#mismaeve

You remembered Fëanor from the cautionary tales of your family and you had no wish whatsoever to end up like him.

“Child,” the Lord of Imladris joined you on one of the many terraces overlooking the serenely quiet valley, “how are you feeling today?”

“I am well, my Lord,” you replied politely, forcing yourself to unclench your fingers and to smooth the creases in your long dress dutifully; it was a lie, but you had no doubt that everyone was already sick and tired of your outbursts.

“You are safe here,” Lord Elrond reminded you, covering your hand – now resting lightly on the balustrade – with his own warmly.

He had been a beacon of understanding and wisdom ever since you had arrived in this strange place where your mistakes were turned away at the borders of the tree line.

“Me?” you scoffed, “I am perfectly fine.”

“Are you though?” Elrond looked past you at the flourishing plants that were as much under his care as your soul, “You have taken refuge in a place where you are welcome and yet, you resent the idea of having run away from something that was none of your fault.”

You had been betrayed by the one you had been promised to and – in a fit of rage – you had enacted your revenge; it was unladylike and undignified to be the one to punish a guilty party yourself though, and your parents had thought it best that you be removed from the immediate vicinity of that Elf.

“I should not have attacked him,” you murmured even though you were not sorry in the least; the injury inflicted upon his body had been so minor that it wasn’t worth mentioning, but the wound torn into his honour would take longer to heal.

“You should not,” Elrond nodded and then – with a wink – added: “Ideally, he would have been dragged out and publicly shamed before you even had the time to reach him.”

“So, if someone insulted me thus now,” you laughed, “you would dress him down in front of your people in my name?”

It was folly to imagine such a thing, but – for the first time in forever – you felt a smile tugging at the corners of your mouth.

“Oh, there is someone who would pre-empt me,” the benign ruler smiled, plunging you into a deep mire of confusion and doubt.

“You are so very young still,” he sighed as he tenderly patted your hand once more, “and there is happiness beyond your wildest imagination to be had if you let yourself have faith again.”

The conversation with Lord Elrond had calmed your ire, but – as you stomped through the extensive gardens – you felt it build again within your heart.

You wanted to hurt this man; you wanted to repay the insult suffered at his careless hands in kind, but – being a lady and shipped off out of reach – you could but dream about throttling him like Ungoliant once had tried to asphyxiate Melkor.

With a start and a shrill cry, you suddenly found yourself stumbling over something hard and warm and – shifting your weight to prevent a nasty fall – you found yourself securely ensconced in the slender arms of that pale-faced creature hovering at Lord Elrond’s elbow now and again.

“I am ever so sorry, Songbird,” you coughed as his warm eyes reflecting all the colours of the lush forest around him fell on you patiently.

A veil of hurt pride and sadness descended over his gaze, and he shrank back as if singed by the sharp sting of your senseless anger; in truth, you liked Lindir well enough, he had ever been kind and gentle to you and his face was as pleasant as the warm springs you bathed in on sunny afternoons.

“It is I who should apologise, Milady,” he replied humbly, the full splendour of his voice a living thing that soothed the electric tingling of tension grating over your skin, “I should know better than to leave those unwieldy feet of mine where the light and slender ones of a guest might tread.”

Your eyes fell on the tome of ballads that had plummeted – pages down – onto the path; he had been reading and, absorbed in the beauty of the notes he heard within his head, he had not heeded the path and whoever might come down on it.

“My eyes were trained on the ground ahead of me,” you chuckled, “and yet, I didn’t notice you before it was too late.”

“Oh yes,” he nodded with a rueful smile, “ladies habitually only take note of my presence when they literally or figuratively fall over me.”

That was not at all what you had meant to imply though and you stared at him – brow furrowed, and lips pinched, for a few seconds – until he apologised for being a nuisance once more before turning to leave.

“Sweet singer,” you called, swooping down to retrieve his book and hastening after him, “wait! You misunderstood me.”

When he turned around, his gaze patient as ever, you almost ran into him for the second time within a few minutes.

At some point, one might well have thought that you did it on purpose!

“I have not been paying attention to what I was doing,” you tried to explain, “my thoughts are relentlessly clouded and consumed by sensations of rage and resentment.”

Again, he looked saddened; he truly believed in the healing powers of the magical place you were in, and it aggrieved him to see that it seemingly gave you no relief from your torments.

“If only I could fill my head with thoughts of beauty like you,” you went on, “and forget my worries in the warmth of the afternoon sun.”

“I…” he started but fell silent again, throwing furtive glances at the bushes and trees surrounding you as if he expected the flora to mock him.

“Yes, Lindir?” you asked eagerly; there had been something in his face that had felt promising, and you were desperate to hear what he would propose.

“Might you want to sit with me, Milady?” he offered in a quiet, soft voice, “Songbird you call me, well, might a song cheer you?”

He pointed at the book still clasped in your hands, “Choose one and it would be my honour and my pleasure.”

Sweet Lindir, you thought, who was warmth to counteract the heat of your soul without dousing or extinguishing it; darling Lindir who could make pain dance on notes and longing soar in song, how you envied him.

“It surely is a gift,” you grinned as you followed him back to the bench set deep within the embrace of a soft-leafed bush and settled so close to him that you could feel the solidity of his thigh through the thin layers of your dress.

“One I am more than happy to share,” he smiled gently, “You don’t need to tell me what ails you so, Milady, but I’d beg of you the favour of being allowed to alleviate whatever weighs down your smile.”

Heat spread over his cheeks and seeped into the top of his elegant ears; he had said too much already and yet, hidden from the prying eyes of the court and in such close proximity to your fiery beauty, he couldn’t help but sketch a suit into the vibrant air between you that he didn’t dare press any further.

“If you share your levity, I shall share my plight,” you found yourself saying and – for the first time since coming to Rivendell – you unpacked the whole story.

“I can teach you how to knock someone unconscious with a lute without damaging the instrument!”

Your eyes widened in surprise.

“And I’m sure Lord Elrond has a few very imaginative ways of dealing politely with a creature such as the one that you’ve just described,” Lindir went on, another kind of blush – angry and spotty – creeping over his rigid mien of displeasure; he had never looked anywhere near as beautiful before to you.

“You do not think that I am a terrible person?” you asked breathlessly.

“Oh,” he sighed, visibly swallowing the endearment he didn’t dare utter, “you seem to know very little of the things that I have seen come to pass.”

A melodious chuckle passed his lips – curved into the most comforting and gentlest of smiles – before he took the book out of your hands.

“I know just the song for you,” he laughed, threw the book over his shoulder, and intonated a fighting song full of passionate anger and just revenge.

As you listened to his sweet voice describing feats of incredible violence, you felt that the fire that had hitherto tortured you had been banked into a steady, peacefully crackling hearth.

So it is true, you mused in astonishment, Imladris was magical…and so were its inhabitants.

In hopes that this little ficlet might please you, I have the honour to remain your humble servant and fan,

“Neck,” you can bear being predictable, if another prize like that is at stake.  

“No.”

No, indeed.

Another kiss warms up your fingertips, not at all innocent, as you feel his tongue taste them slowly in the most brazen of ways.

“And now?”

Still blinded of your own accord, you reach out to lock him in your arms and coax him down in one gentle pull.

He throats out his surrender with a low laugh.

“Lips,” and it’s no longer a guess, but an order, “You will kiss me on the lips now.”

Too eager to oblige, he stretches flat upon your frame, igniting every inch of you that his body comes to cover.

“Yours for the asking,” murmurs he a moment before proving to you what luck it is to have a husband, who bends to every wish of yours.