Trick or Treat - FIC: Virvatuli for empy (LotR, Imrahil/Legolas)
Title: Virvatuli
Author: Galadriel (caras_galadhon)
Recipient: empy
Fandom: LotR
Pairing: Imrahil/Legolas
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I have a vivid fantasy life, but I do not pretend to be JRR Tolkien, nor do I pretend to own his characters.
Summary: Legolas finds himself drawn to Imrahil's light.
Notes: empy asked for, among other things, Imrahil/Legolas with "some hero-worship on Legolas's part," and "a ghost story or a story with some kind of supernatural elements." I've tried to do those requests justice, while also (unfortunately briefly) touching on her fondness for tattoos. Happy Halloween, madame!
Virvatuli
By Galadriel
"He was a good man, Denethor." Imrahil gestured at the twinkling circles below, well-lit by lamps and torches holding back the night. He did not turn, his gaze trained steadily on the city that spiralled out away from him. "Even in the depths of despair, his thoughts were for his city. His people."
Legolas paused, half-in, half-out of shadow, foot raised in mid-step, uncertain as to whom the Prince addressed. He had appeared to leave the banquet alone, excusing himself from the music, dancing and general revelry to retreat to the battlements, a warrior too steeped in strife to believe in the cessation of battle, even in the bright light of a new, peaceful dawn.
"I know you met him but briefly, and by then the madness and despair had all but taken his last shred of sanity," Imrahil shifted, his eyes finally finding Legolas' own, "but I assure you, in the prime of his youth, he was the spitting image of your lost companion, my poor sister's first son."
Legolas nodded, closing the distance between them, taking Imrahil's word as welcome, a private meeting between equals. He was once more stricken by this man's almost preternatural senses, such that they all but rivalled Elessar's own. Few Men could sense an Elf close by; even fewer could sense that presence when an Elf took pains to not make himself known. Such had been the case this evening, while light and love spilled out of all corners of Gondor, liquid gold laughter the Coronation raiments adorning every man, woman and child newly born over into the reign of the Reuniting King. Legolas had found himself enthralled by the quiet bearing of the Prince of Dol Amroth, and more often than not found his gaze drawn to this man, lingering on his features as if to commit them to memory for now and all time.
When he first noticed the thin line across Imrahil's brow, the sad set of his smile, he was surprised by the strange skip to his heartbeat. Yet it was not long before he became aware of the faint flittering light in the banquet hall, the way a shadow slid across the wall, trailing crystalline colour as if a hand was drawn through washed out paint; he felt his chest squeeze tight, breath lost to him as realization broke. Perhaps the rumours were true; perhaps Galador's descendants did have a touch of the Eldar in them, and perhaps this Prince was shot through with that farseeing bloodline, and troubled by what he saw now. As Imrahil excused himself, slipping out into the cold night air, so too did Legolas, drawn to the Prince as a needle to the North. He had not meant to disturb the man, simply to watch him, carefully catalogue his concern, and only intercede if needed.
Legolas' lips parted, his intention to beg his pardon, leave Imrahil to his devices and intrude no longer, yet what came out was a question, one that was much on his mind, his desire to confirm his own sight warring and winning over diplomacy and tact. "Why do you brood so, my lord?"
Rather than refusing to answer such a bold question from someone who was all but a stranger, Imrahil chuckled and nodded, as if responding to some inner voice. "It is the way with all old sailors. The ships are safely docked, the sails furled, yet my heart tells me I must cast off again. That if I do not, my soul will be dashed to ribbons on the rocky silences of peace.
"Do you know, when a sailor goes overboard, when he is drawn into the depths, the water turns traitor, bends black around him until he is inhaling shadow with salt and sea? It is in those times that we are most likely to follow any light, however false, even if it draws us to our doom."
Legolas nodded, the echoing cry of gulls still so easily brought to mind, the tug of the tides even now plucking at his heartstrings, calling to him from across the waves. "It would be so easy to slip into the water, follow such phantom luminance." He stepped closer, his hip gently brushing against Imrahil's own, setting off the smallest prickling tickle across Legolas' skin.
"It would indeed." Imrahil's arm curled around Legolas' back, gently pulling him closer until he fit comfortably against Imrahil's side. The gesture was companionable, yet the way Imrahil's fingers traced Legolas' hipbone, skimming over the curve and down before sweeping lightly back up again, uttered a silent question, one that Legolas was eager to agree to.
Legolas looked down, admiring the elegant length of Imrahil's fingers where they touched his tunic, marvelling at the tiniest hint of ink curling around the Prince's wrist, disappearing beneath his sleeve. He resolved to not end the night until he had investigated the curving pattern, tracing it from origin to ending, once with his eyes, twice with his fingers, and thrice with his tongue. A little shiver ran up his spine at the prospect.
Still deep in his thoughts, the shudder jarred Imrahil back to life. "You see them too, do you not? Little flickers out the corners of your eyes, pale imitations of life, like watercolour paintings left in the light so long they have turned translucent."
A moment passed in which Legolas struggled to decipher Imrahil's words, surprise cooling his ardour as he caught up with the man. "Truly, I do. I have been sure I've seen a wisp of velvet shot through with golden thread, the likes of which I have not encountered since I travelled with Boromir, and yet the next moment it is gone. I have caught sight of gently curling locks brushing against a collar beside me, and when I turn my head, there is no one there. I have heard the quietest of whispers calling Faramir's name when there is no one at my ear." He hesitated, not wholly willing to speak the words, "I fear they are the good Denethor and the most worthy Boromir, neither having let go of this world in favour of their final quest." He swallowed against a lump in his throat, sure that Imrahil would reject both this knowledge and him in one fell swoop as an assassin to his family's good name.
Yet that rejection did not come. Imrahil sighed, a frown tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Even now, they flicker like guttering lamps, still poised to push back the Shadow, not yet aware that the dark has swallowed them whole." Imrahil shook his head, and for the briefest of moments, Legolas saw through the gentle demeanor to the scarred and wounded soldier underneath. "They hang about me, and I fear that if I navigate by them too long, I shall never find my way back to the shore. That I, too, will lose my way and when my last journey comes, I will be caught in the Anduin, trapped in the eddies and currents that snare errant flotsam and jetsam, unable to voyage to the Halls in which I am meant to wait."
"Then let me help you hold the darkness back, my prince." Legolas stepped back, loathe to lose Imrahil's warmth, yet the need to look him in the eyes and stress the import of his words won out.
Imrahil met Legolas' eyes, his gaze straight and true, plumbing the depths of his companion, a sailor assessing tomorrow's winds by tonight's sky. "Aye. Companionship would be an agreeable thing. More than agreeable, with one such as you." A smile flickered over his features for a small space. "And yet I cannot help but feel my duty to brother and nephew has not been discharged. Not as long as they remain bound to this earth."
"They will find their way." Legolas held out his hand. "And so will you."
END
(October 2008)
Author: Galadriel (caras_galadhon)
Recipient: empy
Fandom: LotR
Pairing: Imrahil/Legolas
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I have a vivid fantasy life, but I do not pretend to be JRR Tolkien, nor do I pretend to own his characters.
Summary: Legolas finds himself drawn to Imrahil's light.
Notes: empy asked for, among other things, Imrahil/Legolas with "some hero-worship on Legolas's part," and "a ghost story or a story with some kind of supernatural elements." I've tried to do those requests justice, while also (unfortunately briefly) touching on her fondness for tattoos. Happy Halloween, madame!
Virvatuli
By Galadriel
"He was a good man, Denethor." Imrahil gestured at the twinkling circles below, well-lit by lamps and torches holding back the night. He did not turn, his gaze trained steadily on the city that spiralled out away from him. "Even in the depths of despair, his thoughts were for his city. His people."
Legolas paused, half-in, half-out of shadow, foot raised in mid-step, uncertain as to whom the Prince addressed. He had appeared to leave the banquet alone, excusing himself from the music, dancing and general revelry to retreat to the battlements, a warrior too steeped in strife to believe in the cessation of battle, even in the bright light of a new, peaceful dawn.
"I know you met him but briefly, and by then the madness and despair had all but taken his last shred of sanity," Imrahil shifted, his eyes finally finding Legolas' own, "but I assure you, in the prime of his youth, he was the spitting image of your lost companion, my poor sister's first son."
Legolas nodded, closing the distance between them, taking Imrahil's word as welcome, a private meeting between equals. He was once more stricken by this man's almost preternatural senses, such that they all but rivalled Elessar's own. Few Men could sense an Elf close by; even fewer could sense that presence when an Elf took pains to not make himself known. Such had been the case this evening, while light and love spilled out of all corners of Gondor, liquid gold laughter the Coronation raiments adorning every man, woman and child newly born over into the reign of the Reuniting King. Legolas had found himself enthralled by the quiet bearing of the Prince of Dol Amroth, and more often than not found his gaze drawn to this man, lingering on his features as if to commit them to memory for now and all time.
When he first noticed the thin line across Imrahil's brow, the sad set of his smile, he was surprised by the strange skip to his heartbeat. Yet it was not long before he became aware of the faint flittering light in the banquet hall, the way a shadow slid across the wall, trailing crystalline colour as if a hand was drawn through washed out paint; he felt his chest squeeze tight, breath lost to him as realization broke. Perhaps the rumours were true; perhaps Galador's descendants did have a touch of the Eldar in them, and perhaps this Prince was shot through with that farseeing bloodline, and troubled by what he saw now. As Imrahil excused himself, slipping out into the cold night air, so too did Legolas, drawn to the Prince as a needle to the North. He had not meant to disturb the man, simply to watch him, carefully catalogue his concern, and only intercede if needed.
Legolas' lips parted, his intention to beg his pardon, leave Imrahil to his devices and intrude no longer, yet what came out was a question, one that was much on his mind, his desire to confirm his own sight warring and winning over diplomacy and tact. "Why do you brood so, my lord?"
Rather than refusing to answer such a bold question from someone who was all but a stranger, Imrahil chuckled and nodded, as if responding to some inner voice. "It is the way with all old sailors. The ships are safely docked, the sails furled, yet my heart tells me I must cast off again. That if I do not, my soul will be dashed to ribbons on the rocky silences of peace.
"Do you know, when a sailor goes overboard, when he is drawn into the depths, the water turns traitor, bends black around him until he is inhaling shadow with salt and sea? It is in those times that we are most likely to follow any light, however false, even if it draws us to our doom."
Legolas nodded, the echoing cry of gulls still so easily brought to mind, the tug of the tides even now plucking at his heartstrings, calling to him from across the waves. "It would be so easy to slip into the water, follow such phantom luminance." He stepped closer, his hip gently brushing against Imrahil's own, setting off the smallest prickling tickle across Legolas' skin.
"It would indeed." Imrahil's arm curled around Legolas' back, gently pulling him closer until he fit comfortably against Imrahil's side. The gesture was companionable, yet the way Imrahil's fingers traced Legolas' hipbone, skimming over the curve and down before sweeping lightly back up again, uttered a silent question, one that Legolas was eager to agree to.
Legolas looked down, admiring the elegant length of Imrahil's fingers where they touched his tunic, marvelling at the tiniest hint of ink curling around the Prince's wrist, disappearing beneath his sleeve. He resolved to not end the night until he had investigated the curving pattern, tracing it from origin to ending, once with his eyes, twice with his fingers, and thrice with his tongue. A little shiver ran up his spine at the prospect.
Still deep in his thoughts, the shudder jarred Imrahil back to life. "You see them too, do you not? Little flickers out the corners of your eyes, pale imitations of life, like watercolour paintings left in the light so long they have turned translucent."
A moment passed in which Legolas struggled to decipher Imrahil's words, surprise cooling his ardour as he caught up with the man. "Truly, I do. I have been sure I've seen a wisp of velvet shot through with golden thread, the likes of which I have not encountered since I travelled with Boromir, and yet the next moment it is gone. I have caught sight of gently curling locks brushing against a collar beside me, and when I turn my head, there is no one there. I have heard the quietest of whispers calling Faramir's name when there is no one at my ear." He hesitated, not wholly willing to speak the words, "I fear they are the good Denethor and the most worthy Boromir, neither having let go of this world in favour of their final quest." He swallowed against a lump in his throat, sure that Imrahil would reject both this knowledge and him in one fell swoop as an assassin to his family's good name.
Yet that rejection did not come. Imrahil sighed, a frown tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Even now, they flicker like guttering lamps, still poised to push back the Shadow, not yet aware that the dark has swallowed them whole." Imrahil shook his head, and for the briefest of moments, Legolas saw through the gentle demeanor to the scarred and wounded soldier underneath. "They hang about me, and I fear that if I navigate by them too long, I shall never find my way back to the shore. That I, too, will lose my way and when my last journey comes, I will be caught in the Anduin, trapped in the eddies and currents that snare errant flotsam and jetsam, unable to voyage to the Halls in which I am meant to wait."
"Then let me help you hold the darkness back, my prince." Legolas stepped back, loathe to lose Imrahil's warmth, yet the need to look him in the eyes and stress the import of his words won out.
Imrahil met Legolas' eyes, his gaze straight and true, plumbing the depths of his companion, a sailor assessing tomorrow's winds by tonight's sky. "Aye. Companionship would be an agreeable thing. More than agreeable, with one such as you." A smile flickered over his features for a small space. "And yet I cannot help but feel my duty to brother and nephew has not been discharged. Not as long as they remain bound to this earth."
"They will find their way." Legolas held out his hand. "And so will you."
END
(October 2008)