I would have had this done yesterday, but my computer froze last night and I was tired.
Anyway, canon-compliant AU. When one starts to fall apart at the seams of sanity. Related most closely to the Cleansed arc, "Scowl" and the Winter arc. Basically this is picking up on ideas presented there. I don't know what else to say except first time writing this POV. Takes place in Imladris during the mid-Third Age.
Disclaimer: I don't own any of Tolkien's works
Pairings: Elrond x Celebrían
Characters: Celebrían, Elrond (mentions Elladan, Elrohir and Arwen)
Warning: canon-compliant AU, family angsting, past non-con and torture heavily implied, possibly character insanity/mental illness
Song: Lost in Hopelessness
Words: 991
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fade (verb): to lose freshness, strength, or vitality: wither; to lose freshness or brilliance of color; to sink away: vanish; to change gradually in loudness, strength, or visibility
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/fade
Thin, skeletal white hands lying upon damask and handmade lace. They shake too hard to pick up the needlework spread beneath their tips, abandoned. To occupy the mind with thoughtless, effortless endeavors ingrained deep into muscle.
In fact, they almost seem as though one could see right through their pale membrane, picking apart the skin to reveal the dying muscle and blue, throbbing veins beneath. They morph and warp until their joints bend strangely and their lengths twitch as the legs of a crawling spider. Monstrous and stomach-churning and withering.
They look sick.
As sick as she feels.
Sitting still all day and all night staring at them. These strange things that should have been so familiar but seemed more disgusting and grotesque and wrong the longer she stared with blank eyes, trying not to think. Sometimes she rather wished that she could look away, stop being fascinated and repulsed by their sight.
Stop feeling so cold that her legs would not move. Stop feeling so empty that her eyes could not summon the tears to cry. Stop feeling so tired that her body sagged and yet so alert with lingering, leeching terror that she dared not sleep.
She wished to stop feeling this despair.
But she could not.
It took so much energy. Looking at her husband's face, she knew he wanted to see her smile like she used to, bright and happy to see him, a loving and caring wife and mother. But she could not feel those things, become again that illusion. Could not feel the sunlight of the gardens upon her face, its heat somehow warped into chill that burned through her muscle and bone. Could not take joy in the beauty around her--in the depths of his gray eyes she so adored and his handsome smile she once coveted--because everything fell apart...
Fell apart into shadows. Into twisted forms that no longer resembled anything beautiful.
Because the hugs of her sons reminded her only of powerful arms holding her down as pain wracked her body and violation ripped open her spirit. Because the touch of her husbands hand, knowing that he loved her and desired her as a man loved and desired a wife, left her stomach twisting in fear and repulsion. Because her daughter could not understand or comprehend the suffering of one ravaged and ran away in tears and fury and confusion, abandoning to darkness the mother alone in her sitting room chair.
Alone. Alone, alone, alone...
With that chilled feeling seeping down her spine. All warmth drained away, droplet by droplet by droplet, day after day after day.
Until she felt thin. Like a ghost. Until her spirit burned out into ash. Until her heart froze over to keep out the aching pain gnawing and gnawing...
"I love you," he would say.
And she could no longer say it back.
"I need you," he would add.
And she could barely stand his touch.
"Your children miss you."
She was ashamed to even meet their eyes.
"Please, do not leave us."
But, in the end, she wanted to go. Needed to go.
She was sick. So sick.
So badly, she wanted to be able to feel heat upon her skin again. Appreciate the brush of lips across her knuckles and the corners of her lips. Revel in the squeeze of arms about her small form, crushing in affection and adoration.
So badly, she wanted to be able to love them again.
But Celebrían was fading away. Day after day after day, little pieces of the woman she had once been--the woman her children still clung to hopelessly, the woman her husband loved and yearned for--were crumbling and falling away until she became something less. Something transparent and empty and bitter.
A woman who could not kiss or touch her husband, because his eyes would morph into cruel red orbs and his tender smile into a sadistic grin and his gentle hands into tormenting claws pinning her down. A woman who could not hold her sons or daughter in their time of need, who could not reassure them and draw away the poison of their worries because their fears were all too real and all too true.
A woman who would not even shed tears, because she knew that if she dared let down this frozen veil everything would fall apart completely. She would melt away into oblivion, a mere remnant of a memory of a dream-woman, ruined by the blazing heat of a cruelly forged world.
And she wanted...
...she wanted to be healed...
...and stay...
And no longer sit in her chair staring at these foreign, dying hands. No longer be distant and silent for fear of night-terrors and hallucinations overlapping reality.
She wanted to be whole. For herself. And for them.
She wanted to.
But in the end she could only sit.
Sit and stare at her strange white hands, wondering if the day was done yet so that she might retire to the safe haven of her chambers. Away from her twin sons who tried to coddle her in the midst of her distress. Away from her husband, whose hurt eyes haunted her dreams. Away from her daughter, so full of anger and upset.
Away from everything that had happened, so that she might fall into that darkness in peace and forget.
Her eyes would open the next morning, and she would return here without breakfast or early morning tea. Here, to sit in her chair as she once had done, needlework draped over her lap in a waxy mockery of normalcy.
Staring at her hands.
So thin and so white and so disgusting.
Until, one day, they would disappear entirely.
Until, one day, she would disappear as well.
Wednesday, December 4, 2013
Heartfelt
Mellow Soulmate AU. Defiant AU. Short and sweet goodbye. And a promise. Quenya names used (Angrod = Angaráto). This is basically part of the same arc as "Puppy Love", "Loved", "Odds and Ends", "Difficult" and "Garden" among the rest of the Defiant arc and any other related Mellow AU stories. There are a lot of them now, LOL. Anyway, it really is short, just like its song, but I actually like it this way. I made me happy. Takes place during the Years of the Trees.
Disclaimer: I don't own the Silmarillion
Pairings: Angrod x Eldalótë
Characters: Angrod, Eldalótë (I actually don't think it mentions anyone else...)
Warning: canon-compliant AU, mushy romantic stuff, waxing poetic, unrequited love (for now), oaths are dangerous things
Song: Eternal Three
Words: 845
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
heartfelt (adjective): deeply felt; earnest
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/heartfelt
Of course she didn't believe him.
Not that it was surprising. All things considered, Angaráto doubted he would have believed himself had their places been reversed, had he been the poor peasant and she the rebellious princess in love. It sounded like a storybook tale read to girl-children before bed, full of false romantic notions and devoid of the lesser idealistic facets of society.
Facets he knew she knew all too well, living so close to the court.
After all, he knew many nobles who were fleeting in their affection. Many a young man who seduced a beautiful woman with sweet, charming compliments, dashing flattery and sultry seduction. Certainly, she would have heard stories and whispers and rumors, felt the anxiety at his approaching and cornering her with his affections. Known that, as he grew older and his advances changed from childish adoration to something darker and sharper, she could not resist.
Wary, she was. Lacking in trust and faith. Shadowed with doubts.
The gleam in her eyes that silently spoke as his grew taller and the afternoons in the gardens grew shorter. The gleam that said...
One day, you will take back your promises. One day, you will turn around and walk away. One day, you will forget all about me.
One day, I will be a mirage in your past.
One day, I will not even exist in the back of your mind.
Until the day had come when it was time for him to leave her behind.
There had never been a time in his life when she hadn't been there. That beautiful, earthly creature with her wide-brimmed hat and her loose tunic, her hands stained with dirt and her hair wrapped up into a loosely braided bun. When he was little, she would play with him, gentle fingers tickling his sides, gentle smile filling up every centimeter of his sight. When he was older, she would always listen to anything he needed to say, to whatever was on his mind, and give the best advice.
When he reached adulthood, she would barely look him in the eye. But he still felt the draw every moment of every day, pulling him away from his studies and his thoughts and his dreams.
Filling him up with her.
And he had never meant anything more than he meant that promise on that day.
Staring down at her figure in the garden from the window above. He dared not speak to her face-to-face, feared the scornful doubt that he would see within the depths of her spring eyes. But part of him wondered if she would hear him despite the distance.
If she would sense his heartfelt oath.
"I know you do not believe me..."
He pressed his palms to the glass, feeling the scrape against his manicured nails and the coolness against soft hands that had never seen hard labor or craftsmanship. Slowly, his forehead followed, the cold sinking deep into his flesh and bone, the barrier keeping him just out of reach of the golden light streaming down. The same light that sprinkled itself across her form and made her look so enchanting.
No matter the simplicity of her clothes and hair and work, she would always be his One. And nothing could dissuade him from his certainty.
"I know you would call it a lie, tell me I am foolish..."
He almost wished she would look up, see him standing in the window looking upon her form as a man looks upon his greatest treasure. Maybe then, in the heat of the frozen moment when their eyes connected and their spirits entwined, she would understand.
That he couldn't let her go. That he couldn't leave her behind.
That he would never...
"But I promised you that I would make you the happiest woman in the world," he continued, his breath washing a fog over the glass, tracing its way up his cheek, frosting her imagine in his eyes. "And that is one promise that I would never break."
Never stop loving her. He couldn't.
"I will be back for you. And somehow... somehow... I will convince you of my love."
He hoped that, somehow through the fibers of time and space, that his words would resonate with her spirit, his other half. That she would hear him and know. That the little sprout of hope she tried so hard to neglect and destroy would continue to grow.
Would flower. So that she might never forget to look for his returning form on the horizon.
And Angaráto turned away from the window. Away from her. It would be years and years before he would lay eyes upon her again, the woman who held his fragile heart in her palm without even realizing. And though it pained him to be away from her, he knew...
"I will be back. That is a promise. And I will make you happy."
Even if you do not believe in me, no words have ever been so desperately true.
And he walked away.
Disclaimer: I don't own the Silmarillion
Pairings: Angrod x Eldalótë
Characters: Angrod, Eldalótë (I actually don't think it mentions anyone else...)
Warning: canon-compliant AU, mushy romantic stuff, waxing poetic, unrequited love (for now), oaths are dangerous things
Song: Eternal Three
Words: 845
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
heartfelt (adjective): deeply felt; earnest
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/heartfelt
Of course she didn't believe him.
Not that it was surprising. All things considered, Angaráto doubted he would have believed himself had their places been reversed, had he been the poor peasant and she the rebellious princess in love. It sounded like a storybook tale read to girl-children before bed, full of false romantic notions and devoid of the lesser idealistic facets of society.
Facets he knew she knew all too well, living so close to the court.
After all, he knew many nobles who were fleeting in their affection. Many a young man who seduced a beautiful woman with sweet, charming compliments, dashing flattery and sultry seduction. Certainly, she would have heard stories and whispers and rumors, felt the anxiety at his approaching and cornering her with his affections. Known that, as he grew older and his advances changed from childish adoration to something darker and sharper, she could not resist.
Wary, she was. Lacking in trust and faith. Shadowed with doubts.
The gleam in her eyes that silently spoke as his grew taller and the afternoons in the gardens grew shorter. The gleam that said...
One day, you will take back your promises. One day, you will turn around and walk away. One day, you will forget all about me.
One day, I will be a mirage in your past.
One day, I will not even exist in the back of your mind.
Until the day had come when it was time for him to leave her behind.
There had never been a time in his life when she hadn't been there. That beautiful, earthly creature with her wide-brimmed hat and her loose tunic, her hands stained with dirt and her hair wrapped up into a loosely braided bun. When he was little, she would play with him, gentle fingers tickling his sides, gentle smile filling up every centimeter of his sight. When he was older, she would always listen to anything he needed to say, to whatever was on his mind, and give the best advice.
When he reached adulthood, she would barely look him in the eye. But he still felt the draw every moment of every day, pulling him away from his studies and his thoughts and his dreams.
Filling him up with her.
And he had never meant anything more than he meant that promise on that day.
Staring down at her figure in the garden from the window above. He dared not speak to her face-to-face, feared the scornful doubt that he would see within the depths of her spring eyes. But part of him wondered if she would hear him despite the distance.
If she would sense his heartfelt oath.
"I know you do not believe me..."
He pressed his palms to the glass, feeling the scrape against his manicured nails and the coolness against soft hands that had never seen hard labor or craftsmanship. Slowly, his forehead followed, the cold sinking deep into his flesh and bone, the barrier keeping him just out of reach of the golden light streaming down. The same light that sprinkled itself across her form and made her look so enchanting.
No matter the simplicity of her clothes and hair and work, she would always be his One. And nothing could dissuade him from his certainty.
"I know you would call it a lie, tell me I am foolish..."
He almost wished she would look up, see him standing in the window looking upon her form as a man looks upon his greatest treasure. Maybe then, in the heat of the frozen moment when their eyes connected and their spirits entwined, she would understand.
That he couldn't let her go. That he couldn't leave her behind.
That he would never...
"But I promised you that I would make you the happiest woman in the world," he continued, his breath washing a fog over the glass, tracing its way up his cheek, frosting her imagine in his eyes. "And that is one promise that I would never break."
Never stop loving her. He couldn't.
"I will be back for you. And somehow... somehow... I will convince you of my love."
He hoped that, somehow through the fibers of time and space, that his words would resonate with her spirit, his other half. That she would hear him and know. That the little sprout of hope she tried so hard to neglect and destroy would continue to grow.
Would flower. So that she might never forget to look for his returning form on the horizon.
And Angaráto turned away from the window. Away from her. It would be years and years before he would lay eyes upon her again, the woman who held his fragile heart in her palm without even realizing. And though it pained him to be away from her, he knew...
"I will be back. That is a promise. And I will make you happy."
Even if you do not believe in me, no words have ever been so desperately true.
And he walked away.
Tuesday, December 3, 2013
Mistakes
Right, well, I don't know if I'll ever get caught up, but I'll try to get back on schedule. Finals are coming up soon, so we'll see how I stick to that, yeah? LOL.
Anyway, possible canon-compliant AU? Lalwen has made some hard decisions, but she's strong, and she has no regrets. Some Quenya used here (yenya = my daughter, yonya = my son, atar = father and emya = mama). Basically, this is a continuation of "Test" from ages and ages ago. More feminism and social problems, because Valinor is not a perfect and happy place.
I also just have to say that I watched the HetaOni walkthroughs and I think I just about died. So the music for this piece is from that, in case you wondered why this went in such a sentimental direction.
Disclaimer: I don't own the Silmarillion or any other words. I don't even own the children.
Pairings: OMC x Lalwen
Characters: Lalwen, Aranwë, Finwë, Ecthelion (mentions Indis, Findis, Fëanor, Fingolfin and Finarfin)
Warning: possibly canon-compliant, origins of characters, scandal and social ostracism, sexism and feminist themes, strong female character, pregnancy, premarital sex, single parenthood
Song: Break of Dawn and Saying Goodbye
Words: 1,219
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
mistake (noun): to blunder in the choice of; to misunderstand the meaning or intention of: misinterpret; to identify wrongly: confuse with another
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/mistake
Sometimes, one had to wonder. About their decisions. About their fate.
If they were taking the right path. If they were somehow lost.
And it was not as if Lalwen never stilled from her constant tourbillion of energy and wondered in silent stillness. Every day, she would pause and look out the kitchen window. Wonder how things could have been different if only she had chosen a different path...
Was she really happy with this life, so different and simple?
With her sweet son, half-grown and already showing the stubborn temperament and undeniable recklessness of her family and blood. With her belly rounding again, a second child on the way, squirming and kicking beneath her restless hands in the early morning glow.
With no husband in sight. With no family at her back. Alone.
"I let your transgression slide once, yenya, but..."
On the window's rough wooden frame, her hands clenched tightly until the knuckles blanched into white. Truly, she hated remembering those days past now only a few months, looking her father in the eyes and knowing that he was so disappointed in her and her decisions that he could hardly stand to call her "daughter". That he thought she was making a mistake, ruining her life for a mere droplet of independence and rebelliousness.
He didn't understand. None of them did.
"Why could not have your only son been enough for you, Lalwen? Why could you not have been content as you were?"
But that was the strange thing about contentment, wasn't it? It was easy to seek it in the midst of turmoil and upset, in the midst of depression and unhappiness, but it was impossible to find it when all around you looked and looked and only became sadder...
Here, she...
"Emya, are you okay?"
Away from the landscape that she looked at so often but never saw, Lalwen turned to find her son standing before her with a searching expression in his aged eyes. Aranwë, her sweet boy, was reaching that point of youthful independence, the itch to do things on his own without her help or guidance, growing up into a powerful young man who no longer needed his mother. But still he was so very protective of her, the only parent he could ever remember. Growing up in a house of people who sneered down their noses upon her decision to keep him and claim him as her son through blood...
"It would be a lie to call him anything other." That was what she always said, and she stood by her words to her dying breath. That she swore.
"A lie that would have saved your reputation. And a lie that would have made his life easier."
They had wanted her to pretend to have adopted him, the baby she had nurtured in her womb for a turn of the seasons. They had wanted to deny him his blood rights, to call him the son of another House. But she had never hidden the truth from anyone, even if it made her a social outcast, a sullied and ruined woman swathed in sin and scandal.
"I am fine, sweetheart," she lied softly, running her fingers through his dark hair. Her hair, for his father's hair had been a rich chocolate. Eyes looked up at her with shocking incisiveness--large gray eyes, her eyes, for his father's had been so very blue and so very pure of that calculative glint of royal blood--and Lalwen knew they did not quite believe her.
"Okay..." But he did not leave her side. Instead, his small fingers wrapped themselves into her skirts, clinging tightly.
And the affection she felt for her baby couldn't have been stronger than in that moment. Had she chosen to lie... would they have this bond? Would he look upon her this way, as his true mother, or would she have become nothing more than a cold and distant figurehead?
How could this have been a mistake?
And now, with another baby on the way...
"You have left me no choice. I did not want to make this decision."
Well, it was too late to go back now and rewrite actions already taken and words already spoken. Too late for her to take back her wild night of passion in the arms of a nameless man. Too late for her to change her mind about wanting a second child.
Too late for her father to take back his damning disowning or her mother to take back her scathing scolds and accusations. Too late for her brothers to withdraw their disappointed and cold gazes or her sister to withdraw the utter scorn in those cornflower eyes.
Too late to go back to the way things had been before. In a palace as a princess, living in a fantasy dream where all was well unto forever.
Too late for regret.
And yet, she was never certain there was any to be felt. Here...
Here she was happy...
"You are not welcome within these walls. No longer are you a daughter of the House of Finwë..."
Her hands lowered from the windowpane, sliding down over her bump again and again. One child pressed against her side, nuzzling and so very warm, her sweet Aranwë, son of kings. Another rolling in her womb, seeking the sound of her heartbeat and the soft thrum of her voice humming an old lullaby, her little angel.
They were beautiful. And she would never consider them mistakes. If anything, they were her salvation.
In the end, she thought, things had turned out for the best.
No matter how much she wondered and paced and stared out at the landscape beyond her windowsill, never seeing beyond the designs of the grain in the wood, she knew that her decision would never change. Never would she crawl back on hands and knees to beg forgiveness and give in...
"Unless you relinquish the child. Hide your pregnancy, and I shall discretely find the baby a good home with a welcoming family..."
"No... Would you ever give up your child in such a way? How can you ask this of me, atar?"
"Lalwen..."
"No..."
Never would she throw away that which was most precious.
"Come, let us start on dinner." She wrapped a slender hand about her son's back, steering herself and the child away from the frozen place of thoughts and memories and too much wondering for the soul's health and sanity. "There are apples from the tree on the hill that I collected this afternoon. I will make apple pie if you promise to behave and help prepare our meal... No messes this time, yonya..."
For once, that young face wasn't scowling. A beatific smile formed, those eyes flashing vividly with the silvered light of pure happiness. With a hint of something just a little too knowing. And then the moment was broken with a broad grin that reminded her all too much of her playful older brothers.
"Promise, emya!"
Apple pie was his favorite, after all. And she loved to see him smile. Her treasure.
The only mistake she could have made was ever considering throwing this away.
Anyway, possible canon-compliant AU? Lalwen has made some hard decisions, but she's strong, and she has no regrets. Some Quenya used here (yenya = my daughter, yonya = my son, atar = father and emya = mama). Basically, this is a continuation of "Test" from ages and ages ago. More feminism and social problems, because Valinor is not a perfect and happy place.
I also just have to say that I watched the HetaOni walkthroughs and I think I just about died. So the music for this piece is from that, in case you wondered why this went in such a sentimental direction.
Disclaimer: I don't own the Silmarillion or any other words. I don't even own the children.
Pairings: OMC x Lalwen
Characters: Lalwen, Aranwë, Finwë, Ecthelion (mentions Indis, Findis, Fëanor, Fingolfin and Finarfin)
Warning: possibly canon-compliant, origins of characters, scandal and social ostracism, sexism and feminist themes, strong female character, pregnancy, premarital sex, single parenthood
Song: Break of Dawn and Saying Goodbye
Words: 1,219
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
mistake (noun): to blunder in the choice of; to misunderstand the meaning or intention of: misinterpret; to identify wrongly: confuse with another
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/mistake
Sometimes, one had to wonder. About their decisions. About their fate.
If they were taking the right path. If they were somehow lost.
And it was not as if Lalwen never stilled from her constant tourbillion of energy and wondered in silent stillness. Every day, she would pause and look out the kitchen window. Wonder how things could have been different if only she had chosen a different path...
Was she really happy with this life, so different and simple?
With her sweet son, half-grown and already showing the stubborn temperament and undeniable recklessness of her family and blood. With her belly rounding again, a second child on the way, squirming and kicking beneath her restless hands in the early morning glow.
With no husband in sight. With no family at her back. Alone.
"I let your transgression slide once, yenya, but..."
On the window's rough wooden frame, her hands clenched tightly until the knuckles blanched into white. Truly, she hated remembering those days past now only a few months, looking her father in the eyes and knowing that he was so disappointed in her and her decisions that he could hardly stand to call her "daughter". That he thought she was making a mistake, ruining her life for a mere droplet of independence and rebelliousness.
He didn't understand. None of them did.
"Why could not have your only son been enough for you, Lalwen? Why could you not have been content as you were?"
But that was the strange thing about contentment, wasn't it? It was easy to seek it in the midst of turmoil and upset, in the midst of depression and unhappiness, but it was impossible to find it when all around you looked and looked and only became sadder...
Here, she...
"Emya, are you okay?"
Away from the landscape that she looked at so often but never saw, Lalwen turned to find her son standing before her with a searching expression in his aged eyes. Aranwë, her sweet boy, was reaching that point of youthful independence, the itch to do things on his own without her help or guidance, growing up into a powerful young man who no longer needed his mother. But still he was so very protective of her, the only parent he could ever remember. Growing up in a house of people who sneered down their noses upon her decision to keep him and claim him as her son through blood...
"It would be a lie to call him anything other." That was what she always said, and she stood by her words to her dying breath. That she swore.
"A lie that would have saved your reputation. And a lie that would have made his life easier."
They had wanted her to pretend to have adopted him, the baby she had nurtured in her womb for a turn of the seasons. They had wanted to deny him his blood rights, to call him the son of another House. But she had never hidden the truth from anyone, even if it made her a social outcast, a sullied and ruined woman swathed in sin and scandal.
"I am fine, sweetheart," she lied softly, running her fingers through his dark hair. Her hair, for his father's hair had been a rich chocolate. Eyes looked up at her with shocking incisiveness--large gray eyes, her eyes, for his father's had been so very blue and so very pure of that calculative glint of royal blood--and Lalwen knew they did not quite believe her.
"Okay..." But he did not leave her side. Instead, his small fingers wrapped themselves into her skirts, clinging tightly.
And the affection she felt for her baby couldn't have been stronger than in that moment. Had she chosen to lie... would they have this bond? Would he look upon her this way, as his true mother, or would she have become nothing more than a cold and distant figurehead?
How could this have been a mistake?
And now, with another baby on the way...
"You have left me no choice. I did not want to make this decision."
Well, it was too late to go back now and rewrite actions already taken and words already spoken. Too late for her to take back her wild night of passion in the arms of a nameless man. Too late for her to change her mind about wanting a second child.
Too late for her father to take back his damning disowning or her mother to take back her scathing scolds and accusations. Too late for her brothers to withdraw their disappointed and cold gazes or her sister to withdraw the utter scorn in those cornflower eyes.
Too late to go back to the way things had been before. In a palace as a princess, living in a fantasy dream where all was well unto forever.
Too late for regret.
And yet, she was never certain there was any to be felt. Here...
Here she was happy...
"You are not welcome within these walls. No longer are you a daughter of the House of Finwë..."
Her hands lowered from the windowpane, sliding down over her bump again and again. One child pressed against her side, nuzzling and so very warm, her sweet Aranwë, son of kings. Another rolling in her womb, seeking the sound of her heartbeat and the soft thrum of her voice humming an old lullaby, her little angel.
They were beautiful. And she would never consider them mistakes. If anything, they were her salvation.
In the end, she thought, things had turned out for the best.
No matter how much she wondered and paced and stared out at the landscape beyond her windowsill, never seeing beyond the designs of the grain in the wood, she knew that her decision would never change. Never would she crawl back on hands and knees to beg forgiveness and give in...
"Unless you relinquish the child. Hide your pregnancy, and I shall discretely find the baby a good home with a welcoming family..."
"No... Would you ever give up your child in such a way? How can you ask this of me, atar?"
"Lalwen..."
"No..."
Never would she throw away that which was most precious.
"Come, let us start on dinner." She wrapped a slender hand about her son's back, steering herself and the child away from the frozen place of thoughts and memories and too much wondering for the soul's health and sanity. "There are apples from the tree on the hill that I collected this afternoon. I will make apple pie if you promise to behave and help prepare our meal... No messes this time, yonya..."
For once, that young face wasn't scowling. A beatific smile formed, those eyes flashing vividly with the silvered light of pure happiness. With a hint of something just a little too knowing. And then the moment was broken with a broad grin that reminded her all too much of her playful older brothers.
"Promise, emya!"
Apple pie was his favorite, after all. And she loved to see him smile. Her treasure.
The only mistake she could have made was ever considering throwing this away.
Saturday, November 30, 2013
Wings
Mellow Soulmate AU. On the eve of battle, when you know you're going to die... Quenya names used (Fingon = Findekáno, Turgon = Turukáno or Turno, Maedhros = Maitimo, Aegnor = Aikanáro, Celegorm = Turkafinwë). This is related especially closely to "Alcohol", "Get Up", "Treat", "Affront", "Terrible" and "Enjoy" amongst many others. I suppose its also linked to "Grave" and "Pretend". Takes place probably somewhere near Himring the night before the Fifth Battle.
Disclaimer: I don't own the Silmarillion
Pairings: Fingon x Sáriel (OFC)
Characters: Fingon, Turgon, Maedhros (mentions Sáriel, Gil-Galad, Celegorm, Aegnor, Fingolfin and Fëanor)
Warning: non-canon compliant, future canon character death, premonition, OFC warning, cultural stuff hidden in there, war and torture, hints at child abuse
Song: If I Die Young
Words: 1,301
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wing (noun): one of the movable feathered or membranous paired appendages by means of which a bird, bat, or insect is able to fly; an appendage or part resembling a wing in appearance, position, or function
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/wing
There was a reason that Findekáno was never seen without his headpiece. A reason he had even had the crown remade so that it might fit entwined with the golden eagle's wing.
It wasn't purely sentimental value, of course.
Reaching upwards, he brushed against the gold. No tarnish stained the headpiece, though he had been wearing it for hundreds of years, ever since the day he had first received it. Maybe Findekáno wasn't the most responsible of men, but if there was one thing he always knew he would cherish, it was this.
And the words that had come with it.
"I do not make things often, and it is not half as extravagant as my father would have crafted it, but nonetheless I thought it would suit you."
It was beautiful, this trinket. Why Maitimo would think for even a second that it was of inferior quality, Findekáno could scarcely understand. Or, perhaps, he could understand all too well. The reminder made his lips purse as he stared down at the headpiece.
Simple but elegant. Two golden wings branched outwards in the cup of his hands, each little feather tooled to perfection. Were it not for the lack of a body and movement and heat, he would have thought them true wings of birds. It seemed as though the faintest breeze could send them flying away into a distance flutter of black upon the far sky.
"Thank you," he said softly. It was, after all, the anniversary of the day he had been created.
He wondered how often his father regretted it.
But the broad grin of his cousin chased away just a bit of that scorn, that disdain. That endless wave of doubt and hatred that lingered behind Findekáno's charming, infectious and utter farce of a smile. Maitimo was always genuine, only smiling when happiness truly struck him, brought that glow of sincerity to those usually sharply defined features.
Made him beautiful. They called him perfection already, but Findekáno thought Maitimo was a thousand times more perfect when he was smiling.
If only the same could be said for him...
"Maitimo... Why wings?" Not, of course, that he didn't find the gift enchanting, but it did not make much sense. It looked more like the sort of ornament one might find in the hair of a young maiden than a very masculine young prince.
"I thought you needed them."
Again, Findekáno ran his fingers over the edges, taking in the careful, methodical detail engraved into every edge, every centimeter. It must have taken weeks to complete this project, and he knew how much Maitimo disliked working in the forge.
Judging by the number of bandages he'd seen on his cousin's hands, coupled with the tense frustration practically radiating off the redhead as of late, Maitimo had put aside his sheer dislike and lack of skill to, for once, create something. And that spoke deeply to Findekáno of how much this little piece must mean to his cousin.
How many unspoken words it must carry.
"I need wings?" he asked, smiling with self-depreciation.
"I think you need to be reminded of who you are, my wild and reckless cousin--my brother." The grin softened to a mere smile, and long fingers fiddled a bit with Findekáno's dark hair. "I think you need to be reminded that, no matter what your father or anyone else says, you are free to be whomever and whatever you want to be."
Those huge gray eyes, almost dripping with affection, fluttered shut. "Who would know better than I, little brother?"
"Maitimo... I..."
"Trust me, Káno. Do not let their words stop you. You will be great."
Maybe it was the mere memory of those words that had kept him going so long. That had kept him from giving up so many thousands of times. That kept him bound together with his sworn-brother despite everything.
That had kept him from turning back when all hope had seemed lost and their family betrayed. That had pushed him to stay alive when the cold seemed to eat away his flesh and freeze solid his bones. That had forced him to go against his family to rescue the man he believed had no affection--brotherly or otherwise--for him anymore.
"Why would you help them--traitors and murderers? They left us for dead!"
"Because he is my brother."
"You hold no obligation to help him." Turukáno was angry, and Findekáno understood why. But even so, he could not deny the intensely powerful loyalty drawing him away...
Toward the truth. Be it Maitimo's survival or his rotting corpse.
"I have to do this, Turno. I have to."
That had him stomping forward and shaking Maitimo into wakefulness. That gave him the fortitude to make his stubborn sworn-brother stand up and fight again and again when all the redhead wanted to do was lie down and die. That eventually brought them both back to life.
"You are too stubborn for your own good, Findekáno."
"Unfortunately for you, I think that flaw is permanent." They both laughed at the younger cousin's cheesy grin. "You love me anyway."
An arm, the end hand-less, was thrown over his shoulder carelessly. Affectionately.
"Of course, foolish little brother."
That even had him marrying the woman of his dreams and siring a child in the midst of war. A spitfire redhead, a woman of the forest who could hunt with the likes of Turkafinwë and fight with the passion and finesse of Aikanáro. She complimented him perfectly, scoffed at his flirtatious disposition and love of drink, laughed in the face of his hopeless inability to stay organized and get tasks completed but somehow always managed to keep him in line.
Not for a moment did he regret her or their son, no matter that the boy was an ocean's length away and she here, waiting patiently to die when he failed to return.
"It is against tradition. And a ruler should always follow tradition, if only for the sake of the people."
"You have it all wrong, Turno. The people, maybe they need something new. Maybe they need a breath of fresh air in all this stale coldness."
"If you think you know what you're doing."
And he would brush his fingers across gold. "I know what I am doing. Trust me."
He was himself. Irresponsible, reckless, kindhearted and foolish Findekáno. The worst king his people could ever have asked for.
And, on the morn, he was marching to certain death.
But nonetheless, Findekáno wove that piece into his hair and braided it tightly down to his scalp. Comfortingly did the metal settle against his skin, its chill rocking through the king's body as he stared at his reflection. Just him, without the crown and the robes and the royal frippery.
The feeling of foreboding did not go away. But he still managed a faint smile.
Tomorrow, he was sure he would die. But he would die knowing his son was safe. Knowing his wife would soon join him in the Halls. Knowing he was at the shoulder of his best friend and brother in all but blood, fighting for the survival of his people. Knowing that, in the end, he had managed to be a good prince and a good king despite all the flaws.
There was nothing he could say he regretted. And he thought that was a good way to die.
For something he believed in. Wings intact on the field of battle.
"I am ready to depart. To whatever end."
Had any words ever felt so true?
Disclaimer: I don't own the Silmarillion
Pairings: Fingon x Sáriel (OFC)
Characters: Fingon, Turgon, Maedhros (mentions Sáriel, Gil-Galad, Celegorm, Aegnor, Fingolfin and Fëanor)
Warning: non-canon compliant, future canon character death, premonition, OFC warning, cultural stuff hidden in there, war and torture, hints at child abuse
Song: If I Die Young
Words: 1,301
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
wing (noun): one of the movable feathered or membranous paired appendages by means of which a bird, bat, or insect is able to fly; an appendage or part resembling a wing in appearance, position, or function
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/wing
There was a reason that Findekáno was never seen without his headpiece. A reason he had even had the crown remade so that it might fit entwined with the golden eagle's wing.
It wasn't purely sentimental value, of course.
Reaching upwards, he brushed against the gold. No tarnish stained the headpiece, though he had been wearing it for hundreds of years, ever since the day he had first received it. Maybe Findekáno wasn't the most responsible of men, but if there was one thing he always knew he would cherish, it was this.
And the words that had come with it.
"I do not make things often, and it is not half as extravagant as my father would have crafted it, but nonetheless I thought it would suit you."
It was beautiful, this trinket. Why Maitimo would think for even a second that it was of inferior quality, Findekáno could scarcely understand. Or, perhaps, he could understand all too well. The reminder made his lips purse as he stared down at the headpiece.
Simple but elegant. Two golden wings branched outwards in the cup of his hands, each little feather tooled to perfection. Were it not for the lack of a body and movement and heat, he would have thought them true wings of birds. It seemed as though the faintest breeze could send them flying away into a distance flutter of black upon the far sky.
"Thank you," he said softly. It was, after all, the anniversary of the day he had been created.
He wondered how often his father regretted it.
But the broad grin of his cousin chased away just a bit of that scorn, that disdain. That endless wave of doubt and hatred that lingered behind Findekáno's charming, infectious and utter farce of a smile. Maitimo was always genuine, only smiling when happiness truly struck him, brought that glow of sincerity to those usually sharply defined features.
Made him beautiful. They called him perfection already, but Findekáno thought Maitimo was a thousand times more perfect when he was smiling.
If only the same could be said for him...
"Maitimo... Why wings?" Not, of course, that he didn't find the gift enchanting, but it did not make much sense. It looked more like the sort of ornament one might find in the hair of a young maiden than a very masculine young prince.
"I thought you needed them."
Again, Findekáno ran his fingers over the edges, taking in the careful, methodical detail engraved into every edge, every centimeter. It must have taken weeks to complete this project, and he knew how much Maitimo disliked working in the forge.
Judging by the number of bandages he'd seen on his cousin's hands, coupled with the tense frustration practically radiating off the redhead as of late, Maitimo had put aside his sheer dislike and lack of skill to, for once, create something. And that spoke deeply to Findekáno of how much this little piece must mean to his cousin.
How many unspoken words it must carry.
"I need wings?" he asked, smiling with self-depreciation.
"I think you need to be reminded of who you are, my wild and reckless cousin--my brother." The grin softened to a mere smile, and long fingers fiddled a bit with Findekáno's dark hair. "I think you need to be reminded that, no matter what your father or anyone else says, you are free to be whomever and whatever you want to be."
Those huge gray eyes, almost dripping with affection, fluttered shut. "Who would know better than I, little brother?"
"Maitimo... I..."
"Trust me, Káno. Do not let their words stop you. You will be great."
Maybe it was the mere memory of those words that had kept him going so long. That had kept him from giving up so many thousands of times. That kept him bound together with his sworn-brother despite everything.
That had kept him from turning back when all hope had seemed lost and their family betrayed. That had pushed him to stay alive when the cold seemed to eat away his flesh and freeze solid his bones. That had forced him to go against his family to rescue the man he believed had no affection--brotherly or otherwise--for him anymore.
"Why would you help them--traitors and murderers? They left us for dead!"
"Because he is my brother."
"You hold no obligation to help him." Turukáno was angry, and Findekáno understood why. But even so, he could not deny the intensely powerful loyalty drawing him away...
Toward the truth. Be it Maitimo's survival or his rotting corpse.
"I have to do this, Turno. I have to."
That had him stomping forward and shaking Maitimo into wakefulness. That gave him the fortitude to make his stubborn sworn-brother stand up and fight again and again when all the redhead wanted to do was lie down and die. That eventually brought them both back to life.
"You are too stubborn for your own good, Findekáno."
"Unfortunately for you, I think that flaw is permanent." They both laughed at the younger cousin's cheesy grin. "You love me anyway."
An arm, the end hand-less, was thrown over his shoulder carelessly. Affectionately.
"Of course, foolish little brother."
That even had him marrying the woman of his dreams and siring a child in the midst of war. A spitfire redhead, a woman of the forest who could hunt with the likes of Turkafinwë and fight with the passion and finesse of Aikanáro. She complimented him perfectly, scoffed at his flirtatious disposition and love of drink, laughed in the face of his hopeless inability to stay organized and get tasks completed but somehow always managed to keep him in line.
Not for a moment did he regret her or their son, no matter that the boy was an ocean's length away and she here, waiting patiently to die when he failed to return.
"It is against tradition. And a ruler should always follow tradition, if only for the sake of the people."
"You have it all wrong, Turno. The people, maybe they need something new. Maybe they need a breath of fresh air in all this stale coldness."
"If you think you know what you're doing."
And he would brush his fingers across gold. "I know what I am doing. Trust me."
He was himself. Irresponsible, reckless, kindhearted and foolish Findekáno. The worst king his people could ever have asked for.
And, on the morn, he was marching to certain death.
But nonetheless, Findekáno wove that piece into his hair and braided it tightly down to his scalp. Comfortingly did the metal settle against his skin, its chill rocking through the king's body as he stared at his reflection. Just him, without the crown and the robes and the royal frippery.
The feeling of foreboding did not go away. But he still managed a faint smile.
Tomorrow, he was sure he would die. But he would die knowing his son was safe. Knowing his wife would soon join him in the Halls. Knowing he was at the shoulder of his best friend and brother in all but blood, fighting for the survival of his people. Knowing that, in the end, he had managed to be a good prince and a good king despite all the flaws.
There was nothing he could say he regretted. And he thought that was a good way to die.
For something he believed in. Wings intact on the field of battle.
"I am ready to depart. To whatever end."
Had any words ever felt so true?
Friday, November 29, 2013
Locket
Mellow Soulmate AU, Locked arc. Curufin made those lockets so that they would never forget one another. And they served their purpose all too well. Quenya names used (Curufin = Curufinwë, Maedhros = Nelyafinwë, Maglor = Makalaurë, Celegorm = Turkafinwë, Caranthir = Morifinwë, Finrod = Artafindë). Very closely related to "Locked", "Beach", "Reprise", "Snore", the dA piece "Apart" and "Twisted" amongst others, including all of the Nargothrond arc. Basically fluff to angst. Takes place (part 1 and 2) in Valinor during the Years of the Trees and (part 3) in Beleriand during the First Age.
Disclaimer: I don't own the Silmarillion, but Lindalórë is mine
Pairings: Curufin x Lindalórë
Characters: Curufin, Lindalórë, Finrod (mentions Maedhros, Maglor, Celegorm, Caranthir and Fëanor)
Warning: non-canon compliant, OFC warning, starts fluffy and goes downhill from there, mental instability/insanity, hints at child abuse (verbal)
Song:
Words: 1,943
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locket (noun): a small case usually of precious metal that has space for a memento and that is worn typically suspended from a chain or necklace
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/locket
Working in the forge was not an activity that Curufinwë relished. Certainly, he had the talent and dexterity for the task--for the shaping and the pounding and the artistry--but he didn't have the charismatic intensity for design. Not like his father.
Somehow, it had always made him the greatest disappointment of all. Nelyafinwë was a politician and Makalaurë a scholar. Turkafinwë was the rebel and Morifinwë the strange ghost. But then there was Curufinwë, the perfect replica child that his father always wanted, with the same damning features and the same intellectual strengths and the same natural talent with shaping metal and stone.
With everything but the drive.
Rarely did Curufinwë want to create masterpieces. Bitterly, he often regarded the fire and the heat and the smoke with the sort of nostalgia that makes one's stomach churn unpleasantly. The memory of those eyes, calculative and judgmental, following his every move with punishing criticism flashing in their depths, it always left the tiny hairs on the back of his neck standing on end.
But today he had a mission. A mission that trumped even the unpleasantness of remembering the long, blistering private lessons that he wanted to completely forget.
Now he drew them all back into his mind, categorizing them almost fanatically, searching for that one tip or sarcastic hinting nudge that he needed. His father's perfectionism would turn out to be useful for something, after all, even if it was something the man himself would probably never approve of.
This project had to be perfect.
Never before had Curufinwë devoted himself to a work of the hands with such enthusiasm, such obsessive drive toward the flawless end result. His father would have been proud to see such devotion to the craftsmanship that ran through their fiery blood.
For days and days, he had been working on this. This gift. Already, he'd had the portraits--one for each half of the set--commissioned and sent to be completed. But while Curufinwë knew he could not paint well enough to perform that duty, he knew this art like he knew the back of his hand, however unwilling that knowledge might have come. He knew the twist of molten metal, the ring of tools and the hours and hours of delicate, eye-straining work.
It was worth it. So very worth it.
Each delicate entwining vine. Each petal of each tiny flower. Each twist of gold and silver. Every single engraved letter carefully etched. Every last detail fanatically planned and worked and reworked and reworked again into perfection.
Even then, it was not perfect. And Curufinwë would start over again and again until his blood settled and the roiling tide of disquieting obsession quieted in his breast. Until he could look upon the trinket in his palm and imagine it hanging around her neck, settled to the warm, pale skin over her heart so that she would always have some little part of him with her.
And the matching other half. So that he would never be alone.
It was, perhaps, sentimental and ridiculous. A fantastical gesture that she could do without. But part of him needed this, and he did not quite understand why. Never would they be parted... and yet...
And yet he couldn't make the thought go away. The thought of having his wife's image lying over his chest, over the throbbing pulse of his heart every second of every day so that she knew, understood, exactly how much she meant to him. Exactly how much he needed her... would always need her...
Foolish. But true. Curufinwë would not stop until he was finished. Would barely sleep or eat because the pull became too powerful to overcome.
If this was what his father felt at all times every moment of the day, he could understand why the Crown Prince hardly ever left the forge--hardly ever left the work that seemed tied directly to his surviving the next hour and moment and second. Because it was maddening.
---
And, in the end, it was perfect.
Seeing her expression when she first beheld the set--hers golden and his own silvered--lying entwined in the palm of his hand.
"Perhaps it is silly, but..." He ran a hand through his loose hair and tried not to blush or fidget with nervousness. Tried not to make it obvious exactly how many days and days of backbreaking effort he had put into cultivating these two works, sitting tiny nestled in the palm of his broad, callused and burn-riddled hand. "But I wanted to give you something..."
"Atarinkë?"
"I just want you to have a part of me. Even when I am not here. Just... please... to ease my mind."
"And the other one...?" She lifted the silver locket, opened it to her own portrait staring back, green-eyed and smiling gently. It was an expression that he adored, one that always made that tight ball of tension at the base of his throat unravel into lightness.
"Even when we are parted, we will never be apart."
"Are we planning on being parted?" Teasingly, she grinned up at him. "Silly man, but I... I like it." The flush that spread across her cheeks made his head spin. How was it that every day--every moment--she seemed to somehow grow more beautiful and breathtaking?
"Let me put it on," he requested softly, picking up the slender chain of her locket in between graceful fingers.
"Yes..." Breathless was her voice and wide were her eyes. Carefully, he slipped the golden chain over her head, watched as the gilded chamber holding his portrait settled just shy of her breasts. The temptation to reach out and touch it, to run his hands over the pale, soft skin beside it, to know that she was his forever, nearly had Curufinwë losing the little sensibility he possessed when it came to this woman.
Instead, he bowed his head and closed his eyes. "Put mine on," he requested.
Felt the silver--starkly cold and yet somehow comforting--settle around the nape of his neck as she pulled the tail of his dark hair over one shoulder. The weight dropped, thudding against the top of his sternum, and the prince's breath shuddered out of his lungs. Standing at full height, this time he did not resist the temptation to touch, run his fingers over each familiar loop and curve and indent, knowing that beneath their outer protective layer rested a piece of her, eternally smiling and eternally glowing.
Opposite, in tandem, her fingers traced her locket again and again. But her eyes were still focused on the man before her, immobile and stricken, but all the same every bit as adoring.
"They are perfect," she told him. "I will never take it off."
He did not plan to remove his either.
Never.
Raising her hand to his lips, he brushed a soft kiss across her knuckles affectionately and breathed deeply of her sweet lily-scent. Happiness was a foreign concept to him--a simple defective doppelganger--but at that moment he thought he might actually know what that blissful, bubbling feeling truly felt like. Rising all the way from his toes to the tips of his fingers to the top of the head...
Just being with her made him feel warm.
---
Every time his fingers brushed the metal, that feeling returned. Momentarily. Indescribably. Giving him a whiff of that relief he so badly needed. Because he needed her like he needed air and water and food. Needed her so badly that it was killing him slowly, the mere faded memory of touch and smell and laughter and love...
Separated by thousands of leagues of land and water and war and broken ideals, he wondered if she continued to wear her locket. Wondered if she needed him as much as he needed her.
Curufinwë had never removed his. On dark nights he often held it close, stared at her picture in the firelight, wondering if he would ever touch the soft slope of her cheek again. If he would ever bask in the golden light of her smile again. If he would ever kiss her hand and breathe in her familiar scent again.
Tonight, however, his fingers fiddled with the locket, lifting it up and setting it down in a cycle of guilt, hesitation, loyalty and guilt all over again.
Tonight, he had invited Artafindë into his bed.
His golden-haired cousin wasn't here yet. Wasn't here to make his mind go blank, take away that suffocating loneliness that ate slowly away at Curufinwë's sanity. Wasn't here to make him forget about how that golden feeling he so cherished was slowly slipping away, the memory of her smell in the back of his throat growing fainter and the touch of her skin to his lips grayer.
Taking it off... was that the same as betraying her? Forgetting her?
Giving up on her?
Sickness bubbled in the pit of his belly through each new cycle, each vicious stab into his spirit. Should he remove it? Should he keep it on? Should he...?
But in the end Curufinwë could not bear to part with it, that silvered locket settled upon his chest, not even so that that tiny part of her that remained would stay untainted by his sin and disloyalty. Because he needed her, and Artafindë was not her. But perhaps if he kept it on...
Perhaps it would be enough. When finally his lover came and their clothes fell away to only the cover of soft sheets and hot, slick skin...
It still remained. Because he could never forget her.
But on the other side of the sea, she stared at it, the golden casket of her dreams. Knew that, beneath those intricate twining designs, his eyes would stare back at her, formed of iron and silver and the stuff of stars.
Reached up and held it in her hand, remembering how happy she had been when he had given it to her and had sworn that, this way, they would never be apart.
Slowly, these shards of his spirit--sharp and toxic--were haunting her. Poisoning her. Killing her.
And Lindalórë could not bring herself to breathe another moment with that weight pressing down upon her lungs, stealing her air and leaving her to choke in the aftermath of despair. Here, in this room where rested his belongings and his clothing and his portraits and his works, would rest this little trinket.
A quick tug broke the delicate chain of gold. Trembling, she set it down in a velveteen bed and closed the lid of the wooden case. Locked it and set aside the key.
Maybe, she thought as she turned away and left the room, if she left that locket here she could forget all about his existence. Maybe, she thought as she locked the door, she could be happy that way and drive the feeling of his kiss upon her hand from her mind.
Maybe, she thought as she walked away, the pain would stop. Finally.
And, in the aftermath of his affair, Curufinwë lay alone upon his bed, sated and glowing with temporary satisfaction, and wondered hazily once again whether or not she still wore her locket. Her gift. Her personal piece of his spirit. Wondered if she refused to remove it from its place over her heart.
If she longed for him as much as he did her. If she refused to ever let him go.
Disclaimer: I don't own the Silmarillion, but Lindalórë is mine
Pairings: Curufin x Lindalórë
Characters: Curufin, Lindalórë, Finrod (mentions Maedhros, Maglor, Celegorm, Caranthir and Fëanor)
Warning: non-canon compliant, OFC warning, starts fluffy and goes downhill from there, mental instability/insanity, hints at child abuse (verbal)
Song:
Words: 1,943
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
locket (noun): a small case usually of precious metal that has space for a memento and that is worn typically suspended from a chain or necklace
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/locket
Working in the forge was not an activity that Curufinwë relished. Certainly, he had the talent and dexterity for the task--for the shaping and the pounding and the artistry--but he didn't have the charismatic intensity for design. Not like his father.
Somehow, it had always made him the greatest disappointment of all. Nelyafinwë was a politician and Makalaurë a scholar. Turkafinwë was the rebel and Morifinwë the strange ghost. But then there was Curufinwë, the perfect replica child that his father always wanted, with the same damning features and the same intellectual strengths and the same natural talent with shaping metal and stone.
With everything but the drive.
Rarely did Curufinwë want to create masterpieces. Bitterly, he often regarded the fire and the heat and the smoke with the sort of nostalgia that makes one's stomach churn unpleasantly. The memory of those eyes, calculative and judgmental, following his every move with punishing criticism flashing in their depths, it always left the tiny hairs on the back of his neck standing on end.
But today he had a mission. A mission that trumped even the unpleasantness of remembering the long, blistering private lessons that he wanted to completely forget.
Now he drew them all back into his mind, categorizing them almost fanatically, searching for that one tip or sarcastic hinting nudge that he needed. His father's perfectionism would turn out to be useful for something, after all, even if it was something the man himself would probably never approve of.
This project had to be perfect.
Never before had Curufinwë devoted himself to a work of the hands with such enthusiasm, such obsessive drive toward the flawless end result. His father would have been proud to see such devotion to the craftsmanship that ran through their fiery blood.
For days and days, he had been working on this. This gift. Already, he'd had the portraits--one for each half of the set--commissioned and sent to be completed. But while Curufinwë knew he could not paint well enough to perform that duty, he knew this art like he knew the back of his hand, however unwilling that knowledge might have come. He knew the twist of molten metal, the ring of tools and the hours and hours of delicate, eye-straining work.
It was worth it. So very worth it.
Each delicate entwining vine. Each petal of each tiny flower. Each twist of gold and silver. Every single engraved letter carefully etched. Every last detail fanatically planned and worked and reworked and reworked again into perfection.
Even then, it was not perfect. And Curufinwë would start over again and again until his blood settled and the roiling tide of disquieting obsession quieted in his breast. Until he could look upon the trinket in his palm and imagine it hanging around her neck, settled to the warm, pale skin over her heart so that she would always have some little part of him with her.
And the matching other half. So that he would never be alone.
It was, perhaps, sentimental and ridiculous. A fantastical gesture that she could do without. But part of him needed this, and he did not quite understand why. Never would they be parted... and yet...
And yet he couldn't make the thought go away. The thought of having his wife's image lying over his chest, over the throbbing pulse of his heart every second of every day so that she knew, understood, exactly how much she meant to him. Exactly how much he needed her... would always need her...
Foolish. But true. Curufinwë would not stop until he was finished. Would barely sleep or eat because the pull became too powerful to overcome.
If this was what his father felt at all times every moment of the day, he could understand why the Crown Prince hardly ever left the forge--hardly ever left the work that seemed tied directly to his surviving the next hour and moment and second. Because it was maddening.
---
And, in the end, it was perfect.
Seeing her expression when she first beheld the set--hers golden and his own silvered--lying entwined in the palm of his hand.
"Perhaps it is silly, but..." He ran a hand through his loose hair and tried not to blush or fidget with nervousness. Tried not to make it obvious exactly how many days and days of backbreaking effort he had put into cultivating these two works, sitting tiny nestled in the palm of his broad, callused and burn-riddled hand. "But I wanted to give you something..."
"Atarinkë?"
"I just want you to have a part of me. Even when I am not here. Just... please... to ease my mind."
"And the other one...?" She lifted the silver locket, opened it to her own portrait staring back, green-eyed and smiling gently. It was an expression that he adored, one that always made that tight ball of tension at the base of his throat unravel into lightness.
"Even when we are parted, we will never be apart."
"Are we planning on being parted?" Teasingly, she grinned up at him. "Silly man, but I... I like it." The flush that spread across her cheeks made his head spin. How was it that every day--every moment--she seemed to somehow grow more beautiful and breathtaking?
"Let me put it on," he requested softly, picking up the slender chain of her locket in between graceful fingers.
"Yes..." Breathless was her voice and wide were her eyes. Carefully, he slipped the golden chain over her head, watched as the gilded chamber holding his portrait settled just shy of her breasts. The temptation to reach out and touch it, to run his hands over the pale, soft skin beside it, to know that she was his forever, nearly had Curufinwë losing the little sensibility he possessed when it came to this woman.
Instead, he bowed his head and closed his eyes. "Put mine on," he requested.
Felt the silver--starkly cold and yet somehow comforting--settle around the nape of his neck as she pulled the tail of his dark hair over one shoulder. The weight dropped, thudding against the top of his sternum, and the prince's breath shuddered out of his lungs. Standing at full height, this time he did not resist the temptation to touch, run his fingers over each familiar loop and curve and indent, knowing that beneath their outer protective layer rested a piece of her, eternally smiling and eternally glowing.
Opposite, in tandem, her fingers traced her locket again and again. But her eyes were still focused on the man before her, immobile and stricken, but all the same every bit as adoring.
"They are perfect," she told him. "I will never take it off."
He did not plan to remove his either.
Never.
Raising her hand to his lips, he brushed a soft kiss across her knuckles affectionately and breathed deeply of her sweet lily-scent. Happiness was a foreign concept to him--a simple defective doppelganger--but at that moment he thought he might actually know what that blissful, bubbling feeling truly felt like. Rising all the way from his toes to the tips of his fingers to the top of the head...
Just being with her made him feel warm.
---
Every time his fingers brushed the metal, that feeling returned. Momentarily. Indescribably. Giving him a whiff of that relief he so badly needed. Because he needed her like he needed air and water and food. Needed her so badly that it was killing him slowly, the mere faded memory of touch and smell and laughter and love...
Separated by thousands of leagues of land and water and war and broken ideals, he wondered if she continued to wear her locket. Wondered if she needed him as much as he needed her.
Curufinwë had never removed his. On dark nights he often held it close, stared at her picture in the firelight, wondering if he would ever touch the soft slope of her cheek again. If he would ever bask in the golden light of her smile again. If he would ever kiss her hand and breathe in her familiar scent again.
Tonight, however, his fingers fiddled with the locket, lifting it up and setting it down in a cycle of guilt, hesitation, loyalty and guilt all over again.
Tonight, he had invited Artafindë into his bed.
His golden-haired cousin wasn't here yet. Wasn't here to make his mind go blank, take away that suffocating loneliness that ate slowly away at Curufinwë's sanity. Wasn't here to make him forget about how that golden feeling he so cherished was slowly slipping away, the memory of her smell in the back of his throat growing fainter and the touch of her skin to his lips grayer.
Taking it off... was that the same as betraying her? Forgetting her?
Giving up on her?
Sickness bubbled in the pit of his belly through each new cycle, each vicious stab into his spirit. Should he remove it? Should he keep it on? Should he...?
But in the end Curufinwë could not bear to part with it, that silvered locket settled upon his chest, not even so that that tiny part of her that remained would stay untainted by his sin and disloyalty. Because he needed her, and Artafindë was not her. But perhaps if he kept it on...
Perhaps it would be enough. When finally his lover came and their clothes fell away to only the cover of soft sheets and hot, slick skin...
It still remained. Because he could never forget her.
But on the other side of the sea, she stared at it, the golden casket of her dreams. Knew that, beneath those intricate twining designs, his eyes would stare back at her, formed of iron and silver and the stuff of stars.
Reached up and held it in her hand, remembering how happy she had been when he had given it to her and had sworn that, this way, they would never be apart.
Slowly, these shards of his spirit--sharp and toxic--were haunting her. Poisoning her. Killing her.
And Lindalórë could not bring herself to breathe another moment with that weight pressing down upon her lungs, stealing her air and leaving her to choke in the aftermath of despair. Here, in this room where rested his belongings and his clothing and his portraits and his works, would rest this little trinket.
A quick tug broke the delicate chain of gold. Trembling, she set it down in a velveteen bed and closed the lid of the wooden case. Locked it and set aside the key.
Maybe, she thought as she turned away and left the room, if she left that locket here she could forget all about his existence. Maybe, she thought as she locked the door, she could be happy that way and drive the feeling of his kiss upon her hand from her mind.
Maybe, she thought as she walked away, the pain would stop. Finally.
And, in the aftermath of his affair, Curufinwë lay alone upon his bed, sated and glowing with temporary satisfaction, and wondered hazily once again whether or not she still wore her locket. Her gift. Her personal piece of his spirit. Wondered if she refused to remove it from its place over her heart.
If she longed for him as much as he did her. If she refused to ever let him go.
Thursday, November 28, 2013
Ameliorate
Mellow Soulmate AU, part of the Disconsolate arc. More Maedhros and Istelindë bonding, but this time from his POV instead of hers. Quenya names used (Maedhros = Maitimo). Basically a continuation of "Disconsolate", "Adapt", "Soft" and "Soothe", but it takes place before most of the scenes in the last one (probably between the second and third). Anyway, just cute shit because I felt like it today. Takes place in Tirion during the Years of the Trees.
Disclaimer: I don't own the Silmarillion
Pairings: Maedhros x Istelindë
Characters: Maedhros, Istelindë (mentions Fëanor and Nerdanel)
Warning: non-canon compliant AU, OFC warning, arranged marriage, fear of spousal abuse, vague sexual undertones (but not really), mostly just cuddling
Song: Reminiscence
Words: 1,835
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ameliorate (verb): to make better or more tolerable
Between them there constantly remained a sort of thick and unpleasant tension upon the air, impenetrable and uncomfortable. The sort that made his throat constrict around his sly and calculative words and his already displeased features fold into an imposing scowl.
It didn't ever help, that helpless expression. The sight of his shadowed frown and the sound of his stark silence only ever make her tremble before his imposing height like a fragile, frightened baby bird before a hungry feline. As though he might actually leap forth, fangs bared, and tear her apart like some sort of savage animal instead of a civilized man. In her eyes, he can see that sickening expectation, the waiting for him to somehow harm her should she dare to so much as speak.
And, like a dark and twisted cycle, her reaction only ever makes his mood worse.
It drives Maitimo crazy, the thought that someone had taught her to expect such brutality from her spouse. Certainly, they hadn't married for love or for lust. They had not even known each other's names! But that she would think so lowly of him simply because he could not constantly don a false mask of gentlemanly charm and gravitas...
Truly, he tried not to take it personally, her fear. But it was taxing on his patience and his mood.
How could he spend time with her--with his wife--when she could not even look him in the eye without flinching as though struck?
All he ever wanted to do was grab her by the arms and shake her until she spoke. Demand that she tell him who had been filling her head with such awful thoughts of marriage and of her husband that he scared her into muteness. Ask what he had done to make her think he was some sort of barbaric monster who would have her stand all day like a porcelain doll waiting upon him hand and foot like a mindless slave.
The worst part about it, though, was that it never dissipated. That inequality. That nervousness. That sickening anticipatory dread.
They would eat together, and the quiet would sit heavy over their dinner table, scaring off even the most steadfast of servants. Master and mistress would stare down at their plates with shifting eyes, dutifully eating without tasting a morsel that met their tongues, and then when they finished he would escort her out of the room and she would flee to safety. Back to their quarters to sew or to clean or to braid her hair, she often claimed, but he suspected she usually went to weep alone.
And then, an hour or so later, he would go up to the bedchambers they shared--had to share, if only to keep up the image of a happy marriage that his father wanted to cultivate--and he would find her trembling upon the bed, pretending to be asleep with her face turned toward the wall so that he might not see her terror-stricken panic.
But he never said anything or did anything. If she wished to turn him away, he would not try to change her mind. By no means did Maitimo want to lay with a woman who would do naught but stare at the ceiling and wait for it to be over like some sort of nightmare.
Today, as every day before, was no different in their evening meal, in the lack of eye contact and the hesitance with which she touched his arm as he led her out of the vast hall echoing with their mutual discomfort. No different in her blatant ignoring of his presence, back toward him and facing the blank wall, as he undressed and pulled on loose leggings and a nightshirt. No different in that her eyes remained closed and her back remained stiffened when he settled upon the bed beside her and blew out the candles.
He whispered his goodnight and was not surprised when no reply was forthcoming. Closing his eyes, Maitimo took only a moment to wish that things could be different between them. Thinking and thinking until he dropped into sleep, interrupted by the reflection of his inner wistful unbalance. Light and unsettled.
Rarely did he sleep well by her side. Rarely did she sleep well by his.
---
When Maitimo blinked his eyes into wakefulness, it took him a moment to realize that it was not morning. No harsh golden light was tugging at the curtains, trying to blind him into the world of the living. Rather, he could tell that Laurelin had scarcely begun to wax, leaving veins only of silver slithering across the floor of the bedchambers.
It took him two moments to realize that he could hear something.
And another to recognize the faint, dissonant noise.
Little hiccupping sobs that she no doubt prayed he would not hear echoing off the far wall. In the darkness, he could make out the slender branch of her forearm rising and the rounded cup of her fingers clamped tightly over her lips as she jerked and shivered on her side of the bed. Only the curve of her cheek could he make out, graceful and soft in its slope, gleaming with wetness in the silvered light.
Crying. He wished he was surprised. But he wasn't. And that only intensified the ache centered maddeningly beneath his sternum.
Carefully--instinctively without thought--he shifted toward her, but she did not seem to even notice his movement. Not until his arms slipped about her belly and his forehead pressed into the space between her trembling shoulder blades, eyelashes fluttering upon her pale cream skin through a sheer layer of silk.
At his touch, she tensed and coiled like a startled feline, her soft gasping cries ceasing. Breath held, she remained as a taut bowstring, the arc of her slender form shaking with the strain of keeping still, of suppressing her weeping into silence and her urge to run away from his touch, as though her utter obedience might hold his wrath and lust at bay. As though morphing into a hard, lifeless, petrified doll in his embrace would make her the perfect invisible, mindless drone of a wife.
But this time Maitimo refused to back down. Refused to be cowed by the heaviness that slammed down onto his shoulders and tried to drag him to the floor in defeat.
Instead, he closed his eyes and pressed close, breathing in her sweetness and warmth. Letting his body fall limp within their cocoon of soft covers and the waves of silver and russet curls. Clenching his arms tighter as his voice softly hummed to life between them.
It was a silly old lullaby that his mother had sung to him a thousand times in his childhood memories. And a thousand more, he had whispered it to his little brothers in the dark before sleep, watching each of them fall asleep curled safely up in their beds. So tiny and so in need of protection and comfort in a supposedly perfect world with just a touch of wickedness waiting like poison under its calm surface.
Slowly, ever so slowly, he felt her relax. The muscles of her belly--tensed and flexing beneath his carefully lax fingers--smoothed into pleasant feminine softness. The stiffness of her shoulder blades, one pressed harshly to his cheek, unraveled into a gentle slope when her shoulders loosened. And then, moment by moment, the jolting rocks of her body fighting against the rising tide of sobs and cries ebbed and faded into the occasional hitch. And then into tranquil, even breaths against the sheets, breaking the silence in tandem to his wordless melody.
It was the first time he could recall being with her and feeling no weight. No unpleasant distance. No gaping abyss of misunderstanding and fear.
Just him and her. Without the unease and the worry and the vicious repeating cycle. Ameliorated.
Even then, he did not stop. Instead, Maitimo carefully pulled himself closer and wrapped around her fully, all platonic tenderness and shared warmth in the night as his voice dwindled with fatigue and sleep threatened to take over once more.
Faintly, her hands brushed against his knuckles, fingers fluttering against his skin. Her touch kept him upon the cusp of wakefulness, nuzzling into the arch of her spine lazily, nose tracing each vertebral bump. It was nice, he thought, this sort of togetherness. Involving nothing more than simply tactile connection and the pleasant sort of quiet buzzing over his skin of shared comfort without the complication of sexual desire and shyness. Just this, so simple.
"Thank you..." So quiet was her voice that he almost did not hear.
And, in that moment, he could have broken that peaceful blanket. Could have asked her why. Could have learned the truth of her misconceptions and tried to correct them with fancy words and a dance of logical rhetoric in the early hours of the morning. That had been his desire for many days, to somehow bend her mind to his will, convince her of the folly in her thoughts with iron rationality.
But often enough his father had scolded him and said that actions spoke with greater force and finesse than ever could a handful of words. Berated him for his passionate insistence that argument could be won only through a silver tongue.
Now was his chance. But he hesitated. Hesitated and allowed it to slip away.
In this instance, he was inclined to accept the wisdom of his sire and admit defeat. The last thing Istelindë needed was an interrogation on the unpleasant influences that warped her perception of the world and of Maitimo. More so, he thought, did she need the reassurance that he was here and that she was safe within his arms.
Safe within his protection.
The prince sighed softly and pressed a kiss to her back. Forgoing words, for once in his life, the quick-minded debater settled for the droplets of quiet splashing tenderly around their twined forms. Those unseen, unheard glimmers spoke more in a single moment than all the words in the world could have waxed and persuaded in a millennium.
Together the pair drifted off again. This time enfolded in calm revelation.
In the morning, when he rose at the dawning of Laurelin, Maitimo looked over at his wife's face and marveled at her smile as she dreamed. When she did not look as a timid mouse crouched and hiding in fear--indeed, when she was blossoming like a pale morning glory in the early light of their bedchambers--Maitimo thought he had never seen anything more lovely. More entrancing.
And if his fingers danced carefully over the curve of that cheek and the raised corners of those lips, there were none to witness his fleeting moment of enamored contentment.
Maybe... just maybe... things would get better.
Maybe... just maybe... this partnership might find some way to bloom.
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