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  1. In Memory of LAJ_FETT: Please share your remembrances and condolences HERE

Story [The Silmarillion] "This Taste of Shadow", Ficlets and Drabbles, updated 7/02!

Discussion in 'Non Star Wars Fan Fiction' started by Mira_Jade , Jan 31, 2013.

  1. WarmNyota_SweetAyesha

    WarmNyota_SweetAyesha Chosen One star 8

    Registered:
    Aug 31, 2004
    *purrs, simply melts & purrs!!!!!!!!!*

    SQUEE! All three, singular uses of the prompt were gorgeous and lovely. Thanks for this absolutely splendiferous Tolkinesque head-and-heart canon. =D= ^:)^
     
  2. earlybird-obi-wan

    earlybird-obi-wan Chosen One star 6

    Registered:
    Aug 21, 2006
    A great read and expansion on what we know about the Tolkien-verse
     
    Nyota's Heart likes this.
  3. Cael-Fenton

    Cael-Fenton Jedi Master star 3

    Registered:
    Jun 22, 2006
    That's lovely. I'm really enjoying how you're expanding on all the issues that a mixed-race couple would face, in the context of a female human + male elf couple, which we really don't see enough of in canon.

    Makes me wonder, though, about something which never really occurred to me before - how come Arwen got to choose mortality? Was it just her Peredhil heritage that meant she always had a choice? I don't remember reading exactly why she could choose, but I'm sure our resident Aragorn/Arwen expert knows...? ;)
     
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  4. Mira_Jade

    Mira_Jade The (FavoriteTM) Fanfic Mod With the Cape star 5 Staff Member Manager

    Registered:
    Jun 29, 2004
    Nyota's Heart: Thank-you so very much for your enthusiasm and kind words! I'm glad that I could share that particular bit of head-canon and make it work. Those two, they just do something to me. :p [face_love]

    earlybird-obi-wan: Thank-you so very much for saying so. :)

    Cael-Fenton: That's lovely. I'm really enjoying how you're expanding on all the issues that a mixed-race couple would face, in the context of a female human + male elf couple, which we really don't see enough of in canon.

    I know, right? As pretty as elven women are, every mixed couple in the history of Middle-earth could not have been a mortal man and an elf-maid. So, it was fun to twist that dynamic around, especially with the more unique set of circumstances that would befall these two if this was indeed a thing of canon. [face_thinking]

    Makes me wonder, though, about something which never really occurred to me before - how come Arwen got to choose mortality? Was it just her Peredhil heritage that meant she always had a choice? I don't remember reading exactly why she could choose, but I'm sure our resident Aragorn/Arwen expert knows...?

    Oooh, this question was some wonderful food for thought. [face_thinking]

    As far as I can see, no Elf can decide to have mortality willy-nilly. Idril married Tuor, and she was fully expected to live out her immortal days, unknowing of the special favor Tuor would later recieve; we do not know what happened to Mithrellas after her marriage to Imrazôr, she was simply said to have 'disappeared; and Arwen and Lúthien both had special circumstances . . . Now, as far as I can see it, the children of those unions were permitted a choice. Dior was murdered by Celegorm when he was only 36 years old, he did not yet make his choice (even though we can guess what it would have been easily enough), so Elwing had the ability to choose - as did Eärendil as Idril and Tuor's son. Elrond and Elros were both able to choose, I assume, because Elwing and Eärendil made their choices after their children were born. Now, here is where it gets tricky . . . in Appendix A of LOTR it says that the children of Elrond had the same choice as their father (actually, a lot of fan speculation exists for Elladan favoring his human blood, due to his name - Elf-man [face_thinking]), but, for Elros' descendants, that choice ended as soon as he decided upon mortality. The same goes for Arwen's descendants - they are all mortal. Oddly enough, we do not know of Mithrellas' children even having a choice, they are simply spoken of as mortal, and through them comes the line of Dol Amroth. I can't really figure out a reason for the special treatment, simply but to say that it fit the plot for Tolkien, and that's that. :p



    Now, to kick out the next few NSWFF prompts, I am kind of doing them out of order to fill in the three I am behind on. First up, we have My next thirty years, dealing with Celebrían in Valinor at the end of the Third Age. It was kind of a switch to deal with her character at this point in time, and in third person point of view, at that, but I hope that you enjoy reading this as much as you can. As always, I thank you all for reading! [face_love][:D]





    how the sea counts the years

    CLXXVI

    Ever the more so with each passing day, silver ships were guided in to the harbors of Alqualondë.

    As often as she could, Celebrían would watch them from her window, she having taken a room high in Olwë's household for the express reason of staring down at the quays below. There were times when her great-grandfather (and great-great-uncle, to further tangle the family tree) would watch the busy harbor at her side, musing over the intricacies of ship-craft, and sharing light anecdotes about the Shipwright himself. Often were the times when she would let Olwë's words distract her, filling the long minutes of waiting with the warm sound of his voice. Other times, she was joined by her mother's parents, for they were called from their high seat in Tirion by the promise of the Sea, much as she herself was. Arafinwë's eyes were ever on the horizon, while Eärwen watched the waves as if she could read their secrets from the way they crested and foamed.

    Her uncle Finrod would sit with her at times, his feet propped up on the windowsill as he busied himself with whatever scroll held his attention for that day, or Amarië would bring her daughters and share her latest verses. Angrod did not much have the patience for sitting still, but he tried for her, and Eldalótë filled up the silence with the musical sound of her voice. More often than not, she was visited by her mother's Noldor kin, each soul seemingly wanting to claim 'but a moment of her time', and Olwë's halls were ever filled to the brim as a result. Sometimes, Celebrían wondered if her newfound family had a set schedule arranged, so as to not cross paths while they helped her bear through her waiting - and yet, that thought was a warmth as much as it was an exasperation.

    Soon, the Sea seemed to promise on a mantra; soon, the tide whispered as a lullaby. She held the vow of the ocean close to her heart, letting it warm her during the long hours of night. Someday, she would not have to look to the horizon, but to the now empty place at her side to find it full once more. Already, her wanting for that day was something she could taste on her tongue; it was a tangible thing she carried with her, no different than her breath and blood and bone.

    It was during one such day that she was reading by the window of her room. As ever, her eyes ghosted from the pages before her to the horizon beyond, when she saw a familiar form step off the gangplank. Slowly, he walked into the harbor, his eyes wide for the pearl and shell glory of Alqualondë stretching all around him. His was not the face she wanted most dearly to see - and something deep within told her that her now muted bond with her husband would flare back into being as soon as Elrond crossed the veil of the West - and yet, there was his telling head of dark brown hair, and the silver harp he held in hand . . .

    It took but moments for her to rush down to the docks, her eyes eager as she searched for the minstrel. She shielded her eyes from the orange light of the waning sun above, peering through the dozens of excited faces and joyous reunions to find the one she sought. She spun, seeking . . .

    “Lindir!” she exclaimed upon finding his face again. She had not the patience for him to regain his land-legs after so many days at sea, and her unexpected weight colliding with his own nearly toppled him. Even so, it took him less than a moment to return her embrace as understanding set in, his surprise turning to a wordless sound of joy in greeting. He stepped back a moment later, taking her in with smiling eyes, both awed and joyous all at once.

    Dutifully, Celebrían stood up tall underneath his stare, understanding what his eyes searched for. She held her arms open, letting him see her absent of any wound and unburdened by any black stain upon her spirit. She was no longer the waif-like woman who could hardly walk without aid, who could barely utter but two words together upon the day she sailed; all but crippled by nightmares and her ability to glimpse into the wraith-realm just beyond their own. As he stared, she felt pride ripple through her for the strides she had made to reach this point in her recovery.

    The minstrel's familiar face was as a balm; a piece of familiarity, a piece of home. For him to have sailed must have meant that the rest of her family was not far behind – for he would not have left his lord's service unless he was assured that he could just as soon reenter it. The Great Years were fast coming to a close, for good or for ill, she understood, and soon she could expect all of her family to stand where Lindir did now.

    And yet, Lindir's smile did not hold for long. After the first, initial joy of seeing her whole and well passed, something about his eyes dimmed . . . they turned guarded. Almost instantly, Celebrían felt her blood run cold, unable to keep herself from imagining the worst. It was not a death he had to report, this she knew instinctively, yet, there were worse horrors to endure in Middle-earth than death alone – this was a lesson she learned well at the Dark Lord's hands, far underneath the cruel peaks of the Misty Mountains. After all her household had faced over the centuries . . . She faltered, unsure how to phrase the tenative questions gathering on the tip of her tongue.

    He could see the moment she understood, but rather than speaking, Lindir reached out to gently fold her hands over a letter. She looked down, and recognized her daughter's elegant script over the face of the parchment.

    Celebrían took the letter, arching a curious brow in question.

    “It will explain everything,” Lindir answered, first clearing his throat as if he could not find his voice. “My lady,” he added, respect deep in his voice as he bowed low at the waist.

    She forced herself to give a distracted smile in reply, and she may have promised to speak with him later, but she was not aware of much else as she made her way to a quiet place on the seashore. Here, the deep bands of color on the sandstone cliffs dove down to receive the blue kiss of the waves. She followed the sparkling white sands to a small cove, formed where the great formations of stone arched over a deep, calm pool, this place long being a favourite of hers whenever she felt the need to take a moment away from Olwë's court. Overhead, the sun continued to set as she undid the seal of the letter with shaking hands, anxiety and joy at war within her as her eager fingers met several pages of folded parchment, each bearing Arwen's gentle hand . . .

    Then, in silence, she read.

    She had to read the letter once . . . twice . . . and then a third time in order to make sure that she properly understood the words written therein.

    I wanted no other to have to tell you this, and Adar already bears burden enough without having to be the one to impart these tidings . . .

    . . . love . . .

    . . . mortal man . . .

    . . . choice . . .

    . . . I make this decision for love, and know only joy for doing so. In the end, my only regret is not being able to say farewell to you in person. Rather, I must rely on such cold means as this . . .

    . . . as always, I remain your most loving daughter . . .

    At first, her initial instinct was to crush the letter in her hands. Only the stronger urge she had to protect, to cherish, the last words she would have from her daughter won out in the end. Carefully, she smoothed the pages down, touching the winding letters as if she could still feel the warmth of Arwen's hands upon the parchment. But the imagined sensation was a pale substitute, a cold replacement for reality; leaving Celebrían to stare in shock, disbelieving as the pitiless words sank in.

    After the first, almost crippling wave of pain, she knew a fierce rise of something fey and consuming within her - something that was Finwë's might, as much as it was Elwë's. That violent spark of flame and power, ever just sleeping within her blood, writhed as something living as it seemingly tried to consume her bones. She let the letter fall to the sand, her limbs trembling as a familiar silver light rose to touch her skin. Her fëa battered angrily against the surface of her hröa, as if seeking for a way to escape. In that moment, it was all she could do to keep it harnessed within.

    It was almost humorous, she mused darkly, how she had once thought Thingol proud and unfeeling for his dealings with his daughter and her mortal love. Who was he to get in the way of such a bond, such a union of spirits? What right did he have to hide the sun away from the earth? And yet, she now found herself wishing that her husband had done anything – everything – more than he had done in order to prevent this union from ever taking place.

    What would you have Elrond do? Lock her away in a tower? A voice that sounded suspiciously like her mother sounded in her mind. Ever was Galadriel her guiding force in life – and no matter how many centuries she spent growing in her own wisdom, her mother was the defining spark at the core of her. Arwen has inherited both sides of this family's more stubborn nature, and she would have resented you for daring to try. She would have found a way, had such constraints been placed upon her. As Lúthien was the morning star, Arwen is the evening, and one's fate cannot be separated from the other.

    Yet, a Kingship for their daughter's hand? Elrond asked for nothing more than this . . . this Aragorn was already due to claim as the last son of Númenor, as the rightful heir of Elros' once mighty line. Now . . .

    Aragorn would succeed, she knew with a numbing flash of certainty. Aragorn would succeed, and a new Age of the world would dawn underneath his rule. The dominion of Men would come, and her daughter would become Queen of that reunified people . . . A Queen of Men she would be, and then die she would as was the right and gift of mankind. A gift, the Wise called mortality and death, but oh, how laughable that term was to her then.

    Celebrían felt a queasy sort of pain swim through her, dimming her rage in favor of a mother's urge to protect her child from any harm . . . for she knew that Arwen's choice would not be the natural choice Elros once made. Her choice would not even be the ease of old age and peacefully falling asleep in death that would come to Elladan if he were to choose what his heart already knew. If Elrohir too followed his twin, as he had long since promised to do . . . Celebrían flinched, but could not think of that just yet. To lose all three children to the Peredhil's choice . . . she could not begin to fathom it. Even though she had known of this risk when she and Elrond decided to have children, all of those centuries ago, she had never thought to mourn in this way - stupidly assuming that her children would choose endless days with nary a thought assigned to that choice. Yet, her greatest pain now came from knowing that Arwen's death would not be a natural death. Her daughter was elvish in her heart, fey down to her very bones, and she would have to forcibly push her last breath from her body and will her spirit to join her husband's in mortal death. There would be no ease of passing for her, no shield from grief or relief at parting, and she . . .

    As a mother, the thought of such an ending horrified her. She felt nauseous at the very idea, and she leaned forward as her stomach heaved at the thought. She was suddenly hot and cold all at once, and the world seemed to spin around her; the roll of the sea merging sickly with the vastness of the blood-streaked sky above.

    And yet, a small voice was growing louder within her . . . her daughter loved, and was loved in return. There was no greater gift in life, than to find one's match in both soul and mind. If this choice was put to her . . . better would she prefer one lifetime spent in love, rather than an eternity known without it. As a wife, as a woman, she understood her daughter's choice – and perhaps, in time, she would even know joy for Arwen doing so. Yet, in that moment, she was finding it difficult to keep a cool line of reason to her mind. She could not - not when everything within her screamed at her to protect, to hold her child safe and sheltered from every harm.

    And yet, who is to say that death is a worse fate than denying such a love? Once again, her innermost voice sounded like her mother. Your daughter is wise; she would not have given up her immortality for anything less than the love Eru intended for her to find as her soul's compliment and other half. To deny that . . . would that not even be a crueler fate than death?

    Celebrían breathed in deep, and let her breath out slow, desperately trying to control the wild spin of her thoughts as they circled this one undeniable truth. Eventually, the sun finished setting overhead, and the stars were long in the night sky before she was able to leave her spot upon the shore.

    She did not sleep that night, and upon the morning, a part of her distantly considered seeking Elwing's counsel - for there were few others who would be able to understand the pain she was currently enduring. And yet, Elwing the White had hardly been a mother to the son she was now sundered from, and her regrets and pains were quite different than what she was experiencing now. While Celebrían had found her own peace with Elrond's mother since coming to Aman, the events of the past day set her indignation prickling against her skin once more. No, not to Elwing she would turn, but maybe, she could . . .

    It had been many years since she last set foot within the gardens of Lórien. When she first reached the hallowed shores of Aman, she had spent nearly a year in the care of Estë, letting the mothering Vala recreate her tattered soul as her Maiar dutifully set about repairing the deep places of her mind. While Elrond had saved her from a certain death in repairing the harm done to her body – giving so much of his own fëa that Glorfindel and Mithrandir had to forcibly pull him away before he gave everything – the fact remained that he had repaired what, perhaps, should have been left to the mercy of Námo to die in peace. She had been a tattered mess of ghostly pains and half-remembered torments, unable to tell the shadow-realm from the real world in which both her family and the light dwelt. Though it was the grotesque hands of Orcs who inflicted the blows upon her body, it was Sauron's eyes of flame who shone from the eyes of the Orc-captain, his spirit manipulating his thrall from an untouchable distance away in Dol Guldur . . .

    This she knew without a doubt, for she remembered his eyes as Annatar's eyes. She was unable to forget, even though she had been little more than a child when he first came in disguise to Ost-in-edhil. His eyes . . . his voice was much as she remembered it to be, as liquid as gold and as beautiful as the night while he casually asked for the location of the Three, over and over again . . . While she understood her torment to be for practical reasons in the Dark Lord's eyes, she knew that Sauron must have delighted in his more personal vengeance against Galadriel (whom he had once bowed to, biding his time with a show of deference until Celebrimbor wrested complete control of Ost-in-edhil from her parents), and his even more personal vengeance against Eärendil's son and Lúthien's heir - both of whom he hated as he hated no other for the harms they had inflicted upon himself and Morgoth his lord in days gone by.

    Yet, through it all, she had willfully held onto her silence; no matter how deeply he dug into her mind, no matter how cleverly he thought to inflict his pains. She had even dared to toy with him in return, mocking him for his not yet having enough strength of spirit to tear the mind of a lowly Elf apart to discover what he wanted to know – no matter that her mind had then been buoyed by her mother and husband, both reaching out to shelter her spirit and take whatever of her pains they could upon themselves, thus helping her to endure until help could arrive. Without them, she would not have lasted for as long as she had . . . not nearly.

    Even still . . . My lord, you are losing your touch if you cannot force my mouth to speak, even with all of your arts, this she had dared to taunt. Tell me, was Celebrimbor the same as I in his silence, or did he laugh, as I now wish to? Tell me, what would Morgoth your master say if he could see the pitiful depths his servant has fallen to? On and on she had kept her mouth working. While much of her bravado had been forced, she had been desperate to regain some sort of handle over her situation, and she'd found it when staring defiantly into those terrible eyes of flame. That resulting, awful assault upon her mind and body had been the final straw to her own well-being, and she would have given in to Námo's call had it not been for the timely intervention of her sons - who at last found her in her prison of stone. She could still remember the way Sauron had laughed, even as his servants were slaughtered, his spirit lingering as a shroud until they found the light of day once more.

    Even now, the dull pain of memories crept over her as she walked through the peaceful grove of willow trees, listening to the nightingales sing far above her. Though Melian - the former Queen of Doriath, kinswoman to her father, and dearest of mentors to her mother - had originally been created to serve Irmo, she had aided Estë his wife upon seeing the identity of her latest patient. Celebrían's first memories of healing had been to hear Melian's voice whispering in her ear, sounding like twilight and birdsong in direct opposition to her remembered snarls of Black Speech and the silky lilt of Sauron's voice. Her mind had clung to the mothering warmth and calm serenity that Melian filled her spirit with, and the Maia had been dear to her ever since.

    Here, in her home of homes, Melian did not always keep to a physical form; doing so only when Thingol was with her, her husband having returned from the Halls near to the time of her own arrival. His and Melian's home had been as dear to her as her own mother's vast and . . . extended family, so much so that she now cherished the bonds she had forged in Aman as much as she mourned those she had known in Ennor beyond.

    Normally, she would have hummed along with the nightingales, happy to linger in the glade until Melian appeared to her. Yet, she had no ability for song within her. Instead, she sat beside the deep green pool that had been her favourite spot during her initial recovery, breaking off a long stem of grass and winding it absently between her fingers as she waited.

    Soon enough, Melian's step was soft upon the dew-damp grass, alerting Celebrían to her presence by reaching out to softly touch her shoulder. “Dear child, what is it that weighs upon you with such sorrow?”

    Celebrían went to stand in greeting, but was kept to her place as Melian gracefully came to sit beside her. In her form of flesh, she was an impossibly beautiful woman, with stars in the silver of her eyes and night itself in the inky blackness of her hair. It was easy to imagine Lúthien's ethereal beauty when faced with her own - a likeness that was so much like her daughter's that . . .

    The first tear that fell was as unleashing a floodgate of such tears. She was unable to find her voice in answer, and Melian instead reached over to gather her in her arms, alarm and worry touching the graceful line of her brow. Celebrían tried to gather herself - so that she could speak, so that she could explain - but she was only able to cry as Melian held her close and ran a soothing hand through her hair, shushing her much as her own mother would have done. In that moment, she felt a fierce stab of missing for her mother's arms, for her husband's arms, even. With that thought, the knowledge of what Elrond was enduring alone, without her, was enough to bring a new wave of grief to her sobs . . . once again hating that her family was so far from her reach.

    It took her a long time to cry her fill, and when she at last drew back to dry her eyes, her head ached and her stomach rolled in answer to her outburst. Her eyes were swollen, and her skin was raw from her tears. When she leaned forward to wash her face in the pool, even the healing waters of Lórien could do little to sooth her pains away.

    All the while, Melian waited patiently, her great presence a comfort of its own as Celebrían called herself to order once more.

    “Arwen has chosen the fate of Men, for love of Aragorn the mortal man . . .” Celebrían found her voice dry to her use, but her words were intelligible enough. “She will die . . . she will die a long and painful death as she forces her fëa to part from this world and join her husband in the next, and I . . . I will never see her again. I will never be able to tell her how much I love her . . . how much I have missed her . . . how very proud I am of her for being brave enough to make this choice in the first place. Knowing that is as a weight, one I cannot seem to breathe under.”

    For a long time, Melian was silent in reply. The gardens of Lórien seemed to close in around her, as if offering her warmth from their embrace. And yet, Celebrían only felt cold. “There is peace in death for Mankind, if only in the thought that they will be reunited with their loved ones again," this she said bitterly. “Even when the hröa of an Elf dies, the fëa only returns to Námo for a time being. While there is a parting between the living and the dead, it is not eternal, it is not unbearable for the hope of someday we hold for seeing our loved ones again. But this . . . there is a sundering between the Firstborn and the Secondborn. There is a chasm, a gaping maw, and to lose my daughter to the other side of that divide . . .”

    Her words were not enough, not nearly enough to explain the turbulence of her emotions, but she could think of no other way to phrase the pain she felt inside. In many ways, she did not have to find a way to articulate her emotions, for Melian had spent centuries longer than she in mourning the death of her daughter. She had spent centuries contenting herself with the truth of her daughter's choice, and now . . .

    Now, as she spoke, Melian did little more than take her hand comfortingly between her own. Yet, her presence was a balm itself as Celebrían continued: “And if I must lose her this way, the worst part is feeling as if I have failed her. If few are the days she shall live, then I should be there for those days. I should have been stronger . . . I should have endured . . . I should have stayed with my family until my very spirit faded away, if only to take the few moments more I could have known. And yet, I was not strong enough . . . I was not . . . ” she tried to speak, but her voice at last failed her.

    “Oh, dear one,” at that Melian did breathe, reaching out to tilt her chin up, forcing her to meet her eyes. “In that, if only in that, you are wrong. It was no weakness on your part, but rather a strength that you endured for as long as you did. During the time you had, you gave your daughter both love and an example of courage and fortitude to follow. Perhaps, it was a lesson she learned all too well,” Melian acknowledged wryly, “for her to embrace this fate, rather than forsaking the sweet for fear of the bitter.”

    At her words, Celebrían felt her eyes burn. Stubbornly, she kept back her tears, wanting little more of their falling. “But, I am her mother,” she whispered. “I should be there . . . she should have someone to . . .”

    “And she does,” Melian said firmly in reply. “She has the greatest strength possible to find in another being. After . . .” for this, the Maia had to stop and gather her words again. Celebrían looked, and saw the great weight of her own grief, even after the passing of so many millennia. “After Elu was slain, it was as a physical pain to hold my spirit to a form of flesh and bone. To bear Lúthien, I tied my physical body to the spirit of my husband, and to endure after he was gone . . . I did, though the stories will never tell of my doing so. I held on long enough to see my daughter one last time, to hold her in my arms and tell her of my love and pride. In the end, the only thing that made letting go possible was my knowing that she was cared for. It brought me peace, knowing that she had a love worthy of death, a love deep and great enough to sacrifice my own happiness for . . . I do not think I would have been able to let her go for anything less than that.”

    “And yet,” Celebrían whispered, “you were able to say goodbye.”

    “Is that what draws your tears?” Melian raised a brow. “In a way, my bond with my daughter was sundered – or, at the very least, deeply wounded – as soon as Thingol committed Beren to his quest. Things were never the same between us again, even after they were granted their mortal life. I lost that time for reacting in fear, while you left with a daughter who still cherished you in your final moments. You said goodbye that day in the Grey Havens, did you not?”

    “I did,” Celebrían replied, finding the words tight about her throat. “But that was not . . .” she could not finish her sentence. She swallowed, and felt as if she did so about a stone.

    “It was not the same?” Melian finished gently. “Did you tell her of your love, promising to hold that love dear until next you would meet again?”

    “Yes . . . yes I did,” her voice was a small sound in reply. “I had thought a century to pass – a handful of them, even. Not . . .” she then thought of the gaping chasm of eternity stretched out between them. For a moment, even her immortal mind balked underneath such an unfathomable cast of time.

    “Eternity is long,” Melian said, as if reading her thoughts. "Yet, you are of Arda, and as Arda endures, so shall you. And with you, your love shall endure. You will remember, even unto the breaking and reforging of the world. Such a time is a whisper, a stolen hope that even my lord Manwë can only see but glimpses of - but a hope it is, a longing in our hearts for peace and reunions between all of the Children of Eru once more. Great are the days that lie before you, but great is the courage you yourself bear. You shall endure, and someday . . .”

    Melian sighed, and looked up to where the blue skies stretched above the floating fronds of the willow trees. Perhaps her eyes tried to pierce the veils between the worlds, as Celebrían herself wished to do, or perhaps her gaze was simply unseeing with her hope, with the great cast of her wanting.

    “I have faith that I will see my daughter again,” Melian whispered, “And that faith makes any amount of waiting bearable.” She squeezed her hand, and Celebrían latched on to the strength she represented, the certainty.

    “And yet,” Celebrían whispered. “I already miss her . . . I miss her so very dearly.”

    “As you ever shall,” Melian said simply. For that was the truth in its plainest form. There would be no comfort for that pain, not truly - but the knowledge of her child's happiness made that pain bearable, in the least. Such a happiness was something that, as a mother, she had long thought herself prepared to give up any comfort of her own for. This, though great in scope, was not so very different.

    Celebrían took in a deep breath, and tried to reach a selfless state of peace within herself. She exhaled with with her missing, and instead tried to content herself with thoughts of her daughter's happiness, her daughter's opportunity to know love and be loved in return.

    “Now then,” Melian started. In her star-lit eyes, her own tears were a wet cast, making them shine even brighter than the soft light of Lórien. “You have told me much about your family, but I wish to know more about my daughter's successor. Tell me about your Arwen.”

    And so, Celebrían took in a fortifying breath as she arranged herself more comfortably on the bank of the pool. She then started to speak, giving her words to Melian's patient, waiting ears. And then, just for that moment, the weight of the years stretching before her did not seem so terrible a thing to endure.



    ~MJ @};-
     
    Nyota's Heart likes this.
  5. WarmNyota_SweetAyesha

    WarmNyota_SweetAyesha Chosen One star 8

    Registered:
    Aug 31, 2004
    Stunningly poignant. All naturally understandable and heart-tugging emotions.

    The setting is gorgeous and healing and Melian not the least!

    But this:


    “Eternity is long,” Melian said, as if reading her thoughts. "Yet, you are of Arda, and as Arda endures, so shall you. And with you, your love shall endure. You will remember, even unto the breaking and reforging of the world. Such a time is a whisper, a stolen hope that even my lord Manwë can only see but glimpses of - but a hope it is, a longing in our hearts for peace and reunions between all of the Children of Eru once more."

    Sheer genius of lyrical expression and an eternal truth.

    =D= =D= =D=

    Thank you for this gem!

    [face_love] [:D]
     
  6. earlybird-obi-wan

    earlybird-obi-wan Chosen One star 6

    Registered:
    Aug 21, 2006
    Eternity for all, never lose hope, Reunion for all. A beautiful piece
     
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  7. Mira_Jade

    Mira_Jade The (FavoriteTM) Fanfic Mod With the Cape star 5 Staff Member Manager

    Registered:
    Jun 29, 2004
    Nyota's Heart: Thank-you so very much! I have wanted to write a Celebrían and Melian in Valinor piece for a while now, and this provided the perfect vehicle to do so. [face_love]

    earlybird-obi-wan: Wonderfully put! :) I am glad that you enjoyed. [:D]


    Now, while I continue catching up on the NSWFF prompts, we have a bit of Beren/Lúthien sweetness to lighten the mood of the last piece, with the prompt 'You've got a way'. Enjoy. [:D]






    put them together”

    CLXXVII

    In the end, it was the small things that gave her away.

    Her husband liked to watch her. Beren knew her, he would say in explanation, ever smiling at the silly tales that claimed him to he was bound with a glance and ensnared by something as trivial as a dance. Perhaps, he was smitten at first, he would admit with a wistful look of memory, but he liked to think that he now knew everything there was to know about her – from the differing shape of her smiles, to the telling lines of her frowns. He knew of her wonder for spring storms; her wariness of wolves; her distaste for anything that tasted even slightly of apples. It was his great right and hallowed privilege to know her in ever way, thus, in his own way, latching on to her spirit with a tenacity known only to those of fleeting years.

    So, perhaps, it was not surprising that he knew before her . . . that he understood what her own body had been quiet to, refusing to reveal to her conscious mind on so much as a whisper.

    Lúthien only knew that she had not been herself the last few weeks. She wearied easily, even for the body of Men she now wore, and any sort of prolonged activity left her short of breath and needing to rest. The smallest of motions, and even the faintest of smells – not all of them unpleasant, seemed to have her stomach turning sickly in the mornings. There was a constant, dull ache in the small of her back, one that she could not properly explain, or sooth away. It was not until she was laying with her husband in their bed, with Beren dutifully rubbing away yet another ache from her body that true understanding set in.

    “I know that I do not digest dairy products as well as I once did, and yet, this has been going on for much too long . . .” she finished explaining. Punctuating her words, her face contorted in a wince as Beren's hands found a particularly tender spot on her back.

    His hands turned still then, and he was quiet – lost in thoughts, she understood from his silence, from the way his dark brow furrowed as if he worked through a puzzle in his mind. She turned to lay on her back, situating herself so that she could properly look up at him, wondering for his thoughts. His eyes were a dark shade of steel in the low light, the dusky shade of his skin almost golden in the glow of the lone candle they had burning.

    “What are you thinking, husband?” Lúthien asked. He was propped up on one elbow so that he could better look down at her, and the hand that had been rubbing her back now rested flat on her stomach. She covered his hand with her own in a thoughtless gesture, not understanding the sudden fullness in his eyes when he looked down at their entwined hands.

    “Do you think that it is possible . . .” she watched where he had to work to find his words, for so great was their shape. “ . . . do you think that you could be with child, dear heart?”

    For a moment, she was not able to speak in reply.

    It was certainly possible, she thought. She and Beren had been wed for three years now, and ever since the day they left her father's halls as man and wife they had certainly never been far from each other's bodies. Even now, remembering the way she had pushed him up against the trees in their clearing in Neldoreth for that first time caused a sweet sort of heat to fill her veins, and she watched as Beren's eyes darkened in reply to the memories she so clearly held in her gaze. No, they most certainly did not want for opportunity, and just recently, they had started to speak in earnest about the possibility of bringing a child into the world. Now, she thought about her recent ailments in a new light, and realized that . . .

    “How did you know before me?” Lúthien asked, amusement turning her voice wry. She smiled against the sinking sort of feeling she felt fill her, one that she could not properly explain.

    “I have never seen many children afoot in Menegroth,” Beren commented wryly. “I did not think you would recognize the signs, simply from a lack of exposure to them. I, however, spent many years assisting my Aunt Andreth when she made remedies for the women of Ladros, and it always seemed that there was some newborn child being welcomed into our community. I watched Belegund and Baragund as they became fathers . . . Belegund knew much as I when his wife was expecting Rían, while Baragund was completely blindsided when Hannel announced Morwen's conception. It was endearing, really.”

    Lúthien listened to him speak of his kin with a bittersweet sort of pang, knowing that he knew little of the survivors of Dorthonion now. Once, she had shared the vague shapes of his memories when she still wore her elven body. Mortal though he was, each time she kissed him, each time she held him, her spirit seemed to reach out and try to pull his soul inside of herself. She still retained fleeting impressions from those encounters - precious ghosts of sensation that were now hers to cherish, even as she learned to know her husband all the more so from spoken memories and shared companionship. This was a mortal's bond, a mortal's marriage, and while she would not trade her choice – nor regret her decision – in any way . . . there were still times when she felt the faintest of longings for what she had given up, the faintest of yearnings for what she had left behind.

    . . . such as the gift of feeling the shape of her child's soul as it formed . . . the ability to decide for that child, to choose that exact moment of its creation and give of her spirit the same as her husband gave of his. An elven child was not a product of chance, so much as it was the truest blend of souls, leaving their parents ever altered in their wake, but all the more full for doing the sharing of their fëar. It was not a simple question mark of nature, a blessing born by chance occurrence, but rather . . .

    Lúthien tried to quell her thoughts – for Beren still knew flashes of melancholy for what he thought to have stolen from her. He mourned the lose of her birthright and heritage even more so than she did in the rare times such melancholy took her, and she would not have him know any form of regret when they were faced with such a wonder – a child, their child, no matter how he had been created.

    He, she thought curiously. Although she had given up the fey shape of her bones, she knew that she carried a son. It was a knowing that rose from deep inside of her, left over from the spark of her mother's might in her spirit, so interwoven with the fabric of her being that Námo had not dared to part it from her . . . She would give her husband a son, Lúthien knew with certainty, and she could not help the giddy sort of feeling that rose within her at the thought. They were going to have a son. A son.

    All the while, Beren watched her feelings play out over her face. His expression dipped with her own when her mind strayed to darker things, and he leaned down to rest his brow against hers as her eyes filled with her joy.

    “I am sorry,” he whispered. His baritone voice turned even deeper with the weight of his feelings, and she closed her eyes against the sound. They had talked more than once about children, and she had explained the ways of her people, just as he shared the way of his. He knew what she mourned, and though she could not feel the warmth of his spirit reach out and try to bolster her own, she could feel the solid warmth of his arms – shifting so that she could rest her head against his chest as he held her close. Though different, the love such actions communicated was much the same, so much so that she could not quite remember what she found to regret in the first place.

    “Do not be, beloved,” she whispered. “For you have given me a gift greater than all I knew before.”

    “You speak to me of gifts, when you lie here before me . . . when both of you are a blessing beyond compare,” Beren whispered, his hand moving to trace absent patterns over the still flat shape of her stomach. While his words were heavy with feeling, it was the truth of those words in his gaze that snared her, much as it ever had. Her own eyes felt warm; they burned, even as such a smile stretched across her face.

    “A son,” she whispered when she found the voice to do so. “He shall be fair beyond all reckoning, both in appearance and the kindness of his hand . . . for he shall rule as a king of trees and precious stone . . .” she closed her eyes, trying to reclaim her far off glimmers of vision – seeing only such a light when she glimpsed her child's future. And while the light itself was troubling enough to give her pause, it was what came after that light that gave her hope . . . that settled into her spirit with as a blessing for the long ages of the world to come.

    Yet, her attempt at reclaiming the bare remnants of her mother's gifts faded from her when Beren moved down her body to rest his face against her stomach. There was such a look of love in his eyes, of devotion. They hit her like the tide swallowing the shore, surrounding her with such a warmth that she could not bring herself to mourn the loss of a bond between souls. For how could that possible hold against the enormity of what she felt now? The rightness for which she had fought and sacrificed everything to keep?

    “My son,” Beren whispered against her stomach, as if the newly growing child within could already hear him, and understand his words. “Our son . . . I welcome you, little one, into our lives and into our hearts, and pray that you already know how loved you already are . . . Today, you have made your father the happiest . . . the most blessed man in this marred world.”

    Lúthien traced a fond hand through his hair as he lingered against her womb a moment more, the backs of her fingers brushing against the curved shape of his ear as she did so. She closed her eyes, feeling warm in the contentment that filled her then.

    When, sometime later, Beren moved to hold her in his arms again, she curled into him, their joined hands still held tight over her stomach as the two of them – the three of them, drifted off to dreams, content for what the morning would bring.



    ~MJ @};-
     
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  8. WarmNyota_SweetAyesha

    WarmNyota_SweetAyesha Chosen One star 8

    Registered:
    Aug 31, 2004
    I do not think I need hardly tell how much, much I loved that. I couldn't articulate it in words anyway. That was so IC and so incredibly touching. I love "we're going to be parents!" moments. Particularly for the first one. It's so completely and utterly momentous. :D :D

    SQUEE!

    [face_love]
     
  9. Cael-Fenton

    Cael-Fenton Jedi Master star 3

    Registered:
    Jun 22, 2006
    My goodness, I'm sorry I missed the last update! [face_blush] Was in the middle of my finals. (Please may I ask to be tagged even if I haven't commented on the last chapter?)



    "how the sea counts the years"

    I always love your titles, but this one especially struck a chord.

    Very moving portrayal of Celebrían's long yearning and waiting -- you put it in ways that I think anyone who's ever been parted from a loved one can identify with. It gave the the ficlet such a sharp and human immediacy, even in the rarefied divine gardens of Lórien. The faith and trust of Melian's words reminded me a great deal of Finrod interpreting the Old Hope of Men in the Athrabeth. All we have is that faith -- that love will be enough to endure, through testing and long parting which we can't even anticipate or fully imagine.



    "put them together"

    This is quite possibly my favourite Beren/Lúthien fic ever!

    Oh, wow [face_love] Absolutely love how you expanded on those famous lines, and gave their star-cross'd love story a well-worn warmth, earthy and yet with the full-flight romance of that last sentence there.

    The flashes of melancholy and loss were used to masterful effect. Really accentuated the pure joy of the moment.

    The way you contrasted elven and human love (both romantic and parental), first through his eyes in the sentence I referred to above, and in more detail through hers, and showed them to be be equally precious and intense, was one of the elements I most enjoyed in this, and I think makes this story a fruitful one for rereading.

    I love, love, love how you rendered the mythic, high-fantasy romance of Beren/Lúthien with such tender homeliness; and in the very same stroke, highlighted the incredible wonder and magic and almost unearthly joyousness in such a very human, ordinary moment. You have such a great instinct for juxtaposing and matching these things in all your stories!
     
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  10. Mira_Jade

    Mira_Jade The (FavoriteTM) Fanfic Mod With the Cape star 5 Staff Member Manager

    Registered:
    Jun 29, 2004
    Nyota's Heart: I could not stop smiling while writing that ficlet. I am so, so glad to hear that you enjoyed it as well! [face_love][:D]

    Cael-Fenton: I will most definitely start tagging you. I hope that all is going wonderfully with your studies, as well! :) [face_love] I'm glad that you enjoyed both of them - especially the Beren/Lúthien one. There really is such a high, Romeo and Juliet feel to their story that sometimes, just to write them in 'normal', 'human' situations can be interesting to see. And, you know how much I enjoy exploring human vs. elven perception, especially in relationships, so this ficlet had a few tiers that made it enjoyable to write. I am glad that they struck out at you! :)


    And, here we are with the next NSWFF prompt - Game, Set, Match. Originally, I was going to have three responses, but this first one turned out little longer than planned - and it took on a shape of its own, at that - so I am just going to post this one. As such, it does not wholey follow the prompt, really, but hey, it's a ficlet, so here we are . . . :p

    With this piece. we are delving into Celegorm's rather fractured state of mind post his losing Lúthien to Beren - and it's not the prettiest picture. But, his is a most singular mind to delve into, I will grant him that. [face_thinking]



    First off, some notes:

    Tol Galen: Beren and Lúthien moved to live in the isle of Tol Golan after their coming back to life - which was part of Ossiriand, the Land of Seven Rivers, just on the western side of the Blue Mountains, and pretty much as south as you can get in Beleriand.

    Onodrim: Ents, who originally dwelt in Ossiriand.

    Easterlings: They crossed the mountains much later than the first Three Houses of Men, and originally swore allegiance to the Sons of Fëanor, promising to fight against the Noldor in the battle against Morgoth. Ulfang, in particular, swore loyalty to Caranthir - who was eager to do right by another group of mankind (further enforcing my own theories. [face_mischief] ;)). Unbeknownst to the Elves, however, the Easterlings had crossed the mountains only at Morgoth's command - who promised them the lands of Beleriand as their own - and were waiting until the time of battle to show their true colors. The treachery of the Easterlings resulted in the Noldor losing the Nirnaeth Arnoediad (the Fifth Battle, the Battle of Unnumbered Tears) shortly after this ficlet. :(

    Celegorm: He did have the ability to speak to the birds and beasts, given to him by the Vala Oromë, whom he was once apprenticed to in Valinor - but I can't imagine that gift staying with him near the end of his life. :( That said, further glimpses at his relationship with Aredhel can be found with ficlet CLXV; Lúthien's understanding for his psyche: CXXXVIII; Maedhros' decision to let Thingol keep the Silmaril until Lúthien's death, or their victory in the North, and Celegorm's less than positive reaction: CXL; and my own not-quite-canon view of the Second Kinslaying: CXLI. That is my collection of trying to figure Celegorm out thus far. :p

    Irissë: Aredhel
    Lómion: Aredhel's name for Maeglin
    Curvo: Short for Curufin
    Tyelko: Short for Tyelkormo, Celegorm
    Nelyo: Short for Nelyafinwë, Maedhros
    Engwar: Sickly Ones, Quenyan term for Mankind
    Moriquendi: Dark Elf, one who has not seen the light of the Trees - used for the Sindar/Silvan/Nandor/Avari etc.

    Aaand, I think that's it. As always, I thank you all so very much for reading! :)







    waves, ever arriving”


    CLXXVIII

    There was an odd sort of spell over the southern-most woods of Ossiriand, where the once dead walked as the living on the Isle of Tol Galen.

    In some ways, Celegorm believed that no other place outside of Aman - besides, perhaps, hidden Doriath itself - could sing in such a way to his senses. Old magic lingered in every shape of leaf and bough; while enchantment murmured with the river and whispered with the wind. Its aura was one that itched against his skin; it turned heavy within his throat.

    You are not welcome here, the beating cadence seemed to say, flapping its ghostly wings against his senses. This isle was a place of idle peace and whispered wonderment, and his soft steps seemed to pollute his surroundings with every stolen stride. Even so . . . he could not bring himself to stay away.

    It was shameful of him – ridiculous, even - to linger and look where his eyes had no right to lie. The Lady Lúthien had swept into his life and out with the turn of an autumn day, and he'd meant it when he said that he did not love her - that he expected no such attachment of souls to ever grow between them. He'd already seen what the great force of love could do; toppling mountains as Finwë's selfish love did, or failing to move them as his mother's love for his father. He even knew a faint, distant whisper of it himself whenever she had smiled, her bow-callused fingers touching his shoulder in either affection or annoyance. She -

    - but she was dead now, stolen and later slaughtered by her Moriquendi mate. In his own way, he had thought to inflict a justice of his own by binding the Sindarin Princess to his side as his wife. Love was wanting and denial and pain and words thrown as daggers; he was simply saving Lúthien from binding herself to such a misery. Better would she find her life's meaning by standing to serve the more real and tangible threat of Morgoth in the north. This he had truly believed at the time, and this he still believed – for ties between his people and hers were still as severed as ever, and she now had naught but her fairy-tale to offer Middle-earth as a whole. And what would such a tale do but to warm hearts, and make fluttering girl-children sigh in longing for their own loves? Such stories could not shield soldiers from arrows, they could not console widows and sooth fatherless boys. For the Valar to be moved by the plight of her story when thousands of souls lamented . . . for the Valar to lift Lúthien up on high when they left her to . . . but, he could not carry that thought through, even within the privacy of his own mind. He set his mouth, and made fists of his hands.

    Maedhros could say all he liked about Lúthien's story inspiring, about the time now being right for their throwing the full force of their weight against Angband in the north. But where the fervent zeal in his brother's eyes expected the battlements to break and the Dark One to kneel, Celegorm was more pragmatic in his view. The battle to come would be nothing more than blood and loss, and he'd accepted that. Perhaps . . . perhaps he would think differently if the support they had from Doriath was more than a stray pair of bowmen, but, alas . . . Lúthien was Beren's wife, and her people would continue to hide behind their false sense of security, arrogantly refusing to join the fight for all those toiling upon tired Endórë as a whole. Maedhros was foolish to think that Thingol's decision was based solely on his failed courtship of Lúthien - Thingol's heart had hardened as soon as that first drop of blood spilled at Alqualondë, and Celegorm would not carry the weight of that sin on his shoulders alone.

    All of this his rational mind understood, and accepted. And yet . . .

    He could not bring himself to stay away.

    Celegorm returned, time and time again, the smallest of stolen glimpses a balm for his tattered soul. She danced in the twilight for her husband, but the barest glance of pale skin or night-dark hair had his breath catching and his eyes turning as full as they had the first time he had seen the Moon rise in the black, black sky. The sound of her laughter, the faintest notes of song . . . he lived for what he might catch of them, his fëa contracting and warming against the surface of his hröa in a dangerous, telling way whenever she was near.

    When he was away from Tol Galen, he tried to tell himself that he was stronger than her. He was stronger than whatever base sentiment his soul was filling him with - crippling him with . . . and yet, he could not bring himself to stay away. His temper was volatile in the days he spent away from her - punctuated by broken glasses and harsh words and dark oaths sworn to the point that even Curvo stopped listening to his hatreds and jealousies. During those days, only harsh Caranthir would dare his black moods, and even the gentle Ambarussa would step forward to restrain him by force when need be, one hanging on tightly to each arm before he did himself – or anyone else – a harm when his fits of fey rage took him.

    It was becoming an obsession, a madness within him; one even greater than the Oath that was tearing its way through his skin, whispering that their father's Silmaril was there, right there . . . so close, but so out of reach as long as Lúthien drew breath. For the House of Fëanor had already paid her great harm and insult, and they would not do so twice in one lifetime – this Maedhros had decreed, and coldly suggested that any pain of spirit he felt at the decision was a penance fitting for his dealings with her and her mortal man.

    Yet, Maedhros was deluding himself if he thought that any victory in the North would move Thingol to return their Silmaril once they pried the other two from Morgoth's cold crown – this Celegorm could not help but think in cruel amusement. His dear brother was living a fantasy if he thought that it would be so easy, so clean. For they were cursed - both by the Valar and their own deeds - and nothing but blood and his own, particular brand of force would see the words of their Oath through. This Celegorm knew, and this Celegorm was willing to embrace – only, he seemed to be the only one of his brothers yet willing to do so.

    And so, until he could sooth the savage yearning in his soul to wrap his hands around the Silmaril's holy light once more, he lingered in the River-lands . . . watching . . . waiting. He stayed, even as the trees seemed to frown down at him, as even the air itself seemed to thicken in unwelcome at his presence. Once, he had been able to tell the speech of the woodland beasts, and sing so that the birds understood his song, but that gift had been falling beyond his grasp all the more so with each passing day. It was something he did not think about whenever he could, refusing to remember the woods of Oromë, and the delight in Irissë's eyes as she pointed to one bird after another, whispering: of what does that one sing? while the Trees waxed and waned overhead . . .

    In some ways, Lúthien looked so much like her . . . only, she bore the light of her Maia-mother in her grey eyes, rather than the divine light of the Trees. They each had the same night-black hair, the same arched brows, the same hooked line about their mouths when they disagreed with something he did . . . Only, Irissë's features had been sharper than Lúthien's soft countenance; her nose the slightest bit longer and her mouth the slightest bit thinner; her cheekbones haughty and sharp where Lúthien's were gentle and curved. Irissë's strength was the strength of a hunter and bowman, while Lúthien bore a dancer's litheness and grace with every step . . . Irissë wore calluses upon her hands, while Lúthien's were butter-soft, she having known not of a day of hardship or hard labor in her immortal life . . . Irissë could match him steel for steel, while Lúthien had her witch's enchantments and uncanny spells . . . And, now . . .

    Was that what lingered with him, Celegorm wondered? Did her spells still muddle his mind and overwrite one woman's eyes over the others with such painful ease? For, some days, he felt as if he were unable to tell up from down, and rather, instead, did he fear . . .

    To think that he had once scoffed at the weakness of Finwë for taking his second bride . . . he had scorned his mother for a fool in her efforts to sooth Fëanor's mind with the stubborn warmth of her own spirit . . . he had laughed at Caranthir for his mooning devotion to his mortal woman, and provided no comfort for his grief when he mourned her inevitable passing. For they were fools all to let such a weak emotion as love fill them, and now . . . Celegorm could no longer tell love from any of the rancid emotion rotting in his veins . . . and that was the part that truly terrified him. Did he ever trully love Irissë, or did he only feel guilt for her fate, and his role in her ending? Did he love Lúthien, or was it a combination of his pain and his grief and his rage against her people that resulted in this obsession lining his bones and rising as a fire in his lungs?

    . . . the answer to those questions was one he did not much care to know, and so, he pushed his thoughts away, instead contenting himself on the flames of his obsessions. It was better than the alternative.

    There was a movement on the deer path ahead of him, and he melted into the shadows as a force of habit, letting the forest embrace him whole.

    It was not her . . . it was not her husband, even – for which Celegorm was glad, for he did not think that he would be able to keep from doing Beren a true harm if the opportunity presented itself. Instead, there was a child sitting where the path cut through a wide clearing. The boy was bundled in a thick cloak against the crisp note of spring in the air, and his grey eyes were alight with the song of the birds on the high branches up above. This was not Celegorm's first time encountering young Dior, nor did he think it would be the last. Here, where all was sacred and sheltered, Lúthien did not have to worry for letting her child out of her sight. For what lingered in the forest outside of the natural darkness of the shadows? Here, far from the toil and hurt of the rest of Endórë as a whole, she could live in a peace denied to so many others, and pretend . . . pretend as so many of the Sindar pretended, while it was he and his people who gave of blood and soul for a land that was not truly their own.

    That old, familiar rage was rising within him, snapping against his spirit as something living, and he pushed it back though a long, familiar struggle.

    His first time seeing Dior had been as a shock to his senses. To see her features – her bright grey eyes and her halo of ebony hair now worn as a messy mop of curls upon her son's head . . . The boy's features were sharp enough to pass as a child of the house of Finwë, even, and he had momentarily been able to fool himself, and imagine . . .

    But no, Beren's son was Beren's son, and Celegorm had no mate, nor a son of that union to call his own.

    Irissë's son had not looked at all like Irissë, he then remembered with a pang. Instead, Lómion had the sharp, pinched look of his father; his mother's coloring all but stolen and seemingly plastered upon some stranger's face. Seeing the youth glaring from the back of his horse, his eyes distrusting and wary . . . the knowledge that Eöl had taken by force what, perhaps, should have always been as unfettered as storm-wind . . . Eöl had taken, and Irissë had suffered, and Thingol had done nothing to check the rabid beast living on his lands. Instead, he had allowed the old spells of Nan Elmoth to sink into his tenant until they were as a living force, allowing him to . . .

    But Celegorm could not think about that now . . . not when his own refusal to greet Irissë in Himlad had moved her to enter Nan Elmoth in the first place. He was as guilty as Thingol, as guilty as Eöl . . . and so, he pushed that thought aside, and looked down on the child with a gaze filled with cold fire.

    Normally, he would find Dior practicing with his wooden sword, or playing with the training bow he just received from his last visit to Doriath. This time, the boy sat very still in the clearing, looking up at the canopy of treetops as if searching. Celegorm was not sure how long he stood there while Dior kept his vigil, all the while inspecting the tip of his hunting blade with a queer sort of fascination. Above him, the birds sang a trilling song, but he was deaf to tell of their words.

    The birds sang, and Dior tilted his head as if listening. When he turned, Celegorm could see that the tips of his ears were pointed, but only just. “I can see you there,” the child called out into the shadows. “The birds too know you are there. You may come out, if you wish.”

    When Dior blinked, Celegorm could not espy Lúthien or Beren from the otherness in his eyes. Was it the might of her Maia-blood, or the strange earthiness of the sons of Men shining from his gaze? He could not tell, and he did not quite care to know.

    “I would not do so, for your own sake,” he answered simply, further backing into the shadows as his voice pierced the calm of the forest. He half-turned, preparing to leave then and there, inwardly cursing himself for his stupidity in coming close enough to be discovered in the first place.

    Dior tilted his head again, and frowned delicately. “I am waiting to see the Onodrim,” the child revealed. “They come to sing with my mother in the spring, and if I sit very still, I am told that I can espy their arrival. Yet, the birds say that the Shepards will not pass this way as long as you are here.” There was a question in the boy's voice, even when he gave no such shape of his words. Celegorm felt a whisper of foreboding fill him, seeing Thingol's might to come within the boy, even though he wore no crown upon his brow.

    “Perhaps,” Dior offered, the innocence of a child then overriding the old names in his blood, “if you were to come and wait with me, they would not be afraid of you. If you wished, you could see the Orodrim too. Have you ever seen the trees walk up tall on their roots? I am told that it is wondrous to behold.”

    Celegrom frowned, and ran a restless finger over the edge of his blade. He could feel his skin turn white at the press of the steel, giving just before breaking underneath the pressure. He momentarily toyed with the idea of stepping out from the shadows, with letting the boy see the telling mark of his white gold hair, and the fire off Fëanor glowing in his eyes. Let him later tell his mother, let him warn his father - Celegorm would be glad to meet them both.

    He made up his mind, and went to step out from the shadows - when a strong hand wrapped around his wrist, forming an unforgiving grip. He was pulled away from Dior, away from the temptation the child represented, and down the deer-path until they were out of sight and away from hearing. Only then did Celegorm stop and yank his hand free of his brother's grasp.

    “What do you think you are doing?” was the first thing Caranthir hissed, placing himself between Celegorm and the way back to Dior.

    “I am hunting,” Celegorm replied sardonically, bearing his teeth in an awful mockery of a smile. “How about yourself? Tol Galen is far from Lothlann, where your new Engwar toys await. How did you explain your absence to Ulfang, I wonder?”

    Caranthir only answered by further pushing him down the path. While Maedhros just barely surpassed him in height, Caranthir was the only one of his brothers who was close to matching him in both height and mass. Even so, he dug in his feet, and stubbornly held his ground.

    “Curvo told the rest of us where you have been sneaking off to,” Caranthir ignored his words in favor of saying in cross, irritated Quenya. “He did not have the patience – nor the interest - to come and fetch you, and if Nelyo had to, he would have done you a true harm – those are his words, not mine. And as you are indeed keeping me from my duties as a host to the Easterlings, you should know that my temper is thin, and endeavor not to provoke it.”

    “I think that I would welcome seeing Maedhros try,” Celegorm returned, his blade still held naked in his hand. “The same goes for you. I will leave when I am good and ready to.”

    Caranthir only narrowed his eyes in barely checked annoyance. “Put the knife away. You are behaving as a child.”

    “A child am I?” Celegorm replied incredulously. “How is that so when I am the only one of us endeavoring to see our Oath - ”

    “You mean by your stalking a happily married woman, and holding naked steel in the presence of a defenseless boy?” Caranthir interrupted, pushing him again. This time, Celegorm stumbled. “By the Valar, Tyelko, but what has happened to you?”

    “What has happened,” Celegorm replied in a low, dangerous voice, “is that I am the only one not viewing the reclaiming of our father's Silmarils as a game. Dior is a child now, but someday . . .” he let his words taper off, knowing then with an awful certainty that their lives and deaths were entwined, he and the son of Beren. It was a knowledge he could not shake; a certainty he could not fight away.

    Caranthir frowned, and said, “You do not know the shape the future brings, and if Dior sets himself opposite of our Oath as a grown man, that is one thing . . . and that day is one I hope never comes to pass, at that. But I swear by Eru himself, if you move on Beren's son while he is still a child -”

    “ - you would what?” Celegorm harshly returned. “Would you kill me? Would you once again darken your hands with the blood of kin, with the blood of your brother.” He snorted meanly. “What does the life of a half-elf mean to you? Dior is nothing more than an unnatural mistake of nature, and for you to hold him higher than you would one born of the same womb . . .” his voice tapered off, seeing the still, dangerous way Caranthir was holding himself in reply to his words. “By Morgoth's teeth, but you are pathetic,” he sneered as understanding filled him. “She is dead, and the only good she ever did you was making sure that you did not have a child to -”

    He would later blame it on the madness filling him that Caranthir was able to flip his own blade from his hand and press it flat against his neck, his breath leaving him as his back collided with the nearest tree. He was too busy with his low, cruel peals of laughter to even fight his younger sibling away.

    “Oh, cool your rage!” Celegorm spoke around the steel pressing down against his throat. He was laughing, and he could not bring himself to stop, even when he was shaking from the violence of it. “Do you truly think that any of this will work? Do you think that we will march on Morgoth, and win? Do you think that Thingol will be so pleased and thankful for our ridding the Foe of the World from Endórë that he will give the Silmaril his daughter died for back to us out of thanksgiving and reverence? No.” His laughter was not abating, it only took on a desperate edge, sounding almost like a sob. “No. We will fight, and many good men will fail and die. We will then wait for Lúthien herself to die, and then march on Doriath to reclaim what is ours when Morgoth is so far out of our reach as the noon is from night. Protect Dior now, but someday his blood will be mine . . . perhaps, even then our Silmaril will remain far from our hands, and again and again we will -”

    Caranthir struck him hard across the face, ending his tirade and causing him to choke on his last mad, desperate giggle. He chortled once, twice, and then fell silent, glaring mulishly at the other as a fire not unlike their father's grew in his eyes.

    “If and when that happens, we shall deal with that day as it comes,” Caranthir replied in a low, dangerous tone. “Yet, for now, there is a fight before you, and it rests far from here. Irissë is dead, brother,” this he said in a gentle, terrible voice, “and Lúthien is not she. Let them both go, for your own sake.”

    Celegorm made a strangled noise, like an animal struck by an arrow, but still pulling itself through the underbrush with the vague hope of escape and life. He shoved Caranthir away from him, an icy rage filling his body with a violent, dangerous warning.

    “Utter her name again,” he all but growled, “and I will cut it from your throat.”

    Caranthir merely raised a brow in reply, as if daring him to do so. He then tilted his head, listening to the birds as they sang in the wood. Once, Celegorm remembered distantly, he had taught him to do so – feeling pride fill him as his baby brother's large eyes looked up at him in wonder and awe until he too understood what the winged folk were saying. Distantly, he imagined teaching that skill to a son of his own. But, now . . .

    “We have not the time for that. The birds warn of Beren approaching,” Caranthir said. He glanced over, his brow furrowing in puzzlement. “Can you no longer understand them?” when he spoke, his voice was not completely unkind.

    Celegorm merely glowered, and brushed past him, making sure to clip his shoulder as he did so. “If you want the mortal to live, we should leave now,” he said rather than replying - but his words were answer enough.

    “As you wish,” Caranthir inclined his head. He waited only a moment before following him down the path with a steady, strong side.

    As the birds sang above them, Caranthir whistled in time with their song. Celegorm simply turned his face away from them both, hardening himself to anything and everything about him until they left the isle of Tol Galen far behind them.



    ~MJ @};-
     
    Anedon likes this.
  11. WarmNyota_SweetAyesha

    WarmNyota_SweetAyesha Chosen One star 8

    Registered:
    Aug 31, 2004
    That has the depth and intensity of King Lear. I am serious. =D= =D= Exquisite poignance and pathos. @};- :D
     
  12. Mira_Jade

    Mira_Jade The (FavoriteTM) Fanfic Mod With the Cape star 5 Staff Member Manager

    Registered:
    Jun 29, 2004
    Nyota's Heart: Thank-you so very much! I really appreciate you saying so. [:D]

    Cael-Fenton: I know that this is quick for me, but these have been building up on my hard-drive, so I finally decided to move them over. :p


    For this one I am finally finished paying catch-up with the NSWFF prompts - this time with in a shallow grave (and I made it mushy, at that - a la Deb ;)). Yet, my muse then decided that she was not done with the subject, so I chose nine more 'prompts' at random from a book I was reading, and fleshed this out for a collection of written 'sketches', so to speak. That said, this update is the next part of my Caranthir/Haleth arch - because these two have just settled on me something fierce, and I could not resist. :p [face_love]

    That said, I thank you all for reading, and I hope that you enjoy! [:D]







    “to have and to hold”

    CLXXIX

    Haleth did not know how long she slept; only that she slept, and did so more deeply and peacefully than she had since her home in Thargelion was destroyed.

    The nearly oppressive warmth of the summer had retreated, giving way to the coolness of the rain falling just beyond. It was a dim morning, the dawn marred by storm-clouds, but that suited her well as she closed her eyes and buried her face into her pillow once more. She stretched languidly, and was nearly surprised when her hands met the very warm, very male flesh of the body sharing her bed.

    Her eyes snapped open, and she recalled the night before in a rush – remembering heated kisses and passionate caresses, whispered words as Caranthir asked the One to bless their union, before -

    Haleth blinked, for while memory was one thing, it was quite another to have the faint morning light illuminating the strong form so deliciously displayed next to her. She could not keep her eyes from studying the now familiar lines of his face, more relaxed in sleep than she had ever seen him while awake. For once, his hair was messily arrayed, the heavy mass tangled - mostly from her hands, she remembered with a flush - as it spilled carelessly over her pillows. His lungs expanded and retracted in a slow and powerful motion, and though she had seen him bare-chested before, this was quite different as her eyes raked over every inch of pale skin revealed to her now - remembering what it felt like to touch and be touched in return. Her eyes slipped down to where the sheet was draped indecently low on his hips, before she snapped her gaze away and concluded herself well and truly gone.

    She flopped back down, and turned her face to groan into her pillow, not feeling regret for her decision, per say, but rather . . . You are a weak, stupid woman, Haleth Haldad's daughter. Now look at what you have done. Her thoughts berated her, filling her with a sharp sort of adrenaline, all but mocking the languid contentment she had first awakened with. To add to her discontentment, the barest of motions revealed where her body was pleasantly sore and abused from the night before, her skin still sensitive to even the barest of sensations. She felt a dull bruising at her neck, and rolled her eyes as she remembered just how that had gotten there. Caranthir, ridiculous man that he was, had a mark or two – or ten – to match, but his elven body was already healing those wounds faster than was fair – this she knew from leaning over to peak . . . again.

    She could no longer stay abed. With an oath and a sigh, Haleth untangled herself from the sheets, all the while being careful not to disturb her sleeping partner. She blindly reached down to grab a discarded tunic from the floor – hers, she thought, until she realized that it was his – and slipped it over her shoulders with a frustrated huff of breath. The garment still smelled like him - as warm as summer, and as familiar as saddle-leather and woodsmoke - and she had to fight the urge to hug the fabric closer to her body, traitorous as her spinning emotions still were.

    With a silent step, she left her bedroom behind for the common-room of her dwelling. She paced the length of the room once, twice, and on her third turn she finally noticed the small fire already neatly stoked and tended in the stone pit. There was a pot of broth slowly heating besides the coals, and in a basket on the bricks she found fresh loaves of baked bread and a day's helping of fruit and cheese and cold game for two. Curious, she picked up a folded piece of parchment next to the offering, recognizing her good-sister's practical hand upon the note.

    Your council still thinks you ill from your 'malady' the night before, Taemes informed her. You are not expected to stir from bed today. Haleth turned the note over, and could almost see the wink that accompanied the: Consider this a honeymoon, and my gift for your nuptials, that was scribbled, almost as an afterthought.

    Haleth gave a snort of laughter, a sound that was equal parts incredibility and disbelief, as she sank down to sit by the fire. She held her head in one hand, even as she had the sense of mind to toss the scrap of parchment into the fire with the other. She watched it turn to ash, her eyes full with the flames as she let the weight of her situation sink in - truly sink in.

    You have already passed the point of no return, the practical part of her mind seemed to sigh at her, while the majority of her being, the part that was solely and selfishly her was wondering why she had even left her bed – their bed – in the first place.

    She looked down, and saw the ring Caranthir had given her the night before. She twisted it on her finger; marveling at its perfect fit, at the way it caught the light and reflected it with a glow of its own. Her eyes were burning, she puzzled to find, and it took her a moment to realize that she was happy . . . she was content as she had not truly been in so long a time. She had meant it when she said that this would not – could not – end well . . . but, for now . . .

    With a soft step, she returned to her room to see Caranthir stirring – perhaps missing her warmth, a part of her was giddy with a girlish joy at the thought. Beyond them, the rain was steadily falling, granting the room a pleasantly enclosed feeling, as if the world had slowed for them, and them alone. She watched where his sleep-clouded eyes darkened upon seeing her, taking in the way his tunic swallowed her; the way the wavy mess of her hair just barely hid the flush spreading across her skin. It was a guilty pleasure for her, the way she felt beautiful and adored underneath his gaze - made even more wondrous from the way she could constantly feel a shadow of that reverence from him. Such was a side-effect of their bond, he had explained the night before, and one that she had used to her great advantage as she learned what pleased him, and he the same for her.

    Raising a teasing brow, as if wondering what he could possibly be thinking, she tugged in consideration on the tie of his tunic. She came around the side of the bed to stand before him, and he wasted no time in tugging her down once more. She laughed at the unexpected tilt to her world as her back settled against the mattress, truly happy as she stared up at him. His eyes softened as he stared down at her, and she could feel his contentment as well, settling in against her like a warm blanket. But that contentment only held for a moment before a stirring of need eddied underneath the languor, and she was left to revel in the now familiar warmth of his large hands tracing up and down her body.

    In the face of such a powerful argument, she had no choice but to turn her doubts and fears aside. Ignoring everything but for the heat and nearness of him, she buried her misgivings in a shallow grave, and left them there to stay.



    .

    .

    CLXXX. Distraction

    Of course, they soon had to return to the real world once more. They spent that whole first day getting to know each other as a couple, her initial dubiousness over centuries of abstinence:

    “Which does not mean that one cannot be creative,” Caranthir had been all too amused to point out, “especially in those frankly awful years before true adulthood. Afterward, there is simply not much interest for us until we meet our matchessome wait thousands of years to find their mates, and it would be a cruel trick of the One to see them plagued by their bodies during that time of waiting, would it not?

    Which, of course, led to him most certainly not sulking when she outlined her few, short-lived romances in the past:

    The boys in the village had a wager going over who would gather up the courage to kiss me first. So, I picked the one I wanted to kiss, and agreed to split the pot with him evenly for kissing him in full view of the other boys. Perhaps, I allowed him to do more than kiss me when we were older and curious – and it became apparent that I was looking less and less likely to wed. He died in a hunting accident, long before our home in Thargelion was destroyed, and after that my partners were few and far between. There was simply not much . . . interest for me,” there, she mimicked his earlier tone of voice. “There always seemed to be something else drawing both my attention and my time, and I never looked very hard or far for a husband.”

    Now, she could not quite remember why she'd always known an element of dissatisfaction with her previous partners when she was confronted with his single-minded, rather Fëanorian determination to perfect any skill he set his mind to. Rather willingly, she subjected herself as a canvas to his arts, meanwhile knowing a more base form of pride and gratification for the pleasure and completion she could bring to him in turn – reflecting that, perhaps, this was the missing element from her few scattered relationships before, and resolving to think on it no more from there.

    Afterward, Caranthir spent more than a few hours teaching her how to use their new-found bond – sometimes to humorous ends, sometimes to wondrous ends, and sometimes to amorous ends, even - and she fell asleep that second night with her mind open to his and sharing his dreams.

    The next day, she was nearly certain that everyone knew. She knew that it was her own sensitivity, her own paranoia that felt so, but when Taemes fell into step next to her and playfully counseled her to stop smiling so widely, elsewise everyone would know, she fixed her face into the best mask she could, and carried on from there.

    Later that afternoon came the time of Gathering – where she would sit at the head of the Great Hall, and allow any of the Haladin who wished to do so a chance to air their grievances little and great before the Chieftess. She dressed in her best to attend to her people, donning her armor and braided leather skirt as a sign of strength, and placing her simple circlet atop her brow as a sign of leadership. Before she left her home, she watched as Caranthir placed his wedding band on the fourth finger of his left hand – in the way of her people, though it would never be viewed as such. Catching his eye, she moved hers to the first finger of her right hand – in the way of the Elves - thus hiding in plain sight from her own people, the ring appearing as nothing more than a rather pretty trinket upon her hand.

    Even as she took her place at the head of the Hall, and listened with the utmost seriousness to disputes ranging from the theft of a cow, to a farmer's contested right over a certain well, she could feel Caranthir at the back of her mind, offering an endless commentary on the proceedings. Sometimes, he had true insights to offer – in a way she was now grateful to take without it looking as if she adhered too closely to his counsel – but worse was when he abused their connection in order to share a thought designed to make her laugh - or worse, to make her blush - not caring for how she would appear before her people. She tried to push a wave of ire at him, but she was still clumsy with navigating between their minds, and all she managed to do was to scrunch up her face in a way that had Hathor asking her if she was still feeling the effects of her 'sickness' from the night before.

    Caranthir coughed from where he was lingering on the wall, and Haleth summoned the most withering thought she could and successfully pushed him from her mind with a shove.

    Of course, after the next petition was heard – something about a father not receiving the full bride-price from his good-son's family - she looked down at her ring, and found her mind wandering as the case droned on. Her attention had to be summoned twice before she offered her sincerest apologies for her straying mind, deciding to add three sheep, and a weight of grain onto the originally negotiated price - to be more easily paid over the expanse of the next four quarters, rather than all at once. She then turned to offer the young couple her blessing for their future, dryly remarking that she hoped their attention to detail, no matter how backed by the law, would not harm their own children when they celebrated their unions to come. At her words, the bride's father sputtered, and the offending parents looked on in gratitude – they having not been able to afford the bride their son loved, though they worked to pay that debt now.

    At the back of her mind, Caranthir casually asked how many sheep her own hand would have been worth, even as she haughtily lifted her head and informed him that Haldad would have set her price past what even a prince of the Eldar could have paid . . . and his simple, human relief for not having to charm her father into giving up his only daughter had her fighting back mirth . . . again.

    The next case was called, and Haleth pushed him from her mind with a wave of fondness, determined to serve her people without distraction. Even so, Caranthir stared her way the rest of the night, and she could not help the slight smile that crept onto her mouth, no matter how she tried.



    .

    .

    CLXXXI. Surreptitious

    Sometimes, he felt like a youth sneaking to steal a moment with his sweetheart, rather than a husband trying to spend time with his wife.

    But, with the delegation from the House of Marach visiting the lands of the Haladin, there were even more curious eyes on them as of late, and Mundor himself was a thorn in Haleth's side, ever looking for a reason to discredit her and swoop in on the unprotected lands that would be left in the wake of choosing a new Chieftain.

    He had to call on a completely different set of skills as he kept to the shadows, as he stepped soundlessly, as he moved with the night, rather than through it, propping open the unlatched window, and -

    - landing most ungraciously, with what would be a rather impressive bump on his head come morning.

    “Lo and behold, the fabled grace of the Firstborn,” he heard Haleth's wry voice as she went to help him up. They had agreed not to meet that night, and while annoyance creased her face, her ire did not quite meet her eyes.

    “Maedhros' tales made such a venture sound much easier in theory than in actuality,” Caranthir gingerly touched the bruise he could feel growing above his hairline. “There must be a secret he did not then see fit to tell me.”

    Haleth sighed, but he could feel her fondness press at him through their bond. “It serves you right,” she tsked at him. “If anyone saw you -”

    “ - I was careful,” he protested. “Not a soul saw me.”

    “One night,” she continued as if she did not hear him. “One night apart is not too much to ask for when Mundor is watching my every step. If you -”

    He reached over to touch a finger to her mouth, effectively ceasing her speech. She raised a brow as he gingerly closed his eyes, attempting to force the rolling, turbulent sensation in his spirit to cease. “I could not sleep,” he admitted a moment later, “though I tried.”

    Her look softened at his words. He leaned forward to rest his head against her brow, feeling true contentment fill him as she ran a soothing hand through his hair, her arguments defeated. With every sweep of her fingers, he could feel his spirit sooth over with warmth and peace; losing its sharp and jagged edge, if only for that moment.

    “You must be gone before the dawn,” she warned. Her voice had lost its annoyance, at the very least. He looked down at her, ready to take any victory he could.

    “I shall,” Caranthir promised. “Anar shall not even think of rising yet.”

    “And, Carnistir?” Haleth leaned over to whisper into his ear. “Next time, you will attract less attention if you simply use the door.”



    .

    .

    CLXXXII. Overt

    Of course, the dawn came to find her quite content with the warm body by her side. Her head fit perfectly in the hollow beneath his chin, and her hand had a way of sandwiching itself between his chest and her own, as if seeking out the soothing rhythm of his heart. The nights were starting to turn cold with the onset of autumn, and she protested when her conveniently elf-shaped pillow shifted and then moved completely, leaving her bereft of his warmth.

    Haleth made a vaguely displeased noise, and went to tug him back down again. Her fingers only met empty air, even as a fond hand reached down to smooth back her sleep mused curls from her brow.

    I was not the one who made the stipulation about leaving before dawn,” Caranthir remarked, his voice thick with amusement and the last vestiges of sleep.

    “I take it back,” Haleth waved her hand in an imperious way. “I did not mean a word.”

    For a moment, she felt awareness creep upon her, imagining what it would be like to walk with him in the full light of day, to share his name and home as well as a place in his heart, and she felt an uncomfortably heavy sensation settle in her gut, one that was unwilling to ever move completely away.

    She swallowed, wishing . . .

    - but that was only until the blankets were quite ungraciously snatched from her. She sat upright as the cold night air hit her, looking accusingly over at Caranthir, who teasingly let the blankets fall somewhere by the door.

    “If I have to return to a cold bed, then I think it only fair that you do so as well, dear one,” Caranthir gave her a mock bow before turning - leaving just in time to avoid her chucking an unused pillow at his head.

    “Thrice-cursed Orc-son,” she grumbled underneath her breath, but her smile reached her eyes when she went to retrieve her blankets, even when she could not manage to fall asleep on her own again.




    .

    .

    CLXXXIII. Affliction

    Unfortunately, the changing of the seasons meant more than just the arrival of the harvest for the Haladin. There was a rather irksome sickness making its rounds with the turn in the weather, and while it was not the ravaging fevers and lung-deep coughs that caused parents to hold their breath in fear for their children, it was debilitating enough to take even strong men off of their feet for a day or two whilst their bodies recovered.

    At first, Haleth did not want to admit herself stricken. Her eyes were only running more than they should be, and she was simply breathing in hot air through her suddenly dry nose and throat. It was not until the fever itself hit her that she finally gave into the failings of her body and took the day abed to let herself recover. All she needed was a night's rest, she insisted, and then she would be much recovered . . . truly.

    It was not long before she amended that thought to a night's rest alone. Caranthir had been alert to her every need, hovering at her side nearly every moment of the day, but rather than feeling touched by the trouble he was taking to see to her well-being, she felt caged in – suffocated, even. She did not need him to see her like this – sick and weak and mortal – and to know that someday, this would be all she had to offer him . . .

    Her thoughts were not kind ones, and she carefully kept them her own by projecting a steady wave of nothing to him – an effort that exhausted her even more so than the failings of her body. There was a cloud between their minds, and she stubbornly kept it that way; feeling his spirit as if from far away, and refusing to let him close in any way. She knew that she worried him by doing so, but she was burdened enough by her own thoughts without the added task of sharing them with him, and she could think of no other way to distance herself.

    Even so, Caranthir stubbornly kept to her side – even when she pointedly turned her back on him and wished with everything in her that he would simply go away. Worse than any affliction of her body was the heavy look in his eyes – the bafflement, the questions - as he was faced by this rather unsavory aspect of mortality. It was a look she could not bear to see, not when doing so brought back every ill thought and discomforting notion she had pushed aside with the onset of their relationship.

    Eventually, he honored her wishes, but only just. She could not see him, but she could feel him lingering right beyond her reach. Whenever she would nod off to sleep, she would awaken to find that her sheets were fresh and the pitcher of water was ever filled by her side. Tea, brewed from fieldbalm, willow bark, and peppermint was ever close at hand – treating aches and fever while soothing tension - this Caranthir recited as if proud that his research had at last yielded fruit. Eventually, she knew that she was improving when his sudden interest in the medicinal arts drew a waft of fondness from her, rather than filling her with a crushing weight of spirit.

    Her appetite returned on the third day, and she stood, ready to search her kitchen for anything close at hand – for she was not yet feeling strong enough to fix something for herself. She was, of course, found and promptly shooed back to bed – all the while being assured that he would handle the kitchen. She was to do nothing more than rest.

    “You cook?” was her first, dubious question in reply to his words. She did not trust the way he was looking through her pots and pans at all.

    “Most elven men do,” Caranthir replied, enjoying the curiosity that bloomed in her mind for the differences between their peoples. “Although our women tend to task themselves with the bread-making. That aside – I have managed to successfully feed myself for centuries. Of course I cook.”

    “I've always pictured you with servants,” Haleth returned, her voice still dry and her throat raw from coughing. “I did not think that spoiled princelings much lifted their hands to tend to themselves.”

    For that, Caranthir only snorted in amusement. “My grandfather kept a rather large household staff, but my father was less traditional – and my mother was raised as a common-woman, at that. Fëanor kept few servants when he instead had a surplus of sons to see to the household.” For this, his voice was steeped in fondness. “We were all expected to tend to, and feed, the entire family – and that included the apprentices and colleagues my parents were hosting at the time. So, we rotated cooking and cleaning in the evenings. It was one of the few times my father could be moved from his crafts, and he did so every day to spend time with his family. At least . . . he did so then. Those years are my . . . better memories of my family.”

    . . . before Morgoth was released from Námo's halls . . . before the Silmarils . . . before her youngest children drained Nerdanel of spirit and vim . . . Haleth carefully sorted through the glimpses of memory she could glean – noticing that Caranthir was slow to end the connection between them when she had kept him out for days. She then felt a flash of guilt - for what was simply a novelty for her (something alien and more, although precious for being so), was quite essential for his health and well-being in comparison. He leaned into the touch of her mind as one tired and thirsty, greedily lapping up the mingling of souls, and she pushed her apology to him as best she could.

    Caranthir peeked in to smile at her, and she knew that all was forgiven . . . and understood.

    “Only,” he confided a moment later, “we would feed our plates to Huan whenever Maglor cooked – even Atar did so whenever Nerdanel was not looking. In those days, Maglor could not keep his head from whatever song he was composing to keep from burning or miss-seasoning anything he chose to inflict upon us, and his creations were . . . interesting, as a result.”

    Haleth snorted at that, and her amusement rubbed at her still sore throat. Even so, she welcomed the good cheer after the low, grey cast of her emotions the last few days.

    “I shall keep such in mind,” she inclined her head.

    Caranthir continued on with happier anecdotes of his family, and she answered by giving of her own – for, with no mother, she had taught herself to cook for her father and brother when she was old enough to do so. Both had been rather . . . understanding as she learned to grasp some sort of handle over the art. Her father was little more talented than she, and there had been many interesting evenings, full of smoke and mirth, before any sort of equilibrium set in.

    “So, do I meet with my lady's approval?” Caranthir asked as he pulled a chair to her bedside, looking down at the plate in her hands.

    “Somewhat,” Haleth pretended to consider, a half-smile tugging on her mouth. “The eggs are not too terribly burnt, at least.”




    .

    .

    CLXXXIV. Inevitability

    With the arrival of autumn, the scent of threshing wheat and the bite of cold on the air declared his time with the Haladin near to its end.

    Caranthir could not stay in Estolad indefinitely, not when he had his own lands to govern and his own people to attend. So far, he had been able to draw his time out with the argument of Elves viewing time differently – and this would not be the longest he had stayed away from Lake Helevorn, at that. Even so, the oncoming winter would make travel in the mountains all but impossible, and so, the earlier he could leave, the better.

    He'd known when their relationship began that much of it would be spent with he at his place, and she at hers. Even so, any amount of prior knowing was not comfort enough when those days finally came.

    He could still feel her across the distance; only, he felt her as if through water – with the shape of her thoughts swimming just beyond his reach, and the touch of her spirit like a current in the deep, known only by the waves it drew on the ocean's surface. Such was as a day of clouds after knowing the full brilliance of the sun, and now he was not sure how to sustain himself without that light.

    At night, he had trouble sleeping, even when he told himself that he had slept alone for centuries, and mere weeks spent with a bedmate should not have been enough to turn that habit aside. He missed the cool feel of her arms, the perfect way her body tucked in against his own; he missed the comforting shape of her dreams, the absent touch of her mind throughout the day. He particularly missed the feel and familiarity of her flesh, and such memories were enough to move him to distraction when his mind chose to wander during inopportune moments.

    More so than anything else, he simply missed her presence. He missed having her there to speak to - her voice, her wry humor, her sharp insights. He missed sharing the simple moments of his every day with her. He missed her; from her strength and softness, to the shape of her eyes and the warmth of her breath against his chest as she slept. He missed it all, and his temper was mercurial and biting in those first days apart - he all but fumbling as he struggled to restore some sort of equilibrium to his spirit. His soul was not his mind; rather, his fëa was an elemental force, instead of anything rational and defined. His fëa cared not for the constrains of logic and reason, it was all instinct and want – and that divide was a war between his fey-soul and the higher function of his conscious mind with every passing day.

    Before the winter storms fell on the mountain, Maglor and Maedhros again arrived from the north to discus the condition of the Siege, and their plans for the year to come. Normally, their presence was a highlight of the season for him, but, this time . . .

    He first tried to avoid his brothers – quickly brushing past them in greeting, and making sure to look them not in the eyes for as long as he could. In reply, he could feel Maedhros' gaze follow him, clearly suspicious as to his strange behavior – even more so than usual, that was. But, it was Maglor who finally moved to press the matter. His elder brother came upon him in the hall, pulling him from his stride with a surprisingly firm grip about his arm, and backing him into one of the tapestry-covered alcoves before he could think to protest. Without bothering to first ask him, Maglor simply grasped his chin and forced him to look up – searching to find what words themselves could not wholly say.

    For a moment, Caranthir considered closing his eyes in mulish protest. Instead, he let Maglor look, and defiantly stared right back. Within his eyes, a shadow of his bond with Haleth lied – and Maglor did not have to look for long before dropping his chin with a sigh. In answer to his revelation, he only looked weary, rather than disapproving. Even so, Caranthir stood guardedly in answer, waiting for his reaction.

    “Carnistir,” Maglor only sighed once more. “I simply hope that you know what you are doing.”

    In reply, Caranthir bowed his head without meaning to do so, everything guarded about his posture leaving him with a rush of breath. He felt tired then . . . so very tired . . . his spirit aching and his mind balking underneath the prospect of someday spending forever as such. If he could not handle a season spent apart from her, knowing that she was still alive and waiting for his return . . . how would he someday bear her death? How would he someday face the long hall of his eternity alone?

    When he was with Haleth, he could be strong when facing such an inevitability – he had to be, in order to ensure that she did not burden herself overmuch with guilt and worry. He could bring himself to stare such a fate head-on in order to enjoy what blessings he had in the meantime. And yet, now . . .

    . . . he was scared. This, the smallest part of himself could just barely admit. He was scared – no, he was nearly terrified of those far off days. For, his bond with her, rather than filling his days with memory enough to someday last him through forever, was only carving in his want and need all the more so. He was learning to exist completely through her, and to give that up, to be forced to turn that aside . . .

    His eyes were burning. His hands shook, and he made them fists, trying to regain his composure. But, it was no use – for Maglor knew him, perhaps even better than he did himself. His brother did not move to embrace him, nor he did not say a single word in reply. He simply reached out with the great, awesome warmth of his own spirit – so much like the hearth-fire of Nerdanel's fëa, where he and his brothers were of Fëanor's forge-flame through and through. Gently, Maglor enveloped his desperate thoughts with the peace and serenity of his own. As he had not since he was a very small child - scared of storms, but not wanting to dishonor himself in his father's eyes by seeking out his parents' bed - Maglor held his spirit up by the weight and force of his own. For a moment, he even allowed him to glimpse his own bond with his wife; torn and sundered and longing. There, Caranthir was assured that the few memories of gold he had were more than enough to sustain the pain of parting, the pain of wanting – a pain still though it was.

    “Someday,” Maglor said simply, drawing back the great warmth of his spirit until it burned as a star from far away, “when that day comes, you will not have to bear your burden alone. Yet, until then . . .” His voice was soft with kindness, with understanding, and Caranthir swallowed in reply. He nodded his head in answer.

    “Until then,” he whispered, and forced himself to believe his words as true.



    .

    .

    CLXXXV. Lasting

    She missed him more than she first thought she would.

    If she'd once thought herself strong enough to walk away from the fierce and binding thing between them, a winter spent apart from him was enough to show her the error of her thoughts. She missed it all – from the fervor of his tempers, to the easy warmth of his humor, to the reverent way he touched her in passion. She missed the delightful thrill of bickering with him; the comfortable warmth of his reading to her in the evenings; the fumbling way he was learning to play the fiddle underneath her tutelage. She missed everything, and she was now finding herself ill equipped to deal with her missing . . . with her wanting.

    Haleth had lost much in life, but to miss something that was beyond her reach because of her own duty, because of her own self-imposed walls - even when for a good and noble reason . . . It filled her with something sharp and pained, something she was finding herself most ill-equipped to deal with. As such, she did not handle their parting well. The winter had her in low spirits, and she was dangerously cross and on edge - to the point where she was counting numbers to cool her temper, and depending on Taemes' tellingly pinching her arm whenever she let her black mood affect the leadership of her people.

    She wanted . . . she simply wanted more, and more she could not have. She tried to force herself to enjoy the blessings she knew now, to sustain and succor herself on those completely . . . but, some days were a battle, long and losing in shape.

    By the time spring returned, her longing had taken on a still cast of acceptance – like a calm surface over a deep current, granting her patience enough to endure. Even so, as the snows melted, she often found her eyes turning towards the east. When the pastures were finally dry enough to ride, she would take out her roan filly to put her through her paces, but more often than not she simply sat on the fence, feeding her horse apples while she watched, and waited . . .

    Haldan joined her more often than not - the child being the only one in Estolad besides Taemes who knew just how deep her relationship with the Elf-lord went. Her nephew watched the rolling fields alongside her, smiling with a child's joy and declaring: “I'm eager to see him too,” as if a shared missing made the wanting more bearable. Haleth simply ruffled his hair in reply, before having him take a turn with the roan in her stead.

    They were just reseeding the fields when Caranthir at last returned. She could feel him approach, their bond growing stronger and stronger still the closer he came to Estolad, and it was all she could do to keep from bursting from her skin in reply. Tactfully, Taemes diverted her people's attention, allowing her to be there, right there, when he crested the first rise in the hills.

    She could not keep herself from smiling in greeting – and she was then glad for their lack of audience, for she did not think herself capable of schooling her features into a cool mask of polite indifference. Instead, she hardly waited for him to dismount before throwing herself in his arms. He swept her up into an embrace, and kissed her in reply, reveling in the touch and feel of her once more. She sank her hands into his hair to pull him closer, unsure if she'd missed the full, heady press of his emotions against her own more than she'd missed the glorious sensation of him kissing her. She could not quite decide, and when he drew away just far enough to say her name like a prayer – like a mantra, deep and beautiful and wanting – she felt the smallest bit like the Starkindler herself for the weight of his devotion. A part of her sang with contentedness, with completion, and she stubbornly held on to that feeling as if to memorize it, content that next time, a hundred such moments would be memory enough to see her through when she was parted from he and him from her.

    . . . in the end, it would have to be.



    .

    .

    CLXXXVI. Beauty

    She had a rather worrying fascination with his hair. Or, at first, she thought she did.

    Early in their relationship, she had given in to the urge to touch his hair while he was still sleeping, and lazily started braiding it to her heart's content, reveling in the slick, cool mass as it slipped flawlessly through her fingers. He had awakened nearly half-way through her self-appointed task, and the low, rumbling sound in his chest could have only be called a purr in reply to her attentions. He had been nearly boneless underneath her hands, liquid with contentment, and only then had she understood the fascination he seemed to have with her own hair – touching it as often as he could, even if it was only in passing. Apparently, hair-braiding was a rather significant thing between elves - only done between parents and children, or between married couples. Doing so, she had unconsciously stumbled onto a rather prurient aspect of his race.

    She had then smiled, repeating some of mankind's theories about elvish fetishes for hair, and had been amused to find that most of them were true in some regard – which had led to a most interesting conversation about their cultural differences when it came to standards of beauty. Yet, she had then tugged a bit too sharply on one of the braids she was plaiting and their morning took a much more agreeable spin from there.

    Unfortunately, during the first days of winter, there had been a band of Orcs straying into their outlying farmsteads, seeking both warmth and shelter from the snows, and Haleth had ridden out with her men to see the threat eliminated. She could still remember his sharp burst of concern against her mind for the violence of that day, but while she had then assured him of her well-being, she had not told him about a close-call with Angband steel resulting in the unfortunate severance of her braid when she struggled to free herself from an Orc's hold. Taemes had cut her hair as flatteringly as she could to conceal the impromptu trim, but her hair had only just regrown to brush her chin. While she'd never had beauty enough to consider herself vain, she was, however, proud of the way he was fascinated by her curls enough to mourn its loss and worry for his opinion now.

    A few days after his return to Estolad, they'd left the Haladin behind for a week's time to hunt. The truth of the mater was that she had missed him while he was gone, and she did not wish for their first days together to be filled with stolen moments and having to worry for their being seen coming and going together. There was a hunter's cottage, deep in the woods, she had arranged use of, and already with one day spent away, they had done much in making up for lost time. Even so, he had not once mentioned her hair – nor even touched its new shape overmuch in passing, for which she was not self-conscious, per say, but . . .

    “I like it,” Caranthir finally said into the contented silence that had fallen between them. He looked up from where he was tracing a pattern between the freckles dotting her shoulder – those a fascination for him as much as the fey tips of his ears were a wonderment to her – making sure to hold her gaze as he said so.

    “Really?” her voice came out as a small sound, as much as she meant for it to be strong.

    “Truly,” he replied, as if just coming to that decision himself. “It is different . . . and yet, I am finding that to be half of the appeal.”

    Elves never cut their hair, outside what was needed to maintain healthy ends, and he'd known curiosity for the men of the Haladin who kept their hair short, or even parts of their scalps shaven. Beards had been another curiosity for him, they being something that only a few of the Valar, or their Maiar chose to have when they chose their bodies of flesh to wear outside of the astral realm. His grandfather Mahtan had a beard, but he was renowned as an oddity amongst elven-kind for doing so – in Estolad, to see it so unthinkingly common had been a curious sight indeed.

    “Do you mean that, or are you simply being kind?” she asked, pushing against his chest as she said so. She'd meant for her words to come out teasing, but a note of true unease clung to them, even so.

    “I mean my every word,” he leaned over to say as a vow, running a slow, careful hand through the now short strands of her hair. “It is you,” he said simply. “There is nothing more beautiful to me.”

    His words were accompanied by a flash of truth, a glimpse of just how brilliant she was to his eyes – something lovely and brightly burning. She inhaled at the glimpse, her throat suddenly tight to her use.

    “You are blind,” she said, her voice full with feeling. “But I do love you for it.”

    As always, the words were a pain as much they were a source of peace and joy. Yet, this time, she let that truth fill her with contentment, and when he leaned down to kiss her, she resolved to think of them and nothing else.




    .

    .

    CLXXXVII. Blight

    Of course, not all of his brothers could have the Ambarussa's small smiles, and Maglor's resigned understanding in reply to his choice. He could not say that it was a pleasant surprise, but it was most certainly a surprise when he crested the bluff rising above the river to see Celegorm and Curufin standing on the lip of the rock, looking down to where Haleth instructed her nephew on his sword-forms below.

    “Greetings, Carnistir,” Curufin was the one to speak when Celegorm did not bother to glance his way – busy as he was studying the mortal woman down below. In the green forest light, the tanned shade of his skin was even darker, while the white-gold mane of his hair was seemingly aglow against the shadows thrown by the trees.

    “And greetings to you,” Caranthir returned with cool welcome, raising a brow as he took in the sight of them. He had not seen the pair in many years, they mainly keeping to Himlad or the wild when the need for the hunt took Celegorm. He had never been particularly close with either of them, his temperament having the tendency to clash for the worst with both of their personalities more often than not.

    Even so, “What brings you to Estolad?” he inquired with polite neutrally.

    “We were on our way to Amon Ereb, to meet with the Ambarussa,” Curufin answered. His voice was deep and rich - a perfect match for their father in both timbre and tone. For a moment, Caranthir was hit by the unsettling idea of Fëanor looking down at his choice in Curufin's place, and judging . . . it was a conversation he was shamefully glad that his sire was no longer alive to make. “We were waylaid by the rumor of a shield-maiden leading one of the Three Houses – one who was said to have caught your eye, at that.”

    “As such, we had to see for ourselves,” Celegorm finished for his brother. “Sweet Eru, but she is ugly, even for one of the Engwar.” He laughed, even as he shook his head in amazed disbelief. “Even you would have better taste than that, Carnë.”

    “She looks no different than most of the daughters of Men to my eyes,” Curufin's face was ever cold, seemingly cast from marble rather than flesh and bone. “Her form is admirable, though.” His voice was distant as he gave the compliment, already bored and moving on to other matters within his mind.

    Celegorm snorted, but even he could not disagree with Curufin's words. Caranthir simply stood there, feeling as a cold anger filled him for their words – so much so that both of his brothers turned to see, as if surprised by the fervency of his reaction.

    “Is there truth to the rumors?” Celegorm then wondered aloud. He reached out, lightning fast, to gasp his chin, his movement such a déjà-vu of Maglor's search that Caranthir blinked at it. But where his elder brother's motions were steeped in concern, there was only cruel amusement in Celegorm's gaze – and Caranthir did not count him worthy to look on something he himself held so highly. He wrenched his face away from his brother's bruising grasp, but not before -

    Morgoth's bowels, but this is rich,” Celegorm gave on a laugh, leaning forward with the force of his humor. “Not only are you besotted, but you actually went and mated with that creature. Oh, but it is too much to bear all at once!”

    Caranthir was surprised to hear a low sound rise up from his throat, all but growling as his fëa rose to ripple against the surface of his skin in reply to his words. A fey anger was filling him, violent and righteous, and he was stopped only by Curufin reaching over to place both hands on his shoulders in restraint.

    Silence,” Curufin hissed at Celegorm in rebuke. Though he did not disagree with Celegorm openly, he knew better than to provoke an already angered mate, and he placed himself before Celegorm as the other continued to laugh, unaware of the danger he unwittingly placed himself in. “It is your good-sister you so dishonor, Tyelko. Better would it be for you to more closely guard your tongue.”

    Dishonor? Good-sister?” Celegorm continued to chortle. “I am not the one who drew the legacy of our father's name through the mud and took a human cow - ”

    Caranthir shoved Curufin to the side, only intent on reaching the other and striking – but Curufin was prepared, and had the advantage of a calm and cool head. He grabbed each of his arms in a bruising grip, pulling him away from Celegorm as he continued to laugh.

    “In a moment, I will not bother to hold him back,” Curufin turned to the side to hiss lowly in warning.

    Celegorm waved them both off, still lost to his mirth. His eyes were cutting and sharp - they growing all the more so with each passing year, Caranthir noticed with an ill sense of forboding.

    “I apologize,” Celegorm said with a mocking bow. “I retract my words, and offer you and your mortal wife nothing but my sincerest hopes for your future happiness . . . for the blinking of an eye that it shall last, that is.” He shook his head, as if in wonderment, and Caranthir felt his anger bubble forth anew, not nearly assuaged.

    “It is time for you to leave,” Caranthir settled for saying stiffly, having to force himself to stillness. He did not trust himself to refrain from causing his brother a true harm if he allowed himself to land that first blow – knowing that Celegorm would answer him in kind, and no holds would be barred from there. “You have passed but moments here, and you have already outlived your welcome.”

    “That is well,” Celegorm tilted his head in an inhuman, dangerous motion, smiling his sharp smile all the while. “There is nothing here worthy of our attention, as it is.”

    He moved to step forward, and again Curufin restrained him, waiting until Celegorm remounted his horse in order to turn his gaze down at the band he wore on the forth finger of his left hand.

    “This is passable craftsmanship,” Curufin said once understanding set in. But, rather than take offense from his brother's words, he knew them for the compliment they were. “If you would have come to me, I would have made something worthy of your hand. And hers,” he added as an afterthought, but the words were spoken nonetheless. Caranthir inclined his head, knowing that would be the last his younger brother said on the mater.

    A moment passed, and then Curufin too returned to his horse. Caranthir turned from them both, and did not once look back as they departed.



    .

    .

    CLXXXVIII. Remembrance

    Before she knew it, a year's time had gone by.

    The end of the summer reached Estolad, bringing both hot days and storms, while the nights started to lengthen with the promise of the cold season to come. The fields were being reaped, and stores were being filled; the Haladin as active then as they ever were. On some days, it was all Haleth could do to keep her breath when all was spinning about her.

    Of course, it was he who did something to still the frantic pace of her days. In reply, she just stood there – gaping at the veritable blanket of blue aster and purple dragon's mouth that covered most of the available surfaces in her dwelling, and blinking at the small, pleased smile that did not quite encompass the wave of warmth and giddy anticipation she just now realized he had been trying to block from her mind for most of the day. Behind him, he had a veritable feast prepared, and he was dressed in his best, as if -

    “You forgot,” he only needed to glance at the wide shape of her eyes to extract the truth from her. She could see the sinking expression he tried to hide from his face, and for a moment she irrationally felt as if she had just kicked a dog who wanted nothing more than a token of her affection.

    “No, I did not forget,” she both assured and corrected him at once. “I only thought that . . .” her face flushed, and she could not find her words. “I did not think Elves observed such yearly occurrences,” she tried to awkwardly explain her thoughts, “on account of their having so many years to observe.”

    He blinked owlishly at her, and she felt the cool, swirling sensation that normally accompanied him trying to think through her mind, rather than his own – which had gotten them smoothly over quite a few cultural hurdles the past two years, even before she had a bond through which to observe his thoughts.

    “In some ways, our centuries demand that we find ways to break up the monotony of time into more feasible increments,” Caranthir finally explained. “We celebrate begetting days for individual persons, as well as the changing of the seasons as a community – no matter how many seasons we have passed upon the earth. And it is not unusual for a married couple to honor the day of their bonding. Even if this were not so,” this he said slowly - carefully, “Such anniversaries are a tradition for your people, are they not?”

    “Yes,” she answered, “Such is the tradition amongst Men.”

    “Then,” there was still an odd sort of hurt clinging to his features, one that prickled against her senses, “why did you not first tell me? I would have honored your customs, even if such was not the elven way.”

    She rolled once on the balls of her feet, ill at ease as she pondered over how to explain the hesitance she had first felt to do so. She had wanted to, but he'd already altered so much of his life for her. She felt hesitance to request even the smallest of things after the enormity of what he had given to her in return. Even so . . .

    “Just a moment,” she said instead of answering him. Better would it be to show him, and she left in order to search through the trunk she kept at the foot of her bed. It only took her a moment to find what she searched for – for she had already taken it out, and cleaned and polished it for the vague idea of in case. She had even wrapped it in a bright, gay fabric, in the hopes of . . .

    “Just because I did not ask you to do so, does not mean that I was not thinking of this day,” she said when she returned to him. She could feel the curve of her cheeks flame, filling with a pink color at Caranthir looked down at the gift in her hands. “Because, I was. And I'd hoped to give this to you.”

    Slowly, he took her offering, and pulled the fabric back to reveal a knife – strangely shaped, the blade short and sharply hooked. The width of it from hilt to tip was little more than his hand from fingertip to wrist, and she immediately saw where his eyes turned in curiosity for the strange dagger. The blade was made of a white stone, beaten and polished into a thin shape, but no less sharp than any metal of the forge. The hilt was made from the tusk of some massive beast, unknown to this side of the Blue Mountains, and even Haleth could not answer his questions if he asked as to the material. The weapon was rich and exotic, like nothing known to Elves or Men this side of the mountains.

    “I wanted to give you something that you would not be able to find anywhere else,” she explained, unable to help the note of pride that entered her voice for the fascination in his eyes. “Over the mountains, there were quite a few races of Men besides the Three Houses that fled from Hildórien. One race, my grandfather explained to me, was a dark people, who preferred the heat and the sands. He was but a child in those days, but he remembered the bright colours of their dress, the swirling lines of their armor; the bells in their hair and the veils they wore . . . the haunting music they played. My great-grandfather saved the life of one of their chieftains in the earliest days of our kind, and was awarded this knife – which is a ceremonial dagger, symbolic of status – in payment for that life-debt. It has been passed down in my family ever since.”

    “This is certainly a most unique gift,” Caranthir said, a note of wonderment in his voice - but he was not looking at the blade as he said so.

    Her smile was hesitant as it pulled upon her mouth. “I am glad you think so,” she gave in reply.

    She stepped into his embrace with little prompting, once again silently wondering over the way her body tucked in against his. He was so warm in comparison to a man of her own people, and a part of her still knew unease for just how right she felt in moments such as this, how willing she was to give up everything to keep this as her own for as long as she could.

    “So, you do not regret your decision?” he asked against the top of her hair, giving voice to the true fear that had lined his thoughts since she'd first arrived. He felt small to her senses in that moment, as if he were trying to present the smallest target possible. She felt something inside of her twist at the thought, and she held on tighter to him.

    She inhaled, then thinking about the contentment in her bones and the simple joy she could feel filling her every day. She thought about his respect and admiration, and the fascination she in turn bore for – one she had felt since first meeting him, and never truly expected to fade. She even thought about their bad days – when their rows turned fervent, and her doubts seemed to rise up and consume her . . . she blinked, and remembered it all.

    “No, I do not regret my decision,” Haleth finally answered, knowing that she spoke her words as true.

    And, for a long time . . . a truth those words would be.



    ~MJ @};-
     
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  13. WarmNyota_SweetAyesha

    WarmNyota_SweetAyesha Chosen One star 8

    Registered:
    Aug 31, 2004
    Oh, my goodness. That was so ... delectable...

    Every word - every emotion. The poignancy and the poetry of it leaves me [face_dancing] [face_dancing]

    I am struck by the ways they are together and when apart, and how they learn to appreciate the blessings of small moments while also (naturally) wondering "If I find it hard to cope with a brief, temporary separation ..." :eek:
    I marvel at how absolutely right they are together; no wonder indeed that Haleth was dissatisfied with all potential life-partners!


    ^:)^
     
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  14. Mira_Jade

    Mira_Jade The (FavoriteTM) Fanfic Mod With the Cape star 5 Staff Member Manager

    Registered:
    Jun 29, 2004
    Nyota's Heart: Thank-you so much!! These two have become such a thing to my muse that it is ridiculous, so I am thrilled to hear that you are enjoying their story as much as I am. As always, I thank you so very much for reading. I always appreciate your doing so. [:D]

    Cael-Fenton: For when you get a moment to read. [:D]


    Sooo, my thoughts were many upon seeing Hobbit: The Battle of The Five Armies. I went in with an open mind, determined to enjoy the film - but, even still, I walked out disappointed. I have a few thoughts behind the cut - nothing too spoiler-y, but there are spoilers enough . . .

    I did not expect the movie to follow canon, so that isn't even my biggest complaint - but things like mixing up the Anduin river with the Celduin river, and fudging Aragorn's age and backstory really, really pressed my buttons in the face of the movie falling short on other fronts. The entire Angmar plotline – and, by extension, the weird plot with Legolas' mother, which I was so prepared to love - just felt shoehorned in, and made so little sense. It did not make sense in the context of the movie - book-canon obviously set aside - and maybe that was because there was no time to explain anything, not when there were so many Orcs to slay instead. o_O So, once again, tried and true elements were taken and twisted to fit Jackson's vision – which I don't mind if it still makes for a cohesive, powerful film - like Haldir at Helm's Deep, for example - but here, it only managed to fall flat. :(

    However, once again, my biggest disappointment came with the few, amazing moments of heart and warmth the movie did have being pushed aside for two hours of ONE MASSIVE BATTLE - complete with some of the most ridiculous stunts I have ever seen (it got to the point that I cringed whenever Legolas came on screen, wondering what he would do next). Pacing was the movie's main problem IMO – Smaug's defeat, and the White Council was rushed through (and don't get me started on Galadriel using her ring alone, or the odd, odd Gandalf/Galadriel vibes. o_O), while the main battle dragged on forever - so much so that there was very little time for scenes of rebuilding and closure at the film's end. We did not even get a funeral. So, basically, the movie was once again Peter Jackson getting to play with his Orcs, rather than taking the time to create anything more substantial. Which hurts me, because the moments that were good were so, so good – like Thorin's gold-sickness, or any time Bilbo was allowed dialogue, really. [face_love] And Bard. And Thanduil (drama with Legolas aside – which is a whole other angry rant :mad:). Most of the actors were just fantastic, to boot! . . . when they were given time to actually act, that is. Yet, twenty good minutes of film isn't enough to justify sitting through a two and a half hour movie with so much violence and carnage. So . . . I am sad, and really, really missing how Peter Jackson used to portray Middle-earth. Because I do have such a love for that feeling of epic awe he was always able to inspire - along with his knack for portraying such heartwarming bonds between comrades. But this mess of a movie . . . I need fanfiction now. And lots of it.

    So, as therapy, I wrote this for the latest NSWFF prompt: starts with an I, ends with a you. This has SPOILERS for the book's ending, rather than anything specific for the movie - but, if you have neither read the book, nor seen the third film, and still plan on doing so, I would recommend skipping this one. :) That said, there are lots of FoTR book tidbits here for anyone looking - Bilbo always was being visited by Dwarves and Elves, you see, and he even departed with a group of Dwarves to see Erebor one last time before settling in Rivendell - so I hope that you enjoy those. ;)

    As always, I thank you all for reading, and hope you enjoy! [:D]







    remember, with fellowship and song


    CLXXXVIII

    The ground was soft and damp underneath his hands, soothing over the one, solitary root with black earth and succoring warmth.

    Critically, Bilbo sat back to observe his work, making sure that the soil was firm, but not too firm; that the ground was damp, but not sodden. This spot in the garden was shaded, but not too much so; while the tree was close enough to his door that he would enjoy the shadow of the oak to come, without the roots interfering terribly much with the plumbing. Yes, he scrunched his nose up thoughtfully. This would do quite nicely.

    Old Holman had looked at him queerly when Bilbo announced that he wished to tend this piece of his garden alone. Yet, his time away on holiday meant that he was garnering a good many such looks, all judging his state of mind and weighing his every word for any tantalizing bits of information beyond what he chose to tell his neighbors and family. Sometimes, such meddling was exasperating, while oftentimes it was comforting - a quaint affirmation of belonging and home.

    And yet . . . sometimes, he felt the urge to slip on the golden band in his pocket and simply disappear. Disappear, as the acorn so easily disappeared, folding himself in the dark and sinking his roots into the earth until the storm rattling his branches finally passed. Of course, such thoughts came and went in whispers – tickling his mind like cold wind - and he would often tut at himself for being foolish enough to let the eccentricities of his Took blood overpower him in such instances, before carrying on again.

    Young Hamfast Gamgee – gardener Holman's new apprentice, whom had been trying ever so mightily to keep his grass from being trampled during the interrupted sale of his estate – had been eager enough to outline the hows and whys of an acorn becoming a great oak tree, nevermind Holman's suspicions, and Bilbo had followed his instructions to the letter. He patted the soil once more, critically inspected the wry sprite of a sapling before deciding that he would have the lad look over his work when next he returned – just in case he'd missed anything.

    In twenty years, this tree just may be producing acorns of its own, he thought – perhaps sooner, with the strange sort of magic that laid over anything and everything at the Carrock. That thought was a worth a smile of its own – wondrous a thing as it was - and so, Bilbo let that novelty fill him, choosing to linger in those pleasant halls of his memories, rather than those other, darker pathways. Paths such as -

    There was a sound of movement on the garden path. Heavy movement, which meant that it must have been none other than the rather round and robust Boll Goodchild, who was putting more than the usual effort into overseeing this particular birthday party alongside his cousin Drogo Baggins – which Bilbo would concern himself most mightily with later. However, for now -

    “If you come here about linen or cotton napkins; silver or brass dishes; duck, pheasant, or chicken for supper – the answer is that whatever you come up with, I am sure will be most appropriate, I can assure you. For now, I would like to be left alone in peace and private - as I most specifically asked for when we talked this morning, Boll. For I distinctly remember - ”

    “Well, if you aren't in a mood for company, all you had to do was politely say so.” A voice spoke from the garden gate - a voice quite different from Boll Goodchild's pleasant, if slightly too-high, tenor. The voice was quite distinct to his ear, which could only mean . . .

    Bilbo turned to see that he had visitors at the gate – dwarvish visitors, nine in number. He looked with wide eyes, seeing Bombur's unmistakable weight, and Bofur's rather telling hat – and his even more familiar smile, he having been the one to speak for the first. Almost greedily – dragon-like in his gaze, Bilbo could not help but think, he took in his companions, looking for who was present, and who was missing. He saw not of Dwalin, whom he assumed had quite the duties to preform at Erebor with the rebuilding and all, but espied a new face in the youngster standing next to Glóin – a red headed lad with wide eyes, quite matching what Bilbo imagined he himself must have looked like when first faced with his many . . . adventures.

    He tried not to think overly long about who else was missing, pressing his hands once more against the garden soil as his grief settled about him like a blanket. Slowly, painfully, he shrugged that feeling aside with the ease of long practice, determined to let it weigh him down no more.

    He stood without realizing that he gave the command to his body, doing quite well to not trip over his own feet as he walked first one step and then two, before being engulfed by embraces and handshakes and introductions to the youth named Gimli – all piling on him until Bilbo felt as if his soul had broken soil to match his sprouting acorn.

    “What brings you all the way to Bag End?” he could not keep his smile from splitting his face. In reply, there were nine matching smiles.

    “Not all the way,” Bofur admitted. “We are still involved in the quite heavy process of moving what needs to be moved from Ered Luin to Erebor, and were are on our way to meet with our kin once more.”

    “Some of us are not quite done with traveling, at that. We still have that longing to seek out our places of old,” Balin said, a gentle twinkling in his warm eyes – a twinkle that also spoke of something more, something which Bilbo reminded himself to most certainly enquire on later. “However,” the elderly dwarf continued, “we remembered the date whilst traveling, and thought to make this call sooner, rather than later.”

    “Your birthday is the twenty-second, is it not?” Glóin asked, he being a keeper of all sorts of numbers, and Bilbo nodded in reply, surprised that they remembered. The twenty-second was already a day away, and his stolen moment in his gardens was a form of a calm before the inevitable storm to come.

    “Yes,” he answered, the word fumbling from his mouth. “Though I am surprised you know. The last twenty-second of September, I distinctly recall sailing in a wine-barrel and hoping that my not being able to feel my toes did not mean that I was going to lose them to the cold.” He was not wished a good-birthday then, and there most certainly was no time for anything more than that – with the Lonely Mountain being so close, and Thorin's eyes already gleaming with gold as he stood within the shadow of his home.

    Bilbo breathed in deep, and let his breath out slow. It was a motion that became easier over time, but only just.

    “While we may not have such memorable events to mark the morrow with,” Balin replied in a voice fond with memory, “we did come with gifts. Not only on our behalf, but from those in Erebor and Dale. Even the Elven-king threw in a case of his best Dorwinion wine when he caught wind of where we were heading. Bard's children, in particular, were quite insistent that we safely delivered their gifts. So, perhaps you should open those first.” Balin patted a satchel at his side, and, if anything, the painfully sweet sensation grappling with his heart only intensified.

    “Ah, while I am honored – flattered even,” Bilbo said, resting his hands on the straps of his suspenders as he spoke. “But that's the thing. Hobbits . . . we do not receive gifts on our birthdays. Rather, we give them, instead.”

    There was a moment of rather stunned silence following his words. Then: “Why, that's one of the silliest notions I've ever heard!” Bofur was the first to exclaim, clearly floored by the idea.

    “Well,” Balin was more diplomatic in his reply, “if you would accept these tokens, simply as tokens, we would be glad of your doing so.”

    “You give gifts, you say?” Glóin, however, was more frugal than his companions, and his eyes gleamed with the idea of goods passing hands.

    “Yes,” Bilbo answered, bemusement filling his voice. “Which is why I would be glad if you all stayed until the morrow. There is to be quite the to-do, you see – for there are still some who do not quite believe that I am still alive, and I wish to put those rumors to rest. I also wish to stow the rumors about my coming back a rich hobbit, especially seeing as how every one of my relatives and neighbors is expecting quite the gift on account of my not having a party last year and having halls overfilling with gold.”

    He raised his hands in a helpless gesture. “I would be glad of a buffer,” he admitted. “And, who knows? You just may stand as proof for my stories – or, better yet, proof of my eccentricities.” This, he added with a conspiratorial grin. “And, if that is not reason enough for you to stay - there will be food. Luncheon, tea, dinner, and supper should be served throughout the party - along with a true monster of a cake. So, your stomachs will not go wanting. I do halfway expect Gandalf to show up with his firecrackers, but I cannot quite promise you that - for he had quite the business to attend to when we parted ways this summer.”

    Quite understandably, Bombur was the first one to let his pack fall to the ground at the mention of such a feast. The other dwarves were quick to follow suit, and there was then much talk about accommodations and that night's plans for dinner and supper. Already, Bilbo could imagine the look on Boll's face when he was confronted with the extra guests, and that was a picture enough to add a pleased smile to his face. Drogo would have to be the sensible one of the two, and take charge, he reflected with no small amount of humor.

    His home was once more a pleasant hub of commotion and life, filling in the gap he had not recognized as being there before. Later in the evening, when he left to check on his acorn - his sapling of an oak tree, just now starting to root itself and grow – he was joined by a heavy hand on his shoulder. When he turned, the weight of missing in Balin's eyes was enough to match what Bilbo felt in his own heart.

    “It's growing well, lad,” Balin replied after a moment. “Though I am no expert in things that spring from the ground, you know.”

    “It will be a strong tree,” Bilbo agreed, finding his voice curiously thick as he spoke. His eyes burned, but he tried to tell himself that not all tears were evil. He missed his friend, he mourned for him, and yet . . . he remembered. He held the memory of his friend – of all his friends – dear. Never would he forget them.

    Not for the first time, he considered putting their story down in words. Such was a tale deserved to be told, he thought, and he had always tinkered with the idea of writing a book -

    “We will remember them too,” Balin whispered into his thoughts. His old voice was soft, given more to the oncoming night than to Bilbo.

    “Then, they will never be forgotten,” he agreed on a matching whisper, reaching down to fondly touch the growing sapling. Its leaves were healthy and spry, full of energy and life, so much so that he sighed for seeing so it as such. And yet, it was not wholly an unpleasant pain he felt.

    However, there were still friends to be hosted inside - with companionship and wine and food to be had – stories, too, for which Bilbo was always more than an able teller. So, he left his grief behind with the dirt and growing things, and went inside to remember those fallen with fellowship and good cheer.



    ~MJ @};-
     
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  15. WarmNyota_SweetAyesha

    WarmNyota_SweetAyesha Chosen One star 8

    Registered:
    Aug 31, 2004
    Oh, that felt so so so =D= =D= Thank you for this wonderful glimpse of Bilbo as he truly, truly is down deep. He was my first literal introduction to Middle-Earth, him and Gandalf [face_love] so this is truly a gift and a treat. [face_love]
     
  16. earlybird-obi-wan

    earlybird-obi-wan Chosen One star 6

    Registered:
    Aug 21, 2006
    sure loved this after walking in Bilbo's land
     
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  17. Mira_Jade

    Mira_Jade The (FavoriteTM) Fanfic Mod With the Cape star 5 Staff Member Manager

    Registered:
    Jun 29, 2004
    Nyota's Heart: The pleasure really was all mine! Bilbo really is the seed that sprouted this great world, and I love him forever for that. [face_love][face_love]

    earlybird-obi-wan: Gah, I bet! [face_love]:D I really need to make my own way to Hobbiton one of these days . . .

    Cael-Fenton: [:D]



    I have been working on my update for the Hand in Hand prompt for a few weeks now, but it is turning even longer than usual (I know :oops::p But it is a Melian/Thingol early days tale, and one I am so excited to tell! :D), so I decided to work on the next 50 Sentence prompt in the meantime. This one is still a bit lengthy, but it is finished, which is the important thing. :p This follows up on my Thranduil and Mrs. Thranduil arc of fics, and especially the Legolas tale I wrote in CLXXI. We are exactly twenty years from that ficlet, and once more returning to the Greenwood.

    So, without further ado . . .






    “beneath such drooping boughs”


    CLXXXIX. Troublesome

    The northernmost eaves of the Greenwood echoed with joy and song.

    It was a great day, an auspicious day, or, at least it was for the few standing to embrace what it offered. Legolas could not say that he was apprehensive, per say, but his veins did pulse with an eager, restless energy. His fingers tapped against the long knife strapped to his side while he paced the width and length of his place on the forest floor, unable to stand without movement. The trees seemed to thrum in answer to his restlessness, a murmured question filling the sway of their branches as they looked down on those gathered in the clearing below.

    By his side, Tauriel was more composed than he. She stood with an easy poise, as if she were a flame trapped on a wick, but the leaping dance of her eyes and the whip's snap of her spirit were as telling as any gesture of her body could have been.

    “Still yourself, my friend,” Tauriel at last breathed on a voice equal parts fondness and exasperation. “You are setting my nerves on end.”

    “And yet, I am finding movement to better aid with my nerves,” Legolas returned. Nonetheless, he turned to stand still beside her.

    This autumn was a milestone in their days, with their both having reached fifty years of age. As such, they were finally of an age to join the Greenwood's guard of march-wardens. To prove their worth for such a place amongst their people, there was a test – the Trial – in which they would be tasked to find three markers hidden in the forest, accessible only through their unraveling a prearranged set of clues. They were then to return to the Great Tree above his father's halls with their tokens in hand – preferably, before the other two teams did, both of which were also looking for entrance into the Greenwood's fighting ranks, and even now eying Legolas and Tauriel with evaluating gazes.

    Legolas inclined his head in answer, feeling a sharp rush of anticipation bite through him as he thought of the journey to come. For the competition, and earning his place amongst his peers, he felt little dread; though he was no stranger to unease for the whisper of foreboding that touched disquiet hands against his thoughts before letting him go. That particular apprehension was in part due to the forest itself, even though such a knowing was a painful one to admit. Now twenty years ago, the Wise had decreed that the presence in the south of his father's kingdom was nothing more than a wispy servant of Sauron, trying to return to life within the cursed halls of Dol Guldur. The White Wizard was sure in his opinion, and none were of power enough to second-guess the ruling of Saruman. Even so, his parents had disagreed – subtly at the council, and then openly when they tarried in whispers with both the Grey Wizard and the Lord and Lady of Lothlórien and Imladris. Their murmurings were words that Legolas had been shooed away from then, but now . . .

    The Greenwood was not as it once was; this was the truth he knew in its simplest form. Now, what should have been a journey that tested their knowledge of the forest and their ability to fend for themselves in the trees shading their home was something greater . . . something more.

    Nothing was uttered outright, but he could see reflections of his own thoughts in the eyes of those gathered. There were flickers of apprehension and glimmers of disquiet, for the people of the Greenwood were bound to the trees of their home, and they knew as Legolas knew. They could feel as he could feel, and what he felt -

    - he felt a strong hand rest heavily on his shoulder, interrupting his thoughts. In answer he turned to see his brother smiling fondly down at him. Yet, even in Amathelon's bright gaze there was something strained and shadowed. Legolas could feel it as a discordant whisper against his spirit, even as his brother pushed a wave of calm and encouragement his way, soothing the eager cast of his fëa more thoroughly than any spoken word could hope to do.

    “You are as eager an ant upon his hill,” Amathelon tugged on one of his braids in fondness. “And yet, you move your feet when you should instead be taking this moment of calm before the storm for the rest it is.”

    “If I am eager, it is only so I may depart and beat your time for this task,” Legolas returned. His brother held the record for the quickest time completing the Trial - over a thousand years ago, now - and every pair of youths since then had endeavored to unseat him from his lofty height.

    “Not an ant then, but a spider is my brother before me,” Amathelon teased. “You may try to best me - and I even wish you every bit of the Valar's blessing as you do so, for I intend my victory to be a decisive one.”

    “I do not need such favor to triumph over the likes of you,” Legolas held his head up high, and Amathelon laughed in delighted reply to his answer.

    “He needs not of the Valar,” Tauriel wryly cut in, stepping forward and raising an auburn brow at the elder prince, “for he has me at his side.”

    Amathelon looked all the more amused for her saying so. “Then, when you and your good lady land yourselves in a bog, or are stuck in some impassible gorge, know that we will be right there beyond you. You need only call on us for aid.”

    One of the precautions for such a venture into the forest was the young elves partaking of the Trial being discreetly followed by elder warriors. While this was done to evaluate their skills and take note of their strengths and weaknesses, this was also done for their protection - for the forest was not as kind a home as it once had been, and such precautions were all the more necessary as the years passed on by.

    “I think that I would rather sink in the bog,” Legolas intoned matter-of-factly, once again pushing his thoughts to the back of his mind.

    “Be careful with your words, brother, for I just may let you,” Amathelon again tugged on his braid, but anything further he had to say was interrupted by the sound of a horn, announcing the arrival of a large party. The Trial always had wandering bands of Silvan elves coming in from the corners of the Greenwood to renew their fealty to his father and rejoice with the whole of their kin. Sometimes, there were elves who journeyed all the way from Lothlórien to attend the coming of age ceremonies for the young ones, and their addition was always a joyous one.

    This year had garnered more visitors than most – due to the shape of the forest and the cast of the days, Legolas had not strayed far from his father's halls, and there were many of Thranduil's people who were curious for the chance to observe his youngest son. Amongst all of the unfamiliar faces, he was glad to see those he knew amongst the arriving party – Haldir, son of Hadrion, he recognized first, who was enough of a legend amongst the march-wardens for Legolas to feel another rush of apprehension for the journey to come. At the side of the Captain of Lothlórien rode a familiar set of matching faces – for which he was more than glad to see. Their black hair was an oddity amongst the primarily silver and gold heads of those gathered, and the quick cast of their spirits raced against his senses like wildfire, declaring them as:

    “Elladan, Elrohir!” Amathelon was quick to greet the two as they dismounted – seeing where they searched the already crowded gathering and correctly interpreting their intentions. “I did not know you'd strayed to this side of the mountains.”

    “Familial duty had us in Lothlórien over the summer,” Elladan was the first to push through the crowd to embrace Amathelon. His spirit was more . . . restless than his brother's, which was the only way Legolas had learned to tell the two apart. The twins were hardly a century older than his brother, and as close in friendship as they could be with such a distance separating their homes.

    “Which meant that we could not pass this opportunity aside when we heard where so many of our grandparent's folk were heading,” Elrohir finished for his twin, taking Elladan's place as he stepped away from Amathelon. The younger brother traded a significant look with Amathelon, one that Legolas did not quite understand, before the moment passed and the elder of the twins looked his way.

    “Which brings me to say . . .” Elladan remarked over Amathelon's shoulder. “The youth in question - this cannot be him?”

    Elladan stepped forward to embrace him, clapping his back much as was Amathelon's wont. “Last we met, the top of your head did not yet reach my shoulder,” he mock-lamented, stepping back to better look him over. “Now you are nearly as tall as me. But, what can I say, weeds seem to thrive in the Greenwood, do they not?” He threw a sharp smile at Amathelon with saying so – the friendly barb not meant for him, Legolas understood.

    “And yet, I believe that words for his youth are not those he cares to hear when we are here to celebrate this turning point in his years,” Elrohir commented wryly. His voice was softer than his twin's, and the light in his was eyes uncannily warm and knowing. “I offer you my congratulations, Legolas, and pray that the stars now shine on your days to come all the more so.”

    “Speaking of growth,” Elladan turned from Legolas to see where Tauriel observed their greetings. “Who is this enchanting creature I see? Can this be Torion's daughter, who seemed to always be underfoot with branches in her hair and mud on her face?”

    “Then, as you see neither branches or mud upon my person, I cannot be she,” Tauriel returned in a dry voice, for which Elladan only smiled, delight glittering in his eyes.

    “And she bears the tongue to match such a beauty – old enough as she finally is to break hearts from here to Mithlond,” Elladan approved, looking her up and down. “Dear lady, if you ever tire of the trees and the . . . rustic folk who dwell beneath them, I must invite you to journey across the mountains. There is a great world beyond the Greenwood, and if you ever find yourself in need of a guide . . .” his voice tapered off as he flashed her a charming grin, yet Tauriel only rolled her eyes in reply, little impressed.

    “ - if that ever comes to be, I believe she will be smart enough to look beyond you, brother,” Elrohir interrupted wryly, turning a significant look upon his twin. “What Elladan means to say is congratulations. Torion would have been proud of his daughter this day.”

    “I thank you for saying so, my lord,” Tauriel replied, swallowing visibly as she said so. The forest made dark shapes in her eyes, and Legolas reflexively took a step closer to her, wishing to offer his friend what support he could.

    After Saruman's ruling when the Wise gathered Rosgobel, his father had sent a team to further investigate the black fortress rising on the hill of Amon Lanc – wishing to peer into the truth of Björn's words, no matter the decree of the White Wizard. To their great lamentation, they had underestimated the strength of the fell specter rooted in those stones, and few had returned alive from that expedition. Amongst the fallen were Tauriel's parents, and while Legolas knew a selfish gratitude for growing alongside her when his own parents took her in, he could still feel the grief that lingered with that parting, and he mourned for her pain.

    Yet, anything further said between them would have to wait as the horn announced another arrival – this time of the Greenwood's monarchs. Legolas could feel his father's presence, even before he could properly see him. He stood up straighter, the anxious, eager feeling in his chest picking up pace a hundred fold in reply. He wanted so badly to do well this day, not wholly for his own name, but rather for the names he was born of. He wanted to be a source of pride for Thranduil, as much as Amathelon was, and that wanting was a burning thing inside of him.

    All those gathered in the clearing bowed in respect, and Legolas was no exception to that rule. In a way, it was instinctual for him to bend his head and incline his knee - for his father carried a weight of spirit about him that was all the vast years of his life and the mesmerizing sort of power that befitted one of the oldest names amongst their people. Thranduil ever ghosted across his senses like a cold storm, drawing his eye like a mirror with his endeavoring to someday be his father's reflection in all things. In comparison, his mother was like the forest itself against his senses; something filled with green light, as if touched by Yavanna's own hand. Together they made an ethereal and regal pair, and the people of the Greenwood had so far flourished underneath their reign.

    They was bidden to rise, and though he would deny the warmth that filled him when his mother tilted his head down so that she could kiss his brow, a warmth still it was. “This day, you have made a very proud mother of me, no matter the outcome of your trial,” Calelassel whispered for his ears alone, her eyes more green than blue as they glittered in the forest light. “Be safe, my son, and do well.”

    Legolas glanced over at Tauriel, feeling where her spirit wavered as she watched him interact with the Queen. Her face gave nothing of her inner thoughts away, but he could only imagine what she was thinking, not having her own parents there to celebrate this day with her. Just as quickly as the thought ghosted across his mind, Calelassel turned to do the same to the younger woman as she had to him – leaning down to kiss Tauriel's brow, before tilting her chin up to whisper words that Legolas could not quite hear. Whatever she said had Tauriel blinking, as if fighting back some strong emotion, but he could see not of the tell-tale glimmer of tears in her eyes. In the wake of the Queen's words, Tauriel's hand made a fist about the hilt of her dagger. Her jaw was set, and something fierce resonated from her spirit – so much so that Legolas almost felt pity for the other teams . . . almost.

    His father did not come forward to offer his well wishes, not that Legolas much expected him to. Instead, Thranduil merely nodded after looking him over, and Legolas only felt the telling brush of his spirit against his own in a wordless flash of approval before that too faded away.

    What happened from there was mostly ritualistic as Thranduil spoke to those gathered about the honor of watching young ones grow, and the welcome they had in his kingdom now that they were old enough to take their proper places in that order. He spoke then about the roles of the Guard, and the honor that came with protecting their people and their borders, before finishing with words for their great forest home. The trees seemed to turn their ears to his speech, and the ground all but trembled in approval of the Forest-lord's power. In that moment, ground as they all were by his father's bond with the land, he felt apart of the deep roots and high boughs to the point where he was ready to face anything that the Trial could think to set upon them. Not only was he ready; he was eager.

    When he and Tauriel took their places on the starting line with the other two teams, he looked and saw that he was not the only one receiving such a welcome from the forest. Yavanna's light was bright in all of their eyes, and his spirit seemed to soar in answer to her call.

    Then, a horn was blown, and they were off - racing into the forest and away from the other two teams, running until they were out of sight of Thranduil's halls. In a calm glade, with only the green of the forest surrounding them, he and Tauriel took out their map, ready to decipher the clues that would lead them to their first target.

    And, thus so, the race began.



    .

    .

    Only moments passed before the elder members of the Guard discreetly melted into the forest-shadow to follow the young ones. Calelassel watched where her eldest son inclined his head, and she pushed him forward with a warm wave of acknowledgment against his spirit. At his side, the twin Peredhil too looked up before bowing – they understanding well the reason they had been called, even without such words being expressly spoken.

    At her side, her husband watched her with narrowed eyes, as if pondering over a riddle. “I did not realize that you had sent for reinforcements,” he remarked. She could not tell the line in his voice for teasing or question, choosing instead to hear both.

    “I would not do so in such words,” she replied. Slowly, she blinked, as if she had no idea of what he was trying to imply.

    “And yet,” Thranduil inclined his head towards her as they turned from where the forest swallowed their young ones away, “in your last letter to the Silver Lady, did you mention . . .”

    “I may have alluded to Celebrían that my son was about to undertake the Trial, yes,” Calelassel replied. “Her own sons being in Lothlórien not much later was simply a remarkable coincidence.”

    “They will not be needed,” Thranduil said, tilting up his chin arrogantly as he said so. “Your doing so was an unnecessary precaution.”

    “I trust the Guard of the Greenwood, more so than any other in this land,” Calelassel went on to say. “I, however, did not want it to seem as if I was playing favourites by placing my son's protection so high. If a family friend, or two, just so happened to be available to follow with Amathelon, then -”

    “ - I was not speaking about the abilities of our Guard,” Thranduil interrupted smoothly. “I was referring to Legolas himself. There is nothing in this forest that he will not be able to rise against as an equal, and conquer. He is, after all, my son.”

    Calelassel looked steadily at him, she hearing his words clearly where few others would think them to be a thought. “Careful, dear one, of speaking too loudly, else-wise he may just hear his father singing such praises.”

    Thranduil shrugged, as if her words were sky-water dripping to fall harmlessly off the leaves of a tree. “He hears what he needs to hear, when he needs to hear it,” he remarked. “No more, and no less.”

    She stared at her husband, seeing where not a crack of feeling broke through the serene planes of his face. Ever was there a careful mask he presented to their people, as he was ever acutely aware of the eyes following them both. Even so, she could feel where he passed a wave of mock-annoyance to her through their bond – their differing opinions over how much to give a child, and when, ever a centuries old disagreement between them.

    “And yet,” she said, dropping her voice to whisper, “the Greenwood . . . she sings, but there is a note of discord to her song. I fear not of what they stand to face from the forest itself, but what they shall encounter from the Shadow that even now thinks to share our eaves.” Her words were the only way she could think to explain her worries; her fears and deep seeded concerns. Above them, a cool wind blew through the high branches, and she turned into the embrace of the forest, needing the reassurance of the boughs of the Great Tree, swaying high above them.

    “Their path will take them no further south than the Narrows,” Thranduil answered her concerns, though she could clearly see where he held himself stiffly in reply to her words. A muscle moved high in his throat, and she read what he did not say from his skin. “They will remain far from that cancerous place.”

    “Even so,” she was not quick to agree, “what festers at Dol Guldur . . . it pushes ever northward as the years go on. Someday, I fear . . .” and yet, such fears were a tired topic between them, uttered to the point of exhaustion. There was nothing she could say that he did not know, just as there was nothing he feared that she did not feel as a matching disquiet, held marrow-deep in her bones.

    “I know,” Thranduil whispered. “Your dread is my own, and yet . . .”

    He said no more than that. Instead, he waited until they reentered the halls, letting the shadows of an empty corridor hide his leaning down to rest his brow against her own. As always, she took strength from his presence, from the eternal glow of his spirit, determined as she was that no threat could touch them when they were bound so together. She reached up, and touched the sides of his face, the cool fall of his hair, solidifying herself on his light when all was darkening around them.

    Beyond their halls, the forest continued to sing, and yet, Calelassel could not help but feel as if she sounded as if she were struggling for breath. The Greenwood was drowning - dimming - and someday . . .

    But that day was still a day far away. For now . . . she merely held her head up high, and uttered a quick prayer to the Valar to watch over her son. That said, there was nothing more for them to do than to wait . . . wait, and endure.



    .

    .

    The forest raced by with a quiet breath of sound.

    Amathelon knew his home, and knew it well; every root and tree as familiar to him as his own name this close to his father's halls. Overhead, the old souls in the wood barely stirred at their passing, while the young saplings looked on in curiosity, tilting their leaves and threading their branches to better let them through. Somewhere, far above the thick canopy of interlocking boughs, the day was bright and cloudless. The sunlight streamed downs in waves of green and golden light, turning the forest aglow with its touch. For a moment, it was almost enough to let them pretend that the ancient wood was nothing more than dancing leaves and strong limbs; untouched and unsullied. For a moment, it was as if . . .

    But, Amathelon was determined to let no such musing cloud his mind - not this day. Instead, he forced his thoughts to remain on his brother and Tauriel as they made their way through the trees, already successfully heading in the direction of their first marker. Amathelon had seen their clues, and knew that they were vague riddles, requiring a keen mind and a deep knowledge of the forest to solve. However, their first hurdle was doing little to slow their stride.

    Following close behind him, Elrond's sons bore their Sindarin blood as a distant memory of Thingol's might. Even so, they kept up with his quick pace with very little difficulty, the oldest trees in the forest bowing to the memory of that which they felt passing below their boughs. A shadow there may have been upon the Greenwood, but the light still reigned supreme amongst so many deep roots, and it would continue to do so until -

    “Your brother stands to beat even your illustrious time if he keeps this up,” Elladan was the one to remark when they at last slowed their pace. They had climbed up to the middle-most branches of one of the thickly interwoven trees, observing from on high as the young ones sorted through their riddles below.

    “If he manages such a feat,” Amathelon inclined his head, “I can think of no one worthier to abdicate my title to.”

    In the dappled light, Elladan's smile was soft, he well understanding the unique sort of pride and fondness one could feel for a younger sibling. Yet, at his side, Elrohir was little invested in their words. Rather, he looked at the trees themselves, his eyes blind to the two they were supposed to be watching below. His hand was splayed full against the bark of the tree, and when he breathed, his breath was slow with his concentration. Amathelon swallowed, knowing full well what the other would feel if he but opened his senses to feel the condition of the wood.

    “Much has changed since the days when you took your Trial,” Elrohir muttered, his pale eyes very bright in the forest shadows.

    “In more ways than one,” Amathelon acknowledged. He fought the urge he had to run a hand through his hair in frustration, wanting to keep himself still and unnoticeable from the two below. “The forest . . . she is not as she once was.”

    “Her song is much the same,” Elrohir again pressed his fingertips to the tree bark. “Yet, it is as if there is someone singing with her. A discordant note disrupts her harmony, but only just enough to be known to my ears, rather than heard clearly.”

    “And that song is a discord that grows all the more so with each passing year,” Amathelon acknowledged grimly. “Once was, we could hear it not at all this far north, but now . . . Shadow rises from the old fortress in the south, and with it there are strange creatures and even stranger shapes in the dark. We fight back the creatures as best we can, but what are we to do against the intangible? The forest sickens, and we may do naught but watch her.” His voice filled with a hard note, angry and pained for the forest that had shaded his birth and succored his every year since.

    Elrohir's eyes were very soft, and Amathelon could feel a blue warmth touch his spirit in the vaguest of encouragements. He acknowledged the gift of strength and comfort for what it was, and sighed as he leaned back against the tree.

    “The White Wizard is convinced that it is nothing more than a fell spirit of old trying to take shape once more; one without power enough to take on full form, or influence the forest any more than he already has. And yet . . . it is more than that. We know such a truth to be so – which you can now feel as well as I. When Saruman returns from his wanderings in the East, my father means to press the Wise to gather again. He will not let matters stand where they are now.”

    Slowly, Elrohir nodded at his words, while Elladan only sighed. “In the meantime,” he asked carefully, “what do your people intend to do?”

    “We will simply continue on as well as we can, and endure,” Amathelon answered, a pinched smile forcing its way onto his mouth. “Not all of us have Rings of Power protecting our realms, you know.”

    Elladan snorted. “I do not think that Thranduil Oropherion would take one were it offered to him.”

    “No,” Amathelon acknowledged after a heartbeat, somewhat ruefully. “No, he would not.”

    “Are your people in any way prepared to depart from the Greenwood?” Elladan asked. “If the wood darkens – already it is called Mirkwood by the Northmen, and if the sons of Men can feel what turns to rot underneath their feet . . .”

    “No,” Amathelon's answer was decisive, a hard feeling filling his voice for saying so. “No . . . we will not flee. This is my father's realm, as it was my grandfather's realm before him. The Silvan who live here have lived here since the Great Journey, and know little else of the world but for the trees they are bound to at the soul.” He paused, before asking with a firm voice: “Would you leave your valley if the Shadow touched it? Would your grandparents abandon Lothlórien – never-mind that the Lady of Light moved to Caras Galadhon for watching Dol Guldur as the shadow grows . . . Could you leave your homes behind, or would you stand and hold them until you had not of the breath left within you to do so?”

    Elladan did not answer, but he did not have to – Amathelon could see the dark, fierce look that filled his eyes, and he knew that they understood. In some ways, the blood of the Wood-elves made it as impossible for them to leave their trees as it was for a Dwarf to forsake their ancestral homes. Their homes were their souls, so much so that few of their people ever felt the natural pull to turn towards the far off Valinor in the west. No. The roots of their home were those that grew to pierce their very souls, and few would ever be able to bring themselves to sunder that bond.

    As if sensing his discord, he felt as the tree they were in curled its branches as if to better shelter him from the shadow even now touching its roots. There was a mournful note to its song, and Amathelon touched his fingers to the bark, assuring the wood of his well-being. He felt as strength filled him in reply, rooting him to his place.

    “For now,” Amathelon gathered himself as Legolas and Tauriel found their first marker in the forest below. Pride filled him as he smiled, feeling the look for the truth it was. “We will simply continue on, much as we ever have, and watch our young ones as they grow.”



    .

    .

    Night fell quickly in the forest.

    They went for as long as they could before traversing the forest became more perilous than advantageous – a decision that was helped along by a rather close call with the very same bog Amathelon had jested over earlier. For the most part, they had followed the River of Enchantment during the day, careful not to touch its waters as they made their way further and further south. In days gone by, the water of that river revealed memories and dreams, but as the forest turned, the effects of the river became unpredictable in shape, and few drank of its depths now. Their path took them directly to the Emyn Duir – the mountains which had housed Oropher's original halls, and in which Legolas himself had been born, now some fifty years ago.

    Only twenty years had passed since they abandoned Oropher's halls to make their home in the north of the forest, and already the wild had done much to reclaim what was its own. Now, the familiar markers of the Elven-king's halls were covered by vines and weeds. Saplings started to push their way up through the cobbled paths, and moss and flowering lichen decorated the statues and columns surrounding them. They took shelter for the night in what used to be an ornate courtyard – not trusting the ill-repair of the mountain-halls to venture further underground than that. In many ways, their memories were as tangible as the shadows as they moved wordlessly together in order to prepare for the night. Tauriel had been quiet and quieter still the closer they had come to the mountains, and now she did not even glance his way, lost to her own thoughts as she was.

    Her parents had not lived long enough to see their new home, deep underneath the roots of the Great Tree, and her face was creased with memories as she peered into a past he could not see.

    Legolas took it upon himself to portion out their rations for the night. They brought little with them - for half of the challenge was in their living off of the land during their time away from Thranduil's halls - but he decided that they could hunt or fish upon the morrow. Even so, Tauriel did not much seem to notice what he placed before her. She ate only because her body told her she had to, and her eyes and thoughts remained far beyond him.

    She laid down on her back when she was finished with half-heartedly picking at her meal, staring up at the blackness of the forest canopy overhead, where the branches of the trees stretched to cover the empty place they had carved out for their own. Legolas was not yet tired, no matter that they had journeyed far in one day – even for the speed and stamina of the Elves - and he now looked over their map and clues again by the light of the fire, turning over the riddles in his mind, until -

    “The stars are out tonight,” Tauriel remarked, still unblinking as she looked above.

    Legolas glanced, but could only see the shadow of the thick canopy overhead, softly underlit by the fire's glow. “I cannot see them,” he said, his voice soft in reply.

    “Neither can I,” she agreed, her eyes still peering further than the trees. “Yet, I know that they shine.”

    He was silent for a long moment, unsure of what to say in reply - unsure if words were even needed in return. He knew that she spoke of more than the hidden heavens, and as best he could, he pushed a wave of support and comfort her way. Rather than pretend that she was more than her grief, Tauriel accepted the warmth he offered and turned to flash him the smallest of smiles.

    “I do not mean to imply that I am less than grateful for your parents taking me in,” she went on to add. “For I am grateful; truly. It is as much to repay their kindness that I wish to do well on this task, as much as I wish to honor my own . . .” her words tapered off, though he did not need words to understand what she meant to say. She faltered, and could not again find her speech.

    It did not matter. He reached over, and covered her hand with his own. In the warm light from the fire, her eyes were as sunlight over tree-bark, warm and earthen and home. He watched where she took in a deep breath against her thoughts. Slowly, she exhaled.

    “I agree. There is a bright dance in the heavens this night,” Legolas said, his voice soft to his own ears. Seemingly pushing in around them, the forest was then very quiet, and very still. The clearing held ghosts, it was true, but they were no vengeful spirits with greedy hands seeking to snare and grab. Instead, the memories the trees held were warm. He saw where she breathed in with her missing, where she let her longing embrace her as something soft and pleasing to the touch. Then, she blinked, and she was once more as Tauriel to his eyes.

    She turned from her back, propping herself up on one elbow in order to peer at the maps he had spread out before him. “May I see that third clue again?” she summoned with no small determination. “I think that I may have an idea of what it means.”



    .

    .

    They passed five days in the forest before coming upon the Narrows of the Greenwood. Once was, the whole of the forest had been vaguely oblong in shape, with the width of the forest from east to west staying much the same from south to north. However, when the Northmen took to harvesting lumber from the Greenwood in the Second Age, they took too much, too quickly, and crippled a great area of the forest as a result. That empty, barren bruise in the Greenwood was now known as the East Bight, leaving only a narrow neck of the forest to connect the Southern Greenwood with the North, and thus coining its name.

    While his father had not dwelt in the Greenwood during that time of over-harvesting, his mother had been the Captain of Oropher's archers when his folk lived on the hill of Amon Lanc. The Elven-king had quarreled mightily with the Northmen over their desecration of the forest, and due to the tenacity of the enraged Silvan elves, they had driven a majority of the Men away to found lands of their own – most retreating to break off as the ancestors of those who were now known as the Rohirrim, or to the land of Rhovanion, just to the east of the Greenwood. Rhovanion was a proper kingdom of its own now, an ally to the Men of Gondor in the south, and the Northmen who still dwelt in the forest lived with the land in harmony - for the most part. There were still times when his father intervened when the Men did not observe the proper laws of husbandry, but the number of Men living in the forest had depleted over the years - and for more than the Forest-king's guardianship of the trees.

    Mirkwood, Amathelon thought of the Edain's title with a grimace, finding the name as an ill taste to his tongue.

    Though he did not expect to find anything untoward in the Narrows, he still kept an open eye on their surroundings. He had been with the Guard when they scouted this area of the forests for the Trial, and that was not even a turn of the moon ago. Nothing would have so quickly appeared where they sought to make their way clear.

    Even so, there was a feeling of unnamed dread overhead, as if they walked underneath a sky of dark clouds rather than the comforting embrace of the trees. There was a sour taste on the back of his tongue, and against his senses something untoward whispered, carrying with it the disquiet sensation of soft fingertips dragging up and down his spine in warning.

    When Legolas and Tauriel came upon their last marker, Amathelon was glad. He did not care to be in this part of the forest for any longer than they had to be.

    South and south they went, the trees turning to twisted shapes overhead, and the green, healthy leaves turning to sickly shades of purple and grey. There was still healthy growth next to that which was decayed, but the rot was too much - too much, too fast - and something in his own spirit seemed with wither and wilt along with the forest surrounding him. His own temper was restless, and he found it hard to hold on to soft words and a clear disposition underneath the gloom surrounding them – for which Elladan and Elrohir observed with troubled eyes, their mixed blood saving them from feeling the pain of the forest too acutely.

    It was not until their second day in the Narrows that they came upon a disquieting sight – a glimmer of gossamer, hanging down from one of the highest boughs in the wood. Amathelon had seen that tell-tale sign too many times as of late, and he knew that it was one he stood to see many more times still.

    They turned from Legolas and Tauriel to see more of the cursed strands binding together the high boughs, seeking to trap, to snare . . .

    “I was with the Guard when we scouted this part of the forest for the Trial, less than a moon ago,” Amathelon hissed in a terse voice. “They have again built their webs just that quickly.”

    “You have encountered these creatures before?” Elladan asked, his eyes widening with his words.

    “Yes,” Amathelon answered, frustration welling in his voice. “And we have done so more than once, at that. Each time we fight them away they come back, venturing further and further north as they do so.”

    He glanced back at the way he knew Legolas and Tauriel to be. With any luck, they would simply retrieve their marker and make their way back north – safely retreating from the danger in the woods without having known about it at all. They would remain ignorant and protected, while he . . .

    “The young ones will keep,” Elladan said, his keen eyes seeing his thoughts and agreeing. “This, however - ”

    “ - will not,” Elrohir finished for his twin, standing with his bow already drawn in one hand and an arrow in the other.

    For a long moment, he stood, caring little for the taking of either path. And yet, at long last, Amathelon sighed and reached for his own weapons, then turning to once again confront the taint infecting the forest.



    .

    .

    Their last task came in the shape of a flag that rested on the opposite side of a wide gorge – the bottom of which Legolas could scarcely see when looking down for the floor below. They were hard pressed to make a bridge with the discrepancy of heights between the two sides. and they had no trees to aim at and sink their arrows in deep – only stone. However, they were able to settle an anchor on the opposite side after much effort, and it was a relatively easy task to build a rope bridge and cross nimbly to the other side.

    For the most part, they were quiet upon completing their task - for the discordant note in the forest's song was louder here, and neither he or Tauriel much cared to linger where night fell earlier than the setting of the sun due to the thick expanse of the drooping trees. Even more worrying was the steady flicker he was able to feel from his brother's spirit, somewhere beyond them. He had known Amathelon as a soft presence throughout the whole of his journey, imparting neither criticism or encouragement, but steadily being there nonetheless. Now . . . now he felt nothing, as if the other was consciously blocking his awareness, and that thought was an unsettling one to him.

    They did not rest that night, and not only for wanting to rid themselves of the Narrows – for, if they wanted to make it back to Thranduil's halls in time to beat Amathelon's record, they would have to move quickly. So, they set out north as the sun set, trusting their instincts and knowledge of their home to guide them where they needed to go.

    Neither slowed long enough to speak, the knowledge that they wanted to be beyond the Narrows as quickly as possible a shared thought between them. Though he logically knew that the forest had been searched for anything untoward before their journey began, his senses were on edge; searching . . . expecting . . .

    It was not until they paused in their step to take a moment's rest that they felt it. His palm was splayed flat against the trunk of the nearest tree, a tree that seemed to moan as if in pain. He listened, trying to find . . .

    “Legolas,” Tauriel was the one to first whisper, understanding dawning upon her. “There is something in the trees . . . very high above our heads.”

    He could not see anything, though his eyesight was just as keen as hers. Yet, while he could not yet see anything, he could hear . . .

    Voices . . . calling out from above.

    They only had to circle around the tree to see white strands of silky twine dripping down from the branches overhead, layering dozens of trunks like soft wads of newly fleeced wool. Not wool, he amended his thoughts, but rather, silk.

    “Spider-silk,” Tauriel hissed, her voice a fierce sound. “Then, above are -”

    “Foresters,” Legolas felt the tell-tale sparks of light that ever accompanied the souls of Men. “Almost a dozen of them, caught when straying where they ought not.”

    “Northmen,” Tauriel suggested alternately, her eyes narrowed, “Whose homes have been invaded as surely as our own.”

    He sighed, already reaching for the knife waiting at his side. While he felt little kinship with the sons of Men - rather, he knew them primarily by the scar they had left on his home - the determined light in Tauriel's eyes was not to be swayed. This he knew from long experience.

    . . . and, if he was truly honest with himself, he did not want to dissuade her. The forest was home to more than just his kindred, and someday, if the shadow at Dol Guldur continued to grow . . .

    This would no longer be solely the fight of the Elves, he let the truth of that thought fill him. There was no way for it to remain as such.

    With but a glance, Tauriel understood his choice, and approved of it.

    “While not a scripted task - ” she started to say in an attempt to lighten their plight.

    “ - it is most certainly a trial,” Legolas gave, grimly glancing at the boughs above them.

    And a trial it was even to climb to the summit of the webs. The trees were covered with the sticky substance, and little of the bark was left for them to find handholds and footholds. All the while they waited in expectation for the sound of scurrying steps . . . of mandibles clicking and eight eyes blinking . . . Yet, naught was the threat that came. There was only silence in the trees, all but for the muffled sounds of the struggling Men, still some ways above their heads.

    Higher and higher they went, climbing to where the branches were brittle and the leaves were dull and grey so far from where the roots of the trees stubbornly held on to light and life. Somewhere, the stars were out, but their light was nothing in the shade provided by the canopy. Instead, all was night. All was shadow.

    By the time they made their way to the Men, they still had seen not of the spiders, and his senses were strained trying to make out a foul presence in the trees. He felt something, lingering right beyond his reach, but that something was simply lurking . . . waiting . . .

    Feeling as if there was something more he was missing, Legolas ascended that last branch to see that his estimation had been correct. There were twelve of the Northmen trapped in cocoons made by the silky fiber of the webs. He could vaguely see their struggling limbs and hear their frantic voices through the mesh covering their faces. Wide eyes followed his and Tauriel's movements, but it was not until he cut the first man free that he understood that the eyes were not wide in terror for their situation, but rather, in warning.

    “They were waiting,” the Man wheezed in heavily accented Annúnaid. Behind him, he heard the Men speak to each other in their own tongue, a harsher language than the Common Tongue, but one he knew bits and pieces of from his own schooling.

    “Waiting?” Legolas asked in kind, even as a flicker of understanding settled in.

    “There were others in our party,” the Man was hasty to explain. “They thought that if they left us here, seemingly unattended . . .”

    Seemingly, Legolas understood the man's words with a flash of insight, that nameless sense of dread he knew during their climb now taking on a definitive shape and meaning.

    “Tauriel,” he swiftly turned to address her in Sindarin, “The Spiders, they were merely waiting for -”

    He did not have to say anything aloud before a long shoot of webbing struck the trunk of the tree, aimed for where he had stood a moment earlier. He ducked the second strand, and cut a third free with his knife, his spirits sinking when he realized just how many of the Spiders were waiting in the boughs above. It was not only the Spiders that gave rise to his trepidation, but the Men themselves – for they were disoriented and dizzy this high in the trees, and they had little balance with which to make the long climb down - let alone fight and defend themselves as they did so. And fight with what? he wondered then. They had no bows, no swords; just their wide, terrified eyes, and their spirits like flames against his senses, granting them fortitude and stubborn determination enough to see them through whatever he decided for them to do.

    What he decided, he then felt the yoke of responsibility fall upon his shoulders with a heavy weight. Even Tauriel looked to him to decide, to lead, and he swallowed against that knowledge, suddenly unsure now that the moment was placed upon him.

    And yet, there were few options to be had to them, and there was only one choice he was comfortable with absolutely – no matter the cost it would think to extract.

    “Take the Men and climb down to the forest floor,” he ordered swiftly, moving to stand as a shield as the Spiders drew closer and closer to them – no longer bothering to strike from afar when they could instead overwhelm in numbers. Their mandibles clicked like laughter as they hissed and sputtered with their own black speech, and Legolas felt his mouth make a thin line as he drew his bow, determined to make a showing for himself.

    “No!” Tauriel was swift to disagree. In a moment of déjà vu, he remembered their encountering the Skin-changer in the woods outside Radagast's dwelling. This situation was not so different now, he tried to tell himself. “I will not leave you to - ”

    “Tauriel!” he spoke her name as a command. “We have not the time to waste in quarreling.”

    She set her mouth in an angry line, clearly displeased with his decision; but she understood, and this time he did not have to command her to obey.

    Instead, she reached for the quiver on her back and grabbed a significant portion of her arrows to hand to him. “Use them wisely,” she warned. “You will not have many to waste.”

    Sharply he nodded, not taking the moment to answer her before turning to the Men to say in their tongue: “Follow her down. Go as quickly as you can!”

    He did not need to tell them twice. Though a few clearly balked at the height and looked in worry at the webs coating their climb, climb still they did, and Tauriel spared only a glance for him before turning to cover their escape. He felt a last brush of her fëa, fortifying and encouraging his own, and then he turned in time to meet the first Spiders as they reached his place in the tree.

    While these were not quite mindless beasts – they had some higher thought, if they plotted enough to set such traps – they were easy enough to kill. Their bodies were massive and fast, but their eyes were vulnerable, and their exoskeletons did little to protect them against elven strength. He tried to fell as many as he could with his short knife, saving his arrows for when he truly needed them, but he burned through his weapons regardless as the Spiders continued to pour down from up above.

    As soon as he felt that Tauriel safely made it down to the forest floor, he turned to flee into the next tree, and then the next – pleased when the Spiders turned to follow him. If he could but draw them away, and then lose them himself . . .

    His thoughts raced, but as he instinctively blocked a wave of spider-silk, aimed for his face, the Spider yanked and his knife flew from his grasp before he could even think to tighten his grip. He had only his arrows now, dwindling as they were, and though it seemed that he'd killed dozens of the beasts, dozens more kept pouring in with their horrible voices and their discordant press against his spirit – which was proving to be more disorienting than the threat of their fangs and webs. He winced, trying instead to focus on the tree he stood in, feeling what strength it had left in its old limbs and asking it to aid him for just a little while longer . . .

    For he soon loosed his last arrow, and warily stood as the Spiders moved in all the more so after that, thinking themselves to now have an easy target, a defenseless target.

    If such was Námo's will for him, he thought that he did not mind such an end. While his situation was dire, he was not wholly without means to fight - he still had his hands, his sure place in the tree as the spirit of the wood cried in sorrow for his pains. For such, he was still a foe to be reckoned with.

    Legolas stilled, feeling the bark beneath his hands sing as if in welcome. The trees fluttered, greeting -

    - as soon as he understood what the trees were saying, he felt a burst of awareness against his spirit. An angry burst of protection and fortitude washed over him, just as the whistling noise of striking arrows rained down from above. The Spiders recoiled from the new threat – their easy meal suddenly something more when faced with the fury of three elven warriors, each well into their years and fierce for the lineage of their names.

    Legolas simply leaned back against the trunk of the tree and let relief fill him as the threat was done away with, not bothering with words until they safely on the ground some time later. In the aftermath of the battle, his limbs felt boneless and his heart was hammering with spent adrenaline. Such was his first time ever facing a foe as such, and he felt winded and strangely restless at the same time, the urge to sink to his knees in exhaustion at odds with the urge he still had to move, to fight, ill as his body was to let him rest before he was sure that the threat was wholly gone.

    “It certainly took you long enough to show up,” Legolas breathed with a nonchalance he did not really feel when Amathelon turned to him - an unadulterated relief filling him for the sight of his brother's face. Punctuating his words, he heard a sick, squelching sound as the twins finished with their last foes in the canopy above. He listened as they too made their way down to the forest floor, seeing them leap from the lower branches with matching expressions of satisfaction on their identical faces a moment later.

    “That would not have been much of a trial, then, would it not?” Amathelon's words were made to jest, but Legolas could see the worry on his face – the concern mingled with the relief - and he allowed the other to pull him into a quick embrace in reply.

    The Peredhil were still searching the branches above, not yet content with the peace, and it was Elladan who asked, "Where is Tauriel?"

    "Escorting a dozen or so Men we found in the webs," Legolas answered. He felt a telling brush against his spirit, and said: "They come this way," just as he heard a rustling in the underbrush, declaring the arrival of the others.

    Tauriel's sharp eyes were quick to find him out, and rather than asking him how he fared he felt the quick cast of her spirit, searching him over for any harm before she nodded, clearly relieved with her findings. He raised a brow, and asked, "Did you doubt me so much?"

    "I cared not for the numbers you faced, no," she answered honestly. "Yet, I did not once doubt you." The pale brown of her eyes filled with something warm as she smiled. "I am, however, glad that you found aid in your fight."

    She turned, and Amathelon inclined his head in reply. "We would have been here sooner, but we were busy clearing out a nest of our own - we seemed to find where they breed, and destroyed enough of their eggs that we hope that the Narrows will know some time free of taint while they recover in the south." He frowned, clearly troubled, but that was a discussion that would continue another time.

    He turned from them, and looked at the Men, who were still wide eyed with both their peril and their deliverance. Their words were full of thanks as they spoke of others they had lost, and briefly outlined where they were headed. Amathelon inclined his head at the end of their speaking, and offered: “It would be our honor to see you and yours as far as the East Bight. From there on your path should be clear."

    The Men were quick to accept their aid, and plans were made to seek out their companions and then travel through the night - with not a one amongst them much caring to sleep underneath the ruined nests, no matter how cleared of filth they were.

    “I will most certainly not beat your time now,” Legolas pointed out as they readied to leave. Amathelon again wrapped an arm about his shoulders, but Legolas was slow to shrug away from his embrace.

    “No, technically you will not,” Amathelon acknowledged. “And yet, I do believe you surpassed my showing in another way – and most impressively, at that.”

    Legolas looked at the Men when Amathelon gestured, smiling now as they organized themselves, the heady security of relief and safety making kindred spirits of them all in that moment. Questions were asked about the condition of the forest, and the Peredhil answered the Men as best they could. The forest was sick, but they were fighting that taint, as they ever would, and rather than feel ill at ease within his home - wary of the dark pathways and disdainful of the drooping boughs - he felt his place, his belonging settle in more than he had known it to be before. This was his home, his home, and he would help to heal it in the years to come, through any way he could.

    “You are a credit to our father's name, to our grandfather's name,” Amathelon followed the turn of his thoughts as if he had uttered them aloud. His arm tightened about his shoulders as his bright eyes held the green of the forest's spirit deep within his gaze. “I am proud to call you my brother.”

    "And your brother I am proud to be," Legolas returned, holding his gaze as he said so. Amathelon let him go a moment later, tugging on his braid one more time in fondness before he wholly let him go.

    "Now," he said, turning an appraising eye on their group. "Let us see how far we can make it this night. I have a care to leave these trees behind that I believe to be shared by all those here."

    And so, they turned, and left the stain on the forest behind, trusting the shadow to be held at bay . . . at least, for the time being.



    ~MJ @};-
     
  18. earlybird-obi-wan

    earlybird-obi-wan Chosen One star 6

    Registered:
    Aug 21, 2006
    A great adventure.
    Intense descriptions of the changes in the trees. I see again the walks in the rainforest of the South Island of New Zealand and the Pelorus river walk
     
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  19. WarmNyota_SweetAyesha

    WarmNyota_SweetAyesha Chosen One star 8

    Registered:
    Aug 31, 2004
    Mira!!! LOL Anytime I read that you've made something longer I go yay!!!! [face_laugh]

    Gorgeous details of the Greenwood and very daunting to read of the disquiet/discordant notes many have sensed.

    Enjoyed muchly the Thranduil/Calelassel moment, their talk about Legolas etc.
    Ever the mother treads a fine line in reading the emotions and pride of the father towards the son and kudos for noticing it but not pointing it out too overtly. Ergo, Amanda with Sarek. ;) [face_love]

    Great to read of the Legolas/Tauriel adventure and the nuances between them. =D=

    Liked meeting Amathelon. :cool: He and Legolas seem to have a fond and teasing brotherly relationship.

    [:D]
     
  20. AzureAngel2

    AzureAngel2 Chosen One star 6

    Registered:
    Jun 14, 2005
    Wow, you write so much and so many wonderful things that I have trouble to keep up with all your fics. Please forgive me! @};-
     
    Nyota's Heart likes this.
  21. NightWatcher91

    NightWatcher91 Jedi Knight star 2

    Registered:
    Jun 7, 2014
    Being a huge Tolkien fan I will work to catch up on this. I enjoy the way you write the characters and the feel of it all.
     
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  22. Mira_Jade

    Mira_Jade The (FavoriteTM) Fanfic Mod With the Cape star 5 Staff Member Manager

    Registered:
    Jun 29, 2004
    earlybird-obi-wan: You are seriously whetting my appetite for travelling here! Not that I much mind. ;) [:D]

    Nyota's Heart: Amanda and Sarek was my thought too when writing Thranduil/Calelassel! I just love this whole family to pieces, and I am having so much fun theorizing about what their interaction may have been like. As always, your kind words make this writing thing a joy. I thank you, once again! [:D][:D]

    AzureAngel2: You are too sweet for words! Please, take your time and read what you like when you will. I am just glad that you are enjoying my humble offering to this world. [face_love][:D]

    NightWatcher91: Welcome to this crazy thread of Tolkien-mania! I thank you for stopping in, and hope you enjoy what you stumble upon while reading, :) [:D]

    Cael-Fenton: [:D]


    Alrighty, for this next piece we have my reply to the Hand in Hand prompt. Originally, I wanted to write drabbles, so I jotted down a list of 'anatomy-esque' prompts and set down to write . . . only the drabbles got out of hand, and I ended up with a piece that I had to break up into two updates - part one is ~11,000 words if that tells you just how massively my muse decided that I needed words, and lots of them. 8-} BUT, the subject is a near and dear one to me, and one I've wanted to tackle for a while, at that - namely: Melian and Thingol in the early days of their reign, leading up to the building of Doriath and her Girdle of enchantment. [face_love] This time-period is only vaguely covered in the Silmarillion - seeing as how Tolkien had bigger beasts to slay in Valinor at the time ;) - so a lot of this is various pieces of canon strung together with my own personal theories. (Some of which have been referenced here and there in this collection, but never thoroughly explored.) So, with that in mind, I have the first part of this tale ready for your reading enjoyment . . .

    But first, a few definitions:

    Araw: The Sindarin name for Oromë - the Huntsman of the Vala who first 'discovered' the Elves and played a principle role in inviting them West
    Eruhíni: Children of Eru, namely the Elves and Men, as the Dwarves were 'adopted' by Eru, so to speak :p
    Melyanna: Melian's original name
    Elwë: Thingol's original names
    Mairon: Sauron's original name
    Gorthaur: The Sindarin name for 'Sauron', as Sauron was a Quenyan title bestowed upon him by the Noldorin Exiles

    That said, lets get started. :D







    “a veil before stars” pt. I

    CXC. Hands

    Her first step on two feet was one that stumbled.

    Even so, her loss of balance did not bear her ill, for she was caught even as she recognized her body's loss of equilibrium. She steadied herself on his proffered arm, finding the center of her gravity and holding it; standing upright, rather than lingering, weightlessly, on the air as if the laws of the world had no strings attached to her. She squeezed her hand over the smooth muscles flexing beneath her touch, finding his strength and taking it as her own. Strength . . . weakness - both were foreign concepts to one who'd ever come and gone as easily as thought, as easily as the turn of the wind or the roll of the sea. The Ainur had little use for true forms of flesh, even when they gave illusion of physicality – as she'd initially done upon finding Elwë in her glade. They were not truly creatures of bone, they were not truly veiled in skin; rather, they were a mere trick of the eye to the Children of Arda; who could not see as they saw, who could not be as they were.

    Yet, true was the body she now bound her spirit within. As real as the silver-lit grass and the slumbering trees, her blood now pulsed through her heart and kidney and veins. She breathed, and her lungs were filled; she blinked, and her eyes focused, squinting to see the world through sight rather than the intangible perceptions of a spirit's gaze.

    It was initially odd to listen and interpret the information her senses fed her mind . . . strange, even. Yet it was also exhilarating . . . tantalizing and awful and wondrous all at once. She breathed, and found her mouth full of a sweet taste; she could smell the fragrant balm of the flowering trees and the dew of the morn, tantalizing her nose; she could hear the songs of the nightingales, gathered in curiosity and asking through bird-song for the changes in their mistress below. She exhaled and felt the forest respond to her presence – that being in no way less than she could as a spirit, but merely different. She now felt as if she saw the intangible aspects of the world through a wall of water, through a haze of thick mist - as if someone had placed a veil of clouds before the might of the stars. And yet, still the stars shone, and ever would.

    Yet, any disorientation of the senses would pass, she thought. And if it was discomfort she truly felt, then that too was worth bearing through for sake of the hand that was now holding her upright. For how could she regret the new confines of her body when he was reaching out to touch her face, her hair, his thumbs brushing her cheekbones as his fingertips traced the new, delicate tips of her ears in wonder? There was such a light in his eyes, and she filled herself on his devotion in turn, the rightness of her decision anchoring in her bones and refusing to let her go.

    “I feared that I had fallen into a dream,” her stolen king – freed now – whispered. Enraptured, she listened to his voice instead of the sound she had long known of his spirit, speaking to her own within the depths of her enchantment. The timbre was deep and rich, and her new skin seemed to prickle in awareness for the sound – matching the new, breathless pleasure that came from his hands tracing the newly wrought flesh of her body.

    “Yet,” his voice took on an amazed, incredulous note as he spoke, “I now find that my dream has followed me into the dawn. At least, I believe it has; if it has not, I do not wish to ever wake again.”

    “You are awake,” she promised, pausing after her speaking to process the voice she had chosen. The sound was deep and pleasing, with a lilting edge that she remembered from teaching her nightingales to sing. “What you see is real before you,” she assured him, reaching out to touch him in turn, her fingertips marveling over the warmth of his flesh, the feel of his body. “There is no spell, no enchantment; only myself.”

    “You speak as if you are not enchantment enough,” his voice was warm, and she marveled over the color of his clear blue eyes as they darkened, sweeping over her with affection in their depths.

    “To the contrary,” she said on little more than a whisper, “it was you who first ensnared me. I knew that I was wrong to keep you, that I had to let you go, and yet . . . Perhaps I am selfish, for I cannot give you up, even still.”

    She could still feel an echo of her kinsmen's confusion in the back of her mind, remembering the bafflement of the Valar when she'd first conveyed her wish and informed them of her decision. Never had one of the Ainur forsaken their natural course and their Eru-given place amongst the ethereal, the divine – never, but for the turncloak servants of Melkor, whom she refused to consider herself alike to in any way. And yet, even before her meeting Elwë, her restless feet had taken her from the court of Varda to Yavanna to Lórien in far off Aman, before at last turning to Middle-earth in her search for something more, some wanting she could not properly explain if asked. She had found that now: a surety for her placement, a knowing of her belonging. Her choice was a leap of faith, an unprecedented one, yet she could not doubt her fall when the end of that descent brought her to him. And he . . .

    Ignorant of her thoughts, he reached out and gave her a hand to take, even after she found her balance. She took her first step, and then a second – teaching herself to walk as the Children walked, feeling all the while as a bird with untried wings as it was coaxed from the nest. But, she learned, and learned quickly, while at her side he patiently waited.

    She wrapped her hand about his as they left the eaves of Nan Elmoth behind - fingers threaded through fingers, while flesh sang for the touch of flesh - and was then certain that her reward more than outweighed anything she had given up.



    .

    .

    CXCI. Touch

    It took them two days to cross the rivers separating Nan Elmoth from the forests of Eglador; and then some days more to make it across the Esgladuin river and into the woods of Neldoreth.

    She took to calling him Thingol after first seeing him with her physical eyes – taken, as she was, by the steel-grey cloak of his hair, and enchanted by the way the starlight poured over him in waves of silver and white. Where before she had been mesmerized by the fathomless cast of his spirit, she now found herself engrossed by his tangible presence. The strength of his form carried the same draw that the trees first held over her, and the way his star-lit eyes could burn as he looked at her was enough to send a strange sort of shiver to her body, one that she did not yet have the words to properly explain. He took the original syllables of her name and called her Melian in the tongue of his people – dear gift – muttering that, perhaps, the One knew even earlier than they just how essential she would be to him, and he in turn to her.

    Melian clasped her hand all the more tightly about his in reply to his words, and when he leaned down to press his mouth to hers, she at first stood still, unsure of what to do in return. A sweet sort of warmth filled her for the affection – but as much as it was sweet, it was also a pressing warmth, urging her on for something more, something seemingly right beyond her grasp. When she asked, there was a fond light in his eyes as he explained the idea of a kiss – and she, never one to let her curiosity go unsated for long, soon found that there was more than the sweetness of a kiss to be found if a wife she truly wanted to be. She'd known greed and wanting from the first, but now she had lust and desire and love explained to her – now understanding the desperate line of something more that had carved her spells and set her enchantments in deep from the first.

    If she soon developed a greed for this too – for the way her name fell from his mouth as he traced the syllables over the new lines of her flesh with his hands – then that was something only the shadows of the forest knew, and would ever know.



    .
    .

    CXCII. Arms

    Her expectations for their return were many things. Awe and confusion she both anticipated, and a part of her even expected to find suspicion and unease next to the amazement of such a reunion. Yet, it was that which she did not expect – that which she did not think to consider – that ended up striking her the most. For there were indeed tears accompanying their welcome, but they were happy tears, filled with joy and relief alongside the natural sorrow of missing that came with a family being knit back together again.

    She now found a new sort of warmth in the embrace swallowing her - a familial warmth – with kind arms tightening around her shoulders as a kiss was pressed to her cheek, both reverent and wondrous all at once. Not, she reflected, wondrous for her, but rather the peace and joy she had brought to his brother.

    “We feared that the Hunter took you,” Elmo drew back to say, his eyes flickering from her to Thingol as if he could not decide where to rest his gaze. “Yet I now see that you simply could not return to us. How could you, with a woman such as this drawing you away?"

    Elmo reached over to clasp his brother's shoulder, resting his hand there as Thingol did in turn to him. “But I knew . . . I knew that you would someday return to us. I could not let you go – we could not let you go – and our people have now developed quite the love for the stars and woods of this world. We could not leave Ennor behind – leave you behind – and now, here we are quite content to remain.”

    Elmo continued to speak of their kin, and a shadow fell over Thingol's eyes for his learning of Olwë's taking Ulmo's hand into the West, leaving along with their people who no longer wished to tarry upon the shores of Middle-earth. She felt a pang from his spirit, though his words were true when he wished his sundered brother every happiness and joy in the blessed lands of Valinor beyond. It was a wound Elmo shared, though he declared the blow to be lessened with Thingol's return - for two together was not three, but it was still one more than he had long since been alone.

    All the while, Melian listened and watched the brothers as they interacted. She had been surprised to discover just how tall her husband was amongst the Eldar – he towered over the people who looked to him to lead, as did she as a result, for she had constructed a form to perfectly compliment his own. Elmo was close to matching Thingol in height, and the pale silver of his hair and the clear shade of starlight in his eyes was a mirror-image of Thingol's own. The high, haughty cast of his features more tellingly aligned them as kindred if coloring alone could be doubted – they being cut from the same cloth through design of the One, and great was the love between them as a result.

    “I did not think that Oropher would grow to be near as tall as I,” Thingol remarked as they walked through the home Elmo had built whilst waiting for his return, Elmo's family following behind them all the while. “But now your son is grown, and a husband himself. I knew about the possibility of Galadhon's existence before I strayed, but he too is a man grown . . .”

    “Grown and with two sons of his own,” Elmo boasted proudly, his pride for the reach of his family not quite unlike her memory of Manwë looking on his Eagles for the first. “You will find much of Olwë in Galathil's likeness, even - too much, it sometimes seems. He has a fondness for the Sea that rivals our brother's, and he is even now gone with Círdan's folk. But Galathil should be home any day now to welcome arrival of his brother.”

    Galadhon and his wife had been blessed by a very young one during the last days of spring, and Melian had been surprised when Galadhon answered her curiosity by asking if she wanted to hold the swaddled babe. She'd never seen a child before arriving in Eglador, let alone held one, but she had no time to push down her trepidation when the babe was passed to her before she could even think to politely decline. Instinct filled her - aided by Galadhon showing her where to support the infant's head and how to cradle his body - and she listened to his instructions with the same determination and care she would have shown at the feet of the Valar, determined not to fail.

    “His mother named him Celeborn,” Galadhon introduced them, a father's fondness bright in his eyes, “and I could do naught but agree upon holding him for the first.”

    Celeborn,” she leaned down to whisper into the tiny shell of his ear, her nose touching the silver fuzz of his hair as she did so. She was rewarded by the wide eyed look of the child as he stared up at her with large blue eyes, his hand batting the empty air as if searching. She reached out to touch the soft skin of his cheek, marveling over the texture as the infant grasped onto her finger with a strength surprising for one so young. He made a delighted, cooing noise at his find, and she stared down at him, her heart instantly taken.

    “Have you ever seen a child before, my lady?” Elmo asked, the fondness in his eyes not unlike Thingol's whenever she was confronted by some new aspect of the world.

    “No,” she answered. “I was never one myself, either,” she anticipated his next question – just as Thingol had asked. “My kind were created so that we to could aid our masters in the ultimate creation. Yet growth . . . familial bonds . . . I have those amongst the Valar whom I may call my parents, and those amongst the Maiar I hold as my brothers and sisters, but this . . . this is quite different . . . unique, even. A blessing.”

    There was a moment of silence following her words, and she did not speak for feeling the bright soul of the child within the tiny body she held – finding the flame of their Father at the core of him, just as He was the founding light deep within her. In that way, she reflected, they were all kindred, with no true differentiation between their peoples to be found.

    “He is a beautiful boy,” she praised as she passed the child back to Galadhon. “He will be a credit to your name in the centuries to come; strong, with deep roots, and crowned by mighty boughs that will ever serve as shade and shelter for others.”

    “You bless me by saying so, your grace,” Galadhon inclined his head in appreciation for her words.

    She inclined her head, and found her arms strangely empty without the baby to hold. When she turned, she saw that Thingol had watched her all the while, a familiar warmth in his gaze as she met his eyes once more.

    “Where is your wife?” Thingol turned to ask Elmo after the moment passed. “I have not seen Celebressil since our arrival, and I must confess that it is an empty house without her laughter.”

    Melian could feel the warmth of the gathering shift, giving way to a grey dimming of spirits. She tilted her head, feeling the loss that was suddenly illuminated as Elmo's bright gaze lost much of its fire. She felt, more so than knew, that his joy for greeting them had been a rare moment, long in coming – and her suspicion was confirmed by the way both Galadhon and Oropher turned to their father, as if waiting for a fall so they could go about picking up the pieces left lying.

    Elmo held onto his smile, but it was a tight look, drawn with grief. “She was taken,” he muttered in a distant voice. “The Hunter struck upon a group of us, and she was not to be found at the melee's end. Our efforts to find her have been fruitless, and there is no way to know whether or not she has fallen, or if she lives still in one of Gorthaur's black pits, for many are those toiling in northern-most Angband.”

    For a long moment, all was silence. Thingol looked on Elmo with a true sorrow in his gaze, while Elmo's sons held themselves carefully still in reply to their father's words. She read more anger than grief in their stances, and felt herself swallow in reply to the tension on the air.

    Yet Melkor was bound and chained to free Middle-earth of his taint, she thought, but did not say. Deep in Námo's halls does he lament and wail, and in his absence the only shadows should be that which the star-light does not reach. These tidings were troubling, and she did not yet understand -

    “ - in the haste of the Ainur to rid the Black Foe from our lands, they left behind many of his servants. They have only breed and multiplied in strength since his absence, and they grow all the more daring with each passing season,” Oropher's uncannily clear eyes were the ones to unveil her thoughts and answer what she did not say aloud. “Our people walk in Shadow as they have since before Araw the Huntsman came upon us, and yet, little trouble is that to those who are hidden beyond the fencing of the West.”

    “Oropher,” Elmo's voice was weary as he curbed his son. “We knew the good – and the ill – of this land when we decided to stay amongst these trees. It was our own inattention that day that let do -”

    “ - inattention?” Oropher interrupted, his voice taking on a stung note of incredulousness. “You infer a lapse on our part when it is precisely the sort of inattention of the Valar that leaves Gorthaur free to continue his master's fine work. We have their protection and their love, but only so long as we heed their commands to cross the Sea and dwell underneath their feet in the West. Yet, if we dare refuse to leave the land where the One set us down and bid us awaken - ”

    “ - Oropher,” Elmo's voice turned hard. “Your words are blasphemous, and I will hear no more of them.”

    “My words are true,” Oropher returned hotly, a mighty flame kindling in his gaze as he stood. His eyes slipped to hers, and she watched where he hesitated before pushing on to say: “You walked these woods, singing to the birds as Middle-earth awakened, but did you ever once notice the shadow polluting the ground beneath your feet as you spent centuries in your enchantment? If you, whom I truly believe to love this land, are so blind to that which taints it, how can those who are an Ocean away, proud and uncaring upon their thrones, ever - ”

    “ - Oropher!” Elmo's voice turned thunderous as he too stood to confront his son. No matter the fire of Oropher's convictions, he stepped back as his father's spirit fluctuated in anger, the strength of an Unbegotten Elf-lord not a thing to be taken lightly in anger. “Your words are not right for speaking at this time. Today is a day of welcome and thanksgiving, and I will not have these doubts and misgivings drawn forth to plague it – just as the Shadow would delight to see, would it not? All too often our eyes see our own paths, and our own paths only, but I cannot believe that what happened to your mother is due to the One who created us all turning His eye away from His creation. If your words are true, then there is a hopelessness for dwelling in this land - rather than a fight that we are more than ready and willing to wage. I refuse to believe those thoughts . . . just as she did when she dwelt amongst us.”

    “Yet,” Oropher held himself strong before his father's words, refusing to be cowed, “what would she now say if we could hear her speak from whatever dark corner of the earth she has been taken to? Would she truly think that the Valar have remembered her, or would she think herself forsaken, as beneath their far-off attention as the day is from night?”

    Elmo looked at his son as if he'd suffered a blow, and only then did the steel lining Oropher's spine give way. He took a step forward, regret in his eyes – but not for his words, she saw, for they were those he truly believed – but for the pain he had inflicted by picking open a scab on his father's wounds.

    “Adar,” Oropher started to amend his speech, his voice heavy, and Melian found herself standing when Elmo's eyes closed off to anything his son would say.

    “Your son's words are unsettling, yet I cannot begrudge his speaking them,” Melian forced her voice to be still and poised as she came to stand between father and son. “I cannot say anything as to the thoughts of the Valar, except to state with some certainty that I have seen the mind of the One through His Song, and I know without a doubt that He cherishes that which we created. I cannot speak for Him, but I can speak for His love, and promise with all certainty that someday . . .” she swallowed, having to find her words once more. “Not forever shill this land remain in the dark,” she finished simply. “He will not allow it to remain so.”

    Much as Elmo's spirit had filled the room in anger, she reached out and touched the hearts surrounding her with peace and contentment. She worked to sooth tempers and bolster spirits, feeling both the deep gouges upon Elmo's soul and the angry lines holding Oropher's spirit tight. Both were a wound of a different sort, and she would see them put to rights and healed if she could.

    . . . but such a healing could not be accomplished all at once, and she took it as a boon when Oropher turned to her and nodded, grateful for her intervention. “If your words are truly His words, then this world stands poised for the better. Only, please forgive those of us, your grace, who have been too burdened with evidence to the contrary to accept them right away.”

    Elmo did not speak as to her words, but instead went on to ask in curiosity about the things which had only been fragmented tales from Oromë's mouth up until then. She was grateful to answer him, telling what she knew about the Song itself, and then more personal tales about her kindred amongst the Ainur - all the while pushing her own wonderings . . . her own questions of deep unease . . . aside for another time.

    All the while, Thingol watched her, his pride a constant presence at her side, holding her upright where even she knew doubt and tried her best not to falter.

    My queen, he spoke simply into her thoughts, his pride and love filling her. In reply she once again took his arm – even if this time in the figurative way – and held herself upright on the strength of his belief.



    .

    .

    CXCIII. Reach

    Though she'd given her voice to aid with the creation of the world, she did not think that she understood it – not truly – until bringing herself to know it as she did now.

    After his return, Thingol took it upon himself to visit every band of his people that had settled in Beleriand - as the land was just now being called. Denethor and his people came from the river-lands in the south to welcome the return of the king, and many of the stray elves who'd abandoned the Great Journey to live in scattered pockets of the forests poured into Neldoreth to see the return of the one who'd so long been lost. They completed their tour of Eglador before pushing further north and west to meet with the Sindar who still swore fealty to Thingol's rule. Their journey at last took them to the Sea, where a great many of his folk had settled – not out of love for the forests, but in awe for the ocean and its ways. Ulmo had a strong follower and devoted servant in Círdan the Shipwright, who was kindred to her husband from afar, and as pleased to see him now as Elmo had been as the first.

    All the while she quietly watched and learned about the people who were now her own - a people who now looked to her for wisdom and leadership as much as they did her husband.

    “Do you ever regret not crossing the Sea?” she asked once, watching the starlight wan across the waves in the onset of night. “The Trees are a wondrous sight, as you know, and Aman would have granted your people the chance to learn at the feet of the Valar themselves – free of the Shadow tainting this land.”

    “I have always found it odd that your kin would create a whole world, only to find beauty in but a fraction of it,” Thingol returned, running a gentle hand through her hair as he said so. She leaned into the caress with but a thought, eons of time uncounted without such casual affections having made her quite greedy for even the slightest of touches. “There is a beauty to be found in Ennor, both in the stars and the sleeping forests. I would not so readily forsake these lands - even were it not for the wishes of my people. I do not feel the urge to wander from here; I feel rooted, as if I am a part of the forest itself. I do not feel the need to fly like a seed to foreign soil when all I want or know is here, content and poised to thrive.”

    Melian nodded in reply to his words, hearing enough of an echo from Oropher's thoughts to turn them over again in her mind. She pressed her lips together, making her mouth a thin line as she closed her eyes, listening to the hymn of the sea and the whisper of the stars. An echo of the original Song remained in each, the notes of which she even now held onto in the marrow of her bones.

    “And I, more so than most, have a memory of the Trees to revisit whenever I so desire,” Thingol remarked. “If ever I find myself forgetting, I need only look at your eyes. Valinor was meant to be a gift, but I have found my blessing and more in you.”

    He spoke simply, the truth lining his words in place of any flowery attempt to seduce or woo. In answer, she felt herself anchor on his words as much as she did on the continued proof she had of her Father's love in the ocean and stars and deeply rooted trees. She settled back against him for the night, feeling true contentment fill her as she hummed, giving voice to the Song so that he too could hear that which was always a lingering melody within her.

    In that moment, the Trees and the Light were but a very far off memory, but in that seemingly little there was worlds enough.



    .

    .

    CXCIV. Limb

    Time passed. The forests continued to sleep in Yavanna's thrall, while the stars wheeled in the sky through day and night as they set themselves to the pattern of Varda's dance.

    Their people were content, even thriving, in the not-light that existed so far from the Trees. All around her, children grew and families united in marriage over and over again as the numbers of the Firstborn branched out all the more so with each passing season. In her own family she counted herself blessed to welcome Oropher's son into the world, not even a year after their return. Barely ten years later, Elmo's daughter Gilornel – a kind, soft-spoken women who'd wed one of Círdan's folk by the sea – returned to Eglador to introduce her son to her father, a smiling little boy named Amdír, tellingly crowned with the pale hair of Elmo's line and blinking his blue eyes in welcome to the world. Their halls seemed to ever be full with the sound of children laughing, and everywhere she looked there were mothers holding and scolding and watching their little ones grow. In the millennia to come, those early days of her people would remain a cherished time in her memories – for, as the centuries passed and the numbers of the Eldar stabilized, children turned to a rare blessing within the halls of Doriath and every other Elven-realm. But, in those days, the pitter-pattering of little feet was an often heard melody - one whose rhythm she could feel as a refrain of the original Song itself.

    Until, one day, she at last understood that her fascination with the children of others stemmed from a missing . . . a gap in her own being, the knowledge filling her spirit with an unexpected jolt of wanting as she understood her own mind. It was a longing – a desire – she had for some time now, she at last understood, having just only put a name to her wish.

    Yet, she was slow to find herself with child as the years passed. Children amongst the Firstborn were conscious decisions of their parents, who each gave of their fëar to create the soul of a child. Even when purposefully attempting such a union, their efforts were slow to produce any yield, and she often found herself holding a hand over her barren womb in frustration, dreading the idea that her stealing her husband away may have trapped him to a childless eternity – denying him one of the simplest fulfillment of nature there was to be had.

    It was a thought that threatened to bring her low at times, even when he endeavored to buoy her against it. “I do not need children, I need only you,” Thingol was ever quick to assure her. Yet, while the words could act as a bandage, they could never fully stem the source of her wound . . . until, one day, she decided to take action herself, and beseech a higher power for aid in her endeavors.

    It had been some time since she'd last spoken to her kindred in Aman - not since she'd heard their voices in her mind, moving her to end her spell with Elwë. It had taken her only a moment to decide that where he went, she would go also – no matter the surprise and unease that greeted her decision from the minds of her masters. While she did not have the Valar's disapproval, neither did she have their blessing, and she'd been slow to seek them out to answer her questions as a result.

    Yet, she now stood in a peaceful dell, just beyond their dwelling. The starlight shone down through the trees in a spill of silver twilight, rippling across the surface of the silver basin she had filled with water. Scarcely breathing, she held a hand over the water to summon the presence she needed to reach, looking to the Mirror and asking it to show her . . .

    “It has been long since last we spoke, my daughter,” a low, sonorous voice filled the emptiness of the clearing around her.

    Melian inclined her head before the Mirror, seeing where a hazy outline of a woman robed in silver and grey looked up from the water within. Estë was always slow to take on a physical form; instead, Melian saw her face from the corner of her eye, only to blink and lose her in her sight. Rather did she know the Vala by the dance of the willow trees in Lórien, by the feather-light touch of the wind upon her face as peace draped over her spirit in reply to Estë's presence - the Healer ever providing rest and recovery to those who called upon her name.

    Though she was not in Lórien now, she still knew Estë by the same – by the dance of the trees and the ripples upon the water. She searched, and was rewarded by a flickering of kind eyes, gazing on her through the powers of the Mirror. Melian breathed in deep, and felt peace and renewal fill her, even without her former Mistress knowing the reason for her being called.

    Or, rather . . . Estë knew the exact reason for her summons, the Sea not distance enough to close her eyes to one who had once been a cherished spirit amongst her fold of Maiar.

    “I was unsure if you would call me,” Estë spoke from the Mirror, her voice something that Melian felt against her spirit rather than heard with her physical ears.

    “I have never once forgotten my beginning, nor those who shared the beginning of all with me,” Melian replied to the Lady of Lórien.

    “Then you will remember that the Ainur were made for the sole purpose of preservation and creation. And yet, our creation we sought only through the will of our Father, and we still our hands of our work when He decrees that we be at rest,” Estë said after a long moment, pregnant with pause. “We were not made to birth, so much as to cultivate, to keep.”

    Briefly, Oropher's words flashed through her mind, and she swallowed back the pang they brought with them – a defiant pang, that wished to press and poke and prod. Even so, she bowed her head to the woman she had served for countless eons of time - since before the birth of the physical universe, even – unwilling as she was to let her mouth fill with such words in the Healer's presence.

    Yet, her mind was open before the Vala, and there was nothing she thought that the other could not see.

    “For now, you have known only the sweet, my daughter,” Estë said softly. “Yet, what shall befall you when you are forced to know of the bitter? Ennor is not a kind land, and it was to be left to the Shadow we could not wholly erase while Arda is still marred. Do you truly wish to bind yourself to this taint in such an irrevocable way? Would you raise a child in a land that knows of such toil?”

    “Rather would I say that I'd appreciate the sweet all the more so for partaking of the bitter – as all in this land learn to do.” She bowed her head in respect, even when she could not wholly swallow her words away. “I would see the beauty in all that was born through our Song, not only the fraction that lies protected in fenced off Valinor.”

    She expected Estë's eyes to flash, to take offense as one of the Eldar would have perhaps known offense for a flaw in their thinking being suggested - no matter how gently. Instead, Estë's presence merely flickered. Melian briefly had the impression of her tilting her head, sorrow in the fathomless cast of her eyes.

    “You speak as the Firstborn speak,” Estë remarked without infliction in her voice.

    “I speak as I think,” Melian returned in kind. “You know me well enough to know that I would not allow my thoughts to be dictated by any other.”

    “Well do I know that,” Estë replied. “Well as I too know that you are not one to allow your mind be swayed by any other – as you are even now deaf to any words I may think to speak. This is a path you are determined to set your feet on.” There was not a question in the Healer's voice.

    “I am Maiar; I was made to create,” Melian tilted her head up to meet the Vala's eyes – catching them within the flickering shape she presented to the physical world. “These were words you yourself uttered but moments ago. Then, is it not a cruelty that I cannot birth a child as even the simplest of creatures can? These people . . . they live and love and thrive whilst dwelling alongside that which we call marred. In the end, it is the simplest bonds of kindred and ties of the heart that make that living – that thriving - possible. Please,” a note of pleading entered her voice, no matter that she had been determined not to do so. “For an eternity I am bound to my husband, just as he is to me. Do not punish him for my selfishness in being unable to let him go. Let me give him a child.”

    “You openly claim such covetousness on your part, but do not think that it was selfish of him to try to bind that which he had no claim over, that which was higher than him as the stars are to the earth?” Estë returned. “Some would say that you reap as you have sewn, and wonder for your now seeking blessings for the consequences of that which you have wrought.”

    It was not only Estë she spoke to then, Melian understood, knowing that her case was one being heard by all of the Valar. She stiffened, and fought the physical urge she had to clench her fists, to make a line of her mouth. She could imagine stern Tulkas speaking so, while Nienna whispered of the pains Arda suffered, and Ulmo coaxed in behalf of the land he loved above all of her kin . . . perhaps Yavanna would speak of the people who loved her trees more so than anything else, and Aulë would support his wife . . . She blinked, and had a flash of wise Manwë looking on with Varda ever thoughtful by his side . . .

    “I will not apologize for loving my husband,” she at last returned, forcing her voice not to come out as a hiss. Had she met with the Valar upon a physical plane, she would have felt the urge to bare her teeth as if she faced a predator of claw and fang. “I will not bow my head in shame for looking on all that we have created and finding something worthy amongst the mar, something beautiful amongst the Shadow. I will not have you cast me as a fallen, shameful thing for seeking out, and finding my rightful place in the world - for this is where I belong . . . it is a belonging I felt only when Singing as our Father bid us to Sing. I cannot believe that my love, that his love, is contrary enough to His will to be such a source of disdain for you. No, I refuse to believe that I acted contrary to His will in any way.

    “Tell me, my lord Manwë,” she tilted her head to the side, feeling the immense presence of the Lord of Heaven looking down on her, even when she could see him not, “as you have our Father's ear above all others . . . am I something grotesque in the eyes of the One? Am I a source of shame, am I a mistake in his creation to be ignored as Melkor's surviving taint in the Outer Lands is to be ignored?”

    “You are nothing of the sort to be grouped in with the likes of him,” Estë returned, and Melian felt where her words sank in – where they were turned over and examined and weighed. “Yet, you are a child of my spirit as much as the child you wish to bear will be a daughter to you. How can I let you make a decision that will someday bring you grief, no matter the joys you now think it worth?”

    “This is how each of the Eruhíni live their lives,” Melian tilted her head up as she said so. “And I would not forsake the sweet for fear of the bitter, as you would call it.”

    “Then, you would truly force this from my hand?” Estë at last gave on a sigh that was equal parts weariness and defeat. “And yet . . . from your daughter shall come answers uncountable to the Shadow in the generations ahead – just as the worst of the Children in both hate and vile disregard for our Father will come from your line in the ages of the world to come. This, Manwë has revealed as the will of the One, and I have not the power within me to deny your request on His behalf.

    “Only . . . remember that I hold you dear, Melyanna, and care first and foremost about the Maiar of Lórien. It is your happiness I care for, and someday . . .”

    Melian felt where Estë's presence rose from the Mirror. The Healer pressed a mother's kiss to her brow, filling her with a wave of warmth – the incalculable light of her spirit seeking out and finding that which had been beyond her reach, and opening that which had previously been closed.

    Though her task was done, her gift given, Estë lingered - the light of her spirit simply a warmth upon her own, both fond and sorrowful all at once. “When Ennor leaves you bereft of all you hold dear, know that your place is always welcome here, my child. Remember that there are those waiting to welcome you and hold you close.”

    Estë kissed her one last time, and Melian felt her presence wink away, leaving her alone amongst the trees. She felt strangely light in her body after bearing the heavy weight of the Powers each looking down on her in consideration. And yet, she did not feel alone in the parting. She did not feel empty.

    Rather . . .

    That night, she kissed her husband with a passion akin to what she had felt their first night together in the forest. There was meaning and want in her hands; hunger and purpose in the claim of her mouth, so much so that Thingol soon drew back with a question in his eyes, feeling the low burn of power and life all but rising to flare from her skin.

    “Trust me,” she muttered against his mouth, their breaths mingling as she took only that moment to assure him. No more needed to be said, and this time he kissed her with a want that both answered to and matched her own. She hummed in approval before pushing him down onto the bed they shared, ready to let the night lead them on from there.



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    CXCV. Joint

    Overhead, the stars coloured the sky with a haze of silver morning, shining down on where she was still entwined with her husband. Contentment made her limbs heavy, and satisfaction was a drowsy warmth upon her spirit as she curled in closer to him, not yet willing to move with the day. Sharing a matching languor, he ran a slow hand up and down the bare skin of her back in a lazy caress, remapping the familiar lines of her body with a simple, easy affection that had her pulse slowing to match his own in reply. Yet, even within the comfortable glow of morning, she could feel a question in his touch . . . wondering over the altered shape of their bond, feeling not only that which she had used Estë's gift to create, but also -

    “Melian, what have you done?” Thingol muttered a moment later. His voice was deep and drowsy at the first, only to sharpen as he felt the minute differences in her spirit.

    She was slow to reply, still lost in the boneless contentment that she had awakened with. “My physical form is now anchored to your spirit,” she answered, her voice slow and unconcerned as she spoke. “I can no longer morph my shape at will, and should any harm ever befall you, my body too would be forfeit, just as your own hröa is bound to your fëa. In the event of your death, I would return to the West as an unhoused spirit, there to rest and recover until I found power enough to take my original form once more.”

    She felt where he was fully awake now, his fear and unease for her choice filling her mind with all of its sharp edges. “Melian - ”

    “ - is that not a risk that all of the Eruhíni live under?” she intercepted any argument he could think to make before he gave it voice. She propped herself up on one elbow, shifting her weight to better hold his gaze as she said: “It is a risk that you live under . . . a risk that our daughter shall live under . . . I shall be no different, my love.”

    Her words were all that was needed for the sharp prickling within their bond to turn to something wondrous – something hopeful, but afraid to hope lest she speak the words that would free him from a most tantalizing dream.

    “A daughter?” Thingol asked, his whisper a tumultuous thing on the still morning air.

    Melian was fully awake now, and her eyes burned when she blinked, even though there was nothing but joy in her spirit when she inclined her head and answered: “A daughter,” in a voice that quivered with the strength of her emotions.

    His eyes were still wide, the wonder slow to leave his features as he trailed a hesitant hand to her stomach. Although he would not be able to feel the physical proof of their child for some time, she felt where he searched to find the smallest spark of their daughter's fëa, already living and burning with awareness against their spirits. His wonder was contagious, and Melian placed her hand atop his own, her answering smile all he needed to know that this was not still some waking dream - stumbled upon in the night, only to be a source of cold missing come the dawn.

    The morning then passed even slower, they each lingering to speak of the future with bright, eager voices, ready as they were for the days ahead.



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    CXCVI. Stretch

    Melian gave birth to her daughter the following spring, amongst the beech trees of Neldoreth.

    The birth was long and difficult - a fitting ordeal to match what had been a long and difficult pregnancy, with her skin stretching and her bones reshaping in an alien way as she forced her body, her spirit, to do that which her physical-self had decided as unnatural, as foreign. Where she had merely felt rooted in her body before, there were days during her pregnancy that she felt trapped - smothered and weighed down with a great and heavy burden. While the knowledge of what she stood to gain more than made up for the discomfort of what she endured, a discomfort still it was, and in many ways she welcomed her first pangs of distress as the light awaiting at the end of a rather long and arduous path.

    It took many hours, and more pain and struggling than she'd first thought to expect, but triumph and a boneless sort of satisfied exhaustion fill her when her daughter was at last birthed crying into the world. No matter how abused her own shape was, no matter how she had battled and persevered, she had overcome, she had endured – so much so that every pain was forgotten as that small pink body was cradled close to her own, and her daughter's bright grey eyes met hers for the first.

    “Lúthien,” Thingol whispered when at last the sheets were changed and their daughter was properly cleaned and swaddled. He'd stayed with her throughout the whole of her labor – doing his best to take what he could of her pain onto himself and pour strength and determination into her in return – and he now sat by her side, holding their daughter so they could both look upon the babe. She turned in her father's hold with an instinctive trust, already knowing his voice and recognizing the touch of his spirit from the many nights he had spent speaking to the growing shape of her stomach.

    Lúthien,” he repeated again, the name gaining strength and song as his suggestion turned from idea to decision, “for she has enchanted me with but a glance - as easily and as surely as her mother once did.”

    Lúthien,” Melian tried the name and approved of its shape with naught but a moment of consideration. “It suits her, husband.”

    “It may be the bias of a father,” Thingol continued on a soft voice, “but she is the fairest creature the One has ever seen fit to bless this world with. I cannot imagine the Starkindler herself bearing even half of her beauty.”

    “I have seen the heavens leap into being and the seas rush to fill their confines,” she whispered in turn, feeling her heart seize with a great, boundless love, “yet even they were a sight which pales to that before me.”

    Mindful of where her every limb still ached with a dull pain, he moved to join her in their bed, stretching out beside her and drawing her into his arms so that she could rest cheek by cheek with her babe against her husband's chest. Thus so content, she closed her eyes and let a drowsy rest take her, complete and content as the soft warmth of her family rose to settle against her spirit.



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    CXCVII. Teeth

    Motherhood was another hurdle to be leapt, another role to learn as surely as she learned that of wife and queen and one physical rather than a spirit creature.

    Some days were easy, and she adapted as easily as she did to the altering refrains of the Song as it was launched into being. Yet, some days were perplexing, and a moment or two were even trying – especially when it was her own ignorance that proved to be ill for her daughter . . . who was even now crying, fitfully and seemingly without end. Changing her, feeding her, rocking her in her arms - nothing served to sooth her daughter's discomfort. She did not understand what was wrong with the babe, and every effort she took to sooth her only seemed to frustrate her more.

    Melian was out of options and as frustrated as Lúthien was - the child even now crying pitifully in her arms.

    “Ah, she is teething,” Elmo was the one to discern what was wrong with the princess. At first, she had not understood why he placed a finger in her daughter's mouth, only to know a stunned sort of bewilderment when his pressing against her gums turned Lúthien's cries to little more than pitiful hiccups of sound.

    “Teething?” she asked, trying to conceal her surprise at such a revelation.

    “She was not born with teeth, your grace,” Elmo answered, his soft way of speaking ever pleasantly enlightening her, rather than making her feel as if she'd missed something that should have been obvious. “Or, she was, but not where you could see them. They come in only with time, and the process is uncomfortable for the child.”

    Melian blinked, wondering why she had not thought to consider such a thing before.

    Elmo noticed her expression, and smiled a soft smile, full of memory. “It took Celebressil and I nearly two days to first understand what was ailing Oropher. We then knew the signs and were able to more quickly anticipate the needs of our children. You grow as a parent, and each lesson learned better equips you to tackle the next hurdle.”

    She watched where his eyes traced over Lúthien, his gaze seemingly far beyond the child now happily gumming against the finger he so graciously provided. Melian wondered if he then imagined a different child in Lúthien's place . . . a different woman standing at his side, and felt sorrow fill her for the thought.

    “A cold rag will do well for her to chew on,” Elmo muttered. “Oropher and Gilornel preferred ice over all else, while Galadhon had a liking for cold carrots – or any such root we could find. It is only a matter of discovering what she prefers.” He then blinked, coming back to himself, and when he looked over at her, his expression was fond.

    And yet, though his was a smile full of acceptance – of peace – she found that it was a peace she could not share. She held her daughter, and for the first felt as if hers was a stolen blessing . . . a selfish peace taken when those around her knew not of such contentment.

    “If I . . . if I could move the Ainur to . . .” she swallowed, unsure how to continue with her words. For all of her vast power . . . for all of her divinity and endless days, she then felt constrained in her bones. She could feel the stars wheel overhead, she could feel the trees as they swayed in their slumber . . . yet, for all of the immense power cloaking her as one of the favored children of Eru, she could not aid those she had come to love even more dearly than she had her Maiar kin.

    “I know you would,” Elmo whispered softly in reply. Lúthien, thus lulled from her discomfort, then blinked and closed her eyes in exhaustion. He removed his finger from her mouth once she was soothed, and leaned over to kiss Lúthien's brow in a loving gesture. “I know, my lady, and I . . . I thank-you.”

    His gratitude was sincere, and he said nothing more on the subject - not then, or ever. Yet Melian remembered, and could not ever bring herself to forget.



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    CXCVIII. Eyes

    It was well into the unwaking hours when she felt a glimmer of sensation brush against the wards she'd established around Neldoreth. She was instantly awake, feeling a sense of wrongness pulse in the marrow of her bones. But when she looked, all was silence around her. She glanced, seeing where her husband had fallen asleep with Lúthien in the rocker by her cradle - he having been the last to rise and change her in the night. After a moment's consideration she left them both sleeping, reaching out with her senses to find where there was not a threat awaiting her, but rather a searching feeling - a curious probe, like a wolf scenting the air for trace of a deer.

    Hating the time it took her to walk from place to place when simply appearing where she wished would of been preferred, she made her way through the sleeping halls and out into the dark night, her stride barely ruffling the silver grass as she looked to find . . .

    In the end, she needed not of secrecy to come upon her foe - for he stood out in the open, his hand not braced in any form of attack, but rather, in curiosity as he brushed his senses against her magicks, testing her spells for both weakness and strength. She felt her mouth turn down in an expression of distaste - one that was more Elven than Maiar - but the emotion behind the gesture was true enough to both races as she stopped some paces away, refusing to hide in the shadows before the likes of him.

    Though she'd known her fellow Maia but little in the time before his betrayal, Mairon the Admirable was one she remembered as a spirit of white-gold flame, burning brightly and assuredly at his master's side. But though he was now the favourite of a Vala, Aulë's favourite he was not, and it was a blow of its own to see how little his form had changed to reflect that defection. His fall of copper hair, the beautifully sharp cast of his features, the flames he bore in place of eyes – all were familiar to her. Only a certain greyness tinting his bronzed skin, the dark bruises colouring the flesh around his eyes, and the cruel twist of his black and scarlet armor declared who it was he now served, and served well. That assured expression – ever bordering on haughtiness – now held a twist of cruelty as he wore his spirit bright in the night, rather than subdued and subjected by Aulë's side.

    “Ah, I recognized your . . . unique mark upon the spells,” Mairon remarked, tapping an armored finger against the invisible wards. A wash of deep violet light answered as he wounded the spell, scarlet sparks flashing from his touch.

    “Mairon,” she greeted stiffly, drawing herself up to the full height of her physical body. Her voice and her demeanor was that of a queen speaking to an errant subject, and the clearing itself answered her unease - the ground turning tense and the air stilling as if holding a breath.

    “Melyanna,” he returned in kind, little impressed by the rancor in her voice. He inclined his head mockingly, though he would not bow to her, even in jest. “Or is it Melian now, and Queen Melian, at that?” he raised a sharply arched brow in derision. “There are some who would say that you married beneath you, though I suppose I can understand the appeal – after all, why wilt away as one of the many amongst the simple minds filling Lórien when you could instead rule those lesser as an unchallenged mistress?” He shrugged. “If that sort of thing appeals to you, that is. The plan would lose its luster for me with subjection to an elvish mate. Really, sister, how deviant your tastes are. Out of all our siblings, I would not have expected such of you.”

    “Seeing the company you now prefer, and the alliances you have made in the name of power, I shall take your opinions as affirmation of my course being the right one,” she returned testily, slipping into the language of the Ainur with little thought. “Yet, I will not stand here and listen to your words. What are you here for, Mairon?” She tensed with her question - expecting violence, expecting for him to lunge, serpent-fast, though to what end she did not know.

    Yet, his posture remained poised and unassuming in answer, even though his stillness was the deceptive peace of a roaming jungle-cat. Danger cloaked him, toxic and beguiling, but it was a leashed power, a restrained might. His smile was an unfortunately beautiful expression as it softened his features, and she then knew that he'd guessed the shape of her thoughts. She set her mouth at the knowledge, little pleased.

    “I come here with a business proposition,” he at last deigned to answer her. “I come, not for myself, but for Melkor my master, Ruler of Arda and the rightful Lord of this world. He wishes to treat with you, to see if your services are those he could perhaps make use of in the days to come.”

    “He wishes for me to serve him as you serve him?” she returned, shaping her voice as if he were an erring child before her, with his mind yet too simple to understand the full weight of his error. “I have seen how Melkor treats those who ally with him, and I wish not for such a yoke upon my shoulders. I even wonder for you, brother, and your lowering yourself to such a position. The Hunter, my people call you – such a task is one that baffles me, as beneath you as I'd first imagine it to be.”

    “The Hunter? Is that the title they give to the many assigned that task?” Mairon raised an amused brow, her words striking him as a gentle breeze against a deeply rooted tree. “You are right, such snatch and grab raids are beneath me. Rather am I there at the moment of . . . improvement for the Firstborn, shall we say. My Master seeks to better the creation of his siblings without expending too much of his power in creating anew – more so than he already has, that is. I would have guessed that your own streak of . . . rebelliousness would see a sort of beauty in that which he returns to your . . . subjects. They are quite perfected, are they not?”

    Melian had yet to meet an Orc, protected as the Sindar were in the forests, but she'd heard tales from others – tales of those they faced in attack, and whispered stories of those whose loved ones were returned as twisted, foreign creatures . . . so much so that they were released to Námo in pity, as one would take mercy on a rabid dog. She felt a wave of anger pour through her veins, molten and consuming with its potency. Had she a spirit's body, she knew that the light of her incredulity would have been blinding in reply.

    “I remember the things you liked to forge in Almaren, Mairon,” she found her voice trembling with the great shape of her anger. “Do not tell me that you agree with his methods any more so than I.”

    “Perhaps they are not quite elegant enough for my tastes,” Mairon shrugged. “But they are an outlet for my Lord's frenzies, and the Orc-host is a useful tool, in its own way.”

    “You were ever the craftsman of craftsmen,” she lauded witheringly. “Aulë must be so proud of his favourite student trading in his wares for such wanton cruelty.”

    “Is it cruelty when the craft I inflict is not anything I have not already known from experience? I shape the living the same as I would a fold of metal – such as a piece of art is made beautiful, or useful, by the blows of a hammer and the heat of a furnace,” This Mairon returned drolly, his flames for eyes sparking. “You may call it by any name that suits you, however.”

    “And this is a service you wish for me to enter into?” she asked after a moment. “A service of blood and black decay? A service to serve a shadow of what Melkor's might once was? For does he, or does he not, still serve his sentence in Námo's dark halls beyond the Sea?”

    “Oh my dear Melyanna, have you not heard?” Mairon asked, blinking in deceptive pity for her lack of enlightenment. “You have dwelt amongst your tree-fairies for too long if you are so ignorant to the goings on in the Blessed Realm. Out of the graciousness and mercy of our lord Manwë's heart,” for this his face took on a flicker of scorn, “Melkor has been pardoned of his great many sins, and even now serves his parole in the golden lands of Valinor.”

    No,” her first instinct was to deny him, to believe him not. “Your forked tongue speaks only lies.”

    “Believe what you will,” Mairon shrugged, and it was his lack of care as to whether or not she swallowed his falsehood that had her, for a dangerous moment, wondering if his words were true. A chill swept though her bones in reply, though the night air was warm with summer. “What stands as the truth is the that my Master is poised to return. When he does, he's always held an . . . appreciation for those who bring themselves to think beyond what the Valar tell them to think; who act beyond what they are told they can and cannot do.”

    “Your path and mine are different in every possible way, Mairon. Do not fool yourself by looking on them and seeing them as equal,” she retorted.

    “Are they truly so different?” Mairon inquired, refusing to rise to the rancor in her voice. “Did we not look after the Music to find a world that was lacking, and the Powers that birthed that world wanting? Did we not both long for more . . . and did we not each find an object worthy of our devotion, in our own ways?”

    His eyes took on a glazed quality, the flames within his gaze banking and glowing . . . until, in a moment of unsettling realization she understood that he did not only serve his Master, but he adored him. There was danger to be found in such a bond, she knew – for anything Melkor asked his Lieutenant would obey without question, even if he bid him flay his own flesh from his bones . . . this Mairon would do so willingly, and reverently.

    Yet, he blinked, and the flames of his gaze turned consuming once more. He turned to her, and regarded her with a hard, considering look.

    “You may even bring your . . . offspring with you,” Mairon's mouth turned upwards in distaste, as if his words were foul to the taste. “She is pretty enough to be amusing once she grows, and there is a power within her for being only half Ainu. With the proper schooling -”

    “ - touch her,” Melian found her cracking mask of serenity breaking outright, a terrible rage binding her limbs and setting her eyes aglow in such a way that no form of mere flesh could hide the might of her divinity, “and there will not be enough left of you to banish to the Void. This I promise you, Mairon.”

    “And such a promise it is, Melyanna. Prove it,” Mairon's voice was a low, sinful purr in reply to her threat. She blinked, and where one moment he stood the length of the clearing away from her, he stood with only a breath of space between their bodies a heartbeat later. Gently, too gently, he traced his gauntleted hand over her cheek in a mockingly tender gesture.

    The power that had been rising up to the surface of her skin she then loosed in a flood of iridescent light, shining from the darkest of blues to the brightest of silvers in a pantomime of the star-dance above their heads. She put her all into the blow, and while Mairon backed a step away from her in answer to her might, he did not stumble.

    Again and again she struck, yet he merely brushed her assault of power away with a wave of his hand. He did not return her blows, which only drew her own power brighter and brighter in reply until the clearing was alight around them.

    “Weak, Melyanna,” he tsked, shrugging off the lingering wisps of pure energy with a bored look of indifference. Even still, his eyes burned as one hungry in reply to her display of power. “Weak . . . but with such potential.”

    “Be gone with you!” she finally exclaimed. “I will have your spirit poison these eaves no more, and neither will I listen to the venom of your words. Leave, now, before I force you to.”

    Mairon chuckled in reply to her anger. “It saddens me that you were not more amenable to my offer,” he inclined his head, the copper wave of his hair falling to shield his eyes as if he were truly one contrite. “Yet I would have you think on this: Melkor returns, and when he does, will the Valar move to chain him once more? They have all they want from this land in the shape of the Firstborn who now reside as their footstool in the West. What will happen to you and yours upon his return? Will you fight - to the death and detriment of how many? Or . . . would you join us now, you and all of yours, and serve a lord who loves this land in entirety?”

    “Your lord is the reason for the taint marring this world,” she hissed her final refusal, “And I would not infect myself and my people with that poison.”

    He looked at her, all teasing and measured scorn gone from his gaze as he truly evaluated her, the burning in his eyes and the beauty of his face a terrible thing to behold. At long last, he backed away from her, and tilted his head in farewell.

    “Then this is where we then part ways, Melyanna . . . And yet . . . I do not think we have spoken our last in regards to my master's offer. I see now that you are the sort who prefers to be courted, and so . . . look for my gift, for soon it shall come. Afterward, we shall speak again.”

    Melian waved her hand in reply to his words, and another wave of pure light flooded from her fingertips. And yet, by the time her blow struck where he once stood, he was already gone, with only a wisp of smoke remaining to mar the clearing.

    She lingered, her hands still aglow with power, staring where he had once stood for a long, long time.







    . . . to be continued when I finish editing my next batch of words. ;) [face_mischief]

    [:D]


    ~MJ @};-
     
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  23. WarmNyota_SweetAyesha

    WarmNyota_SweetAyesha Chosen One star 8

    Registered:
    Aug 31, 2004
    W.O.W. Just. Glorious and awe-inspiring, like ... what. Is. There. To compare. :D

    Each wonderful scene was like a prismatic piece that all together makes a double rainbow. [face_love]

    =D= =D=
     
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  24. earlybird-obi-wan

    earlybird-obi-wan Chosen One star 6

    Registered:
    Aug 21, 2006
    Yes WOW, the glory of Melian.
     
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  25. AzureAngel2

    AzureAngel2 Chosen One star 6

    Registered:
    Jun 14, 2005
    That was a long, but beautiful update. You gave the characters so much grace & elegance.
     
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