Mainly Concerning Gandalf...
Mainly Concerning Gandalf...
“So I thought,” Tindómë finished her explanation to Gandalf, “that you could use my blood, and Radagast’s window, to open a portal so that Spike could come here…”
Gandalf looked at her for long moments, his face as expressionless as that of an ancient elf in a gathering of dwarves, before he replied.
“No,” he said.
“No?” she asked.
“No. Most certainly not. Bringing someone who is not even a normal mortal, but a… construct whose roots may lie in the work of Morgoth, to Valinor is most certainly not something for which I would be responsible. Even though you see him as a force for good not evil.”
“But… but… I can’t just leave him there! He helped to stop me from fading when Willow pulled me back there. Now it’s my turn to help him. And you know
I can only close portals on my own, not open them.” She was very close to tears.
“Little one,” Gandalf told her, “you did not listen to what I actually said – you heard only what you thought I said.”
“Huh? You’re being all wizardly, and speaking in riddles, and I am so not in the mood.”
“I did not say that you are not to do anything to help Spike. I said it was not within my sphere of responsibility.” Gandalf’s voice remained calm.
“I’m not getting it…” Tindómë felt she might very easily lose her temper.
“Tindómë,” he really had that ‘I am only lecturing you for your own good’ vibe perfected, “what you are asking is something which has not been done before, something that could unbalance the very fabric of Arda. For this you would need to seek an audience with the Valar.”
“Oh.” That made sense.
“And,” Gandalf went on, in a more gentle tone, “as your honorary grandfather I am willing to approach them on your behalf and ask that they allow you to bring your request to them.”
“M’kay… It’s not exactly what I wanted to hear, but I guess I’ll deal. Do you think they’ll be okay with it?”
do not know. But I will ask that you may have an audience – and that will have to suffice!”
“I guess… Yeah. Thanks.” She paused, then reached over and hugged the Maia. “Really, thank you. That makes sense, really, and I do appreciate that you’ll ask them to see me. Um – how long, do you think?”
When he awoke Spike could hardly believe that he had spoken to Dawn; that she had contacted him just as she had previously contacted Buffy. But it really couldn’t have just been a dream. Had it been a dream, he was sure, he would have imagined her in the surroundings he had once seen, amongst trees, not in a room overlooking the sea. No, it had definitely been real.
He thought over their conversation. She had expected Buffy to be dead, but was still upset to have this confirmed; she had asked too many questions about what he was doing himself, and how he was coping… and now he had promised her that he would do everything within his power to remain as alive as he had been these last couple of centuries. She had been so upset at the thought of not being able to reach him, though – and he had never been able to disappoint her when she looked at him like that…
He wasn’t sure whether he was annoyed that he had promised not to let himself dust, or pleased that at least Dawn cared whether he dusted or not. Ah well, he thought, time to set off to check out the graveyards and pick up the week’s blood supply. He stretched a couple of times and then, trying to dispel Dawn from his mind for the moment, got up from his bed.
Rumil stretched like a cat where he lay down on his bed. Well, their bed. He folded his hands behind his head and watched his wife. She leant on the windowsill, silhouetted by the moonlight, craned her neck to look out as far to either side as she could through the open, un-shuttered, window, and then sighed and moved to the chair in front of the mirror. She began to undo the braids in her hair, stopped and looked vacantly into space for a few minutes, and then got up and went back to the window.
She was as restive as the sea or the leaves in the rising wind.
“I know there is no point in telling you that Mithrandir will come when he will come, or that no more time need pass in the other place than it does here if that is the will of the Valar – for it did not when Radagast helped us bring you home. But come to me, meleth, and I will help the night pass for you…”
He could feel her smile, even though she did not immediately turn from the window and, as the breeze lifted the hair she had loosened, he got up to his feet and went to stand behind her.
He slowly undid the other braids, and dropped kisses on the top of her head, before sliding her under-dress down from her shoulders and lifting her hair to run his tongue along the sensitive skin behind her ear. It took very little time before she softened back against him and made small, contented, sounds.
“If I had built this house,” he said to her, “I would have made the window a different height…”
He shared with her a mental image of her sitting on the windowsill, her cleft at the right height for him to easily sheath his cristhen; whereas the reality would have required that he stand on a box. He shared that image with her as well.
She giggled. “I’m sure you could easily do that,” she said, “the one I use is under the bed.”
He smiled at the memories they had already made in this bedroom. Tindómë had made sure that they brought a particular one of their storage boxes upstairs when they arrived – it made her just the right height for them to comfortably join whilst standing.
“If I brought it here to the window then you
could stand on it,” he said, “and then …”
This time the image was of him joining with her from behind whilst she still leant on the windowsill, gazing out as if she had not noticed. It was followed quickly by one of him sticking his tongue out at her – they each knew the pleasure of both was better for both.
“I think the Teleri must have different priorities,” Rumil said. “I am sure the importance of the height of the window sill for enjoying the desires of the body would have occurred to one of the Galadhrim or the Ithilrim.”
Tindómë did not immediately answer, but smiled as she squirmed around in his arms so that she was now facing him, and brought his mouth down to hers.
Then, through their bond-link, he heard her voice clearly. ‘Different priorities can still be good…’
And this time the image passed from her to him – of Tindómë sitting on the windowsill with legs wide apart, ‘for balance’ said her mental voice, and Rumil positioned with his head level with her cleft, his tongue just touching her…
A few minutes later she clearly decided that hooking her feet around his back was an even better way to keep her balance, and make sure she didn’t tip back and fall, as he kept her just at the point of flight and listened to the small cries of pleasure that drifted out into the rising wind.
It took quite a few more nights of distraction before Gandalf did reappear in Alqualondë.
Gandalf’s news was, at least, not bad; not good, but not bad either.
“M’kay… so the Valar want me to go and ask them personally before they will say yes or no to Spike coming here. That means I’ve got to go to Valimar?”
“Yes. They wish you to appear before them in the Máhanaxar,” Gandalf expounded.
“That’s, like, the Ring of Doom?”
“I have heard it called that,” the Maia agreed, “but it is simply where they hold court. They have asked you to appear before them at their court. Think of it as being no different to Édoras, or The Hall of the Kings of Gondor… or the Throne Room of Legolas’ father, which I know you have also visited. Although,” he added, and Tindómë thought there might be a hint of grim satisfaction in his voice, “perhaps the name you give is best suited to this particular exploit, as you are called to attend so that they may decide the doom of this vampire…”
cristhen - shortsword - Galadhrim slang for penis.