Disclaimer: Lord of the rings is not mine. It belongs to Tolkien.
Summary: Aragorn and Arwen discuss some mischief they got into with the twins.
A/N: This is a WARNING. I'm not sure if this is a good fic or not, my editor didn't think so but my other friends did. I'm going to go with their opinions. This is Arwen's POV, and in the first chapter, her memory is separated from the telling by lines.
I want to thank those of you who read 'Forbidden.' It was my first attempt at fluff and probably my last. You see, I am a violent person at heart, and I must keep up that image. Although I am having trouble being violent lately… why do I hate Eowyn again? AUGH! WHERE DID MY VIOLENT STREAK GO?
This fic is dedicated to Cerridwen-Evereven, who reviews most of my stories and puts up with my Eowyn-hating. I only wish I could write a better fic for her. She writes really good fics, too. Go read them! Wait- read this and then go read them.
"Should I wear my crown, do you think?" Aragorn asks.
"Of course. And your armor, too," I answer patiently.
I sit in front of the fire in our chamber, listening to my husband's worries about posing for a portrait. It is customary in Gondor to have a portrait of each king done soon after his coronation.
"Should I smile?" Aragorn inquires, giving an awkward grin that resembles a snarl.
"Not like that!" I laugh. The fire snaps loudly and I toss a log onto it, watching the way it devours the wood. It reminds me of an event long past, and I giggle quietly.
"A serious expression, then," Aragorn works his face into a stern frown, then turns for my approval. "Is this good?" He catches me giggling. "I can see it's not," he sighs.
"No-no, it's fine! I was just thinking of something that happened a long time ago."
"What was it?" Aragorn asks, sitting down beside me.
"Just some trouble I got into," I say, my laughing under control.
Aragorn's eyes sparkle. "What trouble? An innocent Elf like you?"
"My brothers helped," I admit.
"Ah, I see. I got into a lot of trouble with them too."
"You did?" I ask. "What sort of-"
Aragorn cuts me off with a grin. "You tell me what sort of trouble you got into, and I'll tell you of mine."
Reluctantly I agree.
"I was a young Elf, only about ten by mortal's terms. Elladan and Elrohir were older, but still immature. We loved war games," I begin, soon reliving the memory.
It is early evening, just after supper, the sky just beginning to darken. Elladan, Elrohir, and I are outside in the clearing behind the dining hall, bows in hands.
"Let's play the Last Alliance of Elves and Men," suggests Elrohir. "I'll be an Elf."
"I don't want to be a Man," complains Elladan.
"I am not being an Orc this time," I cry out defensively.
"But you look like one, Arwen-" Elladan teases, grinning.
"I do not!" I say hotly. I've never seen an Orc, only caught a glimpse of the sketches in Ada's library, but I know looking like an Orc is a bad thing.
"Do so!"
"Do not! And I won't be one!"
"All right! We can all be Elves," Elrohir reasons, settling the argument. "But I have a new idea."
Through the growing darkness, I see a dangerous glint in his eyes. "Elrohir, it's too dark to shoot arrows," I murmur.
"Not if we use flaming arrows," he says slyly.
"Brilliant!" cries Elladan.
I consider his plan thoughtfully. Ada had never expressly forbidden us from playing with flaming arrows, but I think he would frown upon it. But it sounds like fun.
I point to our usual targets, a few trees about twenty yards away. "Those will catch fire," I say.
Elladan's face falls, but Elrohir smiles. "We can shoot into the pond."
"No, we'll never get them back that way," I tell him. "Wait a moment, I've got an idea."
I run into the kitchen, smiling innocently at the cooks. When they look away, I snatch two huge cooking pots out of the cupboard and haul them outside to my brothers.
"We can fill these with water and shoot into them," I suggest.
"That'll work," Elrohir says appreciatively. He and Elladan race to the stream, lugging the pots behind them. When they return, Elladan has thought of another problem.
"If we want to be like real warriors, we have to shoot upwards so the arrows will fly farther," he says sadly. "But we don't have enough room for that."
I look around the clearing, finding no solution until my gaze falls son the dining hall. "We can put the pots on the roof," I say determinedly.
"We'll just have to aim well so the arrows won't burn the roof," Elrohir agrees.
Elladan scales the house wall. Standing tall on Elrohir's shoulders, I hand him the heavy pots, and he sets them a few feet apart on the roof. He climbs carefully down as I run back to the house for the most important part of our game.
I slide a torch out of its holder on the wall and race back to the clearing, gathering large, dry sticks in my arms as I return. My brothers are at the far side of the clearing, opposite the dining hall. I dump the sticks on the ground in front of them and, with the torch, set the sticks afire.
The small blaze cackles quietly. We nock our arrows and dip the heads in the fire until they catch the flame, then draw the bowstrings quickly and shoot into the night sky. I grin as I watch the flaming arrows, like bright orange birds flying across the darkness. When they reach the pots on the roof, all three are extinguished simultaneously, sending up thin tendrils of smoke.
Elladan and Elrohir laugh gleefully. We nock a new set of arrows and set them on fire, then draw our bows. "Fire!" Elrohir shouts, elected captain in a vote that neither Elladan nor I remember taking part in. Another volley of arrows pierces the sky and lands in the water-filled pots. Three more plumes of smoke rise.
We shoot volley after volley until each of us has a single arrow left. "We can retrieve them after this last set," Elrohir decides.
The arrows sail to the roof. Elladan and Elrohir's land in the pots, but I don't see where mine lands.
Elladan places a stick on the diminishing fire. "I'm not going up on the roof this time," he says, pointing to a rip in his sleeve.
"Neither am I!" Elrohir says immediately. "I'm the captain. Arwen, you're expendable."
I do not argue. I like going on the roof. We stride across the clearing and I clamber up the dining room wall. At the top I heave myself up onto the roof, then wish I hadn't.
A dirty word escapes my lips as I see what my stray arrow has done. The pots are full of well-aimed arrows. Just behind them, a large fire dances. The fire is growing, feeding on the wooden structure of the dining hall. In the center of the fire, I see a single arrow, engraved with the ruin 'A'. My arrow.
My brothers are clueless. I can hear them bickering below.
"Did she just curse?"
"I think she did!"
"Arwen! Come down here and we'll wash your foul mouth!"
"Yes! Hurry down!"
"What's all that smoke?"
I turn quickly from the blaze, slamming into one of the cooking pots and sending it over the edge of the roof. "Watch out!" I scream to my brothers. I look over to see that the pot has landed a few feet away from them. However, both Elladan and Elrohir are soaked. And angry.
"ARWEN!" They roar.
"There's a fire up here!" I call down frantically.
"What!" Elladan exclaims.
"How big is it?" Elrohir asks.
I turn to the fire again, which has spread quickly. The hem of my skirt is flaming. I shriek and reach for the remaining pot, dumping it over my skirt. The fire on my dress extinguished, I answer Elrohir.
"It spread! My skirt was on fire!"
"Get down from there!"
I am quick to obey. I hang on to the top of the wall until I find a foothold, then scurry down, anxious to escape the hot licks of the flames.
My brothers and I take a long look at the burning dining hall, then at each other. In a split second, our decision is made.
"Run!" Elladan cries, and that's exactly what we do. We race deep into the trees that surround the clearing, never once looking back at the blazing building.
After a few minutes of frantic running, Elrohir stops. "When the fire is out," he says, out of breath, "we'll go back. And we'll say we were playing games near the pond." The pond is far away from the dining hall.
"If Ada asks, we know nothing," Elrohir continues fiercely. "We know nothing. Right?"
Elladan and I nod.
"Let's go to the pond then, and then walk back to the house," Elladan suggests. He begins to march forward. I follow meekly. We go to the pond, then return to the house at the opposite direction from the dining hall. Guiltily I note the huge trails of smoke marking the black sky.
When we reach the main entryway, Elladan peers around the corner. "No one is here," he tells us. "We're in luck!" He and Elrohir start to make their way down the right hall to their rooms. "Goodnight, Arwen!" Elladan calls cheerfully. "And remember-not a word."
Timidly I begin to walk to my room. I slip into the left corridor, knowing I have to walk past the dining hall to get to my room.
As I turn a corner, thick clouds of smoke mar my vision. Blinded and coughing, I stumble through the hallway, leaning on the wall for support. When the wall abruptly ends in a doorway, I fall through it.
The smoke has cleared a bit. I open my eyes to see black ashes and a dirty stone floor, and the open outdoors where walls should be. My heart leaps to my throat as I move my gaze to the center of the ruined dining hall. In the midst of the wreckage, sitting on what used to be a chair, sat my Ada.
"Erm- what happened? I was at the pond," I begin, trailing off as I see what Ada holds in his hands.
A single, charred arrow, mangled almost beyond recognition, managed to survive the fire. At the end of the shaft, on the metal binding, is printed a single letter: 'A'.
None of my brothers' arrows had made it through the fire, but mine had.
Busted.
By the time I finish, Aragorn is laughing so hard his crown has fallen off. "Flaming arrows?" He sputters.
"They weren't even my idea!" I cry indignantly. "But I got all the blame!"
"What was your punishment?" Aragorn asks between chuckles.
"Ada took my bow away for two months, and I had to help as much as I could with rebuilding the dining hall."
Aragorn laughs harder, and I slap him lightly on the arm. "All right! I admit I was stupid."
He nods enthusiastically as his laughter quiets slightly.
"Now I've told you of my mischief," I remind him. "Your turn."
Well that was long and took forever to type! So now please let me know: Did you like it? Did you hate it? Do you want to read about Aragorn's ale adventure? I accept flames, but flames will inevitably be stolen by Denethor and be used to burn poor Faramir. Let's see if Faramir is still alive by the next chapter.
