#melethuil

Oropher always has a stock of raspberry jam (which he makes himself) in the kitchens - and it’s an unspoken rule that it’s for him and him alone. 

My muse's reaction to yours tracing one of their scars.

       Finrod swallowed the lump in his throat at the feeling of little fingers along his back. He turned to see Meludir tracing the fine white lines across his back. ❝Little one, what are you doing awake?❞ He asked, it was earlier than even he was normally awake. It seemed Meludir had crawled into his bed in the night,

Thranduil sighed and stared at his phone. It looked no different now than it had when he had begun staring at it at 6:30 that morning, shortly after waking up. He would never have thought that the little hunk of plastic and glass and metal could be so daunting, but there it was. Even his son’s face, smiling at him from the lock screen, seemed to be taunting him right now. 

But seriously, it wasn’t even noon yet. If he called now...talk about seeming desperate. 

Then again, weren’t his magazines always telling him to ignore old rules like that? Weren’t they always saying that things like the old three-day rule were outdated? Weren’t they always urging things like “BE BOLD” and “GO FOR IT” and other capslocked slogans of encouragement?

They were.

He sighed.

Thranduil took a deep breath, picked up his phone, and swiped and tapped his way from the lock screen to his phone book, where Meludir had helpfully added his own phone number the night before. He hesitated, thumb hovering over the line on his screen, then hit it quickly and squeezed his eyes shut while he held his phone to his ear and waited for someone to answer.

// melethuil

       Finrod had begun his day with the spring sun in the windows of his guest room. The ambassador of Lothlorien in the kingdom of Mirkwood dressed simply for his morning, hair left wild and unbraided for the moment. When the soft clench of morning hunger made itself felt the elf pulled a soft robe over his shoulders, letting it hang open as he opened his door to collect the small tray of sweet morning rolls and various flavors of jam that were left on a small table beside his door every morning.

       He paused, door-handle still held in one hand as he looked at the sight before him. An elfling small as a rabbit had stolen his tray, and the jar of honey he’d requested. The top was pulled off and set aside and the shimmer of honey covered halfway up a large spoon and the elfling‘s face. 

“Yes, atya, saes!”  Melethuil squealed, holding his arms up. “I want to see the dancing.”