Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

CHAPTER FIVE.

I stare at the wooden sword as it arcs through the air and lands in the dust at my feet. Then I look up at the elf who tossed it at me. Tall and muscular, with dark blonde hair pulled away from his face, and green eyes that stare back at me with thinly veiled contempt. 

“Next time, you will catch it.” He says, his voice a deep and authoritative monotone. His name is Curunír, and he doesn’t look happy to be partnered with me. I try not to make a face as I bend down to pick up the wooden hilt. The makeshift blade, crudely made, is light, and when I stretch my arm out to make a playful jab, it adds twenty inches to the length of my reach. 

Curunír smacks the wooden weapon from my hand with his own mock sword. The movement is so fast that I didn’t notice him moving until my sword is in the dirt once more. 

“Hey!” I pick it up again and face him. He begins to circle me, his sword arm stretched downwards, the other folded behind his rigid back. 

“Tighten your grip. Next time, your fingers come off with it.” Curunír responds. 

That seems a little harsh. I turn in a circle, following his movements. My hand grips the handle of the mock sword. “So, what? Do I stab you?” 

“You can try.” Is that a hint of a smile I detect on his lips? 

Challenge accepted. 

I surge forward, thrusting my weapon towards his belly, and he sidesteps. I run right past where he stood, my balance going off-kilter. It’s all I can do not to keep from landing on my face. 

“You are not strong enough to overpower me. Don’t even try.” Curunír says, and I spin to face him, lifting my sword in protection, but he doesn’t attack. “Use your feet, not your arms. Always be aware of the distance between you and your opponent.”

“How much distance?” I’m already winded. 

He chuckles. “If I was you, I would put myself as far as possible from the end of a sword.” As if to emphasize his point, he smacks the flat side of his wooden sword against mine. The impact sends shock down my wrist. I yelp, trying not to drop my weapon. 

“And if that is unavoidable, be quick. It’s harder to hit a moving target.” This time, he hits my ankle. Right on that funny little knob - the one that hurts the most. Tears spring to my eyes and I hop on one foot. “OW! Motherfucker! You fucking… fuckstick!” Every word was in English, but there’s a glint of understanding in his eyes. English or Sindarin, a swear is a swear. 

“Both feet, Leoma. Keep them moving. You are not a tree. Don’t plant roots.” 

I try to follow his movements, dancing from one foot to another. Curunír stays relaxed, his sword arm down. But when I try to hit him, he jabs me in the shoulder, pushing me back. 

“By the gods, Leoma. You block with your sword, not your body. Are you trying to die?” 

If it were a real blade, I would be skewered. I lift my arm limply and bang my wooden sword against his, trying to - unsuccessfully - remove it from my shoulder. “There’s a reason you’re teaching me.” I respond. “So maybe you should do that a little… I don’t know… better?” 

“Yes, and maybe you should try to learn.” Curunír sheathes the practice sword, its blunt edge scraping against the worn leather casing. He holds out his hand expectantly for mine; I pluck the scabbard from the dust and shove the sword into it with some difficulty. “Am I free to go?” I ask sullenly as I wipe my dry palms on my pants, trying to get rid of the gritty feeling that clings to my skin. 

He turns away, giving me a grunt of acknowledgement. I don’t understand Sindarin well, and mediocre groaning noises even less; so I take it as a yes, cut my losses, and leave the training arena. 

After training, I usually wind up in the stables. Not that I mind much. Out of all the places in the citadel, the stables are, as I'm sure I've mentioned, my happy place. It's not like the horses cared what I look like or if I'm an elf or not. They only care whether I'd brought apples with me. 

This time, my hands are empty. Ettrian's are not. 

He stands leaning against a tack wall, munching happily on a bun of some sort, and my stomach grumbles as the smell of fresh-baked bread tickles my nose. I try not to show my jealousy and shoulder past him. "What are you doing here?" I grumble, keeping my voice as deep as I can to hide the tremor of hunger. Those pointy ears hear better than most, though, and I guess he heard enough, because he breaks off half of the bun and hands it to me. 

"Oh, yeah, because I totally want something you slobbered all over." That was in English, and Ettrian cups his ear as he crows, "What was that? Are you complaining, Leoma? I've never been anything but nice to you." 

A baleful look tells him that's a lie and he knows it. I'd use my mouth, but I'm too busy cramming the bread in before he decides to take it from me. You never know with him. 

When I swallow the chunk of bread, I ask again, “What are you doing here? I have to work.” I grab a pitchfork, its handle carved of wood so smooth it never seemed to splinter or depart blisters on my delicate palms, and point it in his direction until he moves out of the way. 

Ettrian spreads his hands, ever the amiable figure. “I wanted to see how you were doing.” 

I lean the pitchfork up against a pillar as I unlatch a stall, leading the horse inside out by her rope halter, murmuring platitudes in her ear as she seems reluctant to leave her stall. Within moments she’s tied outside and I get to work mucking out her box, throwing Ettrian a sullen reply over my shoulder. “How does it look like I’m doing?” 

Training had definitely begun to have an outward effect on me. Besides the muscle gain in my biceps - both archery and stabling had contributed to that - exhaustion hung heavy on my features, my eyes baggy and shadowed, a permanent downward curve on my mouth. I hadn’t been this tired in ages. I don’t think they knew, either; they never seem to get tired. 

But when I glance over at Ettrian again, he doesn’t have a mocking smile on his face. Instead, I see something like sympathy. Wordlessly, he grabs a pitchfork to help me; I don’t try to stop him, pushing my pride away in favor of help. 

For a few minutes we work side by side, scooping the muck into a wagon, replacing her manger with fresh hay, trough with clear water pumped from the river that ran through - underneath? - the city. Once I lead the mare back into her stall and move to the next, Ettrian speaks again.

“I’d like you to come with me tonight.” 

“Where?” I say warily. The work moves much faster when I have someone working beside me; Ettrian isn’t lazy, either. He seems to pull his weight. He didn’t make it a contest, either. For a man who knows how many centuries old, he seems to have grown up a little in the past few weeks. Even so, I’m not too excited to run off with him. 

“A bânruist,” he says, and I falter for only a few seconds before returning to my work. That’s an unfamiliar word. Of course I want to know what it means, unless it’s bad, in which case ignorance is most certainly bliss. 

But Ettrian is perceptive. He stops raking, leaning on his hayfork, and lets out a huff. “How do I explain this?” he mutters under his breath. “I’m not a teacher.” 

“Don’t bother, then.” Wooden wheels creak and scrape against stone as I drag the muck wagon out of the stall, before filling my arms with hay and dropping it in the stall. 

“No, no, I must. You must - come with me, I mean.” Ettrian moves out of my way, bless his heart, and grabs a bucket of water. “A bânruist is a gathering of friends. We build a great fire, where we sit and sing songs, eat and drink. Merry-making, really. Quite exclusive.” 

I only knew that word - exclusive - because I’d heard it before, been teased with it before. Now I have the decency to flush. “Then why are you inviting me?” 

“Because you’re my friend, Leoma.” 

I turn away so that he can’t see the tears welling up in my eyes. I don’t even know why he was drawing this kind of reaction from me. He’d never made me feel like a friend. He’d always been hanging around me, making fun of me, making fun of my human-ness. For all of that, he has the good graces to look guilty, waiting there for me to answer. 

“Fine.” I say, focusing on the horse I’m working with rather than looking at him. Out of everyone, I don’t want him to see my red, wet eyes. “Where is it?” 

He waves his hand dismissively. “Oh, you would never find it without me. I’ll be waiting when you’re done here. Sunset. Meet me?” 

I only nod - reluctantly, feeling as if he’s dragged me into some sort of cannibalistic ritual - and wait until I know he’s left the stable before I bury my face in Calroc’s bushy mane and take several deep breaths. Whatever happened, I would be fine. I wouldn’t let him - them - get to me. 

And no matter how badly I want to go back to my room, I’m at the door of the stables when the warm yellow light of the sun disappears behind the thick, towering trees, casting shadows across Felegoth. Ettrian is waiting for me, no longer wearing the green uniform of the guards but a light-colored tunic and dark green surcoat over breeches that bespoke warmth and comfort to his irritatingly shapely legs. I begin to feel self-conscious about my own uniform - and the reek that accompanies it. 

“There you are.” he says, sticking his elbow out. Trying to be gentlemanly, I guess. I ignored his proffered arm and fall into step behind him. “Is it far? This bânruist or whatever?” I try not to sound too interested. He’d mentioned food, and I’m always hungry. 

“A short walk,” he promises, looking rather embarrassed as his arm straightens and returns to his side. “Just outside the city.” 

We’re walking through the open-air corridors now, and as we approach the outer gate, my heart rose into my throat. “Out there?” I remember, all too well, my first night out there in the woods. I’m not too eager to return. I’d heard - more than once - that there’s more than just wolves in those woods. I’m not sure what, but I don’t want to be stuck there, especially with this guy as backup. 

“Are you scared?” He taunts, and then, seeing my face, drops his smile. “It’s not far, Leoma. Look, you can see the fire.” 

He’s right - there’s a glow through the trees, and with the wind comes the scent of cooking meat. I still feel uneasy. It’s almost too much like that night. The phantom fires, the faint voices and laughter. Except this time, when I enter the circle, it doesn’t disappear. 

Firelight dances merrily on many faces - some I recognize, most unknown to me. There are logs stacked high in a bonfire half as tall as me; a pig is roasting on a spit and elves are passing around wine to drink straight out of the bottle. The warmth of the fire brings with it a comforting embrace, and I sit down on a log next to Lariel and an elleth that I don’t know. 

“Drink for the newcomers!” The elleth shouts, and Lariel nudges my shoulder. I glance over at her as she says quietly, “Welcome to our ruimen, Leoma.” 

“Ruimen?” I repeat, returning her smile tentatively. A jug of wine is thrust into my hands and I raise it to my lips. It fills my mouth with sweetness - almost like corn syrup - and then burns like hellfire down my throat. I reel back and start spluttering. The elf-maiden who’d handed me the alcohol starts pounding my back with her fist, her laugh joining the many others. 

“Ceuránsuc! Your first taste of many.” She winks at me. Red-faced and dazed, I shake my head, passing it along. “Th… thanks. I think.” I have the urge to rub my tongue to try to alleviate the burning. “Who.. who are you?” 

“Rovain, wife of the wilds and lover of wine,” she crows, looking quite amused with my reaction to the drink. “Don’t worry, you’ll get used to the taste. More?” 

“No.” I shake my head. Fervently. Then I ask Lariel, again, “What’s a ruimen?” 

Her green eyes dance, and she points at the fire. No, not at the fire itself, but at it all. The elves, the merriment, the… whatever ceuránsuc is. “This. Friends sharing food and drink. The ruimen is our safety, and we are each other’s protection.” 

Something settles in my chest. For once, not a bad feeling. I try to shake off the chill tickling at the back of my mind - I’m always anxious these days - and the next time the bottle of ceuránsuc is passed around, I take a full draught. In the absence of Friday night ragers back home, I might have become a bit of a lightweight. 

The pork is carved over the fire and, paired with the drink, tastes succulent and sweet, with hints of onion and wild herbs. I eat more than my fill of it, and when all that remains on the spit is bones, I lean back, settling all my weight on my elbows. The conversation is now dying down to a hush. Rovain had vacated her seat next to me to sit head-against-head with another elf, and Ettrian takes her spot. 

I try not to look at him, but a small smile tickles my lips. He’d pretty much ignored me the whole time - until now, when the embers are dying low and a tall blonde named Fierdan settles a harp on his knees. 

“Are they going to start singing?” I ask in a hushed voice, trying not to disturb the delicate elf ears that seem to pick up a pin drop in the middle of a forest. Ettrian nods, leaning forward until his elbows rest on his knees. “Trading songs around a ruimen is a very old Elvish tradition. Listen.” 

Fierdan plucks a few mournful strings on his harp, and then the song begins. First it’s only his voice, orotund and ringing through the trees. It’s almost like I can see the notes of his words mingling with the smoke as it floats high, higher, and disappears into the night sky. 

Oh, moon of silver light, high up in the sky tonight, gazing upon us from above. How far can you see from the sky?

Other voices join, deep, high, low and gravelly, clear as a bird’s song. Ettrian doesn’t, but his eyes seem lost in the dull red of the coals. I follow his gaze, but I can’t see what he’s seeing. 

Can you see the forest of Neldoreth, where I once danced to a flute unseen? Can you see all of Doriath where Thingol once was king? 

It doesn’t feel like a song . No, it’s deeper than that. They sing with the reverence of having lost someone, or some place , and yet it’s not a hymn. It’s a history - their history. 

Can you see all of Beleriand? From green Hisslum to cold Ossiriand? From east to west, from north to south, what do your eyes encompass? 

And can you see, o trusted Moon, across the sea, into the West? The land to where my people go, the land in which the Deathless go ?

Ettrian drags his eyes to me then, as they sing of Lorien and nightingales and twilight trees. I have a pit in my stomach. Deathless. It’s still so hard for me to believe that this man in front of me, with his idiotic smiles and stupid jokes, hasn’t aged in centuries. Would never age. 

To him, I’m no more than a blip in his life. 

I shouldn’t care about that. About how long it would take him to forget me. 

Amidst the trees and Irmo’s bloom across Lorellin ever-sweet, her singing sounds forever there. But not to me, o Moon so fair.

One by one, the voices fade off as the elves drop their singing, and Fierdan’s fingers pluck another, more upbeat tune. 

Ettrian chuckles and lifts his thumb to the corner of my eye, rubbing away a stubborn tear. I’d tried - and obviously failed - to keep them from escaping. “It is not so mournful as that, is it? It’s a love story.” 

“About who?” I keep my voice even - try to - as I swat away his hand and rub my eyes myself. Ettrian laughs at me. Again. “It is the song of Thingol and Melian. Melian was a Maia - “ “A what now?” (He ignores me.) “ - whose singing was renowned in Valinor.” “Where?” He pushes me a little at that, and I can’t help but laugh.

“Quiet. Let me finish.” Ettrian’s eyes dance with amusement. “Her singing was renowned in Valinor, and she filled the silence of Middle-earth as she taught the birds to sing.” 

“Sounds like a great lady.” 

“A great king, Elwë, entered the enchanted forest where she dwelt, and, enchanted by her voice, he became forgetful of his purpose. When he came upon her, he took her hand, and a spell was set upon them so that he forgot his people, and he abided by her for many years. When he finally returned to his people, he found that many had sought Valinor in his absence, but those who stayed built the kingdom of Doriath and became the Sindar of Middle-Earth. And Melian became his queen.” 

Sindar. Sindarin. I stare at my hands, then at him. “Was he your king?” 

Ettiran’s somewhat wistful look drops from his face and he lets out a loud, barking laugh. “Gods! No. Do you think me that old?” 

“I don’t know,” I mutter in response, kind of embarrassed now. A light punch on my shoulder shows me he means no harm. Well, maybe no insult. Now I’m sore, and I stick my tongue out in distaste as I rub my shoulder. “So what’s a Maia?” 

He pauses, as if finding the words. “Someone who came before the elves. Ancient and powerful. Helped shape our world.” 

Like a god? I’m not sure. Does that exist here? I should take it with a grain of salt, but then again, I was in the presence of immortals. 

Then he claps his hands, a sharp noise that causes me to jump in surprise, and stands, offering me his hand. “The hour grows late, and you have training tomorrow. I’ll walk you back.” 

“I don’t need help,” I grumble, but take his hand anyway, and our shoulders brush as we leave the circle. “Ah, but I can’t have our little human getting lost in the woods and getting eaten by ungol , can I?” 

“What?” He’s too busy laughing as the color drains from my face and, impatient for an answer, I push him. “Ungol? What the fuck is that?” In the absence of Sindarin swears, one must use English. I’m pretty sure Ettrian’s clued in on its meaning by now. 

“Nothing, it’s nothing. You’ll likely never see one.” He wipes tears from his cheeks and deposits me at the wooden door of my room. I’d barely even noticed we’d walked that far until now. My cheeks are still dusty pink from the bonfire and Ettrian’s relentless (read: very stupid) teasing. 

“Well, here I am.” I fiddle with the knob of my door, palms just a bit too sweaty to get a good grip. A slight whisper of cloth, and his hand rests on top of mine, opening it. “There you are,” he confirms. “Good night, Leoma.” 

I hate him. I hate him, more than anything. He acts like a total dick, every time I see him. And he made me blush . Fuck that guy. 

He’d already turned to leave, so, gods be good, he doesn’t actually see the rush of blood to my face. I wait until he’s turned the corner and is out of sight before I slam the door of my room behind me and rest against it with the sagging shoulders of someone who’s lived a hundred years. 

The moon is especially bright tonight, casting its beams on the wooden floor and edge of my bed. Robotically, systematically, I go through the motions: undressing to the light undershirt and knee-length pants that passed for undies, running a cloth over my face from the basin in the corner, brushing my teeth with rough linen bound to a wooden handle, then collapsing on my bed.

I fall asleep dreaming of enchanted forests and an Elf entranced by a song.

Ai Ithil! Or chîth hwiniol
vi Menel i thamas haered
bo vâd uial athradol
man hae pelil ennas cened?

Pelil cened an Neldoreth?
Lilthassen nef i hîr glavrol ...
Pelil cened na Doriath,
i arnad i Elu Thingol?

Pelil cened Beleriand?
O Hithlum ring na Forodwaith?
Na nan galen, Ossiriand:
pan i ennor in Elenwaith?

A cenil aen, Ithil sadar,
athan aear, ned Annûn fain?
I vardor idh rodyn aglar
a dhôr edhil telyg ammain?

Ennas dhôr hen, mellon anann,
vi Lórien, gelaidh olthar
vi 'wath ferin ah mallorn brann
lastol i merilin linnar?

Ae linnar aen, si hain linnar
na Melian, i rîn aglar?
Udul he ad na Valimar
ab Thingol gwannas i amar.

Min gelaidh ah lyth olthiel
merilin linnathar ammain,
or nen Lorellin miriel:
úlastathon, a Ithil vain.