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Touch the Sky

happy birthday to @scene-88!! here’s your present!! (tw for transphobia and misgendering)

The child’s future stretched out before him, and Merilon closed his eyes. “I see you, my child,“ he whispered. "You will touch the sky.” Above him, the stars twinkled, laughing at a joke only they had heard.

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Merilon knew from the moment he held the child in his arms that there was something different about him.

Arasseth teased him, saying he was too sensitive and that their son would grow to be a fine young elf. He would be special, of course, because he was their son, and different as everyone was different from each other, but the child was beautiful and strong. There was nothing especially different about him.

But Merilon knew his wife was wrong. Arasseth was wonderful, the light of his life, with her soft brown hair and pale green eyes that sparkled when she smiled, but she was perhaps a little too practical. She was wise and intelligent, a teacher and a scholar among their small village at the edge of the Greenwood, but she did not believe in local superstitions and deeper senses.

Merilon was of a softer conscience. He found wonder in the everyday things in life: a blooming flower, a perfectly symmetrical leaf, a bird’s warbling song. He stargazed and dreamed, and his imagination often brought frustration to his more logical wife. But in the end they loved each other, and found joy in their differences.

Their first child was born on a new moon. The stars shone brighter than Merilon had ever seen them before, and it all seemed the more wondrous to him as he held his newborn child in his arms. He could not say from where the thought came, or what it meant, but he knew from the moment he saw the shock of red hair on the child’s head, so much like his own, that this was no ordinary infant.

The child’s future stretched out before him, and Merilon closed his eyes. He felt the infant’s soul, so new and bright and hopeful and somehow so different, and he knew. He held his son close and whispered, "I see you, my child. You will touch the sky.”

Above him, the stars twinkled, laughing at a joke only they had heard.

Arasseth worried. Her son was either too quiet or too loud; too happy or too sad. He played with girls, he cried, he spent far too much time wandering in the forest instead of with his studies. She tried to tell him he ought to read more, he ought to make friends with the village boys, he ought to be more of a man. He was turning twenty soon, nearing adolescence.

Merilon told her not to worry. Their child was doing nothing wrong, he was simply finding his own way in life. Merilon didn’t tell her about the times their child had come to him with tears in his eyes, crying that he didn’t want to be like the other boys, that he wanted to wear dresses like his female friends did and that he didn’t want to be a scholar like his mother.

“Ada, you and Naneth are always calling me a boy,” he confided one time, curled in Merilon’s arms. “But I’m not a boy.”

“Oh?” Merilon said. He looked down at his child with interest. This was new, though he could not say he was particularly surprised.

The child looked up at him with his wide green eyes full of worry. “No. I feel like a girl.”

“What do you mean?” Merilon asked.

His child sighed, his brows creasing in a thoughtful frown. “It’s hard to explain. Most days I feel like a girl, I just am. Other times I don’t. Instead I feel as big and wide as the sky, or as bright and distant as the stars.” He looked at his father, the agonizing look in his eyes enough to tear Merilon’s heart in two. “But I’m not a boy, I’m never a boy.”

Merilon hugged his child tightly, full of love. “And what are you today? Are you a girl, or are you something else?”

“Today I am a girl,” the child whispered.

“Then today you are my daughter,” Merilon said softly, running his hands through the child’s reddish hair, so much like his own. It was a rare color for Silvan elves such as themselves, and Merilon had earned his name, meaning “rose”, from its hue.

The girl embraced him. “I thought you would not believe me.”

“I will always believe you, my daughter,” he said. “Always.” He paused. “Dearest, what shall I call you? Are you a he or a she? Do you wish your name to be less like a boy’s?”

The girl hesitated, before answering, “I am a she, even when I am not a girl. And my name is not what you and Naneth named me. Ada, could you call me…could you call me Tauriel?”

“Tauriel,” Merilon said, trying the new name. It felt good on his tongue—it felt right, as if that was supposed to have been her name all along. “It means daughter of the forest, doesn’t it?”

She nodded shyly, her smile lighting up her face. She reminded Merilon of her mother in that respect: the smile, the light, the joy—that was all Arasseth’s.

“The forest has raised me as much as you and Naneth have,” Tauriel said. “The birds sing to me, the leaves whisper to me. I have learned more from them than any of Naneth’s books. I love the forest as much as I love the stars.”

“It is a good name,” Merilon assured her. “It fits you.”

“Ada, what shall I tell Naneth?” Tauriel asked.

“You do not have to tell her anything you do not wish, Tauriel,” he said. He saw her smile, a flash of white teeth and dimpled cheeks, as he said her name. Then it vanished in a flash, worry clouding her eyes again.

“I know.” She looked away. “But I do not like it when she calls me her son or insists I must act more like a boy. I’m not a boy. I don’t know if she’ll believe me.”

“I believe you, Tauriel,” Merilon said. “I will stand by you. And she may not understand, not at first, but she loves you.”

Tauriel looked up at him with love. Merilon embraced her and felt that thrill again, the same as he had felt when he had first held her as a newborn baby. She was meant for bigger things, this child. She would touch the sky.

Above them, the wind danced through the rustling leaves, whispering warnings only they could hear.

Arasseth did not understand. When Tauriel told her, shy but comforted by the reassuring presence of her father, Arasseth only looked at her in perplexion.

“What do you mean, you’re not a boy?” she asked. “Of course you are a boy, you have been since the day you were born.”

“Arasseth…” Merilon said, a note of warning in his voice.

She ignored him. She was too headstrong sometimes, his wife. Most times, he loved her for it, but when it came to Tauriel, she was too stubborn. She saw in her only what she wanted her daughter to be, not what she actually was.

“I don’t understand this,” Arasseth proclaimed. “You are my son.”

“No, I’m not,” Tauriel said with heartbreak in her voice.

“Arasseth, please.” Merilon glared at her, holding Tauriel’s hand protectively.

His wife scowled. “Go out and play, dear,” she told her child. “I need to talk to your father.”

Around them, the walls of their home closed in, hissing threats only they heard in words. But Tauriel felt their intent: she was not welcome there.

“…Arasseth, she knows herself better than you do,” Ada said.

“I’m his mother. I thought silly things like this when I was his age, too, Merilon, but that didn’t make them true.”

Every word her mother said pierced Tauriel to the core. She had hoped, after her father had so lovingly accepted her, that her mother would believe her as well. But Naneth had instead been mocking, even laughing at the thought that she could be anything other than her perfect son.

She had left as Naneth had told her to, but she had not gone very far. She listened at the door, her heart breaking with every hurtful sentence Naneth said.

“This is not something you or I can relate to, but that does not make it something that is not true,” Ada said. He sounded almost angry. Tauriel had never heard such a tone in his voice before; he had always been the kind and understanding parent. Naneth was fun and smart and brave, and Tauriel wanted to be like her: a great warrior, a knowledgeable elf. But she did not want to be a perfect scholar son.

“If we entertain these fantasies, we will only stunt his growth,” Naneth insisted. “I want him to grow into a man. He’s almost twenty, Merilon. He needs to grow up soon.”

Tauriel fought back tears. She hated those words: he, him, his. It was not the words themselves, but the connotations that came along with them, that insistence that she was a boy.

“This is not a fantasy!” Ada growled. “This is our daughter. We must love her as she is, not as we want her to be.”

Every time Ada called her his daughter, she felt a surge of joy. She had hidden this part of her for so long, hearing him confirm and validate her made her feel more real. This was a part of her, even if some days the feeling of being a girl was gone, replaced by something entirely different. But daughter was the right word.

Naneth sighed. “Alright, Merilon. I’ll humor him…her, for your sake. What does h… What does she want to be called again?”

That fakery, the forced corrections, hurt almost as much as the wrong words did. Was Tauriel really such a burden on her mother? Was she really so difficult to comprehend, to accept? She wished she had kept this secret locked inside her, not told her mother, not told anyone.

“Her name is Tauriel.” The anger in Ada’s voice made Tauriel’s skin crawl. She knew he was defending her, that he was on her side, but the tenderness was all gone, replaced by something darker. And this was her fault. She had caused this split between her parents, the anger so foreign to her father’s gentle nature.

“She must not tell anyone else,” Naneth said. “I don’t want this getting out to the neighbors.”

“She may tell whoever she wishes to tell,” Ada said flatly.

Tauriel left at that point, to crawl into her bed and wish she was a boy like Naneth wanted, or had been called a girl at birth. The strangeness, the fluctuation in her gender, would be easier to explain if she was not also a girl. She knew the word would never get out to her neighbors that she was different and wrong. If any of them took it half as bad as Naneth had, it would not be worth it.

Beneath her, the ground murmured apologies, but they fell on deaf ears.

Three days later, Tauriel felt different. She was restless, the change in her soul triggering a wanderlust only the forest could quench. She was not a girl in those moments. She felt distant, far away, and bright. She felt as if the stars swirled within her.

She wandered through the forest, letting the trees speak to her. She walked to the edge, beyond the forest, and the openness of the fields astonished her. The night was free and clear, and she saw the stars fully for the first time in all their glory. She smiled.

She returned home the next day. Naneth had been worried sick at her absence, but Tauriel shrugged off her concerns. She was fine, and the artificial calmness that Naneth exuded every time she walked in the room—the false dears, the forced shes, the hesitant Tauriels—hurt like a bruise on her foot, forgotten until she took another step. She had needed to get away.

Ada said nothing. He knew she could take care of herself. She endured her mother’s company for a few minutes, then excused herself to her room.

Ada found her curled up in bed, trying not to think about anything.

“Tauriel, what is wrong?” he asked gently, sitting down beside her. She rolled over and allowed herself to melt into his arms.

“Naneth,” she said simply.

“Your mother does not understand,” he admitted. “Neither do I, not really, but she cannot accept it until she does. She will come around eventually, my daughter. She will see that you are a girl, just give her time.”

“I’m not a girl all the time,” she whispered. “Not today, I’m not. Today I am like the stars.”

Ada blinked. “Alright. Today you are like the stars.” He paused, then continued, “I do not understand this any more than your mother does, Tauriel. But I understand that you are my child, and that I love you, and that your happiness is more important than any confusion or pride your parents might have.”

“I love you, Ada,” she whispered, clinging to him like moss to a tree.

“I love you too, my little star,” he murmured back. “I always knew you were special.”

Tauriel smiled. She liked hearing him talk about her as a child. She still was a child, technically, but she didn’t feel like it. She was just on the cusp of womanhood, nearly an adolescent, and she felt as old as the stars.

“I knew you would do great things, Tauriel,” Ada continued. “I knew you would touch the sky. You will. This is a part of it, my love. It will not be easy, but you will fly.”

Tauriel said nothing, but she felt the warmth of his love spreading through her. She hoped he could feel her love for him, too.

Outside, the moon sang a plaintive song, a lament for things yet to come.

The orcs came suddenly in the night. Tauriel woke to the sounds of screaming. She leapt out of her bed, rushing to her parents’ room. Her nightgown, a gift from her father, streamed behind her as she ran. She never wore it in front of Naneth, who still resented her strangeness, but her fear overcame her self-consciousness on this occasion.

Ada and Naneth looked just as disoriented as she was. Naneth stumbled around the room, searching frantically for her sword.

Ada raced toward her. He bent down to look at her, and Tauriel suddenly realized that he was just as frightened as she was.

“Tauriel,” he said breathlessly. “There are orcs in the village. Your mother and I are going to fight them, but you need to run. Leave the village, go into the forest, hide—and don’t come back until I come find you or the fighting stops.” He kissed her forehead and embraced her. “I love you. Please stay safe.”

“Ada—” she protested, but he shoved her away.

“Run, Tauriel!” he told her. “Before it’s too late!”

Frightened, Tauriel nodded and raced out of their room. She ran out the back door and hurried through the streets, staying low. All around her was chaos. Elves screamed, fighting the orcs as best they could, but these elves were not great warriors or noble wizards. They were simple people, village folk, and the orcs cut through them like a farmer’s sickle on harvest day.

Tauriel made it to the edge of the forest and hid behind a tree. She watched the carnage with wide, horrified eyes, frozen in place. She did not run away as her father had instructed. She was riveted in place, unmoving.

She watched her mother, wielding her sword. She was the village’s greatest warrior, but even she struggled against the onslaught of orcs.

Naneth saw her, staring out at her in horror, and in that moment, Tauriel caught a glimpse of the deep, fierce love Arasseth had for her daughter, even if it was not in the way she might have wanted it.

“—, run!” Naneth shouted.

Her old name. Naneth made a token effort to call her by her new name, most days, but now, in the heat of battle, she reverted back to her old ways. Naneth had never believed her, not even now, in the face of death.

Tauriel turned and ran, her heart breaking. She knew deep down that Naneth and Ada would not survive this attack. The forest took her in, the trees embracing her, whispering words of comfort in their own fluttering way.

Back in the village, Tauriel’s home burned, the flames cackling in treacherous mirth, but only orcs were alive to hear.

Tauriel returned to her village a few days later. She found only a smoking wreck. Bodies were strewn among the ashes, so mangled they were unrecognizable, but Tauriel managed to find her parents.

Ada’s red hair distinguished him from the rest. Tauriel wished she had not found him: his bloodied corpse was stained as red as the rose whose name he bore, torn and ruined. He was only a few paces away from Naneth, who still clutched her sword in death. She looked up at Tauriel with sightless eyes, and her last words were all that ran through Tauriel’s mind.

Tauriel took her sword. It was too big for her to wield, but she could carry it. She lifted it with trembling arms and vowed that she would avenge the deaths of her parents, her friends, and the innocent people of this village. She would learn to fight, somehow, and she would kill every orc she came across.

But for now, she was still too small. She searched for her home, but all she found was a pile of ashes.

Tauriel left the village, clutching Naneth’s sword. She wished there was a way to bury her parents, to give them a proper funeral, but there was nothing there for her now. Nothing anywhere.

She still wore the same tattered nightgown that she had run away in on the day the king’s warriors found her.

They came suddenly, riding horses, and in the king’s case, a great elk. They found the village first. Tauriel hid in the trees, watching warily. They were elves, but she was untrusting of everyone after her parents’ deaths.

The king atop the elk—she knew that he had to be the king because of the way he held himself and the unusual golden color of his hair—looked around at the devastation with a somber expression. He looked at his warriors, then ordered, “Search for survivors. If there are any, we will bring them back to the palace.”

The palace. Survivors. Tauriel’s heart pounded. She was a survivor—they would take her back to the palace. Did she want to go with them? She was hungry, sad, and alone. But would they disbelieve her as her mother had?

She slipped down from the tree, slinking in the shadows, clutching her mother’s sword. She crept back into the village, carefully stepping around the carnage.

“You there!” a voice called.

Tauriel froze.

“Come out here,” the voice said, gentler now.

She crept out of hiding, her eyes wide and her heart pounding. The elf who greeted her was blond, just like the king, and she had seen him on the king’s right as they rode in.

“I am Legolas,” the elf said softly. “Are you from this place?”

Slowly, she nodded.

“Where did you get that sword?” Legolas asked.

“It was my mother’s before…” She trailed off, looking down. “They died. Ada and Naneth, they… Ada told me to run, to hide. The forest took care of me, after…”

Legolas reached out his hand. “Come with me, child. I will take you to a place where you can find a new home.”

Tauriel hesitantly took his hand. He took the sword from her, a burden she relinquished with some worry. His kindness inclined her to trust him, but it was hard to let go of her last memory of Naneth.

“What is your name, little boy?” Legolas asked.

Tauriel flinched at the mention of the word “boy”. “I’m not a boy,” she blurted out. Did she really look like one? Elves were not an especially dimorphic race. She still wore her nightgown, but by this time it was so tattered and frayed perhaps it was unrecognizable.

“Oh, I’m sorry!” Legolas apologized quickly. “I shouldn’t have assumed.” He paused. “So you are a girl?”

“Yes,” Tauriel said. It was a little simpler than the truth, but his ready acceptance and apology warmed her heart. “My name is Tauriel.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Tauriel,” Legolas said, “though I wish the circumstances of our meeting were not so unfortunate.” He squeezed her hand. “My father is the king of this realm, did you know? He will find you a home in the palace.”

“Thank you, Legolas,” she said, feeling the warmth of his hand warm her heart. She braved a slight smile, and Arasseth’s light found a place in the world once again. Ada would be proud of her, she knew.

Around her, the spirits of her parents watched as she moved on. Merilon sighed, smiling in wistful longing. Tauriel’s future stretched before her, and he knew that even without him, she would touch the sky.

Fanfiction Masterpost

#tauriel #scene 88 #scene-88 #happy birthday river <3 #tefain nin #my writing #touch the sky #oc merilon #oc arasseth #my fic