Two pieces of wood fell to the side, perfectly cleaved. Who knew that that old axe could become such a powerful weapon ? Laurë had taken just a look at it, and sighed as if the word was ending. His disappearance, for hours, resulted in a bright, shiny new edge that allowed him to transform uneven trunks and logs into perfect kindling for the cold season.
Autumn was right at the corner. Leaves, already, were turning orange, some of them littering the ground in a thick carpet.
How time flew this summer. They had searched every place; libraries, the internet, finding sorcery books and magical rituals. They had gone to strange circles of so-called magicians and new age practitioners that told them a thousand stupidities about Laurë's very nature; a few unsettling ones not so far off the mark. One, even, an old man, had guessed right away that he wasn't from earth. Hope had been short-lived, a moment later, he was droning on alien abduction and spaceships.
No solution came forth as to how to recreate that portal, and return to middle earth. As they hopped from dead end to dead end, Elanor watched Laurë's resolve falter; he was trying to accept that, maybe, the Valar had dropped him here for a reason. The truth was that they were comfortable in her little cottage; his presence reinforced the bubble of sanity she'd created for herself, aloof on this little hill of freedom. What if the elf couldn't return home ?
Laurë once confessed the people of middle earth considered him dead; the fall of Gondolin had seen his last heroic deed. Perhaps that here was where he meant to be. Hence the very domestic task of wood splitting. Ironic, given he never approached the fire.
But, by the gods, he was powerful ! Half-hidden behind the glass, steaming cup of tea in hand, Elanor watched those limbs lift the axe high over his head. Each time, the same movement, timed like a metronome. Precision and skill, packed in a body built to enhance its power. There was not a drop of sweat at his brow, even though he only wore a short sleeve t-shirt in the chilling weather.
Fully healed now, Laurë handled the exercise like an Olympic athlete. The muscles of his arms rippled and tensed, an anatomy board she longed to draw. A self-depreciative snort escaped her; it was always the best looking guys that were gay. Or unavailable.
Pff. My luck, I just have to live with a drop-dead amazing gorgeous man who loves men. Or perhaps he could love both?
She wondered if he could… want her ?
Her heart thumped at the thought, breath catching when another resounding thump resulted in more wood splintering under the blow. His aura, sometimes, seemed to be dancing with hers, caressing her own. Was he even aware his amazing light guided her, reassured her ? When nightmares hit, at night, she could feel him from next door, soothing her agitation.
To think she always considered herself asexual, allergic to close contact – she had stopped hugging when her grandma died. But she craved Laurë's presence, his smiles, his warmth… the smell of his skin. The strength of his arms when he returned an innocent hug.
Stop it, you pervert ! He is mourning.
His grief had not abated, even though he hid it skilfully. But it danced in his aura, muting his brightness when he thought she wasn't looking. If this world didn't kill him, the sadness would for sure. How long could an elf mourn ? Was he at risk to… fade ?
Elanor shivered, and her resolve strengthened; she needed to find a way for him to get home. But to remain inconspicuous while looking for a magical portal was difficult. Elanor wasn't a geek, she had not idea how to hide her tracks on the internet, and worried the government would find them through her research.
Did they believe him an alien, or did they know the truth ?
Twack !
Elanor caught Laurë's eye when he turned around to grab another log; his smile dazzled her so badly that she lost her train of thoughts.
Damn ! Busted !
Somehow, Laurë always knew if her attention rested upon him. A magical being, trapped in the confines of a planet too corrupted, too little for his greatness.
The young woman sighed, her mind at war with her heart. He would never know, right ? Never know she was pining after him like a lovesick fool. She would care for his physical form, his mind and his heart until he had enough of her, and took off in the world in search of answers. Deep down, she knew the harsh truth; one day, she would lose him. To travels, adventures, or his own world. Laurë would walk away from her.
That certitude was ingrained like the colour of her hair. There was no doubt. Laurëfindelë wasn't hers to keep. He had become her light, but she would one day walk in the dark without the beauty of his guidance, the soothing feel of his aura.
He was never meant to stay.
Hours later, when the elf emerged from the shower, all neat, hair looking like spun gold, and broad shoulders covered in a delightful t-shirt, Elanor interrupted her cooking to show the new heater she'd just bought for him.
"Why ?" he asked, blond brows furrowing in surprise. Elanor bit her lip, wondering how to circumvent the notion of his trauma.
"Because winter is coming," she only stated, hoping he would latch onto the quote from a show they'd stopped watching because of its wickedness – infanticide, brutality and incest weren't good material of entertainment - rather than the very obvious trauma that lurked deep in his soul.
The elf froze, and self-consciousness flickered inside those beloved pools. Elanor sighed; of course, Laurë was fully aware of his inability to handle the fire. And her knowledge of it. That he allowed her to build one when the weather turned was already a victory.
"Listen, I don't want you to get cold again," she admitted.
Rather than push her away – like a typical wounded male would – Laurë pulled his hand to his heart, and bowed his blond head.
"Hantan lye," he said, his eyes conveying such gratitude that her breath caught. Touched by the depth of his emotions, Elanor laughed nervously.
"It's as much your house as mine," she stammered. "I want you to feel comfortable."
A full grin bloomed upon his face, and Elanor swore her heart missed a bit when the exuberant elf took off to the kitchen in glee. Then, as if she could take more, he started singing a merry tune that overwhelmed her soul with colours, and the bright silver and golden light of the trees. The young woman almost staggered back to her half-cut onions, overwhelmed by the vibrant and altogether brilliant presence of the Gondolidrim by her side.
Gathering her wits, she stabbed those blasted onions anew, shedding tears of love, of happiness, and irritation alike. Music was an inherent part of him, and she knew elves could heal their Feä through songs. But despite the merry dance of his soul, it still felt frayed at the edges.
When the song ended, Laurë turned to her, and frowned.
"What ails you, Ella ?" he exclaimed.
"Nothing," she sniffed. "Just the onions."
He took a sniff and backed away; organic fresh food was sometimes a tad too potent to elvish noses. As she threw the layers in a pan, his tall frame hoovered by her side. A usual evening in the cottage, whenever her classes finished early enough for her to share the chore of cooking with him.
"Echtelion and I sang often by the fountain," he suddenly said, his voice wistful.
Elanor nodded; she could imagine them easily, hair catching the wind, his flute and Laurë's harp. This was an item she had yet to purchase for him; the prices were just out of her range, especially if she wanted an instrument that rivalled elvish craft.
"Why didn't you sing in your house ?"
"Oh, the outdoors appealed to us, and there are… were always many people passing by at the square. And I despised having to drag my harp to Echte's house."
Elanor sucked in a breath and couldn't suppress an exclamation: "Didn't you live together?"
Laurë sent her a speculative look, as if trying to assess her state of mind. Sheepish, Elanor ducked her head and dumped honey on the roasting onions.
"We each had our house to lead."
Her heart flip flopped in hope, and she crushed the idea mercilessly under the heel of reason. It proves nothing.
"Remind me of the number of houses again ?"
The distraction seemed to work, for Laurefindelë launched into a lengthy and detailed explanation of the dozen houses of Gondolin. And thus, her blunder was forgotten. But, while the elf discoursed on the creation of the twelfth house – that of Tuor, the first and only man to set foot in Gondolin -, she couldn't help but wonder about Glorfindel and Echtelion.
Had their relationship been accepted in the kingdom of Turgon ? Was it forbidden ? Looked down upon ? Did they have other lovers ? Males, females ? Laurë always said elves loved only once…
Little did she know that answers would come much sooner than expected, and they would rock her world !