Dreams, Biscuits
---
"This is a dream."
The silence of air. The voices of water.
And peace, if peace is audible.
"Then it is a good dream."
Her fingers are soft against the calluses of his skin. She is gentle with the million bruises on his body. Everything disappears. Miles of land that raced by underneath his feet melt in the warmth of her lips. The emptiness of uncertainty gives way to the solidity of her hands.
It was a bad dream. He is home. He is shielded from the storm. He is resting in his bed after a long day of adventure. It is a safety he keeps close to his heart, under his armor, and just beneath his skin. It is a safety he does not dare long for.
"Sleep."
A kiss. The kiss with magic unsurpassed. The only kiss .
"Sleep."
He cannot sleep. The weight of thousands of men, women, and children rests on his shoulders. Amidst a backdrop of beautiful mountains and streams are a group of civilians that do not know the difference between anything unrelated to horses and crops. They sit, laugh, speak quietly amongst themselves, and share biscuits. They do not offer him biscuits. He is to carry on, be strong, and lead them to an invisible haven from enemies attacking from all sides. He will bring them this. He is to do this alone because he was born to do this alone. He knows exactly what he is doing because if not him, who?
Who?
He must, he must, he must.
He will, he will, he will.
"Ú i vethed. Nâ i onnad"
This is not the end. It is only the beginning.
There is no hiding. There is no turning back. You are the only one who can revive a life long dead, and a line long finished, and you must do so without any offerings of biscuits. No cloak for a winter night. No pillars for a crumbling ceiling.
"Arwen."
Are you scared?
The warmth of her body brings tears to his eyes. Tears he does not dare cry. He longs to be in Rivendell, sitting at the pier with their ankles dangling above the glistening water, watching the orange glow. He longs to be in the forest, sitting by an open fire on a cold night falling asleep with her head on his shoulder.
This is a dream.
The touch of her skin, the scent of her hair, and the smile on her face are but passing shadows in his mind. Tantalizingly near, and tantalizingly tangible.
"Arwen."
What do you do when during the free fall? There is no outlying branch and no sturdy rock. It is a twenty-five million mile fall to the bottom, and you must do it alone.
"If you trust nothing else, trust this."
Her eyes, nose, ears, cheeks, lips. Never will her voice trace his face and fill his ears again. He will only see her in his dreams, and her voice will only trace the darkest crevasses of his mind. No more laughter. No more tears. No more taking a nibble the corner of her biscuit while her eyes looked the other way.
I am dying, Arwen. My body is broken, my eyes are blinded, and my mind longs to rest.
"Trust us."
No, no, no.
He must, he must, he must.
He will push forward. He will pick up the bones of his frame and piece them back together. He will rub out his eyes so that he can see the path beneath his feet. He is strong. He will see her again, and it is then that he will rise above the ruins of men and become who he was born to be. Oh, yes. Oh, yes.
The silence of air. The voices of water.
And every particle of air grazing her body shall sing of peace, if peace is audible.
---
Author's Note: Watching Arwen & Aragorn scene never fails to bring me to tears. It's so beautiful. Gawd. So here was my attempt to experiment with something this perfect and try to see how little I can ruin it. Every which way I look at this, I know I haven't done Tolkien or Peter Jackson justice. This is precisely the reason I don't normally write LOTR fics. It's incredibly discouraging.
Author's Note II: Oops. Forgot to mention that there really is no overriding need to read the Author's Notes. If you have read my other fics, you will know that they exist mainly to serve the author, who views it as an opportunity to flush out any frustration & passion in a place that is both easily accessible, generally unread, and sometimes skipped altogether. On that note, my neighbors were playing hockey in their driveway today. It is completely frozen. Fucking. Minus. 44. Degrees. I need to get out of Toronto.
---
"This is a dream."
The silence of air. The voices of water.
And peace, if peace is audible.
"Then it is a good dream."
Her fingers are soft against the calluses of his skin. She is gentle with the million bruises on his body. Everything disappears. Miles of land that raced by underneath his feet melt in the warmth of her lips. The emptiness of uncertainty gives way to the solidity of her hands.
It was a bad dream. He is home. He is shielded from the storm. He is resting in his bed after a long day of adventure. It is a safety he keeps close to his heart, under his armor, and just beneath his skin. It is a safety he does not dare long for.
"Sleep."
A kiss. The kiss with magic unsurpassed. The only kiss .
"Sleep."
He cannot sleep. The weight of thousands of men, women, and children rests on his shoulders. Amidst a backdrop of beautiful mountains and streams are a group of civilians that do not know the difference between anything unrelated to horses and crops. They sit, laugh, speak quietly amongst themselves, and share biscuits. They do not offer him biscuits. He is to carry on, be strong, and lead them to an invisible haven from enemies attacking from all sides. He will bring them this. He is to do this alone because he was born to do this alone. He knows exactly what he is doing because if not him, who?
Who?
He must, he must, he must.
He will, he will, he will.
"Ú i vethed. Nâ i onnad"
This is not the end. It is only the beginning.
There is no hiding. There is no turning back. You are the only one who can revive a life long dead, and a line long finished, and you must do so without any offerings of biscuits. No cloak for a winter night. No pillars for a crumbling ceiling.
"Arwen."
Are you scared?
The warmth of her body brings tears to his eyes. Tears he does not dare cry. He longs to be in Rivendell, sitting at the pier with their ankles dangling above the glistening water, watching the orange glow. He longs to be in the forest, sitting by an open fire on a cold night falling asleep with her head on his shoulder.
This is a dream.
The touch of her skin, the scent of her hair, and the smile on her face are but passing shadows in his mind. Tantalizingly near, and tantalizingly tangible.
"Arwen."
What do you do when during the free fall? There is no outlying branch and no sturdy rock. It is a twenty-five million mile fall to the bottom, and you must do it alone.
"If you trust nothing else, trust this."
Her eyes, nose, ears, cheeks, lips. Never will her voice trace his face and fill his ears again. He will only see her in his dreams, and her voice will only trace the darkest crevasses of his mind. No more laughter. No more tears. No more taking a nibble the corner of her biscuit while her eyes looked the other way.
I am dying, Arwen. My body is broken, my eyes are blinded, and my mind longs to rest.
"Trust us."
No, no, no.
He must, he must, he must.
He will push forward. He will pick up the bones of his frame and piece them back together. He will rub out his eyes so that he can see the path beneath his feet. He is strong. He will see her again, and it is then that he will rise above the ruins of men and become who he was born to be. Oh, yes. Oh, yes.
The silence of air. The voices of water.
And every particle of air grazing her body shall sing of peace, if peace is audible.
---
Author's Note: Watching Arwen & Aragorn scene never fails to bring me to tears. It's so beautiful. Gawd. So here was my attempt to experiment with something this perfect and try to see how little I can ruin it. Every which way I look at this, I know I haven't done Tolkien or Peter Jackson justice. This is precisely the reason I don't normally write LOTR fics. It's incredibly discouraging.
Author's Note II: Oops. Forgot to mention that there really is no overriding need to read the Author's Notes. If you have read my other fics, you will know that they exist mainly to serve the author, who views it as an opportunity to flush out any frustration & passion in a place that is both easily accessible, generally unread, and sometimes skipped altogether. On that note, my neighbors were playing hockey in their driveway today. It is completely frozen. Fucking. Minus. 44. Degrees. I need to get out of Toronto.