The party had been Aragorn's idea. But Arwen supposed it wasn't really and idea, but rather an offhanded remark she had taken too seriously. Another small fixation she longed to complete; something to put her mind to and finish.
The Elven queen was particularly skilled with the craft of planning, and she had justifiably self-appointed herself as the chief organizer for the festivity, along with several of the maids and a surprisingly helpful Legolas, and a unsurprising unhelpful Gimli.
The festival was fast planned and would be thrown mere days after the first utterance of the idea from the king, for Arwen knew her kin would be arriving shortly and she wanted to enjoy their company in a pleasant atmosphere, and one that discouraged any in-depth conversations on her decision to stay in Middle Earth. But it was also to enjoy one of her last few nights with her father in happiness.
Aragorn, of course, supported her every step of the way, throwing out random ideas in the middle of negotiations and other bureaucrat debates, much to the officials' chagrin. The ambassadors and seneschals would send him strange looks, but he would merely smile while his wife took the ideas down on a scroll. It was one she kept handy for the sake of the celebration.
A week of hasty planning, and Arwen was ready to set up the decor. Frodo offhandedly commented that she reminded him of Bilbo with the amount of thought she put into a single celebration. She smiled; it was a compliment. Bilbo had always been kind to her, and she even though she was the elder, he was like an uncle to her. She was glad he was going to go to the undying lands to live the rest of eternity; maybe her mother would love him as much as she did.
It was not until the very afternoon of the party that she felt that everything was complete. She stood on the tall stairs leading to the top circle of Minas Tirith and looked at the finished result with a smile of satisfaction. The tables were long and clean, ready to be filled with cakes and chocolate delicacies. The banners, the ribbons and the drapes on the building were in place, the games and archery competitions were set up (one of Aragorn's ideas, of course), and the fountain was left alone for those who wished to take a breath from the festivities. The newest gardens that had been planted in honor of Aragorn's return had been flourishing for a few weeks now, adding to the already beautiful atmosphere of the festival. Better still, the sky had been perfectly clear all day, and that meant no surprise storms or gales to tear through her beautiful work. Everything seemed to be looking up.
Arwen sighed and sat on the steps, leaning back contentedly. 'Perhaps it was all just to distract me from my father's impending departure,' she thought silently. Her good mood suddenly seemed to darken, and she realized how empty she felt now that her job was completed. There was nothing left to distract herself with before the Elves arrived. 'Except the party,' she berated herself. 'Think of the party.'
'It's quite a sight,' said Aragorn from behind her. She looked up at him and smiled, but it came weak. He sat down next to her and took her hand in his own, dark eyes filled with concern and unhidden affection. Arwen gazed at his kingly features for a long moment; the stormy gray eyes, the dark hair, the strong features, and when he smiled every bit of sadness seemed to drain from her. Aragorn was worth it, she realized, no longer feeling the doubt that had plagued her. Every second of her new mortality, the loss of her father, the loss of her friends; Aragorn was worth it all.
With a sigh, Arwen laid her head against his shoulder. The warmth of him spread through her, and she gave a contented smile as his fingers stroked her hair. A mortal life is a mere instant for an Elf, but she could think of no better instant than one spent with her husband.
It was cold. No, that wouldn't be quite the right word for it. It was freezing, and even that was a inadequate word for it. It was the type of freezing that you would feel in a snowstorm, or trying to fish waist-deep in winter waters of Anduin. It was freezing, and Beregond was certainly not enjoying the fact that he seemed to be the only one noticing the harsh temperature.
'Probably because I'm the only sober one here,' Beregond grumbled to himself.
He pulled his cloak closer, but it proved to be little help in the frigid air. It's a coldness that seemed to drive through him and chill him to his very core. People, he thought angrily, should not throw an outside party, at night, in March, in Gondor. The winter chill still clung to the city, and a clear day meant an even colder night. As of now, Beregond could not see a single cloud in the sky and although the night was brilliant and poetically beautiful, the icy coldness was dreadful. He shuddered again and pulled the cloak closer.
'Perhaps I should leave,' thought Beregond gloomily, pulling his cloak around him so roughly it began to tear. 'Whoever made this damned thin cloak should die.'
He turned to leave, but his son and Pippin ran up to him before he could make a silent escape. Pippin was endowed with the guard's armor still and Beregond could not suppress a small grin at how strange it seemed. Though he had to admit that Pippin had grown since he had first met him; quiet a lot so, actually. He now stood a great deal taller than Frodo or Sam, and his chest and shoulders had definitely broadened.
'Hullo Beregond!' said Pippin cheerfully, giving a deep bow. 'I heard that King Aragorn decided not to kill you! Good news, I would think!'
'Yes, good news; and one of the most terrifying moments of my entire life,' muttered Beregond.
'Father!' said Bergil with a smile. 'Lord Faramir is here. I saw him on my way over.'
Beregond blinked. 'Faramir? Is the… lady Eowyn with him?' he asked slowly.
Bergil sent him a strange look, but shook his head. Beregond let out a small sigh of relief, and turned to see where he son was looking.
Faramir was indeed there, smiling and nodding to the people walking around him, but utterly silent as he always seemed to be. He sat at one of the dining tables, cloak curled around him and hand on a pint of ale. Beregond scowled, noticing Faramir's cloak looked far more extravagant and, predictably, quite a lot warmer.
He turned back to his son and Pippin, but both were already distracted away from him by Sam and Merry. Feeling slightly relieved, he casually made his way over to Faramir's table and sat down.
Faramir smiled slightly and raised his glass to him. 'I never go the change to express my gratitude to you for saving my life,' he said.
Beregond felt himself blush and he bowed her head slightly in embarrassment. 'It was my duty to protect you,' he replied modestly. 'It was truly Pippin who saved your life. I just happened to be in the right place at the right time.'
'You risked your life to save me,' said Faramir. 'And even more than for just fending off the servants. If my father were still living, you would have been executed, and if Aragorn was a crueler man you would have been exiled. Thankfully, neither is so.'
Beregond smiled. 'Thank you, Lord Faramir. But it really wasn't as heroic as you are making it seem. I ran from one battle to another. I was in equal danger either way.'
Faramir smiled and shook his head, but he did not push the point. Faramir was, as always, the quiet one, and Beregond noticed that he only pushed his opinion if he felt that it was worth pushing or if he was sure that the other already understood his meaning. In this case, Beregond wasn't sure which was so.
'Come,' Faramir said, standing from the table. 'I believe I heard there are archery competitions, and I have to admit I am most interested.'
Beregond felt himself blush more, and he felt himself thankful for his beard. He bowed his head more. 'My lord, I thank you for the kind offer, but–'
Faramir waved his hand dismissively. 'Come on, Beregond. I have nothing better to do, and I think it could be fun. Anyway, I owe you some company after all the years of loyal service to my family.'
Beregond reluctantly nodded, and Faramir gave him a jovial smile that was impossible not to return. Faramir was around the table quickly, and he gently took Beregond's elbow and lead him through the crowd. Beregond suddenly felt very warm, now wishing the he hadn't brought a cloak with him.
The archery competition wasn't hard to find; it was were all the eligible men were flocking to as well as the young boys who loved to watch. A few elves were there, but Beregond only recognized two of them save for Legolas, whom had been honored in front of all of Minas Tirith, whose name was common knowledge.
The two he recognized where the brothers of the queen, Elladan and Elrohir; both of which were showing off their skills with the bows. Legolas and Gimli was joking animatedly with Aragorn, whose arm was around Arwen. The archery was the center of the party, and almost everyone who was anyone was there. Frodo was with Glorfindel and …omer stood with the twins. Beregond felt the strongest desire to flee, but Faramir's hand on his arm kept him from doing so.
'Do you wish to compete?' asked Faramir as he took one of the bows being distributed to the contenders. Beregond numbly took one of the bows and berated himself for it instantly as he saw Elladan expertly snapping his arrows to the targets, each hit dead on to the red centers. He gulped.
'Faramir, do you think this is such–'
'A good idea?' Faramir finished with a laugh. 'Of course I do. The Elves will certainly defeat us, but at least we made a try for it. That in itself is completely honorable. We just have to make sure they don't beat us too badly.'
Beregond suppressed a sigh. 'I wish I had your enthusiasm,' he muttered as he watched Elrohir match his brother's skill.
Beregond clutched the bow in his hand uncertainly, feeling how foreign it seemed in his hands. He was used to the blade, not the bow, but he was not a bad shot. He had succeeded enough in the field of archery enough to become a sentry for Denethor.
Elladan and Elrohir drained their quivers on their targets, then turned to the next two contestants. Rumil and Haldir of 'Lorien stepped forward competitively and started snapping their bows. Each target was hit. Beregond put a hand over his face and moaned in embarrassment. It was hopeless.
'Do not despair,' said a voice, and Beregond's eyes snapped opened in surprise to two kind blue eyes. An Elf, he thought faintly as he noted the sharp features and the braided russet haired.
'I'm not despairing,' replied Beregond. 'I'm waiting for the inevitable.'
Gildor laughed. 'You are the guard that protected the steward Faramir from Denethor, are you not?' Beregond nodded, feeling a blush rise to his face. 'My name is Gildor,' said the Elf. 'And since you are an honorable man, I will help you.
'I see that bow is a unfamiliar weight in your hands; hands so obviously meant for the blade. I suggest that you balance yourself before letting your first arrow fly. Make sure your weight is even, and stare down the length of the arrow to the target rather than just the target. Do not spend too much time preparing, or your anxiety will make your hands shudder uncertainly. Here,' said Gildor, pulling out a flask. 'This is an Ent draught that I was given on my voyage here. Drink it and it will warm you, for I can see you are cold in skin, but not in mind.'
'Thank you, lord.' Beregond took the flash and downed a drink, and a warmth like none he had ever felt before filled his veins. A certain calmness came over him and the bow no longer seemed so strange in his grip.
'Haldir would undoubtedly be angry if he knew I was helping you, but he pouts so prettily that I simply cannot resist the chance. Good luck,' said Gildor, and he patted his shoulder encouragingly. 'And rest assured that the others are just showing off to the Men. If you knew their true skill, I believe you would run away in fright.'
Beregond wasn't sure if this was encouraging or not. With a sigh, he went up to his place next to Faramir. Faramir gave him a encouraging smile, and Beregond again could not help but smile back.
'Ready!' said the host. Faramir and Beregond drew their arrows, fixing their eyes on their targets. 'Fire!'
Beregond let loose his first arrow, and nearly gave a cry of triumph as it hit the mark. He fired again and again until his arrow supply was exhausted and every arrow was lodged into the target. He blinked, seeing how many had hit perfectly.
'What on Middle Earth was in the draught?' he thought incredulously. Faramir, who had always been gifted with the bow had hit every target perfectly as well. Beregond chanced a look at the Elves and found himself chuckling at their surprised faces. He knew he was still not as accurate as the twins and not even a fraction of what Haldir had been, but for a man he had done admirably.
The host smiled, 'Third place,' he said. 'Faramir and Beregond of Gondor! Second, Elladan and Elrohir of Imladris! First, Haldir and Rumil of 'Lorien!'
Faramir looked at him smugly. 'See?' he said. 'We only lost by a little. And the fact that the Elves have a few thousand years practice over us. I think we did rather well considering that much.'
Haldir and Rumil were given two sacks of gold which they glanced at with nothing short of distain. Elves had no use for gold coins, for their economics were not based on money but rather goods. But they took the gold and bowed honorably to those around them. Elladan and Elrohir were given bags of silver coins. The twins were slightly more excited than 'Lorien Elves, since both were grateful for any symbol of triumph.
And lastly, the host came to Faramir and Beregond holding a large stuffed dragon in his hand. He held it out. 'My lords,' he said, and Beregond looked at him dubiously.
'A stuffed animal?' he asked with a blink. Faramir was snickering next to him. The host looked anxiously at Beregond and nodded.
'Well, we did lose,' said Faramir with a chuckle.
'A stuffed animal.' Beregond repeated.
Faramir looked at him in mock disbelief. 'You dare insult the dragon… er, Sauron?' he asked, snatching the stuffed dragon from the host.
'You named the stuffed animal 'Sauron'?' asked Beregond, still looking at the offending toy in disbelief. 'You named the stuffed animal?'
Faramir frowned. 'I think it's adorable,' he said. 'And I think it's perfect for snuggling.'
Beregond blinked at the ridiculous image of Faramir snuggling a mound of stuffed animals and tried not to laugh. 'You snuggle with stuffed animals?' he asked, trying not to snicker.
Faramir gave a frown that was sadly bordering a pout. 'Of course I do. I have a small stuffed turtle that I'd slept with every night since I was five. I bring it on every mission I go on and make sure that everyone in my battalion knows that I have a stuffed turtle and it is not to be lost.'
Beregond stared. 'And what about when you're wed? What will you do with it then?'
'My beloved will just have to ignore the fact that there is a stuffed turtle in the bed. I don't think it's too much to ask,' said Faramir. 'My brother gave it to me when I was five after falling terribly ill. I have been attached to it ever since.'
Beregond shook his head and took the stuffed dragon. It was green and fuzzy, and it stared at him with big gold eyes. Decidedly un-dragon-like, Beregond decided before giving it back to Faramir. Faramir smirked and gave the stuffed dragon Sauron a hug that made Beregond almost burst out laughing.
The pair meandered slowly away from the crowd, much to Beregond relief, until they were in the darkness of the familiar soldier's quarters on the lower realm of Minas Tirith, away from the sound and commotion the festival had drawn. They did nothing more at the festival and instead were content with discussion, and Beregond quickly found that once you sparked Faramir's interest he tended to talk more than he had expected. Faramir often spoke of Boromir while Beregond listened with reverence to the steward; Faramir told him how he had found Boromir's dead body, and how Boromir had surprised him with the turtle when they were children (which made Beregond still chuckle with incredulity every time he thought about it).
'Stuffed animals really aren't that pathetic, are they?' asked Faramir, voice filled with mirth.
Beregond snickered and started to reply, but he was cut short soon after the first few syllables had passed his lips. They turned down a corner of the houses and what they saw made the words die in his throat. The Elf he had met earlier Gildor was there, but most certainly not alone. Haldir of 'Lorien stood with him, but they were certainly not talking. They were–
'Kissing,' said Beregond blankly. 'The two men are… kissing, my lord.'
'Yes, it would seem so,' Faramir said with a small grin.
It was not a chaste kiss either, Beregond noted with a slight flush. Haldir nibbled lightly on Gildor's lower lip, tongue snaking into his mouth when chance allowed. His slender hands were fisted in the dark hair of his companion, and they were pressed so close that it was hard to determine who was who, for their attire was very similar blue. Their closeness and vehemence looked utterly exhausting, and the aura of energy and desperation hung like vapor in the air.
Faramir, polite as he ever was before, stepped forward and loudly cleared his throat. Haldir sprang back with surprising speed, looking at Faramir in alarm. Beregond wondered just how many times he had been caught in such a position to learn how to leap back with such speed. Gildor started laughing; it was a beautiful laugh, but it was full of a stinging mirth.
Faramir shook his head. 'Do not be alarmed, Haldir of 'Lorien,' he said. Haldir gave him a smoldering glare in reply. Faramir smirked. 'There are better places for these sort of things like, for example… your quarters?'
'I apologize, my lord Faramir,' said Gildor mockingly. 'We will be more discrete in the future.'
'I would hope so,' replied Faramir with a shake of his head. Gildor sent him a last mirthful smile before taking Haldir's hand and leading the wrathful 'Lorien Elf away from the two men. Once they disappeared, Faramir let out a snickering laugh and shook his head in disbelief.
'You seem shocked,' observed Faramir off-handedly, forcing back another chuckle.
Beregond nodded faintly, still staring at where the two Elves had disappeared. 'You didn't seem to mind,' he commented weakly.
'Should I have?' asked Faramir. 'I don't think it's my choice who they choose as mates, be it a male or female. It is not in the Elven mind to truly care about who their mates are. They are immortal; it shouldn't matter. Does it bother you?'
Beregond looked at Faramir, flushing. 'No,' he admitted. 'I was just startled. I didn't know that men could…' he trailed off.
Faramir laughed, taking a step towards him. 'Don't worry about it,' he said. 'It truly not important. It's unusual, certainly, but that matters naught.'
Beregond took a deep breath and nodded mutely. He realized how Faramir was to him, and even though he had an inch on the man he felt as though he were being cornered. Beregond flattened himself against the wall.
Faramir leaned forward slightly. 'Are you afraid of it?' he asked.
'Of what?' asked Beregond.
'Of what you saw the Elves doing. Are you afraid of that?'
Beregond shook his head, and a second later he felt Faramir's lips capture his own. He froze, feeling a sudden panic go through him, but it was quickly diminished as Faramir put his hands on his chest. Beregond tentatively started to kiss back and his eyes drifted closed beyond his own will. Faramir's hand drifted up his collar bone and into his hair, the fingers tangling within the locks. Beregond moaned as Faramir's tongue stroked his lips, and he opened his mouth to deepen the kiss.
Faramir slowly pulled back, smiling but his eyes were dark. 'Come on,' he said, taking Beregond's hand. 'No one's going to care if we're gone for the night.'
Several minutes (and a good deal of fumbling) later, Beregond found himself on a bed. He wasn't quite sure how he even got there anymore, but his concern faded with each warm kiss that was exchanged between the two. It was a warm bed; not like how it was outside. It was warm of Faramir and kisses and motions. He leaned back against the pillows and Faramir settled back on his thighs, but blinked as his back came in contact with a lump.
Beregond quickly untangled his hand from Faramir's hair and he reached behind him. He blinked as he realized what was in his hand, and started laughing. It was the stuffed turtle.
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The Glory of Stuffed Dragons by Cellophane
Story notes: First off, I want to say why I decided on Faramir and Beregond. For those of you who have actually read the book (which is sadly a great minority when it comes to Lord of the Rings. Most people enjoy the movie and ignore the book) you would know the Beregond saved Faramir's live. Well… that's kinda slashy, isn't it? Not to mention that he put his own life at great risk to do it.
This is a bit AU because Eowyn and Faramir didn't fall in love at the House of Healing. I think that's the only thing I changed. I also find that stuffed animals are odd in Middle Earth, but this was a challenge from K Neko-sama. Here is the challenge if you wish to read it.
Create a celebration or festival of sorts in Gondor! Perhaps to celebrate the destruction of the One Ring? It doesn't matter what for; just make it! Include one base couple -- and I put it in Gondor for a reason *cough*Faramir*cough* -- but, after that, you decide. Let said couple discover their love or celebrate their secret relationship through food and games! Maybe include stuffed-animal prizes for cuteness. ^_^
Welp, she said cuteness, didn't she? *grin*
