I Will Hold Your Hand Forever by LadySternchen

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I Will Hold Your Hand Forever

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She stretches out her hands, and he, transfixed, takes them.

Eternity swirls.

Music, too vast and glorious for elvish ears to hear, beauty too great for their eyes to bear.

He falters, but she holds his hands steadily, and takes courage, and sees, and marvels.

When the world stops swirling, he loosens his grip.

She falters, suddenly unsteady on feet that feel new and different, and he instantly tightens his hold on her hands once again.

“I will hold your hand forever.” is the first promise they give to each other, before the promise of eternal love (why promise the obvious, anyway?), before their marriage bond.

 

 

It is hard to say who trembles more. They hold onto each other for dear life, or so it feels to them, the new crowns heavy on their heads. Then they turn to their people, King and Queen of the Eglath.

“Just don’t let go of my hand.” Elu mumbles to her under his breath, his voice hitching with panicked elation, as though he is about to break into a fit of hysterical laughter.

“Never.” she answers, in equally shaky tones.

 

 

Their fingers entwined as their bodies, Melian gazes into Elu’s starry eyes and sees his helpless desire in them- the most beautiful thing she has ever seen, yet so, so fragile.

“I have got you.” she reassures him, and he gives himself to her wholly, with trust so profound that it almost moves her to tears.

 

 

She clings to him, beside herself with pain. Why, when the Eldar labour easily, is it her lot to suffer so? But Elu holds here steady, unflinchingly allowing her to crush his fingers with every pain, only letting her hand go when he needs both of his to place them around their baby’s head.

One contraction later, Lúthien is born into his hands.

An hour later, her minuscule fist is wrapped tightly around her father’s finger, and Melian’s heart aches with love and fear of loss.

 

 

They hold hands in court, always. Their people smile about it. Melian finds she could not care less.

 

 

The glare at each other, the same hurt and bitter disappointment she feels reflected in his eyes. There is no agreeing tonight, no forgiveness.

This night, their bed feels cold. She twists and turns around under her blanket, unable to find rest, her mind still seething.

And then she feels his slender fingers, tentatively searching hers.

“I will always hold your hand.” he mutters grudgingly, not looking at her.

It is not an apology.

Nor an accusation.

But it chases the coldness away.

 

 

Grief is a physical pain, Melian finds, more terrible even than the pains of birth. There is nothing more terrible. Nothing, apart probably from watching your soulmates suffer.

There are many nights when Melian is uncertain whether both of them will see the new dawn, or whether the terror of loss will not swipe their very spirits away, him, herself, both of them.

There are days when there is laughter, and mirth, and hope. Empty hopes.

There is nothing left to hold onto, with the world crumbling beneath their feet, with his strength and even the foundations of their kingdom failing. All becomes meaningless in the bright light of impending doom that renders them both speechless.

They hold each other’s hands nonetheless, and it is the only comfort possible.

Because in the end, what else matters but love?

 

 

His fists are still clenched when she falls to her knees beside him, but there is no resistance when she slinks her fingers into his hand. For a moment, a deranged moment of denial, she is annoyed that he does not press her hand when she so desperately needs comfort. Then she realises that he cannot, and she reaches out with her other hand, pressing his fingers shut over her own, because she needs him to still hold her.

“I will hold your hand forever” she sobs, even when she knows that she cannot. Worse, that she has not, when he needed her comfort the most.

 

 

She stands by Mandos’ unyielding walls, her hands pressed against the stone. She knows there is no way in, but she cannot leave this place. Bodiless though she is now, her being remembers the warmth of touch on her palms.

On the other side of the wall, Elu stands in equal longing, his insubstantial hands pressed against the tapestries, crying ghostly tears.

 

 

There are days where she wishes they had never left Nan Elmoth, had never been crowned king and queen. There are days, also, where she is uncertain whether his returning from the Halls was not a mistake, too great a burden, whether she should have let their bond go so that Elu could at last find rest there.

But even had she wanted to, she could not have. They are a pair by Eru’s design. And oh, she loves him, loves him still, loves him more each day.

He shivers even under warm blankets in the bright sun, his newly remade body bearing the marks of his guilt and grief.

“There is no healing a truly broken heart.” Námo has said gravely. “Neither this way or another”

But he is with her. And that is all that matters now.

Tenderly, she strokes his forearm, willing him to know how grateful she is that he would bear all the pain in a body, only so that he could return to her.

His fingers close over hers.

She looks up, only to find him watching her, the love in his gaze as present as the sorrow.

“I will hold your hand forever.” he whispers tonelessly.

And so he does.