Finwëan Ladies Week

Idril / Elenwë

stay strong, / my child.

have courage. / do not let your soul be led astray

in these times of treachery, / in these cold, lightless hours.

in sight of doom to come, / by the curse on our kind,

those you love may fall.

yet stand, and endure / do not kneel frozen, my child

stand beyond your fears / march on, and never back

walk against the doom.

for through the hopeless dark

Before:

The young lord looked entirely out of place in the archives. Or maybe that was just her being territorial over the one place in the palace that hadn’t found itself overrun by his kin.

Not that the king hadn’t tried mind you. He had put the call out to singers and loremasters from all over Beleriand to come and help establish a library in his new kingdom.

But as it were, most of the Noldor were preoccupied with the war effort, and those that could have freed themselves from their martial duties were either too proud or too clumsy to transcribe and translate into Sindarin to the level an archive like this demanded. So he’d had to make do with Sindar like her for the initial stages of the project.

The understanding being that eventually the archival team would fall under the supervision of the Noldorin Lambengolmor. It had been meant as a reassurance, the king had softened his voice and looked kind when he spoke of the promise to demote them into some sort of permanent apprenticeship. As though it were a reward and not an insult.

A promise that had never come to pass. There were so many things involved in the building and running of a brand new kingdom, that the day to day running of the library and archives fell to the wayside.

And there had also been the matter of that slight attempted regicide a little while ago. It had been quite the distraction, if the gossip flying around was to be trusted, but nothing more than that. The king had survived, and no greater chaos was caused. But the king had been too busy dealing with the fallout, he had not set foot in the archives since.

Perhaps that was why Hîthwen had bristled at the sight of the kings nephew walking in between the aisles. It was not as though he was being loud or disruptive. No, he was gently brushing his fingers over the book spines on the shelves, eyes wide and shining with curiosity.

He turned and caught her staring. Oh dammit, she thought as she rushed to duck into a nearby alcove, he’s going to get me in trouble isn’t he?. And yet, no one showed up to scold her afterwards.

Fall:

Running was forbidden in the archives. Not so much because of some odd imposition on a peaceful work environment, but more to do with the fact that for a lack of shelves tomes were often piled up on whatever surface was available. Including the floor.

None of that meant that running did not occur. Hîthwen would have liked to believe she was above things such as: losing track of time, or entirely forgetting her meeting with the Runic Translation Advisor was in a completely different wing of the archives. But she wasn’t. Which is why she was forced to race through the library like the armies of the Enemy were chasing her.

Thankfully none of the books hit her head when her elbow bumped one of the nearby piles and brought it tumbling down, and her with it. That would have slowed her down and it might have even hurt her, she did not have time to go to the healers, she still had so much work to be done and-

It was only when she picked herself and stood to start running again that she noticed another elf sprawled on the ground among the scattered books. Blond hair fanned all around him on the ground as he slowly sat up. The king’s nephew.

Shit, that’d be strike two wouldn’t it?

“Are you alright?” Was she maybe taking a risk not addressing by his proper titles? Yes. Was her plan to hopefully maintain plausible deniability and therefore avoid trial for attempted murder of a member of the royal family? Of course, lets not ask foolish questions.

“Yes, I am unharmed,” his said all the while wearing the expression of someone who’d just been hit over the head with a hammer. Metaphorically, books are much less heavy than hammers usually. “Are you-?”

“You’re unharmed? Fantastic! I’m late so I have to go, but glad to hear you’re not hurt.” She took off before he could say anything else.

It’s always dark in this section of the archives. Even if he doesn’t believe I didn’t recognize him, he probably wouldn’t be able to point me out.

Dialogue:

“You’ll have an easier time reading if you move closer to the light-wells.” A voice to her left startled and she cursed under her breath.

Then she allowed herself a moment to frown before letting both her voice and face fall into the perfect picture of polite and calm. “I have more than enough light here, but I thank you for your kind counsel.” Lords were fussy about formality she had learned.

The lordling’s face twisted as though he’d just been stabbed. “Please don’t do- I mean if you want to tell me to go away you can just tell me straight up, I’m not…” He trailed off, as if unsure himself of what he had meant to say.

“Don’t do what my lord?” It wouldn’t be treason to make him cry right? She wondered, mostly because he looked a little like he was about to.

“You didn’t talk like- I mean.” The lordling was stumbling over his words. “You were not so formal around me the other time.”

It would seem he had remembered her from the book incident. That was alright, her plausible deniability was still intact.

“The other time? I must apologize my lord, but I do not recall us meeting before.” Just keep calm, he can’t possibly know, I knew it was him.

“Oh, I suppose you were quite caught in the moment.” He chuckled sheepishly. “It’s alright, I understand the change in tone now. Though I would much prefer if we could speak as openly and comfortable as we had during our debate.”

Hîthwen might be forgiven for not catching what the young lord said, busy as she was planning her own legal defence. “My lord I am sincerely remorseful for-” At least no immediately. “Wait, what did you say?

“Our debate in the lecture halls the other day! Oh you were brilliant!” Was the strange light his kin always wore in their eyes shining brighter? “I’ve never heard anyone be so passionate and eloquent, all while destroying every single one of my arguments. It was like watching the sun rise for the first time all over again.”

She remembered then, spending one late night in the lecture halls with a group of others from the archives discussing literature and history. She remembered sipping her wine and feeling flushed. And she also remembered talking with someone for over three hours. She remembered how the elf’s face had spread open like the pages of a book as their argument went on. She remembered having more fun than she had had in years.

Decades into the future, when telling their children the story of how they met, she’d lie and say his pained expression had melted her heart. That his obvious distress at her formality in the face of his adoration had broken every wall and had won over her heart.

The truth was that in that moment the only thought she had was that she wanted to study just how expressive this lordling could get. She wanted to see him open and vulnerable like that other night, and, selfishly, she wanted it to be solely because of her.

The crash:

“Hîthwen… Would that be translated to maiden of the mist? Or maybe something closer to misty maiden?”

“The second one makes it sound like you’re talking about one of those plants your uncle keeps in his greenhouse that he keeps having to lightly pour water over.”

“Those are fungi not plants.”

“I’m an archivist not a botanist.” She leaned as her lordling went to interject again and pressed a quick kiss to his lips. “And I know the field of study would be mycology and not botany, so don’t start correcting me now.”

“But what if I want to correct you?” Orodreth was smiling breathlessly on the grass beside her, a dreamy look on his face. “You always shut me up when I correct you, and you know I love that, if you want me to stop doing it you have to stop rewarding my behavior.” One of his hands was resting on her hip, drawing slow circles, the other was playing with a stray curl that had escaped her braid.

“You’re still attending the lectures on the study of conduct? I thought you said you hated the professor.”

“I never said I hated him, I said he hated me.” He sighed and leaned forward into her, pressing his face into the crook of her neck. “Anyway it doesn’t matter that he hates me. Studying behavior is important for understanding how people work. And I need to know how people work if I’m ever meant to lead them.”

“Lead them? Why-?”

Orodreth tried to keep his voice still and calm. “My uncle has been hinting at giving me guardianship over a city. I need to-” She could feel him trembling under her hands. “I need to be better than I am if I’m to go.”

Her lordling was kind, sweet and more than a little naive at times. He had proven far less pompous and full of himself than she had thought he’d be given his station, and was far more at home in a library surrounded by paper and ink than in a council room. He would hate ruling, he would chafe against his duties, and would try to solve it by tying himself into knots to be something he was not. He was not built for lawmaking and war, he would be miserable if his uncle sent him away.

She would be miserable if she had to see him go.

Oh no, the realization struck her like a lighting bolt, I’m so screwed.

She couldn’t love him, she had already decided she was not allowed to love him. This was temporary, she was temporary. There was no world in which he was allowed to love her fully, in which she was allowed to keep him. One day in the future there would be word of his wedding to some beautiful lady or princess and her heart would shatter all over again.

She loved him. She loved him, and he was being sent away from her, and it was breaking her heart.

“I’ll miss you.” Her voice did not crack. Her intact pride made for a poor consolation prize.

“What?” He lifted his head to look at her.

“When you go, I’ll miss you.” If she cried now she might actually fling herself off of the mountain they were on. “We could still write to each other of course, but it won’t be the same.”

The silence stretched on for a beat too long. And then another for good measure, as if the universe wished to make sure her torture was long and drawn out.

“You don’t have to.” His voice dripped with the same sort of emotion it did whenever he was awed by the world. “Miss me that is. You don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

“Orodreth you’re leaving, of course I’m going to miss you.” She couldn’t believe it, there she was, realizing the extent of her feelings for him, and he thought she was cold enough to be able to turn them off. “I know I can be hardhearted at times, but I really do-”

“I don’t think you’re hardhearted, not one bit,” he was looking at her like she had just given him the greatest gift of all, “you’re passionate, strong-willed, and you never back down from an argument. When you choose to care, you care so much it as all-consuming. If anyone has ever called you hardhearted or callous or even cold, please point them out to me so I may laugh at their stupidity.”

She did not know which of his points she should argue. If she ought to argue at all.

“All I was trying, and apparently failing to say, is that we could make it so you would never have to miss me if that is what you wanted.” He was smiling. “In fact I would very much like it if we did make it so, for I think I would wither away into nothing if I was forced to miss you.”

Oh! Stars above I can be dense sometimes, she chided herself, trying to hide her grin as she leaned in to kiss him.

After:

“How did your family react to the news?”

“The news?” Her husband looked up from his breakfast at her, the same giddy smile he’d worn for the past month still bright on his face. “Oh! Our news!”

“Yes, I know you said it wouldn’t be a problem, and it’s not like they can do anything about it now. But I was curious.” Hîthwen didn’t really care if her husband’s family approved of their marriage, but it was his family and he did seem to care for them.

“I think-” His expression turned from pensive to sheepish in seconds. “I forgot to send the letter.”

There is a secret no one speaks of when it comes to waiting, if you wait long enough and well enough, the waiting becomes indistinguishable from poison. It is a sweet poison mind you, smooth and easy to swallow if you do it right. At first at least.

Waiting comes all too easily to her, as easily as breathing. Some days, she could even say it is easier than that, especially for someone as stubborn as her.

(She remembers his laughter, on that long summer day almost a lifetime ago, ringing out like bells. She had insisted she would be able to catch a fish barehanded without his help, had said it would be simple enough after watching him do it so many times, all the while standing knee deep in the river.

He had then called her something he said translated to strong-willed, but that she was almost sure meant something more like mule-headed, eyes shining with more than their usual light.

Hours later she had proudly made him cook their dinner as she shivered in her wet clothes by the fire. He had lent her his cloak, the memory of pine and lemongrass coming unbidden)

Her waiting is as stubborn as she is at first. Born out of something that feels like a cross between love and hope, and a desperate need to prove a point. As though a year or ten could ever make a difference to someone with all of eternity stretched out at his fingertips. But she was still young back then, back before she outgrew the naivety that comes so readily with a first love.

She has different reasons for waiting now. Now, she’s older and ostensibly wiser, and-

“Aunt Andreth!” Hirwen comes running down a nearby hill, skirts bunched up in her hands. “There’s riders coming! Elf-riders!”

The delegation is late, they were supposed to meet three months ago to discuss the new division of trading routes. But they are often late, still not used to handling matters in a scale of months and weeks rather than seasons and years.

She’s not been officially invited to speak at the meeting. They’ll expect her to show up regardless, to see her and to have her speak her thoughts when asked, and to translate when her kin’s mastery of Sindarin fails.

It is a strange pattern to be trapped in. Never formally named anything or invited anywhere that matters, but still wanted and expected, always heard but never truly listened to.

So she waits before going to greet their guests. Waits for the riders to have settled and for the drinks to be served before walking into the hall. And she does not look at him when she sits at her father’s side and folds her hands in her lap.

“Saelind,” it is not Aegnor who speaks but his brother, the one he shares the lordship of the land with, “we almost started to believe you were too angry at us for our delay that you would not join our meeting.” His tone is light and teasing, the same one her own brother uses with her at times. But she’s not the elf-lord’s sister.

Three years ago his audacity might have made angry enough to scream. But she is older now and knows better than to openly show her feelings.

“I hope my lords will be able to forgive me for the wait. I was lost in my own thoughts and time slipped away from me.” She doesn’t lie and say she was caught up in conversation with someone. She had tried that once, five years ago, in a foolish attempt to get a reaction. The pain in Aegnor’s eyes and the judgment in his brothers voice had been a knife to her very heart.

She can feel his eyes on her and still she does not turn to him. It would be childish, naive, and more importantly she had stopped seeking his gaze once she learned that the hope it gave her hurt all the worse.

(It had been only a year after their last real conversation had ended with both of them in tears and him reassuring her it was better if they never met alone again. Her family had been invited to a celebration at the elf-lords’ keep and they had ended up sat at the same table.

The regret in his eyes had been so strong, so raw, she had believed he would change his mind. That he had realized how much it hurt to be apart, and was willing to try and defy fate.

She had been wrong of course, a lesson harshly learned when he barely spoke a word to her throughout the evening. As though he were made nobler for denying them both even the illusion of friendship. Even just for a night.)

If it was out of stubbornness or hope that she waited before, now it is out of pride. She will not have them gossip about her flightiness or have them be compared and find her wanting. She heard he was willing to wait out eternity alone without her. What would they think if she could not manage a few decades?

2021