His Match

Tindalómë wrung her hands while a servant carefully laced the back of her gown. Despite her wishes for a simple gown this day, Elendil’s lady saw to it that an exquisite garment was made for the bride of her eldest son to wear on their wedding day. Tindalómë stole a glance at her reflection. She could almost scowl at her simple form clad in pale sea foam green and gold silk. Her raven hair was arranged in shiny ringlets and Tindalómë almost wished the face they framed was more like the ones the local beauties possessed. Surely others would agree that such an ordinary looking woman looked ridiculous in clothing made for a Queen.

She was a daughter born into a mariner’s house. Tindalómë became familiar with her father’s ships from the time she could walk, and as she grew in age and strength of mind, she learned to manage her father’s business in his absence. There were those who said her father had been blessed with a faithful son placed into a female body. Tindalómë was a creature born and bred for books as well as hard work, not to be worshipped for her loveliness by enamored suitors. She never paid much attention to Elendil’s son, even though he often darkened the doorway to her father’s storehouse. It wasn’t until Isildur began to address her personally that Tindalómë became hopelessly aware of herself and what she lacked. Ever since she first caused Isildur to laugh and turn his smile her way, Tindalómë secretly longed to be beautiful.

Now that the day of her wedding arrived, Tindalómë could barely contain her disappointment that her hidden wish had not been granted. When Tindalómë saw the gown that was so graciously made for her this day, she silently hoped it would somehow transform her. Unfortunately, her reflection in the mirror confirmed that she remained the same as before. But there was no time to mourn for such a thing. Once the servants and the ladies of the house finished with their preparations, Tindalómë was escorted to the great hall of the house.  Due to the rising dangers and strict laws enforced by Ar-Pharazôn’s men, the wedding ceremony would be held in secret, attended only by family.

A wide smile spread across Isildur’s face once his bride entered the appointed room. For awhile, Tindalómë’s fears were cast aside while she was able to see the happiness that shone forth in her bridegroom’s gray eyes. She could hear the sincerity and admiration in Isildur’s voice as he spoke his vows to of loyalty to her and asked Eru to bless their union. Tindalómë knew he had always treasured her company, and would likely continue to do so in the future. She knew he admired her strength of will along with the agility of her mind. Tindalómë’s mother always assured her that her body was strong and would easily bear the toil of childbirth in order to fill Isildur’s house with many sturdy sons.  Her hands could create beautiful things and her heart was filled with love. Hopefully all she had to offer would make her a far better prize than any pretty thing that required constant pampering.

Atlast, Isildur interlaced his fingers with hers and Tindalómë watched as Amandil, the last Lord of Andunie wrapped the silken marriage cord around their joined hands as he blessed their marriage. She could feel tears prickle in behind her eyes. For many long years they had waited for this day. Tindalómë’s happy laughter filled the room the room when Isildur lifted her into his arms and spun once. Isildur’s lips embraced her own, pushing away any lingering doubt’s Tindalómë might have of his love for her. Yes, she would make him happy, Tindalómë was sure of it.

The wedding feast was far more than Tindalómë ever expected. The songs and dancing went well into the evening. The moon neared its peak in the sky when the newlyweds finally said their goodnights to the rest of the family. The couple remained in an unusual silence while they walked to their marriage chambers. Usually they could always find something to say, but now Tindalómë was sure Isildur could hear the thumping of her heart even from where he stood beside her.  

A few servants lingered in the chambers the newlyweds would now share. Isildur lifted Tindalómë’s hand to his lips before he disappeared through one of the doorways. The remaining servants whisked Tindalómë away to the bedchamber. They worked quickly to remove Tindalómë’s jewelry and help her out of her wedding garb. The ladies dressed her in a long gauzy nightgown. The fabric felt wonderfully soft against her skin, but Tindalómë could not withhold the flush that heated her cheeks once she noticed how the garment did little to obscure her body. She turned to ask the servants for a robe, except the door clicked shut behind them before the words could move past her lips. Tindalómë’s sigh was the only sound in the room. She turned around to see the large bed with its soft coverings and piles of soft pillows. As a child, she would have killed for such a bed to jump on, but this night the sight of it only served to bring about a fresh wave of anxiety. She needed to do something, anything, to occupy her mind. Tindalómë’s hand brushed through the tangles of her raven hair before she snatched up the brush that sat upon the small vanity table.

Tindalómë lowered herself onto the stool that sat in front of the table. Maybe if she looked into the reflection of her eyes in the mirror it would somehow still the shaking of her hands. She had just begun the task of smoothing her locks when the door opened. The brush dropped clumsily from Tindalómë’s hands when Isildur entered the room. For a second her heart seemed to stop. Her new husband was dressed in nothing but a pair of simple breeches, his chest was not hidden by a shirt, allowing Tindalómë to marvel at the toned muscles underneath the skin, or the dusting of dark hair upon his torso. Isildur’s long dark hair flowed free over his shoulders; a few errant strands covered the side of his face. Tindalómë felt her body go weak when her bridegroom flashed her one of his dashing smiles. Her nervousness increased tenfold to see her beloved this way and she became aware of her own body. She was thankful for the coverage her long hair provided. Hopefully Isildur would blow out the lamps in the room before Tindalómë was required to undress.

Her heart thudded within her chest as Isildur took a few slow strides towards her. But instead of forcing his bride from her seat, Isildur knelt to retrieve the brush that lay at Tindalómë’s feet. His hand reached out to gently take a lock of Tindalómë’s hair once he stood. Much to her surprise, Isildur began to carefully run the brush through her raven tresses, his fingers trailed ahead of the bristles to gently undo any tangles they encountered.  The action took Tindalómë by surprise. Isildur had always been kind and gentle towards her, despite being a man of great strength and prowess as a mariner, scholar, and warrior. Yet, this was one of the last things Tindalómë expected him to do.  The motions of his hands were slow and measured, and suddenly she realized he was watching the way the dark strands moved under his care. The happy light in his eye made him appear almost like a child looking on in wonderment at a beloved treasure.

“Do you think you would ever find me beautiful?” Tindalómë’s question caught her by surprise, and she instantly wished to take it back. She inwardly cursed herself for buckling under vulnerability.  Tindalómë quickly cast eyes towards the floor, afraid to see the look upon her husband’s face. A seemingly endless second passed before Isildur’s fingers cupped Tindalómë’s chin and lifted it so their eyes met.

“And what makes you think you haven’t been beautiful all this time?”

The sincerity in his tone nearly brought tears to Tindalómë’s eyes, her voice cracked slightly when she spoke. “I am not like the other noblewomen in this city. You could have had any one of them.”

“Maybe that is so,” Isildur murmured as he cupped Tindalómë’s face between his hands, his thumb traced lazy circles upon her cheek. “But why would I want them when my match is right here in front of me.”

Tindalómë gasped when Isildur suddenly swept her up into his arms. Another debonair smile was upon his face as he carried her over to the large bed and gently placed her upon it. The mattress shifted slightly while Isildur lay down beside her. Tindalómë looked up into his eyes while he leaned upon his elbow. Her eyes fluttered shut as Isildur traced a fingertip along the side of her face before allowing it to drag along her neck and the bared skin the wide neckline of her nightgown exposed. His breath tickled against her earlobe.

“I could tell you how beautiful you are in my eyes, meleth nín. But I would rather show you this night, if you would so allow me the honor?”

Tindalómë opened her eyes to see Isildur’s darkened with the same level of passion that was carried in his whisper. When his lips claimed hers, Tindalómë met them without fear. Both of them pulled away breathlessly from a kiss that set them both ablaze. Tindalómë could not help but blush when the flicker of candlelight cast illumination onto the wicked grin upon her new husband’s face. She released him only long enough to pull the sheer curtains around their marriage bed before pulling him close once more. Tindalómë kissed Isildur once more with all the unashamed passion she could muster within her being before their bodies fell onto the rumpled sheets in a mass of tangled limbs and joined heartbeats.