Welcome to the first ever three word challenge on this forum! We're starting off easy this month, and the words are:

Candle
Cradle
Present

Fit them into any sort of story you like! The weirder the better. It can be fanfic, original, poetry, a one-liner... whatever. Just be sure to label your piece according to site regulations.

Reviews are here.

Looks like I'm first!

Title: Garden of Eden
Author: MackenzieW
Text based on: Lord of the Rings
Characters: Faramir, Eowyn, Morfinnien (OC)
Rating: K
Summary: Faramir returns home late one night to find he spoiled his wife's surprise. But did he?
Warnings: Fluff.

“Éowyn! Éowyn, where are you?”

Faramir wondered through the rooms trying to find his wife. He had been inspecting the new Rangers of Ithilien but hadn’t expected for it to run so late. Faramir had decided to sup with his men that night and now he prayed his wife would not be so upset he hadn’t come home. He felt confident she wouldn’t—he had sent a messenger to her, but had learned from another officer that the man chosen was more apt to stop in for a pint before delivering the message. If he delivered at all, the officer told him as the meal drew to an end. It took all of Faramir’s self-control not to throttle the man—why would he have suggested Faramir use such an unreliable messenger?

He came upon the chambers he shared with Éowyn but they were empty. But as Faramir’s eyes adjusted to the dim lighting, he realized it wasn’t entirely so. A fire was being stoked back to life by Éowyn’s faithful maid, Morfinnien. The young woman stood up, noticing her lord in the doorway. “Lord Faramir, you returned! Where is my lady?” Morfinnien asked.

“I have not seen her, Morfinnien. I was about to ask you the same question,” Faramir said. “Why did you think I was with her?”

“Lady Éowyn specifically left orders that the guard was to tell you to meet her in the garden when you returned from inspecting the Rangers,” Morfinnien said, now concerned.

“Then my message did not arrive here,” Faramir sighed. The maid shook her head slowly, realizing that her master had only recently returned. “How long ago did your lady go to the garden?”

“She had me brush and style her hair shortly after the mid-afternoon tea she has with the ladies of the city,” Morfinnien explained, wringing her hands. “She has been outside since near sun-down.”

“Oh, Éowyn,” Faramir sighed. He loved his wife’s stubborn side but sometimes, it exasperated him. “Thank you, Morfinnien. Please have the chambers ready for your lady and I to retire to when we return.”

“Yes, my lord.” Morfinnien curtsied, her black hair gleaming in the fire’s glow. Faramir nodded and turned to leave. “Lord Faramir? If I may be so bold,” the maid said, uncertainly. Faramir looked over his shoulder, signaling for Morfinnien to continue. “My lady mentioned something about a present for you. Perhaps that is why she has not come back from the garden.”

Faramir smiled. “Thank you, Morfinnien. Do not wait up for us. Your lady shall not need you tonight. Go, and worry only for yourself tonight.” Morfinnien smiled wider; she had hoped for the night off.

Faramir entered into their garden, still in infancy. Under his wife’s caring hand, the garden was growing faster than he had thought. But he hadn’t the time to notice the flowers blooming. Candles, almost down to the wick, lit a path. He followed their dying light to a table set in the middle of the garden, near a fountain both he and Éowyn were particularly fond of. A delicious (yet most assuredly cold) dinner was laid out on the table, in front of his slumbering wife. Her blonde hair, loosened from the elaborate style Morfinnien had fashioned, cascaded over the side of the table in beautiful curls.

The sight made Faramir’s heart skip a beat. He still could not believe he had been blessed with such a beautiful and kind-hearted wife. He approached the table, hoping he wouldn’t awaken her. He would just carry her back to their chambers, let her sleep. She had been fatigued of late and Faramir could not deny her such a good rest. He would order a servant to clean up the dinner once they returned. But just as he approached the table, he saw a surprising sight next to his wife.

A cradle sat there, slowly rocking in the light breeze that blew through the garden. It was old, he could tell, and the white paint was very faded. A small swan was carved into the wood. Had Éowyn received this from his uncle Imrahil? Faramir sat down, pondering why his wife was in possession of such a cradle.

As this was happening, Eowyn was roused from her slumber by the sound of a nearby owl. As her eyes adjusted, she saw her husband sitting next to her. Anger flooded her veins—she had gone through so much trouble and he had not been there to appreciate it! “YOU!” she said, sitting up. “Now you decide to return home. Wonderful timing, oh great Steward.”

Faramir did not respond. He just remained still, staring off into space. “FARAMIR! Will you not explain to me, your wife, why you were not here for supper? Or shall you continue to sit there as if struck deaf, dumb and blind?” Éowyn released all her pent up emotions into berating her stoic husband. The excitement she felt preparing for all this, the anxiety of how he would receive her gift, the annoyance as the sun began to set and he had not returned home, the fear that something had befallen him as the moon rose into the sky. “Answer me! Faramir!” she pleaded.

“Éowyn,” he at last croaked out. “Why is there a cradle sitting in our garden?”

She sat down, stunned. In all her emotions, she had forgotten the reason she was sitting in her finest gown, with a delicious meal laid out before her, in their gardens. “It was yours, your uncle said. He had had it made when your mother was pregnant with your brother,” she explained, rocking the cradle. “He said both you and Boromir slept in it as babes. He brought it, last time he was here and gave it to me. He said our children should sleep there as well.”

Éowyn looked up. “I had Morfinnien put it away some place safe as I was not with child yet,” she said.

Faramir’s head snapped toward her direction—she swore she heard something sound in his neck that would require a massage later. “Yet?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

She nodded, tears clouding her eyes. “Yes, Faramir, I am with child,” she replied. “That is what I was going to tell you over supper tonight. Eru, it would seem, had a different plan in mind.”

Faramir stood up and, pulling his wife gently from her seat, kissed her. And the thoughts of the unreliable messenger, now slumped over drunk in a tavern near their house, disappeared from his mind as the many ways to kill her tardy husband vanished from hers. They would share an intimate meal in their chambers while the servants took the cold meal back home.

The only one not happy was the servant who was forced to clean up the wax his lady’s candles had melted onto the garden’s walkways.