Greenleaf & Imladris 29 - Aduial: Soul of a Knight
Prologue: Into Darkness
Title: Greenleaf & Imladris 29 - Aduial: Soul of a Knight
Author: Eressë (eresse21@yahoo.com)
Pairing: Elrohir/Legolas
Rating: NC-17
Summary: For love of his Elf-knight, Legolas faces the hardest and most bitter test of all.
Disclaimer: I write for the sheer enjoyment of it. All else belongs to that esteemed storyteller, JRR Tolkien.
Author’s note: WARNING! This story contains a character death. In a manner of speaking. If you choose to read on, let me assure you, this is a love story, not a tragedy. I’m a hopeless romantic and a total sucker for happy endings.
Aduial: Soul of a Knight
Prologue: Into Darkness
Gondor, Narwain FA 88
The chill air swathed the dimly lit chamber. Not even the bravely crackling blaze in the hearth or the sturdy wooden shutters that shut out the icy wind could dispel the uncommon frigidity of this year’s winter. There were seasons like this in Gondor. Winters that were less than mild and summers that were more bracing than usual.
For a hale man, it simply meant thicker clothing and frequent spells by a warm fire. But for an ailing man, it was cruel weather. Even fatal.
Such was the case of the noble who lay bundled in layered robes of wool and slumbered fitfully beneath the thickest counterpane available. Every once in a while, his hacking coughs and pitiful gasps for breath would resonate through the room. The healer in attendance or his assistant would then lift him up and urge him to expel the foul phlegm or sputum that threatened to choke the very life out of him.
But not his lady wife. She stayed well out of the way.
She looked many years younger than him; one could easily mistake her for a woman in her fourth decade. But in truth, she was five years her husband’s senior, an astonishing one and ninety years. For she was not merely of the line of the few remaining Dúnedain of Middle-earth but also a member of the elven-blooded family of the seaward princedom of Dol Amroth.
In those of Belfalas’ ruling family where their elven heritage ran true, the length of life was alike to Gondor’s kings--twice or even thrice the span of mortal men’s years. And like Elessar and his kin, they aged only slowly, the tale of their years finally revealed towards the ends of their many days.
In Gilwen of Dol Amroth, the elven gift ran true. While her husband, though the younger, looked frail and spent and wizened, she was still in the prime of her life and would remain so for many more years.
She eyed her lord with well-concealed loathing. Never had she come to care for him; not even a whit. Her contempt for his lesser lineage, his lack of lore and learning, had steadily waxed through the years until her discontent had known no bounds. That resentment had been stoked in particular by one event that had served to blight her perceptions of her marriage and magnify in her mind all that she had missed.
She closed her eyes as was her habit when she sought respite from the bile of her never waning spite, allowing herself to remember...a vision of a proud face of incomparable beauty, crowned by raven tresses of silken softness, lit by eyes of purest mithril, graced by an achingly sensuous mouth...a tall, magnificent body unlike any she had ever seen – elven slender yet bearing the wider shoulders and broader chest of mortal men, swathed in skin of the finest, smoothest alabaster.
Her breath caught as her thoughts turned down more carnal byways. Of a black night and a darkened room redolent with the elusive scent of northern pines and rushing streams, of sweet heather and wildflower-dappled meadows. And above her, mastering her, the fairest being she could ever have hoped to know. She had never forgotten her taking at his knowing hands; never let go of the memory of hard potent flesh spearing her, filling her utterly and relentlessly, until she had shattered under his thrall.
Gilwen’s eyes snapped open, her fevered musings marred by the wretched sounds coming from the shrouded bed. She looked about and realized the healer was gone. To take his evening meal no doubt. She wondered if he had asked leave of her before departing. Most likely, she admitted. And most likely she had acknowledged him without being fully aware of doing so, deep as she had been in her delightful reverie.
No matter. She cared little for her husband or his repulsive vapors.
He began to cough once more. Barking, hacking—downright annoying! She waited for the inevitable gurgle as he pulled up the phlegm that plagued his lungs. But instead, he emitted a retching sound. In disgust, she peered across the dark room. Yes, he was vomiting. A vile stream was trickling down the side of his mouth.
Gilwen started then watched as the man she reluctantly called her lord feebly attempted to turn his head and rid his mouth of the noisome brew. But he failed. And his vomit backed down into his windpipe instead.
He gagged, then began to choke. His eyes widened in terror and desperation. But Gilwen only watched. Watched as his skin turned ashen and his lips a ghastly blue. Watched as his body convulsed in the last throes of life. Watched until he went irretrievably, eternally still. And then she smiled.
I am free, she thought with appalling joy and relief. I am rid of him. And then another thought came to mind and her eyes gleamed with gladness and wanting. A word. A name.
Elrohir.
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Glossary
Aduial - Twilight
Narwain - Sindarin for January
To be continued…