My Tent Is Always Open To You by Grundy

My Tent Is Always Open To You

Elros sighed in relief as he entered his own quarters. It had been a long day.

As much land as there was, how was it that so many people wanted the same patches of it to build on? Being King meant he was the ultimate arbiter in such disputes, whether the petitioners were the humblest of folk still somewhat awed by their current company or the highest lords among Men before they had taken him for their king.

At least they accepted the rulings, even if only so they could get on with the building. Many were impatient to live properly again.

He was far from the only one who currently called a tent home, but he was also one of those who had been well acquainted with his ‘home’ long before they’d reached Elenna. Decades of war followed by several years of upheaval as the sea took Beleriand meant he’d spent as much of his life in tents as not by now.

He actually used a cluster of tents, much as he’d seen Gil-galad do on several occasions. It meant he could have one for official business, one for socializing with friends, and one for just him. If he didn’t have some time to himself with something like privacy, he’d go mad.

He was learning it was one thing to throw his lot in with Men, it was another to live surrounded by them – and almost exclusively them – constantly. He supposed he’d get used to it eventually, but some days it was still a bit much. And it wasn’t as if he could change it now.

His tents stood out from most of the Mannish ones for their bright colors. Men used plain, sensible canvas and didn’t bother to dye it, so their tents were mostly in natural shades of whitish or brownish. Elros’ tents looked by contrast like a jewelbird from the south country inexplicably landed among a flock of northern ducks in their winter colors.  

It was probably what had inspired him to start on the gardens of what would eventually become his house first. (And yes, all right, some of his new people might have a point that it was also a rather elvish order of operations.) He felt less out of place with his tents surrounded by greenery and flowering plants than among the orderly ranks of drab tents down by the harbor. At least he’d carried his point that the tents should be sized for the number of occupants, not the size of their purses.

His public tent was a bright yellow-green, the one for time with friends blue. He had heard rumors attributing the one to his mother’s Sindarin heritage, the other to his father and forefather Turgon. (He hadn’t the heart to remind them that he only knew Turgon by hearsay and history books, and wasn’t entirely sure what to make of him.)

The one that was his was orange. At least, from the outside. But from the inside, where it was just him, when the light hit it right, it was full of memories. Sometimes it was the shade of Maedhros’ hair, other times it was the red he remembered from the banners of the home he still held in his heart.

Elrond would understand. If he’d only hurry up and visit…

I know, dearest brother, that you’re quite used to living in proper buildings again, and camp life was never really to your taste. But I assure you that this is nothing like that! My tent is quite comfortable and at your disposal. There are real beds and everything. And it is rather different to have one’s tent pitched in the middle of gardens than in ruins!

Gardens might get him if nothing else worked.