The Line of Kings by Michiru

Midsummer Night's Dance

Orodreth, on the evening his future wife falls in love with him.

First Age Year 240

            Celebrimbor had made the rings, and they are such a detailed reproduction of twining leaves that Orodreth is afraid that if he drops them he’ll never again find them. He has worn them on a chain about his neck since his friend had given them to him, years and years ago, when Orodreth was a child who wrinkled his nose at the thought of marriage. Then, he had thought never to need them, but he accepted the rings after much urging, so as not to hurt Celebrimbor’s feelings.

            Now, the weight of the chain about his neck is a conscious sensation, and he has taken to playing with it when nervous, fingers sliding over the metal, nails clicking gently across the polished silver. Some part of him whispers that she would love the rings, particularly the one flecked with small rubies, bringing to mind Dor-lómin’s springtime fields, when the strawberries grow wild. The greater part of him warns that she would appreciate the jewelry but not the commitment, watching her laugh appreciatively at some flattery Brannech whispered in her ear.

            Her laugh is high and ringing, like flint made audible, and even as he leads her out to dance Brannech is wincing, as though he finds the sound unpleasant. Orodreth knows, also, that Laegalad’s father will not approve of Brannech, who often speaks Quenya in the open, and that her dalliance with Brannech would end as soon as she heard him casually flouting Thingol’s Ban; her father has Telerin blood on his hands and sees the deprivation of his mother-tongue as penance for his crimes.

            Of course, his own interest is then in vain, for Father has made no secret of the contempt he holds for Thingol, and refuses to speak Sindarin, and his people, for the most part, follow his lead. But still, perhaps Lord Nelrúnen might recognize that Orodreth himself strove to speak Sindarin in his everyday life, despite his father’s attitude, and would appreciate that.

            He turns away from the ballroom, before the sight of Laegalad in Brannech’s arms sours his mood beyond repair, and retires to the courtyard, sticking his hand in the fountain and watching as Tilion’s light flows silver through his hands. A couple weaves their way out, arm in arm, and stop, giggling in embarrassment, when they realize he is there. He smiles vaguely at them in reassurance as they take their leave, mumbling slurred apologies, and contemplates dunking his head in the water, for not even the sight of the woman’s breasts—ill-contained by mussed clothing—can distract him from the memory of Laegalad clad in a modest gown of shimmering silver and dark green.

            His fingers slip over the rings, cool and warm to the touch, and he aches with the desire to present them to her, consequences be damned. Not yet, they seem to whisper, thrumming in his hand with life no mere trinkets should possess. Wait a while longer.

            “Of all the nerve!” Laegalad hisses, throwing herself down beside him by the fountain, arms crossed; Orodreth yelps, and nearly overbalances, only her reflexes saving him from an impromptu bath. Just like that, her ire seems soothed, and she bursts out laughing at his frozen expression. He takes her moment of mirth to make sure the rings are again concealed beneath his tunic.

            “Whose nerve?” he asks hesitantly, heart hammering, unsure of when she arrived, whether she’d seen what he’d been holding.

            “Oh, Brannech’s,” she says, uncaringly, still chuckling over his near fall. “The idiot thinks one dance makes it fair for him to steal a kiss.” Orodreth is careful to remain sitting at the fountain, though the thought of Brannech’s lips anywhere near Laegalad’s is enough to set his fingers twitching. Some of his anger must show through his face, for she laughs anew, patting his arm consolingly.

            “My father is sure to sort him out; there’s no need to get up in arms against him,” she teases, and Orodreth has the sudden, incongruous image of Fëanor drawing his sword on Fingolfin in Tirion, except his and Brannech’s faces are superimposed over those of the princes. The idea’s absurdity shakes him back to good-humor.

            “I almost pity him,” he says, grinning and not really pitying him at all. “Lord Nelrúnen can be...quite forceful.” They trade identical, rueful grins, knowing from experience just how forceful a few pointed words could be when delivered by Fingon’s right hand.

            “You know, you have some nerve, too,” she says, after they have fallen quiet and are looking up at the stars in silence. He glances down at her in confusion, and wonders when the difference between their heights had grown so little.

            “How so?” he asks casually, looking away before the sight of starlight in her eyes drives him to foolishness.

            “Well, I invite you here for old times’ sake, and then you force me to spend the evening in the company of the local boys, which I am already obliged to endure every other day of the year,” she chides, pretend and real irritation coloring her voice, bleeding more into actual annoyance the further into the diatribe she gets. “Prince or not, you could stand learn better manners, Orodreth.”

            “My apologies, Lady,” he murmurs around the lump in his throat; she has a curious way of pronouncing his name, Orodreth, slurring the different syllables together. He stands, bows, and offers her his arm. “Join me in a dance?”

            “I suppose I could spare a moment for an old playmate,” she agrees stiffly, formally, reaching to accept his arm. Orodreth is still swallowing the sting of playmate when their hands brush and lightning dances between them. Laegalad’s eyes start up at his, wondering, and for a long moment they stand immobile beneath the moon and stars.

            Laegalad looks away first, laughing breathlessly, and Orodreth follows suit, clearing his throat and trying to seem as awkwardly confused as she.

            Against his breast, the rings sing, Not long now.

Chapter End Notes

1. Yes, I do know it's been months. I got distracted by, of all things, the Half-Life fandom. I'm currently working on an AU series over there (not yet posted), but, in the meantime, I thought it really was high time to get this story up since its's been finished since 2011.
2. I feel compelled to defend Laegalad, who is not meant to imply that men know their feelings better than women. Orodreth is older than she is, and thus thinking about things like marriage, while Laegalad still half thinks of him as the mope-y little blond kid who would run away from her when she tried to play with him.
3. On a more scholarly note, Peoples of Middle-earth claims that Orodreth’s wife was “a Sindarin lady of the North” (350). At a stretch, Laegalad can claim to be such: she arrived in Middle-earth as an infant and grew up speaking Sindarin, at least.