Fantasy

Mellow Soulmate AU.  Lindalórë dealing with the tragedy of the Noldor and with being left behind.  Quenya names used (Curufin = Curufinwë and Celebrimbor = Telperinquar).  This is a continuation of both "Secret" and "Snore", but also has connections to a bunch of other pieces, including "Locked" and "Punch".  Three OFCs show up and/or are mentioned in this story--Lindalórë (married to Curufin), Istelindë (married to Maedhros) and Vardamírë (married to Maglor), so if this bugs you, I'm warning you now that it's an OC-oriented piece and that it won't make any sense at all without reading related stories.  Takes place in Valinor less than a year after the Exile of the Noldor.

Disclaimer: I don't own the Silmarillion

Pairings: Curufin x Lindalórë (OFC)

Characters: Lindalórë (OFC), Teldanno (OMC) (mentions Curufin, Celebrimbor, Nerdanel, Istelindë (OFC) and Vardamírë (OFC)

Warning: not canon compliant, spontaneous children, OFC warning, unhealthy coping methods, possible mental illness, slight sexism, mentions murder and war

Song: Lacrymosa

Words: 1,320
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fantasy (noun): a creation of the imaginative faculty whether expressed or merely conceived: as a fanciful design or invention, or a chimerical or fantastic notion; the power or process of creating especially unrealistic or improbable mental images in response to psychological need
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/fantasy

After the departure of the Exiles--after watching her husband and only son disappear into the darkness without having spoken a word to either of them of the little one growing within her body--Lindalórë felt her resolve and strength to stand tall dwindle by the day.  By the hour.  By the moment.

She knew it was too late to rethink her decision, and even when she did question herself--her motivations and selfishness clawing at the back of her mind for blessed relief from the torture she inflicted upon her own psyche--she always came back to the same result: that she had done right by her unborn son or daughter.  Hiding the child from his or her father had saved the baby from a lifetime of suffering--either a short and wasted death or long and torturous life.

There was the bright light of a far off little boy or girl who would never know war and violence.  Who would never have blood of innocents or enemies painting their hands and bodies.  Who would never know fear for their life each day and each night.  Who would not be afraid to leave their house alone or close his or her eyes in the dark to sleep.

But neither would they know the touch of a loving father or a protective older brother.  Nor would they know the comfort and security of an unbroken family, of many smiling, laughing cousins or the camaraderie of a close-knit community of friends and neighbors.

None of her friends or family--except her mother-in-law and sisters-in-law--would look her in the eyes anymore.  Would even speak to her.  Some of them could no longer even stand to have her over for tea in the afternoon.  And the people who had once been so friendly and open before the Darkening would see her walking down the street and draw away as though she might bite or rip a knife from her bodice and attack like a diseased animal.  Because her husband was an Exile--a murderer, they hissed just within earshot--and it was clear as day that she carried his cursed blood in her womb, continued his senile line.

Months and months of being alone had taken their toll.  She tried very hard not to think of them every day--every moment--and to concentrate on anything else.  On embroidery or laundry or cooking dinner.  But inevitably she would pause, remember a day when a laughing Telperinquar helped her hang clothing to dry on the line in their yard or a scowling Curufinwë had clumsily helped her prepare evening meal, and the longing would start all over again.

The need to feel her husband's arms around her and hear his heartbeat beneath her ear.  The need to stroke her fingers through her son's hair and know that he was well and safe.

At night, it was increasingly harder to sleep without a presence at her side, snoring well into the night and reminding her that he was there.  During the day, all she seemed to be able to do was daydream about times that no longer existed.

It had worn her thin.  Very, very thin.

And then there had been the offers.  To stay with Istelindë or Vardamírë.  To be anywhere but home by herself as the days counting down to the birth dwindled at an agonizingly slow pace.  But Lindalórë could not do it.  All that awaited her there were more memories.  More reminders.

She needed to forget.

All the pictures--the portraits and the memories and the music--she stacked all of it up inside an empty room that used to sit vacant in silence.  Anything that, for even an instant, reminded her of them, she stuffed away in the shadows and stillness and pretended to forget.  Every trinket crafted by their hands.  Every piece of jewelry he had given her.  Every fledgling work of craftsmanship her baby had presented to her.

And she reminded herself that this baby--this little boy or girl--did not have a father or a brother.  Only a mother.  Only her and her alone.

Perhaps it was sick.  But it made her feel better.  The nights of sobbing and shuddering in cold without his warmth at her side trailed further and further away as her belly grew rounder and rounder with child.  The days of staring off into the distance and picturing familiar faces beneath the golden light faded until she could barely recall what they looked like, so far had she pushed them away behind the invisible boundaries of a world where they didn't exist.

Until the day came when she got up and didn't think about them at all.  Went to the market and ignored the glances and the whispers and the fidgeting as if they were nonexistent, beyond her notice.  As though she were blind.

Blind to everything but her complexity of a fantasy where she was not married.  The little world where people did not shimmy back because she was a murderer's wife, but because she was a pariah, a pregnant woman without a man in her house or a name to hide behind.  The little world where that mysterious door remained locked at all times, the key pressed against the throbbing space between her breasts like a brand, sealing away anything that might shatter this new reality.

Anything that might take away the little dream holding the unraveling edges of the fabric of her thoughts and feelings and sanity together.

She still went for tea with Istelindë and Vardamírë every other afternoon, walking familiar pathways up to familiar, empty houses.  They were, after all, fellow husbandless, childless women.  But whenever they mentioned those names, Lindalórë reminded herself that she knew no such people, blinked her eyes and stared at the wall beyond their shoulders as if nothing was said at all.  Because to acknowledge would be to accept, and that was truth she could not stomach.

Her friends--not sisters-in-law--quickly learned not to mention them.

Lindalórë stopped talking to her mother-in-law--she had no mother-in-law, after all--altogether.  Because all she wanted to talk about was them.  Because that face with those soft lines reminded her too much of other faces that were but a mirage in graying memories.

And eventually everything settled into a peaceful routine.  Of waking up alone and wandering the house in the early morning paleness, meandering down the porch steps and taking a walk through the fresh air and the gardens in the comfortingly overcast darkness of the earth.  Of eating her midday meal alone at the table and cooing down at her belly, running her hands over the bump and imagining what color the baby's eyes would be--only green, they could only be her green--and if he or she would be a quiet baby or a fretful, loud baby.  Of spending the afternoon having tea at so-and-so's house and perusing the shops, staring straight through the glares and the sneers as though they did not exist until finally time set on her little world and she fell into bed without glancing at the empty compression beside her and daring to think...

None of those things existed in this fantasy.  Just her and her house and her friends and her precious little baby who was soon to be born.  Soon to complete the false image overlaying what had once been her wrecked and ravaged life.

It wasn't healing.  It wasn't even bandaging.  And blood still seeped from the edges of festering wounds, hidden away from sight and shoved out of mind.

But it was enough.  It had to be enough.
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You'd think I'd be able to find something less depressing to write about with a prompt like this, but the only other thing it makes me think of at the moment is sex, and I won't write smut for a prompt LOL.  Anyway, this OFC has been on my mind since writing "Secret" a couple of days ago, and so I wrote about her again.  I sort of abandoned this arc quite some time ago, so I think it deserves a little love and devotion.

In any case, sorry about using so many OCs.  They are all so familiar to me now that they feel like they belong there without question, so yeah... And I think it might be fun to explore the "other side of the sea" so to speak.  We all already know what happens in Beleriand in the First Age; you could just read the Silmarillion to know that.  I blame all the classes I've been taking that have sexism and feminist themes in them.  Write one paper about it once and suddenly you become hyper-obsessive over it forever *sigh*.  It could be worse, I guess.

The song really doesn't have much to do with the prompt itself except the occasional lyrics that link up (in my head, dunno about yours).  But I still like Lacrymosa nevertheless.  Evanescence isn't really one of my favorite groups, but they occasionally have something that sits well with me, and with that orchestral opening I just melted.  Ah, Mozart, I have to admit that you were an artist.  And your music is really fun to pick apart and analyze, but that's neither here nor there :3.