#request fest

There’s an old married couple – George and Evelyn – who come in together on the weekdays. They both still teach at the university, not quite retired yet, but they’re younger than Bucky, born in the post-WWII boom. It’s strange to think if he’d lived a normal life, he probably would have had children growing up right alongside George or Evelyn, and yet they speak to him in a very paternal way, asking after him each morning now.

He would be dead and buried, but since he’s been frozen and literally pulled in and out of time, only now is he finally thawed out and warming up to life. Things are steady, normal. He’s only taking a few missions, and so he’s starting to fill in the pieces of what the rest of a life could look like. He started volunteering at the library and there’s a position coming open that he’s being encouraged to apply for. He doesn’t need the paycheck, but he thinks he would like the stability of it – contributing to something, being needed, and for something practically anyone could do.

Bucky feels an awkward twinge, glances up, and looks around. He’s not the only one who noticed a disturbance in the normalcy of the café as he notes others are looking up and uncomfortably watching an atypical scene developing between a couple of people waiting for their orders near the pickup counter. A man in a sharp business suit with perfectly sculpted hair is speaking to you with more and more urgency as you try to naturally sidle away to other parts of the waiting area. Bucky’s seen you just two or three times come in and get your drink to go, so he thinks you’re probably new to the area, but this man clearly bothering you is unfamiliar to the morning crowd Bucky has become familiar with.

Something about the man reminds him too much of John Walker, of all people, and when that realization registers in his head, Bucky’s up and moving without even thinking.

“Oh, there you are,” he says, drawing close enough to put his hand gently on your shoulder. “I must have missed you coming in. I got us a table over there if you want to sit. I’ll bring your drink over.”

He can see he’s startled you, your eyes a little wide as you turn away from the stranger to look at him, but you do seem at last glad enough to have him give you an elegant exit from the situation with the finance bro. “Thanks, Bucky.”

Oh.

You know who he is.

He makes sure to keep a casual expression on his face as you walk around him toward the table he’d indicated. Bucky gives a gruff nod to the man who’d been badgering you and the man nods back. They’re of a similar height, but Bucky knows he’s got the muscles and glare to best him in any situation. Bucky pointedly looks him up and down and the man turns slightly and pulls out his phone to immerse himself in something and disengage from the situation. He can feel the atmosphere of the café return to normal.

Bucky looks back over at his table, and you’re just sliding your chair up to the table, your back to him. He knows he shouldn’t be surprised to still be recognized now and then. As much as he’s trying to blend in, he knows the Avenger part of his identity is part of public discourse, especially since his pardon trials when even more of his past was presented and up for debate.

“Bucky?” Tina slides a drink and a small plate with a croissant and jam on the counter. “Here’s that order,” she says. She pointedly turns the to-go cup so the side where Tina’s written your name is facing Bucky and gives him a wink and a warm smile. She knows Bucky, while friendly, doesn’t go out of his way to talk to the other patrons.

When Bucky sets your drink and croissant on the table and takes his seat again, he glances over just in time to see the other man look over at the two of you without appearing to look and the frown on his face grows. And with that half second now past, he can focus on you in front of him.

“I didn’t order anything with my drink,” you protest.

“A little something from Tina, then,” Bucky reassures you. “She likes to take care of her regulars.”

“Oh, that’s – she’s nice.”

Bucky likes the small smile that brings to your face. “I’m sorry I got you out of one undesirable situation only to make you have to sit with me until that guy leaves,” he says.  

“Maybe I should thank him,” you respond with a nervous laugh, ducking your head a little. “I noticed you the first time I came in, was a little starstruck, and I was determined never to come back, but the coffee’s too good and too close to my place, so I said I’d just get my drinks to go and never embarrass myself trying to figure out how to talk to you.”

“So, then I shouldn’t tell you that guy’s walking out the door right now and you’d be free to leave if I want to talk to you for a few more minutes?” Bucky asks.

“I should probably stay here until I finish this coffee and croissant just in case he’s waiting outside.”

“Sound logic,” Bucky agrees, and the two of you relax into your seats, and time both speeds up and slows down as the conversation unfurls between the two of you.

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

WHO: Bucky Barnes, Steve Rogers, Sam Wilson, Wanda Maximoff, Natasha Romanov, Joaquin Torres, Namor the Submariner, Thor, Carol Danvers, Matt Murdock, maybe some Jennifer Walters or Kamala Kahn, Nick Fowler, Hogwarts Founders, Tom Riddle, Lily Evans, James Potter, Sirius Black, Remus Lupin, Regulus Black... you can request other characters but I may be less able/inclined to fulfill the request

WHAT: fluff, smut, dark, AUs, what ifs, missing scene scenarios, MCU between film things, a follow up to something I've already written

WHEN: medieval to now/near future

WHERE...I ALREADY KNOW I WON'T GO: I won't write college AU, DBF, stepcest, DDLG, watersports, underage

WHY: WHY NOT?

HOW: Drop an ask no later than Sunday with the request/challenge/idea/scenario/gif or pic inspo - again, I make no promises, but I am stoked to see what you send my way and I think this could genuinely be a blast

LET THE GAMES BEGIN!

 *****

Somehow he knew. The scout was explaining – a heavily armed elf was found injured near the camp, when we tried to bring him in for healing he resisted with violence, we have him restrained, what do you want to do, my Lord?

  There was no reason he should know, but somehow he did.

  ‘And his belongings?’

  ‘His pack, cloak and weapons are outside,’ said the scout.

  ‘Is that all? What was in the pack?’

  ‘Supplies, a change of clothes,’ the scout shrugged.

  ‘Nothing else?’

  ‘No, Sir.’ The young man was looking at him strangely, now. What else should there have been, after all.

  Maybe he was wrong then. They wouldn’t have missed the harp.

  ‘Thank you.’

  He walked out of the tent, and found the weapons. If he’d been expecting to see two short swords, the like of which hadn’t been forged since before the First Age – he was disappointed again. Such swords are very recognisable. There was no reason someone would carry them around if they’d fled everything else. Or, more likely – he’s long gone, and this is another elf. One who needs healing, and I have to determine whether it’s a risk to remove his restraints within our camp.

  And yet, when he walked into the tent, he was still expecting to see Maglor curled up on the sleeping mat. So much so, that when this was precisely what he saw, he had to look a long time to make sure it was real, and not in his head.

  Maglor sat up, met his eyes, and went still.

  Neither of them spoke for almost a minute.

  Finally, Elrond turned and closed the tent flap. Then he went to sit beside his foster father. If he’d hoped this would make the words come any easier – he was disappointed. But he wasn’t entirely sure what he was hoping.

  Maglor didn’t look shocked to see him, so probably the scouts who found him had mentioned his name. He wondered, with a bitter twist in his chest, whether that was the moment when Maglor fought to get away.

  ‘They told me you were injured,’ he said, finally.

  Something closed off in Maglor’s expression, and he gestured to his leg, silently. Elrond wanted to snatch the words back – that was the first thing you said, after so long? Not Father, I thought I’d never see you again...some clinical thing you’d say to anybody?

  He unwrapped the hasty field bandage, still groping for something to say that would miraculously convey all his feelings and all the right things at the same time. A paradox, in fact. He was distracted from this hunt by the sight of the wound.

  Fortunately clean water and bandages were close to hand. It was long and jagged, and he didn’t like the look of the swelling and redness around the knee – it was hot to the touch, which suggested infection. But it would probably heal.

  He was caught off guard when he glanced up and caught Maglor’s eye. It was the strange, distant expression he used to wear when he thought the twins were asleep. When he’d just look at them for a moment, then leave silently. It was exactly the same.

  Until Elrond, completely distracted, let the wet cloth trail over the wrong part of Maglor’s leg, and he winced in discomfort.

  ‘Sorry- I’m, I’m sorry-’

  ‘It’s fine. It’s alright.’

  Taking a deep breath, Elrond looked down again. He tried to think of it as any other wound.

  It was extremely hard. About as hard as when he’d had to set Elrohir’s broken arm.

  ‘They all said you were a skilled healer,’ said Maglor, softly, as he was nearly finished. It wasn’t said ironically.

  Long ago their roles had been reversed. Clear as if in a mirror, he could see Maglor carefully cleaning up the scraped knees of a young boy – now, shall we show off your battle scars, or shall we cover it up for a bit? Which do you think will look more impressive to Elros?

  Did Maglor even know about Elros...?

  Finally Elrond looked up. ‘You don’t have a harp,’ he said.

  Maglor shook his head, slowly. Apparently that hadn’t been what he was expecting. ‘No.’

  That, more than anything about Maglor’s appearance or dress, or the way he felt so much more distant, was troubling. That was the thing that he missed.

  ‘It’s not the same any more. Sometimes I get one, and play it for a bit. But it’s not the same,’ Maglor said, haltingly.

  How long was “a bit”, Elrond wondered. Five hundred years?

  ‘We patrol this area fairly regularly,’ Elrond said. ‘You haven’t been here before.’

  ‘No.’ He didn’t offer any more explanation.

  ‘I looked for you,’ Elrond told him. Maglor had to know this. I looked for you – I wanted to find you.

  Maglor nodded. ‘I know.’

  ‘You know?’ he said, caught off guard.

  It was Maglor’s turn to go silent and look away. If he knew – then he didn’t want to be found. He’d assumed this might be the case, if he was still in Middle Earth at all. Hearing it though...

  It had been a long time. It still made his throat and chest tighten. He took a shallow breath to speak, anyway. ‘You are free to go. I would advise you stay the night at least, for your leg. But you’re free.’

  Maglor nodded.

  ‘And I won’t look for you any more,’ he said. It was an effort to keep his voice level. ‘If you don’t wish to be found.’

  Maglor looked at him. Unexpectedly he reached out and gripped Elrond’s arm.

  ‘No. Not...exactly. It wouldn’t be...I should be long gone. I won’t drag my doom into this age of the world, I won’t let it touch anyone else.’ His fingers tightened on Elrond’s arm for a second. ‘But I’m not going back.’

  ‘So, what? You’re just going to keep wandering aimlessly, avoiding everyone who loves you?’

  He heard the last few words before he really thought them through. That was a good thing. He might not have said them otherwise.

  Maglor shook his head slowly. ‘There is no everyone who loves me.’

  ‘Maglor...’ Elrond clenched his fists in frustration.

  ‘This is why I didn’t want to be found. You wouldn’t have to wonder about me or look for me – you could have your life. You wouldn’t have to defend me or forgive me.’ Maglor let go of his arm. ‘You still don’t have to.’

  ‘And that’s what you wanted?’ Elrond asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘No,’ said Elrond. ‘No it’s not.’

  Maglor closed his eyes. ‘No,’ he admitted softly.

  ‘What did you want?’

  He was silent for a long time, then finally he took a breath.

  ‘I wanted to see you. Just once. To make sure you knew I loved you.’

  Elrond put a hand on his shoulder. He squeezed, until Maglor opened his eyes.

  ‘Why do you think I was looking for you?’

*****

  The more he looked at the knife, the worse it got. After a while he was so entrenched in gloom that he didn’t hear someone enter the forge until they coughed, awkwardly. He dropped the knife with a clatter.

  Turgon shook his head. ‘Sorry. I did knock but...’ this was just one workshop on a whole street of workshops. It was deafening outside. Inside though, the noise was muffled by thick walls – but there was also a wide window so the rooms didn’t get chokingly hot.

  ‘What do you think? Is it big enough?’ Turgon asked.

  It was twice as big as his father’s forge, though not as well stocked. ‘It’s definitely big enough,’ he said. I can find tools. Or, more likely – make them.

  ‘Good. I just wanted to make sure. I won’t barge in again, I think everyone should have a place that’s theirs.’

  Maeglin blinked. ‘Um...’

  ‘And this can be yours, if you want,’ Turgon finished.

  Maeglin looked around, as if seeing the place for the first time. His uncle had recommended he come here after hearing (from Idril, probably) that he was interested in metalwork. And he hadn’t come out much for the last week, but now suddenly it felt like a sanctuary.

  A slightly awkward silence was developing. ‘Thank you,’ said Maeglin quickly. ‘I...I am...you don’t have to...’

  He still had no idea how he was supposed to speak to Turgon. Who is this man – is he the Lord of Gondolin, showing me charity? Is he Turukáno, the character in my mother’s stories? Is he my uncle, the one she used to speak of with a mixture of fondness and frustration and regret? Is he the man that ordered my father executed?

  Maeglin stared at the floor and forced these thoughts to the back of his mind, trying to dredge up something appropriately grateful and respectful to-

  ‘This is good,’ said Turgon, picking up the knife blade from the floor.

  ‘No it’s not!’ he blurted out. If he’d not been caught off-guard, Maeglin would have kept his eyes cast down and thanked him. But thinking about his mother was still too...he had to practice wrapping that up and putting it away, so he didn’t let things slip. ‘I mean, it’s...thank you.’

  ‘It looks good,’ said Turgon. ‘What’s wrong with it?’

  Maeglin looked at the blade. ‘Several things,’ he admitted, reluctantly. ‘I’m not used to this furnace yet, and I used a very different fuel in Nan Elmoth. I just can’t judge the heat as well as I’m used to, and I could tell it wasn’t hot enough, but I thought I’d try and save it anyway by folding the steel a few extra times. But it wasn’t even hot enough to do that properly, and it broke, but...by that time I’d been working for so long I was determined to finish with something, so I just hammered it out and polished it up.’ He looked away from it in disgust. That was a mistake he wouldn’t make again. ‘It would probably break on a piece of cheese, never mind anything tougher,’ he said.

  Turgon was looking at it. ‘I thought you were being modest. But you really think this isn’t any good.’

  ‘It’s not,’ he said.

  Turgon spun it over, and tapped it against an anvil. ‘A lot of my family are craftsmen. And I can tell it’s not that bad...however I was never particularly knowledgeable about it myself...’ he set the knife blade down. ‘Still. It does beg the question what you think is a good piece of work.’ He half-smiled at Maeglin. ‘When you make one, I’d love to see it.’

*****

  The meal was mostly finished, and Idril had already gone before the chair on Turgon’s right was pulled out.

  ‘Sorry,’ Maeglin apologised. He had obviously stopped to scrub his face clean, and wisps of stray hair still clung to his damp forehead. ‘I was...’

  ‘It’s fine,’ said Turgon. ‘Well, it’s cold, but I’m sure you were busy.’

  ‘Mmm,’ he said, sitting down. He looked embarrassed, so Turgon cast around for a change of subject.

  ‘How is your latest project going?’

  ‘It’s finished,’ said Maeglin.

  ‘Good! And how did it turn out?’

  ‘Alright,’ he said, focused on his plate.

  ‘Still nothing you would call “good”?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  Turgon hoped there would be, one day, and Maeglin wouldn’t continue to class everything he created as “alright”. Of course, it could be simply a way of saying “it’s private”. Which was fair enough, he supposed. On the other hand, there was another man who kept his creations private...no, shut up, this isn’t the same. If he doesn’t want to show off his creations there’s nothing wrong with that. He’s a secretive young man.

  Because of this, Turgon really wasn’t sure how to broach the next subject. ‘I’ve...been working on something too, and I’m not sure if the outcome is “alright” or better than alright,’ he said. ‘I’d like your opinion, if you don’t mind.’

  Maeglin looked up. ‘I don’t mind.’

  ‘I know you’re not working with the tools you’d like,’ he said, carefully. What he didn’t want to say was “Idril says you’ve been disappointed with the quality of metal you’ve been working with since the beginning”. ‘Many of our craftsmen say there’s a shortage of good metal, and thus a shortage of good metalworking tools – the things we brought with us obviously can’t last forever, and it looks like we’ve exhausted most of the deposits around Tumladen.’ He looked to see how Maeglin was digesting this, but as usual the young man’s face was a mask. ‘We’d have to delve deeper. Carve out tunnels, and even – cautiously – find our way through to other valleys. But with that, we’d have to look at the risk, and think of the security of the miners as well as the city, and...well, yes, in any case. I think we need to massively extend our mines, as even our farming tools are made of metal that’s been melted down and re-forged several times now. What do you think?’

  ‘I think that’s an excellent idea,’ said Maeglin, a little more quickly than usual. ‘I don’t just speak as a craftsman, but as you say, the whole city has need of stronger ores, and we can almost certainly find other materials in the mountains as well.’

  Turgon nodded. ‘That’s what I thought. I need someone who knows what they’re looking for to lead this, though. And...I need someone I can completely trust. Because it involves leaving Tumladen.’

  Maeglin stared at him, dinner apparently forgotten. ‘Is there anyone?’

  ‘I can only think of one person,’ said Turgon, honestly.

  Maeglin didn’t say anything.

  ‘If you’d like to,’ he finished. He thought he’d like to, but it was so hard to tell what Maeglin liked.

  ‘Yes,’ said Maeglin. ‘I would like that.’

  ‘Good. I have further ideas, but I’m sure you have more. I’ll let you think it over, and we can talk about this more fully tomorrow, with some of the other Lords.’

  Maeglin nodded. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I...am very grateful.’

  It was unusual to see the young man at a loss for words – it was a rarer and rarer occurrence actually, as he seemed to be gaining complete control over his reactions.

  ‘I’m very grateful,’ said Turgon, honestly. ‘I know you’ll do an excellent job.’

*****

  Without a word, Maeglin handed the cloth-wrapped bundle to the Lord of Gondolin.

  ‘What’s this?’ Turgon asked, beginning to unwrap it.

  ‘I made something I think is good,’ said Maeglin. ‘We found some good metal ore, and I was able to refine it properly, and...I’ve been practising some other crafts, so...’

  The cloth fell free, and Maeglin watched his uncle’s eyes go wide as he looked on the sword.

  ‘I’ve made others that are similar, but I think this one’s the best,’ he said. ‘And it’s yours.’

  There was something strangely familiar in the way Turgon froze, eyes still on the sword. They were close kin, after all, and neither of them were particularly open with their emotions. So Maeglin wasn’t surprised as his uncle sought for words, and finally looked up.

  ‘It’s perfect. Maeglin...I...thank you.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Maeglin replied.

Írimë shook her head stubbornly, backing away from the hairbrush in Findis’ hand.

  ‘No!’

  Findis sighed. ‘Nolofinwë didn’t fuss.’ Well, not too much. Írimë didn’t need to know that.

  ‘No!’

  ‘You can do mine,’ she suggested, desperately.

  The tiny girl paused, thinking. ‘I can do yours first?’

  ‘Alright,’ said Findis, cautiously.

  Írimë’s brow creased in thought. Then she held out a hand.

  ‘kay.’

  Findis handed over the hairbrush, and sat down on the edge of the bed. Her little sister scrambled up onto it, and with great concentration, began to brush her sister’s golden hair in long sweeps.

  It became a long standing tradition.

*****

  The trees were gone – and all peace and sanity seemed to be gone with them. Their father was gone, and everything was chaos. How could she sleep? How could anyone sleep in the dark? Anything could be right in the room with you, and you’d not know. It was the powerlessness, the way you couldn’t interpret sounds any more. Everyone wanted a lantern, and there just wasn’t enough fuel – what they had was needed for essential industries, hospitals, and the panicking farmers. They couldn’t spare one for people to sleep with.

  On the first night, she heard something coming into her room, and screamed, reaching for the knife she’d put at her bedside. Her mind was full of the crushing blackness that had swallowed the trees, and her father-

  ‘It’s me!’ Írimë whispered.

  ‘Where are you?’ Findis demanded, carefully putting the knife down.

  They felt their way to each other in the dark. Neither of them could sleep, still, but at least they were together.

*****

  They’d had the arguments already.

  Don’t you care?

  Running away from here won’t bring Father back.

  Nolofinwë needs us.

  I will not leave mother, and she can’t go – it would make things even worse between Fëanáro and Nolofinwë. I won’t leave her here in the dark on her own.

  And I won’t stay when all our people are leaving.

  Now it was too late for words to change anything.

  ‘Wait, Lalwen...’

  She stopped, cloak only half wrapped around her.

  ‘You should take this,’ Findis said, passing over two lumpy cylinders. Írimë took them, and Findis felt her hands stop fumbling when she realised what they were.

  ‘Candles?’

  ‘Not very good ones. They’re the last of the two made by melting down all the stubs I could find,’ said Findis.

  ‘But you won’t be able to sleep...’

  ‘Thinking about all of you out there in the dark? Certainly won’t.’

  ‘Findis...’

  ‘I’ll be fine. We’ll go back to Ingwë I expect. I think...I don’t know who’s going to rule here, probably whoever it is will follow his lead anyway. So better that mother’s there to talk to him.’

  Írimë reached for her sister’s hand, and squeezed it tightly. ‘You don’t have to stay just to-’

  ‘No, Írimë, we’ve done it. I’ve made my choice and you’ve made yours. Now don’t tell the boys I gave you the candles, alright, there were only two or you could’ve had one each...’ she was rambling, deliberately.

  Írimë let her, instead of interrupting for once. That was odd enough to throw her, and she trailed off into silence.

  ‘They’re good candles,’ said Írimë, looking down at them. ‘Your creativity is always so...practical.’

  Pulling her sister into her arms, Findis kissed the top of her dark head. ‘Yours isn’t. Yours is reckless and sudden and personal and brilliant. Be careful how you use it.’

  ‘Mother didn’t try and give me advice, you know.’

  ‘What did she say?’

  Írimë rested her head on Findis’ shoulder and didn’t say anything for a while.

  ‘She said come back,’ she murmured, after a minute. ‘I will come back.’

  Findis took a deep breath. ‘That’s what I’m afraid of.’

*****

  Tirion wasn’t the same. It was rebuilt, but for Findis, the memory of the darkness was waiting here for her, somehow still trapped inside the eerily quiet city. She’d been backwards and forwards, supporting both Arafinwë and her mother where she could, but today she was back for another reason.

  People had begun to emerge from the Halls of Mandos.

  Arafinwë took her to the room in the palace personally. ‘She hasn’t said much. She’s...I would have expected her to take off...’ he looked worried. ‘People are saying that some of them are different when they come back. But she should be healed, if she’s out-’

  ‘This is my old room,’ said Findis, in surprise.

  ‘It’s the one she chose,’ he said.

  They looked at each other.

  Findis carefully opened the door, and slipped inside. It was quite dim inside the room, but she could see her sister on the bed. She might be asleep...or maybe not.

  What to say? Everything fled her mind. She’d spoken to a few other returners, and the distant look in their eyes, the way their families talked about them, as if they didn’t know them any more...was Írimë still her sister, who had kept her company in the dark, and resisted her authority as a child? Or was she whatever she’d become in the Outer Lands?

  Findis sat down carefully on the bed beside her.

  ‘I told you I’m fine, Arafinwë,’ said Írimë. ‘Let me sleep.’

  ‘He is,’ said Findis. ‘But you’re in my bed.’

  Írimë froze. ‘Findis?’

  Findis reached out and combed her fingers through her little sister’s long, dark hair. ‘It’s okay. You can sleep if you need to. I won’t bother you.’

  ‘I...’ Írimë trailed off. There was a long silence, as Findis continued to brush her hair.

  ‘I missed you,’ said Írimë, finally.

*****

Elrond found her walking beneath the trees.

  ‘Lady Galadriel – may I walk with you?’

  ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Tell me what’s on your mind.’

  He smiled wryly, and fell into step. ‘I...well, I would talk with you.’

  She wondered if he was going to ask to stay the winter. He’d been planning to leave since late spring, and if he didn’t go back to Imladris soon, the mountain roads would be impassable.

  ‘Of course,’ she said.

  There was a long pause, as he sought for words. ‘I have enjoyed your hospitality far too long.’

  ‘No,’ she said, simply. ‘You are always welcome here.’

  ‘I know. And I thank you for that, very much. But there are matters which need my attention in Imladris and...I have waited too long. I need to return.’

  She nodded. ‘We will ensure you have everything you need for the journey. You will be missed, and I hope you won’t wait so long before you come again, next time.’

  ‘I...’ this trailing off was uncharacteristic. ‘Thank you. I hope I won’t. But...well, may we speak of something else?’

  ‘We may,’ said Galadriel, having a fairly good idea what.

  ‘I mentioned a few weeks ago that I was concerned about Celebrían, and that she seemed to be growing more and more unhappy at something she wouldn’t share.’

  ‘You did,’ Galadriel agreed. ‘I said I thought you would be the best person to speak to her about it, since the two of you seem to have become close friends in your time here.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Elrond, awkwardly.

  ‘What I didn’t say,’ Galadriel went on, ‘is that she came to me not two days earlier and said precisely the same thing about you.’

  ‘She – what?’

  ‘She said she was concerned for you, because you seemed strangely sad one moment, but yourself again when she managed to distract you – but then you would get a sudden flash of sadness again without warning. And I gave her the same advice I gave you, I said you should talk about it.’

  ‘I see,’ said Elrond, slowly.

  ‘You talked, I take it.’

  ‘We did.’

  ‘How did that go?’

  ‘Um...quite well.’

 ‘Excellent.’

  There was a long pause. Galadriel didn’t offer any help. He had to handle this on his own.

  ‘You know we’ve become...close...recently.’

  ‘Yes.’

  It was quite subtle, but she could see him steel himself. ‘I love her.’ He glanced over. ‘You’re not surprised to hear this.’

  ‘No,’ she admitted. In fact, hearing him say it out loud was new. Elrond was never very open about his feelings. It took a long time before he’d start to show them - although this didn’t mean he didn’t feel anything, she knew. Far from it.

  ‘She told me she loves me as well.’

  ‘This isn’t surprising to me either,’ she admitted.

  He nodded. ‘With your permission, I would like to stay the winter here. When the mountain passes are clear, we would both like to return to Imladris.’

  ‘And at some point in between I assume you intend to marry.’

  ‘With your blessing.’

  Galadriel smiled slightly. ‘You have it, of course,’ she said. ‘Elrond – you would have had it if you had asked when you met her in Imladris, all that time ago.’

  He was silent, digesting this.

  ‘Why didn’t you ask then?’

  ‘How long have you known?’ he asked.

  ‘Long enough,’ she said. Not all that time, but for a little while now. ‘You’ve avoided visiting Lothlórien, and avoided her on other occasions. But now...?’

  ‘Now, I know she feels the same way. She said she hadn’t – or at least hadn’t realised she did – until I came here. So she hasn’t been suffering,’ he said.

  She’d known that, or she would’ve intervened. ‘But you have been,’ she said. ‘It wasn’t my place to say...’ she was hit by a sudden flash of doubt. Was it? Elrond didn’t have a maternal figure to talk some sense into him – but his feelings and decisions were his own, and none of her business. ‘...and I wasn’t sure if your determined efforts to avoid her meant I was mistaken.’

  ‘When I first met her I was still sure we were on the brink of war,’ he said. He looked out over the trees of Lothlórien. ‘It would have been cruel to take her from her home in a time of war. I know...in hindsight I can see we weren’t in such danger as I thought, but at the time, I couldn’t do that to her.’

  He had known a lot of war – virtually been born into it. She knew it had taken him longer to adjust to the difference between war and peace – or even to believe in peace, and distinguish it. She didn’t realise it had taken him quite this long.

  ‘But all this time...’

  ‘I could imagine her safe here. To know she was happy, and in no danger, was good.’

  ‘Even so, that’s hardly the same-’

  ‘No,’ he agreed, quietly. ‘It’s not.’

  There was no point chastising him now, in any case. ‘I can’t imagine any other for her,’ said Galadriel, honestly. ‘Or for you.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, smiling slightly.

  ‘And I am proud to be able to call you my son-in-law,’ she said. She could have said a lot more. She cared about him very much, but she’d find a better way to show him than making them both feel awkward in the middle of the forest. ‘In fact, I am so proud, I’ll take on the duty of telling Celeborn.’

  ‘That’s where Celebrían is, actually,’ Elrond admitted. ‘She suggested it.’

  That’s my girl. Her father’ll take it much better from her. Not that he doesn’t love and respect Elrond too, but Celebrían can ask him anything.

  ‘Then I can confidently start to talk about the wedding,’ she said.

*****

  Elrond found Celebrían in her quarters. She looked up with such a peaceful smile, he knew Galadriel was right, and it had gone well.

  ‘She was happy about it,’ he said. ‘She sort of knew.’

  ‘Told you,’ she said, rising and coming over to him.

  It still made him feel slightly lightheaded to have her in his arms, and to be able to rest his cheek against her silver hair.

  ‘So, you have to officially propose to me now,’ she told him.

  ‘Quite right,’ he said, drawing away from her slightly. He led her back to the chair, and sat her down carefully. Although, the last time he’d kissed her, she’d whispered in his ear that he didn’t have to be quite that careful with her. This was an incredibly distracting thought, however, so he knelt down in front of her.

  ‘This is our official proposal, should I have prepared a speech or...?’

  ‘No, our last one was just fine,’ she assured him. ‘Just ask me what you want from me.’

  He took her hands. ‘I want you to stay with me,’ he found himself saying. That was what he wanted – to not have to be parted from her again. Which was part of the reason he’d feared meeting her again after the first time in Imladris. If she’d not loved him in return, and had walked away - he’d watched so many people leave-

  Her hands pulled out of his, and tilted his face up. ‘That’s good,’ said Celebrían, her deep calm eyes intent on his. ‘Because I want exactly the same thing. I want to wake up in your arms every single morning.’

  He reached up to take her hands again. ‘Celebrían, if I had said something earlier...we could’ve-’

Truth was a fair bit shorter than Vel, and he hadn't quite finished growing yet. It didn’t make a shred of difference. When she fixed him with a grey-eyed stare he felt his fight-or-flight instincts engage, and a panicky voice in the back of his head tell him that jumping out the window probably wouldn’t even hurt that much.

****

‘Commander, I think it was the ferret man who started the fire,’ said Turun. ‘I think he was an illegal ferret dealer.’

  Truth closed her eyes for a moment. ‘What...was particularly illegal about these ferrets?’

  ‘Should be illegal, the places he was keeping some of them.’

  ‘This is an effort to distract me from the bit where you ended up in the river, Blackshard. It’s not working.’

****

(Dwyten has a head injury)

‘Can I go?’ Dwyten asked, unimpressed.

  ‘I don’t know, can you?’ said Truth, looking him up and down.

  ‘May I go, Commander?’ he said, rolling his eyes.

  ‘No, I wasn’t being pedantic, I was asking a genuine question. Can you walk unaided to the hospital without needing to sit down?’