Title & Chapter Number: Misfits 27/30
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: Haldir and Melpomaen think.
Notes: Thanks to everyone who has given commentary, feedback and support.
He stared up at the stars as he'd done every night since Melpomaen had left, looking up through wind-shifted patterns of mellyrn leaves, boughs, and branches. He had not wanted to lie in his own bed where Melpomaen still remained as a ghostly presence. Even with the bulk of the family's old furnishings crammed into his small room, he could still see Melpomaen there when he closed his eyes: Melpomaen standing by his desk, going through his wardrobe, or lying in his bed. The dew damp grass by Peony's house was preferable, as were the green and brown mottled blankets that Melpomaen had never slept beneath.
Peony had been thrilled to see him, gangling out from behind her house to greet him with wet paws and attempted sloppy kisses. He'd fended her off with considerably more patience than was his usual wont; in an odd way, the beast reminded him of her master. Orophin could also be counted upon for enthusiastic, if less messy, welcomes and Haldir had rarely treated his youngest brother's energetic spirit with more than off-hand annoyance. That was something else that Rumil had called him to task for, but Orophin was not present to hear Haldir's apologies. Instead, there was Peony, already large though not even half grown, lying over his lap and slobbering on his bootlaces.
What had Melpomaen made of his behavior towards his brothers, Haldir wondered while idly scratching Peony's cheek. Rumil had suggested that it was all linked. His constant annoyance, his unassailable dignity, his inability to cease being the March Warden in the presence of others – all may have played a large role in the abrupt ending of their relationship, or so Rumil thought. What had Melpomaen seen? Someone prickly, whose ire is easily roused, someone who takes himself too seriously, who sees offense where none is meant. When they were alone together that was not the case… but hadn't he noticed that at times Melpomaen seemed to speak more slowly, as if he were carefully considering the words he would speak? Tailoring them, perhaps, for the ears of an elf that not only looked for derogatory intent in the words of others, but also expected to find it.
Rumil only thought he understood all there was to see, but Haldir knew there was more, much more that Rumil could not understand. He tried to cast backwards in his mind, to find a time and place when he had not been the March Warden, but it seemed to him that there had been no such time. The official granting of that title and position had only signified the outward recognition of a position of authority he had held almost since he'd been an elfling himself. It had been a vindication of all those years spent not only in weapons training, woods craft, and stealth, but also in areas of personal responsibility that had been just as crucial, though unseen by others. It was an invisible badge that declared that he was indeed good enough, strong enough, capable enough to lead - a mark he was compelled to rise to every single day. That was what Rumil did not understand, that what he had achieved was redemption, that what he saw reflected in the eyes of others was both vindication and challenge. Maintaining that grudging esteem was not a task that could be tossed lightly aside.
Was Melpomaen worth setting that aside for? He had been hurt when Melpomaen had placed a higher value on his career than on his heart, but was he not faced with the same choice? Of course, this was assuming that Melpomaen had returned to Caras Galadhon for his sake. Haldir frowned at the thought. No message had been sent informing him of Melpomaen's arrival, not from any of the Guardians or Melpomaen himself. There were many reasons why he would not have received word, but knowing that did not ease the anxiety. He had not questioned Terryn, mainly because he had not wanted to appear as a love-sick elfling pining after his lover, but now he wished he'd given over that bit of dignity in exchange for some explanation of Melpomaen's presence. Once again, though, he'd chosen to be the March Warden. Head before heart, and now all he had were his own whirling thoughts.
~*~*~*~
Melpomaen stared up at the ceiling, thoughts spinning. The March Warden of Lothlorien had returned to the city, had been in conference with Lord Celeborn, and then had gone to his home. This was the information/news that had filtered down to the library, reaching his ears while he'd been at his desk working on the restoration of an ancient manuscript. He'd found the text fascinating until that information had reached him. Later in the day he'd also heard about the mad shopping spree, of Haldir and Rumil's whirlwind visits to woodworkers, rug makers, seamstresses, and upholsterers, and also of the comedic effort made to wrestle their purchases up Caras Galadhon's interminable flights of elegant stairs. Now, at the end of his day, he had a rough idea of what Haldir's family room might look like, but he had not the foggiest idea what the author of the manuscripts he'd been working on had written.
In the months since Melpomaen's arrival, he'd adopted a new attitude toward the Lothlorien grapevine. At times it was an untrustworthy instrument, but at others it brought news more swiftly than the city's heralds, not to mention tidbits that were more entertaining and occasionally thought provoking. The trick was to separate speculation from facts, some thing at which he, a student of history, was fairly adept. It was also an instrument through which new information could be transmitted, a means by which old news could be given a new spin. Melpomaen had set to work at that soon after his arrival. Speculation had been rife concerning his reasons for seeking employment in Caras Galadhon, and, though he had not been privy to the details of that line of gossip, he had intuited much from the bright eyes and seemingly innocent questions asked by his co-workers. His responses to those questions had been calculatingly honest. Yes, he'd come to advance his political career, and, yes, he'd come because he missed Haldir. Yes, he thought Haldir attractive. Yes, he loved Haldir. Yes, yes, yes. Haldir might refuse to hear him, might turn him away without so much as a single word, but it would not be said that Melpomaen was a coward, or that he was ashamed.
Haldir's reputation had grown in his absence and that, too, was Melpomaen's doing. It was easy enough to let slip a comment here and there, creating a new angle on the image of the standoffish elf, something for the general public to consider with curiosity. Melpomaen had enough sense not to step too far out of character, not to be overly graphic in his praise, or say more than Haldir would feel comfortable with the public explicitly knowing. Still, the idea that the brawny, almost mannish March Warden was a skilled lover had caught on quickly. Close behind that tidbit of seemingly innocently given information was the news that he was an artist of rare talent, and a compassionate soul who was, beneath his cold exterior, capable of feeling for others. No dramatic shift in public opinion greeted these additions to the constant flow of gossip, but there was a change in the undercurrents, a sort of morbid speculation as to the intimate affairs of the March Warden that leant in a more kindly direction than previously. It was not wonderful, Melpomaen knew, but it was an improvement.
Lying in his nearly empty chamber he thought of these things, wondering how Haldir would feel about his subtle manipulation of the city's gossips. It had been such a simple thing to do, and had seemed like a gift that increased in value as it was passed along. He felt as though he had turned Haldir back into a person in the eyes of the public, but whether Haldir would be appreciative of his efforts he did not know. It was not always easy to tell how he would react to different matters. Haldir was too often steel, and though Melpomaen had been able to reach past that before, whether he'd still be able to do so now was open to question.
If the word he'd received was accurate, Haldir's talan was now done in shades of melon and green, light and refreshing. Such a change also made Melpomaen curious, particularly since he knew that much of the brothers' furnishings had belonged to their parents. What had possessed the March Warden to abruptly redesign their entire talan on his first day back from the borders? Had it anything to do with him? Melpomaen could not understand how it could; he had seen Haldir's home before, and had not been put off by it. Also, Haldir had no way of knowing that Melpomaen was within the city, no reason to think that Melpomaen might be viewing his handiwork. Haldir's redecoration, Melpomaen suspected, had more to do with the desire to forget than any desire for change.
By noon of the following day Haldir would know of his presence, having heard the rumors through Rumil even if he spoke to no one else. Melpomaen knew that Haldir would not come to him. His dignity would not allow that, and Melpomaen did not blame him for it. He would have to go to Haldir, and quickly, if he expected any good to come of this.
--Tomorrow-- he thought as he gazed up into darkness. --Tomorrow night.--
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