Author's Note: Our heroes now arrive in the little post-war town of Bregostead, somewhere between Mordor and Mirkwood. Tell me, folks, what do we think of Arathel so far? I feel that Tolkien's stories are sharply lacking in strong female characters and I am hoping to fill in that gap with a woman-or women, actually-who do something other than, ahem, pine over men. Arathel is my first attempt, but she will not be the last. Read on, friends!
Chapter Two:
The Iron Mare Inn
The settlement of Bregostead was small but stolidly built. Thick stone walls more than a man's height high surrounded the modest hamlet, protecting its quiet inhabitants from the ripping winds of the plateau. The place had been built out of the ashes of war, one of many little townships of its kind. Like the rest, Bregostead was a symbol of rebirth, of Man's return to the theater of prosperity. A traveler never wanted there for a service or supply—the place had blacksmiths, tailors, farmers, horse masters, herbalists and business folk with storefronts that sold every odd and end. However, of chief interest to the weary wanderer in Bregostead were usually the Iron Mare Inn and its adjoining tavern.
From her place atop of grassy hillock, Arathel push strings of damp hair from her face and laughed. Bregostead lay before her like a basket of light.
"By Valar, it's about damn time," she said, her face split with a white grin. After their long march, they were all ready for a rest, worn down and soaked through as they were by a hard autumn rain.
Gimli lifted his nose to the breeze and breathed deep the scent of wood smoke.
"I can almost smell the meat on that fire," he growled. He hoisted his axe higher on his back and made for the cobbled road ahead of them. "Come on then!" he called, without looking back.
A fist on each hip, Arathel turned to Legolas. His attention was so focused on the settlement in the distance he almost didn't hear her question, "Something the matter, dear Prince?"
He shook his head, eyes moving slowly to meet hers. He spoke the words as if they astonished him: "I'm hungry."
Arathel stared at him a moment before erupting in laughter. She held a hand to her armored stomach as she was wracked by good humor. Tears formed in her eyes.
"Woe be the day that you ever drink enough mead that it makes you stumble!" she said.
Legolas did not often blink, but he blinked at her then in confusion. She only shook her head in reply. Patting his cheek, Arathel then took his sleeve in her hand and dragged him forward.
She called out across the plain to the receding figure that was Gimli.
"The good Elf has admitted to being hungry, Master Dwarf! Shall we have a feast in his honor?"
Legolas widened his eyes in horror.
Gimli stopped dead in his tracks and turned around.
"He said what, now! O-oh, but this is a rare day! Three day's walk on nothing but soggy bread and scavenged berries is enough to get even an Elf to admit mortal hunger, eh! Heh-heh. I'll go on ahead and have them prepare us a kingly feast."
Legolas began to understand their joke. He said in Elvish to Arathel as she continued to pull him forward, Sometimes you are too much like Aragorn. His voice was stern, but already a smile was playing around his eyes and mouth. As a Prince by breeding but a trickster by nature, Legolas sometimes found it hard to remain so reserved and poised as was expected of him by his kin. Arathel, like her father before her, seemed to make easy work of coaxing him into mischief.
"And our fellowship is the better for it!" laughed the young Lady of Gondor. She released her friend's arm and broke into a run. "Come! Let's catch him, else you know he'll make trouble for us at the tavern!"
Legolas smiled and ran after her.
The innkeeper of the Iron Mare was a woman with a chiseled but not uncomely face. Her name was Gelda, and with her wild mane of hair and broad hips, hands and shoulders, it seemed very much like she might be the "iron mare" for which her inn was named.
Gimli was altogether smitten.
He sat across the bar from her for some good long hours, eating several plates of roasted game and downing countless tankards of ale. At first he paid for his food and drink with coin, but after a while, his payment came only as jokes and tales of misadventure. Gelda seemed to consider this a fair trade. Her laughter filled the place to the rafters, hearty and genuine.
Legolas and Arathel sat together at a table by the fire sipping quietly at spiced wine. They'd emptied two plates each and were well and truly full, though Gimli had put them both to shame.
"I can out-drink him, though I could never out-dine him," said Legolas, his eyes half closed with contentment.
Arathel gave him a lopsided grin, her gaze not quite in focus. When she spoke, it was as if with great care.
"I . . . can do neither. But that is our secret. Half-elf to Elf . . . you see?" She winked and tapped at her nose, though it took her a couple tries to find it.
Legolas sat up in surprise.
"It's affecting you!"
Arathel snorted.
"I am affected, you mean. The . . . affect-ing passed out of tense some time ago." With a bleary grin, she laid her head on her arm and listened as Gelda's laugh rose again from behind the bar. She closed her hazel eyes.
"Do you suppose they'll . . . marry and have hairy little children together?"
At that, Legolas smiled a smile that was almost a laugh.
"Nothing is certain," he replied.
"Cryptic as ever."
Arathel opened one eye and looked at him. After a while, her smile softened into something more discerning. Legolas met her gaze, though after a long stretch of silence, the scrutiny began to feel uncomfortable. He looked down. Arathel frowned.
"I think of you often," she said, "and I wonder if you are lonely."
Legolas looked back up sharply.
"Every day," she continued, "more of your kin leave these shores, and you have little close family of your own. Just your father, and he . . . well, perhaps I am just too used to my own father's tender habits."
The pair sat in silence as Arathel's meaning hung on the smoky tavern air. Legolas stared hard at the tabletop as if searching for answers in the grain of the wood. At last, a look of tired sadness came over his face. The affect was slight, but it so dampened the Elf's usual light that Arathel raised her head.
Legolas spoke in Elven tongue.
To be Eldar, he said, is to be alone, a river stone in passing waters.
Though he did not elaborate, the Prince's meaning was very clear. In the dim light, his eyes were downcast and dark. He had strange eyes, even among Elves. While often bright and clear, in certain moods and light they deepened to a gentle brown, as they were now. In them, Arathel saw a stirring sorrow and was crushed by it. With a rare look of heartache, she reached out and took one of her friend's hands in her own. She kissed the back of his fingers.
Mellon-nin, my brother . . . the river flows on, but you forever change its course.
For a moment, Legolas did not breathe. Her words, it seemed, landed too heavily to be painless.
Arathel placed his hand back on the table. Somewhat unsteadily, she made as if to get up from her seat.
"There are no stars to watch tonight," she said, "will you sleep?"
He nodded. Standing, he offered her his hand. Arathel waved him off.
"I'm fine."
"You're drunk."
"Yes, but I'm also fine."
She had no sooner said the words than Legolas caught her from falling face-first into the fire pit. Flames lapping only inches from her nose made her take pause.
"For tonight," she said at last, "I trust in the wisdom of the Elves!" and wrapped her arm around her fair friend's waist.
Together, they made their way—with some difficulty—to their rented rooms.
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Critiques are encouraged.
Always feel free to ask questions.
Much love,
~Dances-With-Cacti
