"I can't say how many will want to travel so far, Strider."Merry's voice was more serious than Aragorn had ever heard it as he responded to the query the King had just put forth. "Bree's the furthest they've ever been, and while Minas Tirith is beautiful, it's stone. It's... it's..."
"It's not the Shire," Pippin said, picking at a platter of cold chicken.
Aragorn nodded understandingly at his small friends, his companions of an old that was, for all intents and purposes, not all that old at all. It felt as though a score of years had passed since he had espied the halflings in the Prancing Pony. A lifetime ago. Another man's memories entirely.
"There are green places," he told the Hobbits, his eyes straying from one to the next. "I knew Arwen would need them. Elves cannot survive happily surrounded by stone. There are many secluded areas that would offer the Shire halflings shelter should they desire to make Minas Tirith their temporary home. If they do, I will contact the Dunedain. They would be more than willing to escort a caravan. It need not be a needlessly harsh journey."
Aragorn ignored how his voice quavered on Arwen's name. He pretended not to notice Sam noticing. He blessed the stout Hobbit for letting it pass.
"Some will come," Sam mused, tugging on a brown curl. "Not all, but some. I think we'll need to get 'em out of Bree sooner rather than later. I just don't think the village can support 'em all for too long. There just ain't enough room or resources."
"The Tooks will come," Pippin said, and his lips were turned up into the shadow of his usual exuberant smile. "We love adventures."
"Quests," Merry stated.
"Things," Sam and Aragorn finished the inside joke, and sadness was suddenly sliced into fragments by the comradery laughter that broke out between them, unexpected by all, embraced by each.
"I still cannot believe you said that in front of a delegation of elves, men and dwarves," Merry laughed, shaking his head and smiling fondly at Pippin.
"It does the big folk well to underestimate my intelligence," was the Took's cheeky response.
"Have we been underestimating it this whole time?" Merry sounded appalled, but all of them could see the laughter in his eyes. It did not overshadow the pain, but they all knew it would be a long time before anything would.
"Don't give him any ideas," Sam warned, plucking a chicken leg from the platter before Pippin and taking a large bite. "He might decide to do somethin' intelligent."
"I daresay you have all been through enough shocks for one month," Aragorn deadpanned.
"I don't get it."
Pippin's words set them off again, and in spite of the long road before them, the Hobbits did what Hobbits do best. They looked toward the bright lining in the cloud looming over them, and they stayed true to their strengths. They gave in to laughter before tears and soldiered bravely onward like the hearty folk they were. The broken man in their midst found himself swept inexorably along, nostalgia tightening his throat and threatening to drown him.
He tried not to think back on the quest of the Ring. If he dwelled upon it for too long, his mind inevitably turned toward what he had lost after its completion. The laughter of the Hobbits around him was both soothing balm and irritant, familiar and comforting while at the same time unconsciously cruel.
He felt the smile slide from his face as his mind took over, propelling him down the long, dark corridor that led where it always did. He could feel someone's eyes on him. Sam's, he saw, even as his gaze unfocused, turning toward the blazing hearth nearby. Within the leaping flames, it all unfurled before him once more, a memory so crisp in its detail as to be less of a memory and more a waking nightmare.
Aragorn's mind had been fixed firmly on his bed as he traversed the citadel corridors. They reached toward the mattress, both firm and soft, reminding him of the sweet grasses or fragrant mosses of the wild. They reached toward the blankets that blocked out every draft in the way even the warmest clothing could not. They settled, as they so often did, upon the dark-haired beauty who would be waiting for him there, her eyes filled with joy at his return, her arms and body ready to receive him.
When the slight figure stepped into his path, Aragorn's mind withdrew from images of his wife with a mild twinge of annoyance. Drawing to a halt before the brown-haired girl Arwen had taken on as her lady in waiting, he looked down into soft brown eyes filled with a troubled sadness.
"Curieyle." Without intending to, his voice dipped low, softened the way it always had when addressing the more skittish of Arda's creatures. "Is all well?"
Curieyle's lips trembled, their corners turning down in a distinct frown. Aragorn could see the hesitation in her, could almost feel it as his own before her hand, small and warm, found his. Bemused, but willing to humor her, he curled his long, calloused fingers around her slender ones and followed as she tugged him aside. As they walked, Aragorn noticed she was leading him toward the King's private gardens.
"Curieyle, what is this?" he murmured, his eyes flicking from the young girl beside him to the double oak doors inlaid with intricate relief's of blooming flowers.
Aragorn wished she had answered. He wished she had told him, warned him, prepared him for what she was about to show him. But she had not, and as much as Aragorn wanted to resent her for it, he could not. He had spent decades longer on the earth than she had, and he could admit that she had communicated to him in the only way his heart would believe. Had words come before witness, had talk come before proof, he would have lashed out at her for daring to speak ill of his Queen and brother.
Curieyle released his hand to open the doors which swung outward on silent hinges. The sweet scent of honeysuckle and lilacs drifted to Aragorn's nose, the night air caressing his face like a lover's whisper. The garden was illuminated by moonlight, a soft, ethereal glow that bathed the scene before him in shades of palest silver.
Legolas, tall and lean, bearing in his carriage all the power and command his royal bloodline demanded, held Arwen in his arms. He clutched to her like a lost man drowning, and Arwen gazed up at him with a fiercely burning love smoldering in her blue eyes. Her expression hit Aragorn like a physical blow; it was a possessive brand of ownership, intimate and beautiful and one she had never bestowed upon him. As he and Curieyle watched, Legolas leant in close, speaking low. The smooth timbre of his voice carried across the silent garden, though the words were lost to the two mortals standing by, unseen, one furious, the other feeling as if his heart were being torn slowly in two.
Aragorn knew he should look away as Arwen's hand rose to smooth a lock of golden hair from Legolas's face. He knew he should speak as his wife rose on her toes, meeting Legolas's kiss as the prince of Greenwood tilted his head toward hers. Their arms held fast as though they would cling to one another for eternity. Their mouths mated with the hurried, frenzied passion of two lovers who knew they should not be meeting but who were drawn to one another like a pair of loadstones, inexorably pulled toward the other, even though he knew the desire to betray was not present within either. Their love was evident in that fierce interlude, true and burning and real, and Aragorn knew he could not deny them of it.
Leaving Curieyle to gaze sadly after him, the King of Gondor strode toward the pair at the center of the garden, walking more heavily than he was wont to in order to announce his presence.
Legolas and Arwen broke apart slowly. Their gazes held, even then, lingering on the other's before they turned to face him. Their distress was genuine, Aragorn could see it in Legolas's anguished expression and in Arwen's tear-filled eyes. The distress came not from being caught, but from causing him pain.
"Aragorn." Arwen's voice washed over him like honeyed mead, rich and intoxicating.
She paused, glanced to Legolas, then looked back to her husband. Aragorn respected her for facing him, for speaking up rather than forcing Legolas to speak for her.
"Aragorn..." He stopped before her, looked down into her eyes. He loved her even then, with her lips swollen from another male's kisses and her hand held tight within that of his best friend's. "It pains me so to hurt you like this." She let the words hang in the air between them, before speaking again. "It began before the war. I shall not hurt you further with the details, but we did mean to tell you. We just... wanted to..."
"We wanted you to heal first," Legolas interjected quietly. "We wanted to support you as you settled into your role as King. It was never our intention to lie to you, Aragorn."
Aragorn found his voice after a long silence in which nothing could be heard save the rustle of the wind through grass and leaf.
"Are you happy, Arwen?" he asked her in Sindarin.
"I am," she responded in kind. She blinked, and the tears fell, spilling like a spring rain over lily fair skin. "I am very happy, Aragorn."
"Will you ensure she is taken care of?" he asked, turning to Legolas. "Will you love her with the passion she deserves throughout all your long years on Arda?"
"You have my vow that she will be loved,treasured and kept safe for as long as I draw breath," Legolas responded, gazing earnestly into Aragorn's eyes.
Inclining his head, Aragorn looked back to Arwen. Lifting his hand over his heart, certain he could hear the brittle crack of it breaking, he bowed to her.
"Arwen Undomiel. Queen of Gondor, Princess of Imladris, wife, lover and friend, I release you. Your vows of marriage are freely severed with no ill will cast upon you for your choice. Go forth with he whom you love and be content. I wish you both happiness."
His voice remained steady, but his eyes were brimming by the time the last ritual word fell from his lips. Arwen was weeping openly, and still she was as beautiful as she had been when he first saw her. She had been dancing on that night. Another night, another garden, stumbled upon by a fool.
~Not much has changed,~ he thought bitterly.
Withdrawing the Ring of Barahir from the golden neck chain upon which she wore it, it being too large for her finger, Arwen held it out to Aragorn who accepted it solemnly. When he made to remove the Evenstar pendant, however, she lifted a hand to stop him.
"It was a gift," she whispered. "Keep it."
Valar help him, but Aragorn did not have the heart to refuse her anything, even now when she was no longer his. Bowing his head, he slipped the ring onto his finger. Without another word, he swung about and walked toward the palace, each step slow and measured, the retreat of a King from a battle he had surrendered with grace.
He did not look back. And he had never been the same.
Behind him, he heard a sudden, almighty CRACK!Whirling around, he saw Arwen descending on him, her arms outstretched. Anger rose in him, hot and terrifying in its vehemence. His eyes flashed and his arm flexed, his palms itching to feel the hilt of his sword. He was drowning in emotion, and he was desperate for a foe he could fight, for something he could conquer.
"Please don't hurt me," Curieyle whimpered at his side as Arwen collided with him.
Curieyle?
Aragorn blinked, and the gardens dissolved. The moonlit night, the honeysuckle-scented air, it all faded back into the recesses of his mind, swirling away like water down a well. All was not right,however. He could feel someone clinging to him, and his entire body tensed, the instinct to shove rising up in him so fiercely his entire body shook with the battle to resist it.
"Please don't push me away."
Then it hit him. Blood. The scent of it, that tangy, metallic odor that crept into the senses and onto the tongue.
"Curieyle."
His voice was a low rasp, horror filling him as he looked down into her terrified face. It was covered in blood. Her hands were caked in it where they clutched his shoulders, leaving streaks of red wherever they touched.
"Curieyle," he said, more urgently, lifting his arms to clasp her gently.
The frenzy she flew into at his touch rocked him to his core. Her screams, shrill and desperate, pierced him to his very soul. What had happened to her!How had she gotten here? He clenched his jaw as her feet slammed into his shins repeatedly, sending shockwave's of pain up his legs.
"Strider!" Merry cried. "It's all down her back, too!"
"It's a lot, Strider," Pippin said, his voice quavering.
His Hobbits had seen far too much of late.
"Curieyle!" Aragorn barked, withdrawing one of his hands, wincing as the terrified girl's nails clawed at his arms through the sleeves of his tunic.
He could tell he had cut through her panic, sliced past it long enough to grab her attention. When she looked up to him, he saw it in her eyes, the desperate, aching need for him to comfort her, to tell her all would be well. She needed him to help her.
His hand drove forward. He struck her with such force he could hear the sharp clack of her teeth colliding. Her head rocked back on her neck, and in the moment before she went limp in his arms, Aragorn saw hurt and confusion flash in those "help me" eyes.
Guilt tore at him as he glanced up to the three terrified Hobbits standing before him. Rising to his feet, the bloody girl in his arms, he eyed them earnestly.
"I need your help," he said, and he could have embraced them all when they nodded, small shoulders straightening, chins lifting, rising to the challenge with all the faith and courage they possessed. Their trust in him humbled him, but now was not the time to dwell on that. Right now, he had a girl to save and a mystery to solve, for if his door had been locked as it always was when in meetings, how had his little servant gotten in?
OOOOO
"Excuse me."
The two boys looked up from their discussion, turning to her with irritated expressions on their faces. Still, she soldiered on, despite the hammering of her heart and the way her hands shook. They didn't notice; she had become too good at pretending confidence.
"Can't a person eat in peace in this place?" the redhead asked.
She ignored him, fixing her attention on the dark-haired one with glasses.
"I couldn't help overhearing what you and Malfoy were saying-" she began.
"Bet you could," the redhead muttered.
"-and you mustn't go wandering around the school at night," she forged ahead, even though her throat had tightened at the boy's evident dislike of her. "Think of the points you'll lose Gryffindor if you're caught, and you're bound to be. It's really very selfish of you."
"And it's really none of your business," the dark-haired boy retorted. His green eyes flashed at her and she felt herself grow a little smaller inside.
"Good-bye," the redhead snapped.
Robbed of the confidence she had been desperately trying to cling to, she slipped away, head bowed, tears stinging her eyes.
OOOOOOOOOO
The pain was intense. Not as intense as some pain she had known, but intense enough to make her want to scream. She could not move. Her lips would not part, and her limbs felt heavy, as though they were mired in cement. She retreated from the pain, shrinking against the wall beside which she sat. She could not say where it had come from, but it was suddenly there, looming over her like a silent guardian.
Her hands pressed flat to the pitted red stone, ran over the scarred surface. She was gentle as she rose, stepping along the barrier against the pain, feeling the rock give in certain places. She paused before one loosened brick, touched it, felt something in her mind stay her hand, guiding her toward another section. Frowning, not understanding the hesitation but obeying the compulsion, she brushed aside the pebbles that had gathered within a large divot in the wall, listening to the cascade of the sand and dirt showering onto the ground at her feet.
Her fingers brushed jagged stone as she reached into the divot, hooking her hand around a shard of rock. It wobbled in her grasp like a loose tooth, and with a single controlled jerk, she snapped it from its perch and stooped to see what had been hiding beyond.
OOOOOOOOOO
"Hermione? Hermione!"
She glanced up from the book she had snuck from the top shelf in her father's study as his voice rang through the hall just beyond the door. Smiling, she crawled toward the large, king-size bed in the center of the room, wriggling beneath it with a suppressed giggle.
"Hermione Jean? I know you have my book."
He didn't sound angry, so she didn't return the call. Butterflies filled her stomach as she saw the door to the room open. She watched through a tiny gap where the skirt of the bed did not quite reach the floor as his shiny black shoes wandered the room, first to one side, then the other. She bit her hand to keep from giggling and giving herself away as they finally came to rest in front of her.
"Where is she?" the voice murmured.
There was a long pause before the skirt of the bed was yanked aside and a pair of large hands dove beneath the bed to seize her. She squealed as she was dragged out and lifted off the floor, hanging upside down before the grinning face of a brown-haired man with her soft doe-brown eyes.
"Found you," he stated triumphantly.
"Daddy!" she shrieked, laughing as he tossed her to the bed before bearing down on her, his fingers traveling to her sides, tickling her mercilessly.
OOOOOOOOOO
Hermione. That was her name. Hermione smiled as the memory cleared and she found herself beside the wall once more. Hermione Jean was her name. At least, it had been. She had a father who obviously loved her, even if the two boys in her first memory had been far from impressed with her. She had been younger in her last memory though, she could tell.
Her smile faded and she tried to make sense of the tiny snippets she had gained. Her palm scraped across the surface of the wall.
~What next?~ she wondered to herself. ~Please show me more?~
She could not say to whom she was appealing, but the answer was not long in coming. A tug at the back of her mind guided her further down the wall toward a corner where half of it had already given way. She hesitated, feeling, somehow, that whatever lay beyond that barrier would not be pleasant. Bracing herself, she reached out, touched the craggy stone, then shoved both hands into it, hauling aside large, misshapen chunks as the agony she was distracting herself from flared along her back. It felt as though someone had lit a torch and was slowly running it up and down her spine.
When the rock was cleared and a hole larger than she was tall stood before her, Hermione took a deep breath and gazed into it.
OOOOOOOOOO
Shadows danced on the walls of a dank dungeon, for Hermione knew there could be no other word for it. Bleak gray stone glinted with the gleam of steel shackles, the rock stained with grime and substances she did not want to think of. Lit by the light of a dozen illuminated wands, she watched two indistinct shapes struggling at the center of a wide circle.
She could glimpse little, even during the momentary flashes when one or both figures' faces were bathed in light. She had a vague impression of wavy brown hair. White teeth. A pair of blue eyes. A tear gliding over pallid skin. Large hands. Muscles bunching against an inexorable hold. Nothing was still; it moved in a continual ripple, as though she were watching the events unfolding from underwater.
"Hermione."
She knew that voice; Hermione turned, falling to her knees before the ethereal form standing behind her.
"Lady Yavanna."
"Rise, child. You needn't bow to me."
Leaning down, the Vala touched her arms, drawing her gently to her feet. "You are suffering more than any of us expected you too, young one. I have been sent because you have not heeded our warnings until now. I have tended many a hurting heart, but you resist even our attempts to touch you. Can you tell me why?"
Hermione swallowed hard, looking up into the light-swathed visage of the Vala who had breathed new life into her. Yavana and her sister had wept at what Hermione had left behind, and had, with Eru's blessing, given her a second chance. Hermione knew both tended to the growing things of the earth; she had never understood why they had chosen to resurrect her. It was just one more question in a life riddled with them.
"I... I..."
"You have allowed fear to control you, Hermione. You have only willingly looked toward your lost life to escape the pain inflicted within this one. You do not truly seek to remember or to learn. You seek escape."
Yavanna sounded sad, disappointed, and the sound of such emotion in the musical voice made Hermione want to crumple at her feet and weep. As Yavanna's words registered, though, guilt was replaced with fear, ice sliding down her spine like a serpent of ocean deeps. The wall. The barrier beside which she stood. It was not a shield against the pain. It was her wall. The wall. The one she promised herself she would never, ever willingly approach.
"You cannot hide forever, Hermione," the Vala before her chided gently. "Time grows short. You must find who you were and reconcile with her. Middle-Earth needs you. Arda needs you. You are stronger than you believe yourself to be, and that strength is in sore demand."
"I am not some savior," Hermione objected. "You offered me another chance. You put me here, but it was not really a chance, was it? Had you been granting me a second chance at life, you would have allowed me to begin anew without the threat of memories breaking free. I'd have come to Arda a child, still possessed of my innocence. Why did you truly send me here? What is your real purpose?"
A small part of Hermione was appalled at how she was speaking to the divinity who had given her everything. But in Yavanna's presence, the confusion surrounding the pain she felt and the wall beside which she walked had fled, leaving in its wake only suspicion and terror. She glanced over her shoulder toward the forms struggling within that wide circle, and she knew what she was looking at. She knew one of those forms was her. She knew the other was a nameless Death Eater taking from her what no man had a right to claim without consent. She could hear the laughter. The jeers. The encouragements.
She turned away, looking back toward the Vala's light which bent and shifted through her veil of tears.
"Why are you doing this to me?" she sobbed. "Why could I not have passed to peace?"
"Hermione, this was not all you were," Yavanna waved her arms, and the visions behind Hermione faded. "Look."
"I cannot." Hermione protested, her voice catching, rising several octaves in terror of what she would be forced to witness. Witnessing was better than reliving, but still she found she could not do it.
"Look, child." The Vala's voice was gentle. "Look and see what else you have chosen not to remember."
Hermione felt herself turning. Without her consent, her mind obeyed, gazing into the gash she had created in her wall as memories swirled beyond, a vortex of light and color and things best left forgotten.
"Faith, Hermione." The whisper came from all around her. Then she was falling, tumbling in slow motion, head over heels, grasping desperately at the craggy edges of that gashed wall as she fell past them toward the vortex of light. "Courage, dear heart."
Hermione had neither, and she wept as her outstretched hands pierced the swirling funnel of memories. They reacted to her, rising to engulf her, and Hermione could do naught save wait for the horrors of her past life to grip her once more.
