AN:
Oneshot of a moment that never was, but might have been...
This was commissioned by Ruiniel, who wanted 'longing, hurt, passion, first age elf lord and squishy feelings, a bit of annoyance at being left behind, and maybe a bit of innocent revenge.' Six out of seven? — I failed that last one. Huge thanks for making this little tragedy happen and fixing it up.
Warning: Chronological wonkiness and heartbreak in abundance
I own nothing. If I did, there might have been hope for these two. Maybe.
Highlands of Dorthonion, fourth century of the First Age
The soft chink of chainmail, accompanied by the even fainter creak of leather caused Andreth to tense, turn her head, and cast an apprehensive glance towards the entrance of the tent. The quiet noises ceased, and for a moment she thought the agonising time of waiting to be over at last; but then, whoever it was, murmured a soft greeting to someone else, before resuming their nigh soundless stride, passing by the tent. One of the Eldar, then, Andreth thought distractedly, and she did not need to listen to the receding sounds of smoothly moving armour and weapon belts to know that it was not him. His voice she would have known anywhere.
Clamping her shaking hands tightly between her legs and within the folds of her dusty, travel-worn skirts, she turned back towards the small desk, staring blindly at the maps and scattered parchments. Here she had been sitting for most of the evening, biding her time, her vigil only interrupted once or twice to rise and pace about for a while, when she could not bear the silent tension any longer.
She wondered, not for the first time, if she had gone mad for coming here.
It had been almost too easy. Andreth had been worried that, upon entering the camp, she might immediately be stopped, if not seized by some suspicious soldier or other, but she need not have worried. Quite a number of womenfolk were about, both Eldar and Edain, the latter being daughters and wives of houses who had sworn allegiance to the sons of Finarfin, washing and mending garments, tending the cooking fires and preparing meals.
No one had questioned her presence, and Andreth had made her way to the temporary housing of the one she longed to meet, agitated but unhindered. His tent, easily identified by his sigil, had been set up slightly removed from the rest of the troops. Andreth had armed herself with a basket of wood charcoal, so as to make it appear like she were merely on an errand to refill braziers in the commanders' tents, and had slipped inside without anyone giving her a second glance.
Despite her unrest, she must have been getting drowsy and perhaps letting her mind wander far, because, in the end, she never heard his approach. Her only warning was the soft thud of the tent flap being thrown open behind her — a quiet hiss of distaste and then his deep, familiar voice, melodic but forbidding like the touch of ice.
"I have no desire for company. Please, leave me."
Andreth started, and her heart almost quailed at his frigid tone, but then she took a deep breath, stood and, while throwing back the hood she had drawn up against the chill of the night, turned to face him.
Aegnor, lord of Dorthonion had already half turned away, swiftly discarded his sword belt, and was now unbuckling his bracers, but when he glanced back at the unbidden guest, he froze in his motions and his shuttered, stern expression turned into one of unveiled shock as he stared at her, his fingers still hovering over the buckle at his wrist.
Andreth felt an unseemly twinge of satisfaction that was swiftly replaced by other, stronger feelings. She had not seen the elf in over a year, and although she was certain that the image of him was forever engraved in the depth of her memory, the sight of him did the same to her as it always had; making her feel like she had been struck by a powerful wave, the water hot and cold at once, sweeping her away, leaving her to tumble helplessly, breathless and exhilarated, and ever slightly daunted.
He looked unchanged of course, the sleek, rich mass of his hair bound in a high knot at the back of his head, with parts of it still streaming down his back in unruly waves, gleaming like liquefied gold in the soft light of the lanterns. There were damp patches on the shoulders of his grey-blue cloak; it must have started to rain. His stern, proud face with the sharp, clean lines looked pale in the dim light, his eyes, the colour of cornflowers, had an almost haunted look about them as his stunned gaze trailed down her trembling form, before flitting back to her face.
At last, the elf-lord appeared to have recovered enough from his consternation to find his voice again. "What are you doing here?" he demanded quietly, sounding slightly hoarse. "Your uncle will worry."
There was anger in his voice, but Andreth was glad for it; she would rather meet his wrath than his indifference. Ignoring his question, she mustered her courage, drew herself up to her full height and levelly returned his stare.
"You would have left without even saying farewell," she stated as calmly as she could. They both knew it to be true. Something – perhaps his kind nature, his noble upbringing – compelled him to answer her all the same.
"Yes." It came out as a strained whisper.
Andreth exhaled on a slight huff, angry at herself for how much it sounded like a sob. She swallowed, and her eyes dipped to the rug-covered ground, unable to return the steel of his glance anymore.
"Why?" she finally managed to produce in a hushed mutter. "What did I — will you tell me that at least?"
She heard him shift – a soft jingle of the tiny mithril rings of his mail. Then a sigh – heavy with invisible age and knowledge.
"You did nothing." His voice was hollow.
"Then why," Andreth pressed, the desperation and fear that raged through her mind making the option of backing down this time a sheer impossibility. "We were friends, or so I thought. Sometimes… sometimes, I..."
She could not continue, her throat was tight and dry. Her hands were ice-cold, and yet her palms were damp with sweat. Her heart was beating at an oddly slow pace, but so painfully heavy and hard – as if bent on bursting through the confines of her chest.
Aegnor made a soft sound – not quite a sigh. "Sometimes, you…" He prompted her, quietly and haltingly, and with no question in his voice — as if he were afraid of what he might learn.
Andreth took a deep, steadying breath and forced herself to speak, to rip the words from her heart, despite the wounds they would carve. "Sometimes, I felt like it was more than that."
She finally chanced to raise her gaze towards his face again; it was blank and cold, although she thought to have caught a flicker of something close to pain in his eyes. His lips were pressed together in a thin, hard line. He remained silent for so long, Andreth began to dully wonder if he would not respond at all, but then—
"It could never be," he whispered, and this time there was no mistaking the brief flash of anguish that crossed the elf-lord's fair face.
"Because I am adaneth," said Andreth simply, distantly astonished at the calmness of her voice. If before, she had thought that her heart might soon shatter her ribs, now it felt like it must surely writhe, and crumple, and shrink up until there was nothing left of it. A moment passed, in which he mutely stared at her, and she waited, silently pleading that he might gainsay her conclusion, tell her she was wrong, that there was some other reason that kept him from her, something that would not wreck her like this.
But the painful silence stretched, with the only sound being the soft patter of rain on the tent's roof. Finally Andreth let out a harrowed gasp and tore her gaze from him. Not giving herself time to think she made to gather up her cloak from the chair she had been sitting in before remembering that she had never taken it off.
"Forgive my intrusion," she mumbled; a small, feeble but proud part of her was cursing the faint tremor in her voice, as she drew up her hood again with shaking hands. Her eyes were stinging furiously, and her chest felt like a cold blade was slowly slicing through it. She could barely breathe, but she was adamant not to break down in front of him. Keeping her eyes averted, she quickly strode past him towards the exit, feeling like she was approaching a dark, threatening door that would close behind her, shutting her out forever. Andreth found herself wishing she had never come here, wishing she had never even beheld his bright flame years ago. If only their eyes had never met, if only their hands never touched, she would never have to know this pain.
Aegnor did not look at her when she hurriedly passed him, but just as she had reached the tent's entrance, his soft, brittle voice reached her ears.
"Saelind."
Andreth stopped in her tracks. There was something different in his tone – the very air around them seemed to have changed. She looked back at him, and saw that he was still standing with his back to her, his shimmering head bowed. When the elf-lord next spoke, his voice was so faint she could barely discern his words over the low hiss of the brazier and the murmur of the rain outside.
"Were I to have taken the hand of any bride, I would have wished it to be yours."
She stared at the back of his head, feeling a cold knot in her stomach and her chest contract painfully again. "Why do you speak of such things? Would you torment me further?"
He straightened slightly, but did not turn towards her. "I speak to my lady nothing but the truth. How can that be torment?"
"And yet it is to me," Andreth whispered, feeling bitter anger rising in her. "The truth, you say; how is a truth, such as yours, more than empty words? For I am not your lady, and as you just said — I could never be."
Finally, the elf turned to face her, and when Andreth looked upon his face, the tenderness in his eyes pained her nearly as much as his coldness had before. "In my heart at least," he told her softly, "you shall be evermore."
The inside of the tent was spinning. Andreth sobbed once and then fought for air; she had not even been aware of holding her breath. Without thought or purpose in mind, she stumbled forward — his strong arms caught her before her legs gave out. The next moment he had drawn her flush against him, his armour dug into her flesh and he held her so fast she could scarcely breathe, but Andreth cared not. She clung to his shoulders even as hot tears trailed down her cheeks, felt his body, warm and firm beneath mail and cloth, inhaled his scent and listened to the sound of his breathing. In this moment at least, all was as it should be.
"Why," Andreth broke the silence after some time. "Why leave? Why turn away when there is still time?" she asked him quietly, not knowing why she chose those words.
"I never left," came the gentle reply – a warm breath against her temple. "Nor shall I ever, truly."
Andreth huffed a short, desperate, helpless laugh, as her fingers burrowed into his cloak. "In thought? In memory? But what shall I have, I ask you? I am not Elda. For me, how can that be enough? How could it ever? Such is your way, but it is not mine."
Aegnor's low chuckle was little more than a huff of air, but it was deep and warm. "So it is, but would you thus dismiss it? You deal swift and harsh judgement then, sweet daughter of Men. This way of mine you cannot tread, you claim, and yet you would have me bend to yours?" It was no reprimand, his tone mellow, and yet it rankled.
"No," she whispered against his chest, "not unless you wished it. Not unless your heart were to rule, and persuade you to tread it willingly."
He grasped her arms then, and gently pushed her back; Andreth struggled, not willing to forfeit the warmth of his embrace, but his hands slid to her neck and his fingers cradled her face, forcing her to meet his eyes. "If my heart ruled, you would be mine in every way there is."
Andreth, her cheeks glowing, and her skin tingling where he touched it, felt certain that his flame must have leapt to her in that moment, for she had never felt such warmth as this, engulfing her, flesh and mind, along with his words.
"Will you come to me?" she implored, hopeful despite herself, her eyes searching his, seeking the strange, deep light within them. "Will you find me, upon your return from the siege?"
His gaze trailed over her face, and the tips of his fingers softly traced the lines of her jaw, her cheeks, the delicate curve of her ears — as if to memorise every detail, every inch of her skin.
"No."
It was almost shameful, Andreth thought despairingly, that a small sound of his, hardly more than a breath, could be so devastating. She let out a frustrated gasp. "How then, are your words intended to offer me comfort?"
"They never were," he told her then. His hands slid into her hair.
And then Andreth thought she must surely have stepped into a dream when his mouth found hers for the first time. Gently at first, his warm lips brushed against hers, a sweet caress that caused a fluttering, like the wings of trapped birds, in her stomach, in her chest, a warm tingle to run down her spine. Andreth leaned into him, longing for his touch, his closeness, the feel of his flesh against hers — craving it like a withered flower thirsts for water. Her hands, seeking purchase, trailed up his arms, across his chest, past the barriers of metal and cloth towards his collar, until they found the warmth of skin, satiny to the touch, over the taut muscle of his neck, the hard line of his jaw, then into the silk of his hair. She felt him grasp her chin, and then fingertips, hardened and calloused from a warrior's life, just below her mouth, slowly parting her lips. A slight tugging sensation — Andreth moaned softly into his mouth when he gently pulled her lower lip between his own, nibbling, then suckling on the sensitive skin, before releasing her again.
"Nát ve lís lambenyasse," he breathed against her skin in-between small, chaste kisses on her nose, the corner of her mouth, her chin, her cheek—
Andreth closed her eyes and raised herself on tiptoe, desperate to reach his lips again. "Please..." she panted, her hands reaching blindly around him and into the cool, smooth softness of his hair. She felt him shudder, and then his lips were on hers once more.
His kiss turned fierce then, hungry with desperate, almost angry abandon; his teeth grazed her upper lip, before softly biting the lower one; his grip in her hair was all but painful, the touch of his other hand demanding, sliding down her neck and firmly gripping her shoulder. His tongue, warm, slick velvet, greedily slipped in, captured hers —he tasted like cinnamon and wine— and Andreth felt a heat, the likes of which she had never known before, bloom from her very core and spread to every part of her body. She pressed herself against him and he groaned — he sucked on her lip and she whimpered helplessly…
With a shuddering gasp, he tore his lips from hers, raised his head out of her reach, and then held her against him, breathing hard.
Andreth could scarcely draw breath and yet she would have happily exchanged the air in her lungs for another moment of his kiss. Drawing back slightly, she raised her face to his; she found him looking down at her with an expression so tender and loving, and yet so filled with sorrow, that it near broke her heart. His hand cradled her face once more, brushing away traces of tears with his thumb and forefinger — carefully, gently, as if she were made from the finest crystal and he might break her.
"I shall send for someone to escort you back to the house of Belemir," the elf whispered, still slightly breathless, even as his other hand threaded into her hair once more. He held onto her for a moment longer — then released her so abruptly that Andreth stumbled and nearly lost her footing. "Please, go." His voice was hoarse.
Unwilling to accept the dismissal —Go? She could barely stand— Andreth reached out and swiftly caught one of his hands, threading her fingers through his. "You will not come to me, you say," she declared, her voice shaking, "then I shall come and find you once more, once you return from the north."
Aegnor's eyes closed briefly; she felt him return her grasp, his fingers tightening around hers — then he gently but firmly freed his hand from hers.
"Please, Andreth," he said again, his tone beseeching now, meeting her gaze for another moment, his eyes strangely bright. "Go."
She turned then, braving the looming door that would divide them, unable to deny him his desperate request — even though leaving him tore her apart and was the last she wanted, even though she could make no sense of his anguish...
Even though, once the tent flap had fluttered shut behind her she felt a cold weight settle in her stomach, felt like the door had indeed fallen shut, never to open again. Andreth stifled the sob that threatened to work its way up her throat, as she wound her way through the camp once more, blind and deaf to the bustle around her.
And beyond the door that divided their fates, Aegnor bowed his golden head and silently wept.
Adaneth — (mortal) woman
Eldar/Elda — (pl/s) Elves as named by Oromë upon first seeing them on the shore of Cuiviénen.
Edain - Men (of Beleriand)
Nát ve lís lambenyasse — You are like honey on my tongue (by courtesy of Real Elvish dot net)