Disclaimer: Owned characters belong to owners. I make no money.
Notes:
-Angst : AU : LIGHTLY Implied Slash : This is dreamed up by my muse. It is by no means meant to reflect accuracy to Tolkiens work.
.
Dedication:
For Jay Bird. Because you understand, and love him as much as I do.
.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
.
A Flame That Would Never Come
By Aronoded
.
.
He was alone by a silken stream when Varda found him. His hair hiding his face like a
curtain of sunbeams, as he leaned out, far reaching from the rock he knelt on, and into
the water to capture a passing leaf. On the leaf huddled the smallest butterfly, and with
hushed and soothing whispers, he cupped his hand over it, and took it to a stump that
waited, silent and safe, inland from the water.
She thought Dinendal lovely from first sight, and the depth of his blue gray eyes made her
heart ache with the task she had to do. His every motion spoke of gentleness, and timidness,
and all that he did was saturated with an appreciation for all living things. In his heart
he carried all the stories he'd ever heard, and a hope that someday, he would find a library
big enough to carry all that he hadn't yet known. He loved completely, and without
question, and though he'd known abandonment at a very young age, he'd always known hope.
She could feel him the way no other would ever have the opportunity to. She knew all the
things he held deep inside. Things that no other would ever know. She knew the dreams he was
waiting to share, though the one he waited to share them with, would never know him to have
the chance to hear them. She knew the fears that lingered within him, waiting to be
engulfed by a flame that would never come
Because Dinendal was alone in a way no other had ever been alone. His soul was now solitary,
and while other souls had been solitary before it, his had not been made to endure alone.
It endured only with the knowledge that somewhere out there, there existed another, and that
the other waited for him as he waited for them. They were connected...even as they lingered
far away.
But the other soul no longer looked for him. The other soul no longer waited, for the soul
had been claimed by the only being powerful enough to mimic his own. And that being held
firm to that resolve, even as he was cast away from his realm, and the heart that once
belonged to the gentle elf Dinendal, now beat for the crafty elf that was once known as the
Vala, Irmo.
That left Dinendal incomplete...That left him with no path to follow...and over short years,
the elf would slowly feel, and become confused by, the emptiness that would seep into his
heart. Even as Dinendal wouldn't know why, his soul would pine for the love it lost, even
before it could be found.
That he should ever have to endure any of it left her ill at ease. And, at first, the Vala
made to perish him; a hero on the battle field. But Dinandal was more then a warrior.
Dinendal didn't long for the notoriety. Dinendal was a quiet spirit, content to linger in
silence. Content to listen to nature. Content to hear the songs of the birds. He loved his
home. And while he would die to defend it, it was in the depths of the wood that he found
his peace. And there it would be that he found his light put out.
***
In the leaves he lay, his golden head resting on the smooth surface of a stone as his eyes
sat fixed on the butterfly he'd saved. The wings of the little creature fanned slowly,
inward and outward, drying the water that'd misted over their fragile form in the breeze
that blew gently about them. In his hands, between his gentle fingers, Dinendal held a tiny
bloom of Elanor, testing the dexterity of the golden petals as he imagined them to be like
the butterfly's wings.
And then...something changed.
He couldn't explain why he suddenly felt so sleepy. It seemed a comfort over took him as he
lay there, that he was surrounded by a melancholy warmth. His eye lids felt heavy for the
first time, and when he closed them, he told himself that it would only be for a minute.
Just for a minute...
He could see visions of elves before him, existing in dreams. His sister was there, and as
he called out to her, she couldn't hear him. But he could feel happiness around her, and she
was laughing, being chased by a little elf boy that somehow he knew to be her own. Dinenthel
would be fine. Dinenthel would endure.
Lothlórien was fading away, and his vision followed his people over the mountains and to the
Haven of Imladris, and before him spanned a large library full of books and he longed to
read them, to touch their spines with his finger tips. But nothing seemed to glow as bright
to him, as the elf that sat still, and sleeping in a chair near an arched window. An elf
with hair as black as the inky night, and eyes that were as gray as slate rock.
Dinendal longed to touch him but, when he reached out with his trembling fingers, they
passed through the elf's form as though his own lacked solidity. But, within him a great
shudder of emotions quaked: sorrow, intrigue, confusion, and love. But he could get no
closer then this, because he was shut out. The elf wasn't his to touch.
He raised his fingers to his cheeks then, feeling a wetness that lingered there. And when he
pulled his hands back to examine them, the tears were silver, and they glittered with the
light of the stars, and he knew they weren't his own; For he was cradled against the breast
of Elentari, and she was guiding him away from this place, from this elf, that felt like
home to him.
'Please don't take me away from him,' he wanted to say, but he only found that he no longer
had a voice. And Varda strove to comfort him, pressing a kiss to his brow.
"He would have loved you, if he'd had the chance."
It had to be enough.
***
Over long years, Dinenthel never talked about the day she'd found her brother dead near the
stream they'd often played beside as children. He'd been curled up as though he were being
cradled, a tiny butterfly fluttering about his calm face. His features were serene, and upon
his brow glimmered the softest glow of a stars kiss. His fingers held a tiny bloom of
Elanor, and she'd taken it from him, and lay beside him for many nights in sorrow.
On the morning of the third day, she'd awoken to find him gone, and in her hand lay the
bloom still alive. She'd twined it into her hair, and and she'd worn it home with her.
.
.
The flower never died.
Notes:
-Angst : AU : LIGHTLY Implied Slash : This is dreamed up by my muse. It is by no means meant to reflect accuracy to Tolkiens work.
.
Dedication:
For Jay Bird. Because you understand, and love him as much as I do.
.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
.
A Flame That Would Never Come
By Aronoded
.
.
He was alone by a silken stream when Varda found him. His hair hiding his face like a
curtain of sunbeams, as he leaned out, far reaching from the rock he knelt on, and into
the water to capture a passing leaf. On the leaf huddled the smallest butterfly, and with
hushed and soothing whispers, he cupped his hand over it, and took it to a stump that
waited, silent and safe, inland from the water.
She thought Dinendal lovely from first sight, and the depth of his blue gray eyes made her
heart ache with the task she had to do. His every motion spoke of gentleness, and timidness,
and all that he did was saturated with an appreciation for all living things. In his heart
he carried all the stories he'd ever heard, and a hope that someday, he would find a library
big enough to carry all that he hadn't yet known. He loved completely, and without
question, and though he'd known abandonment at a very young age, he'd always known hope.
She could feel him the way no other would ever have the opportunity to. She knew all the
things he held deep inside. Things that no other would ever know. She knew the dreams he was
waiting to share, though the one he waited to share them with, would never know him to have
the chance to hear them. She knew the fears that lingered within him, waiting to be
engulfed by a flame that would never come
Because Dinendal was alone in a way no other had ever been alone. His soul was now solitary,
and while other souls had been solitary before it, his had not been made to endure alone.
It endured only with the knowledge that somewhere out there, there existed another, and that
the other waited for him as he waited for them. They were connected...even as they lingered
far away.
But the other soul no longer looked for him. The other soul no longer waited, for the soul
had been claimed by the only being powerful enough to mimic his own. And that being held
firm to that resolve, even as he was cast away from his realm, and the heart that once
belonged to the gentle elf Dinendal, now beat for the crafty elf that was once known as the
Vala, Irmo.
That left Dinendal incomplete...That left him with no path to follow...and over short years,
the elf would slowly feel, and become confused by, the emptiness that would seep into his
heart. Even as Dinendal wouldn't know why, his soul would pine for the love it lost, even
before it could be found.
That he should ever have to endure any of it left her ill at ease. And, at first, the Vala
made to perish him; a hero on the battle field. But Dinandal was more then a warrior.
Dinendal didn't long for the notoriety. Dinendal was a quiet spirit, content to linger in
silence. Content to listen to nature. Content to hear the songs of the birds. He loved his
home. And while he would die to defend it, it was in the depths of the wood that he found
his peace. And there it would be that he found his light put out.
***
In the leaves he lay, his golden head resting on the smooth surface of a stone as his eyes
sat fixed on the butterfly he'd saved. The wings of the little creature fanned slowly,
inward and outward, drying the water that'd misted over their fragile form in the breeze
that blew gently about them. In his hands, between his gentle fingers, Dinendal held a tiny
bloom of Elanor, testing the dexterity of the golden petals as he imagined them to be like
the butterfly's wings.
And then...something changed.
He couldn't explain why he suddenly felt so sleepy. It seemed a comfort over took him as he
lay there, that he was surrounded by a melancholy warmth. His eye lids felt heavy for the
first time, and when he closed them, he told himself that it would only be for a minute.
Just for a minute...
He could see visions of elves before him, existing in dreams. His sister was there, and as
he called out to her, she couldn't hear him. But he could feel happiness around her, and she
was laughing, being chased by a little elf boy that somehow he knew to be her own. Dinenthel
would be fine. Dinenthel would endure.
Lothlórien was fading away, and his vision followed his people over the mountains and to the
Haven of Imladris, and before him spanned a large library full of books and he longed to
read them, to touch their spines with his finger tips. But nothing seemed to glow as bright
to him, as the elf that sat still, and sleeping in a chair near an arched window. An elf
with hair as black as the inky night, and eyes that were as gray as slate rock.
Dinendal longed to touch him but, when he reached out with his trembling fingers, they
passed through the elf's form as though his own lacked solidity. But, within him a great
shudder of emotions quaked: sorrow, intrigue, confusion, and love. But he could get no
closer then this, because he was shut out. The elf wasn't his to touch.
He raised his fingers to his cheeks then, feeling a wetness that lingered there. And when he
pulled his hands back to examine them, the tears were silver, and they glittered with the
light of the stars, and he knew they weren't his own; For he was cradled against the breast
of Elentari, and she was guiding him away from this place, from this elf, that felt like
home to him.
'Please don't take me away from him,' he wanted to say, but he only found that he no longer
had a voice. And Varda strove to comfort him, pressing a kiss to his brow.
"He would have loved you, if he'd had the chance."
It had to be enough.
***
Over long years, Dinenthel never talked about the day she'd found her brother dead near the
stream they'd often played beside as children. He'd been curled up as though he were being
cradled, a tiny butterfly fluttering about his calm face. His features were serene, and upon
his brow glimmered the softest glow of a stars kiss. His fingers held a tiny bloom of
Elanor, and she'd taken it from him, and lay beside him for many nights in sorrow.
On the morning of the third day, she'd awoken to find him gone, and in her hand lay the
bloom still alive. She'd twined it into her hair, and and she'd worn it home with her.
.
.
The flower never died.