Bouquet, for Femslash Bingo 2016 by Urloth

17th July - O41 Gladiolus: strength of character. OFC/OFC

Amber verse.

It was a great deal to the people of Doriath that Eöl, son of Elmo, was so acknowledged by his mother’s kin, the Tatyar, and so upheld that they set aside the matriarchal tradition of their people and so crowned him a ruler independent of any Târî-

Winjâ-rossê’târî put down her pen and stared at the draft she had been putting into clean precise writing, intended to return to Rivendel as payment for the copy of their early texts on the people of Beleriand.

There was a moment of exhaustion. The draft was there, with all of her notations. It needed only copying out and she would do it herself for she felt it must be done by herself but today the thought of banging her head against the lies and misinformation that repeated itself in every text the little Târo of the River and Valley sent her… it made her want to cry.

She was not a woman who cried. She was not liking this new kind of tired old despair.

“Mithöl?” she tilted her head in half acknowledgement, realised there were few that would call her her childhood name and turned sharp and quick to smile at the woman who stood in the doorway of her study, a large smile on her own face.

Oh and how the light backlit her Gílnel, and brought to life the spear-lillies that climbed up the skirt of her tunic and twirled happily up to cup the bodice.

“Darling when did you return?” she rose from her desk and her back twanged like an out of tune harp. She had not realised she had tensed over her writing until now. Usually the back board Gílnel had made her and her own posture kept her untouched by a scholar’s maladies.

“You are writing about Lord Eöl again,” Gílnel cupped her face when she approached her. Mithöl slid her arms around her love, marvelling at how small her star-bell was. How delicate of limb and face yet strong enough to lift Mithöl in the air if she wanted.

“Yes,” she closed her eyes.

“Oh my love,” Gílnel rose on tiptoes to kiss both her cheeks, “I know you will do well.”

Mithöl smiled, feeling like Gílnel had bathed her in the starlight that had bathed Nan Elmoth in her youth.

“If I keep writing” she murmured, “one day there will be more books in Rivendel’s library that mention my father positively than the opposite. One day. As long as I slip it in subtly I will eventually dominate their reference section.”

“Of course,” Gílnel did not doubt her.