would you have for doing that, my Prince?”
“Exposing me to the elements for one. And for two, making me leave my wine glass behind. It is a very expensive vintage and I doubt there’ll be any left upon my return.”
“I promise it’s worth it.” She clasped his hand, still somehow warm, and her voice was sure.
He followed her to a snow covered field that was empty save for the trees with blue blossoms on them. There was a look of wonder in her eyes as she caught tiny snowflakes in her palm, only maintaining their shape for a moment before melting away on the heat of her skin. Thranduil hummed in slight amusement, stepping forward and gently brushing the frost from her lashes with the pad of his thumb.
“You are like the changing of the seasons; vexing and untamable. But each aspect of you lovely in its own way.” He looked down at the moisture spreading on the sleeve of his cloak from the snow. “What is your fascination with the cold, dear one?”
“Mm…” She thought for a moment before meeting his eyes. “The earth hibernates under her armor of snow every Winter. The death in Autumn, when the trees give their final show of gracefully letting go of that which no longer serves them, is concealed from view to be reborn in the Spring. A new beginning. That is why we celebrate the turning of the new year.”
She turned and smiled off into the distance. “Until then, we get to live in a world covered in white light as bright as the eternal stars themselves.”
“Where are you going?” Thranduil called after her as she began climbing a nearby tree.
The elleth smiled down at him as she grabbed hold of a vine and swung over his head, reaching her hand out to him. “On our wedding day, I said I’d give you the stars if I could, and the falling snowflakes are the closest thing we’re going to get on earth. Come!”
Thranduil, amazed, took hold of the vine and they swung amid the falling stars there in the calmness of the seemingly mundane forest clearing. Laughing, Thranduil pulled them up into a tree and they caught snowflakes on their tongues.
“Look!” He pointed out the fireworks visible from the palace, their vantage point granting them an excellent view. They entwined their fingers and Thranduil pulled her under his cloak to keep her warm.
“You’ll own the very stars. I’ll see to that meleth nin.”
He was pulled from his reverie as he sensed a presence behind him. It was Tauriel. King and subject briefly locked eyes, if only long enough for some unspoken understanding to pass between them, before walking silently back to the palace side by side. Thranduil chanced one last look at the statue, the gems now glowing as they caught the moonlight. Indeed, it was beautiful… but lifeless. Her true memory was living. Living in the hearts of their subjects, in the falling snow that came every year, forever in his soul, and in the eyes of their son…
Methrandir’s words came crashing back to him, “Those gems were not all your wife left you, my friend. She left you a son. Tell me, which would she have you value more?”
After all this time, Thranduil finally knew he’d figured out the right answer.
Mutuals who I have hardly spoken with but we instead communicate through silently liking and reblogging each other's posts... I hope you're all having a lovely day ✨
izzy806
tangentwithtanner
baratheonpilled
germansingergirl
ellievsbear
yousharknotpass
origamiaround
blakekathryn
gummygunk
snowghoul
