Title: The Storm
Author: Maranwe
Rating: PG
Summary: It's after The War of the Ring. Sauron has been defeated and Aragorn has pretty much become King Elessar. But instead of getting married, he calls off his wedding to Arwen, and this is what happens with her. Basically self explanatory, I think.
Disclaimer: I don't own Arwen nor Aragorn. They belong to Tolkien, be it father or son, or whoever else might have rights to them. This was inspired by Garth Brook's song The Storm, but it's not longer here because of Not really. Well . . . no, not really. Unless you consider the fact that Sauron was defeated a spoiler, and in that case you've already read too far.
A/N: At a later date, I may go back and fix this so it makes more sense or flows better—what have you—without the lyrics that made me take down. I seriously considered leaving them in to dare the devils to take action, but I decided that's not fair to you, the readers, so this is my unwilling compliance.
Adieu.
o/o/o/o/o
Tears streaming down her face, she ran down the hall, stumbling slightly as she turned the corner, her face buried in her hands. She needed to get away. The pain rolled inside her, creating a tornado of heartache that threatened to destroy her. It was pulling her under and the only thing she could think to do was to run, to hide.
A broken sob wrenched itself from her lips, echoing down the hallway as she finally reached her room, an island and a cage in one, both a haven and a prison. She threw the door open as she stumbled in, then turned and closed it, leaning against the wood, her breath coming in heaving sobs. Slowly, she sunk to the floor, water slipping down her porcelain checks.
Pain-filled eyes scanned her room, looking for something to latch onto, an emotional life-vest that could keep her head above the rising tide of sorrow, and came up empty. It should have been perfect, was perfect. They were perfect for each other, she knew it. Why had he rejected her? Why, when everything was finally perfect?
Her lips trembled as she fought a new round of tears. How could she go one? Her love was gone. She had been cast adrift, lost in this ever rising flow that threatened to engulf her, and she had no hope to hold onto to keep her from drowning. Hope had gone.
Deep blue eyes settled over her desk, where a small portrait of her and Estel, happy, smiling, before the care and sorrow of time had come and taken it away. Aragorn had changed much from that time, and so had she. No longer could she identify with the woman in that picture; that happiness was no longer hers, would never be hers again, a foreign emotion.
Rage bubbled up, inside her, lighting her eyes with a passion that had been missing since Aragorn had called off the wedding. Rage at herself for being a such a fool to fall in love with a man, a mortal. Rage at her family for being right. But most of all, rage at Aragorn for making a promise, a promise he had not kept and breaking her heart.
Beyond reason, she jumped up and crossed the room, screaming in a mixture of anger and pain, a heart-rending sound that was as jagged as the broken heart that uttered it. She ripped the portrait from the wall, flinging it across the room, strangely satisfied by the loud crack that sounded once it impacted the wall and the wood frame fractured into dozens of pieces. Fueled by the satisfaction, she swept her arms across her desk, sweeping every item away. Delicate objects she had collected for years crashed into the wall, shattering, the sound of their breaking ringing in her ears, echoing the sound of her breaking heart.
More tears streamed down her face, streaking silver, and she turned, eyes coming to rest on a vase that sat on a small pedestal by the door. She darted forward and grabbed it, then heaved it with all her might at the wall with a shrill cry. A thud sounded, overshadowed by the crash that sounded like the rush of the waterfall at her father's house, where she had stood with her love and promised themselves to the other, where she had made her choice.
Then she slumped, sliding to the floor among the broken pieces of her life, weary beyond measure, lost in her pain. Her eyes drifted among the broken pieces, coming to rest on the portrait once again. With a last shuddering sob, she gave in to the tears once and for all as the words of her family and friends echoed through her mind, as unstoppable as the torrent of tears that flowed down her face and the heartache that threatened to rip her in two.
He doesn't love you, Arwen. He's just an Edan, another man. They are not to be trusted.
. . . You're throwing your happiness away, dear one, it can never last.
The hearts of men are fickle things. He'll leave you in tears and heartbroken.
I don't want to lose you, Arwen. He will take you away from me with this foolishness.
She sobbed harder, the quiet singing of the birds a painful reminder that she was alone, alone in her grief. And the only thing she could ask was why.
Why?
o/o/o/o/o
A week later she was back in Rivendell, forced to face the sympathetic smiles and quiet well-wishers, her kin. Before they had returned home, she had been forced to attend a party. Before she could escape, she had been forced to see everyone else's happiness, feel their pity. So she had smiled, the grace of her heritage covering the shakiness of her emotions.
She had seen Aragorn. He was laughing, charming as ever, moving among the people, full-filling his duties as King. She should have been by his side, should have been helping him, yet he had pushed her aside. For what?
She paused in the hall, her breathing ragged as she fought the tears that threatened; she had cried too much already. The answers did not matter; the deed was done. She was alone, and for her father, she had to continue, at least until he left for the sea. Then, she could go with him and leave her heartache behind forever.
That was her only solace. For her father she would not fade; she would cross the sea with him. She would try to move on.
A small box caught her eye, simple and unadorned but with an intricate carving on the top. It sat on a table and she walked towards it, drawn against her will, for she already knew what it was, could see it perfectly well. It had been a gift from Aragorn some years ago and she had brought it with her to Rivendell when she returned from Lothlorien.
With new tears pooling in her eyes, she delicately picked the box up, fingering it with morbid wonder. She blinked and a crystal tear flowed down her cheek. Now trembling, her hands moved to open the lid.
A small, beautifully carved figurine appeared, twirling slowly as the strains of a song she had loved began floating through the air, a delicate melody that spoke of love and tenderness, of everlasting happiness. One hand crept to her mouth as more tears gathered in her eyes.
A broken cry issued from her lips, and she turned and ran, darting down the hallway for the safety of her room, away from prying eyes. The jewelry box fell, unheeded, to the floor, cracking upon impact with the smooth stone, as delicate as the heart that had been broken. The figurine snapped, and the music stopped.
She reached her room, flinging the door closed behind her with as much force as she could manage. It slammed closed with a loud thud, rattling the walls. She threw herself on the bed, shoulders heaving as the pain once again overwhelmed her. His eyes, pitying but remorseless, as he told her he could not marrying her, that they were never meant to be.
Her heart, which she had thought could break no more, broke again, sending her once more into the storm she did not think she could weather again. And as she lay there, crying throughout the night, her thoughts castigated herself for her foolishness in her family's words, words that had spoken over the long years of her delusion.
o/o/o/o/o
She sat at the table laughing with her friends. They had kept at it, relentlessly seeking her out, refusing to let her drown in her sorrow day in and day out, refusing to let her fade. Their efforts hindered her, but she had long since grown used to them and knew they would never leave.
They had dragged her on outings, out to parties that her heart was not in. For their sakes, she had pretended to enjoy herself, an act so true that even her father thought she was over Aragorn. At times, during the day when the sun shone brightly overhead and the birds sang, when there was laughter echoing through Rivendell, she could almost believe it as well. Enough, at least, not to give herself away.
She rode horses and danced; Sang, even, if her mood was light enough. She traveled with her brothers when they went hunting or spent time with her father. She walked the garden paths she had loved as a child, and wandered the many trails through the woods, once more as free to do so as she had been as a child. Carefree. Happy.
But she was not.
When the sun went down, she escaped to her room, slamming the door against any who would wish to disturb her. No one did. She thought she was over Aragorn, that she had forgotten him, but she could not; would not. She loved him. And every night, her thoughts turned to him, her love, her loss.
And she cried; for what was, and is, and yet would be. Each night, she drowned, only to somehow survive and carry on. Not much longer, though, and then she could let go. Her friends thought she was fine. Her father was leaving soon.
But she was heartbroken, and the tears fell.
