I've Hungered for Your Touch by oshun

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I've Hungered for Your Touch

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The sun had set before I had finished my uncharacteristically careful toilet. I had braided my thick, wild hair away from my face and fastened it on top of my head in a wreath. I allowed the rest of it to hang loose down my back. A long, flowing tunic of finely-woven pale wool, which had belonged to my mother, fit snugly across my chest—not too snugly I hoped. I did not want to be remembered only for my ample bosom. I grudgingly thought that I might not be beautiful, but with a little effort, I could look pretty for a night at least. My youth was an asset, as was my high color. Everyone agreed that my father had been a comely man before his face had become so careworn in recent years. I remembered thinking my mother was beautiful when I was a little girl. People have told me that I look like my mother.

Our people found a little rose in a woman’s cheeks appealing. I’d liked that a lot about Caranthir. His complexion was fair to the point of translucent, but he had rosy cheeks and he blushed easily—two things that I liked. He might be able to read my thoughts, but I could read his face.

Admiring my reflection in the back of my father’s shield, I decided that I looked appropriately womanly without appearing to have primped and fussed too much. My pride could not tolerate that. I did not see a stranger in my mirror image, but a slightly nicer-looking version of myself. I had no choice but to be satisfied with the result. I did hope he might find me attractive. Comeliness mattered a lot to most men. Too much perhaps. However, I thought with relief, he wasn’t most men. He seemed to see more in a person, to see beyond the surface. And, I thought he needed heartsease every bit as much as I did. I’d seen the strain in his eyes, which could be so soft and warm at times and periodically closed and guarded. On occasion, his tension showed in the set of his jaw as well. I imagined with a thrill that, given a chance, I might be able to make him forget some of his troubles for an evening.

The aroma of meat—spit-roasted pheasants—overwhelmed me before I reached the sandy beach on the Ascar they had chosen for their gathering. Both Elves and Men avoided the recently polluted bank of the River Gelion, where the Noldor had driven the orcs to drown. The Gelion was no longer despoiled from the battle, because of its size and the strength of its current and the efforts made to clear it. But it was nevertheless avoided because of the foul associations.

When I reached the bonfire, I instantly spotted Caranthir, not insouciant and happily quaffing a mug like most of his men. He sat erect on a long log, head held high, his expression solemn and shoulders straight, a picture of tense expectancy.

If I had worried that I would look as though I had preened excessively to prepare for this rendezvous, I should not have. I had never seen him more exquisitely groomed. His midnight hair, brushed to a high-sheen, fell glossy over his shoulders and down his back. He wore an elegant crimson tunic, with full sleeves cuffed tightly at his wrists and a deep opening at the chest. The light of the fire caught the shimmer of a small diamond-encrusted, eight-pointed star—the sigil of his house—on a fragile gold chain at his throat.

I wished I had worn my mother’s opal earrings. I could not match Fëanorian jewels but, simple as they were, my lesser gems were perfect in their own right. Then I thought ruefully that it could not have mattered less, nothing I could do would permit me to match his beauty. My only choice was to accept myself as I was and enjoy his splendor.

He stood and bowed at the waist, looking up at me, his smile shy and his eyes warm. “I am so happy that you came.”

“I told you I would!” He grinned at me. By then he had grown accustomed to my bristliness and more often than not found it amusing.

“I’ve saved you a seat,” he leaned forward to whisper in my ear, nodding toward an ample space on the log for the two us. I moved to sit and he grabbed my arm. “Wait! Let me find something for you to sit on. I don’t want you to spoil your lovely gown.”

His ever attentive young squire rushed over to us, holding a rustic blanket. “Will this do, sire?”

“Thank you. This is perfect. What would I do without you?”

The lad grinned, thoroughly pleased. “Tis nothing, my lord.”

We settled ourselves on the log. The closeness of our bodies felt comfortable and yet somehow intimate. I decided he might be courting me. My awareness of his altered demeanor made my heart ache and my blood race. I had intended to entice him, but I had not expected his intentions to run along the same line.

“You look lovely tonight,” he said. The intensity of his bashful gaze left no doubt in my mind as to whether he was sincere or not. He certainly did not strike me as the sort to invent fine phrases to beguile a woman.

Since I was a young girl, I had not felt at ease with that sort of compliment, but I took the advice my mother had always offered and said, “Thank you.”

The game was soon ready to eat. I was ravenous. While I ate, I glanced about the company. I spotted a large number of my own people, including most of my shield-maidens. Word had spread about the much-lauded bard perhaps. Or mayhap simply the idea of eating again had drawn them here! Several days after their arrival, we were still eager at the thought of any food, but especially meat. We had survived on a diminishing supply of grain and tubers for far too long. I watched people sniff with interest and respond with approval or curiosity at the foreign spices that the Noldorin cooks used on the fowl. The Dwarven ale they brought with them was flowing freely. The Noldor liked to drink. I hoped it was not too strong for my girls. But I reminded myself I was not their mother or their wet-nurse.

They called their singer Calyaro. He was another moody, quiet Elf, somewhat like Caranthir, another exception to the rule. The Noldor I encountered within Caranthir’s company were talkative and loved to argue; they laughed, sang, and danced when at leisure, flirted with one another and our youth. In the past, I had heard it said that the Noldorin Elves were remote and disdainful. As soon as I had spoken with a few of them at any length, I decided they were neither. When they were serious, they maintained a fierce focus. They were athletic warriors, proud of their hard-won martial skills and their discipline. Plain-spoken they freely admitted to cultivating practical skills to a level of genius and loved to describe their famous craftsmanship as well.

Before I met Caranthir’s soldiers, I might have thought that Elves, with their beauty and otherworldly grace, would be lordly pretty boys. I could not have been more wrong if the Noldor I had come to know were a fair sample. As my father would have said they had ‘their feet planted on the ground.’ They played hard and worked harder. The Sindar in their company modeled their ethics upon those of the majority.

But the Noldor, as exuberant as they could be in their leisure time, guarded a shadow lurking within the depths of their bright eyes, intriguing and compelling, mayhap even a little dangerous. I had already heard rumors of dark secrets then and would be privy to more later, but I respected their bravery and owed them a debt of gratitude which I could never recompense. I looked at Caranthir that night, mesmerized by his broody beauty and self-containment, and decided that I did not want to know anything he chose not to share with me.

When the minstrel Calyaro finally sang, he transformed himself from a dour-faced silent type into an enchanter. He wove pictures with his voice of stirring deeds of valor, wrongs to be righted, as well as high romance. And what a marvelous voice! That humble river bank had never echoed with such a wall of sound and all of it created with a simple lap harp and the voice of a single man. If Caranthir’s famous brother was better than this, I thought he must indeed be a wizard.

Calyaro began the evening’s entertainment with a familiar song. His audience murmured approval at his choice. I could not understand a word, but Caranthir whispered a not poetic but serviceable translation of it into my ear. I shivered at his warm breath tickling my ear and neck. As he leaned closer his muscled thigh pressed against my leg. I wondered if he was as aware of our bodies touching as I was. The sensation thrilled me.

Unlike the Sindarin songs I had heard, all about nature, trees, waterfalls, and glorious mountains and green valleys, his opening ballad was about a shimmering white city of high towers and wide avenues lit by magical trees of unimaginable power which waxed and waned with golden and silver light. Caranthir explained this was the city where his grandfather had ruled as king. He insisted it was not a tale of a fairie land, but one as real and ordinary to him growing up as the forests and vales of East Beleriand were to me.

Calyaro sang several rousing battle songs in Sindarin and the company stomped and clapped in time, adding their voices to the choruses. Then to quiet them, he turned to simple songs they might have learned at a grandmother’s knee.

“That’s enough for now,” he said, ending the virtuoso performance abruptly. The crowd clapped with enthusiasm, a few calling out for more. He held a hand up to quiet them. “There will be another time. I live to sing, you know,” he said laconically. “But now, I need a drink.”

Caranthir swiftly compiled. He pulled the flask from his pocket that he had offered me that first day on the battlefield and handed it to the bard. “I think you’ll find this to your taste.”

He took a generous swig. Unlike me, he did not cough. “My lord, you know me well. That is a magnificent brew,” he said offering it back to Caranthir.

“Keep it.”

“Easy to say when it’s almost empty.” Calyaro bowed deeply, obviously pleased, but with a tight grin of suppressed laughter quirking around his mouth.

“I meant the container, Caro. It’s of some considerable value!” Caranthir gave a short laugh, enjoying the banter.

“Some value indeed, my lord!” He whistled softly. “It’s an heirloom. I cannot take it for a song.”

Caranthir gave him a melancholy half-smile. “Not one song, but several, and years of service and loyalty. Anyway, what value is an heirloom to one who will never father an heir? Ask my squire and he’ll refill it for you. Tell him I said to use the good stuff.”

“Thank you, sire. I’ll accept both. Is this your father’s work?”

“Nay, but as fine as to be indistinguishable from his. My brother Curufin made it in his glory days as my father’s best apprentice. I’ll rather enjoy telling him I traded it for a song.” Calyaro and Caranthir both enjoyed a wicked laugh, apparently, at a private joke that I did not understand.

“Perhaps you could add a song or two of your own in further thanks,” Calyaro said.

I liked that idea very much. “Do you sing also, Caranthir?” I asked.

He groaned and blushed a firery red. “I can carry a tune—barely though!”

Calyaro shook his head. “Don’t listen to him. He has a better than good, if untrained, voice. And perfect pitch. All of Maglor’s brothers sing well, but they are too vain to admit it. Afraid to be compared with a natural wonder amongst our people! I always ask him to sing, because he knows more songs than I do.”

“I have a good memory,” Caranthir said. turning to me. “My brother sang for us every night and he composed in the room next to my bedroom throughout my childhood!”

“I want to hear you sing,” I said. I probably should not have pressed him, but I can be like a hound with a bone in his teeth when I want something.

“Fine, Lady Haleth,” he said, with emphasis on the ‘lady’ to tease me. “Your wish is my command. But only a short one and don’t compare me to the last singer.” He turned to Calyaro. “Do you know Macalaurë’s ‘Unchained Melody’?”

“Sorry, my lord. I’ve never heard of it. If you want to use my priceless harp, I trust you won’t drop it and step on it.” The silent crowd, who had been listening with rapt attention to the exchange, chuckled at the bard’s jibe. They wanted to hear Caranthir sing as much as I did.

“All right then. Give me the harp. I will handle it with the utmost care.” His patient audience burst into applause, punctuated by a few sharp whistles of approval.

His voice, soft at first, grew bigger as he relaxed. He conveyed a sense of someone sharing a confidence with the listener rather than an expert rendition capable of drawing a desired emotional response from his audience. It contained none of the magical skill of the bard. And the song he chose appealed to his listeners.

“Lonely rivers flow to the sea,” he crooned. A deep sigh rippled through his audience. When he reached the end of the first verse, “Lonely rivers sigh, wait for me, wait for me./I'll be coming home. Wait for me.” I heard more than a few audible sobs—from none other than these tough, arrogant Noldorin soldiers who seemed at times to think they knew everything or could learn it in a heartbeat. I empathized without knowing the story behind the effect he had on his countrymen. No wonder they wanted to hear him to sing. They’d heard him sing before. He enchanted me without any of the polished artistry Calyaro had used to capture our hearts.

My heart cracked, although I managed to not sob or sniff, when he sang the lines near the end: “Oh, my love, my darling I've hungered for/Your touch, a long lonely time.” A tear rolled down my cheek. I had been looking straight ahead beyond the dwindling bonfire toward the river, not wanting to reveal the depth of sensibilities he aroused in me. I lost the thread of the Sindarin words and missed the meaning of the last few lines. Years later I encountered someone who knew the complete lyrics and wrote them down for me, but that is another story entirely. I turned to look at his face to find his expressive black eyes were fixed upon me with shockingly open tenderness.

The entire gathering broke into applause. “Thank you. Thank you for your generosity,” he stuttered. “You liked it!” he whispered to me, as though surprised.

“I loved it. Like Calyaro said, you have a beautiful voice.”

“That’s not what he said!”

“Maybe not those exact words, but that’s what he meant,” I insisted.

We might have continued bickering for quite a while, but we made eye contact and broke out laughing.

“My brother Macalaurë—he’s called Maglor now—left his wife across the sea. Actually, he begged her to come and she refused. He has been slow accepting that. Who wouldn’t be? He wrote this song in our early years here.”

“Did you leave a wife or sweetheart behind?”

“No! More’s the pity. I had no one to leave.”

His singing had demonstrated a charm that far overshadowed Calyaro’s virtuosity for me. The self-conscious modesty and painfully honest melancholic self-reflection that infused his plain and simple interpretation ripped my heart apart and put it back together again.

“It’s perfect,” I said, meaning his singing more than the song.

“Macalaurë doesn’t think so.”

“Why not?” I asked.

There was nothing to be gained from arguing any further on the quality of his performance. He would believe what he believed and was stubborn enough to keep debating.

“It’s a simple, old-fashioned love song. He prefers grand, epic pieces based on world-shaking events, or innovative ones with complicated and difficult artistic elements, or both.”

He refused to sing again despite repeated requests. It must have been past midnight; the air was cooling fast. I shivered and he put his arm around me. Others were snuggling closer as well and we seemed to draw little attention.

“Are you tired?” he asked.

“Tired but happy. I’ve enjoyed the evening very much. I hate for it to end.”