Stolen Evenings by Tyelca

Celegorm and Lúthien

The song I Want To Spend My Lifetime Loving You by Tina Arena and Marc Anthony was used as inspiration for this chapter.

Note: Tyelcormo is the Quenya and original version of Celegorm.

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.”