Title & Chapter Number: Misfits 21/30
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 and Haldir think.
Notes: Thanks to everyone who has given commentary, feedback and support.
Melpomaen had thought that his desperate anxiety would end once he'd reached a decision, that with the topic of his departure broached he would be able to find peace. There was no peace to be found, however, no settling of his spirit in the wake of voicing his foreordained choice. He had imagined that what had happened between himself and Haldir could be compartmentalized; it would be an odd conflict existing as its own self-contained unit in the middle of his carefully plotted progress between the small farm tucked in the foothills of the Misty Mountains and the seat on the council he had not yet attained. Instead, his mind refused to draw that harsh, solid black line separating Lothlorien from his life before and after his visit there. Even in his thoughts, Haldir was stubborn, refusing to remain where Melpomaen wanted him to stay, crossing that imaginary line with sure steps and insisting upon standing straight and proud in the middle of his path.
They had not spoken since the rainy night upon which Melpomaen had firmly stated his intentions. Melpomaen had wanted to speak to him, wanted to somehow soften the blow, but, realistically, he knew there was no way to do so. Haldir had not come to him, and he had not expected it. Haldir's pride would not allow for that, and Melpomaen's fears would not permit him to go to Haldir. Even so, he felt a constant ache that was more spiritual than physical, a slippery feeling in the pit of his stomach, a whispering in his thoughts that told him he'd made a mistake. Cold logic could not banish that whispering, and, instead of finding peace, Melpomaen felt more divided than he had been before his last conversation with Haldir.
From his position in the wedge formation, he could catch only an occasional glimpse of silver blond hair, or a momentary view of broad shoulders, quiver, white fletched arrows, and bow. As on their arrival, Haldir had been appointed the task of point guard for their departure, and, as then, he looked neither right nor left, but kept his back straight and eyes forward. There was no threat so close to the city, and Melpomaen understood that, in addition to the Imladris guards fanned out about their party, there were also Galadhrim moving above them, hidden by the sheltering mellyrn. Haldir did not need to cast about him for any danger; his presence was honorary, a token of respect paid to Lord Elrond by the Lord and Lady of the Wood. Melpomaen wished, just this once, that Lord Celeborn had less of an interest in forms and propriety, and that the silent, invisible guardians in the trees might have been deemed sufficient.
The sun was setting. Soon, Melpomaen knew, Haldir would turn to signal a halt to the day's travel. Melpomaen would gratefully dismount his horse, secretly yearning for the saddle, bridle, and reins that humans used as he arranged his bedroll beside Erestor's, and then settled by the fire for the evening meal. Haldir would vanish into the trees. Haldir was, of course, perfectly welcome to the fire and the provisions shared between the Imladris elves and even some of the Galadhrim, who would emerge from their hidden positions for a hot meal and conversation before vanishing once again. Melpomaen knew that it was his presence that kept Haldir away, that by seating himself in the circle of flame-lit faces, conversation, and merry laughter, he was driving the other elf away.
Melpomaen was jolted out of his guilt-ridden thoughts as his horse abruptly halted, coming to a stop as the riders about him halted, rather than at his rider's direction. Melpomaen glanced up sharply, eyes moving swiftly from his horse's mane to Haldir's face, visible only in stuttering, fractured moments as the elves between them moved, preparing to dismount. Haldir did not seek him out as he glanced over the group; his gaze seemed to pass over and through Melpomaen as if the younger elf were not even there. Melpomaen hastily ducked his head, beginning the careful business of removing himself from his horse's back with as much grace as he could muster.
--If you had done things differently, Haldir would be helping you now-- A traitorous voice whispered in his mind, and Melpomaen shoved the thought rudely away. He did not want things to have been done differently; his home was Imladris. Haldir was too possessive, too insecure, too-
--Strong?-- The interior dissenter whispered again, and, this time, Melpomaen could not hold back the insidious stream of doubts, paradoxical phantoms of what might have been creeping forward, now that it was too late to change his mind. -You solved the puzzle; you know the truth. He is strong enough to have continued in the face of suspicion and unfounded gossip; he raised his brothers alone; he succeeded when all the odds were against him. There is so much more to him than his doubts and fears, so much more that you could have known. Still might know… --
"I want to further myself in the employ of Lord Elrond, live in Imladris," he muttered under his breath. Erestor glanced up from untying his bedroll, quizzically raising an eyebrow.
"Did you say something, Melpomaen?"
"No; I'm sorry, my lord - just thinking out loud."
"'Tis a sign of a creative mind, or so I've heard," the advisor said. The expression he wore was one of sympathy, and Melpomaen stiffened against it. How much did Erestor know, how much of what Melpomaen deemed his private business had been brought to the ears of Lord Elrond's chief advisor? It seemed that in Caras Galadhon there was no such thing as private business. "Do you need any assistance?"
"No." Melpomaen responded more shortly than was necessary as he worked the clasps holding his own travel pack and bedroll tightly bound to the horse's back. Erestor said nothing, but remained where he was, a hint of reproof evident in the set of his mouth and the slight narrowing of his eyes. "I'm sorry, my lord," Melpomaen said at last. "I am weary and sore. I think I shall take my rest as soon as camp has been set."
"Have you eaten?" Erestor asked. Most of the concern had left his voice, and Melpomaen felt contradictorily bereft at the shift. Cursing himself silently, he finally tugged his pack and bedding loose. Both landed in an untidy heap at his feet, and he forced himself to meet Erestor's cool, dark gaze. The advisor did not volunteer aide again, and Melpomaen answered his question through a tight, false smile.
"I had some lembas, not too long ago."
"That is well, then. And, since I see you have your business in order…" his eyes flicked to the bundles lying on the ground, and Melpomaen's cheeks reddened dully. "I will see to my own. Pleasant dreams, Melpomaen."
The younger elf muttered a barely polite response, but Erestor had already turned away, carrying his own neatly arranged travel necessities with him.
~*~*~*~
Haldir lay prone on a wide mallorn bough above the Imladris elves' encampment, his gaze appearing to take in the entirety of the scene below him. It was not apparent that his eyes kept returning to the brown haired elf who had taken to the warmth of his bedroll without benefit of supper; any of his fellow Galadhrim who might be watching would see only their March Warden surveying his charges. That most of them knew he had more reasons than those of duty to take such an interest in this mission was something on which he chose not to dwell.
For the past four days, he'd felt Melpomaen's gaze upon him, dark eyes like arrows piercing his back, even through the soft wall of fellow travelers and Imladris fighters. Tomorrow would be the last of it, the last day of feeling the heat of that gaze lying heavily upon him, impaling him in spirit as surely as Melpomaen had impaled his flesh. This would be the last night upon which he would be able to watch, hovering like a green-clad phantom, an unlikely angel suspended in the darkness between heaven and earth. The prospect of this strange journey's ending filled Haldir with both soul-deep gratitude and wordless pain.
He'd witnessed the exchange between Erestor and Melpomaen, though he had not yet had the opportunity to escape into the security of the mallorn's cradling boughs. It was obvious that the young elf was no traveler; the unusual clumsiness of his movements told of sore muscles, and his awkward handling of his travel gear spoke of inexperience. Haldir had assumed that the older elf would help Melpomaen, and he'd felt a stab of jealousy at the thought. He'd willed himself to push that unworthy emotion away, forcing himself to recognize that Erestor would make a much more suitable companion for Melpomaen than he himself would. Erestor was an elf of education and grace, one who understood logic and respected carefully laid plans. Erestor would understand why the promise of advancement meant so much to Melpomaen, and would understand the young elf's distaste for the unsettling openness of Caras Galadhon. They would be perfect together.
Jealousy and resignation had been followed by swift, flaring anger a moment later when Erestor walked away, leaving Melpomaen to fumble with his equipment and stiffly set out to spread his blankets where he could lie on the fringes of the fire's light. He'd almost cut short his discussion with Lord Glorfindel to go to him, but then remembered that he had no duty toward Melpomaen, nor any privileges, nor any desire to be reminded of such facts. Haldir did not want to talk with Melpomaen, and certainly did not want to have him close enough to touch, close enough to incite the speaking of the pathetic words that murmured constantly within his heart.
Melpomaen had gone to his blankets without dining with the others, but Haldir knew he was not asleep. He knew the shape Melpomaen's body made beneath warm coverlets when reverie overtook him; it was not his wont to lay stiffly, hands folded on his chest in the manner of a human corpse laid out for burial. The eyes staring upward were not glazed in slumber, but turned that direction as if to pierce the camouflaging layers of green and gold and brown, to see Haldir where he lay in similarly restless repose. If he had not been so sure of his hiding place, it might have disturbed him as the feeling of Melpomaen's eyes at his back disturbed him. But the barrier between them was not the shifting of careless bodies but the well-known solidity of darkness, leaves, and branches. He watched Melpomaen, allowing their eyes to meet in a one-sided communication of unheard need of which only he was aware.
--He did not lead you on-- he thought to himself, listening to the internal voice that had become so important to him since the last time he and Melpomaen had spoken to each other. --He never gave you reason to believe that he would stay with you, never made any promises. It is only your fault that your heart aches, only your fault that you expected too much, sought too much, more than you had any right to believe in.--
Haldir nodded, a slight movement that blended perfectly with the swaying of leaves and small branches in the softly sighing wind. Below him Melpomaen still had not moved, but his stillness could be interpreted as an agreement of sorts. Certainly, he had not approached Haldir during daylight hours, had not reached any sudden change of heart. His wakeful stillness could be viewed as a reflection of that, and what did he dream of as he lay there? Of Imladris, of a library that was warm and open and friendly; of a seat in a stone circle encircled again by trees and flowering bushes? When sleep overtook him, would he see himself in burgundy robes, or perhaps in homespun garments, standing in a row of vegetables? Haldir didn't know, but he was sure that Melpomaen did not dream of Caras Galadhon, and did not see silver hair and hazel eyes gazing down into his own.
~*~*~*~
Reverie did not claim Melpomaen until late into the night, until that pivotal hour just before the moon reached its zenith and might have revealed a shape in the trees, a watchful guarding shape that reassured even in its own insecurity.
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