Decent

Mellow Soulmate AU possibly.  Orodreth discovers that he shouldn't take the drugged rantings of a warrior to heart.  Quenya name used for Orodreth, so he gets called Artaresto.  This is a continuation of "Grateful" and touches upon themes in "Health" and "Killing", especially the slightly sexist and derisive outlook of warriors upon male healers.  It's just an idea, but I happen to think that if Tolkienverse subscribes to gender-roles over who can fight and who can't, it's likely that it does the opposite as well.  And only an idealist would say that just because they're elves they are all accepting and such BS.  Takes place in Menegroth in the First Age.

Disclaimer: I don't own the Silmarillion

Pairings: Beleg x Orodreth

Characters: Orodreth, Beleg, other random sindarin warriors

Warning: rather AU, slash, sexism, gender-roles, crude language, a little bit of cliche, minor sexual undertones

Song: Lucid Dream

Words: 1,347
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decent (adjective): conforming to standards of propriety, good taste, or morality; modestly clothed; free from immodesty or obscenity; marked by moral integrity, kindness and goodwill
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/decent

Artaresto was avoiding Beleg Cúthalion.

And Beleg Cúthalion was doing anything and everything possible to make that task impossible.

It was, quite honestly, driving the poor, aspiring healer up the white-washed wall.  Artaresto had believed that snubbing the drugged, lecherous warrior would be enough--How much clearer could he be about his intention to ignore the other's attentions?--but it was clear that Cúthalion, as many warriors before him, was less brain and logic and sound reasoning and more stubbornness and unappreciated determination.

Because Artaresto was not playing hard-to-get.  He simply did not want the warrior's simpering apologies or declarations of intent or flamboyant grandiosity.

He did not appreciate the elaborate bouquets of flowers that were delivered before his quarters each evening like clockwork, and grit his teeth as he read the scribbled apologies and poetry penned into the tiny cards attached with curled silk ribbons.

He did not appreciate the bowing and the knuckle-kissing and the courtly gestures either.  A gentleman Cúthalion might act now, but Artaresto could not forget the completely horrified shame and humiliation at being told blatantly to his face that the archer wouldn't have minded having him do... do that to... to...

Even thinking about it made Artaresto flush and slump his shoulders in mortification!

And he most certainly did not appreciate how the phantom marchwarden would dutifully appear at the entrance to the House of Healing each evening with the idiotic intention of escorting Artaresto back to his own quarters, as though he were a petty, helpless maiden who needed to be led around on a leash lest she faint at the sight of a paper cut or get lost on a route she walked every damn day.

And each day he would throw out the blossoms cut with lustful intentions in mind and burn the cards in the fireplace for kindling.  Each day he would pull his hand from the warrior's grasp before lips could sully his skin.  Each day he would gracefully turn up his nose and tell the warrior--in a polite and completely coherent manner no less!--to get lost because he did not need an escort and was not a woman!

But the worst part was that the bull-headed warrior did not get the message.

Artaresto scoffed and swept through the hallowed halls of Menegroth on his daily route to the infirmary, gliding past the sindar who watched his passage with curious and mocking eyes.  Let them think what they would; the Noldorin prince did not care about the pitiful lack of intelligence that permeated such a blooded and violent people.  Let them call him a woman behind his back and snicker at their snide jokes and perverted fantasies.  And let Cúthalion go and rot in a hole in the ground along with the entire lot of them!  Warriors!  They knew nothing but the taste of blood and death and steel and their own provincial perception of the world!

They could never understand.

And certainly he would never understand.

"It really makes you wonder, does it not?  What do you believe that ice-cold bitch has done to capture the attentions of Beleg Cúthalion?  Makes you wonder if there might actually be a wanton maiden with an eager sheath hiding under all those robes, kissing all those wounds better..."

They knew he could hear the crude slight, new that he could see the perverse gesture of hips accompanying the insinuations, and when his spine stiffened and his cheeks flooded hot with a wave of infuriated humiliation, he could hear their soft laughter.  When he refused to fight back and turned away instead, he could feel the heat of their searing eyes on his back.  But truly, let them think what they would.  He would not lower himself to--

Crack!

There was a shout and the sound of bone rattling on marble.  Artaresto spun about, coming face-to-face with Beleg Cúthalion himself towering over a quivering sentry, black bow spanned across broad shoulders and hazel eyes narrowed beneath an expression of repulsed fury.  Like an ainu in the flesh, his intensity thickened the air and brought unnamable tension to the limbs.

"Ungrateful child," the warrior hissed between his teeth, and Artaresto actually felt a sliver of terror set itself into his throbbing heart at the rough, raw tone.  The victim on the ground, clutching his rapidly reddening cheek, was shaking from head-to-toe at the sight of the older, experienced veteran of battle and close brushes with the Halls. "How dare you shame us by uttering such filth in these sacred halls!"

"It... Captain, it was merely a jest..."

"A jest?  You would jest about the men and women who have devoted their lives to the art of saving lives?  Saving your lives?  Without them, where do you think you would be?  I can tell you right now that without those womanly healers and their wanton attentions, many of you would not even be alive!"  With each syllable, that deep voice rose in volume, until it was echoing so loudly that even those warriors halfway down the hall stopped where they stood and shrunk back like castigated children.

"Please," the sentry whispered, "I did not mean it maliciously.  I--"

"You would lie to your captain?" Cúthalion's lip curled up in disgust, and Artaresto held his breath, feeling suddenly light-headed, rocking on his heels.

The sentry said no more.

And for his part, the captain turned away as though he could no longer bear the sight before his eyes. "I am ashamed that men under my command would act so disrespectfully toward those who devote their lives to protecting the protectors of our realm.  Apologize.  Immediately.  Or you will not like the result."

Apologize?  To... to me?

Artaresto blinked, shocked, when the younger warrior scrambled upwards and bowed deeply, flushed with eyes averted. "I... I am sorry, Master Healer.  F-forgive my callous words.  I had no right to slander you in such an unforgivable manner."

And though he knew it was out of fear and not true remorse that the warrior was bowing and scraping for forgiveness, Artaresto inclined his head in acceptance anyway, if only to get the stranger out of his personal space.  Already, he was late to his lessons and there were patients to be cared for and--

And Cúthalion was staring straight through him as the sentry scurried off like a stricken dog with its tail between its legs.

And Artaresto felt his cheeks heating in something other than mortification as he turned away and walked in long, quick strides (he refused to call it fleeing) down the hall, head half-ducked to avoid any wandering eyes.  The entire way, until he turned the corner and the familiar doors to the sanctuary of the House of Healing were in blessed sight, he felt those distant hazel eyes boring into the nape of his neck.

Cool, fresh air and the scent of herbal remedies greeted him beyond heavy oak.  Artaresto swayed and pressed himself against the cool wood, thinking about...

About him...

That maybe... just maybe... Beleg Cúthalion might be a decent man.  For a warrior.

Sometimes.  Maybe.

(Though he would not give any further than that.  He did not like Cúthalion.  Absolutely not.)

And if the healer did not object to linking his arm with that of the warrior to silently traverse the halls that evening in companionable relaxation, Cúthalion never said a word about the abrupt change of opinion.  He did not have to.  He smiled and stared at the healer's faintly rosy cheeks and shyly downturned eyes the entire way, departing with a soft word and a bow.

And if Artaresto kept the card he found in the bouquet of flowers abandoned upon his doorstep as dusk faded into night, no one ever need know that it made his heart flutter traitorously.

Apologies, my dove.

Because he did not like Beleg Cúthalion.  Not even a little.  Not at all.
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I'm still debating how gender-role-oriented I want to make my stories.  Tolkien went a little into elven culture, but he never touched on their opinions of gender and sexuality at all other than to say they marry and procreate young.  My guess would be that they aren't openly all good with homosexuality but aren't necessarily completely against it either.  However, I definitely think they have gender-roles.  Just because Galadriel has her husband whipped does not mean that all elves are fine and good with women or men stepping out of their assigned roles.  Heck, in the book Arwen does not go running off facing down Ringwraiths and dashingly rescuing hobbits from the forest--it's actually Glorfindel who does that.  All Arwen does is sit around being pretty.

Actually, it surprised me that Peter Jackson's got a female elven captain running around in the second Hobbit movie.  Not that I have anything against it (all for strong female characters), but it got me thinking about Avarin/Silvani culture versus the supposedly more civilized and sophisticated Noldorin/Sindarin culture, and then it brought up "Soulful" and the more open acceptance of sexuality even from women.  It would be an interesting tangent to pursue.

Anyway, in conclusion, listening to Lucid Dream by Roberto Cacciapaglia as I wrote this.  Lovely song that I just happened to stumble across today in between studying and napping and watching movies.  Make of it what thou wilt.