Chapter Twenty: Of Gowns and Gallantry
Nieriel could count on both hands the number of things wrong with the current situation she was in.
First and foremost, she was wearing a gown. No, not just a dress, a linen dress with no embellishment like she was used to. This was a gown. A bloody gown. A soft, soothing, wine-red velvet gown. With subtle bronze details of lacing up the back and bodice and an intricate pattern of leaves weaved around the cuffs and round neckline. And matching slippers! There were matching slippers on her feet! Her hostess, Éowyn of Rohan, had insisted upon the accoutrements; when she had found out that Nieriel was to wear a pair of breeches and a tunic to the celebration this eve she had almost had a conniption.
The woman had come knocking at Nieriel's door sometime after lunch asking if she had needed anything for the evening. Genuinely perplexed, Nieriel had replied she did not, but then made the horrid mistake of asking, "Whatever could one need for a celebration besides a pair of breeches and a trencher?" Suffice it to say, Éowyn had become aghast at Nieriel's blasé demeanor toward the festivities and the fact that she had not begun to prepare; after all, it was after noon and the celebration was a mere seven hours away! Hardly enough time, Éowyn had exclaimed with true trepidation in her tone. She had swept out of the room leaving Nieriel feeling somewhat windswept at her questioning and ecstatic demeanor, yet the Elven woman was more than happy to return to her solace and the book she had borrowed from the library. In less than an hour, however, Éowyn had returned bearing the gift that now adorned Nieriel, and had brought with her three maids. Three!
Nonplussed, Nieriel had sat in shock on her bed with her book lying forgotten in limp hands as a tub had been brought into her room at the direction of her hostess, who then began to prattle orders to the maids. Éowyn had left the girls with strict orders of attention, and in her wake Nieriel had been scrubbed, bathed, oiled, and then dressed, before sitting in front of a mirror for two hours while two maids worked on her hair and another filed her nails. Nieriel remembered thinking at the time, if only Arwen could see me. She will not believe me when I tell her.
Éowyn had returned closer to the time of the celebration, still not yet dressed herself, to inspect the effects she had set into motion. Nieriel had felt slightly traumatized after the entire affair, still did in a way, and had stood before Éowyn feeling like a heifer at market, and surely looked like a deer caught in a hunt.
"You look ravishing," Éowyn had told her, her blue eyes positively sparkling as she clasped her hands before her bosom. "That color is wondrous against your skin and deepens your eyes to a forest green. And who knew your hair was so long? You should wear it down more often!"
Nieriel had shifted restlessly, her hands twisting in the folds of the skirt. "I do not like it."
Éowyn had blinked at her in astonishment. "Whyever not?"
Nieriel had flushed with embarrassment as she had thrown her shoulders back in a show of defiance, yet her eyes had landed anywhere but on Éowyn's as she spoke. "This is not me." She had pulled back the skirt of the gown to inspect her slippers, catching a glimmer of the bronze embellishment on the cuff at her wrist at the same time. "I have never worn a gown before. I do not feel comfortable."
Can you not thank the lady for procuring a gown on such short notice at the very least? Her conscience had grumbled.
"The dress fits you too perfectly not to wear, Nieriel! Trust me when I tell you, you are stunning. I would not lie to you." Éowyn had told her.
To trust a stranger? Even one so kindhearted and giving as Éowyn? Well, these Rohirrim are known to never lie…
Nieriel still wholeheartedly disagreed with the whole "ravishing" portion of Éowyn's diatribe, yet here she was, moving restlessly in her seat, ruffling the skirts of the damnable gown for what felt like the hundredth time. She thought it was too tight at the waist. It showed her ankles when she crossed her legs. The bodice was too confining. Her neck was too open. And her hair! If the gown was not bad enough, her hair lay in gentle slopes of shining russet down her back to fall neatly around her waist. At her temples were two thin braids that met in the back of her head, and throughout her long tresses other braids had been woven. The damnable maids had wanted to put flowers along the weaves. Flowers! Nieriel had drawn the line there and sent the girls on their way, giving her a moment's peace before she had left.
She had sat in front of the mirror for a long while. The woman staring back at her was not who she was, was not anyone she wanted to be. The maids had tinted her lips with a bit of concentrated berry juice and her cheeks had been pinched more than she could stand. The oil that had been rubbed into her skin (which, Nieriel admitted, had felt wonderful to her aching muscles) smelled of sandalwood. She looked graceful and serene, feminine and beguiling.
However, the scar on her face stood out, hateful and angry, against the façade she had been coerced into adopting for the evening. Her filed nails, rounded at the ends, did not look right against the backdrop of her calloused fingers, her weathered hands. Her hair made her nape itch and she pulled it up, but let it drop again. It felt soft; had it ever felt so soft? And her creamy skin shone, a glow to match the claret of the gown. Nieriel almost did not recognize herself, and in a way it frightened her.
"You are being absolutely ridiculous," Arwen's voice had rung in her head, the echoes of her voice piercing in Nieriel's skull. "There is absolutely no reason to feel that way. Stop acting like a petulant child looking for an excuse to vacillate and enjoy this, Nieriel. For once in a long, long time, enjoy something new, something different. Enjoy yourself. What happened to the girl that would compel me to jump from the tallest fall in Rivendell? Or the girl who would want to race me to the top of Weathertop in the middle of a rainstorm? At the very least Nee, make the most of your situation! For what harm could that bring?"
Still, Nieriel had almost not gone. She had sat listening as others excitedly walked the corridor to the dining hall, chattering nonstop with one another. She had sat, staring at her pale and trembling reflection while the great Théoden gave his speech, his booming voice carrying even to her rooms. She continued to sit when she heard a cheer meet his words, and then conversation take over as a single fiddler played in the background and the smells of a feast wafted through the cracks in her door.
Damn you Arwen, she had thought when she had finally ripped herself from her chair. She had blown out the candles with vigor, swept up her gown with clumsy fingers, and had torn from her room throwing the last of her caution to the wind. To hell with you, with these Rohirrim, and with everything in between. I'll go to the damn party if only to get peace from my own thoughts.
And so here she was. Mulish. Aggravated. Completely and utterly annoyed. Staring as the crowd bobbed and weaved and jumped in their messy dances and the musicians strummed and blew until they were red in the face. The people were laughing, loud, boisterous. The ale continuously streamed from barrels. The air was hot; the fires roared, and there were so many people that Nieriel felt nauseous when she looked over the crowd, their bodies barely distinguishable from one another. From her seat in the back she could barely feel the sweeping, cold wind from the open doors across the hall, and the windows were so high up that fresh air was nigh unobtainable. She thought about moving, but then she would have to walk across the floor and likely draw attention to herself. She liked her shadows, thank you kindly. She only had to sit a while more to be able to tell Legolas, and eventually Arwen, that she had come so neither could not rub her own words in her face.
The food had been good though, Nieriel would admit, and what an array it had been. And although she would try to deny it, she caught her foot tapping a time or two to the rhythm of the drum. And the place was certainly decorated nicely with fresh sprigs of pine and hearty lavender, the rushes cleaned and the tapestries dusted just for this very occasion. And all right, perhaps the hall was rather breezy with the windows and the doors open to allow in the cool winter's air. The candelabras and the sconces flickered wild orange light in tune with the music, and the affect was dramatic and enticing. Even the ale was palatable, for indeed half of her trencher was gone. And everyone else around her was so happy it was almost impossible not to smile from time to time; their delight was infectious, and some of the dancers were actually quite good. Though you will never catch me out there.
"Thinking about joining?" Aragorn slipped onto the empty bench next to her, his own trencher wrapped tightly in hand.
He was clean-shaven and dressed in a fine green tunic with his dagger at his hip, and Nieriel was sure his sword was hidden somewhere nearby. His hair had been washed clean and his beard trimmed neatly, and he looked more relaxed than he had in months, a soft smile hinting at the corners of his lips. The hard lines of strain that he had been boasting of lately were softened, and he melted onto the bench and leaned against the table at his back with the leisure of a man who was at ease.
"On the contrary," Nieriel drawled, as if she were bored. "I have been counting the many things wrong in the current situation I am in."
Aragorn laughed, and it was a hearty sound. His face split into a smile so brilliant, and Nieirel realized she had not seen him this content and jubilant in a long while. "Now that is no way to spend a celebration. Do you plan to do that all night?"
"If it entertains me," Nieriel clipped, her smile drab. Aragorn laughed once more, his shoulders heaving with the effort.
He settled then and said, "You clean up rather well."
Nieriel felt her neck heat, but bit her tongue to divert the blood flow. "I look a fool in this gown and you well know it."
Aragorn tipped his head to one side, his face light and warm with a smile. "It is…different from your usual set of trimmings, but the color becomes you. And your hair—"
"I am enjoying watching the natives, if truth be told." Nieriel cut him off so quickly and harshly that Aragorn startled, however his stunned look was rapidly replaced with a curling smirk. "They are quite a lot, these Rohirrim."
Nieriel's eyes danced over the crowd as they screamed in merriment and a great swirl of gowns colored the air as women were lifted high in a raucous dance. "Tell me though, who is that raven-haired chit who has caught the marshal's eye? He has not left her side since he got a hold of her. And she does not look like she is from these parts with her dark hair and tanned skin."
"That is Lothíriel, the Princess of Dol Amroth, a city on the coast. She is sister to Amrothos, who you met before."
Nieriel nodded, for the explanation fit. "And why is she here? I can understand her brother's presence, but princesses tend to be sheltered in times of strife."
"Ah, her story is an intriguing one: it seems she slipped away unnoticed in her brother's company on their journey here, and now she is stuck here, for the fighting has increased and it is too unsafe to travel home, not that they or we could afford the men." Aragorn said, and Nieriel's eyebrows raised slowly as she sipped at her ale.
"The audacity." The caliber of her voice held a note of hardened ridicule, yet her lips threatened to upturn in a smile of amusement as her eyes trailed to the young girl. She was twirling about the dancefloor with Éomer now, her eyes alight and her face flushed bright from her exertion and the radiant smile she exuded. "She is young, too."
"Just barely twenty," Aragorn replied, and Nieriel mused to herself that the girl had more determination than Nieriel to bring herself all the way here.
At least she is not afraid to step outside her front door, her conscience clipped wickedly.
"Come now, I know where your thoughts have went." Aragorn stood then and offered his hand to Nieriel. "Join me for the next dance."
Nieriel stared at Aragorn. And blinked. And blinked again.
Laughter rumbled from his chest in rolling waves. "It will not be as bad as you think."
"I think," Nieriel began. "That I would rather roll in mud with pigs."
Aragorn dropped his hand, assuming a look of theatrical disbelief. "Am I so repellent to you?"
Nieriel glowered. "You know I do not dance. Not even with you, Aragorn."
His voice was teasingly light as he replied with a raised brow and a thoughtful smile, "I do not think I have ever seen you dance."
"And there is well a reason for it."
"What could it hurt?"
"Aragorn…"
"Nee…"
"Be off with you." Nieriel brought her tankard to her lips once more, turning back to face the floor and away from Aragorn with droll amusement in her gaze. "And do not come back here if you are going to talk like that."
Aragorn left her laughing, shaking his head, and went to talk with Théoden. Nieriel smiled to herself before a flash of dazzling blue caught her eye and her attention was drawn back to this Lothíriel. She was so incandescently happy as she gazed at the marshal, all laughs and smiles as they twirled about the floor. Was there more behind her coming to Edoras? Perhaps a tryst that her family did not approve of? Nieriel looked to her brother then, the dark-haired Amrothos. He was talking with Théoden and Aragorn, but every once in a while his eyes would slip to his sister and the marshal and they would narrow with contempt.
There is more to that story, that is for sure, Nieriel thought, sipping again at her ale.
Though she would not admit it, Nieriel began to enjoy herself. From beneath the shadows of the table her foot tapped to the beat of the drum without hindrance, and every once in a while her head would sway to the lilt of the fiddle. She found herself looking more at the people than the table, for indeed these creatures were most entertaining: the women were colorful, radiant in their happiness, and drank just as much as the men, who ambled about and danced just as much as any young girl.
Why, Nieriel even got another tankard of ale! No one paid her the least of their minds and she sat at the table alone without talking to much of anyone; neither thought bothered her. She was just as content to skim the crowd as they were to ignore her. Oh, but she did listen to the gossips from the maids as they bustled by! Talking of this hero or that, which dress was their favorite, or what that Lothíriel was up to; Nieriel learned she was quite the talk of the town. The men that lingered too close to her table had only laughs and jolly tales to tell; yes, war was far from everyone's minds this eve. Knowing that put Nieriel at ease.
This was a good idea after all. And I came, which means I can leave with that knowledge and Legolas cannot hold it against me.
Speaking of, she had not seem him but a slip this evening. He had danced with only one pretty maid, much to the despair of the envious serving girls that secretly swooned of the "pale prince", and after that Nieriel had lost track of him. Not that she had been looking. She only wanted to see that he had come and would like to tease him on the morrow if she had noticed him enjoying himself.
But something tells me he will not believe me if I merely tell him I was here and he does not see me for himself. Nieriel finished the last of her ale and, frowning at the bottom of the container she thought, perhaps I should go find him. Just so he knows I was here.
She licked her lips and nodded, putting her tankard onto the table. Thinking this a splendid plan, she planted her hands on the roughhewn top of the table and prepared to stand, though her joints protested mightily.
Have I been sitting for that long? Her spine cracked, and she rolled her shoulders as she looked out over the crowd of guests. By the gods, the hall was packed! Even more so than before! There were gaggles of people by the barrels of ale, and she could see from her spot across the floor that they were all sloppy drunk, sloshing ale into the rushes. The floor upon which people had been dancing was roving with sweat-slicked bodies and raucous cheer. Even more beings lined the sides of the floor, strewn between the columns and the candelabras, packed so tightly they reminded her of herding cattle. Sickening dread curled its way into her stomach and Nieriel's knees faltered, lowering her back onto her solitary space on the bench.
I cannot let him think me a coward or a hypocrite, Nieriel thought, rising once more. And what's more, you would let a girl get the best of you? This Lothíriel absconded her way from Dol Amroth and you cannot even cross a room?
Her conscience was evil, Nieriel then decided, but she pushed away from the bench with determination, however stalling she may be. She ruffled her skirt, shaking any unforeseen dust to the floor, and cleared her throat a time or two before she brought a hand to smooth her hair. Upon realizing what she was doing she snatched her hand down and, to make it seem as though she had a task in mind that was not stalking Legolas (because she was not), she grabbed her tankard and headed for the barrels of ale.
She left her spot in the shadows, strolling slowly around the parameter of the merriment. There was Aragorn dancing with Éowyn. And Merry, standing upon a table telling a tall tale, no doubt. She tilted her head to the left and spied Théoden upon the dais with Amrothos, deep in conversation. But where is Leoglas? She looked to the right, over the floor of the dance, and craned her head subtly, hoping to catch a flash of platinum hair. He was tall, like she, so he would stand out. But for all the bobbing and weaving and jumping the crowd was doing, everyone blended with one another to the point it made Nieriel's eyes throb.
With a steady, slow gait she continued to walk toward the barrels, her eyes ever sharp through the low light of the hall. More than once she had to sidestep a whirling couple or a stumbling drunkard, but she did not mind the interruptions; she would smile softly, shaking her head at the antics.
However, the longer she walked, the closer she got to the barrels and she did not see Legolas, the less determined she became. Her bravado was fumbling and her conscience had taken a different tune.
On the other hand, who cares if he believes me? I can cross a room, and I shall cross it to the doorway and take leave of this. This scene is not to my liking, and I have had enough.
Resolved, Nieriel settled her eyes on the doorway to the outdoors, knowing she would still have to pass by the barrels of ale to her left to get there. She could surreptitiously leave her tankard on a table and leave through the doors, taking a quick stroll before settling down in her room.
The perfect plan.
She glanced to the left and her eyes narrowed on the nearest table. The barrels were still some thirty paces away lined up against the walls and stacked upon one another, and that particular area was so crowded that there seemed to be more people there than on the floor dancing. And there were even people standing on tables to look at something closer inward, toward the barrels. Nieriel glowered. Heathens. There was a lot of commotion going on in this area, and from what Nieriel could decipher the men cheering were actually placing loud bets with knobby coins on some strange competition.
As Nieriel grew closer she realized how thick the bodies were packed, and how they scrambled to clamor forward. However all she cared about was disposing of her tankard and hurrying along. She could ignore the noise. And the smell.
However, very much to her displeasure Nieriel suddenly concluded that she was going to have to breach the gaily preening gathering to reach a table. To her right the floor for dance was close, too close for comfort, and the nearest table she could just see through the tightly packed bodies was to her left. If she squeezed in between the barbaric Neanderthal on the left and the balding scrap of a man on the right, in another three paces she could place her tankard down and be done with this all.
In and out, she thought, her determination set. She wound around those less tightly packed, ducking her head to avoid eye contact as a roar went up over by the barrels. She then began to have to wheedle her way a little more forcefully, between bodies that were standing a little too close together for comfort, and she suddenly realized that the table was a bit further away than she initially thought, especially when it was so hard to get to. Well, I cannot stop now. Dump the tankard. Be gone.
Someone shoved into her harshly from behind directly into the sweaty stack of man in front of her, but she did not have the space to turn around and verbally annihilate her assailant and thus missed the chance. There must be some sort of law against having this many people in one space! Disgruntled, beginning to perspire, Nieriel thought that maybe there was another table further away, and that she should just turn around.
"Pardon me." She managed to turn but then her body became smudged between two thick, booming men. Her arms were pinned to her chest and she ducked her head as their fists rose into the air, and they shouted incoherent jibes at something that was happening beyond her field of vision. The scent of sour ale and body odor assailed her and Nieriel turned her head, only to be slapped with the same affront on the other side.
"If you would not mind…" No one was paying her any mind. She began to use her tankard as a way to ward off unwanted contact, but whatever was going on behind her by the barrels was riling up, and the men were ravenous to get closer to the action. Nieriel ducked under meaty fists and labile arms, dodging spittle from flapping gums.
"Excuse me!" she snapped at a man whose elbow ended up in her spine, and she turned once more, now thoroughly annoyed and thoroughly thrown off course. She snorted her anger, her disgust, and pushed at the nearest man out of ire before using another to bolster herself while she stood on her tippy-toes to look for the door. It was this way…
The crowd gave a great heave and Nieriel was thrown off balance. Eyes wide, arms wind-milling, she gasped a sharp breath as she was ejected from the crowd and a great bellow of joy suddenly filled her ears, her eyes, every last one of her senses. She pivoted around as the crowd surged toward her, and was surprised beyond measure at what lie before her.
There was a short table with two chairs placed up to it, and piled high on that short table were countless empty containers of ale. Gimli was face down at one end of the table, his drink tipped and spilling onto his hand and soaking into his sleeve and beard while Legolas stood triumphantly at the opposite end, in the midst of setting his empty tankard on the table. Smug, he looked over the throng as they rushed him in congratulations, for it seemed he had won a drinking contest against the dwarf!
Nieriel's mouth dropped open in absolute shock, and she stood there, allowing herself to be jostled about as she watched Legolas get clapped on the back and his hand shook by the men, while his other arm was used as a Mayflower pole by the women. Gimli gave a giant groan and attempted to lift his head, however when affronted with the full assault of the uproar around him, he flopped uselessly back onto the table in a pile of his own muck.
That elf was here the whole time! Nieriel thought, closing her mouth, though the shock still whirled through her in ice-cold streaks of disbelief. Drinking against a dwarf! And winning!
Shaking herself, Nieriel knew it was time to depart. The flock had herded around their savior and thus parted for her, and Nieriel turned toward where she could now see the door in the distance. However in her peripheral vision she caught a flash of white-blonde hair, and she knew instinctively that Legolas had seen her.
Time to go.
She abandoned her tankard on the table and grabbed her skirts, but before she could whisk herself away a smooth hand captured her arm, and electricity singed through her nerve-endings as she found herself pulled 'round to face a very pleased and very drunk Legolas.
"I have looked for you this night," he said, and his breath smelled so strongly of ale that Nieriel pulled her head back; Legolas followed the movement, smiling as though her retreat was not meant to offend.
"Indeed," she chirped with a note of sarcasm, her gaze flickering to the tables littered with strewn tankards. The crowd had begun to depart, although there were those that lingered to refill their own mugs, collect bets from the brawl, or return to their previous conversations.
"It is true." Legolas laid his free hand upon his heart, adopting a very dramatic look of forlornness. "When I could not find you I turned to the only solace I could find: a cup of ale."
"Or twenty," Nieriel clipped and Legolas laughed, and the sound made her spine tingle. His hand remained clasped on her arm and the warmth she felt from the gesture made her soften, and she admitted to herself how starved she had been for a sight of him.
What a glorious male, even completely and utterly wasted, Nieriel thought with a gentle inward sigh, gazing at Legolas's softened features. He was dressed as finely as he always was, however this time in brown breeches and a neatly embroidered green leather tunic. His hair looked handsomely disheveled yet fell becomingly in soothing rushes over his broad shoulders to frame his drunkenly flushed face. His eyes, so sparkling a sapphire Nieriel could not break from them even if she had wanted to, captured her into dreaming of what it would be like to see them a year from now, five years from now, ten years from now, a hundred years from now, shimmering as they were, every hour of every day.
"I do not think I have ever seen you with your hair down," Legolas swayed slightly, and Nieriel reached out quickly to grasp him in fear of him falling, the starkness of it showing on her face. Legolas, however, was unaffected by the moment and spoke as such. "There was that one time. By the lake. But you so quickly put it up." His eyes narrowed, his lips pursing. "I think I like it down."
By the lake? He had seen me? Nieriel blushed, and this time biting her tongue did not help to stay the crimson. It took her in a flash and she looked down to hide it, at her slippered feet and his handsome, sturdy boots. She quickly released his arms as if scalded as she said to the floor, "It is cumbersome."
I should have pulled it back like I always do! Silly notions should be left for silly girls!
And then his hand was upon her chin, the lightest touch of reverence she had ever felt. She closed her eyes and allowed Legolas to tip her chin up, his fingers sweeping briefly over her lips, her cheek, the scar on her face. Her heart had stuttered to a halt at the first light touch, but now took up a thunderous gallop as breath became jammed in her throat. Panic rose hot and suffocating, yet it was immediately contained by the gentle brush of Legolas's fingers as they intertwined with the locks of her hair. It soothed her, his touch, in a way she had never felt before. It comforted her, pushing away any thoughts of displeasure or dismay, and suddenly the noise in the room faded to a dim, melodious hum, her heart steadied its beat, and her blood slowed within her veins. Her thoughts dissipated to only him, and when she opened her eyes it was to meet his gaze, so sure on her own.
"You are beautiful," he told her softly, his voice barely a whisper above the din. Nieriel heard the words as clearly as though they had been spoken directly in her ear.
Turn from him.
She could not. It was if she was drawn to him; she tipped her head to the side ever so slightly, so his hand could brush her flesh once more.
"And you are drunk," she said, her words passing breathlessly from her lips.
"I may be drunk," Legolas admitted. "But I will never forget how you look to me right now."
She knew the look in her eyes; they reflected what was beating in her heart. She parted her lips gently and Legolas's eyes trickled over her features, from her eyes to her bone structure to her scar, to land there, on her lips. His own parted and his hand dipped down to cup the side of her neck, his thumb splaying along the bottom of her jaw.
Her heart rate increased once more, and this time would not be stayed. "Legolas…"
He blinked, long and slow, and Nieriel felt the pull of his body to her own. She shifted slightly so their hips aligned and he moved closer to her, so close their chests touched. Their opposite arms touched briefly, and then once more, and Nieriel was completely and utterly blank of thought and could not, would not move away. This moment, this radiant moment in time—
"Ah!" Legolas raised his arm then in an 'ah ha!' gesture, nearly knocking her in the shoulder with it. Nieriel stumbled back slightly, her blush flaming red once more, startled from her whimsical reverie.
"I have something for you!"
Blinking rapidly, Nieriel watched as Legolas stepped away from her and began digging in the breast pocket of his tunic. In stupefaction, from all the emotions welling within her and Legolas's sudden turn of action, she watched as he valiantly procured something from his pocket and then bowed elegantly before her with a swirl of his offering hand with the other perched at the small of his back.
"My lady," He jerked into a standing position and Nieriel reared back to dodge the movement, though she reached for him when he drunkenly swayed once more.
However she became captivated by his ransom and stayed her hands mid-reach. He had in his hand a single ribbon the color of a late autumn sunset, the deepest, most arresting shade of violet she had ever seen. The silk tassel caught the light from a nearby sconce, highlighting the subtle shades within, and Nieriel had the stunning clarity to think, my favorite color.
"You always wear the same one," Legolas said, and then hiccupped violently. He rubbed his chest and belched, but waved his prize around nonetheless, and then presented it to her with an open palm. "I feared you did not have any more, and thus came to purchase this for you."
Nieriel dropped her gaze to the ribbon, completely and utterly speechless.
She honestly could do nothing but stare. And not only because of his gift.
Had he been about to…to—
"Well?" Legolas flapped around the ribbon as though he were trying to imitate a bird in frantic flight. "Is it to your liking?"
Sour anger and biting remorse bubbled up from her gut and into her throat, and with more force than she meant to Nieriel snatched the ribbon from Legolas's hand. Without a word, because she was not so sure she could utter one, Nieriel swept her stupid gown into her trembling hands and turned from him, the scarlet blush yet to leave her cheeks. She did not care who she ran into; she pushed anyone and everyone out of the way, and Legolas's call for her was drowned out by the females who had been waiting for his attention while he had talked with her.
I never should have come. Damn what anyone would have said! Nieriel thought, her elbows jabbing people as she rushed through the crowd.
A storm of emotions suddenly plagued her: the surging power of desire, the restless ache of need, the potent sting of fear, the cloying sense of anxiety, the red taint of passion, the wind-swept rush of wonder, the stupor of disbelief, the snarling bite of anger… There was too much, too much…
She burst into the night and gasped lungfuls of air as if she had been starved of it, closing her eyes as a brisk wind whipped at her quaking frame. Chilling gusts tugged at her hair, threatening to unravel her braids, but Nieriel reveled in the harshness of the element for it kept her grounded in this moment. She suddenly felt drained, so very drained, and as the wind died down she opened her eyes and brought her hand up before her bosom to look down at what lay clutched between pale fingers.
He thought of this. For me.
She wrapped her fingers around the ribbon tightly, crushing the gift in her shaking grasp. As her fingernails bit into her palm she turned toward the keep, to head for her rooms and retire from this nonsense for the night. Because that was what this evening had been: nonsense and frivolity, and she was well beyond both.
You will go on as if nothing happened, her conscience told her stiffly. He was drunk, so he will surely not remember.
And it will serve you well to do the same.
The next morning Nieriel called a maid to her room immediately after dressing in a pair of breeches and a tunic, and had the girl send the gown back to its owner. She did not want to be reminded of the night before at all, and regarded the garment with disdain as the young girl picked it up with reverence, gushing tales from the celebration. Nieriel cut her off with a quick dismissal, however through her darkened mood she did think to send a word of thanks to her hostess for her kindness. The girl left looking as dejected as Nieriel felt annoyed, and then the moment was behind her, a memory of the past.
Quietly, for it was early yet, she took to the corridor that led to the hall, thinking to grab an apple on her way to the training yards. With the way the festivities carried well on into the morning hours, Nieriel expected to have the training grounds to herself and was eager to spoil the morning away practicing her skill set. It was a great distracter and an even better stress reliever.
She needed both, no matter how hard she struggled to not think of their cause.
The hall was readily empty, with the only people about the ones who were still cleaning up from the night before. Nieriel swiped an apple from the only bowl of fruit that was out, the one on the dais, and then hopped down the stairs among scowls from the servants. She paid them no mind as she chomped through the rind and sauntered down the center of the hall, sidestepping a puddle of vomit here, a shoe there.
The sun that greeted her was warm and welcoming, the silence even more so. There were distant sounds of chores being carried out in the yard: a girl was pulling up a pail of water from the well, a boy was feeding a gaggle of chickens, an old, crippled lady was meandering toward a small herb garden, a basket over her arm. There was a smattering of a few others about, but no one paid Nieriel any mind as she jumped down the stairs, polishing off her apple on the last, and headed for the yard, tossing the core to the ground along the way.
The air was bitter crisp but invigorating, and Nieriel strode toward the training grounds with confidence, her mind occupied only with her plans, her distractions, for the day: first to brush up on my archery, and then I will practice my throwing with the shorter knives, and then perhaps some swordplay, and then I will take Stormwind to the fields, for he so needs to stretch his legs…
A dull thud resounded through her ears and Nieriel slammed to a halt, her eyes narrowing down the path to the training yards that rested below the mighty hall of Meduseld. She whipped her head to the left and saw nothing but city, and the spread of the fields of Rohan beyond. To the right was nothing but the same open fields, beckoning with golden plumes of grass in the distance. Behind her was from whence she came, and she looked over her shoulder yet saw no one. As the dull thwunk sounded once more, she brought her keen sight around. The beaten path before her was clear and the training yards looked relatively empty, save the busy boy with his morning chores. However that rhythmic patter came again, and Nieriel began her trek once more, trying to register what the noise was.
It resonated again, and Nieriel felt her nerves jump in recognition. She suddenly knew what it was: the sound of an arrow hitting a target. Which meant that someone had beat her to her destination, and upon hitting the bottom of the path and looking to the left…
There was Strider, his bow poised to his shoulder, his hand letting a stark needle fly. The arrow pierced the outer rim of the target and he glared minutely at the dart before picking another from his quiver, only then noticing her.
"I see you are not confined to the shallows of your bed like the majority of the Rohirrim are." Nieriel told him as she walked to a nearby rack, inspecting the bows and the quivers put out for practice. She chose one of teak, well-used with a string that had just been replaced. Running her finger along the filament and then the wood, she deemed both good enough for practice and grabbed a quiver, before taking a stance some feet away from Strider before a different target.
"You know I am not one for drinking," Aragorn replied, a lift to one slender brow and a softened smile on his face. "Besides, I was not sure if there was going to be enough to go around."
Nieriel chuckled lightly, lifting her bow and closing an eye to take aim. The wind ruffled her hair, pulled back in her worn ribbon, and she waited for the stiff breeze to die down before she let the arrow fly.
She frowned when it hit the very rim of the target.
"Did you have a nice time?" Aragorn asked, taking note of the way her arrow wobbled sorely spaciously away from the center of its mark.
"Fine," Nieriel groused, digging for another arrow. These are not my arrows, nor my bow. And it has been a while since I have practiced.
"Did you stay long?" Aragorn asked, pausing to watch Nieriel as she aimed and shot once more, this time missing the target completely. His eyes opened wide in his surprise, for Nieriel was never that poor of a shot.
Nieriel glared at him through narrowed lids. "If you would please," she clipped, gesturing toward the target.
Aragorn bowed his head in apology and fell into his own pattern, and the two remained silent while they practiced.
"Perhaps there is something you want to talk about?" Aragorn asked after a half an hour had gone by and Nieriel had emptied two quivers of arrows, none of which hit the center of the target.
Her thoughts were voluminous, however Nieriel refused to listen to a single one. They were locked behind a door in her mind, one she would not even dare to crack.
"I know not what you speak of," Nieriel replied, and did not realize with her words she had already admitted to too much.
"Which is quite all right, but mayhap you will allow me this," Strider abandoned his bow to its rack, and turned to face Nieriel in grave seriousness. Nieriel paused, lowering her bow with her raw and reddened hand, and looked at Strider with a look that suggested she did not want to allow him anything.
"I am sorry for how crassly I acted the other night. I was frustrated and I spoke foolishly out of strain. There has been a lot happening as of late and sometimes I do not find the best outlets for my anger." Aragorn bowed slightly, his head tilted in and his eyes to the ground. "Forgive me, Nee."
Nieriel lowered her bow and returned the gesture, and sincerity rang genuine in her tone as she said, "It is forgiven, Aragorn."
They both turned back to their targets and Nieriel raised her bow at the same moment Strider did, however while she notched an arrow he paused, lowering his once more. "Perhaps," he started, turning to her. "You will allow me one more thing."
Nieriel did not address his words and instead concentrated on the target, a biting sense of dread suddenly gnawing on her stomach. She narrowed her eyes and then closed one, intent on the center of the target and refusing to acknowledge the subtle twinge in her arms or the way her fingers were already angry and raw. She inhaled deep of fresh morning air and then released her arrow and the breath at the same moment; still, to her growing annoyance, it did not meet its mark.
"I have sensed conflict within you for a while now, long before this journey ever took place, and perhaps you do not realize it or just simply refuse to acknowledge it. But there is unrest. I cannot name it, for I am not you and do not know what resides in your mind or your heart. But maybe you would try not to hold everyone at arm's length, so far from you. I know that your past was not an easy one. I know that you think your purpose is for Arwen and Arwen alone. But in time it could be that you will come to embrace yourself, and in doing that you will truly find the serenity you surreptitiously seek."
Nieriel's hand curled around the butt of another arrow as Strider spoke, and when the last syllable rang out, the words did nothing but resonate within her. They curled around her spine, making her stiff. They surged through her blood, making her flesh hot. They clouded her mind, and she was not able to lock them behind the door she had forged for temporary peace of mind. She hesitated on the arrow, not at all liking the bitter truth to Strider's words.
However after a heartbeat's pause she plucked the arrow from the quiver and aimed at the target once more. In doing so she was denying Strider's earnest stare, so sickeningly soft it was, and the feelings that began to churn within her chest, like a black, irksome sludge.
And for the remainder of the day, not once did she hit her mark.