Gone with the Wind by Sleepless_Malice

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Long forgotten Memories

[Summary] - After the dream he was given, Glorfindel finally starts to enjoy the pleasantries the Gardens of Lórien have to offer, and slowly memory returns to him. Several weeks later, a visitor he had neither expected nor anticipated pays him a visit ....

[Inspiration for the Gardens of Lórien] - Apart from the information that is canonically available, my concept of Lórien’s garden is very loosely based on the gardens of the Alhambra, especially when it comes to the geometrical alignment of pools and gushing fountains, but it is much more open and bigger, with open fields and lush meadows. Apart from that, I found inspiration in traditional Japanese gardens and the gardens of Tuscany. Also, elements from typical English cottage gardens are undeniable. [Beta] - Thank you, OohLaGalion for beta-reading parts this chapter, and ilinnare for plot discussions

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Chapter 02 - Long forgotten Memories

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Ilmarin upon Taniquëtil, many weeks later

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There was no need for splendid extravagances this morning, the Lord of the Winds had decided, disguising himself in the form of the Firstborn children of Ilúvatar, a fána he had not worn for many years. His unfamiliar skin was caressed by a shining robe of silver and blue silk, pooling around his hips and thighs, and a shimmering but rather ordinary circlet sitting upon his brow, matching the color of his pale hair. The light of the torches caught itself in the jewel that was adorned in the circlets middle, shining brightly like one of Fëanáro’s forsaken Silmarilli.

The cape he wore over the lithe robe was a brilliant blue, just a shade darker than the robe was, with the emblem of a soaring bird embroidered in silver silk on its back; briefly, he considered changing the heavy material to another, but then, something would be amiss in his physical appearance and he refrained.

As his gaze fell onto his own reflection in the mirror, he could have smiled and cried at the same time. Once – only once—before he had worn these exact garments, so many millennia ago. Distant memories immediately surfaced as he stared into his own blue eyes, bewitching and enchanting alike they were, and time slipped through his hands as he was mesmerized by the reflection that met his gaze.

A heavy breath, followed by another, a shake of his head upon his own ridiculousness, and then another until the memories were completely chased away. He smoothed his hair, and stepped away from the spellbinding looking glass.

The matter at hand was more complex than a simple action on Irmo’s behalf. That much he already knew as he padded in near silence down the endless hallways which lead to his Great Chamber. A train of silvery-blue robes gathered on the ground, pooling around his feet, his face masked in a solidified expression of frozen ice, devoid of any emotion. No one shall ever know of his inner turmoil, the anxiety which had made him shy away from his obligation for many weeks.

The days stretched slowly, winter finally yielding to spring, as it always did, even up here on the pinnacles of Taniquëtil. Still, the breeze that came through the open window pierced the alien ivory skin like the sharpest arrow.

Speaking with the elf through dreams, watching him from afar was one thing, confronting him in person was an entirely different matter. Yet he knew he must, for the sake of all.

His royal duties had to wait this day, the Elder King declared to his loyal herald and left his fortress, which towered high up in the sky without revealing where his journey might lead nor when he would return to the vast halls he called home.

 

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In the Gardens of Lórien

‘A pearl set in emeralds’ – that was how the ancient lore of the Eldar described Lórien’s garden, an allusion to the color—shimmering shades of white and rose—of the few buildings that stood in its center, and the woods surrounding it.

Lovely specimens of magnolia and cherry trees, scented shrubs, and carefully laid out selections of evergreen grew as far as the eyes could see. High trees protected the gardens against the cold winds from the sea, creating a heavenly tranquil atmosphere of which was said that it shall sooth mind and body alike. The Gardens of Lórien were composed of a series of large gardens, and countless smaller ones, where every corner held a novelty and a pleasant surprise for both eye and nose. The air was always thick and heavy with novel scents, mingling with the salty breeze that was blowing in from the nearby sea. Terraces and symmetrically aligned fountains filled the air with sounds of gushing water, chirping birds savored the cool high above beneath the rustling leaves; water lilies on the surface of natural pools, fed by small streams that meandered peacefully through the garden, shaded by impressive weeping willows and surrounded by trellised flowerbeds.

It was a firework of scents and surreal impressions.

Pergolas and intricately forged flying arches were covered by cascading climbing roses in every imaginable color, ranging from soft ivory to bright peach and yellow, whilst others blossomed in bright pink and red. Occasionally, the lilac flowers of wisteria intervened, hanging from the arches in heavy umbels, comfortable benches made out of white marble sat under them, inviting the strolling wanderer for a little pause. Dimmed sunlight managed to force its way through the trees every here and there, caressing the mossy ground and flower-covered meadows, and from time to time a pleasantly cool breeze would waft through the archways, carrying with it the strong scent of lavender.

Massive the estate was, and this was most likely a poor understatement, gardens filled with a luscious beauty, which Laurefindil had deliberately decided to ignore, locking himself away in his little house.

 

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Day after day passed, night after night, the moon waxed and waned above him on the starlit sky and despite his notice, the elf could not tell if only a few days had passed since he was given the odd dream, or if it had been many weeks. The life in the Gardens of Lórien was strangely detached from time and space, the seasons there barely changing, and the lavish green in front of his house a pleasant constant. Much to his surprise, he had been allowed to dwell in peace ever since he had conversed with the stranger, and nobody ever approached him to speak with him again. Not Irmo, nor his obsolete brother. Night after night the dreams returned, each time more vivid, but never entirely clear; so many questions arose, so many answers he wished to hear, yet who should ever give them to him?

Although no actual seasons existed in Irmo’s sanctuary, the elf felt as if spring arose with all its might, chasing the remains of winter away. Spring, with all its lavish scents and flowers, had always been Laurefindil’s favorite season, and it was not different now. Unknown flowers covered the creeping ivory with pink and yellow blossoms right before his little house, the soft light of the sun glittered through the open windows; a long forgotten compulsion to leave his safe haven arose.

And finally, the elf indeed carefully ventured outside and began to explore the luscious gardens, which were so breathtakingly beautiful, and no matter how hard he tried to figure it out there was no rational explanation as to why he had forced himself to stay inside for so long. A long forgotten bliss and beauty was manifested in every square meter of the divine sanctuary.

Early spring it was, yet nothing prepared the elf for the glistening sunlight on his skin that was so much paler than it had ever been, the way the soft breeze carried alien scents across the land, the touch of leaves and grass against his bare feet. Laurefindil was amazed and delighted by the foreign but still familiar smells: lavender, roses, fresh herbs and violets.

Nothing had prepared him for the possibility that he might live to see any of it again, either – he felt it all once again, taking in the wonders of nature with all his senses, and tears of joy began to collect in his eyes; he couldn’t exactly tell where they had come from, because he was not happy, not in the usual sense at least, but then was he not? He did not understand himself any longer, or his motives for condemning himself to a life inside once he was released from Mandos’ Halls.

From far away, Irmo spied the elf once more wandering through his flowery gardens, his large hands trailing over the fragile petals heavy with morning dew, caressing them gently as if a sweet memory was connected to the flowers; relief and hope stirred in the Vala’s heart. The elf was still far away from being completely recovered, but the first, hardest step had been finally taken. The Master of Dreams watched him move towards the meandering stream, which seemed to become his favorite place. Day after day, the golden-haired elf would come, sitting down beneath the weeping willows and staring into the distance as if sweet memory consumed him, strangely detached from the world around him.

Without doubt, Irmo possessed the powers to look right into the elf’s heart and mind, but he refrained from the temptation to invade his reveries, although he had to admit that he was curious indeed.

With half-lidded eyes, Laurefindil faced the late afternoon sun, breathing in the subtle freshness of the arising spring. It smelled of dust after the fall of rain, a smell he had already once deemed forgotten; after the everlasting horrors of ice and snow and howling wind on the Helcaraxë, the smell of grass and spicy wildflowers, the divine scent of life had been as strange to him as anything could ever be.

Now, day after day, he ventured outside, and with every stroll he took through the tranquil sanctuary, he discovered a new sensation that lurked behind each corner. Once he had discovered a lawn at the east end of the impressive estate, hidden behind massive cypresses and crowned with an enclosed rose garden, so tall and thick that he had never seen the lawn before; but oddly it was incredibly familiar with the ancient sorts of bourbon and damask, shining in all colors in the blinding sunlight.

 

Archways and gushing fountains completed the divine allusion, and it took him many days to figure out that Ingwë’s royal gardens below Mindon Eldaliéva followed exactly this design, and he couldn’t help but stare in wonder. In his youth, Laurefindil had often visited the sacred gardens, sitting down beneath the rose bushes to read or simply dream the days away. Now, with all the sweet memories resurfacing, his mind began to drift away towards long forgotten days of bliss and beauty.

Occasionally, he would enjoy the pleasant company of others, listening to Tirion’s newest rumors and gossip under the trees’ soft light, although he had always stayed away from spreading rumors himself. He was well-liked and trusted by his countless friends, males and females alike, most certainly because he could keep their secrets forever, and avoided open confrontation wherever possible.

Rumors told that the Lords of the West themselves would wander Ingwë’s gardens from time to time, but Laurefindil had never quite believed it to be true – until he had met one of them himself when he had least expected it.

From then on, his entire life was turned upside down for all the years that followed.

 

From time to time it was as if an otherworldly figure, clad in finest silks of silvery blue roamed the gardens in the far distance, gracefully he treaded along the narrow paths; from appearance one of the Eldar, but then, the typical behavior was somehow lacking. Each time his eyes fell upon the figure, Laurefindil dismissed the thought as another hallucination of his recovering mind - just as he had dismissed the thought of the Lords of the West roaming Ingwe’s gardens all those years ago.

He was alone in Irmo’s sanctuary, and apart from its keeper not a single soul was seen or heard –to be honest, he was grateful for it; alone he was, but not lonely, not even a little.

Laurefindil sat down cross legged on the soft grass, with his back resting comfortably against the trunk of a large weeping willow whose branches almost tickled the ground. Slowly, he allowed his gaze to wander over the ever-flowing stream right before him, the flower-covered meadow, the whistling tree tops, towards the high mountains in the far distance. He let his eyes travel as far as his sharp eyes could see, but he was still unable to see the beauty that lay right before him. Sweet and earthy scents of the ancient garden filled his lungs, but he couldn’t be bothered to distinguish between the fragrances of roses and wild flowers that so magically wafted through the air.

Rather absently, he watched a single drop of dew tremble upon a fallen leaf, and then another, feeling the soft rays of the sun against his golden skin. With eyes closed he listened to the flitting of birds and butterflies that swirled around him, swarming from one heavy blossom to another, as restlessly and steadily as the clouds above him.

It was as good a day as any, but then it was not, although Laurefindil could not explain with rationality what exactly bothered him; the Gardens of Lórien were as peaceful and tranquil as ever. With half-lidded eyes he raised the silver chalice in his hand carefully to his lips; he had not drunken of the sweet honey wine ever since his arrival, afraid of its effects on him. Although the body he was granted after his release from Mandos’ halls resembled his old physical appearance it still felt strangely alien to him, and he feared getting easily carried away by just a glass of mead.

Until now, the air had been still, not even the slightest breeze danced through the leaf-canopy above him, but then, Laurefindil felt a gentle wind dance through his golden strands, caressing his cheeks and shoulders and the leaves began to rustle above him. In the far distance, wind chimes sang, but the elf decided not to pay too much attention to the wind that arose over the sea, and indulged in his reveries once more. He watched the skittering and rustling of the branches, the shadows half-seen before they vanished again, movements that seemed to be no more than the brush of the sighing wind. Maybe, he thought in silence, he should not have tasted from the sweet mead which might have fueled his odd dreams, but then another sound startled him, a noise that was much more palpable than the wind that only had been a distant foreboding, one he had been too blind to see.

 

A heavy sigh fell from Laurefindil’s lips when he heard footsteps coming in his direction, followed by a rustling of the dense shrubs behind him; he didn’t need to turn around to know who paid him an unbidden visit. With eyes closed he would recognize him, being robbed of all his senses he would still sense his presence - not after many centuries of separation would he ever forget, and his lips twitched with disdain. Despite his unwillingness to indulge into any sort of conversation, he greeted the stranger uncertainly, feeling very aware of the Vala’s curious and piercing eyes on his back.

An unwanted surge of nervousness rushed through him, emotions he had long deemed forgotten resurfaced, emotions he was not certain he was able to deal with in his fragile state of mind.

Yet, he opened his mouth to speak, surprised to hear his voice after so many years of silence aloud. “After all those years thou hast come…,” the elf stated, accusation lingering in every word that left his lips and he clutched the chalice hard in his fist. The fragile constitution was just another excuse made up by his mind to protect himself, Laurefindil noticed; he was not prepared for anything like this – and never had been. Even back then, in Ondolindë on the peak of his strength and glory, the elf had not – and he never would be, no matter how much time would pass.

Deep inside, he hated himself for his emotional weakness – was being left in peace and solitude too much to ask for?

Carefully, the stranger took a step forward to where the elf sat amid the desiccated grass.“Aye,” the Vala nodded, telling him with a voice too soft and too gentle for Laurefindil to stomach. “Many years have passed since I have last discoursed with thee.”

A harsh gasp left the elf’s struggling lungs, and the stranger hesitated for a while, pondering his thoughts of how to proceed. No easy quest was at hand, he had already known as much since he had left his fortress high in the sky behind, but facing the defiant creature was a different matter entirely, especially if rationality seemed to fail the mighty Lord of the West. Countless words of accusation had the Vala heard falling from the lips of many elves, words of hatred and rage he would not forget as long as he lived, and he was able to recreate their tones effortlessly, pretending to be just another elf in Irmo’s care. Easily he could have disguised himself to the extent that Laurefindil would never have been able to recognize him, but he had refrained; no tricks and foul illusions should be played between them anymore, even if it meant having to finally face the elf’s rage.

“Wherefore?” the elf asked in a wondrous tone, still keeping his eyes lowered, blinking at the mossy floor and waiting solemnly for questions he had long forgotten to ask. “Wherefore now?” Over the years he had lost all sense of time, unable to tell how many time he had spent in Námo’s or Irmo’s care, and today was a day as good as many.

He should have known better, the Vala concluded.

Stupidly, he had not thought about an open confrontation, and he wished he would have been prepared for what to expect. With caution, he took another step towards the contemplating elf, and no matter what he would say, the chances were high that Laurefindil would not believe a single word of it. He could have come many moons ago, or not at all.

The question was a just one, and as such it deserved an answer.

A step, and then another, he took before he raised his voice again: “I came on the behalf of Irmo, who had consulted me a while ago.” This statement was not exactly a lie, though it was not the entire truth either, but at least it provoked a final response from the other.

Momentarily, the golden-haired elf held his silence, and with a sudden rush of anger he turned around to face him. A delicate eyebrow was raised, followed by a deadly and sullen stare and the Vala knew he had the chance of a peaceful and civilized conversation.

“Save me thy speech!" Laurefindil hissed, his voice trembling and cracking. “What else?” He asked. Futilely the elf fought against all the emotions that were washing over him, the long forgotten memories that seemed to overwhelm him as his gaze fell onto the otherworldly figure in his elvish fána, standing beside the trunk of the tree.

Long, pale hair pooled around his shoulders, unbraided and without shimmering beads and tendrils woven into it, but still glittering in the filtered sunlight. He wore an intricate, shimmering robe, which the elf, completely lost in revelation, remembered all too well; silver mingled with different shades of blue, the garment almost translucent, and running like silk through trembling fingers – a memory that made him gulp. His head was adorned with a silver circlet, holding a single stone in its middle, a design which had been so common among the elves of Tirion upon Túna all those millennia ago. But then, the stranger was no elf, although his appearance resembled the body of a Firstborn. Bile rose from Laurefindil’s guts – what madness was this, what foul trick was being played at his expense?

‘Oh in what mocking irony darest thou stand before me?’ he thought in bitter silence as his eyes wandered from the Vala’s head downwards; the other could choose his disguise as he wished, choose freely from a myriad of clothes and crowns – why the shimmering robes that held so many memories? Why the cape of matching colors? Why?

Laurefindil could not comprehend what was happening, and he was unable to withstand the other’s expectant gaze, turmoil and anger mingling in his mind. “Thou hast spied on me, hast thou not?” inquired the elf, recalling the memory of the unfamiliar figure he had seen wandering far away in Irmo’s sanctuary.

“Nought else,” the Vala said, fighting back the ill feeling that coiled in his stomach upon such daring words of open confrontation. But then, he of all, exactly knew where the elf’s anger stemmed from, and allowed it to happen. “And nay, if thou must know – I have not spied upon thee.” Aye, indeed he had watched him from afar, but he had never spied upon him, although it possibly did not made any difference for the elf.

His tone was dismissive, “If thou hast come here to lie right to my face, Lord of the Winds, I bid thee farewell,” and internally the elf hated himself for it. Inability to control one’s own emotions was the greatest weakness of all, he had found.

Their bond might have been extraordinary and unheard of many millennia ago, and the elf had indeed taken many daring and foolish liberties with the one who stood before him now, but nothing had remained when he had raged and rebelled before leaving the Blessed Realm’s shores.

The King of the Valar was not one to be crossed lightly – mighty and noble, fierce and strong – and despite the fact that his wrath was nothing he wished to evoke, the elf could not keep his mouth shut and stop the accusing words that fell from his lips.

With eyes wide in anger, the Elder King shook his head; the urge to admonish such open disrespect, to retort in a roaring thunder, was strong, but his will to end this conversation well was – for once – stronger, although it did not come naturally to the Lord of the Winds.

Manwë knew he was treading on thin ice when he addressed the golden-haired elf with the name he had used so many years ago in privacy, but haven’t they had been friends after all? Hadn’t they trusted each other?

“What dost thou wish to hear, Laure?” the Vala sighed, taking another few steps towards the elf, who sat on the flowered ground in misery.

“Do not refer to me thus!” the elf snarled, unable to keep his hurt and anger at bay any longer, lashing out vocally. “Never again, King of Arda.” Thousands of years Laurefindil had spent trying to forget, thousands of years had he forced his memory to the back to his mind; the moment he had set his feet onto the ice of the Helcaraxë he had buried all hopes of ever seeing him again. With reckless abandon he had tried to forget everything that was burnt so vividly into his mind, but often his internal struggles had been doomed to failure. However, over the endless stretch of years he had mastered his thoughts and kept his memories at bay.

And now? The blink of the moment was enough and everything came back to him, trapping him in an endless maelstrom of memories and fleeting images.

“Alas, then tell me, what dost thou desire to hear from my lips, instead!” the Vala said icily, and the change in his voice made Laurefindil flinch in return; certainly it had been his rejection that had evoked such a response? What else had he expected? Even deserved? “That I desired to lay my eyes upon thee once more?” Much to the elf’s relief, the icy note had vanished just as quickly as it had arisen, and a sigh of relief left his lips. “That I have missed thy presence ever since thou hast left the Blessed Realm behind?”

Peace only lasted momentarily before Laurefindil again lashed out in bitterness and grief. “This was thy very own fault...”

Maybe it was, maybe it was – who can tell what was right and wrong?

“Silence! Thou wilt not interrupt me,” the Vala thundered in response, having finally had enough of the elf’s blatant disrespect, and all Laurefindil could do was to cower before him like a doomed thrall, glad that the following words were much more gentle, almost as if the Vala regretted his temperamental outburst. “For once thou wilt listen, Laurefindil.” The elf’s face pinched in irritation, but he nodded and remained quiet just as was expected of him. “Listen now, and I will gladly take my leave afterwards if thou desirest so, never to step before thine eyes again – this I pledge before thee.” Laurefindil stared at him with wide eyes, and when his gaze met the eyes that so much resembled his own, an awkward shiver rushed through him. But then he nodded, gesturing for the other to continue.

“Hardly a day had passed in all those years that I have not thought of thee, thy fate that awaited thee on the distant shores, but thy destiny was not all I have thought of,” Manwë confessed with a heavy sigh, the words he wished to speak did not easily come to him, “never could I forget that fateful night, Laure – so many hours, so many days I have thought of how thy fingers had lingered just a second too long on my skin to be accidental. Memories and fragments of our conversations haunted me, as did thy smile, thy shining eyes. Heavy was my heart and soul when thou hast left these shores.”

The mighty Vala smiled, a barely noticeable smile, but still an attempt at kindness and compassion that Laurefindil had long thought forgotten, and for a long moment, the elf was speechless.

His voice rose again in anger; where the first words had been gently and truthfully spoken, the elf’s tone soon changed: “I would never have turned my back on these lands, the lands that I so much loved and cherished, if it had not been for that fateful night, and something in thy gaze tells me that thou know’st as much. Never had I been close to Fëanáro or his sons, never have I defied and rebelled against the Lords of the Wests before, not once!” he raged on without even noticing. For once, Manwë decided to turn a blind eye on Laurefindil’s insolent behavior and allowed it to go unpunished; yet after all these years, the golden-haired elf was still granted the privilege of fooling with him. “Thou could’st have had it all,” the elf screamed, his eyes glistening with surreal and ill-fitting fey, “and so much more. Dost thou still remember what I offered so freely in my naïve youth?”

Of course he did, how could he not? The question was ridiculous in itself – the moon continued to wax and wane, but his memory was as endless as the star-lit sky. “Not a day had passed when I had not remembered thy words, Laurefindil,” Manwë said softly in hopes of soothing the other’s blinding anger, and much to his surprise he did indeed succeed – at least, he appeared to be calmer than before. “Thy destiny was not here in the Blessed Realm. I did not know what fate would await thee, but I knew thy future lay beyond the sea.”

“Yet thou hast never seen the need to tell me,” Laurefindil answered quietly, but the coldness accompanying the words could not be tarnished. The elf was no stranger in outrunning the authorities, Manwë knew, and once his anger was sparked it was not easily soothed. A wrong word might turn the tides again.

“Thou would’st not have believed me, I fear.”

The elf did not answer him right away.

Instead, mournful tears suddenly began to drip down his cheeks as memories overwhelmed him; despite his inner turmoil he remained resolutely silent. Their eyes were locked in a heavy embrace, and Laurefindil did not dare to break the silent spell, but he could see every slight movement in the Vala’s eyes, every breaking point in their relationship as if it only had been yesterday. When Manwë sat down silently beside him on the mossy ground, carefully avoiding touching him in his misery, for once he did not object.

“Perhaps I would have,” responded Laurefindil with a sigh after long moments of silence, even if he knew that this was anything but an obvious lie; he would never have left the one behind he had truly loved, with all his heart and soul.

“Now it is thou who art lying to my face,” Manwë commented, authority palpable in everything he said. “Thou would’st never have left the blessed realm, we both know it, and I could not let this come to pass.” The decisions had been his own to make, but then they had not, as he ruled the world in Ilúvatar’s stead, following his eternal will.

Beside him, the elf crumpled, visibly flinching upon the hurtful words, all enchantments ripped from him; plainly speaking, Manwë just had confirmed that he would rather see him dead than residing in Valinor’s eternal bliss, and he could not help but regret his own words, which had provoked such a response.

“So many would’st and could’st …” he whispered absently, as if his mind was caught in a land far away. “Perhaps thou art right, I might not have left these shores – but – and I beg thee, be honest to thyself, Lord of the Winds; in the end, your rejection had not solely been for my fate on Arda’s soil. It had been thy pride, and thy morals that had hindered thee, had it not?” the elf accused him with anger flashing in his eyes, and every word spoken sliced through him like a sharp blade. “Had it verily been too much I have asked thee for? Had it?” As before, disappointment mingled with endless words, and the provocations flew freely. Whether or not he wished to believe it, Laurefindil already knew the answer to his own question; they had gone too far that night, besotted by their emotions and the potent liquor they had consumed.

For the first time in many years Manwë was at a loss; there was so much grief, so much bottled-up rage palpable in everything the elf said, mingled with an endless sadness about the night in question. He deliberately wished to talk sense and reason into the elf, but then, how should he blame him for what he said? After all, it was not entirely fabricated by his troubled mind. He had always felt compassion and pity for the Eldar, and now he felt pity and compassion for the elf sitting beside him – but in a different way. Oh, how he wished how to respond appropriately – both vocally and physically – but he didn’t know how, he never had, and it pained him.

Quietly, he began: “A combination of all three might be the correct answer, however, in the end it had been thy fate, thy destiny beyond the sea that had mattered most. All of us are in this world to fulfil our destiny, never forget that, Laure. Nought on Arda happens without the will of Ilúvatar, and I am forced to obey his will and enforce it as King of Arda.”

For a few seconds, an oddly familiar spark soared through the elf’s body and he condemned himself for the improper about that the Vala’s words elicited; he was not overly fond of royal authority, nor intrigued by pride, power or status – but then again, oddly, he was: the thrill that rushed through him was undeniable, and in vain he fought against it.

It was apparent that the elf did not wish to hear any of it; at least, that was what Manwë thought, as Laurefindil had ignored the last remark completely. Slowly he turned his head and stared at the Vala with a narrowing expression, anger flashing in his blue eyes. But beneath the anger another all too familiar emotion coiled. “A kiss – a mere kiss in the gentle light of the mingling of the Two Trees,” he said, strangely detached from reality as his mind recalled and vividly depicted the entire scene again, losing himself in all the spellbinding memories that were once a blissful reality. “Was it truly too much?”

Long had he tried to look at the elf with mastered indifference, but now he failed. Manwë could not help but admire how devastatingly magnificent Laurefindil was in the orange light of the late afternoon, with his golden hair pooling around his broad shoulders, shimmering in the Arien’s last caresses – an odd vulnerability shining in the elf’s tear-stained eyes that watched him out of the haze of memory.

The enchanting, yet unintentional beauty made it all too evident what had made him forget his principles, his position as Elder King all those millennia ago, why he had fallen head over heels for what was never meant to be his own. “Thou hadst not asked for a mere kiss, Laure…” the Vala sighed, as wave after wave of feelings and emotions washed over him. Oh how he wished to fight against the coiling sensation in his stomach, against his improper thoughts as his gaze wandered over the taut muscles that flexed beneath the elf lord's silken tunic. So foreign, so divine, and enticing, and within reach to touch, to devour. Hard the Vala fought against the incredible temptation.

Laurefindil shook his head in denial; no, he hadn’t asked for a mere, harmless kiss among friends, that much they both knew, had always known. When he had voiced his question—not really an inquiry in the ordinary sense of understanding – but an offer of the most inappropriate kind, he had kissed him under the soft light of Laurelin until their lips had been bruised and swollen, until the kisses had not seemed to be enough anymore, at least not for the elf. With frantic desire his hands had sneaked beneath the Vala’s robes and had delicately drawn thoughtless patterns against the heated skin that Laurefindil desired so much in a way he never should.

The silence hung heavily between them now as the late afternoon sun mimicked Laurelin’s golden light, as both their minds went astray in the exact same direction, wandering along the path of memories that for so long had seemed to be forgotten.

>>For Manwë, the entire concept of sexual desire was as unusual as anything could ever be, although it had become much more familiar the past months, and he could not even recall what he had thought about where their clandestine relationship was leading. He was a stranger to it; he had always been indifferent towards the yearning of flesh, which occupied the elves’ hearts. Marriage among the Ainur was so entirely different, a sacred union of spirit and soul rather than of flesh and carnal need. Nay, he had never thought their odd dalliance to whatever end, and a mocking irony it was that he had initiated their clandestine meeting under Laurelin’s gentle light. Wine and mead had flowed freely through their throats on that night, pleasant laughter and merriment filling the air around them – and everything was as it had always been… until the elf in his lap had voiced his indecent proposal aloud. Then it dawned on him, and he realized what exactly his behavior had provoked.

The elf wanted to take him to bed, in their case a bed composed of moss and heavenly smelling flowers; but no, that was not it. It was the other way round - the elf wanted that he would take him to bed, having offered his innocence in the most unmistakable way. Not only emotionally he wanted him, not just as friend, not for kisses and affectionate touches, not for foolish confessions, but sexually. It was nothing more than the logical consequence, actually what he should have expected from the beginning. But he hadn’t! He simply hadn’t even considered it.

Sudden terror seized him, and his world went blank, a million thoughts and emotions swirling through him.

Laurefindil desired him, wanted him desperately in a way nobody ever had and possibly ever would again, and the evidence of just how much he desired him was embarrassingly apparent, manifesting between the elf’s strong things. The entire concept of desire and bodily union was such a foreign concept that he had been speechless for a long moment, unable to respond to Laurefindil's proposal. Helplessly, he stared down, tensing with every second that passed, with his mind reeling; this was not solely about him, nor them, nor about his own laws which he was about to abide – a greater cause, the elf’s long foreseen destiny, stood at a stake, and everything depended on the answer he would voice, must voice, for the sake of all.

Manwë had sat back, a jolt of desire sparking in his stomach, as his gaze had met the half-lidded eyes that so expectantly looked up to him, and his heart had begun to falter. When remaining silent for longer, the elf’s melodious voice spoke again and eyes blue as the endless sky met his own. ‘I desire thee with all my heart,’ Laurefindil had whispered before he allowed his maddening lips to brush against the tip of his ear, ‘would thou refusest what I am offering so freely?’

After an eternity, he finally had said: ‘I would – and I will,’ feeling as if his heart would tear apart, and he couldn’t hold the elf’s hurt gaze any longer. The words had been firm and final, and made  Laurefindil’s stomach sink to his feet instantly, all magic vanishing as swiftly as it had arisen.<<

 

“Nay, that is not true, thou art right,” Laurefindil began with a small sigh, which the other could not quite hear, “not for a mere kiss I had asked thee,” his blush deepened as he finally confessed, recalling the exact words he had said all those millennia ago, words that never failed to make his stomach flutter in delight, although he had carefully locked them away for all eternity.

Easily he had slipped into lascivious flirtation and shameless innuendo after the feast, where spiced wine and cider had lessened previous inhibitions; he had been shamelessly encouraging in what just came so naturally to him. And the Vala hadn't exactly discouraged him when his lips began to graze his neck. Oh how Laurefindil wished his emotions were completely at his will, when desired swelled within him anew. What madness, what weakness was this? Desperately he tried to force down the sparks of lust from where they arose, choking out the words he wished to ask in earnest. “The question, however, remains the same: was it too much I have asked for?”

“Thou knowest the laws as much as I,” responded Manwë, although the laws had been not the sole reason why he had denied what both equally desired.

The elf laughed at that, a bitter and entirely unpleasant laugh. “Oh, art thou speaking of those god-forsaken laws nobody ever abides?” Fey and alien the laugh was, strangely unbefitting for the fair creature, a noise that pierced marrow and bone. Although he left the elf’s outburst uncommented on, the words evoked another incident he had long not thought of.  

Laurefindil’s accusation drew on as he repeated his question, staring him right into his iridescent eyes. “Do not divert, Lord of the Winds. Was it truly too much I have asked thee for?” Without voicing it aloud it was all too evident that he demanded an answer; subtle gestures and hidden glances had often been enough to say volumes between them, and Manwë obeyed the elf’s silent demand.

“The answer is both yes – and no.” The Vala sighed as his memories traveled back to that fateful night. “Although I doubt thou wilt believe my words, I wished I would have been able to give thee a different answer all those years ago.”

Over the years, Laurefindil had often wondered if he had only dreamt the light and warmth of their odd relationship, had doubted its very existence, wondering if his youthful mind had seen so much more than there had been – now finally, the truth was revealed. “Then, wherefore thou didst not?”

With sadness, Laurefindil shook his head, involuntarily shifting a little bit closer towards him. Compared to the time when they had met clandestinely, he was now old, and naivety was substituted by ancient wisdom. Yet with the matter at hand, all rationality seemed to fail the elf. “Hast thou ever imagined how hard it had been not to fall under thy spell? After all, thou art King of Arda in Ilúvatar’s stead, mighty and powerful, so breathtakingly beautiful in thy elvish disguise thou had chosen when thou desired to meet me, with long flowing hair that resembled the silver of the sky, Telperion’s divine light. And it was myself whom thou had showered with thy friendship – and more. Often, oh so often, I felt as if was merely wandering an endless dream.”

Tantalizingly slow, he turned his head towards the other and looked up expectantly with watery eyes, in a way that the words Manwë wished to say nearly got caught in his throat. “Hast thou ever imagined how hard it had been not to fall under thy spell?” the Vala began, repeating the elf’s statement from his point of view. “Glittering in golden shades like Laurelin’s soft light, valiant and righteous, young and so beautiful- a glorious future lying in front of thee. Charming in thine innocence, …” So much more he could say about the fair elf, but he cut off his monologue; what had happened between them could not be undone.

“What?” the elf inquired softly as the Vala hesitated, the word so silent it was barely there. “Tell me that thou hast not desired me that night so many centuries ago, and I will never speak of it again!" Laurefindil rushed on, the words just falling from his mouth in an avalanche; too many thoughts, too many questions, too many emotions he simply could not understand. The elf could blame the incident on his naivety and his youth, on changes brought with growing into manhood, whereas his opponent could not; old and wise as the world itself he was, always had been. Now, that he thought about it again, and despite the constant whirl of want, he had to admit that the question itself was rather unfair.

Laurefindil felt genuinely sorry, and just as he opened his mouth to apologize, Manwë’s voice filled the air again, although not easily would the words come. “Nay,” he answered truthfully. “I cannot, and moreover I will not tell thee this, because it would be nothing more than another comfortable lie to sit upon.”

When he paused, Laurefindil swallowed hard and tried to catch the Vala’s gaze; what he saw there was as unexpected as anything could ever be. For a moment he thought he glimpsed the same uncertainty--almost fear of what he was about to confess--in the Vala’s eyes. Worry mingled with something else, something greater the elf failed yet to understand, even if he was certain he had seen the emotion before. A strangely familiar sensation began to form in his stomach. Oh he was so utterly predictable, and he hated himself for it.

“Shh, do not interrupt me, but hear me out,” Manwë continued, holding the elf’s gaze steadily “As hope still remains that thou would’st understand my motives: Thou would’st never have left these lands if I would have given into thy tempting pleas, and apart from that I was – I am married, although marriage among the Ainur much differs from that among the Eldar. And, alas! As if this were not been enough: Remember! Thou wert hardly an adult back then – grown up, yes, but still a child in our eyes. Beautiful like no other in the golden light of Laurelin, valiant and fierce and utterly stubborn. A dangerous temptation.” A temptation that sat beside him, as alluring the elf certainly still was, staring at him with pleading eyes. All it would take, Manwë knew, was a single murmured hint of desire and the elf would be his, and at his will. A pity it was indeed, and he swallowed hard to focus on everything he still had to say, must say on Irmo’s behalf. “All these years I have lingered in the ‘what if’s’, unable and partly unwilling to leave the memories I had of thee behind.”

Now, Laurefindil openly stared in astonishment - and partly in disbelief, certain that he must have misheard half of the words. “So dost thou finally confirm that thou hadst desired me in the same way I have desired thee?” he asked, the words were nothing more than whisper, barely there, soft as the breeze that rustled through the leaves above them. ‘Desire me still?’ - ‘As I do?’ he wished to add, but bit his tongue. Not with rationality could he explain his train of thoughts. How long had it been since he had tried to lock away his feelings? Lock his heart? Millennia! And now mere minutes of conversation were enough to turn his world upside down, allowing long forgotten days to revive. Until then, he had not noticed just how close to each other they sat upon the flowery ground, how close their faces were; all he had to do was to lean in just a little more and their lips would touch. He wouldn’t survive another rejection, he simply wouldn’t, and therefore he refrained.

“Only a blind one would not see the desire that shone from my eyes. ‘Tis I have, Laure,” Manwë began, his voice a little strangled, and for Laurefindil it was as if the mighty King of Arda tried to keep his own emotions at bay. The Vala’s mind was reeling, and that the elf’s piercing eyes rested expectantly upon him did not help its cause. “Always and utterly – so much that a mere child could see my distraction whenever I met thee in the gardens of Mindon Eldaliéva. Soon, after our first meeting, if thou might recall, I avoided to meet thee when thou hadst been among others, too dangerous I deemed it. Still I was thither – formless or hidden in disguise, watching thee from the shades at safe distance, letting my eyes travel over thy form. Carefully I listened to thy voice, thy joyful laughter – the laughter I could never forget in all those centuries, Laure. Knowing that I could never return what thou hast felt for me, nearly tore my heart in two. Watching thee from the shades did hurt, but still - I have been unable to tear my eyes away from thy divine form. I who watched thee leaving these shores until thou wert out of sight, and my heart wept. And then, after thou hast finally gone, it has been thy smile, thy laughter that hast kept me company year after year.”

 

Laurefindil stared mesmerized, unable to say a word. However, it wasn’t necessary as the monologue continued and he lost himself in rapture as the name he was once named, fell from the other’s lips again. “I had been torn, Laure and my feelings nearly consumed me, seared me from deep within. I desired thee, yet I knew thou wert never meant for me, for any of us to take. Never let thy heart rule thy head, I have told myself in an ever repeating mantra, and then that fateful night happened: I was close, so very close to finally give into thy temptation and thine indecent proposal. All the years I have hated myself for the rejection I made; after all I have invited you, after all I have given you false hopes. Forgive me, my golden child, forgive me now what thou couldst not forgive me all those years ago. We both know what had happened in the following weeks; soon thou hadst gone, never to return to these shores. So many words, so many things which were meant to be said between us, Laurefindil.”

Tears began to collect themselves in the elf’s eyes, tears neither of them could explain. Wordlessly, the Vala reached out and threaded their fingers together in a gesture of comfort, and in the dim light, his eyes appeared even lighter, until they almost seemed to glow.

Again, Laurefindil shivered at the heart-breaking confession. Never, not once, had he imagined that the other could suffer the same way as he did, feel the same sadness and emptiness in his heart, and in response his hand was squeezed ever so lightly. "Thou knowest, King of Arda, mighty Lord of the Winds – that of all sad words, the saddest art 'it might have been’”

For the first time, neither grief nor anger glittered through the elf’s voice; Manwë only nodded and remained silent upon those incredible words of wisdom. He bit down his lip apprehensively, fighting the urge to speak, for he wished this to take a different turn, to be so different in comparison to how their last meeting had ended.

“Never to return…” Laurefindil whispered to himself, picking up the where the other had left off. “Yet here I am, lingering in a state between sleep and awake, a state which I still cannot comprehend fully. What am I? Dead, Alive?” Oddly enough, during their conversation he had entirely forgotten of the dream that returned to him day after day, but now he remembered.

Absently, the elf lifted his free hand from his side to brush against his cheek, his fingers wet when he removed them – until then, he had not even realized that tears had found their way into his eyes, that weakness was visibly displayed across his face. However, he decided to ignore the little detail; after all, it was not the first time the Vala had seen him cry, even if the circumstances had been entirely different.

“Alive thou art, certainly.” Manwë said, glad that their conversation now followed civilized rules and that the topic Irmo had asked him to address could finally be discussed between them. “Released from Mandos’ halls, suffered to live in thine own body again. Still, thy heart and soul lingers in the past, and it was not long ago when thou hadst even refused to step outside thy little house. Remember, thou hast refused to do anything that would help thy recovery – thou hast not discoursed with anybody apart from me, hast barely eaten. A long way until thy recovery it is still, I daresay. Thou might have never noticed as thou refused to listen and preferred to linger in the state thou hadst chosen. Thou hast locked thyself away, Laurefindil. What for?”

“Thou might already know the answer,” said the elf after a little eternity, struggling for the right words. “I have fallen, aye. Alas, it is not my fate I am contemplating, not my death it is that I mourn. Tell me, what remains thither for me to live for? Thou, best of all, should remember the words we have heard as we turned our backs onto the Blessed Realm. ‘And thy houseless spirits shall come then to Mandos. Thither long shall ye abide and yearn for thy bodies, and find little pity though all whom ye have slain should entreat for thee.’ Now tell me, wherefore should I seek recovery when my fate is sealed?”

In silence, Manwë thought, ‘if thou knew thy future, thou would’st not speak thus,’ but at the same time he could not find the heart to tell the elf of his destiny, fear arising that his recovery might take an ill fate once he knew.

Again, Laurefindil shook his head, Námo’s dreadful words had been long forgotten when Ondolindë fell and all he wished to do was to curl up into a fetal position, at best with the other’s arms wrapped around him. The thought, however, was immediately dismissed from his mind as he continued, the words barely audible: “Not my fate it is I struggle with, it is those dreadful memories that haunt me, the never-ending screams of my kin that echoes in my ears whenever I lie down to sleep, the stench of burnt flesh seared into my mind never to be forgotten; that is what makes me suffer. I dread I might remember it as long as long as I live – but wait, oh what an ironic thing to say for one who is dead! Ondolindë was my home, the white city of all our dreams, finally come alive under Túrukáno’s guidance.” So vivid the images of the White City’s fall were, so heart-wrenching the echoing screams that tears began to flow freely down his cheeks, the words he spoke drowned by sobs, bleeding into the silence that fell once he was finished.

“My family, my friends – everything worth living for; lost forever, burned to the ground, fallen into ashes and ruin!”

Without even noticing it, the elf’s head fell heavily against Manwë’s shoulder. The Vala, for once, allowed it to happen – if it was wise he could not exactly tell, but it mattered not. The elf’s inner turmoil, anxiety and worries were heartbreaking, and compassion for the Eldar arose, although pity was usually not something the Firstborn associated with the Ainur, especially not those who followed either Fëanáro or Ñolofinwë into exile across the sea.

So many words Manwë wished to speak, so many thoughts he had kept hidden all those centuries, and absently he squeezed his old friend's hand in return, doubting that Laurefindil would even notice. “I know,” he mumbled barely audible against the elf’s golden head.

The elf's eyes fell shut for moments, and within him all frustration whirled anew. “And I couldn’t protect them,” the elf told him, fighting with the heavy tremors that shook every part of his body with strength Manwë had never seen before in any elf.

“I simply could not,” he repeated, at a loss for further words. “I couldn’t – I do not even know if they made it across the pass.”

In his dreams, he had seen Itarillë fleeing the pass of Cirith Thoronath,but then his memory had left him, and the world had gone black before his eyes. Fleeting images of foul creatures and searing flames he saw, but the memories of his escape from Ondolindë still remained veiled by a hazy curtain.

“Their survival had been my responsibility.” Laurefindil felt like a small child again, sobbing against the Vala’s shoulder in his unbearable grief and pain, “and I failed them.”

Nothing more the elf wished to do than to curl up into a ball and hide for the rest of eternity, guilt and grief overwhelming him once more. No matter what his friend of old tried to tell him, the screams of his beloved kin still echoed restlessly in his drowsy head. “I failed them, all are dead.”

“Do not doubt thy deeds, Laure, thou hast not failed thy kin. They escaped the inferno of flames and smoke – they are alive; thy lead and valor were the very reason they survived. Never forget that, never blame thyself. Thou didst whatever could’st have been done – and so much more. Great songs of thy valor will be sung, thy selfless deeds will never be forgotten among the Firstborn. History will become legend, legend will become myth, and thy deeds shall be rewarded in time.”

Manwë’s words bore a strange foreboding, but Laurefindil was too blind to see. In his dreams, he had once envisioned his return to Arda upon a mighty ship that carried him towards the distance shores, to a hidden valley rich and sacred, with its people already awaiting his return – and indeed songs of his deeds of valor where sung among the elves, but the taste of reality lacked the sweetness of such songs, and Laurefindil had turned around and left the Great Hall.

"Yet another dream," he had told himself afterwards, "another odd dream, one among many."

“Yet it never seemed to be enough.” The elf’s voice wavered, the words interrupted by heartbreaking sobs he was unable to control any longer, his body violently shaking against the other, too occupied to realize that the Vala’s arm was placed around his waist, pulling him close into an all too familiar position. The words that usually came rather easily to him, seemed to fail him now. He swallowed hard, and then again, before he whispered: “Hast thou … hast thou seen my death?”

Sooner or later he had feared the question would arise, and the Vala sighed in silence; the elf was not prepared to see everything to its full extent, that much Manwë knew, and it certainly would not help his recovery, but he could not remain silent and deny him the answer he so much wished to hear. With a nod, he began to tell the elf’s tale: “Aye, I have seen it both on the tapestries and in my vision later on, and often I wished I had not. An illusion of fire and darkness, a surreal dream of dread and horror, of searing flames. Thou know’st we shall not meddle in the affairs of the Firstborn, and believe me I wished I could prevent what had happened. However, to some extent, I could – and I did. Because I felt compassion, because I have pity. I couldn’t save the city, but I could save thee.”

With wide eyes, the elf simply listened as the history of his own downfall unfolded in his mind.

“The dream…” Laurefindil’s voice was distant, strangely detached from the world around him as he recalled his dream. “Continuously and repeatedly I have dreamt of soaring eagles high up in the blackened sky. A never-ending abyss at the edges of the narrow path, a rocky grave of elves and orcs alike, down at the base of the mountain's slopes. Day after day, the dream would returned to me, each time more vividly, enriched in details. A beast of flame and smoke, yielding its fiery whip against myself. And then, a heavy curtain of grey and black falls and I remember naught. Tell me, I ask thee, Lord of the Winds – what is it that I see. A dream, a dreadful nightmare? Or reality enwrapped in the plush form of dreams? The eagles only fly at your command … ”

Deep inside, hidden from him for his own safety, Laurefindil already knew the answer, but he needed to hear those words spoken aloud.

“Right thou art,” Manwë confirmed the elf’s last statement with a small nod, and graced him with an explanation for his reasons. “Thorondor only spreads his wings on my command. The moment I saw Ondolindë’s fate on the tapestries I summoned the Lord of Eagles to Ilmarin to instruct him.”

The elf tilted his head in astonishment.

“Wherefore …?” Laurefindil asked. His death had been unavoidable, that much he knew, had always known, so why retrieve his lifeless body from the abyss? “I was sentenced to death from the day I was born, so wherefore, I ask thee?”

“Both thou and I know on whose behalf the White City was attacked. Melkor, Morgoth – name him as you wish,” a sudden coil of anger erupted from the Vala, and was manifested in his voice. Laurefindil could all but flinch. “Urqui, Valaraukar and other ilk freely roamed the lands covered by dark clouds and smoke, foul creatures set free on his command. I saw thy death on the tapestries but the details had been veiled from my eyes, for better or for worse I do not know. Thou could’st have been still alive after thy fall – barely possible, I have to fathom, but a slight chance remained. Thou shalt never doubt that his dreadful servants would have found thee, taken thee right before his dreadful throne of black and icy steel.”

For a moment he paused, inhaling sharply. Ilk his brother had brought upon the world, dread and horror, torture and flames. “Thou know’st about the elf lord Melkor had held captive, who nearly had not survived his endless torment… Thy lifeless body in the hands of my forsaken brother, caught in his gloomy halls, suffering, being at the mercy of him and his sadistic pleasures, condemned to endure an endless ordeal of torture and worse, becoming his thrall. No, Laure – the mere thought of this scenery come to pass made the bile rise to my throat. I could never allow this to happen.”

He found himself lost in the rapture of Manwë’s beautiful voice, despite the dread he spoke of. Never had he even considered such a fate for himself, and momentarily the blood froze in his veins – such a horrendous scenario the Vala had painted. Aye, he knew of Nelyafinwë’s fate and of his rescue by his valiant cousin; Turukáno had rarely spoken about this fateful tale so many years ago, and he had never dared to ask.

Although the sobbing had finally ceased, tears were still flowing freely down the elf’s heated cheeks. With closed eyes, he exhaled slowly and drew in another deep breath to steady himself; too many emotions were flickering through him at once – thoughts and emotions he had long deemed forgotten. Much to his surprise, his head rested against the Ainu’s shoulder, and at first Laurefindil did not notice the familiar arm around his waist, nor had he noticed that their fingers had threaded together.

‘‘This cannot be,’ he told himself just a moment before a gentle voice stirred him from his thoughts.

“Naught has changed over the past thousands of years, Laure,” Manwë told him, suppressing the urge to wipe away all the tears that were streaming down the golden skin. “I care for thee, I always have. No matter how much thou hast rebelled against the Lords of the West, against myself above all others, how much thou hast cursed and hated me on thy way into exile, I never stopped to care for thee - nor for the others who followed Fëanáro across the sea. Thy motives where different from theirs – as was my pity for thy fate.”

‘Only the blind would not see,’ – and blind he had been, indeed, Laurefindil thought when he realized that it was exactly the same position they had been in that fateful night when everything had changed, his free hand lying flat against his stomach with taut muscles flexing beneath the soft fabric that caressed his fingertips, lingering for long moments there without being pushed away. Instead, gentle fingers ran up and down his forearm in soothing strokes. The gesture, as innocent as it was and certainly not meant the way he so desperately wished it were, sent jolts throughout his body. Time slowed, and he felt every nerve in his body unravel, every ounce of tension and previous anger vanish like the last rays of the sun that disappeared across the horizon, as if holy flames had embraced the sky.

Tears rose again. Tears of sorrow, of forgiveness and joy mingled on his cheeks, and he was unable to distinguish them anymore as the world seemed to pause for mere seconds.

Oh if he were already seated, he would have fallen to his knees for the words to come; so many wrongs he had committed – in deed and thought – so many words never said between them. “Forgive me my heated words,” the elf apologized with closed eyes, exhaling slowly as if he thought the beauty of the moment would disappear within a moment. So many accusations had spilled so freely across his bruised lips that fateful night, blinded by rage and never-ending sadness. Oh how he had sworn and cursed as he had never done in his life before. And never since. So blind he had been, so fueled by grief and utter disappointment, unable and unwilling to see his own mistakes. An eternity needed to come to pass before he finally saw his own behavior through much wiser eyes; ashamed he was, possibly more than he had ever been, and Laurefindil found his own apology beyond ridiculous.

How on Arda, should he ever make all the wrongs he had committed right again?

How should they make amends? Reconcile?

Before he continued to speak, he wiped his wet cheeks dry with the end of his sleeve, feeling ridiculous for his emotional outburst and unfair behavior earlier. “Forgive me everything I have said and done - I got lost in blind rage and the eternal grief that had occupied my heart and mind dominated my thoughts; my heart was filled with endless agony. No words were made to describe how hurt, disappointed, and overwhelmed by my own emotions I was that fateful night, besotted by thy touch and thy lips, by too much spiced wine.” Carefully, Laurefindil shook his head against the Vala’s shoulder, astonished by his own words. “I couldn’t understand, couldn’t believe that I might have misread all the signs. I was so young … so naïve, verily believing I was naught more than another game thou hadst decided to play. Forgive me, my fault is past. Forgive me everything.”

The elf’s odd shyness was beguiling, if not somewhat enamoring, and the temptation to lift his face and kiss away all the tears that still lingered on the golden skin and those rosy lips he had once tasted before was nearly impossible to resist. Yet he knew he had to, but nevertheless the corners of his mouth curved gently as he tried not to smile.

Manwë replied quietly, “I long have,” but his voice barely reached the elf, and he had to replay what he had thought he had heard; denial was buried so deep in his subconscious that at first the elf doubted the sincerity of the Vala’s words - before he finally understood.

The words pronounced absolution, and his heart leapt in joy; never had he thought this possible. Immediately relief was followed by exhaustion, which washed over the golden-haired elf in a wave of relief as soon as his mind had comprehended; Laurefindil hadn’t held a true conversation in what seemed to be an eternity, avoiding every contact that was brought upon him, and now, with the thoughts swirling uncontrolled in his mind, it became too much.

“I know,” he mumbled in response, and indeed he had always known it deep inside. “I always have, but I did not dare to see the truth, as it would have meant having to look back and reappraise the situation.” Again the tears flowed, but now they were tears of pure joy and gratitude.

“Do not fret, Laure,” the Vala said softly, letting go of the elf’s body in his arms with little reluctance, “I shall take my leave now, as thou art troubled and exhausted.”

Laurefindil had never been one to be extraordinarily insecure, Manwë knew, but now the golden-haired elf was, unintentionally so. Enamoring, enchanting, and vulnerable. An irresistible desire to protect the golden-haired elf lord arose within him, with a strength that nearly took his breath away. Possessive thoughts dominated his mind, his entire body.

“Would’st thou pay me a visit if thy time allows?” he asked in a voice that was barely audible, as he lifted his head to meet the Vala’s gaze, and for the blink of the moment he lost himself in the mesmerizing iridescent pools of rapture.

The undisguised hope shining in the elf’s eyes was unmistakable, and it was enough to make his stomach flutter, sparking strange sensual feelings he long had thought lost. Manwë wished he could stay forever.

So many questions he still had, so many answers he needed to receive, but his strength, both mentally and physically, failed him, and he nearly lost consciousness still leaning against the other.

“Thus I will. Rest well, my child of summer.” The Vala whispered and placed a gentle kiss to the top of the elf’s head, before carefully lying him down onto the soft grass, where deep slumber immediately overwhelmed him. “Sleep well, until we meet again,” he added with a smile as he covered the fatigued figure with his silken cape. “Fare thee well, Laure.”

*