Objective

Canon-compliant AU.  Elenwë is a matchmaker at heart.  But really, it isn't as if Amarië is objecting.  Quenya names used, so Finrod = Findaráto, Turgon = Turukáno, Fingon = Findekáno, Argon = Arakáno and Idril = Itarillë.  This is a sequel to "Helping Hand", but if they aren't completely compatible write it off as me having too many other things on my mind this late at night.  I really need sleep.  Anyway, Amarië is not actually Elenwë's cousin in Tolkien-canon, but she is in my head-canon.  So there.  Takes place in Valinor in the Years of the Trees.

Disclaimer: I don't own the Silmarillion

Pairings: Finrod x Amarië, Turgon x Elenwë (background)

Characters: Elenwë, Amarië, Finrod, Turgon, Idril (mentions Fingon, Argon, Finwë and the Valar)

Warning: canon-compliant AU, fluffy romance, women being smarter and having more power than people think, I blame Downton Abbey for this entire piece

Song: The Suite

Words: 2,321
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objective (noun): something toward which effort is directed: an aim, goal, or end of action; a strategic position to be attained or a purpose to be achieved by a military operation
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/objective

Mission objective: initiate courting of Findaráto and Amarië

Easier said than done. But not impossible.  After all, he had dealt with the stubborn thick-headedness of the House of Finwë before.  And she could do it again.

No, most assuredly not impossible.

---

Lunch had quickly become excessively awkward.

Amarië was too shy to even look at her rescuer, who was (quite purposefully) positioned directly across from her at the table. It was not surprising. Elenwë had known her cousin since they were very young girls in the court of Ingwë, before they were even old enough to attend parties and dress in proper floor-length gowns, and Amarië had always been on the shy side, the sweet-hearted wallflower hiding in the corner of the room. It had always been Elenwë who was outgoing, who lured unsuspecting and handsome young men into their quiet little space.

But that now posed a serious problem. It was not Elenwë that Findaráto was meant to be "getting to know better".

"--and all the trouble we used to get into on the grounds of grandfather's estate! Turukáno and I are right around the same age, only a few months apart in our births, and we have been playmates since we could both walk."

Need to get them alone, or only I will be speaking to Findaráto.

She glanced at her husband's golden-haired cousin. And he had eyes only for Amarië.

"We were also playmates at a very young age," Elenwë butted in, unsurprised when Findaráto barely glanced towards her but focused his attention almost entirely upon the golden vision across the table as he nodded. "But I'm sure Amarië can discuss it further with you. I need to go and check on the baby. It is about the time that she usually awakens from her nap."

There was a flash of blue, the grateful gleam of beloved and familiar eyes to accompany just the slightest little ray of sun that was her cousin's smile. Even if there was nervousness, too, Amarië knew well her own weaknesses, particularly her crippling inability to hold conversation.

Unless alone with a man, that was.

"Of course, my lady," Findaráto replied. And didn't once glance in Elenwë's direction. Not even when she stood from the table and slipped out the door.

"Well, are you and Lady Elenwë the same as Turukáno and I, Amar-- ah, my lady?"

Elenwë leaned against the back of the dining room door, pressing her ear against the thick wood.

"You may call me Amarië..."

"Then it is only right you call me Findaráto as well, my la-- Amarië."

"Very well, Findaráto. And I... Well, yes, I suppose we are quite like to that..."

"Did you ever get up to any mischief?"

"Mischief!" Amarië sounded nearly scandalized. "Well, I never!"

Findaráto chuckled, and Elenwë could imagine him leaning across the table, propping his chin up on his knuckles, gazing as though at a vala in the flesh. "Even I, a prince, got into trouble as a lad."

"W-well... Well, I suppose there was this one time..."

Smiling to herself, Elenwë backed away from the door and headed for the nursery. The lovebirds would need a little bit of private conversation time.

And she was relieved to hear, when she returned an hour later, the mixture of laughter, the ringing bells of Amarië and Findaráto's lower rumble rolling out of the crack between door and frame. When she peered inside, the two were leaning over the table towards one another, vividly chatting amongst themselves and too focused to even notice Elenwë's presence in their reality. The food from lunch had grown cold and remained untouched. But it was a worthy sacrifice.

---

"Your cousin is delightful company, Lady Elenwë."

They were, as of then, walking sedately out to the patio for afternoon tea. Little Itarillë was perched against Elenwë's shoulder, cooing softly.

She turned towards her husband's cousin and smiled graciously up at him. "Amarië can be a bit shy, I am afraid, but she is such a sweet girl. Perhaps you wouldn't mind taking her out to see the gardens after tea? I'm afraid her ankle might still be smarting and I wouldn't want her to become stranded on the grounds a second time."

"I would be more than pleased," Findaráto assured her almost breathlessly. "She mentioned that she is fond of flowers."

Oh, did she?

"Quite so," Elenwë replied. "She is fond of roses especially."

If that wasn't a hint, then she didn't know what was.

And poor Findaráto merely bowed and escorted his cousin-in-law onto the patio. Not twenty minutes later, Elenwë was busy burping her infant daughter as she watched the pair slip away into the maze of the gardens. It was sweet, really, how Findaráto busied himself with assuring Amarië's precarious balance by offering his entire right side for her use. Never mind that it was horribly forward for a man to wrap his arm around a lady's back and shoulders in such a manner.

Who was there to see but Elenwë? And as for chaperones...

Well...

That would have been counterproductive.

She was, however, quite pleased to see both a healthy blush on her cousin's glorious face, a lovely pink accent to match the rose carefully braided into waves of molten gold, upon the return of the pair from their private "outing". The two women's eyes met, and the light reflected back from her quiet cousin's gaze was both grateful and calculating.

And if Findaráto was too much of a bull-headed male to realize that the tiny beauty he cradled in his arms was more mischievous than anyone ever gave her credit for... well, Elenwë was hardly going to be the one to burst his bubble of naivety.

Amarië was her best friend, and no one knew either of them better than did the other.

---

It was well into the evening before Turukáno joined them.

Occupied as he was, though, with cradling and spoiling little Itarillë, Elenwë found herself free to observe her newest matchmaking scheme slowly unfolding beneath her watchful and expectant gaze. Everything was going along delightfully according to plan. Findaráto had been unable to remove his eyes from his new sweetheart all evening.

Even Turukáno had noticed and was sending his cousin strange looks.

"It is getting rather late, do you not think so?" Elenwë murmured, her voice hushed but still loud enough to interrupt the one-sided staring contest between the golden-haired cousins.

"You are most correct, my lady," Findaráto agreed.

"Perhaps it is about time I went up to my room, but... I'm afraid that I don't think I can walk up the stairs on my own," Amarië whispered, heavenly eyes downcast with modesty. False modesty. They exchanged a look between them.

There weren't many ways to get a man alone in a lady's chambers, but this was one of them. Elenwë winked and inclined her head. She had just the thing.

Turning towards her husband's clueless cousin, she clucked her tongue and shook her head, feeling the tiny escaped strands of golden hair brush her cheeks and hide her eyes. "My dear cousin, Findaráto, would you be so kind as to help Amarië up the stairs? I am quite afraid that I should not be doing any lifting of any sort for at least a few weeks more after the birth. Turukáno is quite worried that I might injure myself..."

"O-of course!" He was on his feet faster than she could blink and offering his arm to Amarië like the prince he had been raised to be.

And dear Amarië was smart enough to trip as she attempted to stand.

"Are you quite well?"

"I think m-maybe I won't be able to walk at all," she whispered, biting her lower lip. "Would it be terribly forward of me to ask that you carry me, Findaráto? I think all that walking earlier in the garden must have tired me out because my ankle smarts quite so..."

"Let me help!" She was up in his arms as easy as that. Elenwë waited until the man's back was turned to lift a hand and cover the laughter trying desperately to escape her lips.

And over his shoulder, Amarië returned the wink with a tricky little smirk.

And just as they disappeared out of sight, Turukáno gave her one of those looks, his dark brow rising. "My cousin has no idea what he has gotten himself into, does he?  But I can see that you have plans for the two of them.  Does he not get a say in the matter, my love?"

"In what matter?" she replied. "I have no idea what you are speaking of, husband."

"Sure..." He rolled his eyes and pressed a kiss to baby Itarillë's nose. "Do not grow up to be just like your mother.  I do not know if I could stand living with two of you.  Mischievous, crafty, calculating creatures, you women are."

"We are not all that bad."

He sent her a look from the corner of his eye, and she could see him smirking. "I suppose not that terrible.  After all, I was once that naive sap being led around the nose, and I ended up with a beautiful wife and a perfect daughter.  I'm sure my cousin will survive the ravages of courtship and family as well."

"And be happier for it," she added, standing to give her husband a kiss on the cheek, which he dutifully returned.

"Happier for it indeed."

---

It was almost disappointing that there had been no sign of impending courtship by the time Findaráto was set to depart the next day. There had been no talk whatsoever of the two cousins meeting once again or perusing Ingwë's famous rose gardens together in the twilight or spending a day together in Tirion and eating lunch at one of the restaurants in the city.  Let alone talk of Findaráto actually calling on the young woman at her father's estate with a bouquet of her favorite flowers and a mandatory recitation of flattering poetry, the marks of a true and committed suitor.

"Well, we are sad to see you going so soon," Elenwë told them as she hugged Findaráto and pressed warm kisses to his cheeks. "Take care and come visit soon."

"Aye, you wouldn't want to deprive your poor cousin of the only male company to be dredged up around here," Turukáno added as he gripped his cousin's forearms tightly. "Have a safe trip back, and give Findekáno and Arakáno my love."

"Wouldn't forget it," Findaráto reassured, grinning broadly.  And then he turned to Amarië, and the hopelessly smitten smile on his face was all Elenwë needed to see to know that he was about to broach the subject she had been breathlessly waiting for since last evening. "Will you be staying much longer, my lady?"

"Oh, no, I do not think so," Amarië murmured, looking down at her slipper-clad feet. "I will be on my way back to Valimar tonight and will hopefully be home by evening on the morrow.  It... It was nice meeting you, Findaráto.  By the grace of the Valar, may our paths cross again."

The golden-haired elf's chest expanded, heaving upwards with a deep intake of breath, shuddering with nervousness as he sighed. "I... my lady Amarië, I was... Before I leave, if I could..."

And her cousin's eyes opened fully, looking up at the prince with the faintest tinged with surprised delight hidden beneath a sunny exterior.  Elenwë leaned forward on her heels, firmly ignoring the impolite sound that Turukáno made at her side as he observed the exchange, knowing very well what was about to escape from his poor, besotted cousin's lips.

"What is it, my lord?"

"If it would please you, would... would you mind if I paid visit to your house in Valimar?  If... if it is no trouble, that is..."

"Of... of course it would not be!" Amarië exclaimed. "I... I mean..."

"Truly?"

"I-it would please me greatly if you would visit me, prince Findaráto."

"Please, just Findaráto.  There is no need for formality between... between friends."

"Alright, Findaráto, then," Amarië corrected softly, her gaze every bit as besotted as her suitor's. "I would be most pleased if you would visit me in Valimar.  I can show you around the city, if you like, and perhaps even Taniquetil if you have the time to spare."

"I would make the time to spare," he replied, reaching out to grasp the young lady's dainty hand and press a kiss against her knuckles.  And not an airy, barely-there brush of the lips sort of kiss, but a true skin-to-skin press of flushed skin to bone. "I shall send word, then, my lady.  Expect my visit."

And Amarië was flushed, but there was a triumphant gleam in her eyes. "I shall await you anxiously, Findaráto."

And Elenwë, safely tucked away in her husband's arms, watching the lovebirds who had thoroughly forgotten the existence of anyone else in the world but one another, felt a matching smirk adorn her plush lips at the sight.

Mission objective: attained.

It had been close, but Elenwë had never failed in her matchmaking before.  And, perhaps, a little trip to Valimar to visit her dearest cousin and observe the courtship burning brightly on the horizon would not be remiss.  All she needed to do was convince Turukáno of the advantages of being more closely linked and politically aware of the workings of Ingwë's court.  And while he was away mingling and coaxing and being a prince, she would be...

Mission objective: initiate formal engagement of Findaráto and Amarië.

She would be assuring the success of her newest self-appointed task as the family matchmaker.
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As mentioned above, I blame Downton Abbey for all of this.  I was watching it earlier with my mother and got so caught up that I didn't get writing done.  So I suppose in truth I wasn't exactly "busy", but nevertheless was occupied and enjoying myself.  I hadn't expected blogger to create such annoying complications.  Honestly, having to stop every ten seconds to wait for it to try and save everything.  For a touch-typer like me, having to pause is torture of a cruel and unusual sort.

Anyway, listening to The Suite by John Lunn from--you guessed it!--Downton Abbey.  Love this song so much for reasons I cannot even explain.  It just makes me very, very happy.  And it somehow fits the series so perfectly, and because all of that English nobility interaction inspired this... thing... above, I thought it was the perfect match.

But beyond that, the idea actually came from My Candy Love, that ridiculous internet dating game that I should find abhorrent but with shamelessly admit to playing anyway.  My sister actually was the one who mentioned it, but they have "objectives" for each episode of the game, usually involving flirting in some way, shape or form, and thus the idea of Elenwë having a mission objective to get Finrod and Amarië together was born.  Honestly, of all the strange sources of inspiration...

Shame

Mellow Soulmate AU.  Valthoron is too young to know the truth of his conception and birth, but not too young to be too observant for his own good.  All Sindarin names.  And no, all Noldor are not just hated because of the Kinslayings.  They came to Beleriand and started a war with Morgoth and dragged everyone into it, and then on top of that slaughtered their own kin, and thus they are heavily disliked, but the Kinslayers most of all.  And Valthoron's parentage isn't all that hard to uncover, as you shall see.  Connected up with "Cheat" and "Catatonic" and all other related pieces.  Takes place probably on the eastern side of Ered Luin in the First Age.

Disclaimer: I do not own the Silmarillion (but Valthoron is mine)

Pairings: background Amrod x Thranduil (non-con)

Characters: Valthoron (OMC), Thranduil (mentions Oropher and other Sindar/Nandor)

Warning: very AU but could follow canon, past non-con, slash, dysfunctional family, possible child-neglect/abuse, unhealthy mental states

Song: Utsusemi

Words: 1,530
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shame (noun): a painful emotion caused by consciousness of guilt, shortcoming, or impropriety; a condition of humiliating disgrace or disrepute: ignominy; something that brings censure or reproach
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/shame?show=0&t=1369952057

Early on, Valthoron learned that being different was not something of which to be proud.

It was an unspoken resentment which festered about him as a haze of discontent and unease, but he could sense it as surely as he could see the stars in the sky.  Could feel it in the sting of eyes between his shoulder blades and the slice of bladed words whispered behind raised hands.  He might be young and he might be foolish, but he wasn't blind and he wasn't stupid.

He could hear them speak.

Demon.  A creature of darkness and wickedness come to despoil their home.

Murderer.  Even though he had never harmed even the most helpless of woodland creatures.

Golodh.

But he didn't know what that last one meant.  He thought it might be a curse.  One worse than being called a servant of darkness or a cold-blooded killer.

He was the shadow child with the hair of flames.  A sign, they claimed, of his tainted spirit and blackened soul, so hot with rage and wrath that the hair that should have been silvered blond instead came out red as molten metal in a forge's bellows.  The other children wouldn't dare talk to him or play with him, and the adults just watched him walk past as a ghost through their forest, the underlying hardness in their gazes keeping him well out of reach.

Because they looked like they would strike him if he so much as dared part his lips to ask for directions.  Valthoron learned his way around quickly.  Alone.

But none of these words or looks could compare to the agony of being at home.

Looking into his grandfather's eyes and seeing the same wariness, the same veiled revulsion, was a thousand and tenfold times worse.  Oropher was never obvious about his displeasure, never glared so sharply or snarled so viciously as the strangers whose names were as phantoms in Valthoron's memory, but beneath layers and layers of protective, cautious cold in turquoise eyes, there existed that same spark--that glimmer of shadows that sent shudders down the young elf's spine, the glimmer of their eyes--that narrowed his dark eyelashes over blue and furrowed brows into a dark glance.

Oropher would not touch him except to pull his arm or scold with a rap to the knuckles.  He would not kiss Valthoron's brow, not like parents and grandparents kissed their own offspring's foreheads and temples.  He would not braid the wild mess of curly hair spilling over Valthoron's shoulders, would not even stroke his fingers through it, as though it were actually fire instead of silk.  As if his fingers might truly be blackened to a crisp of they dared get close enough to be burned.

But worse still were the times when he would see a spark of fear in his beloved ada's eyes.  When he would curl up at Thranduil's side and look up, and the eyes that held such affection and love would flash suddenly dark and wild and distant with memories of other places, when the hand hovering over his cheek or his hair would flinch away, would hesitate as if waiting for him to bite.

And Valthoron hated it.  Was ashamed of it.  Of himself.

He looked into the river, looked into his reflection, into the high cheekbones and slightly cleft chin and the vibrant curls and the brilliant blue eyes, and wondered what he had done that was so terrible.  Wondered what was wrong with him that his father could not even touch him, that his grandfather would not kiss him.

Wondered if it was the hair like fire waiting to strike in the darkness.

Wondered and lingered and despised it so much that one day, he stole a knife from the kitchen and hacked it off as he gazed on in the water.  Grabbed a handful of the soft curls and tugged a knife against his scalp, feeling the waves of hair come loose into his fist.  And he threw them in the river, watched the water put out their heated spark of wickedness, watched it carry away his shame.

Watched and watched and watched until only ragged clumps of the startling redness were left behind.  It was all shorn as short as he could reach without cutting open his skin.

And it wasn't enough, because he could still only see the red.

---

His father was first to see him.

There was a startled gasp and the sound of a plate breaking against the wooden floor as it was dropped from nerveless fingers.  The young elf looked up into the endless blue, wide and clear and bright with shock. "Valthoron, what happened?"

The hand that ran through the mess that had once been his mane of curls did not hesitate, and its touch was like water on a burn, washing away the near-constant ache.  If it had drawn away, the young elf thought he might have died on the spot from the wrenching pain crouching in his chest, waiting to strike down his quickly throbbing heart.

"I..."

"Did someone do this to you?" A soft hand cupped his cheek, lifting his face from where it had been downcast. "Tell me what happened, ion-nín!"

Shyly, he glanced upwards, almost wishing he still had a curtain of red hair behind which to hide from the concern glowing back at him.  He didn't want to make his ada upset, and Thranduil certainly did not seem as pleased as Valthoron would have hoped at the loss of so much of the redheaded monstrosity that made him wince in fright.

"I cut it off." Valthoron paused, eyes averted once again in utter shame. "It makes everyone unhappy, so I cut it off."

I make everyone unhappy.  But I can't just disappear.  I would, if it would not make you sad.

"Oh, little one... say not such things..."

"It's true," he insisted, and winced at the burn of tears behind his eyes, overflowing.  He could already feel the itch in his nose and the swelling around his eyes from the oncoming flood.  That glimmer of light certainly wasn't a minute crystal on his lashes. "It makes Daeradar angry.  And it makes you scared.  It makes everyone glare at me all the time and no one will talk to me or play with me. I hate it!"

I hate me.  And even cutting away all the red won't change me enough to make you happy.

And he was crying and pathetic and didn't dare look up at his father's face.  Because he was afraid of what he might see staring back.

At least until a gentle hand cupped the back of his neck and guided his cheek to a shoulder, to the heartbeat steadily pounding beneath his ear.  Croons rippled through him in soothing waves as familiar hands stroked his back and wrapped around him tight.

"I love all of you," his ada told him, chin settled in the nest of shorn red hair, breath stirring the uneven locks without fear of being scorched. "Every single part of you, even your beautiful hair."

"It's ugly and horrible--demon hair made of fire."

"It is thick and soft and made of the finest silk.  It is cool to the touch and so very bright, a candle to fight back the darkness." A kiss was pressed against his temple, and Valthoron felt the constriction around his chest loosening.  Until he could breathe.  Until he could sob. "It is different, but it is glorious and nothing of which to be ashamed, my sweet ion-nín."

But then why?  Why does everyone look at me so?  What is wrong with me?

He must have spoken aloud, because the arms around him pulled tighter, squeezed him closer until Valthoron felt surrounded by warmth and safety and the scent of forest and light.  The scent of his ada.  "Nothing," Thranduil whispered against his hair. "There is nothing wrong with you, my perfect little one." A kiss was pressed to his forehead, and he was rocked as a young child through the convulsive jerks of hitched breaths.

"And never let anyone tell you any different.  You are perfect just as you are, my Valthoron."

And his ada was still stroking tender fingers through the red, over and over until even the sobs died away and the tears ran dry.  Until he was spent and exhausted and limp in those arms.  But some of the weight, the terrible heaviness sitting on his shoulders, was lessened. And the frightening words sifting through the back of his mind quieted into inaudible whispers, driven back by the sweet lullaby in his ears.

If only his ada loved him, it would be enough.  If only Thranduil could look at him, red and all, and smile and laugh and kiss his cheeks, it would be enough.  If only the person he loved most in the world would be happy without fear and darkness, it would be enough.

Enough to quell the shame.  If only.
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Ah, sorry about the angst.  I can't help myself.  Anyway, I didn't want to make this all about daddy-issues (because that would be a Teldanno repeat), but at the same time I think being half-Noldor in a time like immediately following the Second Kinslaying and Nirnaeth Arnoediad would be tough, especially if you were the child of rape.  I can't imagine the Sindar were feeling too friendly toward any of the Noldor.  And, really, even Oropher and Thranduil are having problems--not because they don't love the kid, but because it's hard to forget how he came about and the trauma involved.

The song, of course, compounded upon the angst and made the ending not as happy as I had originally imagined it.  Oh, the power of the two saddest words in any language.  Anyway, listening to Utsusemi by Yasuharu Takanashi from Naruto Shippuuden OST II.  Every time I hear this song, I think about Itachi dying.  Itachi, why didst thou have to die? *sobs*

Sorry about that.  I have the same reaction to thinking about Gin Ichimaru from Bleach.  My favorite characters always die.  But in all honesty, that just gets me more attached than I was to begin with.  Exhibit 1: Quenta Silmarillion.  How many characters die in this one again?  Only, like, almost all of them. *cough*

Go

Mellow Soulmate AU.  Thranduil may not be able to kill Amrod, but can he live with him?  All Sindarin names, once again.  Because I'm a lazy shit.  This is a continuation of "Divided" and "Victory" but occurs before "Delivery".  Technically, these pieces all happen in the time-frame of "Cheat", but that's beside the point.  Following Cheat-canon LOL.  Takes place somewhere in Mirkwood early in the Third Age.

Disclaimer: I do not own the Silmarillion

Pairings: Amrod x Thranduil

Characters: Thranduil, Amrod (mentions Eru, Fëanor, Nerdanel, Amras and the other Fëanorions)

Warning: extremely AU, slash, mild sexual content, past non-con, past violence/murder, stalking behavior, past m!preg, insanity

Song: Broken

Words: 1,759
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go (verb): to move on a course: proceed; to move out of or away from a place expressed or implied: leave, depart
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/go

It was utterly terrifying.

The affection.  The dependency.  The wanting.

The smile that wanted to twist his lips when green eyes blinked up at him beneath shy, dark lashes in the early morning light.  The unceasing urge to run his hands over rippling muscles, shadowed and gracefully curved, and watch them ripple and flex at his every whim.  The want that settled low inside him, that screamed to be touched in return, to be kissed and caressed from head to toe, to have words of love and devotion whispered beneath his jaw as his spirit touched the sky at the heights of ecstasy.

But the most frightening were the moments between the bouts of forgetfulness, when his mind was not lost beneath the shattered remains of that dam once tasked to hold back the oblivion of pleasure and passion.

Those moments, he would lie in the grass and feel the closeness of the other body beside his, the radiation of white-hot spirit melting against his skin, dripping in a veil of sweat down his nape to be lapped up by a hot tongue and brushed away by honeyed lips.  And he would shudder with desire, with the need to be close to his other half, to be wrapped up in powerful arms, to be stroked and kissed and loved.

But in the back of his mind there was always that little voice, no longer locked away tight behind invisible bars.

That little voice that wondered when he had begun to need this tainted touch.

That little voice that wondered to where his pride and dignity had vanished.

That annoying and insidious and painfully observant voice that whispered the word traitor and whore in the back of his mind.  What kind of king was so weak-willed to need comfort--to need companionship and union of the body--from the man who had destroyed his young innocence, who had ripped apart his fragile world and left behind shambles?  What kind of person was he, that he woke up each morning in the calm silence with the fading stars overhead and wished he would never need to leave this little slice of perfection that was the silken blanket of red curls and the heavy, steady beat of a heart beneath his ear?

And every little brush of skin on skin would burn as a fresh wound.  Every kiss would feel as acid upon his flesh.  Because he shouldn't love this man, shouldn't desire him, shouldn't need or want him.  Thranduil knew he should want to be as far away as possible, that the color of russet on emerald in his peripheral vision and the kisses pressed across his shoulder blades should make his stomach turn in revulsion, should incite the wicked memories of blackened, maddened eyes and cruel, bruising hands and ears deaf to screams and pleas.

Who wouldn't have been frightened and uncertain?

No matter how wonderful the catharsis of forgetting was, no matter how it filled him with brief joy and bliss, it was hollow in the end.  Because the memories and thoughts would return, and the incessant voice would hiss in the back of his mind.  And his body and heart would betray him again and again.

Until the uncertainty was eating him alive, gnawing in the pit of his belly as he laid in the lazy afternoon sunshine, bare and vulnerable with the company of the last person he should desire at his back, with that embrace hot around his waist, feeling safe and secure and altogether dangerous.

And suddenly he needed to stand.  He needed to go.  Somewhere.  Anywhere but here.

He needed to think.  He needed fresh air without the scent of cinnamon burned onto his tongue and golden bubbles of arousal rising in his belly.  He needed the feeling of fabric covering naked skin and weighing down his too-free limbs.  He needed to be able to breathe without the heady lightheadedness of fear twisting and turning inside.

He needed to get away from this illusion!

And he needed it now.  Or he thought he might...

"Amrod..."

Or he might give in to the madness offered so freely.  He might never leave again.  And he would be a prisoner to temptation and empty forgetfulness.

And he feared.

---

Only a fool would expect paradise to last forever.

Amrod knew it was not forever--not eternal light driving away the darkness.  He knew that the bliss they had was only temporary, no matter how much his heart clenched at the creeping thought, no matter how much he longed to deny the truth and look the other direction.  Ignorance had never offered reward or relief in his long, painful life, and it was not a path down which he would wander after thousands of years of failure and disappointment and torment.

He could see the way shoulders would tense as his fingers skimmed across their smoothness.  He could see how eyes would flicker in wary surprise when he brushed through long, pale hair and held it to his nose to take in the lush scent.  He could see the shivers and shudders and twitches that followed his slow movements and the rise and fall of his callused warrior's hands.

He could see the fear that writhed beneath the protective exterior.  Because Thranduil could never hide anything from his gaze, not even behind a dozen layers of chilled nonchalance and royal heraldry.

Nervousness ran heavy and bitter through the air in moments of quiet when they were not in the throes of passion or the afterglow in the aftermath.  Like a cracked glass heart on the edge of a shelf, Thranduil was just waiting to shatter.  One wrong move could tip the bauble from the wooden corner to plummet to unforgiving marble below.

Or perhaps it was already plummeting, and Amrod was far too late to catch it before it smashed against the ground into a million shards, cutting through his flailing hands like poisoned knives.

Because no matter how much he knew, he was all too aware that this paradise--this delicate creation--was all that stood between himself and a different sort of oblivion.

He was just as fragile as Thranduil, and he did not know if he could bear to go back to the way things were before the brief moments of soothing love-making and gentle words.  Could he spend forever watching from the shadows?  Forever lamenting what could never be changed or mended?  Would it not drive him insane?

But if Thranduil asked...

And he knew that day was coming.

"Amrod..."

Shaky and wavering, too soft and too diffident for his assured, adamantine royal lover.  He rolled his head around, pressed his cheek to the grass, and looked upwards at his companion's enchanting dark lashes and the waves golden hair gleaming bright beneath Arien's touch.  It was a different sort of warmth, this presence.  But it could not hold off the cold growing... "Yes, my sinda?"

"I..." Lips that had been kissed until they were swollen and red parted, fluttered helplessly with silent direction.  Eyes as clear forest pools were darkened and looked away, anywhere but into his attentive gaze.  And Amrod shivered with his personal make of fear, the chill of cruel fate creeping down his spine as surely as the sun sank into the West.

"I need... I need to..."

Thranduil did not want to say it.  Feared saying it.  Feared his reaction to being rejected and cast aside as a used bit of trash.  Feared that Amrod might tie him up, keep him prisoner in this dark forest where no one could ever find him or save him from captivity.  Feared to be raped again.

Feared to be destroyed again.

The little fool.

The urge was there.  It never left.  No man touched by thirst for blood and death was ever empty of its ravages.  No man who had killed in the midst of madness could ever erase the addictive burst of power that filled his blood at the screams of his kill, at the sight of their crimson life spreading over his skin in hot slick waves.

But Amrod would never allow that side of him to win again.  Never again.  Once had been enough to destroy every hope and wish he had ever possessed, enough to rend apart the bright future of a boy who only wanted to please his father and brothers but missed his mother and twin terribly.  Enough to destroy Amrod Fëanorion as thoroughly and completely as Thranduil of Doriath.

His One had asked.

"Go," he whispered.  He was proud when his voice failed to waver and flounder, was not lost and adrift in the wound being reopened and bled a second time, rubbed with salt and filled with poison.

It was worth it to see those eyes look at him.  Look into him.  Clear and deep and wonderful, glittering with the light of the stars, divine.  Beyond his reach.  But looking at him, taking him in, widened at the sound of his soft voice and broken answer.

Waiting for that single word to be revoked.  But Amrod would not take it back.

"I said, go," he repeated, louder but with less force.

It wasn't about him anymore.  It never should have been to begin with.  And the delusion upon which was built the foundation of his happiness would crumble into nothingness, and he would fall and fall to a fate that only Eru could knew.

It hurt to watch the naked body he knew better than his own rise from their shared bed of grass, their simple home in the forest.  It hurt to hear the soft pad of bare feet on flexible blades, moving away instead of toward.  It hurt like nothing had ever hurt before to hear no words of parting, no last whispers of love and affection, no little piece of hope to cling to desperately in the darkness just waiting for that last little candle of Thranduil's presence to go out.

But he did not rise from the empty forest bed.  Did not speak another word.  Did nothing but watch the bare back disappear between the trees and the footsteps fade into horrifying silence.  Emptiness.

Arien's touch was cold and the stars' lights were pale.  The world was dark and gray.

But he couldn't see Thranduil's eyes filled with terror and hate.  Not again.  And that was all that mattered.
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It took me a while to find the right prompt to write this scene.  I had "Victory", where Thranduil gives in to Amrod's seduction (with some interesting motivations--and a good thing, too, since the "special delivery" that follows wouldn't have existed if he hadn't in this AU-canon) and then "Delivery" where it seemed that he had once again decided not to be with his One.  Thus I had to find a way to connect the two.  It made sense in my head, but I just needed a catalyst to write it, and a good song.

Speaking of the song, it actually fits rather well this time and inspired a little bit of the piece just from the lyrics along.  I'm not much of a Leona Lewis fan (my best friend is; he stole my Leona Lewis CD and never gave it back *cough*), but Broken for some reason reached me.  And it just fits so well with the prompt that I just had to use it.

And for kicks because I need cheering up: Thranduil at the throne by ~M-azuma on dA.  C'mon Amrod, tell me you don't want to do that~ I'm almost tempted to write it, right there on the throne.

Cleansed

Mellow Soulmate AU. Maeglin has been reborn (with some changes) and meets Elladan post-Celebrían's departure. They eventually become something like friends. Now, Maeglin's changes... He was reborn a girl. For shits and giggles. Seriously. Rule 63. It wouldn't leave me alone. I wanted slash without the slash, but I hate creating shallow OFCs and it fits so perfectly with "Loveless" that I couldn't help myself. So yeah. Lómion was "child (read: son) of the twilight", therefore Lómiel is "daughter of the twilight". Gender-flip. Takes place in Imladris about mid-Third Age.

Disclaimer: I don't own the Silmarillion or Lord of the Rings

Pairings: pre-Elladan x Maeglin

Characters: Maeglin, Elladan (mentions Elrond, Elrohir, Celebrían, Turgon, Idril, Aredhel and Eöl)

Warning: extremely AU, not slash, rebirth, shameless genderbending, mentions of death and betrayal, semi-graphic memories of torture, allusions to rape, minor violence, crying

Song: I Will Be

Words: 2,718
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cleanse (verb): clean; to rid of impurities by or as if by washing
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/cleanse

Her first encounter with Elladan was tense and full of white-hot rage.

It wasn't shocking. Everyone in the valley knew of the tragedy that had befallen the House of Elrond. And everyone also knew of the dangerous and unstable reaction of Elrond's twin sons to their mother's capture, torture and departure to Aman. Like a shroud of death and mourning, the sorrow of their Lord and the hatred of his sons laid heavily over their blessed valley as a long storm lingering at the base of the mountains that refused to dissipate and let the land recover in light.

It rained. And rained.

To Lómiel, this was nothing out of the ordinary. Her past had been full of these long years, years spent wishing her mother had never thrown herself in harm's way for the sake of a useless, ungrateful child, wishing that her father's love for his family would have stayed his prideful, tragic actions, wishing that the only family she had left did not look upon her as a curse and a burden of remembrance with their dark, leery eyes and pitying glances.

Such had been the existence of Maeglin of Gondolin.

And though that was another lifetime ago--another lifetime of chilled, unrequited love and passion turned to hatred and bitter longing--her actions still laid heavily upon her heart and always would, an equally dark and mournful storm of self-hatred and guilt that would never break apart to reveal sunshine overhead.

Happiness was not a gift she would ever wish for or ask for, not now and not ever. She dared not think herself worthy of such mercy. But there were others who deserved it, and that it was brutally ripped away rankled her as nothing before. She, as many other occupants of the valley, wished she could do something to help their beloved Lord and his sons recover from tragedy and heartbreak.

Until that fateful day she would never have dared attempt to console either of the sons of Elrond. She understood that words from a stranger would not be enough to chase away guilt and sorrow.

But when faced with a weeping Elladan alone in the gardens, what was she to do?

"Are... Are you all right, my Lord?"

Her movements prior to voicing concern were soft and hesitant, barely brushing the lush carpet of grass beneath bare feet. Hearing someone so near startled the young lord so badly that she found herself with a knife's wicked edge pressed to her windpipe and a vice-like grip about her middle, pinning her arms against her sides.

A hot cheek was pressed against hers, but it was slick with moisture. The scent of salt burned into her nose.

"P-please, I... I meant no harm..." she whispered. "L-lord Elladan?"

Whatever had come over him was gone in an instant, and he threw her ungracefully upon the ground with a scoff of disgust. When she looked up, Lómiel faced eyes glistening with untamed fury, with hatred pointing outwards as a threatening blade to cleave her in two if she stepped any closer. "Foolish girl," the heir snarled, lip curling up in disdain. "You should know better than to infringe upon the privacy of others, lest you get hurt. Now leave."

"B-but, my Lord..."

"I said leave!"

She left, almost running in her haste to escape the intense wave of murderous intent in the air. But not before she glimpsed his tense jaw and glistening eyes. Not before she glimpsed the familiar pain that resonated with her suffering.

The seed had been planted and the rain continued to fall to earth.

She could hardly resist returning.

---

It was a long while before she dared "infringe upon his privacy" again, but Lómiel knew the confrontation was inevitable. She may have changed much after the Halls, but she was still herself, still naturally curious with the Noldorin stubbornness of her mother and the sheer pig-headedness of her father.

And thus she came to stumble upon the same clearing in the garden, upon the same sight of Elrond's eldest son sitting alone in the grass, staring into the distance with a scowl and teary eyes squinted against the barrage of tears beating down the gates of pride and feigned strength. No matter that he was angry and full of black hatred; Elladan was still a boy who missed his mother, who blamed himself for failing to protect her from the evil in the world.

And Lómiel could understand that better than her companion would probably ever know.

This time she didn't try to be quiet.

Elladan turned to look at her, and his eyes were piercing, sharp and accusing blades clashing violently against the shield of Lómiel's resolve. Squaring her shoulders, she walked right past the young Lord of the Valley and settled herself upon a stone bench.

"I told you to leave me alone," he growled.

"Feel free to continue sulking," she replied tartly. "I am merely admiring the roses, Lord Elladan."

"Sulking," he whispered, and she could see the fury bubbling under the surface, rising and boiling and burning. "You think I am sulking."

Lómiel had not anticipated him standing and crossing the space between them, heavy with overflowing tension, had not expected to be grabbed by the arms and shaken like a doll, had not expected the pain of deep muscle bruising as her bones creaked beneath his grasp. Had not expected to see his face inches away from her, contorted in a way she had seen only once before, only when her father had hurled a poisoned spear at her heart in an act of spontaneous and thoughtless violence.

And he shook her until her teeth rattled.

"Sulking!" Hot breath washed over her face with his shout. "A little girl like you would never understand! Maybe if I tortured your naneth to death, made her scream and cry and beg for mercy that would never come, maybe then you would understand my sulking!"

It was hard not to cry; the tears were beaded on her lashes as diamonds. But Lómiel breathed shakily and looked up at those eyes full of darkness.

"I live with my uncle," she whispered. "My nana has been gone for a very long time."

Shocked realization set in, the eyes so close widening until the whites showed. And she was released so suddenly that she nearly toppled backwards off the bench to the ground below at the sudden loss of his painful support. By the time she looked up with words upon her lips, Elladan was already gone, and she was alone.

---

He approached her first. Three days later.

"I... I am sorry... for what I did to you in the gardens... It was inappropriate behavior unbefitting an elf, and I am ashamed of my actions."

Lómiel turned towards the heir and found Elladan's eyes downcast, head bowed slightly. If there was shame in his eyes, she could not see it through the thick, dark lashes hiding swirling silver and shadows. But his voice was low and less acidic than usual, and she was inclined to believe his words and forgive his transgressions.

Of course, he didn't know that she still had bruises on her arms, and she didn't intend to tell him. The purple splotches were not visible through her sleeves, and it was not like she hadn't suffered worse. A few measly aches and some shaking could hardly compare to the time she had spent in the loving care of the Lieutenant of Angband as Maeglin. The words and assumptions about her worldliness and understanding had caused far deeper wounds. But maybe she deserved the derision.

"It is quite all right. There is nothing to be sorry for," she murmured, clutching her hands in her skirts. "You were upset, and I should have let you be, Lord Elladan."

"It absolutely is not all right," her companion growled. "You did nothing to... I should not have..."

"I was trying to help," she told him. "I pushed too far. I deserved your anger when I belittled your sorrow."

"It's not an excuse."

"Be that as it may, I shall not be encroaching upon your time alone again." And she meant it this time. It had been selfish and rude to put her curiosity above his comfort and security. Sweeping into a curtsey, she looked up at him again. "Have a good afternoon, Lord Elladan."

And she turned to leave.

"Wait..."

And paused.

"If... If you want... you are free to come back whenever you like. I would not want to disturb your admiration of the roses. And maybe... maybe I would not mind company every now and again..."

It was shy and strange coming from the normally self-assured and troubled half-elf. When she looked over her shoulder, his downcast eyes were most certainly averted from her face, and she could see that his hands were clutched tightly around the sleeves of his robes, crinkling the heavy fabric. His knuckles bled white as bone.

"I would like that," she murmured. And his hands unfurled as blossoms.

"I look forward to seeing you again." Elladan fidgeted and bowed stiffly. "A good afternoon to you as well, my Lady." And then he swept past her in a great rush, and Lómiel had the sneaking suspicion that he was embarrassed for desiring her companionship during such an intimate ritual of mourning. But she never said anything.

---

It seemed that the seed of curiosity had budded into a sprout and managed to survive the first treacherous onslaught of the elements. Lómiel found herself joining Lord Elladan in silence in their garden clearing at least once a week. They didn't speak often; sometimes he did not even look up from the scenes that played before his eyes as invisible reminders of his crimes. But she was there.

And, finally, he broached the subject that both of them had skirted around for a very long time. He, out of fury and denial. She, out of self-hatred and guilt realized and tended to perfection.

"I am sorry... about your naneth."

Surprised, Lómiel looked up at him, and he was staring straight into her eyes with his glazed orbs, always on the edge of tears but never brave enough to give in to their catharsis. She wished he wouldn't consider it a weakness to cry. But she never said, because it would have been hypocritical when she subscribed to exactly the same form of self-punishment.

"It was a very long time ago," she told him.

And he didn't believe her for a moment. It had been over a century since his mother's departure and he had not healed in the least. He understood that such wounds could linger and fester. "But you are still sad."

"It was my fault she died." And it had been. Many atrocities had been laid at her--at Maeglin's--feet in those dark days, and all of the blame and wary glances had been deserved in the end. "She took a poisoned spear to save me. She should have let me die."

"Say not such things!" Elladan, for once, looked neither furious nor despairing as he stood and crossed the space between them on winged feet. Instead, he was utterly scandalized. "That... It... Not... It is not your fault!"

"Is it not?" If Aredhel had lived and Maeglin had died, perhaps the future would have been different. Perhaps so many noble warriors and innocent citizens would not have died beneath fire and betrayal at the whims of Maeglin's madness and jealousy. "She died in my place."

And it was her fault. The writhing sea of guilt would never evaporate from her soul. Nothing could change the fact that she had destroyed her family.

"It is not your fault," he repeated fiercely, shaking his head as he knelt at her feet. His hands were warm when they grasped hers, but she would not allow that little bit of comfort--that horribly tempting lie--to assuage the pain of purgatory. "Never think that."

But maybe... maybe she could assuage his pain. Just a little.

"You should not blame yourself for your naneth's fading either, Elladan."

The soothing caress of his thumbs on the back of her hands ceased, frozen. When their eyes met, his were dark and clouded, both filled with rotting anger and with hatred, such cold hatred that she shivered before him at its icy touch, remembering other eyes filled with the same ash and flame.

"That is different," he whispered.

And she dared to squeeze his hands in her own. "No. It is not."

"It is," he hissed, and for a moment his grip was crushing. "I failed her. If we had been faster, if we hadn't fooled around like ridiculous elflings and had taken our mission seriously, we would have been there sooner. We could have saved her from... from..."

"You couldn't have known what--"

"That doesn't excuse us!" Her bones felt as though they would crack, and it took all her concentration to avoid wincing in agony. But then she remembered the feeling of having her fingernails removed one-by-one and decided a couple of broken fingers would hardly do her harm if it helped Elladan calm himself amidst the overflowing tide of rage burning through his veins. "We failed as sons and as protectors!"

"You did not fail Lady Celebrían." She pulled her hands from his grasp, and though they were already blotchy with the beginning of bruises, she cupped his cheeks and ran her thumbs beneath eyes pooled with hot tears of shame, the tears of a little boy whose world had been rent and torn to shreds. "She would have forgiven you in a heartbeat."

"No, no, it was our fault, and--"

"You did not do those horrible things to her." Lómiel forced him to look at her, forced him to see the present and not the visions that haunted his every waking moment, a torment all too familiar and poisonous. "You did not hurt her. You saved her and you were there when she needed you the most. There was nothing you could have done to prevent what happened; she made the decision to travel with only a handful of guards on her own, and there was no way you could have changed her mind or her fate. You do not control the world, Elladan."

He was shaking his head, but the tears were overflowing. And Lómiel felt relief with the next deep breath of rose-tinted air. Because she could see the tears washing away the dark stains, cleansing the innocence blackened by horror and guilt. Even if it was just the beginning of something beautiful, something inside her chest tightened, a knot forming in the back of her throat.

"We should have... should have..."

"Hush..." She wiped at the tears, but more came to replace them. These tears, though, were worthy of the Lady of Mercy, tears of healing and new life. "She would not have wanted you to blame yourself for her suffering."

And he wept. Lómiel pressed his face against her stomach and stroked her fingers through his dark hair, watching as he cried out so much pain and anger bottled up inside, layers and layers of soot and ash from his ravaged reality. And she was glad that she could, at the very least, be there for someone. Just once, she wasn't a burden or a traitor, but a helper, a healer.

And maybe seeing him smile for the first time afterwards cleansed a bit of the dark stain upon her soul as well. The sunlight of his happiness peeking through the thick clouds of despair was potent, warming her down to the bones. She liked this feeling. She liked the feeling of usefulness and companionship and affection.

She liked that she could help in a way no one had ever helped her. "Would you like to admire the roses with me, Lord Elladan?"

His face was blotchy and reddened, dried tear-tracks upon his cheeks, but that little crooked smile was there on the corners of his lips. "I would be honored, my Lady."

And the little sprout was blossoming beneath Arien's rays in the wake of devastation.
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Um... Oops? I didn't mean for this to become so long. It's almost three thousand words long. And all this time, I really should have been studying. But I wanted to get today's prompt done because I'm really busy today (as in Tuesday that started about an hour ago here). I was worried that I wouldn't have time to work on it later, so I thought I'd get it out of the way.

It was a passing idea that got a little out of control. Rule 63!Maeglin is something I thought of while on a sugar-high this morning from birthday cake and too much coffee. But surprisingly, I actually like her. I mean, I could have made this slash, but it works so much better with Maeglin as a girl. As for the intricacies of his genderbending... Well, let's just say that Mandos thought it was a good idea and failed to mention it when Maeglin decided to give life another go.

Was listening to I Will Be sung by Leona Lewis. I like the Avril Lavigne version as well, and I couldn't decide which I liked better, but this is the one I'm stuck on currently. It sort of inspired this story and some of its message. Besides, despite his harmonic cliche-ness, I really like the song for some inexplicable reason. I can never explain why, but sometimes there's just a little something special in there that captures me.

For kicks: Elladan and Elrohir (and a flipping adorable chibi!Estel) by ~blargberries on dA. Tell me that's not adorable. You know you can't do it.

Union

Mellow Soulmate AU.  The marriage of Beleg Cúthalion and Orodreth Finarfinion.  Quenya names used for Orodreth, so he's called Artaresto.  Also, Finrod = Findaráto, Finarfin = Arafinwë, Turgon = Turukáno and Maglor = Kanafinwë.  I've had this scene in my head for a while now and I'm not really satisfied with this version, but it will have to do for now.  Maybe I shall edit it later.  Continuation of "Grateful" and "Decent".  Takes place in Menegroth in the First Age.

Disclaimer: I don't own the Silmarillion

Pairings: Beleg x Orodreth

Characters: Orodreth, Beleg (mentions Finrod, Turgon, Maglor, Finarfin, Amarië, Elenwë and an OFC from other pieces)

Warning: rather AU, slash, non-explicit sex, kind of fluffy?, theories about the joining of souls and elven marriage, mentions death

Song: Never Forget

Words: 1,033
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union (noun): an act or instance of uniting or joining two or more things into one; a uniting in marriage; also: sexual intercourse; the growing together of severed parts; a unified condition: combination, junction
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/union

Sundering was always difficult.

Many times in the past, Artaresto had been privy to its monstrously devastating effects.  He had seen it in Findaráto when the eldest son of Arafinwë spoke of his beloved across the sea, the longing so potent it ached and burned as a physical wound.  He had seen it in Turukáno after his wife fell prey to the vicious tides and jagged ice of Helcaraxë, had seen how it scarred so deep that the wounds could never be healed.  He had even seen it in his cousin Kanafinwë, whose eyes were distant and sad when they were not veiled in protective ice, because his wife was far across those waves, and he would probably never hold her hand or kiss her cheek again with the oath hanging over his head.

But he had never experienced anything like it himself.  Sundering of fathers and sons was nothing like sundering of two parts of one whole.

And he understood that now.

Because the desperate and disappointed gleam of hazel eyes as they looked at him from beneath a mane of dripping silver hair struck him more fiercely than any physical blow or mocking taunt ever could.  Beleg stood with him in the rain, and Artaresto did not care that he was soaked to the bone and shivering, did not care about anything but the tremble of his other's hands as they reached out towards him in denial.

"I am leaving on the morrow," he whispered, voice oddly choked.  The hands froze mere inches from flesh, but did not dare touch. "I... I am sorry..."

There was a deep, shuddering breath, and Beleg's chest heaved, muscle rippling beneath the clinging fabric stuck to flesh. "You've naught to be sorry for," he finally replied, voice raw and low, barely audible beneath the sound of droplets in the trees. "But you know I cannot go with you."

And Artaresto's heart stuttered, because he did know.  Beleg Cúthalion was a warrior of Doriath, pledged to the service of their king, and he could not forsake his duties for the favors of a Noldorin healer.  Artaresto had known all along that they would never be able to stay together, live together as lovers in peace.

But still he could not resist falling for this pig-headed warrior's charm.

"You can," he whispered, and the healer took the hand hovering over his cheek, nuzzled into the rough palm and breathed deeply of freshly-fallen rain and something intrinsically his One.

The other hand cupped his nape tenderly, squeezing with hesitation. "Do you even know what you're saying, my dove?"

"Of course I do." Where he found the strength and the daring to press a kiss against parted, shocked lips, the inexperienced healer did not know, but he stood upon tip-toes and discovered that Beleg's lips were quite soft and pliant.

At least, until they kissed back, easily parting his own, consuming the soft moan that rose in reply.  And Artaresto, for his part, found himself reaching upwards to grasp at powerful shoulders, lost beneath a tide of heady taste and searing touch and vibrant sensation, eyelashes fluttering closed to the patter of raindrops on heated cheeks.

They did not remain standing for long, and it was cold and wet on the ground, but he barely noticed for the sudden fire moving as a wild creature beneath blood-flushed skin.  Nothing but Beleg could capture his attention.  Nothing but shockingly gentle caresses stroking downwards and soothing warmth burning into his muscles and the frightening, joyous thought of sacred joining that had his fingers scrambling across hard shoulders and flanks, that had his toes curling into the grass when they came together.

Until there was nothing left but him and his other half in the whole world.  Two as one.

---

There was sunshine when Artaresto awoke.  The darkness of night had passed, and the storm that had christened their hasty joining was gone as a phantom, leaving behind the dew dripping down from the cups of leaves and the songs of birds in the fresh air.

They were entwined, pressed together, skin to skin, and the healer sighed.  If he could have stayed here forever, he would have been happy to be naught but a Sindarin healer with no noble heritage and no royal duties, but he was a Noldorin prince, and as Beleg could not throw aside his oaths and responsibilities, neither could Artaresto.  And thus he squirmed out of powerful arms, untangling their limbs and the sodden blankets of silver hair until their bodies were two again.

But that did not stop him from pressing a faint kiss to his lover's brow and lips, smiling affectionately at how his warrior leaned into the touches and mumbled low in rest, arms reaching for the other half of their union.

The healer slipped into his wet robes, stained with grass and dirt, and left his lover beneath the shade of the trees.  No goodbye would be necessary, and he would not offer one.

Because they were not truly sundering.  Even at this moment, Artaresto felt the heated glow within him, the warmth and comfort of Beleg's presence stretching and purring just beneath the membrane of his skin.  He was not alone.

They were as one.  A union of two souls and two spirits.  And Artaresto was never going to be alone again.  Beleg Cúthalion would always be there with him, and he with Beleg.  Even if they never laid eyes upon the other again.  Even if they never shared in the intimacy of closeness or the warmth of a physical embrace.

Artaresto did not look back.

And when Beleg awoke alone and naked in the late morning, he needed only close his eyes to feel the touch of cool lips on his skin and hear a hushed voice murmuring words of doting love in his ear.  Nearly purring in contentment, he rolled onto his belly and dozed into the afternoon with his silvered dream at his side.
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I am rather attached to this pairing.  Well, okay, I get attached to all of my pairings, but this one has a whole storyline just waiting to unfold before it, considering the whole issue with Túrin and how he becomes involved in the lives of both of these characters (and their lovechild *cough*).  I'm looking forward to writing more once finals are done.  Then I can think without worrying about studying.

Listening to Kyle Landry's probably half-improvised arrangement of Never Forget from the Halo 3 OST.  Not a big fan of the games, but holy sh*t you need to listen to this song because it is absolutely glorious and it made me cry.  Quite the accomplishment, because there's only a handful of songs that have ever moved me to tears.  And once again Kyle's piano playing is beautiful and I wish I could write this scene so it does the music justice but it's just so complex and deep.

Well, anyway, I have to be on my way.  Tests to take, etc...