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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. Mira_Jade

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

    Registered:
    Jun 29, 2004
    Nyota's Heart: Why thank-you! Elven marital practices fascinated me when I first read the Laws and Customs, so it was fun to explore that a little bit here. And these two crazy kids! They are just growing on me something fierce, and I am happy that you are enjoying their tale as well. [face_love][:D]

    Cael-Fenton: Thank-you. [:D] It can be a tricky thing to write about with too much or too little, so I'm glad that it came across well. :)



    This next piece is a bit of a 'set-up' ficlet for my reply to the latest NSWFF prompt, which I just need to finish editing at this point. We are dealing with familiar characters here, but this is my first time writing for Finrod's POV outside the context of a drabble - so, this was an interesting exercise for me! But first, I have a few notes. :)

    Finrod: Arafinwë(Finarfin)'s eldest son, and Galadriel's oldest brother, just in case that needed to be said. :p

    Orodreth: I am following the published Silmarillion with making him Arafinwë's son, rather than Angrod's, just because it is easier that way. The name of his wife, and Galathil's wife, are both made up by me, as is their relation to each other.

    Galathil: Celeborn's brother, and Nimloth's father. (Nimloth would later marry Lúthien's son, Dior, and become mother to Elwing. Yes, everyone is related. [face_laugh])

    Aegnor and Angrod: Finarfin's second and third-born, who were lords of Dorthonion in the northern most lands bordering Angband, and as such, they were the first to fall in the Dagor Bragolloch - the Battle of Sudden Flame - which was the fourth major battle fought in Beleriand.

    The Timeline: We are set almost ten years after the Dagor Bragolloch in this ficlet, which would put us just past the spring when Lúthien fell in love with Beren - at this point in time, she is already sneaking out to the forests to meet him, which means that poor Finrod here is once again shaping history - and his own death - without his having any idea of doing so. :(

    Galadriel/Celeborn: Canon never mentioned exactly when they married. We only know that at one point in the text it said that Galadriel 'dwelt' in Doriath for love of Celeborn, and then, at the time of Dior's marriage to Nimloth, it was mentioned that they were married. So, while this may be later than Tolkien would have intended, it suited my timeline personally, and that is that. ;)


    That said, thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoy. [:D]







    “what we choose for fear”

    CLXV. Bearing

    The halls of Menegroth were steeped in joy and revalrie as the whole of Doriath gathered together to celebrate a marriage centuries in the making. The couple yoked together that day was much beloved by the people, and all who gathered rejoiced to see their own finally happy and bound together as one.

    Which, was to say that the feasting hall was beautifully decorated in silver and white, glittering and splendid with a glory unique to Menegroth. Rich food was served in abundance, and the wine flowed freely – perhaps more freely than it should, truth be told. As a backdrop to all, Daeron had composed dozens of new selections just for this occasion – everything from lively reels meant for dancing, to a hauntingly soft melody that had accompanied the bride and groom trading their vows. Finrod had heard the finest of the Lindar sing for the Noldor King in his court, and he had even been blessed with hearing Maglor Fëanorian give his voice in song during more than one family occasion; and yet, none compared to Daeron and his gift for weaving the true Song into notes for strings and flute, for which the results were ever heartbreakingly beautiful. All in all, the people of Menegroth outdid themselves with making this a day his sister would never forget – for which Finrod was thankful.

    Nursing a goblet of a sweet white wine himself, Finrod stood out of the way of the dancing couples as he took in the sea of faces gathered to the attend the wedding feast. Although his joy for that day had been exclusive until then, he allowed himself a moment's pang when he thought about the faces who were missing from the crowd. Even amongst their kin who had crossed into Endórë, there were gaps, Finrod could not help but notice – and he did not even allow himself to consider the family they had left across the sea. His father never thought that he would not be able to give away his only daughter, and his mother never thought that a stranger would welcome her good-son into the house of Finarfin rather than herself. Even amongst their siblings there were gaping holes, with Aegnor and Angrod both not even ten years fallen. He himself had just barely escaped alive from Morgoth's wrath in the Dagor Bragolloch, and even then, he only did so for the aid of Barahir the mortal man, great as it was. Orodreth too had retreated to Nargothrond with his wife and child-daughter when Morgoth set his sights on Tol Sirion after the success of his initial campaign, and having his youngest brother and family near was but a small balm for that which they had lost.

    It had taken over a year for the lands to be cleared enough of Morgoth's filth for him to journey to Doriath to tell his sister of their losses in person. Greater than even he with the arts of the uncanny, Galadriel had felt the sundering of her kin in her soul. Even still, hearing him tell his firsthand account of the battle had brought tears to her eyes – tears that she had stubbornly refused to let fall. While she did not weep, she did not seem to be quite as tall when weighed down by her grief. The strength of her bearing had seemed the slightest bit forced; the light of her spirit the slightest bit dimmed, and he had hated to see her struck so low. Seeing her grieve was nearly as much a pain as the reason for their grief, and she had allowed him to hold her as they both shared their happier memories of their siblings - memories which he still had to force himself to cling to when his ruminations turned dark.

    Though Galadriel had known herself to love her Sindar prince for some time, she was only now binding herself in marriage to Celeborn Galadhonion. After their hurdle of healing from the news of the First Kinslaying – and the greater wound inflicted by Galadriel's silence on the matter - Finrod knew that Celeborn had been asking for his sister's hand in marriage all but daily, he knowing his own heart, and trusting that hers would recognize the same. For centuries she had delayed the inevitable - only accepting Celeborn's proposal the morning after her brothers were felled. They had then waited for a period of mourning out of respect for the dead, and as a result this day was now a bittersweet moment for the couple, filled with rejoicing and memory both.

    Now over a century ago, Orodreth only had to propose to Melethuil - a Sindarin maiden with gentle smiles, who perfectly matched his brother's even temperament - once. Melethuil was the sister of Nimethuil - the wife of Celeborn's brother Galathil, and there had been joy indeed in Doriath for their further binding the royal families together with their union. Orodreth and Meluthuil had lived beyond Doriath soon after their marriage, but every time they returned, Orodreth would dryly provide Celeborn with tips to ensnare his sister's heart – to which Celeborn always had a cutting retort or two ready to utter in reply.

    But now even Galathil and his wife were no more, as they had fallen to Orc blades when leaving the protection of Doriath to welcome Orodreth and Melethuil's daughter Finduilas into the world. They too were a gap where there should be none, and their daughter Nimloth was now a shy, quiet child for her loss. Celeborn and Galadriel had taken over the child's guardianship, and even with the couple striving to see to her healing, Nimloth's smiles were slow to come. Though younger, Finduilas now matched Nimloth much in body, and the girl had been overjoyed to find a playmate in Doriath when her parents arrived for Galadriel's wedding. The two were a smiling and happy pair, fast in friendship in the way that all children seemed to bear for each other.

    There were so many missing, Finrod let himself reflect with a sigh. The day before, shortly after his arrival, Galadriel had admitted in a rare moment of melancholy that she never thought to be denying Eärwen the joy of seeing her wed – for she had not come to Middle-earth seeking love. Some far off, missing part of her had been the force that kept Celeborn at arm's length from her – for though she denied it, rather would she have Celeborn approach her father rather than her brother, and rather would her mother had braided her hair and helped her sew her bridal gown, rather than Melian. Galadriel would never admit to such sentiment, even within the privacy of her own mind, but Finrod knew his sister better than she did herself – no matter her great wisdom and famed understanding. It only mattered that Celeborn knew her mind as well as he, and the silver lord was all patience and grace to match everything that was strength and pride about his sister - for which Finrod was more grateful than words could say.

    Galadriel had been nothing but glowing joy and serene smiles the whole of her wedding day, but the day before she had spoken to him of her regrets with a wistfulness she would refuse to let herself indulge in on the morrow. “I have waited for this long, and for what?” she had asked with regret in her voice. Her words had followed him saying that Aegnor had known her heart before she even did. Aegnor had known, and Angrod had approved of her choice even when he would sooner tease and pretend to find fault to cover the tenderness of his own emotions. Though they were not there in body, they had long known happiness for her in spirit – and better was it to feel that spirit linger than sully such an event with thoughts of mourning.

    “I have waited where once I may have simply lived," she continued, "and I have thus denied this day to those who could have rejoiced in its dawn alongside me. It is grief I feel as much as joy, and that grief is as bitter as my joy is sweet.”

    Her smile had pulled sadly at her mouth before she brusquely turned to wipe at her shinning eyes. She buried her grief, and instead turned the conversation to inquire of news from Nargothrond. “Two sons of Fëanor living underneath your roof?" she questioned - she having little liking for their half-uncles sons, and for Celegorm and Curufin less than all. "How do your halls still stand?” And that was that.

    Now Finrod stood on the sidelines of the wedding feast, and tried to find a serenity to match his sister's. It had been easy for most of the day, but now he was given time to reflect, standing still in his place with wine in hand. Such a pose did little to aid his restless mind, and he knew better than to give the shadowed parts of his mind a stillness in which to thrive in.

    Helping him – or, at the very least, turning his mind from his thoughts, for he was not one to normally indulge in melancholy – were the eyes of Doriath that constantly turned to him with speculation in their depths. The Doriathrim had already celebrated two marriages linking together the House of Finwë and the House of Elwë, and they wished to find a third. Even Thingol himself had been none too subtle in his commenting on the joys of matrimony and the peace of spirit that came with sharing one's centuries with a much loved mate. He did not know what Finrod could not speak of, and Melian's gentle understanding was enough to turn her husband away from his course in some instances, but not all.

    As if summoned by his thoughts, the bride Doriath would choose for him said in a warm voice from behind him: “You are not dancing.”

    Finrod turned to see Lúthien herself at his back, and he bowed in greeting to her – feeling the exact moment when the eyes of many in the hall turned to them with great interest – interest, and a speculation that bordered greatly on hope.

    “Alas, I have not your love for the art,” Finrod allowed himself to smile in reply – an expression that Lúthien was always ready to return, “Nor am I blessed with your light feet.”

    “But neither are your feet made of stone, and I shall not allow them to be your roots. Come,” she said, and where Lúthien commanded, Finrod obeyed.

    The couples spinning to Daeron's waltz gracefully made room for them, and he settled into an easy rhythm with Doriath's princess. They had known each other for centuries now, and there was almost something safe about dancing with her – for her eyes never asked for more, even where the court wondered and hoped, and she seemed to find as much amusement in their wondering as he did. And, he let himself admit, she was beautiful - as lovely as the twilight, much as the songs would say - and it was a true pleasure to lead her through the steps of the dance. She was an enchantment made flesh in her midnight blue gown, with the white flowers in the inky shade of her hair glowing like stars in the depths of night. For a moment, he let himself appreciate the look and feel of her with a Noldo appreciation for art and fair creation. And yet, while her beauty brought him joy, it did not draw him to ask for more - and the image of golden hair and a delicate face, perhaps imperfect when compared to the Fairest-born, drew his heart to stutter and skip even when viewed through the foggy glass of memory.

    “You are bearing up quite nicely this eve,” she finally said, raising a dark brow at those who watched them. At the head of the hall, even Thingol leaned forward in interest - he being a father eager to see a much loved child happy and wed. “The court grows exceedingly bold,” Lúthien exaggerated a sigh, “and yet, I fear that they will only turn all the more daring with each case of wine opened.”

    “It is a true flaw that you so enjoy teasing your people so,” Finrod reprimanded playfully as he spun her. “You enjoy antagonizing their wondering - or else, you would not have asked me to dance.”

    “I do not know what you mean,” Lúthien's eyes glittered. “And yet, you did agree to dance with me. Thus so, the wickedness you accuse me of bearing is shared.”

    “I had no choice – you did not leave one to me,” he continued to tease. He set his face into a look of serious contemplation and said, “You do not know - perhaps I only agreed to dance with you so as to keep Thranduil from starting another toast. He cannot call the attention of the crowd if we keep it so.”

    “He has been planning what he would say this eve for centuries,” Lúthien tucked away a bemused smile at her kinsman's expense. “And Celeborn enjoys his friend's well-wishing, no matter how much he may roll his eyes. Your sister too is amused where she would rather not be, I think.” Lúthien's gaze found the bride and groom in the crowd, She stared for a moment, before saying in a soft, sincere voice: “Galadriel looks happier than I have yet known her to be.”

    “She is as content as I have ever seen her, I agree,” Finrod echoed her words, warmth filling him for his sister's joy. “Aman never quite suited her – for in the West she was as a queen where there were already ancient crowns aplenty to be found. Here she has found meaning and belonging where she could only search for it in my grandfather's halls.”

    “My mother rejoices for her,” Lúthien said after a moment. “Galadriel embraces Melian's arts in a way I never could. I may learn them, I may wield them, but they are your sister, and my mother delights in teaching her.”

    “We all find our places, in one way or another,” Finrod nodded at her words, unsure if he was speaking of Galadriel and her belonging or Lúthien's searching for that same purpose in life. Though the Sindarin princess loved her people, and served them well, there were some years when she would not enter Menegroth for venturing far in the forests – and many were the times when she had asked leave to visit Tol Sirion before its fall, or great Nagothrond to the west out of curiosity for the world beyond her own. Each time she had been denied, and while Finrod more than understood Thingol's caution, there were times when that caution chaffed about Lúthien's endless days like a plow burdening a too spirited horse.

    “And you?” Lúthien asked after a moment, her eyes flickering to reflect his thoughts, “Have you since found your place here?”

    “I know a purpose in Ennor,” Finrod answered after a moment's thought. “I love Nargothrond, and I have found no greater joy than in coming to know the sons of Men – a knowing that would have been impossible to me in Aman. My purpose in aiding – and endeavoring to understand – this world brings me true contentment.”

    “You have found your belonging,” she said, her voice soft.

    “As you could say,” he inclined his head. At the time of his departure, he, like most, had only known Aman for the walls it represented – and for those walls turning into open doors he had known a true joy. At the time, he had thought his decision to be his only choice, his only option. He did not know how he could have chosen any differently – and he would not have, were it not for . . .

    “And yet?” Lúthien saw the thought in his eyes. Her humor from the beginning of their dance had turned to a true concern – a sincere want to listen, and he found himself considering his answer. He wanted to speak of her, he realized after a moment, surprised by that awareness. He felt driven by some force he could not explain, and -

    “Her name was Amarië,” Finrod found himself saying the name he had not once breathed since crossing the Ice, even before he had fully decided to share his tale. “She was Vanyar . . . a poet, gentle and kind; unable to fathom the idea of cruelty or bear to think of finding it here. She . . . she refused to make the crossing to Middle-earth, foreseeing only heartache in any home we could build. We were only betrothed, not bonded, and I was able to break ties with her in order to journey here.”

    Lúthien listened as they spun, inclining her head to his words to show that she was listening. There was no judgment in her eyes, only a quiet understanding.

    “At the time, I had thought that we had simply grown apart – and assumed, in my great wisdom,” there his words took on a self-deprecating note, “that we would continue to do so. I understood why she could not come, just as she knew why I could not stay. Perhaps, there is an abstract of idea of someday to cling to for having my chance with her anew, but I do not have the right to hope that she will wait for me. I cannot hope for that, while I . . .”

    “You will love only her?” Lúthien finished softly.

    “Yes,” the one word was as a whisper – a throbbing pang touching his heart on a day that should have been nothing but rejoicing for the bonds of love. “Some days I think that I made the right decision, the only decision, and yet . . .”

    “On other days,” she said, her eyes shadowed and far away, “you think love worth every risk . . . every sacrifice.” For a moment, he did not think that she spoke completely of him.

    “Yes,” he answered honestly. “And yet . . . even for that great truth, I was not strong enough to deny the desire of my heart, and remain with her.”

    “And she was not strong enough to follow you,” Lúthien returned. “You were not the only one to foreswear love's might.”

    “Perhaps,” he inclined his head. “But then, I am not the best one to speak to for love. My brother loved a human woman once,” he found himself strangely moved to speak – once again sharing this tale where he had spoken to it to none but Galadriel before. “Aegnor loved a wise-woman of the House of Bëor, and she loved him in return. I . . . I had once seen first hand the pains that could come from an uneven yoke between our races, and so, I sternly advised him against bonding himself to her – out of fear for his heart, as much as anything else. I reminded Aegnor of the follies of marrying in times of war, and enforced upon him the duty he bore to his people. While we have eternity to wait for times of peace, such a waiting is not possible for Mankind, and he could have argued an exception for this most unusual case – but he did not. Instead, Aegnor bowed to me, and broke off even the contact of a comrade and friend with her. He never told her of his feelings, and yet, it did not matter - Andreth knew. Their relationship amounted to nothing, but even so, she still refused to marry a man of her own kind for the memory of so greatly loving him. In the great irony of fate, Aegnor died in the Dagor Bragollach, and she lived beyond him to be old and grey with her years - falling asleep to claim the Gift only five winters ago. I . . . there are times when I cannot help but think . . . what right did I have to counsel him so? Many hardships would have been theirs if they chose a life together, and bittersweet would have been their doom - if not all but bitter in their final days. And yet . . . they would have been happy in the time they could have had. They would have been happy, and yet . . .”

    He looked, and found that Lúthien was listening carefully – intently, even. Where it was first the attentiveness of a friend he had known from her, there was now something deliberate about the way she held herself. There was something almost too serene about her countenance – as if she was trying to hold the exact shape of her interest away from him, as strange as the idea was.

    “Perhaps,” Finrod admitted uncomfortably, “Aegnor knew better than me. I thought myself doing good by him – and I thought his to be the wise choice at the time, no matter the pain his decision inflicted on both he and his lady. And yet . . . ”

    He looked over at his sister – finally reaching out and grasping her happiness, and he felt a bittersweet ache for thinking so. She looked content – complete – dancing in her husband's arms; complete as she never would have been with solely seeing new lands and savoring the experiences of a new world. It was possible to find completion in another being, he had once believed that simple fact to be an absolute truth. And yet, that knowing was one he had sadly failed to live up to throughout his days.

    “ . . . perhaps I was wrong, not to think love strong enough to bear up to every trial,” he finally whispered, unable to say anything more than that. "It's bearing has to be stronger than my belief, I have finally come to decide."

    Lúthien followed his gaze, finding Galadriel and Celeborn, twined silver and gold, as they spun together through Daeron's waltz. Her eyes were shadowed then – something troubled her, he could tell. Concerned, he paused in their dance, drawing her to the side of the twirling couples so as to better make out her expression. Concerned, he tilted up her chin to see tears shining in her eyes. She looked as if she had come to an understanding, as strange as that may have seemed. Yet, it took him a moment to realize that her tears were not only from sorrow. She looked awed – wondrous, even - and Finrod puzzled to understand exactly why.

    “Lady, what inspires your tears?” he asked, concerned.

    She looked as if she wished to tell him. She opened her mouth, she hesitated, and then -

    - a cheer went through the crowd as another round of toasting was proposed for the bride and groom with the song's end. They both looked, and saw where Thranduil and Orodreth were pouring wine into each other's glasses, and then raising their goblets in a toast - much to the amusement and delight of the crowd. Only Daeron looked put out for the interruption to his song, and the crowd laughed anew when Thranduil had an entire flask passed to the minstrel to sooth his ire.

    Amused, Finrod shook his head at their antics – his eyes finding where Galadriel raised a golden brow in Thranduil's direction. By her side, Celeborn just barely hid his smile by covering his mouth with his hand. He too could not help his own smile in reply to the joy in the air. And yet, by the time Finrod looked back to Lúthien, whatever storm of emotion that had taken her was already carefully hidden away. She looked on him with a secret sort of warmth, but whatever inspired it, she did not speak of.

    “Each of his speeches turn all the more inspired as the night draws on,” she said instead, and tugged on his arm to turn him back to the revelry. “You would think that my father would order the wine watered right about now, would you not?”

    And with that, Finrod put his strange and heavy thoughts aside, and let himself think of nothing more than the happiness of the feast.



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

    WarmNyota_SweetAyesha Chosen One star 8

    Registered:
    Aug 31, 2004
    You know I loved!!!!!!!!!! this and why. [face_dancing] The joining of Celeborn/Galadriel natch. And the wonderful and wistful conversation and reflections surrounding Finrod and Luthien. I do quite understand this would be a bittersweet time for Galadriel, fraught with regret, but with her typical fortitude, she concentrates on the now and the tomorrow. @};-

    [:D] for this splentab update!
     
  3. Cael-Fenton

    Cael-Fenton Jedi Master star 3

    Registered:
    Jun 22, 2006
    Gorgeous! Depicting the wedding of the century from the point of view the blissful bride's proud/happy brother sharpened the bittersweet joy of the moment. And his deep regrets over Amarie and Aegnor/Andreth, in turn, had the contrast dial on them cranked up with that almost-conversation with Lúthien. You made really good use of the gap between what we know and what Finrod knows. And the longing and the joy of her secret love, from Finrod's still-ignorant perspective, were very deftly handled. I always enjoy your take on Lúthien.
     
    Nyota's Heart likes this.
  4. Mira_Jade

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

    Registered:
    Jun 29, 2004
    Nyota's Heart: I knew you would enjoy that! That was just an enjoyable ficlet for me to write for all that was included. [face_love][:D]

    Cael-Fenton: Thank-you very much! I had too much fun writing their dynamic, so I am glad that it came across well. :D [:D]



    Now, I am, in a way, picking up where the last one left off - from a different perspective, at least, using the last NSWFF prompt: beneath the surface. Just in time to get started on the new one. :p

    I do not have any notes but to mention that Findaráto is Quenyan for Finrod, and, the snippets of poetry in this piece - along with the title, since that poem got this whole ball rolling - are all from the amazing Nayyirah Waheed, whom I just discovered, much to my soul's delight. [face_love]

    [:D]








    “how many hours I spent, reading his skin”

    CLXVI

    She once had an instructor tell her that without pain, there could be no beauty; that without strife, there could be no true understanding of peace. It was this her poems lacked, her verses were passed back to her as her tutor's eyes already turned to another roll of parchment. Find the conflict, find the strife; then lift the reader up through verse – for this is the true role of a poet . . . Unless you are content writing about your flowers and woodland creatures.

    But Amarië knew not of strife; she had never known of pain, and no matter how she tried to read of the Great Journey or the Beginning of Days, the stories still felt like that to her – stories. They were tales as far off as the stars, no matter that they outlined the history of her people.

    And yet, her instructor had countered, You know love. In that, there is every feeling and more, is there not?

    Yes, she bowed her head in reply, a faint blush tainting her cheeks, but in my love, there is no pain.

    Amarië tried, nonetheless, and put aside her urge to write about the white spring flowers with their smiling yellow faces, and ignored the hummingbirds who restlessly flickered from one happy bloom to the next. She sat in the long grass underneath the boughs of a great oak tree, and tried her best to write while Findaráto rested his head in her lap. Playfully, he flicked grass seeds at her whenever her brow furrowed too deeply in concentration, chasing her rhymes from her pen. His smile was as infectious as the Treelight, she could not help but think – and truly, how could she write of strife and overcoming shadow when all she felt was the opposite in her heart? All she felt was light, and she would not call herself lacking or missing in spirit for the joy she knew, no matter how simple its shape.

    Her people had journeyed to Aman to escape the darkness of the hither lands across the sea. A part of her almost felt as if she were dishonoring the Valar's gift if her words even hinted at a discontentment of spirit, no mater how haunting Rúmil's verses were . . . no matter how chillingly Elemmírë could recite her words, as if she still walked the starlit ways of Endórë far beyond . . .

    Amarië said a quick prayer, apologizing for her moment of weakness in doubting the glory of her home – much as she had ever been taught to do. Had Findaráto not been there, she would have bowed in the direction of Taniquetil and pressed her forehead to the soil as a symbol of her devotion. But he was there, and for all of his gentle smiles and lovely ease, he was still Noldor in part, and he did not understand – nor would he ever.

    Above, the skies took on a pale shadow of cloud. While there were rains in Aman to feed the ground and growing things rooted therein, it never quite stormed outside of the far north or south, where the land was still wild in nature. Even still, she felt as if she could convey such a natural violence, and she set her mouth - ready to shape her words.

    Later, Findaráto read her verse, and raised a golden brow in reply. “You poets,” he teased, “you are always taking everything so personally - even the weather.” And that was that.

    Amarië placed her failed poem down, and instead wrote about the flowers in the field, about the light she held in her hands when Findaráto teased her away from her work with first one kiss and then two – more than she should have allowed, really – and she did not look back to her clumsy attempts at writing about storms.

    Then the Darkening came.

    Even without the Trees' light to see by, she could still make out the lines of face in the hazy glow from the lamplight. She knew his decision as well as he knew her own, and she could not, she would not . . . He kissed her goodbye then, a violent and desperate embrace where she had only known softness and spring from him before. His fingers would leave bruises at her waist, and yet, she allowed him to try to fold her inside himself - as if by doing so, he could keep her with him. In that moment, a far off part of her thought to understand the nature of storms.

    In the end, it only took her one night to miss his place by her side. It took her a year to regret her decision entirely, wishing then that she had braved the sea for the sundering she knew in her spirit. Yet, it was not until the Sun dawned for the first that she put her pen to paper and truly start to write.

    Amarië wrote and wrote and wrote; she wrote about the bonds of kin sundered by Shadow, and the bittersweet hope for justice and more that awaited her people beyond the sea. She wrote of her missing, of her pain – shared by hundreds of others: all of them sisters and mothers and wives with parts of their souls vacant and incomplete. She wrote until even Elemmírë paused at her words, and her verses were added to the ever growing Aldunenië– the great lament that told of the Darkening of the Trees and the days after.

    She thought that she learned strength in those days. She obeyed the wishes of the family, the wishes of the Valar – for how could she not, when her loyalty was what she had defined her entire life and character on? She had even obeyed her own wanting - inspired by the frail fear in her own heart . . . but love? Love. She had failed to find that one truth stronger than all others, and now, she could not help but wonder - was there truly any force greater than that which she had denied?

    She had thought herself strong for ignoring the tug that would have drawn her to Middle-earth and far beyond. She had thought that strength to deepen as she suffered for the full scope of her ignorance. But, now . . .

    When Arafinwë himself visited Valmar to personally tell her how his son fell in death – for the Noldo-king was ever with his family due to the Sight of his second eyes – she could not let him finish his tale for the violent burning in her heart.

    “Stop,” she pleaded on a small voice. She had been unable to hear any more – and she had not been able to make it to the gardens before her stomach heaved wretchedly, betraying the strict command she bore over her body. Her skin itched as if imagining the claws of wolves, and even the happiest yellow blooms in the flowerbeds seemed to be lupine eyes staring at her from a matted face of fur.

    Amarië shuddered, and yet, she found that she could not immediately pray and ask the Valar for strength. Her supplication came awkwardly to her lips, and she could not feel the verse pierce her heart in its entirety as it had so many times before. In the end, she prayed only to Námo, and asked him to hold dear what she now knew herself to hold dearer than all.

    It took centuries for her supplications to be answered, but when she at last stood in the garden of Lórien behind Arafinwë and Eärwen, waiting, watching . . .

    Findaráto looked unchanged when he was admitted to them. He was robed simply in white, blinking as if the light was too bright for his eyes. His eyes. They were much as she remembered them - an unshadowed blue, free of the pain and fear that must have accompanied his end. His skin was absent of scar and memory of death, where before his body must have bore ribbons of red as it failed him. She embraced him, weeping, when he at last turned to her – all of her great words pushed aside by the scent and feel of him, real once more.

    His hands made fists in her hair, once, before relaxing – the only sign she had as to the tempestuousness of his emotions, and then there was only the gentleness that came with rebirth and second chances.

    This time, she allowed only as much time as he needed before accepting his suit once more. They were married underneath the light of the setting Sun rather than the glory of the waxing Trees, but she could have wed him in complete darkness for the joy in her heart – the rightness of spirit she felt, greater she would later reflect, for the pain she had long known while parted from him.

    And, for a while, they were happy.

    Yet, the knowledge came to her by intervals . . . the idea that her husband was holding back from her. She was beginning to know the halls of his mind as well as her own, and intimately did she now know the shape of his soul. And yet, there were corners of his being that were hidden from her – sheltered away from sight. There were ways in his mind that existed not in light, and every time she tried to explore them – to share their burden – he would gently steer her away.

    Findaráto never spoke of his years in Middle-earth, and she hid her poems of the Darkening away where he would not find them. A part of her wanted to show him, a part of her wanted to hear what he would share in return – but she was not quite sure how to bring that matter to light. She did not know how to assure him of the strength of heart when he had only known it for its weakness, and the half-life that resulted was one that frustrated her as she was sure that it must have burdened him.

    . . . and then, there were nights where dark dreams would burden his mind, even amongst the golden bliss of Valinor. Findaráto would wake up shaking, clench his hands in the sheets, and then rise from the bed completely with his brow narrowed and troubled. The first time, she had tried to ask him what ailed him, but she received no satisfactory answer in reply. Each time since, she had simply lain there while he grappled with his demons in silence - wanting to ease the burden he bore, but unsure of precisely how.

    She went to the gardens of Lórien once to better pray to Námo, and found the dread Vala easily summoned to the forefront of her consciousness. She spoke to him of her fears, of her concerns, and the Lord of Souls listened as if he did not have the great song of the living and the dying at the forefront of his mind. She felt his eyes fix on her, silent as he let her small voice speak of her troubles.

    His is a soul who died a violent death; full of pain and fear. After she finished pouring out her heart, Námo alone did not shield her from the truth of the matter. His was a strange voice; the sound of a heart beating and storm-winds rushing, rather than any sound that mouths and lungs could utter. His spirit remembers, no matter that his body is new – and his spirit tries to make sense of its death through dreams.

    Amarië took in a deep breath. It shuddered in her lungs when she tried to let it out.

    And still, the Vala lingered. He paused. Does he share this burden alone? Námo asked gently, and she shook her head in an instinctive denial.

    No, she answered, of course not.

    Another pause. The sound of heartbeats softened, turning to what she imagined a child would hear in the womb. Go home to your husband, child, and think of what I have said. It was not warmth she felt from Death, but understanding, and she bolstered herself on Námo's grace. She imagined that it strengthened her bones and lined her lungs.

    Even still, she was not sure of what to say when she returned home. She was not sure what to say, and yet . . .

    She brought out her collection of long resting poems, and let them see the light. She tore off first one piece of parchment, and then another – placing one where she knew that he would first look to with his tea in the morning, and another in the pocket of his favourite cloak. Another and another she mixed in with the pages of his books, in his piles of letters, beneath his pens - placing them until there was not a corner in the house where they would not be found.

    I lied, one line whispered. I told you I was not afraid to love you . . . then I walked away . . .and loved you.

    And another – Both. I want to stay. I want to leave. I am three oceans away from my soul.

    Another and another and another he read, gathering the poems together and placeing them by the own books whose blank pages he was filling with the history of their people's deeds in Endórë beyond. She had not yet read a page of his work, but perhaps, soon . . .

    That night, when the dreams came, she watched the now familiar routine, and waited. An inhale came first; sharp in shape. Then: his hands, fisting in sheets. Third: slowly, he sat upright, lowering his head to fit in his hands, as if its weight was a burden to him. Then, finally: an exhale, long and deep.

    This time, Amarië too sat up from the sheets. She placed her hand on his shoulder. She waited, and felt his body struggle as he forced his breathing to calm. She could feel his spirit move in restless and trembling waves as he tried to keep his thoughts from her. And yet, this time, she did not let him. She felt for his mind like a light in the dark, and -

    “No,” Findaráto whispered a moment later. “It was only a passing dream. You may go back to sleep.”

    Perhaps, once, she would have.

    “Is it Tol Sirion that plagues you?” she whispered instead. She traced her palm from one shoulder to the next, sweeping aside the long fall of his hair to better touch his skin. She felt him shudder.

    A moment passed. “It no longer matters.” He would not lie to her.

    “Ever does this continue to haunt your nights,” Amarië whispered when he moved away from her. She followed him with her eyes when he stood. “How can you tell me that it does not matter?”

    “This is my price for leaving,” Findaráto said. “I wish not to burden you with it.”

    “Then, is this to be my price for staying?” she asked. Her voice was still soft, even where her words at last found their strength. “I may hold you, but you are still an ocean away from me.”

    “I do not want to burden you,” Findaráto's voice was heartbreakingly gentle. He looked at her earnestly, with so much love in his eyes that it hurt.

    “But this burdens you,” Amarië returned, standing so that she could come to peer into his eyes. She was not tall enough to rest her hands on his shoulders, and instead she laid them flat against his chest. For the deceptive calm of his expression, his heart thundered against the cage of his ribs. “Do you not see how that is also a pain to me? I . . . I no longer write about flowers,” she whispered, wanting . . . needing him to understand.

    “And yet . . . I wish that you did,” he whispered, looking down to give his words to the floor between them. Softly, he covered her hands with his own.

    “Then, beloved,” her voice was low to match. She reached out, and tilted up his chin to see his eyes, “Give me a reason to do so.”

    He peered at her closely – weighing her, judging her - no doubt remembering the girl he once knew and considering the woman who stood before him now. In the end, she was not sure if it was faith in her that turned his mind, or the simple wish he had to share his burdens with someone – anyone - while hoping that she truly bore the strength she said she did.

    When he inclined his head, she knew that she had prevailed. She drew him back to their bed, and he followed. She curled up against him, and he held her close as he began his story. She listened, both hearing his words and seeing flashes of memory from his mind, no matter how he tried to keep them from her. He whispered, his words turning lower and lower as they reached his time on Sauron's isle; detailing how the Dark Maia's cruel torments turned all the more creative when he refused to give the spirit-lord the information he sought. At first, Findaráto tried to gloss over that part of his memory – but she persisted. She shared his words and pains until her stomach turned with that which his body had endured. Worse than his own afflictions was watching as each of his men were tormented, and then mercifully released to Námo in death . . . and he listened . . . he watched, helpless to intervene.

    She traced out lines on his skin as his memory showed to her his hurts, even though no scar remained. Tenderly, she mapped out paths of cruelty and pain, hoping to replace them with memories of softness . . . of warmth. He could not speak of his own death, and she instead lived that final moment with the wolf in his mind, forcing her consciousness to stay entwined with his as she touched his mind with as much love and light as she could summon.

    He buried his head against her chest at the memory's end. His arms were tight around her, as if she were roots grounding him in a storm. His fingertips were white, near enough to bruise, but she did not care as she made absent noises to sooth him – sharing his pains and making them her own. She was ready to do so until hopefully, someday, they would be no more.

    It took him a long while to find his voice, but when he finally did, he whispered, “It was more than my vow to Barahir that had me aid Beren in his quest. It was more than my love of Bëor, and my respect for his descendants . . . Beren, he was fighting for a woman he loved. He was fighting where all seemed hopeless, and so catching was his belief . . . This mortal man was fighting; fighting as I did not fight, and it humbled me. It was for Aegnor's memory that I pledged my aid to Beren, even when foreseeing the death that awaited me . . . It was for Aegnor . . . for you,” and here his voice broke. For a moment, he could not speak.

    “Beren reminded me of a truth I had long denied,” he continued. “If I had to again choose to set myself before the jaws of the wolf so that he could live for his love . . . I would. I would a hundred times over. It was worth it in the end . . . for all of the pains they shared, all the grief that their journey bore, there was love there more than all, and that made any sacrifice of mine more than worth it in the end.”

    Amarië closed her eyes tight against his words. Tears touched her eyes, but they were not only of grief. She had nothing she could say in reply that – there was nothing any of her great words could say to match the great warmth that she was trying to hold inside of her bones. Such a love filled her then, and it was not only her own feeling so, but what she felt from his mind, as well. She could not speak, and, instead . . .

    She held him close, and listened to a poem of skin and memory.



    ~MJ @};-
     
  5. WarmNyota_SweetAyesha

    WarmNyota_SweetAyesha Chosen One star 8

    Registered:
    Aug 31, 2004
    Oh, my. Gracious. Goodness. It just gets better and better Though how it could - befuddles my very captivated soul. =D= =D= =D= Fantastic, superlative use of the prompt. [face_love]
     
  6. Cael-Fenton

    Cael-Fenton Jedi Master star 3

    Registered:
    Jun 22, 2006
    That was superlatively beautiful. You made great use of the poetry snippets. And the sharp contrast between her Tree-era naivete and the loss of the Darkening of Valinor and the sundering was truly affecting. I very much enjoyed your portrayal of Namo, as well. Overall, you hit a perfect balance of romantic tenderness, character development and angst, really lovely work!
     
    Nyota's Heart likes this.
  7. earlybird-obi-wan

    earlybird-obi-wan Chosen One star 6

    Registered:
    Aug 21, 2006
    A beautiful piece of work, emotional and soothing at the end
     
    Nyota's Heart likes this.
  8. Mira_Jade

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

    Registered:
    Jun 29, 2004
    Nyota's Heart: Aww, thank-you! As always, your comments make it even more of a pleasure to write. =D=

    Cael-Fenton: Why thank-you! Amarie was a bit of a different female character than I am used to writing, but she did have a strength and voice of her own that came out through the story, and it was interesting discovering it. And Námo! I have written him in snippets through these tales, but he has become a favourite for me. [face_love] As always, I thank you for reading.

    earlybird-obi-wan: Thank-you for saying so! It's wonderful to see you in here too. [:D]



    Now, I had to kick butt to get the NSWFF prompt done this fast - because I will be in the Upper Peninsula camping, with no internet from Sunday to Tuesday the 26th, and I wanted to get this done before I left. (Although that big dose of nature should only kick my muse into writing something fierce. Here is to writing around the campfire! [face_love];)) That, and I had more fun than usual writing this one, so I was eager to share it. Writing about the Haladin a few entries ago made me want to explore another of the First Houses of Men, so here we are with some Bëorian shenanigans. [face_love]

    For which I have some notes!


    Emeldir: Called the Man-hearted for her bravery and courage, she is the daughter of Beren the Old, and mother of the Beren we all know and love. ;)

    Barahir: Father of Beren, son of Bregor, brother of Bregolas. He would later save Finrod's life in the Battle of Sudden Flame, and from that life-debt, he set into motion Finrod's sacrificing his life for Beren's quest. Barahir and a band of men survived that same battle, and lived as outlaws in conquered Dorthonion where they fought against Morgoth's filth as best they could. Sauron's trickery would later kill all in that group but for Beren, which would be the deciding factor pushing him into the refuge of Doriath. Where history would go from there . . . [face_mischief]

    Bregor: Great-great grandson of Bëor. Brother to Andreth, father to Barahir, grandfather to Beren, and Chieftain of the Bëorians at this time.

    Andreth: The very same Andreth who loved Aegnor, Galadriel's brother. But, more about her tale - and her shaping Beren's fate, below. ;)

    Dorthonion: A realm of highlands, defined by hills and great pine forests. When Finrod moved to Nargothrond, many of his people stayed in Dorthonion, and he later gave this land in fiefdom to the House of Bëor out of his love for Bëor himself. Aegnor and Angrod led the military factions in this land, as it was one of the northern-most strongholds before Angband, which was under siege by the Noldor at that time. So, it is a beautiful and dangerous place to live.

    Ladros: The Bëorian's seat of power in north-east Dorthonion.

    The Enchanted Pool: There was a lake - Tarn Aeluin - in the south of Dorthonion that was hallowed by Melian, so the idea of enchanted pools in Dorthonion isn't too farfetched. And yet, this pool here is all my own imagination, and my very liberally playing fast and easy with canon, just so I could have my Andreth and Beren conversation. ;) I am unrepentant. :p

    (And, once again, the title is an e. e. cummings theft. [face_whistling][face_love])

    Now, that said! Here we go. :)








    nothing false and possible is love

    CLXVII. Bothered

    It was whispered by her people that if you walked through the pines to where the streams flowed away from the north, a pool would appear to those of pure heart looking to find it. This pool was an enchanted body of water that was rumored to show, not your own reflection, but rather - the exact likeness of your one true love.

    And yet, Emeldir Beren's daughter never put much stock in those sort of things, nor had she ever. Rather, she tended to believe in the strength of her own hands; the sight of her own eyes. She did not smile wistfully for the idea of a pool of water telling her of her fate when she could better forge it through her own means, her own doing.

    Of course, when Bareth's father arranged for her to be given in marriage to Baldur, the butcher's boy, the other girls of Ladros pushed and pulled – whispered and giggled – and drew their clanswoman into the woods underneath the cover of night to see what the pool would reveal. Emeldir too was pulled along by her friends when she would have rather not gone along. She kept her silence while the others laughed and eagerly whispered underneath the moonlight, quietly dubious and fairly certain that nothing but a generous amount of wine would reveal to them anything in this 'enchanted' pool.

    “It is said that Melian the Maia hallowed the Tarn Aeluin to the south of here,” Brennil – a pretty, plump girl with red-brown curls - whispered to Emeldir when her gaze still remained dubious. Some of the women tried to hush their companions when their giggles turned too loud in the dark, but that only made them laugh the more so. Emeldir frowned.

    “The water of that lake is most certainly enchanted,” Brennil continued, “even my father says so – and you would not accuse him of holding onto a simple belief. This pool eventually feeds into that lake, and its waters too are fraught with spell-craft.”

    “Emeldir thinks it beneath a Maia to bend her will in such a way, does she not?” Gelinnas heard them from the head of their group. As the one amongst their peers married the longest, and admittedly beautiful with her stunning crown of honey-blonde hair – rare amongst the dark headed Bëorians – Gelinnas held the ears and the attention of all of the young women in Ladros. Often, it had baffled her that Emeldir had not fought for a place by her side, but while the girl was proud for her position amongst her fellow women, she was not cruel or malicious . . . only, at times, her mouth could cut like a knife. For knowing of her words' bite, Emeldir raised a dark brow, not trusting anything she would have to say.

    “I think it foolhardy indeed to trust the happiness of one's heart to such mischief as magic,” Emeldir strongly voiced her opinion. “That is, if the pool bears such properties to begin with.”

    “And yet,” Gelinnas countered, “we all know the tale of Doriath's beginning. I do not find it difficult to believe that some of her enchantments have remained to linger with the earth. Perhaps Melian herself did not will the water to show such a thing, but rather, the water aided her unbidden – answering to her mere presence in the land.”

    “Perhaps,” still, Emeldir was not convinced. “I still believe that people see what they wish to see. The water does nothing more than allow your eyes to fool yourself into seeing one you have already chosen.”

    “Truly?” Gelinnas raised a perfectly slender brow. “And you, Emeldir Man-heart . . . do you already have a sweetheart in mind?”

    She waited a heartbeat before answering, “No,” all the while wondering what Gelinnas was aiming to accomplish through her words. Emeldir turned her chin up, ignoring the giggles from the other girls – who had turned away from the bride-to-be in order to observe this much more interesting development to the night's events.

    “Then,” Gelinnas' brown eyes flashed triumphantly. They were nearly black in the moonlight. “If you have no sweetheart chosen, we will know the magic to be true when you look, will we not?”

    Emeldir fought the urge she had to make a face. She halted on the path, only to back into Brennil, who placed a hand on her shoulder to keep her in place. The other girl had been her playmate since before she could remember, and her eyes held a rather worrying determination that matched Gelinnas'– only, hers was founded in a different emotion entirely.

    “Yes,” Brennil seconded the older woman. “After all, if the magicks are faulty, we do not want to subject poor Bareth to the pool showing her someone other than her intended, do we not?”

    “Yes, let Emeldir try it!” another voice seconded.

    “If it will even work for her,” yet another voice teased. “I find it hard to imagine any man catching her eye.” The voice was well-meaning, but even so, Emeldir felt her cheeks color.

    Few were the times when Emeldir would call her life so far a hindrance rather than a much loved course. She had no mother; but she had her father and her brothers – each of whom were dear to her heart and much cherished in her eyes. Even when her earliest lessons were how to string bows and fishing lines rather than how to set thread for embroidering patterns, she had never counted herself the lesser for her her unique cast of knowing. Man-heart, she was named for her pride and her courage, and where such a title and skills did not set her high as a potential bride, she had told herself that she did not care much for that anyhow. It would take a special man to compliment her, rather than chain her down, she had long known. Rather than setting her up with the first match offered to him, her father had counseled her to wait - and even her brothers had frequently hinted that they would have no qualms about making sure an unequal suitor had an unfortunate run-in with a bear-trap if need be.

    For now, Emeldir set her jaw, and met Gelinnas' eyes without flinching. “First,” she said coolly. “We must find this pool.”

    “Do not worry, Man-heart . . . we are here,” Gelinnas tilted her head, and pushed aside the branches of an old pine to show them a hollow in the thick wood. Emeldir looked, and saw where a small waterfall tumbled merrily into a pool of still water, a blue so dark it was almost black. The stars from above danced over the surface of the pool, and fireflies glowed golden and warm the shadows, cheerfully glowing for the last warm days of summer.

    Emeldir carefully approached the water, walking as if she approached a serpent instead. She looked down, and saw stones stacked around the bank, each with names carved into their faces – couples for whom the pool had predicted truly, she would wager. Emeldir raised a brow at the tribute, and yet, she still believed nothing.

    “What do I do now?” she asked Gelinnas, trying to ignore the giggles and twittering voices rising behind her as the other girls squeezed themselves into the small clearing.

    “You look, and hope that your heart is pure enough for the pool to grant you your wish,” Gelinnas waved her hand to the water in a graceful motion. “Look now, and tell us what you see.”

    “Beside my own reflection, you mean?” Emeldir still shook her head, trying to feign a look of bored amusement as she knelt down by the water. She could feel where Brennil came to hover over her shoulder, her friend ever anxious that she should find love and know the joy of tending one's hearth and home. While Emeldir did not not wish for those things, she was content waiting for the right match, and no pool would tell her the path her heart should take.

    At first, she kept her eyes on the stars reflected in the pool, and nothing else. Strange, she thought, that the stars in the water were not the same constellations shining up above. They had shifted. It was as if the pool held a memory, a voice that was not her own whispered to her – for the Maia-queen's spells had wheeled while the stars set themselves in the sky and the forests themselves grew to maturity. She now looked at those same young stars, she understood in a distant sort of way, and it was when she went to touch their reflected light in awe that -

    The pool swirled, slowly at first, but then more surely. It rippled, as if considering, and then the image in the water shifted.
    Emeldir looked, and saw her own face – the sharp angles of her cheekbones . . . the almond shape of her eyes . . . the thin line of her nose. Her brown hair was black in the dark, and its mass was bound away in a thick braid over her shoulder, where it nearly dipped into the pool with her leaning over its surface. Each sight was familiar to her, and yet . . .

    Slowly . . . the water turned. At first, it was only her eyes that were not her own. They narrowed in shape, and their color turned from green to a clear shade of pale blue, shining out from underneath a strong, dark brow. She watched the face of the man as it formed, surprised to see that she recognized the square, handsome features and the dark black hair of -

    “It cannot be!” Brennil stood up straight, and clapped her hands in delight. She gave a breathless little laugh. “It works!” she turned to the other girls. “It has worked for Emeldir, and she has seen Barahir, son of Bregor, who now leads us as the heir of Bëor our forefather! Of all the possible suitors . . . ” her voice tapered off to make a joyful sound, her smile full and beaming on her face.

    “The Chieftain’s son?” Gelinnas stammered. “But how can that be?” Her eyes widened in surprise as she stepped forward, wanting to see proof for herself, but Emeldir reached out and sloshed her hand through the water, destroying the reflection with a splash. Doing so caused a nearly physical pang to thrum in her chest, and she set her mouth at that strange sensation more than anything else.

    “I saw nothing,” she said, tilting her chin up proudly as she stood from the water. “Brennil is too good a friend for me, and sees what she wishes to see.”

    Brennil looked at her oddly, and she opened her mouth to protest her words - but it did not matter. Half of the girls believed her denial (out of jealousy, she thought, for the chieftain’s eldest son had already chosen a bride, and Barahir his brother was now the most eligible bachelor in Dorthonion), and the other half did not care. Instead, they were already pushing forward, eager to find their own loves reflected in the pool.

    Emeldir remained, and lingered on the edge of the clearing, but she did not take much notice of the rest of the night's proceeding. Instead, she stood out of the way, lost in her thoughts as they raced. She had clearly seen his face in the pool – for, that part of the tales had been true, and there was indeed a spell on the water of the strongest sort. And yet . . . did what the spell reveal mean anything? Should she count on it to define her future? Such enchantments were fickle, she could not help but think. She would still rather believe in forging her own way, and yet . . .

    She would be lying to herself if she said that Barahir had not caught her eye dozens of times over the years with both his restless courage and his warm humor. He was dear to both of her brothers – who would be his captains when they all grew to take on more leadership and responsibility amongst their people. Both Barahir and her brothers were determined to fight for the House of Finarfin, and they were eager to play their part in the Siege of Angband. And yet, Barahir had never once looked beyond the dust of the training fields to notice her standing there, practicing at the edges. She was invisible to him, or worse – she was like another one of the men in her brother's shadows, an unnatural creature holding both sword and longbow, and -

    Emeldir swallowed. The motion was tight about her throat.

    Over the next few days, she felt as a stranger in her own skin. She could not settle herself in stillness, and she had to fight the nearly tangible urge she had to return to the pool and look on his reflection again. This, she stubbornly refused to do – for enchantments were cruel, and could be false. She would trust them not. Instead, she was determined to wrestle her heart underneath control in her own way. This, she was resolved to do.

    Instead of turning south in the wood, she turned north and followed that same stream to where it pooled at the base of a thundering waterfall. There she sat, and set her nets to fish amongst the running salmon in the shallow water. The solitude of the pine forest soothed her, and the cool volcanic stone, jutting up in majestic shapes alongside the river, gave her the perfect setting to return her sensibilities back to where they belonged. For two days she knew peace, watching where the salmon struggled to make their way upstream, and listening to the great waterfall as it rumbled. The crooked cascade was over forty feet tall, rushing and white where it poured through a carved cleft in the stone to tumble down into the deep pool below. Beyond the white spray, the water was deep and blue, playing a dramatic backdrop to the salmon when they flashed pink and red against the surface. Emeldir watched, her eyes entranced.

    It was near sundown on her third day in the forest when she became aware of a trampling sound in the woods. The sound of voices and hurried steps crashing through the underbrush came from up above, she realized. There was one shout, inarticulate to her ears, and then another voice answered – yet, that was all the warning she had before she saw two ragged and clearly flustered figures throw themselves over the lip of the waterfall, down into the pool below.

    Emeldir scrambled out of the way to avoid the wave of water that splashed over her place on the rocks. Seeing where the two men landed in the water, she tried in vain to draw her nets in before they were ruined by the weight of the intruders – but it was too late. She felt the tension in the net give way, and a dozen fish then flopped free. One, amusingly, landed right in the lap of the furthest man where he sat, stunned, in the shallow water, clearly winded by his fall. Or, she reflected, it would have been amusing if she was not preoccupied by the ruined remains of her hard work. That net had taken her six weeks to weave. Six.

    “Did we lose her?” the man asked as he wiped his sodden hair from his face. Emeldir raised a brow, not understanding – that was, until she heard a roar at the lip of the waterfall. She looked up to see where a massive brown bear stood on her hind legs to bare her teeth at the water below. She growled out her challenge, and yet, she clearly had no interest in following the human men down the way they went. After a moment, she instead settled down on her forepaws once more. She gave them one last hard look, ruffled her fur in a miffed annoyance, and then turned back the way she had came.

    “Yes,” the other man – who too had collapsed in the shallows - peered back up the waterfall. “I do believe that she has refused to make the jump.”

    “She is wiser than us, then,” the first man moaned, standing unsteadily in the water as he placed a hand gingerly on his back. He was scraped and bruised from his tumble down the rocks, but he did not look damaged beyond that, she thought.

    “It is not difficult to be wiser than you, Bregolas,” the second said in amusement, standing more slowly than the first. Emeldir could only see the line of his shoulders with his back to her, but she knew that broad line and the black shade of his hair – dark even before his spill in the water. She looked dumbly in surprise and shock, and saw where recognition flickered in the first's eyes when he finally noticed her standing on the stone bank.

    “And yet, while we no longer have to worry about the bear, we do have apologies to make, it seems,” Bregolas' cheeks flushed pink as he gestured to his brother. “Greetings, Beren's daughter!” he called over to her. “How are you on this finest of eves?”

    “Well enough,” she found her voice, placing her hands on her hips and raising a brow so as to better hide the urge she had to flush and stare as Barahir too turned to face her. “And yet, it seems as if all my hard work has been ruined by two rocks tumbling from the sky.”

    “A thousand apologies, my lady,” Bregolas said. He tried to move away from the ruin of her net, but he only succeeded in trapping his boot further in the tangled mesh.

    “Although, we are most obliged for its use,” Barahir said as he more carefully untangled himself. He picked up the ruined strands as Bregolas stumbled in the water, slipping on the slick river-stones underfoot.

    She heaved a sigh, and managed a wry smile. “Better you ruin my catch than you feed the bear yourselves,” she said. “You are welcome to my nets any time you have need of them.”

    “Never let it be said that Beren's daughter is not gracious,” Bregolas said, even as Barahir said, “Indeed, we owe you a debt, my lady.”

    “Please, call me Emeldir, my lords. You have known me long enough to use my name,” she waved their pleasantries aside. “And there is no debt standing that I would suffer to see paid.”

    “Then, you may call me Bregolas in return,” Bregolas flashed a charming smile, one that his blue eyes glittered with. He was, she thought – and knew from too many woman who had succumbed to that same smile – unfortunately handsome. “And this buffoon,” he looped an arm over his brother's shoulders, “who could not aim and shoot the bear standing right in front of him, you may call Barahir.”

    Barahir shrugged his brother aside in favor of looking at the ruined strands of her net. He muttered underneath his breath, and then started the rather tricky business of pulling the net completely ashore.

    “She was a mother bear,” Barahir defended himself, his last word hissed from his mouth as he slipped in the water. He ducked his head to hide where his cheeks flushed pink, yet, she saw where his eyes found hers from underneath the tangled strands of his hair. “We were fishing too close to her den, and she felt her cubs threatened. I would not harm that which I had rightfully angered,” he continued, “especially when doing so would leave the little ones on their own.”

    “Such a soft heart your bear,” Bregolas teased. And yet, he moved to help his brother with his net, nonetheless. “You would not have thought the same had her claws found your flesh.”

    “But they did not,” Barahir shrugged, and flashed a lopsided grin. “And now, we have each parted well enough with the other.”

    “All but for poor Emeldir here,” Bregolas winced when they succeeded in bringing the net completely ashore.

    She turned from their easy banter, and felt her face fall when she realized how much work it was going to take to repair the mesh. She sighed, fingering the wet cords with a dismayed hand.

    “It took me six weeks to weave this,” Emeldir whispered, dejected, before setting her face in a firm line once again. There was no use mourning it now, and best would it be to move onwards.

    Instead of continuing with her sighs, she pulled the net over to her spot on the rocks, and set about repairing what she could while she still had the light. The sun would soon start its decline in the sky, and she was determined to get a good start on repairing the damage.

    “At the very least, allow us to help you refresh your catch,” Bregolas offered. He was still standing in the river, and his smile was earnest. “It is the least we can do.”

    “You may do as you will,” she reached into her pack to draw out another twine of cord. She was careful not to look at Barahir for too long, lest he catch her gaze.“I had caught enough before you came, and I was already set to head back to Ladros with the morn'.”

    “Have you supped yet?” Bregolas tried next, clearly not willing to leave her be. “I do not mean to play the braggart, but I am rather handy when it comes to smoking fish. Hand me a knife and a fire, and I may make something for us all this eve.”

    She looked up, surprised by his offer. She caught the end of Barahir shooting his brother a strange look – one she could not quite define. Bregolas pointedly ignored his brother, and smiled a smile that was too wide about its corners. Emeldir frowned, feeling strangely on guard, even amongst clansmen.

    “If you would like,” she answered slowly. “I would not stop you.”

    “Excellent,” Bregolas put his hands together, and climbed out of the river when she pointed to the pack that had her supplies for cooking. He busied himself with starting a fire, and Barahir stood still for a moment, watching his brother with that same strange look on his face. Finally, Emeldir turned away.

    She pointedly went back to her work with the net, trying to ignore the way her heart was thundering in her chest. Her days of solitude had done much to help calm her thoughts and put her silly hopes at ease – or so she had thought. She had been content with the resolutions she had reached, and now, to have the subject of her frustrations so close when she had thought herself to do succeed in once again ordering her mind . . .

    Her hands were slippery with the cord, and her work was sloppy. She bit back the urge she had to curse – another one of her brothers' bad habits passed on to her - and grasped the mesh tighter in hand, determined to overcome the silly tremble in her fingers.

    A moment passed, and then a shadow joined hers on the rock. Through a supreme force of will, Emeldir forced herself not to glance up when Barahir sat down next to her. Without saying anything, he picked up her spool of cord, and started weaving the ruined patches along with her. She did not look at his face, but her down-turned eyes could see his hands – strong and graceful – and she felt an altogether different lurch settle deep in her stomach.

    “You are training for the north patrol,” she stated after a moment, seeing the skill with which he wove, “This is not normally a warrior's skill.” She looked up, and yet she did not have to worry for staring, for Barahir was carefully not looking at her – too carefully, she thought. She narrowed her eyes, puzzled.

    “No, it is not,” Barahir agreed. She watched, and saw where a blush again appeared on his face. “But, I have three older sisters, and a mother who wanted to make sure that I would never be a burden to another – especially a future wife - so, I know my needle-craft well enough. This is the same in principle.”

    “You are proof that a woman's arts and the ability to handle a sword are not two mutually separate things – perhaps, better would it be for all if the two were mixed more than they are,” Barahir said next, surprising her. “We see you mimic everything your brothers learn, and we have noticed your improvement. Why, last fall, when you broke poor Bregolon's nose when he went to challenge you - you gained more than one admirer on that day.”

    Emeldir blinked at him, not sure of what to say. She would have guessed him to think her attempting to learn the sword a silly endeavor – for it was a skill useless to a woman, and one that her weaker allotment of nature would never allow her to fully master, as most would say. Yet, she caught a flash of true admiration in his eyes, and there was no falsehood in his words. A strange, warm feeling settled in her bones in reply . . . one that she was not quick to push away.

    “I had not thought that anyone noticed,” she said after a moment, speaking underneath her breath. She was aware that her cheeks were flaming, but she was unsure of how to cool the heat that had touched her skin.

    “Bregolon still bears his crooked nose with pride,” Barahir gave a wry look. “He says that if he had to suffer such a blow, better be it from the Man-heart than any other – and he will brag of it to any who asks.”

    She snorted. “Now you are just teasing me.”

    “I am an heir of Bëor,” Barahir said with a glittering to his eyes, “It is to me to be the epitome of integrity and grace.”

    “Not so much with grace, though,” Emeldir teased before she could stop her words, holding up her end of the net to better emphasize her point – but she need not have worried for his offense in reply. Barahir only smiled, amused, and his smile caused a strange sort of sensation to settle over her chest, as if her rib cage was suddenly too heavy about her lungs.

    This close, she was able to see things she could not before – things that the pool had not even showed to her - like the flecks of grey in his eyes, and the faint, silvery scar that ran down from his ear to his jaw-line from some wound suffered and survived. She wanted to ask him of it, but her tongue felt tangled in her mouth, and she could not find her words.

    She felt a prickling sensation between her shoulder-blades, and had the curious idea that Bregolas was watching them both – closely, she could not help but think. She ducked her head again, and studied her work with the net intently.

    “And you,” Barahir said after some time had passed. When she looked up again, the sunlight had turned golden through the pine trees, and the smell of smoking fish filled the clearing around them. “You are out here, alone in the forest, harvesting salmon. It is a curious thing for a woman – even more curious than my knowing needle-craft, some would say.”

    “I needed to think,” she answered after a moment. “And there is no peace to be found in my household when my brothers know that a matter is weighing upon me. The forest is quiet, and it soothes my thoughts.”

    Emeldir looked up, and saw that Barahir was gazing intently at her. The heavy feeling on her chest grew, and she had to focus to find her breath. “Did you reach a resolution?” he asked.

    A heartbeat passed. “I do not know,” she answered honestly. “It still remains to be seen.”

    “I wish your thoughts the best, then,” Barahir said in return. “The waters of Dorthonion are strange, many would say. Perhaps the river will give you an answer when you least expect for it to, no?”

    More than he would know, she thought, but did not say.

    “Perhaps,” she answered vaguely, staring at the shape of his smile for longer than she perhaps should have. Deep down, all of her thoughts of fey enchantments and her determination to make her own mind, to know her own heart, mingled together in a single, intertwined thread – one that she could not separate, even if she wished to.

    “Yes,” she inclined her head after a moment, looking out to the river once more, “I do believe it may.”



    .
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    CLXVIII. Bewitched

    It was said, that if you walked through the pines to where the streams flowed down from the mountains, with your heart open and pure, a pool would appear to those seeking – an enchanted pool of water that was rumored to show, not your own reflection, but rather - the exact likeness of your one true love.

    While some said that such a tale was just make-believe – something that love-struck youths endeavored to find, and never truly did – Barahir Bregor's son swore that it was true. Beren trusted his father in all things, and, as a result, he was eager to believe in the pool's existence. Yet, his father was often telling fae tales - tales of elves and dwarves and trolls – fanciable, wonderful things that Beren listened to around the evening fire, captivated and enraptured. His mother, however, was more real on her take of the world around them, and Emeldir often dismissed his father's stories as fantasies. Dorthonion was a beautiful land – but hard and fierce, being the last fair stretch of forest before Morgoth's domain, and their highland home was a key location for the Noldor's holding the Siege of Angband. You had to be sensible and hard, Emeldir often said, elsewise the land would swallow you whole.

    “And yet, how better a way is there to fight the Shadow than to believe in such tales?” Barahir was unfazed by his wife's no-nonsense words, drawing her away from where she was adding potatoes to the pot of stew over the fire and into his arms. Beren looked up from where he was peeling carrots, and watched as his father spun her in a grand, courtly pattern, even though there was no music to dance to. His good cheer was so palpable that Emeldir could not help but smile too.

    “Besides,” Barahir leaned in to say very close to her ear, “How do you think that I knew that you were the one for me, if it was not for this enchanted pool?”

    Emeldir snorted. “Rather, I was the only one who could put up with your stories long enough to bear through your courtship, I think you meant to say.”

    At that, Barahir turned to his son and winked. “And here, after all this time, I thought that my rugged good looks won me my suit.”

    Emeldir tried to hold an unaffected face, but Beren saw where she tucked away a smile as she turned back to preparing their dinner, and it was that smile he chose to remember whenever he thought about his parents in the years to come.

    And yet, in those days, he only knew that he had a real tale of magic and fey enchantment close enough to touch. So, even when Belegund and Baragund complained that they were seeking out a magical pool for love – which was not nearly as interesting as hunting for Orcs, or imagining that the sentries' fires were approaching Balrogs in the hills - Beren insisted, and eventually, he had his way. In the end, his deciding argument was that they had already searched their small radius outside of the gates of Ladros for Orcs a hundred times before. Now they were eager for a new adventure.

    His father was the youngest of five children, and thus, Beren had many cousins to choose from for companionship – and yet, he turned to the sons of Bregolas more often than not. The brothers were born only a year apart – with Belegund being Beren's age, and Baragund a year younger (not that it mattered, for the younger boy was taller than them both, and he never let them forget it). The brothers talked fast, and they liked to finish each-other's sentences. Like Beren, they too wanted to grant their arms in service to the house of Finarfin when they turned of age. With such qualifications binding them, they were quick friends – Beren being as much their brother as he was their cousin – and they were rarely found apart when they could instead be together.

    They set out from the gates of Ladros before the sun set – for they were not allowed out past dark unless accompanied by an adult. Even with the sentries guarding the lands so close to home, the risk was not worth it with the threat of Morgoth so close by. They approached the boarders of the town – looking at the broad hills that stretched to the west, all the way to the mountains beyond. To the south and east of the settlement were great forests of cedar, spruce, and hemlock trees, all rising high and mighty on the highlands. It was for this they turned, seeking out where the streams flowed in rushing trickles on their way to the great rivers in the south.

    They walked until it turned dark in the forests – even though the light was still golden-red in the sky beyond. Here, Beren liked to pretend that he was one of his ancestors, newly awakened in the dark lands east of the mountains. He imagined that he was one of the heroes who boldly set out to first lead his people west, seeking out the light that was said to burn far beyond the Dark One's crown . . .

    And yet, his imagining was interrupted when Baragund sighed and said, “We have walked this way a dozen times before, Beren. We know these trees well.”

    A moment passed before Belegund agreed with his brother, “It is true,” he admitted. “I see nothing more than we usually see.”

    Still, Beren was stubborn, “It is said,” he stated calmly, “that if our hearts are pure, then the pool will appear to us.” He glanced at his cousins. “Are your hearts pure?” he inquired teasingly.

    “Maybe it is just a story,” Baragund suggested, ignoring his question. “Oftentimes, there is little truth to be found in such tales.”

    “It is magic, not a story – there is a difference,” Beren countered. “You've met Lord Angrod and his folk when they meet with the elders. I . . . I find it very possible to believe that they are capable of such enchantments. Can you not feel what is fey within them when they pass?”

    Belegund was silent as he considered that, and even Baragund looked thoughtful. There was something different about Lord Angrod – and that same sensation was almost palpable in his brother Lord Finrod, awed as Beren had been the one time he met the Elf-king. There was a light that clung to them – as if the stars had been brought close enough to touch by hands, and Beren was certain that that feeling had to be magic.

    “Well . . . maybe we can try - for a little while longer, at least,” Belegund at last said.

    “Just a little,” Beren agreed, glad that his friends would continue on with him. For now, he frowned thoughtfully as he contemplated how one could appear to be 'pure of heart', wanting the forest to find him and approve of his path. He considered, but he was unsure of what thought to think, of what virtue to provide as proof for something so intangible and unknown.

    Yet, even as he thought so, a bend appeared in the path, and they at last heard the sound of rushing water just beyond. There was a pool through the pine trees, he saw – a pool fed by a laughing waterfall, reflecting the light of the stars, even though they were not yet out for the night. Beren looked, and saw where stones were stacked by the pool's edge, each couple's inscribed name silent proof of the water's potency. He glanced, and wondered if one of the stones bore his parent's names – and yet, he would have to look for that later.

    Beren felt a leaping feeling his heart when he realized that here, this had to be it. The forest had accepted them, even when they were uncertain of that which they searched for.

    “That did not feel like much of a quest,” Baragund still made a face. “That was it? At least there could have been a dragon guarding the pool. Or a troll, or something.”

    “Oh, you are just afraid to look yourself - admit it,” Belegund turned and teased his brother. “What? Are you worried that you will see Hannel's face looking back at you?”

    Baragund flushed, and tightened his grip about the training bow he held – betraying his answer, no matter his words. “I am a son of Bregolas,” he declared too late. “I fear nothing.”

    “Except for Hannel's pretty eyes, it would seem,” Belegund still laughed.

    Baragund scowled, and then glared over at Beren, eager to turn his brother's attention from him. “Beren should look first,” he stated. “This 'quest',” he rolled his tongue scornfully over the word, “was his idea anyway.”

    “I am not afraid to know,” Beren declared honestly. With his saying so, his stomach gave a curious sort of jump. No, he was not at all afraid.

    “If it even works, that is,” Baragund muttered, and Belegund elbowed the younger boy.

    “Hush,” he chastised his brother without looking. Instead, he watched Beren with curious eyes as he approached the water. Even Belegund started, intrigued, for all of his words to the contrary.

    Beren took a deep breath, and turned towards the pool. He walked slowly, imagining that he could feel the ancient spells that had birthed the water – seeping in from the roots of the newly growing forests, and softly glowing underneath the star's first light. Ever full of tales you are, his mother would tug on his ear, while his father would smile and whisper in a reverent voice of the forces that had birthed their world in the very beginning – insisting that such tales bore a magic of their own.

    It was with this in mind that Beren knelt down by the water, staring first at the dancing stars, and then at his own reflected face. He took in the familiar sight of his own blue eyes and curling black hair, until . . .

    The water shifted, slowly at first, starting with his eyes. They widened in shape, blinking before staring at him from underneath a dark curtain of lashes. The girl in the water had eyes the color of silver twilight, gleaming from aface that was as pale as the moon – unbelievably lovely from the gentle line of her jaw to the full, dark shape of her mouth. Her hair was as black as the spaces between the stars, and Beren stared – stared until he was certain that he never wanted to leave the pool for the vision it presented. How could he ever wish to leave when she was there, nearly close enough to touch?

    And yet, he then noticed something . . . something that challenged his belief and drew his mind to question. Her ears . . . they bore fey tips, delicate and pointed, and so clearly not human in shape. All of a sudden, her great beauty – the timelessness of her eyes and the mysteries her smile promised – made sense, and he felt a sinking feeling deep inside of him.

    The pool . . . it had to be mistaken. Such a woman was not for him, he knew with a hopeless certainty. The pool had taken him from someone else.

    Beren reached forward, and splashed his hand through the water, destroying the vision before him. He waited as the water rearranged itself, wanting to try again. He held his breath, hoping . . .

    And yet . . . there she was again, her eyes knowing in the water.

    He tried three more times to force the pool to show him another's face, and each time she appeared, staring at him as if she knew something that he did not.

    Finally, Baragund peered over his shoulder to see what was troubling him. “You see,” he said, “It was nothing but a story -” and then his words faltered when he realized that the reflection in the water was not Beren's. It was someone else - something else - entirely.

    “Is that . . .” but Belegund could not complete his sentence as he stared, awed by the beauty of the woman.

    “What?” Baragund came up at his brother's shocked expression. “What do you see?” he too peered over Beren's shoulder, and yet, his reaction was more immediate than Belegund's. He stepped back and laughed – a sharp snort of mirth that soon turned into full bellied peals of laughter.

    “Oh yes, this is a pool made for fools,” he tried to draw himself to order when his brother scowled at him. “Obviously, the enchantments are skewed, showing you only what you wish to see, not what truly is.”

    Beren could not turn away from the woman in the water in order to disagree with his friend – for really, he admitted with a sinking feeling, Baragund was right. There was a wall between man-kind and elf-kind, and he was silly for even continuing to look at the reflection in the pool. Did the spell only show what he wanted to see? Was he that caught up in stories and fae tales that his mind could not even find a human girl to conjure and set before his eyes? The thought was a disheartening one.

    His spirits sank at the thought, and yet, when he raised his hand to destroy the image again, he found that he was reluctant to do so. In the water, the elf's eyes gleamed.

    “And who is not to say that an heir of Bëor is not worthy enough for a mere elf-maid, no matter how fair?” Belegund disagreed with his brother. “What if the pool does show true?”

    “If so,” Baragund shrugged, “then I have never seen the like of her before. I did not know of even one woman amongst Finarfin's kin dwelling so far north before this. Have you ever seen one with Lord Angrod's host?”

    Belegund flushed. “We may have missed a women riding out with the war-parties,” he ventured carefully. “They all wear similar armor, and their faces are . . .” he faltered. “Well, it can be hard to tell them apart at times,” he finally said gruffly.

    Baragund snorted. “There would be no mistaking her in a group of men,” he finally admitted. “With that hair . . . is she of Fingolfin's people?” he asked. “Beren should swear fealty in Dor-Lómin when he comes of age, rather than serving Dorthonion. Perhaps he will meet her there.”

    “I would not leave Dorthonion unless a stone of her no longer stood,” Beren said decisively, “No matter what vision the pool showed me.” Even still, he could not look away from the water.

    “Besides,” Belegund still theorized. “She looks like none of the Noldor I have yet to meet, even with her black hair. She seems . . .” he faltered with his words. “She seems like something more. I cannot find the words within me to describe it.”

    It was like comparing a candle to a star, Beren thought, but he did not say so aloud – not wanting to give his companions more of a reason to tease him once they left the pool behind. “She is the most beautiful creature I have ever seen,” he simply whispered, for really, there was no greater truth than that.

    “And that is why this pool is dangerous,” Baragund said flatly, “Never mind whether or not it is true. It fills sensible minds with nonsense – and Beren already has more nonsense in his mind than most!”

    At that, Beren shook his head, trying to free himself from the spell on the water. Baragund was right in that matter, and he would do himself no good by dwelling on what he had seen. At long last, he turned away, and watched as her eyes followed him from the water. Yet, after he turned, only the reflected starlight remained.

    “I still think that you are all words and no deeds, brother,” Belegund said with a smile as he pushed his sibling forward. “Come now, step forward, and let us see how you fair. Perhaps, if you have not vexed the spells too much, they will still show you Hannel's face.”

    “I really don't think -” Baragund flushed, and at that Beren laughed, trying to push the strange sight in the pool out of mind as he joined Belegund in dragging the taller boy to the water. And then there was only smiles and magic that remained.

    . . . and the elf-maid, waiting for him each time he blinked and closed his eyes.



    .
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    CLXIX. Bewildered

    There were days when her bones felt old within her skin.

    Andreth had trouble rising some mornings, and yet, sleep seemed to be the last thing her body was interested in as she passed the dark hours awake and lost in thought. Where the energy and eagerness of youth had long left her body, her mind was still as sharp as ever, and that was what kept her going day in and day out - especially on days like today, when her joints ached with the storms building on the air, and her hands refused to aid her as nimbly as they once had. She was slow as she plaited her now white hair, looking at her face in the glass and seeing where her skin was creased by both laughter and heavy cares, each line a map for the full stretch of her life thus far.

    Even with her advancing years, she still kept her own house – and she would do so until she could no more. She had apprentices come and go, and when they tried to do more, she refused their help. She still tidied up after herself; she cooked her own meals, and poured over her scrolls and letters as she had for the whole of her existence. Oftentimes, her role amongst the Wise simply translated to her being a rather accomplished herb-mistress and medicine-woman to her people, and so, the visitors to her house were not often those seeking to debate the various philosophies she had developed and collected over the course of her life – but rather, those asking cures for some various ailment or the other. Most amusing were those who thought that she was more of a hedge-witch than anything else, and came seeking bottled enchantments for their coin – of which she had not.

    Bregor, at least, knew the worth of her place amongst the Wise, and he often trusted her counsel when he made decisions for the leading of their people. Even now, her brother sat off to the side of the main room of her house, carefully pouring through the piles of scrolls that she had carefully arranged on her desk. He had just concluded a meeting with Lord Angrod the day before – and he searched for a snippet of correspondence that would solve a puzzle that they would continue to speak on that evening to come. Andreth herself had not seen much of the elves for her own tasks piling on her, and she had not yet asked Bregor for specifics.

    She did not turn to give him aid – not yet - for she had a specific order to fill that morning, and she crushed herbs and mixed oils with more vigor than her old joints would have preferred for the visitor she would have at noon. Bregor's grandson, Beren, would be by to pick up this package for his mother, and his visits were always a spot of brightness on her days.

    Knowing so, she made sure to place a glass of milk out before the fire, along with a plate of lemoncakes – which she would always tell the child she had just happened to make before he came by. And yet, one thing ever led to another, and Beren would linger until he deemed it a polite time for him to ask for stories. They had long made it through the histories of the House of Finarfin, and now Fingolfin's House featured in her tales. Last week, she had started telling him tales of Fingon the Valiant, starting with his rescue of Maedhros the One-handed from Thangorodrim, for which he had listened with wide eyes and an eager smile – imagining a kindred spirit in the Elf-prince, no doubt.

    Yet, when Beren entered her house, his smile was not quite as bright as it normally was. He was sincere and warm enough with his greeting, but there was a distracted quality to his words, and his eyes seemed to look beyond her more often than not. He looked bewildered by some heavy thought; both puzzled and contemplative as he absently answered her questions with distracted words. Such a thing was curious, and yet, she resolved that he would speak of what weighed upon his mind soon enough. She never had to pry much with this one.

    “First,” she said, passing him a glass jar of salve. “This is for your father's shoulder, and should be used the same as he has been. And this is for your mother – she will know what for. You come and tell me if that does not help the goat with her milk, and we will see about a different mix, hear me?”

    “Yes, Lady Andreth,” distracted as he was, Beren carefully took in her words, as always. “I thank-you.”

    As he always did, Beren helped her walk to her seat by the fire, and she accepted his aid rather than using her walking stick. She squeezed his arm fondly, and flashed him a warm smile. “Your visits are thanks enough, child. You are a bright spot on this old woman's days.”

    Beren gave a small smile at her words, pleased. And yet, when he sat down, he only held his mug of milk, and the cakes did not tempt him to eat. Normally, he would immediately eat two before restraining himself – clearly marking out when it would be polite to take a third, and then a forth when her back was turned.

    Andreth frowned, and when Beren's eyes turned to the fire, lost in thought, she asked, “Did you come for tales today? Or, is there something else weighing upon your mind?”

    He blinked slowly, as if trying to concentrate upon her words. “I am well,” he was quick to assure her. “There is nothing wrong, really. Only . . .” he faltered. He looked down at the fire, and then over to her. His brow was clearly troubled.

    And she waited, patient.

    “Two days ago,” he started slowly, “Baragund, Belegund, and I visited the enchanted pool in the woods.”

    Andreth smiled fondly for him saying so. “The youth still do that?” she asked, amusement touching her voice. “I would have thought that old bit of superstition to have died out long ago.”

    Beren nodded his head solemnly. He did not immediately smile at her words, and she felt a whisper of foreboding touch her – telling her that this was no mere trifle that was weighing upon the child. She leaned back in her chair, already carefully gathering her thoughts to her.

    “What did the pool show you?” she asked, and watched where Beren's cheeks flushed pink. He would not look at her.

    “I . . .” his voice was a whisper. It faltered at first, and then he tried again. “I know that there are whispers. The people say . . . and I understand if you do not wish to speak of it,” he darted his eyes up to her, and then quickly turned his gaze away. She felt a cold feeling fill her – understanding both what he would ask, and that what he had seen. “It's only . . . my aunts say that the reason you never married is because you loved an Elf-lord once . . . you loved him, and . . .” he faltered, clearly uncomfortable for having said anything. And yet, his need to speak was bright in his eyes. In reply, Andreth tried to swallow away her own rise of feeling, as bittersweet as it still was these many years later.

    She hesitated before answering, wanting to give the truth, but leery of offering him advice – or counsel – that would end up harming him in the years to come. At the desk, she became acutely aware of where Bregor turned to their conversation. She could feel the weight of his listening, even when he carefully kept his eyes on the scroll before him.

    Andreth pursed her mouth, and chose to answer truly, without providing detail. “I did love one of the Eldar in my youth, it is true.”

    Beren blinked, clearly processing the past tense in her words. She watched where his eyes dimmed, where he looked down in defeat. Curious, she pushed her own wound aside by wondering what exactly the water had shown him. There were very few elven women this far north, and the closest elven kingdoms were those of Doriath and Nargothrond to the south. She pursed her mouth, feeling as if she shaped more than her nephew's future when she asked, “Whom did the pool show to you?”

    He did not answer her right away. Instead, he looked down, and fiddled with his hands. But, he at last looked up at her, and met her eyes. “I saw an elf maiden,” he finally said on a soft voice, one filled with a quiet awe. “One with eyes like stars and black hair like the night . . . she was beautiful.” The last word he said slowly, as if it was not enough to express what he truly thought of the image in the pool.

    Just barely, Andreth let herself frown. She felt a pang when she looked at the child, sorrow for his future, the same as her own past, filling her the same as her knowing of the storms building above. Beyond them, Bregor gave up all pretense of paying attention to his work. He watched them openly, even though Beren did not notice.

    “It is a hard, strange road for there to be love in any shape between man-kind and elf-kind,” she at last said, for that was the simple truth of the matter, at its very core.

    “Then . . .” Beren held his head in dejection. “It is impossible.”

    “I would not say anything to be impossible, particularly where love is concerned,” even with her experience to the contrary, this Andreth still believed. “And yet . . . love between our races is a road with only one certain end, and that end may prove to be heavier than the joy to be found in its bends. Some,” and here, her voice was dry, no matter that she would have wished it not to be, “choose not to step foot on that path for its final destination, and none have yet walked it in full.”

    Beren nodded, listening to her words with a careful, almost painful intensity. Her hands had turned white about the arms of her chair, and she now forced them to relax. She lifted her mouth to smile, though the shape was a burden to her heart.

    “And yet,” she said, “I would counsel you more for the use and trusting of magic, over anything else. This pool is an enchanted pool – but enchantments are fickle and fey. Do not trust such mischiefs, and do not build your life around them. Most likely, you will grow, meet a nice girl – marry her, love her, and life will continue on much as it ever has. The stories surrounding that pool are just that – stories. For now, mind your mother and listen to your father. You have many years of growing before you need even contemplate a woman in your life, and you would not want to push one away for her not being she whom you saw in the pool's spell.”

    Beren nodded, his gaze clearing as he contemplated the wisdom in her words. “You are right,” he at last said. “Of course. I thank-you, Aunt Andreth.”

    “You are not the first young one I have spoken to after looking upon that water,” Andreth said wryly. “I doubt that you will be the last.”

    At that, Beren smiled – a true smile. “And you?” he asked. “What did the pool show you?”

    “You know? It is so long ago that I do not remember.” This alone she chose to keep to herself. She could still remember the reflection given to her whenever she but closed her eyes. It was a remembrance she treasured . . . and yet, Beren did not need to hear that. Not then. “You see? Enchantments; fickle and fey.”

    “Fickle and fey,” Beren repeated after her, relief clear in his voice. Whatever guilt she felt for her falsehood, she pushed away for hearing him speak so. There was a weight hanging about the child before her, she could not help but feel . . . a great burden that needed only the brush of a breeze to topple one way or the other. She resolved to watch him carefully in the years to come, lest that touch of destiny become as as a shackle in deep water to him, pulling him down rather than lifting him up.

    And yet, for now Beren was a child, and he at last turned to the pastries with joy in his eyes. She pushed her own thoughts of lost loves and hesitant futures away, and said, “Now, where did we leave off with our stories last week?”

    “Fingon the Valiant was driving the dragon Glaurung back to Angband during the Dagor Aglareb,” he informed her happily, licking the sweet crumbs from his fingers as he finished one cake and then reached for another.

    Andreth sat back, and let herself smile. “Ah yes, Glaurung. He was the Father of the Dragons, and young in power and might. For him, this adventure was but a taste of wickedness as he learned to wield his strength . . .”

    And so, she lost herself in stories. Beren listened, enraptured, until it was at last time for him to return home. She saw him off, heartened to see that his step was light where earlier it had been heavy. She had helped lift a weight from his shoulders, for which she was glad. And yet, as soon as he turned down the road, she felt her own memories come back to settle on her like a shroud. She frowned as she closed the door behind her, weary in a way that had nothing to do with her years.

    Bregor too stood when his grandson was gone, and he looked as if he bore a weight to match. She approached the desk, seeing the words that gathered in his eyes.

    “You set the child up for pain,” he said after a long moment. She looked, seeing where his beard was now completely white – for youth had left him behind, the same as she. Upon his brow, his circlet looked heavier than it had in years past.

    “And yet,” she countered, “he is still just that. A child.”

    “But old enough to know better,” Bregor disagreed. “My son fills his head with stories and nonsense, and, someday -”

    “ - they are stories you used to believe, as well,” Andreth gave a short laugh. “After all,” her eyes glittered, “who was it who first found that pool – and your wife - within its depths? There are times when I see much of you in Beren, just as so much of you resides in Barahir.”

    Bregor sighed at that. And yet, he had no words to say in his defense. “Easier is it to believe in stories than to bear what we must at times,” he finally said. His eyes were troubled as he took his seat once more, rubbing at his temples with his hands. “I have such whispers of foreboding as of late that they seem fit to smother me.”

    “That sounds very fey of you, brother,” she too took a seat next to Bregor, but while her words teased, there was a concern of her own to match in her eyes. She frowned, knowing that Angrod's visit was not just a friend's looking in on Ladros. He had troubles to share - visions too - she would guess.

    “Lord Angrod came with warnings, then?” she asked in a frank voice.

    Bregor looked up. “Only premonitions on his end; feelings of dread from the north. The trees whisper with warning, the water all but pulses with it, he says. Morgoth stirs, and he stirs in rage. We knew that the Siege would not indefinitely hold, and yet, we were not sure if it would break in our lifetime. But now . . . it seems more of a matter of when rather than if.”

    “We have been blessed with our years of watchful peace,” Andreth muttered. “Now, we can only do what we can to ensure that our children and our children's children know of that same peace in their years to come.” She felt a pang then, thinking of her life thus far . . . with so many years while nothing stirred from the north, years in which she could have – in which they could have . . .

    But such a thought was to inflict a pain with no cure, and she was tired of bleeding from this wound. She breathed in deep with her hurt, with her love, and let it go once more.

    And Bregor watched her. As always, he knew her as well as she thought to know herself. “The same as the last time he was here, Lord Angrod did not mention his brother.”

    Andreth set her mouth in a thin line, fighting to keep a wave of feeling down. “He has not in almost fifty years,” she shrugged. “And he will ever not. His cares are many, and their dealings are great beyond us.”

    “Still,” Bregor said with a flash of something hot in his words. “It does not excuse . . .” but he bit off his angry speech, and instead sighed – weary with an old hurt.

    Once, he had been a young man enamored with both of Finrod's brothers, much as they all were. Yet, even that awe had not stopped him from doing Aegnor a physical harm when he viewed his sister to be ill used and dishonorably treated. Aegnor bore a black eye from that encounter, and had finally been moved to fight back against the human when Angrod finally arrived to break them up. There had been no impropriety between them, she had to speak quickly to sooth her brother's anger – leaving out that there were times when she would not have minded more than the painfully chaste embraces they had enjoyed so far. She had been puzzled when tending to Aegnor's eye later, whispering that if he would only ask Bregor for her hand, then all of the questions and doubt would cease, and they could then start their life together.

    But something in her words had given him pause, and Aegnor drew away from her . . . so far away. Rather than claiming what few years they could together, she was instead deprived of even seeing him as a friend and comrade when Angrod took over the duties regarding Ladros in the north, and almost fifty years had passed since last she had seen him.

    Andreth sighed, refusing to dwell too long on a subject that was still more bitter than sweet. Finrod had since tried to explain why Aegnor had not taken even a few years in love with her, in his gentle and earnest way. And yet, even still . . . her denied love was a pain where she had once known only joy, and she tried not to think of it when she could.

    “I am sorry,” was all that Bregor would say in the end – it was all that he could say, when all other words would amount to not. Sadly, she smiled at him – warmly and truly, even when her eyes burned with the tears she had not cried in years.

    “Do not be,” she asked of him, wiping at her eyes as she turned back to her herbs and oils. Her hands were unsteady as she placed more vials in a basket – for there were more than Beren's parents who had need of her skills that day. She could not yet look back to her brother.

    “For a short while, I knew what it was like to hold the sun,” she said on a small voice. “Even those few months were worth any years spent longing. I . . . that was why I could not tell the child of impossible things. For I would take those few days loving truly over all of the years I could have spent in a marriage of lesser meaning to my heart. This is a truth that I have to believe as absolute.”

    Bregor stood, and yet, she held a hand up. “I am well. Truly I am,” she assured him. “I have been for many years, now. It was only Beren's words that brought back my memories. They do not haunt my every day.” . . . in full, at least, but that she would not say.

    “Now,” she tilted up her head, and held up her basket for him to see. “Widow Toben has need of remedies for her arthritis, and she can no longer come to me. When I get back, you will tell me of whatever matter has you pouring through my scrolls, and we will solve it together.”

    Bregor inclined his head, and while his eyes did not quite believe her to be as well as she said she was, he still honored her request. He let her go.

    And Andreth stepped outside with a firm stride, grounding herself on the here and now, rather than that which time had left behind. She would not burden herself with the memory of impossible things – not when that same memory had once brought her so much joy.

    She thought of Beren as she stepped on to the path, and wondered for his maid with her eyes of stars. She stopped underneath the grey skies, heavy with rain, and bowed her head - silently praying to whomever of the Valar would hear, asking that this woman would not yield to impossibilities as she had.

    And then, she picked up her head, and continued on.

    ~MJ @};-
     
  9. Cael-Fenton

    Cael-Fenton Jedi Master star 3

    Registered:
    Jun 22, 2006
    Oh [face_love]

    This (particularly Beren's bit, since we all know well what lies in his future) could have so easily slipped into "one true love written in the stars" Disney-type mushy romantic bathos, but you very deftly wove in the bite of reality, the pep and zing of real, genuine relationships built around true companionship, and the ache of ill-starred love.

    I liked your characterisation of Emeldir and the other girls, you make them so individual. And your Barahir is adorable! I definitely see what she sees in him. Loved the traces of his heirs (especially Aragorn) which are perceptible in his bearing and mannerisms.

    Your Andreth is heartbreakingly lovely and awe-inspiring in her courage and nobility of spirit. It's always profoundly moving to get a glimpse of star-cross'd love from "afterwards" --- when they've somehow found it within themselves to get on with living for others and being the best human beings they can be, despite feeling incomplete. You pulled it off very well with Andreth here. I have a soft spot for strong-grandmother-type characters, and I just really, really love what you did with her. Aegnor's an idiot for giving her up :p
     
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  10. WarmNyota_SweetAyesha

    WarmNyota_SweetAyesha Chosen One star 8

    Registered:
    Aug 31, 2004
    Can I just say I love Cael's eloquent concise reviews? =D= I love strong grandmotherly types too especially when they have sweets LOL

    ~~~!

    "Bothered" -- The teasing of Emeldir with her friends-- so lighthearted. ;)

    Such a pool does seem very likely as it flows from Doriath. [face_thinking]

    I like Emeldir's character a lot, she is strong, courageous, does not want to conform into anyone's preconceived notions of the perfect life-mate - if it comes to her, it comes. @};-

    Barahir and Bregolas - I like both of them--they seem affectionate and fun with one another; Barahir is indeed warm and likeable, honest and admiring of a lady's true worth.

    ~~~!

    "Bewitched" -- the sweet teasing of Barahir with Emeldir :)

    The persistence of what was seen in the pool - very nice indeed.

    ~~!

    "Bewildered" - despite Andreth's and earlier Emeldir's demurrals about putting too much stock in stories, etc., Andreth especially knows the validity behind such things. She speaks honestly to Beren of the hard road, but also can find it posssible to admit that she would rather have a brief soul-partnership that nurtured the soul than to settle for less with someone who didn't nurture and cherish. @};-

    ~~!

    Taking notes on all these thingies for my Luthien diary /journal to come. [face_love]

    Happy joy just contemplating.

    [:D] [:D]
     
  11. earlybird-obi-wan

    earlybird-obi-wan Chosen One star 6

    Registered:
    Aug 21, 2006
    What can I add more? Just lovely pure Tolkien
     
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  12. Mira_Jade

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

    Registered:
    Jun 29, 2004
    Cael-Fenton: Oh, Aegnor is about as thick as they come, that's for sure. o_O :oops: This whole piece was written just so I could write Andreth at the end, and along the way I really fell in love with the rest of the Bëorians, as well. [face_love] I am glad that you enjoyed this one too! [:D]

    Nyota's Heart: Thank-you so much for leaving your thoughts! I enjoyed every word. :) It was fun writing strong types like Emeldir and Andreth - as was it interesting to touch on that fine line between 'storybook romance' and real life love. It's always the best when you can work in the best of both worlds, that's for sure. That said, your Lúthien diary!!! I am so, so stoked about that one, you have no idea. [face_love][face_dancing][:D]

    earlybird-obi-wan: Thank-you! :)



    Now, this update is for the NSWFF prompt 'warmed by the fire', and it is set right before the Battle of Dagorlad at the end of the Second Age - where Sauron was 'defeated', Isildur took the Ring of Power for himself, and the Elven hierarchy changed drastically with the deaths of Gil-galad, Oropher, and Amdír. But really, it is an excuse for me to write the next part of Thranduil and Calelassel's story, so that I can start on Third Age tales in the Greenwood. ;)

    That said, I thank you all for reading, and I hope that you enjoy my latest offering to a truly remarkable world. [face_love] [:D]






    "as the fire grows"


    CLXX

    Desolation stretched across the Berennyn as far as the eye could see.

    During the day, the massive stretch of brown land east of the Anduin was nothing but withered grass, stretched thin over the gently rolling hills. The vast nothingness was a scar upon the earth where once green trees and bountiful fields had thrived. At night, the wound inflicted upon the land was less noticeable, with the hundreds of thousands of men encamped over the plains visible without the shelter of tree or stone. Their campfires were like fireflies in the dark; a veritable sea of war, with chainmail and steel glittering like the crests of waves in the moonlight.

    It was, even Thranduil could admit, a rather impressive sight. He had not seen such a collection of Elves and Men bound together since the final days of Morgoth's reign, and the feel of so many souls in one place rippled over his senses as he stared into his own fire, feeling its heat but finding little warmth against the chill of the night.

    Once, this land was a land of many trees, he let his spirit reflect with an ache. Once, the Onodrim had cultivated the earth with a tender hand, coaxing the fruit trees to blossom and reaping great yields from the planted field. And yet, the Shepards of Yavanna had been chased from their places, and now nothing remained but for dust and ruin. It was, Thranduil thought, a pointed reminder of all they risked with their last push at Sauron's doors. For if they failed in the fight to come, not only would the gardens of the Entwives bear such a scar. Every forest of Ennor would burn as the Brown Lands had burned, and -

    Thranduil frowned for the shape of his thoughts, finding them troubling in the face of the trials that awaited them. Once more, he reached out with his senses and tried to find even the slightest trace of roots underneath the dead ground. He looked deep, hoping to find even the smallest of survivors from Sauron's scourge, for even the barest fiber of life could birth a great forest in the centuries to come, and if the slightest hope now remained . . .

    But all he sensed was decay and ash. The pulse of the ground was dry and bitter against his senses; discordant and pained. He pulled himself away from his search, acknowledging it as futile. Even so, his skin itched, and he distantly wished for the shade of leafy boughs and the ancient song of the forest. It was unnatural, this empty land, and he would be glad when they finished crossing it – even if was the gates of Mordor that awaited their journey's end. Already the hills turned steep around the curves of the Anduin, and the sharp crags of the Emyn Muil stood to greet them at the south of their encampment – warning of where they would soon have to turn their host straight into Sauron's waiting arms, where their warring would begin in full.

    Pulling his thoughts away from the far off trees, Thranduil wondered how many campfires would be lit on their return trip home. He wondered if he himself would even be sitting this same place, when -

    “Ah, I was right to assume that you would keep a finer vintage for yourself,” at the voice – once familiar to him when they were both young men, living through the rise and fall of Doriath's might – Thranduil looked up. He raised a dark brow when Celeborn sat down next to him without waiting for an invitation, already reaching for the wine-skin in order to pour himself a glass.

    The silver-haired elf gave a pleased smile when he took a sip of the red, inclining his head in approval. “What the Dúnedain call wine is more like vinegar and water,” he commented. “You would have been appalled.”

    “Such low taste I can believe of the Men,” Thranduil said dryly in reply. “But of Gil-galad's camp? That I do find to be a depressing thought.” He tilted his head. “Unless you have simply tired of the Noldo's company?”

    “The same as you have tired of Oropher's?” Celeborn asked, perfectly innocent in his tone. He glanced significantly at Thranduil and his solitary seating – where, just across the rows of tents, Oropher sat with his commanders and talked of the battles to come - away from his son's ears.

    Thranduil fought to keep his face serene and still. He had lived apart from his sire for the better part of the last Age, and a day spent in his company had been all Thranduil needed to look forward to another separation between them. It had been difficult enough to endure his father when his mother was alive to act as a buffer between them, and since her death it had become all but impossible. Once, after a particularly violent row, she had crossly informed him that it was their similarities, rather than their differences, that led to their clashing tempers – only, his was a cold fire where Oropher was an inferno of a presence – and yet, he tried not to examine that thought too closely whenever he could.

    “I have dwelt quite comfortably with three forests between us for the majority of this Age,” Thranduil finally answered, his mouth a thin line. “I do believe that he has forgotten that I have spent that time leading – and leading well, may I add. Any words I may offer contrary to his own decided course are met less than graciously in reply.”

    A whisper of foreboding rose within him at the thought. While he cared but little for Oropher refusing to hear his own counsel, it was worrisome when he plotted the movements of his troops away from that which Gil-galad had planned - and thought Oropher to understand, as well. While Thranduil did not believe the Noldor to be all-wise and all-knowing – as many viewed them, including the Noldor themselves – his years living in Lindon had taught him to respect Gil-galad and his crown, at the very least. Thranduil had his pride – too much of it, perhaps - and yet, he was wise enough to open his ears and listen to their thoughts and ideas, even if he did not use their wisdoms absolutely when making decisions for his own people. Oropher, however, had dwelt too long in his forests, away and afar from any other people. There he had nursed his wounds and his prejudices like seeds in the dark, letting them break the ground and sprout as sapling trees. Now . . .

    Thranduil took another long draw of wine, and swallowed that thought away as well.

    While his thoughts chased themselves in circles, Celeborn stared into the fire, a look of consideration worn on his own face. For a moment, Thranduil imagined his father's annoyance if he was seen speaking to his friend of old – for Oropher's opinion of his younger kinsman had cooled greatly when Celeborn even looked on Artanis Arafinwiel with admiration in his eyes, prophesying that the Noldor would only bring a fire to the forests to match the Sun that dawned to light their way. When Oropher's foresight proved to be for true, and Artanis was then Galadriel - bound to the trees by both marriage and heart - Oropher acknowledged Celeborn as no kin of his, and expected his son to do the same.

    . . . of course, that was not to say that Celeborn's wife did not unsettle him as well. Galadriel had a way, not of looking at a person, but rather through a person . . . through to both marrow and bone. He had never cared for the transparency he felt in her presence, like a scab picked open and raw. And yet, for all of their differences, he could admit that the couple suited each other – with Celeborn's ease checking her ambition, and his strength a quiet might where her will was more akin to a force of nature. Yet, Celeborn had once remarked wryly: Galadriel was more Teleri than Noldor due to the shape of her blood – and all too easily did Oropher and those like minded choose to forget that truth when it was not convenient to them. It was easier to think of her as Olwë's granddaughter, rather than Finwë's – and thus, kin to Thingol and kin to him. It made things simpler . . . most of the time.

    Celeborn sighed, and picked up the wine-skin to pour himself another glass. “It is ever a fine line for a father,” he acknowledged, his thoughts still on Oropher, “to play the role of mentor and guide while still acknowledging that a child has finally grown to stand on their own roots.”

    “If it were only that,” Thranduil said wryly, taking another sip of wine. “And yet,” he gave the barest of smiles, caring but little to speak of his sire any more than he had to, “That is a problem you have little encountered yourself, or so I have observed. Your daughter has been an unexpected source of light in Lindon these past few centuries.”

    He need not have said anything more for the conversation to shift. On cue, Celeborn's expression softened, and a father's fondness for a favored child shone bright in his eyes. Unexpectedly, a sour feeling rose in his throat, green in shape – and he fought it away, annoyed for its presence.

    After their first war against Sauron in Eregion, Celeborn had moved his family west to Lindon – for little at ease would Galadriel feel in the forests, away from any further developments against Sauron, and in Lindon they planned to stay until the Dark Maia's defeat. Celeborn's daughter, however, had been far from awed and overwhelmed by the grace and beauty of the High-king's seat of power. Instead, she had been a quiet and reserved thing as she ever turned her gaze to the east – where it was rumored that she had left her heart behind in the newly founded Imladris. Yet, Celebrían was fresh blood to the Noldor court – an unexpected gift of beauty and breeding to the ancient circles of courtiers, and Thranduil had enjoyed watching the subtle way she conducted herself around the silver-tongued vultures and her numerous would-be suitors. If he was honest with himself, he could admit that he had long enjoyed the unexpected companion he had found in her. For - frankly put - she was safe company to keep, never looking for more from him, or examining every phrase and gesture for a hidden meaning. She was as stone when his temper could be as a wave, and her own wit was dry and cutting whenever he pushed her to it . . . which, he could admit to doing more often than not.

    He looked, and saw where Celeborn's thoughts were much the same as his own. His face softened in the firelight, and his smile was small and fond. “There is a radiance about her that is softer than Galadriel's, but no less potent,” Celeborn agreed with him. “She brightens everything she touches . . . and yet, she has ever done so for me.”

    For a moment, Celeborn's look dipped, and Thranduil wondered if he – like so many soldiers that eve – doubted of his surviving to return home to the family he had waiting for him. The thought demanded more wine, and so, Thranduil filled each of their glasses.

    “And, speaking of,” Thranduil said, turning his thoughts from places he would rather them not dwell, “You are far from your would-be goodson this eve. My wine is good, but something tells me that Gil-galad drinks the same, if not better.”

    Celeborn cracked the barest of smiles. “I am afraid that Elendil and his family have snared his attention this night. It is rare indeed for Men to find one who knew your first forefather – your first King – intimately, and has childhood anecdotes to share, at that. Ciryon, in particular, has questions aplenty, and Elrond answers them all.” Ciryon, unlike his two elder brothers, had been born in Ennor, rather than in fallen Númenor beyond. Besides toddling Valandil, left behind in his mother's arms, he was the youngest of Isildur's brood. The boy still bore the stars of youth in his eyes, and only time would tell if war would chase that gleam away.

    At that, Thranduil shook his head, knowing that the Peredhel would be in his glory with sharing such stories, little that he would admit to it it. During the centuries before Imladris' construction. Thranduil had come to respect the healer – he grudgingly even liked him, no matter how painfully Noldor he could be at times . . . Not that he would ever tell the other man that, of course. His unflappable patience and immovable composure were already infuriating. He did not need to add in the smug satisfaction of him being right.

    Thranduil tapped the fingers of his opposite hand absently against the cup of the goblet. “You are happy with her choice, then?” he asked, curious.

    Celeborn looked thoughtful in reply. “I am not unhappy with her choice,” he answered carefully. “As a father, a part of me would wish an easier road than the one she has set herself upon. And yet, I should not be surprised . . . after all, it is in her blood.”

    “She has already showed patience – even for our kind,” Thranduil commented. “She is steadfast.”

    Celeborn gave him a considering look over the top of his glass – one that caused a whisper of warning to prickle up and down his spine. “She was young when her attachment was first made . . . not too young, but young enough. The past centuries have shaped her character and her wisdoms for the better – preparing her for the position of leadership she will assume with this match. Now she will be a strength and compliment to her mate, rather than a sapling still in need of growth.” Sure enough, the shape of his eyes was most certainly probing.

    Thranduil fought the rather adolescent urge he had to bite his lip, refusing to be made uncomfortable by the other's stare. “Even still,” he said slowly, “a thousand years is a long time. Even for an elf.” Almost two thousand, in Celebrían's case. In his . . .

    He pushed that number aside, caring little for its shape.

    “It is long enough,” Celeborn rolled his shoulders in an elegant shrug. “And yet, if the years waiting proved to be too much for her – or him – then neither would be worthy of the match they sought.”

    “And now?” Thranduil asked, his words slow.

    “Elrond has not expressly asked me for her hand, for which I am grateful.” Celeborn tilted his head, for a moment speaking not in double meanings. “If he would have asked me before the war, I would have denied him, for the fates of all are uncertain, and I would not see her bound just in time to watch her fade away for the sake of that bond. Yet, even so, her soul is linked to his, and even without a true marriage, I fear that she would follow him should he fall.”

    Thranduil managed a thin smile, but it was strained. “You shall just have to ensure that the Peredhel remains alive throughout the melee. A simple enough task.”

    “I have explicit instructions to bring him – and myself – back alive, it is true,” Celeborn agreed wryly. “And not so easily is the will of Galadriel turned aside.” His eyes glittered. “And you? What do you plan to do when the war is over? Shall you return to Lindon? Our people have merged almost completely with the Falathrim, and Círdan is a good lord - a great lord, even. Oropher would do well to have your cool head beneath the boughs of the Greenwood – your people would certainly benefit, at the very least.”

    The centuries had turned Celeborn - Thranduil thought, but did not say - just as meddling as his wife, but twice as unsubtle.

    “You are not the only one to think so,” Thranduil answered after a long moment. He shifted in his seat, suddenly restless as he recalled his father's thinly veiled hints about him returning to the Greenwood once Mordor was laid low.

    “The trees will always call you home,” Celeborn gave him an appraising look. “Either you will follow behind Oropher now, or you will do so later. Either way, your road remains the same . . . Unless the Sea tugs at your soul? Is there another reason for your refusal to leave Lindon?”

    “No,” Thranduil said decisively. “I have yet to feel Valinor's call, even after listening to the song of the waves for so many years. Truthfully, I cannot imagine it ever calling me to stray from this land.” . . . not when he could feel the roots of Ennor as if the trees first planted themselves in his very soul. No. He could not ever imagine taking one of the Grey Ships into the West.

    Around him, the dead land stretched for miles on end, and he felt that now familiar weight settle upon his spirit when he could not feel one surviving root, not even deep beneath the ground. The land was nothing, a barren stretch of dessert grass, and his soul ached for the loss. He closed his mouth, and wished for the shade of the trees once more. He knew that - in that way, at least - his father was right. He had dwelt too long away from the forest, and the wound he had inflicted upon his spirit was nearly a physical pain as a result.

    Celeborn watched him as his thoughts swirled. He put his wine down before leaning forward to look at him openly, no double meanings and clever words upon his mouth, just a friend's frank concern when he asked: “Could it be that you then know fear?”

    Instantly, he felt his ire spark. “I know not of which you speak,” he uttered defensively – even when knowing that the sharp tone of his voice would only fix Celeborn's opinions as facts in his mind. He fought to keep his face expressionless, but he could feel his mask stretch.

    “I am sure you do not know of whom I refer to. So, allow me to remind you – it has been a long time, after all,” Celeborn arched a brow. His voice was overly pleasant. “Captain of your father's archers . . . a pretty thing with blonde hair and blue eyes . . . and a rather remarkable aim, at that.”

    “Her eyes are more green than blue,” Thranduil corrected him – speaking too quickly, once again. Celeborn's smile was insufferable in reply.

    “Forgive me for not looking more closely,” Celeborn said wryly. “I shall take your word for it.”

    Thranduil fought the urge he had to sigh – defeated. Instead, he took another long swallow of wine. And then another. The red was strong and spicy as it warmed its way down his throat to settle in his stomach, and a moment later he felt as if he could speak.

    When Amdír's forces from Lórinand and Oropher's men from the Greenwood joined their host on the banks of the Anduin – some weeks ago, now – he would be lying if he said that she had not immediately captured his gaze and held it. Due to their differing places on the march, he had spoken to her but little – only passing glances and words in which there was little time for anything more. Even so, he knew each look like a brand and each word like gold for how he coveted them as if holding them between a dragon's claws.

    When his father had first spoken to him of returning home from Lindon, Oropher had mentioned marriage as a reason for his doing so – for thousands of years had passed, and he had yet to take a bride. His better sense had told him not to inform Oropher of his long-standing promise to Calelassel Laeorniel, but he had foolishly done so anyway – and Oropher's scorn had been thick and immediate in reply. The girl's favoring of her Sindar blood over her Noldor blood – and her bond with the trees, at that – made Oropher blind to her faults when she was nothing more than a member of his guard, but to be worthy of his son's hand . . .

    Oropher had only been all too glad to point out the elf with chestnut coloured hair who constantly walked in Calelassel's shadow. Though Torion Cevenion was her second in command, Oropher believed him to be more than that - and he had been filled with scorn as he berated his son for placing his heart where it was not worthy. If Oropher only bore qualms for Calelassel's blood, his objections would only deepen his resolve – as terrible as it was to think such a thought. And yet . . . if she had moved on in the thousands of years he had forced her to wait . . . if she had found another . . .

    . . . who did he have to blame but himself?

    After speaking to Oropher, he had watched Calelassel closely . . . and he found that his father's words were true. She was ever seen with this elf – this Torion – whenever he looked, and the shape of his emotions had been dark and hot in reply.

    He had scarcely spoken two words to his father since their argument, and now he was drinking wine alone in the barren-lands when they stood so close to the gates of Mordor – where survival was not guaranteed for any, and dubious for all. If asked, Thranduil would be hard pressed to imagine a more pathetic picture.

    “It matters not,” Thranduil said, realizing his long lapse into silence. “I have made her wait too long, and she has moved on . . . she has found another. She was young at the end of the war – young enough to misinterpret what she thought she felt for me, it would seem. It is just as well that there was no vow between us – only the vaguest of promises. She is free to make her own choices, and I will let her.”

    Celeborn blinked. “Did she tell you of this new suitor in her life?” he asked, his words careful. “Have you spoken to her of this?”

    Thranduil was silent in reply. He took another long draw of wine. “I have seen enough,” was his short answer in reply.

    Celeborn's sigh was audible, even over the crackling of the fire. “You do the lady a disservice with such assumptions,” he said. “Even if your observations are right, you should still speak to her – for one outcome or another. You dishonor both her and yourself by merely assuming.”

    And yet . . .

    Thranduil swallowed, and found that his throat was dry. There was an uneasy rolling in the deep parts of him, and it took him a long moment to deign that emotion as fear.

    “All know fear for this step,” Celeborn answered the unspoken. “And yet, for this one stride there is often the sweetest of rewards waiting. You have been alone for much too long, my friend . . . much too long.”

    Thranduil set his mouth into a thin line. He looked over the sea of campfires once again, and felt the souls surrounding him flicker brightly in the night. In the end, all of his worries and wondering could be for not, a black voice inside of him whispered. With the fight to come . . .

    “And, with a battle like this one awaiting us . . .” Celeborn continued, unconsciously following his thoughts. “In the end, such warring will only lead you to treasure what you have all the more dearly. This Maia . . .” here his voice lost it's teasing lilt, it's well meaning friendliness. A shadow fell over his expression - a dark that was more than the midnight hour and the flickering shapes from the fire's light. “This Maia and his Ring . . . when we battled in Eregion, it was as if his spirit was everywhere all at once. It looked within you . . . through you . . . illuminating all that was shadowed and marred about yourself. It was not only a battle of arms we fought, but a battle against ourselves, and some minds could not stand up tall underneath the onslaught.”

    Thranduil let his next breath out slowly. He moved in closer to the fire, but the warmth it gave was quickly swept away by the wind blowing in cold and dark from the east.

    “I would rather fight Morgoth's unnatural host ten times over than battle this one stray spirit,” Celeborn said, his voice little more than a whisper. “And yet, it is only this one war remaining between shadow and another time of peace.”

    “As watchful as that peace may be,” Thranduil muttered - for ever did that which was marred about the world rise again and again, no matter how many foul beings they slayed. Forever it was to his race to ride the crest of those waves, to rise and fall and endure alongside the marred world they were bound to.

    . . . at times, the thought was a wearying one. And yet, all those living in Arda bore their own burden . . . this was simply the price of forever and deathlessness.

    In that moment, his skin felt thin over his bones. The wine had moved from warming his stomach, to turning it, and a restless energy crawled over his limbs in reply. He stood, his movements graceful as the half-light danced over the charcoal grey plates of his armor.

    “Enjoy the wine,” he inclined his head to Celeborn. “The night has turned restless for me, and I have no wish to sit still.”

    Celeborn nodded his head in reply. “Don't mind if I do,” he gave a smile that was stretched about the edges – the other man no doubt fighting the same doubts and premonitions as he did. While neither of them had full use of the Sight, they were both kin of Thingol, and the future ever danced over their mind's eye, ever out of reach. At times, the barest of premonitions was a burden, rather than a gift. “Until later, my friend,” still, Celeborn found it within himself to smile. Thranduil tried to share that look, but knew that his expression was forced.

    “Until later,” Thranduil replied, and turned away from the fire.

    Upon stepping away from the circle of orange light, it only took his eyes a moment to adjust to seeing by the starlight. Once, the stars had been the only light he had needed – the only light he had wanted – and he now felt a feeling of home and ease underneath their distant light. He picked through the camps with a silent step, hearing snippets of conversation as he passed - everything from hushed voices, speaking in whispers, to the bright laughter and jests of comrades. In one dark tent, he could hear a prayer to the Valar being spoken in an undertone . . . over and over again, as if the uttered mantra would spare that soldier's life in the days to come. Thranduil listened for a moment, and then continued on.

    He soon found his feet taking him away from the camps, down to where the mighty Anduin flowed to the west of their camp. Her waters were quick and timeless, immortal in a way that even he could not comprehend. He let the natural melody of the water lull his thoughts, listening to her sing of her years until her voice drowned out the chatter from beyond.

    Here, the rapids crashed against the cradle of the river, dancing in shallow and quick patterns over the great stones of the riverbed. Those same stones continued up on the shore in massive shapes, and atop the grey stone, brown grass stubbornly started to grow in thin patches before sweeping over the dead plains to the east. Even by the life-giving river, he could not feel the tell-tale thrum of life trying to begin anew, far beneath the the surface of the earth. Sauron's fires had been unnatural and unholy, and not even the water could sooth that burn on the land.

    Distantly, as if summoning up memories through a great fog, he remembered being a youth in Doriath. There had been delight – for him and many others - when the Onodrim learned to speak during their long wanderings from the green ways of the River-lands. But that land too was no more, and Fangorn and his folk were now deep within their forest, unheard of for centuries as they mourned their lost ones. Theirs' was a loss they would place at Mordor's feet – one more atop many others - and for the first time, Thranduil felt a fierce pang of anticipation for the battle to come.

    With a sigh, he knelt down to touch a hand to the river. The water was cold here, even so far to the south - as if the river herself was tensing before running parallel to the Mountains of Shadow, knowing of the pains she would suffer so close to the dark lands. Cold as it was, he let the natural dance of the water sooth him, numbing his thoughts and lulling his spirit until -

    He felt the cold sensation of an arrowhead touching the exposed skin of his neck. Instinctively, he tilted his chin up, shying away from the touch of the steel, even as every muscle in his body braced, ready to -

    “Ill it is to walk unguarded – and so unaware – in the shadows this close to Mordor.”

    He knew that voice as well as he knew his own, even if centuries had passed since last he had heard her speak in full. He drew in a thin breath, mindful of the cool tip of the arrowhead against his skin. “As always, my blood is yours to do with as you would.”

    The very tip of the arrow drew a light path underneath his chin, tracing out where the line of healthy and scarred flesh would have been had he not worn his enchantments strong and unmovable upon his skin. He wondered if she remembered, or if such a thing was by chance.

    “It is a great gift you give me,” she replied, her voice playful. “Yet, it is one I shall not claim this night.”

    She drew the arrow away, and he drew in a deeper breath. Still, it shook in his lungs.

    His back was to her when he stood. He was slow about drying his hands on the heavy fabric of his cloak, and he hesitated before turning – slowly, so as to draw the moment out for as long as he could. She was beautiful in the starlight, and he could not help but imagine how she would have looked underneath the light of the infant stars - long before their brilliance was marred by the Sun and Moon. Her hair was more silver than blonde underneath the veil of night, and her fair skin was luminous beneath the cold glow from the heavens. He traced each familiar feature with his eyes, taking his memory of her and rewriting it anew. Time had touched her not but for her eyes, he saw. Her gaze was brighter, matching the strong pulse of her spirit - eternal and glowing . . . and all the more enticing for the years it had to grow into its full flame.

    He exhaled, and found that he could not find his next breath.

    “I thought you to be with the watches this eve,” he remarked, raising a brow. The starlight flickered over the planes of her armor as she took a step closer to him. Someday, Vairë's weaving would bring them together without steel standing between them, he let himself hope. And yet . . . that itself was another could have been, he forced his thoughts to sober. He took an unconscious step back from her.

    “I am with the watches this night,” Calelassel confirmed, tilting her head to the side. “That is how I came across you.”

    “Alone?” he asked. He meant his question to be casual; harmless, even. It came out lined, as with teeth.

    She raised a thin brow, weighing his words. A moment later, she pursed her mouth. “For now,” she answered. “There was a sound in the dark, and Torion went one way while I went another.”

    Like a candle blowing out, the warmth he felt in her presence gave way for a chill. “I shall pass on word of your thoroughness to my father, then,” he said, meaning to move past her. He inclined his head in a cold gesture. “Good night, Captain.”

    She caught him as he passed her. Her fingers were strong about the vambrace covering his forearm, so strong that he would have to use force to free himself from her.

    “Wait,” she would not let him go. He stilled, giving into that one word as if she uttered a command. “Have I done something to displease you?” she asked, and while her question was one of confusion, her voice bore a note of frustration – annoyance, even.

    He felt his own ire rise at the question. He did not answer her right away, unsure of what to say without his words coming out petulant and wounded. He was not a child, and he was not a dog - he would not beg for her, he would not. If she had made her decision, he would abide by it gracefully. Only, not now. He could not . . . not yet.

    “You are displeased,” Calelassel pressed. “Angry, even.” Her grasp tightened about his wrist.

    “I am not,” he denied. His voice came out as a wave of frost. He still would not look at her.

    “You lie,” she said simply. Though centuries had passed – over three millennia – mere moments spent again in her presence had unearthed the sparks of their old bond, allowing him to feel her anger as much as he could hear and see it. He inhaled against the sensation, trying to keep his own anger down, fey and elemental as it was rising within him.

    “My lady,” he whispered, half afraid of what she would hear if he spoke any louder. “I wish to take my leave of you.”

    “So formally you speak to me.” Even still, she refused to release him. “You had a right to my name long ago, my lord, or are those days too far gone for you?” Though her tone was without anger, he could feel a lance of bitter feeling strike him with their speaking.

    “I do not think that your intended would approve of my doing so,” he returned, and tugged his wrist free of her. From the glance he stole, he could see no shadow of a mate resting in her eyes. Instead, he swallowed when he caught the bright flare of green the star-light revealed. “Nor would he approve of you speaking to another alone in the dark, and neither do I -”

    “ - of what madness do you speak?” she interrupted him. Her brow furrowed, her annoyance then greater than her confusion. Though, why she still played at confusion, he knew not. He felt a wave of indignation spark within him, wondering if she truly meant to toy with him. He had never thought her to be that kind of woman, and yet, many, many years had passed, and . . .

    “Do not take me for a fool,” he returned coldly. “You know of whom I speak.” His words were low, but the emotion behind them was unmistakable. He could not control his thoughts in that moment, and he watched as she picked out one clear image from the maelstrom of sensations and emotions she felt from him.

    “Torion?” she stammered the name out stupidly. “Torion?” she had to ask a second time. The last syllable of his name came out as a disbelieving sound. Thranduil hated hearing it from her mouth.

    “My father told me of -” he started, but was not allowed to complete his words.

    “ - of all the times for you to listen to your sire's words, this is what you take as truth?” Calelassel gave a disdainful snort. She took a step back from him, and ran a hand though her hair in frustration. “Manwë's teeth, Thranduil, but -”

    “Are they true?” he asked, standing up tall before her obvious anger. He could feel her emotions swell against his spirit like the ocean rising in a storm, and the knowledge that someone else had the privilege to know her so, the right to. . . He took a step back from her, needing to keep a distance between them. For his fëa was angry and white against his skin, and he was having a hard time forcing his spirit down where it belonged. They were civilized creatures, and he was a prince amongst his kind. He would be no mindless faerie – not even about this – and where his fëa howled and hissed, insisting that he could still feel her, that they still matched like the moon to the tides, he ignored his baser instincts and coolly held his ground. He was doing well to simply meet her eyes, furious as they were in that moment.

    “You would truly stand there, acting as if you are the one with a right to any wound?!” she exclaimed instead of answering him outright. “I left you in Lindon thinking that a century would pass – a thousand years, even - before you would make your way over the mountains and let your feet return home to the forests. And yet, how many centuries has it been? How many thousands of years?”

    He held her gaze without giving anything away in his expression. But she did not truly expect an answer.

    “And why?” finally her voice softened. It turned hurt in shape. “Is it because you cannot make peace with your father? Your wounds with Oropher run two ways, Thranduil, and you deceive yourself if you think they do not. Do . . . do you not know that there are those of us who would do anything for a second chance with our loved ones?” She paused, and drew in a breath, and for a moment he felt her pain – older, and dull in comparison to what she felt for him in that moment. “Instead, you hesitate to make amends out of pride and fear. And to compound that mistake, you would let others bear a hurt for that fear? It is not right.”

    “I was needed in my place,” he turned her argument aside, his words sparking with a cold fire. “It was not to me to leave those beneath my care without one to follow.”

    “And you were the only one who could manage this task?” still she pressed. “You hide behind your duty like a shield, and use it to ward off emotions as if they were blows.”

    “And you hide from the heart of the matter by deflecting the blame on to others,” he returned. For the first, he advanced on her, stepping closer and closer, until he shared her shadow. He was not much taller than her, and she tilted up her chin so as to meet his eyes without flinching.

    “What if Torion is who you think him to be?” she boldly pushed her words at him. “What if I had given up on you; what if I had moved on? You would stand there as if I were an erring child and scold me as if you were my father. You did not deign it fit to ask me; you merely assume, and judge my heart to be both faithless and untrue.”

    “Am I wrong?” he asked.

    “You are infuriating,” she hissed in reply, “Stubborn, prideful, vain and -”

    If later asked, he would have lied if he said that he did not expect to be slapped for his leaning down and kissing her. Her eyes were wide – furiously so – and her spirit shimmered with surprise as he gave into the overwhelming call of his own fëa. His emotions spun turbulently within him, as restless as the white rapids just beyond them. He kissed her as if to erase the memory of anyone else she may have kissed, so as to remind her, to plead with her . . .

    He could make her see, his thoughts were desperate as they spun. He could make her remember.

    Remember what? The thought whispered through his mind. Remember that you left her, that you let time pass, so much of it without . . .

    And yet, even where her hands braced against his shoulders, her fingertips white as if to push him away – and he would have bruised if he did not have steel coating his body for the battle to come – he could feel the shape of her soul, and it was glad. It was hurt, it was wounded – for him, from him, the thought hurt more than any other. Yet, a far off, deep part of her knew only joy. Her eyes burned, he could feel. She struggled not to let tears fall, and that, more than anything else had guilt rising in his throat, fit enough to choke him.

    But, though everything, he could not feel the shadow of another in her mind . . . and he waited for it, expecting that glimpse of thought and feeling to push him from her as a blow. He waited, tensing against what he was sure to find, even as . . .

    What other? She returned, her thoughts as a whisper. I have only ever waited, and you . . . She could not complete the thought, even within her own mind. He cradled her face in his hands as her mind's voice tapered off, moving to kiss the corner of her mouth, her cheeks and forehead and nose. He kissed her tenderly, gently, and when he kissed her eyes he could taste the salt of her tears.

    I waited too . . . he only had one way to shape his thoughts. It was difficult for him to pull his shields aside for anyone – even her - but he did so. Slowly, piece by piece, he bared his innermost self to her, hoping that she could see, hoping that she would understand. I tarried . . . unfairly so to you, but I still waited.

    . . . I am sorry. He did not know what he was apologizing for – for the years or his doubts or his hesitation and fears. He included it all, letting her catch the tempest of his emotions and hold it close.

    She let out a deep breath when she drew away from him, as if she were still trying to hold on to her annoyance and her ire - but it was a losing battle. Her hands rested on his shoulders, but she no longer moved to push him away.

    “Torion is a friend,” she finally said, "A friend and a comrade. Both he and his intended are dear to me, and I look forward to the day when you love them as well as I do.” She peered at him, closely watching his expression. “Many are the matches waiting for this war to end, it would seem.”

    “When the war is over . . .” he whispered, the idea of after and more settling in his spirit with a disbelieving quality. He touched her hair with a careful hand, and watched where she tilted her head so that he also touched the skin of her face in the same caress.

    “I told you centuries ago that you would someday ask, and I would answer,” when she spoke, her eyes were very bright. “I am ready now – in every way. I know your father's realm better than any other, and I know, I know that the trees are calling you home, even now . . .” He could feel a flash of green from her spirit, allowing him to see the forest through her eyes - the mighty trees with their boughs laced together so tightly that even the sunlight was green as it made its way to the forest floor, verdant and dripping with sanctuary and life. He could feel the sway of the great branches in the wind, he could hear the stories their ancient roots told of the places they reached to. He could hear the murmur of the river through the wood, and he imagined how the cool soil would feel against his palms when he touched the forest floor. He listened . . . and he let his spirit answer. He let it yearn.

    Thranduil rested his brow against her own, and felt as she settled herself into his embrace. The lines of her armor were hard, and they did not fit well against his own, but it was still her, and he let her presence sooth his soul and bring a peace to his spirit. After, he decided then . . . right after, he would ask her. He would not make her wait longer than that.

    “We only have this one last war to fight,” Calelassel whispered. “A war to fight for all homes.”

    “ . . . for now,” he whispered. “For now, this is the war we will wage for a time of peace. Yes.”

    “Ever do you let your mind dwell in dark places,” she said, and he felt a tremor of her sad acceptance for what had been apart of him for longer than she had even been alive. And yet, he felt a flash of determination, too – a flash of decision as she touched his spirit with light and hope. This too she took as a challenge, one that she would confront head-on, as she ever did.

    “For you,” he said softly - as with a promise, “I shall try not to.”

    She did not say anything in reply. But he held her – inhaling the scent of her hair, feeling the warmth and strength of her body - and let himself think of nothing but the rightness he felt when he was with her. For the first, he thought not of the battle to come, but of the peace they would win for after . . . the peace, and the tentative idea of a new home and new beginnings. Holding her, it was easier to push the shadow away, allowing nothing but warmth to remain for a long, long time.




    ~MJ @};-
     
  13. WarmNyota_SweetAyesha

    WarmNyota_SweetAyesha Chosen One star 8

    Registered:
    Aug 31, 2004
    Tolkien would be pleased if he still walked the earth to claim you as his legatee, the inheritor of his true gift. And Nayyirah Waheed - you have some of her eloquent DNA as well, I would swear. Swear! =D= =D= =D= Bless me but that was pitiful good! As in turtle pie good! :D ^:)^
     
  14. earlybird-obi-wan

    earlybird-obi-wan Chosen One star 6

    Registered:
    Aug 21, 2006
    I fully agree with Nyota's Heart. Bringing depth to the storiies we all love
     
    Nyota's Heart likes this.
  15. Cael-Fenton

    Cael-Fenton Jedi Master star 3

    Registered:
    Jun 22, 2006
    WOW. Your best romance yet, I think.

    I love the tonal shifts here, from the quiet dependability of his friendship with Celeborn, to his jealous/desperate introspection, to the ratcheting tension of that encounter by starlight, and finally the denouement. The beautiful craftsmanship (craftswomanship, I should say) of the storytelling here, the rise and fall and rise and rise and release of the dramatic tension...it's like a masterclass in How Stories Work. And it's not just the sheer virtuosity of the technical accomplishment here...you filled that strong-boned structure out with such flair. The flashes and glimpses of the history between those two, and between father and son, give it so much depth, and a sense of perspective which really put me inside the frame of the story.

    Great, great work.
     
    Nyota's Heart likes this.
  16. Mira_Jade

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

    Registered:
    Jun 29, 2004
    Nyota's Heart: [face_love][face_laugh] You are always the best. Thank-you so much for your kind words! [:D]

    earlybird-obi-wan: Thanks! :)

    Cael-Fenton: Thank you so very much! Really, I would just say that I had so many tid-bits I wanted to work in that couldn't stand in a story by their own - at first I was worried about them bogging the narrative down, so your words really just made my day. I thank you for taking the time to say so. :) [:D] (And may I take a moment to say how much I love the line in your signature? So perfectly put!)



    And now, here we are! I've had a nasty head cold that has done nothing but linger and cause trouble these last two weeks, and that really just zapped me of my energy to write - not the ideas, mind you, just the brain space to actually sit down and type. ;) Hopefully we can move on from that now. :cool:

    So, to catch up, this is for the stand your ground prompt over at the NSWFF Prompt Thread. It is set in the Third Age with a very young Legolas (really, writing about Thranduil/Mrs. Thranduil has to lead to the eventual kids running around ;)), and a growing shadow in the Greenwood. I used book-canon rather than what was presented in the Hobbit films, so there are notes at the end for anyone interested in reading them. :)

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






    “grown but for weeds”

    CLXXI

    In many ways, Rosgobel was much as the home he had always known.

    In the strictest sense, the great trees overhead formed the canopy of the Greenwood, yet, they were not trees that inclined their boughs to his father's crown. As such, the song of the wood differed in this corner of the forest – it's cadence was slightly faster; leaping rather than swaying. The breeze through the uppermost branches whistled with a higher pitch as it rustled the leaves and coaxed the branches to dance. The birds sang brightly, but their trilling song was unfamiliar to his ears. The differences were few, but they were there – and they were more than enough to keep him and Tauriel occupied as their elders met and spoke at great length about seemingly nothing of interest at all.

    Their host in Rosgobel was a funny little man that his mother called Istari in a voice steeped with respect – a Wizard, Amathelon had later whispered in further explanation, with magic waiting at his fingertips and secrets twinkling in his eyes. His father had simply called Radagast the Brown a raving simpleton with a mind muddled by mushrooms – before catching his mother's glare, that was. The wizard spoke in a silly, twittering voice – much like the birds overhead - but his words matched the lilt of the forest so much so that Legolas could not help but like the man. The wizard even enchanted the rabbits of Rosgobel to speak – or, as his mother had explained, Radagast simply gave them the ability to do what they had long known. Such a thing was a wonder indeed – and could only be described as magic to the wide, fascinated ways of his child's mind.

    They met Radagast's contemporaries, as well – two silent sorts, cloaked in blue, whose voices sounded like the rumble of the sea when they spoke. Their tempers rose and fell like waves, and they gave riddles more so than straightforward talk. More approachable than the Blue Wizards was the Grey Wizard - who was all smiles and invitation, like a summer breeze and the warmth of a hearth fire. Legolas liked him almost instantly, and approved of him even further when the wizard set off his colored lights in the evening sky for his and Tauriel's amusement. The White Wizard was not as easy company as Gandalf to keep – he being as frost on the forest floor, heralding the approaching winter, to Legolas' senses. It was instinctive to bow his head low to the leader of the Istari, and that seemed to please Saruman. who then ventured to know him no further than that.

    Yet, even better than the Istari were the familiar names who gathered in Rosgobel – names whom Legolas knew from too many stories to mention, whose faces he now placed with their tales. First gathered in Radagast's cramped little dwelling were the Lord Celeborn and the Lady Galadriel – he as silver as the lady was gold – and his father actually smiled to see Celeborn, their friendship being older than the sun up above. From just across the Anduin river was Lord Amroth, who ruled over the forests of Lórien as his father reigned in the Greenwood, with his easy smiles and his disarming warmth. From far across the mountains was Galdor from the Grey Havens, who had stories of the distant Sea, and Gildor who spoke for the wandering bands of Wood-elves east of the Misty Mountains. Legolas, who only knew the roots of his own forest, delighted in the tales Gildor had to tell, eager as he was for the day when he would learn the song of each forest there was to know.

    This was not his first time meeting the Lord and Lady of Imladris, but, much to his consternation, he still blushed when their daughter knelt to kiss his brow in greeting – which Tauriel saw, and smiled behind her hand in a way that promised that she was not going to let him forget doing so anytime soon. Her laughing so loudly made the Silvan angles of her face look longer than they really were – like that of a horse, he teased to sooth his bruised pride - and he was not surprised when she tried to dunk him in the creek after that.

    Unfortunately, the wonder of visiting a new place soon gave way to just how dull the endless debates truly were. The Wise did nothing but talk, and their words only went in circles - or so it seemed before he was politely, but firmly, encouraged to amuse himself elsewhere. Amathelon escorted him from the largest hall in Radagast's dwelling (which fit the shorter height of the Wizard and his woodland friends just well, and not so much a council of so many tall beings), and showed him to the garden their host kept outback – which looked just as wild and tangled as the rest of the forest, no matter that there were tomatoes and peppers growing up unruly trellises here and there to imply otherwise.

    “Some years from now, you shall long for these moments of youth,” Amathelon said, tugging on his one braid affectionately. Legolas scowled at his brother before carefully setting the plait back in its place.

    “I am old enough to listen now. I am nearly thirty,” he protested, looking up earnestly as he said so. Amathelon was uncannily alike to their father in appearance, but he had a flare of green in his eyes that was all their mother. The soft, affectionate look he wore was their mother's too. Legolas bristled at it.

    “Yet, you are not old enough for wisdom if you insist on such persistence, it would seem,” Amathelon pointed out dryly.

    “I am old enough to know what we are here for,” Legolas stood up as tall as he could – doing so, he just reached his brother's shoulder. “There is a blackness touching the forests. That is what troubles our parents, what troubles Radagast - so much so that they called the Wise together.”

    Only months ago, he and Tauriel had searched for frogs down by the river, and when they grasped the roots that grew over the riverbank to climb out of the water, their hands came away stained with a queer black sap. No matter how they tried, they had not been able to wash the sap away, and a shadowed look fell over both their parents' faces when they saw their stained palms. The sap itched – itched down to the bone, as if his very spirit took ill underneath the stain. Legolas clenched his hands at the memory, able to recall the sensation even now.

    Amathelon's look turned carefully blank, carefully neutral. “You do not understand, young one,” he said. For the first, his words lost their playful tone. Legolas could not deign whether or not it was sadness or stone in his brother's voice, and the more he listened, the more he heard both. “It is not that we do not trust you with what you would hear, but that you should not have to hear such things. Especially not before we ourselves know what it is we fear.”

    “But -”

    “ - Legolas,” Amathelon's voice turned sharp. “Please, stay in the garden, and leave these worries to others.”

    “Then, why was I even allowed to come?” He could feel his frustration bubble over. “If I was going to be kept in a corner, out of sight and out of mind, would it not have been better if I did not come at all? I could have stayed with Gelion, and no one would have to worry - ”

    “ - you may enjoy his tales, but Gelion is not fit to mind the pantry, let alone watch over a prince of the realm,” Amathelon said tartly. “And the forests are no longer . . .” his words tapered off, and he then looked weary – as if he had thousands of years to his name rather than centuries. Legolas instantly felt abashed for troubling him when he clearly had other worries on his mind.

    “I am sorry,” Legolas said after a long moment. Overhead, the songs of the birds were no longer quite as bright. “I will stay here.”

    Amathelon sighed, but his eyes were fond when he reached to tilt up his chin. “Someday, there will be a villain of shape and form we face. When that day comes, not a force in this world will be able to keep you from my side. For now, enjoy your time here. Rosgobel has many mysteries, many wonders - which even I would rather be exploring, rather than being stuck inside. And, in Radagast's dwelling, I do mean stuck.” His mouth pulled in a wry grin, and just barely, Legolas smiled with him.

    Yet, his smile did not hold very long when Amathelon left. Legolas watched him go, and then slumped down on the massive root of a great tree. There was a ring of red topped mushrooms to his left, and he watched a fuzzy green caterpillar navigate a line of dead wood in the trunk of the tree with a sort of bored apathy. The silence of the forest was only broken by a quiet step some time later, and then Tauriel plopped down next to him with a sigh.

    “I made it as far as you,” she said in greeting, her pale brown eyes full with the green light of the forest. The trees danced with the breeze, casting shapes of light and dark over the shades of umber in her hair. Legolas watched her set her mouth in annoyance, before turning back to the caterpillar.

    He rolled his shoulders, resigned to his fate. “At least the setting is not too terrible,” he tried to cheer his friend. “We may chase the rabbits again, if you wish, and see if we can coax them to speak.”

    Tauriel looked at him, and arched a brow in reply. Legolas felt as if he was missing something.

    “You may sit here with the rabbits,” she tilted her chin up. “Yet, I intend to find that which is being kept from us. We should find what is shadowing the forests, rather than sit here and wait for the darkness to spread.”

    Legolas looked at her dubiously – which was normally the only way to reply when Tauriel came up with an idea that was more boldness than sense. For a moment, he did not say anything.

    For the most part, he was simply thankful to have a friend his age to play with – for elven children were rare, and the odds of there being two children of similar ages and dispositions within any community were slim to none. Yet, Tauriel's father had been his mother's second in command when she was merely the captain of the Greenwood's archers, and there was a bond between all of their parents as a result. Legolas would not have been surprised if they planned their births to coincide on purpose - for he was only a season older than Tauriel, born during the first days of summer while she was born in the autumn. Either way, Legolas was grateful for her. Tauriel was sharp-witted – to his disadvantage, at times – and she liked to climb trees and catch frogs and she did not mind being the Orc when they practiced with their training bows. She was even as good a shot as he was, though he would never tell her that . . . ever.

    Even so, being Tauriel's friend meant that, at times, there was a great deal of mischief to be dealt with. Legolas took in a deep breath, and wondered for the best way to argue her down from her idea without it seeming like he disagreed with her.

    She saw his hesitance, and frowned. “Are you not curious?”

    “Of course I am,” he said. “Yet, at the same time . . .”

    “Remember the black sap by the river?' she pressed. The light in her eyes was very bright as she spoke. She need not have reminded him, though – he could not forget. “That is a small part of something more. Something deeper. Why else would the whole of the Wise be called together to speak in whispers? Can you not feel it?”

    He knew of what she spoke. Slowly, ever so slowly, the bright, green song of the wood had taken on an odd note at the end of its melody. It was the slightest whisper of discord, the barest of disharmonies - itching against their senses and ever dancing just out of reach. The song of the trees was changing, and the forest hummed as with a warning as its heartbeat was altered.

    “What do you think it is?” he finally asked.

    Tauriel rolled her shoulders. She had a growth-spurt that spring, and her limbs were long and sharp about the joints as a result – for which he had teased her mercilessly, before she wryly pointed out that he was just jealous that she was now taller than he, even if it was only for the time being. He had not been able to respond to that.

    “I do not know,” she answered. “But the source of the discord is close to here. Look.” She pointed, and Legolas followed her gesture to see where the line of rot in the trunk went from this tree to the next . . . there was a line of dead trees further on, their leaves yellowing and sick. What at first looked to be a natural death in the forests was now something more when that death linked one tree to the next, all the way to . . .

    “Where does this stem from?” he wondered.

    “I think,” Tauriel said slowly, “that is what the Wise are here to discuss.”

    She need not say anything more. Legolas stood, too drawn in to think of staying put. He made sure that his bow and quiver were secure upon his back, and he straightened his cloak. He was ready. Tauriel watched him, her mouth stretching into an approving look as she too stood, and then they left.

    They walked, following the line of wilting trees in the forest. He looked overhead to find their trunks ashen, their boughs heavy, even when empty of any weight. The few leaves they did hold were unhealthy shades of grey and purple-brown, almost like a bruise. The light passing through them, rather than being green, was a dark, sickly colour that Legolas did not care for as it touched his skin. He could not hear the song of the forest in these trees . . . only discord, only whispers.

    Still, they continued to follow the line of ghostly specters, carefully walking next to those trees still green and healthy – whose song was shaped in mourning as they sang to their fellows, trying to cure their sloping boughs of their sickness.

    “I am not sure that it is someone we are looking for, but rather something,” Tauriel said after a moment. “This feels as a presence . . . something intangible.”

    Silently, he agreed with her. It was something in the ground, in the air and water, that turned the forest to rot. He was not sure if that was worse than a being of claws and fangs awaiting them at the end of the wilting trees.

    In the Greenwood, the trees grew close together. Their home was an old forest, more ancient than even the woods of Fangaorne or Lothlórien to the west. The trees around them were massive, growing in twisting and twining shapes rather than standing straight and tall. Their trunks grew on and on and on, their limbs reaching out to weave a vast and mighty canopy that only the most stubborn light could reach through. In some places, the trees were so dense that it was hard to pass between them without ducking and climbing – which they did so with ease, long used to their forest home. As they made their way through a particularly dense area of trees growing on a ridge of black stone, Legolas remembered Amathelon speaking to their parents of webs growing in the dense parts of the forest - the parts where there was no sunlight from above, only the natural shadows thrown by the trees. Legolas looked up now, hoping that he wouldn't see a spider's fangs above him, yet prepared for anything.

    Just as his mind raced with that which could be lurking in the trees, he heard a snapping sound in the wood - a branch breaking in reply to a heavy step.

    His head snapped up, instantly searching the shadows for a shape.

    “Did you hear that?” Tauriel asked. She had heard it too.

    “You hear many things in the forest when so alert,” Legolas said when he did not hear anything more. His voice was tight, speaking to assure himself as well as her.

    The sound came again. This time Legolas could also feel a low pulsing against his senses . . . it did not feel evil, yet it was most definitely shaped in warning.

    “And that?” Tauriel questioned.

    Legolas set his mouth into a thin line, but as they picked up their pace, the footsteps behind them quickened too. Above, the birds had stopped singing. He could not see squirrels in the trees, and the forest floor was absent of the woodland folk. This time, it was not only a heavy step that they heard, but a low, rumbling sound – pulsing through the ground and vibrating up through the tree his hand rested on for support.

    “There is something out there,” Tauriel whispered.

    “There is,” he agreed just as lowly, “and you are going to run back to Rosgobel to warn of it.”

    “While you do what?” she did not like his idea one bit. “Stay here and divert the beast?” what she meant to be mocking came out as the truth. She set her jaw, unhappy at her insight. “I will not,” she hissed in protest -

    “ - I am the better shot,” he reasoned sharply, cutting through her arguments.

    “You are not,” she disagreed. Had it not been for the rustling in the underbrush, coming ever closer to them, he was sure that she would have thumped his arm.

    “If there is something dangerous out there, I do not want to tell your father that I ran scared while you stayed behind to fight,” he said on a furious whisper. Worse than any scathing anger, Torion's gentle disappointment was the last thing Legolas wanted to endure. He respected the bowman, and -

    “ - yet, you want me to tell your father that I left his son -” Tauriel's eyes were wide with incredulity, and he winced at her words, understanding her trepidation.

    “ - Tauriel!” even so, he interrupted her. They did not have time to argue. “I am commanding you to do so.”

    She darted an amazed look at him, for while he technically held a crown above her, she was his friend, and he had never done so before . . . He had never done so with anyone, really. Her eyes narrowed, yet she swallowed her protests. She inclined her head in the barest of bows – but not before he could see a flicker of worry in her eyes, and that more than anything else had him pushing his own fears away. He held his head up high in reply.

    Without another word, Tauriel ran back the way they had came – back to Radagast's dwelling – and he watched her for only a moment before he turned to run the opposite way.

    It did not take him long to realize that he was being followed. He was fast, very fast, and he was able to slip through the trees and underneath the great roots with very little trouble. Whatever followed him was large – large and heavy – with steps that slammed against the ground like thunder, and a breath that rumbled in a massive chest like the bellowing of a furnace.

    Legolas exhaled, and told himself that he was not afraid.

    He twisted and turned and ducked this way and that. Yet, no matter what he did, he could not seem to shake the beast that followed him. When he at last came to a dip in the land – where a sheer wall of stone rose, covered by vines and thick moss – he skidded to a halt, looking up at his blocked path with a sinking feeling in his stomach. Water rolled down the face of the stone in a wispy cascade to join the barest of streams to his right, while to his left the land dipped again in an even deeper ravine – one he would not be able to climb with just his hands.

    If he had to, he could climb up, he reasoned. He could scale the rock by the waterfall, or . . .

    Legolas felt where his quiver rested lightly against his back. The wood of his bow was smooth in his hands, and though he had only used it in mock situations . . .

    There was a first time for everything, he reasoned, his hands tightening over his bow. He could stand his ground here, he could fight.

    Amathelon would, the thought next ghosted across his mind. His brother would stand regal and calm and all but dare a foe closer. Legolas thought next of his mother's easy grace; the cool current that was his father with steel in hand. He even thought of Tauriel with her fierce, glittering eyes, and -

    He made his decision. He put his back to the stone wall, and drew in a deep breath. With a slow, deliberate motion, he drew an arrow and nocked it. He stood with his feet even with his shoulders, digging his boots into the soft earth as he looked at the gap in the trees. He watched . . . he waited.

    He did not have to wait for long. The heavy steps through the underbrush were softer now – the beast pursuing him had slowed to a walk, knowing that he had nowhere to go. Distantly, Legolas thought about the black sap staining his hands; the shadow gathering at the roots of the trees, and wondered if he had found that shadow now. The thought was not a comforting one, and he held his bow tighter in reply.

    “Show yourself,” he commanded in the coldest voice he could muster. He thought of his father upon his throne, and tried to mimic that same timeless power, that same bored indifference . . .

    There was a rumbling sound in reply to his words. Distantly, Legolas thought that it sounded like laughter.

    “Only cowards hide in the dark,” still he challenged. “Step out and face me, if you will.”

    The trees shuddered, yet there was no discord in their dance, even though they whispered to him in warning. He let out a breath as the dappled green light shifted to reveal a massive form making its way through the underbrush. He looked, expecting the worst, expecting every sort of unnatural creature, when, instead . . .

    A bear? he blinked in surprise.

    A black bear walked out into the clearing; his body massive and strong, his fur thick and dense about his form. The great hump atop his back was as tall as Legolas' shoulders, and his snout was long and criss-crossed with many scars. Uneasily, he saw where just one of the bear's paws was equal to the size of his face. If the bear wanted, it would take little thought and even less effort to tear him to ribbons if it felt threatened . . . Legolas held his bow up higher, warning the animal not to come any closer. The bear growled in reply – a low sound that seemingly rattled in his bones rather than sounding in his ears.

    “My name is Legolas Thranduilion, second prince of the Woodland-realm,” he tried to project his voice with power and command. “The trees overhead are those of Rosgobel. This is a safe and protected land underneath the hand of Radagast the Brown. Your hunt is not welcome here.”

    Even still, the bear took one step closer . . . and then another . . . The animal's growl was a rumbling sound in answer to his raising his weapon, and when he drew his lips back his teeth were strong and yellowing within his mouth. Legolas felt his heartbeat hammer, yet he refused to take another step back towards the wall behind him. He would not give up his ground.

    So I hear you, elfling, the thought whispered across his senses. And yet, what will you do now? It will take more than one arrow to stop me. Many have tried before, and none have succeeded.

    The animal's thoughts were fully formed, speaking as clearly as he would shape his own words. Surprised, Legolas looked, and saw the warm, amber color of the bear's eyes. When the bear blinked, he thought that he could see a flicker of green beneath the amber, and, in a way, that gaze was as familiar to him as his own.

    He drew the string of his bow tight, holding his stance as he had been taught. He exhaled, ready to reach back and draw another arrow as soon as the first was released, and yet . . . the bear only watched him. The bear bared his teeth and pawed the ground in agitation, but he came no closer . . . And Legolas could not loose his arrow. A strange tension bound his shoulders . . . his stomach twisted in an awful way . . . but he could not strike the beast before him.

    Slowly, he knelt to place his bow on the ground. The bear watched him as he straightened to stand once more. Carefully, he held his hands up with his palms out.

    “My name is Legolas Thranduilion, second prince of the Woodland-realm,” he said again. “The trees overhead are those of Rosgobel. This is a safe and protected land underneath the hand of Radagast the Brown. Your hunt is not welcome here.”

    The bear took one step forward . . . and then another. It then stopped in its path, and tilted its head.

    Legolas felt as if the bear was listening to him – or, to someone other than him, he thought next. The bear seemed to sigh in reply to a voice in his head, and then Legolas watched with wide, awe-struck eyes as the bear seemed to change before his gaze. The bear hefted his huge body to stand on two feet, while his legs lengthened and his body shrank in on itself. The massive paws turned to strong hands, and the bear's snout pressed inwards to form the face of a man – a man with strong features and a mane of the same coarse black hair that the bear bore, yet a man nonetheless. When the transformation was done, a man stood where the bear once had – a very tall man, with great strong limbs . . . but the brown eyes were the same as the bear, warm and amber in the green light of the wood around them.

    Legolas blinked, unsure of whether or not to believe what his eyes had seen.

    “Not many are those who can hold their ground before the bear,” the man finally spoke, tilting his head so as to better take in his curious, startled expression. The man's voice was as deep as the bear's growl had been. They were one and the same.

    “I was not afraid,” Legolas claimed when he could find his voice, still wary as the man came closer. He took in the hands like paws and the rippling shape of the man's muscles, visible with the simple vest he wore, and knew that this being was still a force to be reckoned with. Around his chest, he wore a polished riverstone on a cord, etched with runes Legolas was ignorant to define. Also on the cord hung a set of old bear claws, and Legolas wondered for their story.

    “You say that you knew no fear?” the bear – the man - asked. He raised a thick, bushy brow in question. “The bear could smell your fear, elfling. And yet . . . you intrigued him. Few are those who would lay down their arms before him - for the best in this instance, for he would have protected himself, and there would have been little I would have been able to do to stop him.”

    There was a rustling sound in the underbrush, delaying Legolas' answer. He turned at the sound of quick feet and the hiss of an indrawn breath, then -

    It was perhaps not very brave or grown-up of him to feel a boneless sort of relief when he saw his mother appear through the trees with her own bow in hand, and yet – that was exactly how he felt. Behind Calelassel stood his brother, wearing a look of cool fury upon his face, such as Legolas had not seen on him before. At that too he felt a warm wave of contentment spread through him, certain that no harm could come of the situation now.

    Calelassel too wore a cold look of fey anger upon her face, yet it softened upon seeing the bear-man . . . but only slightly.

    “Björn,” she uttered stiffly in greeting.

    “Lady Greenwood,” the bear-man inclined his head in a deep motion, not quite unlike a bow. Legolas looked between them, surprised to learn that they knew each other. The bear-man – Björn - glanced briefly at him before turning to his mother to say, “I was journeying to speak before your council when your young one encountered me. Only, I was then in a . . . form more suitable for traveling.”

    Calelassel gave nothing away upon her face, but Legolas could feel as his mother's presence sought him out, subtly looking him over for any harm. He opened his mind to her search, trying to assure her that he was well.

    Björn must have felt a flicker of the exchange, for he tilted his head and said, “No harm befell the child. Rather, the bear was . . . intrigued.” When he smiled, the tips of his teeth were very sharp.

    Calelassel did not reply to his words. Instead, she said, “We called to the Carrock, yet you did not answer our summons then.”

    Björn rolled his shoulders in a show of apathy. “I yet had no reason to. The Grey Wizard knows my voice, as does your husband. I will continue to guard the Fords, and the world will continue on much as it ever has. And yet,” he paused. The great lines of his face turned hard. “My kin were following the salmon up from the south of the Great River, and one brought with him a disturbing token from the old hill of Amon Lanc. There is something settling there . . . growing . . . building . . . and it infects the forest with its taint.”

    Björn reached into the pocket of his vest to reveal an oilskin, tightly wrapped around a small object. He handed the item to his mother, and with a careful hand, Calelassel warily pulled the skin aside to reveal -

    - Legolas sucked in a breath. For a moment, his lungs felt tight, and his skin crawled over his bones with that same itching sensation he felt from the black tar in the river. It was a root his mother held . . . but one that was completely black . . . rotted not by any natural means, but by a powerful enchantment. He looked to his mother, wondering what it meant, only to find that her face was pale and still. He felt a wave of . . . he would call it fear if it was not his mother who felt so, but fear it was. Fear . . . and mourning.

    “This is not as I have felt since . . .” Calelassel let out a sharp breath. Her face turned hard again. When she looked to Björn, there was gratitude in her expression. “I thank you, skin-changer. With this, you have answered a great many things.”

    When she covered the black root again, Legolas felt as if he could breathe.

    “Will you come and speak of what you have seen?” she asked next. Her throat was dry as she found her voice.

    Björn shook his head. “No. I will return to my own people now, for there is much to be done. You too should make preparations. The south of the forest will turn first, and the Black Mountains will not protect you for long – the further north you go, the better. The North-men already call the trees Mirkwood when they pass though my lands . . . and, if the sons of Men can feel what rots the ground underneath their feet . . .”

    “I understand,” Calelassel inclined her head, her thoughts already racing through her eyes.

    Yet, Legolas frowned, affronted. Mirkwood, he tried to puzzle out the name, finding it ill to describe the great beauty of the home he had so long known. Mirkwood they called it, when he knew the trees for their green bounty and their wondrous song . . . Yet, if this shadow spread . . . if this shadow touched all, and the green leaves fell purple and grey while the roots turned black with rot . . .

    Gruffly, Björn nodded. “I would take my leave of you now,” he said. He looked at Tauriel, peeking out from behind Amathelon's shadow, and then turned to glance at him. Again the bear-man smiled. “I would keep your young ones close through nightfall,” he advised Calelassel. “The bear is fickle, and I rather like this one.”

    His mother said nothing, instead raising a brow in reply to his words. Yet, Björn did not see her do so as he turned again to Legolas. This time, when the bear-man approached, he felt no fear.

    Legolas was surprised when Björn went to undo the tie at the back of his neck. He then took the riverstone necklace, and handed it to him with a careful hand. “Remember your courage, and your understanding for folk other than your own,” the man said – sounding more like the bear as he readied to leave the man behind. Legolas looked, and saw where the amber in his eyes was shot through with green – Yavanna's green, he could not help but think. “In the days to come, such an understanding between all peoples will be needed as the shadow falls. Even now, something tells me that your empathy will shape more futures than merely your own.”

    Legolas took the pendant, and inclined his head. “I thank you, skin-changer,” he said as respectfully as he could. Björn gave one last sharp smile in reply.

    He turned to leave, and they all watched as the man's shadow disappeared through the trees before shifting entirely - then there was only the bear and his great, rumbling step as he made his own way once more. Legolas looked, and saw where his mother and Amathelon kept a sharp eye on the trees until they could hear the bear no more. Only then did they stand at ease.

    Calelassel turned and walked those few steps to kneel down before him, looking him eye to eye. “My brave son,” she said as she reached out to cup his cheek. He leaned into the touch, watching as the forest light turned her eyes the same green as the bear's had been. “I am very proud of the way you conducted yourself,” she said with warmth in her voice. “And yet,” she tilted her head to the side – listening to a voice only she could hear. “When you return, your father wishes to speak to you both - ” and there she darted a glance at Tauriel “ - about boundaries and the reason for their placement.”

    Legolas sighed, resigning himself to his fate as his mother stood. Amathelon too caught his eye and raised a brow – in amusement or exasperation, or both, he could not tell. But then his brother turned, and started back through the trees behind their mother. Legolas waited a moment before following, allowing Tauriel to fall into step beside him.

    She looked at Björn's pendant with a wondering eye, and when he let her touch the necklace, she did so with a careful hand. “Were you not afraid?” she asked as they walked, her eyes curious upon his own.

    “ . . . yes,” he answered truthfully – thinking about his fears for both the Shadow, and the massive paws of the bear. He then thought about the deep roots of the trees - their ancient hearts, built to endure through all things. He took in a deep breath, and felt lighter with the motion.

    “Yes, I was afraid,” he answered as he looked up at the forest canopy, “Yet, in the end, that did not matter.”

    Tauriel smiled as she handed back the pendant, and Legolas put it around his neck with a reverent hand. When he looked up again, the shadows growing from the roots of the trees did not seem quite so dark.






    End Notes:

    The Timeline: In the year 1000 of the Third Age, the Wizards came to Middle-earth. By the year 1050, Sauron returned as a spirit to the hill of Amon Lanc in the Greenwood, and started to build Dol Guldur. His taint touched the forest so much so that the Northmen start to call the forest Mirkwood. By 1100, the Wise were called to figure out who and what was haunting the forests – although, underneath Saruman's ruling, it was then simply believed to be a Nazgûl. (Yeeaah. o_O) At that time, Thranduil moved his people from the Black Mountains all the way north in the Greenwood – the UT even mentions that Galadriel's return to Lothlórien was so that she could keep an eye on Dol Guldur, visible from the heights of Caras Galadhon. By the year 2060, even Saruman had to acknowledge that it was Sauron coming back in power, and Gandalf – with or without permission, we do not know – went and drove Sauron from Dol Goldur, and forced him back to Mordor. (Jackson leaves all of this out in his version, if you were wondering for the discrepancy.)

    Sauron would return to Dol Guldur almost 400 years later, and his power would then be too great for Gandalf to defeat alone. (That would end up being over 400 years before the events of the Hobbit, for reference.) I find it interesting that Thranduil may have been involved with the Wise early on, but by the time of the Hobbit, he was nowhere near the council, even when they decided to march on Dol Goldur in his forest. It is something to think on – and explore further in some ficlet to come. :(

    Amathelon: Interestingly enough, while Legolas was one of the last characters Tolkien developed in his cast, Thranduil was one of the first. Thranduil's character is so old in Tolkien's notes that we can't even translate his name, since Sindarin as a language was not developed yet. The closest we can translate his name to is 'river-shield', so Amathelon is another translation of that. Did Legolas have any siblings in canon? We have no idea, but it isn't too farfetched a thought and really, I need a reason to explain Thranduil's later paranoia and grumpiness, and I am unfortunately going to be a very mean author to his family in doing so . . . :(

    Legolas' Age: Ah, the ever much debated subject! And it pretty much hangs on this one clue – in FoTR, Legolas mentioned that he had never been to Lothlórien before. If he was born any time in the Second Age – or very early in the Third Age, when the elves of the Greenwood were still close with their kin across the river - that would have been odd at the very least and far-fetched at best. Yet, around the year 1050 - the time of this ficlet - Thranduil moved his people all the way north in the forests, which would have made traveling too and from Lothlórien a little more difficult to manage. Then, add in the Shadow making Mirkwood such a dangerous place to transverse, it stands to reason that Thranduil's people would not venture far beyond their own halls – especially with the way Thranduil's paranoia and isolationism grew over the years. So, we can argue that Legolas was born around this time, or sometime in the watchful peace that stretched after Gandalf drove Sauron away from the forests in 2063-2460. The latter option paints Legolas as too young for my tastes (only 950- 550 years old by the time of LoTR!), so here we are with the 1050-ish option as a result. (Honestly, that is another reason for my coming up with Amathelon – if he was born early in the Third Age, it stands to reason that Thranduil and wife would wait a few centuries before having Legolas. It's another effort to explain just why Thranduil is so old and Legolas is so young. :p)


    Beornings: The skin-changers we meet in the Hobbit. Björn is the Norse word for 'bear', which I thought more than fitting. It's also similar enough to Beorn – which is Old English for 'warrior' – to make it a family sounding name. (Thank-you Wikipedia!)

    Tauriel: I debated long and hard before including her. Because I do like the potential of her character, I just wish that we didn't see so much of her in DOS when other, canon parts of the plot were hacked and slashed. ( . . . and that is only if I do not think about that God-awful healing scene that looked more like a bedroom scene . . . o_O They sure didn't show Elrond healing Frodo that way. ;)) Anyway, I would have liked Tauriel a lot more if she was not the middle of a love-triangle, that's for sure. (Jackson: Please, please tell me that losing her love to a Dwarf is the reason for Legolas' prejudices in LoTR. Please. [face_praying]) But, in the end, I had fun playing with her as a younger character, and decided to ignore all the rest. So, here we are. :p



    ~MJ @};-
     
  17. WarmNyota_SweetAyesha

    WarmNyota_SweetAyesha Chosen One star 8

    Registered:
    Aug 31, 2004
    Wonderful 'missing moment' feel. I love meeting Legolas at an earlier time from LoTR. :cool:
     
  18. earlybird-obi-wan

    earlybird-obi-wan Chosen One star 6

    Registered:
    Aug 21, 2006
    Love to see Legolas here in this wonderful story
     
  19. Cael-Fenton

    Cael-Fenton Jedi Master star 3

    Registered:
    Jun 22, 2006
    Beorn is one of my favourites, glad to see an ancestor here. You portrayed the bear-man's perilous wildness very deftly.

    I haven't see the Hobbit movies, so I'm just taking Tauriel as an OC here. I think their dynamic worked well, and your baby Legolas is a straight extrapolation from the book, which is great! (I didn't like movieverse Legolas very much :p) I enjoyed the moment where he pulls rank on her -- I'm a sucker for that kind of dramatic tension where you have characters whose relationship is multidimensional, and one of them thinks they're on a certain plane at a given moment but then finds themselves in another dimension!
     
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  20. 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 very much! [:D]

    earlybird-obi-wan: I am glad that you are enjoying them! [:D]

    Cael-Fenton: I had so much fun writing Legolas here. It's true, movie!Legolas is a bit, well, obvious and here I am, aren't I pretty?, even if I do have a soft spot for all of the banter between him and Gimli in the films. :p His dynamic with Tauriel was fun to write, so I am glad that you enjoyed that too! As always, I thank you so much for reading! [:D]






    It seems that I am permanently one step behind with these prompts . . . but let's see about changing that! Here we are with the last prompt from the NSWFF Prompt Thread: Aftermath.

    For which, I have a few notes:

    The Fifth Battle: Nírnaeth Arnoediad, the Battle of Unnumbered Tears – the last major fight of the Noldor against Morgoth, that they lost, and lost badly. Here both Fingon and Huor were slain, Húrin was taken captive, and Maedhros hardened himself against any other task but for his Oath when Morgoth took full control of the north. :(

    Rían: Daughter of Belegund (Beren's cousin and companion, whom you met earlier in these tales), wife of Huor, and mother of Tuor.

    Annael and Tuor: Annael is not a character you would know unless you've read the Unfinished Tales - but, you see, Tuor's tale was rather extraordinary from the very beginning. His father Huor died in the Fifth Battle, saving Turgon's life – for he foresaw that Turgon still had a large role to play, and he even seeing a glimpse of their children's place in that story. Rían wandered in despair, looking for him, and was found by Annael's people. (The Sindar who lived around Lake Mithrim – not quite Círdan's kin or Thingol's kin, they were the first to meet the Noldor when they arrived from the West.) After delivering her son, she left Tuor in Annael's care, and then found the Hill of the Slain, where the dead from the Fifth Battle were left to rot. She sadly laid down her life there, and died. :(

    Tuor, however, would grow strong and wise with the Elves for the first sixteen years of his life – after which, Annael's people were attacked by Easterlings. Tuor was captured during that battle, and then kept as a slave for three years. When he was nineteen, he had grown into his full strength and stature, and at last escaped his captors. He then lived as an outlaw until Ulmo found him, and gave him a certain vision of Gondolin to follow, and the rest is history. ;) Tolkien did mention, however, that Annael survived the Easterling's attack, and made it to Sirion with the rest of his people – where we can assume he eventually met his full-grown 'son' once more, then with his elven wife Idril, and little Eärendil in tow. (And yes! I am going to have to write for that one too. [face_laugh][face_love])

    Annael's backstory and his wife were made up by me, but I needed to find a way to explain just why he would fight during the Fifth Battle – for the only Sindar we know taking up arms were Beleg and Mablung, who were able to 'look the other way' for the Fëanorians sharing the same battlefield. This battle was fresh in the wake of Lúthien's tale, and many of the Sindar were still hot with anger for her trials at Celegorm and Curufin's hands – so, even where Maedhros meant well organizing this battle, his Oath still smeared all he did. :(

    . . . if Thingol and the Sindar had fought when asked to join as allies, the history of Middle-earth may have been quite different indeed! Yet, these are the tales we have, and, that said . . .

    Enjoy! :)







    “drawn from ruin”


    CLXXII. Aftermath

    The days were lengthening and turning cold with frost when first they found her.

    The wild ways of Mithrim were no place for a woman alone. They had not been before the Fifth Battle, and they most certainly were not now. Yet, the figure crouched in the tall grass – her dark brown curls impossibly tangled and matted with dirt; her young face creased with premature lines about her mouth and eyes – was alone, and the worst off for it. Annael's men were baffled as they dismounted to see if the poor creature was even alive, cold as the air was with the threat of snow around them. When they found a pulse, she awakened with a start, her eyes wild and wide, even to a hand extended in friendship.

    “She is many miles from the Men's dwelling in Dor-Lómin,” one man said to Annael, his Sindarin soft and whispered – unsure if the woman could understand their tongue. “How has she made it this far? In this condition . . .”

    For she had no horse, and if she carried supplies with her, she had long since lost them. Her eyes were sunken into her face and hollow; her bones were thin and bird-like; her fingers bleeding and torn from where she had pulled herself across the land with some stubborn, brightly burning spark deep within her. Annael watched as she tried to focus her eyes, as she tried to understand what was going on around her.

    “She carries a child within her,” another of his warriors whispered next. “Or, she did . . . only a miracle of the One would have preserved it alive now.”

    The elf's voice was grim, for such miracles had long since left their land.

    And yet, for now, this daughter of Men was alive – clinging to life by some basic instinct, deep inside of her. They would do their best to see that she remained that way.

    Huor?” was the only word she spoke once she was settled upon his horse. It took two men to help her mount the animal with the heavy girth of her child about her stomach, and her eyes clenched shut in discomfort as she settled in against Annael – who was trying to sooth the curious stallion beneath him, and hold the woman steady all at once. He looked, and saw her fingers numb and bitten with frost about the fur of the cloak she had just been given.

    “Huor . . . my lord, my husband? . . . perhaps you have seen him? . . . please, I must find him.” Her voice cracked when she spoke, her vocal cords dry from both overuse and the cold. Distantly, Annael wondered how many days she had passed in the barren grasslands, screaming her husband's name. The light in her eyes was fever-bright, desperate and consuming. It was a look Annael knew well, having seen it in the gazes of too many dying men upon the battlefield to name - each remembering their loved ones in their last moments, and asking their love to be conveyed by others when they would no longer be able to speak of it.

    “Shh, child,” he felt a pang as she turned eyes filled with hope upon him. “What is your name?” he asked, but her eyes only turned blurry when she realized that he did not have the answers she sought.

    “Rían . . . Belegund's daughter,” she whispered, and he held her tighter as they turned back the way they had came. “Huor . . . Huor,” she continued to mutter, the name a constant question upon her lips. Her eyes turned unseeing, her words turned soft and softer still as the land fell away around them. When she fell silent, Annael looked down to find her sleeping – at long last giving in to either the exhaustion of her body or unconsciousness. Which, he knew not.

    Either way, time was no longer this woman's friend, and Annael urged his horse on faster, hoping that they had found her in time to prevent the war from taking one last soul . . .

    He had left with his men to secure their borders against the growing numbers of Orcs and Easterlings invading their land. Their departure had been early in the morn, so when they returned at midday with a human woman in hand, great was the surprise on the faces of those they greeted.

    Ellil, their healer, was summoned, and her eyes were wide as the girl was gently pulled down from his horse. Rían did not awaken, and the whisper of her spirit was quiet against the cage of her flesh.

    “We found her like this, searching for her husband in the wild,” Annael was quick to explain. “We could not leave her as such.”

    Ellil muttered underneath her breath, and her eyes were wide as she felt against the poor woman's swollen stomach. She blinked, as if unsure to trust what her senses were telling her, before she said: “In her determination to find her husband, she may have endangered what little she has left of him. I do not think she realized that her labor was upon her – she must have confused hunger and exhaustion with her pangs of distress. Come, we have much to do – and quickly,” she turned to his men, sending one baffled warrior off for clean towels and hot water, and another forth to prepare a room in the healer's chambers for the girl.

    Annael looked down as Ellil crouched over Rían, feeling a sinking weight fill him at her words. The human woman could not be more than twenty years of age herself - little more than a child in the eyes of Men, barely an infant in the eyes of the Elves. Yet, when she blinked, her eyes were older than any Annael had yet to see.

    “Would that Glaeweth was here. I do not know if I can . . .” Ellil muttered, before glancing at him with regret in her eyes. “I am sorry, my lord,” she said next. “I did not mean to -”

    He touched the healer's shoulder, and managed a smile he did not feel. “I think the same every day,” he assured her. “Yet, you shall do well in her place.”

    Once . . . long ago, he had been married. Glaeweth had been a healer amongst their kind – a true healer, with Songs binding her hands and spilling from her tongue. When the Noldor had first arrived from across the Sea, the Elves of the West had known no need for such skills – for what was there to heal in a land so golden and deathless as far off Aman? The Exiles soon learned that the bliss of Ennor was a far cry from the home they had so willfully abandoned, however, and Glaeweth – with her patience and her care – had been there to help where she could, and to school others in her art.

    Such were her skills that Fingolfin himself had beseeched her to save the life of his nephew when Maedhros was returned from Angband through Fingon's daring. His wife had spent days – weeks, months – putting that ruin of an elf back together again, calling upon every herb and song and skill she knew to make whole what had been tortured and broken beyond repair.

    Perhaps it was that memory that moved him to join the fight when called, when so few of his people would move from their places to give of their aid. The Sindar of the north would fight for the House of Fingolfin, whom they respected, and they were ready and willing to follow Fingon his son into battle, and yet, with the sons of Fëanor also marching . . . There were too many still bleeding wounds, too much bruised pride – from the Kinslaying far across the Sea, to Celegorm and Curufin's dishonorable dealings with their Princess Lúthien and the death of Lord Finrod, who was beloved by them all. His people refused to walk where the sons of Fëanor walked, and they most certainly refused to fight when it would be such a faithless and dishonorable people holding shields at their backs.

    It was a sentiment that Annael could not completely fault. All too easily, he could remember the way Curufin had slurred his newly learned Sindarin in clipped ways, purposefully butchering the language he knew full well - before speaking in High Quenya over the heads of those gathered, as if the Moriquendi's blindness to the Trees meant that they had not been able to learn the Exiles' language as the Exiles had learned their own. He could remember the way Celegorm swept his wife's tray of surgical instruments to the ground when his brother's wounds turned rank with infection once more, and he could still hear the low, angry words Caranthir spoke with every day Maedhros did not better. He could remember his own anger turning hot as he advised Glaeweth to let them mend what their own hands had left to die. Maedhros' life was not her burden to heal, and there was no need for her to bear the indignities heaped upon her.

    And yet, she had replied: “They do not know what to do with their grief, with their anger . . . and it stems from more than their brother's wounds alone. Better I bear with their barbs, rather than one who would take true offense at their words, is that not so, husband?” Her eyes had been pointed upon him as she uttered her last words, and he had bowed his head in reply – accepting her counsel.

    As ever, she had been able to feel what others would keep hidden. She could see what was not intended to be seen, and Annael had trusted her. He allowed her to bow her head and present herself as one low when she was a ruling Lady amongst her people, a kinswoman of Círdan and an even more distant kinswoman of Thingol – even when these princes of the Noldor saw no worth in the titles and ranking of the Moriquendi, failing to differentiate between her and the maids who tidied up their chambers behind them.

    Instead of remembering every moment of boiling anger, he forced himself to recall the way Maglor carefully picked up every item his brother had swept aside. The minstrel had set them all back into place, and listened to Glaeweth's Songs as if he could recreate them himself. He alone of his brothers had bowed his head and called her Lady in a voice steeped with respect. Annael forced himself to remember the hollow-eyed look in the eyes of the twins, neither ever speaking but in whispers between their minds. He remembered the way Maedhros had taken Glaeweth's hands in his one remaining hand when he was finally conscious enough to do so. He remembered how the hollow, empty look in his eyes had cleared as he thanked her for her efforts. Maedhros' scars had been red and angry across his skin, so different from the wispy lines of silver that stood upon his body now, and maybe it was that look, that refusal to die - even when every cell in his body screamed for relief - that had Annael marching when the Noldor called.

    All he had known at the start of the war was a hope – a raw, expectant thing. He had allowed himself to think that maybe, just maybe, these lords of the Noldor would succeed where his people had long failed.

    Annael had fought . . . and he had prayed to the Valar for their success . . . only to watch his people, all of his people take a blow like none other they had yet endured. The Nírnaeth Arnoediad had been nothing more than blood and tears, leaving most of the land as ruin in it's wake, and the people left remaining slow with shock and disbelief.

    Even now . . . he watched for hours as Ellil struggled to preserve Rían alive, knowing that he would have no hopeful words to speak to the poor woman once her child was delivered. For he had known Huor, son of Galdor, well upon the battlefield. He had watched as Huor sacrificed himself during those final hours of conflict, giving his own life out of love for the Elf-king Turgon. Great had been the bravery of Huor, and many were the songs now sung in his name.

    And yet . . . Annael was not his wife, and he spent many long hours during Rían's labor wishing that he had Glaeweth's songs, Glaeweth's healing hand, as Ellil fought long and hard, refusing to let either child or mother slip into Námo's keeping. When the babe's wails at last filled the chamber, the cries were louder than his memories of screams upon the battlefield. There was life in this sound, in the impossibly small shape of Huor's son. This was life, when all around them was only death and ruin as far as the eye could see.

    Now there was none of the Noldor's power left in the north, and Morgoth walked freely throughout the land. Annael knew that he would have to move quickly in relocating his people as the Easterlings invaded the land that Morgoth gave to them in reward for their treachery. There were caves in the mountain-ways, and his people would be safe there – sheltered from view until their enemy forced them to flee again.

    In the end, they stayed only long enough for Rían to regain the strength to travel once more. Slowly, ever so slowly, she healed. She held her head up regally, and yet, her dark eyes were still far from them in every way. Her physical form may have mended itself, but her soul was still as a ghost, just barely clinging to life. Her wilting body had not produced milk enough for her son, and more often than not, Annael was left feeding the young one from a bottle as Rían lost interest in all around her – even in the child she had born.

    “Please, good lady,” he tried to convince her, one last time. “Androth is a good place, a sheltered place. You and your son will be safe there.”

    Even though Rían stood before him, her spirit was already far away. Her eyes were absent and glazed, and the hand she touched to her son's cheek was shaped in farewell.

    “And yet, without Huor, there is no place for me,” she muttered. “I will find my lord, and with him I shall stay.”

    Her words were whispered, for she knew full well that all she would have left of Huor was the bare remains of his physical body. Deep down, Annael knew that she would journey there, not to say her farewells, but to bid a farewell of her own. Huor's final resting place would become her own, and Annael stood before her, frustrated and helpless, unsure of how to convince her to live – both for herself, and for her son . . . There was grief in loosing a mate, this he knew, oh how he knew, but there was still life to be found in the days after. There was still living to be done, as long as the One blessed them with the breath in which to do so.

    . . . this was a truth he had only just realized himself, with Tuor warm in his arms, and the baby's eyes wide and innocent as they stared up at him. Glaeweth would have loved this child, he thought on a whisper, just as he most surely did.

    Yet, the girl was already gone, he knew, and no healing song will be able to pull her back from where she had followed her husband in all ways. And yet . . . Rían's son.

    Though he had never been a father – he had given up on that privilege and joy as soon as Glaeweth's eyes were closed by force – he knew how to hold this baby. It was instinct that had him cradling the small body, that had him supporting the weight of his head with his hands. Gently, he rocked the bundle in his arms, and even before Rían was gone from sight, he looked down at Tuor, and found his heart latching on irrevocably to the child he held. The boy's eyes were wide and blue, ignorant to the pain and death that had been his midwife and mother thus far. Tuor was small - too small, really - from the trials of his birth, yet there was strength in the impossibly tiny fingers that reached out to wrap around his hand. There was already such a presence in the ocean of his gaze, and much as Rían had, Annael could feel the touch of destiny bright against his spirit.

    For the first time in much too long, Annael looked, and saw life rather than the far-reaching hand of devastation and despair. He could feel a beginning waiting in this child, ready and unsullied.

    The wars against Morgoth had taken much from all, and yet, if he could save this one life . . . He bowed his head, and though the child was mortal, as far from his kind as noon was from night, he felt the babe settle in against his soul, irrevocably woven from now to the end of his days.

    “Welcome, Tuor, son of Huor, into the House of Alphon, and into my heart,” he whispered into the human child's delicately curved ear. “May the stars shine all the more brightly over your path, and light your steps as you have so surely lightened mine.”

    In reply, the baby made a gurgling noise, and Annael turned away from the fading figure in the distance, ready to carry on with life anew.


    ~MJ @};-
     
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  21. WarmNyota_SweetAyesha

    WarmNyota_SweetAyesha Chosen One star 8

    Registered:
    Aug 31, 2004
    Touching, marvelous use of Aftermath. =D= =D= Thanks for sharing. @};-
     
  22. earlybird-obi-wan

    earlybird-obi-wan Chosen One star 6

    Registered:
    Aug 21, 2006
    another perfect story
     
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  23. Cael-Fenton

    Cael-Fenton Jedi Master star 3

    Registered:
    Jun 22, 2006
    Beautiful! I think stories like this are the essence of Tolkien's mythopoeia, really. Expecting despair, and yet finding treasure and blessing amidst ruin and loss.
    Yep! Great use of the prompt.
     
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  24. Tarsier

    Tarsier Jedi Grand Master star 4

    Registered:
    Jul 31, 2005
    That was wonderful.

    The entire story is beautiful, but these lines especially struck me:
     
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  25. Mira_Jade

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

    Registered:
    Jun 29, 2004
    Nyota's Heart: I thank you very much for saying so! I am glad that you enjoyed. [:D]

    earlybird-obi-wan: Thank-you very much! : :)

    Cael-Fenton: I think stories like this are the essence of Tolkien's mythopoeia, really. Expecting despair, and yet finding treasure and blessing amidst ruin and loss. That really is the best way to put it! [face_love] I am glad to hear that the story resonated so well with you. :)

    Tarsier: Hello there! First of all, I thank you for stopping in and saying so! Those were a few of my favourite lines to write, so I am glad that they stuck a chord. [face_love][:D]



    And now, because I permanently seem to be one behind with the NSWFF prompts, we are moving on with Truly, Madly, Deeply. I am telling the next part of Caranthir and Haleth's tale in this update - we are picking up exactly where we left off from last time. That said, if you want to know the earlier parts of their story, you can find that in ficlets CVII, CXXXIX, CXLIII, and CLX - CLXIV. One of these days I really should make an index for all of these ficlets , I know. 8-}:p Yet, for now . . .

    Enjoy! :) [:D]






    “tell me how this, and love too, will ruin us”

    CLXXIII. Truly

    In the end, Caranthir did not remain in Estolad long enough to hear her answer.

    Oh, he could have lied to himself; he could have said that he was giving Haleth her space, that he was letting her make her decision without the added pressure of his presence. He told her to consider her answer carefully, for he'd meant it when he said that he would not be able to bear regret on her part. It was better to let her be, even if that time alone allowed her to reason over every reason she should deny his suit, and deny it quickly. Even still, the unguarded truth of the mater remained the same: he did not think he could look her in the eye, and hear her whisper no. He did not think that he could bear her refusal; that he could carry on as her friend and companion after so foolishly laying his heart so open and raw before her. He knew that he was a coward, shying away from the inevitable, but he could not yet bring himself to face the waiting blade.

    As a result, before the sun rose the next day, he saddled his horse, and turned for the south. As the daylight touched the world around him, he let himself hold on to the idea – the one, foolish hope – that, when he returned, she would have the answer he wanted most to hear.

    And, if she did not . . .

    Well, he would simply deal with that when the time came.

    At first, he was not quite sure where he meant to go. He followed the gentle sway of the plains, letting the lazy roll of the fields guide him until he reached the great hills of Andram. It was then an easy decision to turn to the east - where he had kin dwelling on the lone hill of Amon Ereb, guarding the passages into the southern most ways of Beleriand. It had been too long since he had last seen the youngest of his brothers, he reasoned, and this way he could speak truly when asked where he had gone off to – rather than admitting to wandering with the anxious trepidation of an unsure suitor.

    By the time Caranthir finished his journey, the heavy grey skies and the muggy heat of the last few days finally gave way to fat droplets of rain. He was thankful for the grey structure he could see on the horizon, ready as he was to be indoors before the storm developed in full. Thunder rumbled in the distance, and he spurred his horse on faster, ignoring the rain as it fell in his face and intensified with each stride they passed.

    As a whole, Amon Ereb was the smallest of the Fëanorian strongholds - it was quiet, too, being situated far from Angband in the north. The compound was a structure of dull grey stone, standing practical and sturdy upon a massive hill. It was a plain building, the touch of Fëanor only visible in the strength of its design, in the impregnability of its execution. Within the fortress – for that was truly what it was – beauty could be found in the swirling mosaics upon the floors and the great tapestries lining the stone walls. Yet, those were the only glimpses of wealth and art to be found within.

    . . . then again, the Ambarussa ever had but little of the Noldorin vanity about them. Rather did they find beauty and indulgence in the excess elsewhere.

    The steward did not have to announce his arrival before his brothers found him; their steps soundless in the echoing corridor and their words pushed aside in favor of the presence he could feel brush against his senses in welcome. He looked up to greet them in turn, true joy cutting through the turbulence of his emotions – and, belatedly, he hoped that was all they were able to glean from his mind before their presence dulled against his senses, retreating to their normal resting place within his spirit once more.

    Identical in every feature – to the point where they mirrored one another in every word, every motion, it was sometimes disconcerting to hold their dual, unblinking stare. Finwë's grey was as the barest glimmer of pigment within their eyes, while their hair was red and perfectly straight, so dark that it may as well have been black - so different from Nerdanel's fiery waves in every way. As always, Amras wore two braids behind his right ear, while Amrod wore only one, so as to help others tell them apart. Caranthir was thankful for the gesture, for even he hesitated when telling who was who – and he knew the twins better than any other of his brothers, at that.

    “We have had riders from Lake Helevorn, looking for you,” Amras said in lieu of a greeting. There was a question in his voice, one that Caranthir did not much care to answer. “You have been gone through both the spring and summer, have you not?”

    “I have left my people in good hands,” Caranthir said, his voice sounding stiff to his own ears.

    “That is what we said - ” Amrod agreed, moving forward with his twin to kiss his left cheek while Amras kissed the right.

    “ - when we told them you were here,” Amras continued, his eyes glittering.

    “It has simply been an excellent season for the hunt - ” Amrod said.

    “ - and you were beyond these walls at the time,” Amras finished. “Thus, you were unable to meet the messengers.”

    Caranthir found a flicker of amusement in the twins' gaze, before that gave way for a question – an invitation to say more. He set his mouth, wondering what he needed to say aloud, and what was already known due to their uncannily accurate perception. While there were many things whispered about the youngest of Fëanor's sons, he knew at least this much to be true: there was only one soul between the brothers, a soul born between two bodies, when, perhaps, there should have only been one. While others could whisper about his mother's weary fëa (Nerdanel had already been little more than a vessel for Fëanor's fire while carrying Curufin – who was their father in all ways as a result – and bearing the twins had nearly crippled her), and his father's madness of spirit (for the twins were begotten while Fëanor was still consumed with the fervor of creation and drunk on the Silmaril's holy light), Caranthir simply knew them as the Ambarussa, who completed each other's sentences and moved as one, rather than two. While they tended to be . . . disconcerting to others, they were still his brothers, and this was simply how they were. It was the same as Maglor carrying song in his veins and Curufin breathing in and out with the forge - no more and no less.

    “Perhaps - ” Amrod whispered, tilting his head to the side.

    “ - you can tell us more?” Amras offered, his head tilted exactly the same way.

    “After you dry off - ”

    “ - and settle in,” Amras concluded.

    Caranthir took their offer for the respite it was – grateful for the time he had to gather his thoughts, deciding then what he would say, and what he wouldn't say. He walked the familiar halls to the guest chamber he normally claimed as his own, and then took his time with wringing out the heavy fall of his hair and changing into a set of dry clothes. By the time he joined the twins in their study, the sun had set once more. The rain still fell, sounding as a dull pitter-patter far above their heads. It must have been quite the downfall to sound so loudly through the dense stone, he thought.

    The Ambarussa did not immediately look up at him. Due to the peculiar cast of their minds, the twins excelled at the work of a scribe – with one brother reading a scroll while the second wrote in another, their minds one continuous conduit of thought and information. They could spend hours like so, letting the world fade away around them. As such, Caranthir did not move to interrupt them. Instead, he leafed through the work they had already compiled, curious for what subject they delved into now. Almost immediately, he recognized Finrod's elegant hand upon the scrolls they copied, and he raised a brow, wondering what his brothers were doing with these.

    “Ingoldo passed through our lands with a select host from Nargothrond, not even a turn of the moon ago,” Amras answered his question before he spoke it. The younger elf's pale gaze flickered over him, before turning back to his words.

    “They were on their way to the River-lands; where the trees walk on their roots, and the Shepherds speak when spoken to,” Amrod continued.

    “With them were a few sons of Men. Boromir, Bëor's grandson, was amongst them, and most curious for meeting the Onodrim for the first. Boromir had a girl-child with him - ”

    “ - Andreth, I believe her name was,” Amrod supplied for his brother. “A clever little thing she was, especially for one of mortal blood. Finrod said that she reminded him of Artanis in her girlhood, which we can more than believe.”

    Amras nodded his head in agreement. “It was pleasant to have the laughter of a child within these walls. Pleasant indeed.”

    “While the Sindar amongst his followers camped beyond these walls, Finrod had no such qualms about visiting kin, and he left us with these,” Amrod tilted his head, and Caranthir caught a moment's sighting of teeth when he smiled. Just as quickly, the expression was gone.

    Caranthir poured himself a glass of wine from an obliging decanter, and then moved to take a seat before the cheerfully burning fire. Even though the last days of summer were hot beyond the fortress, the thick walls were designed to keep away the heat, and the temperature inside was cool as it was not out. He hid the tight line of his mouth by taking a long draw of the dark vintage, not wanting to think too much of Finrod then. The other man was the only one of Arafinwë's children who deigned to lower himself and seek out reparations with the Kinslayers following the Darkening, and Finrod had repaired his relationships with all of his brothers in the days since then. Some, more truly than others, he acknowledged - for while his elder two brothers truly enjoyed Finrod's wisdom and company, he knew that Celegorm and Curufin's minds more closely aligned with his own. They would smile one way, but those smiles did not hold once Finrod's back was turned. Caranthir cared for such artifice as much as he cared for Finrod's doe-eyed naïvety, and he himself would settle with such masks not.

    Amrod and Amras, however, had more of a practical relationship with the lord of Nargothrond - especially with the now teeming number of Men settling on what was technically their land in Estolad. Even now, the scrolls they copied – no doubt to build their own personal collection – were Finrod's essays about his interactions with the Atani, detailing everything from his theories about the nature of mortality, to a healer's notes on everything from the common cold to the more serious of mankind's ailments – ailments which had at first baffled elven healers, but now were taken in stride and treated as everything else in this marred land was.

    Yet, Caranthir did not look twice at the scrolls. He had come to Amon Ereb to pleasantly numb his mind, not to remind himself of the situation he had left behind in Estolad. And now, that was precisely what he was going to do. He was not going to think about how her pleased surprise had softened the hard planes of her face . . . or the way her smoky blue eyes had darkened when he - no. No. He was not going to think about that . . . at all.

    . . . truly.

    Caranthir took another long sip of his wine. He stared at the fire, letting the dancing tongues of flame pleasantly numb his pains until he was most definitely not thinking about -

    “This is most curious indeed.” Amras spoke softly – to Amrod, it would seem, but Caranthir knew the twins better than that. The Ambarussa only ever spoke their words out loud for the benefit of others, as they were unable to tell their own minds apart – nor did they much care to do so. They did not need the spoken language between themselves, and thus, they did not often speak their words to others.

    Caranthir sucked in a deep breath, and told himself that he would not ask. He took another long swallow of his wine, and found the glass empty when he drew it back. He frowned when he realized that the decanter was by his brothers, idly wondering if he could refilled his glass without looking down at the scrolls they copied.

    After a moment – a long moment – he decided to try.

    Amras moved the wine closer to him, placing it down on a ruffled piece of parchment that Caranthir was not going to look at, even as he found his disobedient tongue asking, “What in particular has your attention this eve?”

    “Human courtship, especially when compared to our own,” Amrod answered, and Caranthir immediately wished that he had said nothing.

    “It is a most baffling process,” Amras commented. “In some ways, that is.”

    “And yet, in other ways, it is much as our own,” Amrod continued his twin's thought.

    Caranthir saw a glint of knowing in their eyes, and he distantly wondered if they had been speaking to Maglor. Or, a voice inside of him whispered, perhaps it was simply he who was transparent with his intentions. The twins already needed few clues to know the innermost workings of any being, and he, more so than most, was an open book to them, even when he thought his pages to be closed.

    “For the most part, fathers arrange matches for their children – both to strategically bind families together, and to negotiate the bride-prices and dowry for their daughters,” Amrod explained, making room so that Caranthir could look down at the scroll they poured over.

    “The majority of their matches are arranged this way,” Amras said. “With the violence of the land they left behind, such measures were once prudent - ”

    “ - though Finrod said that these traditions wane all the more so with every passing generation.”

    He was not going to look, Caranthir told himself. It was pointless, and it was the opposite of not thinking about her . . . and yet, he found his traitorous eyes looking down. Down, and -

    Caranthir glanced, seeing the basic parameters for seeking a woman's hand. If the match was not decided outright between parents, a suitor was still required to ask their lady's father or eldest brother for her hand. For a first marriage, male consent was an absolute requirement, but if a widow sought to remarry, her family could only object up to three suitors, and then the fourth one could not be contested . . . on and on the laws went as such. He felt his jaw set as he then understood the shackles most women were bound with when it came to seeking their mate, even when Finrod's footnotes said that the bride's opinion was most often consulted when her family made her match - as a vengeful or opposed wife was said to be a bad omen for the future of the marriage. Even so . . . the laws sat oddly within his mind, and he could not push his disquiet away.

    He further blanched when he noticed the provisions made for having a second or third wife at once, along with the few laws there were protecting concubines and bed slaves. His eyes lingered over the odd translation, seeing where Finrod had to come up with new words for the foreign terms – for, beforehand, there would not have been a thought for such a thing even existing. There had been such an uproar when Finwë 'dishonored' his dead wife by taking Indis as his bride – he could not even imagine the want for more than one woman at once, and to have a woman kept only for the desires of the flesh . . . He felt his stomach turn at the thought, truly recognizing it as something foreign.

    “Finrod says that these practices occur east of the mountains, for the most part,” Amrod explained, easily understanding the dark cast of his eyes.

    “With the first generations who settled in Beleriand, these laws were needed – as there were such households who crossed over from Hildórien, where Morgoth's hand touched the Secondborn in all things. There are only a minority remaining who observe these practices now,” Amras shrugged, and yet, there was a hard note to his voice as he said so.

    “Apparently,” Amrod commented dryly, “with their few years, Men feel the primal urge to mate and bear offspring quite acutely . . . so much so that some are not satisfied by the bonds of marriage – before or after pledging their troth, it would seem.”

    Distantly, he remembered Haleth saying much the same. There were couples amongst Mankind who truly loved each other, and were faithful to that love. Yet . . . during his time in Estolad, he had encountered his fair share of amorous couples trying to find a secluded place to express their affections, and had been exposed to more than one woman confident of her ability to ensnare his attention in a romantic sense. There was ever some gossip to be heard about the latest scandalous affair, or some marriage was being arranged just as the birth of another child was celebrated – for such were the ephemeral days of mankind.

    Even so, he noticed the further laws binding promiscuity, with laws of vengeance being set upon a bride's male family should her spouse be unfaithful outside of his legally kept women . . . Illegitimate children were wholly the responsibility of the woman's family if they went unacknowledged by her husband, while acknowledged bastards were only rewarded limited compensation from the husband's family . . . on and on the more unsavory aspects of the lives of Men were laid out in clean, elegant lines. To think that somewhere, someone lived through the exact same scenarios that were laid out before him . . . he swallowed, and tried to push the thought away.

    Amras slowly turned the scroll to reveal more of the parchment, for which Caranthir was grateful. For their few years, there were many tangled webs for Mankind to sort through . . . many indeed.

    Caranthir was more interested to see Finrod's observations about human courtship; where he explained the need for chaperones, and noted acceptable conduct and situations between a husband and wife-to-be. Finrod even had a few tales that Bëor related from his own memories, which Caranthir found himself smiling softly to read. Even without the benefit of a fey bond, Bëor truly loved the woman he married; there was still a knowing about his choice that was no less certain than bonding with another soul to soul. The One would not have had it otherwise – even with Morgoth's later machinations against His fair creation, he could not help but think.

    And yet . . . “What a guessing game these mortals play,” Amrod mused – his thoughts closely aligning with Caranthir's own.

    Amras said nothing, but his pale eyes were very bright when he glanced at Caranthir.

    “They give rings once their mate is chosen - ” Amrod said after turning the scroll again.

    “ - as a physical sign of their bond to others,” Amras carried on.

    “Yet, they do not wear their marriage bands on the first finger of the right hand, as we do,” Amras continued.

    “Thus,” Amrod explained, “when you see a ring on the fourth finger of the left hand, it signifies a married man or woman.”

    Caranthir looked the scroll over once more, and with a grimace, he found himself realizing just how abrupt his actions must have seemed to Haleth. While he had months to consider his heart and decide his path, he had simply blurted out his feelings in a moment of fey-anger and faerie-passion. Then, worst of all, he had assaulted her very human mind with the full weight of his elvish soul in his effort to make her understand his sincerity and the depth of his emotions. It had been so easy to assume that she would simply understand, and make her decision based on that alone. And now . . .

    . . . he had so thoroughly botched his chance of presenting himself as an acceptable suitor, and that was before everything else that stood in their way. The knowledge sat as a stone in his mind.

    She deserved to be courted, he thought then, a pang passing through him for everything she had already sacrificed in her life for the sake of leading her people. She deserved to be wooed . . .

    “The forge-master would be done with his work for the day, would he not?” Caranthir asked, struggling to keep his voice easy, free of infliction and tone. Even still, the twins looked up as one. Amras swallowed away a smile. Amrod made the same motion, and the mirrored gesture hit him twice over.

    “I believe so,” Amras answered.

    “If he is not, he shall be done soon,” Amrod said.

    “We can order any apprentices working through the evening away, if you wish for privacy,” Amras offered.

    “No,” Caranthir was quick to shake his head. “I have no need of that. I was simply . . . wondering,” he finished lamely. His last word was flat, inadequate to his own ears.

    “Ah,” Amrod said. When he blinked, Amras did as well.

    “Then, we do wish your . . . wondering the best,” Amras shook his head. He rolled the scroll, just as Amrod picked up its case in order to put it neatly away once more.

    Caranthir poured himself another glass of wine, but found that he could not settle himself by the fire again. He had too much to decide now, too much to accomplish, and that would not be done sitting down.

    Tapping his left hand thoughtfully against the leaves of parchment, he quickly finished his glass, and then excused himself. He stopped on the other side of the door in order to run a flustered hand through his hair, wondering where he would even begin . . .

    A moment passed, and then he heard:

    “Do you think he is hopeless?” Amrod asked his twin in a low voice.

    “I think that he may have been,” Amras answered honestly. “Imagine! Just burdening the poor girl like that, and then running off without a word. Amil would have boxed his ears for being so uncouth, were she here to do so.”

    Amrod snorted. “I did not speak as to that – though what you say is true.” He was quiet for a heartbeat, with nothing but the crackle of the fire and the dull dance of the rain sounding as he gathered his thoughts. “I meant to speak of this mortal child's remaining days . . . few as they remain to her.”

    “We are all with ephemeral days upon this land, are we not? Man, Elf, Dwarf – in some ways, Morgoth grants equal lifetimes to us all,” Amrod philosophized. “Better you burn brightly in the time you have, rather than settling for a life of tepid warmth. No . . . I wish him the best for his choice, and applaud it.”

    Caranthir felt a low feeling of warmth - of comfort – fill his spirit, and he then knew that the twins were aware of his presence. They knew, and in their own way they had given him their blessing. He let their presence burn brightly, fortifying his fëa, before exhaling with what remained of their light. He was aware that he was smiling stupidly, but he was quite unable to keep himself from doing so.

    He must have lingered for too long, for, a moment later, he heard: “You dawdle, brother. Do you not have a ring to forge?

    “Do you wish for us to aid you in composing poetry, too, Carnistir?” Amras asked, speaking so as to be clearly heard through the doors.

    “Or, perhaps,” Amrod reasoned thoughtfully, “we could ask Finrod for his aid with wooing your maiden.”

    “Indeed,” Amras agreed, “his experience with the Atani should not fall to disuse.”

    Caranthir rolled his eyes, and thumped the door once to show his answer to that. Their laughter ghosted against his mind as he turned away from them, ready to begin with the night.





    .
    .

    CLXXIV. Madly

    In short, this whole affair was madness.

    . . . complete and utter madness.

    Haleth stayed behind long after Caranthir left. At first, she had stood still, as if the slightest movement would awaken her from the queer dream Irmo had trapped her in. After a long while, she turned to pacing, suddenly uneasy with her bones when she realized that this was no dream, rather . . .

    When the shadows thrown from the plow blades, and the dull gleam of the scythes became too much for her, she held her head up and left the shed with as much dignity as she could muster. The sun was setting by that time, and few looked her way as she walked back to her dwelling, her thoughts sounding as baying hounds within her suddenly aching head.

    That night, she slept but little; and gave up on finding her rest with the dawn. She rose, feeling little refreshed when the long hours of the day waited before her like a gaping maw. Rather than burrowing back underneath her blankets again, she squared her shoulders and decided to meet the day head on, no matter what came of it.

    Truth be told, she was not sure what she wanted of Caranthir that day. A small part of her expected to see him waiting for her, his eyes full with that same bright, hopeful look from the day before; while another part of her expected him to avoid her, to give her time to think this through in full. When he was nowhere to be seen, she was not sure if she was more relieved or disappointed for him being so. The latter emotion she quickly stomped down, for that did not bode well for her at all, not when she needed a clear mind to think her situation through . . . a very clear mind, at that.

    Her thoughts were still running in circles when she found Taemes underneath the low awning stretching from the back of her kitchen. Her good-sister was patiently churning butter in a wooden barrel, while inside, the rising aroma of baking bread was a warm, welcoming scent on the morning air.

    Taemes smiled in welcome, before reaching up to push a wayward strand of dark hair back behind her ear. The air was already warm and humid, and the dawning sky overhead was grey and overcast. The heat would later give way to storms, she knew.

    “You two must have had quite the row,” Taemes commented by way of a greeting. “Your elf left without saying a word this morning.”

    Haleth fought the urge she had to sigh, both relief and disappointment filling her as one. He had said that he did not want to pressure her, that he wanted to give her time to think, and yet . . .

    “Ah,” was all she said in reply. She leaned against one of the wooden posts, and felt her face settle into a hard expression, heavy with thought.

    Carefully, Taemes watched her. “This was no mere quarrel,” she at last commented. “This was something different. Something more.”

    Haleth watched the steady up and down motion of the churning wand, and felt her words gather on her tongue. At first, she did not want to speak of them. She wanted to keep them to herself, to hold them inside until they disappeared, and yet -

    “He loves me,” Haleth blurted. Against her control, the words spilled out, dropping like heavy stones into deep water. “Only . . . he did not exactly say so . . . not in so many words. He did not have to, instead . . .”

    She remembered what she had seen in his mind, and felt unsteady on her feet. Love was not the word to describe the everything she felt spill over from his soul. Even the ever growing attraction she knew for him – love, even when she had been determined to never define it as such – was a light, flimsy thing when compared to what she had experienced inside his soul.

    My spirit knows its match,” he had said, his voice so painfully raw to her ears. “My spirit knows – has known – and . . . it hurts to ignore that call. It is as a physical pain, and I could bear it no more.”

    She opened her mouth, and then closed it again, unsure of what she should say – of what she could say in order to explain what she had felt . . . what he had offered her. She did not understand how she could feel both so awful, and yet so full with the enormity of what was for the taking before her.

    And yet, Taemes merely sighed, as if she were not surprised in the slightest. “I honestly expected to have this conversation sooner,” she said, pausing from her task. Her expression was troubled, and her dark eyes were full with her concern. “Truth be told, I half thought that you were lovers already. There is . . . something about you both, and I assumed . . .” she faltered, losing her words before she spoke them.

    Haleth shook her head. “It is not that simple,” she said, wondering how to explain the differences between their races. “His kind . . . they do not take partners for such dalliances as we may. No, they choose one mate for their immortal lifetimes, and they are bound soul to soul to that being, through death and after . . . It is physically impossible for them to separate a lover from a spouse, and he . . . he wants that spouse to be me.”

    Your soul binds itself to a marriage mate once, and only once. Even if the body may die, the soul never dies, and that bond would still remain between spirits, no matter their sundering . . . If my wife would ever leave this world before me, I would wait to join her again – either for finding her with my own death, or by waiting for her to walk alive from Námo's keeping with her rebirth.

    Taemes' eyes widened. She frowned, as if unable to comprehend what she heard. Haleth understood her confusion – for she had felt it herself before understanding truly sank in. Their neighbors were not merely fey in look, the Firstborn truly were something else; a people apart from Mankind, even when their species were kindred in many other ways. She did not know how to explain it - for with that mere glimpse inside his mind, she could still feel the earth around her as she could not before. She could feel the ripeness of the fields, how they prepared to welcome the harvest; she could feel the storms gathering overhead, how the clouds gulped in thunder as the rain prepared to greet the thirsty roots below. She knew how the stars danced, how the trees stretched, how the ground breathed . . . The Eldar were truly of Arda, as much as Arda was apart of them. She had not understood before . . . not completely, but oh, how she did now.

    Only, she did not know how to put such an understanding into words. She doubted she ever would.

    “He will never be able to share this with another,” she found the words tumbling from her mouth. In their wake, she felt a wretched, guilty feeling for even daring to wish this of him. “If he offered me anything less – a few years as my paramour, perhaps, stealing what little we could have together . . . I think that I would be strong enough to accept that, knowing that I would eventually have to give him up. But this . . . this is forever for him. This is eternal. This is everything.”

    “I have lived more in these months than I have in centuries,” this he had sworn with such certainty, such belief. And yet . . . “Someday, that shall be my burden to bear, and not yours.”

    It was not that simple, though . . . it could not be.

    “He is a fool,” Haleth snorted derisively. It was easier to know irritation, to choose a sharp emotion over the giddy, breathless feeling she had tried to swallow away since he first kissed her. “He hopes for a half life spent working around my duties, around the foolish prejudices of my people, for the little he would gain in return. I cannot take his name, I cannot build a home with him – not without giving up all that I have fought for. For what would I do? Leave my people in Hathor's hands? Leave them so that men like Mundor can find the weakness they have long been searching for? No . . . I cannot. I cannot share his life, but he can shadow mine for as long as he can before I leave him alone for the rest of his days – alone in a way that I cannot even begin to comprehend. I do not even think that he can – elsewise, he would have thought this through better.”

    It was an unfulfilling existence he was so willing to chain himself to. A curse she had called it, and yet -

    “ - curse?” he had smiled in disbelief over the word, his expression so very fey. “I have known dark fates inflicted both by my own sins and foretold by the Valar themselves. If this is to be a curse, then sweet is my doom indeed!”

    She felt sick with the thought, with the yawning idea of forever stretching out before them. The knowledge that she would condemn him to that, that she would allow him to shackle himself . . . it was a gaping chasm between them, one that she was not sure she could cross. This was a weight she could not bear to see him heap on his shoulders, no matter how much he claimed that he was strong enough for that burden.

    “And children!” Haleth exclaimed as the thought struck her. “Never mind that I will soon be too old to give him a child . . . what would become of a child born to both Elves and Men? Would a child have my mortal years, or his eternity? Or,” here she gave a sharp laugh, “I know! They can simply choose which fate they prefer. Oh yes, because that is not a tangled web just waiting to ensnare some unfortunate soul, somewhere down the line.”

    Even as she spoke, she felt a piercing sort of pang – imagining a little girl with his storm-grey eyes and her curling brown hair . . . or a boy with his father's pointed ears and her freckles. Longing filled her, thick and full, and when next she blinked, her eyes were burning. He would say that he did not want children, arguing that their fight against Morgoth and his own Oath made caring for a little one all but impossible . . . but she had seen inside his mind. She had seen his countless memories of his vast and bustling family. He would speak one way, but she knew that he had once felt a true contentment as a river-stone amongst the currents of his household. And she . . . she would not be able to give him that.

    She kicked at the dirt beneath her feet, hating the dichotomy of her emotions. The back of her throat was tight, and her stomach turned sickly in time with her thoughts. She looked, and saw that Taemes was simply watching – listening – and she was grateful for that.

    “I am thirty-four years old. Come the winter, that number will only grow,” Haleth whispered. “I would be considered an old bride by our standards. I have already left my youth behind, and the years I have left to give . . .”

    There was not one mouth amongst her own people that would call her a beauty. But he had, she remembered with a bittersweet ache. He had looked on her as if she were something unique, something precious to behold - and he had done so for more than the strength of her arms, for more than the blade of her mouth. In that moment, she too had believed herself to be so when faced with his sincerity.

    “You speak as if you already have one foot in the grave,” Taemes made a disapproving noise. “And I am not much younger than you, so mind your tongue.”

    Haleth frowned, frustrated. “That is not what I mean to say, and you know it,” she gave a sharp sigh. “I mean to say that soon . . . be it twenty years from now, or thirty . . . I will grow older, and I shall eventually look so. I am not vain, you know that of me, but I have pride . . . too much pride, perhaps. I will not let him see me grow old and wither away. His time with me will be even shorter than he thinks.”

    She felt a pang for thinking so. She would be no sick and weakening thing to hang on his arm while he was still full of the fire of the West. She would be no winter-touched hag, burdened by the weight of her years while he still walked lightly with the grace of the Fair Folk. She did not understand what he saw in her now, and to watch his eyes dim with regret then . . . she did not think she would be able bear it. She knew that she would not stay long enough to give such a thought time to seed and take root in his mind. No matter how much he would claim otherwise, she would not be able to stand the lie when it came.

    Taemes was silent for a long moment. “He has a pride and vanity to match your own. In some ways, he exceeds it,” she finally said. “It is something to consider before taking a lover. A husband . . . a mate?” she faltered, clearly unsure of how to define what that would have together. By the laws of the Elves, they would be married, even if not by the standards of Men, and yet . . .

    “He is not without his flaws,” Haleth acknowledged after a long moment, thinking of his black moods and his quick way of surrendering to his temper - and that was without her remembering his dreadful Oath and the blood of Alqualondë on his hands. “Many of his flaws are things you could also say of me,” she rolled her shoulders. “And yet . . . I do not know how to say this . . .” she once again thought about her glimpse inside his mind. She thought about how he saw her, about how she looked through his eyes . . . He had been so bright against her senses, so very bright . . . bright enough that she had not been sure how to hold on to what he offered her.

    “A shadow of what a true bond would be,” he had explained in the simplest way he knew how. “And the reason why we find it impossible to bind ourselves twice over. For how could I even look at another after sharing this with the one whom my spirit chooses?”

    “When I say they bond soul to soul, I was not speaking as a skald,” Haleth chose her words carefully. “Their minds are completely open to one another.” She tapped the side of her temple to better illustrate her words. “I could see within his mind for a moment . . . I could see everything - the good and the bad and the in-between. A true bond would be even more than that, and that thought is an overwhelming one.”

    She had to sit down after saying so. She took an uneasy stride to where a bench was pushed against the longhouse, and plopped down ungracefully. This had been an easier malady to bear when she thought that it was only her own heart she stood to risk by growing so close to him. He had been a deliciously forbidden thought, a wonderfully tantalizing dream; and she had taken each stolen moment of friendship she could, content that would someday be enough for her. What she felt was violent and wonderfully tempestuous, but she had thought to be safe in the eye of that storm. Now she was pushed out into the gales, and given the offer to calm that storm completely, or to embrace it . . .

    Almost immediately, she felt nauseous again. She hunched over in her seat, waiting for the world to cease its swimming about her. A moment later, Taemes wiped her hands on her apron, and came to sit by her side. She felt her hand on her shoulder, soothingly rubbing circles – as if she were a love-sick child, and not Haleth the Hunter, daughter of Haldad the Great and Chieftess of the Haladin. Shakily, she breathed in deep, hating the traitorous reactions of her body, of her heart.

    “This would be so much easier if I did not care for him,” she confessed. “I could simply take what he offered, enjoy the few years we could have together, and then leave him to carry on after my death as he claims he can. But I do . . . I do care for him, so much that it hurts.” She pressed her hand to her chest, and felt where her heart thundered.

    “I feel beautiful when I am with him,” the words were small as they left her mouth. They were a woman's words, but she could think of no greater truth than they. “I feel soft . . . soft as I have never once felt in my life. I feel cherished when I am with him. And yet . . . I do not feel weak for being so. I feel shielded – protected.” For she had seen that too in his mind – his awe for her tenacity and his wonderment for her every fierce line of spirit. What her own people would call unnatural and unwomanly, he simply saw as her, and loved her for it. What she had once despaired for ever finding in the eyes of a mortal husband, she now found in the most unexpected of places . . . and yet, the cruel ways of fate now conspired against her reaching out and taking what happiness she could. It was not fair, she could not help but think. It was not right.

    And yet . . . when had this world ever been right and fair? To him? To her and her people? To any one soul living upon this marred land?

    She sucked in a deep breath, and let it out slow. She tried to pull herself together once more.

    “I do not know what to do,” she admitted simply. For that was the honest truth of the matter. She held up her head, and looked around the sleepy village as it awakened for the day, trying to force her mind back to the sharp focus it usually bore.

    “To me, it sounds as if you know exactly what you want,” Taemes said carefully, her own opinions and warnings pushed aside now that they were of little use.

    Haleth snorted. “What I want, and what I must do are two different things entirely,” she said disdainfully.

    “Really?” Taemes raised a dark brow. “For your choice as you described it to me was only a question of bravery - both yours, and his own." She faltered for a moment, and her eyes took on a shadow. "All I will say is this: if I knew when I married your brother that I would only have those few years with him . . . it would not have stopped me. Knowing that I would spend the majority of my life without him . . . it would not have slowed my stride. Instead, I thank the One for the gift of those years, and hold his memory as cherished within my mind. I do not have the endless years of your elf, but I . . . I think that I can start to understand what he feels.”

    "And yet," Haleth whispered, "It is different."

    "Oh?" Taemes was not convinced. "Answer me this, then: if his choice was put to you . . . Would it be so different then?" she turned the tables on her, and watched as she swallowed against the question, caring not for its shape.

    Her hand was heavy on her shoulder for a moment more, and then she stood. “Now, would you like to give me a hand?” Taemes asked, looking down at the newly churned butter. “This has been out in the heat for too long, and I do not want my efforts to sour.”

    Haleth nodded, and wiped at her eyes, grateful for the task – any task, really. She hardened her thoughts as she stood, resigned to think about them no more until later. Then, she went about the chores of the day.




    .
    .

    CLXXV. Deeply

    In the end, Caranthir stayed away for a sennight.

    Meanwhile, Haleth had seven days to convince her heart of the rightness of her decision; seven days in which she thought to reach a sort of equilibrium within herself. It was simple, really. There was only one choice she could possibly make, and she would make it. Once that was decided, she simply clamped down on her heart; she made her feelings stone, her certainty a river. She would not be swayed.

    Of course, such a thing was easy to decide while he was parted from her and she from him. When he returned, such a decision was more difficult to maintain in its entirety.

    She watched him ride in through the gates, and suddenly, it was all she could do to keep her eyes from focusing on him. While before she could simply stand back and appreciate his fey beauty from afar, it was different now. It was as if each feature was arranged for her to look on and admire – as if the One created him for her and her alone – and she found that her eyes had a nearly possessive claim in her stare, unable as she was to look away. The knowledge that she no longer had to push her feelings aside, that he would welcome her appreciation - her touch, even – did not help things in the slightest, and she made fists of her hands so as to keep them in their place.

    Beforehand, she could simply acknowledge his lithe sort of grace, but now she was filled with a charged sort of awareness as he swung down from his horse with an easy motion. There was a thinly leashed power in his every movement, and she watched him with a nearly covetous gaze, remembering the strength in his body when he held her up against the wall and kissed her, and sweet Eru, but she had made a decision. She was going to abide by it.

    The worst part about it all was that Caranthir knew. His damned eyes were glittering when he leaned down to kiss her hand in greeting, lingering until she snatched her hand back from him as if burned. She could feel his amusement brush against her senses – such a novelty that she first had to ponder over what she felt, before realizing that such a knowing came from him. It was as if the one time he had touched her mind, he had done so with such a force that a part of him still lingered, even after he pulled away. Without even knowing what she was doing, she felt a wave of coldness fill her, and with a note of satisfaction, she saw that he winced – for this knowing went both ways, and he could sense the abstract shape of her emotions the same as she could feel his own.

    Even with that knowledge, her distracted eyes noticed the way the sleek mass of his hair slipped over his shoulder when he straightened once more. Politely, he asked how Estolad had fared during his time away, and she was a heartbeat slow to answer as she remembered what it had felt like to sink both hands in his hair, and -

    He had not smiled, but she could feel his satisfaction for the heat that filled her at the memory. Both angry and frustrated with herself, she turned away after their greetings were exchanged, her cheeks aflame for her lack of control. Taemes fell into step next to her as she left, and the other woman's silent support was as much a wound as it was a balm.

    Haleth expected him to find her not soon after, and continue the conversation they had started in the tool-shed. But, he did not seek her outside of public gatherings with others, and she was slow to find him alone in order to tell him what needed to be said. She knew that her delaying was cowardly, but she could not seem to find the needed strength within herself.

    And then . . . the most unusual things started to occur.

    It all began when she went to saddle the red roan she was breaking in from their first fold of yearlings. She went to grab her tack, and was surprised when her customary saddle was replaced by a different one. At first, she thought a mistake had been made – for this was new leather, exquisitely crafted and tooled. It was expensive too, she could not help but think as she took in the quality of the tan leather and the intricacy of the designs that were set into it. And yet, it did not take her long to recognize the elvish refrains in the design, and it most certainly did not take her long to notice Caranthir's distinct hand. He did not have this commissioned for her, rather, she suspected he had a hand in its creation.

    She was not sure whether or not she was flattered or annoyed by the gift, and she huffed as she went to grab another saddle – wanting something lighter for the green horse's back in either case. And yet, when she went to where the saddle-blankets were kept, she noticed a set of beautifully embroidered blankets in colours of copper and cream and hunter-green – which would be striking against the roan coat of the filly she was growing all the more attached to. She reached out to finger the elegant tassels, and trailed her touch over the embroidery of hunting dogs and stags set along the borders. A lot of thought and effort had gone into these pieces, and she felt her eyes linger, even when she would have wished for them not to.

    Haleth left the stables after that, unsure of what to think – or what to feel.

    The odd succession of gifts continued. While any other woman would be courted with fine jewelry and fresh flowers, she found other things left for her – a new quiver filled with perfectly crafted arrows, and an elegant longbow to replace her father's antique she had long been using. She found a handwritten book of lays, penned by someone named Elemmírë, and remembered that she had once shared her fondness for such epic tales in a moment of weakness after one too many glasses of ale. She was as touched that he remembered as she was wondrous over the painstaking detail that had gone into compiling the leather-bound book. Most of the poems were in Quenya, and her reading would be long and slow as a result. But, she knew that she would enjoy the challenge as much as she would appreciate the heroics of the tales. A few of the poems were in Vanyarin and Telerin – languages whose shape she recognized, but knew next to nothing of. She would have to ask Caranthir to read them to her, she thought next, before clamping down on that idea, and shoving it aside – firmly.

    When she next found a small fiddle with an elegantly curved neck, an image of Nessa dancing amongst a field of flowers burned into its wooden face, she unexpectedly felt tears fill her eyes. Her father had played the fiddle, and many were the evening when she had fallen asleep with his music still singing in her ears. Even when they were under siege in Thargelion, Haldad had played during the long, cold nights - bolstering the spirits of their people, even as the Orcs mockingly raised their voices in discordant song right beyond, marring their attempts at false cheer. She knew how to play herself, but she had not done so since her father and brother were slain. Haldad's fiddle had not survived the destruction of their home, at that, and now . . .

    She played the instrument late into the night, softly and then with more confidence as her fingers remembered the old melodies. She resurrected the ghosts of her father and twin once more, grieving them as she had not been able to following their deaths. Mournfully, she wondered what decision her father would have encouraged her to make, had he still been alive to do so . . . and yet, had Haldad lived, had Haldar lived, she would have known an even greater urge to leave everything behind and claim what she could with Caranthir. Her people would be safe, they would be provided for, and she could just be herself, and selfishly put her own happiness first.

    Yet, that thought was a what-if, having little place in the here and now. She pushed her memories aside with the dawn, and thought about them no more . . . even when she just knew what path her father would have encouraged her to take.

    And so, it continued as such between them. He carefully did not mention what he had proposed before he left, and she could not find the words within herself to raise the subject. The odd string of gifts continued, and yet, it was not until she found Caranthir and Haldan behind the newly built fulling mill, where the great wooden wheel dipped into the fast current of the river, that she felt the true weight of her situation hit her. The Elf-lord was kneeling in front of her nephew, looking very seriously into the youth's eyes, as if he were already a man bearded and grown. She felt her chest twist when she realized what she was seeing, and for a moment it hurt to breathe.

    “You make her happy. She smiles when she is with you,” the boy answered simply. Haldan had always been beyond his years, with the tribulations of her people placing the most weight on their youngest ones – few as they survived. “If you continue to do so, you have my blessing.”

    As best he could while still kneeling, Caranthir bowed very solemnly, and gave his formal vow to the child. Haleth felt a piercing sort of sensation slip between her ribs before she turned away, not wanting to be seen. She felt her eyes burn as she walked back the way she had come, her decision – her sensible, logical decision – teetering dangerously within her mind.

    And yet, it was not until almost a week later that things came to a boiling point.

    Haleth returned home from a meeting with her council, having adjourned the session early on account of her aching head being unable to take another moment of their prattle – which was true enough, though she had phrased her ailment differently. The sun was setting above, painting the rolling fields and thatched rooftops in shades of burnt orange and yellow-gold. The smell of cooking fires filled the air, and children raced to and fro as they hurried home for the evening, their joyous voices seemingly welcoming the stars to come out above. Discreetly, she watched her people mill about her, hoping to catch him waiting for her – as he often did, for he no longer sat in on their debates unless his insight was specifically called for. And yet, he was nowhere to be seen.

    She swallowed away the reflexive disappointment she felt, telling herself that she was foolish to look for him in the first place. She was only building herself up for an even greater hurt, she knew, and this was the loop her mind spun through when she arrived home to see him -

    - apparently hiding a small box in what appeared to be a bouquet of blue aster and purple dragon's mouth.

    Haleth felt a frown touch her mouth, and she let the door close behind her with more force than she normally would have, alerting him to her presence.

    “What are you doing?” she asked with a calmness she did not feel.

    Caranthir started at her arrival, as if he were a child caught doing something he ought not. Normally, the likeness would have made her smile. Now, she simply watched him, a note of weariness piercing her now that their inevitable conversation had finally come upon them.

    Letting her question go unanswered, she walked over to him, glancing down at the flowers (love . . . patience . . . long-lasting impressions, their smiling faces said – never mind that she once mentioned the dragon's mouth to be her favourite, pointing out where it grew down by the riverside), before letting her gaze linger on the box. It was a jewelry box, she guessed; the first he had gifted to her.

    “Caranthir,” she said on a sigh, feeling her frustration – her resignation - bubble over as annoyance. “I am no blushing maid to be courted so – and you are most certainly no wide-eyed stable boy, sweet on the farmer's daughter. You know better, and this – all of this - has to stop.”

    She watched where his face shadowed, where he so clearly fought back a frown in reply to her frank tone of voice. “Tulkas' beard, woman,” he muttered under his breath, “I thought you would want to be courted.”

    Even while she was determined to hold her ground, merely hearing him say so aloud caused a sweet sort of lurch in her stomach. Stubbornly, she forced that feeling down – far down.

    “I do not,” she proclaimed, but even she could hear how her words trembled. “And you should not want . . .” she swallowed, and had to find her words again.

    Like a hound catching the scent of a stag, he looked up, his sharp eyes narrowing at the tone of her voice. Instantly, she hardened her expression, hating her moment's lapse. “Is it so difficult for you to imagine that I want to?” Caranthir asked, his voice gentle.

    She set her mouth, and narrowed her eyes. “I do not think you understand - ” she started in a hard voice.

    “ - I do not understand what?” Caranthir interrupted, challenging her. “That you are mortal? That, someday, you will die?” Though he said his words easily, she could feel the ache that accompanied them. For a moment, she could not tell if it was his pain she felt, or her own.

    “That, amongst many other things,” Haleth would not be moved. “I am already far from the years of my youth - ”

    Caranthir frowned, and she could feel his bafflement. “You think yourself old?”

    She held her course, even in the face of his bemusement. “I am no longer a girl,” she tried to explain, flushing as she said so.

    “That is good,” Caranthir smiled – that sleek, easy smile that normally caused heat to flush through her as it ruined her train of thought, “You are already much too young for me.”

    She huffed in frustration. “You are not taking this seriously,” she accused.

    “So, you are . . . mature,” Caranthir drew out the word with a raised brow. She felt her blood heat in reply.

    “I am old,” Haleth returned. She held up a hand before he could retort, and said, “And if you make one more quip about the differences in our ages, I shall do something rash.”

    “I would say that you are seasoned,” Caranthir amended his earlier words, still infuriatingly unbothered.

    “I am grumpy,” she threw out her next flaw. “I am foul-tempered and quick to anger.”

    “You are opinionated, I think you meant to say,” he brushed her critique away. “Which is for the better. I would overpower a more obliging personality than yours.”

    “You will never be put first in my life,” she hissed out sharply. She tried to make him understand; she tried to make him see. “I am Chieftess of the Haladin first and Haleth the woman second, and that . . . that is not fair to you, nor is it fair to any man. To bear though such a half-life in the few years you would have before forever . . .”

    She found her eyes burning with merely saying the words. They crushed her, miserable truths that they were, and she did not understand how he could simply stand there and smile at her like she was the most precious thing he had ever laid eyes on. She wished that he would look away, that he would truly let her words sink in. Instead, he stepped closer to her, his eyes soft as he reached out to tip up her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze.

    “You speak of what I already know, and know well,” he said simply. She then hated the silky warmth of his voice; the heat she could feel roll off of his skin, even when there was a distance between their bodies. “And yet, in all of your words, I did not once hear you speak of you. You worry so for my needs, but what of your wants? What of you?”

    “What I want ceased to matter a long time ago,” Haleth shook her head, trying to back away from him.

    “And yet, here I am now, asking you,” Caranthir countered, stepping closer to her, even as she tried to retreat. “Say that you do not love me, that you do not feel the same for me, and I will leave you in peace with every hope of happiness for your future. But if it is just these simple doubts and fears that hold you back . . . they will not be enough to sway me.”

    She stepped back from him, and this time, he did not try to follow her. She inhaled, filling her lungs with a fresh breath, before smoothing down the mused strands of her braid with an agitated gesture. She glanced at him, and found that he was still watching her with the low eyes of a hunting animal. He was not human in that moment, not even in look – he could not be, with the strange tilt of his head and the liquid sort of grace that dripped from his every movement. The sun had continued to set beyond, and the few candles he had lit before she arrived threw dancing colors of gold over the fair expanse of his skin and the deep shadow of his hair.

    She could not look at him; not for too long, not unless she wanted to forget every rational thought within her head. So, she glanced behind him. She made fists of her hands.

    “What were you trying to hide this time?” she asked, rather than answering him.

    She watched, and saw where a shade of pink touched his face – as if he was hesitant to share this last gift with her. Even so, he handed her the small box, and she could feel his trepidation and the sweet sort of hope that rose within him. She tried not to – dealing with her own emotions was hard enough as it was – but it was difficult for her to separate what was him and what was her in that moment. Her temples ached with the effort.

    When she opened the box, she saw an elegant, simple ring resting on a bed of blue velvet. Though she told herself not to, she stared down at the ring, awed when the strange metal shifted from a shade of silver to the warmest of golds. There were no other adornments to the ring, just two bands of the seemingly mystical ore, gracefully entwined, and yet, it was more beautiful to her than the greatest treasure amongst a dragon's horde.

    “Amongst my people, we give silver rings for engagements, and rings of gold once wed,” Caranthir explained. “I wanted to merge the two, and my father had a technique for catching light within metal and stone – though it worked better with gems, as this was the technique that eventually birthed the Silmarils. Sunlight and moonlight both do you see in this ring, though, perhaps, it is imperfect when compared to what he could have done.”

    Ignoring the small voice that told her not to, she reached down to touch the elegant band with a careful hand. And, as she did so, she caught a flash of thought from him -

    - of a terribly beautiful man, with fire spilling from his eyes and skin and mouth, consuming everything before him. The eyes she saw through were a child's eyes; the air was thick with smoke around her/him, and she could feel her/his skin crawl as she/he only thought of how much she/he hated this place, and longed for the fresh air beyond. The forge gloves were ungainly in her/his hands, and the smith's hammer was as a leaden weight, failing to yield the wonders it produced at her/his father's barest coaxing. Yet, she/he stood so very still and let her/his father look down, his eyes crinkling in a delicate disgust as he said, “This is imperfect, Morifinwë. Destroy this, and start again.”

    And she/he tried again and again and again, and the horrible-breathtaking light in the father-creature's eyes only grew. “Imperfect, once again,” was all Fëanor would say, no displeasure or disappointment in his voice, only fact, and -

    - Haleth felt her lips draw back from her teeth with the glimpse, a sudden anger lighting her bones in reply to the memory. She inhaled sharply, and saw where Caranthir flushed when he realized what he had shared.

    “Yes, well,” he said, his expressive face reddening, “Perhaps I should have gone to Curvo for help. He was Atar's favourite for a reason, you know, and -”

    “No! No . . . it's perfect,” she interrupted him, unable to hear him say otherwise. “Truly it is.” She looked up, and saw where his smile was small, touched with a soft sort of pleasure.

    “I have one for myself, as well,” Caranthir continued, reaching into an inner pocked of his tunic to bring out a matching ring. “But I do not have to wear it in Estolad. I do not want for you to -”

    “You made one for yourself?” she interrupted, her voice small.

    “Well . . . yes,” he answered, confused by the sudden hitch to her voice. He peered at her, concerned. “Is that not the mortal custom?” he asked. His voice was careful, and she caught a flash of leave it to Finrod to blur the facts stand out from his mind. She shook her head, finding her eyes burning in a tell-tale way.

    “No,” Haleth assured him. “It is not that . . . well, it is, in a sense. It is a human custom for wives to wear a ring, it is true, but husbands do not typically do so. They do not need to show they are claimed by any other.”

    Caranthir blinked, as if the idea of such inequality was foreign to him. While her people had come far in so short a time, in some ways . . . but she swallowed that thought away, and met his eyes again.

    “I can think of no greater thing, than to show to all that I am bound to you,” Caranthir said simply. While a man could speak flowery words to win his suit, there was a plain truth in his words. For a moment, she found herself weak over the promise he implied. For a moment, she simply let herself want, and found her heart full with the warmth of that truth.

    He continued, “I know that you may not wear your ring openly. But it is yours to do with what you will, even if -”

    Haleth interrupted him with a small laugh – a desperate, disbelieving sound. “Still you are so selfless with this arrangement!” she could not keep her befuddlement from her voice. “Any other man -” she started, but she found her words interrupted by his first finger touching her mouth, staying her words.

    “ - I am not any other man,” he whispered. He was very close to her then. With the great difference between their heights, he had to stoop in what looked to be an uncomfortable way, but she enjoyed the way she felt small in his shadow.

    “I know,” her words were soft in reply, and she knew that she spoke the truth. She could feel a low heat pulsate from him, and his thoughts felt hungry from where they reached out for her own, as if they were trying to find a way in. The aching tension that had long built between them seemed to fill her then – prompting her traitorous hands to reach up and rest on her shoulders, even as she moved her body closer to his, closer . . . Then, this time, she was the one to kiss him – standing on the very tips of her toes and tugging him down so that she could reach him, and sweet Eru beyond the void, but his mouth was soft and hot against her own, and this was happening . . .

    Caranthir needed no more encouragement than that. She felt where one of his arms wrapped around her shoulders, supporting her position, while his other hand rested at the small of her back, holding her tightly against him. Her hands moved from his shoulders to wrap around his neck, settling in the silky mass of his hair – knowing, knowing where this was going, but unable to bring herself to remember her objections as he deepened the kiss between them. There was a beautiful sort of leashed tension between them as he slowly mapped her mouth and explored her body with his hands, as if he was confident that he had all the time in the world to do so. In the end, it was she who wanted more – who pressed against him, and whimpered into his mouth, all the while thinking this man will be the death of me. Yet, in that moment, she could not bring herself to care.

    “This cannot end well. You know that as well as I,” she pulled back to whisper while she still had the voice to do so. She was not sure if she drew her hands down to his chest to push him away, or to steady herself, untrustworthy as her balance now was. Somewhere along the way, she had moved her ring onto her fourth finger, so that she wouldn't drop it while her hands had more important things to do. Now, the simple band was very bright upon her hand, shining brighter than the shadows.

    “And yet,” Caranthir's voice was a low, dark sound in reply. She could feel him speak alongside her pulse, more than she could hear him with her ears. “Until it ends . . .”

    They would take what little they could from each other, she finally surrendered. Now, she only hoped that it would be enough to sustain them both in the end.

    Yet, until then . . .

    She tugged him down to her once more, and resolved to think of nothing else.






    End Notes:

    Amrod and Amras: So far, I have used the genealogies found in the published Silmarillion, so I decided to keep to the earlier version of the twins' story. (In Tolkien's later writings, Amrod was burned alive when Fëanor set the ships aflame at Losgar – thus preventing his brothers from following him, though he did not know that they would stubbornly cross the Grinding Ice in order to follow him to Middle-earth. Fëanor refused to admit his gross mistake, and simply assumed that Amrod cowered and went home to Nerdanel, rather than crossing the sea. No one dared to tell him otherwise. :( . . . While this tale is an excellent way to show just how far gone Fëanor was, it is still . . . well, awful.)

    Interestingly enough, Nerdanel, with the insight of an elven mother, named both of the twins Ambarussa. She refused to give them separate names until Fëanor insisted she do so – which is where a lot of the fanon theories about the shared soul came from. Fëanor found such an idea disturbing – once again refusing to acknowledge the problems in his family – and instead gave them the names that would later be translated in Sindarin to Amrod and Amras. The twins still called each other Ambarussa, though - which I always found to be interesting. Either way, I just wanted to dabble with their strange bond in this story, which is my true, selfish reason for keeping Amrod alive. ;)

    Human Customs: I modeled most of the laws of Men after early Norse and Germanic customs, as the Professor may have done, perhaps. According to my research, Most 'Viking' weddings were contracts for financial gain and ways to strengthen ties between families. Romance was rarely a prerequisite, and courtship was a little practiced custom - even though I have to assume that some matches were made after affection grew between a couple, rather than the other way around. Yet, many marital accounts are finished with a note saying 'and their marriage was good' - showing that familiarity/love grew between a couple. So, it wasn't that romance was dead, per say, so much as theirs was simply a harsh way of life upon an equally harsh land. Especially when compared to their Christian and Greek/Roman counterparts, these northern European women had a lot of power in other ways - they could divorce with financial recompense; claim inheritances; run their land in their husband's absences and after his death; and Shield-maidens were an honored and revered part of society. They did take their bride-prices (yes, plural :p) very seriously, though, which is more than apparent in the way Beren was so determined to honor Thingol's demands, rather than simply running away with Lúthien. His honor wouldn't have it any other way. [face_love]

    Wedding Rings: The tradition of marriage bands goes all the way back to the Egyptians – who viewed their rings as symbols of eternity and gateways to their future. The Greeks put their bands on the fourth finger of their left hand, thinking that there was a vein in that finger that led straight to the heart. Yet, in these tales, only wedding rings for women were ever mentioned or discovered by historians. The tradition of men's wedding rings did not start until around WWII, when men were separated from their spouses for long periods of time, and wanted something to remember them by. I know, that little fun-fact floored me when I read it too! :eek:

    Elvish Customs: I am not making any of this up, believe it or not. If you are interested, the Laws and Customs of the Eldar can be found in Morgoth's Ring, or, there is a fan who wonderfully transcribed it http://tawarwaith.com/aearlinn_w.html]here[/url]. Marriage customs – including Caranthir's 'loop-hole', children, elvish years of maturing vs. mortal years of maturing, and gender-specific roles between men and women are all noted and explored. It's a very interesting read. :)

    A Note on Canon: While I am most definitely expanding on canon, I have not exactly broken it, per say. ;) Haleth was born in FA 341, and Morgoth sent his Orcs to attack Thargelion in the spring of 375. In the summer/fall of 375, she led her people west to Estolad. There are conflicting dates about when she moved the majority of the Haladin from Estolad to the forests of Brethil (located in the west of Doriath as a whole, but apart from the Girdle of Melian and Thingol's direct lordship), but the year I keep on coming back to is 390. So, she remained in Estolad for 15 years, during which I like to assume that she was reasonably happy with Caranthir. After that? Well, that is simply another part of this tale to come. ;)



    ~MJ @};-
     
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