OF SNOW AND STONE AND WOLVES

by Soledad Cartwright

Disclaimer:

The characters, the context and the main plot belong to Professor Tolkien, whom I greatly admire. I’m only trying to fill in the gaps he so graciously left for us, fanfic writers, to have some fun. Only the Lady Aquiel belongs to me.

Rating: PG – 13, for heavy angst stuff (in later chapters) and implied m/m interaction.

Author’s notes:

This is Part 6 of my Boromir-storyline ’’Fall Before Temptation’’. Just a short prelude right now.

Yes, I know I said ’’no Elvish speech in my stories’’, and I still cannot do Elvish. But the hymn here is taken from The Fellowship of the Ring, where it was sung by Galadriel herself; so I thought her grandchildren might know it as well.

Many thanks to all those wonderful people who have read and reviwed the former parts. It’s you who keep me going, guys, so please stay with me!

Ah, and by the way: this is still not a slash story!!!

PPRELUDE: THE CHOICE

From early childhood on I always woke shortly before dawn. Mayhap it came from my mother’s custom of greeting the trees at sunrise – a custom she brought with from the Golden Wood where she had been raised among the Nandor and the Silvan folk. Mayhap tis a reminder from all those happy seasons I have spent with my grandparents in their hidden realm. I know not which reason weights stronger. I only know that when ever Legolas and his people visit our valley, I feel a slight pang of homesickness after the immortal trees and golden leaves of Lothlórien while listening to the slow, magical and sorrowful songs of them who are called the Tree Children.

I stole away from my sleeping lover in hope that the nightmares would stay away from him while I watched Legolas and his escort dancing slowly and gracefully under the trees like silver shadows of young birches in their pale silk tunics, bare feet hardly even touching the frozen earth. Like white flames of Varda’s crown shining on the night sky.

We were but a few days before the autumn feast the Edain call Eruhantalë or thanksgiving (though this year it felt unusually late, even reaching into early winter) – the very feast when Wood-Elves perform an ancient and sacred invocation to ensure the peaceful sleep of trees and water and earth during winter – and our Silvan guests had been making preparations at every sunset and sunrise, ever since Legolas’ return from his father’s realm.

I watched them, as they moved around their enchanted circle, pale faces glowing in the early twilight, framed by ceremonially braided auburn hair, an otherworldly light shining in their bright eyes, brighter than the white stars of Varda, and I finally understood why my father had fallen in love with the Prince of Mirkwood: he brought back a magical fire into Father’s heart that was quenched by Mother’s departure over the Sea.

The fire of life itself, it is, that awakens the earth after a long, hard winter. The fire of Anor that calls forth the first green leaves the Prince had been named after. The fire of love that helps a broken heart to rebirth. Without this fire, my father would have faded away. Our whole valley would have faded and died after Mother had left. Without that inner light glowing softly on Legolas’ serene face while he moved slowly, as if in a trance, listening to something only his kindred could hear: the joyful song of the trees, greeting the rising sun.

After the dance, they, too, sung a lengthy hymn on their own tongue that not even our kindred understands any more. Then they simply stood, motionless, like young trees in the windstill air, watching the golden sunrise with wide-open eyes, eyes full of wonder and deep secrets and joy. Wonder and secrets and joy no-one save them can feel and understand any more – not even other Elves.

I retreated into the guest house, not wanting to disturb their silent meditation. My lover was still sleeping, the hard lines of his fair face smoothened out in his once-again-peaceful dreams. I watched him sleep and contemplated the unexpected twist of fate that had brought us together.

Never has it been my intention to fall in love with him. When I first caught sight of him, at my father’s table in the great hall, after our return from a usual orc-hunt, I found him intriguing, for my sister had told me about his anger and pride and his hidden pain. And I wanted to ease his pain, for he touched something in me that had been dormant for a very, very long time.

I had lain with male lovers before – nearly three thousand years are a long time, even for the children of Elrond who have the life span of the Eldar; and oft have I chosen to taste the short-lived but hot-burning passion of mortal Men, to the great distress of my father, who, I believe, had feared my final choice all my life.

Yet for I have never truly loved before – as most Elves only can love once, and some of them never –, in my blissful ignorance I thought myself safe. And after learning of the choice and the fate of my beloved sister, fairest maiden of the Eldar ever since Lúthien Tinúviel walked on earth, I was even more certain that I would not fall into the same trap.

For though I have not yet chosen between the Sea and Middle-earth, I always thought that my choice, should I chose to accept the Doom of Men, would be for our beloved land and our great works, not for one Man only. Little, indeed, had I known back then.

Now I understand how foolish this belief of mine had been. I only seeked to touch passion once again – for it had been far too long since I shared my bed with a lover – and to lessen his longing for love and his very obvious pain; yet when I touched his soul in that first night, his despair and guilt and unfulfilled desire, I was lost for ever. Not even after he had hurt me badly, calling me a whore in his wounded pride and his anger, could I abandon him.

My brother is worried about me, thinking he has me under some sort of spell, and to a certain extent tis even true. Yet it was not his strength or the fairness of his face that I have fallen in love with, though I do find him beautiful, in that rough and bitter way only a mortal Man can be. ’Tis the bittersweet aftertaste of loss, however, that makes him so precious for my heart – the knowledge that our short, fleeting moments of joy would inevitably pass, and he would never taste the same for me, even if he returned to me – which he shall not, and I know that and have accepted that –, for he is changing with every passing day, ageing and growing toward death, which is the fate of all Men.

I watched his dreaming face, so peaceful and fair, yet still full of sorrow, even after I have chased the horrible nightmares of fire and darkness away with my songs and my love, and I knew with a terrible certainty that I would never see him again.

Nor would he return to his shining city to defend it with his sword and blood and life as he always wanted to. For his heart had been darkened by the Shadow beyond my powers for healing – marked for death, and all my love could not lift that curse off him.

He would die, soon, and I would never touch another lover. For my as-yet-untouched heart was now bound to him for ever, and there would never be room for another, no Man nor Elf.

Nor would I bear to depart over the Sea and live on with the horrible grief of his loss that would, no doubt, follow his death. Not even in the Blessed Realm could such a grief be healed. I still am Elvish enough to be certain of that, no matter how strong the blood of mortal Men burns in my veins. Yet there is still one errand for me on Middle-earth to fulfill, one that could give me some purpose till my brother, the better part of my soul, chooses to depart.

Boromir son and Heir of Denethor would never reach his home; and his one true love, Minas Tirith, the White Queen of the South, would lack a strong arm and a devoted heart to defend her fair walls. Yet I cannot let the hopes of my beloved fall into darkness. So as long as I am needed, I would stand behind Estel’s throne, should he truly win his birthright back, serving him with my sword, my bow or my counsel, what ever he might ask me for. And still, though I do love him as a brother, and my sister would, hopefully, sit on his side, my service would not be for them, but for the city Boromir loved more than everything or everyone – more even than his own brother. When ever Minas Tirith should need me, I would rush to her aid.

And then, should I not be needed any more, I would return to Imladris, and lay down my life, and die as a mortal Man. As the one I have given my heart would die, soon. Tis the bitter gift of Elrond’s children, born of both sunlight and twilight, and I fully intend to use it. And I taste no bitterness in it at all. For it gives me great comfort to be able to share at least death with my beloved, when I could not have shared with him life.

He stirred again in his sleep – a sure sign that his inner deamons were roaring again. I grabbed my harp from the corner I had left it the previous night and let my fingers glide along the silver strings, seeking for a proper song for this very special morrow – the one I have found my destiny, after so many years of doubt.

Finally a hymn came to my mind, sung in the ancient tongue of our kindred beyond the Sea that was little known on Middle-earth, for it spoke of the eternal longing of our Kin for Valimar – akin to the longing I felt for a life here, that I could never have.

Ai! Laurië lantar lassi súrinen,
Yéni unótimë ve rámar aldaron!
Yéni ve lintë yuldar avánier
mi oromardi lisse-miruvóreva.
Andúnë pella, Vardo tellumar
nu luini yassen tintilar i eleni
ómaryo airetári-lírinen.

Sí man i yulma nin enquantuva?

An sí Tintallë Varda Oilossëo
ve fanyar máryat Elentári ortanë
ar ilyë tier undulávë lumbulë
ar sindanóriello caita mornië
i falmalinnar imbe met, ar hísië
untúpa Calciryo míri oialë.
Sí vanwa ná, Rómello vanwa Valimar!

Namárië! Nai hiruvalyë Valimar.
Nai elyë hiruva. Namárië!

/Ah! Like gold fall the leaves in the wind, long years numberless as the wings of trees! The long years have passed like swift draughts of the sweet mead in lofty halls beyond the West, beneath the blue vaults of Varda wherein the stars tremble in the song of her voice, holy and queenly. Who now shall refill the cup for me? For now the Kindler, Varda, the Queen of the Stars, from Mount Everwhite has uplifted her hands like clouds, and all paths have drowned deep in shadow; and out of a grey country darkness lies on the foaming waves between us, and mist covers the jewels of Calcirya for ever. Now lost, lost to those from the East is Valimar. Farewell! Maybe thou shalt find Valimar. Maybe even thou shalt find it. Farewell!/
/The Lord of the Rings I., pp 490-491/

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End note: A little short, and with a different POV, I know. I felt like doing something different. The rest will be about leaving Rivendell and fighting the Caradhras, I promise.

back to fall before temptation