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[personal profile] prance_legolas
Angst warning. Special thanks to John Denver, who soars now on glistening wings long deserved but too soon achieved.

Don't yell at me, you knew it had to happen sooner or later....

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Chapter Twenty-eight

She beat him. Twice.

It bothered her a bit that he seemed perturbed that she had taken his chips with a one-eyed Jack on at least five occasions each game. That is until later, when he’d shown her a magic card trick he’d learned from Lil’ Pip and she realized he had stacked the deck. In her favor at that. Woe be to Haldir the Marchwarden when he met the Prance of Mirkwood for strip poker next time.

As they were cleaning up the gameboard, his eyes fell upon her old guitar standing in the corner.

“Due u plae?” he asked.

“Just a little,” she answered. “I only know five chords. My fingers are too small, and I have trouble reaching the frets.”

“Mae I?” he inquired.

“Would you?” she asked, excited now. The elves of Middle-earth were well-renowned for their musical talents. She hoped maybe he’d sing for her too.

He picked up the guitar, running his fingers over its dips and curves lovingly. He sat down beside her again, resting it across his knees.

“I culd teech u sum neuw wonz,” he said, strumming a G cord. “Witch wunz due u noe?”

She blushed. “I know G, C, D, Em, and A.”

He began to strum, running his long fingers gracefully along the neck and across the body. She prayed he wouldn’t tire out too early from doing those motions, because frankly right now she wanted nothing more in this world than to BE a guitar. Her guitar.

The song sounded vaguely familiar, sort of melancholy and sort of sad, but the tune was so beautiful she couldn’t help but want him to play more. She felt herself tearing up, and when he began to softly sing the words she knew immediately why.

“Ladee, ar u cryeeng,
Due da teerz beeloeng tu me,
Deed u theenk ouer tiem tugethur
Wuz aell goen?”

He stopped when he looked over at her and saw the tears streaming down her face. The guitar was quickly abandoned, forgotten, as he gathered her into his arms and held her close while she let loose the sobs that he’d caused to surface.

He held her a long time like that, leaning back against the wall at the head of the bed with her curled up against his side, her head resting on his chest. He loved the feel of her breath ghosting against his skin, but he just hated the wet tears that were entirely his fault. After a long while, he heard her whisper again.

“Finish it. Go on and sing the rest.”

Softly, he sang to her, still holding her close, his fingers stroking her just as he had stroked her guitar moments earlier.

“Cloze ur eyez an raest ur weery miend;
I proemuss I weel stae rite hear beesied u
Tudae ouer livez wur joynd, beecaem intwiend
I weesh dat u culd knoe hoew muech I lub u.”

He stopped there, listening to her breathe, basking in her warmth, feeling her heart beat in perfect time with his own.

It was she who finally broke the silence.

“You’re really leaving this time, aren’t you?” It was really more of a statement than a question, and they both already knew the answer without it being spoken either.

Suddenly the solution came to him.

“Tael me abot Meleth,” he urged.


“Yaes, Meleth. al toeld me abot da stoerries of me an Meleth dat u rote. Iz she a Maerrie Seuw like al?”

She had to giggle at that.

“I suppose,” she said. “Some people would call her a Mary Sue as well as a self-insert.”

“I sea,” he replied. He thought about this for a bit before he continued, “Buet whut I reely waent tu noe iz....”

He’d stopped to think how best to phrase the question, when she prodded, “Yes, Melethron?”

He cleared his throat and popped a question of his own. “Iz she az reel az I em?”


If you've not had the chance to read PuterPatty's story of one of the hottest love scenes EVER in Middle-earth, you should hurry up and click over to Nedh Elei at Stories of Arda here.

The sequel, named Di-Iphant Doron, is located here.

Maybe after you read those, you'll forgive me for ever writing all of this to start with, since her stuff is much better than the crap I commit to type all the time.

On to Chapter Twenty-nine
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