Disclaimer: I don't own the Silmarillion
Pairings: Maedhros x Istelindë
Characters: Istelindë (OFC), Maedhros (mentions Fëanor, Finwë, the Valar and Lórien in particular)
Warning: not canon compliant, non-canon pairing, OFC warning, arranged marriages, implied sexism and indoctrination, assumptions, sexual undertones, weeping, kissing, fear of rape, elven culture
Song: Emil Sacrifice
Words: 1,875
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soft (adjective): pleasing or agreeable to the senses: bringing ease, comfort, or quiet; quiet in pitch or volume; of the eyes: having a liquid or gentle appearance; smooth or delicate in texture, grain, or fiber; emotionally suggestible or responsive: impressionable
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/soft
The first sight of her husband's face made Istelindë shiver in dread.
Of course, she had expected his powerful visage, though she had been unprepared for its reality. In all the Noldor she had ever met, always it was the harsh lines of face and the pure power of form that she recalled vividly, never the coloring of the hair or eyes as of the Vanyar and never the personality or the boisterous laughter of her own kin.
Nelyafinwë was a beautiful man, that much was most obvious, even to a girl without experience in such matters. But he was as hard and unyielding as any of his kindred, a deep elf wrought from the unforgiving earth. The first thing she noticed was his towering height and the broadness of his shoulders whereupon his russet curls lay in glistening waves and braids. And then she noted his face. The sharp angle of his jaw where it was clenched tight and the flat line of his pursed lips, edged in frown lines. High cheekbones and a straight nose, but a cleft chin and furrowed brows that gave the impression of a permanent temper
His features were frightfully blank at first, as though they had been carved from stone and could not bend or change. And his body stood rigid and poised, every inch royalty. Every inch a man who knew that he was in charge and was not afraid to broadcast his claim.
As she stepped up beside him, he glanced at her, tilting his head dryly in her direction so as to better see her. Some of his perfectly arranged curls slipped down to brush across one of his cheeks.
Gray eyes--just like his father's and grandfather's--stared back at her. Bright and cold. Narrowed around the edges as though he were in slight pain from even looking at her. Hard and distant. He stared at her incisively, and she felt that he was looking straight through her, piercing her chest and prying it open beneath his scrutiny.
A harsh man. That was her first impression of Nelyafinwë Fëanárion.
They assessed one another silently. Finally, he offered her a smile that could hardly even have passed as a sneer of loathing, lips far too taut, stretched over his teeth. "Let us begin, my Lady."
And his voice. She had to admit that it was beautiful, a rich blend of heady tones, something smooth and liquid against her skin, like touching black satin. Yet it was so... devoid.
He offered her his arm, and she hardly dared to touch him. Hardly dared so much as press her fingertips against his forearm, let alone slip her hand into the crook of his elbow. But she managed somehow, keeping herself from turning tail to run. Clinging desperately to her composure as she curled her fingers into the fabric of his sleeve. Beneath her hand--beneath the layers of his tunic and heavy robes--she could feel the strength of his muscles quivering at her touch.
Never before had she been so aware of a man. Aware of his body and presence.
Or frightened by one either.
Were all her prayers to the Valar in vain for them to gift her with such a man? Touching him was as touching something made of stone, equally adamantine and empty of gentleness. There was no warmth and no give. No comfort or softness.
Istelindë utilized every ounce of her being, every etiquette lesson and every memorable lecture, to keep herself from crying. And, somehow, her eyes managed to stay miraculously dry as she stood at her husband's side and spoke quietly her vows of matrimony and eternal imprisonment.
---
Until she reached the bedchambers, understated and elegantly prepared for the new inhabitants. These were the rooms she was supposed to share with her husband. At the center of the far wall sat the bed in which they were to consummate their union this night.
Nelyafinwë was not yet present, but she moved to sit on the clean white sheets--to relieve her weight from her shaking knees--and shuddered, pulling her arms up around her sides in a lonely embrace. Her handmaidens had since removed her elaborate wedding gown, replacing it with a silken nightgown and diaphanous outer robes. All that stood between her and a man she'd known for less than a day were two flimsy layers of cloth tied with a satin belt.
And she was scared. Scared of him.
So tightly coiled in her fear that the door creaking open nearly made her squeak in terror. From the shadowy doorway he emerged, still dressed but sans his robes and jewels and circlet. His hair, which had been braided earlier, was let completely loose and tumbled down his spine, curls bouncing slightly as he walked.
Their eyes met briefly, fleetingly, before she glanced away. Istelindë did her best not to cry before his haughty gaze. From what she'd heard, most men did not appreciate crying females, and the last thing she wanted to do was make him angry on their wedding night. There were enough horror stories as it was about... that... without him being rough and unpleasant rather than merely uncaring in the taking.
Except she just... just couldn't...
And he was staring at her and...
And the tears boiled over, streaking hotly down her cheeks, before she could quell them or wipe them away with the corner of her sleeve. Before she could hide her weakness from his cold, hard eyes. All she could do was look away and hope being quiet was enough.
She looked instead down at her hands, curled tightly in the expensive fabric of her robe, her manicured nails biting into the lovely embroidered swans and waves washing over the pale blue in white and silver swirls. It reminded her so very much of home. Of the white sand on the beach and the sound of sea mist splashing onto the shore that she could hear from her bedroom window. Of looking out and seeing the ships in the harbor, their graceful necks frozen in motion, and the pearlescent buildings glowing in the light of Telperion.
Homesickness joined the fear, multiplied it and strengthened its grasp around her frantically beating heart as she listened to him moving about the room. There were the sounds of clothing being divested and boots being removed, dropped with a thud at the end of the bed.
Until she knew he was standing right beside her, could sense his presence. Until she heard a deep sigh and felt fingers brush against her cheek, ignoring her flinch and instead guiding her chin upwards, turning her to face him. To face his brilliant star-eyes in the night.
She didn't want to see the cold or the annoyance staring out of that angular, naturally irate face.
Except those eyes... they weren't cold. Or hard.
Istelindë looked up and up into his silvery orbs and found them strangely soft, like the soothing caresses of his callused fingers as they smoothed down her wet cheek and like the brush of his thumb beneath her puffy, reddened eyes in a butterfly's kiss. The strict frown pasted earlier upon his firm lips had relaxed into something more like a smile, crooked but not forced.
"Please, do not cry..." And that voice was so much quieter, its timbre low, lenitive. Skimming across her mind as a gentle breeze.
And she snapped, unable to hold back the tears any longer. A sob, half-stifled and wet, bubbled up out of her throat. She barely noticed the weight settling behind her on the bed as she hid behind her hands. Did not hear him move closer until his broad palms were steering her so that she leaned against his shoulder and his scent permeated and engulfed her senses.
Long, calming strokes of a hand ran down her shaking shoulders and heaving back. Istelindë could not have said if she was relieved or frightened or just too tired and too stressed to care. But it was nice. Sweet. So contradictory to the image of the groom at their wedding. His touch did not bruise. Was not hard and unyielding like stone and adamant.
Rather, he touched her like she was glass. She wondered if this was normal.
If it was normal that he let her cry all over his shoulder and chest like a young girl, soaking his nightshirt. If it was normal for him to comfort her with soft, inaudible murmurs instead of telling her to grow up and be the woman she was supposed to be, a princess who carried on through her duties and responsibilities without fear or hesitation.
If it was normal for her to burn out the long-bottled rage and helplessness until tears ran dry and somehow feel safe leaning against him, listening to his heart thudding rhythmically at her ear. If it was normal to feel the touch of his curls tickling at her nose and cheek and have the urge to catch them between her fingertips.
He let her rest against him in the quiet--for how long she could not say--but eventually his fingers returned to her cheek, lifting her face. Blotchy and reddened instead of pristine and pale, Istelindë knew she couldn't possibly look attractive at that moment. She probably looked like a sniveling child.
And yet he seemed unbothered. His eyes radiated a strange warmth, a comforting little gleam of sympathy, as they slid over her tearstained face. Finally, he shook his head and leaned down--she stiffened for a moment at his proximity, at the feel of his breath on her cheek and his palm cupping her chin--and pressed a chaste kiss against her lips. Hardly more than a rose petal brushing against skin.
But that was all. With ease, he lifted her body and laid her down on the bed beside him, tucking her close enough that she could feel his heat and flexing muscles bending around her, cocooning her as he pulled the sheets up over their bodies.
And then he did nothing, seemingly settling down to sleep. Did not try to kiss her or caress her or take off her robe and gown.
"M-my Lord, I do not understand..."
"Let us save the rest for later." His hand stroked through her hair and his voice rumbled through his body, vibrating against her skin where they touched. "Sleep, silly girl."
"But--"
"Sleep."
His firm, quiet tone allowed for no argument. Istelindë found herself nestled against him, their bodies pressed together so very intimately. But he did not hurt her. Did not even touch her.
Left her only with tingling lips as she curled in his embrace. Her hand slid upwards to touch, brushing across the tender flesh, and a flush spread across her cheeks. Her eyes closed as she began to sink into the comforting arms of Lórien, remembering...
The epitome of gentleness and kindness. Everything he wasn't supposed to be.
So soft...
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I actually like how this turned out. I don't know if it's too sappy or cliché for anyone else, but I thought it went pretty well and displayed Maedhros' actually character pretty well. I can imagine him being a pretty scary guy until you realize that he's a complete creampuff on the inside, all that brotherly love and parental instinct all bundled up into a whole bunch of compassion and empathy.
Really, I couldn't say how appropriate it would be to "skip" the wedding night for elves (or for any culture... I suppose this is somewhat based off of trashy historical romance novels that I'm
In any case, done to the song Emil Sacrifice from the NieR Gestault and Replicant OSTs (credited mostly to Keiichi Okabe). I've done many songs from this OST before, because it's awesome and beautiful and if there's one thing SquareEnix does well it's give the games memorable and beautiful music, and this is just another awesome example. I haven't even played these games (in fact, the only video game I've ever played is Kingdom Hearts II), but the music is to die for.
Enjoy! :3
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