DISCLAIMER: I don't own any of Tolkien's Works. The forest here is generic and I really don't think I own you. =P This is written in the 2nd person so if you think you'll be offended by being put in the protagonist's position, please don't read this. Constructive criticism is begged for. Flames would be interesting to get. Please just bear in mind that this is my first fanfic and I didn't have a beta. At least I spell-checked it though. =)
Green leaves. The tender moss yield beneath your bare feet as you walk through the endless rows of trees. The smell of moist earth after rain has fallen upon it fills your lungs and drowns your senses. The forest is silent. You are at peace in your sanctuary. You pause to relish it, not wanting to disturb its perfection.
You sense his presence. He stands behind you, blending with the surroundings – watching. You feel his eyes upon your back, waiting for you to speak. You stare out into the trees, deliberating over leaving or staying, now that he is here. After what seems to be an entire age, you hear his voice in your mind.
"What ails you?" he asks.
In your heart, you know he has no choice but to be here with you. You turn and face him. It almost surprises you that you cannot see him. Slowly, your eyes focus on his form. The blue tunic begins to take shape amongst the emerald and sienna backdrop of your woodland refuge. His familiar golden locks sway with the gentle breeze that passes between you. Somehow, though, you can't focus on his eyes.
"I am sorry you are here with me again," you earnestly tell him. He looks back at you patiently, though, you imagine, clearly irate at having to be here with you.
"I know that you have other things to do and that my coming here has taken you away from those things – " you begin, knowing the truth of that statement. But you falter in your speech, guilt and shame overcoming you.
"What ails you?" he repeats. You cannot discern if it is out of obligation or out of genuine concern, though you are sure it is not the latter. His voice is devoid of emotion. You are tempted to make it otherwise. You know you should leave and release him from his sorry duty. Your conscience tells you to let him go but another desperate voice within begs you to keep him there, even just for a little longer. Ultimately, selfish need prevails and you decide to take advantage of his presence.
"You should know what ails me," you say. You look at him hopefully though you still can't focus on his eyes.
"Am I to know? 427 seasons have passed since I saw you last," he replies. His voice slightly reveals the irritation you have been expecting. Somehow, you are relieved by that reaction. You know you deserve no less than his ire.
You try to divert his annoyance, an expert maneuver only the wicked perform. "Is that the time difference between our worlds?" you ask him. "It has only been a week since I last brought you here."
He stares at you with his eyes that still elude you. His voice is once again devoid of feeling. "Only when you want it to be," he states. You look away, hurt by the truth of that statement.
You cannot bear his indifference and as if on cue, he sighs. "Why must you insist on summoning me to this realm?" he asks in soft exasperation. "Verily, it is not I that you wish to be with." You have been expecting that question. He deserves an answer though it is not one you want to give. You look at him once more and tell him the truth. "Because I know I cannot be with him and it is more believable to be with you as I do not want you with the same passion" you say.
He does not answer but walks past you and into a clearing that has appeared. You hear the soft trickle of water from a stream and decide to follow him to its source. He slows his pace to let you catch up and walk by his side. His demeanor has reverted once more to the detached calm you are used to. You walk not speaking until he settles on a smooth boulder next to what has become a deceptively calm river. You sit across him on a rock that has been shaped into a flattened incline. You move your hand over its seemingly smooth surface. It feels rough beneath your fingers.
"Why do you summon me though you are unsure of the reality of my existence?" he asks removing you from your examination of the rock. You look up at him. He is staring into the river. You see him vividly now. His chiseled face is frowning into the water as if in contemplation. A perfectly toned arm rests on a raised knee. His flowing mane has lost its copper tint and looks nearly the color of platinum in the sun.
Your sun.
Your rock.
Your elf.
"Just because I have created this world that we are in, it does not mean I created you as well. It does not make you any less real," you say as though to reassure yourself, trying to hold on to the illusion. He looks back at you. You feel his eyes focus on yours and wish you could do the same.
"What ails you that you had need to bring me here yet again?" His tone is mild and, it seems, almost concerned. You wonder if it is what you wanted him to ask. "My troubles fade into further insignificance when you are here," you say, wanting desperately to believe that he is concerned of his own volition.
He looks back into the river as if in deep thought. "Perhaps if you spoke of what ails you whenever we are here, you might find the solutions to your problems and you would have no need to summon me further," he ponders. "But that is not what you truly want, is it?" he asks, still staring at the water.
"No, it is not," you concede. "I do not know what is that I want," you tell him truthfully. "All I know is that when you are here with me, my emotional needs are fulfilled," you say in disgrace.
He looks at you once again. His face betrays none of the anger he should rightfully feel. "Do you not have family or friends to confide into in your world? Is there none there to give you the love you search for? Perhaps you merely do not take notice of those that do. Why do you feel my attention is more valuable than those from your world? Why do you want to escape what you know and gamble on the unknown?" he asks.
"I do not know," you say again.
"You are aware that you are the cause of your own grief. It is only you who may allow yourself joy," he tells you.
His words surprise you. You are unsettled. You did not will him to say such things. Could it be that you do not have complete control over him? You shake the thought off as absurd. The thought of his being real would be delusional – though it is a delusion you desperately want.
Theories of the possibility of inter-dimensional travel flow through your head. "Maybe that is why I can never focus on your eyes," you muse. "It is probably what keeps either of us from being drawn into each others' worlds." You say this with a bitter laugh as hopes of such a prospect flee your mind as quickly as it came.
"Perhaps," he smiles.
It is tender and affectionate. You feel like a child receiving a gift from a beloved teacher. You smile back, cherishing the moment that has ended all but too soon. The feeling of warmth instantly vanishes as the realization hits you. In all of your dreams, he has never smiled.
Adrenalin rushes through your veins. There have been times before, though rare, that you have dreamt in color. However, this has been the most vivid dream you have ever had. You hear the soft flowing of the water. You smell the crisp scent of the forest. You feel the coarse rock you sit on. Could it be…?
You nearly leap off the rock and rush to kneel next to the riverbank. With your heart throbbing in anticipation, you cup your hands into the water and take a sip of the most refreshing liquid to have ever streamed down your throat.
You are filled with anxiety and elation. Could this be more than a dream? You were convinced that you had created this forest with your imagination. You have fantasized that you draw him into your sanctuary and send him back to his world once the dream ends. Could this be more than a fantasy? Your mind races with all the glorious possibilities.
But as though being jolted into consciousness, you cease your delusional reverie. You realize you are but dreaming and fear suddenly grips you. You do not want this dream to end. You do not want him to be a figment of your imagination.
A lump forms in your throat. You do not hold it back and tears spill down your cheeks. You grip wet gravel in your fists as you cry away all the frustration, pain, shame and guilt you have brought with you. The desperate voice within you is silent now, leaving your conscience to tell you what you have always known. Yet you wonder about the vague possibility of his existence as your tears cease to flow.
"I am what you want me to be for it is what will be of help," he says, drawing you out of your thoughts as though he could hear them. He is standing over you. You turn to see his hand outstretched to help you up. You stare at his hand for a moment then decline and pull yourself to stand. You wipe your tears away with the back of your hand. You look at him once again and attempt to brush away the regret of not having touched him.
You feel yourself fall apart under his obscure gaze and realize that what you owe him is overdue. "I am sorry," you whisper, your voice coarse from crying. "I know saying so shall never be enough to compensate you for what I have put you through," is your guilt-ridden apology. Tears begin to fall once more as you wait for the rebuke you justly deserve.
It never comes.
He gathers you into the most soothing embrace.
Conscience be damned, you savor the moment. You bury your tear-strained face into his shoulder, inhaling his scent of wood and rain. You do not resist the temptation to curl your fingers into his deceptively delicate hair. He does not shift nor flinch for the eternity that you cling to him and you are tempted to stay in his arms forever.
But as with all dreams, this too must end. You attempt to brace yourself for the loss, though you cannot help but stall for precious time.
"Thank you," you murmur into his shoulder, still not wanting to let go. He does not speak but merely strokes your hair in reply.
You know your time is almost up as with all dreams in which you have become conscious of that fact. Unlike with other dreams, however, you know that once you leave, you will never return. Consoling yourself that he will finally find his peace without you, you bid him farewell.
"Quel esta, Glorfindel," you whisper into his gracefully leaf-shaped ear.
Again, he says nothing but lightly brushes his lips across your forehead. As you feel your sanctuary fade around you, bringing you into the world of consciousness, you pull away from his embrace and choose to look at his face one last time.
And you stare into grateful and compassionate iridescent eyes.
Translation: Quel esta = Rest Well
A/N: Actually, this can become an attempt at a readable mary sue or this could just be the end. It depends on my getting a muse of sorts or the feedback I get. Thanks for reading! =)