Loved

Canon compliant AU.  Angrod returns full-grown.  And his feelings have not changed.  Quenya names used (Edhellos = Eldalótë and Angrod = Angaráto).  This is, of course, the next part in the pre-Exile arc starting with the piece "Puppy Love" (which clearly developed into something a little more LOL).  It is also related slightly to "Flower" and thus to all pieces related to "Defiant".  Takes place in Valinor (maybe near Tirion) during the Years of the Trees.

Disclaimer: I don't own the Silmarillion

Pairings: Angrod x Eldalótë

Characters: Eldalótë, Angrod (mentions Finrod, Finarfin, Eru and other random elves)

Warning: canon compliant AU, canon pairing, debatable cradle-robbing implied, class differences, elven culture, slight sexual undertone

Song: Blackheart

Words: 1,668
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love (verb): to hold dear: cherish; to feel a lover's passion, devotion, or tenderness for; to like or desire actively: take pleasure in
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/love

It had been a very long time since Eldalótë had seen Prince Angaráto.  Nearly a century.

The young prince she had known so well, the cute little boy with the bouncy golden curls and huge blue eyes who spent his hours outside of lessons sitting in the grass, watching the silly gardener potting and replanting and trimming her days away in the afternoon heat, had grown up years ago.  Had ascended to the years of puberty and adolescent awkwardness, gaining that long-limbed frame somewhere between a man and boy, and had shied away from her presence altogether.  Sometime just after his twentieth year, he had forgone his time alone with her, first contenting himself only with spying conspicuously from the windows above.

But, eventually, even that had stopped.  Either he had become too shy or grown out of his affection for a common woman.  But the times spent together had long been a thing of the past.

Eldalótë told herself it was better that way.  Better that the boy allow his silly puppy love to fade in the wake of discovering politics, reputation and wealth, those things that his class were so concerned with that twisted and turned her image like an old, holey rag and left her hanging, identity revealed as nothing more than a dirty, frayed scrap of cloth when compared to the finely embroidered handkerchiefs and cravats of the upper society.  Nothing but a simpleton.  A disappointment.

Her parents may have named her the Flower of the Eldar, but for all her earthly beauty she was still only the dirty, sweaty gardener.  A commoner.  Certainly not a lady.  Nothing in comparison to those gems of court.  And finally he had realized.

Finally, he had moved on.  Grown.  Become serious in his lessons and gone off to the academy.

Forgotten all about her as she bustled about beneath the windows of his estate, earning her living like every other commoner, never daring to infringe upon the prince's family or make herself too comfortable.  This was not where she belonged.  Not living on this fancy estate.  Not draped in lavish, expensive and delicate gowns or crowned in jewels.  Not on his arm as a wife.

Besides, he was a child.  A little boy.

No, it was much better this way.  The day he had set off was the day she crumpled up and threw away that silly daydream he had somehow concocted and implanted into her head.  A little boy's fantasy about a woman who was nice to him only because she had no choice.  Never had she believed he would always care for her, that his love was more than passing childish infatuation.

Never had she dared think his silliness anything more than fleeting. 

He was but a child then.

And now he was back.

Back and walking up the path toward the house, as tall and golden as his stately father and kind-hearted oldest brother, with broad shoulders and a sharp jaw and pure handsomeness most males could only dream of possessing.  Every inch of him now was undeniably masculine, the kind of fullness and musculature that would make any woman positively swoon in delight.  No longer was this a silly child sitting in the gardens, promising the prettiest girl he knew the entire world.

This was not a child.  Not a little boy.

This was a prince blossoming into his adulthood.

Though Eldalótë could not deny his attractiveness, she quickly looked away from his confident, smooth gait and went back to her tedious duties, shoving aside thoughts of him and his high, childish voice and promises from a long-ago memory.  It had been cute and crushing, to know only a naïve child had ever loved her and wanted her.

Maybe she was a bitter old woman.  Maybe she was pessimistic and cynical.  But Eldalótë liked to think that she was realistic.

And a realistic commoner did not stick her nose where she was not wanted.  Nor did her look at her prince and think of what his kisses might feel like on her lips.  Not even if he had once sworn with all his heart that he would one day marry her and make her the happiest woman in the world.

---

It was another five days before she saw him again, or even dared really think about him again.

Secretly, she could not help but admit to herself that it would hurt, the first time she walked past him in the gardens and dropped a neat curtsey in respect for her royal family, resting still for a long, painful moment before his eyes.  Would hurt when there was not even a flash of recognition in his eyes.  When he finally saw her for what she was: naught but a dirt-stained, smelly peasant woman with an unremarkable, plain visage and unremarkable, unmemorable voice.

When he wouldn't even remember her name or recall their meetings in the gardens.  When he looked at her and saw naught but a boring, complete stranger and dismissed her with the turn of his head.

But she expected it.  Instead of lingering on the hard truth of the matter, she went about her work for long hours and kept herself busier than usual, wiping her hand across her forehead and smearing the sweat with dirt as Laurelin's light waxed to its full glow and rained heat upon her.  Truly, she really looked nothing short of hideous, with her smudged face and messy bun.

Well into the afternoon, however, she first felt the presence in her normally undisturbed sanctuary.  It was then that she spotted him coming around that corner of the house.  At the exact time he had always arrived after the completion of his lessons all those years ago.

Naught but a coincidence, of course, she reassured herself.  Watching him from her peripheral.  Drawing closer and closer.

And held her breath, not turning her head to look.  Ignoring the man--Oh, he was so very much a man now, and not that little boy of her memories, she could not help but notice--her hands deftly working to prune the rose bushes beneath the windows, wrapped up in their thick, ungainly leather gloves as she snipped away.

Still, part of her was aware, acutely, of the fact that he approached.  That his boots were heavy on the grass, leaving behind depressions and bending the blades.  Coming up to her back inexorably.

As he grew closer, she got her first real look at him, taking in the changes.  Now he was close enough that she was certain he would not skirt around her gardens, knew that he was going to walk within three feet of her.  Eldalótë wished she was anywhere else at the moment.

For she looked up at him in all his golden beauty and shuddered with primal awareness.  There were muscles beneath the extravagantly embroidered blue tunic he wore that no doubt came from heavier labor than the lifting of tomes in the library and the absorption of academia through long hours of study.  And then there was his face, no longer round and chubby but with the classic lines and angles of his bloodline.  The beautiful high cheekbones and strong chin.  The soft lips curved into a roguish smile that would make a woman's knees weak.

And his eyes--the same shade of blue she recalled from his childhood, so pure and open.  Looking straight at her almost expectantly.

Eldalótë dropped into a hasty curtsey. "Good afternoon, your highness."

He was going to walk right past.  He wasn't going to even speak to someone as low as she.

Except he did.

"You highness?  Really?  Am I not your prince anymore?"

And she couldn't breathe.  What is that supposed to mean?  Have I done something incorrectly?

"I... I do not understand, my prince." In her chest, her heart was fluttering wildly, a thrashing bird trying to escape a deadly trap.  Pounding almost painfully, more from sheer panic than the silly anticipation of a young girl talking to a charming man.

"I thought you would think more highly of me, my Eldalótë."

Oh Eru, he said her name!

And his hand touched her chin, raising her from her curtsey.  Forcing her to look up with her shocked verdant spring eyes wide and her trembling lips parted, speechless.  Had she looked at herself in the mirror, she could only imagine how ludicrous her expression would appear, bug-eyed and slack-jawed.  Hardly the graceful beauty of a courtly woman, the kind of women she knew he must be surrounded with, lovely beyond comparison.

Why is he speaking to me?  Surely he cannot...

"Did you think I would forget?" He was leaning closer, his eyes swallowing her completely within their sweet, sweet blue waves. "I said I loved you, and I meant every word."

Loved?

He said he loved her.

And then his lips came down, brushing the back of her wrist, avoiding her soiled gloves altogether.  Hot breath splashed over her bare skin and left her as rigid as a board, her spine tingling with faint shivers and her lungs struggling for air.  His mouth was on her wrist!

"Eldalótë?" He looked up at her as if expecting her to speak.  To say something in return.

But she could think of nothing to say.  Was too shocked senseless.  Was too confused and horrified (and, dare she think it, joyous) at his behavior and words.

Too knocked off-kilter to speak.

Instead of conjuring words, her mind offered her the only other option it could scrounge up in the midst of the hurricane-force battery of her inner tourbillion of turmoil.  She broke free of his grasp and did the only thing she could think to do.

She ran away and left him standing alone in the garden.

---

And then a sigh. "That did not go at all as planned..."
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It's funny, because on AO3 I just got a comment today asking when I was going to write more of this pairing, and it was completely coincidental.  It made me giggle, in any case, and gave me the idea for exactly how I wanted to accomplish this chapter of this particular little romance story.  Obviously, I did not want Eldalótë to just roll over and accept that Angrod is in love with her, because I'm not so sure I would believe that either.  He's got a lot of work to do before she's sighing into his embrace LOL.

I have pictures.  I'm certain I've linked the picture of Eldalótë by ~Righon on dA before, but there's a picture of Angrod, too (and it's awesome, because he doesn't get much fan-love).  So, just so you know how I visualize them (only, with the girl, in a shabby gardener's outfit at first) here they are: The Iron Hand and Star Flower (which are rough translations of their names, in case it wasn't obvious already).

As for the song, don't let the title fool you.  I don't think it's evil or dark-sounding at all.  Blackheart is a new TSFH song that I randomly found today and have been listening to, so I suppose it qualifies for this placement and did lend some of its flavor to the story.  It at least kept it from getting all angsty and stuff LOL.  I rather liked its solos (not just the violin ones, ne~) and its melodic theme, as well as the ending with the piano and the woodwind (sorry, I can't identify band instruments very well, so don't expect me to know exactly what it is).  Just listen if you've got a few minutes.

That is all for today :3.