Oh, bunny day! Roses and hearts and flowers!

[enismirdal]

Thanks sweetums! *hugs and kisses the most gorgeous Anu*

I read The Art of Miscommunication by Ezra's Persian Kitty today, which was very appropriate and floral - squee! Cute fluff *happy bouncing*

Nice pubmoot courtesy of beckyc - thanks, love! Got to meet lots of slightly-known LJ people in their RL forms, yay! Now must remember all usernames to friend.

Title: Underestimated
Rating: PG13
Disclaimer: Not my characters, not my world. No insult intended, no profit made.
Part 7


A curse hissed through Faelon’s teeth. He’d been walking along in a distracted but rather pleasant state of introspection, the stinging of the graze his head forgotten among the swirl of hopeful thoughts, and had somehow succeeded in losing his escort altogether. He’d have to go back until he picked up their tracks, then catch up with them again. Of course, there were a few problems with that. He couldn’t be sure he’d gone in a straight line since they’d parted ways, he couldn’t recognise individual mellyrn well enough to be sure he was truly retracing his steps, and trained marchwardens wouldn’t be easy to track, even for an experienced scout like Glorfindel or one of the twins, never mind a normally sedentary scholar like him.

He leaned wearily on his mare’s shoulder. This was typical of his luck. If something had to happen, it would happen to him. The rain was penetrating the canopy of leaves and soaking through the rips in his cloak. A sigh escaped him. His horse whickered sympathetically, and nuzzled his shoulder. He forced a smile, then dug around in the saddlebags and found a handful of oats for her. She accepted the offering graciously, but her cheerfulness seemed as superficial as his smile. She was resting her foreleg to keep the weight off it and, when he ran a hand over it, he could feel heat and swelling. There was a lot of bruising and probably some infection.

He felt guilty; she was doing her best, in spite of her injury, while he, uninjured aside from the superficial wound on his forehead, was worrying about getting lost within the best-guarded borders in Middle Earth. “We’d better find somewhere to sleep,” he said to her. She raised her head, apparently listening and scenting the air, before she turned to the east and set off at a stiff walk. “This way?” he asked thoughtfully. Elven horses had an excellent sense of direction, so she could well lead him straight to Cerin Amroth. He walked beside her, one hand resting on her withers; he may have lost the others, but he wouldn’t lose her. “To think I once called Rúmil ignorant and crass - he wouldn’t have ended up in situation like this, would he?”

***

“Rúmil, when was the last time you wrote a poem which wasn’t about love?” Haldir asked, sounding bored, as the younger Galdhrim finished speaking. “Honestly, brother, you should get over him. He clearly isn’t interested in you, or you would have heard from him.”

The younger elf knew he looked dismayed by his brother’s words, but answered boldly, “I’m not ready to lose hope yet! I knew Faelon was more than just a crush from the outset, and I’m prepared to wait if it means that at the end I get a chance at a real relationship, not just one of those roll-from-one-side-of-the-bed-to-the-other-and-cry-out-somewhere-in-the-middle kind of flings you seem so fond of!” He collapsed on to a low stool nearby and sank his head into his hands. “I just wonder how long I have to be alone before that,” he admitted after a long pause. Haldir curled his lip, but reached over and patted his younger brother’s shoulder.

After a while, Rúmil stood again and wandered out of the room. The adjoining room was open to the night, and felt peaceful; he sat down and dangled his feet over the edge of the /talan/, swinging them back and forth as if he were an elfling once more.

He gazed sadly out upon the forest, thinking it looked so empty this evening. The stars shone down serenely from above, but below, all was still. Or so it seemed, until his keen eyes picked out signs of movement on the ground underneath the /talan/. It was one of Haldir’s border guards, running through the trees and looking extremely flustered.

“What’s going on?” he called down.

Haldir came out at the sound of his brother’s shouting. “Is everything all right?” He spotted the guard. “You know it’s my night off,” he remarked drily to the elf, who had stopped directly under the tree.

“I’m sorry, sir. We have something of a situation.”

“Really?” There was a note of sarcasm in his voice. Rúmil knew Haldir had been looking forward to the first night off in ages. The borders had been lively recently, and it was only in the last couple of months that things had started to settle down enough for the guards to breathe a little.

“A party’s arrived from Imladris. We were escorting them to Cerin Amroth, but one of them has gone missing.”

“Elbereth Gilthoniel! All right, I’m coming down,” Haldir replied. Rúmil followed, concerned. “Who’ve you lost?”

The marchwarden glanced nervously at Rúmil. “He said his name was Faelon...”

He was given no opportunity to say anything more. “Where did you last see him? How long ago?” Rúmil could almost see Eru’s hand moving fates around, like pieces on a great chessboard. This news was too well-timed to be just chance.

“About a four miles west of here, perhaps an hour ago.” The guard offered a brief description of the route the escort had been taking. “I’ve ordered the border guards to search for him, but we were in a small group, and I couldn’t spare more than a handful.”

Rúmil was back into the /talan/ so quickly his feet hardly touched the rope, snatching up his bow, the first quiver of arrows he could find and a spare cloak. “I’m going to find him,” he declared as he reached ground level once more. The determination in his voice came as a surprise even to him.

Haldir didn’t argue; he knew his brother was as good a marchwarden as any, and had enough sense not to start a vain debate over whether or not it was wise. He simply said, “Be careful,” squeezing Rúmil’s arm before the younger Galadhrim turned and set off into the wood.

***

His ears were tuned to pick up the slightest sounds of movement - a cracking twig, a rustle of leaves which didn’t match the breeze. His eyes searched the darkness for an shadows which didn’t quite fit. Every sense was directed towards a single goal: Faelon.

However, so far he’d not had any luck. In over two hours of searching in unrelenting rain, he had not yet picked up Faelon’s trail, and so had given up with that strategy and was instead making his way towards where the guard said the Imladris elf had last been seen. The rain dripped from the leaves of the /mellyrn/. His footsteps added a steady, soft counterpoint. Taking his tempo from these noises, he began to recite his latest poem once more:

*At the end of every night
Will come the golden dawn
At the end of every winter
Comes springtime bright and warm*

But all he could think of was Faelon out there, alone, lost, possibly hurt, probably tired, wet and worried. He quickened his pace, knowing he’d hit the escort’s trail in no more than a few minutes. After some minutes, he found what he’d been hoping to see - a small disturbance in the leaf litter, revealing the soil underneath. Someone had passed this way. With this positive omen spurring him on, he looked even more carefully, squinting into the darkness for any clue that he was still heading the right way. More signs appeared: a trampled sapling, a long brown hair from a horse’s mane or tail, hoof-prints in the soft ground. He found himself continuing to speak the words of the poem under his breath, his naturally musical voice giving them a tuneful resonance.

*And so at the end of my loneliness
I trust I’ll find my heart
But right now he feels so far away
Why must we be apart?*

Just as he was about to commence with the next stanza, he was interrupted by a snuffling noise, the sound of a wet, tired horse exhaling wearily. It was followed by a small voice in the damp darkness. “Hello?”

The speaker was unmistakably elven. Rúmil’s heart fluttered. He broke into a run, heading towards the source of the sound. “Faelon?” He stopped at the top of a gentle slope which led down to a wooded dell where he sometimes used to play when he was younger.

An elf was leaning against a tree below, his other hand resting on the withers of a chestnut mare. His shoulders were hunched and he looked about as miserable as it was possible for an elf to be. “Faelon?” Rúmil called out again. The elf seemed to rouse himself and stared up at the marchwarden, taking a moment to locate him among all the shadows. “Thank Elbereth *someone’s* here. I thought I’d be wandering around here all night,” he said with a weak attempt at humour.

“As if I’d let that happen,” Rúmil stated emphatically, descending into the dell.

The elf was so bedraggled, tired-looking and generally dishevelled, dark braids coming undone, wispy bits of hair sticking out everywhere, twigs and leaves in his clothes and several scratches on his face and hands, Rúmil was barely able to recognise him as an elf at all, let alone give him a name. His face was smeared with dirt, and some blood, although the wound just below his hairline did not look serious. But then Faelon’s eyes locked with his, and he knew he’d found what he’d been looking for.

He almost ran at the lost elf, encircling his poor, exhausted beloved with supportive arms, cocooning him in the soft folds of the cloak he’d been carrying. Faelon rested his head on the marchwarden’s chest, accepting the warmth and comfort offered, allowing himself to be guided to a moss-covered rock then pulled on to Rúmil’s lap as the Galadhrim seated himself on the makeshift stool. When he spoke again, it was in a husky whisper, brittle with emotion and weariness. “Rúmil?” he asked.

“It’s me,” Rúmil answered, realising Faelon had only just recognised him. “What have you been up to?”

“There was an escort with us…but I got lost…I decided to follow my horse, and find some shelter, and then I ended up here. I was losing hope; I thought maybe she was mistaken in picking this direction, but then I heard a voice. Someone was reciting poetry.” he shook his head in confusion, then a soft smile touched his lips. “It was lovely.”

Rúmil answered with a smile of his own. “It’s not far to our /talan/ - at least so long as you don’t get lost again. If you and your mare can manage that much, there are clean, dry clothes and a very soft, inviting bed waiting for you.”

“Sounds wonderful,” Faelon said.

“And I’ll see to that cut as well,” Rúmil informed the Noldo, indicating Faelon’s forehead. “Do you feel ready to go now?” Faelon nodded and rose slowly to his feet. Rúmil slid an arm around his waist in case his charge faltered, and pointed out the way to shelter.

***

It seemed to be taking forever to reach the talan. Neither the elf nor the horse made any complaint, but Rúmil could tell the mare was in pain, and Faelon had quite clearly had enough of wandering around in this stormy night.

“But tell me,” the Noldo said suddenly, breaking the silence between them, “That poem you were reciting - I’d never heard it before. Who wrote it? And who were they writing about?”

Rúmil looked as Faelon’s drawn face, shadowed eyes, straggling hair, and thought his heart would break. He seemed so dejected tonight. And in that moment, Rúmil abandoned all caution, reservation and probably all good sense and, turning Faelon in his arms, pressed his lips possessively over the other elf’s. He tasted of rain. It was not at all unpleasant. “I wrote it, /lirimaer/, you silly, dishevelled thing - and I was writing it for *you*!”

He was totally unprepared for the exultantly incredulous look in Faelon’s big, limpid eyes. “Really?” he asked. “You really meant all that?”

“Of course I did. Why else would I go traipsing through the wood on my night off looking for a mud-caked Noldo with no sense of direction.”

Faelon shook his head, then laid it on Rúmil’s shoulder. For the first time, the Galadhrim realised Faelon was slightly shorter then him. “But you sounded so sincere,” the scholar murmured. “I’d always thought you were just a silly infatuated elfling."

Rúmil smiled ruefully, and affectionately brushed Faelon’s cheek with his fingers. "Maybe I was - at first. But the more I saw of you, the more strongly I felt. If it had remained as just infatuation, then after all these months I would surely have moved on. But luckily for you, I suppose, I haven't."

He saw the light ahead - the amber-yellow lamplight coming from the comfortable /talan/ he’d left so many hours ago, and pointed it out to his companion. The sight gave Faelon new energy, and it wasn’t too long before they were looking up at the wooden flet. “Haldir?”

“Any luck?” said the voice from above.

“Let the ladder down, and you can see for yourself!”

But Faelon lay a hand on Rúmil’s arm to stay him. “You really meant it, didn’t you?” There was so much emotion in his face, Rúmil couldn’t begin to identify it all.

“Yes,” he said, realising he was repeating himself, but not really caring so long as Faelon understood the extent of his feelings. “I really meant it.”

“Elbereth!” Haldir interrupted, dropping to the forest floor. “Is that really an elf?” He held out a flask of /miruvor/, which Faelon accepted and sipped at cautiously. It seemed to bring some colour back into his cheeks, and for that Rúmil was grateful.

“I told you I’d find him,” he answered with a trace of smugness. He turned back to Faelon and regarded the bedraggled elf tenderly. “I care about you. When I heard you were lost, I couldn’t rest until I knew you were safe.”

“It’s not as if you’ve been thinking about anyone else for the last six months...”

"Haldir, can I finish please?" The elder Galadhrim pouted at the rebuke from his younger brother, but Rúmil had decided it was time to take the plunge. He held Faelon’s gaze for several long moments, trying to discern what was going on in the stormy depths of those beautiful eyes, then began, more tentatively than he’d intended. "Faelon, I know I've propositioned you once before, and that time you refused me, but..."

"But possibly for the first time in my life, I'll willingly admit I made a mistake,” the Noldo replied, sounding alive for the first time since Rúmil had found him in the dell. “Rúmil, I underestimated you most unfairly back in Imladris. I didn't give you a chance to show your good qualities to me. You had every right to hate me for my rudeness...yet you became more friendly and caring towards me with each passing day, even when you only met coldness in return. And tonight - well, if it weren’t for you, I’d still be lost, alone and ready to give up. This time, I should be the initiator.” He took a deep breath, steadying himself with a hand on the trunk of the tree. “I apologise for my attitude before, and Rúmil, if you can find it in you to give me a second chance, I'd love to have the opportunity to become better acquainted with the only elf in all of Middle Earth who can remember my begetting day."

Rúmil enveloped the Noldorin elf in an elated embrace, burying his face in the ruffled locks, allowing them to absorb his hot tears of joy. After waiting for so long, finally Faelon had come around to him! “Faelon, /melme/, *of course* I accept your offer - and there is nothing to forgive.” He ran his finger along the Imladris elf’s jawline, sliding up one ear and gently playing with the pointed tip. “I’ve been falling in love with you, even while we’ve been apart, and I’m enjoying every moment of you. Come though, /melme/, promises and offers aside, I’m neglecting your current condition entirely. Let’s bathe that injury, and get you to bed.”

“Is there room for two?” Faelon suggested, a mischievous sparkle appearing in his eye. Rúmil was pleased that he was reviving a little, and helped his beloved ascend the rope ladder. Haldir made a noise which could have been a cough or a laugh, then made some remark about needing to attend to Faelon’s horse and deliver a message, and remained below. But the muttered comment he made as the other two emerged into the /talan/ reached both sets of ears:

“Isn’t it ironic that after all these months of silence, suddenly he wants to push the relationship to new heights in a single evening...”

“All right then,” Faelon admitted reluctantly. “I suppose I don’t really have the energy for that tonight. But I almost lost you once, and I don’t ever want to push you away again. Would you mind so very much if I asked if you would lie beside me as I sleep tonight? It has been...an eventful trip, and I would like to wake up knowing I’m safe and not alone.”

Rúmil held his new lover tightly and promised that he would sleep with Faelon in his arms every night from now until the end of Arda, if that was necessary.

Faelon fell asleep almost as soon as his head touched the pillow. Rúmil watched him fondly for some minutes, loving the softness of the Noldo’s features as they relaxed in peaceful slumber, the newly-found love sparkling in the vacant brown eyes.

He wriggled out of his shirt and leggings, kicking them off the edge of the small bed, and pulled the covers over both of them. With one hand, he happily caressed Faelon’s hair, staring adoringly at the pretty little nose, long eyelashes and skin the colour of whipped cream. Even asleep, a smile curved upwards on the sculpted lips.

He pressed a kiss on to the dark-haired elf’s forehead, below the dressing he’d secured over the graze - which, he’d been relieved to see, was not serious. “Sleep well, /melethron/. I’ll be here when morning comes.”

A happy grunt came from Faelon, and he wriggled close into the Galadhrim’s arms. “Hmmm...” he purred. “Rúmil...”

When Haldir poked his head into the bedroom an hour later, he found the two lovers lying so close their noses touched, identical expressions of contentment gracing their fair features.

***

Erestor watched his Galadhrim escort pace and curse, as he had been doing almost constantly for the last hour. “I can’t believe he lost us!”

“It was dark, he was tired, and he’s not used to these woods,” the advisor replied, somewhat impatiently. “He’ll be safe within the borders; his hurt looked superficial. You’ve sent out guards to search for him and you’ve alerted Haldir. You said Rúmil was looking for him and you know he’s an excellent tracker. What else can you do?”

“There must be something. I should have realised he wasn’t with us as soon as we became separated.”

“But you didn’t. So this is the situation as it stands. You've done what you can, now for Elbereth’s sake, *please* stop that pacing and get some rest.” As if to prove the counsellor’s point, the Galadhrim yawned suddenly. “Glorfindel and the others from Imladris will be here soon. Why don’t you go and lie down and I’ll get some tea ready for them?”

The Silvan elf nodded reluctantly and pointed to a cupboard in one corner. “You’ll find what you need in there.” Rubbing his eyes, he went into the adjoining bedroom.

Erestor rifled through the contents - honestly, had anyone tidied in here properly since the dawn of the Third Age? Eventually, he found a pot and several sachets of herbs, which he identified by scent as fennel and peppermint. He started to prepare a refreshing infusion.

Glorfindel did not come. The tea brewed, then sat, then cooled. He filled the pot with fresh water, then set it to boil again, this time more slowly. Glorfindel still did not come.

Erestor watched the pot moodily and the water began to bubble (watched pots may not boil for anyone else but, under Erestor’s stony gaze, no pot would ever be audacious enough to disobey). He threw some herbs in, then suddenly looked up, sensing he was not alone. The Galadhrim had come back, dressed only in an undershirt and leggings. “I couldn’t sleep,” he apologised. “I feel so guilty - I was responsible for him.”

“Tea?” Erestor asked indifferently. He was familiar with the self-punishment the marchwarden was experiencing now - it was a natural reaction to such an unfortunate event, after all. It was also incredibly dull to have to put up with such recriminations when he’d known so many others to go through the same process before.

The Galadhrim held up a hand in refusal. “Does he have the skill to look after himself in the open overnight?”

The advisor shrugged. “He has some basic survival training and he’s not stupid - he’ll manage. Especially if he stays close to the mare. She may not be rideable after that trip, but I know that horse. She won’t let him down. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if she led him directly to help.”

Seemingly encouraged by the other elf’s words, the marchwarden nodded. He’d dropped to sit cross-legged on the wooden floor, his head resting lightly against the wall behind.

But Erestor’s concerns lay with a different elf. Despite his confident words earlier, he worried about his lover. “I hope Glorfindel and the others dealt with those orcs all right,” he mused. “He should have let me stay and help.”

It was the Galadhrim’s turn to offer reassurance. “He’s the Balrog Slayer. We’ve been told stories about him since we were elflings and, even if they’re exaggerated, Glorfindel’s no ordinary Elda.” He grinned. “A mere band of orcs won’t be anything he can’t handle. And you and Faelon *had* to make sure these documents got to the Lord and Lady; Faelon would never have got across the ford without you leading him.”

They said nothing for some time, draining cups of tea and leaving the remainder to simmer lightly. The flavour would probably be somewhat unorthodox by the end, but Erestor realised he would soon be able to keep time just by counting how many rounds of tea he’d brewed and then discarded.

After a period of time which may have been fifteen minutes or two hours, the Galadhrim rose and went to peer our of the window. “There’s a small party coming through the woods a little way away,” he declared with raised eyebrows as he returned to his place on the floor. “They all look unhurt. And I spotted Haldir approaching from the other direction.”

“Haldir? I thought you said he was off-duty this evening.”

“He is. That’s why I’m surprised.”

The marchwarden was the first to arrive, sticking his head up through the /talan/ entrance, grinning at the counsellor and frowning at the Galadhrim. Once all of him was inside, and he’d appropriated a stool, he explained himself, sipping at the tea his subordinate had pressed into his hands in a futile attempt at a peace-offering. “So, any luck with your mislaid Noldo?” he asked the Silvan elf pointedly.

“Well, sir, I...”

“You’ll be pleased to know that he’s now accounted for, despite your inattentiveness. Make sure this never happens again on your watch, or the only thing I’ll let you escort is mice out of the granaries. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

Haldir winked at Erestor. “Faelon and Rúmil are currently snuggled up together like a lifebonded pair. Very cosy.”

“Just as it should be,” Erestor agreed, returning the smile.

At that moment a golden head and a beautiful face popped up into the /talan/. Glorfindel flicked back the stray locks from his face in what he presumably (and, Erestor secretly decided, quite justifiably) thought was a dashing manner. “I think a certain other pair of elves might want to be thinking about adopting the same position themselves, for remains of the night,” he suggested, approaching Erestor. “What is your counsel on this matter, o wise one?”

Erestor kissed two fingers and touched them to Glorfindel’s lips with a playful (for him) smile. He felt heat rise in his cheeks; as usual, his lover’s unabashed openness had caused him to blush. “My counsel is that no self-respecting elf would agree to snuggle with you until you remove those repulsive garments from your person.” He indicated the Elda’s shirt, leggings and cloak, all splattered with orc-blood. “My counsel - probably in vain - is also that you refrain from proclaiming such ideas so overtly in front of such an extensive and interested audience.” He pointed now to the two Galadhrim, who were hiding sniggers, and the Imladris guards who had entered behind their captain, who now stood with eyebrows raised with amusement. “However, I am forced to admit that your suggestion is very, very appealing.” He leaned forwards so his lips almost touched Glorfindel’s ear, and whispered, “Were you to draw yourself a bath now, once you were satisfactorily clean, I think I would be inclined to join you. Then perhaps we could find ourselves a nice, soft mattress somewhere, which I’m sure you’d prefer to this rather small wooden chair, which was clearly never designed for multiple occupants.”

Glorfindel blinked innocently and tugged at Erestor’s ear in a gentle, affectionate gesture. “We could snuggle on a midden and I’d relish every moment simply because you were close.”

Erestor shook his head. “/Melme/, you are truly beyond hope.”

Translations:
melme - love



*snigger* (one day he'll spell Enismirdal right, I'm sure :D) *hugs and kisses lots more anyway*