Aragorn gently stroked Arwen's face, listening to the sound of Hildanir's retreating steps. The young man had been an incredible help; his aid certainly better than battlefield dressings, or as it would have been without him, nothing at all. He had taken all the soiled linens out of the room with him, leaving Aragorn alone with his beloved. The wound along her chest had been deeper than he had originally thought, and all of Hildanir's work would be for naught if Aragorn could not find a way to keep her pulse steady and sure once more. Her breathing was even shallower than before.
It was clear to him that if he had not arrived when he had, Nardur would have murdered her there between the trees. Aside from the now-packed wound in her shoulder, his fingers traced the slit across her throat and then the white strip of bandage that lay covering the stripe between her breasts, following all the way to her navel and then gently out across her broken ribs, which were now dark with bruising. Yes, the evil man's handiwork was evident everywhere, and not simply from his knife or his hands. Looking down upon her he knew very well that the last month had taken such a toll on her body that it might very well be impossible for her to recover; for the despicable man to have so used his words to twist her trust in him… A foul taste flooded his mouth at the very thought; Nardur was an appalling creature. To have done something like this to them, and then to have threatened Enguina's life and that of her child as well…the man would suffer when returned to Gondor in Mennev's custody. Certainly not in his own—an accident might occur to the scheming man if he was around him for more than a few moments.
But focusing on the task at hand was far more important than any thought of Nardur. Aragorn weakly lifted his hand and settled it very gently over Arwen's skin, this time over her fluttering heart. He had felt it faint like this before, when he had called her back from death by the poison of Calendur and his scheme. But even this…this was different. Arwen, at that time, had a reason to reach back to him, to find him…to want him. She had told him then that she had felt him calling her, that her spirit had clung to him as a lifeline in an ocean-like abyss. How was he to reach her now, when she had closed herself off from him, horrified at the thought of touching him for even a moment?
He took one of her hands in his, the muscles in his shoulder and arm nearly shouting in protestation; he ignored them as his fingers rubbed back and forth along her wedding band. He closed his eyes and brought her fingers to his lips and held it there, reaching to her. Even though she was inches from him, he felt it was miles. Her presence was fluttering about like her heart, like a caged bird attempting to be free. Before he could heal her in any way, he had to make her strong enough to sustain herself, to keep breathing, for her heart to keep beating. He made his presence as a hand, stroking the little bird of her presence and reassuring it…things could be all right again.
Do not flee.
Scattered, slowing, were her heartbeats. Fleeing it was; fluttering about against the walls of its prison. He pursued it, though reservedly. He did not wish to frighten, but to comfort, to encourage…to return its hope.
Beloved…come back to me. Every reassurance he could send through the bond was sent. He had no idea how to show her honesty when he could not feel her; he had no idea how to reach her in the darkness.
Aragorn?
A burst of suffering so intense that Aragorn grunted and rocked back from her, every muscle in his body tensing though his hand still held hers, still rested against her heart. She had reached back to him—if only for a moment—but she had reached back! Hope came to him, even when her despair was unfathomable, tearing at his heart.
Go…let me go…
His heart broke anew at such a command from her; even if it had been said with words so wispy and thin it was as a breeze in his mind, the physical force of the mental shove that came with it was not nearly so weak. The agony flooded into him through their connection and this time he cried out.
I cannot let you! He cried brokenly through the bond.
Let me go…let me die!
Again, the voice soft as death, but her agony was as a hundred knives straight into his chest. She was begging for permission to die, to leave him forever. There was nothing left of his heart, so there was nothing left to do but beg and plead and struggle with her.
You cannot go! He begged her fervently, sweat now pouring from his brow with the strain of reaching to her and holding her there, keeping her with him, making her heart continue to beat. You must live! You cannot simply give up! He could feel the desperation within her to leave and never come back. No, you cannot leave! You cannot leave me!
Why?
Time passed…who knew how long? His words and her reply repeated themselves over and over again as he reached out, desperate to save her, unable to let her go.
Because I am here…because I love you! Stay with me!
Standing at the threshold to the guestroom, Legolas met Hildanir's eyes.
"It has been nearly five hours," he said softly, and the young man nodded.
"Neither has moved," Hildanir said softly. "How he has not collapsed from exhaustion, I will never understand. I thought…a little over an hour ago…I thought her spirit had left her." He swallowed hard, shaking his head. "Yet, she breathes still."
"How can you tell?" the elf asked. Looking at the two of them, Aragorn's back to him, he could not see the rise and fall of Arwen's chest. All he could see was Aragorn's hand remaining on her chest and his head bent down over her hand, brow pressed to it. This was the fifth time he had returned, and it was the fifth time he would return to Enguina with no more news than before.
"If you look closely, carefully enough," Hildanir muttered, "you can see." He rubbed his hand across his eyes and face. "This might be worse than watching him lying there suffering after the warg attack. At least at that moment, I believed he would live."
The words were so softly spoken that Legolas's throat tightened. "Have faith, Hildanir. I cannot believe Ilúvatar would bring us here in time for him to stop Nardur, and yet be unable to have her return fully."
Hildanir turned and looked directly at him. "Do you think he can save her?"
"I think that Ilúvatar can save her, if that is His will," Legolas replied softly. "He will work through Aragorn. We must believe that everything shall come right again. I must believe it." He added the last more for himself, Hildanir noticed.
"This waiting is interminable. I can barely think straight. And," he added, shaking his head again, "I cannot stop thinking of Mennev, out there in the woods hunting down Nardur. I thought for certain he would have returned by now."
Legolas nodded. "Yes, I would have thought so as well. But perhaps he tied him to a tree and decided to make camp for the evening after catching him. It has been a long and arduous day. It is nearly time for supper. I am going to prepare a simple stew for Enguina; would you like some?"
"I think I need to rest," he replied honestly.
"There is another—"
"No, no," he replied. "I cannot leave my Lord. And I should be ready to prepare a better treatment for my Lady's wounds; it is nearly time to change them."
"I will leave the soup on; that way if you grow hungry or if Aragorn…wakes, you can take some food." Legolas took a step towards the door but then paused when he heard muttering.
"Do not go…you have to live…" The words were Aragorn's. "You cannot leave me…"
There was no way that the unconscious Arwen heard a word that Aragorn spoke aloud, and there was no sign that the man was even aware that he had spoken aloud, but his voice was desperate, pleading, and painful. There was sweat upon his face; this was a struggle for her life, no easy task. Arwen clearly had never intended to survive the fight with Nardur. Even looking down on her now, he could see how thin, how weak she had become. It was no wonder that Enguina could hardly bear it. Enguina…dear Enguina, still in labor, contractions growing stronger and longer, but still not ready yet. She was tired, stressed, in pain…and hungry. He needed to return to her side with food.
"If she…if she dies," Hildanir whispered, drawing his attention again, "what will happen to him?"
Legolas studied the pair on the bed. "I do not even want to think it, Hildanir. Pray that it will not come to that." He touched the man's elbow. "I go to the kitchen, but call for me if there is any sign or any change. Take some rest."
Exhaustion was the most extreme word Aragorn could use to describe what he felt when he finally dragged his hand from Arwen's heart and it was too inexpressive a word. He was light-headed, dehydrated, sick; his whole body was trembling. Forcing his hand to reach out and wrap around a nearby cup of water and carefully drink some was not something his body wanted him to do. He stared down at her, his other hand lowering hers to her chest, painfully slow as he was so cramped from being in such a position. Even the room was hot and uncomfortable; he was sweating and trembling, and his body ached with the amount of strain he had put it through.
He set down the cup and bowed his head to his hand. When he had drawn her back from the edge those few short years ago, he had not fought her, as he had just done, been completely against her will. No, this was a new feeling. It terrified him. She had no desire to come back to him; she had fought him every step of the way, at every turn. And because of that battle, though he had drawn her back from the edge of death, Arwen went completely unhealed as she had been when they drew her in from the woods.
Arwen was awake, though Aragorn did not know it at the moment. She lay perfectly still; she did not open her eyes or breathe differently so she would not give herself away. She was too weak to have ever lifted a hand or her head, and in so much pain lying there that she was amazed to find those reasons paled in comparison to the true reason she had not yet moved. He had brought her back. He was here, at her side…where she had never thought him to be again. Despite her best efforts, he had pulled her once again up from the depths and revived her. Why? She had been gone nearly three times and still he had struggled to yank her out of the pit. WHY? He had told her—but her heart scoffed; she could not believe such words. Not spoken from lips such as his. There was no response to be had but disbelief and denial! He had left her, abandoned her, and then come to call her back? What did he expect?
She breathed in shallowly, and out. She could never look at him; how could she open her eyes? She did not have the strength to speak; what would she say? There was nothing that would change what had happened. Hearing his voice would bring her such pain that she would break into fits of weeping. But perhaps she could survive here for another moment longer if all of her senses ignored him. She could hear nothing; her eyes were closed; all she felt was pain; her tongue was as dry as wood…but her sense of smell…that she could not deny.
There was nothing she could do to prevent his scent. Having been completely unable to be in the King's House since the moment Enguina had drawn her out of her despair-induced stupor, his scent was unmistakable and…intoxicating—like a drug, straight to her mind. She knew that scent, as it invaded her mind—his hair wet from rain or snow, his clothes bearing the scent of horses and leather and sun from days of traveling, even his sweat after working so long and hard—she knew him and his body far too well. It brought her such despair in that moment that she realized she was silently weeping. If she had been thinking instead of reacting, thinking of having to face him now that she had survived the ordeal with Nardur, she perhaps would have been angry or furious at his scent. Instead, it crushed her as tears poured down her face for everything that had been, and everything that would never be again.
Aragorn, with his head bowed, did not know that she was awake until she gasped for breath beneath his hand. This would be the single most difficult moment of the near-hundred years he had spent in Middle-Earth. He had seen her upset, grieving, distraught, in pain…but never like this, and never for something he had done. His absence had caused this; that and his belief in the inherent good in people, even in the likes of Nardur. He stared at her tear-streaked face; seeing her weeping because of him caused him great pain. He needed to act. Reaching out with a trembling hand, he brushed his fingertips against her cheek. She flinched and tried to yank away from that slight touch as she began to cry even more intensely.
"No…" she moaned, which rose into a cry as his fingers continued. "No, don't touch me!"
He wanted desperately to obey her command, to grant her time to accept, but it was physically impossible. He could not have her inches from him and not touch her, not reach out to her. His thoughts went to her then, begging, pleading with her to respond.
Please…please, do not turn from me…please, will you—
Stop talking, please! Her voice screamed in his mind.I cannot bear it!
Arw—
Please, Ilúvatar, do not speak my name!
His breath caught at her prayer, and he reached forward with both hands and gripped the hand he held. She was too weak to pull away, even though she tried very hard. Her chest and ribs were on fire as the tension increased, and so she had to let him hold them. And then suddenly his cracked lips were pressing against her ruined fingers and she wanted to cut them from her body—
Oh God, I never want to feel again!
—no, she wanted to press them against his lips herself. She was so terribly torn between despising him for what he had done and loving him, but she could only see his hands on Erumar in her mind. She had to close her mind to him again; she was tortured by the very thought of him, tortured by the love he had given and taken away. It made her want to beg for death all over again.
But the closing of her mind to him was too much for his heart to bear; he needed her so desperately that his whole body ached with the absence of her presence. He cried aloud in anguish, "No, do not leave me! Please, Arwen! Arwen, I beg you!" His hands were grasping hers, clutching at the last strands that bound them. "Please, what you felt was not real! I am so sorry! So sorry…"
He rested his brow upon her fingers, his agony as real as hers. He could not ask her forgiveness…not yet, not now…not when she barely heard or understood the words he spoke. But she felt his grief pouring through the part of her that was him, the distress flowing through her that rivaled her own. She was desperate for it to end, to funnel it out of her heart and head somehow, but there was no way to do it. No matter how she tried to deny him, she was too weak to keep her barriers up; every wall was coming down. Her hands burned as they were caught in his. She could not look at him, feeling his head on her hands, his tears falling thick against bare skin. He was right there…close enough to touch him on her own, close enough to look in his face…to see his eyes. Her trembling worsened with the emotions inside her. Her entire being hurt.
"Wh…What…" she stammered between her own harsh sobs, trying to force words out of her lips. "What do you want from me?" she cried out, and without realizing she was doing it, fixed her eyes on the top of his head, staring blindly through her pain-filled haze. "You…you…" You have done this! You…you have…
"Please…" he begged her, "just listen for one moment…"
She wanted to tell him she could not; she wanted to tell him that one more moment of hearing his voice, one more word from his lips and it would break her. She would simply shatter into a thousand pieces. She said nothing.
Instead, her voice resounded in his head, agonized and heartbroken. You have done this to me! You have destroyed my heart! You…and…her…Even thinking her name made her want to heave.
"No, no…no!" he cried, his hands reflexively clutching hers as he broke down. No, it was not real!
"It was real!" she wept aloud. "I felt it! I know what you felt with her!"
He raised his head, and she could not close her eyes fast enough to avoid his. Even through blurry tears, they pierced her, and her wrist shouted in pain as he brought her hands to his heart, clenching them tightly to his chest. "Touch my heart, Arwen—"
"No!" she cried, violently shaking her head.
"Touch me," he whispered brokenly, though fervently. "See the truth in me, I beg you! Reach into my heart and see the truth! I have only ever loved you. Er—" His throat caught on her name; he could not say it either. "We have nothing! There is nothing; there never will be anything, anyone but you! I swore it, when we wed…I swore it before I departed Minas Tirith. Nothing has changed, beloved!"
She gasped, turning away from him in pain at the name he spoke. "Do not…"
"I am still yours…yours alone…as I have ever been. My heart is only yours. I love you—"
"Do not speak the words! Do not speak!" Her voice was nearly a screech in her agony; he obeyed, but instead his voice echoed in her head.
Please, Arwen…can you not trust me one last time? Trust me enough to touch my heart…
She gasped a sob, wanting desperately to believe his words, wanting to pull away and scream, rage, and fling herself at him for all of the terror and despair she had been through. How dare he ask her to trust him? How dare he touch her with his adulterous hands? How could he say such things when it was clear how untrue they were? She should be angry, furious…lunging at him and clawing his eyes out, not weeping as a love-sick dog!
But no…no matter what she felt in her head, her heart had no choice but to be compelled to listen to his words. She had no choice in the matter, really; the opening of her heart, her mind, the link they shared…and the moment opened the eyes of her heart and she saw. She saw within him what he had been trying to say aloud; she saw his despair at the possibility of losing her, saw what had truly happened with Erumar, his grief over wronging her terribly even when he was not in control, Nardur admitting the truth…all that had been done to her, plotted and schemed. The thoughts flew from his mind to hers, and from her mind to his.
She laid still for what seemed an eternity, unable to breathe, unable to move, unable to do anything but remain in awe at the truth set before her that, slowly over this few moments of eternity, began piecing back together the shattered parts of her broken heart. He loved her. He loved her. He believed in her, in them; her love did mean, and still meant, everything to him in a way that left her utterly breathless. And when she could finally breathe again, it was with a gasp and a stabbing pain through her chest as her walls fell apart and any divide between his heart and hers broke down and crumbled. She threw her heart into his, pouring herself out and into him in a display of fervent belief and wondrous joy that she had never thought possible ever again. Disbelief and relief flowed through her, adrenaline now, not pain, causing her body to tremble more fiercely than it had before, shaking the bed, her teeth chattering, tears forming in her eyes and spilling over.
"Aragorn…"
It was the first time she had said his name in nearly two months. If she had been able to move, she would have every part of herself literally wrapped around him; as it was, she was so weak she could barely move her fingers. She forced them to move within his hands, the very tips of her fingers brushing the edges of his dark hair, her eyes open in wonder and remembrance and awe.
"You…you still…"
"Love you," he whispered passionately, his voice hoarse as he felt what she was feeling, swallowing hard so he could speak. "Yes, I still love you. I have always loved you, and you alone." He wept, and then, leaning down, released her hands to cup her face so very gently. This time, she did not flinch, but stared into his grey eyes as she wept for the joy of being with him again, and having it be real and true. His love kept washing over her as he stroked her face with his fingertips, brushing away tears. Eyes closing in absolute bliss at his touch, she felt as though she was feeling everything again, as though it was the first time he had ever touched her.
"I love you," he whispered again, his breath caressing her face. "I love you more than you are capable of imagining. I thought…I thought I had lost you forever…" He lost his voice for a moment, the words choking off in his agony. "…what happened…what was done to us…"
"Oh…Ilúvatar…I love you…" The words came out, but they were the last ones she could speak, her breath coming out in short gasps. Her ruined fingers that lay against her stomach reached up and brushed against his tunic; slowly they wound into the fabric. His weight was leaning a bit on her as he came to her face, pressing his lips to her forehead, her eyebrows, her eyelids, her cheekbones, and her chin, making their way slowly around her face. She was so overcome by the feel and the smell of him this close to her that she paid no attention to any thought of pain, or any care about why any of this had happened. He was here…and he was hers. His lips gently touched hers and there was nothing in her mind but him.
"Arwen…Arwen…" He murmured her name into her mouth, and then he rested his forehead against hers. They remained that way for some time, simply whispering into each other's mouths and minds, his thumbs continuing to wipe away the tears on her face. Her mind was reeling, trying to comprehend what had just happened between them, but there was no way to reconcile; it was too much. Her mind was too full of him and the truth that he yet loved her so.
But he knew both of them were unwell. As much as he wanted to hold her so tightly and continue to kiss her a hundred times, he knew that she needed to rest…and so did he. He was barely supporting himself; his hip was shouting, his arm was dead, and if he put any more weight upon her, he might truly cause her pain. Her wounds, such as they were, needed healing; but he was physically unable to do that now. Her face was warm; perhaps her wounds needed tending to now…but again, that was something he was incapable of doing. What he should do was wake Hildanir, but he could not bear to share her with anyone else at the moment.
"You…you are feverish," he whispered gently. He attempted to sit back, but her fingers tightened on his tunic and he paused instead.
"No," she very nearly whimpered, but with urgency. "No, do not go. Lie here, beside me; you are exhausted, too."
"Arwen…you need healing…"
"I am healed," she whispered back. "Please…please…" She was begging him, and he could not refuse her. With extreme difficulty and more than a few moments where he could hardly breathe for agony, he finally worked his way to stretch out at her side, his hand upon her face, their foreheads touching. She was nothing if not right: he was absolutely exhausted—exhausted from fighting for her life, for riding for so long and so hard, and for living in the terror of the possibility of losing her for the last month. Being here, being this close to her, to be able to touch his face to hers as it had been so long since he had been able to touch her…there was soon nothing else in his mind but her.
"Oh…" she gasped suddenly, more tears coming to her eyes even though hers were tightly closed, "oh…how I have missed you…"
Words could never express what he felt in that moment, but most especially for her.
