Work Text:
“What wilt thou do?” Itarillë asks.
Laurefindil drifts out of her sleepy haze and blinks the solemn face of her lover into focus. Itarillë might be made of stone, her expression is so still, but a stray lock of hair falls over her cheek. Laurefindil’s hand slips from beneath the furs to twist it between her fingers and tuck it behind Itarillë’s ear. She thinks of saying, “This,” and kissing Itarillë until she smiles Laurefindil’s favorite of her smiles: small and private, pleased. But Itarillë would not be pleased by such a dismissal.
Laurefindil says, “Whatever thou dost.”
Itarillë’s lips pinch, same as they pinched when Laurefindil knelt at Turucáno’s feet and swore fealty to him aloud while in her heart she swore fealty to Itarillë.
“I know,” Laurefindil says, “but I can say nothing else.”
The furs slip to Itarillë’s hips as she sits up. Laurefindil cannot help but admire the fall of her pale golden hair, the curve of her spine, how the oil lamp lights her skin as if from within. Underneath it all, there is a heart Laurefindil will do anything to protect. She sits up behind Itarillë, wrapping her arms around her waist and kissing her hair. The air inside the tent chills her, waking goosebumps.
In this matter, Laurefindil thinks, she and Itarillë are at odds. Laurefindil’s blood grows hot at the thought of the lands forgotten by the gods falling victim to their enemy, and she wants little but to stop it no matter the consequences. Yet she will never forget Itarillë’s face going ashen outside of Alqualondë as they watched Findecáno, blood-stained and crying out, stagger into Ñolofinwë’s arms. She’s seen Itarillë shake at the words of Mandos and seen her draw herself up at Arafinwë’s plea that the Ñoldor repent.
What little else Laurefindil wants is to serve Itarillë. If her lady turns around, so will she.
“I might command thee to leave me,” Itarillë says, and Laurefindil’s heart freezes in her chest. “I might say thou must go to Arafinwë and join his folk.”
Laurefindil breathes out. She laughs. “Itarillë, Itarillë. I want to go to Middle-earth.”
After a moment, Itarillë says, “Truly?”
“Truly. But I sense thou dost not.”
“What does it matter? Today I walked along the shore with my parents as they spoke of what they plan to do. I said nothing, for I knew nothing would sway them from their path. They will go to Middle-earth—and I will follow them into their folly.”
The wind shrieks. As Itarillë sinks, boneless, into Laurefindil’s arms, Laurefindil pulls the furs up over her as best she can and says, “Thou mightst stay and save me from mine.”
“Thou hypocrite,” Itarillë says.
Laurefindil’s eyes close. She kisses Itarillë’s hair, her ear, her cheek, then turns her and kisses her mouth. “Laurefindil,” Itarillë murmurs against Laurefindil’s lips, shivering as Laurefindil’s fingers ghost over her skin.
“In Middle-earth, thou wilt find happiness,” Laurefindil says. “I will make sure of it.”
It is a foolish promise, as foolish perhaps as pressing on after hearing the words of Mandos, and unforgivably arrogant, too. “Oh, my love,” Itarillë says and leans in for another kiss.