Mellow Soulmate AU. The birth of Gil-Galad. And more elven strangeness. All Sindarin names. Also, written from the POV of an OFC--Fingon's wife Sáriel, to be specific. She's my head-canon character and shows up in several other pieces, including "Treat", which I would say is the fluffy counterpart to this rather ambiguous, strange thing. It should be noted that this story prods a little bit at the nonexistent culture of the Avari (because Sáriel is technically a dark-elf as she is not a noldo, sinda or nanda and came over Ered Luin into Beleriand), so that's why it's there. Probably takes place in Mithrim in the year FA 450.
Disclaimer: Tolkien owns the Silmarillion. The OFC is mine.
Pairings: Fingon x Sáriel
Characters: Sáriel, Fingon, Gil-Galad (mentions Eru and Morgoth (sort of))
Warning: canon-compliant AU, OFC, Fingon is straight (*gasp*), mentions war, precognition (because elves are weird like that; you didn't think Galadriel was the only one right?)
Song: The Burdened
Words: 1,079
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
stormy (adjective): relating to, characterized by, or indicative of a storm; marked by turmoil or fury
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/stormy
Perhaps it was superstitious to listen to old sayings and tales passed through generations. They were nothing more than chronicles of a people forever overshadowed by the darkness of the North, a people hardened and sharpened as steel by the misfortunes of the world--hardly the truth.
But Sáriel felt unsettled nevertheless.
Outside, the rain pounded against the glass of the windows, miniscule fists banging, grasping the panes and shaking, rattling them until it seemed they might crack under the pressure. The wind bore down upon the land, snagging and tearing at the trees until they bent and bowed beneath the greater force, surrendering to nature's adamantine strength. Even though it was midday, the outside was dark with the thick, swirling soup of clouds overhead, decorated only with the vivid flashes of the heaven's fire streaking in white and violet downwards.
And thunder shook the earth. It shook her certainty.
It was just a stupid old saying, that children born unto a stormy night would lead a stormy life full of turmoil and conflict. She had never seen proof in the flesh, and no one had ever told tales of its prowess. Yet somewhere in her chest, a feeling was growing greater and greater by the hour as her body prepared to bring her child into the unrest of the outside world. That feeling settled itself down, dug its burrow into the hillside of her heart and refused to be moved from its cozy nest of riotous emotion and worry.
Perhaps she was being ridiculous about the entire thing. It was just the hormones and the anxiety of being so close to the birth. That was it. That had to be it. There was nothing at all to be worried about except the wellbeing of herself and the baby.
Besides, the rain would pass before it was time.
Sáriel settled in and waited.
---
The rain did not abate, nor did the thunder. Rather, it seemed intent upon tearing open the earth's fabric and cracking the foundations of the mountains and seas. As the afternoon spent itself into evening, the storm only seemed to gain momentum, the winds becoming stronger until the windows creaked in warning and the whistling grew shrill and loud.
Fingon returned from his duties looking tired and just as out-of-sorts as Sáriel had been feeling since arising from bed that morning. But he still had a fond smile for the sight of his wife and unborn child, still had his arms spread wide in an invitation that Sáriel eagerly accepted, slipping herself into the safety of the circle of his embrace.
"Good evening, hervess-nín," he murmured into her hair as his arms pulled her taut to the broad expanse of his chest. Beneath her ear, his heartbeat was echoing strong. "Are you feeling well? Do you need anything?"
"No, nothing..." She settled against his comforting warmth and sighed. "I feel strange."
His grip tightened ever so slightly. "Strange?"
"Yes. There is a foreboding feeling in the air today. It has been tugging at the back of my mind for attention all afternoon." Why would it not leave her be? "Your heir will be born before sunrise."
"What a day to be born," he replied, laughing shallowly. "The storm has not shown any signs of letting up. It might very well continue on into the morning."
That is what I was afraid of.
"Let us hope for a few rays of Ithil to grace the child's birth." She pulled away and kissed Fingon's cheek softly. "Best that you fetch the healers to our chambers, hervenn-nín. It will not be long now, I suspect."
---
When Ereinion Son of Fingon came squalling into the world, it was still a world of tumultuous, roaring and the screams of a million rain droplets on thick glass and stone which he first beheld. It was almost hard to hear the child's loud cries over the noise, but they were there, and Sáriel's heart was in her throat, because that was her son she could hear. He was real and he was well.
It was Fingon who brought the child to her waiting, empty arms, his face split wide with a grin that was both tired but at the same time radiant as the stars. What a proud father her silly husband was!
"Our son," he introduced as he sat himself beside her upon the bed, his voice barely audible. The bundle of white cloth was passed along, soft whines rising from within the thick cocoon.
The first sight of her child's face was white on shadow--lightning flashed sharply from beyond the thin curtains and momentarily blinded her with its brightness. The thunder followed afterwards, deep rumbling, announcing to the entirety of the world the new presence of this child of noble and wild blood. Her son.
And the feeling was overwhelming. Ridiculous or not, it sat heavy in her breast as she looked down into the milky blue eyes of the babe. They would probably fade to gray quickly. Gray to match the color of the heavens above, dark and deep, not the pale, bleached silver of the stars. She could well imagine him in her mind's eye.
Her fingertips traced over a cheek and were grasped by a chubby little fist, brought to a toothless mouth, and Sáriel nearly wept--for joy or sorrow she could not tell.
"Hello, Ereinion," she whispered, leaning down to kiss the child's brow. "Welcome."
Welcome to a world of beauty and discord, my storm-child. A world of battles laying siege to the vast plains and towering mountains and free, fiery people as this storm lays siege to our fortress in the finite dark of night. This is your home.
And some part of her knew that this child would never see true peace, that he would grow up in the midst of war and take his father's place as a prideful king, ready and willing to lead his people into victorious battle with all the passionate fire of his untamed ancestors. It was not the life she would have chosen for her son, but no one could fight destiny as it was written by Eru Almighty. The music would carry her son on his path to his final destination as was woven in the timeless, resonating chords of forever.
Perhaps it was superstitious, but Sáriel believed.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I can honestly say that I don't remember how I came up with this very strange idea. It just happened, okay? As for the old wives' tales and junk, Tolkien neglected to give the Avari culture and language, and therefore I can do with them as I please. This is, of course, the result. I can see a people constantly plagued by the evil of Morgoth becoming rather superstitious and cautious without the guidance of the Valar to give them "proper" ideas and guidelines.
In any case, there you have it. This is just exploring Sáriel a bit more as a character; the last story with this pairing I wrote from Fingon's POV. Anyway, written to the song The Burdened by Takeharu Ishimoto--it's from the Crisis Core OST. Ah, Crisis Core, the only FF game that has ever made me cry. Gaia! Why did you have to die Zack? *sobs*
It's a pretty song. Actually, a rather large amount of Crisis Core music is quite lovely. Poke if you have time. I recommend Fulfilled Desire.
Just side news: broken 100,000 words with these little stories. Makes me happy :3.
Tuesday, April 30, 2013
Monday, April 29, 2013
Lies
Mellow Soulmate AU. Their relationship was a mountain of lies. Or was it? Quenya names: Celebrimbor = Telperinquar. Sauron = Annatar. This is definitely connected to "Disaster" and "Lust", in case you were curious. I left out anything really gruesome because I don't have time to write it at the moment, but maybe next time LOL. Takes place in Eregion in the Second Age.
Disclaimer: Tolkien owns the Silmarillion
Pairings: Sauron x Celebrimbor
Characters: Celebrimbor, Sauron (mentions Morgoth and Eru and some random others)
Warning: extreme AU, slash, torture, follows canon, implied non-con and murder, unhealthy relationship (obviously)
Song: Love the Way You Lie
Words: 1,016
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
lie (intransitive verb): to make an untrue statement with intent to deceive; to create a false or misleading impression
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/lies
Pain like he had never experienced before now surged through Celebrimbor's body, seemingly consuming him from the inside out, little poisonous fangs biting through his flesh and organs. If one had asked, he would not have been able to say how long he had hung here from his chains, only that his wrists were bleeding down his taut arms, streams of crimson decorated his wrenched shoulder and mingling with the blood smeared over his back and chest.
He saved his strength for other things. These meager torturers, these amateurs, they could not hope to draw so much as a scream from his tongue, and Celebrimbor did naught but grind his teeth and think about something--anything--but the pain. Anything...
Pain, pain, pain...
Like the green fields of Beleriand before...
And the golden lands of his home where his mother waited...
And the comforting embrace of thick arms about--
No, best not to go there.
"I see you have made no progress with our prisoner. Get out of my sight."
He was back.
From head-to-toe, Celebrimbor shuddered in revulsion, his skin crawling, feeling tainted at even the memory of touch. He knew that voice better than he knew his own, and it struck bells of fury and terror in his head until all sound seemed drowned by the furious raging of his blood. This traitorous liar would hear neither plea nor truth from his lips, not a hundred millennia!
"My, my, do you not look beautiful, my sweet love..."
"Do not... Do not call me that!" At least his voice still held some bite, never mind that it was a touch hoarse from bearing down on shrieks of agony. "You've no right!"
"No right?" The voice was against his ear, slithering over his skin as a cold caress. Claws delicately traced the skin of his back, scraping painfully over rising, open welts seeping blood. "Were we not lovers, Telperinquar?"
Were they lovers?
Celebrimbor could remember many a night in Annatar's bed, huddled close with contentment. He could remember many nights when he would sit up and spend hours combing his fingers through the waves of golden hair, entranced, sometimes daring to trance a gentle finger down one perfectly sculpted cheek in awe. Sometimes, he even dared to whisper the forbidden words softly into the darkness, thinking that his lover was asleep, because Annatar would never say them back...
I cannot love this monster! This is not the person I...
"We are n-not," he snarled, hating that his voice wavered even in the slightest on the last damning word. "I never loved you. Not as Annatar, and not now!"
"Now who is the liar, my sweet love?"
Do not call me that! Hearing the name once whispered in intimate comfort and affection spoken in that voice whipped across his skin harder than any barbed, braided leather, leaving deeper welts on his soul than his flesh could ever experience. It hurt so much...
"I do not lie," he hissed, and there was a traitorous sting of tears at the corners of his eyes. "You are nothing to me but a means to an end! You offered me what I wanted and I took it, just as you did to me! I used you, and you used me in return. Do not be a fool, claiming that lust and love are the same. Surely such a creature as the Morgoth's Lieutenant would be aware of the difference."
Claws dug into his hips, and the touch struck electrical terror up his spine, every tiny hair at his nape standing up in alarm. "You can speak as many lies as you wish, but I will always know the truth, my sweet love, who loves me in return, even now..."
I cannot love this monster. I cannot!
"It was never about the rings. That was just an extra benefit, one of which you took advantage, is that not so? Nevertheless..."
It had to be about the rings, not him... Never him...
"You love me."
"No!" Celebrimbor yanked at the chains binding his arms, ignoring the pangs of agony screaming from his wrists and shoulder. "I could never love you. And in the end, I hope you get everything you deserve for your evil deeds! I hope Eru himself strikes you low, makes you suffer!"
Lips touched his nape, and Celebrimbor withheld a sob, because only his Annatar touched him so. He could not allow the deception to overcome his determination. Just a little while longer, resisting, lying, and then Mandos would call for his weary soul...
"Is that what you hope for?" Sauron laughed, hot and deep against his skin. "Do not lie."
"I do not lie." Panting, he wretched his head forward. "I do not lie. You will hear nothing more from my lips, traitor. Murderous filth. I hate you!"
Sauron only laughed a second time, and Celebrimbor felt the fingernails dig into his flesh, felt them carving open the meat of his muscle down to the bone, the movements somehow graceful. He could well picture in his head the image of those marks in red ink across pale flesh, the curving lines of Annatar's true name forever branded into his body as the imprint of ash and fire was branded upon his soul.
"You can lie aloud and lie to yourself. But you cannot lie to me."
Sauron.
"You are mine, forever. Mine."
And it hurt so much because... No, he could not even think it... "I hate you..."
And he did not speak again. For all the pain and humiliation that followed, only his screams replied to the tormentor's brusque questioning and merciless actions. Celebrimbor felt tears overflow in mourning, but covered them in all the hate he could muster. And deep down, he lied to himself, because if he dared speak the truth, even in those dark depths of his mind, Annatar would hear...
And Annatar would not hear the painful truth from his words. Not now. Not ever.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Would have made this longer, but I am ridiculously busy today and won't have time to work on this tonight, so I'm doing it now. Not much to say. I left out the torture, but you can come up with something much more gruesome than I could ever put into words, so I'll leave you to it, shall I?
I was listening to Love the Way You Lie by Rihanna (feat. Eminem)... Not even going to go into how wrong these two artists doing a song about abusive relationships is. If you want to know, look it up. Anyway, it just seemed to fit the theme, and for some reason I like this song. I shouldn't, but I do. The chorus makes me very happy; I could do without the piss-poor rapping.
Bye bye now <3.
Disclaimer: Tolkien owns the Silmarillion
Pairings: Sauron x Celebrimbor
Characters: Celebrimbor, Sauron (mentions Morgoth and Eru and some random others)
Warning: extreme AU, slash, torture, follows canon, implied non-con and murder, unhealthy relationship (obviously)
Song: Love the Way You Lie
Words: 1,016
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
lie (intransitive verb): to make an untrue statement with intent to deceive; to create a false or misleading impression
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/lies
Pain like he had never experienced before now surged through Celebrimbor's body, seemingly consuming him from the inside out, little poisonous fangs biting through his flesh and organs. If one had asked, he would not have been able to say how long he had hung here from his chains, only that his wrists were bleeding down his taut arms, streams of crimson decorated his wrenched shoulder and mingling with the blood smeared over his back and chest.
He saved his strength for other things. These meager torturers, these amateurs, they could not hope to draw so much as a scream from his tongue, and Celebrimbor did naught but grind his teeth and think about something--anything--but the pain. Anything...
Pain, pain, pain...
Like the green fields of Beleriand before...
And the golden lands of his home where his mother waited...
And the comforting embrace of thick arms about--
No, best not to go there.
"I see you have made no progress with our prisoner. Get out of my sight."
He was back.
From head-to-toe, Celebrimbor shuddered in revulsion, his skin crawling, feeling tainted at even the memory of touch. He knew that voice better than he knew his own, and it struck bells of fury and terror in his head until all sound seemed drowned by the furious raging of his blood. This traitorous liar would hear neither plea nor truth from his lips, not a hundred millennia!
"My, my, do you not look beautiful, my sweet love..."
"Do not... Do not call me that!" At least his voice still held some bite, never mind that it was a touch hoarse from bearing down on shrieks of agony. "You've no right!"
"No right?" The voice was against his ear, slithering over his skin as a cold caress. Claws delicately traced the skin of his back, scraping painfully over rising, open welts seeping blood. "Were we not lovers, Telperinquar?"
Were they lovers?
Celebrimbor could remember many a night in Annatar's bed, huddled close with contentment. He could remember many nights when he would sit up and spend hours combing his fingers through the waves of golden hair, entranced, sometimes daring to trance a gentle finger down one perfectly sculpted cheek in awe. Sometimes, he even dared to whisper the forbidden words softly into the darkness, thinking that his lover was asleep, because Annatar would never say them back...
I cannot love this monster! This is not the person I...
"We are n-not," he snarled, hating that his voice wavered even in the slightest on the last damning word. "I never loved you. Not as Annatar, and not now!"
"Now who is the liar, my sweet love?"
Do not call me that! Hearing the name once whispered in intimate comfort and affection spoken in that voice whipped across his skin harder than any barbed, braided leather, leaving deeper welts on his soul than his flesh could ever experience. It hurt so much...
"I do not lie," he hissed, and there was a traitorous sting of tears at the corners of his eyes. "You are nothing to me but a means to an end! You offered me what I wanted and I took it, just as you did to me! I used you, and you used me in return. Do not be a fool, claiming that lust and love are the same. Surely such a creature as the Morgoth's Lieutenant would be aware of the difference."
Claws dug into his hips, and the touch struck electrical terror up his spine, every tiny hair at his nape standing up in alarm. "You can speak as many lies as you wish, but I will always know the truth, my sweet love, who loves me in return, even now..."
I cannot love this monster. I cannot!
"It was never about the rings. That was just an extra benefit, one of which you took advantage, is that not so? Nevertheless..."
It had to be about the rings, not him... Never him...
"You love me."
"No!" Celebrimbor yanked at the chains binding his arms, ignoring the pangs of agony screaming from his wrists and shoulder. "I could never love you. And in the end, I hope you get everything you deserve for your evil deeds! I hope Eru himself strikes you low, makes you suffer!"
Lips touched his nape, and Celebrimbor withheld a sob, because only his Annatar touched him so. He could not allow the deception to overcome his determination. Just a little while longer, resisting, lying, and then Mandos would call for his weary soul...
"Is that what you hope for?" Sauron laughed, hot and deep against his skin. "Do not lie."
"I do not lie." Panting, he wretched his head forward. "I do not lie. You will hear nothing more from my lips, traitor. Murderous filth. I hate you!"
Sauron only laughed a second time, and Celebrimbor felt the fingernails dig into his flesh, felt them carving open the meat of his muscle down to the bone, the movements somehow graceful. He could well picture in his head the image of those marks in red ink across pale flesh, the curving lines of Annatar's true name forever branded into his body as the imprint of ash and fire was branded upon his soul.
"You can lie aloud and lie to yourself. But you cannot lie to me."
Sauron.
"You are mine, forever. Mine."
And it hurt so much because... No, he could not even think it... "I hate you..."
And he did not speak again. For all the pain and humiliation that followed, only his screams replied to the tormentor's brusque questioning and merciless actions. Celebrimbor felt tears overflow in mourning, but covered them in all the hate he could muster. And deep down, he lied to himself, because if he dared speak the truth, even in those dark depths of his mind, Annatar would hear...
And Annatar would not hear the painful truth from his words. Not now. Not ever.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Would have made this longer, but I am ridiculously busy today and won't have time to work on this tonight, so I'm doing it now. Not much to say. I left out the torture, but you can come up with something much more gruesome than I could ever put into words, so I'll leave you to it, shall I?
I was listening to Love the Way You Lie by Rihanna (feat. Eminem)... Not even going to go into how wrong these two artists doing a song about abusive relationships is. If you want to know, look it up. Anyway, it just seemed to fit the theme, and for some reason I like this song. I shouldn't, but I do. The chorus makes me very happy; I could do without the piss-poor rapping.
Bye bye now <3.
Sunday, April 28, 2013
Fire
Mellow Soulmate AU. Legolas is not only Thranduil's son. He has some of the other side of the family tree in there, too. Kept all the names Sindarin because I'm lazy. This story is, of course, part of the same tangent as "Cheat" and its offshoots, as well as "Subtle" and includes Erestor's fabricated backstory. If you haven't read those this probably won't make a lick of sense to you, so good luck :D, it'll be a mystery! Takes place around the time of the Council of Elrond in Imladris in the late Third Age (obviously).
Disclaimer: The Silmarillion and Lord of the Rings belong to Tolkien
Pairings: Glorfindel x Erestor (in the background)
Characters: Glorfindel, Legolas (mentions other people at the Council, Frodo, Meadhros, Maglor, Celegorm, Caranthir, Fëanor, Eru, Morgoth, Thranduil and Aragorn... I think that's everyone)
Warning: extreme AU, canon compliant mostly, hints of slash and m!preg, intoxication, allusions to war and murder
Song: In Memoriam
Words: 863
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
fire (noun): the phenomenon of combustion manifested in light, flame, and heat; burning passion: ardor; liveliness of imagination: inspiration
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/fire
The first time Glorfindel of Imladris laid eyes on the Prince of Mirkwood, he thought he was having delusions--perhaps he had had a draught to many of rich Dorwinion last evening? Because he had to be imagining things! It was simply not possible! Were it not for the pale blond hair and the short stature and the face staring back at him with the Elvenking's lovely features, he could have sworn that it was actually Maedhros Fëanorion before him, jaw set and body ramrod straight, readying himself to take on all the armies of Morgoth singlehandedly.
Except that was ridiculous. This young elf--hardly more than a child, really--was nothing like the great and feared warrior prince of the First Age. He was skinny and waif-like and short and used a bow for Eru's sake!
No, at first Glorfindel dismissed such thoughts. They were positively absurd. Following this assessment, he went down to the kitchens to track down a herbal cure for hangovers and wondered if perhaps he should just go back abed until noon, no matter that his lover would chide him for it later and demand an explanation for his odd behavior.
He quickly discovered that it was not a fluke. His instincts screamed.
When next he saw the child, again, the same feeling buzzed in the back of his mind, an annoying little insect that would just not go away. Glorfindel stood and observed carefully from the corner of his eye as the young prince walked past him down the hallway, eyes never shifting from their straightforward position, itching to reach his destination, body moving with swift, predatory grace and not a lick of awkward hesitation. Like a hunter.
And it suddenly reminded him of Celegorm Fëanorion on the prowl.
That was when he knew something strange was afoot. No gangly young Sindarin prince should remind him of the legendary, bloodthirsty warriors of old, not at a mere glance.
But the more he watched, the more confusing and astounding he found the prince.
It was in the way he walked, in the measured movements of his arms, in the set of his sharp jaw and the angle of his cheekbones. Legolas would turn to address someone beside him with a certain tilt of his head and a certain pursing of his lips and suddenly recall to mind an image of Maglor Fëanorion delicately acknowledging a dignitary to his right with exactly that same silly inclination of the head, teetering on the edge between respect and insult. With amusement, Glorfindel noted the natural angle of Legolas' head was further towards "insult" whenever the addressee happened to be a rude dwarf or uncouth human.
More striking, still, was when the prince smiled, how his dark brows would furrow ever so slightly, how his lips would curl up just so, ever so slightly sardonic. And then he would laugh smoothly, low in the back of his throat, almost purring. It reminded him of Erestor, and Glorfindel felt as though he had been banged over the head with a hammer by Aulë's immeasurable strength.
Never did he personally speak to the sinda, but kept his distance during the days leading up to the Council. It was not until the Council itself that he finally saw it, the undeniable proof that this child could not possibly be the mere son of Thranduil of Doriath, a stubborn but cold-hearted creature who had none of the intrinsic, unmistakable passion that marked, like a blazing torch in the blackness of the moonless night, the presence of temperamental blood.
Legolas had the fire. During the Council, he leapt to his feet as though struck by a whip, beautiful face marred by an all-too-familiar scowl, and Glorfindel's mind whispered of Caranthir Fëanorion traitorously. "This is Aragorn, son of Arathorn. You owe him your allegiance," Legolas growled, wild eyes burning at the sting of insult towards a man he considered to be a worthy friend and companion. Such an expression sent shudders running from the base of Glorfindel's spine, up his back and down again, icy understanding settling in the bottom of his stomach and radiating sharply outwards through his knotted innards.
Thranduil was keeping a secret.
And when Legolas leapt forth and threw himself into the heart of the quest--"You have my bow!"--Glorfindel's throat tightened, bewildered at the dread tugging at his heartstrings. It was an oath, an oath to give away his young life to the Ringbearer to use as the naive little hobbit saw fit. And those eyes were brighter than stars in the day's twilight, that lithe body near humming in anticipation and power.
The Spirit of Fire was molded into this young soul as surely as it was entwined with all the descendants of that cursed House.
And all things started well by the Dispossessed were doomed to end in failure.
Glorfindel could not strike the memory of heat radiating outwards from the young soul, even long after the Fellowship of the Ring had departed. He could not help but wonder... and suspect...
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
For fun. Originally, I wasn't going to write anything even close to this. Actually, I was going to do a "retake" of a story I had written to this same prompt more than two years ago, but then I was reading Hobbit fanfiction and focused on dwarves and was reading about Kíli and started thinking about characters who had "fire" who weren't members of the House of Fëanor and came up with Legolas. And then, thinking about it, it all made perfect sense and everything in the world was good. That is how this came about. New plot-bunny maybe?
Listening to In Memoriam, a Globus play off of the Immediate Music piece Journey to Glory. I like the male singer's voice, which is partially why I picked it. That, and I accidently found the Immediate Music version and was like "Hey, I recognize that!", and so like a dork I had to go and listen to the Globus version and... yeah...
If I ever find a satisfactory fanart of Legolas I'll let you know. You I must say that Orlando Bloom is a pretty damn hot elf. Definitely looking foward to seeing him in the next Hobbit movie. You seen the interesting little blog preview that Peter Jackson did? I have! *is so hyped* I can't wait!
Disclaimer: The Silmarillion and Lord of the Rings belong to Tolkien
Pairings: Glorfindel x Erestor (in the background)
Characters: Glorfindel, Legolas (mentions other people at the Council, Frodo, Meadhros, Maglor, Celegorm, Caranthir, Fëanor, Eru, Morgoth, Thranduil and Aragorn... I think that's everyone)
Warning: extreme AU, canon compliant mostly, hints of slash and m!preg, intoxication, allusions to war and murder
Song: In Memoriam
Words: 863
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
fire (noun): the phenomenon of combustion manifested in light, flame, and heat; burning passion: ardor; liveliness of imagination: inspiration
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/fire
The first time Glorfindel of Imladris laid eyes on the Prince of Mirkwood, he thought he was having delusions--perhaps he had had a draught to many of rich Dorwinion last evening? Because he had to be imagining things! It was simply not possible! Were it not for the pale blond hair and the short stature and the face staring back at him with the Elvenking's lovely features, he could have sworn that it was actually Maedhros Fëanorion before him, jaw set and body ramrod straight, readying himself to take on all the armies of Morgoth singlehandedly.
Except that was ridiculous. This young elf--hardly more than a child, really--was nothing like the great and feared warrior prince of the First Age. He was skinny and waif-like and short and used a bow for Eru's sake!
No, at first Glorfindel dismissed such thoughts. They were positively absurd. Following this assessment, he went down to the kitchens to track down a herbal cure for hangovers and wondered if perhaps he should just go back abed until noon, no matter that his lover would chide him for it later and demand an explanation for his odd behavior.
He quickly discovered that it was not a fluke. His instincts screamed.
When next he saw the child, again, the same feeling buzzed in the back of his mind, an annoying little insect that would just not go away. Glorfindel stood and observed carefully from the corner of his eye as the young prince walked past him down the hallway, eyes never shifting from their straightforward position, itching to reach his destination, body moving with swift, predatory grace and not a lick of awkward hesitation. Like a hunter.
And it suddenly reminded him of Celegorm Fëanorion on the prowl.
That was when he knew something strange was afoot. No gangly young Sindarin prince should remind him of the legendary, bloodthirsty warriors of old, not at a mere glance.
But the more he watched, the more confusing and astounding he found the prince.
It was in the way he walked, in the measured movements of his arms, in the set of his sharp jaw and the angle of his cheekbones. Legolas would turn to address someone beside him with a certain tilt of his head and a certain pursing of his lips and suddenly recall to mind an image of Maglor Fëanorion delicately acknowledging a dignitary to his right with exactly that same silly inclination of the head, teetering on the edge between respect and insult. With amusement, Glorfindel noted the natural angle of Legolas' head was further towards "insult" whenever the addressee happened to be a rude dwarf or uncouth human.
More striking, still, was when the prince smiled, how his dark brows would furrow ever so slightly, how his lips would curl up just so, ever so slightly sardonic. And then he would laugh smoothly, low in the back of his throat, almost purring. It reminded him of Erestor, and Glorfindel felt as though he had been banged over the head with a hammer by Aulë's immeasurable strength.
Never did he personally speak to the sinda, but kept his distance during the days leading up to the Council. It was not until the Council itself that he finally saw it, the undeniable proof that this child could not possibly be the mere son of Thranduil of Doriath, a stubborn but cold-hearted creature who had none of the intrinsic, unmistakable passion that marked, like a blazing torch in the blackness of the moonless night, the presence of temperamental blood.
Legolas had the fire. During the Council, he leapt to his feet as though struck by a whip, beautiful face marred by an all-too-familiar scowl, and Glorfindel's mind whispered of Caranthir Fëanorion traitorously. "This is Aragorn, son of Arathorn. You owe him your allegiance," Legolas growled, wild eyes burning at the sting of insult towards a man he considered to be a worthy friend and companion. Such an expression sent shudders running from the base of Glorfindel's spine, up his back and down again, icy understanding settling in the bottom of his stomach and radiating sharply outwards through his knotted innards.
Thranduil was keeping a secret.
And when Legolas leapt forth and threw himself into the heart of the quest--"You have my bow!"--Glorfindel's throat tightened, bewildered at the dread tugging at his heartstrings. It was an oath, an oath to give away his young life to the Ringbearer to use as the naive little hobbit saw fit. And those eyes were brighter than stars in the day's twilight, that lithe body near humming in anticipation and power.
The Spirit of Fire was molded into this young soul as surely as it was entwined with all the descendants of that cursed House.
And all things started well by the Dispossessed were doomed to end in failure.
Glorfindel could not strike the memory of heat radiating outwards from the young soul, even long after the Fellowship of the Ring had departed. He could not help but wonder... and suspect...
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
For fun. Originally, I wasn't going to write anything even close to this. Actually, I was going to do a "retake" of a story I had written to this same prompt more than two years ago, but then I was reading Hobbit fanfiction and focused on dwarves and was reading about Kíli and started thinking about characters who had "fire" who weren't members of the House of Fëanor and came up with Legolas. And then, thinking about it, it all made perfect sense and everything in the world was good. That is how this came about. New plot-bunny maybe?
Listening to In Memoriam, a Globus play off of the Immediate Music piece Journey to Glory. I like the male singer's voice, which is partially why I picked it. That, and I accidently found the Immediate Music version and was like "Hey, I recognize that!", and so like a dork I had to go and listen to the Globus version and... yeah...
If I ever find a satisfactory fanart of Legolas I'll let you know. You I must say that Orlando Bloom is a pretty damn hot elf. Definitely looking foward to seeing him in the next Hobbit movie. You seen the interesting little blog preview that Peter Jackson did? I have! *is so hyped* I can't wait!
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)