Fields of gold

Peredhel

Laurë was down there, way below her feet, uprooting weed and tending to a garden that had become his rather than hers. Perched in a tree, Eleanor blended her senses with the nature around her, connecting with trees, animals and plants. The earth, itself, vibrating down the roots of the oak tree she had taken refuge in. Slowly, but surely, Eleanor was learning how to be an elf. Launching herself in high branches without fear, discovering the freedom of being on top of the world, following Laurëfindelë's teachings. Already, the weight she rested upon said branches was lessened by sheer power of will; Laurë said that, in middle earth, an elf could call forth Arda to walk upon snow without leaving a trace.

He doubted that feat could be reproduced here, but she impatiently awaited for the first snowfall to test that theory. Would he still be here when winter came ?

Laurë was singing again in this flowery language of his. A delight to the senses, a soothing balm to one's aching soul. Quenya, now, felt more like a universal language than something foreign; it called to her, coaxed her soul forward, surrounded her like a of loving arms. His voice, smooth honey and power, was bending reality to his will, creating a bubble of light she could nearly see to protect their plants.

Never had this garden felt so vibrant, so full of life, all thanks to an extraordinary being that landed in her lap. Joy, slowly, caused his sadness to retreat. But the pangs of his heart still existed; probably from Echtelion's loss as much as his world, his people, his city. He talked of the lord of the fountain often, his features softening, blue eyes flickering with light every time he mentioned his fallen boyfriend.

How long did grief last to an immortal being ? Eternity ? Sadness descended upon Elanor, causing her balance to fail as she grasped the nearest branch to stabilise herself; to think his years were numbered if he didn't find a way back. For so far, every research had proven moot; the portal that brought her mother and grandmother to earth remained elusive.

By praying to the Valar to allow his way home, Laurëfindelë unfurled the great fresco of the firstborn's saga; Eleanor now knew what a Vanyar was – a line descendant of the first elf to ever awaken under the stars in middle earth. They served Manwë and Varda, in Valinorë, the closest people to the Valar that ever existed.

Laurëfindelë had inherited their blond hair, and that incredible light from the Vanyarin lineage; she understood better his reverence for the Gods that brought her grandmother here. But Eleanor, for her part, did not share such faith in the Valar as they also caused much suffering.

The tale of Feänáro, in particular, tugged at her heartstrings for an unknown reason. That terrible oath, the naming of Morgoth – Melko - by the Noldor Prince hid such a tragedy ! It felt so close to Christianity, with Melkor as Samaël, bringer of light and later one, fallen angel that became the devil himself. The parallels were uncanny; had there been more bridges between Arda and earth in the past ?

Eleanor sighed, resting her weight evenly upon the high branch, her gaze lost in the verdant green of the hills. The summer sun was mild enough, today, to allow flowers to bloom without fear of wilting. Laurë's song engulfed her senses, pulling her from her bubble to the sharp ridges of middle earth's mountains. A land of great beauty, and even greater danger. A magnetic, hypothetical place that sprang to life under Laurëfindelë's steady hands when he drew them, or through the tales he waived.

How such two contrasts could cohabit seemed to baffle the elven warrior, even after centuries spent roaming the wild paths of middle earth; that his youth had happened in Valinorë, his paradise, sheltered from evil and violence had probably carved the disgust of evil deep in his veins. But Eleanor had no such reservations; her knowledge of history and men's hearts had shaped her heart for the worst.