Story Downloaded from Open Scrolls Archive (https://www.openscrolls.net)

Title: The Yellow Bird (#827)
Author: CinnamonGrrl
Chapters: 4

Archive: Tolkien
Category: Alternate Universe (AU)
Description: The only hint Orophin has of his secret admirer's identity is a yellow bird, but with his meddling brothers involved, will he *ever* learn who she is? **COMPLETE**
Published: 18 Apr 2004
Updated: 18 Apr 2004
Warnings:
Type: General
Characters: Orophin, Haldir, Rumil


Chapter 1 - Chapter 1

Author’s Note: Many thanks to Khylaren for her assistance with this story.


The Yellow Bird, part 1
by CinnamonGrrl
for wildecate on the occasion of her birthday\r\n\r\n




Orophin was unable, for the greatest part of the day, to understand why he was so out-of-sorts. As his begetting day—his 2,019th to be exact—one might have expected him to be in a better mood. There was a feast, for one thing, and gifts, for another. Both his brothers were there instead of at a far-off border guarding their home from the fell creatures that stalked the land, and the Golden Lady and Silver Lord themselves graced the home he shared with Haldir and Rùmil with their presence on this day honouring the occasion of his birth.

It was not until after all their guests had departed for the evening, and his arms were loaded with the gifts en route to his bedchamber, that Orophin realized the reason for his less-than-stellar mood.

One gift was missing.

It was not a case of the gift being there earlier, and now being gone; no, it had never been there to begin with.

For the last eighty-two years, without fail, Orophin had received a drawing. The artist was always the same, although the skill had improved with each. Invariably, the drawing was of him, usually in some mundane situation that the artist had managed to make worthy of being immortalized by sheer skill alone. Him on the archery range, him sharpening a dagger, him standing watch on a lone flet.

He wondered who the artist was, and had made numerous, discreet inquiries among his friends, but so far, no one had come forward. It was obviously someone who knew him – the drawings were too well done, the poses they captured done by an artist quite familiar with their subject and his habits, for it to be otherwise.

Rúmil had enjoyed teasing Orophin about his mysterious admirer, though he had denied any knowledge of the artist’s identity. Haldir, thankfully, was not prone to teasing, but he had not known who the artist was either. Over the years, Orophin realized he looked forward to his begetting day and receiving a new drawing to add to his collection. That he did not know the artist’s identity made it all the more enjoyable.

The absence of the drawing explained Orophin’s mood, but he not could explain why receiving it meant so much. After the last gift had been placed on the small table in his room, he went to the window and stared out over the city. Somewhere, in one of the telain that glowed softly with lamplight, was someone who felt strongly enough about him to create such marvelous pieces of art for nearly a century; somewhere out there, this individual had decided that he or she no longer wished to continue the tradition.

What had changed? Had he unwittingly offended the artist? He turned his mind to remembering the past year, but could not recall anything he had done different from any of the other years. With a sigh, he turned from the window and decided he was weary. Undressing, he slid into the bed, but sleep would not come.



~ * ~\r\n\r\n



Orophin was awoken the next morning by his brother’s hand on his shoulder. “Arise, muindor,” Haldir said. “Word has just come. There was an attack upon Fennas two days ago. We must go.”

He was on his feet in an instant, and dressed and armed in another. Besides himself, Haldir, and Rùmil, there were three others, one of whom was the sole elf who had managed to run for assistance. Even slightly injured as he was, the young Filig had fled to Caras Galadhon, refusing to allow his exhausted body to collapse until he had relayed the need for help. He had taken only a few hours to recover, impatiently permitting the healers to bind his minor wounds before leaping up and insisting they be off.

“Our lives revolve around the Great River,” Filig explained. “We had just begun our day. Some fished for the noon meal whilst others washed clothing and pots. They… the yrch… came from the woods behind us, keeping us from finding shelter in the trees. There were but six of them, and seven of us, so it did not last long, but we were unprepared. Once it was over, it was clear I was the least injured, so it fell to me to fetch help.” He paused to drag in a breath. “I hope all will last until we can arrive.”

They left as soon as they felt Filig could bear the strain of traveling at such speed as they needed, their elven feet swift and silent as they jogged northwards through the mellyrn. They did not stop to rest, but ate and drank whilst running, and made the two-day journey in less than one. The site of the destroyed outbuildings was disheartening, and Orophin found himself holding his breath in anticipation of horror, but the voices calling out to Filig from the talan above filled him with relief.

“All are well,” stated an elf who crept slowly down the ladder, gladly accepting the strong arm Rùmil offered to lean on. ““I am Heletir, and very glad to see you.” His affectionate gaze rested a moment on Filig. “Please say you have brought healers; all have sustained injury and I fear for my brother’s wife; her head struck a stone in the river, and she breathed in much water. She has held on to life by a mere thread, these three days.”

“Naneth!” Filig cried, and rushed to the ladder, darting up with a speed that belied his fatigue from running for a day.

“We are healers,” said Nestad, one of the two other elves who had accompanied the three brothers and Filig, and shrugged from his back the pack of medicines and bandages he’d borne from Caras Galadhon. “What are the other injuries?” He observed Heletir with a critical eye. “You have cracked at least one rib, if I am not mistaken.”

“Aye, and there is aught wrong with my knee as well,” Heletir admitted. “But treat the others first; mine are the least serious of the lot.” Slowly, painfully, he led the way up the ladder to the talan. It was clear this living space was not meant to house seven for days; it was crowded, and the odour of illness permeated the place in a way that even the fair breeze of Lórien could not disperse.

Heletir led them to the first bedroom, in which was a husband and wife. Nestad went immediately to the ashen-faced elleth who lay frighteningly still upon the bed. “Aiwë,” said the elf seated beside her, clasping her hand tenderly in his own, “Aiwë, help is come.” But there was no response, and his dark eyes were bleak when he listed them to the newcomers.

“Be at ease, Tavor,” Nestad told him soothingly. “Your wife is not yet in Mandos’ halls. Go and rest a moment, and have a bite to eat. When you return, you will help me mend her.” Tavor rose reluctantly and followed the others from the room.

Iaun, the other healer, poked his fair head into one of the other chambers leading from the main room. Inside were two elleths, young and comely. Both were freshly attired, their faces and hands clean. One sat behind the other on the bed, braiding her dark hair into an elaborate crown.

“Dúlinn!” exclaimed the one who was braiding, and the one to whom she ministered opened her eyes. The first was pretty in the typical elven way, but the second, Dúlinn, was absolutely lovely, and Orophin found himself staring, only averting his gaze when Rùmil smirked in his direction and nudged him with an elbow.

Dúlinn slowly stood from her perch on the bed, smoothing her skirts with hands that were unusually graceless for one of the Eldar, and Orophin saw that there was a bandage on her shoulder, causing the arm of her gown to bulge misshapenly around the fabric. “You are come to help?” she asked, and her voice was a melody lacking only the music. “Best you should see to my sister, Emmelin, as we two are well enough,” she said when the brothers and Iaun nodded, seemingly mute at the sight of her, and gestured to the other elleth. “Merelind has but that scratch on her face, and I but this wound in my shoulder; already it mends.” She tried to lift her arm and thus prove her statement, but it clearly caused great pain and as they watched, blood spread through the bandage to stain her gown.

Paling, she swayed on her feet, but Haldir was there before she could fall. Lifting her gently, he carried her the few steps to the bed and lay her down, then stepped back as if the touch of her scorched him.

Merelind shot a knowing smile in his direction and moved forward to straighten her cousin’s skirts properly. “She is not as well as she would like you to think,” Merelind murmured. “But indeed, we are better than poor Emmelin.” Her eyes were pleading as they rested on each Lórien elf in turn. “Please, go to her.”

Iaun nodded briskly. “Haldir, Rùmil, your healing skills will be adequate for the injuries of these two. Orophin,” he addressed the last, smiling faintly to take the sting out of the unintentional insult, “you are with me.”

They went to the third bedchamber to find two more elleths, one laying limply against the pillows, her dark hair unbound and streaming across the sheets, whilst another sat close by, singing softly in the ancient tongue of Quenya. At their entry, she left off her song. “My daughter, Emmelin,” she told them, gesturing to the bedridden one, and rising. “I am Tuilinn.”

“Iaun, and Orophin,” the healer said, making his way to Emmelin’s side. “What ails her?”

“Her hand and arm were damaged, broken, I believe,” Tuilinn replied, but her eyes were fixed on Orophin. “Her wounds are of the spirit, for she fears the loss of their use.”

Iaun examined the unconscious elleth’s arm, his hands gentle and practiced. “There is a break in the upper arm, and two of the small bones of the hand,” he confirmed. “They are clean breaks, however, and will heal well.” He lay Emmelin’s arm back at her side. “Orophin, Tavor is a carpenter. Ask him for two straight, narrow pieces of wood.” He turned to Tuilinn. “Why does she fear the loss of use of her hand?” Iaun continued as Orophin left the room.

Tuilinn waited a few moments before answering. “She is terrified she might never be able to draw again,” she replied at last, her voice low. “Emmelin is an artist.”

Orophin soon returned bearing the wood the healer had requested. He knelt beside Iaun, holding Emmelin’s arm straight and still as the healer bound the wood on either side, effectively immobilizing the broken bone. Iaun finished tying a knot in the strong cord, and indicated with a nod that Orophin should release his hold on the elleth’s arm. As gently as he could, he laid Emmelin’s arm at her side, and watched as Iaun examined the two, broken fingers on her hand.

Using strips of hide, softened in water, Iaun bound the two fingers together, holding them carefully until the hide began to dry. As it dried, the hide stiffened, and held the broken fingers straight and immobilized them. Satisfied that the casting would hold until he could manufacture a splint, Iaun leaned back on his heels.

“I have some herbs that can be taken to ease the pain as her bones heal,” he said quietly, reaching for his pack. “They will make her sleepy.”

Tuilinn nodded, accepting the packet he handed her and bowed her head. “I will share with her your words, for she will be greatly relieved to hear them.”

Iaun rose to his feet, shouldering his pack. “She should remain in bed for at least two days, and she should limit any use of that arm as much as possible. On the third day I will want to examine her injuries again.”

“Hannon le,” Tuilinn replied, bowing her head once more.

Orophin found his brothers deep in discussion with Heletir and Tavor and joined them, silently taking his place at Haldir’s side.

“You cannot remain here,” Haldir said, shaking his head firmly. “It is no longer safe for you to live outside the protective borders of the city. As soon as your injured can travel, we will escort you to Caras Galadhon.”

Heletir frowned, turning his gaze to Tavor. “I hate the thought of leaving,” he said. “We have worked hard to make this place our home.”

Tavor nodded. “Aye, muindor, yet Haldir has said this is not the first of such attacks on the outer settlements. Something has stirred the yrch; a shadow grows in the east. Have you not sensed it?”

“Aye,” Heletir replied reluctantly, his face darkening with worry. “I have.”

“There are not enough of you to defend your homes from another attack,” Haldir said, shaking his head again. “I will not leave you and your families here in such an unprotected state. The Lady would never forgive me.” He smiled faintly to soften his words.

Slowly, Heletir nodded. “Aye. You are right.” A long, defeated sigh escaped him. “We will leave as soon as we are able to travel. To be honest, I am grateful for your offer of escort, for we would not hold long against another attack.”

Haldir inclined his head. “I am relieved. How many days before the wounded may travel?”

“Iaun has said that Emmelin must stay abed for two days at least,” Orophin answered him.

“Nestad is confident that Aiwë will recover, but she also must remain abed for at least three more days,” Tavor said, his relief apparent to all.

Haldir turned his gaze to Heletir. “What of your injuries?”

“My ribs and knee will not keep me from walking,” Heletir replied with a wry smile. “I will be ready.”




Hannon le = I thank thee (formal)
muindor = brother
Fennas = a hamlet on outer boundaries of Lothlórien.
mellyrn = pl. of mallorn
yrch = orcs
telain = pl. of talan


Chapter 2 - Chapter 2

The Yellow Bird, part 2
by CinnamonGrrl
for wildecate on the occasion of her birthday\r\n\r\n



When Emmelin awoke the next day, it was with great reluctance, and she fought against consciousness until there was no escaping it. Of course, with her mother’s voice entreating her so sweetly to come back to them, it was hardly possible for Emmelin to refuse. Blinking rapidly, she seemed dazed and frightened, especially when she felt how immobile her right arm was..

“You are well,” Tuilinn was quick to tell her as Heletir gently held his daughter’s unbroken hand. “Only rest. Others have come from Caras Galadhon,” she continued quickly, before Emmelin could speak. “Healers, and marchwardens.”

“Marchwardens?” Emmelin croaked, her throat raspy from two days without drinking. “Not—“

Tavor appeared in the doorway then, with Haldir at his side. “They sent Haldir, and his brothers, to protect us until we can return to the safety of the city,” the carpenter-elf told her quietly.

Emmelin looked to her mother in mute appeal. “She is embarrassed to look less than her best,” Tuilinn interpreted with a smile, “and asks that you return later, so she can thank you properly.”

When they were gone, Emmelin sank back onto the pillows. “Naneth,” she asked, “he is here as well, is he not?”

“He is,” Tuilinn confirmed. “Are you still determined to hide from him your love?”

“I am,” she whispered. “I cannot conceive of a way to reveal myself to him, after all these years.”

“It does not matter how, so long as you do,” Dúlinn said from the far side of the bed where she sat mending a tunic damaged in the attack. “He and his brothers are wondrous fair, and very kind as well.” She paused. “At least, he and Rùmil are kind,” she amended after a moment. “But they have been fine to come all this way and help. I do not think he will mind in the least, that it has taken you eighty-two years to gather your courage.” Her smile was like the sun cresting the horizon. “Do you not recall Arwen telling us how the Galadhrim are ever wont to taken their time in courting? Likely he would think well of your patience.”

Tuilinn frowned at her elder daughter. “Haldir has ever been kind as well; it is just that he has not fawned over you as all others that displeases you, you vain thing,” she said, trying to be stern but failing when Dúlinn smiled impishly at her.

“I am a vain thing,” she admitted freely. “We all need our talents, and since I can neither sing nor draw like you and you, best that I have dimples and a graceful way.”

Beside her, lap full of another torn garment, Merelind gave a somewhat unladylike snort. “And I have neither much beauty, nor hardly any talent to call my own,” she said. “What does that say for me?’

“ ‘Tis your winning demeanor that shall hearken all to your side, cousin,” Emmelin commented slyly, feeling her spirits raise in spite of her terror of being discovered by Orophin.

“All simpleminded folk, perhaps,” Merelind grumbled. “A sad fact, it is, that I have little patience with anyone and even less tolerance for fools.”

“Any fool in particular, Merelind?” Dúlinn prompted, nudging her cousin with her elbow and earning herself a grim glower.

Tuilinn and Emmelin exchanged a glance, sensing some juicy gossip, and then turned to Dúlinn. “What has happened?” Emmelin asked.

“Yes, tell us,” Tuilinn urged, sitting on the edge of the bed. “I am near to madness from this inactivity; tell me what you mean.”

“I mean nothing,” Dúlinn replied innocently. “There is no indication whatsoever that Rùmil finds Merelind… intriguing, or that she might, just possibly, return his feelings.”

Two pairs of wide eyes turned to Merelind, whose scowl became positively murderous. “I would wring your neck, cousin, would not Haldir wring mine in return,” she said, and noted with satisfaction that the eyes turned swiftly in Dúlinn’s direction.

“Infamy!” Dúlinn exclaimed, and danced up out of her chair and out into the main room of the talan. “How you slander us both!” Merelind was after her in a trice, hand outstretched to inflict great punishment on the other elleth. Tuilinn helped Emmelin from the bed and they followed more slowly. “You behave as if I were wrong, and in matters of love, I never am!”

Merelind’s swift hand managed to worm to Dúlinn’s side and inflict a considerable tickle, making her laughter ring off the walls like bells, before Dúlinn flitted away once more. Then she slammed right into the wide chest of Haldir, who had just stepped from the chamber in which Aiwë slowly healed. “Oh, I do beg your pardon,” she told him gravely, then ruined the effect by laughing up at him.

“Of what matter of love do you speak?” he asked, crossing his arms and surveying her calmly.

“Merely that there is a lad in Caras Galadhon who fancies dear Merelind, but she will not have him.” Again, Dúlinn sidestepped her cousin’s increasingly frantic attempts to catch her. “She is haughty and proud, and despises all but the most serious and weighty of conversation.”

“Is that so?” he asked, shooting an undecipherable look at Rùmil, whose own expression was increasingly bleak. “How unfortunate for him.” She nodded. “And you?” he continued, the corner of his mouth curling slightly. “Do you desire only weighty conversation?”

“Indeed not,” she replied. “I am a flighty creature, and serious talk makes me want to scream.” She leapt nimbly behind him, not only neatly dodging Merelind once more but managing to propel her straight into Rùmil’s arms. That elf brightened considerably, and made a great show of righting her and smoothing her sleeves before releasing her. Both their cheeks glowed with colour by the time she was standing on her own again, and they stared at each other a long, awkward moment before mumbling their excuses and turning away; Merelind to flee to her room, and Rùmil to clamber down the ladder to the ground.

“You are more a master tactician than a flighty creature, methinks,” Haldir commented over his shoulder to where she hid behind him. “I will remember not to underestimate you.”

Dúlinn sniffed in an approximation of arrogance; it merely gave her the appearance of a kitten about to sneeze. “ ‘Tis best never to underestimate anyone,” she told him, and flounced off.

Emmelin, in the meanwhile, had been watching the scene carefully, scoring it into her mind to draw when she was healed. Dignified Merelind falling into Rùmil, whose delight could not be hidden; silly but yet devious Dúlinn hiding behind aloof and smirking Haldir. She flexed the fingers of her left hand and wondered if she would be any good using it until her right healed. “Naneth, could you bring my—“

“Ah, Orophin,” Tuilinn said somewhat more loudly than she needed to. “Emmelin is well enough now to thank you for your part in her recovery.”

A tremor of alarm raced up Emmelin’s spine; she knew he was directly behind her, and slowly turned, lifting her head almost reluctantly to face him. Oh, Elbereth, she thought. He was not the handsomest of the brothers (Rùmil) nor was he the most impressive of stature (Haldir) but there was something intriguing about him that had caught her artist’s eye all those years ago, a certain depth of spirit and beauty of soul that had entranced her upon first sight.

And it was no less powerful at close range; Emmelin felt her knees knock together as he looked down at her, his blue eyes clear and unguarded. “I am pleased to see you feeling better,” he told her politely, “but all I did was fetch the wood to splint your arm.”

“I am glad for it,” she told him, a trifle breathless. “How fares my aunt? Is Aiwë well?”

“She will be able to travel by litter tomorrow,” Orophin told her.

“I am comforted to hear it,” Emmelin replied, and smiled at him in relief. He smiled back at her, and for a moment, there was much smiling all around. Then she remembered who he was, and felt heat rush to her face. “I… need to return to my bed,” she said, feeling panic swell within her.

“You are unwell?” he asked, concerned, and to her horror, swept her immediately into his arms. She squeaked and tried to push away with her good hand, but he was very strong indeed and ignored her to carry her back to her chamber. Over his shoulder she saw her mother grinning unashamedly at them and buried her face against his shoulder.

It was quite the wrong thing to do; he smelled wonderful, and the play of muscles under the fabric of his tunic made her whimper. “What pains you?” Orophin asked, gently placing her on the bed. “Shall I call for Nestad or Iaun?”

Cheeks ablaze, Emmelin squeezed her eyes shut and prayed for Ilúvatar to take her now. “No,” she said at last. “Please do not disturb them. I am well. Just… tired.”

He gazed searchingly at her face a long moment; somehow, she managed to hold his gaze and not turn away. Finally, he nodded. “Promise me you will call for them if you worsen.”

“I promise,” she replied, and was gifted by another smile from him. She sank back weakly at the sight, feeling a rush of love swamp her.

“We should let her rest now,” Tuilinn said, ushering Orophin from the room before turning back and surveying her daughter, hands on hips. “Emmelin, this cannot continue,” she declared once she was sure the elf was out of hearing range. “We shall have to live in the city now, and you cannot continue to behave like this around him.”

But Emmelin just rolled onto her side, wincing as her broken arm shifted, and closed her eyes. She had not hidden her identity from him for nearly a century only to reveal herself now.


Chapter 3 - Chapter 3

The Yellow Bird, part 3
by CinnamonGrrl
for wildecate on the occasion of her birthday\r\n\r\n


The trip from Fennas to Caras Galadhon was taken slowly, with Dúlinn somehow managing to arrange for Orophin to dedicate himself to Emmelin’s assistance, to both her horror and tremulous delight. He was solicitous of her injury, often carrying her over especially difficult terrain so she would not be troubled with her compromised balance. By the time Cerin Amroth was in sight, she had become quite accustomed to the feel of his arms around her, of her cheek pillowed by the round muscle capping his shoulder, of his hair falling against her face.

Even when he was not carrying her, she was delighted by his companionship. He was quiet, like Haldir, but whereas his brother’s silence was due to vigilance, Orophin’s was of a different sort of perception. He listened to her as she spoke, at first haltingly and then with more ease as it became clear he was genuinely interested in what she had to say. The shyest of the females in their family, Emmelin found it intoxicating to have someone’s complete attention, and it was only when she realized she’d been talking for hours did she fall silent, a fierce blush staining her cheeks.

When the brothers led their family to the telain they would henceforth call their homes and then bowed prior to leaving them, Emmelin wondered if, in a city this size, she would ever have the chance to see Orophin again. It was unlikely; he had a position on the borders, and likely would be away for months at a time. It was pure luck he had been home when the need has arisen to come to Fennas, after all… and none of those explanations were helping to quench the tears that threatened to spill at the idea of seeing him but once a year, as she’d done before. Now that she had come to know him personally, Emmelin was more in love with Orophin than ever. And now that she knew him, it would be sheer torture to not be in his presence.

She bit back a sob and darted into her family’s talan, hoping in the confusion her absence would not be noted. It worked; when Heletir and Tuilinn and Dúlinn entered, her parents gave her looks of nothing but sympathy. Her sister, however, shot as severe a glare as she could in Emmelin’s direction. Thankfully, Dúlinn being severe was as fearsome as anyone else being simply a little dyspeptic.

“He knew you left without saying goodbye,” she said bluntly. “He thought he had done something wrong, and felt bad.”

Emmelin felt greatly shamed by that, and over the next few days, as the boxes and crates of their belongings began to arrive at their new home, began looking through the many portfolios of her work she’d accumulated over the year for one she could give him in a gesture of apology, albeit an anonymous one.

But first, she owed him a drawing for his last birthday. She had felt terribly that he had not received it; the orc attack had occurred just hours before she had planned on leaving with Merelind to come to the city and deliver it. The drawing was a scene of him sitting on the ground, back against the base of a mallorn as he repaired a broken arrow. His hair fell in shining locks around his face, and golden brows were drawn together while even white teeth bit gently into his bottom lip as he concentrated. Emmelin had managed just a glimpse of him that day, months ago, but his expression had so charmed her that she knew immediately that was the scene she had to use for his begetting-day present.

But how to deliver it? With her arm in its new splint, beautifully carved by her uncle Tavor, she was hardly inconspicuous. And Dúlinn, with her radiant, dark-haired beauty, was noticed wherever she went. Her parents and aunt and uncle were only willing to support her little “issue” to a certain point, and Merelind had only quirked an eyebrow when the request had been put to her, saying Emmelin needed to relinquish her squeamishness if she ever wished to be a bride.

Filig had finally succumbed to his cousin’s pleas, and even concocted a credible pretense to be at the brothers’ talan should he be noticed there. When he returned, he shot her an amused look. “I slipped it in his bedroom window, just as you said. Second window on the left.”

Emmelin blanched in horror. “No, no!” she exclaimed. “Second from the right! Second from the left is Haldir!” They all fell silent at the implications of Haldir thinking he had a secret admirer, and then she lowered her head to the table with a thump. “Ai, what a disaster.”

“All is not yet lost,” Dúlinn contradicted lightly, and stood. “Let me see what I can do.” With a gasp of horror, Emmelin tried to stop her sister, but Dúlinn was practiced in the art of evasion—she had managed to elude many an ardent suitor over the centuries of her life, after all—and had disappeared down the ladder before Emmelin was hardly to the door.

Dúlinn’s face was set and determined even before she reached the mallorn housing the brothers’ talan, knocking firmly three times upon the door. Rùmil answered it, his handsome face astonished to see her for only a moment before he schooled it to a more neutral expression. “Hello, Dúlinn,” he said at last. “Is Merelind with you?” He stuck his head out the door, glancing this way and that, and could not hide his disappointment to see Dúlinn was alone.

She smiled demurely. “Ah, Rùmil, you will hurt my feelings if you do not at least pretend to be glad to see me.”

He laughed and stepped back to allow her in. “Should I sweep you up into my arms and dance you around the talan?”

“I will hurt more than just your feelings should you try it,” Haldir grumbled as he emerged from another chamber. “Dúlinn, you honour us with your presence.” His perfunctory tone made the compliment seem distinctly less complimentary. “What may we do for you?”

“You may attend me whilst I tell you something of grave importance,” she replied seriously. His face immediately clamped into its customary marchwarden-on-a-mission expression. “But Rùmil must leave us.”

Haldir shot an enquiring glance at his brother. “I have done nothing wrong,” Rùmil protested. “And this time, I am telling the truth!”

Haldir just grinned at him. “I am sure you are,” he said, “but leave us, in any case.” Once the other was gone, he turned to Dúlinn, face grave. “Your words trouble me, milady. What news do you have of such import?” Then he watched in amazement as she went by him, into his bedchamber, and began rummaging around. “What are you doing?”

Dúlinn wrinkled her nose. “Bachelors,” she said with no small amount of disgust as she hoisted aloft a sizable pile of laundry, tossing it behind her.

Haldir leant his shoulder against the door jamb and folded his arms, watching her in bemusement as she methodically searched every inch of his bedroom. Finally, without success, she gave up. “Is this not the second room from the left?” she demanded.

“Noo…” he replied slowly, wondering if she’d gone mad. “That would be Rùmil’s.” But he refused to budge when she tried to pass him in the door, instead seeming to expand to fill it completely. “Dúlinn,” he said, voice low enough to cause her to shiver as he loomed over her, “You are not going to ransack my brother’s room until you tell me what you are seeking.”

She tried to dart around him; he was there before her, careful to grasp her uninjured shoulder. She tried to elbow him in the gut, earning a soft ooof from him at the impact, but he was implacable. “Dúlinn,” he repeated warningly.

She slumped against him in defeat. “Emmelin is in love with Orophin.”

Haldir released her, turning her to face him. “Already?” he asked. “It is but a fortnight she has known him.”

“You would be surprised how little time it can take to fall in love,” she grumbled, trying to comb her hair back into place with her fingers and studiously avoiding his gaze. “But she has loved him considerably longer than just a fortnight.”

He was silent a moment, as if consciously deciding to ignore her first sentence and instead focus on the second. “How long?” he asked, tugging on a long, rumpled curl when she did not answer right away. “How long, Dúlinn?”

“Eighty-two years,” she replied rebelliously, and pulled away from him in his moment of surprise. “Well, eighty-three, now.” And she wriggled past him, steadfastly ignoring how divine his strong body felt pressed to hers, to enter Rùmil’s room and begin knocking it apart.

“Enough!” Haldir roared as he followed her. “No more searching until you tell me what you seek.”

She sighed and stared pointedly down at the hand he’d manacled around her wrist. “A drawing,” she said at last. “Every year for the last eighty-two, Emmelin has—“

“Has given Orophin a drawing she has done of him,” Haldir finished, exhaling heavily. “Yes, I am familiar with the gifts by a mysterious artist for the past decades.” He frowned, brows knit together in perplexment. “Why has she never told him?”

“It is not easy to say such things, when you are unsure of the reception,” Dúlinn replied haltingly, finding much of interest in the tongue of her belt of a sudden. “I imagine hearing words of rejection from beloved lips would be very painful.” A long, protracted quiet fell then, tautening the air between them. “May I look in Rùmil’s room now?” she asked at last, a slightly desperate edge to her voice. She did not lift her eyes from where she twiddled her belt.

“Yes,” he murmured, and she fled from him. A moment later, the sounds of a room being torn apart followed. The noise stopped abruptly, and she said, “Oh, here it is.” Haldir joined her in Rùmil’s now-disheveled chamber to find her gazing at it in silence. Looking over her shoulder, any evidence he could have needed to prove Emmelin’s love for Orophin was there on paper, in coloured pencils that captured his brother so perfectly that he found tears coming to his eyes.

“She has never let us see any of the drawings she has made of him,” Dúlinn said, her voice hushed, as if speaking loudly might destroy the hushed moment. “She is so quiet, we never of us thought…”

“That there was such passion within her?” Haldir finished for her. “A wise person once told me that it is best to never underestimate anyone, and passion may be found in the most unlikely of places.”

Dúlinn lowered the drawing slowly, then, and turned to find him standing quite close behind her. Keeping her gaze fixed on the little triangle of pale flesh revealed in the open collar of his tunic, she opened her mouth to say something—anything—but then Rùmil’s cheerful voice boomed in from the main chamber.

“May I return to my own home yet?” he asked, his footsteps thudding lightly on the plank flooring as he walked about, trying to locate them.

Dúlinn sucked in a dearly-needed breath and stepped around Haldir. “We are here, Rùmil,” she said.

“In my room?” he asked, rather surprised. “Would you not have been more comfortable—“

“Do not say another word, muindor,” Haldir interrupted through gritted teeth. Rùmil shut his mouth with an audible click, then, and saw that Dúlinn held a roll of parchment. “What is that?”

“It is naught,” Haldir told him, taking it from Dúlinn’s hands and ushering her toward the door.

“Naught? Interesting,” Rùmil commented, arms crossing over his chest not unlike his older brother as his eyes slitted in speculation. “Very interesting, as it has the distinct look of one of Orophin’s begetting day gifts. He is still distraught that he did not receive one this year.” Both Haldir and Dúlinn started at that, surprised. He smiled grimly. “Ever am I thought to be simple, but I am not,” he told them grumpily, and stomped (as much as an elf might stomp) to his room, where he fairly skidded to a halt. “Is there a reason that my chamber has been nigh destroyed?” he demanded.

“We were looking—“

“Dúlinn was looking,” Haldir correctly swiftly, “for the drawing. At first she ransacked my chamber, and when it was not there, came to search yours.”

“But why did she not simply look in Orophin’s chamber?” Rùmil asked, bewildered. Both brothers looked to Dúlinn for the answer.

“Filig put it in the wrong bedroom,” she admitted.

“Why would he do that? Is he the artist?”

“No,” said another voice from the door, and all three turned to see Merelind standing there. “I am.”

Three things happened, then: Dúlinn gaped in astonishment, Rùmil looked like he had taken an arrow to the chest, and Haldir took in Dúlinn’s reaction as well as the almost haggard expression on Merelind’s face, and smirked. “Of course you are,” he said briskly. “So if you would be so kind as to place this drawing in Orophin’s room, you and your cousin can return to your home, I can be off to the audience Lord Celeborn requested an hour past, and Rùmil can indulge in the mighty sulk he has already begun.”

Immediately, Rùmil tucked in his protruding bottom lip, settling for glaring at his brother while the elleths stared at other, trying to communicate without words. “Yes,” Dúlinn said faintly after a while. “We’ll go. Our apologies for disturbing you.”

Merelind shot a glance of such longing in Rùmil’s direction that it nearly took Haldir’s breath away, but his brother was steadfastly staring at the tips of his boots and missed it. Haldir sighed. Was he the only one of the three unafflicted by games of the heart?

Then Dúlinn stepped quickly past him on her way to the door, her faint scent of elanor wafting around him, and he was not so sure about himself, either.


Chapter 4 - Chapter 4

The Yellow Bird, part 4
by CinnamonGrrl
for wildecate on the occasion of her birthday\r\n\r\n



Orophin returned that night to find the missing begetting-day drawing neatly rolled up on his bed. As was his practice upon receipt of a new one, he removed every drawing he’d ever received from his mystery benefactor, studying them all carefully. Over the years, after so many perusals, the older ones had become fragile and worn around the edges.

The progression of talent and emotion within them drew his attention like a moth to flame; he noted, for example, how the first few decades featured him in the more exciting poses: practicing at archery, or marching to battle in full armour. It was only after considerable time passed that the first heady flush of infatuation seemed to settle, and the emotion inherent in the pictures altered. The scenes became more normal, more mundane: Orophin standing at a window, looking out over the city; him sitting by the banks of the Celebrant, reeling in a very tiny fish and laughing; him asleep under a tree, forgotten book of poetry laying open in his hands. The love the artist felt for him was clear, but it was not a blind adoration; here, in this drawing, the scar on his chin was clearly visible, and the crook in his nose from when Rùmil had broken it in boyhood was evident in every one. The tenderness and maturity of the love clearly shown in every pencil-stroke brought a tightening to his chest, until finally he lay aside the last one he had received only that day, and felt dazzled, as if all the stars of the heavens had flown by him.

Was this love? He asked himself. Was it possible? Could he have tumbled into love with the artist of these drawings, sight unseen? Carefully stacking them on the little table, Orophin lay back on his bed and stared at the ceiling. It seemed immensely foolish, but no more so than gifting one you loved with such objects of beauty, for so long… one could not look at them and consider them foolish, not when love fairly emanated from the parchment.

“I must learn who has created them,” he vowed softly, closing his eyes.

The next day, another drawing appeared. Amazingly, it was not of Orophin, but a scene of washer-women at the river, beating clothes against the boulders to clean them. He could almost hear the wet slap of the fabric on the rock, almost see the undulation of the river around their bared legs, could almost feel the heat of the sun on his skin.

Haldir looked at the drawing with grave appreciation, murmuring his approval, but Rùmil’s reaction was almost violent. “Do not show it to me,” he said savagely. “I do not wish to see it, or any other.” Usually the most benign and easygoing of the brothers, this reaction was stunning to Orophin.

Haldir would say little in explanation. “He is… envious that you have one who loves you so,” was all he would venture. But he disappeared that evening and would not say his destination, returning when the moon was high with a suspicious light in his eyes.



~ * ~



Dúlinn turned back from the window. Haldir had climbed nimbly up their mallorn and perched, seemingly without effort, outside her bedroom to speak to her about Orophin and the drawings. Exquisitely aware of how she wore only the sheerest of nightgowns and how his gaze had repeatedly been drawn below her chin, she was dismayed to hear of Rùmil’s anger and Orophin’s confusion.

“No, Merelind does not love him,” Dúlinn confided in him, hoping desperately that her confidence in his silence was well-placed. “She is as miserable as Rùmil seems to be.”

“Why, then, did she claim the drawings as her own?”

“To protect Emmelin,” she replied, watching as comprehension settled on his face. “We have always looked out for her, she is so sensitive and shy, she seems unable to guard herself.”

“I had thought she might be lying for Filig,” he replied, smiling when her laughter rang out.

“No,” she said, grinning. “Filig has had his eye on another, since we have come to the city.”

“Anyone I know?”

“Yes, you,” Dúlinn said, then laughed again to see his eyes widen almost comically. He glared. She laughed harder.

“Quiet,” he hissed suddenly, and swung out of sight just as Heletir entered the room.

“What are you doing, daughter?” he asked, curious. “I heard you laughing.”

“Just an amusing… chipmunk,” Dúlinn told him. “A very clumsy and silly chipmunk; it fell from the tree.” A distinctly unhappy “hmph” came from outside, and she prayed her father had not heard.

Alas.

“A chipmunk?” Heletir tilted his head back and stared down his nose at his daughter. “A large chipmunk with two brothers, methinks.” He glanced at the window. “Do I need to have a… talk with this chipmunk?”

“No, Ada,” Dúlinn said breathlessly. ”There is naught happening but a bit of… strategizing. On Emmelin’s behalf.”

“Strategizing?” Heletir looked as if he wanted to burst with laughter. “And you, chipmunk? What say you?”

“We are indeed… strategizing,” replied a faint but clearly disgruntled voice from outside. “No talking is needed.”

Heletir nodded, kissing Dúlinn’s forehead before grinning. “ ‘Tis not meet to chat overlong with woodland creatures,” he told her. “They can be feral and wild.”

Another “hmph” sounded, causing Heletir to grin as he left. Dúlinn ran to the window, looking left and right, up and down, but unable to see him anywhere.

“Haldir?” she whispered as loudly as she dared. “Haldir?”

“I am here,” he said from behind her.

With a squeak, she jerked back, bumping her head on the sill. “Ow,” she said distinctly, then rubbed her bruised forehead. “You should not be inside.”

Haldir slashed his hand through the air dismissively. “It is of no importance. Pray finish your tale so I may return ere Orophin begins to wonder where I am gone.”

“We must find a way to bring Orophin and Emmelin together, else all perish from heartbreak. I can barely stand the gloom on their faces; they do naught all day but mope and pine for their loves.” She frowned. “ ‘Tis most off-putting.”

“And you remain unaffected by this affliction, I suppose?” His eyes were bright, so very bright, as he watched her.

“Certainly not,” Dúlinn assured him graciously. “I will confess, Nestad is a handsome figure of an elf, and healer is a fine occupation.”

“Nestad is married,” Haldir snarled, his good humour instantly fled. “As is Iaun.”

“Oh, is he?” she asked carelessly. “Ah, no matter. Listen,” she prompted, taking a hold of his sleeve to ensure his attention, “we must decide what to do about Orophin and Emmelin.”

“I do not know what to do,” he muttered, disengaging his sleeve from her grasp. “I must return.” And in a single fluid motion, he slipped from the window and was lost in shadows.

Dúlinn sighed heavily. It was all most off-putting, indeed.


~ * ~



Days passed, and golden summer faded into russet autumn. The mallorn leaves began their yearly tumble to the ground, and weekly arrived another drawing for Orophin. Tensions ran high in all three households until it threatened to burst and Dúlinn knew she had to do something.

“You must reveal yourself,” she told Emmelin. “Merelind has lied to keep your identity a secret, but surely you can see how dearly it costs her?” For Rùmil’s anger had not abated, and he now pointedly ignored their cousin whenever their paths crossed. Merelind had at first been struck dumb by his treatment, and only yesterday had burst into tears for seemingly no reason when he had walked by her without a single glance.

“I… “ Emmelin whispered, but could not speak as panic choked her. What if he did not feel the same? What if he was displeased to learn the artist was she, instead of someone more beautiful, or more gregarious?

“There is no more time to wait,” Dúlinn said sadly, and rose to leave. She moved slowly, to give her sister time to act, but no action was forthcoming: Emmelin was frozen in her chair, hand pressed to her throat.

Dúlinn slowly walked the now-familiar path from her family’s talan to that of the brothers; there was no guarantee that any of them would be there, but something had to be done, for Merelind’s sake, if not for Rùmil’s and Orophin’s and Emmelin’s. And hers… she was weary of all the pretense, and not merely the pretense of Merelind being in love with Orophin. Her heart grew heavier with each step, but she could not turn back from what needed to be done.

Her knock on the door was not answered immediately, but when it was opened, she found Rùmil standing there. “Here to deliver another masterpiece to Orophin?” he asked, an ugly smirk twisting his beautiful mouth.

“Rùmil,” Dúlinn began as soon as she was inside, and laid a hand on his arm, “you must cease this hostility. Merelind has done nothing wrong.”

“Nothing,” he growled, “but love my brother.”

“No,” she contradicted, “she does not. She has loved no one but you, Rùmil.” His bark of laughter, so skeptical, boomed off the walls. “You must believe me, Rùmil. She is withering before us, in the face of your displeasure with her. Your anger is killing her. She loves you, only you.”

The hope that bloomed in his eyes was wild but wary. “Why, then, did she say the drawings were hers?”

“To protect she who really created them,” Dúlinn replied, evasive to the end. “Go to her, Rùmil. Go now.”

He stared at her steadily, then nodded, and was gone. Shoulders slumping, Dúlinn wiped her moist palms on her skirt and went to Orophin’s room. Knocking quietly on the door, she cracked it open to find him standing at the table, stacks of drawings arrayed before him as he sorted through them. The expression on his face was soft, and he touched careful fingertips to the lines on the pages as if he hoped to absorb them into his skin.

“I have a clue for you,” she said without preamble, and he turned startled eyes to her.

“Dúlinn?” Orophin asked, puzzled both by her presence in his home and her words.

“The identity of the artist,” she said, nodding at the drawings. “There is a clue in each piece.”

“There is?” Orophin immediately brought one up to his nose, scrutinizing it closely. “But I have studied them for decades, and found nothing.”

Dúlinn smiled gently. “You did not know what to look for.” She took the drawing from him and spread it open on the table, pointing to an object in it. “Do you see this?” she asked, pulling out another when he nodded. “And here is another, and another.” She indicated a third. “It is her hallmark,” she told him. “There is one in every drawing.”

Shuffling through the many pictures, Orophin’s eyes grew wider and wider to realize that, indeed, the same yellow bird appeared in each of them. “How could I have missed this, all these years?” he mumbled, more to himself than to her. Then his shoulders slumped in defeat. “This is no clue,” he complained. “How can a yellow bird help me to find her?”

Dúlinn huffed out an impatient breath. “Can you think of no other name for a yellow bird, you great simpleton?” she demanded. “Really, the elves in your family are thick as two short planks—“

Someone pounded on the door, then. Orophin, numb, went to answer it, and was surprised to see Emmelin standing there. “Emmelin,” he said by way of greeting, but then blinked as the pieces fell together in his mind. “Emmelin,” he repeated wonderingly. “A yellow bird… emmelin.”

She blanched. “What?” she asked shrilly. “No, there is no yellow bird. I have come to fetch my sister.”

But Dúlinn had ensconced herself in the soft chair that by its size proclaimed it to belong to Haldir, and had taken up a volume of stories lain beside it, reading for all the world as if there were not a scene of high emotion taking place before her.

“You are the yellow bird in the drawings,” Orophin declared, watching as myriad emotions flitted across her face: terror, mostly, but the briefest flash of hope that gave him courage.

“No, it is not me,” she protested weakly, breath coming quicker in her distress, and turned her gaze down to stare at the floor.

He was silent a long time. "I am sorry it is not you," Orophin said at last, his eyes soft as he watched her. "For I have come to dearly love she who created such beauty for me."

Emmelin brought up her downturned face, joy lighting it like the dawn. "You... love me?" she asked breathlessly, not even bothering to maintain the pretense that it was another who had drawn the pictures.

By way of reply, Orophin simply kissed her, putting all his frustration and ardor into it. His hands cupped her face at first, then moved down her shoulder to her arms, which he placed around his neck, laughing against her mouth.

"Must it always be thus?" he asked. "Will you always be shy with me?"

Emmelin grabbed his ears and pulled him down for another kiss. When it finally ended, both were breathing more heavily, and she said, "I am getting better, would you not agree?"

“Indeed you are,” he said with a broad smile that made her heart leap within her chest. “Come, you must walk with me,” he continued, taking her hands in his own and squeezing them. “You will explain to me this foolish idea of hiding yourself from me for all these years.”

Emmelin looked to her sister. “Go,” commanded Dúlinn, nose-deep in her book. “Enjoy.” But when they had gone, her gaze became fixed on the page as she became lost in thought. “Merelind has her Rùmil, and now Emmelin has her Orophin,” she murmured.

“And what do you have, Dúlinn?” asked a deep voice from the doorway.

She lifted her head to find Haldir standing there, an odd expression on his face as he regarded her calmly. “I have… the satisfaction of knowing my sister and cousin have found love,” she replied, her voice just the slightest bit tight as she put down the book and stood.

“Nothing else?” he asked, and took a step closer to her.

“If Emmelin weds Orophin, then I shall have our bedchamber all to myself,” Dúlinn replied, a little unsteadily. Oh, why was he staring at her so? His eyes were a dark, dark blue, and fixed on her so intently she thought she might faint.

“Surely you have more,” Haldir said coaxingly. “For one such as you, there must be more than just that.”

“I do not think there is,” she replied snappishly, horrified to hear tears threaten in her voice. What did he want of her? “That is all I have.”

“You have a marchwarden, ill-tempered but faithful, if you would have him,” he told her quietly. “For he has thought of naught but you for many days now.”

Tears spilled down Dúlinn’s cheeks. “What are you saying, you wretched thing!” she cried, dashing them from her face. “Do not tease me any longer; you must know that I have loved you for months. ‘Tis a secret from no one but you, and I have all but come out and told you so many times—“ Her words were cut off when his arms came around her and pressed her face to his chest.

“Ai, Dúlinn… my nightingale…” Haldir said, pressing his cheek to her hair and smoothing his hand down her back. “Do not cry, my heart. I am sorry.”

She snuffled against him. “You had better be,” she informed his shoulder. “I am not so forgiving as many, and you will have to work hard for my pardon—“ He tipped her chin up and kissed her then, tasting her tears.

“Do not overtax my regret,” he warned after a long, pleasurable while. “I am not the world’s most patient elf.”

“Well do I know it,” Dúlinn complained, curling deeper into his embrace. “But you are worth the effort, I believe.”

“As are you,” Haldir returned, smiling foolishly.

Suddenly, she pulled back a little, as if startled. “Haldir, are we… getting along?”

“Certainly not,” he said, affronted. “The idea.”

Dúlinn only smiled wider. “We are,” she said, exultant as she nuzzled against the patch of neck under his ear. “Hah.”

He only frowned.
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