When you stand on the knife-edge between conflict and peace, when you walk the treacherous path of war, always yearning for the quiet serenity of the times to follow, you learn that there are precious few times in which you can have your solace.
When we walked the trail to Mordor, enduring the worst of times as one, as the Fellowship, we learned to take the solace when it came. For the hobbits, it was a quiet time as a group, eating the few delicacies we could find. For Gimli, it was a time a little ways from the group, just far enough so that he could feel the eyes of his people upon he alone.
For Aragorn and I, it was the soft words, glances, walks disguised as patrols.
The times I could spend, sitting beside him, enjoying the knowledge that the journey had yet to part us. The times we could spend talking, laughing softly. The occasions on which we would be close enough that skin would brush skin.
And, as time passed, the times in which I might lay my head upon his chest and revel in the sound of his mortal heart beating so close. To me, the sound of a mortal heart is so very different from that of an elf, it beats so indescribably differently, as though immortal blood flows differently.
There was no awkwardness, it was always natural, the closeness was never strange to us; it simply was, as though it were a natural advancement. When we were among the others, there was no talk of it, yet nothing was hidden. The glances were not veiled, the chaste, few embraces shown to them left no emotion withheld.
Whether they noticed or not, they did not comment, for they knew, I believe they always knew, his heart did not truly, entirely belong to Arwen, there was always a part that could never be hers; there was always a part that was mine, and mine alone.
There were chaste kisses, brushes of the lips that were of nothing but reassurance, something to give us hope, to let us know that our hearts beat still. There were deep kisses, in which his heart was bare to me, kisses so fierce I would know the fear one must feel when they crossed blades with him, for one with passion and fire such as his were to be feared.
The battles would summon such great fear, fear not for my own life, for an elf often yearns to feel mortality as humans do, but for his. I am still not sure what it was precisely that I feared so much, whether it was to see him die before me, or the thought of living on, knowing I hadn't been able to prevent his death, or… if I simply feared what would happen should he be gone, while I still lived.
When the knife-edge slipped, peace overwhelming the conflict, when the path came to an end and the war had ended, we still enjoyed our solace, if only in the precious few times we could be alone, for Arwen often lingered, her eyes filled with a truthful love for the man.
It was painful to watch, the distinct difference between the two lights, for hers was stronger, while there was something missing in his, something that I always saw when we shared glances.
After the war, the kisses were fewer, but the glances, the words, the touches, remained. There are times I wonder, what might have been, should Arwen not have survived… I wonder, would his heart belong, in its entirety, to me, with a small part, as it is for me now, reserved for her.
I wonder… what might have been…