Disclaimer: Tolkien owns Maglor.
Pairings: Maglor x Vardamírë
Characters: Vardamírë (OFC), Maglor (random other elves and the Valar mentioned)
Warning: canon-compliant AU, fluff, fluff and more fluff, romantic angsting, cliche if I do say so myself
Song: Rogue Heart
Words: 1,474
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blush (noun): a reddening of the face especially from shame, modesty or confusion; a rosy or red tint
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/blush
He was the most striking man she had ever seen.
As she stared out her window onto the busy streets below, Vardamírë heaved a wistful sigh, twirling her long, pale hair absently about her slender fingers. Two stories below, she could see him, that stranger. He walked the same route every single day without fail, always passed in front of her father's shop on the opposite side of the street.
Everything about him left her breathless, though she knew not even his name, had not even heard his voice. Tall, graceful, and utterly handsome, he could not fail to capture the attention of any woman with two eyes and a healthy dose of longing in her breast.
Dutifully, she gazed. He paused occasionally at a cart here and there, perused the market at a leisurely pace. Sometimes he would smile, and her breath would catch. For all his natural beauty, Vardamírë found that she admired his crooked little grin the most. It was vibrant and genuine, not the mockery of politeness that she sometimes witnessed on the obsequious merchants and traders. And when he laughed--by the Valar!--her heart fluttered like a hummingbird, ready to carry her off into the sky through sheer will!
At the thought, she closed her eyes for but a moment, some strange foreboding coming over her. It was a magical thing, the voices rising from the din below, but overshadowed by the sweet breeze that flowed around her, tangling in her hair and caressing her eyelashes. She imagined that one of those voices ringing in her ears was his voice.
When she opened her eyes, it was to molten silver.
Below her, his face half-lit with the early morning light of Laurelin, he watched her curiously, his head canted ever so slightly to the left, lips just barely parted.
He could see her!
Oh Valar!
Gasping, she felt heat rise unbidden to her cheeks, blood rushing beneath her skin. What must he think of her, some baker's daughter spying on him from her window when she should be doing her chores?
Quickly, she fled from the window--embarrassment swirling in her belly--and resumed her morning ritual. Best not to keep her parents waiting.
But even as she turned away, she wished she could stay just a little longer and watch him. Now, at least, she knew his eyes more clearly and intimately than the back of her own hand. Silver, hotter than molten rock, brighter than Telperion, more shockingly brilliant than anything she had ever seen in her life. No precious jewel could compare.
Then she scoffed and tied up her pale hair. What did a baker's daughter know of such things?
It was, after all, but a daydream.
---
It was many a day afterwards that Vardamírë found herself sweeping the shop near to the end of the day, just as she did every afternoon. But she felt weightless today, a sweet bubble of happiness pooling inside her at some unknown thought just beyond the edges of her mind. It was the strangest feeling, but it was welcome.
As she always did, she stepped out into the doorway overlooking the street, singing softly under her breath. Around her, the elves shuffled to and fro, their bright eyes resting on her and then dismissing, moving away.
But then her movements paused, a foreign sensation coming over her, pricking at the nape of her neck, tapping gently to claim her attention. It felt as though someone was guiding her with invisible hands when she turned, her bright blue eyes entangling with familiar stars.
Across the way, he stood. From here she could see him so clearly, could see the dark lashes, long and rich, that lined the pale eyes, could see the waves of dark, silken hair that pooled on his shoulders and curled over the curve of his back, could see the startled stillness of his figure, frozen in motion between the revolutions of the world. Unblinking. Silent. Captured.
For a long moment, they stared at one another, and the heat crept once more upon her cheeks. The urge to flee itched in her feet, almost lifting her legs as though she were a puppet upon a puppeteer's strings of fear and uncertainty. How easy it would be to retreat back into the shop, into her comfortable little life and pretend she had not seen him, to hide up in her room and daydream about his sharp features and kind smile, about what his voice might sound like against her ears, brushing over her soul, and not risk the disdain that could blossom in his sharp eyes.
But she would lose her chance.
Shyly, she smiled into his stunned visage and continued her melody, soft against the cacophony of reality, a stillness that surrounded and cradled her in the midst of movement and the flow of time. Slowly, she turned from him and continued sweeping, though all her body longed to look back, to watch, to gaze, to wish, to hope...
When she looked back, he was gone.
---
"You have a beautiful voice, my lady."
Startled, she nearly dropped the tray of pastries settled atop her gentle fingers. Vardamírë turned and met eyes that haunted her dreams and lingered in her fantasies, eyes that burned straight down through her skin and blood to something else. By the Valar!--that smile that she so adored, that stoked her hidden longing, was tilting at the corners of his lips, just beyond her sight.
"H-how may I help you, my lord?" she asked, attempting (perhaps foolishly) to curtsey while holding those fresh pastries. It was probably not a wise idea, but-- And then she overbalanced, one sandaled foot caught in the hem of her gown, and--
"Here, let me--"
A hand at her waist, just above the curvaceous swell of her hip, hot through the layers of linen that cradled her body but steadying and powerful all the same. The other hand snatched away the tray, moving it to the table and settling it safely upon the flat wooden surface. For a moment, Vardamírë stared at the white swirls of steam that rose from golden-brown bread and wondered why the hand touching her had yet to move. And why that did not bother her more.
"I... My lord, I... Forgive me for..."
His eyes went back to her face, and familiar heat settled high in her cheeks. How unattractive that must be, to show her infatuation so blatantly. Why, he must think her a simpleton or worse!
But his eyes were not repulsed. His lip did not curl with disdain. His smile did not for a moment waver on his incredible face as he guided her up from the half-curtsey she had tried to fold herself into. "There is no need to apologize."
And her blush only darkened further. Mortification burst to life in her belly, stabbing like cold little knives on her insides. She turned away, hands rising to cover her cheeks, as if the coolness of her smooth flesh would soothe away the unflattering color that suffused her skin. "I must look a sight," she muttered, more to herself than to her companion, to whom her back was now turned. Oh, how she wished the ground would open its gaping maw and swallow her whole!
Gentle hands held her back from fleeing, though. One caught at her wrist, pulling her hand away from her blotchy face, turning her around so that his eyes shone once more upon her. "You look glorious, my lady."
It was the kind of thing those oily flirts in the market oft said to the flighty young women who gathered there for empty flattery. But when she looked up at his face, the sincerity of the words struck her more harshly than could a physical blow, rooting deep in her belly and blooming into a golden glow that shuddered through her entire tingling spirit.
His eyes were shyly downcast, an equally red, blotchy flush marring the pale perfection of his sharp, handsome features. It crawled up his neck and over his cheeks and set up camp on the bridge of his nose, redder and sharper than a vibrant rose, and more vivacious.
Forget striking beauty. Forget perfection of face and form. Forget molten silver eyes and wordless, nameless infatuation with a phantom daydream.
This blush was the most adorable, sweet, amazing thing she had ever seen.
And just like that, she knew what all those strange feelings had been telling her, that gentle breeze on her cheeks and the intuitive, visceral burning in her heart. She looked at him and saw.
"So do you," she whispered in return.
And it was the absolute truth.
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Finally! Maglor fanfiction that is not angsty! Well, not real angst anyway, just lovey-dovey angst. This is 100% fluff here, white and puffy and soft and cuddly and marshmallowy fluff! Kitten-down fluff! I guess I needed a break from the horror stories. I was originally going to write this as a much more racy piece between my current slash fixation (Sauron and Celebrimbor), but then I just couldn't make myself do it.
Once again, written from an OC's perspective. Makes me nervous, but this is the third time I've done this here. I'll live. Besides, Vardamírë needs character development. She's been around for a surprisingly long time, but I rarely ever write about her. Isn't that depressing? My OC characters need more loving.
Also, continuing the tangent in paragraph 1 of the AN, the song I was obsessed with today was not at all conducive to writing dark slashy seduction. Rogue Heart (from the Dragon Age II OST by Inon Zur) is an amazing song and I love it so much because it sounds so free and inspiring! I couldn't use anything else for my writing today. It stuck. (By the way, the first picture on the YouTube video linked above is gorgeous.)
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