I love you and you're wonderful. Your blog always brings a smile to my face, no matter how bad my day has been:) Thank you for that. And you're writing is A+++ I use it as a reward for studying:)
Anon, you are the most actual sweetest, and this comment brought a smile to my face after a rubbish day.
“But I don’t want to,” said Ereinion Gil-Galad, pouting his most appealing pout.
“You cannot be king of a realm you do not know,” said his father. “Now name the seven rivers that feed the Gelion in Ossiriand.”
“But!” said Ereinion. “But how can I come to know our lands through books and scrolls? To know a country one must walk its roads, drink from its rivers and lay down in its green fields. One must talk with a land’s people on matters great and small.”
“That is an excellent point,” said High King Fingon. “For all that you stole it from your Uncle Maglor’s verse. Well remembered all the same.” He glanced at the bright diamonds of green forest and blue sky shown through the mullioned windows of his study and tried to quiet the longing in his own heart. “A king must also know when to compromise,” he declared at last. “Go pack your saddlebags; it’s time to introduce you to your realms.”
Three weeks later, Fingon and Ereinion stood in that same study, endeavouring to take their scolding with an appropriately kingly mien. Fingon’s husband, who was sat behind Fingon’s desk with his flesh and metal fingers steepled and his eyes shining disconcertingly, cleared his throat. “Well?”
“When you were Ereinion’s age, your father would vanish into the wilds with you at the drop of a hat,” Fingon said defensively. “He wouldn’t even trouble to leave a note.” He gestured to the scrap parchment he had left pinned to his desk with a hunting knife, almost a month before.
“In Valinor,” said Maedhros. “Do you know what’s interesting about Valinor? There are no dragons there.”
“The dragon was unanticipated,” Fingon said, rather wishing that he were back in Ard-Galen, facing the beast again full grown. His husband’s fangs were as sharp as the dragon’s and his tongue was sharper still.
“Unanticipated? So unanticipated you had no choice but to engage in personal combat? He could have died. You could have died!”
“I drew you a picture, Da,” Ereinion said sheepishly, which halted Maedhros’ tirade as abruptly as a volley of arrows halted a dragon’s charge.
“Thank you, Ereinion,” he managed, the fell light in his eyes dimming as Ereinion held up his gift in nervous, taloned hands.
“I highlighted the interesting anatomical features and potential weak points,” he said proudly. “Also I drew me with a flamey sword and Papa in a magic dragon helmet and the long one is you.”
“It’s very good. Is that your Papa’s bow? And is the structure of the patagium accurate? That’s excellent. Go call for a bath, Ereinion. You both stink of sulphur.”
“I am sorry,” Fingon said, when Ereinion had left the room. “But no harm was done.”
Maedhros smiled ruefully. “I suppose I of all people can’t criticise you for strolling in and out of danger. Just leave our son at home next time.”
“I will.” Fingon tracked sooty footprints across the carpet as he strolled around the desk to kiss Maedhros’ cheek. He left an ashy smudge there too. “We must place a better watch upon Ard-Galen.”
“Agreed. And distribute copies of this-” Maedhros held up Ereinion’s picture “-to every unit.” Running his fingers over the scrawled, clumsy lines, he added; “We’re pining the original up in the pantry.”