Feast by ohboromir

Feast

Read Feast

“Ammë, when can we eat?”

Eärendil tugged at his mother’s skirts, pouting already in anticipation of her answer. He had first strung words together only a few short months ago, and now he was babbling and toddling around, getting sticky hands all over the place. A tiring time, she had found, but it was a distraction on her melancholy hours and a joy on her good days.

Clever and quick-growing – Tuor said it was the way of Men’s children – as he was, he had not yet grasped time, or patience. An hour’s wait or a minute’s – to her son, it was all the same.

Idril crouched and smiled at him.

“I know you are hungry, and excited.” Though he had had his breakfast but two hours ago, and made a mess of it too. She had spent more time cleaning up than she had making the meal. “But we must wait for the feast to be prepared. The cooks are working hard, we do not wish to rush them. A little hunger will not hurt you, my little star.”

She knew that well herself. Idril still remembered the hunger on the Ice. She had been not been any bigger than Eärendil’s was now – much smaller, when they had started out, even accounting for the differences in elves and men. Food had become scarce so quickly, and after her mother had died, she had had to be weaned, for there was no wet-nurse to comfort her. Idril did not remember very much of that time, but she remembered the gnawing in her stomach, she remembered how the cold had made the hunger worse. She remembered the pale and thin faces, the deep, hungry gazes of those around her. She remembered her relatives’ attempts to soothe her, distract her.

But it had been bearable; she had never gone more than a day or two without someone giving her something to eat, and she had grown strong all the same. A few hours would not harm Eärendil. But still… she did not like the thought of him ever going hungry. Her would live in comfort and peace, and if he wanted to eat, she would make him something.

“But I think a little snack won’t hurt.” Eärendil’s cheer warmed her, as he dashed ahead of her on unsteady, toddler legs. Down the grand staircase, the bannisters ringed with ribbons and flowers, blatantly ignoring her call to watch where he was going, or he would trip someone up. Again. Her son bounced on his heels at the bottom of the stairs as he waited for her to catch up.

“I will race you, Ammë!” His soft shoes pattered across the stone floor. Idril dashed after him, calling out again – Eärendil always acted swiftly, without the hesitance that had been in her since her youth. She knew her father was there before she rounded the corner; she heard his laugh, deep and rich, and Eärendil’s squeal as he was lifted high in the air.

“Haru!”

“Little prince,” Turukáno spun her son high in the air – Idril felt a spark of terror, buried deep within her chest. She always feared he would drop him, when he lifted her son like that, even as Eärendil giggled. Idril had not been a joyful child, her father (and indeed everyone else who had known her then) had told her. She had not ever found joy in being thrown about, but Eärendil loved playing and wrestling, loved for his father to toss him onto the couch pillows like a bag of flour. “Where are you racing off to today?”

“Ammë and me are getting snacks!”

“Ammë and I, Eärendil.” Idril corrected gently, and her own father laughed again, shaking his head as if he had not been so precise in correcting her a child. It was good to hear him laugh. He laughed more now Eärendil was here. Idril did not think she had ever heard her father laugh so often.

“Snacks? Before the feast?” Her father tickled Eärendil cheek, “A little warrior like you needs to keep his strength up. Run along, and I will make you something to eat.”

There was a strange, distant look in her father’s eyes as he sat Eärendil down again, and her son charged off once more. Idril reached to catch her father’s arm before he could follow.

“He eats so much. It must be his father in him.”

Her father’s deep gaze met hers, and in it she saw sorrow. Deep, unavoidable sorrow. Perplexing; was Eärendil’s joy not infectious?

“All elflings eat so,” he chided her in his familiar, gentle tone. Her father always spoke so smoothly – so rarely she heard him raise his voice. “I suppose you do not remember. I know you do not remember much of… that time.”

Something passed between them then. Was it his memory, or her own, long buried?

Herself, bundled in cloth and cloaks so heavy she could hardly move, being carried to her grandfather’s tent. It was dark, always dark, and her stomach growled. There were hushed voices – her aunt, her uncle, someone else whose name she did not recall. Someone was saying there was nothing to eat; not enough to go around – people would have to go without.

Her father was pressing a bowl of soup, lukewarm and tasteless, thin. But it had been something, and she had not, then, remembered what food was supposed to taste like. Her father’s face, grey and thin, had gazed down at her and kissed her hair. Eat, child, and be strong.

“I do not remember, Atya. You kept me from being too hungry.” Her hand tightened on his arm. She had not known it then, but she knew it now, looking into his eyes – or perhaps, in the back of her mind she had always known. Her father had given up his share for her in that moment – and how many other times?

“Haru! Atya!”

Eärendil’s bright voice came calling again. Idril smiled. Her father smiled back.

“We best go feed the little prince, before he devours us instead.”