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echo-bleu · 1 year ago

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Noldor Hair Headcanons (3/4)

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | On AO3

Some lighter Kidnap Fam content, after the downhill freefall that was the last chapter. With a dash of Finrod in Valinor.

Elrond and Elros have never had their hair braided when they end up with Maedhros and Maglor.

They don’t realize what they’re asking when Elros grabs a hairbrush and puts it in Maglor’s hand.

Maglor understands that, but decides that the twins need parental care, even though he has no right. He brushes their hair and leaves it loose at first.

But the twins have watched Maglor braid Maedhros’s hair and they soon start asking for more interesting hairstyles.

Eventually Maglor explains to them that it can only be done by family.

The twins have a whole silent conversation.

“What does it take to be family?” Elros asks eventually.

Well, braiding an unrelated child’s hair is pretty close to informal adoption.

Elros forces the brush into Maglor’s hand again.

Maglor stares.

Elrond shakes his head and runs out.

Of course, Elrond must hate them. He has every right. Sure, Elros has started to warm up to them, but that’s just because he’s affection-starved, probably. They’re still kidnappers.

Maglor is about to put down the brush and try to refuse when Elrond comes back.

He’s holding a second hairbrush.

He hands it to Maedhros expectantly.

Maedhros cries.

Maglor cries.

The twins’ hair really doesn’t hold braids very well, and they’re still kids who run around and play, but damn them if Maglor and Maedhros aren’t going to do their best.

Now all of their people can see that the twins are well-loved.

Maedhros and Maglor also proudly sport a few clumsy, wonky braids each.

They’re less wonky with time, and eventually the twins are doing their fathers’ (kidnappers’) hair as often as not.

Finrod is reembodied shortly before Eärendil and Elwing gets to Valinor. It’s too early and he’s Not Doing Well. While in Middle Earth, he was the one who let basically every one of his friends braid his hair, now he can’t stand the thought of someone touching him that way.

But Beleriandic battle braids feel wrong in Tirion. And he’s desperately trying to reckon with his trauma, with Sauron defeating him by singing about the kinslaying, so he can’t leave his hair loose like the Teleri.

And he can’t quite get the sight of Edrahil’s bloody braids spat out by a werewolf out of his head.

He wears nothing but the very strange-looking (to Amanyar) Mourning Braids he designed after Dagor Bragollach for a couple of years.

Then after an episode of really bad depression and nearly fading, he cuts his hair short.

No-braiding-possible kind of short.

While not unheard of in Beleriand (sometimes former thralls keep their hair very short, like Rog), it’s unthinkable in Valinor, especially for the Crown Prince of the Noldor.

He is stared at a lot, his reputation goes down the drain, but to Finrod it’s liberating.

He does let his hair grow out again eventually, but only when other Exiles start coming back and choose to keep the Beleriandic braid styles, and it becomes a fashion statement rather than a mark of shame.

Finarfin is Very Shocked arriving in Beleriand when he finds his (single remaining) child with her hair loose and everyone else with weird self-braided battle hairstyles.

After a battle or three where he ends up with his hair matted with blood and mud, he caves and gets Galadriel to give him battle braids.

By the end of the war he’s even learned to do them himself! Let it not be said that King Arafinwë Ñoldóran didn’t rise to his calling.

The night before sending the Elrond and Elros to Gil-galad, Maedhros and Maglor undo all of their braids. Everyone cries.

Maedhros and Maglor meant this to minimize the ‘taint’ their names would put on the twins, by making it look like they were still hostages to the end, but the twins stop on the way to do each other’s hair because one does not meet a king with their hair loose, they have manners (which the Fëanorians taught them, so they’re Very Specific Manners), so the effect is lost. Gil-galad has Questions. The twins refuse to lie.

Then, before going to steal the Silmarils, Maedhros and Maglor do each other’s hair, in a style of their father’s that they haven’t worn since the Oath.

Maglor braids a single golden ribbon into Maedhros’s hair.

They have very few pieces of hair jewellery left of their brothers’, but they use all of them.

They both know it’s the last time.

To be continued

I did some sketches for visual reference of a few of the hairstyles mentioned here, if you want to see what I'm imagining!

#noldor hair headcanons #if i am to braid my mystic crown #noldor #maedhros #maglor #elrond #elros #finrod #kidnap fam #silmarillion #silm fic #tolkien #tolkien fanfiction #echo's fanfiction

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searchingforserendipity25 · 5 months ago

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Fearing Not A Shadow Nor A Chill

Day 5 of @elrondweek. Elrond/Celebrían & Children. Here or on AO3.

"I used to long very much," Celebrían had told him once. "For a playmate as near in age as Elros was to you."

Elrond had not answered. He walked beside her, by shores of the Aduin's first strong fountain-streams, and very carefully did not look too plainly upon Lady Celebrían's curved mouth, the yarrow leaf she turned and turned between her fingers.

He needed not to speak. Lady Celebrían, he had learned very quickly, was not one to wait very long to complete her ideas, none of which, she plainly felt, required much counsel or permission at all.

"Amroth was so much the elder, and so much a stranger even to my parents, who loved him as a cousin and as a son. I was lonesome and without companions, and though the joys and secrets of Lórien need not be shared to be true, still I have found them to be the greater when seen by two, and not one alone."

"So it is, in most places I have journeyed to, and not Lórien alone," said Elrond, carefully. It was the early days of their friendship, and already he had learned to be cautious with his mind and words and heart near Lady Galadriel's daughter, grey-eyed Celebrían whose conversations was like the waters of her own lands, leaping, quick and meandering and full of hidden roots to trip upon.

"I suppose, then, you would wish for children, and not one alone. That is good." Celebrían said, as if it were a natural thing to speak of, on the eve of battle, to the king's own herald.

Her eyes shone, too, with a brightness of sun on water, a glimmering laughing attention. Elrond's heart tripped in his chest, slipped from him again and again.

"I said to Elros I would not marry, if I could not present my children to their uncle."

"He must have teased you very badly," Celebrían guessed, looking at him through her lashes rather shamelessly. "I am sorry I shall not meet him; but then he has so very many descendants, some evil and some not, which on the whole may be better. He may not have wished you to know them, but not much can be done on that account; and at least any children of yours shall not lack for kin. How many would you prefer?"

Elrond, more ancient than some of the rivers and mountains of Imladris, wise in languages and laws and magics, stared.

Smiled, too, a little helplessly. He could not ever quite stop turning towards her when she looked at him with all that bare attention, and he never would; and knowing he never would did not much help in delaying love from taking root.

"A maiden," he said. A woman-child, with Elwing's quick hands at the loom, and Celebrian's way of worrying at the corner of her mouth with her thinking - he saw it, that sure alighting of love.

Celebrían nodded. As if it were that simple - as if it were an agreement, a handfasting, a promise.

"It will be good for the boys to have a sister," Celebrían said. "I used to long very much for a playmate near my age, and another a little my elder, to hide mischief from our parents better."

Elrond, old enough to remember when islands rose at the will of the gods, and all the sea-loving birds flew Westwards in a rush, smiled at her, helplessly enchanted.

The days of their early friendship: war ravaged the lands beyond Elrond's hidden valley fortress still. He had not known how to love her. His heart sang, assured from the first, a winged thing certain of its perfect flight - but he had not known her, truly.

He had not meant to be more than a host, her mother's friend - for whatever little that meant. Celebrían was not one to care very much for other people's good intent, when hers was so often an improvement.

For many years they were half-stranger and half-lovers, looking at each other with clear eyes. Over riverbanks and running fountains, desks and dances and the narrow, narrow curving staircases of Imladris, where the brush of a sleeve against a curling palm could be hidden, almost an accident, almost nothing.

To be wed was a thing the Noldor choose only in times of peace, though the the Sindar delayed seldom. Elrond's parents had not waited, and not their parents either; but he did. He was only himself, and too himself to dare otherwise.

Celebrían, he knew, would not have been against a bold flight of passion, not least eloping while her father tarried - would serve him well, she thought.

For Elrond only she delayed. Went patient with her words, and deeds, and the turnings of her mind, as she never had before, or would again.

He thought of it, afterwards, when her ship went where the gulls loved to go, to the place where Elwing's tower rose high, and beyond. All that times spent, that half-time.

There had been a sweetness, too, in the stretching of anticipation, but he could not be certain, afterwards. How they had tasted in his mouth, those kisses ungiven; if his hand had stung to brush her silks, if it had hurt half as much as remembering it would for many centuries.

Twins, they had, on purpose. Celebrían was determined, and determined to wait until Elrond was certain he could stand to want it - two little souls, as near in age as Elros had been to him.

Two were enough, they both agreed. Two sons, alike to each other to the tilt of their noses and the curl of their braids. Celebrían's children, restless and in love with the world.

Elrond's children, too, though it felt marvelous and absurd and terrible, many times, to claim such joy as his own. His children, who held his hands as they crossed the many bridges of Imladris, and brought him small treasures, and shared the same closeness he had once known with his own Elros.

Elrohir liked to run, to sing, to make mischief and pull laughter out of Imladris's people like a spark out of a flint - a brusque little surprise, flaring and vulnerable.

He had Celeborn's mouth, and Celeborn's way with beasts and rooted things, and rarely was he ever alone, pockets full of little lizards and shoulders covered with dark eyed minks, ancient serpents twining around his small, very breakable wrists.

He made friends wherever he went, respectful and cheerful and terribly silly; Glorfindel, once of Gondolin by way of friendship with Turgon and Finrod before him, spoke at times with Celebrían of her uncle.

He never made a comparison, never said the words; but it was perhaps a good thing Elrohir had been born of a people and a time with no need for the raising up of new kingdoms. It was perhaps a sorrow, too, but Elrohir never seemed to feel the lack of greatness very sharply, nor the pulling tides of the past either.

Elladan was not so.

Elladan spent half his childhood trying to escape the valley, and the other half hiding wherever he could, in a dozen secret little places that became veiled even to Elrond's senses far too quickly.

He felt sadness very keenly, his mind open like Elrond's to the many voices of the wind and the water and the earth, yet more like his mother's kin, in how the shadows on the hearts of those near and far struck fear and unease and anger in him.

He wept very often, and afterwards laid on their chests, all exhausted weight and heavy eyelashes. Elrond held him the tightest; Elrond was very determined to do so always.

For comfort, Elladan liked to play with the rings in his father's hands, to follow the trail of Iathrim inkings and hunting scars beneath Celebrían's skin. And then of course his brother came to find him, whenever he was distressed, as Elros had found Elrond in Amon Ereb and Sirion and Mithlond, wherever in dying Beleriand that long terrible war brought them.

"This is very good," Celebrían conceded, pressing her nose against their sons's sweet curls, one after the other.

Celebrían pressed her palm to his, her long marked fingers against his rings, Vylia flaring cold and alive wherever at her touch. Her attention set upon him was no less heady. His breast sang towards it only the most surely, whenever his wife's sly joy pressed against his mind; and for an instant the shadow of what might be was easy on it, nearly easy.

She had always seen him very easily, Celebrían Galadriel's daughter. Braver than he, and less patient, was the Lady of Imladris.

"Very good, and no one left lonesome; but I do recall there is a thing not yet done, that I would like to accomplish, and Elros Peredhel would be sure to tease us both very badly, if we both put it aside, on his account."

She came last, the maiden-child with a worried mouth. Tall and fair and not quick to laughter, eager to learn, his stubborn-minded cupbearer and apprentice and scribe.

Then Elrond was happier still, for many years; he had half-forgotten the old images of foresight. It was a long time before his daughter Arwen took to the loom, sitting intent and silent by her mother's bedside, weaving love into a cloak fashioned for warmth; a traveling garment, spelled against the sting of salt.

#elrond #elrondweek #celebrian #elladan #elrohir #arwen #fic #lotr #silmarillion #tolkien fanfiction #lotr fanfiction #my fics #celrond

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lathalea · 5 months ago

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Congratulations on your followers! 🎉✨🧚🏼‍♀️ I am so happy to see you on my feed that I am not sure what I could even request… Would it be ok to request an Aragorn x reader ficlet with

26. Hurt/Comfort AU and

5. “You did this for me?” (Maybe Aragorn got protective of the reader and she takes care of his wounds… just a little suggestion)

I am really not sure if I did this right and I apologize in advance if I did something wrong or made you uncomfortable. Thank you for doing this 💜 I hope you have a wonderful day Take care <3

Thank you so much and thank you for your wonderful ask! I hope you will enjoy the story I wrote for you... and I hope you don’t mind I tweaked your prompt a tiiiiiny bit ;)

The Golden Hour

The sudden battle with the Ringwraiths at Amon Sûl took a toll on everyone. Frodo’s wound was serious — more serious than you have ever seen. It was a Morgul-blade, after all. The other Hobbits were shaken, but unscathed. What a relief. But then you noticed Aragorn clenching his left hand and giving out a slight hiss.

“You’re wounded!” Instantly, you recalled that he held that burning torch in this hand, attacking the wraiths with it mere moments ago.

“It’s nothing, my lady.” He shook his head and examined Frodo’s wound. “This is beyond my skill to heal. He needs elvish medicine.”

“Rivendell?” Your gaze met his. There was a frown on his handsome face when he nodded in agreement.

“We have no time to lose,” he said, looking at Frodo's pale face.

“I’ll take him there,” you stated. Your bay mare whinnied in agreement. It would not be your first race against death, and the Ranger knew it well.

After you placed Frodo safely before you, Aragorn gave your hand a squeeze.

“Ride with the grace of Valar.” He spoke with a glint in his eye.

The coarseness of his skin against yours made you tremble a little, and you looked away. You did not want him to read what hid in your eyes. He was the Strider, the legendary Ranger of the North, and you were… well, just you. A girl from nowhere — or everywhere. You met on the trail a couple of months ago and since then you travelled together. Both of you seemed to enjoy each other’s company. You exchanged tales by the fire, sang songs under the stars, or simply rode in silence, admiring the beauty of the landscape ahead of you.

Then four hobbits joined you in Bree and from their whispered remarks you understood that the Strider was guiding them somewhere. Wandering hobbits were quite unusual, just like their mission had to be, but you never asked any questions. You understood they had their secrets, and you respected it. In the meantime, you scouted the area, took night watches together with Aragorn, and made sure that Frodo, Sam, Merry, and Pippin were safe. Now, you were about to do it once again — for Frodo.

And so you rode like the wind, day and night, night and day, fleeing from the black shadows trying to catch up with you. But you and your mare were faster, leaving the dull thudding of their ghastly steeds’ hooves behind.

You crossed the fast-flowing waters of the river Bruinen with haste, and soon you found yourself in the Last Homely House, Lord Elrond’s domain. He was glad to see you in Imladris again and took care of the barely conscious Frodo right away. Elrond’s healing powers were legendary, so you were almost certain that he would succeed. And so he did.

A couple of days later Aragorn and the three hobbits arrived, exhausted and hungry. You could not help but notice how he held his left hand, fisted and close to his chest. There were deep shadows under his eyes.

“Let me see to your hand,” you said, closing the distance between you.

“The hobbits first,” he spoke quietly. You knew his face well by now; it was pale. Too pale for your liking.

That was when lady Arwen arrived, welcoming the new guests. As soon as you exchanged a glance with her, she swiftly moved towards Sam, Merry and Pippin.

“Welcome to Imladris, dear guests. May I offer you a place to rest and something to replenish your strength?” she spoke in her melodious voice, turning to the hobbits. Only then did Aragorn allow you to take him to his quarters.

You rolled up his left sleeve when he sat on his bed, and then you examined his arm. It looked like a large part of his hand and forearm was covered with burns, probably when one of the wraiths attempted his final attack, his robes on fire. You worked slowly, meticulously, and as gently as you could. At the end, you covered his skin with an elvish ointment given to you by lord Elrond and bandaged the worst-looking wounds. It would take some time, but you knew he would be fully healed.

When you were done with your work, he was already asleep. The only thing you could do was to cover him with a blanket and leave him to rest.

***

A few days later you decided to take a walk in lord Elrond’s gardens. Whenever you visited Rivendell, you liked to stroll through this magical place, but this time you were not alone. On the path ahead of you, you saw a familiar figure bathed in the warm light of the evening sun.

“My lady,” the Ranger bowed his head and you saw how differently he looked from the man you had come to know on the road. Gone was the tiredness from his face and the grime from his clothes. Now, he wore green elvish robes, and his freshly washed hair softly fell onto his shoulders. In the golden light of the setting sun he looked more like a ruler of an ancient realm than a travelling swordsman.

“I have been looking for you,” he added. “I would like to thank you for what you did: for saving Frodo’s life, and with him, perhaps even something greater. And for caring for me when I needed it the most.”

“I haven’t done anything unusual. This is what one does when their travelling companions are in need. How is your arm doing today?” You glanced at his freshly bandaged arm.

“It is better, thanks to you.” A small smile appeared on his face, reaching the grey pools of his eyes. There was something in his gaze that made you smile back at him.

“Tomorrow I will have to leave Rivendell and continue my journey,” Aragorn continued. “It is a perilous one, and I do not know when or if I will return. I would like you to have this as a token of my appreciation. Something to remember me by, perhaps.”

“A necklace? Is that a mountain crystal? You made this for me?” you blinked in disbelief, looking at the crystal glinting golden in the sun, and at the elegantly interwoven leather straps that held it.

“I began making it on the road. They call this kind of crystal the elvenstone. May I?”

“Of course.” You bit your lower lip as Aragorn placed the necklace around your neck. He stood so close to you, you felt the warmth of his fingers brushing against the sides of your neck, and there was that smell of herbs, leather, and pipeweed, one that you could recognize even with your eyes closed.

“So very beautiful…” you whispered, touching the glistening crystal with your fingers.

“Very…” added Aragorn, but his eyes were set on your face. You swallowed.

“I will wear it every day with pride.” You heard yourself say. “But it will not remind me of you because I will be by your side.”

“But… My lady, the journey ahead of me is full of danger, I cannot…” He began, taking your hand in his.

“We have survived quite a few dangerous situations together, haven’t we? I believe we will survive a few more,” you smiled at him, finding golden sparks of sun among the grey clouds of Aragorn’s eyes.

“I believe we will,” your Ranger agreed and you knew that at dawn, you would be riding out from Imladris together.

Thank you for reading! If you liked it, please consider leaving a comment or reblogging 💙

➳➳➳ Here's the HUGE Celebration Masterlist! 💎

📜 Searching for more stories to read? Check out my masterlist!📜

#lathalea's huge follower celebration #lotr #aragorn #fic request #aragorn x reader #lotr fanfic #tolkien fanfiction #the lord of the rings

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sammybunny711 · 1 month ago

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My feelings after finishing The Trials of Mairon

My black heart is filled with sunlight and stars. Honestly, it was so so good. I have zero complaints. It was a perfect story and now it will live in my mind for ages to come. How am I supposed to come back from this? How do I cope now that it's over? Sorry, I'm always a wee bit dramatic. Thank you @jackpotgirl for sharing your epic work with us. I hope you write more in this world someday.

#rings of power #sauron #galadriel #lord of the rings #saurondriel #haladriel #trials of mairon #tolkien #tolkien fanfiction

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imakemywings · 3 months ago

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You Can't XXXX in Here, This is the War Room!

Fandom: The Silmarillion

Pairing: Maedhros/Thingol

Summary: Blowjob diplomacy.

GOD okay I actually got something out for @silmsmutweek (Day 2: Crosscultural Relationships). Complete with outdated quote reference.

AO3 | Pillowfort | SWG (other links to come, when I feel like it)

It was said that the reason Elu Thingol so rarely ventured out from under tree was because his life was intertwined with that of the forest. Sometimes, it was hinted that this was the cost of his union with Melian the Maia; other times that it was a burden he had taken on for the prosperity of Doriath. Maedhros suspected the true reason was far more prosaic: Thingol simply preferred not to stray far from his wife and daughter.

Nevertheless, he had come to Himring.

With him came a whole retinue of Doriathrim, including Captain Mablung, who had never taken much of a liking to Maedhros, and, to Maedhros’ chagrin, his loremaster and favorite minstrel, Daeron, who had an irritating habit of writing insulting rhymes about anyone who might amuse him (usually those who desired it the least). Some two hundred Iathrim accompanied the king north, while Queen Melian and Princess Lúthien remained to rule over Doriath.

Nearly five years had passed since Maedhros had been in Doriath.

In the interim he had maintained a correspondence with the king, and he had believed that his memory was keen and kept the details of that visit in good order, but he was beginning to falter in that conviction.

They had met in Himring’s war room—so the residents of Himring castle had begun to call the hall where Maedhros convened with his captains and generals—to discuss the war. Always, the war. All his months in Menegroth had not been enough to bridge Maedhros and Thingol’s differing views on how it ought to be approached, yet if Thingol did not bend to Maedhros’ will, he did continue to listen to Maedhros’ arguments, and Maedhros would have to find reward in that.

Though it was not the war foremost on Maedhros’ mind, even as he gave Thingol and his companions more detailed updates than he was able to provide by letter.

With distance, and time, it had been easier to tell himself that his experience in Doriath was an anomaly. That he had gone a little dizzy and gotten off course, but that it was no more than that. The frequency with which Elu Thingol had appeared in Maedhros’ thoughts since was easier to dismiss when he was so many leagues off, out of Maedhros’ reach and therefore, as good as a fantasy. Now he was in the room with Maedhros once more, and memory did not serve for the full glory of the Greymantle, the Elf who had ensnared a Maia.

Maedhros did not ask Thingol to stay behind as the others filtered out of the room, but he did. He murmured something to Mablung and his men left him, and when the door closed on Mablung’s heel, Maedhros was far too aware that it was the first they had been alone since they had said goodbye in Menegroth—not the formal send-off he had been given, but before that, in Maedhros’ private chambers.

Thingol leaned against the back of one of the chairs around the table strewn with maps and movable figures representing various forces and studied Maedhros with eyes of piercing gray, aglow with the blessings of Telperion and Laurelin, whose light would grace Elfinesse no more. His crown was woven that day of thick vines of ivy, with a peppering of small white flowers Maedhros did not bother to identify. Thingol was resplendent in jewels, and he enjoyed wearing them, but if Maedhros had to say, he preferred the king like this, adorned in the flora of his realm. Maedhros had thought many times in the days preceding Thingol’s arrival what he might say, but each now sounded trite, pathetic, or melodramatic in turn. Thingol did not rescue him either; as the silence stretched on, Maedhros’ brain skidding off track as he tried to land on a proper greeting, the corners of his mouth began to life in an amused smirk.

At length, just before Maedhros could say something about the issue of joint troop exercises—something only tenderly approached from either side—Thingol disarmed his efforts with: “I have dreamed of you since you left.”

Maedhros’ mouth was lined in wool.

“Good dreams, I trust.” His voice sounded to him as if it were someone else speaking, because while his mouth moved, his mind was busy screaming its reciprocity of the claim. Now, with Thingol before him, with his low, smooth voice in Maedhros’ ears, with his form just a few paces out of reach, Maedhros’ memories of those dizzy days in Menegroth seemed to explode in vividity, from his first suspicious approaches to his final tight goodbyes.

“Good and bad,” Thingol replied simply. His long fingers stretched along the back of the chair, and the memory of those spidery hands combing through Maedhros’ hair made his knees wobble.

“Bad?” he queried, quirking an eyebrow.

Thingol stroked the back of the chair and simply gave Maedhros a look as if he expected Maedhros to know to what he referred. And didn’t he? They both knew how familiar Maedhros was with the realm of nightmares. Briefly, this opened up a shocking line of consideration: that Thingol had dreamed of Maedhros suffering, and counted this as a nightmare. It was something more exposed than Maedhros had expected to hear from him so soon into this visit, and he put it aside for the time being.

Instead, he crossed over to where Thingol stood.

“I am bored with dreams,” he said, and gripped the front of Thingol’s robes. It was a lie to say he had forgotten that he needed to tilt his chin up to meet Thingol’s gaze when they stood this close, for it had agitated him too much to forget it, but he had perhaps lost the full sense of the feeling.

Thingol was not bothered with Maedhros’ audacity. Rather, he looked only more entertained. He stroked a hand down Maedhros’ cheek, tracing his fingertips along the edge of Maedhros’ jaw.

“Perhaps this is a dream,” he suggested, yet for the amused slant of his mouth, there was something softer in his gaze which Maedhros could not look away from any more than he could acknowledge it.

“No,” he answered at once. “It is not.”

“You sound so certain.”

“I would know if it were.” The dreams in which Maedhros had occasionally taken comfort over the years could not hold a candle to the intoxicating reality, and if he thought this line of thought too obscure for Thingol to follow, he was wrong.

The king’s smile widened.

“Do you find the truth more pleasing?” he asked.

Maedhros thought only I do, and said nothing, and then leaned up to secure his mouth over Thingol’s. If he had been unsure at the start whether Thingol would wish to continue their trysts of before, the king’s fluttering lashes and teasing touches of the last few minutes had reassured him. And indeed, Thingol gripped his hips at once, pulling Maedhros against him with strength that still surprised him for all he had felt it before, and Maedhros gasped into his mouth, unable to stop himself from attempting at once to press against Thingol’s thigh. Every dream he’d had about Thingol since their last meeting seemed to rush back over him at once, and his body was one giant ache.

The king’s mouth parted; his tongue pressed against Maedhros lips, past the seam; his hands slid back to grasp at Maedhros’ ass, and Maedhros swallowed a whimper. In Himring, Maedhros was the final authority. Among all his brothers’ lands, he was the final authority, no matter how many crowns they stacked on Fingolfin’s head. Among their mortal allies, his word was all but absolute. But with Thingol, it was not so. With Thingol, he could—and often was—overruled. And he was not asked to be an authority in anything.

Maedhros wanted to swallow him, to rend his flesh and nourish himself with it, keep it for himself as a part of his own body, and yet he was assured that Thingol would not permit such a thing to pass, and so Maedhros need not temper his fire, for Thingol would ensure it did not do harm. If Maedhros was the fire, Thingol was the hearth which ensured no damage would come to the home.

Thingol’s hands moved up to cup Maedhros’ face, and a shudder went through him at the delicate touch; when he drew back for air, panting, flushed, he was looking directly into Thingol’s eyes, so near he could count his individual eyelashes and see the spokes of his irises. His flesh hand was still fisted in the front of Thingol’s robes.

For a moment it was quiet but for their heavy breathing, as they studied one another, both on the verge of speaking, or choosing not to speak. Thingol’s thumb stroked Maedhros’ cheek. Maedhros could feel himself swelling almost more in response to these more innocuous touches of Thingol’s than of the groping of his ass.

Eventually, rather than speak, Thingol kissed him again, and Maedhros surged up against him; this was easier than words, easier the confessions, easier even than writing Thingol letters in which he constantly debated how businesslike it ought to be and what, if anything, should be said of his own feelings. He tried to draw Thingol away from the table, but Thingol jerked him back, digging his fingers into Maedhros’ belt and holding him firmly in place, a bit of physical control that made Maedhros’ cock throb with all the urgency of his body telling him the time was nigh to create an heir to the family name.

Then the king’s hands went to his hair, and Maedhros did not know or care if this lord of Sindar knew anything about Noldorin cultural customs regarding hair, he only knew that he had wanted this almost more than he wished to keep breathing. His hand scrabbled at Thingol’s chest, the prosthetic against Thingol’s ribs, probably pressing too hard, and he had managed to insinuate one of his legs nearly between Thingol’s knees.

Maedhros was biting at Thingol’s lower lip, pulling with his teeth, which the king allowed to a point, and then gripped Maedhros’ hair tight at the back of his head and pulled him away. Maedhros was short of breath again, and his skin felt as though he was a storm cloud, a repository of lightning.

Thingol observed him for a moment, with a self-control that made Maedhros shaky on his feet, then leaned down and pressed his hot mouth against the crook of Maedhros’ neck, which made Maedhros shiver and nearly go limp in his grasp until he felt the sharp nip of the king’s teeth, which had him alert again at once. Thingol bit him to the point of pain and then softened it by lapping at the spot with his soft tongue, and Maedhros was glad that Thingol could not see the wanton expression he was giving to the windows, though he could doubtless feel how Maedhros’ flesh hand had shifted to claw at his back, fingers bunching up the fabric.

Maedhros tried to press closer, and choked on an effort to swallow when he was finally able to feel the king’s arousal against him. He did not think; his flesh hand was fumbling for Thingol’s crotch immediately, eager to press his fingers against that bloom of desire, kneading his hand against this evidence that Thingol had wished for this as well.

Thingol gave a low, almost sighing sound of approval and curled more over Maedhros’ form for a moment, before he retreated to look at Maedhros’ face (which he schooled into something hopefully less obscene).

“What do you wish for, Maedhros?” he asked. Maedhros hated this game almost as much as Thingol enjoyed it. Their first time together in so many years, Maedhros would have hoped that Thingol would simply give him what he wanted—as he so often seemed to know without Maedhros having to voice it—but of course he had missed making Maedhros say it out loud.

Stubbornly, Maedhros remained silent.

When Thingol did not give way either, Maedhros simply began to sink to his knees, determined to have what he wanted, but Thingol slipped away from him, and Maedhros felt a chill even in Himring’s well-heated core suddenly bereft of the king’s closeness. Thingol ambled down the length of the table to where Maedhros’ own chair sat at the head; he gripped it by the back and dragged it well away from the table and flicked it with a careless hand so that it faced Maedhros. With a swirl of his robes, he took a seat, his knees spread so far apart that Maedhros could clearly see the bulge of his cock pushing at the fabric.

“Then have it,” he said and Maedhros released a silent prayer of gratitude. For what, he wasn’t entirely sure, except that at least a part of it was that he did not have to say aloud what he had been thinking.

Out before him stretched the king’s long, shapely legs (which was the only reason Maedhros had yet determined for why Melian sometimes called him “grasshopper,” usually attached to a great many cloying adjectives) and he seemed entirely as comfortable as if he sat upon his own throne back in Menegroth.

He came to Thingol at once, determining that he would have more time to admire Thingol’s legs later, and hit the ground between Thingol’s feet so hard he was sure his knees would be bruised by the evening.

His flesh hand trembled as he parted Thingol’s robes, and he licked his lips reflexively when he revealed the king’s shorts and the proud tent there. He jerked at the waistband, impatient, pulling Thingol’s cock out as quickly as he could and lowering his head to kiss at the hot length. Thingol groaned and one hand was in Maedhros’ hair again, stroking and tugging gently.

“Such an industrious one you are,” he breathed. Maedhros ignored him, and took the tip of the king’s cock into his mouth. Thingol’s hand pulled a bit more firmly against his hair, but he pressed against the feeling, taking more of Thingol in, until he let out another groan, his hips canting towards Maedhros’ mouth. “Good boy,” he panted, scratching affectionately at the back of Maedhros’ scalp.

It was just as he remembered: there was so much of Thingol, but Maedhros was set on his purpose. Perhaps more than he ought to have been: his prize struck the back of his throat, making him gag, but he tried to swallow it anyway. Thingol briefly tried to withdraw, but Maedhros ducked his head to follow, drool dribbling over his chin as he made a truly valiant effort to take all of Thingol’s considerable presence.

Thingol quickly forgot his concern for Maedhros’ single-mindedness, his head tipping back against the back of the chair, soft noises of pleasure whispering past his lips as Maedhros sucked ardently at him. He used his hand to vigorously stroke what of Thingol he couldn’t get in his mouth and if he had a moment of thinking about the sight that would greet anyone who entered, of the lord of Himring, the heir of Fëanor, of Finwë, on his knees worshipping the cock of Elu Thingol, seated in Maedhros’ own seat of rule, his throne as it were, then it served only to thrill him more (mainly because he did not have the presence of mind to consider it realistically).

Thingol pulled at his hair again and Maedhros groaned around his full mouth, bobbing his head more enthusiastically, relishing the tension that went to the roots of his hair and made goosebumps break out against his skin. Very quickly it seemed everything he touched was a mess of his own saliva, but he didn’t have time to worry about that.

He could have done this with someone else in the years since he’d left Menegroth. He hadn’t.

His prosthetic hand was braced against the leg of the chair as Thingol’s hips began to shift rhythmically towards him, gently at first, then with more insistence. When he made Maedhros gag again, he pulled Maedhros’ head back forcefully, but when he gazed down on Maedhros’ face, his cheeks pink, his lips wet and red, his chin shining with spit, he found himself enraptured.

“I want it,” Maedhros said hoarsely, leaning down to kiss Thingol’s slick cock. “I can take it. I don’t break.”

Thingol considered this for entirely too long, then loosened his grip on Maedhros’ hair and let him at his goal again. Maedhros swiped his tongue over Thingol’s balls before dragging his tongue along the length of him and starting to take him in again. One arm he hooked behind Thingol’s knee, his flesh hand resting on Thingol’s thigh.

“Be careful of yourself,” Thingol murmured. “I will be very disappointed otherwise.” It was true that Maedhros often pushed himself beyond reasonable limits in all things. It was also true that Thingol would trust him, until proven unreliable, to voice his own boundaries.

Soon he had Thingol stifling moans again, rocking his hips towards Maedhros’ mouth with poorly-disguised need, guiding Maedhros’ head with his hand to get the angles he wanted. Every response, every hint of the suggestion that Thingol wanted this, went through Maedhros like swallowing a brand of fire. He was only dimly aware of his own arousal straining frantically against his clothes, and he was content to ignore it to focus on the increasingly aggressive rhythm of Thingol’s hips.

“That’s it,” the king breathed, massaging the back of Maedhros’ head with his hand. “Good boy, yes, that’s it.” Maedhros head him swallow down a louder moan and if his mouth had been less full, he would have smirked. “I’m going to finish soon,” Thingol warned him with the carefully moderated tone that meant he was on the verge of losing control, a narrow space which Maedhros would have inhabited indefinitely if he could have. “I want you to swallow.”

As ever, the tension between being aroused to be ordered by Thingol and the balking of his pride seized Maedhros, but in the end, he ran out of time to decide if he wanted to spit on the floor just to be disobedient: Thingol came while he was still thinking about it.

It was what he wanted anyway—to suckle at Thingol’s cock as the king thrust his seed down Maedhros’ throat, spasming his pleasure against Maedhros’ face. The taste was never something he’d enjoyed, but the feeling—that he had craved since Thingol had first dismounted his horse in Himring’s courtyard.

After, Thingol sank boneless back into the chair, his eyes fluttering shut.

“I will assume, then, that you are pleased to see me,” he remarked, eyes still closed.

Maedhros sat back on his heels, trying to wipe his face clean with the back of his flesh hand.

“I am not displeased,” he said primly, with a thick pearl of Thingol’s ejaculate still at the corner of his mouth, and Thingol opened his eyes to laugh.

“Not displeased,” he echoed. “Why Maedhros, I do believe this is as ardent as I’ve heard you. Should I expect a proposal forthwith?”

Maedhros snorted and rose to his feet, slightly unsteady as his knees protested their unceremonious treatment. He felt, somehow, calmer, although his own body was increasingly trying to make its needs known.

Relaxed in Maedhros’ chair, Thingol made himself presentable again, smoothing his robes down as if Maedhros had not just moments ago had his head buried in them. The king rose in a fluid motion, his silver braids glinting in the light.

“Perhaps my host will now allow me to return a favor,” Thingol said, gliding up to him, one hand reaching to cup Maedhros through his clothes before he could get too far away. Maedhros’ eyelashes fluttered, but he said:

“You needn’t, my guest.” This he used to poke at the way Thingol had addressed him in Menegroth, and it pleased him to see Thingol smile, understanding the jest.

“No, I needn’t,” he agreed, stroking Maedhros almost fondly. “Yet I wish to do so. Will you deny your guest his desire?”

“Surely you would find a way to make it a problem for me,” Maedhros groused without bite.

“It seems to be a problem for you presently,” Thingol pointed out, at which point Maedhros became aware that he was leaning towards Thingol to press nearer to his hand. Thingol kissed him, and Maedhros surrendered. He let Thingol back him up against the war table, and then turn him around, so that his back was against Thingol’s chest. He allowed Thingol’s hands to root through his clothes while he nibbled against at Maedhros’ neck and ears, until he reached what he sought, and took his time drawing Maedhros’ cock out.

“Mm…”

“You were right, about the dream,” Thingol murmured, and Maedhros shivered against him. “None of those dreams ever pleased me as much as this.” Thingol’s hand stroked him, while the other fondled his balls, and Maedhros groaned, not bothering to stop the movement of his hips against Thingol’s hand.

He was aware too late of what Thingol meant to do, and past caring by then—Thingol stroked him until Maedhros teetered on the edge, biting his lip past the point of pain to keep quiet, where Thingol held him exquisitely, as he was wont to do.

“Are you ready?” The king’s voice was soft when he spoke, and if Maedhros had asked Thingol to let him back down, he would have, and not complained or needled him about it. If Maedhros had asked to be held in restraint longer, Thingol would have done it gladly. But Maedhros only gave a jerky nod, so Thingol stroked him with purpose to his finish, until Maedhros could not stop himself from spilling across his table (not, however, on any of the maps, which he later surmised Thingol had minded).

“You’ve made a mess,” he gasped.

“You’ve made a mess,” Thingol corrected, sniggering as if he were not a king of Elves, one of the oldest corporeal beings of Arda, the sworn husband of a divine Maia.

Maedhros made a wordless noise of complaint, but Thingol nuzzled against his neck and tucked his cock away, although Maedhros was relatively sure he wiped his hands on Maedhros’ tunic and robes as he rearranged them.

“I am quite pleased this could be a productive meeting,” said Thingol briskly as he drew back, tucking a loose lock of hair behind his ear. Maedhros wished abruptly he hadn’t, so that Maedhros could do it for him, and considered what miserable chore he would assign himself to scrub that thought away. “I had so hoped it would be.” He flicked his eyes to the table, Maedhros still catching his breath. “I’m sure you will want to have someone clean that, though.”

Maedhros ground his teeth: Thingol knew he wouldn’t. Maedhros would not call anyone else to clean it for fear they would know exactly what it was; Maedhros would clean it himself, which Thingol had surely known when he made Maedhros do it.

There was a self-satisfied gleam in Thingol’s eye, an impudent smile on the edge of his lips, and Maedhros wanted to kiss it.

“It is my duty to clean up for my guest,” he replied. Thingol laughed.

“Once my host is done cleaning, perhaps he will pay me a visit. I must rest and change from the journey—” Not true, and they both knew it, he wasn’t the least bit tired, “—and I would welcome his company. Sheets of parchment and dreams are a poor replacement for reality.”

Maedhros arranged his expression and nodded, looking at the floor by the door as his heart leaped in his chest.

“I will of course, be a gracious host,” he answered carefully. “His Grace can count on my visit.”

“Wonderful.”

And it was.

#rocky writes #thingol #maedhros #thingdhros #maedhros x thingol #the silmarillion #tolkien tag #fanfiction #tolkien fanfiction #silmsmutweek #silmsmutweek2024

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from-the-coffee-shop-in-edoras · 1 year ago

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Three Weeks on the Nimrodel

Well, here it is. My first (and oldest) piece of fic. I'm going against my brand here by posting something set in Lorien when Rohan is really my jam. But this is the first thing I ever wrote, so it seems fitting that it should be the first posted, too.

Pairing: Haldir x reader (The reader is gender neutral beyond 2 uses of the descriptor "beautiful", which is still neutral to me but your mileage might vary.)

Genre: Romance, I guess

Summary: Two elves who are frequently misunderstood by others find the joy of having someone really see and value them for who they are.

Inspiration: This all came from the well loved gif above, in which Craig Parker does beautiful work communicating a whole emotional arc (surprise, confusion, acceptance, appreciation) when Aragorn unexpectedly shows Haldir some loving affection. In that half-second of screen time, I see an entire book of backstory about Haldir's character--about being someone who is very reserved by nature, who isn't necessarily comfortable freely expressing feelings and innermost thoughts, but who still feels deep emotional connections to others that can come out under the right circumstances. As a very reserved person myself, I can relate--if you tend to keep your thoughts and feelings close to the vest, people will make a lot of assumptions and judgments about you that probably aren't right, and that can be exhausting. When someone finally does understand you and allows you to be comfortable enough to open up on your own terms, it's a life changing experience. So that's what I tried to write.

Word count: approx 3200 (~ 6 pages)

**********

It is still early when you arrive in the center of Caras Galadhon, joining the crowd of elves waiting to find out where they will be posted for the next few weeks of guard duty. Most in the group are veteran marchwardens, deeply familiar with each other and the daily routine of life near the borders. By contrast, you are a city warden, often dedicated to the direct protection of the Lady of the Wood. But you have been asked to serve a temporary rotation on the borders while several of the regular marchwardens are away with Lord Celeborn on a visit to Mirkwood.

The change of pace is not unwelcome to you. While you love Caras Galadhon and are honored to spend time in the service of Lady Galadriel, you frequently find yourself craving distance from the city in favor of the quiet outlying areas, where it is easy to hear clear birdsong, the rustling steps of small animals scampering by, and the patter of light raindrops falling on mallorn leaves.

The crowd begins to murmur as the deputy captain appears and begins handing around sheets of paper with duty assignments. As the pages spread through the crowd, the murmurs turn to both sighs of disappointment and quiet expressions of satisfaction.

“All I want is to avoid the Nimrodel,” you overhear the elf next to you mutter to a friend of his. You recognize him as Calendil, who, like many of his companions, is well known for carousing around Caras Galadhon any time he is home on leave. As a group, the marchwardens are a boisterous company who seem always determined to pack several weeks of fun into the few days of free time they’ve been given. “Three weeks posted with the captain is more than can be asked of me.”

Your eyebrows shoot up in surprise at this mention of Captain Haldir. You know him a little–everyone in Lorien knows the leader of the marchwardens–and have never before heard a negative word uttered about him. Your path does not often cross with his, but you admire his impressive record of achievements and have never seen him treat another elf with anything but courteous respect.

“You speak truly,” replies Calendil’s companion. “I cannot spend so much time with someone who has so little to say. That much silence is enough to drive one a little mad.”

A wave of indignation rolls through your body. It is undeniably true that Haldir is very reserved. He says little that isn’t necessary to the conduct of his duties, and what he is truly thinking behind his large blue eyes is often a mystery. But that has never seemed a negative trait to you. Indeed, you appreciate that he does not talk simply for talk’s sake and that he does not seem concerned with always making his own opinions known. What’s more, you recognize a fair amount of his inherent reserve in your own nature. If you didn’t often force yourself to satisfy others’ expectations by taking on a more outgoing, sociable persona, perhaps your own wardens would describe you just as these elves have described their captain.

Calendil’s conversation comes to an abrupt end as a copy of the assignment sheet makes its way into his hands. Peering over his shoulder, you quickly find your own name allocated to a remote post near the edge of the Dimrill Dale. A glance further down the list confirms what you already know from the quiet groan that has just escaped from Calendil’s lips: he has been assigned to the Nimrodel post.

An idea quickly forms in your head, and you tap him on the shoulder. Why should he spend three weeks feeling miserable with his posting–and, no doubt, making anyone around him miserable as a result–when you have no particular attachment to your own assignment? Calendil can go to the Dimrill Dale, and you will spend your posting with Haldir instead.

“If such a trade is permitted within your ranks, I will gladly make the exchange,” you offer. “I have always loved the river. And I have no objection to the company of someone who takes his duty seriously and does not revel in idle chatter.”

Calendil’s face registers a moment of regret as he realizes that his prior conversation has been heard by others, but it is quickly replaced by a wide, beaming smile that reflects his rapid change of fortune. “It is permitted,” he says, “and I happily accept. Remind me the next time we are both on leave, and I will reward your generosity with some of my own!”

You doubt that whatever reward he has in mind will suit your inclinations, but there is no need to worry about that now. Calendil has already sprinted off toward the deputy captain to report the change, and you turn toward home to gather your supplies.

****

Two days later, you are approaching the Nimrodel post, which is located in a lovely old mallorn tree with twisted roots that hang over the river’s edge. You raise your hand to your lips and whistle the signal. The return call echoes off the trees before a slim rope ladder drops from the branches above you. You run lightly up the rungs, making easy work of the climb to the talan perched near the great tree’s crown, where it commands a wide view of the river and much of the western section of the border.

As you hoist yourself and your pack onto the platform, you look up to see a single figure standing a few feet away. It is Haldir, leaning against the wind screen with his bow slung loosely over his shoulder and his white-blonde hair blowing gently in the breeze.You are surprised to see him there alone; wardens generally keep watch in pairs or groups of three for safety. You are there to relieve Arthalion, who is due now to return home for a break, but there is no sign of Arthalion or his things.

“Mae govannen, Captain,” you say, placing your hand on your chest and bowing your head slightly. “Is everything well?”

Haldir returns the gesture with a small smile. “Yes. It has been blessedly uneventful. Perhaps it is the threat of the weather.”

This makes sense. Just last month, an orc party attempting a surprise attack during a thunderstorm found themselves nearly washed away by sudden flooding from the Celebrant. Since then, even the hint of rain has tended to keep them at bay.

“And Arthalion? Is he out on a task?”

Haldir shakes his head. “I sent him back early. You might have passed one another in the forest except that he planned to meet a small hunting party further north. As I said, things here were quiet, and he was anxious to join his friends.” He gives a small shrug and looks down. “I will do the same for you, if circumstances allow and you desire it. I do not wish to keep anyone from their enjoyments unless duty requires it.”

You permit yourself a brief moment to wonder what Haldir’s own enjoyments might be. You have heard that he is a talented artist, making detailed pencil sketches of the forest, but he does not often show his work to others.

“That is a thoughtful offer,” you say. “But I have no pressing need to return, and I would not have you out here alone, even if there is no other elf in Lorien better able to protect himself.”

He acknowledges this compliment with a modest smile and gestures toward a small shelf where you can store your belongings. His own are few in number but neatly stacked or folded with military precision. You note that he does, in fact, have a small bundle of pencils and a notebook, but, as expected, there is no sign of any actual drawings.

After stowing your things, you settle into a position opposite him on the talan, and a silence ensues. It is of no bother to you–you’re enjoying the smell of the damp air and the touch of the light wind on your face–but you soon notice that Haldir is looking increasingly discomfited as the quiet minutes slip by. His gaze shifts frequently between the horizon, his hands on his bow, and your face.

“Was…your journey here pleasant?” His face is studiously neutral, but his voice sounds strained and he picks at a splinter on his bow. You realize that he is trying to make conversation for your benefit, to fill in the noticeable silence with casual talk that clearly does not come easily to him. You feel a sudden rush of affection for him, this intensely quiet being who is making himself uncomfortable so that you will feel welcome. You wonder how best to put him at ease.

“It was very pleasant,” you reply. “I am so rarely outside of the city these days that any chance to enjoy the forest is a gift. I can understand why being a marchwarden is an attractive job, at least during times of relative peace.”

He looks up, reappraising your face, and nods his agreement.

You hesitate before speaking again, unsure about how directly to address his uneasiness.

“Captain,” you begin, “it sounds like we may have an uneventful tour here. If that is the case, please do not feel that you are obligated to occupy my time. I am quite comfortable with quiet activity and my own thoughts and would gladly afford you space for the same if that is something you wish.”

His cheeks and ears flush slightly but, despite his apparent embarrassment at being accurately perceived, he seems immediately relieved as well. “Thank you,” he says. “If you are as good a warden as you are a reader of people, I feel myself in safe hands indeed.”

The next several days pass by peacefully. Between occasional scouting trips up or down the riverbank and regularly monitoring the view from the talan, you mostly spend the time together in companionable silence. You take turns preparing simple meals, and during breaks in the intermittent rain you make minor repairs to nearby rope bridges and other hidden defenses in the area. In the evenings, you read a book by lantern light while Haldir sits next to his own lantern and sketches in his notebook, occasionally transferring completed drawings into a closed leather folio at his side. Every so often, you both glance up at the same time, and you give him a warm smile when your eyes meet before turning back to your respective pages.

*****

One evening, as you clean up the remains of your small dinner and take out your book again, Haldir lightly clears his throat.

“That book seems to engage you much,” he says. “May I ask what it is?”

Surprised, you hold it out to him, and he takes it, examining the cover and flipping through a few pages.

“I do not recognize this script,” he says, looking at it with curiosity.

“It is a representation of Rohirric,” you tell him. “My brother was a skilled linguist who passed on some small portion of his knowledge to me. He spent many months visiting a friend in the court at Edoras and helped them to start preserving some of their oral traditions with a system of letters. This is a copy of one of his first completed projects–the story of the founding of Rohan–which he sent to me as a gift.”

Haldir looks again with renewed interest at a few pages before handing the book back to you. “Your brother sounds like an impressive scholar,” he says. “Does he remain in Rohan?”

You hesitate slightly before responding. “In a way. Two years ago an orc band in search of horses raided a village near the Limlight while my brother happened to be visiting. They caught him and his hosts unaware. The Rohirrim buried his body in a place of honor with their people, though his spirit has surely gone to Mandos.”

You relate this with downcast eyes, tracing over your brother’s name on the cover of the book with your thumb. After a few moments, you look up again, expecting to see Haldir withdrawn from the conversation. You know that many elves are uncomfortable with death, which is an unnatural state for your kind, and there is nothing in your interactions so far to indicate that Haldir will want to continue such a personal discussion. You are surprised once again, however, to find that he is looking at you intently.

“I am deeply sorry,” he says. “Working as I do, I have known many elves who met a similar fate in battle, and it is never easy. My own brothers are a treasure to me, and I cannot imagine losing them. I hope I have not contributed to your suffering by unwittingly bringing up a painful subject.”

You blink back a few tears and smile. Through your sadness, you are moved by the warmth of his response and honored that he was willing to share something personal of himself. “Of course not,” you say. “Talking about my brother is one way to keep him with me. Thank you, Captain.” You reach forward and squeeze his hand. He flinches slightly at the unexpected touch, but then gently returns the squeeze.

“Please,” he says, “call me Haldir.”

*****

After that night, things are different between the two of you. You both speak more often, tentatively at first but then with increasing comfort. You trade stories about old adventures and talk about the joys and frustrations of your daily lives. You discover that he has much to say when he finally feels more at ease. He is even quite funny, with a dry wit that you did not expect but thoroughly enjoy. You walk together in the forest and rest your feet in the waters of the Nimrodel during the day, and in the evenings he asks you to read to him from your book. You happily relate tales of Cirion and Eorl and the coming of the Northmen to Calenardhon as he draws quietly, occasionally interjecting a question or a brief comment.

The time passes quickly and easily, and soon your rotation will be at an end. You realize there is a growing pain in your heart each time you think about your imminent departure. Your old life suddenly feels dull and uninteresting to you now. You do not want to go back to a time without his companionship. You debate whether to say this to him, but you cannot imagine how he might react to such a confession. Paralyzed by uncertainty, the last days of your assignment tick by.

On your final evening, you are preparing for one last opportunity to enjoy what has become your nightly routine. Just as he is about to settle with his notepad and folio, however, he notices your canteen is empty and insists on climbing down to fill it for you. As he reaches the ground and disappears over the riverbank, the wind changes direction and a sudden gust rips across the talan, flinging back the cover of the folio and sending papers flying out in all directions. You cry out in dismay and throw yourself desperately onto the pages whipping around you, seeking to hold them down long enough to gather them safely together.

It is only after you have retrieved all the loose pages and are preparing to neatly stack them that you first look at the drawings themselves and are stunned by what you see: beautiful illustrations of the stories you’ve been reading to him, the words of your brother’s book brought to vivid life in graceful pencil lines and delicate shading. You leaf through the stack in awed amazement only to nearly drop the whole pile again when you turn a page and find an image of yourself as you must look to him each night, sitting by your lantern with your book in your lap. You keep turning pages and find more of yourself…braiding your hair first thing in the morning, standing at the wind screen and scanning the horizon, unlacing your boots at the end of a day. Your breath catches in your throat as you absorb these images. You have never looked more beautiful than you do here, seen through his eyes.

A sudden noise behind you tears your attention from the papers in your hand, and you turn to find Haldir standing there. You are immediately overwhelmed by panic and begin to stammer out an explanation for how you came to be holding his personal things, violating his privacy. “I…the wind…they were blowing away and…”. Hot tears well up in your eyes and are soon spilling down your cheeks, partly from embarrassment at the situation but mostly as the feelings you’ve been keeping pent up threaten to come flooding out all at once. “I was not trying to…I…”. An involuntary sob robs you of the ability to finish your sentence, though you aren’t sure how you would have finished it had you been able.

At the sound of your sob, he moves forward, quickly closing the distance between you. He hesitantly cups a hand under your jaw and uses his thumb to brush a tear from your cheek. “Please do not cry,” he says. “I would not ever see you in pain if it were in my power to prevent it. I am not upset. These drawings were for you, for your book. You were meant to have them, except the last few, which I hoped to keep as a reminder of these days and how happy I have been.” Your eyes snap up to his face, searching for confirmation that you have correctly understood his words.

“You know that I am not much for talking,” he continues. “But I am a very good observer. I know that you see me for who I am, just as I see you. I see all of the ways that you are kind and interesting and intelligent and beautiful. I have no expectation that you return my feelings, and if all I ever have with you are these three weeks then I will cherish the memory of these weeks through all the long ages of my life. But I would….”

Before he can complete his thought, your body reacts on its own impulse, a pure release of elation. You throw your arms around his neck and bury your face in his broad chest, still crying but now with tears of joy. You hear a sharp intake of breath as he processes your reaction, and for a fraction of a moment he stands motionless and silent before breaking into a smile and wrapping you in his arms. You could live in those arms forever, and now perhaps you will.

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