"Oh, there you are, I was getting worried. There's some fruit left for you."
Unsurprised to find Elanor awake, Laurëfindelë struggled to keep his countenance as he shed his boots by the door.
"I needed a morning walk."
No foe, neither disturbance, but the one in his heart. That long patrol had uncovered more secrets than he had been ready for, but he now knew what to do in regards to his relationship with Elanor. There was no other choice, lest circumstances snatched her away.
But between them still stood that secret, and it baffled him; should he speak his heart first, and explain the truth of her ancestry afterwards ? Or, on the contrary, allow her the truth at the risk of shattering their easy companionship ? Would she hear him out, after discovering his lies ? Trust his words ?
"Laurë ? Are you alright ?"
No matter how many times she proved how deeply she cared for him, it still left him stunned. Not than his family or friend had been remiss in any way, but the depth of her regard always touched him so deeply.
Elanor stood before him now, wrapped in a soft shawl, long hair still damp. The elf took a deep breath; well, no time like the present, Echtelion always said. And even though it suited his ever reckless friend, Laurëfindelë found his advice sound enough. Summoning a smile, he tugged upon a loose strand gently.
"What If I braid your hair in the style of my people ?"
Hazel eyes widened a notch, and she was quick to agree. Laurëfindelë shed his coat, and ordered her to sit on the couch while he rummaged about his room to find the remaining beads of his house. They rolled in his hand, silver, gold and one of mithril from King Finrod of Nargothrond. Untarnished, and carved with the sigil of the house of Finwë. Tokens that had travelled across the great sea; beads that his mother had set upon his hair when he departed in Fingolfin's host to join Fëanor's at Alqualondë.
A lifetime ago.
His heart thumped wildly in his chest when he realised the enormity of what he was about to do. And sweet Elanor, who waited obediently in the living room, had no clue. Laurëfindelë gathered his courage, and crossed the threshold that separated him from the main area. There she sat, back facing an empty space, creamy skin exposed under her fiery strands.
He swallowed once, and settled behind her; she passed him the brush with a smile, and relaxed when he started taming the long mane she inherited from Fëanor's wife, Nerdanel. Damp strands snatched here and there, intent on making things difficult for him.
So Laurëfindelë took his time. This was, after all, one of the most important moments of his long life. For thousands of years he had lived without the urge of touching anyone, of nurturing an exclusive relationship with a female.
An eternal bachelor, just like many of his peers, whose aim in life was to shed joy and take it in every way the Valar saw fit to grant it. Then came the darkening, and years of grief and trial where finding a spouse was the last of his worries. If some married in Gondolin, so very few entertained the idea of bonding themselves in such dangerous times.
War was no place for a wife and elflings.
Some might argue that earth wasn't a peaceful place either, and that middle earth probably was as dangerous as it ever was. If they crossed back – should Elanor accept him – ensuring her safety would create difficulties. But one couldn't ignore the call of one's heart, and he now knew why he'd never found his match on the other side.
Because Elanor was here.
Echtelion would tell him to seize the moment, and even though that reckless fool had leapt to his death in his attack on Gothmog, Laurëfindelë dedicated him that moment.
The words came easy; the poem that came together during his morning walk filled the air as he sang, his fingers deftly brushing and braiding Elanor's hair.
In Quenya, Laurëfindelë told her of the beauty of her soul, of how his own brightened when she was near, of how his heart sung when she smiled.
Of that fiery hair, that caused his heart to leap every single time, because he knew it was her. Of that smile she kept for him, and made his chest expand with love.
Of the warmth and softness of those strands, so different from the fire that had burnt him.
Of his hands, now dedicated to her happiness, hands that would nurture, care and protect her to his dying breath.
And while he sang, he slowly wove the beads of his house in a pattern well known in Valinorë. The one that declared one's intentions. Anyone who would have seen Elanor's rivers of braids would have known the lord of the golden Flower was presenting his future bride, bound to be married, and more, within the year.
His voice didn't falter, but he feared his heart might as he set the last bead into her fiery strands.
"It was beautiful, Laurë," she breathed, facing away from him as he fastened a ribbon around the last braid. The elf braced himself for her answer, heart in his throat, second becoming eons as she sighed. Longing or sadness ? He dared not speculate for fear of finding the wrong expression upon her fair features. Unbeknownst to his turmoil, Elanor went for the kill.
"Even though I didn't understand half of it."
Stoned, Laurëfindelë gulped; only then did he realise his breath had stopped too long ago. Of course, she had no way of knowing the significance of what he had just done ! Of all stupid things he'd ever done, this one ranked so high on the list Echtelion might have actually thrown a fit. Or died of laughter at his expense.
All courage left his sails as he sagged against the backrest of the sofa, halfway between laughter and despair. When Elanor turned around, his eyes caught the pattern of beads proudly shining in her mane; his heart missed a beat.
"I caught the part about my hair, though. It seems the colour captivates you."
An adorable blush dusted her cheekbones, and he swore she would kill him before the day was through. For he knew, now, why he felt like peppering her skin with kisses. The span of a second, he imagined himself framing her cheeks, and claiming her sweet lips. Right before she broke him to tiny pieces.
"Is red hair not common amongst elves ?"
Shite. Always the right questions. The Valar have mercy upon me !
Feeling his stomach plummet, Laurëfindelë reached for the cup of tea she had left on the coffee table. Nausea seized his guts at the first draught, and he wisely laid the cup down to answer those bright, intelligent hazel eyes.
"No," he almost choked. "It is pretty scarce."
Elanor fidgeted, fingering the elaborate braid curiously.
"You've really worked your art this time, Laurë. It is a pity there is no one there to see it."
"I see it," he retorted, his voice strained.
Elanor seemed to consider her next step, fidgeting in place; he surmised she might want to see her coiffure. But her curiosity stabbed him first.
"Hey, did you know other elves with red hair like mine ?"
DEFCON 1. WARNING! Laurëfindelë almost laughed; stupid Feänorians, not only had they orchestrated this whole mess, caused the darkening and kinslaying, but their very existence had blown to bits his very marriage proposal !
Do not throw the towel before you try, Echtelion always said.
But Laurë couldn't lie to her face.
Yes, I knew people with your hair colour. Your grandfather, and your great-grandmother, for one. Your great uncles, as well, a set of not so innocent kinslayer twins.
Never had Laurëfindelë found himself in such a state of blazing panic, not even when Balrogs and dragons had descended upon his fair city. Not even when the very air caught fire, at dawn of the festival of Tarnin Austa, by the fire-breathing drakes of Morgoth.
If she asked, all was lost. His proposal, and perhaps, their future together.
Is she asked… but Elanor was too intelligent not to.
How had his proposal gone so insanely wrong ?
So he took a deep breath, and responded.
"Aye," he stated.
Then braced himself for impact.
