A/N: Well, since everyone who reviewed asked so nicely, here's chapter 2.
I'm still not quite sure how to write this, so I'll be just as surprised as
you all with what happens in here. Anyway, I still don't own any of
Tolkien's characters, but I guess I do own Ëoneth, poor girl. On with the
melodrama!
Arwen was roused the next morning by a soft feminine voice saying, "Milady, come, wake up!" She groaned, but complied by opening her eyes. Her young, fresh-faced maid was standing over her, a mixture of love and pity on her face. "How do you feel, milady?" she asked tenderly.
Arwen gazed up at the girl with an unnervingly cold stare. "How do you think I feel, Ëoneth? My husband is dead," she said flatly.
"I'm – I'm s-s-sorry, milady. I didn't mean –" Ëoneth stuttered.
Arwen sighed and got out of bed. "I know you didn't, Ëoneth. I'm sorry I spoke so harshly. Will you pick something out for me to wear today?" she asked, a little twinge of guilt spurring her to try to make amends for her temper.
She was rewarded by the girl's face lighting up as if she had just received a present. "Oh, yes, milady!" she breathed, and rushed into Arwen's closet to choose something.
Arwen stood for a moment in the middle of the room, staring absentmindedly after the maid. A sudden shiver brought her back to earth, and she realized that she was cold. Her vanity stand was in a large patch of sunlight, so she decided to try and let the sun warm her. She sat down, and tried to empty her mind of all but the sensation of the light warming her flesh, but images of yesterday's sunlight playing on Aragorn's stilled features kept intruding.
Sighing with annoyance, she opened her eyes and caught her reflection in the mirror. She noticed, for the first time, that there was a liberal amount of silver in the still-smooth black hair. And her skin, while yet soft, had many wrinkles that she had never seen before. She wondered if they had been there before Aragorn's death, or if they had appeared overnight. She would not have been surprised. "The Evenstar is setting," she said quietly, tilting her head to watch the silver gleam in the sun. Her eyes no longer shown with an inner light, and were instead as flatly gray as the winter sky. The purple shadows under them, a combination of sorrow and her late night, were the only smudges of color on her pale, drawn face. Her reverie was interrupted by Ëoneth bustling back into the room, her arms loaded with the black fabric of a mourning dress.
She turned, and seeing the maid's burden, shook her head. "No. I will not wear black."
"But milady," Ëoneth protested. "It's tradition!"
"I shall wear the gray dress," Arwen said firmly.
Ëoneth nodded, wide-eyed, and went to fetch the dress. She silently helped Arwen slip into it, and surveyed the result. She was still mildly displeased that Arwen wouldn't wear black, but she generously said, "You look well, milady."
"I care not," Arwen snapped, her eyes flashing to life momentarily.
The maid's eyes filled with tears.
Arwen sighed, wearily slumping her shoulders. "I'm sorry, Ëoneth. You may leave."
"But your hair, milady," she feebly protested.
"I'm wearing it down."
"Y-yes, milady," she said, bobbing a quick curtsy and almost fleeing out of the room.
Arwen looked after her for a moment, then picked up the hair brush and began to mechanically run it through her hair.
A few minutes later, Eldarion entered, resplendent in his black mourning clothes. "Quite the report I got from the maid this morning, Mother," he said carefully, sitting in a chair next to hers. "You refuse to wear black or put your hair up."
Arwen laid the brush back on the table and turned to look at her son. "You know I don't believe in wearing black for mourning. Gray is a much more suitable color. It is the color that combines light and dark. It remembers the joys, while being tinged with the sorrows. As for my hair, I just didn't feel like putting it up. I need a curtain between me and the world if I am ever to get through the day."
Eldarion shook his head sorrowfully at his mother. He thought she had never looked so lovely, or so tragic. She was wearing no ornamentation, only a belt wrought of mithril in a pattern of silver leaves. Her pain had seemed to burn away all emotion during the night, leaving a lovely, if cold, shadow of her former vibrant self.
She abruptly stood. "Come, my son," she commanded.
He stood as well, and threading her arm through his, led her out of the room and to the Citadel, where Fen Hollin was thrown wide open for the funeral. Thousands of mourners from various races of Middle Earth had gathered. Some were openly weeping, others stood with their heads bowed in mute anguish. Arwen tilted her chin higher and fought against the lump forming in her throat. Eldarion squeezed her hand comfortingly.
Passing through the subdued crowds, they made their way to the dais where Aragorn's body lay in state. Arwen stood before him and gazed on him for the last time. His hands lay folded across his chest, and clasped in one hand was a branch of the White Tree that he had planted early in his kingship. The Elfstone that she had given him long ago in Rivendell glowed with a faint green radiance on his chest. At his side was strapped Anduril, the Flame of the West. As she looked down at him in his funereal splendor, she felt oddly torn between throwing herself on his prone body and sobbing like a child or running as far away from him as fast as she could. Before she could make up her mind, though, Eldarion gently led her to her seat.
Amongst the crowd of mourners there stood one who neither openly wept nor hung his head in sorrow. His grief was far too deep for that. He was Legolas, a Prince of the Mirkwood, and a companion of Aragorn on his journeys. Standing stiffly by his side was Gimli, son of Glóin, who stared straight ahead, looking at nothing, while the tears coursed down his bearded cheeks.
Legolas watched Arwen intently. He had not seen her since her wedding a century before, and he was shocked to see silver hair in her long black tresses and wrinkles furrowing the smoothness of her skin. He had always known in the back of his mind that when she gave up her immortality she gave up her eternal youth, but seeing the result of her decision was disturbing. She was the Evenstar of her people, and to watch the Evenstar fade into the twilight of Men was not something Legolas had thought of when he decided to attend his old friend's funeral.
His musings were forgotten when the funeral began. It was a heart- rending ceremony, and during Eldarion's speech, he felt tears sting his eyes. The son was so like his father, it was almost painful to watch.
After Eldarion's words, an unseen Elvish choir began singing an ethereal song of lament as the people filed out of the hall. Legolas watched Arwen pass him, head held regally high, looking neither to the left nor right, trying to maintain rigid control. He felt an urge to take her in his arms and comfort her, but he knew he could not. He went back to his chambers to grieve in private.
A few hours later, there was a quiet knock on his door, and a summons by the new King of Gondor to meet him immediately. Legolas was perplexed, but obeyed immediately.
He made his way down to the throne room and entered. Eldarion stood at one end, staring out the window. He turned to see who had entered. Legolas could see the tracks of his tears glinting in the sunlight, but said nothing but, "You wished to see me, Your Majesty?"
Eldarion nodded. "You know my mother, don't you, Legolas?"
Legolas nodded slowly, unsure of what to say or where the conversation was going. "Yes, sire. I know her well."
"My father said you used to play together as children."
"Yes, we did. My father was King of Mirkwood, and Elrond was Lord of Rivendell. It was natural that we would often see each other," he answered. "If I may ask, why do you want to know?"
"Then you know how stubborn my mother is," Eldarion said, frustration making him pace back and forth.
A small smile quirked the corners of Legolas's mouth as he remembered a few choice occasions. "I do indeed."
"She is determined to go away from Gondor," Eldarion said bluntly, stopping in his tracks to pin the Elf under his gaze.
Legolas frowned. "Where is she going?"
Eldarion began pacing again. "She said she doesn't know!" he said anxiously. "And neither I nor any of my siblings can persuade her to stay."
"She knows where she is going," Legolas said quietly.
"How do you know?" asked Eldarion, stopping again.
"Arwen always has a plan," he said simply.
Eldarion sighed in exasperation and ran a hand through his hair. "I don't know what to do, Legolas!" he said.
"I will follow her," Legolas heard himself say. He was surprised, but didn't take the words back, especially seeing the intense look of relief on Eldarion's face.
"Thank you, Legolas. She said that she is going to leave tonight after sunset."
Legolas bowed. "I will do my best to protect her, Your Majesty."
As he walked away, he wondered what in the name of Elbereth had come over him. He hoped he wouldn't regret his decision, but he had a suspicion he might before the journey was over.
A/N: Sooo, Legolas just decided to pop into my fic. He seems to have a way of doing that with LOTR fics. And even more annoying, he has a past with Arwen. How much of a past, I don't know yet. It just bothers me that he jumps into just about every fic. Pointy-eared git. *sigh* Anyway, pleeeease let me know what you think. Should I keep going, or just shelve this and let it fade into obscurity right next to the Celeborn/Haldir fics? *grin*
Arwen was roused the next morning by a soft feminine voice saying, "Milady, come, wake up!" She groaned, but complied by opening her eyes. Her young, fresh-faced maid was standing over her, a mixture of love and pity on her face. "How do you feel, milady?" she asked tenderly.
Arwen gazed up at the girl with an unnervingly cold stare. "How do you think I feel, Ëoneth? My husband is dead," she said flatly.
"I'm – I'm s-s-sorry, milady. I didn't mean –" Ëoneth stuttered.
Arwen sighed and got out of bed. "I know you didn't, Ëoneth. I'm sorry I spoke so harshly. Will you pick something out for me to wear today?" she asked, a little twinge of guilt spurring her to try to make amends for her temper.
She was rewarded by the girl's face lighting up as if she had just received a present. "Oh, yes, milady!" she breathed, and rushed into Arwen's closet to choose something.
Arwen stood for a moment in the middle of the room, staring absentmindedly after the maid. A sudden shiver brought her back to earth, and she realized that she was cold. Her vanity stand was in a large patch of sunlight, so she decided to try and let the sun warm her. She sat down, and tried to empty her mind of all but the sensation of the light warming her flesh, but images of yesterday's sunlight playing on Aragorn's stilled features kept intruding.
Sighing with annoyance, she opened her eyes and caught her reflection in the mirror. She noticed, for the first time, that there was a liberal amount of silver in the still-smooth black hair. And her skin, while yet soft, had many wrinkles that she had never seen before. She wondered if they had been there before Aragorn's death, or if they had appeared overnight. She would not have been surprised. "The Evenstar is setting," she said quietly, tilting her head to watch the silver gleam in the sun. Her eyes no longer shown with an inner light, and were instead as flatly gray as the winter sky. The purple shadows under them, a combination of sorrow and her late night, were the only smudges of color on her pale, drawn face. Her reverie was interrupted by Ëoneth bustling back into the room, her arms loaded with the black fabric of a mourning dress.
She turned, and seeing the maid's burden, shook her head. "No. I will not wear black."
"But milady," Ëoneth protested. "It's tradition!"
"I shall wear the gray dress," Arwen said firmly.
Ëoneth nodded, wide-eyed, and went to fetch the dress. She silently helped Arwen slip into it, and surveyed the result. She was still mildly displeased that Arwen wouldn't wear black, but she generously said, "You look well, milady."
"I care not," Arwen snapped, her eyes flashing to life momentarily.
The maid's eyes filled with tears.
Arwen sighed, wearily slumping her shoulders. "I'm sorry, Ëoneth. You may leave."
"But your hair, milady," she feebly protested.
"I'm wearing it down."
"Y-yes, milady," she said, bobbing a quick curtsy and almost fleeing out of the room.
Arwen looked after her for a moment, then picked up the hair brush and began to mechanically run it through her hair.
A few minutes later, Eldarion entered, resplendent in his black mourning clothes. "Quite the report I got from the maid this morning, Mother," he said carefully, sitting in a chair next to hers. "You refuse to wear black or put your hair up."
Arwen laid the brush back on the table and turned to look at her son. "You know I don't believe in wearing black for mourning. Gray is a much more suitable color. It is the color that combines light and dark. It remembers the joys, while being tinged with the sorrows. As for my hair, I just didn't feel like putting it up. I need a curtain between me and the world if I am ever to get through the day."
Eldarion shook his head sorrowfully at his mother. He thought she had never looked so lovely, or so tragic. She was wearing no ornamentation, only a belt wrought of mithril in a pattern of silver leaves. Her pain had seemed to burn away all emotion during the night, leaving a lovely, if cold, shadow of her former vibrant self.
She abruptly stood. "Come, my son," she commanded.
He stood as well, and threading her arm through his, led her out of the room and to the Citadel, where Fen Hollin was thrown wide open for the funeral. Thousands of mourners from various races of Middle Earth had gathered. Some were openly weeping, others stood with their heads bowed in mute anguish. Arwen tilted her chin higher and fought against the lump forming in her throat. Eldarion squeezed her hand comfortingly.
Passing through the subdued crowds, they made their way to the dais where Aragorn's body lay in state. Arwen stood before him and gazed on him for the last time. His hands lay folded across his chest, and clasped in one hand was a branch of the White Tree that he had planted early in his kingship. The Elfstone that she had given him long ago in Rivendell glowed with a faint green radiance on his chest. At his side was strapped Anduril, the Flame of the West. As she looked down at him in his funereal splendor, she felt oddly torn between throwing herself on his prone body and sobbing like a child or running as far away from him as fast as she could. Before she could make up her mind, though, Eldarion gently led her to her seat.
Amongst the crowd of mourners there stood one who neither openly wept nor hung his head in sorrow. His grief was far too deep for that. He was Legolas, a Prince of the Mirkwood, and a companion of Aragorn on his journeys. Standing stiffly by his side was Gimli, son of Glóin, who stared straight ahead, looking at nothing, while the tears coursed down his bearded cheeks.
Legolas watched Arwen intently. He had not seen her since her wedding a century before, and he was shocked to see silver hair in her long black tresses and wrinkles furrowing the smoothness of her skin. He had always known in the back of his mind that when she gave up her immortality she gave up her eternal youth, but seeing the result of her decision was disturbing. She was the Evenstar of her people, and to watch the Evenstar fade into the twilight of Men was not something Legolas had thought of when he decided to attend his old friend's funeral.
His musings were forgotten when the funeral began. It was a heart- rending ceremony, and during Eldarion's speech, he felt tears sting his eyes. The son was so like his father, it was almost painful to watch.
After Eldarion's words, an unseen Elvish choir began singing an ethereal song of lament as the people filed out of the hall. Legolas watched Arwen pass him, head held regally high, looking neither to the left nor right, trying to maintain rigid control. He felt an urge to take her in his arms and comfort her, but he knew he could not. He went back to his chambers to grieve in private.
A few hours later, there was a quiet knock on his door, and a summons by the new King of Gondor to meet him immediately. Legolas was perplexed, but obeyed immediately.
He made his way down to the throne room and entered. Eldarion stood at one end, staring out the window. He turned to see who had entered. Legolas could see the tracks of his tears glinting in the sunlight, but said nothing but, "You wished to see me, Your Majesty?"
Eldarion nodded. "You know my mother, don't you, Legolas?"
Legolas nodded slowly, unsure of what to say or where the conversation was going. "Yes, sire. I know her well."
"My father said you used to play together as children."
"Yes, we did. My father was King of Mirkwood, and Elrond was Lord of Rivendell. It was natural that we would often see each other," he answered. "If I may ask, why do you want to know?"
"Then you know how stubborn my mother is," Eldarion said, frustration making him pace back and forth.
A small smile quirked the corners of Legolas's mouth as he remembered a few choice occasions. "I do indeed."
"She is determined to go away from Gondor," Eldarion said bluntly, stopping in his tracks to pin the Elf under his gaze.
Legolas frowned. "Where is she going?"
Eldarion began pacing again. "She said she doesn't know!" he said anxiously. "And neither I nor any of my siblings can persuade her to stay."
"She knows where she is going," Legolas said quietly.
"How do you know?" asked Eldarion, stopping again.
"Arwen always has a plan," he said simply.
Eldarion sighed in exasperation and ran a hand through his hair. "I don't know what to do, Legolas!" he said.
"I will follow her," Legolas heard himself say. He was surprised, but didn't take the words back, especially seeing the intense look of relief on Eldarion's face.
"Thank you, Legolas. She said that she is going to leave tonight after sunset."
Legolas bowed. "I will do my best to protect her, Your Majesty."
As he walked away, he wondered what in the name of Elbereth had come over him. He hoped he wouldn't regret his decision, but he had a suspicion he might before the journey was over.
A/N: Sooo, Legolas just decided to pop into my fic. He seems to have a way of doing that with LOTR fics. And even more annoying, he has a past with Arwen. How much of a past, I don't know yet. It just bothers me that he jumps into just about every fic. Pointy-eared git. *sigh* Anyway, pleeeease let me know what you think. Should I keep going, or just shelve this and let it fade into obscurity right next to the Celeborn/Haldir fics? *grin*