#laerwen

...

Siril comes awake all at once, the shadows of the room sharpening around her as she blinks from dream to waking world, the leaves fading from before her eyes to the leaf-shaped sconces on the walls. She cannot think what woke her, what disturbance drew her from her sleep – the room is silent around her, the wind still, and the bed empty beside her.

But – but no, that is not right.

She has slept alone in her bed for so long now that the empty bed is expected – but the space beside her is warm, not cool, the bedclothes folded back rather than neatly tucked in over its absent inhabitant. And the final haze of sleep falls away as Siril remembers that no, she is not alone in bed any longer; her wife has returned from – from –

Ah.

A strange unease curls in her belly at the thought. Laerwen’s sleep has been restless since her homecoming, since her first waking after sleeping off the weariness of travel; it seems Siril drifts off before her every night and wakes in the morning to find Laerwen already wakeful beside her. Is this her wont, of late? Has she been rising from bed in the middle of the night since she returned, unable to rest with Siril beside her?

Wakeful now, casting her gaze around the room, Siril can make her out: a shadowed figure at the window, slim and upright, so rigid she might almost be a statue. This rigidity too is new – the wife she remembers was ever in motion, a leaping flame, eager to dazzle the world. Now she stands still and watchful as any of the sconces on the wall – as though she would rather contain the flame than dance with it.

An ache at that thought throbs upwards into Siril’s throat, hard and sharp; painfully, she swallows it back down. An old urge twinges at her, familiar as dream – the instinct to lie still, lie silent, to swallow her words along with the pain and make no noise, make no disturbance, for fear she will be unwanted. It is too familiar, the feeling of lying alone and abandoned, too reminiscent of –

No. No, she will not let her wife’s silence push her away before she can speak. Laerwen has never made her feel unwanted before – and whatever this strangeness in her, whatever the horrors that might haunt her sleep, Siril will not let her own fears build a wall between them before Laerwen has the chance to herself.

She pushes away the covers and the urge at the same time – stirs loudly and deliberately in bed. Laerwen has been known to jump at small noises these days, to fall into a defensive pose at the sound of rustling leaves, and Siril will not let herself become another shadow to fear. “Laerwen?” she murmurs.

“Here.” The glow of the moon catches on Laerwen’s hair as she turns her head; her face is unreadable – but she is not a statue. Not motionless.

Siril sits up, swings her legs over the edge of the bed. Pads – slow, loud – across the room. “Ill dreams?”

“No dreams,” Laerwen says. She looks out the window again as Siril comes to stand beside her, gazing into the dark of the forest. Her hands are knotted in her lap, knuckles standing out sharp beneath the skin. “Only memory.”

Siril stands beside her now, a sliver of space and breath between them, but she cannot feel the heat of Laerwen’s skin: her body, like her soul, seems far away – still in another land. “And you could not sleep?”

“I thought I might find rest upright,” Laerwen says. “That if I could see outside, if I could feel vigilant, I might” – Her shoulders jerk in a stiff, helpless shrug; a sharp exhale explodes out of her, and then silence again.

Vigilant. Always she is vigilant these days – all of them are, all who returned, but Siril knows her wife best, most intimately. Or, she once did – though these days there is so much hidden from her, obscured behind the walls in Laerwen’s eyes and her heart. The ache throbs in her throat again, and again she pushes it down. This moment is not for her pain.

She wonders if Laerwen can feel it at all, or if her walls are thick enough to obscure it.

“Would it help you to tell me your memories?” she ventures.

Laerwen shudders – sharp and sudden, and still the smoothest motion Siril has seen from her yet tonight. “No,” she whispers – a harsh, sudden rasp. “No, not tonight – it is still too near – I cannot dare” –

“You needn’t!” says Siril hurriedly. “I will not make you think on them, if you wish to avoid them.” Avoid, avoid – there is so much Laerwen is avoiding these days, it seems, her wife not least of all. But is not pointing that out too much cruelty for a sleepless night, for a soldier returned from war? “But I – is there anything I can do to ease the pain for you?”

“I would not take you from your bed,” Laerwen protests – still in that pained whisper, as though she dare not raise her voice, though they are alone here. “Those who can sleep ought to take rest where they can find it.”

“The bed alone is not what eases my rest,” Siril says, then bites her lip. “I mean – if it will not wound you further, I would rather rest by your side. Would it aid you to have me beside you, so you might not feel unprotected?”

“I” – Laerwen jerks her head around to stare at Siril, and for the barest sliver of a moment, Siril can make out a flicker of pure, unguarded agony in her eyes. “I – but you are” –

“I am?” Oh, but she cannot hold back the hurt in those words. She would be insufficient protection, yes, but does Laerwen not feel safe with her? “I mean – I know I am no soldier, but I” –

“No, no, that is not what I” – Another huff of breath; in the flash of the moonlight, Siril swears she can make out the glitter of tears in Laerwen’s eyes. “I do not mean – Siril, I am sorry” –

“I know.” She does not know, not truly, but she does know that Laerwen would never hurt her. That this moment is not for that pain. “I only mean – I would love to stand guard over your rest, if you will allow me.”

“I . . .” The pause is long, too long – almost longer than Siril can bear. But Laerwen swallows, and Siril can hear the tears in her voice when she speaks. “Yes – yes, I think that would bring me comfort.”

And that is all she needs. The ache is sweeter this time, a pulse of relief that almost leaves her shaky – to know that still she can bring Laerwen comfort, that she is not beyond that yet. “Will you come to lie down again, then, or will you stay here?”

“I would stay here, if you will stay with me.” The raw pleading in Laerwen’s voice is enough to undo her. “That I know no part of me – of us – will be undefended.”

Of us. It hits her, of a sudden – Laerwen is not only defending herself, here: she is protecting Siril, too – or thinks she is. She does not know, then, does not understand, how her protection slices Siril to the nerves, leaves her raw and bare and throbbing.

Is this what war does? Does it leave wounds so deep they slice through the wounded to hurt those they love? Is Siril bound always to hurt where Laerwen hurts, to ache in a way her wife does not even see?

It does not matter. It will matter tomorrow, maybe – will matter someday, for they cannot go on like this forever – but now it is dark and it is late and Laerwen is an open wound before her, her soul bleeding in the light of the moon, and if this is what she needs, Siril will give it to her. For now, for tonight.

…

It is the early days of winter, the chill of autumn tilting over into a freeze, the nights stretching greedy fingers into the day, and the king is asleep.

Laerwen paces the halls outside her father’s chambers, her feet a restless pad against the cold stone, soft-soled shoes not silent on its unforgiving surface. Her hand finds the hilt of her sword, its pommel warm from her frequent grip, though the rest of the metal is cold unto ice. Tension holds her back upright like a planting post; her shoulders square in her best soldier stance – ears alert for any call, any sound out of the ordinary, muscles tense and trembling with the weight of the kingdom that is hers to hold, for however long until her father wakes.

It is at times like these that she can feel it – that they all can: how thoroughly their wood has taken him in, woven itself with him and him with itself, wrapped leaves and bark around the point of connection until it is nearly impossible to grasp. That point shudders, now, weakened in his rest, as the forest strains to retain its awareness, as the elves cower in their rooms and brandish shields against the menace that lurks in the night – as Laerwen paces his halls, arms straining with the unseen weight of his burden. It is nights like these that she understands how much she has yet to learn – how much he has taken unto himself, not only to protect the kingdom, but to protect her from the burden of it. She was born into this land as he was not, but she cannot do what he does. Not yet.

But he cannot stay awake forever. He is still an elf, and he must abandon himself to sleep beyond dreams, to restorative oblivion – and when he does, their defenses shiver in the icy wind, and Laerwen stands for him.

Winter creeps through the heart of the Greenwood, tendrils of frost snaking through cracks in doors, icy gusts rattling ominously at shutters left ajar. The very air trembles, illusions of safety wavering like the surface of a pond, waiting for but the touch of a fingertip to shatter. The oldest oaks groan with the chill, the few children moan without knowing why, and the king sleeps.

And Laerwen waits.

She does not turn at the sound of the footsteps, at the change in the air. Does not exhale at the warmth of the arrival, does not relax the set of her shoulders even as the presence of her very heart settles over them like a cloak. But when Siril’s arm comes around her, she does incline her head to accept a kiss to her cheek.

“How do you fare?”

“Well enough.” There is no other answer. “And the defenses?”

“Hold.” Siril does not come only on pleasantries, after all; she can feel the cobweb connections in the wood, the strands that bind elf to tree to soil to mushroom to safety – can see those that tremble on the brink of snapping. Can shore them up, if it comes to that – or so they all must hope. “Celair keeps watch now.”

“Good.” Siril’s sibling is as attuned as she is to such matters; they take their own shifts, even as Laerwen wakes while her father sleeps, waits at his post for word from the elves she commands, eyes that own cobweb of connections for any breaks she might need to mend. The others in the hall have not been told that the king rests this night, but she wonders if they can feel it – the way her shoulders tremble under the weight, the flimsy supports that shore up the ache of his unawareness. Do they know what it is, what is amiss this night? Can they feel the unsupported place at the center? Or do they merely huddle, and they do not know why. “And you?” She has not asked yet, even as Siril opened her speech with concern for Laerwen’s own well-being. It is of no consequence to Laerwen herself, but Siril’s is – and if she can spare no extra thought tonight, she will spare this.

“As well as you do, I imagine.” Siril shoulders up against Laerwen. Her skin is warmer than the pommel of Laerwen’s sword, alive on its own, and a tiny hearth glows inside Laerwen’s frozen heart. “Would you have a companion in your vigil?”

This is something Laerwen has that her father does not – one more advantage in her efforts to hold a weight she has still been ill-trained to shoulder. She should not need it to give her strength, perhaps, but if there is one thing she has learned from her father, it is that no amount of pride can compensate on its own for needed aid.

And anyway, she would never turn down an offer of Siril’s company.

She nudges her wife back, allows herself that much bend in her rigid posture. “Always,” she murmurs, and smiles at Siril’s soft exhale.

For the Victor

“Siril,” she whispers again, and then her beloved is in her arms, warming in her hold, her hair smooth against Laerwen’s cheek. She never knew how empty her arms were before the first time she wrapped them around Siril’s body, full and soft and round against her, like a maid made of cloud, of autumn leaves. Laerwen pulls her in and Siril’s arms come around her back in turn, and pressed this close, breast to breast, Laerwen swears she can feel Siril’s heartbeat against her own.

They hold one another in silence for long moments, and then Siril murmurs, “I feared you would not wait.”

...

“A dance, my lady?”

The voice catches Laerwen in a moment of quiet, in a brief space amidst the music, the chatter, the laughter. She was sitting alone, escaped for a moment from a knot of laughing friends, enjoying a sip of her mulled wine – and she savors it now as she lowers her mug slowly, as she turns to where her wife stands behind her.

Siril is radiant at Midwinter. She is radiant always, of course, but there is something enchanting about her tonight, lit as she is in the gleam of thousands of lanterns, her cheeks round and flushed from cold, from laughter. Snowflakes cling to the tips of her eyelashes, nestle in her hair, amidst the bright holly berries woven in among the coil: a shade brighter than the wine, than the robe draped over her in layers and layers of gauzy fabric, a wrapping Laerwen would love nothing more than to undo.

She licks her lips, tastes the remnants of the wine, a glow of warmth in her belly that intensifies when Siril’s eyes flicker down to watch the motion of her tongue.

“Of course,” she says, smiles slow and promising, reaches up to take her wife’s hand and rise to her feet. “I would desire nothing more.”

“Nothing?” Siril smells intoxicating, so close: wine and pine and snowflakes, a scent Laerwen could inhale forever. Her smile is a mirror of Laerwen’s, lips full and inviting, curled up even as her head tilts up, her body sways into Laerwen’s arms.

“Well.” The music is fast, a beat that encourages abandoned motion. In the distance she can see other dancers doing just that – her own mother a whirlwind in the arms of her father, slung about into leaps and flips and turns, to whoops and applause. About them, elves dance wildly, kicking up tufts of snow to sparkle in the lantern-light like facets of gems, the only disturbance to the surface of the snow. The trees themselves practically sway, the slow-deep thrum of their hearts lifted by the beat – and Laerwen heeds none of it. She rotates slowly, draws one leg up the side of Siril’s until her thigh hooks around her wife’s hip, tips her head back to bring their bodies in flush, breast to breast. Gazes up between the interlacing branches at snowflakes descending like stars.

“Well?” prompts Siril, and her voice is thick with laughter and desire.

Laerwen lowers her leg again, keeps her ankle hooked around the back of Siril’s. Pulls herself up, bends so that her lips brush the tip of her wife’s ear, cold against flushed lips, her breath a cloud of steam that sends a shudder through Siril’s body – one Laerwen can feel in every part of her own.

“Well,” she breathes, nips at the point of Siril’s ear. “Perhaps there is one thing.”

“Oh?” murmurs Siril: throaty, coy. “What might that be?”

For @tolkienocweek

Description

Born shortly before the end of the Second Age, Laerwen is the eldest daughter of Thranduil and Cuindis of the Greenwood/Mirkwood/Eryn Lasgalen. She has seen the forest in all three iterations – before, during, and after Sauron’s residency in Dol Guldur – but that was not her first experience with him, for she also fought in the Last Alliance as a very young elf, an early formative experience for her. As the situation in Mirkwood grew more and more desperate, she took on a great deal of military responsibility, becoming Thranduil’s second-in-command as well as his heir.

Laerwen doesn’t let herself wonder what she might have been if she had lived in a different world, with less responsibility, but she is slightly self-conscious about how much she excels in martial abilities, wishing she didn’t need them so much – and yet determined to take on more than her share of the responsibility to protect her loved ones from needing to make similar choices. She worries sometimes that she has become too hard, too closed-off, but she is gentler than she knows, and there are a few people who can always unlock her softer side: her wife, Siril, to whom she has been married since they were both less than a century old, and her younger brother, Legolas. Laerwen is fiercely protective of her loved ones and sometimes takes on too much responsibility for their well-being – but their love for her is no less fierce in response.

Artistic depictions/facecasts

The incomparable @deheerkonijn drew me a Laerwen and Siril as a gift last year, which can be seen here! (Laerwen is the one with her back to us.) If you are on Twitter, please give her some love on it!

@carlandrea also included Laerwen in this beautiful picture of Legolas and Gimli with their families! As above, please give it all the love and praise. <3

Stories she appears in

Summary: Aragorn and Arwen happen to be visiting Ithilien at the same time as Laerwen of Eryn Lasgalen . . . and Aragorn and Legolas learn, to their surprise, of an old and unexplained dislike between the two women.

Unfinished work, posted for the Good Intentions WIPFest.

...

Impulse-decided to post for the @goodintentionswipfest - what kind of mod would I be if I didn’t? - a little snippet that starts nowhere and goes nowhere about my long-held yearning to put Laerwen and Arwen in the same room and watch them circle each other like territorial cats. It didn’t go anywhere this time, but I still yearn to do it again and again.

This Drowning Ground

“The sink-swell/of this drowning ground,/a reckoning.” – “Tremble” by Lindsay Lusby

Laerwen comes to visit Legolas in Ithilien, to see the land he loves and the work he has done. She has not traveled so far south in an age, and quickly learns that – despite all that has passed between them – her own memories of Mordor still lurk close to the surface, waiting to overwhelm her and bear her down into the marshes of her own mind.

Fortunately, her brother is there to act as a lifeline.

(this is @deheerkonijn​ with the impeccable metaphors, of course; thanks to her for letting me use the screenshot. image description below cut)