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Summary: When an honorary ritual takes an unexpected turn
Author's Note: With her permission, I have borrowed a few elements from Kenaz�s �Marchwarden: Son of Guilin� story; namely the timeline in relation to the War of the Last Alliance and any reference to Haldir�s father, Guilin. Thank you for that, dearest. Otherwise, I can only say that three weeks of sickness bring forth a lot of fog in one�s mind (and very little inspiration); creativity is not at its best during such times. I do hope the fic is up to par despite so unexpected (and unwelcomed) circumstances. Admittedly, this tale consists of an overdose of fluff for an angst writer like myself. I had no control over it; not my fault (must be the drugs! darn ibuprofen and the likes!) ;o)
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Imladris, Year 75, T.A.
I am restless. Inexplicably besieged by melancholy, I find no warmth or amusement in Imladris’ famous Hall of Fire. Not this night. Even Glorfindel’s ceaseless taunting at Erestor’s expense fails to humour me. Strangely enough, while the starlit darkness of a summer sky and the bracing effect of a cool breeze usually invade my senses and help appease my disquieted soul, tonight’s assured natural wonders escape my notice, its probable soothing outcome dismissed without a second thought. Yet I cannot ignore the owl’s sudden repetitive cry, its haunting sound beckoning me towards the woods beyond, luring me into its mystifying depths and glorious tranquility, away from the valley’s bustling nighttime activity.
I am weary. Ladened by an unforeseen heaviness of heart, dark memories fight to emerge through my consciousness. Still, I keep them at bay. Unwilling to relive the pain and desperation of yonder days, instead I focus on the hooting call, blindly following its song as a Rohirric mare answers to its master’s summons. The trees engulf me. Shadows surround me. Only the moon’s filtered rays serve to light my way. Though where it is that I am going remains a mystery.
I am transfixed. My winged guide has led me to a place of such beauty and serenity, ‘tis as an enchanted glade. Although nothing visibly unusual is worthy of note, somehow everything *feels* magical. The flora’s intoxicating essence permeates the air, its energy enfolding me like a lover’s comforting embrace. The fauna has seemingly all but disappeared, including my airborne friend. But one being has apparently not been exiled from the clearing… for he walks now towards me, in all his naked glory.
“Guardian of the Lórinand . ”
I am humbled. Before me stands a man of such power, dignity and inner strength. Before me looms an elf of such grace, wisdom and splendour. Elrond Peredhel, ethereal being and blessed spirit. Seasoned warrior, lover to a departed King, founder of this refuge, loremaster of renown… his reputation precedes him. To find oneself in his presence, under such intimate circumstances, is a considerably daunting -albeit singular- experience. To say that I’ve actually met the twin son of Eärendil would be an overstatement; but our paths have crossed, well-nigh a century ago, amidst the chaos of war…
“Son of Guilin.”
I am abashed. I never realised he had spoken –being so caught up in my reminiscences.
“Would you share rites with me?”
I am hesitant.
“Híren, I am honoured by your kindly offer, but…” How to decline? And under what pretense? Admit to feeling intimidated? Concede that his mere presence is the source of my awakening desires? Perhaps confess that I suffer from recurring dreams of the darkest nature since those evil years? “’Tis not my place.”
He is wilful. He is knowing.
“You were there, my Silvan warrior. You have also lost. And you still mourn.”
I am grateful. The Vi Rîn ritual… how can one forget. Every Eldar who has fought a battle and suffered its ravages know of the Fallen’s Memorial rites. Lighted candles commemorate the departed’s former existence throughout the brief ceremony, while water is vital in order to cleanse the living’s interminably grieving soul. Some meditation result in the faer’s transient detachment from its core, enabling it to reach a higher state of cognizance, occasionally leading to some connection with another’s faer… possibly that of the one for whom you are performing the ritual. Yet ever does it leave you in an enhanced state of awareness. All senses are magnified tenfold. If not more.
I am bemused. Sadness overwhelms me as thoughts of my father charge to the fore. Images of Lórien’s Marchwarden bearing his broken body from the fray linger in my mind’s eye. The pain of his loss and my mother’s ensuing departure for the Undying Lands after the War of the Last Alliance have left me raw and hollow. Seventy-five years and still I feel devoid of purpose, always searching for a noble conviction. Meanwhile, after executing the rites in grand company, my bared –and highly sensitised- body yearns for alleviation in its basest form. How can one’s ruminations be so twisted?
“Guilin was a good fighter. An honest and respectable comrade. You’ve inherited his fairness, amongst other things.”
His voice is mesmerizing. He is too close. I can feel his breath tickling my nape. It would seem that I may not be the only one affected by the ritual’s strange influence. A sudden shiver of anticipation snakes down my spine as I turn to face him, near breathless.
I am nervous. Though I’ve previously engaged in pleasures of the flesh with an ellon, aloofness has forever been my protective cloak, keeping me guarded from my own self… and my traitorous solitude.
“Haldir…”
He is different. He will be my salvation. Unlooked for… believed to be unattainable… perceived as elusive and enigmatic… a healer…
He hungers for me.
He wishes to help me.
He needs solace. Gil-galad had carved his way into his heart… he still bears the scar.
I am vanquished. Enviably so. Through the course of one rapturous encounter, he has possessed me like no other. Our dominant characters clashed in an elemental dance, the young giving way to the experienced. Our physical strength served us well, gentleness set aside ‘till the very end. His bruising kisses left their mark. I, in turn, have temporarily branded him. Muffled cries, occasional groans, delighted sighs and drawn-out moans … all played a resounding note in our loving’s crescendo as we lost ourselves in each other’s unsatiable passion.
I am replete. Once the fires of our mixed ardour dwindled to a slow burn, we lay in companionable silence, wrapped up in personal musings. I reflected upon my life as a soldier and a brother, finding inspiration in the knowledge of Elrond’s history and remaining vulnerability. Age and experience does not make us invincible. Perhaps there is hope for me yet. Eventually, I will uncover my mettle and meet with destiny. She will claim me or I will claim her. Either way, the journey promises to be worthwhile… and I have one Peredhel to thank for such a realisation.
“Thank you, melethron. Your company and care have been like a balm to my aches. Long have I hoped to make your acquaintance; alas, my travels to the Golden Wood are a rarity.”
He is thankful. I cannot fathom why. Someday, surely, I will understand how it is that I served him in order to be deserving of his appreciation; for now, I am content to believe that we have formed a link. Somehow, on a deeper level, maybe even a bond.
I am sanguine. As I pick my way through the mountain pass, my mind wanders to this morning’s unexpected visitor, preceding my leave-taking. Imladris’ Master had brusquely entered my quarters, unannounced, requesting an impromptu audience. However, despite my immediate attentiveness, I found him oddly tongue-tied and obviously struggling with his words. In the end, he gave way to action instead of talk, pulling me into an embrace, fusing our lips into a lingering kiss. Finally letting go, he locked eyes with me, prying beyond my reciprocate stare. I reckon I may never know what he found within their depths.
“We shall meet again.” It was not meant as a possibility.
How grateful I be for an insistent owl on a dismal summer night.
Elvish translations:
Hiren – my lord
Vi Rîn – in rememberance
Faer – spirit
Ellon – male elf
Melethron – male lover