He doubted that feat could be reproduced here, but she impatiently awaited for the first snowfall to test that theory. Would he still be here when winter came ?
Laurë was singing again in this flowery language of his. A delight to the senses, a soothing balm to one's aching soul. Quenya, now, felt more like a universal language than something foreign; it called to her, coaxed her soul forward, surrounded her like a of loving arms. His voice, smooth honey and power, was bending reality to his will, creating a bubble of light she could nearly see to protect their plants.
Never had this garden felt so vibrant, so full of life, all thanks to an extraordinary being that landed in her lap. Joy, slowly, caused his sadness to retreat. But the pangs of his heart still existed; probably from Echtelion's loss as much as his world, his people, his city. He talked of the lord of the fountain often, his features softening, blue eyes flickering with light every time he mentioned his fallen boyfriend.
How long did grief last to an immortal being ? Eternity ? Sadness descended upon Elanor, causing her balance to fail as she grasped the nearest branch to stabilise herself; to think his years were numbered if he didn't find a way back. For so far, every research had proven moot; the portal that brought her mother and grandmother to earth remained elusive.
By praying to the Valar to allow his way home, Laurëfindelë unfurled the great fresco of the firstborn's saga; Eleanor now knew what a Vanyar was – a line descendant of the first elf to ever awaken under the stars in middle earth. They served Manwë and Varda, in Valinorë, the closest people to the Valar that ever existed.
Laurëfindelë had inherited their blond hair, and that incredible light from the Vanyarin lineage; she understood better his reverence for the Gods that brought her grandmother here. But Eleanor, for her part, did not share such faith in the Valar as they also caused much suffering.
The tale of Feänáro, in particular, tugged at her heartstrings for an unknown reason. That terrible oath, the naming of Morgoth – Melko - by the Noldor Prince hid such a tragedy ! It felt so close to Christianity, with Melkor as Samaël, bringer of light and later one, fallen angel that became the devil himself. The parallels were uncanny; had there been more bridges between Arda and earth in the past ?
Eleanor sighed, resting her weight evenly upon the high branch, her gaze lost in the verdant green of the hills. The summer sun was mild enough, today, to allow flowers to bloom without fear of wilting. Laurë's song engulfed her senses, pulling her from her bubble to the sharp ridges of middle earth's mountains. A land of great beauty, and even greater danger. A magnetic, hypothetical place that sprang to life under Laurëfindelë's steady hands when he drew them, or through the tales he waived.
How such two contrasts could cohabit seemed to baffle the elven warrior, even after centuries spent roaming the wild paths of middle earth; that his youth had happened in Valinorë, his paradise, sheltered from evil and violence had probably carved the disgust of evil deep in his veins. But Eleanor had no such reservations; her knowledge of history and men's hearts had shaped her heart for the worst.
She knew, that even the best people had a breaking point. That honourable warriors could commit the unthinkable to protect what they believed in, that higher powers could manipulate anyone. Hence her many questions regarding the kinslayings; she could not ignore how discomfort always permeated Laurë's posture whenever the subject was breached. Perhaps because Feänáro had never seen eye to eye with the Valar, and by extension, the Vanyar.
Perhaps because the consequences of that oath – to have revenge upon Morgoth and get the Silmarils back - had been so devastating, uprooting way too many elves from their paradise in Valinorë, even the faithful and joyful Laurëfindelë at the suite of King Turgon.
She did not judge King Thingol – one of the elves that remained behind and never saw the blessed realm - for banning Quenya, nor the kinslayers for their evil deeds. Elanor understood that evil had corrupted them, and honour demanded the oath was fulfilled, especially after Feanáro's death. There was so much to think about, the history of an entire world to learn…
The truth was that Eleanor craved the opportunity to see it from her own two eyes, to find her heritage, perhaps a family on the other side of the veil. If Laurëfindelë ever found a way back, she would take the big plunge with him. Even if it meant finding middle earth devastated at the hands of Morgoth; better to see it and die than to wither miserably in this wretched world. At least, she would die amongst friends.
"Elanor ?"
The musical lilt of Laurëfindelë's voice startled her and she slipped. Her full weight settled on the narrow branch as she winced; below her, not a single thick trunk in sight to save herself from falling. Would it… ? She backed away slowly, feeling the wood groan beneath her. As if on cue, a great crack echoed in her bones and her perch gave way.
"Eeep !" she squeaked, the sensation of weightlessness causing her stomach to churn uncomfortably. Her mind raced, wondering if her elven nature would spare her broken bones; she tried to gather her wits, to summon her aura to lessen the impact. To no avail… Something connected harshly with her legs, pitching her forward. Elanor reached out for another branch, only for her fingers to rip, unable to grab it properly.
Her skin stung, and so did her scalp as her hair was pulled in yet another set of leaves, but adrenalin pushed her to seek another purchase.
There was none.
Elanor closed her eyes by instinct, her heart beating frantically as she braced for impact. Her landing, though, was less harsh than expected, all breath leaving her lungs when a resounding 'oof' echoed in her ear. Around her, warmth and firmness tightened.
"Àvatyara me, Meldonya," breathed a soothing voice in her ear. "I did not intend to startle you." (Forgive me, dear one.)
The unmistakable fragrance of warmth and freedom wafted through her nose, and Elanor realised the elf had caught her. The urge to rest her head upon his collarbone and take a long, soothing whiff of his scent was strong, but she dared not. Instead, she opened her eyes and smiled, finding a set of worried blue pools searching her face.
"Oh," she breathed, all thoughts momentaneously screeching to a stop at the proximity. "It's… no, it's… mara ná. Thank you for catching me. Hantan lye." (All is well, thank you).
Suspended in the heat of his gaze, Elanor squirmed in his hold. Her movements shook them both out of their staring, and she ducked her head to hide her blushing as he set her feet on the floor. His hand hoovered protectively over her back until her posture straightened.
"Are you sure ? It was a mighty fall."
The young woman bit her lip, scanning her body to ensure nothing was broken. Her back ached slightly from where his forearm and her bones had connected, and her skin felt tight but apart from this, she was miraculously unharmed. Had she been able to gather enough energy to break her fall and impede gravity, or was he so insanely strong ?
Given how he'd rebuilt his body, and was now gallivanting about, dancing in trees and performing the strangest defying gravity moves, the second explanations might be closer to the truth.
"It seems so," Eleanor hummed, too flustered by the memory of his arms around her to think straight. Never before had she reacted so strongly to another's contact, and it baffled her. When Laurëfindelë took a step forward, the young woman froze like a deer caught in headlights. His hand lifted; her breath caught at the proximity, and the sheer intensity of his attention, of his aura mingling with hers, defined brows furrowed in a frown.
His fingers, warm and light, brushed her neck right below her ear and Elanor stopped breathing at the intimate gesture. Why her entire body buzzed, her aura dancing wildly was beyond her, but the blood rushing into her veins made her light-headed. A blush crept up her cheek when his touch lingered, and she could not help but watch him.
His gaze, usually deep like a still lake, held the turmoil of turbulent seas – a sight that replaced his bouts of sadness recently. As much as Elanor tried to embrace her elvishness, Laurëfindelë always seemed equally uneasy and thrilled by the prospect. The depth of his feelings escaped him, and there would be no prying until he wanted to share.
Elanor studied the set of his masculine jaw, marvelling at his flawless skin and sharply cut cheekbones. Blond strands framed his face, escaped from the braided catogan he used on his now shorter hair. His straight nose was a just ornament, as perfect as the rest of him, leading to this set of defined eyebrows, dipped in a mighty frown.
It was the seriousness of this expression that caused her breath to rush out.
Her soft 'oh' seemed to shake him, and, gaze sharpening, Laurëfindelë retreated. On his fingers, a thin coat of blood.
"This needs to be tended to, Elanor."
Tended to.
His English remained lilted, as if his singing voice couldn't flatten enough to be constrained by the language. But his fluency was astonishing; she, in turn, wasn't half as good in Quenya. Another reminder of his superior mind. And now that he mastered the language, it turned more flowery, almost archaic with all the period drama he watched on TV. It suited his ageless features, his strange wisdom; why brutally announce what could be depicted like a fresco when you had all the time in the world ?
"Elanor ?" he called again.
The young woman blinked, as if emerging from a century-old sleep.
"Là. I will wash it, it doesn't feel too bad."
His expression did not lighten, and she wondered why an ellon who had seen war and death would feel so strongly about such a minor injury.
"It is my fault for startling you," he responded, "I cannot apologise enough for putting you in danger."
Elanor shook her head, touched by his contrition. Her hand shot out by instinct, a gesture she had never, ever done with anyone else but her family, only to freeze between their bodies.
"No, Laurë, you are not responsible for my blunders."
He moved slowly, graceful and unabashed, but cautious. Slowly, warmth slid over her skin as his hand engulfed her fingers, his aura brushing hers tentatively. When she did not retreat, savouring his contact like a rare treat, Laurëfindelë squeezed her hand.
His touch conveyed a thousand words. Some, like regrets, she understood. Others danced in his eyes, so many unknowns she did not dare ask in fear of pushing him away. Eventually, though, her human nature surfaced enough for nervousness to settle in her guts, and she snarked:
"Do not fret. That worried frown does not become you."
"Oh ?" he said, the corner of his lips twisting slightly. "And pray tell, Lady Elanor, what does ?"
As he talked, voice lowering to barely a whisper, his thumb brushed across her skin in a maddening if involuntary caress. She almost lost her wits right there, but the challenge in his eyes kept her mind functioning. Just barely.
"Carefree. Happy. Joyful. You are… the light, Laurë."
My light.
The realisation hit her like a freight train, and she took advantage of his stunned expression to flee the garden and retreat into the bathroom. Her dishevelled reflection greeted her in the mirror, trails of blood leaking down her neck, dark smudges and slight tears in both clothes and skin.
But worse than that was the blown pupils of her eyes, the flicker of certainty that she was, at last, falling in love with someone.
An unattainable someone.
Someone who trusted her with his friendship, his heartaches, and the entirety of his soul. Someone whose lover had just died, months ago. An immortal, God like being that would never look upon her the way she would want to.
She was fucking doomed.