Welcome to my first serious Lord of the Rings fanfiction. While it is a crossover, most of it will take place in Middle-earth, so while familiarity with both fandoms would help, it may not be entirely necessary. I will attempt to explain things as well as I can for those of you who are not quite as obsessed as I am.
This story is a severe AU. Fandom purists, leave, because you will not like it. Legolas and Arwen's actions are severely out of character for them, but there are explanations for them that will arise much later in the story, I promise.
Constructive criticism is always appreciated.
Disclaimer: Lord of the Rings belongs to J. R. R. Tolkien. I own nothing. No money is being made from the creation of this work and no copyright infringement is intended.
OOOOOOOOOO.
Aragorn stared into the goblet, long fingers wrapped about the delicate stem, the amber liquid within swirling like a miniature vortex. He could see his reflection amidst the ripples, breaking and then reforming only to be swept away by the whirlpool of spirits once more. He searched for his soul among the confines of the glass, silently pleading with the patterns of crystal to show him where by the Valar he had gone wrong. His mind screamed at him, railed against the truth the warm liqueur had not yet been able to erase. Arwen loved another.
The very thought sent a bitter taste roiling into his mouth. He promptly eradicated it with a deep draft from the goblet in his hand. She had abandoned him for his dearest friend. Legolas. He had been betrayed by the two people he had cherished more than his life. They had been secretly betrothed throughout the entire quest of the Ring's destruction. Throughout the whole of the war against Sauron, Legolas had stood steadfastly by his side, had comforted him when his heart was grieved by the losses of kith and kin. He had dared to speak words of love and reassurance while the taste of Aragorn's life still danced upon the fringes of the elf's waking dreams. The hurt that knowledge caused was staggering. It was like a knife twisting in his heart while the fist of a cave troll slammed repeatedly into his stomach.
His ada had spoken truth, he realized with bitterness. Arwen would never be content with a mortal, Dúnedain or otherwise. Her heart would forever be drawn to the firstborn.
"Her love for you is a mere infatuation," the peredhel had said, gazing directly into Aragorn's eyes. "She will never be content walking in the grey span of a mortal's years. Release her, Aragorn. She is not meant for you. Do this thing. Save yourself the heartbreak."
At the time, Aragorn had seethed inwardly, certain his foster father was trying once more to tear Aragorn from Arwen's life. It would not have been the first time, and it certainly was not the last. But now he had to admit to himself that the older elf had spoken a truth Aragorn had flatly refused to believe. In all his love struck ignorance, he had been certain he knew all of Arwen's heart. But there had been longings and yearnings she had kept hidden from him, secrets of stolen moments in the dark of forbidden nights.
What a fool they must have thought him, the ignorant human, blissfully unaware of their betrayal. How they must have laughed behind his back. As he fought to save Middle-earth for his friends, as he took up the weight of an unwanted destiny with the knowledge that he would finally be worthy of the fair Evenstar, she and his friend had pledged a binding troth which they knew could never be undone. Did they think he would not find out? Did they think to procure an heir from him so as to keep both the lines of Númenor and Greenwood alive? He would not put it past them. Not anymore.
He had found out, though. There were some with loyalty still.
Aragorn frowned as he thought of her. Curieyle. The lone survivor of her line, just as he was of his own. Her two brothers had been slain between the battles of Helm's Deep and Mordor. She had been the only one to escape the war unharmed by arrow or blade. He had found her hiding, curled into a darkened corner of an abandoned cottage, weeping for a family that would never return.
Without a word, he had lifted her gently and taken her to the citadel. Arwen had graciously accepted the girl as one of her handmaidens and Curieyle had been loyal to her.
All had been fine for over a year, until the night Curieyle had intercepted him on his way back to his chamber. Without a word, she had taken his hand and led him to the King's private gardens. There, bathed in moonlight, he had found Arwen and Legolas in a sensual embrace. It had been beautiful and shattering all at once.
Arwen and Legolas had been gentle in their explanation, their pain at deceiving him obvious. Aragorn had listened and inclined his head, wishing them both happiness and relieving Arwen of her marriage vows. He took consolation in his grace in the face of their betrayal, but it did little to heal the soul-deep wound left in its wake.
Now that Arwen was gone, Curieyle, who had refused to accompany her mistress to Greenwood, worked as one of the Citadel's servants. Aragorn knew she felt for him and was comforted by her continued, quiet presence. He wanted to encourage her not to linger for his sake, but found that he hadn't the heart to send her away.
As if his thoughts of her had been a summons, there was a quiet knock upon the chamber door.
"Enter," he called, not taking his eyes from the spirits still swimming about in his glass.
He heard the door open and close, followed by the soft footfalls he knew all too well. Before long, Curieyle was standing before him. Reaching out, she gently took the glass from his hand, leaving him to gaze at the floor.
"My King," she murmured, setting the goblet out of his reach upon a nearby table. "You will not discover the answers you seek at the bottom of a crystal goblet."
"Indeed," Aragorn said bitterly. "The search, however, is entrancing."
"'Tis also dangerous. I would not see one as mighty as you felled by the barrel."
"Mighty." Aragorn laughed, a harsh sound filled with scorn. "A mighty fool, perhaps."
"Be that as it may, twas a fools hope which saved this world from the grip of evil. Do not be so quick to discount a word that has released us all from the threat of a second darkness. Besides, there is no foolishness in love."
"It was a dream, Curieyle. Nothing more."
"It takes great strength to believe in a dream." He heard her shift, then a soft creak.
Feeling the weight of her stare, Aragorn finally looked up. He met Curieyle's brown eyes with an unwavering gaze of his own. She was perched on the edge of a nearby table, her hands folded in her lap. Her mouth was pursed into a line both thoughtful and disapproving, her back ramrod straight. Her skin was still too pale, he thought.
"Is it your intention to silently berate me all day?" he asked in slight exasperation.
"Is it your wish to be silently berated all day?"
"Nay."
"Then I shall not."
Silence stretched between them, tense and filled with unspoken recriminations. Curieyle was the first to break it.
"You should not drink, my lord."
Aragorn's eyes narrowed as he stared at her.
"You should eat more, my lady," he retorted. "You will never regain your strength by neglecting to care for yourself."
He saw her frown. When she spoke, Aragorn could tell she was choosing her words carefully.
"My king, you scold me for not caring for myself. You are right to do so. I, however, have only myself to care for. You have a kingdom that looks to you for guidance. Would you guide them down the neck of a barrel?"
Anger was Aragorn's first reaction. With effort, he bit back any unkind words he might have spoken. Ever since the betrayal, he had been aware of a shift within himself. It was a subtle hardening and distancing that alarmed him. He did not wish to become cynical and cold. He had seen what loss had done to Denathor and had vowed he would not fall so far into despair that he would abandon those who he'd sworn to lead.
Despite his vow, the anguish he felt at the duplicity of the elleth he'd loved and the friend he'd called brother left little room for other emotions. Aragorn had never believed in anger. But now it was a constant companion, easier to feel than the pain. With anger came action. With hurt came helplessness.
"You speak of things you do not understand. You cannot know—"
"I have lost loved ones too," Curieyle interrupted gently. "I have lost them to much more than betrayal. In time, you may learn to forgive them. You may renew your ties with Arwen and Legolas. My family is forever lost to me. What quarrels we had will never be resolved."
"It is not the same."
Aragorn longed to declare that he would never forgive their betrayal. But he was not so naive as to claim such a thing. He would not willingly forgive them now, but he could not see into the years that still lay before him.
"My king, I beg only that you realize there are still those who need you."
Aragorn allowed his eyes to close. He could feel a dull throb starting in his temples.
"I am not in a position to see the truth in that right now," he admitted. "But I will not dishonor my kin."
He opened his eyes and stared at Curieyle.
"I have allowed myself the privilege of weakness for too long. Thank you for reminding me of the duty I have toward my kingdom."
The king heard the formality in his own voice but could not bring himself to fill it with warmth. Not when his heart felt so cold. He saw Curieyle frown but could not offer her more than the words he had just spoken.
Curieyle sighed and pushed herself from her perch. She stepped closer, making to lay a hand upon his shoulder. Aragorn stiffened, shooting the young woman before him a warning glare.
Curieyle froze. Their eyes locked. Aragorn knew his were hard and unyielding. As her hand fell to her side, Curieyle inclined her chin and turned toward the door.
Aragorn knew he should call after her. He knew he should not let her go with such tension between them. But all he did was watch as she collected the goblet and decanter of wine before departing.
The king stared after her, a potent mixture of anger and shame replacing his newfound disdain for physical contact. Such connections felt like a lie to him now. Arwen and Legolas had used it often. He could no longer bear the comforting deception of touch.
Rising from the chair upon which he'd been seated, Aragorn called for a servant. He would bathe. He would eat. Then he would take her advice and return to the throne of Gondor.
OOOOOOOOOO.
After depositing the King's goblet and decanter in the kitchens, Curieyle slipped from the Citadel and retired to her own dwelling and chamber there within, closing the door softly behind her. Crossing to the large four-poster in the center of the room, she crawled beneath the blankets, curled onto her side and drew a pillow to her chest.
Tears flooded her eyes and ran slowly down her cheeks. Aragorn's withdrawal hurt more than she believed it should. It made her think of a time and life she had willingly forgotten. It made her think of mischievous green eyes, irresistible red hair and laughing friends who were lost to her forever.
She clutched her pillow, her chest tight as the memories threatened to overwhelm her carefully erected defenses. Closing her eyes, Curieyle frantically reinforced the mental wall the Valar had built between her old life and her new one. She refused to acknowledge the warning they had given her before she had been sent tumbling into a new world.
"The wall is temporary, little one. One day, you must face and overcome your demons."
She would not. She could not. She had approached it of her own free will only once. The darkness and despair emanating from the stone had sent her into a full-blown panic. She had retreated in tears, trembling with not-quite-remembered terror. She only reached toward it now when she sought to seal the cracks that were appearing with all-too-frightening frequency.
Her temples throbbed with the effort of holding her memories at bay. She had a horrifying suspicion that the wall was thinning, weakening beneath the onslaught from the other side. She would need to approach it again soon in order to build another layer of stone around the one that was failing her.
Her fingers cramped as she gripped the pillow, her jaw aching as she clenched it with the effort of the mental struggle. Red spots appeared on the backs of her eyelids and a high-pitched whine filled her ears.
Not now not now not now not now not now not now not now!
The silent mantra helped her focus, gave her the strength she needed to crush the rising tide of memories before it could crush her. As she felt them ebb away, Curieyle grew aware of the violent tremors wracking her frame.
Opening her eyes, she gazed toward the large window on the eastern wall. It looked out over the busy streets, facing the gates of the Seventh Level. She no longer resided in the Citadel; she had left after Arwen had departed. At her request, a guard had helped her move quietly into one of the many guest houses on the topmost level of the city.
Curieyle felt safer here, hidden from the questioning gazes of the various courtiers and nobles who dwelt in the Citadel. She had only a handful of living companions in the small house she had chosen and they all kept to themselves. She was content with quiet discussion over the evening meal and some light merrymaking afterword, but the grandeur of the Citadel was absent. It relaxed her and gave her a sense of security she desperately craved.
With a sigh, the young woman slipped from her bed and straightened the blankets. There was work that needed doing; she would not abandon her duties over hurt feelings.
As Curieyle left the guest house, someone fell into step beside her. Glancing to her right, she saw it was the Steward of Gondor himself.
"My lord Faramir," she said, stopping in her tracks to curtsy.
"My lady Curieyle," Faramir replied warmly.
"Please," Curieyle said. "I am hardly a lady."
Faramir waved her protestations aside and gazed at her intently.
"How is the King, my lady?"
Curieyle frowned. "You are his steward, my lord."
"And yet the servants say he speaks more to you than any other."
"'Tis easy to speak to someone who means nothing to you, my lord," Curieyle said. "The King has been awfully kind to me, but you are wrong if you believe I am anything more than a servant to him."
She paused after passing through the Citadel gate and looked over at him.
"He is hurting. That much anyone can see. I push too hard at times, I will admit, and he speaks to me then. But he says very little of consequence. And if he spoke to me of personal emotions, it would not be my place to confess such confidences to you, my lord Faramir. Good day."
Knowing her words to be both truthful and rude, Curieyle hurried away from Faramir as swiftly as she could without running. Her emotions were raw and the last thing she wished to do was speak of the King she worried so deeply for.
When she entered the kitchens, Cook instantly whirled on her.
"Curieyle! There you are, lass! Where did you rush off to in such a hurry? You know there is work to be done! No, no. No excuses. Go help Lysana prepare the vegetables. And don't touch the cooking fires!"
Curieyle rolled her eyes as she hurried her way through the press of workers in the kitchen, sliding onto a stool before one of the long tables at the perimeter of the chaos. She had never taken to cooking and all the workers in the kitchens had strict orders to keep her away from anything that would be placed into the mouth of a human. Or animal, for that matter.
"Why is Cook in such a temper?" she asked the mousy haired girl seated beside her.
Lysana smiled and pushed a basket of potatoes closer to her.
"She is overwhelmed," the girl replied. "The company from Dol Amroth is arriving today. There is to be a welcome feast and much merrymaking. We will all be in attendance to serve and to make certain everything runs smoothly."
"All of us?"
Lysana smirked, rotating a potato in her hand so that the knife she held peeled the skin off in a perfect spiral.
"All of us. Even you will not be able to escape this gathering. You'll have to work just as hard as the rest of us tonight."
The look of smug satisfaction she sent Curieyle, coupled with the implication that Curieyle didn't pull her own weight made the young woman want to slap her. Tamping down on the urge, she grabbed a carrot and began peeling it with vicious strokes of her knife.
Closing her eyes on her task, Curieyle took deep breaths, allowing the sweet scent of freshly picked produce to wash away the irrational anger. She knew it was born of her concern for the mental wall inside her mind, just as she knew she would need to take care of said wall tonight. She could not continue on with such anger at the forefront of her emotions.
When she felt calmer, she opened her eyes to find Lysana staring at her.
"You've completely eviscerated that carrot," the girl commented.
Looking down, Curieyle saw that she was right. The thick stalk of the carrot was now a thin ruin of ragged orange strips.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I wasn't paying attention."
"Obviously," Lysana drawled, plucking the carrot from her hand. "Perhaps you should join the servants preparing the bed chambers. I'm certain you can manage that without any mishaps."
Why the little, Curieyle growled mentally as she shoved to her feet.
Without deigning to respond to Lysana's goading comment, she slipped through a side door and out into a narrow stone corridor. With an explosive sigh, Curieyle slumped face first against the wall and pressed her hot cheek to the cool stone.
"I wish Gandalf were here," she breathed. "He would know what to do."
OOOOOOOOOO.
Unbeknownst to Curieyle, as she hugged a stone wall near the kitchens, the White Wizard strode through the doors of the King's study. Aragorn looked up at the sound of said doors opening and a genuine smile graced his lips.
"My friend," he said, rising to his feet.
"Aragorn," Gandalf replied. "I am pleased to see you here. I had expected to find Faramir in your stead."
"Faramir has his own duties to attend to, as do I."
"It gladdens me to hear it."
Gandalf eased himself into the comfortable chair before the King's desk. Withdrawing his pipe, he packed it with sweetly-scented leaves from a small leather pouch. Tamping down the pipe weed, he lit it and pulled, his eyes surveying Aragorn critically. Retaking his seat, Aragorn stared back.
"You appear well," Gandalf commented.
"I am no longer isolating myself is what you are too polite to say, my friend," Aragorn replied ruefully.
Gandalf inclined his head. "I was concerned. Your heart is not easily shaken."
Aragorn leant back in his chair and sighed. "It is still mending."
Gandalf exhaled a cloud of smoke which transformed itself into the hazy likeness of a Mallorn tree.
"They still love you, Aragorn," Gandalf said sadly. "Their betrayal was never meant to harm you as it did."
"They could have told me of their love," Aragorn said, his voice trembling with suppressed anger and pain. "Did they think I would not bless their union? I could have forgiven their betrayal. It is the deceit that burns like whiskey in an open wound."
"You confided to me that Arwen and Legolas discovered their love as the darkness in the east began to grow. Is it not beyond the realm of possibility that they did not wish your heart to be troubled at such a critical time? Tell me, Aragorn, how you might have responded to the ring had your heart been filled with pain."
"You may be right, mellon," Aragorn murmured. "But I cannot yet see the wisdom in your words. Had they meant me no harm, why did Arwen take her place beside me as queen? The deception was cruel and unnecessary."
Gandalf knew he could not give Aragorn the answer he sought, for the White Istar did not know. The man raised a valid argument; what had been Arwen's purpose in marrying a man she no longer loved?
"The delegation from Dol Amroth arrives today," Gandalf said.
"Prince Imrahil, his family and several of his most trusted advisors," Aragorn replied, his shoulders relaxing at the turn in conversation. "There are still bands of orcs roaming our lands. They must be eradicated. I also wish to discuss the destruction of Minas Morgul."
"You said as much at your coronation," Gandalf said. "You wish Imrahil to take part?"
"He is a man of Gondor," Aragorn replied. "I would ask Imrahil and Faramir to lead the destruction and cleansing of Minas Morgul. Perhaps in a half score of years, it will be fit for human habitation once more."
"In the meantime?"
Aragorn arched a brow. "In the meantime, I will care for my people as is my duty."
A smoke ring larger than Aragorn's head filled the air between them. When Gandalf lowered his pipe, he was smiling.
"I am glad to hear it."