Curieyle's life may seem like trivial filler at the moment as events are set into motion elsewhere. Bear with me. I know exactly where this story is going.
Some of you reading on Archive of Our Own may have noticed that two new fandoms and characters have been added to this story. Suffice it to say that I was mauled by, as a new friend calls them, a sub-plot wombat that, once it got hold of me, would not let go. The Lovely Bones and Jack Ketchum's The Girl Next Door will not feature as prominently in this story as the Lord of the Rings and the Harry Potter fandoms do unless my wombat shows me something I'm not yet aware of, so if you're not familiar with either, don't worry a bit. It'll be all right and explained when the time comes.
OOOOOOOOOO.
The library of Minas Tirith was like a gift from Eru himself. Bookshelves towered more than twenty feet into the air, laden with volumes and scrolls on every subject imaginable. The silence was broken only by the occasional rustle as a page was turned or the slight shifting as someone rearranged their position.
As she walked between two shelves, Curieyle inhaled the scent of parchment and ink, so comforting, so familiar. She knew she had loved books in her previous life. How could she not? Reading and learning were as natural to her as breathing.
Making her way to the section of the library devoted to languages, she scanned the shelves for the tome Arwen had lent her a fortnight after Curieyle had met her. It had been the day Curieyle had overheard her Queen and her King conversing in elvish while she plaited flowers into Arwen's beautiful hair.
"How might I learn elvish, my lady?" she had asked eagerly during a lull in the conversation. "It is such an entrancing and beautiful tongue."
"Our secrets will be safe no longer, my love," Aragorn had teased.
"Oh, hush, you," Arwen said with a laugh. "Curieyle, I can teach you. There is a book in the library we provide to human children who wish to learn Sindarin. I will retrieve it for you after the evening meal."
"Thank you, my lady." After a moment. "If my King has secrets he wishes to confide, might I humbly suggest he do so in the dead of night? I may not speak the tongue of the Firstborn, but I am certain others here are not so ignorant. Besides," she continued, her tongue running away from her common sense, "talk over pillows is much more satisfying than talk over flowers."
Arwen burst into peals of laughter while Aragorn stared at Curieyle as if he had never seen her before. He appeared torn between joining his wife or scolding Curieyle for her outspoken suggestion. Looking up from where she was arranging a beautiful white flower at the end of a plait, Curieyle smiled innocently at Aragorn. After a moment, his soft laughter mingled with his Queen's.
With a sad smile, Curieyle stopped before a bookcase of slender tomes, her eye caught by a leather-bound volume halfway up the shelf. The book was unremarkable, but she recognized the golden threads on the spine.
Pushing herself onto her toes, she reached for it. Her fingers fell miserably short. Frowning and glancing quickly around, she grabbed the shelf in front of her and began to climb.
When her foot was on the third shelf, Curieyle felt strong hands grasp her waist. Gasping, she nearly lost her grip. Half turning, she looked down.
"Hello, my lady."
It was the man she had met at the evening meal the night before. He was clad all in black, the color only enhancing his intensity. His expression was impassive as he held her in a grip much too intimate for her liking.
"You!"
"Me," he agreed. "I warned you we would meet again."
"Release me, my lord," Curieyle snapped, ignoring his comment.
"I do not wish for you to fall, my lady."
"I am perfectly capable of climbing four shelves. Take your hands off me."
He ignored her, his eyes traveling past her to the book she had been reaching for. With a small sound, as if he had just made up his mind, he swept her off the shelf, rose onto his toes and drew the volume from its place.
"How dare you!" Curieyle fumed.
He raised a brow and held out the book.
"Your book, my lady."
Curieyle glared at him before snatching the volume from his hand. She did not like being touched, especially without her permission. She was not adverse to it as Aragorn now appeared to be, but it made her uncomfortable.
"Who are you?" she snapped.
"You know very well," he replied. "I am one of the lords of Dol Amroth. Do not confuse my title with that of my father; I am not the lord of Dol Amroth, but I hold power enough to be respected."
His eyes pierced her like grey lances. They were narrowed slightly, focused on her as though he would bend her will with a single look. All that intensity aimed at her caused Curieyle's hands to sweat, the book slipping a little in her grasp.
"Respect must be earned," she said, even as her equilibrium shifted. How could one man hold so much power in a single glance?
"Not when you are born royalty," he said.
A spike of incredulity shattered the spell of his eyes. Casting him a look of what she hoped was pure disgust, Curieyle turned and made her brisk way down the aisle between the bookshelves.
This man reminded her of someone she had once known. The thought did not cause her fear. It made her angry and a little sad. She could not put a face or name to the person, but she knew he too had felt himself superior due to his birth.
~This man is a prince, though. He is used to unwavering devotion.~
~Be that as it may,~ her mind replied. ~He is not excused from common courtesy.~
~But he is.~
~Not with me!~
The man fell into step beside her, causing Curieyle to release an exasperated breath.
"What do you want, my lord?" she asked wearily.
"The pleasure of your company."
"Are you mocking me?"
"I am not." He sounded annoyed. "It is a welcome change to find a servant that does not grovel."
Curieyle raised her eyebrows, surprised by his admonition.
"Well," she said with deadpan humor, "I will endeavor not to do so, my lord."
"My lady," he answered wryly, "you never could."
"Is that a challenge?"
"No." The word was emphatic and final.
OOOOOOOOOO.
When Curieyle arrived in the King's chamber to strip his bed, she was shaking her head at the thought of Prince Imrahil's son. He was dominant by nature, thoroughly aggravating and far too intense for his own good. He had found something intriguing in her, she was certain, and it annoyed her. She preferred anonymity. She felt safe in the background, unnoticed and invisible as a servant ought to be. This man was drawing her into the spotlight of his attentions, a spotlight she had no desire to inhabit.
At the memory of how he had lifted her off the bookshelf without her permission, Curieyle's blood sang with indignation. With a growl, she wrenched the linen case off Aragorn's pillow and flung it across the room. Glaring at the wall, she clutched the pillow close, then hurled it at the stone.
"Has my pillow caused you offense?"
Yelping in surprise, Curieyle whirled to face her King as he stepped into the chamber.
"Do not do that!" she snapped. "You gave me a fright!"
Aragorn raised a brow. Reminded of lord Tall, Dark and Infuriating, Curieyle folded her arms and mirrored his expression. Chuckling softly, Aragorn stepped to the wall and lifted the pillow from where it had landed, returning it to the bed.
"Something has upset you."
"Which of Prince Imrahil's sons was seated at the end of the high table last evening?" she asked. "The Prince himself was at your right, and his eldest son, the one with the kind yet serious face was at his right. Another of his sons was seated to your left with lord Faramir. Who was the other?"
Aragorn looked surprised at the question but answered it anyway.
"That was Amrothos. He is Prince Imrahil's youngest son."
"Amrothos," she murmured.
The name suited him. It rolled off her tongue like pure honey, rich, overpowering and not at all good for her. And yet, she could not stop rolling the name around in her mind, feeling a sense of triumph at discovering it, though she knew it was hardly a court secret.
"Has he done something to upset you?" Aragorn asked.
Curieyle returned her attention to her King and contemplated telling him of Amrothos's far too familiar gesture in the library. After a moment, she rejected the idea. Her problems were her own; she would not burden Aragorn with trivialities.
"Nay," she said. "Though he is very intense."
Aragorn stared at her for a long moment before nodding.
"He has needed to be," he said.
"Why?"
"It is not my place to tell you that," Aragorn replied as he crossed the room to a chair before the hearth.
"You are the King," Curieyle said, turning back to the bed and beginning to strip the linens from the mattress.
"I will not abuse my power by giving away secrets that are not mine, Curieyle." Aragorn's tone was clipped and Curieyle did not press him further.
When she heard the sound of liquid being poured into a goblet, she whirled around. Aragorn met her eyes steadily as he set the decanter on the table before him.
Curieyle was crossing the chamber before she had made the conscious decision to move. Reaching out, she fastened her fingers around the stem of the goblet, tipping it toward her so she could peer inside.
"Water," she said, surprised.
Aragorn jerked the goblet from her grasp with a force that caused her fingers to burn.
"I do not so easily forget my promises," he snapped.
"You did not make one, my king," Curieyle replied, folding her arms across her chest. "Due forgive me for caring enough not to see you relapse into self-destruction."
His eyes blazed at her as he sipped from the goblet.
"You overstep your bounds," he growled.
"Since when! If being bold is the price I must pay for giving a damn then I shall overstep them frequently!"
Curieyle did not know where the unfamiliar phrase came from. It was harsh and disrespectful and felt wonderful to say. Aragorn's brows lifted as he stared at her.
"I beg your pardon?"
Her King's tone told Curieyle he knew exactly what the phrase meant, perhaps had heard it before, and was not at all impressed with her for speaking it.
"Mind your tongue, Curieyle," he said softly. "Such language does not become a maiden."
Curieyle released an explosive sigh and shook her head.
"I apologize for doubting you, my King," she murmured grudgingly. "It has been a rough twenty-four hours."
"Do you wish to speak of it?"
"Nay. I cannot."
"I will not press you, Curieyle," Aragorn replied. "But I am here if you desire to reach out to someone."
Curieyle nodded, then returned to the bed.
"Will Amrothos be accompanying the party to destroy Minas Morgul?"
"How do you know of that?"
"The servants have whispered about it in the past. They say you announced your intentions at your coronation, and it only makes sense that Prince Imrahil would be involved. Not only is he a man of Gondor, he is your advisor as well as a warrior with much battle experience."
"You connect information well, Curieyle."
"It is logic, my King," Curieyle answered, tucking a clean sheet beneath the mattress. "It is hardly difficult."
"Some might beg to differ."
"Let them. Their lack of logic does not affect me."
"And if it did?"
"It would not," she replied, circling the bed to tuck in the opposite end. "I have logic enough for ten minds or so I have been told."
By who?
That is of no consequence.
Is it not?
Nay!
Aragorn smiled faintly, then answered her question.
"I am uncertain if Prince Imrahil will ask Amrothos to join us, but I cannot see why he would not."
"He did not appear to mind his son sitting away from him at the feast last night," Curieyle pointed out.
"Amrothos takes very seriously the duty to his men. If you did not notice, they were at one of the tables nearest to where he sat. Imrahil is aware of this and would not scold his son for an awareness he finds admirable."
"His warriors are grown men. Why must he watch them?"
Aragorn lifted a shoulder in a lazy shrug. "He is very mindful of what is his."
"He does not own them."
"But he wishes to assure himself they are comporting themselves as befits men of their standing. I can sympathize."
"He sounds rather controlling."
Aragorn sipped his water as Curieyle gathered the dirty linens.
"He is a lord, Curieyle," he said. "It is in his nature to be controlling, for if he were not, others would seek to take advantage of him."
"I hardly think that is possible," Curieyle said wryly.
Aragorn chuckled, though Curieyle noticed the laughter did not reach his eyes.
"That, pen tithen, is due to his control."
