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a-mediocore-writer · 10 days ago

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Light Dappled Trees and New Beginnings

Currently playing; Soldier, Poet, King by the Oh Hellos, 1st track of the Aroren playlist.

This is my first ever real attempt at a fic, so idk we'll see how it goes. Will be crossposted to my Ao3, follow me there maybe? I tried really hard to get the right combination of casual and still Tolkien-esque, I don't know how you guys manage to strike the balance so well 🥲

Rating: G

Words: 2421

Tags: Young General Aroren, first meetings, introductions to the other elves and what Aroren thinks of them, fluff, insecurity.

Lindon is… different.

Golden trees surround the white city, and while the buildings are adorned in distinctly Elven designs, there is something different about them to the ones in Eregion. Less Dwarvish influence, more as if it is trying to capture the majesty of Valinor.

It falls utterly flat in Aroren's eyes, however, given that the Elleth has never been to the Undying Lands. The gleaming lights and elaborate, reflective designs do not bring to mind memories of a distant shore, they only make her eyes squint.

Her hand twitches on the pommel of her sword. Not her weapon of choice, but Lord Celebrimbor made a fair point in that a polearm may be slightly inconvenient for the ride to the capital. Especially when they are bringing a full escort along with them. Aroren had acquiesced, though the weight of it being missing from her back is oddly unnerving.

Blessedly, Lord Celebrimbor sees fit to chatter the entire way to the castle. About the meeting ahead, about High King Gil-Galad himself, about the various projects he is wanting to work on, and many other things. Aroren has quickly gotten used to his voice, to his presence. There is something unobtrusive about it, almost casual, to the point where she almost forgets sometimes just how important he is. He never seems to mind when she forgets to use the proper titles for him, but unlike most other nobles she has met, she actually wants to show the proper respect to him.

Regardless, his chatter is pleasantly distracting from her growing nerves as the castle draws closer and closer into view.

Stand up straight, feet parallel to your shoulders, head held high.

The words of her Captain are on repeat in Aroren's mind as she walks beside Lord Celebrimbor, the door to the council chamber getting closer. For some reason, it does not feel like the joy of getting a new promotion. Of going up in the ranks and being recognized. It feels like impending doom.

Or maybe she is just not ready to stop being a soldier and start being a General. Maybe, for the first time since she was just a tiny elfling, Aroren is afraid.

But she has never backed down before in her life, nor will she start now.

"Aroren, this is High King Gil-Galad, Herald Elrond, and the Commander of the Northern Armies, Galadriel."

Celebrimbor still has that gentle smile on his face as they step into the council chambers, and blessedly despite their capacity to hold many more people it is just the three of them at the table. It is a reminder that for all Aroren has been stressing about it, this is by all means performative. It is more of a excuse to get introduced to the court than anything.

"Yes, uh, mae govannen. It is good to meet you all. I am Aroren Magordiliel." She says, bowing more like a soldier to their superior than a courtier. Her words are slightly stilted and short, like she is unsure of what to say or how to speak in front of such company. Galadriel looks on with her lips quirked into the slightest amused smirk. Celebrimbor's gaze remains steady, encouraging, kind. Gil-Galad's gaze is entirely unreadable to her, though doubtless he has mastered that.

But the one that catches her eye the most is Elrond. He smiles, and it steals her breath for half a second. It is gentle, almost warm. Like being in the light of the sun itself. And suddenly, without a single clue of how or why, the thought comes unbidden. He is so beautiful. It is so flustering that it takes her a moment to regain her composure, to tune back into the conversation.

"…She has great skill in planning and strategy. Her ability with a spear is second to none, save for perhaps you, Gil-Galad. You should see her when she is training, the pure focus in her eyes, the determination. Quick on her feet, decisive, adaptable… I know that it is not a traditional choice, but I truly believe she has the makings of a incredible warrior."

Celebrimbor speaks with such passion that Aroren's expression softens for a moment, her shoulders relaxing just slightly at his unerring faith in her. She has not a clue of what she has done to earn such a thing, but she refuses to let him down.

Gil-Galad looks between Celebrimbor and Aroren with a careful look of contemplation, clearly holding Celebrimbor's insight in high esteem to be considering it so greatly. The Lord of Eregion is not wrong. It is not at all traditional. Typically, the previous General's second in command would take over the position, but Celebrimbor has always done things his own way. And while it may be odd, he undoubtedly gets results as a consequence of his open-mindedness and willingness to take risks. He almost certainly gets it as a result of being Fëanor's grandson.

"You have a great deal of faith in her." Gil-Galad's response is measured, acknowledging the obvious. Celebrimbor is not about to back down on this decision, no matter how controversial it may turn out to be. "You realize that the court has already begun whispering about her? She will be under far more scrutiny and judgement then she was as a simple soldier." It is spoken not as a condemnation, but out of experience. Going from being a commoner to under the gaze of the most powerful Eldar still on Middle-Earth is not a simple feat, as the High King knows well.

It is then that Aroren decides to speak up. "They can speak what they will of me. They are not my soldiers. Their opinion of what I do matters not."

Gil-Galad's expression as he turns to her is as indiscernible as ever, but she thinks there may be a tinge of approval in it.

Or perhaps it is just her imagination.

The meeting keeps going, but for the most part it is all the political pomp and circumstance she has always had little tolerance for. Galadriel's sly remarks and comments help to make it bearable, her companionship quickly becoming something Aroren values. It is reassuring, to see someone so similar to herself is an accepted part of Gil-Galad's court. A controversial one, perhaps, but when she speaks people listen.

Of course, they have their differences. Galadriel, for as bold and perhaps even imprudent as she can be, has mastered the art of masking her words in the kind of flowery language the nobles enjoy. She can be very indirect about what she is saying, and still get her meaning across perfectly, but in a way that is beyond reproach on the surface. She wears the gowns, the finery, she plays the part like a lioness lying in wait, deciding when to reveal itself.

Aroren is… not that. Try as she might, and by the Valar, she does try, she just cannot act like a noble. Perhaps it is just the mere fact that Galadriel was born into this world, and Aroren was not. Whatever it is, Aroren can never be anything less than obvious. Harsh words, unmasked criticism, blunt statements that get interpreted as more insult than the genuine observations they were intended as. Most Elven clothing is to some extent practical, or at least easy to move around in, but Aroren in particular does not wear nearly as many layers. Her skirts, when she chooses to wear them, do not touch the ground. She trips when she wears the longer gowns, though she would never admit that to anyone.

She is not a Lady. She does not fit amongst the courtiers and sycophants. Celebrimbor just looks fondly at her when he tells her she can forego today's particular meeting, and she snaps up the opportunity with a eagerness she cannot hide.

The foliage makes a soft, satisfying crunch as Aroren's boots hit the ground, the light filtering into the forest floor through golden leaves.

She takes a deep breath.

One, two, three…

She spins mindlessly as she passes by the birch trees with only a vague idea of where she is going due to her thorough studies of Lindon and it's surrounding areas. Her chest vibrates slightly as she hums a soft little nonsensical tune, the tension in her body finally relaxing.

Only Yavanna's creations can witness her here, and there is something freeing in that. Especially after being under so much attention for the past few weeks.

Her ears prick up, catching the sound of something beyond the usual background song of the forest.

She goes completely still in a instant, her eyes shooting open and locking onto the source of the sound. But it is not footsteps she hears, not horns or the telltale shuffling of the Uruk.

No, it is…

Paper?

The sound of a quill scratching against paper, to be specific.

She cannot seem to help herself. The curiousity of what someone is doing out here, writing by the sounds of it, is too great. A small smile crosses her face as she slips through the shadows, lightening her steps to a whisper of the wind.

The sound brings her all the way to a small clearing in the forest, with a single tree in the middle of it. It is lower than the rest of the birches, but it's branches make a comfortable v shape to nestle one's self on. The canopy it provides is sparse, but the person cradled in it's embrace hardly seems to mind.

Her breath catches in her throat at the sight, and for a moment she is struck completely dumb. Standing in the shade of the tree line, eyes wide, mouth parted just the slightest bit.

I was wrong. He is not just beautiful. He is utterly ethereal.

The sun almost seems to sheen off his skin, as if he glows with it's warmth. His curls, Valar above his curls, sit so perfectly on his head, slightly mussed from the breeze, accentuating his cheekbones perfectly. He stares at the parchment he is holding with such a intense focus as he writes, and it is so apparently clear that his entire world has narrowed down to whatever it is he is working on.

She wants him to look at her like that.

The thought catches her off guard, and once again she finds herself flustered just by the sight of the Half-Elven Herald.

They were not joking about him being the descendant of a Maia.

It is the only thing that could possibly explain his beauty. How weak her knees feel just at the sight of him like this. The inexplicable urge she gets to fall to her knees and beg for him to acknowledge her.

I am so done for.

It is all she can think to herself, over and over again, as she watches him. She is caught between approaching, and running away. Does one dare step into the embrace of the sun itself? To engage in the pure audacity that would be to break this perfect moment of tranquility?

Well.

If there is one thing Aroren has in spades, it is audacity.

Still, her approach is much more gentle than it usually would be. She is careful only to make enough noise to draw attention to her presence and nothing more as she steps into the clearing.

"Ah… Herald Elrond…?"

Her voice is soft, almost a hesitant whisper. It is so different from the steadfast declaration she had made just a day before.

He looks up, not quite startling, though his eyes do widen a bit in surprise. "General Aroren. I thought you were one of the aides, sent to drag me back to the High King's side. To write more speeches, no doubt." He says, a light and playful smile on his face. It only serves to make him even more enchanting to the poor Elleth, and it takes her a moment longer than she would like to respond. "Hardly. If anything, I am here to escape all of the dreadfully drawn out and dull conversation being made." It is spoken with a far more casual demeanor than he had gotten to see of her when she first arrived, one that piques his interest, just as anything new tends to.

"And here I thought you would be all too eager to dive into the intricacies of the court." His smile has turned more teasing now, almost edging towards a smirk.

"Were you wanting me to curtsey?" The response comes quickly this time, along with a almost feral grin on the young General's face. She needed this. The quick banter, the sharp wit, as if they are sparring with their words. Not the carefully thought through statements that she finds almost paralyzing, difficult to parse how to gain the reaction she desires in a battlefield not her own. This is familiar. "Because if you were, then I do apologize, My Lord." The title is spoken as a taunt, though a light-hearted and teasing one, with not a care for if it is actually the proper form of address for him or not.

"Ah. Well, I suppose I can accept your apology, General." He responds in kind, quickly picking up on what she is doing. He gestures down next to him, a silent invitation for her to join him.

"How magnanimous of you. Your kindness must only be second to the High King himself." It is spoken with feigned gravitas as she strides over, sitting down on the grass just beneath and to the side of where he has perched himself.

They stay there, trading jibes and soft conversation until the sun falls low in the sky. She only thinks of asking him what it was that he was writing after they have seperated for the night, returning to the castle.

#the rings of power #Aroren of Eregion #my writing #elrond peredhel #galadriel #high king gil galad #gil galad #lord celebrimbor #celebrimbor #rop #gratuitous use of commas #italics used to denote Sindarin #tone #and inner thoughts #oc writing #my fic #I am defining success as ten notes #I feel like that's a achievable expectation #I'll post navigation and stuff later I'm with my family right now

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