A Promise of the Sun by cuarthol

A Promise of the Sun

The library was one of Finduilas’s favorite rooms in Nargothrond, though she did not visit today for the books.  She brought soup and bread and tea arrayed on a fine tray with little flowers tucked in around the servings and a small stolen pastry hidden inside a leaf, a repayment of the many stolen morsels that had been smuggled to her upon a time.

She nudged the door open with her foot and came in without a sound, setting the tray on the low table and putting her hand gently on the sleeping man’s shoulder.

“Uncle Bëor?”

Bëor smiled at the melodic voice which called him back from his doze.  Without yet opening his eyes he said, “My little songbird.  Is it morning already?”

“It is just past noon,” Finduilas said, helping him to sit upright.  “You have been asleep all morning.”

“Difficult to tell without the sun,” he said, having never quite managed to adjust to the passage of time beneath the hills.

“We will go and see her after lunch, if you’d like,” Finduilas said.  “She is bright today, and the trees reach for her.”

“Perhaps,” Bëor said, though the long walk was harder on him now.  “But surely you have better things to do than wait on an old man.”

She only smiled at his protests and brought the bowl of soup to his hands.  “You’ll like it today,” she said.  “The venison has been chopped so fine you need not even chew it.”

That was harder now as well, as were a great many little things that had somehow slowly slipped away over the years.  He could no longer read the flowing, miniscule script in the books, or carve the intricate figures he once made for her to play with.  He could not race through the bracken with his lord as if two deer in spring.  He could no longer quite recall the faces of his family, so long left behind.

As his mind drifted away and he made no attempt to eat, Finduilas put a hand on his shoulder again.  “Uncle?”

“Hm?  Oh.”  He looked at the soup, steam wafting from the surface, bringing the rich scent of meat and spices to his nose.  He took a tentative bite, a little hot yet, but it helped to warm him as he ate.  The cold was another constant companion.

“Shall I read to you?” Finduilas offered.  “I found a book of poetry that might suffice to pass a little time.”

“That would be lovely,” he said, remembering how he once held her on his lap and read to her the great histories of the Eldar, more for his own education then.  She had barely grown from the child she had been in his eyes, only just reaching the edge of adulthood.

Her voice was strong now, turning the words into an exciting panoply of images and sounds, forming visions in his mind that he was not altogether certain whether they came from himself or from her.  She read poems of waves and the stars and the crisp sea air from atop a mast; of trees and moths and little growing things in the twilight of the forest; of life and beauty and enduring hope; but her voice faltered when the spoon fell from his fingers.

“Oh, Uncle, let me help,” she said as he reached for it.  She took a cloth and began wiping the spilled soup from his trousers.

“Do you remember when I spilt my beets all down the front of my brand new golden dress?” she said, and while he did not recall that particular story she did not wait for an answer, continuing on as she wiped the spoon clean. 

“I had promised my mother so faithfully I would not get it dirty, and there I was with red stains right down the front of it.”  She sat beside him and took a spoonful of the soup, bringing it to his mouth.

“You begged the linen kerchiefs off the ladies next to me and tied them together at the corner, settling it over my head and tucking it into my belt like a surcoat.  Oh, the dress was a loss, but at least I did not have to wear the shame for all to see that evening.”

He smiled, the faint memory of it starting to creep back in.  It took the sting out of being fed like a child, and he was grateful for the distraction.

When the soup was finished, she snuck him the pastry, and they both laughed at the reversal.  Oh, how he had indulged her, and now she, him.  They spoke a while longer about those days, how she would delight in his beard and the stories of his people, how she marveled at the lines that each year etched deeper into his dark skin even as he marveled at how she grew (and yet so much slower than his own kind.)

It was not long before he had wearied again, closing his eyes and leaning back into the pillows.

“Perhaps a little later we might go feel the sun,” he said, voice already heavy with sleep.

She kissed his head tenderly and promised.