Stolen Evenings by Tyelca

The breeze was soft and countless stars twinkled overhead. He looked up at them from where they sat, high up in a beech tree. A sea of green leaves stretched out before him as he leaned back against the trunk. The wood was soft and warm under his skin and smelled sweetly; the late evening was perfect.

Tyelcormo smiled softly. Against his cheek, in his arms, laid the most beautiful woman of Arda, fast asleep. He did not dare insult her by calling her maiden, for she was so much more than that; her spirit sparked like lightning, her heart beat like thunder and her mind was sharper than the sharpest steel. He knew her features were famed throughout Beleriand, but they were but secondary to the iron will within, a will that did not bend for anyone and a will that he adored, admired and envied. Unlike the giggling, bubbling empty-headed friends that always surrounded her, her dress was similar to his; a loose tunic over dark pants, tucked into soft leather boots. Practical and unadorned, for they both did not believe in embellishments to flatter up the wearer.

Her breast rose and fell softly, a quiet and steady rhythm that to him was more lovely than any of the acclaimed compositions his brother, the metaphorical gold-forger, had ever made.

Tonight was a stolen night; before the dawn set in he would be long gone, far away from this Woodland Realm that was forbidden to him but that despite everything held his heart captive. He tightened his arms around Lúthien, vowing to find a way to get her out of this prison her father had locked her in. But not tonight, not tonight when she slept so peacefully in his arms, as if they were not bloodstained, as if he had never even touched a sword. But he had, and he did, and still she felt safe enough in his presence to fall asleep in his arms. It amazed Tyelcormo as nothing ever had before.

He pressed a soft kiss to her brow and Lúthien stirred a little, but did not wake. Her mouth had fallen open a bit, lips slightly parted and showing just a hint of straight white teeth. Tyelcormo felt a surge of emotion pass through him, not exactly love, because love was passive and weak. This was a feeling that made him want to bash in Morgoth’s head with his bare hands and present Lúthien with the keys to the Iron Fortress, it made him want to singlehandedly behead the fiery Balrogs that had taken his father and offer her their scalps. It made him want to hold her like now and never let go.

He would never be so foolish as to call her ‘his’. He had an instinctive loathing for the common endearment, the possession that it implied. He did not view Lúthien as a possession and certainly not as his; she could only ever belong to herself. He understood, for he was the same. They had never actually talked about it, but somehow he knew what she felt, thought and wanted, and he suspected it also held true vice versa.

A soft sound made him look down. Far below, on the forest floor, Huan was nestled against the thick trunk of the beech, the white glow of the bark gently illuminating the dark grey fur. Tyelcormo whistled back, a low sound. Huan and Lúthien had taken an immediate liking to each other, and there was little that could have made Tyelcormo happier.

He shifted against the tree, his feet seeking a new position against the branch they rested upon. Once he was comfortable, he pulled Lúthien a little bit closer, carefully holding her so she didn’t fall. The top of a tree was not the most convenient place to fall asleep, Tyelcormo thought, but he was not about to wake her up. Besides, she’d assured him the people of Doriath did it all the time. He wasn’t quite sure how much he believed that statement, but had been wise enough not to question her. Not that he really cared about the peculiar habits of the Moriquendi; they only just so happened to be Lúthien’s habits as well.

He kissed her temples again. Her skin was soft against his dry lips and a few thin strands of her ravenblack hair made their way into his mouth. He lovingly pulled his fingers through the strands to get them out again. Her hair was soft and light as a feather and he took full advantage of any and every excuse that allowed him to touch it. Lúthien always laughed at his little obsession but never made him stop.
Tyelcormo stroked Lúthien’s hair as he gazed over the vast expanse that was the sky. He thought about Valinor, and all the comforts he’d had there at his fingertips as one of its Princes. He remembered the velvet divans and the feather-stuffed pillows. He reflected that he’d rather be here in Beleriand, with Lúthien in his arms, than have another thousand feather pillows. If only, he continued to muse, he had a Silmaril to put on Lúthien’s finger, for no other jewel would suffice, would be worthy of her.

His eyes traveled back to Lúthien’s face. No, he amended his thoughts, he would rather have Lúthien than a Silmaril. She shone brighter than those three cursed stones combined, and still she was more precious to him than they were.
The sudden flutter of eyelids sent a shiver through Tyelcormo’s spine. Lúthien’s eyes, open in sleep, blinked a few times as awareness returned to them, all without the telltale change in breathing pattern that Tyelcormo usually recognized.
“What were you thinking about?” Lúthien asked as she looked up at him. Tyelcormo smiled. “Just you,” he said as he kissed her lips again. “Just you.”

Her hair is coarse and her mouth even more so; she curses and cusses and spits and has no respect for anyone who doesn’t first earn it. She is rude in a very diplomatic way, or perhaps it’s more accurate to say that she’s diplomatic in a very rude manner, but once one has proven himself she’s loyal to a fault. Her skin is rough and tanned by her daily toils under the glaring sun, a special shade of golden brown that is solely her. Her eyes blaze when she perceives something as unjust.

She is not, in any way, the type of woman he’d expected to fall for, yet he did and here they are.

She sits four feet away from him, a small campfire in between them. They are a little distance away from her people’s village, and a greater distance from his fortress near Lake Helevorn. He did not bring a hunting party, this time; just his horse is around, calmly grazing in the quickly darkening meadow. He does not know what she told her people, whether they are aware of his presence here or not. He finds that he does not particularly care.

He gazes into her eyes, searching for her thoughts. She is silent, which is unusual for her, and he observes her keenly. Her mind is more free than any he’d encountered before and he wants to know where her thoughts wander off to. But he won’t ask if she won’t tell. That is where his respect for her comes into play. The fire does marvelous things to her face, alternatively illuminating and hiding it. He cannot look away.

This is not the first time they’ve met semi-secretly, nor does he think it will be the last. He knows there are whispers about the two of them, but he pays them no attention. They are true, after all.

“What are you thinking about?” she asks him suddenly, and it takes him a moment to realize she’s spoken to him. “You,” he answers, then adds, “us. Here, now.” A smile graces her lips shortly before disappearing. She has told him she thinks his blunt way with words is endearing. While he did not agree, he hasn’t bothered to correct her. Again he is entranced by the fire playing over her lips as she speaks. “What about us?”

He shrugs. He is not sure, and he tells her so. Just them. She smiles then, and this time she does not push the expression away. Instead, it blooms on her face, adding warmth and changing her rough features into something that he could describe as beautiful. He is not a poet, and he knows it; yet, for her he is willing to try. Really, it is his brother who is most suitable to find countless synonyms of ‘beauty’ and put them down on paper, but he is not here and it is doubtful he would recognize the peculiar kind of beauty she possesses.

They are silent for a while. The night is chilly at his back and the fire uncomfortably hot at his front; he feels the blood rising to his face. He knows his cheeks are red and he detests it. He is not blushing, but she might think he is. They don’t know each other that long, after all. Perhaps he is nervous; perhaps the blush is not entirely due to the heat of the fire, but if it is he will never admit it. He doesn’t know how to break the silence that now reigns between them, but it doesn’t feel uncomfortable or awkward. After all, he reasons to himself, she does not say anything either.

The stars are out on this night and the moon is waxing. As he looks at them he is overcome by the realization that he is older than the moon. He, an Elf of disputable honor is older than that ethereal light. The notion is strange yet not unpleasant. It makes him feel powerful.

He stands and walks around the campfire, sitting down again next to her. She looks up at him, surprise in her dark eyes, but she leans her head on his shoulder as he puts his arm around her. They sit like that for a while, silent and pleasant, and he looks up to the moon as he leans his cheek on her brown hair. It smells clean. He feels her chest heave as she draws breath, only to fall down again when she releases it.

“Haleth?” he whispers, softly, not wishing to wake her if she’d fallen asleep.

“Yes?” she whispers back just as softly.

“…Nothing,” he says as nothing comes to mind. But it doesn’t seem to matter to her; she snuggles even closer. His black hair is now intermingled with her brown mane; as he moves his head slightly he can see his dark strands moving between hers.

He smiles; softly, gently, genuinely. Despite everything, she is the woman he’s fallen for, and here they are. Not yet certain what the future will bring, but willing to wait and find out. And truly, that was all he could ask for.