Soothe

Mellow Soulmate AU.  Istelindë begins to actually fall for her husband.  A little bit at a time.  Quenya name used for Maedhros (Nelyafinwë).  This is a continuation of "Adapt", "Disconsolate" and "Soft", but is closely connected also to "Dramatic", "Weapon", "Broken" and "Tea" amongst a handful of other stories (I'm sure I missed one or two).  Not much to mention here except major cultural differences.  Takes place (probably) in Tirion during the Years of the Trees sometime around the same time as "Beach", I would guess.

Disclaimer: I don't own the Silmarillion

Pairings: Maedhros x Istelindë (OFC)

Characters: Istelindë (OFC), Maedhros (mentions Finwë, Fëanor, Lórien and other random elves)

Warning: non-canon compliant AU, OFC warning!, non-canon relationships, arranged marriage, heavy sexual undertones, fear of physical or verbal abuse, sexism, hegemony, elven culture, a little violence, some almost-crying, attempted seduction, kissing

Song: Deep River

Words: 2,671
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soothe (verb): to please by or as if by attention or concern: placate; relieve, alleviate; to bring comfort, solace, or reassurance to
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/soothe

There was much she did not know about her husband.  That much was painfully evident.

The morning after their uneventful wedding night, Istelindë blinked her eyes open to the soft caress of golden light upon her cheeks, sneaking in through the window and painting the room in brightness.  The princess sat up, rubbing her eyes, and stared at the unfamiliar surroundings in confusion...

And then remembered the night before.

Remembered breaking down and crying at the thought of being married--caged and helpless--to this man she didn't know and didn't trust and didn't love.  Remembered also the soft touches on her back, slender fingers trailing over her in a way that was not even vaguely sexual or frightening, but rather comforting and gentle.

Remembered the brush of his lips across her own, quick and chaste.  Remembered being laid down at his side, pressed up against his warmth until it surrounded her in a blanket of instinctual safety.

Remembered falling asleep wrapped up in his arms...

When she turned to look at the other side of the large bed, she found the covers rumpled and pulled back, her spouse nowhere to be found.  He had already been up for a while, judging by the lack of warmth trapped in the sheets.  However, his scent still lingered strongly in the air around her.

Istelindë ran her hand over the sheets and the feather-down pillows, carefully lifting one and pressing her face into its softness, breathing in his smell...

Her cheeks flushed.

Still he frightened her, but the relief washed through her chest as a flood, soothing away the anxious throbbing of her heart.

Never had she suspected that such a stony-faced, seemingly harsh creature as her new husband would do something so kind and sweet for her when all she had done for him was make herself into a burden and an annoyance.

Maybe he was angry now.  Maybe he would be harsh later.  But Istelindë steeled herself and set the pillow aside, rising from bed.

She would not allow her fear to govern her actions.

And maybe he was not angry.  Maybe Nelyafinwë truly had genuinely been kind to her, his frightened young wife, because it was just the sort of man that he was.

The thought left her heart in her throat.

Maybe... maybe this would not be a terrible arrangement...

---

The first time she dared knock on her husband's study door, Istelindë thought her heart might leap right out of her chest, grow legs and run away in panic, leaving her behind to face his wrath alone.  Standing there in the unfamiliar hall of the unfamiliar house, she felt tiny and uncertain and out of place.  Like an ornament that didn't match the décor.

What if he was angry at the disruption?  He had not told her never to disturb him whilst he was busy, but neither had he given her permission to intrude upon his privacy.

She gulped, and her hands trembled where they lay clenched in her skirts.

But she plastered a cold look of indifference upon her face and refused to stand shaking and hunched like a quivering, helpless little animal before a hunter's keen, unforgiving gaze.  She might have cried before his eyes once, but by no means was she going to turn into a weeping damsel at the mere thought of his anger.

She was not going to let this fear get the better of her.

Seconds later, she heard his voice telling her to come inside.

Her fingers slipped over the doorknob at first, but found their purchase the second time.  The door creaked ever so slightly as she pushed it open and tiptoed inside, feeling nearly lightheaded and anxiety.

There he was, sitting behind his desk.  Papers were spread about, books laying wide open, pages and pages of his tiny, neat handwriting arranged into organized chaos.  And he was upon his chair, quill in one hand, poised over parchment midair.

Gray eyes beheld her from beneath little russet curls, wriggled free from their bonds.  It took all her willpower not to stare at his wild hair, caught up in a rather simple, messy bun to keep it away from his work.

He did not look anything like the icy prince who stood beside her at the altar mere days ago.

He looked like a scholar.  Harmless.

"Did you need something, my lady?"

Letting out a soft breath, she straightened. "I came to ask, my lord, if it would be appropriate for the lady of the house to host guests for tea."

"You want to have someone over?" He tilted his head to the side, and Istelindë suddenly found herself struggling not to blush beneath the searching look in his gaze. "You needn't ask permission for such things."

Her eyes widened. "But it is your home, my l--"

"It is our home."

His correction might have been spoken harshly, but Istelindë did not flinch.  She was too surprised at his words to feel wary of his tone.  Because she knew that it was his home, not hers, no matter what he claimed.  He was her husband after all, and the heir to the throne of the High King of the Noldor.  And though she might have been a princess, Istelindë knew that things did not work as such...

Still, she felt her heart-rate slowing, its beats evening out from their distressed, galloping state as the stress lifted from her shoulders.

"I... of course, my lord."

"And you needn't call me that either.  I am your husband, and you may, at the very least, address me as Nelyafinwë in private."

It was awkward, this conversation.  Call him by his name?  They did not even know one another.

Still, it cemented the fact that she knew little about this man and how his mind worked.  She didn't know many lords of her grandfather's court who would allow her to address them as such, even had she been their wife.  Bowing her head, she pulled off a graceful curtsey. "Thank you... Nelyafinwë.  I shall leave you to your work."

Looking up again, she froze.  Because his hard features had broken into an endearing, crooked smile.

"I do not mind."

And it had her blushing for the rest of the day.

---

It took months to adapt to him.  To sharing a bedroom with him.  To sharing covers with him.  To dressing in the same room.  To eating at the same table.

But eventually Istelindë began to feel comfortable with the mild demeanor of her spouse.  He did not oft shout or forbid her from activities.  Mostly, he let her do as she pleased whenever she pleased and asked only that she care for the running of the household.  Yet, Nelyafinwë was not always sweet and kind.  He could be angry and frustrated, just like any other person, and she often steered clear of his path when she knew he was upset, for she had no wish to become an object of his displeasure.

The first time she was confronted with her angry husband, Istelindë wanted to shut herself up in their bedchambers, lock the door and cry into her sheets.

If she thought he was terrifying when he was playing at princely impassivity, it was absolutely nothing compared to when he was snarling and ranting and raving, pacing like a caged animal back and forth across his study floor.  It did not help that she was stuck in the corner, too intimidated to get close to her enraged mate and too shocked to unfreeze her locked legs and move toward the door.  Like a wall he was before her, towering at least a head above her height, filled to the brim with writhing anger.

Red-cheeked and scowling, he paced, hair whipping about his shoulders.

"That foolish bastard and his idiotic, egocentric--"

And then followed the cursing.  She winced.  Never had she heard him curse before.

"And, of course, he isn't going to clean up this mess!  Oh no!  Heavens forbid the thrice-be-damned Crown Prince should ever have to lift a finger to fix his own mistakes!"

The sound of his fist ramming into the heavy wooden door made Istelindë jump in fright, her eyes wide as saucers.

She did not even hear the whimper that left her throat.

But he did.

And his eyes fixated upon her, so sharp and heavy that she felt nearly faint, her head spinning.  Was he angry at her for interrupting his tirade?

She did not want to even think about what he might do if he came to close.  His hand was smarting from hitting solid wood several inches thick, and he didn't even seem to notice.  It was a horrible thing, imagining that he might actually harm her, and she didn't want to superimpose such an image upon her spouse, but...

But he was so angry...

And looking at her... and coming closer...

And she couldn't breathe, and...

And his arms came to rest on either side of her body, caging her into her tiny corner, palms braced upon the wall on either side of her shoulders.  He was so close that she could feel the heat of him washing over her even through the layers of her clothing.  Could feel the brush of his loose hair upon her face as he leaned down.

And pressed his forehead against hers.

"Sorry," he muttered. "Do not cry.  I am not upset with you.  And even if I were, I would never harm you, Istelindë."

She hadn't even noticed the tears pooling in the corners of her eyes.

Instead, all she could think about was the softness of his hands as they braced about her upper arms, neither bruising nor vicious.  They did not harm or break.  Instead, they were painstakingly soft, drawing her away from the wall and pressing her close.

She hadn't noticed that she was trembling, either, until she rested against the stability of his tall, lithe form and pressed her face against his shoulder.  The tension drained slowly from her body.

His fingers were in her hair.

And his lips brushed softly against her forehead.

"Forgive me for becoming frustrated."

They stayed like that for a while longer, and Istelindë could not help but think that it was pleasant.  Pleasant that he cared enough to comfort her, even when he was in the grips of rage.  That even when he was moved to violence, he seemed to care more about her wellbeing than about his anger.

It was reassuring.  A soothing coolness on the raging inferno of her discomfort at the unknown of their relationship.

Maybe... maybe she could begin to trust...

---

He had been disproving all the horrible stories whispered between maidens in the darkness and privacy of the powder rooms and gardens.  All the tales of horrible wedding nights and slaps and shouts, visions of being ignored and kept in a gilded cage, of being little more than a doll to dress up and to mate with so that there might be children.  But Nelyafinwë was not like that at all.  He treated her well, even though he was distant at times.

For all his fierceness, Nelyafinwë was nothing like she had imagined him to be.  By no means was he the monster his sharp-featured face suggested.

And she found herself wishing to be his wife.  Not merely in name.

Maybe that was why she chose to kiss him when they laid down that night to sleep.  It came upon her so suddenly that she lost all track of herself and her actions.  All she could remember was seeing his face, brightened by that quirky little half-smile she adored, and his hair let down, spilling over his broad shoulders and down his back in thick waves.

He was handsome and sweet and cared about her even though he didn't know her, let alone love her.  And maybe...

Maybe she felt a little guilty for denying him...

Maybe she just wanted to test herself, remove that last boundary of fear holding her back...

But for whatever reason, she was wrapped around his torso, her lips pressed against his, her fingers coiled tightly in his silky hair.  Against her, she felt the hardness and warmth of the length of his body as she came to rest in his lap, as it flexed and bent around her, arms wrapping about her back, hands sliding down her spine...

And she felt the sparks that gathered and grew in her belly when he kissed her back.  Overwhelming in their intensity.

When his hands were upon her hips, thumbs stroking through her sheer nightgown that juncture of stomach and thigh.  When he teased her lips apart and his tongue brushed against hers, spilling his rich flavor into her senses and holding her captive.

When his fingers found the hem of her gown and began pulling it upwards.  Until she felt the sleekness of satiny fabric slide over her head, forcing their kiss to break and air to rush once more into her screaming lungs.

Coldness washed over her bare, exposed skin.  It was not until that moment that she realized exactly what she was doing, felt her body freeze and her heart stutter, for she was lying uncovered in the arms of a man she barely knew.  His eyes were near glowing in the dim light of their chambers, sliding over her naked body until they reached her face.  Connected.

Istelindë had thought herself ready.  But she had not been prepared at all for this.

He hovered awkwardly, eyes searching.  And then pulled away.

And she hated how utterly relieved she felt when the proximity of his form vanished.

"Here" she heard his voice in the dark.  Felt soft fabric pulled over her head.  The nightshirt was hot to her skin, slightly lined with sweat, smelling so completely of him that it was nearly overwhelming.  It hugged around her body, covering from her breasts all the way down to her knees, hiding her again from his sight.

He guided her down without another word, and she did not resist his pull.  They lay side-by-side, facing one another in the darkness.

"Are you angry?" she whispered.

After all, she was denying him his right as a husband to an heir, a child of his own.

There was a huff, and his breath washed over her face. "Of course not." His body shifted slightly; she felt it in the tilt of the mattress and the brush of his clad legs against her bare shins.  The sparks were back, but muted beneath something else, heavy and gentle. "I can be patient.  It will be more pleasant for both of us if you are prepared.  You needn't rush on my account."

"That is rather kind of you, Nelyafinwë."

"I want my wife to love me when we join for the first time.  I do not want you to be afraid of becoming intimate with me.  So I shall wait." She had long since become used to his chaste kisses on her cheeks and lips and forehead, but this one brushed her nose, and she couldn't help but giggle.

"Now sleep," he ordered.

It was difficult.  She was thinking, so many thoughts and images sliding through her head under the cover of darkness that she just couldn't fall into reverie.  She was thinking about him.  And, beside her, she heard his breath even out as he drifted away into Lórien's embrace.  Sitting up upon her elbows, she looked at his relaxed face, the angry lines and sharpness seeping away in slumber.

When he slept, he looked sweet and soft.

All of her worries and fears and uncertainties, he had soothed away.  And Istelindë could not help but think that maybe, just maybe, she would be able to love this man.  Her husband.

Maybe she would be lucky instead of cursed.
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Sorry all.  I got rather carried away once again.  I can't seem to help myself lately...  Istelindë (along with the other Fëanorion wives) has become one of my favorite OCs and I can't help but enjoying writing about her and Maedhros.  It's just permanently stuck in my brain.  Besides, I think they're adorable together, and hopefully she doesn't come across as terribly wimpy or anything.  Don't know about you, but I wouldn't be too crazy about having sex with a guy I barely know (I don't even fancy sex with the guys I do know, so...)

As for the culture thing, well, I imagine it kind of like England in the 1800's, with all the fancy parties and the nobility and such.  In case anyone wanted to know where it came from.  I've been reading historical romance novels since I was twelve, and I absolutely adore them, even if reading them is a useless waste of time and energy.

And, of course, the song.  Deep River (one of my absolute favorite songs by Utada Hikaru) does not necessarily have anything to do with the story lyric-wise (actually, if you look for a translation it's rather ambiguous and can be interpreted in a multitude of fashions, allowing for personalization, at least in my opinion), but I think it sounds sweet and soothing and beautiful, so I used it for something equally sweet.

Hope you liked. <3