The trees glitter a blissful turquoise in the pale moonlight; it filters
through in scattered patches so to light the paths of two as they glide
down the steps to meet the Fountain of Elendil. Her steps are light,
soundless even. Her cerulean dress shimmers and flows in the waxing light
of both stars and moon, giving her the appearance much like water. Her long
black hair is held back by a locket of golden leaves, leaving a few wisps
to fall across her pointed ears and stream lightly across her piercingly
bright blue eyes. Hand outstretched, she reaches for the nearly invisible
figure that had followed her down the milky white marble steps. Long and
lithe fingers trace the other figure's forearm; the figure steps forward,
allowing the light of the Fountain to engulf whatever shadows it had
attempted to disappear into. His eyes - as it is a he - sparkle hazel in
the light; they adjust slower than the elf's.
Her blue eyes follow and eventually meet the sparkling hazel ones of her companion. The man's face bears much concern and carries much worry beneath a neatly kempt beard and mustache. His shoulder length, wavy black hair falls onto his face, framing the high cheekbones and accentuating the roughness of his features. He is clothed differently from the elf; his green and black tunic, breeches, and boots are musky and smell faintly of blood. He hadn't had the chance to change into more suitable clothing; it had been a long journey. His hands are rough where hers are fair; his features jaded and hardened where hers nearly naïve; her eyes gave her age away.
Around his neck lies a gift from the lithe elf that stands in front of him. An Evenstar pendant; the symbol of her immortality and her birthright to the House of Elrond lies neatly between a leather worked vest and unlaced tunic. On his finger is the symbol of his mortality and his birthright to the throne and indeed Kingdom of Gondor. The man strips off his chestnut brown cloak and lets it fall to the ground, watching the wind carry it down the bottom of the milky steps; into the Fountain's true light. He turns to face the elf, eyes downcast and face unreadable.
"Arwen," he mutters, idly twisting the ring on his finger. "Why does it feel like I'm living a dream? A dream that. I may yet wake from unwillingly?"
Arwen's eyes turn to his; they hold some sort of comfort without holding the sympathy that he loathed. The man's heart is troubled as are his thoughts.
"I cannot see the path that has been set before me," he continues, whispering fiercely yet fearfully. "Even if the dirt, leaves, and what have you were lifted and the path lay there in my sights, I fear that even then I could not see it."
His hair covers his eyes as the two reach the bottom, Arwen senses his distress and places her hand on his face, forcing him to face her; to lift his eyes to meet hers. Her eyes sparkle a warmer colour than they had; she only wants him to see his true greatness.
"Do not despair, sweetest love. You are a son of kings, Aragorn; the last of an all but spent Nùmenorean bloodline. Why do you fear what you cannot see, let alone cannot change?"
Aragorn's calloused and weatherbeaten hand finds her ivory, silky hand and tightens gently. A tear streams down his face as he looks in her eyes. There is a genuine need for her comfort; a true want of what he openly hates: empathy.
"I fear the same weakness that lies in my blood. in my very veins."
"You are Isildur's heir, not Isildur himself. The time will come where you will face the same dark night - the same evil - and you will grasp Elendil's light."
She clasps her hand tighter in his.
"You will defeat it."
Aragorn's figure turns and daces the shadows of the Great Trees. He kneels down to collect his battered and torn cloak and wrings between his hands. Anger flashes momentarily across his features but smoothes back into his noble complacency; anger does nothing but aggravate and create more problems. It solves nothing.
"Ever since I was old enough to understand who I really was, I've never been able to come to terms with it," Aragorn broods. "I've known the murky paths of Mirkwood better than I've chosen to know the dim path that lay ahead and indeed before me. A ranger with an insatiable wanderlust yet a sense of duty to some unforeseen cause. that's what I've been for the better part of my life. I do not know any other path."
He gets to his feet and walks a few steps before collapsing on a bed of green and golden leaves. Aragorn runs a hand through his gritty and dirt caked hair before picking up a leaf and twirling it between his fingers, allowing light to spill between the veins and interconnected colours. Arwen lowers herself onto the leaves, allowing the watery dress to spread around her slender figure. His hand finds her waist and gently tugs her down to rest her head on his chest. She sighs quietly to herself and allows herself to concentrate on the slow rise and fall of his chest and the rhythm of the heart that beats beneath the hardened exterior.
"Perhaps you need not know any other path, Aragorn," Arwen whispers, placing a reassuring hand atop his and moving her head to rest on his neck. He lifts his hand as to guide her face up to meet his.
"I you cannot see any other path, than see the path that love has created." Arwen clasps her hand over the Evenstar pendant and rubs her nose against the faint stubble growing on his neck, still holding the gaze of her mortal love.
"Sleep my love," she murmurs. "Let Yavanna hold all of nature at our disposal while you let your cares drip from your existence."
Aragorn brushes his lips gently and lightly against Arwen's; a symbol of a love that could not possibly falter in his eyes. He proceeds to close his eyes; he is soon asleep.
Arwen begins a slow, soft, yet melancholy elegy; an elegy for a love destined to fall to ash and shatter.
Her blue eyes follow and eventually meet the sparkling hazel ones of her companion. The man's face bears much concern and carries much worry beneath a neatly kempt beard and mustache. His shoulder length, wavy black hair falls onto his face, framing the high cheekbones and accentuating the roughness of his features. He is clothed differently from the elf; his green and black tunic, breeches, and boots are musky and smell faintly of blood. He hadn't had the chance to change into more suitable clothing; it had been a long journey. His hands are rough where hers are fair; his features jaded and hardened where hers nearly naïve; her eyes gave her age away.
Around his neck lies a gift from the lithe elf that stands in front of him. An Evenstar pendant; the symbol of her immortality and her birthright to the House of Elrond lies neatly between a leather worked vest and unlaced tunic. On his finger is the symbol of his mortality and his birthright to the throne and indeed Kingdom of Gondor. The man strips off his chestnut brown cloak and lets it fall to the ground, watching the wind carry it down the bottom of the milky steps; into the Fountain's true light. He turns to face the elf, eyes downcast and face unreadable.
"Arwen," he mutters, idly twisting the ring on his finger. "Why does it feel like I'm living a dream? A dream that. I may yet wake from unwillingly?"
Arwen's eyes turn to his; they hold some sort of comfort without holding the sympathy that he loathed. The man's heart is troubled as are his thoughts.
"I cannot see the path that has been set before me," he continues, whispering fiercely yet fearfully. "Even if the dirt, leaves, and what have you were lifted and the path lay there in my sights, I fear that even then I could not see it."
His hair covers his eyes as the two reach the bottom, Arwen senses his distress and places her hand on his face, forcing him to face her; to lift his eyes to meet hers. Her eyes sparkle a warmer colour than they had; she only wants him to see his true greatness.
"Do not despair, sweetest love. You are a son of kings, Aragorn; the last of an all but spent Nùmenorean bloodline. Why do you fear what you cannot see, let alone cannot change?"
Aragorn's calloused and weatherbeaten hand finds her ivory, silky hand and tightens gently. A tear streams down his face as he looks in her eyes. There is a genuine need for her comfort; a true want of what he openly hates: empathy.
"I fear the same weakness that lies in my blood. in my very veins."
"You are Isildur's heir, not Isildur himself. The time will come where you will face the same dark night - the same evil - and you will grasp Elendil's light."
She clasps her hand tighter in his.
"You will defeat it."
Aragorn's figure turns and daces the shadows of the Great Trees. He kneels down to collect his battered and torn cloak and wrings between his hands. Anger flashes momentarily across his features but smoothes back into his noble complacency; anger does nothing but aggravate and create more problems. It solves nothing.
"Ever since I was old enough to understand who I really was, I've never been able to come to terms with it," Aragorn broods. "I've known the murky paths of Mirkwood better than I've chosen to know the dim path that lay ahead and indeed before me. A ranger with an insatiable wanderlust yet a sense of duty to some unforeseen cause. that's what I've been for the better part of my life. I do not know any other path."
He gets to his feet and walks a few steps before collapsing on a bed of green and golden leaves. Aragorn runs a hand through his gritty and dirt caked hair before picking up a leaf and twirling it between his fingers, allowing light to spill between the veins and interconnected colours. Arwen lowers herself onto the leaves, allowing the watery dress to spread around her slender figure. His hand finds her waist and gently tugs her down to rest her head on his chest. She sighs quietly to herself and allows herself to concentrate on the slow rise and fall of his chest and the rhythm of the heart that beats beneath the hardened exterior.
"Perhaps you need not know any other path, Aragorn," Arwen whispers, placing a reassuring hand atop his and moving her head to rest on his neck. He lifts his hand as to guide her face up to meet his.
"I you cannot see any other path, than see the path that love has created." Arwen clasps her hand over the Evenstar pendant and rubs her nose against the faint stubble growing on his neck, still holding the gaze of her mortal love.
"Sleep my love," she murmurs. "Let Yavanna hold all of nature at our disposal while you let your cares drip from your existence."
Aragorn brushes his lips gently and lightly against Arwen's; a symbol of a love that could not possibly falter in his eyes. He proceeds to close his eyes; he is soon asleep.
Arwen begins a slow, soft, yet melancholy elegy; an elegy for a love destined to fall to ash and shatter.