Tales of Thanksgiving: A Drabble Collection by Dawn Felagund

The Seedling

An alternate-universe story set in the same verse as my novella "By the Light of Roses," about how Amras met his husband Nandolin. For Vána Tuivána.

Warning: This is a slash story. It is not graphic--hopefully sweet--but readers who don't like slash should avoid this one.

The Seedling

The first time I saw him, I was riding around the bounds of my father's lands. Once upon a time, I'd been led by the hand around Grandfather's menagerie, and my father had stiffly explained that the animals paced from the misery of boredom. His twitching fingers betrayed that he might like to work loose the locks and set them free.

So I paced our lands, having long ago memorized every tree and rock. What else was there to do in exile? My brothers were preoccupied with their wives and lovers, with their so-called "purposes" in life--and none wanted much to do with me besides--and so I rode in circles until I began to see the ground wearing where my horse's hooves had trod many times. My father was distracted in those days, and I dared not tempt myself with fellowship with other young Elves in the town. There was no one to free me.

Until this day.

Abruptly, I halted. He stood on the boundary of our land, staring as though awaiting an invitation to cross a threshold. He wore a dun-colored cloak that snapped in the brisk spring wind, and in his hands, he cradled a seedling. I looked at his back, his hip: In these lands, it is not uncommon to wear a bow or a sword whenever traveling out-of-doors, for the beasts here are not always allies, as they are in Valinor.

But he wore neither. I wore both.

I heeled my horse and cantered lightly towards him. It took a moment before he looked up to watch my approach, and I saw that he was large even for a Noldo, broad in the shoulder with a wide, plain face. One hand could span my entire face, I thought, but they were gentle as they cradled the seedling.

His eyes were pale golden-brown. My heart squeezed as they met mine and I stopped before him. I was a prince of the Noldor, the son of the lord of this land. But I could not convince myself to speak.

"Your earth here," he said at last, "is beautiful." So are you, I thought, but I could not bring myself to close my eyes to his face. And I should: My heart, it raced dangerously. The seedling was gnarled and half-dead. I saw that more than half of its branches had been pruned. "My tree, it will not grow in my land. But here--it might."

I dismounted. I wondered, If I told him yes, and offered him my hand, would he take it?

I don't dare!

But my quavering fingers were already stretching toward him. He shifted the seedling into one big hand and caught my hand; folded my fingers in his.

The days would pass, the tree's roots were set in the ground, and its branches brushed with the first green of spring before I realized that I'd never told him yes. But the memory--the solidity--of my hand in his: He knew.