Title & Chapter Number: Misfits 24/30
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 returns to Caras Galadhon.
Notes: Thanks to everyone who has given commentary, feedback and support.
Special thanks to Circe for talking me into keeping the first five paragraphs.
Orophin's eyes narrowed as he watched the party of travelers cross the border into the Golden Wood. It was a small group, all Imladris elves, and all dark-haired with eyes of midnight or midnight blue. Several soldiers rode with them, but Orophin's gaze skipped over them quickly, dismissively. It was the elf at the center of the group that he focused upon - not the young one in the uniform of a courier, nor the elders dressed in dark robes cut for riding. None of those were of interest to Orophin. It was only the other young one who caught his attention, the brown haired, slender beauty with large dark eyes, the one who sat his horse as if it pained him to do so: Melpomaen.
Orophin had only returned to duty five days previously, and he had not expected to have to deal with anything besides the occasional groups of orcs and other dark creatures that dared the Golden Wood's defenses. He was a soldier, but not a leader, and he could count the number of times when he'd been called upon to give orders on one hand and have fingers left over. Haldir had always told him that this was not something to be ashamed of but, rather, proud. The officers among the Galadhrim knew they could count on him, knew their commands would be obeyed without question, and in a military setting that quality in a soldier was invaluable. Now he found himself staring down at Melpomaen's figure, utterly flummoxed as to what to do.
Should he send a message to Haldir? It would not be difficult to do so; runners moved between the different patrol groups frequently. If he did that, however, everyone in his own patrol group would know why, and Orophin knew how Haldir would feel about that. Would Haldir want to know? Should he know? Those were the questions that circled in Orophin's mind as he followed Melpomaen's movements, unconsciously bringing his bow to bear as if he were intent upon the movements of a foe rather than on his brother's former lover.
No, Orophin finally decided. This was something that Haldir would discover in his own time, if it were anything that required his notice. Haldir did not need anything else disturbing his peace of mind. Orophin could still remember with perfect clarity the feeling of his brother's arms clutching him and the shuddering sobs that had wracked his body. He had been afraid that Haldir would break down entirely, but by the next morning everything had been back to normal – or at least close to normal. There had been no more tears, no more of that desperate and utterly alien need for closeness. Haldir had eaten and left, saying nothing more than that Orophin could expect more time off than what had originally been allotted to him.
There was nothing good about any of it, and Orophin knew it. Haldir had not screamed and wailed, but it was not his way to do such things. Of course, it was also not his way to weep, but he'd had more than enough provocation. Watching the slim figure riding obliviously below, Orophin swore to himself that Haldir would not be further provoked. His only regret was that he could not notch an arrow and put it through Melpomaen's heart. If he had one.
~*~*~*~
The journey from Imladris had been uneventful, if not particularly pleasant. Melpomaen was no one's excuse for a horseman, and his previous experience with long rides had taught him that travel would never be something to which he'd look forward. Still, anticipation that was a blend of anxiety and excitement had kept the trip from boring him, and now that he lay on his bed in the talan Lord Erestor had made arrangements for him to have, he felt both exhilarated and overwhelmed by the possibilities before him.
He had given up on trying to explain it to himself. Returning to Caras Galadhon had felt not only like the right thing to do, but the only thing to do. He'd tried talking to Arwen about it, but the usually enthusiastic princess had been oddly evasive, her interest leaning more toward speculative consideration than whole-hearted approval. That did not matter to Melpomaen, however. Haldir had become an obsession, thoughts and memories of him twining in a disturbing, intoxicating, and partly fictionalized stew of feeling. Lord Erestor had given Melpomaen a reasonable means by which he could discover, or rediscover, the truth behind that obsession, and once the letters had been sent his fate had been decided.
Lord Erestor had spoken of compromise as an agreement in which two people accept part of what they do not want, but after some reflection Melpomaen felt that he was having to accept very little. It was the all or nothing quality of his earlier musings that had previously tripped him up, the erroneous idea that choosing to explore his feelings for Haldir meant choosing to give up Imladris. He had never stopped to think, then, that a time of employment in Caras Galadhon would increase his value in Lord Elrond's eyes, that gaining the approval of Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel could only be of benefit to him in Imladris. If matters between he and Haldir developed into something more than the strained, unsettled attraction that had been between them prior to his first leave taking… well, he'd cross that bridge when he came to it.
He had been somewhat disappointed to discover that Haldir was not in the city, but in retrospect he'd decided that was for the better. Haldir's absence gave him time to think, time to plan, time to formulate the informal proposal he wanted to make in words the March Warden would listen to and accept. Melpomaen could not see himself making any declarations of undying love, not when he could still remember the misgivings he'd had, the feelings of suffocation and paranoia that had as much to do with Haldir's behavior as with the sense of always being watched, listened to, talked about. The increasing sense of claustrophobia had not all been a product of living under the scrutiny of the tree city's residents - a large part of it had been Haldir himself.
Melpomaen had two sets of memories, two opposing visions of Haldir that were contradictory yet interconnected, one fading into the other almost seamlessly. He remembered hands that touched constantly, light pats and gentle, decorous clasps, hands that could not quite keep away from him but which seemed seeking reassurance rather than passion, reaffirming realization rather than searching for pleasure. There were embraces that were fraught with neediness, or with jealousy, or with an oblique exhibitionism that framed their relationship for the eyes of others. There was embarrassment masked as anger, fright masked as anger, shame masked as anger, and Melpomaen could not understand what there was to be embarrassed or frightened of, of what Haldir had to be ashamed. He couldn't understand any of it, and the constant slow simmer had been frustrating, maddening, and frightening in its own right. And Haldir could not seem to understand that.
There was another side to Haldir, though, and it was this side that Melpomaen had been haunted by in Imladris, which had kept him from immersing himself in his work or taking joy in the simple pleasures that had previously occupied his spare hours. Those memories were of a Haldir whose dreams lay in a stack of drawing paper on the corner of a spotless desk, one whose sources of joy, admiration, and desire were revealed in artful strokes of a quill pen. On his homecoming Melpomaen had tried to make his own quill reflect the beauty Haldir's brought to life so effortlessly, but he had been unable to do so. His hand could produce only perfectly even, legible lines of Sindarin, Westron, or Quenya; he could not give his hopes and dreams life as Haldir could.
The part of Haldir that created those line drawings of heartbreaking beauty was also the part that came to the fore when they'd lain together in Haldir's bed, and the touches that took place there had not been about neediness or jealousy. Instead, Haldir's acquiescence had been an unselfconscious giving, a sharing of self that had risen from the same well font of admiring, joyful desire from which his art sprang. That Haldir could laugh easily, could smile not only with his lips but also with bright hazel eyes, could touch Melpomaen not for reassurance or as a way of making a statement, but simply for the sake of touching alone.
Melpomaen had thought that he didn't want the complications that Haldir represented, couldn't accept the layers of scars or the façade Haldir hid them behind. In Haldir's absence, however, those things slid to the back of his mind, settled there like autumn-torpid wasps with only enough remaining energy to make their presence known, but not enough to sting. Instead of thinking of those things, he thought of silver blond hair spread over white linen, about supple, yielding strength and bowstring callused fingers walking the distance from nape to waist, spider-like. He thought of midnight revelations and puzzle pieces that fit perfectly together, forming a picture that was as simple and beautiful, in its way, as those that rested on the corner of Haldir's desk.
~*~*~*~
The elf maiden by Peony's house regarded Melpomaen in a manner that was distinctly unfriendly, her gaze dropping from his face to the small covered dish he carried in both hands. Melpomaen slowed his steps but continued his progress. He had discovered earlier than none of the brothers were currently within the city, but he'd decided after supper that he'd bring Peony a treat. In the four months during which he'd been gone she'd grown significantly, and even if Orophin had remembered to ask someone to feed her for him, Melpomaen was sure she could use all the extra food she could get.
"Peony has already had her supper," the elf maiden said coldly. "You can take that back."
"Good evening, lady." He bowed politely, making up for her rudeness with a pointed excess of courtesy. "I am deeply gratified to know that Peony's welfare has been seen to; however, I daresay she would have more use for these chicken bones than I have."
Much to the nameless maiden's chagrin, Peony seemed to be in agreement with Melpomaen. She'd roused herself from her peculiar splayed position, trotting over to dance excitedly around Melpomaen's feet. Much to his dismay, he saw that she could already nudge above his knees with her nose. Haldir had been absolutely right when he'd said she would not be a small dog.
"Well, I suppose, then," she sniffed. "Though I'm surprised that you'd be concerned for a dog."
"Why wouldn't I be?" Melpomaen asked, a hint of asperity creeping into his tone. "I'd had no idea I'd made such a poor reputation for myself in the Golden Wood. Have I done ought to offend you, lady?"
The female glared. "We know what you've done to Haldir."
Melpomaen blinked, and raised a questioning eyebrow. "What I've done to Haldir?"
"Orophin told us all about it. How you led him on, and then left him with only the barest shred of an excuse!" she exclaimed, eyes widening dangerously.
Melpomaen opened his mouth to defend himself, then closed it again. He had no intention of discussing his private affairs with a stranger, particularly not with this stranger who had already cast him in the role of villain. Instead, he asked, "Are you a friend of Haldir's?"
"Nay, I am Orophin's friend, and I have heard quite enough about you from him. Are you satisfied with yourself, that you brought the proudest March Warden of `Lorien to tears?"
Melpomaen stared, words suddenly abandoning him. It had not occurred to him that Haldir might have wept for him.
"There was no agreement between Haldir and I, no-"
"Enough!" the female said, her tone sharp and angry. "Save your poor excuses for Haldir, if he will listen to them. Take your dish and leave. You're not wanted here."
He did not demand to know by what right she ordered him from the forest floor, nor did he put up any other argument. Her glare was not diminished by the abbreviated bow he offered her, and, without another word, Melpomaen retrieved his dish and turned back toward the stairs.
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