Morning Mist and Silver Sun by StarSpray

Never Have I Ever

Written for the 2021-22 Holiday Party instadrabble session for prompts for the "Never Have I Ever" game.

Elwing
Crush on someone not Eärendil

There was a poet among the Men in Sirion, Dírhavel , with dark hair and darker eyes. His mother’s folk, it was said, came from Brethil; his father’s came long before from Dorthonion. He was some years Elwing’s elder, tall and lanky and Elwing often saw him sitting on the beach with his legs stretched out in the sand as he wrote furiously, with homemade berry ink on birch-bark paper.

“Why are you spying on Dírhavel?” Eärendil asked her, coming upon her as she sat partly hidden by some rocks, making sandcastles while watching Dírhavel try to keep his paper in order when the breeze kicked up.

“I don’t spy,” Elwing retorted, wrinkling her nose at Eärendil. He was covered in sand and smelled like seaweed.

“He’s writing about our kin, you know. About my father’s cousins. Father says it will be the greatest tale of the Edain of this Age.”

.

Bilbo
Overindulged in Elven Delicacies

“Master Elrond did warn you,” said Frodo as he put the kettle on. Bilbo, bundled up in his chair by the hearth, did not reply. “He did say the wines were stronger even than Dorwinion--”

“Usually,” Bilbo said, voice muffled but still sounding extremely put out, “that sort of thing cooks off when you put it in the oven!”

Frodo wasn’t even sure what precisely it was that Bilbo had overindulged in. There had been many sweet—and alcoholic—morsels floating around the party last night, and by the end Bilbo had been very merry indeed. “Well,” he said, “I think what usually happens when you put beer in bread in the Shire, Bilbo, isn’t what usually happens in Elvenhome.” Bilbo did not deign to reply to this, though he did accept the mug of strong tea, emerging from his blankets just long enough to take a long sip.

.

Sam
Meets one of Yavanna’s Maiar

The little hobbit hole the Elves had dug out for the hobbits on Tol Eressëa was quite lovely, snug and cozy and with a beautiful garden all around it. Sam spent a full week just puttering about, once he got settled (if you could call it settled, with heroes out of old tales popping in for tea and scones every other day).

The only things missing from the garden were proper taters. Frodo laughed when Sam said so. “I have been waiting for you!” he said. “No one grows potatoes like a Gamgee—or a Gardner.”

So Sam set to work digging up the soft, rich earth. Soil was soil, whether in Elvenhome or the Shire, and it was very pleasant to return to his own roots, as it were, Sam thought. Over his head the parlor window was open, and he could hear Frodo and Bilbo laughing over something.

Something beside him rustled in among the peonies, and when Sam looked up he sat back on his heels, mouth agape. Kneeling in among the flowers was a—person? Hobbit-sized, but green-skinned and with hair that was positively leafy. They laughed merrily, sitting cross-legged on the ground. “I am sorry! I forget you are not used to us.”

“I beg your pardon,” said Sam. “Are you one of them—Maiar? Like old Gandalf?”

“Like and unlike, to be sure,” said the Maia, laughing again. “I bring greetings from my mistress, who bids you come to her pastures, if you would like.” They leaned forward and pressed a hand to the potatoes and spoke a few words that made the hair on Sam’s neck stand up, and then in the blink of an eye they were gone again, leaving only a few scattered leaves on the ground where they had been.