Title & Chapter Number: Misfits 18/30
Author(s): - Author's Index
Fandom: Middle Earth
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: I do not own these settings or characters, and am making no profit from the writing and sharing of this story.
Warnings: Haldir's in it. Need I say more? /snicker
Betas: Circe
Cast: Haldir/Melpomaen
Timeline: TA AU
Spoilers: None
Summary: Melpomaen thinks; Melpomaen and Orophin talk.
Notes: Thanks to everyone who has given commentary, feedback and support.
Caras Galadhon was not, as Melpomaen had discovered, a city well suited for solitary contemplation unless one chose to remain behind one's bedchamber door. He had been enamored of the city when he had first seen it; its ethereal light and beauty, its gracefulness, its airy openness had called to his heart in a way that no other product of elven hands had done. It had suggested to him a degree of perfection and harmony that rendered material barriers pointless. Caras Galadhon was, he'd thought, a paradise where the angelic hosts had neither the need nor the desire to hide their works or words from anyone.
Soon enough he realized his error. It was that which gave the city its air of ethereal loveliness that was paradoxically suffocating him, that sense of others always within earshot or visual range, that damnable, oppressive openness. Only behind the door of his small guestroom did he feel that he had total, unendangered privacy. In both the village of his birth and in Imladris, it was not so difficult to be completely alone, nor was it considered untoward to want to be. Here, in the city, the desire for solitude was viewed with doubt - whether out of real mistrust or simple pique at attempting to thwart the city's gossips, Melpomaen did not know.
He needed time to think, and he was sick to death of his small, spartanly appointed room. It was not in the nature of elves to want to spend the bulk of their time within four walls, unable to see the out-of-doors, but it was the only refuge that Melpomaen had. The library would not suit; Lord Erestor had begun chasing him out of it at the end of the workday in the misguided belief that Melpomaen was overworking himself. In the forest there was no way of knowing who might be watching and listening, not when the Guardians were as silent as shadows and the common citizenry only a half step behind them in soundless stealth. He had no desire to sit picturesquely by the fountains so that all and sundry could speculate on what or whom might be responsible for the expression of pensive intensity on his fair face. Lady Galadriel's garden was closed to him, and that left… his room.
Melpomaen knew that there was more than a shred of paranoia to his thinking, but he could not manage to restrain his growing discomfort. It was really no wonder that Haldir spent so much time and energy on projecting a constant image, and no wonder that the image he had chosen was so off-putting. Not that doing so helped him much, Melpomaen reflected. Haldir was a curiosity piece to the people of this city in a way that chilled Melpomaen's blood.
Melpomaen frowned, and let his head sink into his hands as he sat on the edge of his narrow bed. Haldir. Everything came back to Haldir, from his own growing sense of claustrophobia to his self-imposed exile in this closet-like chamber. Haldir was the one who could persuade him to leave it, to venture forth into the city projecting his own newly created image of uncaring obliviousness, and Haldir was the reason that he felt such a need to sequester himself to begin with.
The March Warden was not nearly so simple as Melpomaen had thought; he could not be neatly and comfortably placed under the heading "arrogant and unpleasant," or "skilled but surly," or even "prickly yet sensitive." There was more to him than these tidy categories, more than Melpomaen had guessed at, even when the stiff, barely polite older elf had allowed him to see the stack of drawings that depicted not only the world around him, but also the world that he dreamed. Haldir was a puzzle to which Melpomaen had found enough pieces to spark his unwilling interest, one that he knew he should leave alone, but that he couldn't help but want to see complete. Only one week remained in which he could solve the riddle, and it seemed to Melpomaen that though only a few pieces were left, those missing were the crucial ones.
There was not enough room to properly pace about, but Melpomaen rose and attempted it anyway. Three steps from headboard to footboard - five more if he continued to the wall before returning. He forced himself to maintain a steady, sedate rhythm rather than moving frenetically, keeping his head down and his hands at his sides while he considered the problem of Haldir. His lover was a warrior and an artist, though his skill with the bow outstripped his talents with the quill. His appearance was unusual, enough so to have drawn the unwanted attention of elves who thought themselves perfection personified. Though not an orphan, his parents had left him to raise two elflings, one an infant, and he had done so with a degree of grim determination that was both awe inspiring and frightening. He carried himself as if he were far above those whom his duties called him to interact with, and in some ways he was right to do this; Haldir had risen to the prestigious rank of March Warden entirely on his own skills and merits.
It was that last which Melpomaen kept finding himself returning to; if all thoughts led to Haldir, then all thoughts of Haldir seemed to lead inexorably to his position within Lothlorien. Haldir, Melpomaen thought, should not be a March Warden, should never have attained leadership within the ranks. It simply should not have happened; not under the unfriendly scrutiny of so many others, not when he'd been subjected to the loss of his family, not when he'd found himself abruptly in the position of parent rather than elder brother. His attitude and behavior should have gone against him, and Melpomaen knew enough of the ways of the world to know that skill and ability were not all that people were judged by. Haldir's entire past should have worked against him, leaving him an eternal soldier following orders, but never giving them. And that was at best; at worst, Haldir might have ended up a silent, bitter craftsmen or farmer, dourly biding his time until Orophin reached his majority, so that he might set sail to Valinor as his parents had.
That none of those fates had befallen him spoke of a greater strength within him than the physical strength needed to draw a bow or wield a sword. Haldir was not only a member of the Galadhrim, but Captain and March Warden, and that told Melpomaen that he could make friends where necessary, say the right things at the right time, and balance skill and ability with the more slippery grease upon which the wheels of bureaucracy turned. That the elves under him were willing to follow his leadership in spite of slandering tongues, even in spite of their own jokes and sallies, spoke of trust and belief in what he could do, if not of personal friendship or liking. People respected Haldir, even if they did not like him, and that said quite a bit in and of its self. When Haldir put his mind to something, he accomplished it; when something caught his interest, he pursued it.
--I've caught his interest.-- Melpomaen thought, and stopped in his tracks. --Why? Because I am the only one who has shown any interest in him, or is there something more? Could there be something more?--
It was an uncomfortable train of thought. Melpomaen did not want something more, not in this city, weighed down with a history of hurts both small and large; not in the life of someone who attracted him, but whose past had set snares in his future. Haldir was nothing so poetic as an oyster creating pearls from pain. He was scar tissue layered on scar tissue, straight and proud, arrogantly challenging, almost asking for more so that he could once again prove that he could withstand it. Melpomaen had heard that in some human lands there were fighters known as gladiators, men and women who fought to the death for the entertainment of others. Sometimes he received the impression that this was how Haldir perceived himself, as a sort of gladiator of the mundane whose fight never ended. Melpomaen did not want to feel a matching pride in Haldir for this, but what he wanted and what he felt had become two entirely different things where Haldir was concerned.
It suddenly seemed of the utmost importance to finish the puzzle, to see all the pieces connected, the picture made plain. All that was left were the reasons behind the actions, the knowledge of what drove Haldir, what made him a leader rather than an outcast. Haldir would not want to give him those answers, but Melpomaen was confident that he could badger them out of him. Most people would not be able to do that, but Haldir had given him leverage; he had allowed Melpomaen inside sufficiently enough that he could perceive and take advantage of the weak points in the March Warden's personal armor. He would know the reasons why, and then… well, then he'd have something else to think about.
~*~*~*~
He stood on the talan's doorstep, grateful that the day was not so hideously hot as the previous days had been, and feeling mild annoyance at the length of time it was taking Haldir to answer the door. It usually opened almost before he'd finished knocking. Maybe Haldir was combing his hair, or rushing to tidy the small family room. Melpomaen smiled complacently; there were some things about this relationship that he'd have no difficulties growing used to. A moment later, his smug expression shifted into surprised confusion when Orophin rather than Haldir opened the door.
"Good day, Melpomaen," Orophin said. Melpomaen frowned; his presence seemed to be causing a great deal more confusion on the part of Haldir's youngest brother than he could understand. "Haldir's out."
"Out?" Melpomaen questioned.
"Out," Orophin repeated. For a moment they stood in silence, Orophin shifting nervously where he stood, Melpomaen staring back at him with one eyebrow inquisitively quirked. "He went to the market," Orophin finally clarified.
"Oh, so he won't be gone long, then?"
"No, I guess not."
The tall blonde gave no sign of moving from his position in the doorway. Normally, Melpomaen would have taken the hint and left, but over the course of the past week he'd learned that bulldozing worked remarkably well on both the eldest and the youngest of the brothers. "May I come in to wait?" he asked, and Orophin jumped back from the threshold as if he'd been burnt.
"Oh, of course! Please come in."
"Thank you, Orophin." He stepped past Orophin, casting him an ingratiating smile, but that seemed to only heighten his nervousness. Remembering Haldir's fit of jealousy on the previous weekend, Melpomaen could not help but wonder what might have been said to Orophin to create such anxiety. He firmly banished the thought from his mind, squelching the ready sparks of frustrated anger within him unmercifully. That was not what he was there for. Choosing the rocking chair as the least potentially problematic seat, he made himself comfortable and set to work putting Orophin at ease. After all, Haldir's youngest brother might be able to provide more of the answers he wanted, and more easily, than Haldir himself could.
It was not as difficult as Melpomaen had thought it might be. Once the young elf had calmed himself enough to take a seat, persuading him to talk was not a problem. Persuading him to cease talking was more of an issue. Orophin sat perched on the edge of the divan rambling on about his dog, his vegetable garden, and his first experience of human cuisine on the previous weekend. Oddly enough, he made almost no mention of his experiences as a Guardian; Melpomaen had expected that to figure highly in the life of a young elf who spent more time away from his home than in it.
"Did you always want to be a guardian?" he finally asked, the words quickly inserted while Orophin paused for breath. Orophin blinked, then shrugged.
"Actually, no. I'd thought to be a gardener when I was an elfling, and to one day work in the royal gardens." He smiled and shook his head. "I changed my mind about that after Haldir gave me my first real bow. He taught me to use it. After the first training session, he said I was a natural with it, and after that I knew I wanted to be an archer."
"Hmm," Melpomaen said. He still had a hard time imagining Orophin as a Guardian of the Golden Wood; even after seeing him in his uniform the idea still wouldn't take hold. "So, you're good with it, then."
"Aye." His cheeks colored and his gaze dropped in a self-deprecatory manner. "Rumil says I'm actually the best, but he's wrong - Haldir is. He's won the archery competition at the autumn festival for the last twenty years."
"Really," Melpomaen commented, "and how high do you usually place in it?"
"Me?" Orophin laughed. "Oh, I don't compete. Not much point, in my opinion."
It was Melpomaen's turn to blink, but, after a brief interior struggle with curiosity, he pressed on toward his original goal. "And what about Haldir? Why did he want to be a Guardian, and to move upward in the ranks?"
"I don't know." Orophin shrugged. "I guess because he likes to be in control. He always used to say that if you want something done properly, you'd best do it yourself."
"And what do the elves under him think of him?"
Orophin squirmed uncomfortably. "You know he's not popular," he finally said, and Melpomaen nodded, waving his hand in a negating gesture.
"Yes, but they follow him anyway. What is it?"
"Haldir is Haldir." Again Orophin's gaze dropped to his hands. "It's different out there; they know his worth, they know what he can do, and they don't question it. Everything is very basic."
"What do you mean, basic?" Melpomaen leaned slightly forward, intensely interested in Orophin's response. It seemed to him that here was the crux of the matter, the final answer that he needed and wanted. Orophin licked his lips, surprised and discomfited to have Melpomaen's full attention.
"Everything depends on trust. Trust in each other; trust in one's leaders. When trust fails, people die." He spread his hands as if presenting a matter of simplicity so obvious as to have never been previously questioned. "Liking doesn't have anything to do with it. Haldir's good."
"Yes, he certainly is." Melpomaen sank back in the rocker, thoughts spinning. --Control and trust.-- He considered the two concepts, moving them about on the foreground of his thoughts until they fit within the puzzle. --Haldir is good because he doesn't trust; he wants to be in control so that he does not have to trust. Others trust him because he's good, and so they rely upon him in spite of their lack of liking. And what does a person who trusts no one and is in control secretly desire?-- Melpomaen swallowed hard, memories of Haldir lying content in his arms abruptly surfacing with crystalline clarity.
"Are you alright, Melpomaen?" Orophin asked, and Melpomaen blinked as the blond elf rose, a worried frown wrinkling his fair brow.
"I'm fine; just thinking," he said.
"Haldir's home," Orophin announced, head cocked to one side. Melpomaen stared as the young elf quickly crossed the room and stood with his hand poised on the door latch. A moment later he, too, heard footsteps on the outdoor walkway, and he also rose to his feet as Orophin opened the door.
"Melpomaen's here to visit," Orophin announced as Haldir strode in, carrying a large mesh bag. His expression was smooth and stoic, set in the public mask that he always seemed to wear outside of the talan, but that expression froze as his gaze flickered between his lover and his youngest brother. For a moment, that perfect façade slipped, revealing something more than volatile anger. Melpomaen read worry and fright there; he saw the struggle within Haldir not as effort made solely to please him, but as a real battle with the desire to trust and the long habit of not trusting anyone at all.
Melpomaen did not wait to see how the struggle would end. Instead he stepped forward, wrapping his arms about Haldir's waist, and rested his head against Haldir's broad chest. For a moment, there was no response, and then strong arms encircled him, holding him tightly in an embrace that was only somewhat encumbered by the bag still held in one large hand.
"I waited for you," Melpomaen murmured against a leather-clad shoulder, and tilted his head back to receive Haldir's kiss. Any other response seemed unimaginable, and though it danced on his lips to tell the older elf that in a week's time he'd be leaving, he could not quite find the proper words with which to frame that announcement. Instead, he allowed himself to be swept off into the kitchen, nearly carried by the force and strength of Haldir's arm as easily as the mesh bag was carried.
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