How long had it been since he had left his home? Years, perhaps longer, it suffocated him. It both astonished and impressed him that this place, this seemingly insignificant place, had kept him for so long. Was it the wind in the hair of the young ladies' faces? Was it the whinnying of the horses in the distance? Was it the enormous city itself, the white walls and stone walkways he had traveled thousands of times? Although Minas Tirith was considered a capital city, one that many men would never dream of visiting, he did not see it as much. In fact, he had grown to hate this place.
Surely he could have left before this time. Surely he was not kept here by some deep devotion to the kindly people, the loyalty of the warriors, the allure of the steward… No, he could have left at any time he chose, he simply did not choose to before this unfortunate chain of events.
And certainly it was unfortunate. As the hands clasped his and the two shook in unison, while the women flung themselves around him in tight embraces, he thought of this situation; he pondered the happenings he would soon encounter. One particular woman lingered in their embrace before placing a sweet, loving kiss on his mouth. Tears stained her pretty face.
"We will miss you, Naranwe." she whispered, bowing her head slightly to stare at her fingers which played with the end of his shirt absently. Her fragile body swayed ever so gently while he pulled her to his body once more, her sobs being set free at last.
"I will miss you all as well." he muttered, smoothing down her brown hair and placing his lips upon her scalp. He closed his eyes for a moment before opening them and taking in a deep breath. He held her at arms length, scanning her. She was full of pain, that much was clear. Certainly this was unfortunate; this beautiful girl before him, yes, this was what was unfortunate.
He kissed her again, and once more, before turning away from her and the crowd that had gathered to send off their men. He mounted his horse skillfully, handling the reins and the horse with precision through the many people. He did not look back as he heard his young bride calling his name.
It was impossible for him to leave. No, this simply was not possible. Her arms wrapped around him, her hands scanned his face, her lips met his skin in many places. Her hunger for him, his being, his taste, his smell, his sound, his touch, it was too much for one man to take. His hands found her jaw line, tilting her head upward to look him in the eyes. His deep, blue eyes. Her own blue eyes intoxicated him. No, he could not leave.
The others beckoned him. They walked to him, tapping his shoulder politely and clearing their throat. Their elegant Sindarin words asked him to accompany them, the sun would be setting soon, and they wished to at least make it to the outer fields in that time. He heard them, yes, he understood. Did they understand, though? He did not think so.
He licked her tears away, he kissed her crying lips. He kissed her cheeks, her nose, her forehead, her neck. He held her hair to his nose, taking in her scent silently, memorizing ever detail of her for the journey ahead. Was she truly this perfection that he saw before him? Could something be so innocent? Again, he did not think so.
But, if it were so, how could he leave such a being here without him? It was impossible for him to leave her.
She cried out for him as he found the strength to tear away from her, her voice pathetic and desperate. "Stay! No, no, no." she had fallen to the ground, it broke his heart to see her in such a state. He turned from her, he could not take this much longer… "No, please! Please! Stay, you must stay!"
He attempted, in his despair, to drain her out. Above all else he could hear her tears, her screams, her pleas. Would no one silence her? Couldn't they see the anguish she experienced now? No one was helping her, she lay on the forest floor, dirty and crying. The faces around her stared at the men atop their steeds, waiting patiently for their comrade to join them.
His insides were being torn in two. They tore in four, in eight, in sixteen. His pain rose and rose with the pitch of her cries, she had attempted to crawl to him and in doing this had dirtied her perfect face. No one should allow such blasphemy, how could they stand by while the earth desecrated this angel? He ran to her.
His legs could not take him fast enough. His mind raced ahead of the flesh. His heart thudded in his ears as he reached for her, pulling her out of the muck and into his strong arms. She cried against his chest. "I must go." he cooed.
"No" she mumbled over and over again. "No."
"You know this to be true," he purred, his voice comforting and light, he looked down at her and kissed her lips again. "and I shall return to you, how could I not? I fight for you, my love, for us." He smiled and placed a hand on the woman's cheek.
Her sobs had become mere hiccups now, the air coming into her lungs through sharp gasps. The tears slowed, eventually coming to a stop all together. He motioned for the nearest woman to take her from him. He made his way to his horse, staring at her all the while, wishing more than anything to be with her. He prayed that he come home soon. In his mind, in his heart, and in his soul, he knew that he may never return.
A two days ride was all that stood between Naranwe and his destiny. It was times such as these that he had taken a liking to the stars, the night sky, the caressing midnight breeze. The others of his group had slipped into dreams long ago. He sat by the fire staring upwards for hours, thinking and examining the ethereal lights above. What could they be?
He had asked this to many of the men, they had given him answers of faith and of religion; he had never been a religious man. He did not believe in anything such as their gods, their higher beings that, despite all probability, controlled everything in the world. It seemed like a story to him, ones not unlike those his father had told him as a child.
The elves. Stories of the elves, their grace, their beauty, their wisdom! How could he resist such enticing beings? They had lived as many years as days he had seen, he couldn't imagine what sort of things they had experienced in such a long time. He turned his gaze to the slumbering men, his mind flickered to Gondor and his betrothed. Quickly he cast them aside, no need to think of them. Did they really mean anything, after all?
"No." he muttered aloud, resituating himself on the ground as to stretch his legs. He had thought of them not in longing but in remembrance, he was there only days before. She had cried when he left, did she actually love him? She was naïve. Of course she loved him.
Did he love her? Did he even like her? She was rather… obnoxious. She had been born in Gondor; did he love Gondor? Did he miss Gondor? Would he like to return to Gondor?
"No." he said again, resting his head against the hard ground. "Not at all." His eyes slowly closed and revealed to him the many colors and visions that only dreams can offer.
A firm but friendly hand clasped down on his shoulder. Rumil. He looked up into the ancient face of a long time friend and smiled, his presence soothed him considerably. No, this was not his home, and no, he did not feel comfortable, thank you. The young ones came in often to offer him fruits, wines, clothing. "No, thank you."
Rumil took a seat next to him, his back to the railings of the balcony they inhabited. They examined each other for a considerable amount of time before either said a word, they were in no rush, of course. He watched the blond haired man watch him for hours it seemed. "You did not ride with us." He finally said.
"No," Rumil acknowledged, "I rode ahead alongside my brothers."
"And where are they now, have you any knowledge of these things? I would very much like to speak with Orophin." He sighed, his long fingers pushing his sleeves away from the wrists they belonged to.
"Who knows these things? Certainly not I." Rumil admitted, shaking his head. "Perhaps down by the waterfalls, perhaps in their chambers. They are as unpredictable as the trees, you see."
The trees? An odd metaphor to use, he thought, nodding his head. He looked over the balcony, another wave of men crashing in. Their stench, even from this height, nauseated him. This caravan had been traveling for days, a week a strong possibility. As they looked about them, awestruck by the elven city, various elves graciously took their horses and pointed them in the direction of their rooms.
Big, these men were. Their arms thick and their legs long. Their stomachs, contrary to many men he had seen, were well formed and flexible. By the armor they wore, he guessed them to be from Gondor, Minas Tirith, he fancied.
"See that one there?" Two blond males has crept up to the railings, looking down over them to see the mortals, their chins held high. The taller of the two nodded in the direction of the dirty haired man who led the rest of the men forward, pointing to assorted statues and shrubbery he had never seen before. It was rather amusing to see them in their weakest state, so vulnerable. "Son of the steward. Boromir, I believe."
"A great warrior, as I have been told." Rumil added, examining this Boromir with judging eyes.
"Perhaps he brings with him true men." he said, his tone a bitter snap. It caused the third to raise his eyebrows in surprise.
"Such hate, Havenduil, my friend." He said, walking to Havenduil and placing a hand on his shoulder as Rumil had done moments before. "They are stronger than you believe them to be."
"I do not think so, Orophin." Havenduil laughed, witnessing one of the clumsy mortals trip over a crack in the way. He pointed a careful finger to the man and smiled. How perfect that display had been. "I have hope for Boromir, the others I have no expectations." his eyes fixed on the steward's son. "He will be strong and key in this journey."
"Yes, I should think so." the second agreed, sitting himself next to Rumil.
"They are intriguing creatures." Orophin suggested, cocking his head to the side and pursing his lips in consideration. His glance had fallen on a particularly rough looking male amongst the newest group. The man, not far after twenty-four, seemed authoritative next to Boromir, the two chatting conversationally of the budding trees and flowing waters. His dark hair curled and fell into his face at times, only to be swept away by an impatient hand, calloused and stained. His clothes were ragged, filthy. Yet the white tree remained untouched on his back, Boromir also wore the proud tree.
Havenduil followed Orophin's gaze tentatively and watched as the young man shoved Boromir, narrowly missing a group of mortal women who had traveled with the men from their village. The two laughed jubilantly and passed out of sight. "Men will continue to surprise me until the day that I no longer walk this earth." Orophin muttered, shaking his head.
The stories had no truth to them. The validity of Naranwe's father's stories was near to none, they had all been false. Fantastic they had called this elven city, Naranwe believed it heavenly. Elegantly the stories explained the elves' movements, Naranwe thought them to be floating. Such ecstasy he felt being amongst them, being able to see them, to touch them if he chose!
Imagine! He was so close to the elves that he may touch them, embrace them, kiss them! And he could easily do so, for they were creatures of unsurpassable beauty. Their women pure and smiling, their men respectful and gorgeous. He thought of her brown hair, her brown eyes, her brown freckles. She was plain, nothing like the blondes of Rivendell. Even the auburn haired people captivated him, such a rich tone their hair was! He had never seen a color like it.
Their eyes captured him completely. Blues, greens, colors he had never seen! He looked around him, the men he had come with, their eyes were brown. His own eyes were a soil color. Plain! Empty! Oh, how he longed for blue eyes. He would have killed for a pair of green eyes. The elven eyes, he knew that they could see so much more than his own. So much farther, so much more precise!
And just behind the color, when one would look through the pupil and truly see the elven eyes, one would find a mixture of powerful emotions that had almost caused him to weep. Love, lust, respect, wonder, knowledge, a natural curiosity for the life around them. Above all, excitement! He had never felt excitement such as this; for their eyes explained to him just how excited they were to see him there. A mortal, a brown haired, brown eyed mortal could excite the elves! Imagine!
They owned him now. If the most beauteous of all the elves asked him to take his life, he would. If the least attractive asked him to take his life plus the lives of three of his men, he would do so. It did not appeal to him, this sort of ownership, yet he knew it to be truth. Even the uncomely were much more alluring than any living being he had ever come to see. And when the white blond man with the violet eyes passed by him, a chance meeting, he had followed unconsciously.
Boromir yelled for him. Could Naranwe hear him? It wasn't known to him at the time, all he thought of was the man before him. Seven paces, maybe less, was the distance that separated them. Naranwe doubled his speed, making it to the man in half the time.
The man, at first, seemed perplexed as Naranwe stepped in front of him and in doing so blocking the man's path. He had stopped, looking down slightly into Naranwe's earthly eyes and had smiled.
Was this all it took, then? A smile, the connection of eyes, Naranwe's breath was being slowly drawn out of him, it was almost painful how torturously it was taken.
The man waited, his eyes ready and expecting, his lips still spread in that small smile.
Naranwe stared, he did not attempt to hide his rudeness. No, there was no need to! This man knew why he did this, why he just couldn't look away from the preternatural eyes. The long, narrow nose was so exotic! He had never seen a nose such as that before. The man's mouth! Oh, how he wished he could but reach up, brush his fingers along the man's supple lips…
He had lifted his arm in his examination, his hand dangerously close to the man's face now. Yet he did not pull away from Naranwe's palm as it touched the man's cheek, the ends of his hair. His hair! It was blond, certainly. But was it blond? It was white, Naranwe thought, holding it up to the light. Yes, white.
The elves that traveled with the man began to laugh. Their laughter was chimes, a small chorus of intoxicating sound, Naranwe spun around and listened intently, never had he heard such a melody of true happiness! His examinations turned to the closest yellow haired man.
The blue eyes, darker around the outsides to become lighter towards the black circle, stared into his brown eyes as the man with violet eyes had done. This one, however, did not smile, but continued to laugh. His eyes closed momentarily in his laughter which caused great sadness in Naranwe, which left as soon as they opened again. His mouth was thinner than the firsts, his nose shorter and more broad. Were they from the same area? He doubted this.
The other two appeared the same as the yellow haired man, he noticed. Were they the same? Was he losing his mind? No, there were three. Blue eyes with the dark rims, large shoulders, only their height seemed to differ. Their blond hair fell at exactly the same lengths. How could this be possible? Three identical men! Naranwe had never witnessed such a spectacle.
He recognized them as the men that sat atop the balcony upon his arrival. The elves that greeted him were nothing compared to these yellow haired men nor the violet eyed gentleman. The four stood in a line facing Naranwe, all patient and considerate as Naranwe nodded and stepped aside for them. In a moment's time, they had continued their elvish conversation as if nothing had interrupted them at all. Boromir reached Naranwe's side.
"They are used to such things, surely." Boromir offered, shrugging off the situation and pulling Naranwe back toward the group. "I myself had done the same thing the first time I set eyes on the elves! Such creatures, they are."
"Such creatures indeed." Naranwe murmured, looking back at the four men who conversed as they walked away.
"Perhaps we shall see them tomorrow, at the Gathering." Boromir continued, tugging at young Naranwe's arm, successfully pulling him away toward their quarters. "They do not seem to have come for vacation, nor do they seem to have settled here for the remainder of their lives. That leaves but one thing, my friend."
Naranwe's heart sank at the thought. "I hope you are wrong."
Yet throughout the night, the sobering thought plagued him. No one, not the youngest nor the eldest, the least attractive nor the most beautiful being in the world would be safe from this… No one.