Just so you know, the Elvish I've used over the next couple of chapters is a mix of Quenya and Sindarin, but it is mainly Sindarin. Oh and Angel of the Night Watchers, well done you! Good spot! No, it's not Haldir's brother, it was just a name that popped into my head. But all the same - all hail to the near encylopeadic knowledge going on in your head!
Chapter Eight – A Time to Love
In the small hours of the morning, Laurè touched the Morgul wound, seeing again the now familiar red eye staring down at her. It barely bothered her at all now, but in the years following her injury, it had prevented her from fighting. And she had been needed in the fighting that had followed. There had been wars aplenty even after Sauron had fallen, when the Witchking of the Nazgûl had led forces into the lands of men and created the kingdom of Angmar in the North, forcing out the Dunédain from their lands.
Isildur had been betrayed, and the One Ring lost, becoming legend and myth. The Elves faded into their own kingdoms, which became themselves legend among Men. Galadriel and Celeborn moved themselves and the Galadhrim to the great forest of Mallorn trees, where they built the great city of Caras Galadon amid the trees; Elrond took the remainder of the Elves of Eregion and a few of those from Lindon, and settled himself in the North, in a settlement that became known as the Last Homely House, Imladris, known as Rivendell throughout Middle-earth.
But shortly after he had settled there, tragedy struck the family. Whilst travelling from Imladris to Lothlórien, Celebrían was attacked and kidnapped by Orcs. Her sons, Elladan and Elrohir, had rescued her, but the wounds inflicted upon her proved too much to live with. After a year of suffering, she sailed to the Undying Lands, leaving behind her a grieving husband and her three children. Galadriel had been devastated by the loss of her daughter, but like Laurè, she had learnt to push grief to one side, concentrating on perfecting her arts to the point where she herself became a legend, even amongst Elves. She was comforted by her granddaughter's presence in Lothlórien during those long years. Arwen had grown tall and beautiful, likened to the legendary Luthìen, named the Evenstar by her people.
But Laurè had little time to dwell on these events, caught up in the battle to drive the Nazgûl from the lands of Men. It had taken them hundreds of years to drive him away, and had only been successful with the help of the Istari, wizards from across the seas, who had been sent to help them prepare Middle-earth for the years to come. She had become great friends with Mithrandir, the grey wizard Men called Gandalf, and had confided to him what would come to pass in as little detail as she could, not wanting to inform him of his near demise. Even then, she hadn't wanted to affect the course of the future, in case things didn't turn out as they needed to. But that last battle had disillusioned her so much … the death and destruction, the thousands of bodies littering that had once been green fields, so much life lost for what? A few more years of peace before the wars began again, before Sauron rose once more in search of his Ring.
As night had fallen on the battlefield, she had taken up Angùrei and walked into the darkness, not knowing where she was going, or how she would get back. At that point, she hadn't cared about anything; she had seen too much to take it all in, and the pain was too much for her heart to bear. How long she walked, she had never been able to say, only that the days had rolled into one another, her wounds went untended, and she continued walking, unseeing, through rain and wind and snow, until a gentle voice pulled her from her misery with kind words …
She was so cold, she was past shivering; so tired, she could barely hold her head up; so full of sorrow, she could not see ahead of herself. But there was a figure close by, wrapping a cloak about her numb shoulders; a soft deep voice coaxing her towards what seemed to be a building filled with a red glow … a fire, she hazily realised. And she realised, too, that the gentle voice was speaking in halting Sindarin, awfully accented, but welcome to her weary ears.
'Tolo hi; heniach nin?' it was asking.
Did she understand? She nodded; yes, she understood. She was supposed to go with whoever it was. Those gentle arms guided her into a room, sat her down by a fire, rubbing her frozen limbs through the sodden cloth of her tunic. She blinked away the snow from her eyelashes and looked up at her rescuer, seeing only that it was a man.
'Man eneth lín?' he asked her, stripping the leather jerkin from her now shivering form.
She managed a weary smile, though it did not touch her eyes. What use was it to him to know her name? But then, what harm could it do to tell him? He did not seem to want to hurt her, though at this point, she really didn't care what happened to her. In fact, she would have welcomed pain, if only to remind herself that she was still alive.
'Nin estar Laurè,' she managed, her voice hoarse from misuse.
The man seemed to smile, never stopping in his gentle ministrations. He spoke to her gently, telling her that he needed to get her warm, that he did not mean to hurt her, but all that really stuck in her tired mind was his name; Aldamar. He left her alone for a while, stripped of her soaked clothes and wrapped in several blankets to shiver beside the fire as he filled a bath with steaming water. Then he carefully drew her to the bath, taking the blankets from her, and lifted her in, holding her against the pain as the hot water burned her frozen skin. Slowly, though, the pain passed, and she grew warm again, light-headed from the pain and fatigue, her head lolling against the side of the bath. She was barely aware of it when he lifted her from the water, drying her off and dressing her in coarse cloth before laying her gently down in a bed. She was asleep almost immediately, with no thought for her kind saviour and the time he had taken to make her safe and warm.
She woke, hours later, to the sound of a hammer and anvil, her head filled with fog as she tried to digest what had happened to her. The bed she lay in was warm, if a little lumpy, and the room around her light and cosy, filled with personal belongings. Her tunic and trews lay on a chair beside the bed, clean and dry, Angùrei and her weapons beside them. She smiled faintly, trying to remember the face of the man who had taken her in goodness knew how long ago. Dressing stiffly in her clean clothes, she slipped from the room, carefully picking her way down what was almost a ladder into a large kitchen space. Ignoring the room for a moment, she made her way to the open door, hugging herself against the bitter cold as she looked out onto a snow-covered farm, seeking the man who had taken her in.
It was quite a small farm, though very well kept. The buildings stood stark against the snow, and she could pick out several outhouses gathered around a barn in which she could hear the sounds of animals snuffling about. The rhythmic sound of hammer on anvil was coming from one of the closer buildings; a forge, one wall open to the elements, and giving her a clear view of a tall young man, sweaty from his exertions, shirt untucked, sleeves rolled up, and a look of somehow endearing concentration on his face. His brown hair brushed his collar, falling across his face as he worked. Laurè couldn't help but stare. She had managed, though no effort of her own, to find a man who was both kind and gentle, and handsome with it.
He didn't notice her approach, so intent was he on his task. She leaned in the doorway, rubbing her arms to keep off the chill as she watched him work, finding pleasure in seeing a Man working metal as the Elven smiths in Eregion once had. Now she was closer, she could see what he was working on; a slim knife blade, red hot from the fires of the forge as he beat it into shape. He lifted it from the anvil, plunging it deep into the water bucket beside him, and looked up, seeing her for the first time. A smile crossed his face as he took in her shivering form, a smile that she returned somewhat hesitantly as he moved towards her.
'Ah …' he began, seeming to stumble over his words before they even approached his mouth. 'Man … man marthach?'
She smiled again, this time at the shyness with which he spoke Sindarin.
'I feel fine,' she told him, seeing the relief in his face as she spoke in Westron. 'Thank you; you saved my life.'
He shook his head.
'No, lady,' he said quietly. 'Even I know Elves cannot die, even from the state you were in when I found you.'
Laurè's smile turned sad.
'I was in no danger from my wounds, sir,' she told him, her eyes distant. 'But I was heartsick. I'd stopped caring about anything … and then a gentle voice, and warm arms, took me in, and made me feel my life worth living once more.'
To her everlasting delight, he blushed, stammering that he had done nothing of the sort. She held up a hand, forestalling his words.
'I cannot die from old age or disease,' she said softly, 'but grief and battle can do what they cannot. You were kind to me when I had given up; that counts for a lot.'
He frowned slightly, obviously not understanding, but moved quickly towards her, ushering her towards the house.
'You're shivering, my lady,' he said, drawing her into the house. 'You shouldn't be out here in the cold. You're still vulnerable to chills.'
'My name is Laurè,' she told him. 'Please don't call me lady.'
He smiled again, moving over to the stove where a pot was bubbling.
'Well, I'm Aldamar … I'm afraid I'm not a fantastic cook,' he said apologetically. 'My cooking serves a purpose; it's not really very appetising most days.'
'I'm not really one for eating much, don't worry,' she tried to tell him.
'No, you need to eat,' he told her firmly, stirring whatever it was that was bubbling away.
As he bustled about, looking surprisingly domesticated, Laurè took the opportunity to have a look around the little house. She was sitting in a kitchen space, at a table that stood in the centre of the flagstone floor. Along one wall stood the stove and worktops, and in the corner, a door opened out onto a tiny larder where she could see boxes of vegetables and jars of preserves. Unusually for a farmhouse, there was a large window on another wall overlooking a large sink that was filled with an amusingly large pile of wet cloth … it seemed this perfect man was not quite so efficient as he first appeared. Behind her, a large fire crackled away, warming a pair of beaten about armchairs. It was a very lived in homey house, and Laurè was surprised to find herself feeling very safe and secure here.
Aldamar made a soft noise, and she turned to find him shaking his hand with a look of acute annoyance on his face.
'What's wrong?' she asked.
He gave her an abashed smile.
'Nothing, I burnt myself, that's all,' he said, sounding embarrassed as she rose to join him, taking the pot from his hands and putting it to one side, before taking his hand in hers and examining the red skin intently.
It wasn't a bad burn, Laurè knew, but she couldn't seem to stop touching his hand, turning it back and forth as he watched her. She was very aware of his gaze, and slowly became even more aware of the fact that her cheeks were burning under his watchful eyes. She glanced up, suddenly shy, and found him staring down at her, his dark eyes shining with some unknown emotion that nonetheless made her stomach flip. That in itself was a frightening feeling, and she found herself tensing, trying to explain it to herself.
Aldamar glanced away, obviously feeling just as awkward as she was, and gave her a half-smile.
'So … is it serious?' he asked, and Laurè found herself grasping at this escape from the awkward moment.
'Well, I don't know,' she said, trying to look thoughtful and failing completely. 'We may need to chop it off.'
He laughed, a deep rich sound that made her laugh along with him, dropping his hand easily as he turned to dish out some of his … mixture.
'Would you like a drink?' he asked pleasantly, and she accepted, not expecting anything more than water.
He handed her a mug of something bitter but strangely refreshing, and the meal was spent in companionable silence. However, an hour later, she was roaring drunk, and pouring out her life's story to a rapt audience, who was at least partly holding her on her chair as she swayed. She told him almost everything; the traditions and customs of her people; the friends she had made and lost; all about the Rings and Sauron; and finally, the last victory they had won against the Witchking, and how it had led to him finding her wandering outside his farm. The tears were running freely down her cheeks by the time she had finished, but she didn't feel the despair that had washed over her days before. It actually felt good to let it all out.
'Y'know,' she slurred, squinting at him through the alcoholic haze, 'this is the firs' time I've been drunk f'years … too much fighting, see, no time for fun …'
Aldamar was nodding understandingly, infuriating sober in comparison to her unfocused babbling.
'Yes, you told me about the fighting,' he said, looking more than a little surprised. 'More than ten thousand years of it, you said.'
She nodded sagely, blinking owlishly at him.
'Yup,' she agreed. 'I'm one tired ol' biddy, tha's me.'
He laughed, catching her as she slid unceremoniously off the chair. He lifted her to her feet, steadying her as he ducked to avoid her flailing hands.
'I think I'd better put you to bed,' he chuckled, ignoring the indignant look she threw at him as he picked her up.
'You drunk I'm think, don't you?' she demanded. 'A few drinks and suddenly I'm much more attractive.'
His grin certainly was attractive.
'Believe me, that really isn't the case,' he told her, hoisting her up the ladder to the bedchamber.
As he bent to lift her up again, Laurè fixed him with a drunken glare.
'Don' you get any funny ideas 'bout undressing me,' she warned him. 'I'm deadly … I'm like a cat full of bags.'
'I'm sure you are,' Aldamar said, and dropped her on the bed, pulling her boots off before covering her with the blankets. 'Now go to sleep. I'll see you in the morning.'
Laurè smiled hazily up at him and waved, sleep claiming her quickly as he turned to leave, still laughing softly to himself. Her last thought before sleep claimed her was that he really was a very nice boy.
In the stillness of the night, Laurè laughed again, this time the sound edged with sorrow and regret, but still a laugh that came from deep within, full of amusement at herself and her own behaviour the morning after her impromptu revelation. The hangover had been one in a million, she remembered, grimacing at the memory as her mind cast back to that morning, and the many mornings after spent in Aldamar's company. Though he'd tried hard not to, he'd found the sight of a hung over Elf extremely amusing for the first couple of hours, before finally taking pity on her and finding a cordial that eased the pain in her head somewhat. However, once the pain was gone, Laurè had had the horrifying task of dealing with her embarrassment at the way she had behaved the night before. Luckily for her, he never brought up the subject again; in fact, he had watched very carefully how much beer she drank, never allowing her to get into that state again, something for which she was very grateful.
The snow had been heavy that year, the roads un-navigable even by horse, and so Aldamar had offered her the opportunity to stay with him, at least until the passes were open once more. Having no other choice really, she had accepted, though if the truth were told, she would have accepted even if it had been high summer and she were under escort. There had been something about him she had found intriguing, something that called to her to stay with him for as long as she could.
There had been someone else calling as well, she recalled with a twinge of guilt. Every now and then, during those first few months on the farm, she had felt Galadriel's touch on her mind, and heard her friend's voice calling to her, begging her to answer. Even now she couldn't explain why she hadn't answered, why she hadn't put her friend's mind at ease by at least reassuring her that she was alright. It wasn't that she hadn't thought of her friends at all, more that she couldn't face them after disappearing from the battlefield and letting them believe her dead. Besides, after those first months the gentle tug from inside stopped, and she knew that even Galadriel had given up on her.
At first, the silence in her mind had been too painful to bear, and so she had thrown herself into work on the farm, lending a hand with whatever Aldamar needed doing. She had learnt quickly the rudimentaries of bringing up livestock and growing crops, and had taken his kitchen in hand, teaching him how to cook properly, and providing a free clothes-washing service for him. He had never once stopped thanking her for all the work she was putting in, and she, in turn, had never let him forget that he had saved her life.
When the spring of that year had finally come around, and the passes were clear once more, Laurè had found herself reluctant to leave. She had kept putting it off one day at a time, telling herself it was because she felt indebted to the young Man that she could not bring herself to go. But every time she reminded herself of the duty she had placed on herself all those years before, a treacherous little voice in her head had reminded her of all the things she had given up to fulfil that duty, and how she deserved to live her life for herself, even if it were only for a few years. Because she could not deny that living with Aldamar had made her feel wanted and secure again, and he had always seemed to appreciate the work that she did, as well as working alongside her, strength for strength, giving as good as he got in work and in play …
It was shaping up to be a warm summer, Laurè thought as she sat on the bench outside the little farmhouse, Angùrei across her knees, glistening in the sunlight, as she sharpened his edge. Her tunic and trews were more than a little worn and faded by now, so she had been reluctantly clad in some of Aldamar's sister's clothes, a hard-wearing shirt and skirt that felt surprisingly comfortable on her. When she had asked if his sister would mind, he had smiled, turning away as he told her that his family was dead, and she had remembered that the plague had hit this part of Middle-earth a few years back, decimating the peoples who lived here. He had waved away her apologies with a smile, telling her that it would be good to see them worn once more by such a beautiful woman. Now that had embarrassed her.
She drew Angùrei across her knees, the whetstone whistling along his length as she worked, growing warmer and warmer in the sunlight. She could have picked a cooler spot for this job, she knew, but that would deprive her of one of her favourite pastimes … watching Aldamar at work. He was shearing the sheep today, already hot and sweaty as he wrestled the fluffy creatures to the ground. His bare chest was well muscled, she noticed, feeling her mouth go slightly dry at the sight of those muscles rippling. He must have been able to feel her eyes on him, for he looked up, smiling warmly at her as she nodded to him, a fond smile of her own playing on her lips for the joy she felt in his attention.
As he returned to his work, Laurè allowed herself to feel that little shiver down her spine that always came when he looked at her in such a way. They had grown close over the last three months while they waited for the snow to melt, and for Laurè to make her mind up as to when she was leaving. In fact, he knew her almost as well as Galadriel did, the bad as well as the good, and he had not pushed her away. Laurè knew she should not be feeling this for a Man, but she couldn't help herself, and part of her was shouting at the top of its voice that if this was the only chance for love she would get she should grab it by the horns.
She shook herself, putting the whetstone to one side as she tested the edge with her thumb. Satisfied he was sharp enough, Laurè drew herself to her feet, taking her place in the middle of the courtyard and drawing her blade up before her eyes, to point skywards as she centred herself inward. Her sword practise had been lacking over the last months, and she was taking the opportunity to regain her skill and poise. The exercises took her across the courtyard in a series of graceful steps and lunges as her muscles warmed to the task, before she allowed herself to follow the battle-drum beat that she heard in her own heartbeat, leaping and rolling across the cobbles, Angùrei flashing as he spun this way and that in the sunlight.
She could feel Aldamar watching her; feel his surprise at the grace with which she moved. She knew, from earlier conversations, that he had never seen war or fighting, and that he did not understand the art involved in wielding a sword, though after hearing her speak of it he never denied it was there. But now, she knew he was watching a warrior in action, as she had watched her soldiers as they moved through exercises much like this one, marvelling at the quiet strength and dignity with which they held themselves. This time, however, she found herself eager to impress him, executing moves which would take off someone's hand if pulled off in the middle of a group, but alone made you look frighteningly controlled. She revelled in each gasp of breath that told her of his rapt attention, and each glimpse that showed him leaning on the fence watching her, the sheep forgotten.
Suddenly her movements switched back to the slow, graceful sweeps she had started with, until she was finally back, in the centre of the courtyard, Angùrei held before her pointing skywards. As she turned back to the farmhouse, a warm hand on her elbow made her jump. Aldamar had run across the courtyard to catch her before she went inside.
'That was … amazing,' he said, his eyes shining with fascinated joy. 'Where did you learn to move like that?'
She smiled sadly.
'In war,' she told him. 'You don't need beauty of movement or even grace on a battlefield, but unless you have complete control over yourself, you can be caught unawares.'
He nodded.
'Have you?' he asked. 'Ever been caught unawares?'
Her nod produced an eager smile from him, and she knew what he was going to ask her next. She beat him to it, though; Laurè pulled her shirt down over one shoulder, displaying the first scar she had ever come by, now a thin jagged white line on her fair skin. Aldamar stared at it, his hand lifting hesitantly to brush over the smooth skin. Laurè shivered involuntarily, surprised by how much she wanted him to touch her, just like that, soft and gentle. He was standing so close; she could feel the warmth from his body as he looked down at her, eyes on her scar as his fingers traced its edge. Slowly, his eyes flicked up to hers, holding her paralysed in his gaze with the scorching heat held deep within them as he moved closer, bending down to brush his lips tenderly across hers.
The kiss lasted just a few seconds before she pulled away, common sense screaming in her mind that this was a bad idea. But before she could say anything, Aldamar spoke, and pulled her world out from under her feet.
'Laurè, I …' he breathed, reaching up to caress her cheek gently. 'I think I'm in love with you.'
She shook her head unconvincingly, trying to stop her heart from singing in joy.
'We can't,' she murmured, frightened to say it in case he went away and never returned. 'We're too different, Aldamar. I'm an Elf, you're a Man … I mean, would you mate a pig and a horse?'
He raised an eyebrow, too buoyed up by the moment to listen properly to what she was saying.
'Are you saying I look like a horse?' he smiled.
Laurè's jaw dropped as she groped for humour to get herself out of the painfully sweet situation she found herself in.
'Are you saying I look like a pig?' she demanded, trying to extricate herself from his arms.
Aldamar laughed softly, keeping his hold on her firm but gentle.
'I never said anything, you were the one that brought the animals up,' he told her as she squirmed.
'Excuse me, but you're the one who brings them up, I'm just visiting for a while,' she shot back, her sarcasm taking over as her heart and mind held a boxing match over who was going to be in charge of this part of her life.
Aldamar lifted her chin, forcing her to look at him.
'Laurè, this is serious,' he said softly. 'I love you.'
She gave him a defensive look.
'I am being seri-' she began, but didn't finish, cut off by another kiss planted squarely on her lips.
Laurè couldn't stop the tidal wave of emotion crashing into her as she reached up to pull him closer, kissing him with as much fervour as he was kissing her. His hands snaked around her back, almost shyly holding her waist as her free arm curled about his shoulders, and all she was thinking, as she melted into his arms, was that she had finally found something that felt so right it hurt, and it was wonderful.