All Hues and Honeys by Dawn Felagund

"Marula" and "Windfall"

For the Block Party prompt "comfort food": a pair of Maedhros/Fingon ficlets about love, libation, and the rituals that bind them.

Marula

"You know as well as I do," said Nelyo, "that it is a myth."

He lounged on his elbow under the patchy shade of the tree. Would the wind stir, the shade would shift and splash his face with Treelight.

Findekáno knelt, leaning forward with the fruit balanced upon his fingertips. "Yes. So?" was all he had to answer. The yellow globe--so livid to be almost unreal--was a brilliant focal point upon a backdrop of green that stirred lightly, as with the memory of a breeze.

A droplet of sweat crawled down Nelyo's back.

The myth was that the fruit of the marula tree would begin to ferment before even dropping to the ground, spreading the earth with a bacchanalian feast that would drive the wondrous animals of Oromë's forest to lustful madness. The legend went that, come the Mingling, as the servants of Oromë led the Eldar to the gates, the trumpets and howls would begin to rise as they went. Then they'd gently shut the gates behind all witness, and their eyes smiled as they did.

A breath of wind rising then would cool their skin and carry the syrupy scent of the fruit away and draw their eyes to the trees and away from each other.

But the wind did not rise. "Myth or no," Findekáno said, offering the fruit to Nelyo's lips as he might a kiss, "it's supposed to be delicious."

Windfall

When Fingon turned away, Maedhros opened his eyes.

He'd felt the fire as a wind on his face without heat. Skin over bone, there was no room for blood to run between them. Fingon stood before the flames, alongside a basket of windfall apples. He cupped one in his hand; with his thumb, caressed away the frost from the sun-touched blush upon its wizened face.

They used to call it windfall wine in Formenos: gathering the apples from the ground, knocking bees from them that staggered away, too drunk to sting. They crushed with no force, the windfalls, the scent of their ferment heavy and hot. From maple casks they were poured in celebration, tasting first as a tingle on the tongue, then a rush of saliva and sweet.

"What are you celebrating?"

Fingon did not startle at the words, Maedhros's first since their return from the Mountain. The windfall tumbled into the kettle over the fire. Already, its scent began to banish the stink of blood.

"So many things."

Chapter End Notes

The connection to the "comfort food" prompt is, of course, obvious in the content of the story itself. However, the inspiration also ties in with the prompt. Since this covid disaster started, my husband and I, nearly every night, play a board game and very often have a drink to go with it. When we lost my father-in-law a few weeks ago, that drink was gin and tonic in honor of him and his taste for gin. Lately, for me anyway, it's been amaretto sour, and the drink seems to anchor something steady and warm in the midst of this uncertain time. From this came the idea of similarly exploring the connection between libation and ritual.

A second, lesser connection: I first learned of marula watching The Great British Baking Show, and it doesn't get much more "comfort food" than that.