A Rain of Wine by Sauronnaise
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tolkienshortfanworksAuthor: Sauronnaise
Title: A Rain of Wine
Text type/format: Not fixed length
Source/Fandom: The Silmarillion
Characters: Hador, Lalwen, Fingolfin
Rating: General
Word count: 965 words
Summary: As torrential rains pour, Hador is confined within Barad Eithel. To pass time, he studies Quenya and is reminded by the course of events that Elves are weaker than Men.
Author's notes: June 2023 prompt: unreasonable weather.
This is part of the Hador & Fingolfin story that I have in mind, but really nothing written about it. There might be more of these snippets in the future. In this universe, if Men are awaken for 16 hours and sleep for 8, Elves are awaken for 72h and sleep 24 (sleep will be referenced in the fic under *rolls drums* the cut).
If there was one thing Hador detested, it was to be confined inside.
He knew winters in Hithlum were longer than winters in Estolad but warmer. What he had expected was an alternation of snow and sunny days. Not endless rain and warm breeze from the mountains that suddenly raised the temperature for a week or two before going back to temperatures near the freezing point. If the constant greyness was not unusual due to Hithlum’s proximity to the sea, the absence of snow was. Or so he was told by both Sindarin servants and Noldorin exiles. A snowless winter was unheard of, save for this year.
Rain or not, he could not leave his traplines unattended. When he had come back from his expedition, Fingolfin threw a fit. He had no tolerance for mud and wet leather. He had ordered Hador to bathe himself immediately, then had forbidden Hador from hunting or fishing during rainy days. The Man thought this decision was ridiculous. First, he liked tracking and hunting his food; second, rain and mud were part of life. He knew how to clean himself. It was clear that he needed to walk up to the bathroom before he could remove all dirt from his clothes and body. He had suggested to leave his boots at the entrance gate to fetch them later. Fingolfin would not listen to reason.
When Hador had suggested cleaning himself in the river near the castle before crossing any door, Fingolfin had clutched at his pendant, gasping. Surely Hador wouldn’t be stark naked in front of everyone, would he?
Constant rain was a nuisance; Fingolfin was worse.
Locked in Lalwen’s study, Hador had no choice but to work on his Quenya skills. That was the whole purpose of his stay at Hithlum, after all.
Lalwen put a cup next to Hador on the table and sat in front of him. Hador murmured his thanks, briefly inspected the cup, and gulped its content. He was thirsty. To his disappointment, the taste was not remarkable.
“What are you doing?!” hissed Lalwen. She snatched the cup from his hands.
Hador grimaced. “What was that? Fermented juice?”
“Are you out of your mind?!” Lalwen roared. “That was wine, you oblivious- urgh!”
She grabbed the pitcher of water that rested in the tray in front of her and poured water into Hador’s cup.
“You shouldn’t have drunk your cup this quickly,” she reprimanded him. “You’ll be drunk in no time.”
“Drunk?” Hador raised an eyebrow. “Drunk from what? That was juice. Not the best juice I’ve had in my life, but juice nevertheless.”
Irritated, Lalwen slapped the table with the tip of her fingers. “Don’t mock me. It was wine. It was meant to be consumed slowly. What a lack of manners.”
Hador stared at her, incredulous. Then, he scoffed: “If that’s wine, then I am Araw. Even ale would be stronger than your juice.”
“Ale would be stronger than whose juice?” Fingolfin said as he entered the room unannounced.
Lalwen jumped and complained that he should make his presence known before scaring others. Hador had felt his heat when the Noldo walked up to him—why did these darn Elves emit so much heat? It was uncomfortable—and opted to ignore him.
“Well?” insisted Fingolfin.
“My juice,” replied Lalwen.
If Fingolfin could make Hador choke on his water in this instant, he would.
“He says it’s juice. He’s wrong: that’s wine,” Lalwen added.
Fingolfin blinked. “You truly don’t taste alcohol?”
“Nah,” said Hador. “This is weak.” He grumbled: “That explains why some people asked me questions about Mannish booze the other day.” He glanced at his cup and scorned. Real Mannish liquor would be the most welcome to cope with the terrible weather.
“If what you advance is true,” said Lalwen carefully, “then you will not feel drunk in an hour or so. Still. Let’s study before you drink anything else tonight.”
Hador shrugged. He preferred water over that fermented silly liquid.
Curious, Fingolfin drew a chair and watched him intently. Hador took his quill to scribble obscenities in Quenya in his notebook. Fingolfin disapproved.
An hour passed. The wine was savoured. Rain poured its torrents against the windows. Fingolfin served Lalwen a second glass. Hador noticed his cheeks and neck were pink; Lalwen’s ear tips were bright red.
Fingolfin relaxed, leaned against his chair back, and engaged in conversation with his sister. Lalwen, finally disinterested in Hador, turned her attention to her brother. Hador noted down the words they said that he recognised. The atmosphere wasn’t as tense and stiff. The Man knew to thank Elves’ lack of alcohol tolerance. He also knew not to hope to make the moment last longer than its short span of life. The next day, things would return to what they were destined to be. Lalwen would circle him like a hawk, albeit a cautious one; Fingolfin would be as equally difficult as he was distant.
None of that truly mattered to Hador. In the end, Noldor were famished exiles in foreign lands, angry for territory and power they could not possess.
He put his sheets away in his binder and his quill and ink in his case, and got up.
“Alright,” he said, “I must go. Goodnight.”
Fingolfin raised his head to look at Hador. This last one realised how small the Highking appeared from this angle. When standing, both were yet approximately the same height.
“Going to bed?”
The left corner of Hador’s lips twitched in a wry smile. “Yes. I need to sleep every night, remember?”
He bowed his head as a sign of respect to Lalwen and exited the room.
Wind howled and rain fell harder against the windows. Staring at the distance, Fingolfin mused that he could never understand Men.
Title: A Rain of Wine
Text type/format: Not fixed length
Source/Fandom: The Silmarillion
Characters: Hador, Lalwen, Fingolfin
Rating: General
Word count: 965 words
Summary: As torrential rains pour, Hador is confined within Barad Eithel. To pass time, he studies Quenya and is reminded by the course of events that Elves are weaker than Men.
Author's notes: June 2023 prompt: unreasonable weather.
This is part of the Hador & Fingolfin story that I have in mind, but really nothing written about it. There might be more of these snippets in the future. In this universe, if Men are awaken for 16 hours and sleep for 8, Elves are awaken for 72h and sleep 24 (sleep will be referenced in the fic under *rolls drums* the cut).
If there was one thing Hador detested, it was to be confined inside.
He knew winters in Hithlum were longer than winters in Estolad but warmer. What he had expected was an alternation of snow and sunny days. Not endless rain and warm breeze from the mountains that suddenly raised the temperature for a week or two before going back to temperatures near the freezing point. If the constant greyness was not unusual due to Hithlum’s proximity to the sea, the absence of snow was. Or so he was told by both Sindarin servants and Noldorin exiles. A snowless winter was unheard of, save for this year.
Rain or not, he could not leave his traplines unattended. When he had come back from his expedition, Fingolfin threw a fit. He had no tolerance for mud and wet leather. He had ordered Hador to bathe himself immediately, then had forbidden Hador from hunting or fishing during rainy days. The Man thought this decision was ridiculous. First, he liked tracking and hunting his food; second, rain and mud were part of life. He knew how to clean himself. It was clear that he needed to walk up to the bathroom before he could remove all dirt from his clothes and body. He had suggested to leave his boots at the entrance gate to fetch them later. Fingolfin would not listen to reason.
When Hador had suggested cleaning himself in the river near the castle before crossing any door, Fingolfin had clutched at his pendant, gasping. Surely Hador wouldn’t be stark naked in front of everyone, would he?
Constant rain was a nuisance; Fingolfin was worse.
Locked in Lalwen’s study, Hador had no choice but to work on his Quenya skills. That was the whole purpose of his stay at Hithlum, after all.
Lalwen put a cup next to Hador on the table and sat in front of him. Hador murmured his thanks, briefly inspected the cup, and gulped its content. He was thirsty. To his disappointment, the taste was not remarkable.
“What are you doing?!” hissed Lalwen. She snatched the cup from his hands.
Hador grimaced. “What was that? Fermented juice?”
“Are you out of your mind?!” Lalwen roared. “That was wine, you oblivious- urgh!”
She grabbed the pitcher of water that rested in the tray in front of her and poured water into Hador’s cup.
“You shouldn’t have drunk your cup this quickly,” she reprimanded him. “You’ll be drunk in no time.”
“Drunk?” Hador raised an eyebrow. “Drunk from what? That was juice. Not the best juice I’ve had in my life, but juice nevertheless.”
Irritated, Lalwen slapped the table with the tip of her fingers. “Don’t mock me. It was wine. It was meant to be consumed slowly. What a lack of manners.”
Hador stared at her, incredulous. Then, he scoffed: “If that’s wine, then I am Araw. Even ale would be stronger than your juice.”
“Ale would be stronger than whose juice?” Fingolfin said as he entered the room unannounced.
Lalwen jumped and complained that he should make his presence known before scaring others. Hador had felt his heat when the Noldo walked up to him—why did these darn Elves emit so much heat? It was uncomfortable—and opted to ignore him.
“Well?” insisted Fingolfin.
“My juice,” replied Lalwen.
If Fingolfin could make Hador choke on his water in this instant, he would.
“He says it’s juice. He’s wrong: that’s wine,” Lalwen added.
Fingolfin blinked. “You truly don’t taste alcohol?”
“Nah,” said Hador. “This is weak.” He grumbled: “That explains why some people asked me questions about Mannish booze the other day.” He glanced at his cup and scorned. Real Mannish liquor would be the most welcome to cope with the terrible weather.
“If what you advance is true,” said Lalwen carefully, “then you will not feel drunk in an hour or so. Still. Let’s study before you drink anything else tonight.”
Hador shrugged. He preferred water over that fermented silly liquid.
Curious, Fingolfin drew a chair and watched him intently. Hador took his quill to scribble obscenities in Quenya in his notebook. Fingolfin disapproved.
An hour passed. The wine was savoured. Rain poured its torrents against the windows. Fingolfin served Lalwen a second glass. Hador noticed his cheeks and neck were pink; Lalwen’s ear tips were bright red.
Fingolfin relaxed, leaned against his chair back, and engaged in conversation with his sister. Lalwen, finally disinterested in Hador, turned her attention to her brother. Hador noted down the words they said that he recognised. The atmosphere wasn’t as tense and stiff. The Man knew to thank Elves’ lack of alcohol tolerance. He also knew not to hope to make the moment last longer than its short span of life. The next day, things would return to what they were destined to be. Lalwen would circle him like a hawk, albeit a cautious one; Fingolfin would be as equally difficult as he was distant.
None of that truly mattered to Hador. In the end, Noldor were famished exiles in foreign lands, angry for territory and power they could not possess.
He put his sheets away in his binder and his quill and ink in his case, and got up.
“Alright,” he said, “I must go. Goodnight.”
Fingolfin raised his head to look at Hador. This last one realised how small the Highking appeared from this angle. When standing, both were yet approximately the same height.
“Going to bed?”
The left corner of Hador’s lips twitched in a wry smile. “Yes. I need to sleep every night, remember?”
He bowed his head as a sign of respect to Lalwen and exited the room.
Wind howled and rain fell harder against the windows. Staring at the distance, Fingolfin mused that he could never understand Men.
no subject
Date: 2024-01-31 02:13 am (UTC)Good idea! Keep on writing. :)
no subject
Date: 2024-01-31 05:09 pm (UTC)I crossposted the story with more blabbla'ing to my blog.