"All these women, their tears could make oceans."
- Bob Dylan, Tarantula
Chapter 2: Arwen
The servants of Minas Tirith were efficient. Scarcely had the King left the Royal Chambers than the sitting room was filled with them, bearing hot water and linen for washing, spiced wine and sweetmeats, additional braziers to fight the chill near the window, even a long woolen robe that was hung on a rack by the fire to warm.
All the comforts of home, Arwen thought. Except that it isn't. Would Legolas suspect? Every other time he had visited the palace, he had refreshed himself in his own rooms in the guest chambers before coming to the Royal Chambers. But now . . . It does not matter. Whether he suspects or not, he will come. The servants had had their instructions regarding that as well, and they were very efficient.
They had finished with the sitting room now, arranging the trays of pastries and fruits on the oaken table and drawing the chairs closer to the fire. All this was accomplished swiftly under the steely gaze of the First Lady of the Privy Chamber, a massive woman who had managed Lord Denethor's household for thirty years and who seemed likely to manage King Elessar's for thirty more. She was the last to leave, surveying the arrangements like a captain inspecting his troops before she finally bowed ponderously to the Queen and exited to the antechamber, closing the door behind her.
Alone again, Arwen took a deep breath and pushed her hands up into her hair, lifting the mass of it off her neck for a moment. She released it with a sigh, her hands falling limply to her sides. He would come. He was delayed, of course, by the weather, and the guards, but he would come.
The Dwarf is with him. But Arwen could not take much hope in that. Éomer would have separated them by now, and doubtless they would not suspect anything, for he and Gimli had formed a lasting friendship after the War. She wondered idly if Elessar had considered that when he had instructed Éomer to entertain the Dwarf. Perhaps he had. Or perhaps he had thought only of Aglarond as a vassal of Rohan, and his own authority over both.
Éomer, at least, had not suspected. She knew that as well as if she had seen his reaction to Aragorn's message herself. He would see only the chance to drink and make merry with his old friend before the Council met on the morrow. And of course Aragorn had phrased it thus, casually, as a favour between friends. She wondered if he counted himself magnanimous for that.
It mattered little in the end: whether phrased as order or as request, his wishes were obeyed. Legolas would come alone.
But would he come in time? If he does not, if Elessar returns before I can speak to him alone . . . She would not think of that. The King had retired to the tower, she knew that as well, and so often he lost track of time there . . . an image. Aragorn, laughing, his grey eyes shining as he bowed over her hand. "Forgive me, my lady, the time slipped away from me," and then drawing her close, his heat, his scent filling her so that all recriminations were forgotten as his lips touched hers…
She paused by the carved table, absently selecting a small orange from the laden trays. A luxury, that: fruit from the last of the winter's stores, riches undreamed of in the first cold weeks of spring. She turned the orange over in her fingers, feeling the slight texture of its skin. This too was deliberate, she knew, a calculated display of the King's wealth and hospitality to his friend. Calculated, deliberate, cunningly planned as all of Elessar's actions now were . . . but to what end?
What is he planning? She could not read him, if indeed she ever had. But all of this: the Council gathering, bringing the lords of Rohan and Ithilien and Dol Amroth to Gondor, the secret messages and gradual strengthening of Gondor's armies . . . she did not attend the King's Privy Council, and she could not read him. But neither was she blind.
And Legolas . . . he had summoned Legolas to come alone.
The heavy door creaked open behind her. Arwen started, dropping the fruit back onto its tray. But the maid who entered appeared not to notice.
"My lady, Lord Legolas of Ithilien –"
"Yes!" Arwen cried, as her heart gave a great leap in her chest. "I mean," she drew herself up, straightening her back and smoothing her hair from her face, "thank you, Kaimil. Please show him in."
He came with a rush of cold air that emanated from his frozen clothes, the mud dripping from his sodden cloak even as the servants flitted about him, their protests and efforts with clothes brush and boot scraper utterly ignored. This in itself was unusual, Arwen realized. She had known the youngest Prince of Mirkwood nearly all his life. She had been a guest at his naming ceremony and she knew well the courtly manners that had been inculcated in him, extending and augmenting his natural courtesy as the endless weapons training and tutors had honed his body and mind. Even her father acknowledged that Thranduil had raised his sons well. Under normal circumstances Legolas would no more ignore a servant than he would snub the Lady Galadriel.
These were not normal circumstances.
Legolas' sharp gaze swept over the room, taking in the candles that dripped wax down their wrought iron holders, the glow of the fire upon the upright chairs, the heavy tapestries that covered the blank stone walls. He is looking for something, Arwen thought, as she watched his eyes pierce every shadow and dark corner of the chamber. No – for someone. And he has ridden hard to come to his side . . . again she sent a silent prayer, a wish to any that might listen, that it was not too late.
But the one he sought was not there. Legolas seemed to absorb this fact in the first fraction of a second, and she watched as the intensity of his eyes lessened, the tension in his frame eased with the realization that no imminent danger threatened. His gaze came then to rest on her, and his face lit with true pleasure.
"Queen Undómiel," Legolas said, and bowed with his hand over his heart. She inclined her head in return, biting her lip to keep the turmoil she felt from showing in her face. He was here. At long last he was here, and the waiting would soon be over. But Elbereth, she was so afraid.
Straightening, he raised his eyes to hers, and Arwen met his gaze with a directness that belied the frantic pounding of her heart. He would see the truth in her in any case, and she would not hide it now. But still there was a risk, and if he saw: if he spoke before she could warn him… Legolas froze for a long moment, looking into her eyes, and she gripped the carved wooden back of the chair so that her knuckles turned white. He knows. Dear Valar, if he tells Elessar . . .
His eyes widened, and then he smiled, like sunshine breaking through the winter clouds. "Arwen," he murmured, and stepped toward her. For an instant the dark weight seemed lifted, and a wave of pure happiness and relief swept over her as she returned his smile. But hard-learned caution stayed her, and rather than running to his embrace she stepped back, and gave a short, sharp shake of her head.
Legolas stopped, his hands still outstretched as the smile faded from his lips. She was sorry for that, was sorry for the confusion in his eyes, and the greater pain that was yet to come. But caution was greater still, and she glanced quickly at the servants and then back to him, hoping that he could understand.
And he did. With a grace born of centuries' experience with servants and their cares, Legolas shrugged out of his mud-caked traveling cloak and gave it into the hands of the chamberlain, who held it up with a look of mute despair. A few murmured words of thanks given in tones of polite dismissal, the shaking off of one excessively diligent lackey who was determinedly swiping a cloth over the Prince's boots, a courtly bow and a blinding smile that reduced the maids to blushing giggles, and then the room was clear.
The heavy doors clicked shut at Legolas' back, cutting off the murmured conversations as the servants retreated to the antechamber. He stood a moment with hands folded behind him, regarding Arwen in silence. His hair was wet with rain, trailing long tendrils down his tunic, and flecks of mud speckled his face and clothes. There was a dark smudge over one high cheekbone, but his eyes were bright and clear as they looked into hers.
For a long moment there was silence, save for the low hiss and crackle of the fire. Then Legolas spoke. "I beg your pardon, my lady. It was not my intent to come upon you like this. I had thought that King Elessar –"
She interrupted, forcing the words past the tightness in her throat. "No pardon is needed, my lord. Elessar is . . ." by no stretch of the imagination could she say that Aragorn was well. She hesitated only a moment, and then finished, "is elsewhere. But he bid that you await him here."
Legolas gave a small nod, still studying her closely. He had made no move toward the washing bowl that steamed gently upon the table, though the mud was now drying upon his face and hair. That again was unusual – though he thought little of his own appearance, courtly protocol had been ingrained in Legolas from an early age. Never had Arwen seen him so bedraggled within doors, and most certainly not when he was expecting to see the King.
He came swiftly, and with urgent need. He knows that something is wrong; he must sense it, even as I do. Some distant part of her spared a moment's pity for the guards who must have tried to stop him. She hoped that their injuries were not too serious.
Legolas spoke again, drawing her from these thoughts. "They do not know?"
It took her a moment to understand what he meant. Her first thought was of Elessar – of course she could not tell him. But no. The servants. Legolas was speaking of the servants.
She shook her head.
Concern now clouded his eyes, his forehead creased in a faint frown. "Forgive me, my lady, but . . . the child . . ."
She took a breath. The child. "He is well."
Still he doubted; puzzlement writ upon the fine planes of his face. With an effort Arwen released the chair that she had clung to, and taking a step forward she caught one of his long white hands in her own. She could feel the callused pads of his fingers as she interlaced them with hers, and brought his hand to rest on the flat of her belly. "There," she whispered.
There was a pause as his lips parted in dawning wonder, and his eyes shone as he looked at her. "A son," he murmured. "Aragorn has a son."
"Yes," she said, and her voice broke on the word. She could not speak further, but released him, and turned away.
"My lady?" His hand touched her shoulder, questioning, but there was no demand in that touch. She closed her eyes, taking comfort in his support, the gentle strength that did not ask more than she could give. For so long she had been alone, surrounded by strangers in a city of stone. For so long she had been afraid . . . she knew that he felt her tremble.
"Arwen?" He was closer now, she could feel him warm against her back, but she did not open her eyes. She had to tell him, had to find the words to make him understand, there was so little time left . . . but she did not have the strength to look at him while she did it.
"How is it," she managed at last, "that things can be so wrong, Legolas, and yet seem so right?"
He circled to face her; she could hear the faint shift of his clothing, feel the fleeting brush of his hair against her shoulder, though his feet made no sound. "I do not understand."
"Or, not right," she continued, swiftly, before her courage could give way. "Never right. But . . . normal. So that, so that from one day to the next, one doesn't notice, the change is so slight, so gradual, and now I wonder, was it a change at all, or is this the way he's always been, and I didn't see –"
"Arwen." He did not touch her. He made no move toward her, but her eyes flew open in surprise at the edge in his voice, and she broke off in mid word. His eyes were hard, boring into her. "You speak of Aragorn?"
Slightly breathless, she nodded. Legolas swallowed. "Tell me," he said, and she knew the effort he made, the strength of control behind his seeming calm.
She took a deep breath, determined to match his composure. "Aragorn – Elessar – has been . . . he has changed, Legolas."
"How?"
She shook her head. "He is . . . different. Cold. He is planning something. There is darkness in him, and cruelty. He spends hours, locked in his tower –"
The strong line of Legolas' jaw tensed. "Cold," he murmured, as if seeking confirmation, or giving it. "Distant . . . and there is something else, some intention that I do not understand…" He trailed off, and looked at her for a long moment. Then, as though to convince himself as much as her, he said gently, "He is King, my lady. His duty to his people –"
"But he doesn't think about the people!" She stopped, gathering herself. "All of it, the guards, the strategies – they aren't for the people. They are for him. If you could only hear him, Legolas…"
He was silent, seeming to consider this, his gaze distant. "In truth that is why I am here," he said at last. "Even before I received Aragorn's summons, my heart was troubled, though I did not know why. I have not the bond with him that you share –"
She laughed; a harsh sound that tore her throat. "Bond? Oh yes, the bond that ties me to a stranger in my husband's guise, the bond so close that he knows not of his son's existence!"
Legolas' eyes focused instantly upon her with piercing intensity. "He does not know?"
Arwen clenched her fists. She was shaking with mingled rage and shame – that she must now do this, that she must now speak of her failure aloud. The ruin of her hopes, the farce that her marriage had become, the pain and fear of so many nights spent alone, longing for his voice, his touch . . . and dreading it when it came. She gathered the hurts to her as bitter stones, and cast them heedlessly at the one who was supposed to understand.
"He is mortal, Legolas! He does not bond as we do, or as I thought we did – I have never done this before, and I do not know! But once I thought – he could, perhaps, but now –"
"He can." Legolas spoke with certainty.
Arwen glared at him. "Then can you not feel it? Do you not know? You have been his friend longer than even I have known him, Legolas – do you pretend that he is unchanged?"
Legolas bowed his head. "No, my lady," he said gently. "I have not seen him in some months, and I cannot speak to your experience. But consider," he added, looking up, "that perhaps this change is necessary? Estel has always driven himself hard, and neither you nor I know the burdens he carries, to keep Gondor safe –"
Hot tears stung Arwen's eyes. "And your father, Legolas? Is Gondor's defense any greater a burden than Mirkwood's? But King Thranduil never acted thus, not even at the height of the Enemy's power. And now Gondor is at peace!"
Legolas sighed. "What would you have me do, my lady? Shall I go to the King and tell him that he is at fault for not bearing the responsibility for his nation with the same grace as the Elvenking – yea, even though he has but four years experience to my father's millennia? Shall I censure him because he has grown stern under the weight of his duty, even as your father did, and mine?"
The tears were perilously close to falling now, and Arwen swiped her hands furiously across her eyes to force them back. "You have not lived with him!" she said. "The things he says, his voice, his eyes, his touch –" her voice shook, but she kept on. "Aragorn is gone, Legolas. Even in Ithilien you felt it, and I tell you now that I know it in every fiber of my being. He is gone, and I cannot bring him back."
It was as if she had struck him across the face. His eyes darkened and his lips thinned as he looked away. The firelight played over his features, shading the contours of cheek and jaw and limning his pale skin and hair in gold. When at last he spoke his voice was steady, and he asked the same question as before. "What would you have me do?"
"Talk to him," Arwen said. "Be with him, Legolas. If there is some part of him, some spark that you can reach . . ."
He turned back toward her, and his face was drawn as though in pain. "Can you put such faith in me, my lady? It is you Aragorn loves. He has pledged himself to you, even as you did to him, and his faer1is bound up in yours. Even now you carry his child. If you cannot reach him –"
Arwen shook her head. She had thought of all this, had considered it and turned it endlessly in her mind during the bitter nights, but in the end there was no choice. Legolas had to try. He was her last hope.
"He asked for you," she said. "I mean that he ordered you to come – he does not ask anymore. I know not what he plans, nor why he desires so to speak to you alone, but he needs you. You are his closest friend, and he loved you long ere he pledged aught to me. I think that perhaps some part of him yet remembers that, and he seeks your aid. How else would you have felt his need so strongly?"
Legolas was still for a long moment, and then he drew a slow breath. "Very well," he murmured, so soft that she could scarcely hear it. "I will try." He smiled then, an ironic twisting of his lips. "Do you imagine that I could do otherwise? But –" he swallowed hard, "I would not give false hope, my lady. We do not know what has caused this change, nor if it can be undone. Elessar is not Estel as we knew him, nor can he be. The people require their King, and we cannot deny them that."
And what if he is not changed at all; and this is truth, and all before was the lie? The black fear welled up in her again, and this time it could not be denied. Arwen pressed a hand to her mouth, stifling the sobs to faint, whistling gasps. Legolas drew her into his arms and she buried her face in his neck as the tears fell at last. She shuddered as they tore through her, and she breathed in the cold, clean scent of him, a mixture of wind and rain and hair like summer straw, together with the damp wool and leather of his tunic. His strong arms held her, his hands stroking her hair and back as he soothed her with voice and touch.
She could feel his strength, constant as he held her, and slowly her trembling eased. Her face was wet with tears and rainwater from his hair, but his long fingers brushed the moisture from her skin.
"Hush," Legolas murmured, and there was a gentle lilt to his voice. He was humming low in his throat, an ancient Silvan lullaby rich with the sounds of forest and creek, the whisper of leaves and the trickle of water through soft loam. "Hush." He kissed her, on her forehead and on her lips, and when she looked into his eyes she saw them shining.
They stood in long embrace, drawing strength from the sharing of grief and fear, love and friendship, as the Eldar had done through all the ages since the first Awakening. The fire and braziers surrounded them in gentle warmth, and the rain hissed softly against the glass outside. Arwen could feel her heart slow, her breathing and the very rhythm of her faer coming into harmony with Legolas'. It seemed so long, so long since she had been thus with another Elf, though in truth Legolas and his people of Ithilien had visited Minas Tirith only last Midsummer's Eve. Was it then that she had first seen the change in Aragorn? Or had she sensed it before? She could not remember.
She was drifting, warm and safe in his arms, relaxed and comforted as she had not been for time uncounted. Legolas held her close, the song a mere vibration in his throat, a near soundless harmony that she nevertheless felt in the depths of her being. His hands still stroked her back, and his wet hair twined with hers: white gold and ebony mingled in the firelight.
It was then that the door to the sitting room swung open, and Elessar found them.
1 faer: Sindarin form of fëa, soul.