Sírien Series: Crook of Her Finger (1/1)
Author: Julie
Disclaimer: No money is being made at all. This is written solely for my own amusement.
A/N: I wrote this many months ago on a whim, but left it unfinished since I was not happy with it. Impulse prompted me to go back and finish it, and to stop being so picky. I have constructed the story so I can write more Sírien stories later if I get the urge, but I do not promise any. I hope you enjoy it. It is romance, so be warned. ;)
xxx
Crook of Her Finger
She was fed up with Haldir! Fed up! And to think that she had been fancying herself in love with him all these months!
With effort, Sírien suppressed the emotion that rose in her throat. She was certainly not going to weep, not over him, and certainly not here in front of everyone else.
Pretending to adjust the drape of her skirt, she shot a swift glance over her shoulder at the three Lórien brothers who stood together at the edge of the clearing. Tonight's festival was a yearly event much awaited by all the Elves of Lórien, but most especially by those without a mate. Many an elleth took a new lover—or her first—on this of all nights, and Sírien had hoped to do the same.
But those plans had been ruined, and she had no one but herself to blame.
The one she had chosen, Haldir, had been pointedly ignoring her ever since he'd returned from his last tour of duty three days ago, and she knew exactly why. Only yesterday her closest friend, Heri, had confessed to having inadvertently let slip to a friend of Orophin's what Sírien had said about Haldir. Or, rather, what Sírien had said about herself in reference to him . . . how she could crook her finger any time she liked and he would come running. It had been a poor choice of words that had come back to haunt her.
Unfortunately, the words had been passed along, and somewhere along the line they had no doubt been interpreted as a boast, and a shallow one too. She had to admit that it sounded like a boast, but that was truly not the way she'd meant it. She had never meant to demean him; she had just been feeling confident. She'd only meant that he had made it clear to her that when she was ready, he would be ready, that he had left it up to her to decide. At least that was how she'd interpreted it.
Her insides twisting with emotions, Sírien watched Haldir walk over to another elleth and make a slight, graceful bow. The elleth, Lalaith, batted her long golden lashes and said something Sírien could not hear over the voices and music. A moment later he was leading her into the dance.
"Did you see that? He's chosen Lalaith." The shocked whisper came from another of Sírien's friends, Míreth, a delicate blonde with a pointed chin and a reserved manner. "He is slighting you, Sírien."
Sírien secretly agreed that it was Haldir's way of putting her in her place. This was the first dance of the night, second in importance only to the last dance. This was his signal to her that things were not as she had presumed.
She gathered her pride around her like a mantle. "He may do as he likes," she told Míreth tightly. "It makes no difference to me. He is nothing to me."
Míreth knew Sírien too well to believe this, but she only set a comforting hand on Sírien's arm and moved off in the direction of a shy sentinel who stood a small distance away, waiting patiently for her to look at him. Sírien watched Míreth give him a quiet greeting, to which the sentinel responded with one of his rare, sweet smiles. Sírien looked away, feeling very lonely all of a sudden.
Now that she was over her initial indignation, she could admit to herself that she was hurt. It was more than her pride, it was actually her feelings that were wounded. She had flirted with Haldir for a long time now, and he had always flirted back. She had truly thought he felt something for her, something similar to what she had come to feel for him. It had only been games between them so far, yet she had believed that would change and turn into something deeper, perhaps even on this very night. Yet right now he was smiling, not at her, but at that silly empty-headed Lalaith . . .
Sírien halted the thought before it was finished. No, she must be generous. Lalaith could not help it if she was not always quick-witted or clever. To make up for it, Lalaith was exceedingly beautiful, perhaps the most beautiful elleth in all of Lórien, and she was warm and sweet and caring of the feelings of others. No doubt she possessed far more virtues than Sírien did.
Steeling herself not to look at him, Sírien turned away. She must not let Haldir think that she cared, or that she was humiliated or hurt or angry. Yet a moment later a renewed wave of indignation washed over her like a cold chill. What had she said that was so very bad? She had spoken only to a small gathering of close female friends. She had said that Haldir fancied her, and that any time she was ready to take her first lover, she knew he would be there waiting. And then she had said the part about crooking her finger . . .
"May I have the pleasure of this dance, Sírien?" Arthon, another of the wardens, had come up behind her, and she knew she would be wise to accept him. Lauded for his bravery and his skill with weapons, he was handsome, popular, witty, and charming. In fact, she was a little surprised that he would ask her at all.
"You certainly may." She forced a smile, for she liked Arthon and had no wish to insult him with her lack of interest. He simply did not make her heart beat faster the way that Haldir did. Quickly, she shut off that line of thought.
Arthon led her into the cleared area where the dancing was about to start. She set her hand on his shoulder while he took her other hand and threaded their fingers together. The warmth of his skin did not thrill her the way it should have done, but she allowed no sign of this to show in her expression. Instead, she gazed cordially up at him, hoping her smile did not look as forced as it felt.
"I do not often see you in a dress," Arthon remarked as they began the first series of movements. "You look very beautiful."
For some reason the compliment threw her spirits further into a downward spiral. Despite her lovely gown, she did not feel beautiful, and for him to say this just irritated her.
"Thank you," she said flatly. "It is kind of you to notice."
Arthon's brows drew together. "Did I say something amiss?"
"No," she said quickly, horrified by her own manners. "You did not. Please forgive me. I am just in a . . . a rather odd mood at the moment."
"Ah." His eyes were far too knowing. "Well, I must see if I can cheer up a bit." He began a complicated set of steps that she had to exert herself to follow. Around and around she whirled, her feet flying to keep up with him as they wove their way among and between other couples. It was difficult to keep her mind on her feet and watch Haldir at the same time, and she lost sight of him more than once.
Arthon was a good dancer, so it took her by surprise when, near the end of the set, he stepped directly on her foot. Her thin slipper offered little protection, and the resulting pain prevented her from completing the final movement. Oddly, although he still held her hand, Arthon failed to catch her as she fell, and she landed hard on her backside in the middle of the dancers. To make matters even more humiliating, she somehow managed to collide with a familiar pair of long male legs. She did not glance up; she did not need to look to know that their owner's gaze would be cool and aloof. Her heart ached at the thought.
"Forgive me, Sírien, I am so sorry!" Arthon was exclaiming as he helped her back to her feet. "Are you injured?"
"Only my pride." Sírien smiled bravely, pretending she did not know that Haldir was watching and listening. "But I think I will have to excuse myself, if you do not mind." Without waiting for Arthon's reply, she limped away, cursing silently. She was fairly sure the back of her gown was soiled, perhaps stained by the grass. Not only that, but her hip hurt, and her right ankle and three of her toes were throbbing. Had she ever felt more miserable? She did not think so.
Seeking a quiet place where she could sit down, she rounded a huge mallorn tree and ran smack into a solid male body. Two hands reached out to steady her.
"Sírien," Haldir said, with no particular inflection in his voice.
Startled, she heard herself gasp, then quickly tried to cover her confusion by snapping, "What?" She then flushed to the roots of her hair at the churlishness of her tone.
"You are limping," he stated quietly. His gray eyes studied her with seeming detachment.
She opened and shut her mouth. What could she say that would make things better? She could think of absolutely nothing, so she merely sighed and said, "So would you be if your dance partner had stomped on your toes. I swear he did it deliberately."
"Perhaps he did," Haldir replied, "since he is now dancing with Lalaith, with whom he is in love . . . or at least in lust. Sit down," he added in a rather commanding tone.
Sírien tried to absorb the implications of his remark at the same time she evaluated her reaction to his domineering attitude. Loathe to argue with him, she settled on, "Why?" as a good general purpose response.
"So that I may examine your foot, obviously." His eyes held no amusement, yet they were not as hard as they might have been if he were truly angry with her. Perhaps this was how indifference looked. She had not seen it in his eyes before.
Too depressed to do anything but yield, Sírien looked around her for the bench she knew must be close. Spying one formed by a cooperative tree root, she took two hobbling steps toward it before Haldir lifted her and carried her over to it like an elfling. "Haldir!" she protested, feeling very foolish.
He did not sit but instead towered over her like an interrogator, his fists set on his lean hips. "You have something you wish to say to me?" One brow was arched in a rather intimidating fashion.
Perhaps he was angry after all.
She plucked nervously at her skirt. "I feel stupid in this dress," she mumbled.
"You do not look stupid."
"Thank you," she said wryly. She had suddenly forgotten how to flirt, all the small tricks she normally used on him, the things she thought he enjoyed.
Squatting down, he took her foot in his hand and pulled off the slipper. She saw him frown at the redness of her toes. "Move them," he commanded.
She did so successfully. His long fingers tested her, rotating her ankle, watching her face for any signs of pain as he completed his very thorough examination. "You see?" she said as he replaced her slipper upon her foot. "There is no true injury."
He rose silently to his feet, but he did not walk away. He simply hovered over her as though he expected her to say something.
"Please sit down," she said in a low voice.
Without a word he joined her on the bench, leaving only a small space between them while she stared down at her hands, too nervous to look at him. When she finally dared to glance up, she found his expression impossible to read.
She bit her lip. "Are you angry with me?" She kept her voice as non-committal as possible in an attempt to hide her dismay.
"I was," he admitted. "But my anger has faded."
"Haldir, I am sorry."
"I accept your apology." Yet his voice remained distant. Gone was the warmth she was so accustomed to hearing. Gone was that appealing curve of his lips and the glint in his eyes she was so used to seeing when he looked at her. Her heart sank.
"You do not look as though you accept it. You look as though you do not like me very well."
"I like you, Sírien. I just find you very young."
"Young! I am of an age with Rúmil!"
"Sometimes I find him young too," he said dryly.
"Is being young a crime?" she tried to joke.
"No," he said.
"Well, then? What are you saying, Haldir? Please be frank with me because . . . because I . . .'" Her voice breaking, she averted her face from him, mortified that she had allowed him to see how distressed she was.
She felt him take her hand and hold it lightly, resting it against his thigh. "I fear I am too old for you, that is all."
It was the last thing she had expected him to say. "Too old?" She turned to stare at him. "That is not possible."
"No?" He arched a brow.
"No," she said, and in a small voice added, "I thought you enjoyed flirting with me. You gave the impression you did."
His thumb rubbed absently against the palm of her hand. "Oh, I do. It is just the thought that you enjoy flirting with so many others that disturbs me. And that you would think me so docile and submissive that you can control me with the crook of a finger. I am no plaything, Sírien, nor do I wish for a lover who treats me like one."
She was shaking her head. "No, no, I do not think of you like that, nor do I flirt with others, at least not in the way you mean. And I don't wish to control you. Whatever you were told . . . it was an exaggeration . . . a misrepresentation of what I said. Or what I meant."
"I am listening," he replied, his gray eyes unreadable.
"I will be honest with you," she began. It was so hard to look him in the eye when she felt so guilty, so wrong, and so close to tears. "I have flirted with others, but only because I wished to . . . to learn how to do it properly." She noticed his expression seemed a bit odd, but she stumbled on, "It is like target practice, you see. You practice your archery so that when you are in a true battle, your aim will be true."
One of his dark brows shot up.
"So that when you see an Orc, you will know how to shoot him properly," she explained.
"So, using your metaphor . . . I am the Orc you wish to shoot?"
"Yes . . . no . . . I mean, yes. Metaphorically speaking, Haldir." She tightened her hold on his fingers as though to make him understand. "But I have gotten rather good at it, you see, and now some of the ellyn I flirt with are used to being treated that way, despite the fact that there is only one ellon I wish to . . . oh, I do not wish to use that word any more. It makes me sound superficial and I am not."
"Which word is that?" he inquired, looking at her oddly.
"Flirt. I am really past wanting to do that with you." Seeing his expression, she backpedaled hastily. "I mean, I still love to flirt with you but I am ready to . . . to go on to the next step, whatever that might be." She stopped, knowing her face was bright pink.
"I see," he said slowly. "And you do not wish to control me?"
"Certainly not. The idea never entered my head."
"I require more explanation, Sírien." His thumb caressed her palm, making distracting little circles on her sensitive skin. "I normally pay no heed to gossip except where it concerns you and me."
Sírien sighed. "I was with my friends, Haldir. I had three glasses of wine, and I was feeling . . . sure of you. Sure of what you wanted from me." She knew her face was flaming. "I was wrong, I know, but I did say it. I said that you would come to me whenever I crooked my finger, but I never meant it as an insult. I only meant that . . . you wished what I wished. I spoke only to friends," she reiterated miserably. "I forgot that Aerwen tends to repeat things to her sister on occasion."
"Do you still wish it?" His voice seemed softer now, more quiet and thoughtful, and perhaps more gentle.
Sírien swallowed her pride. "I do," she whispered, her voice hitching despite her efforts to control it. "More than anything. I had such hopes for tonight."
"So did I." He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it, right in the center of her palm. "I hoped that tonight would be the night you told me you were ready. I have wanted no other elleth for a very long time."
"You don't want Lalaith?" she murmured, peeking up at him hopefully.
"Of course not." He looked rather amused.
"She's very beautiful," she pointed out.
"Yes, she is," he agreed.
"Very desirable too, I would imagine."
He only smiled.
"You asked her to dance," Sírien added, hoping she did not sound too petty.
"To teach you a lesson," he said wryly. "But I immediately regretted it."
"You have not spoken to me since your return."
"Nor have you spoken to me. You could have come to me and explained."
Sírien shuddered with rising desire as his lips pressed her palm, lingering briefly. "I was afraid," she whispered.
"Afraid of me?" he murmured, a little huskily. "Sírien, why?"
"Afraid of what you would say. Afraid that everything I believed about us was a lie, or . . . a creation of my imagination."
He swirled the tip of his tongue over her wrist, igniting unbelievable sensations within her. "So I am not too old for you? I warn you, Sírien, I am set in my ways. I have been called stubborn, arrogant, and a few other unflattering appellations. I am also a warden, and I plan to be Marchwarden someday if that position becomes open. I have weighty responsibilities. I could be killed."
"You will not be killed," she breathed. "I will never let that happen."
He laughed softly. "You will flirt with the enemy while I shoot them?"
"Nay, I will be shooting them alongside you," she said with resolution. She saw surprise enter his eyes. "I have decided to become a warden, Haldir. It is not an impetuous decision, although it may seem so. I have been thinking about it for a long time now. You know my weapons' skills. You know my talent with knives. I intend to practice diligently, year after year, until I meet the requirements. I will be a warden someday. I will fight at your side. No harm will ever befall you because I will not allow it."
He was shaking his head, but she could see the approving gleam of his eyes. "Those are noble ambitions, Sírien. I will not stop you. I have long thought your talents could be put to use in Lórien's defense. But it must be for Lórien's defense and not mine that you fight."
"You are part of Lórien," she said softly. "As am I." Turning her hand, she caught hold of his fingers and raised them to her own lips, kissing them lightly.
He slid his arm around her waist and drew her close, his hand brushing a few strands of hair away from her cheek before he cupped it. "Sírien," he whispered, just before his lips covered hers.
His kiss was gentle at first, but she soon felt the underlying power hovering beneath the surface of his self-restraint. He kissed her in a way she had never dreamed he might do, as though she was the forest and he was the wind, able and capable of ripping past any and all her defenses. How long did it last? Something between a moment and an eternity, that was all she knew, for all thought ceased as long as his mouth covered hers.
Finally, he drew away, releasing a shaky breath. "Come, let us return to the dance. Our absence will be noted."
"Do you care?" she murmured, her heart slamming against her ribs.
"No, but I think it would be a good way to show our friends that we have resolved our differences. If you dance every dance with me for the rest of the night, I think that should take care of it."
"Every dance? Are you certain that is what you wish?" For him to devote himself to her exclusively in this manner made a significant statement.
He looked at her with a curious half smile. "Aye, I know my own mind. Do you?"
"I knew my own mind the moment I felt that you had turned from me. For months I have told myself that . . . " She hesitated, unsure what his reaction would be if she spoke the words.
"Told yourself what?" he prodded.
She lowered her eyes. "I told myself I was in love with you," she said, almost inaudibly. "But in these past few days I realized how true it was. I mean, I understood how . . . how devastated I would be if I had lost you."
"You have not lost me, Sírien," he said quietly. He drew her close to him once more. "I am not so easy to lose."
And that did indeed prove to be the case, as Sírien was to discover during the ensuing months of their courtship. Being hard to lose did not mean that no other problems cropped up. There were occasional clashes of wills and other situations requiring adjustment, compromise and communication. But those are other tales, best left for another day.