Adult-FanFiction.org : Lord of the Rings

Only One
By : HollyHobbit13
Category: Lord of the Rings Movies > Crossovers
Views: 4468 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
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Chapter List
- 9
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Alone in the House of Healing, Læurenthail took inventory of, and rotated her stock of herbs and other medicines; as she worked, her thoughts centered on Jordan Waters. When not practicing her limited -- but growing command of the Elvish language, the woman could be found amongst the Apprentices, helping them complete their tasks, no matter how menial they may be. Watching the Healers hone and apply their skills, Jordan often compared Imladris’ healing arts with those practiced in her land, describing them in vivid detail to the Head Healer. To the she-Elf, the woman’s ways sounded unnatural; some practices were downright barbaric, if not steeped in witchery--especially the so-called ability to ‘operate’ on a person’s brain while she or he is in a deep sleep. The she-Elf gave a delicate shudder and continued her pleasant task, lips pursed as she mulled her thoughts over:
The woman is confused. She longs for ‘home’, yet she embraces Imladris . . . There is also more between Jordan and Lord Legolas than mere acquaintance.   It is no secret, the romance between them. Some Elves disagree with his choice of consort, others see no harm in it— it will be but a brief moment in our eternal lives. The Prince—much to the disappointment and chagrin of many of our she-Elves—has eyes for Jordan alone. How unlike Lord Legolas to openly show affection—he cannot keep his hands to himself! His actions are never unseemly, yet it is highly entertaining to see the handsome and elusive Prince of Mirkwood quite taken with a mortal woman—of all things. The she-Elf thought, chuckling softly. As she became better acquainted with Jordan, Læurenthail’s concern grew for both Jordan’s and Lord Legolas’ well-being.
Arriving by unnatural means, when and if she returns ‘home’, someone will be left behind. What an ugly little puzzle . . . Lately, however, Jordan spends more time here than usual; as if she were . . . avoiding a certain fair Elf. Foolish woman -- as if that would solve her dilemma.
Although she sympathized with the Mirkwood Prince, the Healer found the situation highly entertaining. Surely his Lordship hadn’t experienced such frustration with a maiden in an Age --and with a mortal! Legolas often came to the House with the plausible reason of requesting medicinal supplies for the pending hunt, his bright eyes casting about, searching for the woman. When Jordan was present, she and the Mirkwood Prince spoke in voices so low even the she-Elf had trouble hearing their words, though she did not actively eavesdrop on their conversations. As the Healer discretely observed the pair, Jordan stepped back from the golden Elf when he stood too near, or dropped what she held in her hands, stooping to pick it up as he raised a hand to touch her. Eventually his visits decreased before they stopped altogether. Hearing footsteps approach long before their owner appeared, Læurenthail turned towards the entrance.
“Love’s path is seldom easy.” the she-Elf murmured. Scarcely had the Healer uttered the words when Jordan appeared in the doorway.
“Good morn, little songbird.” She smiled kindly at the woman; her observant gaze took in the faint circles under her eyes that frequently occurred of late, yet curiously always faded before the midday.
“Good morn, Læurenthail.” Jordan gave her a wan smile. After greeting the she-Elf, Jordan wandered aimlessly about the room, absently touching the herbs laid out to dry on a rack.
“What needs to be done?” The woman asked in a dull voice; her cheerful disposition was markedly subdued.
The Healer studied her visitor, contemplating the task best suited for her. Deciding it behooved Jordan to keep busy, Læurenthail set her to work tearing linen into strips for bandages; the glum mood rested on the woman like a dreary mantle. Silently, Læurenthail returned to her task. Surreptitiously glancing at her visitor, the she-Elf’s sympathy stirred; many times the woman would pause in her task and gaze out the window, her green eyes unfocused; confusion radiated from Jordan in waves. Læurenthail remained silent until her guest saw fit to speak of what troubles her so; the Healer didn’t have to wait long. Having no one else to confide in, Jordan cautiously decided to open up to her.
“Læurenthail…have you ever wondered why certain things happen?”
“How do you mean?” The she-Elf asked.
“I don’t know how and why I was brought here, or how and when I’ll go home . . . ” Jordan’s words trailed off, her eyes troubled as she fingered the leaf at her neck. Studying the woman before her, Læurenthail considered her response.
“Does Rivendell make you unhappy?”    the Healer asked.
“No! I mean, no—on the contrary, I’m very happy here. That’s the scary part. The longer I’m here, the more I want to stay, but . . .” Jordan said; the woman before her looked thoroughly miserable.
   “I dare say Lord Legolas would have you stay.” Læurenthail said mildly. Jordan looked up sharply at her words.
“He’s been very kind to me.” She warily acknowledged.
“’Kind’? Is that what you call it?” Læurenthail’s perfectly shaped brow arched in amusement at Jordan’s refusal to admit it was more than mere ‘kindness’ on Lord Legolas’ part.
                  “I’m not sure I know what his . . . ‘feelings’ for me are. It will end, whether by my return home, or …some other way. Surely I’m just a passing fancy.”
The she-Elf is very observant; nothing gets by her unnoticed. Jordan noted.
“Jordan. I will speak plainly. You are a fool if you cannot see Lord Legolas has feelings for you.” Læurenthail’s gentle smile took the sting out of her words.
“I prefer the term ‘unassuming’” Jordan replied dryly.
“We have a saying back home that if you ‘assume’ things, you pretty much end up looking like a jackass.” At Læurenthail’s blank stare, Jordan gave an unladylike snort, rolling her eyes.
“Forget it, Læurenthail, it’s a 20^th century thing.” Sighing, Jordan returned to her task, venting her frustration by giving the linen a particularly vicious tear. Læurenthail tilted her head to one side, appraising the woman as she worked.
“Do you know what it means to be loved by an Elf?” Læurenthail asked. Not looking up from her task, Jordan replied.
“No, I don’t; I believe you’re about to enlighten me.” She said, making an attempt to keep the mood light. Nonplussed by Jordan’s casual attitude the Healer replied,
“It is forever. Timeless. Unchanging. Joinings between mortals and Elf-kind are not normally encouraged; mortals are subject to the ravages of time. If and when it does happen, most would not altar or choose otherwise. ” Jordan did a mental double take as Læurenthail’s words sunk in. Setting the linen down, Jordan’s expression was disbelieving as she stared at the she-Elf; her gaze turned suspicious.
“‘Love’?! Who said anything about ‘love’? You’re implying Lord Legolas is, or could possibly love -- if not be in love with . . .me ?” Jordan was unable to hold Læurenthail’s unwavering gaze for long, breaking eye contact first.
“Attraction I can understand, lust even. But ‘love’? That’s a very bold assumption; I don’t know what his exact feelings for me are, and I’m not going to jump to any conclusions. I’ve made that mistake before, and I don’t plan on repeating it. It ..it’s, oh--!” Jordan made a sound of frustration, unable to convey in words exactly what she wanted to say.
The conversation wasn’t going as she’d hoped; in fact, it left her more confused as emotions she desperately wanted to deny surfaced and rapidly gained strength. Jordan did not understand what exactly it was between her and the fair Elf; she knew in her soul it was right; but, as Murphy’s Law stated, it must be too good to be true; therefore, it could not be. Still, Læurenthail’s words had their desired effect, planting a tiny seed of hope in Jordan’s heart, to flourish if she would accept what was blatantly obvious to the Healer.
“Why is water wet and what holds the stars to their appointed course in the sky--does it matter?” Læurenthail asked.
“’Does it matter?’ Of course it matters! I’m not exactly a resident of Middle-Earth, you know—I don’t know when my tourist visa here is going to expire, and to top it all off, I finally fall in l---” Jordan’s words came to an abrupt halt as her lips clamped shut. Realizing she said more than intended, Jordan quieted. In stilting tones, Jordan spoke again.
“I’m sorry, Læurenthail; I’m not quite myself.” The Healer hid the smile on her face; much as the woman protested—perhaps too strongly, she had yet to answer her question. Læurenthail repeated her query.
“Jordan, can you not simply accept what is?” the she-Elf’s quiet words filled the airy room. The woman looked at Læurenthail, her mouth working, but no words were uttered. Head bowed, Jordan’s face was hidden from view by her raven tresses. The silence stretched between them before the woman finally spoke.
“I’m afraid to.” Jordan said, her voice so faint the she-Elf felt more than heard her reply.
Looking up at Læurenthail, Jordan’s eyes shimmered with unshed tears. The she-Elf’s steady, empathetic gaze was almost Jordan’s undoing—almost.
What is wrong with me?!    Jordan berated herself, unsure why she was so emotional, and more than a touch angry with herself for the sudden tears. The Immortal pasted a bright but watery smile on her face, clearing her throat before changing the conversation to a neutral topic, thankful the Healer did not pursue the matter further.
“I went on a walk not too long ago, and I ran into Lord Legolas—actually, he found me . . .” Jordan shared with Læurenthail the tree incident, but left out the minor detail of the kiss they shared. The woman also told Læurenthail of the phrase Legolas taught her. According to him, he claimed it would come in handy the next time she was angry with him.
“And what would that be?” The she-Elf queried. Jordan took a moment to go over the phrase in her mind, wanting to articulate it correctly. With a smile, she said,
“A helta ar caita caimanna!” Jordan beamed at Læurenthail, pleased with herself; It was quite a feat, considering she learned it only recently. Læurenthail’s eyes widened, her expression comically shocked.
“Pretty good, yes?” Speechless, the Healer blinked several times before she found her voice.
“Did Lord Legolas tell you what it meant?” Læurenthail asked, smiling. Jordan looked at her quizzically and shook her head ‘no’; the smile on the woman’s face began to fade at the Healer’s reaction.
“I believe its Quenya in dialect. Loosely translated into Common, it means ‘take off your clothes and lie down on the bed!’” Jordan paled before turning a bright shade of red. The she-Elf’s soft laughter didn’t ease Jordan’s discomfiture. Desperately wanting to change the subject, she asked the meaning of another word Legolas had used.
“What does ‘Melamin’ mean?” Wiping tears of mirth from her eyes, the way Læurenthail’s lips quirked raised Jordan’s suspicions.
“Should I even ask—do I want to know?” the woman asked dryly, bracing herself for the unexpected.
“Do you wish to know?” The she-Elf returned, eyeing the woman with a teasing smile.
“It can’t be any worse than what he just taught me; what does it mean?” Jordan said, her tone hesitant.
“’My love’.”   Læurenthail replied.
With a knowing smile on her lips, the Healer watched Jordan’s reaction. Resigned to the possibility it could be another potentially embarrassing phrase, Jordan was caught off guard, cringing inwardly at Læurenthail’s smug expression. Any further discussion was thankfully interrupted as Læurenthail’s gaze fixed on something over Jordan’s shoulder. Apprehensive, Jordan turned, dreading another visit from Legolas. For both their sakes, she had to keep up her façade of disinterest; uncertain how long she could maintain it, Jordan wanted to follow her unruly heart. The hurt expression in Legolas’ blue eyes when she forced herself remain unresponsive to him or avoid his touch wounded her deeply as well as weakened her resolve. It was with a mixture of disappointment and relief that she saw a servant had silently appeared in the doorway, bowing respectfully to the Healer before addressing the woman.
“Lord Elrond wishes to speak with you, Lady Waters.” Giving the still grinning Læurenthail a feeble smile, Jordan excused herself and followed the servant, the Healer’s tinkling laughter following her out the door.
Could it be? Is it possible for him to feel that way about me? It can’t happen. She told herself sternly.
Jordan didn’t have much time to mull it over more as they arrived at their destination. Led to a private study, Lord Elrond stood before an open window, facing west, his back towards her. She glanced around the room, admiring the beautiful tapestries displayed on the walls; sconces held thick ivory pillars, the melted wax giving the room an antiquated feel. A large table stood off to the side; scattered on its gleaming surface were scrolls, some rolled up, and others open; several quills and a pot of ink lay nearby. Just like Rivendell, everything in the room was beautiful; the colors a continuation of nature just beyond the windows. Jordan stood, unsure what to do; she glanced towards the servant who escorted her, only to find him gone.
These Elves are quieter than ghosts! Sighing silently to herself, Jordan turned back to see Lord Elrond studying her.
What am I supposed to do?   Jordan floundered for a moment before bobbing a quick curtsey.
The Immortal gave the Ruler a tentative smile as he inclined his head, indicating she should sit with a graceful sweep of his right hand. Lord Elrond remained standing, his gaze solemn and searching as he watched Jordan select a seat suited for her petite size. At the feast, he noticed she had experienced several moments’ discomfort when seated, for her feet often dangled, not reaching the floor. The chairs suited for cultures of lesser statures were, unfortunately, unavailable, for they were all in use at that time. The woman settled herself in an elaborately carved chair, folded her hands in her lap and gazed at him expectantly. There was something about the Lord of Rivendell that made her feel he could probe her innermost thoughts with a single glance; the uneasy feeling fluttered in her stomach like a caged butterfly, making Jordan want to bolt from the room, to put distance between her and the Elf.
Get a grip, Jordan—you can do this. All he wants to do is talk—not know your life story
“Lady Waters. It is plain to see you are not from this land.” Lord Elrond said. She couldn’t help but smile at the understatement.
“Yes, my Lord. I prefer to think of myself as a displaced tourist.” Jordan quipped, in an attempt to disguise her trepidation.
“’Displaced tourist?’” he echoed.
Jordan almost laughed at the regal Elf’s confused expression. Reminding herself she was speaking with the Lord of this realm, Jordan quickly continued, “I’m from way far away, way out West, from what I can tell.”
Gee, I should’ve asked to see a map of this place. Seacouver’s on the west coast--I hope I picked the right direction.
The Elf-Lord frowned slightly, considering her words.
“You come from beyond the Grey Havens?” The way Lord Elrond spoke made it seem more of a statement than a question.
“Mmm.. yes—you could say that.” She replied weakly. Deciding the Ruler of Imladris deserved the truth—at least what she could safely reveal, Jordan drew a steadying breath.
“My Lord, you wouldn’t happen to have a map of Middle-Earth, would you?” she asked.
The Elf raised an eyebrow at that. His curiosity piqued, he walked, seeming to glide to the table she glanced at earlier. Removing a large scroll, he brought it to Jordan, handing it to her. Holding it carefully, she unfurled it; despite it’s size, it was light easy to handle. Looking at the drawings on the map, she couldn’t read the beautiful, calligraphic writing. Wishing she paid more attention to her geography classes, she studied it carefully.
If I didn’t know any better, Middle Earth could pass for ancient, primeval, pre-historic Europe.
Deciding to stay with her original answer, she pointed to the western most regions, her finger resting on a blank part of the map.
“I know this sounds crazy, but I’m not from this land, and I’m definitely not from this time.” Jordan said, meeting the Elf’s gaze. To her surprise, the Elven Lord simply smiled.
“I gathered that much, Lady Waters. Sometimes the Valar are mysterious in their ways. What puzzles me is how you possess the leaf of Lórien.” Touching the leaf at her neck, she answered slowly.
“It all started as a gift. This is given to me by an acquaintance; a few days later, I was lost in a bright light. Lord Legolas and Master Gimli found me in Trollshaw Forest with the Orcs. Then we traveled here. I don’t understand how all this came about, or even why it did. I’m not even sure how to find my way back. What I do find, is that I am deeply in your debt for all you’ve done for me.” Lord Elrond’s arched eyebrows rose. There was no mistaking the ring of truth in her voice, nor the sincerity emanating from her.
“Very well, Lady Waters. You are welcome to remain in Rivendell for the duration of your . . . stay. If you desire answers, Mithrandir is expected in Gondor at the turn of the season. If you wish to seek his counsel, surely Lord Legolas and Master Gimli would be willing to escort you there. I shall speak with them about the matter.” Turning, he dismissed her. As she stood to leave, Jordan hesitated, gathering her courage.
“Thank you, Lord Elrond; as I said, I am deeply indebted to you; I could never repay your hospitality, but I would like to try. Lord Legolas spoke of the Orcs and a hunting party. I ask that you let me go. I can help. I can fight--Lord Legolas and Master Gimli know it as well. Allow me to do this for Rivendell. Please.” The Elf turned back to Jordan, a frown on his aristocratic face.
“I do not expect my guest and a woman at that to fight Orcs. It would be folly.” The Elven Lord’s disapproval was plainly written on his face. Jordan silently bristled at the implication of incompetence.
“It would be my privilege. Please, my Lord.” Raising an eyebrow, he seemed to be weighing a decision, holding her gaze for what felt like a very long time.
Jordan’s chin lifted slightly; her expression deceptively calm as she stared back at the Elven ruler as he studied her, his face unreadable. Looking deep into her eyes, a sudden vision flashed in his mind. In it, he saw Jordan engaged in a duel against another combatant. The ease with which she used her unusual sword left no doubt her words were true; however, the level of skill she possessed remained to be seen. Just as suddenly as it came, the vision disappeared. Blinking, abruptly he answered.
“Very well, Lady Waters. I do not agree with your decision, yet I will grant you this request—take heed, you are not bound by your words. You have a fortnight to consider your choice.” Gravely, Jordan nodded, oddly touched that the Elven Lord would have a small measure of concern for her safety.
“Thank you, my Lord.” Sensing her audience with Lord Elrond had come to an end, Jordan stood and quietly left the room. Lord Elrond watched the woman leave, his brow creased in thought. Although he had serious reservations about Jordan’s participation in the pending hunt, he was certain beyond all doubt she would not fall in battle, nor be counted among the injured; the fighting prowess of the Elves would not allow Legolas’ guest to come to harm – nor would Legolas.
There was little in Imladris that the Ruler did not know of, especially if it concerned his odd guest. From her early morning strolls, to her night on the rooftop, even the kisses and soft touches between the woman and the Prince of Mirkwood—Lord Elrond was privy to it all. There were, however, several aspects about Jordan Waters that remained shrouded in mystery, that even with his tremendous gift of foresight, he could not decipher. Closing his eyes, a thoughtful frown tugged his lips downward as he thought back to Jordan’s arrival in Imladris…
“Lay her here…” indicating the large bed in the center of the room, Læurenthail drew aside the diaphanous bed hangings as Lord Legolas gently placed his burden in the center, caressing the woman’s dirty face before nodding to the Head Healer on his way out. Sitting in an impromptu council with other Eldars and advisors, Lord Elrond heard the two Walkers’ account of the events en route to their arrival. After much discussion, decisions were made; he was curious to see his unexpected guest—this woman Jordan Waters. In the breezeway, Elrond Half-Elven passed a servant bearing away a bundle of dirty clothes; entering the guest quarters, the Head Healer greeted him.
His sharp gaze swept the room; on a table were weapons unlike any he had seen; he lightly touched the polished sticks, noting with interest the silvered stars cunningly attached to a swathe of soft black leather. What caught his attention was the sword—highly unusual in design, its razor-sharp edge would make any Elven master smith proud; even more remarkable is what he sensed within the sword. It possessed a life of it’s own; not quite sentient, but a…palpable presence of some manner resided in the blade itself.
Walking to the side of the bed, he gazed down at the woman who lay before him in silent repose.   Fair of feature for a Daughter of Man, his gaze traveled down her neck, to where the Leaf of Lórien lay. Lightly touching it, disjointed images flashed thru his mind with a speed and force that sent his senses reeling. In the center of his mind’s eye stood Jordan; she physically remained unchanged, yet the passing of time manifested itself in her surroundings and clothing—landscapes and vegetation sprang up and withered away as if Nature itself had gone mad—changing at speeds too quick for even his mind to follow. Structures rose and fell in a land where all things green and good ebbed away till nothing but small patches remained, hemmed in by great structures of stone and metal, the balance of nature upset as the night was brightly lit, though the sun was not in the sky.
Futilely grasping at the fleeting images, they vanished, turning inward upon themselves; Jordan, stood in the midst of a lightning storm, sword raised triumphantly, consumed and illuminated by brilliant forked tongues of lightning streaming from the sky and enveloping her, yet she remained unharmed . . . shadowy figures engaged in combat, swords flashing and sparks flying. Constant and overshadowing the alien imagery was the ruggedly handsome face of a Man…a Sword master of some manner. Awareness of the link between the Man and the woman before him teased the edges of Lord Elrond’s mind; he instinctively knew it was of great importance. Try as he might, he could not divine the reason or purpose to Jordan Water’s presence in Imladris, other than she was needed—to whatever end remained cloaked and hidden from even him.
Breaking contact with the Leaf, Lord Elrond swayed slightly, massaging his throbbing temples as he sought to clear his mind of the jumbled images and sensations assaulting his mind. Immediately, the Head Healer was at his side. Raising a hand to stay her questions, Jordan’s soft gasp seized their attention.
“She stirs.” Læurenthail said; her soft voice seemed to rouse the woman, who attempted to sit up.
The she-Elf went to the woman as the Ruler of Imladris composed himself; the Healer gently but firmly pushed Jordan back down onto the pillows. Drawing a shaky breath, Imladris’ Lord pulled his stately robes closer around himself.    :::
Opening his eyes, his mood pensive, Lord Elrond gazed out the open windows. The grandeur of his realm soothed his disturbed senses, his mind chewing over the mysteries surrounding Jordan Waters . . .yet, some mysteries were beyond even the wisest.
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Only One	By : HollyHobbit13 Category: Lord of the Rings Movies > Crossovers Views: 4468 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
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Only One