Disclaimer: I don't own the Silmarillion, but these characters are definitely mine.
Pairings: Maglor x Vardamírë, Maedhros x Istelindë, Curufin x Lindalórë
Characters: Vardamírë (OFC), Istelindë (OFC), Lindalórë (OFC) (mentions Maglor, Ilession (OMC), Erestor, Maedhros, Curufin, Celebrimbor, Teldanno, Olwë, Olwë's son and other random elves)
Warning: non-canon compliant AU, huge OFC warning, non-canon relationships, spontaneous children, pregnancy, depression, borderline suicidal thoughts, unhealthy coping methods, social ostracism, freeform elven culture, weeping, mentions sexual stuff
Song: Missing You ~ Naminé
Words: 2,678
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tea (noun): an aromatic beverage prepared from tea leaves by infusion with boiling water
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/tea
It was turning out to be another long day.
But long since had Vardamírë adapted to the new flow of society's river about her stranded rock.
Outside, people were passing by, their eyes flashing toward the window display and away again, pretending they hadn't looked, as though staring too long might contaminate them. As if such taint could be passed through mere sight. As if ruined reputation could be passed through the sugary pastries beneath the glass.
She pretended not to mind, as always. But it was difficult.
Rarely did people come into the bakery anymore.
It was taking a toll on her family, and Vardamírë wished that there was something she could have done to make it cease. But even if she up and left--if she abandoned her parents and fled to live in some country cottage far away from the ins and outs of society and its vicious wagging tongue--she knew nothing would change.
People would still walk by the window, remembering who owned the quaint little bakery. Remembering whose hands molded the dough that looked so appetizing and whose skill had spread lazy zigzags of frosted sugar across the golden-brown delicacies. Remembering the fruit of that legacy, rotting with filth.
Remembering that the baker's daughter was married to a Kinslayer. A murderer of the worst sort.
They passed by, and Vardamírë made certain to stay out of sight, just in case one of them dared to face the possible public downfall of their reputation for entering an establishment with such close ties to such scandalous, horrible people.
If they did come inside, she did not want to give them reason to turn around and leave.
And so she stuck to the shadows, watching as the scones and pastries cooled and then went cold, went un-purchased and unwanted.
Another long day.
It was hard not to wish that... that...
That she had never met him. That, when she first saw him outside her window, he vanished and never appeared again, a prince uninterested in a baker's daughter no matter the prettiness of her voice. That, in this very shop, he had never come up to her and told her how lovely she was, had never asked her to allow his courtship...
It was hard not to wish that things were different. That she wasn't a pariah. That her parents weren't outcasts. That her husband and children were not murderers.
That she was again that young, naïve girl who had friends down the street who smiled when she walked past and patrons with whom she spent her lazy afternoons chatting and exchanging stories.
All of that was gone. Vanished. She felt... isolated.
And it was hard... so hard...
At least until the bell chiming wrenched her from her thoughts, signaling that the door had been pushed open. Cautiously, she peered into the main room, hoping for a customer or...
Or the long, slender braid of pale hair roping down a graceful back. A sigh of relief stole away her breath, for she did not need to hide from this woman like a criminal or a harlot. Was not a pariah in those soft blue eyes, the eyes of her sister-in-law.
"Are you here, Vardamírë?"
She stepped from the shadows, and Istelindë turned toward her with a welcoming smile, all cheer and vivid brilliance despite the bags under her eyes and the weariness of lines drawn around her mouth from frowning. Feeling the light of that acceptance was pleasant and reassuring.
Not quite isolated. Not quite alone.
"I should wonder if you have come to buy or merely to gossip, my lady."
The beautiful Telerin woman sniffed daintily. "I come for both, of course," she replied haughtily, though her eyes were laughing beneath the royal façade. "And for the pleasant company."
"I could hardly be called pleasant company."
"Of course you are," the princess said, brushing away the modest denial. "I wanted you to make an order of scones--the special blueberry ones that Lindalórë adores. And I expect you to bring them with you to tea this afternoon."
A helpless, wistful smile came upon Vardamírë's face. "Very well, whatever you order, my lady."
"Excellent." With innate poise and grace, the princess turned and waltzed out of the shop. And though she had been there hardly a minute, Vardamírë felt all the better for it. Felt her heart lighten at the thought of sitting in her sister-in-law's drawing room, sipping chamomile and discussing the ridiculousness of society and their upcoming niece or nephew.
Her life was one hardly worth living. And it was riddled now with depression and hopelessness. But there was, at least, the tea.
---
It wasn't the tongue-wagging and rumoring, not entirely.
Istelindë had a thick skin. After so long as the wife of the Crown Prince's firstborn son, she had long become accustomed to the nasty rumors and slander that was frequented both inside and outside Noldorin court. Most of those flippant, airheaded women could not even make her cringe, no matter how acerbic their words and how acidic their glares.
But even the commoners seemed to have taken up the call for blood, she noted, as she walked with her head held high down the main street, heading for the outskirts of Tirion. They knew she could hear...
About how she betrayed her people.
About how her spouse had slaughtered those under her protection.
About how she was a demon and a whore for loving him anyway, for not giving up her love for her mate though he no longer resided at her side.
And especially about how she would remain childless. Barren, they said, and cursed.
Barren.
No one knew, of course, that she and her husband had barely been involved when he departed or that they had not consummated their marriage until years after the fact. Until there was more between them than empty words.
They had been planning for their first child. Their first baby.
But no one knew. They assumed.
And even though they were false in their assumptions, she despised hearing it despite.
Because it was a bitter reminder. Not only was she ostracized from her people--her parents and aunts and uncles and grandparents would not deign speak to her, the traitor to her birthright, let alone allow her within their homes--but she had no husband, no title and no children. She had nothing.
All of those dreams were washed away. Gone forever.
But the worst part of the matter was that, whenever she doubted herself and longed to annul her commitment to her husband, whenever she wondered what it would be like to remarry and throw away all ties with the accursed Kinslayers, she felt guilt. Overpowering and pungent, sinking into her skin and burning into her bones and smothering her oxygen until she could hardly breathe.
Maitimo loved her. He had been nothing but kind and generous and caring. And she wished to repay him with disloyalty and adultery and abandonment?
It was hard... but she stayed. Stayed on their estate with the servants. Stayed at court with those spear-ended tongues out for blood. Stayed loyal to a man whose hands were painted with the death of her grandfather's subjects.
There would be no child. There would be no happiness. There would be no fulfilled dreams.
With that morose thought, she paused at the door of her sister-in-law's cottage, with its overgrown lawn and the vines lacing up the sides of the house. Quaint and charming. The perfect place to raise a family. Visiting Lindalórë...
Was difficult...
But she knocked despite. And a few moments later the door opened to reveal her heavily pregnant sister-in-law looking haggard and barely put together, hair in a loose bun and eyes red from crying. Again.
Suddenly, the envy was fading. Replaced with pity.
"May I come inside?"
The other woman held the door open, and she let herself into the inner sanctum of the hallway. It was small and homey, breathing with simple beauty and adornment. Yet, for all its warmth and softness, it seemed not to help Lindalórë in the least. The woman looked like the walking dead.
"Forgive me for intruding."
Between them laid something awkward and heavy. Helplessly, her eyes continued to glance toward the bump nestled low between Lindalórë's hips. Wondering what it was like, that longing returned thrice as fierce, eating away at her chest. The corners of her eyes stung, and Istelindë found that she hated herself, just a little, for being jealous. Hated herself, just a little, for hating her sister in all but blood for being so lucky...
And for believing herself cursed.
"Are you well, my lady?"
Gulping, Istelindë tried to paste on that façade which, for so long, kept in place her mask as the princess, an icy woman without feelings, without the ability to cry like a little girl over her stupid daydreams. Yet, she found it cracked. When she tried to smile, her lips did not even twitch, and her eyes burned more than ever.
"I..." She hated crying in front of others. And Lindalórë had enough to worry about already...
A soft sigh followed, and a hand wrapped around her shoulders with motherly ease, leading her into the kitchen and sitting her at a small table. "Here..." Gently, her head was pressed to her sister-in-law's bosom as arms came around her, cradling and rocking and stroking soothingly down her back. "Hush..."
It had been a long time since someone had done this, held her so close, like a child. Beloved and safe from all the hurt in the world. Caressed her back and whispered nonsense in her ear.
It reminded her of Maitimo. In a pleasant way. She felt not quite so empty. Not quite so bereft.
She wept out the depression.
Allowed to cry until her tears ran away and left her dry. And Lindalórë, at least, would not judge or scorn her weakness. Would not slice her open at her most vulnerable point. Istelindë sat up slowly, reluctantly, and wiped beneath her eyes, wondering how it was that she could feel resentment for this woman who was so kind, who offered her so much.
"Forgive my lapse of composure." Her voice was scratchy and her nose runny. Istelindë did not even attempt to uphold her princess-like mask of perfection. "You will still come for tea, correct? Even though I have ruined your gown and your pleasant afternoon with my weeping."
"Of course." Lindalórë smiled, and though it was sad and distant, it meant the world.
---
There were days when she did not think she could rise from bed anymore. Did not think she could survive this daily battle.
The insidious whispers. The sideways glances. The black snarls and glares. The complete ostracism and resentment. The empty house with the empty, silent rooms. The cold sheets. The lifeless yard. The darkened sky.
Reaching up to the cabinets and struggling, breathing hard, ankles aching. Because there was no one to reach for her. Because, at ten months along, her back hurt and her feet swelled and moving was a painful punishment. But there was no one there to help her out of bed. No one there to get her snacks in the middle of the night. No one there to tell her she was still beautiful even when she knew she was frazzled, bloated and exhausted, the epitome of ugliness.
Her pregnancy with Telperinquar had been trying. This pregnancy was hell.
Some days--the days when she came back from the market after hours of stares and sneers and sarcastic comments, after walking and walking and walking to find vendors who would sell to her, the wife of a murderer, after being pushed and ignored and frightened--some days she just wanted to quit.
To lie down and pretend nothing had ever happened.
To forget all about her husband, who haunted her every waking moment. To forget about her son, who she might never see again. To forget about all those horrid people who looked at her and her unborn child and saw a woman low and dirty enough to carry the spawn of a demon.
Today was most certainly one of those days.
Istelindë had long departed after having wrangled a promise from Lindalórë's lips. And now, though she did not feel like exiting the safe haven of her home--if this haunted monstrosity could be called even that--she knew she could not refuse the woman.
Even though, when she walked down the streets toward the estate, the staring continued. The scorn and punishment.
She wondered if it would ever stop.
If, when she had her babe, they would leave her alone.
If, when the child was grown, they would leave him or her be. If they would treat the child well.
But, somehow, when she looked at all those distant faces and cold eyes, she doubted it.
They saw her baby, her unborn child, as nothing but the son or daughter of a monster. As an ill omen to be shoved away and exorcised from their vicinity. Unconsciously, her arms hovered over the bulge protectively, feeling the flutter of the child moving within the safety of her womb.
Never did she want her child to know this hatred and fear.
But she knew they would.
And it was almost enough to send her to her knees.
Somehow, though, she made it across the city, aching feet and all, without crying and fleeing. Enduring the looks and words cast as swords. The door opened, and Istelindë appeared in all her otherworldly glory, a diamond amongst rocks, her mere gaze enough to send the few malicious bystanders fleeing from the spears of her roiling, powerful gaze.
"Come in, come in!" Ushered inside, Lindalórë found herself led like a doll through the maze of hallways. The drawing room door opened, and the silver-haired figure of Vardamírë rested within, a droplet of Telperion in the flesh, already perched upon a dainty loveseat and sipping tea. The smell of blueberry scones wafted over the newcomer's senses, and she felt her belly clench in hunger, in craving.
The baby loved blueberry scones.
A steaming cup was pressed into her hands even as she sat. "To calm the stomach," Istelindë insisted as she settled herself in the last empty armchair beside the small table, upon which sat the teapot and the saucers. And that plate of pastries...
"Now tell me..."
Lindalórë glanced upwards, and found herself riveted by the smile that spread over her sister-in-law's gorgeous features. Not incisive and not bellicose. But broad and bright with joy.
"How is my little niece or nephew doing?"
"Well, I think. He or she has been squirming and kicking all day."
And then, in a strange fancy, the princess, abandoning her haughty and statuesque perfection, leaned forward and crooned. Those blue eyes, rich and full, mixed with the green and gray of the sea, were filled to the brim with excitement and adoration at the thought of her niece or nephew.
And Lindalórë felt her heart warming. Just a little. In this room lacking needle-sharp memories of family. At the sides of these two women who did not glare or sneer in disgust, but smiled in love. Beneath the attention of an eager soon-to-be-aunt who already adored the baby with all her heart, for she could not have one of her own.
With no small amount of hope, the soon-to-be-mother sipped her tea and imagined a little boy or girl spoiled to madness by the women before her. The princess and the baker. Never lacking toys or sugary treats. Never lacking strong hugs and incessant mollycoddling.
And, suddenly, the day did not seem so terrible as she sat at that table, giggling and speaking of her baby fondly, drinking tea. Her back still hurt and her heart still ached. The tragedy of her world still revolved.
But that world seemed a little brighter.
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This went on wayyyyyyyyyy~ longer than intended. In fact, I didn't think I'd have enough time today to do even a short story, but it just kept going and going and going. Call it character exploration of my three OFCs. They needed some loving, and this annoying prompt reminded me of something I'd mentioned in "Fantasy" about the three of them having tea together. So I thought, why not?
Of course, the tea is sometimes more symbolic, but I got the actual tea in there, too. And it is sort of important. More important than the alcohol was in "Alcohol" LOL. Hope you all don't mind too terribly much that this entire thing is devoted to me dorking out over an AU-verse instead of actually writing about the characters you all must know and love. Forgive me. I needed it after a day like today. On my period, moving back to college, plus a solo audition before a panel. I needed some chocolate and hurt/comfort.
The song, I think, fits perfectly. Missing You ~ Naminé (my Yoko Shimomura from KH II Piano Collections) is a gorgeous piano medley that incorporates the character theme into a lovely variation. I should know, I've played it before, and it's so much fun. But that's beside the point. I thought it had the gentle feel, and was less of pure angst and more of the comfort. Still sad, but not overpoweringly sad like Samidare or something.
Hope you enjoyed the OFC characterization, ne~
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