"Legolas." Aragorn entered the library at Rivendell, a smile for his old friend spread across his face. He opened his arms and Legolas embraced him, also smiling. The prince had only just arrived, and had been asked to wait in the library for the King, and he had willingly complied, now, seeing his old friend, the day of travel seemed no hardship at all.
"Aragorn." He pulled back and looked his comrade in the face. It had been seventeen years. The ranger had not felt the passage of time-his features were still rugged, handsome, as they had been always. "It has been far too long."
"Aye, it has." The wanderer, now king, agreed. He patted the wood prince on the shoulder. "I am glad to see you again." He smiled once more. He had the face of a king, kind and powerful. Legolas nodded.
"Lord Aragorn." An aide appeared at the King's side. "You are needed in the west hall... preparations are still being made."
"Yes." The Ranger-King nodded, waving him away. "I will be there shortly." The servant bowed, and exited. Aragorn smirked, patting Legolas on the shoulder and looked him once more in the face. "It does me great good to see you once more, old friend."
"As does seeing you." He responded. Then the King also retreated, leaving the Elf-Prince to himself. Legolas had only been to Rivendell a few times on his long life, and was only visiting now because Aragorn had made it his residence seventeen years before. And now the King had sent invitation to all the finest warriors-he was holding a tournament on the morrow. Legolas had been called early, reason being that Aragorn loved his friend so and wanted badly to see him again. The King had given Legolas a room for the day, and free roam of Rivendell. But the prince was a stranger here, and rather embarrassed to wander alone. Now, in the light of the late afternoon sun that poured through the window, he pondered what exactly he would do to keep himself occupied in the time before supper.
"Are you here for the tournament, sir Elf?" He lifted his head, departing from his thoughts. A maiden, no more than seventeen, stood in the doorway. He noted the gentle arch at the tip of her ear-that only an elf possessed, but somewhat more subtle than the ears of most of his people, somewhat more dull.
"Indeed, I am." He answered. The girl seemed pleased by this, she stepped into the room and the sunlight was trapped by the honey-hued ripples of hair that cascaded past her hips. From the way she was dressed Legolas could only assume that she herself was a traveling ranger. Her tunic was worn but clean, the forest green of elven travelers and beneath it was a shirt of a lighter color. She wore braces on her arms- encrusted with silver, engraved with an intricate design of a serpent twined around a sword, bordered with leaves.
"Have you seen the training hall?" She asked him nonchalantly, gazing at the painting Isildur on the wall. Legolas shook his head. She was not carrying any weapons that he could see, only an empty scabbard at her side, and she was barefoot. Her legs were exposed from mid-thigh down, delicate but powerful. He took note of the rampant smatter of bruises that riddled the white pallor of her flesh, and then lifted his eyes to her face once more.
"Would you like me to escort you there?" She turned back to look him straight on. Her eyes were large and kittenish, one was a striking pale green, and the other an odd shade of gold like that of the mineral stone tiger's-eye. Her face was pale as the moon, round and smooth, obstructed only by her lips, full and soft like rose petals.
"Arenia!" A voice hissed. Legolas whirled, the girl-Arenia, chuckled.
"Coming!" She ran back to the doorway, accepting two razor-tipped sticks from a wiry teenage elf. "Thank you, Haldir." She nodded to him. He smiled and hurried away. She turned back to Legolas, smirking as she twisted her hair into a coil at the back of her head and jabbed one pin up, turned it, and plunged it down through the messy bun, impaling it there at the back of her head.
"I once knew an elf-lord named Haldir." Legolas commented. Arenia glanced over her shoulder in the direction the boy had gone. A few golden hairs strayed loose of the pin, falling in wispy tendrils across her cheeks.
"Did you?" She slipped the other pin into her hair and looked back at the prince. "That boy is the son of one of the nobles here. His mother died of grief when his father was killed on the battlefield. He was but a babe when they passed on, and so the king took him into his house and named him Haldir."
"How do you know him?"
"He's my best friend. Just a year older than I." Arenia adjusted the scabbard around her waist and quirked an eyebrow at Legolas. "Are you staying the evening here?"
"Aye." The prince nodded, and was surprised to see a smile form on the maid's face.
"Ari!" A voice wafted down the hall. It was Haldir's. "Are you coming?"
"Yes!" She chuckled again. She bowed gracefully to Legolas, bending fluidly at the waist, and then straightened. "It was nice speaking to you, sir Elf. I apologize for not taking you to the training hall-- I forgot that I had a prior engagement." She smiled briefly." Good luck in the tournament... perhaps I shall see you this evening." She winked, and then disappeared into the hallway.
||~*~*[:||-||:]*~*~||
"Who was that?" Haldir asked. He was sitting on the steps, tying his boots as Arenia carefully chose a sword from one of the racks on the wall.
"I don't know." She responded, slipping one sword out of its sheath and swinging it in an expert circle. She made a few slashes at the air, and then with a graceful snap of the wrist sent it flying upwards. The blade spun, and she caught the weapon by the hilt, bringing it into an arc above her head, poised as if ready to fight. "He's here to fight in the tournament, as well." She told her friend.
"He looks a bit soft, he's going to lose." Haldir chuckled, rising, and unsheathing the sword at his side. He bent at the waist in a bow, and she rolled her eyes. Arenia spun, brought her weapon down in a deadly swoop of steel, and then stood ready.
"To me." She finished Haldir's comment. He smiled at her, and she smiled back. "Let's begin then." She told him. Haldir lunged. She perried his attack with her sword and jumped back, thrusting her weapon foreword. The sound of the swords meeting was music to her, she danced around Haldir, to him, away from him... an hour slipped past, wriggling easily on the fine sweat that had broken out all over Arenia's opponent. She herself was never tired by dancing swordplay. She would never tire of it.
"Donduriel!" The song ended abruptly. She had Haldir on the floor, one foot was on his chest, and her sword was pressed into his throat. They both looked up, bewildered.
"Father." She breathed. A rugged, tall man stepped into the training hall. His brown hair hanging neat but wild to his throat, his blue eyes catching the light from the torches and seeming to ripple like water.
"Lord Aragorn." Haldir exclaimed, scrambling to his feet and backing away from the girl known both as Arenia and Donduriel. She let the sword fall idle at her side as she stood straight.
"Donduriel..." The ranger chided, his voice soft with love. "How many times have I told you..." He ripped his weapon from the scabbard at his side and her reflexes caught his blade just as he slashed at her. They stood there, deadlocked, even. "Only fight those who are worthy opponents!"
"You call yourself worthy, father?" She joked, swinging his blade around, unlocking her own from his. She took a few steps back. Haldir scampered to the side, eager to watch. Donduriel-as her parents knew her-fought her ranger father expertly, meeting his every attack with an expert block, moving in a circle like a cobra, her eyes wild with her passion for the fight. Aragorn and his daughter went around and around, foreword and back, part of the same reprise in the song of steel. Haldir watched, enchanted, as the two merged into one, their dance one so carefully choreographed that they never faltered, that they seemed to be flames themselves, reflections upon the floor from the torches on the walls.
"Aragorn! Donduriel... Haldir!" All of them froze. Donduriel dropped her sword. Aragorn straightened, sheathing his, Haldir just sat there, a dumfounded look on his face.
"Mother...!" Donduriel began. Arwen Undomiel held her hand up.
"Upstairs... dressed... dinner... now!" She hissed. Her daughter obeyed, hurrying up the stairs past Haldir. Arwen gave the boy a glare that told him to get out, and he did. Aragorn tried to avoid his wife's angry gaze by replacing his daughter's weapon on the rack. "Beloved... what are you doing?" She asked, he hand on his shoulder told him she was more scared than angry. He turned, Arwen's soft fingers caressed his cheek. "Aragorn... she is your daughter... you cannot raise her to be a warrior." She whispered.
"I didn't raise her to be one... she was born one."
"But you encourage her." Arwen's voice was soft with emotion. "If she grows up this way, she will only be in danger. Aragorn, I love you... she loves you... but she is only seventeen... and if you plant these ideas of adventure in her, one day she will leave us, and she will be killed upon a battlefield somewhere, fighting with those swords she loves so much, fighting with the honor you have given her..."
"Arwen..."
"This is the only way, beloved. This tournament will be for her hand, she will marry, and we shall hear no more of these silly war games... she will have a family..." Aragorn clamped his mouth shut. He had tried to argue this, but his wife had insisted that, for the safety of their daughter, the prize of this tournament be her hand in marriage. He regretted having given into her will as a child, teaching her swordplay, war tactics. They had come to Rivendell to raise her away from the evils of war, the hate of men, and yet she had begged for the thrill of the fight since she could first walk. His beautiful, willful daughter... she would never know the glory of battle. In his gut he knew one day her people would look to her, but he needed to silence the outcry of his heart for his mind knew that this was the only way she could be safe. He had heard talk-she was already planning to be a warrior. Arenia was the nickname she had adopted when she was seven, she aspired to be the savior of men and elves alike... but the King knew he had to kill that dream. Aragorn sighed, the backs of his fingers slid delicately up Arwen's cheek, and he kissed her.
||~*~*[:||-||:]*~*~||
"I despise you." Donduriel hissed. She unlaced the front of her tunic and flung it across the bed, a hateful stare set steady upon the chair at its side. "One day I will be more powerful than even my father, my skill will be the greatest in all of middle-earth!" She yanked her undershirt off and discarded it on the floor. "I will be a great warrior!" She pulled the pins out of her hair and threw them onto the bedside table, gold waves tumbled down across her bare skin. "And then... I shall destroy you!" She peeled the bracers off of her arms and hurled them onto the floor. "You embody every aspect of evil!" The long, silver-colored gown in the chair made no retaliation. She sighed heavily, moving over to her huge mirror to study herself.
She looked at herself from the front first. Muscular frame- delicately feminine, busty, but sinewy, as if ready to take flight. Her skin was the color of moonlight, and her hair was like the sun. She looked at her arms, bruised from hand-to hand combat, the cut on her breastbone still healing from when Haldir had surprised her from behind. She turned to the side and lifted her arm. There, on the left side of her well-defined ribcage, was a large purple mark, another bruise from when she had fallen from the snowy stallion onto the rocky terrain of the paddock. None of her father's horses liked her-none of the tame ones anyway. Every time she entered the stable, all but one would rear, or shriek in alarm. The one horse that trusted her was Untu, a black stallion resembling that of the fabled Nazgul, with red eyes that seemed to hold the knowledge of the ages. Everyone else hated that horse, and refused to ride it. Aragorn was going to put it to death when it was born two years before, but Donduriel had pleaded with him for it's life, and earned it's trust by being it's only caretaker. She really was the black sheep of the family, so it seemed only fitting that she and the black horse shared such a bond.
"I still hate you." She told the dress, slipping into the gauzy fabric with disdain. "And someday I will burn you and all of your minions with the fires of my all-powerful army." She opened the drawer in her bedside table and removed two deadly-pointed silver pins etched with delicate designs of leaves and flowers, and a silver-handled brush. She parted her hair in the center and twisted each side into an elegant bun, pinning them up with one pin each. She looked in the mirror and grimaced at her reflection, pulling the bell sleeves down to cover the green and blue flesh on her wrists and forearms. She uttered a few words in elvish that would send her mother into shock, and then collected her discarded tunic, shirt and bracers. Wrapping them carefully in a bundle, she stowed them under her bed beside the whetstone she used to sharpen all of her hair pins, kohl warpaint, and the cloak from lothlorien and engraved elvish broadsword and scabbard her father had secretly given to her. These were her most precious possessions, save one. She reached under a pillow on her bed and withdrew a silver pendant-the evenstar. Clasping it gently about her neck, she drew herself up into the elegant posture of a gentlewoman and left her room, but not without tripping over her dress and faceplanting into the hall first. She stood up, flustered, and continued down the passage to the stairs that led down into the banquet hall.
"Arenia." Haldir waved to her. The elf-boy, now dressed in the elegant clothing of a nobleman, his thick blonde hair combed and two braids neatly hanging beside his face, looked angelic in the light from the torches. His pale green eyes shone brightly, reflecting the flames, and he held his arm out to her. "I am to be your escort to supper." He smirked, and she linked his arm through his. "Shall we go?" They still had fifteen minutes worth of procession before them. They waited patiently.
"Are you really going to eat dinner tonight?" Haldir asked finally, knowing the answer. His friend paused, looking at him and smiling.
"No." She shook her head, lifting her eyebrows mischievously. "The tournament is in the morning, and I have hardly prepared." She had a hint of thanks in her tone as she kissed his cheek and grinned at him, Haldir grinned back at her, and instead of descending the stairs with the procession of nobles, she slipped her arm out of his and turned ascending, heading back to her room. "Cover for me." She whispered over her shoulder. He nodded, and straightened his tunic, clearing his throat in a most professional manner as the announcer read their names aloud.
"The Lady Donduriel, daughter of Aragorn and Arwen, and her escort Haldir..." The introduction hung stagnant in the hair as only Haldir descended the flight of stairs into the room. He whispered something to Aragorn as he passed behind his seat, and the King nodded, relaying the message to his wife, who set her jaw in an expression of annoyance. Legolas glanced at Haldir, who took a seat beside the elf-prince. The teenager looked rather pleased with himself as he sat down. After a moment he turned to Legolas and cleared his throat.
"Yes?" The prince looked a little taken aback.
"Are you fighting in the tournament tomorrow?" Haldir inquired boldly, folding his hands in his lap.
"Yes..." He answered warily. "Why do you ask?"
"No reason, really." Haldir looked foreword again. "Best of luck." He snickered softly to himself.
||~*~*[:||-||:]*~*~||
As the banquet continued downstairs, Donduriel slipped into her parent's room and searched the drawers that held her father's possessions. At last she found what she was looking for-a pair of worn warrior's boots, Donduriel studied them for a moment, turning them over gently in her hands, then she clasped them to her chest and hurried back to her room. She shut the door, bolting it tight, and tossed the boots onto her bed. The princess shed her hateful clothes and pulled the pins from her hair. She had only worn them for half an hour, but to her it had been a half an hour too long. She shook her hair loose and brushed it out, looking in the mirror again.
"Goodbye, Donduriel." She muttered to herself. She pulled all of her things out from under the bed and tumbled them onto the mattress. She slid the sword gently from its sheath and looked for a while at the blade. This was the day her sheltered life ended. Tomorrow, she would fight in her father's tournament, and prove to everyone her strength. Before men and elves alike, she would show them that a mortal half-elf possessed the strength of both races instead of the weakness of one. She lifted her hair and placed it across the blade, pulling it taught. After a moment Arenia set her jaw and yanked the sword swiftly through the mass of gold. Dropping it on the bed, she took a deep breath and turned back to the mirror as the last of at least fifteen years worth of hair spilled down her shoulders and fell like feathers to the floor. What once had been a waterfall that rippled past her waist now hung short and choppy to her shoulders.
"Arenia..." She murmured, recognizing her reflection. Quickly, the girl yanked on a pair of soft, forest-green leggings and slipped into her shirt and tunic, lacing it tightly to hide her feminine curves. It worked for the most part-although now, with her generous breasts restrained she felt that she was minutely suffocating. Ignoring the lack of oxygen for the time being, she buckled the scabbard around her hips and slid the sword into it, listening to the hilt meeting the leather. Every step that she took towards this tournament was a step she recognized as being one more away from Donduriel. Arenia donned the bracers-her signature, and covered the bruises on her arms.
One step. Freedom.
She turned to the mirror and drew harsh, feature-hiding lines across her face with the kohl. Another step. No marriage. She coiled her hair up at the back of her neck and twisted the pin through, making it look all but gone. Another step. No dresses. She tied the cloak on, pulling the hood up to hide what recognizable parts of her face were left, pulling it shut at the front to disguise any distinguishable part of her costume.
Another step. She would taste the battles she had always longed for.
Finally, she pulled the boots on. These were her father's, this was one step she refused to take. Aragorn would always be her father. She waited a moment for the burning of tears behind her eyes to subside. Somehow she felt that by leaving Donduriel behind, she would be leaving behind those she loved. But she knew that the very tournament for which she shed her image was being held by her father. The surge of loss dwindled, and she regained her determination. Upon standing, Arenia discovered that the boots were a little too big. She searched her room for something to bind them with. Finally, she found a gown with glossy, green ribbons woven through the hems. Well, she certainly wasn't going to mind ruining the dress. She tore the cloth to get to the ribbons and, drawing them out, she tied them tight around the bottoms and calves of the boots so they would not slip off.
The last step had been taken. Donduriel was to be left behind forever in this room-in the discarded clothes, in the fallen locks of hair. Arenia sat up from tying her boots and sighed. From where she sat on the bed, she could not see the mirror. Rising slowly, she moved across the room and stood before the great pane. "Where did I go?" She asked herself. The person in her mirror was little more than a Nazgul, herself-cloaked, shadowed, anonymous. She lifted one hand to her throat. The evenstar still resided there. She looked at her hands, at the muted glimmer of rings from her fingers, and then at the great window through which she would make her escape.
"Donduriel?" There was a soft knock on the door. It was her father. She began to panic, but then slow realization hit her, she was no longer Donduriel. She was Arenia, she was the warrior who's name she had adopted so long ago. The doorknob wriggled, the knock became urgent, persistent. Arenia loved Aragorn, she would always love him, but she was not the same daughter anymore, and so she offered him her only explanation. Kneeling, she gathered a handful of hair from the floor, laying it smooth and shiny in her hand. She tied it into a gentle gold knot and twisted one of the elegant silver pins through it.
"I love you, Daddy." She whispered, she squatted and slipped small bundle beneath the door. Holding her breath, she waited. She heard the great King retrieve the small offering and stand.
"I love you, too... Arenia." And she heard him walk away.
||~*~*[:||-||:]*~*~||
Arenia waited for the better part of the evening for all of the guests to settle into bed. The first gray streaks of dawn were beginning to puncture the night when she slipped out of her window and into the tree below. She stole off into the gently melting dark. Arenia moved swiftly and silently, avoiding any pools of light that had formed upon the ground. She reached the stable and pressed herself against the wall, dawn was creeping slowly out of the horizon, wrapping its rosy tendrils around the stars. There was a sharp footfall to her left and Arenia turned to see a shadow-softened shape leading Untu out of the stable towards her. She took a few steps back, melting away into the dark dripping from the lush tree that leaned over her, and waited, holding her breath. The stranger offered her the reins, and she slipped one hand out of the shadows to accept them.
"Where are you going?" His voice was soft. She should have recognized her father. The blue of his eyes was as a beacon, piercing the dark. She should have predicted, she should have guessed. But nobody ever recognizes love, true, great, undying love, or expects it. She sighed, stepping foreward, and looked up at him.
"Do you truly believe I could ever run away and not return?" She asked him. Now she realized, he was not a father to her. He was a best friend. Better, even, than Haldir. He had known her for her entire life, and he had given her everything she had needed, he had provided her always with a constant love, a heart unwavering to listen to her. And now she was breaking his rules, his heart, his family. She should have felt terrible, but she knew that when the time came he would be proud.
"Don't tell mother." She said.
"I have to..."
"Wait until after the tournament. Tell her when you return home." She pleaded with her voice, stern but tugging gently. He nodded, signifying agreement, and then touched her hand gently, his grip swallowing hers as they both held Untu's rein. He took a breath, and then spoke.
"Donduriel, I never believed you would grow up to be..."
"Such a dissapontment?" She finished. Aragorn sighed.
"Such a powerful woman." He put one hand on her shoulder and knelt, looking into the shadow that hid her eyes, searching it for something he could hold on to. "Remember that you are only seventeen, and you have your entire life ahead of you." Arenia could not help but smile. Her father thought she was running away and never returning. It was as if he was unloading upon her all the love a father could hold in his heart for a daughter, so she could carry it with her and use it as food and heat, something to keep always. "Remember that this is your home, and we will always love you." He leaned foreward to kiss her forehead, but she stepped away.
"Father, do you remember when I was little, and I asked you what love was like?" Her voice was soft and deep, like the shadow she dwelt in now.
"...Yes, I told you that love... love is like..."
"Death. You spend your entire life running from it, but in the end..."
"It is all you have." The King sighed a burdened sigh, and Arenia thought that the beacon of his eyes was blurred slightly by tears. He nodded to himself, rose, and let go of her hand. "I love you."
"I love you, too, Father." She wanted to reach out and hug him... but not yet. She wanted to wait until after she had won the tournament. When she returned, she would hug him and she would thank him. For everything. She watched him go, then mounted Untu, throwing one leg over his side. Glancing at the moon and the sun, Arenia approximated the time. It was about Six O'clock in the morning, which meant the tournament would be beginning in three hours. She never understood why they held them so early, but she shrugged it off. The Procession was leaving Rivendell at seven, for it would take an hour to make the journey, and an hour to prepare the warriors and to seat the guests. Arenia gave Untu's sides a small nugde with her heels and urged her into a light gallop. With luck, she would arrive at the Arena-which had been constucted in a great plain to the west of Rivendell-before Eight-thirty. She was in no hurry, after all, and she wanted to take her time to collect her thoughts. She did not, however, want to risk seeing anyone, so she turned Untu in the direction opposite the arena and prepared to, instead of taking the direct route, make a large, roundabout arc to avoid people and kill time. Arenia had left Rivendell behind by the time the sun bore it's face to the sky, chasing away the last lingering fronds of darkness. Aragorn was at his window, gazing out at her as she dissolved into the distance. He stared in the direction she had gone long after he could no longer see her. He did not know where she was heading, he did not know if he would see her again. What pained him the most is that his path took him in the opposite direction, for he had to hold the tournament still, for his beloved daughter Donduriel... his beloved daughter Arenia had wished him to.
||~*~*[:||-||:]*~*~||
Legolas sat waiting on the steps of the great house, plucking absentmindedly at the hem of his tunic. He was nervous, no question. He did not doubt himself, but rather, he doubted that all of the contestants would play fair. Aragorn had told him that there were only going to be fifteen warriors at most, and that each of them was an honorable fighter, invited for his reputation. The Elf-Prince sighed, then stood as his old friend joined him on the steps. Aragorn smiled at him, but there was only a trace of happiness there.
"Aragorn... what plagues you?" Legolas' eyebrows drew together in a look of concern. Aragorn looked out towards the trees, his eyes distant, his expression vague.
"Have you ever loved anything, Legolas?"
"Of course I have... I..." Aragorn smiled gently, silencing the elf, and his gaze fell downwards as if he was remembering something dear.
"Have you ever loved something so much you were afraid that if you didn't let it go... it would die?" Aragorn caught the look of confusion in Legolas' eyes and chuckled. "Nevermind." His friend was silent for a moment, then he caught on to what he thought Aragorn had been insinuating.
"Did you and Arwen get into an argument...?" Legolas asked. He took a breath and then offered his only advice. "Because if you did, I just want to say that I've never seen two people love each other the way you do, and that you should be together forever..." The words tumbled out a little too quickly, as if to overcompensate, to make amends. Aragorn just smiled and patted his friend on the shoulder.
"We shall be departing shortly, Legolas." Aragorn left the elf-prince on the steps, his steps heavy as he re-entered the great house and watched the last of the guests at Rivendell who were attending the tournament leave the building and head for the stable. He paused for a moment, his memory playing a scene out over thie very floor he stood on. Donduriel had been Fifteen, and he had been underestimating her. They were sword-fighting in the entry hall, for Arwen had gone with several of her people to meet the westbound ship, and bid them farewell. Donduriel had seemed to be faltering, and Aragorn had assumed the upper-hand. He had knocked the sword from her grasp and she was defenseless. He had ducked, swept at her feet quickly to knock her to the floor, but she jumped up, pulled a pin from her hair, and landed swift kick on the arm he held his sword with. Startled, he had dropped it, and fallen to the floor, with her atop him. She had raised the pin high and brought it down, it's sharp tip had cut his shirt just above his heart. That was the first time she had won by so great a margin. Without thinking about it, Aragorn touched his chest in that precise spot as his mind replayed this to him. There was no hole in the cloth, but rather, there was one under the cloth, in his heart that continued beating even though a part of it was gone. The image in his mind faded, but the dull pain of loss did not. He lifted his head he heard a faint rustle at the head of the banister, and went to meet Arwen at the stair. He took her hand, they were going to ride side-by-side at the head of the procession, but Aragorn desperately wanted to ride alone. He feigned a smile, though, as he walked with his wife.
"Where is Donduriel?" Arwen asked. Aragorn cringed inwardly, the name was as that of the deceased, striking a shard of cold loss into his heart. "I would have thought she would be screaming to compete..."
"Well then it is best that she has not appeared this morning. We should be thankful." Aragorn replied, his hands on Arwen's waist as he helped her to mount her white mare. Arwen smiled and touched his face, he kissed her fingers and mounted his own white stallion-the one that had thrown Donduriel-and steered it out to the head of the growing formation of horses and wagons. He caught sight of Legolas on a gray horse, near the front, looking around as if unsure of what to do. The King smiled at the elf-prince as he took his place beside his wife.
"Are we ready?" Arwen asked him softly. Aragron nodded, turning to face the twenty-some people on horses behind him.
"Guests, today... we shall ride out to the arena and we shall take delight in a tournament!" He announced, there was a reverberation of excitement, mingled with claps and cheers. "My wife and I shall lead you there. With any luck those spectators and participants not riding with us shall be waiting at the gate when we arrive. Now, onward!" With a rumble of anticipation, the procession moved foreward. The brisk pace that Aragorn had chosen to lead them with was no less than a rolling gallop that would have them there at seven, if not earlier. The thunder of wagons and the chatter of the people behind him faded into a blurred rumble at his back as he continued on, every fall of his horse's hooves another reminder that his daughter had gone the other way, another reminder of how much he loved her, another reminder of his pain. He did not know how Arwen would react when he told her of Donduriel's departure. He himself did not know how he was still moving foreward, perhaps he was still clinging desperately to the hope that it could have been a dream, and that his daughtr was still asleep in her bed. To the possibility that when he returned home she would scold him in their playful way for not waking her. Arwen had fallen a little behind him, and was conversing with a few elf maidens. Aragorn realized that although he was riding fast, the procession was a social entity that would not break the pace of a brisk trot. He did not slow. The faster he got there, the faster he could get home. The faster he could get home, the faster he could prove that his daughter had not left.
||~*~*[:||-||:]*~*~||
Arenia dismounted warily, taking Untu's reign and leading him uncertainly into the stable tent that had been erected for the guest's horses. She kept her head lowered, hoping that nobody would see her.
"Excuse me, sir." She jumped, a slender elf-maiden stood before her, she had not seen her approach because she had been staring at the ground.
"Y-yes?" She grumbled in as masculine a voice as she could muster. The girl reached out and Arenia drew back. "What do you want?"
"I'm going to stable your horse for you, Sir." The girl was only doing her job, and she did not suspect who she was speaking to at all! Arenia chuckled to herself, handing the girl the reigns a bit overagerly and turning away a bit too quickly. "Sir?"
"Uh... yes?"
"If you are competing, you need to sign in at the preparation tent." The horse girl sounded a bit suspicious. Arenia pulled a small gold band from one of her bejeweled fingers and handed it to the girl.
"Thank you, miss." She said as mystriously as possible.
"Oh... th-thank you!" The excited girl said to Arenia's departing back as she walked away. "Thank you! I'll take very good care of your horse!" Arenia held up a hand dismissively and exited the tent.
Outside there were several young man practicing swordplay in the large marked circle of grass that was to be the arena. She scoffed at them and looked around. To the right of the stable there was a large canopy erected to cover several rows of chairs, all filled with noblemen and women who were to be spectators. Directly across from the stable-and all the way across the large marked arena-was a larger tent, undoubtedly the preparation tent for the competitors. There were three door-flaps, one on each side and one in the center. The one in the center had a table set to the side of it, behind which sat a scribe, ready to take down the names of the warriors. She cursed herself silently for not thinking to find an alias. She couldn't just saunter up to the table and announce herself as Lady Arenia, they would laugh at her, or worse, call upon her father. No, she needed a male name, a powerful name. Her thoughts were abrubtly curtailed as someone walked past her-- someone she recognized. She lifted her head and blinked as the blonde guest she had met in the library cast a shadow over her in his wake. She studied his back, the way he held his spine perfectly, shoulders positioned in a noble and graceful way. She remembered her father once telling her of the elves-- mainly that it was the race of her mother, and he elvish name translated into her father's native human tongue was 'Leighlei Arenia Elessar', or something toughly to that extent. She caught sight of the powerful arch at the top of the elf's ear and smiled, secretly thanking her heritage as she strolled casually behind him.
"Hello, good sir, what is your name?" The scribe asked him. He smiled.
"Sir Greenleaf of Mirkwood." The man behind the desk jotted it down and nodded to him.
"Thank you." After motioning 'Sir Greenleaf' inside, the scribe looked Arenia over skepticaly, but still asked; "What is your name, lad?" Arenia cleared her throat and answered in a rough, mysterious voice;
"I am Sir Lei..."
"Sir Lei?" The Scribe looked both doubtful and wary. "Is that it?"
"Uh... yes?" Arenia stammered, unsure, but the scribe just shrugged, wrote her name down, and then started to ask her something, but she had already entered the tent. Inside it was spacious and dim, there were only seven or eight warriors beneath the canopy of the tarp, including Arenia. She glanced around, wondering when the tournament was going to begin, and caught sight of Sir Greenleaf, practicing with his bow drawn but no arrow-- aiming. She pursed her lips; a bow and arrow was the only weapon to which she was unnaquanted. Then she wondered how a weapon like that would be used in a close-range fight such as one that would take place in the tournament. But even more urgent than that question was how would one defend against it? She cleared her throat, patting the sheath at her side, and ambled over to him. He glanced at her and lowered his bow, cocking his head slightly.
"Yes?" His voice was gentle, his eyes inquiring. Beneath the haven of her hood she blushed a tiny bit, inwardly cursed herself for doing so, and then she extended her hand.
"Greetings, Sir Elf, I am The Warrior Lei." She tried to sound as haughty as any man might, and the elf warily shook her hand, eying her.
"I am Sir Greenleaf." His handshake was gentle but rigid, strong. His skin was as smooth as rosepetals, she withdrew her hand and let it fall to her side. After a moment of studying one another, he blinked and lowered his head, trying to see beneath her hood. "Have we met?"
"Erm... I do not believe so." She turned away and fumbled for something to say. Fortunately, she did not have to. A horn sounded, signalling the warriors to return to the tent and prepare for the tournament. As contestants entered, Men, Elves, and even a Half-Dwarf, She slipped away from Legolas, finding herself a small shadow to dissapear into and wait in. As the fourteen or so warriors made final adjustments to their armour, wished their final false good-lucks, and gave themselves small pep talks, she watched and waited, silent and unnoticed.
||~*~*[:||-||:]*~*~||
Aragorn took his seat beside his wife as the second horn- the signal for the first match- sounded. He sighed, resting his chin on the top of his hand and contemplated this match for the hand of a daughter no longer his.
"First Match, Sir Aratloth of Lorien, and Sir Greenleaf of Mirkwood. First to draw blood from the torso of his opponent wins." The courtier in the center of the marked circle hurried to the side as the two elves stepped out of the tent- Legolas from the flap on the side closest to Aragorn's seat, Aratloth from the farther one. They approached the center of the arena and faced each other. The opponents shook hands, and then Aragorn raised his hand halfheartedly;
"Begin!" He shouted. He leaned back, uninterested, and let himself be swallowed by grief once more. Arwen was oblivious to his apathy, completely entranced by the sudden rush of elvish energy in the ring. Aratloth was tall, even for an elf, and lithely built. Legolas, however, seemed to be the more agile, darting about like snake, his bow seemingly a part of his body, his arrows graceful and quick like hawks. They wove in and out, around and back, foreward and sideward, sure-footed, quick, liquid. Legolas side-stepped arrows, Aratloth knocked them away. It seemed, to Arwen, that Legolas was putting forth less effort than his rival, and that Aratloth was overexerting himself just to keep up. The match between the blonde and brunette elves lasted for only three-quarters of an hour, and then Aratloth was hit in the shoulder with an arrow. He fell to his knees, hands groping blindly, as two servant doctors hurried onto the field with a stretcher and bore him away.
"Sir Greenleaf is the victor!" The courtier shouted. Legolas bowed and, turning, returned to the tent. Arwen looked to her husband, worried.
"But... What about Sir Aratloth? Will he be all right?" She trilled. Roused from his thoughts, he shook his head and shushed her.
"They were headless arrows-he will be fine, despite the pain they are only deadly to someone of a man's size without treatment. The doctors will have it out of him and he will have mended in no time at all." Aragorn assured his wife. She smiled and returned her eyes to the field. Two Men-both nobles, had taken up swords. Aragorn took little interest in this. He took little interest in any of the faceless, nameless contestants. He only took interest in the prize they fought for-a prize none of them would receive, even if they won. When one of the men fell Aragorn hardly noticed, time had evaded his recognition, he was lost deep in memory.
And so the matches went, some lasting hours, others only fractions of them. Aragorn sank deeper and deeper into his thoughts, and was not aware of the time that had passed until his wife told him that the last match of the round was soon to begin. There were sixteen warriors, and seven of the preliminary battles had passed. There was one more, and then there was to be an hour long hiatus for the winners to recooperate and prepare for the next round. Aragorn sat foreward, deciding to pay attention at least once, and tried to focus on the field.
"Next... Sir Raine of Gondor, and... Sir Lei... of... Middle Earth." Someone in the audience laughed, and there was a unanamous ripple of chuckles in the stands as the two warriors- a tall, broad human, and a small, cloaked stranger approached the field. The man was built like a mountian, tall and sturdy, and his hooded opponent seemed too small and wiry to even compete. However, they shook hands, and Sir Lei drew his sword boldly. Aragorn blinked, the weapon looked somehow familiar, but he could not quite remember why. Sir Raine took one step foreward, drew his blade, and growled. His foe's blade went up in an arc, his blade caught it in a cold clash of steel. They stood deadlocked, one pushing against the other, and Sir Lei, to his credit, held his ground against the bulk of his opponent. Suddenly, Lei swung his blade back down, and swerved it outward in a horizontal continuation of his arc. Cloth split in a clean line. A small trickle of blood appeared within the gap, and just like that the match was over.
"Sir Lei is the victor!" There was a thunder of applause and a smattering of cheers as the winner crept back into the tent.
Aragorn glanced at the position of the sun in the sky. The match had been less than ten minutes long.
||~*~*[:||-||:]*~*~||
"Final Match!" The announcer bellowed. Everyone in the audience sat ready, anticipating, anxious. Aragorn moreso than most-the stranger, Sir Lei, had him entranced. Each of his victories had been more skillful than the last, progressively taking longer to complete. And each victory made him seem themore familiar, as if he was an old-time friend Aragorn had just come to recognize. The warrior had fought his way to the final round-and was now to face Legolas.
"I wonder who Sir Lei is?" Arwen mused. "What must he be hiding beneath that cloak of his?"
"I suppose he is a monster..." Aragorn breathed half-jokingly. Arwen smiled, unsure, and then they both focused their attentions on the arena. Legolas and Lei stood facing one another, Lei offered his hand, Legolas shook it.
"I congratulate both of you." Aragorn announced, standing. Sir Lei jumped, drew back, startled. His head was turned to the king, but all Aragorn could see was a dark void in the stead of a face. "You have both proven that you posess great skill by coming this far!" The audience applauded, Aragorn smiled. "I wish you both luck... Begin!"
Legolas had already drawn an arrow when Lei recovered from his shock and looked back to his foe. The arrow was released and Lei threw himself to the side, narrowly escaping the projectile. He regained his balance and drew his sword, lunging at the elf, who ripped his small blade from his belt and brought it to meet Lei's. Slash. Block. Swing. Block. Lunge. Block. They mirrored offense with perfect defense, reading the other's every attack. This went on for the better part of an hour-neither giving nor taking-and the audience began to get restless. Aragorn began to wonder if they could fight forever, and then Lei threw all of his weight into their locked blades, let go of his sword, and both went sailing across the field. Legolas looked stunned, thinking Lei to be unarmed, and began to draw back away from him, reaching for an arrow, slowly drawing his bow. Lei reached back into his hood and also backed away, when he pulled his arm out, two glimmering pins in his grasp, Aragorn drew in a sharp breath. Arwen glanced at him. The first arrow flew, it pierced his cloak, he flung it over his shoulder, let fly one deadly point. It grazed the prince's cheek, lodged itself in the side of his ear, he grimaced, let out a yowl of pain. However, Sir Lei took this opportunity to duck and remove the arrow from his cloak. Legolas ignored his injured ear and drew another arrow, let it fly deadly-quick as his opponent was freeing his shroud from his first arrow. "Donduriel Elessar!" She heard it over the roar of the crowd; it willed her even over the will to win. She lifted her head, turned, and the arrow struck her side so hard that the air in her lungs crowded out of her throat to escape it's point. Her eyes tried fleetingly to catch the owner of the voice, but there was no one, neither her father, nor her mother could have done it. As she dropped to her knees, she made sure to draw her cloak tight about herself, even as the blow shocked the vision from her eyes.
"W…n…er….L….Lea…." The announcer called out. She didn't care. Her entire body was filling with pain. With one agonized howl she broke the shaft of the arrow, and, letting the blood soak her fingers, managed to find her feet and more or less stumble to the stables. Arenia knew there were doctors that were supposed to tend her, and that they would undoubtedly follow. She also knew there was no force on Middle-Earth that could have held her long enough to allow them to catch her. The stable was empty, and the Princess had no trouble finding Untu. With complete disregard for tack she threw the stall door wide, allowing her mount to exit the box. Struggling, she attempted to get onto his back, and battled with her injury for several minutes before succeeding. Arenia finally managed to throw one leg astride him, and, slouching in a pained fashion, bid him walk out of the stable.
"Sir Lei!" She wove her fingers through Untu's mane, ready to dig her heels into his sides and let him carry her home, when the figure running towards her took definite shape from the fogginess in her eyes. It was Legolas, of all people, and Arenia was somewhat stunned that it was only he. He came to a graceful halt beside were her mount had stopped, and looked up at the hooded figure astride the ebon steed. "Sir, I implore you, return to the stadium and receive the recognition you have earned. You are not dishonored in any way by your loss- in fact, I have never come against one so skilled. Please, you are the second greatest—If not the very greatest warrior in all the land. Come back with me, and allow the doctors to tend to your wound at the very least." He placed one steady palm upon the flank of the great black beast.
"Believe me, Sir." Arenia replied, softly, as speaking caused her great pain, "I am not worried at all about my honor." She reached up with one shaky hand and pushed the hood away from her face, allowing it to fall idle at her shoulders. "I stood my ground against the greatest warriors this land has to offer…" She grimaced, her hand returning to the wound at her side. Legolas stared, shocked, at the kohl-obstructed visage of what was most definitely a female half-elf, not recognizing her as the same wanderer he had met in the Library at Rivendell.
"All along… you were…?" He stammered. She smiled through her pain, nodding.
"Aye… you put up a good fight, Sir Elf, but, as you can see, I must decline your offer to return." She closed one eye in a wink, and then drove her heels into the sides of the Stallion, hunching over, agonized, as it sped away. Legolas shook his head, a strange feeling of déjà vu passing over him, and then he reeled, stunned.
"A woman?"
||~*~*[:||-||:]*~*~||
The horns rang out into the gray sky, people shouted, doors opened, feet flew. The procession had returned, sans the competitors from faraway lands; the competitors that had lost and returned home. At the head of the group Legolas rode beside Aragorn, proud as banners flew and music began to pick up. This was to be a celebratory occasion; the Princess was betrothed.
"Welcome home, Lord Aragorn!" Haldir greeted him as they led their mounts towards the stables. "And you, sir elf, congratulations on your victory!"
"Many thanks, young master." Legolas replied as he untacked his horse. "It was an outstanding competition." As Legolas and Haldir chatted idly, Aragorn tried to shake off a cloud of doubt that plagued him… if only he knew the strange warrior's identity, then he could put his mind at ease. The hairpins… but, it couldn't have been his daughter, she was gone…
"Father."