Unwanted desire
Chapter 2
It was the smell of newly baked bread and fresh fruit that greeted his senses when he woke up from the feeling of having someone in the close vicinity.
He stretched our, feeling the effects of sleeping deep and well instantly. For once, he felt.. rested.
As Izthelion fully opened his eyes, he spotted the young apprentice Rënya standing just by the bed. She smiled somewhat shyly as she handed him the tray of the delicious smelling food. Though the smell coming from the wooden cup on the tray was less pleasant, but he guessed it must be some sort of healing concoction. A bit reluctantly he took a sip, knowing he needed the cup's contents. The strange liquid tasted like a mix of herbs and bitter tea.
Trying not to show just how bitter the taste had been, he quickly took a bite of the fruit to drown it out. The sweetness instantly replaced everything else. He chewed slowly, enjoying eating fresh fruit for the first time since a very, very long time.
Smiling, the young female named Rënya made a questioning gesture towards the tray and he nodded with a smile.
It was good, he conveyed to her and she beamed.
As he took a bite of the bread, he had to close his eyes for a second to enjoy the warmth and delicious sweetness that had the taste buds dancing in his mouth. The bread was warm, and unbelievably fresh in its taste, yet sturdy at the same time. He quickly felt himself getting filled up as he took another bite, savouring the mix of flavours that spread in his mouth cavity.
Opening his eyes again, he felt his lips turning into a content smile. It was too long ago he ate fresh food. The life as wanderer usually left him with sustaining himself on nothing but lembas and dried meat or fruits. Sometimes nuts and roots if he found any. Although he had loved that way of life, the life of a wanderer was not a luxurious one.
As he swallowed the last piece of bread, there was a low knock on the door.
The young healer turned towards the sound.
"Neledhia!"**
On cue, the door silently opened. Izthelion's eyes widened a fraction at the sight that followed.
In came one of the most beautiful and tall male elf he had ever seen. He had met Glorfindel once, but that was a long ago.. but not even the golden lord could compare to this being of moonlight.
The young healer curtseyed to the fair haired elf and he inclined his head at her gesture.
It was hard not to stare and admire the half long moonlight hair that fell down broad shoulders. The man of hair was cut short just above the waist. The elf himself wore the same braids up on his beautiful head that all the woodland kin wore if they were of warrior status. Finely pointed ears proudly stood out with no hair to cover them. The man's eyes were a deep grey against pale unmarred skin, and the gaze that fell upon Izthelion was cold yet not condescending.
The entire elf's aura spoke of long battle-hardened years and all the tragedies that came with living for a long time.
A steely gaze took Izthelion in and he fought not to let it show on his face that he wanted to suddenly shiver.
Quickly lowering his gaze in deference, he found himself looking at a type of armour he had never seen before. It was a complex looking type of armour that seemed to be made by part golden and part brown leather. The armour fit snugly to the was the man's lean, yet sturdy body. On his side hung a long lean sword with Tengwar letters along the dull side and across his body was a big longbow, it's wood also full of Tengwar writings. Once more he had to blink to stop himself from admiring the elf in front of him.
All in all, the elf was the splitting image of what a captain or leader would be, especially the way the man practically radiated dominance and confidence. He had no doubt that this man was the March warden of Lothlórien. The authority radiating off the handsome elf was unmistakable and he was glad he had lowered his head as quickly as he had.
Izthelion quickly decided to take another sip of the healing concoction and forced himself once more to not frown at how bitter it was. Like most elves, he disliked a bitter taste.
Then he bowed deferentially to the March warden. Izthelion felt his curtain of tangled hair hide half of his face and hoped he did not appear rudely bed ragged to the commander of wardens. He had not been warned in advance, and so he had not had the time to polish himself to propriety.
"I bid thee a good morning, March warden of Lothlórien" Izthelion broke the silence by speaking softly and politely in Quenya.
"Good morning, warrior Izthelion. My name is Haldir, the March warden of Lothlórien, and I have arrived to escort you to the Lady of light." the man swiftly answered in a just as perfect Quenya.
Izthelion automatically looked up at that and their eyes met. Steely grey met purple as Izthelion tucked the unruly hair behind his ear to get a better look at the handsome elf.
Gone was the coldness in those grey depths. It had been replaced by something undefinable, and the commander's face had gone expressionless.
Gulping down the last of the bitter draught, Izthelion all of a sudden noticed the female was downright staring at him from the side. He felt an awkward feeling beginning to rise. Blinking he turned his gaze back to the tray of food and distracted himself by commenting on the morning weather.
The March warden answered just as politely, but his tone of voice was flat.
Swallowing the last bite of the fruit, Izthelion politely made a comment about the food to the young healer. The March warden surprised him by translating. The young woman nodded and beamed.
Realizing he must have lain there for quite some time, Ithelion quickly moved the empty tray to the side and stood.
As his thick hair fell in a tangled mass down his shoulders and all the way down to his rump, he was reminded that he had no clothes to wear besides the silken sleeping tunic and breeches... and no hair brush. Suffice to say, he could not arrive in front of a queen in sleeping wear while having hair that looked like a hurricane had blown through it.
Looking around, Izthelion was thankfully led by the young female to a grey and silver outfit splayed across one of the wooden chairs. The outfit looked like a practical version of a noble's suit. The tunic looked snug, yet elegant at the same time, and had long sleeves that looked just as snug as the leggings.
It was most unusual for him to put anything on besides armour. Doing so here, in a place where there were people he knew nothing of made him feel... out-of-place and vulnerable.
Besides, he was a former craftsman that had turned into a warrior. He did not belong wearing such a finely tailored outfit.. and silk did not provide any protection against injury.
Shaking his head at the oddness that had been his life since he woke up, he reluctantly picked up the tunic first. The fabric was soft against the touch, a dark grey that was adorned by silver embroidery of leaves reaching all around the upper part of the tunic. The outfit even had a high neck, something he knew most nobles of Imladris wore, but he had never seen anyone of lower birth wear a high necked outfit.
Trying not to show just how strange he felt wearing such fine clothing, he put on the leggings without hesitation. They fit snugly to his toned yet slim legs and he was pleased that they seemed to fit so well.
As he began to feel rude taking such a long time to dress, he quickly combed through his long hair with his fingers, making sure that no strand was left in disorder. With deft fingers he then braided the hair warrior-style, revealing his own somewhat sharply pointed ears.
It was interesting to find his own boots standing in front of him instead of a pair of just as luxurious ones as the rest of his outfit, but he was thankful nonetheless. Perhaps even more so since he got to wear something that felt like himself. He noticed the leather was completely free from grime as he put them on. His boots had been cleaned, and smelled of some sort of aromatic flower.
Izthelion fought the strange feeling that rose within his chest. He was definitely not used to this kind of … pampering.
Distracted, he refused to dwell upon the next strange feeling that followed as the young female came to his side and bowed her head deferentially to him while gesturing towards the door.
Blinking he forced himself to keep his gaze straight forward. But he was most certainly not used to this kind of... treatment.
He was no noble, and he was not the woman's superior. Izthelion did not know what to make of anything any more. Their royal treament of him made no sense. It was he that owed them, not the other way around.
Moving towards the door while feeling like a young woman dressed up for her courting, his right hand twitched on reflex at his side. It met the air and he blinked, only just then noticing he ha subconsciously felt for his trusted sword. Finding nothing there made him feel even more alien. The fact that he carried no weapon made him the perfect target for an enemy of someone who wished him harm. Though there was most likely no elves in Lothlórien meaning him harm, especially not since he knew elves shunned the hurting of a kin, he definitely felt... odd walking into an unknown situation without any means of protection besides that of his fists and legs.
He wondered if they would give him back his weapons. Surely they must have found them by his side where he had fallen?
The March warden cleared his throat, cutting him off from his thoughts. Bowing his head in acknowledgement of him having been rude to get caught up in his own thoughts, he quickly moved to join the March warden and young healer at the door.
"Forgive me for my distraction, March warden of Lothlórien" he said while lowering his head.
He felt the aura of authority rise before it lowered once more.
"Shall we?" was the only reply, but he could hear the frost in those single words.
Stopping behind the fair elf Izthelion waited patiently for the March warden to head out first. A few seconds passed, but the moonlight elf made no further movement.
Somewhat confused at that, he turned his gaze to the healer and then back in a silent question.
The March warden made a sweeping motion towards the door, urging him to head out first.
His Noldórin blood and inner self gave off a strong feeling of wrongness as he obeyed the silent request and opened the door, heading out before the other two.
Would he ever get used to this strange era?
Translations from Sindarín:
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