Birthday presents and LOTR FIC
When I should have been working, I was writing with the viral. This is MOST DISTRACTING. On Independence Day. What productivity can stoop to.
Celeborn has deciphered Galadriel’s mood from her posture for at least five thousand years, ever since Luthien stormily told him that he was so plainly in love with her, and that everyone knew it, and that he was a fool to try and let her go (and that Galadriel’s shoulders never, never softened except when she was daydreaming about him). This advice always proved correct, and he would never tell Galadriel about it because then she would know and dislike that she could be read, be understood, and would keep her eloquent spine straight, to the point of breaking, all the time.
When she is disturbed (mentally shivering, battling her demons with arrogance and rationality and everything but a sword), her chin lifts in a forward-left angle, tightening her neck (he is infatuated with her neck), and her eyes narrow slightly, ever so slightly (her eyes are her betrayal, he once told her, and she agreed). When she is disturbed, he does not touch her. He waits for her to ask to be touched, then he knows it is safe, that it is genuine, and he then takes her hand and she laces her fingers with his so tightly that it hurts.
Celeborn knows Galadriel loves him because she has never wanted to be free of him. She has chased him, seduced him, hated him, despaired of him (and her willingness to want him), claimed him and, occasionally, broken him. This, he has realized over the many years spent waiting (and watching and touching), is how Galadriel loves (this is the only way she can love). She battles this also, at times. But he knows when she relents, when she accepts, when he wins, and her back arches and leans into him when he slips his arms around her from behind and kisses her softly on the neck. He loves her (desperately, unreservedly) because she allows him this victory.
Now when she stands behind him (she sat in his room, waiting, till he came in and saw her and turned away), across a room in an Imladris that is being put together (archway by archway) and the noise of hammers will not stop, it is his back that faces her and only the tenseness of his shoulders reveals sorrow and anger and such betrayal, so for a moment she thinks, crazily, that it is over (as she has thought before, only once). She never had to decipher his back even then (but she knows every ridge, very muscle, every curve of his strong, slender bones), but she has to try now, in this one chance he has given her of even allowing her in his presence.
She does not know when she gathers enough courage to walk towards him, when she throws caution and sense and tact to the winds and places a hand on his shoulder, and feels it stiffen and flinch and move away from her. Nenya - jealous, irascible, hedonistic Nenya - wages her war with Telpe and his smaller, insignificant ring, and storms erupt in Galadriel’s heart and Celeborn’s heart and in that brief moment they see the gains, the love of Doriath and Eregion and Celebrian and Amroth defeated by this warring of jewelry. He half-turns, staring at her hand on his body, a lone muscle tensed in his cheek.
She finds herself on her knees before him then, and some distant part of her mind balks hysterically at this lowering, but she will not dare touch him again (his single, gold ring gleams too accusingly), and she flounders a little, not knowing what do to, her hands reaching for him of their own accord, then drawing back because she has never felt such fear while facing him, not even when he learned of the kinslaying.
And Celeborn looks at her finally, with her vainglorious head bent and weary shoulders stooped as if unable to bear the weight of all that hair in addition to demons, gods and worlds. He reaches out, and lifts her chin (she shivers). His eyes meet hers, and then he looks away (but his treacherous hand rests against her cheek), and he knows she has read his mind, his despair that she has chosen to bind herself to this, yet wants to remain bound to him, yet wants the world at her feet. He wants to tell her that she cannot have everything (but she is Galadriel, she can), that she cannot have him also now (but because she is Galadriel, she can), that her independence is forever defeated (but because she is Galadriel, she wins).
AND HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY DAY august_showers!!!! (Here's to elves and sebastians and rafaels and squee)
And here is your present. :D Mindless, and utterly inconsequential, but Shiva as a party host.
“It is a party,” Shiva said slowly, not condescending yet, like Brahma was little mortal with an even littler brain. “Noise is a prerequisite.”
Brahma folded his arms, and didn’t quite know where to look because Shiva was lounging in the doorway and his white shirt was just beginning to free itself from the low-waisted faded jeans (it is also missing a button). Inwardly, Brahma squirmed because this was not proper and it was entirely decadent to be showing washboard stomachs under tight shirts), and all the gods on the street were not going to be able to keep away from the noise, the women and the alcohol (and many other decidedly illegal things, he was quite sure).
It was really too much, Brahma thought, with no small amount of irritation. Here he was, having to deal with an irate leader of an entirely different religion who thought that all the Hindu gods were a bunch of sex-mad, war-mad cowards who consumed entirely too many legal drugs for their own good, and there was Shiva, throwing parties and proving all these wrong hypotheses correct. And he was wearing jeans.
“Would you like to come in?” Shiva said, quite seriously, but he’s smiling at Brahma’s obvious discomfort. “I’m sure we have some---” He gestured, vaguely, “Lemonade.”
“No,” Brahma said, annoyed. “I don’t want to come in. I don’t want your alcoholic lemonade. I want this damned music to be decreased so that I can have some peace of min, and that other damned fellow who also seems to have nothing to do tonight except sit in my house, converse with my wife, drink my tea, and blaspheme about my extended family, will leave and have no excuses about how this music is disturbing his sleep.”
Shiva considered this. Then he leaned towards Brahma’s ear (and smelled, surprisingly, of cinnamon) and mock-whispered, “Perhaps you should keep a closer watch on your wife.” He grinned then, and his eyes wandered suggestively towards the inside of the house, where the music just got louder and Vishnu seemed to be whooping.
Brahma had half a mind to storm inside, catch Saraswati by her hand and drag her back home, when he stopped and considered that Shiva may not take Brahma’s assaulting one of his guests very kindly, even if the guest happened to be Brahma’s wife. There was a rule in this universe: do not annoy Shiva. It was unilateral, wholly annoying, but it was a rule and if it wasn’t adhered to the world would be reduced to ashes and dust and Brahma would have to re-create and he had just done that and he was facing something like creator’s block now (like writers’ block, only worse, because Shiva decided to end the universe on a very regular basis).
“I’ll decide how to deal with my wife, when the time arises,” Brahma narrowed his eyes, but alas, this seemed to have no effect on Shiva (later, he realized that narrowing one’s eyes at Shiva is a bit redundant, and also a bit lame). “I want the music off at 1 am, I want no drunken lounging on pavements, and I want no spontaneous combustions. Got it?”
“In all fairness,” Ganga said delicately, from her perch in Shiva’s wet, tumbling locks, “I can take care of the spontaneous combustion part.”
“Keep out of it, little girl,” Brahma snapped, and Ganga batted her eyelashes coyly and dived back into Shiva’s head. He lifted one of his four chins at Shiva, and squarely said, “Are we agreed?”
“I don’t recall us ever having agreed that you were going to make the rules,” Shiva said, a belligerent look settling on his face.
Brahma sniffed, delicately. “Convention.”
Shiva raised an eyebrow, and Brahma really did not want to be dragged into a debate about laws and convention and the chicken and the egg and which came first. He shot Shiva what he hoped was a mildly polite threatening glare, and stepped away from the doorway.
“I’ll have her home by 2,” Shiva murmured, just within Brahma’s earshot, and shut the door. “Just when the party’s really about to begin.”
Buddha, sitting under a tree immediately opposite the house, his face shining with its usual, incandescent light, swayed to the music. Brahma gave him an evil look, but Buddha only smiled, and Brahma thought Hmpf. He won’t even be use as a witness because he’s a damned avatar, and this whole idea was probably Vishnu’s.
Celeborn has deciphered Galadriel’s mood from her posture for at least five thousand years, ever since Luthien stormily told him that he was so plainly in love with her, and that everyone knew it, and that he was a fool to try and let her go (and that Galadriel’s shoulders never, never softened except when she was daydreaming about him). This advice always proved correct, and he would never tell Galadriel about it because then she would know and dislike that she could be read, be understood, and would keep her eloquent spine straight, to the point of breaking, all the time.
When she is disturbed (mentally shivering, battling her demons with arrogance and rationality and everything but a sword), her chin lifts in a forward-left angle, tightening her neck (he is infatuated with her neck), and her eyes narrow slightly, ever so slightly (her eyes are her betrayal, he once told her, and she agreed). When she is disturbed, he does not touch her. He waits for her to ask to be touched, then he knows it is safe, that it is genuine, and he then takes her hand and she laces her fingers with his so tightly that it hurts.
Celeborn knows Galadriel loves him because she has never wanted to be free of him. She has chased him, seduced him, hated him, despaired of him (and her willingness to want him), claimed him and, occasionally, broken him. This, he has realized over the many years spent waiting (and watching and touching), is how Galadriel loves (this is the only way she can love). She battles this also, at times. But he knows when she relents, when she accepts, when he wins, and her back arches and leans into him when he slips his arms around her from behind and kisses her softly on the neck. He loves her (desperately, unreservedly) because she allows him this victory.
Now when she stands behind him (she sat in his room, waiting, till he came in and saw her and turned away), across a room in an Imladris that is being put together (archway by archway) and the noise of hammers will not stop, it is his back that faces her and only the tenseness of his shoulders reveals sorrow and anger and such betrayal, so for a moment she thinks, crazily, that it is over (as she has thought before, only once). She never had to decipher his back even then (but she knows every ridge, very muscle, every curve of his strong, slender bones), but she has to try now, in this one chance he has given her of even allowing her in his presence.
She does not know when she gathers enough courage to walk towards him, when she throws caution and sense and tact to the winds and places a hand on his shoulder, and feels it stiffen and flinch and move away from her. Nenya - jealous, irascible, hedonistic Nenya - wages her war with Telpe and his smaller, insignificant ring, and storms erupt in Galadriel’s heart and Celeborn’s heart and in that brief moment they see the gains, the love of Doriath and Eregion and Celebrian and Amroth defeated by this warring of jewelry. He half-turns, staring at her hand on his body, a lone muscle tensed in his cheek.
She finds herself on her knees before him then, and some distant part of her mind balks hysterically at this lowering, but she will not dare touch him again (his single, gold ring gleams too accusingly), and she flounders a little, not knowing what do to, her hands reaching for him of their own accord, then drawing back because she has never felt such fear while facing him, not even when he learned of the kinslaying.
And Celeborn looks at her finally, with her vainglorious head bent and weary shoulders stooped as if unable to bear the weight of all that hair in addition to demons, gods and worlds. He reaches out, and lifts her chin (she shivers). His eyes meet hers, and then he looks away (but his treacherous hand rests against her cheek), and he knows she has read his mind, his despair that she has chosen to bind herself to this, yet wants to remain bound to him, yet wants the world at her feet. He wants to tell her that she cannot have everything (but she is Galadriel, she can), that she cannot have him also now (but because she is Galadriel, she can), that her independence is forever defeated (but because she is Galadriel, she wins).
AND HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY DAY august_showers!!!! (Here's to elves and sebastians and rafaels and squee)
And here is your present. :D Mindless, and utterly inconsequential, but Shiva as a party host.
“It is a party,” Shiva said slowly, not condescending yet, like Brahma was little mortal with an even littler brain. “Noise is a prerequisite.”
Brahma folded his arms, and didn’t quite know where to look because Shiva was lounging in the doorway and his white shirt was just beginning to free itself from the low-waisted faded jeans (it is also missing a button). Inwardly, Brahma squirmed because this was not proper and it was entirely decadent to be showing washboard stomachs under tight shirts), and all the gods on the street were not going to be able to keep away from the noise, the women and the alcohol (and many other decidedly illegal things, he was quite sure).
It was really too much, Brahma thought, with no small amount of irritation. Here he was, having to deal with an irate leader of an entirely different religion who thought that all the Hindu gods were a bunch of sex-mad, war-mad cowards who consumed entirely too many legal drugs for their own good, and there was Shiva, throwing parties and proving all these wrong hypotheses correct. And he was wearing jeans.
“Would you like to come in?” Shiva said, quite seriously, but he’s smiling at Brahma’s obvious discomfort. “I’m sure we have some---” He gestured, vaguely, “Lemonade.”
“No,” Brahma said, annoyed. “I don’t want to come in. I don’t want your alcoholic lemonade. I want this damned music to be decreased so that I can have some peace of min, and that other damned fellow who also seems to have nothing to do tonight except sit in my house, converse with my wife, drink my tea, and blaspheme about my extended family, will leave and have no excuses about how this music is disturbing his sleep.”
Shiva considered this. Then he leaned towards Brahma’s ear (and smelled, surprisingly, of cinnamon) and mock-whispered, “Perhaps you should keep a closer watch on your wife.” He grinned then, and his eyes wandered suggestively towards the inside of the house, where the music just got louder and Vishnu seemed to be whooping.
Brahma had half a mind to storm inside, catch Saraswati by her hand and drag her back home, when he stopped and considered that Shiva may not take Brahma’s assaulting one of his guests very kindly, even if the guest happened to be Brahma’s wife. There was a rule in this universe: do not annoy Shiva. It was unilateral, wholly annoying, but it was a rule and if it wasn’t adhered to the world would be reduced to ashes and dust and Brahma would have to re-create and he had just done that and he was facing something like creator’s block now (like writers’ block, only worse, because Shiva decided to end the universe on a very regular basis).
“I’ll decide how to deal with my wife, when the time arises,” Brahma narrowed his eyes, but alas, this seemed to have no effect on Shiva (later, he realized that narrowing one’s eyes at Shiva is a bit redundant, and also a bit lame). “I want the music off at 1 am, I want no drunken lounging on pavements, and I want no spontaneous combustions. Got it?”
“In all fairness,” Ganga said delicately, from her perch in Shiva’s wet, tumbling locks, “I can take care of the spontaneous combustion part.”
“Keep out of it, little girl,” Brahma snapped, and Ganga batted her eyelashes coyly and dived back into Shiva’s head. He lifted one of his four chins at Shiva, and squarely said, “Are we agreed?”
“I don’t recall us ever having agreed that you were going to make the rules,” Shiva said, a belligerent look settling on his face.
Brahma sniffed, delicately. “Convention.”
Shiva raised an eyebrow, and Brahma really did not want to be dragged into a debate about laws and convention and the chicken and the egg and which came first. He shot Shiva what he hoped was a mildly polite threatening glare, and stepped away from the doorway.
“I’ll have her home by 2,” Shiva murmured, just within Brahma’s earshot, and shut the door. “Just when the party’s really about to begin.”
Buddha, sitting under a tree immediately opposite the house, his face shining with its usual, incandescent light, swayed to the music. Brahma gave him an evil look, but Buddha only smiled, and Brahma thought Hmpf. He won’t even be use as a witness because he’s a damned avatar, and this whole idea was probably Vishnu’s.