A/N: Chapter revised May 16, 2016
Chapter XXVIII: A Growing Need
By the time they finally got around to the books, Lucy's haze of hunger was never ending. It was so strong she didn't remember what it was like to feel anything else. Her senses were amplified, but not at the same time; she could feel the vibration of the elves moving nearby through the soles of her feet; could hear the pump of their blood, steady and sure and constant.
She wanted flesh. Needed the meat. Her desire to see Glorfindel was just as bad, and her continued devastation over the hollow feeling in her belly persisted. There were no heartbeats. Where were the heartbeats? Morwen had told her there was nothing there, but there should have been. Only Lucy didn't know what they were, or where they had gone. Her fear over their continued absence was turning into terror. She needed them back.
When Idril finally put the books in front of her – opening to the last page of The Hobbit that they'd been studying – Lucy didn't even realize it was there. When she did, she began to translate the words into a shaky Tengwar script, but the feather quill was nearly limp in her hand, her fingers twitching. She had no energy for anything. Only the books. The books. Fingon, and the war. She had to concentrate. Lucy tried, but she was feeling so ill the words were beginning to blur before her eyes. What she really needed was The Silmarillion, but all around them the guards stood to attention, stony faced and armed. Idril sat beside her, watching her write. The princess had braced her chin on her hand and her other arm on the table, eying the way that Lucy swayed where she sat; how her breathing was shallow, and her body shook. Eventually the elleth reached over, placing her slim hand to Lucy's shoulder and rubbing in clockwise circles. Lucy shuddered and nearly dropped her quill.
"I am sorry." Idril confessed. There was a mixture of concern and mild annoyance within her expression. "Pityalos is hard to handle sometimes, and very lonely. When he is upset he tends to forget himself, but he should know better. I will talk to him for you."
"What?" Lucy mumbled, looking towards the princess, but Idril's expression had melted into an easy smile, and she said no more. Outside the storm continued unabated, the snowflakes swirling through the air to dot the glass-covered windows; the King's private wing of the tower was one of the few places that had copious amounts of it. Beyond the windows of the small, scroll-filled room, there was nothing but whiteness. The snow was so thick that Lucy couldn't even see the mountains, but what she really wanted to see was Glorfindel. She needed him to take away the ache.
Remember the plan. Remember that time is breaking. Lucy tried to string some words together in the hopes of forming a sentence. She barely succeeded, and was sure that she sounded suspicious.
"Can I see The Silmarillion?" she asked, closing her eyes as she gripped the edge of the table. "For… for reference? I have to check something." The books were kept under lock and key at all times, guarded by a bevy of soldiers; at the moment six guards were positioned in various places about the room. There was no way she could read the books without supervision, but Lucy was hoping to check.
Idril nodded and stood, walking over to a pale cabinet on the far side of the chamber. Her thick white dress dragged softly behind her. Lucy heard the click of the cabinet being opened with a key, followed by the rustle of Idril's skirts as she withdrew the book and turned around. When she came back, the elleth placed The Silmarillion on the table, looking at Lucy expectantly. Lucy almost closed The Hobbit in response, but then she remembered her ruse.
With shaking hands she pulled The Silmarillion closer, pretending to compare the two books. The cover of The Silmarillion was dented from its fall in the mountains, and it had seen so much use that many of the pages were coming loose. Very carefully, Lucy flipped to the annotated index at the back of the book, then did the same thing with The Hobbit, as if searching for something. Trying not to sound too suspicious, she began to pry.
"What year is it again?" Lucy asked. Idril raised an eyebrow.
"Four-hundred and seventy-one." she drawled, as if seeing through Lucy's lies, but the elleth didn't question her selective memory any further. When it seemed like the princess was going to let the subject drop, Lucy used her finger to scroll through the index, searching for anything written under the year 471 that she could immediately reference. There wasn't much: just bits and pieces scattered here and there throughout the novel, with several notations pointing directly to Gondolin. Lucy didn't turn to any of the pages containing it, as she'd read obsessively over the fall of the city; just the thought of watching Gondolin burn was traumatic. There was a mention of Fingon, however, and another paragraph about the various forces that had joined the Nírnaeth Arnoediad. Lucy had only skimmed over the battle before, but she flipped to it now, reading over the slaughter in detail. As she did so, her sense of despair grew stark.
Turgon and his lords had joined the Nírnaeth Arnoediad, but Fingon had never come to Gondolin. Morgoth's forces had not pushed so far south. It was all she could do to concentrate on the words, but even with the facts going in one ear and out the other, the situation didn't look good. The events didn't match up. Lucy read over the names of the places that had not yet fallen – strongholds and cities that had joined the battle – and wondered if they were still standing.
"Where's Hithlum?" she asked. Idril reached across the table, drawing a large map forward to place it in front of her. Once she did, she put her hand to Lucy's back to keep her steady, using her other hand to point to an area northwest of Gondolin, ringed by mountains on all sides.
"Here." she soothed. "It is administered by my uncle Fingon, you see?" Her finger trailed down, going southwest, until she was pointing at another area ringed by mountains, only this one was next to the sea. "This here?" she said proudly. "This is Nevrast. It is where I lived with my atar, before Gondolin was built. Pityalos lived there too." The princess smiled fondly, lost in memory. "Pityalos loves the sea, especially when it lies next to the mountains. I think it reminds him of home."
"Oh." Lucy said, swallowing thickly. This close, she could hear Idril's blood pumping; she could discern the sweet smell that clung to the princess' flesh, a mixture of permissions and lilies. Elf flesh is sweet. Taste it, the voice said, but Lucy wouldn't. Idril was wonderful to her, and Lucy refused to hurt her. She wouldn't hurt Glorfindel, either. She'd die first.
Remember Fingon, she told herself. Remember the war.
"And Himring?" Lucy asked. Idril's expression darkened noticeably, her fingers curling against Lucy's back. Still, she pointed it out – a small speck in a barren wasteland directly east of Gondolin, the paper blackened with pitch. The entire thing had the look of a forbidden land.
"Himring is my uncle's fortress. Maitimo, that is." Idril confessed. "It is on top of a giant hill, and very cold." she paused, as if judging the wisdom of her words. "The Fëanorians live in very dangerous lands. They are on the front line of the war."
Lucy's insides clenched at the mention of fortresses; she remembered the citadel from the time jump, surrounded by the whiteness of the snowstorm and the orange glow of the flames. Maedhros, Mairon had crooned, and the giant ellon had crumpled like paper. How have you been? Morgoth sends his regards.
Mairon. Mairon. She couldn't escape him. His fingers were in everything, tangled in puppet strings as he pulled her this way and that.
Lucy, a voice suddenly sounded inside her head. Instantly she recognized it. Lucy, where are you? Her shackles burned around her wrist. Lucy gagged and clapped a hand over her mouth, her shoulders shaking. Idril eyed her with concern, running her hand in clockwise circles across her back.
"I know it is hard, being away from him." the elleth soothed. "But it will pass. I will make sure Pityalos does not do it again."
"That's not it." Lucy said from behind her hand. She didn't really understand what Idril was going on about. Glorfindel. She needed Glorfindel. She was shaking and weak, and Mairon's voice rung in her ears. Lucy was so lonely without the elf lord that she actually started to close the books, but then she remembered she still had to ask questions. She still had to see what else had changed.
"Where's Nargothrond?" she asked. The expression that crossed Idril's face was one of deep sadness. Immediately Lucy knew that the news wasn't good.
"It fell." the princess said. "Several years before you arrived. My uncle Finrod – the Lord of Nargothrond – was away at the time. My other uncles, the Fëanorians…" She paused, and her expression darkened. Then the elleth shrugged her shoulders. "Well, Celegorm and Curufin have never cared much for the will of others." she surmised. "My cousin Orodreth survived, at least. He is in Doriath now, along with my aunt."
"Oh." Lucy said, and felt even sicker. Nargothrond wasn't supposed to have fallen for many more years. It made the Noldor host even weaker. Oh god.
"Is something amiss?" Idril asked, her voice finally taking on a note of suspicion. Lucy nodded, then shook her head, undecided. She could barely force herself to keep still.
"Yes." she said, then corrected herself and said "No. I don't think so. I think I misread something. I was worried about the war."
Idril nodded in understanding, and gave her a tight smile. "Do not worry so much," she said, stroking Lucy's back. "We are safe here, and Pityalos would never let anything happen to you." The incident with the baramog remained unspoken. The princess paused for a moment, before adding "well, we are safe, so long as my atar does not do something stupid. He and my uncle Fingon do many stupid things together. Do not tell my atar I said this, yes? He will fluff up like a hen, and pout for days."
Lucy had to look away and lean to the side, the urge to rip out Idril's throat was so strong. She wanted the conversation to end, so she said nothing.
The princess seemed to take her silence as her cue that the lesson was over. Soon afterwards, she began unceremoniously rolling up the maps. Lucy went to close The Silmarillion, intending to hand it over. Just before she did however, the pages flipped in quick succession, landing on a chapter title that caught her eye. She'd probably skimmed it a dozen times over, but for some reason the name Maeglin jumped out at her, followed by the mention of Aredhel. Lucy knew that Maeglin's mother had been named as such, and although she didn't know who Eöl was, it was a short chapter. A sense of morbid fascination took over.
Lucy eyed the pages, ever so briefly. The more she read, the more her heart sank, the sick feeling in her gut turning to sadness as her mind finally processed the words. The chapter was written in flowery language, and it didn't outright say the word, but Lucy was good at seeing underneath: at reading the hidden message between the words. Maeglin's father was Eöl, she learned. His marriage to Aredhel was abusive, and Maeglin's mother had been raped. Maeglin was the by-product. He hadn't been given a name until he was twelve.
Hands shaking and feeling horrifically guilty – as if she'd been witness to something she never, ever should have seen – Lucy closed the book and said nothing. She was a voyeur here, and there was dirt on her skin. She needed to scrub it off. She needed Glorfindel.
"I'm done." Lucy said. Idril nodded. The princess reached across her to put away the books.
The walk back down the stairs was a treacherous one, as Lucy was so weak she had to be supported by Morwen. The woman gripped her arm with one hand, the other wrapped around her back. When Morwen came to greet them, Idril disappeared back into the conference room where her father and uncle were fighting, and her handmaiden lead them instead.
Stumbling on a step, Lucy gripped the railing with her free hand, her hair beginning to tumble loose from its braid. She was so hungry. She needed to feed. Everything ached.
"Will you be fine walking home?" Morwen whispered against her ear. Lucy nodded, swallowing heavily. "I just need to lay down," she said. "I didn't sleep well last night." She had slept well, actually – better than she had in months, and she was sure it was because of Glorfindel – but she was weaker than she'd been in ages. When she mentioned that she hadn't slept, Morwen's expression darkened into something thunderous, her lips pinching in fury and her hand gripping her arm.
"Are you in pain?" the woman asked quietly. Lucy bit her lip and nodded. Everything was painful, although the ache in her belly was probably the worst. Morwen cursed and held her tightly, guiding Lucy down the rest of the stairs.
When they got to the landing several of Fingon's soldiers were milling about, and Lucy's guards were waiting for her by the door. There was a chilly draft winding its way through the room. Although none of the elves were affected by it, Lucy was. She shivered hard. The sense of someone watching her suddenly spiked, but she surmised this was because they were out in the open, and everyone knew who she was. To the Gondolindrim, Lucy was Glorfindel's companion, his "pretty but frail" human charge. Everything was always about Glorfindel, and Lucy was never not attached to his name or his house. If she hadn't adored him so much, she would've resented the other elves for viewing her as such – as an extension of another person, and not as a person in her own right. She still sort of did.
"One moment." Morwen whispered, stepping away. "Let me find your cloak." The older woman walked towards one of the guards, reaching out. Without a word the guard handed Lucy's cloak over, the fabric pooling between Morwen's hands.
Lucy swayed suddenly, her breaths turning shallow; her chest heaved as she tried to draw air into her lungs. The world felt numb and her knees wouldn't support her. She was hazing out. Almost in slow motion, Lucy began to collapse. She'd been knocked unconscious before – had suffered concussions and extreme weakness because of blood loss – but she'd never actually fainted. It was a strange sensation.
"Lucy!" Morwen exclaimed. Before she could fall all the way, however, Lucy felt a hand grip her arm to pull her up, followed by another hand going to her lower back, their fingers spreading to steady her. She swallowed hard and blinked rapidly, trying to reorient herself. Someone was speaking to her in a strange tongue she couldn't understand. Even though they were standing close, their words sounded like cotton in her ears. The voice was masculine.
"She only speaks Sindarin." Morwen was saying as she came up beside them. There was a brief conversation in that same strange tongue between the older woman and the person that was holding her. Then the stranger spoke again. This time Lucy understood his words.
"Are you alright my lady?" the soldier said in Sindarin. Lucy finally turned towards the voice; for a moment she thought she was looking at a very short elf.
The soldier was taller than her, standing at six feet, but he was definitely smaller than every other ellon in the room. Then Lucy took in the rest of him, and saw legs and arms that were thick with muscle, followed by a broad face and rounded ears where there should have been delicate, angular planes and sharply pointed features. The man's blond hair was tied in a knot that rested at the nape of his neck. Grey-blue eyes looked down at her from a fairly young face, his chin dotted with stubble. A few faint lines of exhaustion were around his eyes. He was dressed for war – all of Fingon's soldiers were – but the sigil on his chest was comprised of red and blue and orange, with stylized spears radiating outwards. It took Lucy a painfully long time to realize that she was staring at another human, and it had been so long since she'd seen a human male that at first she found the sight utterly bizarre.
Then, bittersweet elation filled her. A human. Another human. It was the soldier who had been staring at her when she and Glorfindel were ambushed in the woods. Lucy wanted to talk to him – to ask him about human things and human problems – but she was too weak. She needed to feed. She needed to find Glorfindel, so he could fix the emptiness. But a human –
"You're Edain." Lucy said breathily, reaching towards him with a shaky hand. She was so frail she immediately started falling with the slight movement, her legs giving out beneath her. The man's expression changed to one of panic. He quickly reached around her, removing his hand from her back to grip her other arm, so she could stay upright.
"My lady!" he exclaimed with concern.
The soldier had an open face. A warm, kindly countenance. Lucy had begun to think that she would never see another human besides Morwen for the rest of her life, and she was so overcome with relief that she wanted to sob because of it.
"My lady, can you stand?" the man asked. Lucy nodded, her chest heaving as she tried to draw more air into her lungs. Her dress began to slip down her left shoulder with the movement. Morwen eyed the way the man gripped Lucy's arms, but said nothing.
"I apologize for intruding," the man continued, but he didn't let go of Lucy's arms. His chainmail jangled as he shifted his weight. "I had seen you earlier, and wished to speak with you. Do you… do you require assistance?"
Lucy shook her head, clutching at his arms like he was clutching at hers. She didn't want him to leave. "I'm Lucy." Lucy managed to say, smiling weakly, but the gesture was genuine. "What's your name?"
"Belor, my Lady. From the House of Hador." There was a slight flush to the soldier's cheeks as he spoke. His hands were warm against her arms. "I am here as envoy on the request of my Lord. And you?"
"I don't have a house." Lucy said. The man's expression was comically confused.
"She belongs to the House of the Golden Flower." Morwen supplied. Belor's confusion remained as he turned to the older woman, silently seeking an explanation. "It is an elvish house," Morwen explained further, folding her hands in front of her. "She is under the care of the Lord Glorfindel."
"Are you her handmaiden?" Belor asked.
Morwen grimaced. "I am now," she said, but her tone suggested otherwise. Belor's confusion lessened somewhat, but there was wariness to his gaze, and more than a little concern. When he turned back, his hands were a light but insistent pressure around Lucy's arms.
"Why do you hail from an elvish house?" he asked. His question almost sounded like an accusation, however polite.
"She belongs to –" Morwen began.
"I live here." Lucy cut in, breathless and shaking but desperate to talk. She was so starved for human interaction she would take anything she could get.
"You live here?" Belor asked with blatant surprise. "You are not just visiting?"
"No."
The soldier's expression grew grim, then; almost angry, but his anger did not seem to be directed at her. Morwen's expression mirrored his.
"Why do you only speak Sindarin?" Belor demanded.
"Because that's all they taught me." Lucy said, utterly honest. She understood Quenya, but that was an elvish language too. Belor's expression grew darker.
All of a sudden Lucy felt a clenching in her belly, followed by a sharp, stabbing pain in her chest. She let out a gasp. Her knees wobbled, her legs giving out beneath her. Everything seemed so bright. Belor let out a short shout of surprise and gripped her harder, to keep her from falling. A second later, Lucy heard Glorfindel's voice.
"Lucy?" the elf lord said. Lucy managed to turn towards him, held up by Belor's arms. Glorfindel had just emerged through a side passage that led to the Council Chamber. Two other elf lords accompanied him, and the three of them seemed to be headed towards the room where Turgon and the High King were still arguing.
"Lucy, what are you doing here?" Glorfindel asked.
"Her lessons –" Morwen began, but already the elf lord's countenance was changing as he eyed Belor's proximity to Lucy; the way the man gripped her; how her dress had begun to slide down her shoulder, exposing the skin beneath. Almost in slow-motion Glorfindel's expression morphed from genuine surprise to a primal sort of fury. His eyes became bright – so bright they were almost glowing – and the intensity to them was savage.
"Remove your hands from her," he said in a clipped, jerky tone. Belor's confusion returned.
"Pardon?" the man said, but already Glorfindel was stepping forward, and then he was there: deftly removing the soldier's hands from Lucy's arms and moving between them, effectively cutting off their contact. The elf lord's arm went around Lucy's back to hold her up, his voluminous robes partially hiding her from view. Lucy felt relief the second he touched her, her pain fading away to be replaced by a sense of rightness. The hunger was still there, but she wasn't so scared anymore. Glorfindel would fix it. Glorfindel would know what was wrong. Lucy rested her head against his chest, and his arm around her back tightened.
"She is not yours to touch," the elf lord was saying. He spoke rapidly, and there was an edge of hysteria to his voice. Lucy could tell that he was extremely upset. "You will not mishandle her that way, and if you do so again you will regret it."
"Forgive me, my Lord." Belor began, somewhat reproachfully. Through her haze of hunger, Lucy realized that the soldier was angry as well. "But the lady is mortal like myself. It is my right to speak to her."
"The lady is a member of my house. I am its Lord."
"My Lord." Belor corrected through gritted teeth. His hands were clenched, his expression a mixture of frustration and ire. "You are Eldar. The Lady is Edain, and ill."
Glorfindel's hand tightened. He drew Lucy closer to him. "Laurëfindil." said one of the other lords that had accompanied him. It was Salgant. The ellon had a soft, somewhat tremulous voice, and next to the other elf lords Lucy was struck by how young he looked, even though she knew he wasn't. He was shorter than the other elves too, and very slender.
"Is something amiss?" Salgant continued.
"No." Glorfindel said, but his tone was clipped. "I must return my charge to the estate. Please tell the others I will join them shortly."
Belor was still glaring, his hands still clenched into fists. The man cast one last look at Lucy, then at Glorfindel, before he turned around and stalking off, his chainmail jangling. Lucy stared after his retreating back, leaning against Glorfindel and taking comfort in his warmth. Salgant's gaze flitted to Lucy. Lucy didn't miss the way the elf lord eyed her proximity to Glorfindel, or how the ellon's hand rested possessively against her bared shoulder, his fingers kneading at her skin. The smaller elf drew his thick navy robes around himself and nodded, his baby-fine hair curling into whorls along his shoulders.
"Of course." Salgant demurred. Then he turned around and disappeared down the passageway, towards Turgon's private chamber. Glorfindel reached over and took Lucy's cloak from Morwen without a word, helping her dress himself.
Without waiting for the others, the elf lord all but dragged Lucy outside, his hand on her arm so she wouldn't fall. Once alone he leaned down and picked her up, bridal style, holding her close as he carried her all the way back to the estate. Lucy collapsed against him, resting her head against the thickness of his hair and basking in his warmth. She was nearly insensible with the hunger.
"Glorfindel." she whispered, her fingers curling weakly into the fabric of his cloak. "Glorfindel –" Glorfindel pressed his lips to her forehead, cradling her close.
"Shh, Nimeleth." he soothed, but his own voice was shaking. "I know. I know. I am sorry." When they got to the estate Glorfindel didn't put her down. He carried her all the way up to her room. Upon arriving he took care of her himself; removing her winter boots before pulling back the covers on her bed, tucking her beneath them like a fragile thing he was terrified of breaking. Glorfindel was still dressed in his winter clothes, his golden hair tumbling across the bed and his face framed by his hood. His cloak was damp with snow, but he was beautiful.
The elf lord smoothed Lucy's hair aside with one hand, pressing kiss after kiss to her temple. The thumb on his other hand ran repetitively along the shell of her ear. The clenching in her belly became a spasm, and Lucy whimpered, clutching at the hand that cradled her head. Hot. Everything felt so hot. She was burning with a fever, but she felt so cold. She needed Glorfindel to warm her.
"Laurëfindil." she pleaded, but Lucy didn't know what she was pleading for. Glorfindel shushed her, pressing another kiss to her cheek, just below the corner of her left eye.
"I know, Nimeleth." he whispered. A second kiss was placed to her jaw, full of desperation. "I know. I am so sorry for leaving you. I will be back tonight. I promise."
He had full lips, Lucy noted absently: pale and smooth as the rest of his skin, but with a hint of rosy color to them. They were fuller on the bottom, and his mouth was somewhat wide. She wanted to kiss his lips, Lucy decided. She'd never done so, but now the ache inside her was turning to torture. From the direction of the open door, there was the soft rustling of skirts. Lucy knew that Aeloth had joined them to observe the commotion, but she didn't care.
"It aches." Lucy insisted. Glorfindel ran his thumb across her cheek, his expression distraught. Lucy gripped his hand, frantic with the need to tell him. "It aches. They're missing –"
Glorfindel shuddered violently at the word missing. Lucy knew that Aeloth saw it; saw the way the elf lord pressed a kiss to the corner of her mouth, his free hand running down her front between her breasts to finally rest against her belly, his fingers spread and palm flat. When he touched her there, the ache lessened, but the need got worse.
"I know." the ellon whispered against her cheek, and Lucy was immediately filled with an overwhelming sense of relief, because Glorfindel knew. He could help her find them. "Ai Elbereth, I know. I must – I must go back –" He couldn't finish, his voice was cracking so badly. "I will return tonight." he finally managed to say. "I promise. Stay here and rest." Glorfindel leaned back. When he removed his hands from her Lucy felt the loss so sharply it was like ripping out her own ribs one bone at a time. It was all she could do to keep breathing. In and out went her shallow gasps, her body limp beneath the covers. As the elf lord walked towards the door, maneuvering around Aeloth, Lucy could hear the two of them talking in Quenya. She didn't know which one was more upset.
"Keep her away from the Tower." Glorfindel said. "Understand? She is not to leave the estate unless she is with me."
Aeloth's tone was coldly furious. "Laurëfindil, you cannot do this to her."
"Keep her here. That is an order."
"Laurëfindil, she is too small. She does not understand. If you do this to her, it will hurt her –"
"I said keep her inside the estate!" Glorfindel shouted, and his voice cracked again. "I am – I am your Lord! I am not a child anymore! You will follow my orders!"
Aeloth fell silent, her lips pinching together and expression grim behind her veil. Glorfindel all but fled the area; his hand clasped over his mouth as if to contain a scream. Lucy lay limp on the bed, gasping and wheezing. Something was wrong. Her body was changing. She was changing.
They were missing, and she needed to get them back. It was all she could think about. All she needed.
Glorfindel. Glorfindel would help her.
Author's Note
A big thank you to everyone who reviewed/favorited/followed! To those I couldn't PM:
Mellon: Glad things are beginning to clear up! Inkwriter: You have told me you like my characterization before, but honestly I never get tired of hearing it. I'm actually glad there was no Glorfindel, too. Both he and Lucy are so obsessed with each other its very stifling, and you need to come up for air in between. I think this chapter probably answered your questions, but yes, this story takes place after Beren and Lúthien stole a Silmaril (but before the Nírnaeth Arnoediad), so it's a very narrow, politically-fraught time period that Lucy's landed in. As for the emphasis on Celegorm, and not Curufin: you'll see. This is a future plot point. Wonderingman: I'm glad you think this story is a ten on the awesome scale.
Tsurugaren: I hadn't thought of Fingon as the archetypical shounen protagonist, but now that you've made the comparison, I think you're right! Elvia: Honestly that pattern popped up for me, too, and it's actually what I'm basing Lucy/Glorfindel's relationship off of: the idea that elves with Vanyar blood seemed to be more accepting of humans, more so than the other subspecies. I'm not sure if this is what Tolkien intended, but canonically they seem really prone to it. You will get more Fingon, don't you worry. But the next chapter deals with Maeglin. I think? I'll have to check. We haven't seen him for a while.
