Disclaimer: characters belong to the Big Guy (JRR Tolkien), the movieverse
belongs to P. Jackson and New Line Cinema. Not mine, I'll put 'em back safe
after I'm through.
* * * * * *
She thinks to herself that she must have always known. Arwen has inherited something of her grandmother's Sight - not as pure, not as sharp, but surely enough to read the simple hearts of mortal men. But then her lover and King-to-be was never a simple man, so perhaps for that she can be excused. She feels lips on her lips now, dry soft heat that quickly turns wet. Lips tasting their way down the long column of her neck, across her collarbone.
Unwatched for by Saruman, she'd crossed the high passes at Caradhras with relative ease and come to Lothlórien ahead of the Fellowship, determined to see them safe one more time before releasing them to danger again. Or perhaps she'd entertained thoughts of winning her grandmother's permission to accompany them. She'd been unsure of her intentions when she'd left, and certainly her thoughts were no clearer now, her body arching and her fingers taking their own teasing path, down, down, down.
She thinks she should have known, watching him climb up the platforms of the royal flet, some new confidence, some new sharpness in his movement, bowed though he was with grief. And then her grandmother's eyes had lingered so. He'd kissed her in greeting, and tasted just a little bit more like leather, like steel. More like Man and less like Elf-kind. She tastes them again now, laps up the bitter sharpness and wonders if these will eventually be her flavors, if by taking them in she can cement her decision, so there will no longer an option of fleeing from the Havens. She kisses harder, nipping with her teeth until warm copper breaks across her lips and shocks her tongue.
He'd come to her bed, but instead of joining her there had taken her hand and bidden her rise, leading her back to where the company lay. And as they'd walked, for the first time he'd spoken to her of Minas Tirith, of the beauty of the city, the valor of her people, and the companionship he'd found there. He'd paused only once, upon spotting Frodo's empty bedroll, but she'd laid her hand upon his arm and whispered that the Ringbearer was safe with the Lady. They'd walked on to another clearing well-shrouded by birches and low, spreading yew; against the silvery bark, Boromir stood waiting.
She should've known, she must've known, but it matters not because now she does know. Boromir hisses beneath her as she lifts her red-tinged mouth, and Aragorn's low chuckle rumbles against their sides. "Such a maid," the younger man swears, and looks between her and his lover in amazement. Something of the shadow that has been on him in the Golden Wood lifts, and he laughs with delight. Aragorn kisses them each in turn and their limbs tangle further.
"You are no elf," Boromir had said to him. She thinks from here on neither will she be; she will rise in the morning and taste leather on her own skin, and steel.
* * * * * *
She thinks to herself that she must have always known. Arwen has inherited something of her grandmother's Sight - not as pure, not as sharp, but surely enough to read the simple hearts of mortal men. But then her lover and King-to-be was never a simple man, so perhaps for that she can be excused. She feels lips on her lips now, dry soft heat that quickly turns wet. Lips tasting their way down the long column of her neck, across her collarbone.
Unwatched for by Saruman, she'd crossed the high passes at Caradhras with relative ease and come to Lothlórien ahead of the Fellowship, determined to see them safe one more time before releasing them to danger again. Or perhaps she'd entertained thoughts of winning her grandmother's permission to accompany them. She'd been unsure of her intentions when she'd left, and certainly her thoughts were no clearer now, her body arching and her fingers taking their own teasing path, down, down, down.
She thinks she should have known, watching him climb up the platforms of the royal flet, some new confidence, some new sharpness in his movement, bowed though he was with grief. And then her grandmother's eyes had lingered so. He'd kissed her in greeting, and tasted just a little bit more like leather, like steel. More like Man and less like Elf-kind. She tastes them again now, laps up the bitter sharpness and wonders if these will eventually be her flavors, if by taking them in she can cement her decision, so there will no longer an option of fleeing from the Havens. She kisses harder, nipping with her teeth until warm copper breaks across her lips and shocks her tongue.
He'd come to her bed, but instead of joining her there had taken her hand and bidden her rise, leading her back to where the company lay. And as they'd walked, for the first time he'd spoken to her of Minas Tirith, of the beauty of the city, the valor of her people, and the companionship he'd found there. He'd paused only once, upon spotting Frodo's empty bedroll, but she'd laid her hand upon his arm and whispered that the Ringbearer was safe with the Lady. They'd walked on to another clearing well-shrouded by birches and low, spreading yew; against the silvery bark, Boromir stood waiting.
She should've known, she must've known, but it matters not because now she does know. Boromir hisses beneath her as she lifts her red-tinged mouth, and Aragorn's low chuckle rumbles against their sides. "Such a maid," the younger man swears, and looks between her and his lover in amazement. Something of the shadow that has been on him in the Golden Wood lifts, and he laughs with delight. Aragorn kisses them each in turn and their limbs tangle further.
"You are no elf," Boromir had said to him. She thinks from here on neither will she be; she will rise in the morning and taste leather on her own skin, and steel.