Our Roots Remain As One

"Atya he is so strong, The best and dearest, Of Alqualonde's own!

Atya he is so kind, Brave and true, And not short on might!

He is stout and wide, Makes my smile hard to hide!

Happy birthday dear atya!"

Angrod sat as well, even the announcement alone of a gift from his most precious son already set his heart quivering. The simple swipe of the strings choking him up.

Oh and the song itself! His smile bloomed so true and radiant! How had Eru blessed him so many times over? His eyelashes had grown damp, but with valiant effort he held the rest at bay. With loving tenderness he laid a large hand upon Orodreth's silken head.

Dusk had fallen with the same quiet grace it did each and every night, lighting up Orodreth's room in a hazy bronze glow that signaled the time had come to get ready for bed. There he sat himself upon his poof (a cloud of glitter wafting out of the cushion in all directions) and awaited the ministrations of his personal valet. 

Unlike in the mornings or before parties or post dinners, these evening tasks were carried out by Silohir alone. 

A large candle, shades of blue and green swirled together like the sea (and of course silver flecks dotting every inch of it), had been lit. The smell of chamomile soothing one's mind for sleep and rest. And beside it a music box, a golden clam shell, twinkling out a tune sailors would sing for good weather. 

Orodreth sat compliant as Silohir unfastened the shimmery sheer sheets draped about him. With a great flourish and a swift yank the ever-talented valet whipped the material from under Orodreth, much like a magician disappearing a tablecloth without disturbing a dish. And indeed! Orodreth did not blink or startle in the slightest, staring peacefully back at his own reflection in the mirror. 

Silohir propped his charge's silken feet in a basin of warm water, a small satchel of oats and lavender clouding the surface. Orodreth offered up his hand, the left first (as it was every evening), allowing Silohir to file his nails to the exact shape and length they always were. 

Then swaths of creamy lotion smeared nearly everywhere (two small dollops to his royal hindquarters would come last when he was ready to retire to bed). As Silohir brushed through Orodreth's gleaming, golden curls, the young master began to speak. Not to the valet, of course not, nothing needed to be said during a routine so familiar to them both after all! 

"I met the most charming man!" Orodreth dictated to the scratching of Silohir's quill between brushes. Actually the quill, a dyed swan feather, belonged to Orodreth. As did the sparkling alabaster tome he wrote in. A record of the little prince's days and thoughts. Nearly all of the entries were by dictation. 

"A passing artisan! Emmë invited him to see his wonderful statues. We're going to expand the gardens and I think it will be so marvelous to have several of his pieces featured. Perhaps Mister Dashing Sculptor will be around often. Perhaps we can even invite him to the unveiling party so he can see how well my mother will make his art shine.

"Silohir. You're pressing too hard on the page. I don't like that." Orodreth's eyes had narrowed for just a moment as he reprimanded the valet, but instantly sprang back to his delighted smile, clapping his hands together. "He plucked a flower just for me—though it belonged to me already since it was from our very own peonies, still it was a very sweet thing for him to do. And his strong arms, surely from his work! I am certain he could lift me from any danger!" 

While Orodreth giggled and gushed, Silohir could not help but to flex his own biceps. Alas, the young master took no notice. So it was between the comb and the quill that Silohir focused his efforts instead. 

"He even said next time he passed through he'd bring me something special." Such a delightful and darling declaration, even in recollection, had Orodreth kicking his feet. Water splashed from the basin, but no bother, it would vanish at some point in the night. Just like every mess always did.

"Atar bought me a new hair clip and I will wear it tomorrow." This might have sounded like something said to Silohir, but of course it was not. It was nothing more than the wish of Orodreth's heart. Had he voiced such a desire or kept silent it would not have mattered, for Silohir knew to always anticipate Orodreth's wants and needs. As soon as he'd received the trinket Silohir knew he'd wear it in the morning. 

At last, with Orodreth's curls bouncing as lightly as soap suds, the radiant princeling stood (slightly bent forward for his last dollops), then stretched up his arms as Silohir threw another shimmery sheet over him, the silvery fabric floating gently down about Orodreth. 

"Check the windows once more," he said (something new to their routine that did not need to be said and yet brought some sense of assurance to Orodreth's worries). 

"Oh!" Angrod's whole face lit up, displaying a strong resemblence to his father. "It was a shell, I still have it--at home. It was beautiful, no barnacles or algae or anything. So smooth. The seem glowed so brightly we could see it from the surface. And there were bubbles. Coming out of it! Like... like soap bubbles all shiny and soft.... I think I cried! But I was beneath so... It was so large I thought it would be difficult to bring up to Eldalote so she could see it too. But it wasn't! Not at all! It was like a feather in my hand. "We looked at it for a bit and then I don't know I, I just had to open it. Inside was--" Here in his tale Angrod had started to tear up again just at the memory, he took a fortifying swig and pressed on! "The most beautiful child. His skin was different that first day, like the rainbow shine of a pearl and his eyes too glowed in such a way... He looked so trustingly at us. So sweetly. His little hands! I swear for one second he didn't even have fingernails yet but then when his hand closed around mine I could see them... His hair too! So beautiful."