Gone with the Wind by Sleepless_Malice

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Endless Days of Solitude

[Chapter Summary] Instead of the one he so much desires to see, Glorfindel meets Nienna for the first time in the Gardens of Lórien - before being granted another visit of the Elder King

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Chapter 04 – Endless Days of Solitude

 

 

In the Gardens of Lórien

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The sun rose and set, and yet again, and despite the fact that Laurefindil had not been doing anything except of brooding and day-dreaming, in days he felt exhausted, so utterly exhausted like he had not been in a very long time and rather easily he succumbed to slumber and reveries, both often mingling as he drifted continuously between the awkward state between sleep and awake. The richly adorned cloak the Vala had left behind covered his form most of the time, and every now and then, the elf wondered if Manwë had simply forgotten the beautiful garment – or had left it on purpose, the latter certainly the scenario Laurefindil preferred to assume.

More often than not, his only option to tell the difference between the two states was the content of his dreams; whilst his thoughts and musings constantly returned to the meeting beneath the weeping willow and everything that he had associated with it, memories that heavily violated his heart, the actual dreams mostly repeated the dreadful scenes of Ondolindë’s fall.

Impossibly hard it was for him to distinguish which memory exactly hurt him more; the salacious fire that again poisoned his veins, the awakened feelings of forsaken desire that began to coil in his stomach once more - or the bitter truth of the elves’ defeat upon the hand of the Black Foe? Hurtfully both stung, however on completely different levels: where his death and Ondolindë’s fall could not be altered by any means, so many expectations filled his heart and mind in regard to the Vala’s visit. Stupidly his thoughts had been or course, ridiculous and utterly foolish and often enough Laurefindil hated himself for the abundance of those reveries of ‘what if’ scenarios; a rather innocent encounter of a few hours seemed to turn his world upside down once more, reviving the endless emotions which he had fought down for countless years ever since he had left the Blessed Realm behind, softly spoken words which igniting the yearning he had once felt anew.

O, so much he disdained himself for the weakness of both his body and mind, yet no cure seemed to exist to fight his resurfacing desires: every thought about the Elder King he had provoked an endless wave of excitement, every touch against his skin, no matter how innocent and floating it had been, elicited an indescribable yearning for more, for something he shall never experience anew, wherefore his mood switched between sadness and foolish excitement back and forth.

However, worse than everything else of what he felt was that he missed him; every hour that passed by in silence, every day he spent in solitude and futile struggle against his emotions, he the longing to see and speak with him only increased, every second he was awake he imagined his fair features, his eyes, his lips and the longer the hours drew, the more his thoughts began to drift into other, not so innocent, directions – for which he despised himself all the more.

 

 

One day when it still was rather early Laurefindil awoke to a noise outside his room he could not quite distinguish, and drowsily he rose from the bed and walked towards the window to let his gaze roam across the sky; the sun had not even touched the distant horizon but its soft glow slowly chased the darkness away and turned the sky into nuances of dark blue and purple, the moon and stars giving way to the brightness of the sunshine.

‘A day as good as any,’ Laurefindil said silently but with a certain bitterness and despite his slumber he did not feel entirely relaxed and more often than not, gloomy thoughts still occupied his mind. However, not for ever could he lock himself into his house, brooding over things he was unable to alter nor to forget.

It was the fifth day after the dream had initially occurred, and early this day he had finally forced himself to venture outside, taking a stroll through the undoubtedly pleasant gardens at a leisurely pace. No explanation had he for why he went where he was going, his feet almost moving at their own accord along the shady paths that meandered endlessly through the Gardens of Lórien; past gushing fountains, flower-covered meadows and blossoming orchards of trees he could not even name and certainly had never seen before. Admittedly, a divine sanctuary these gardens truly were with all the scents wafting through the air, opalescent dew-drops adorning the rarest of flowers that stood idly near-by, with all the birds chirping in the tree-tops above him.

Long enough he had been unable to see the beauty that was laid out right before him, drowning in the proclaimed self-misery and in his dreadful thoughts; not entirely disappeared his misery had, however, his mood seemed to brighten day after day and less frequently, despair seemed overwhelmed him out of nowhere.

When he passed by a massive tree, one of those which had abundantly grown in the woods around the hidden city, memory once more caught him off guard and the tears began to flow freely upon the sickening certainty of Ondolindë’s fall and the death of so many. O, so much death and horror, so much blood had been spilled among those who should not die. Never before had the dreadful prophecy spoken on the northern shores been more accurate than the day when the white city had fallen upon the Black Foe’s hand, Laurefindil thought silently. Innocent and helpless inhabitants had been slain, children, women, traders and simple farmers, all those who had never participated in any battle against the dark lord; so cruel this bloodshed had been, so unnecessarily dreadful, like the entire prophecy spoken at the northern shores had been! Never, not once, had he raised his arms against his own kin, never had he participated in the despicable deeds of Fëanáro, yet the same doom had awaited him, had awaited many innocent who had followed Finwë’s second son across the Grinding Ice. Rather futilely he struggled against the flow of tears that did not cease to run down his cheeks, no matter how often he wiped the wet trails away with the end of his sleeve.

“Dost not be ashamed of shedding thy tears, Laurefindil” a female voice as soft as the golden rays of the sun which fell through the dense leaf canopy said, and finally stirred him from his musings. Aye, there was no denial that he had been heavily occupied with his own thoughts, but nevertheless he could have sworn that he had not passed by someone whilst he had walked past the row of trees from where the voice had come from.

Startled, he turned around to meet the piercing gaze of a female who seemed entirely unimpressed by his concern. “Who art thou, my lady?” asked the elf at last, although he could have guessed from the appearance alone whom he was talking to. The figure covering wore a fluttering scarf of an iridescent fabric over her mouth and nose; the veil only spared her shining eyes that gloomed in shades of violet with silvery threads in between. Her thick, pitch-black hair was braided intricately and adorned with sparkling jewels and beads of different colors, shining through the thin headscarf she wore to cover her head and parts of the high-necked dress of dark grey with highlights of silver and amethyst she wore. Although Laurefindil was certain he had never heard the voice before, she seemed strangely familiar to him. “Methinks that I have lain my eyes upon thee before, or am I mistaken?”

A gentle smile tucked at the corner of her lips which were barely visible beneath the opalescent fabric. “One of the Fëanturi I am, Nienna, the sister of Irmo and Námo,” she began to explain with a voice that was so soft and sweet like the blossoming roses next to where he stood, “and nay thou art not mistaken by saying thou hast seen me before in the twilight halls of my brother; often do I venture there and tend to the mourning souls who are contemplating about their deeds in life and sorrows in death, for their grief is my own, their sorrow is mine to share.”

Despite his conversation with the Elder King, Laurefindil did not have any knowledge about just how many years he had spent in the Halls of Mandos, those gloomy halls of twilight, which did not know day or night, a never-ending gloominess clinging to every wall and every room, veiling the entire place into a darkness of surreal twilight. A dreadful place he had to admit, and although he could not be bothered for many years, now he was relieved that he could dwell in Lórien’s sanctuary instead. Impossibly it was for him to understand how somebody could go there willingly, but then, the Ainur’s thoughts and motives always had seemed incomprehensibly.

“Thou hast not spoken a mere word,” he commented at last, because certainly he had seen her wandering the gloomy corridors when he had occasionally dared to step outside his own chambers. Flames were burning far away, resembling the flickering light of torches of which he was so familiar with, but when he had walked down towards the source of light, it appeared as if he would never come any closer, and after several tries to chase the light he had given up. Her head she shook before she spoke again: “Hast thou, I ask thee? Weariness and heavy woe hath occupied thy heart.”

Involuntarily and rather visibly, the elf flinched upon her words which bore slight notes of accusation, and his reaction was apparently answer enough for her as she spoke again: “Alas, thou hast not, dost not forget this and blame thyself for lacking interaction from our side; thou hast shown us rather obviously that thou refusest any counsel, and therefore I did not approach thee, letting you linger in your woe and weariness, accepting thy chosen solitude. What choice did I have, I ask thee, and not certain am I if I could have been of any help. Thy cause is specific, and mayhaps even beyond my ability to cure and heal your sorrows; nevertheless I have always known thy history, felt thy grief and internal despair. The tears thou shed, Laurefindil, are mine to share, the grief that occupies thy heart is mine to feel – then as it is now, although thy tears are not entirely based on your history.”

Sheer astonishment was visibly spread across the elf’s face, and his eyes widened in surprise as he asked in disbelief: “How would’st thou know?”

“As I have told thee: I sense thy emotions – and trust my knowledge: countless years I dwell on this soil, countless souls I have tended to in many a century; every single nuance of grief and sorrow, of loneliness - and love-based sadness can I distinguish from another. Thou art not the first suffering from those emotions I have never been able to completely understand.”

Had his expression shown a surprising note before, it was now changed towards worry, fear even; nobody must ever know what he had felt and still feels towards the mighty Lord of the Valar, what had happened between them so many centuries ago.

“Worry not, Laurefindel,” she softly said in reassurance as if she could read his mind, “I shall never speak to no one of thy sorrows and pain if this soothes thy troubled mind, nor do I know for whom thy heart weeps, whom thou hast or still desire, and never will unless thou tell me so.” Nienna’s words had his smile made return, although only slightly, as the sadness seemed to be etched right into his mind.

“Another who is far beyond my reach,” Laurefindil said silently and actually more to himself than for her to understand his words, but she had heard them nonetheless, and actually he could not find the heart to care as another wave of indescribable longing swapped over him. O, he wished to let down his guard, at least once, and share his secret with someone who might understand him, who could offer him counsel and much needed compassion, yet never would he dare to say what troubled both his mind and heart.

“Dost not share thy secrets with me,” she said, placing her finger over his lips as if she had read his thoughts. “Nothing good shall ever come from it. Instead, ask thyself about the importance of thy feels towards her or him - that is all counsel I can give thee.”

And then she was gone, dissolving in the air without remnants as if she had never stood beside him, but despite her absence her finger still seemed to linger against his lips.

‘What madness is this?’ Did she harbor any suspicions of whom he had been thinking about, with whom he had met and talked a few days ago? Laurefindil asked himself, did they all suspect anything, and as much as he wished to believe her words, he felt unable to; maddening his thoughts were, and again he was alone, hoping for the one who seemed to have forgotten about him yet again. O, so desperately he wished to share the thoughts and emotions that coiled with him, yet never had his spirit been summoned by the Lord of the Winds. Not today, and not tomorrow, and despair began to gnaw at him again until the sun had reached its peak on the third day.

 

 

Yet another treachery of his vision this most likely was, but the sun of the early morning seemed to be brighter than it had been ever before, Laurefindil noticed; Irmo’s sacred sanctuary stretched out before him, glowing vividly in the brightest of colors like a most exquisite painting, which had come to life over the long hours of nightly darkness. With a certain reluctance he had to admit that in the moons, which had gone by since he had been granted to stay in the Gardens of Lórien instead of the Halls of Awaiting, he had found he had grown more and more fond of the peaceful and tranquil environment of his new surroundings.

Without a distinct direction he had wandered again throughout the gardens before an all too familiar voice from behind had startled him, a voice which had made him spin around with his heart leaping in joyful excitement, a voice that so easily was his undoing; so many days he had waited and prayed for him to pay him another visit, had sought out the spot under the weeping willow where they had met the last time but nothing, much to his own dismay, had ever happened.

“Would’st thou mind if I walk with thee a little?” The Vala had asked with one of his rare but breathtaking smiles, only to diminish Laurefindil’s hopes with the words he had added immediately afterwards as he stepped into pace with the elf. True affection still accompanied them but the elf failed to notice. “Admittedly, I am not granted much spare time these days, however I much desired to see to thy recovery myself.” He had looked at him with a mixture of misery and gratitude, apparently unable to decide what to feel about the unexpected visit. In the last moment, Laurefindil had bitten back the heavy sigh of frustration which nearly fell from his lips; ungrateful he was, and in what position exactly was he to demand anything from the one who was king of all? Couldn’t he count himself lucky that Manwë had visited him at all, visited him again?

And so they had walked beneath the blossoming cherry trees holding idle conversation about things that perhaps did not matter for both of them, but neither dared to speak their true thoughts and emotions aloud.

Twice they have met since the first meeting under the weeping willow, and incredibly brief and innocent as anything could ever be those encounters had been. O, so many dreams and worries Laurefindil wished to voice aloud, yet he had never found the heart to do so, afraid to scatter the pleasant memories which were basically everything that kept him alive. Once before he had already ruined everything that was dearest to him, not a second time anything which would be remotely comparably would happen.

However, he could not help but wonder what a foolish charade this was as they walked through the Gardens of Lórien again, and despite the light breeze that rustled the leaf canopy above them, the air between them was thick and heavy, filled with something of which the elf missed the words to phrase it accurately. Well, probably and most likely he was mistaken, perhaps it was just wishful thinking from his side again, ambiguous, delightful thinking, but wasn’t it apparent? Those shy glances cast in the moment the other seemed not to watch, the fleeting touches against each other’s hands that just lasted a second too long to be entirely accidentally – everything seemed to be how it had been millennia ago at the very beginning of their foolish attraction towards each other.

Never in his life had Laurefindil shied away, be it a matter of social nature or in combat, yet so strangely shy and insecure he felt in the Vala’s presence that he had cursed himself several times.

Impossibly hard it was to ignore the increasing longing, the desire which clearly floated through his veins, with all those long forgotten dreams resurfacing, those futile desires he had thought long buried somewhere in the Blessed Realm, which were so entirely inappropriate for the situation. Desperately, he fought against the blush that began to crawl over his skin when his own fingertips brushed against the back of the Vala’s hand; both were silent for a long moment, yet Laurefindil felt that he was caught, trapped.

He felt Manwë’s intense gaze resting upon him although he had cast his own glance downwards, a fact that certainly did not help to dissolve his embarrassment and in his mind, he already searched for the most ridiculous excuses - no matter what had happened between them previously (which was not much if he was honest), admitting the improper thoughts would mean that these meetings he took so much solace and joy in would immediately stop. Aye, fleeting and brief the encounters were, but everything they shared was so much better than the heartbreaking solitude he had endured for so many years. Deliberately he refused to meet the Vala’s eyes and uncomfortably the silence stretched; and when he was still struggling with anything to say that would pacify, he was torn out of his mental state.

“Look at me,” Manwë demanded, and for the elf it was as if his voice was different than usual, fainter, more distant, almost carrying a slightly nervous note. However, authority never lacked, and with a certain reluctance, Laurefindil finally lifted his head. Disobeying the request was no option, even if he would have much desired to do exactly this in this very moment; too great the worries of what further disobedience would provoke.

Eyes as clear as the cloudless sky above them met his own, and where he had expected to see anger and disapproval he only caught glimpses of sincere regret: “As much as I would enjoy to walk amidst the blossoming cherry trees with thee for many an hour, I shall not, as obligations which I have postponed await me. Already many moments too long I have lingered here in thy company, Laure.”

Laurefindil gulped in response and desperately fought against the disappointed which seemed to coil and spread in his stomach: “I understand,” he simply said, and aye he did, however, the prospect of another parting filled him with sadness; but then, what had he expected, what right did he have for his ridiculous thoughts and wishful thinking? Wasn’t this already so much more than he had ever thought possible, was this not a wonderful confession from the Vala’s lips? Still, as much as he already had never seemed to be enough, sufficient, so much more he wished to say, to do – to feel, no matter how foolish he deemed his own thoughts, he was unable to stop them.

He could not tell for certain if it was nothing more than hopeful imagination or if he had truly felt the Vala’s fingers brush against his own for the briefest of moments, and oh so easily he got carried away once more that he hardly noticed that Manwë spoke to him again. “Worry not, Laure, once my time allows it, I will return to thee and thou shall await me.”

“I will,” said Laurefindil before he had realized that he wished to say anything at all, and for moments, he allowed himself to drown himself in the sky that seemed to float through the Vala’s mesmerizing eyes, before all coherence left him, when he felt Manwë’s fingers thread through his own. Truly it was as if he was caught in his own realm of dreams of wishful thinking, everything around him seemed to slow down when the Elder King leaned in and soft lips brushed against his own for not longer than the blink of an eye. Enough this was to make his knees grow weak, for his body to begin to tremble. Brief and almost innocent the contact was, sadly too brief to be reciprocated on his side, though it easily had been enough to leave a shiver in its wake, so much more than he had ever dared to dream of.

The rarest of smiles graced the Vala’s fair features as he let go of the elf’s hands and said his good-bye in an almost apologetic tone, his expression one of both understanding and undisguised admiration: “Fare thee well, Laure,” and before Laurefindil could speak or react in any way, he was gone, his fána dissolving into the spring breeze that caressed his skin and hair.

Laurefindil’s hands rose on their own accord with the fingertips brushing against his lips were just a moment ago the Vala’s own had lingered in too brief a touch. A dream certainly this must have been, a trick, nevertheless he whispered, amazed by the moment that just had passed, although he already knew that he had spoken in vain: “Stay, and repeat thy deeds!” he demanded, but did not receive, just as expected, any answer.

O, what madness was this, he asked himself in astonishment, what cruel mockery of his fantasies; a trick upon his expenses? Nay – immediately Laurefindil dismissed the thought.

But why leave, why now? Why leaving him with a mental disaster as if his state had not been worse and troubled enough all the days before? Nothing of Manwë’s words and deeds would he ever understand, but then, the Ainur’s minds always had been a strange mystery and nearly incomprehensibly not only to himself, but to others as well, and out of frustration he kicked a small stone out of his way.

A chaste kiss this had been, aye on his lips, enough to fuel those desires he long had buried, and although he did not understand any of Manwë’s actions, so much possibilities to linger, to dissolve in sweetest illusion for many a day. The sweetest of solace for all the empty and long hours he was certain about to come.

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