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Beneath my Feet
Author: Earanthiel
Cast: Arwen/Aragorn, brief Arwen/OFC, Rumil, Galadriel, Elrond
Genre: Drama/Romance
Warning: Het sex in this chapter and upcoming installments
Disclaimer: All characters originally created by Tolkien remain his: I have no claim over them and am making no profit from this story. All other aspects, however, including plot and original characters, are a product of my own imagination and are therefore my property.
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Chapter One: It Begins
The waves of time beat ceaselessly against the shores of the present, eroding them, changing them, shaping them anew. The children of Men are born, age and die, as do all the other races. But I stand with my feet in the frigid ocean, gazing across its endless depths while the foaming tide swirls around my legs, immune to the pull of time. I am of the elven folk. I will not join in the cycle of age and death. I was born, once. But I shall not lay down my life, merge with the endless seas where mortal lives are extinguished forever. I am of the undying race, born before all others, and living beyond a million mortal lives, and more! Though we may pass from Middle-Earth to the Undying lands if we so choose, the spark of our lives will never be extinguished unless we are slain, in battle or otherwise, or die of a heart broken. We are not troubled by the small, insignificant illnesses of mortal folk. We are noble and courageous, proud, skillful warriors in battle and a lovely, graceful people when at peace and surrounded by the splendor we have created for ourselves. We reside in the lovely places of the world, the fairest and loveliest realms. We are immortal. We are the most perfect of all races.
Ah, to see this way. Some may have called my vision clear as glass, while others must have laughed at my foolishness, dismissing it as the ramblings of an elflet's mind. I drew on my father's skill in battle and the depths of his stores of wisdom as proof of perfection, spinning myself a web from the confines of my mind. Looking back, I see myself as spiderlike, perched at the center of a tangle of lies.
Perhaps it began with an arrow. Or a kiss. Or a falling sword.
One cannot live in falsehood forever.
.........
Erestel couldn't find a word for the languor that was infusing his bones. He mulled over it as he lay on the couch watching dust motes in the syrupy sunlight of late afternoon. It was a combination of laziness and anticipation; the celebrations tonight would be sumptuous enough to satisfy the entire population of Imladris, and there would be plenty of opportunities for trouble.
He remembered back to the last event Imladris had hosted and allowed himself a small twinge of pride. That elf maiden had been a thorn in his side, bringing him wine, trying to sway his attentions and arouse him to foolishness. She'd had about as much success as a wet cabbage would have. He'd put on a pretense of desirous interest and directed her to what she assumed was his room to wait for him.
Erestel only wished he'd been able to see Elrohir's face when he came into his own room and found a lovely, barely clothed maiden waiting for him. He suspected Elrond's son had taken full advantage of the chance.
The memory had successfully dissipated all traces of tiredness. Tonight, he thought contentedly, would be one to recall for years.
...
All Lady Arwen of Imladris wanted was a bath. The thought of the water cleansing the sweat from her skin and washing away the strain of exertion was like balm to a wound. Ah, for cleanliness, a rest... Instead, she forced her legs to move, jerking arrows from trees, the ground, and, in the case of one, a nearby bush. This one proved more difficult. As she straightened up and removed the twigs and leaves she'd collected from her clothes, she could have sworn the target was eyeing her scornfully.
When she reached back to place the hard-won arrow in the quiver, it was empty.
She put down her bow and swung the quiver off her back. She hadn't been wrong; it was empty except for a new green leaf in the bottom. She swung it back, confused, and reached down for her bow. It was gone.
Bewilderment was slowly giving way to a name in her head. Only one person she knew could steal a bow from directly behind her without making a sound, and remove every single arrow from a quiver on her back. Smiling, she opened her mouth-
-and closed it with an unmaidenly snap when she felt the bowstring cold against her throat, silken thread tightening as she took a breath. What... ? Either this was a serious attack, in which case all of Rivendell was in danger, and she had to
Whoever was behind her let out their breath in a barely concealed laugh, and she groaned in dismay. "Erestel," she said, "you'd make a terrible warrior, you know. Afraid of killing a helpless maiden, now, are you?"
The string lifted, and Erestel turned her around, taking her in his arms. "My lady, I most humbly beg your forgiveness for the liberty I took with your noble person. If you would be so good as to pardon my-"
Arwen wrapped one arm behind his head and traced the line of his jaw with the other. "A kiss, if you would be so good, and your wrongdoing will be absolved."
He laughed. "Save them for your lovers, Arwen. You do me too much honor. Besides, you want to look your freshest for the rest of us, tonight."
"Poor taste," she said, accepted the offered bow and arrows.
"And how?"
"What do you think? 'The rest of us,' as you put it, wouldn't spare a glance for me." She gathered the straggling strands of hair that had pulled loose and tucked them back up again, watching his face. "They have their own lovers."
He looked genuinely surprised. "I know of at least three elves of Imladris alone that would count themselves lucky to catch your eye. Also, Lothlorien should be arriving today, those that the Lady chose, and you know them better than I."
"It was lovely there. Rumil was so kind to me," she murmured absently. "Oh, Elbereth! The sun, and I have to bathe before the celebrations-"
"Your celebrations!" he began, but she was already gone, two brightly feathered arrows slipping from the quiver and striking the ground with a muffled sound against the leaves with a vibrating pulse like the very soil whispering.
She'd been standing facing the sun the entire time; there was no way she could have not noticed it until then, he thought as he picked them up. The wood was warm against his skin. There was something very strange going on, and he'd bet a barrel of Elrond's finest wine that it would be solved tonight.
...
Oh, Erestel, if only you knew.
The only sound in the bathing chamber was the sluice gates gently opening and closing, draining water from the base of the bath and spilling steaming liquid onto the top. She knew the celebrations were soon, but suddenly, the fact that her birthday had merited them wasn't as important as other things.
She was frightened.
Dipping her head under the water, she rubbed an hour's worth of sweat and grime out of her hair and face, working soap into a lather and slowly cleansing her entire body. Her arms were aching from her archery work, and the thought that no matter how hard she worked, she could not hit the cursed target, galled. She was skilled in the writing of poetry and song and in performing what she wrote. She knew the histories of the elves back to the days of Gil-Galad and beyond, and could ride passably well. But sword work was beyond her, and archery was even worse.
She'd been a lovely maiden when she arrived in Lothlorien, and barely anything more. Galadriel, her grandmother, had educated her in all the skills she now possessed, and honed her talent to a point as sharp as her best warrior's sword. The Lady of Light, however, had neglected to mention swordplay and archery, and Arwen had assumed that she would have no need of them.
Then Rumil of Lorien had made his fateful entrance.
...
Arwen had never seen anything as beautiful as Haldir's sword. The hilt was leather-bound, pommel inlaid with gold leaf, in itself a miracle of craftsmanship. He'd been awarded it as commemoration of his border service in the last year, and, as Galadriel pointed out with a laugh, who better to present it to him than Arwen herself? She'd laughed, thinking her grandmother was complimenting her beauty, and set off with it cradled reverently in her hands.
Haldir's talan was close to the Lady's, near the center of an enormous mallorn. Above it, as she later learned, was his brother Orophin's, and below, Rumil's. She felt a small twinge of nervous energy as she tapped gently at his door; she'd never met anyone so elevated in military status as a March Warden. Receiving no answer, she tapped again, tucking the sword under her arm. It seemed cursed chance that the leather slipped on the fabric of her gown, and malicious intent when the sword clattered to the polished wood of the landing and pitched down the stairs.
Forgetting all decorum and yelling in dismay, she plunged downwards after it. Metal struck metal as it ricocheted off the wrought railing, accompanied by her shouts of self-loathing and terror. What if it bounced off the stairs and struck someone on the ground below? Could a blow from a sheathed sword kill? And if it did, what would happen to her?
Caught up in a mental picture of herself running all the way to the bottom only to find a bloodstained body impaled by the falling sword, she didn't notice the offending object until she tripped over it. Sprawling to her knees with a shout of pain, she reached for the sword, saw it mercifully unharmed, and threw it to the ground in rage. It, she thought as she glared at it, should have been damaged in some way, for all the trouble it caused her-
Looking up, she saw a door. Wood beneath her feet. For a wild moment she thought she was back at Haldir's talan, but the carving on the door was subtly different. They complimented each other, she thought in a daze. Almost as if...
Arwen picked up the sword and stood, clenching her hands around it as if to throttle it to death. "May the Valar curse you!" she shrieked, and with a last furious glare at the door, she turned to leave.
"My lady?"
She froze.
Oh, Valar, please...
"My lady, are you well?"
Summoning up her last vestiges of dignity, she lifted her head and turned. "I am well, my lord." She stared fixedly at the tunic he was wearing. It was of fine workmanship; pale green embroidered with golden leaves. "Please forgive my intrusion."
"Forgiven," he said. "Who are you looking for?"
She followed the delicate pattern of vines tracing the shoulders of the tunic. "Haldir, my lord. Might you-"
"Visiting the Lord Celeborn, as it happens."
She looked up sharply and opened her mouth to curse. Of course, she thought later, it was no coincidence that he stepped forwards as she did so, and she looked full into his face. Her first impression was of unusually short auburn hair and a pair of striking green eyes set in an extraordinarily handsome face before he grinning and offered his arm. "Would you do me the honor of staying with me until he returns? My name is Rumil of Lorien-his brother."
"Arwen of Rivendell," she said as he led her through the spacious front room and onto an open deck. "I'm here visiting-"
"So I've heard. And other things, as well."
"What other things?" she cried, outraged. "What have they all been saying-"
"Nothing disfavorable," he said. "It isn't much to be embarrassed about, however-"
"Oh, Valar! If all you're going to do-"
He laughed, throwing his head back and tipping the chair onto its back legs. "You do blush easily... "
"At least I'm civilized!" she shouted, and clapped a hand to her mouth in horror. "Oh, my lord, please forgive my rudeness! I meant no offense, truly!"
"None taken. If you'd come out while I was cursing an inanimate sword, I probably would have been just as angry."
"Considering, you would more likely have laughed it off."
"Yes, you're probably right. What brings you to fair Lorien?" he asked, deftly changing the subject. "With no knowledge of how to make swords answer back! Shame on you."
"Oh, for the sake of the Valar!" she cried. This elf was as unconventional as he was oddly handsome, and there was something about him that seemed to bring the worst in her to the surface. She could almost believe that it was the fact that she'd been standing on the landing of his talan that had made her fly into a rage at the sword. "And I assume you know the art?"
"I can make any weapon answer to my hand," he said, taking the sword from where she'd lain it on the table and drawing it in a controlled motion. "This is one of the finest blades I have ever seen."
"That is quite a boast, my lord."
He tossed the sword into the air for answer, catching it by the hilt and whirling it about his head. Turning towards a pine chest at the far end of the room, he closed his eyes in concentration let go the hilt. Water, glass, and flowers sprayed into the air around the point, which had buried itself two inches into the wall.
Rumil strode up, wrenched it out of the wood, and presented it hilt-first with a, "Your sword, my lady."
"Was that quite necessary?" she asked, trying not show that she'd been visibly shaken by the display. He'd seemed calm, if rude and ridiculous, but this...
"I would not seem proud without a reason."
"And you surely... have one," she said, sheathing the sword. The point caught on the leather before it slid neatly into the hilt, and she spent a panicked moment checking for scratches before putting it warily down.
"It seems alive, does it not?" he asked, watching her. She looked almost frightened of it, but the caution lingered as she looked up at him. He stood just inside the door, ignoring the shattered vase behind him, close enough to touch.
"You could be my death," she said slowly. "Here, now. With that very sword."
"There are other ways to kill," Rumil said, gauging her reaction. A flicker of worry, and then, barely, interest. Ah yes, he thought. Yes. "And they do not take much to learn."
"You could teach me." It wasn't a question.
Yes.
"Easily."
Arwen wanted to, more than she could truly say. Or felt comfortable saying. To spend more time with this strange elf, learn how to make a sword sing in her hand...
"I must ask the Lady Galadriel before I answer," she said reluctantly. "I cannot consent without her blessing."
"She is your teacher, not your jail ward!"
"Nevertheless..." she said, standing. The sword was cool, the hilt still traced with the warmth of Rumil's hand. "I must go. Surely my lord Haldir will have returned by now."
"Don't count on it," Rumil said, laughing. "Both my lord and Haldir are great talkers, and skilled in the art of wiling away time doing absolutely nothing at all. You cannot expect him until at least-"
"Thank you for your hospitality, my lord," she said sharply. "I must go."
Rumil was left staring at the door, which still fairly quivered at the force of her hand.
Arwen stood staring at Rumil's door for a long time, half-expecting it to open again and cringing at the embarrassment she would suffer if it did. She imagined his face when he saw her. "Arwen! I am sorry, I do not know how to make doors answer by sheer power of the mind, but if I could teach you, it would be my pleasure..."
When she finally trudged up the spiral steps to Haldir's talan, she found that Rumil had been correct, and the door was as dark and unresponsive as his own. Haldir wouldn't be coming back until at least-
Now she wished she'd listened.
Unable to bear bringing the sword back to Galadriel and explain why she hadn't given it to Haldir, or, for no reason that she could explain, facing him, she placed the sword on the woven mat outside the door and left.
...
Galadriel looked her up and down curiously when she came in but didn't say anything. Arwen ran to her mirror in some trepidation and groaned at the sight. Her gown was in disarray from her undignified run down the stairs, and there was a tear at the knee where she'd fallen. She loosened her hair from its elaborate knot and closed her eyes, but instead of calm all she saw was Rumil's face.
"You could teach me."
"Easily."
"Arwen? I trust Haldir was pleased with his sword?"
She sat up and sighed. It would be such a sweet relief to tell her everything, to ask her permission to learn the sword and bow. However, all she said was, "He told me... that it was an honor merely to hold it in his hands."
"It was one of the finest I've ever seen," she said, and Arwen found herself blushing with shame, seeing her lie crumble before her very eyes.
"I sent word to your father many days ago, and have just received an answer. He says that he will send an escort for you. They will be here in seven days, in which time you are free to do as you will. I have taught you all I can."
"My lady, I am always willing to learn-"
"What I mean, Arwen, is that whatever else I tell you will mean nothing to you yet. There are things that only time can teach."
"I-"
"I cannot lay the stones of your life underneath your very feet."
"Yes, my lady."
With a brief brush of her lips across her granddaughter's forehead, she left the room.
You are free to do as you will.
She thought of Rumil's face and smiled.
A few discreet questions led her to his door days later. She ran her finger over the design of the door, nerves tightening her body like a taut string as she listened to his unhurried footsteps across the carpet. The wood was exquisitely smooth against her skin. He would see her, he would break into that unrestrained smile, and then...
"My lady Arwen!" he cried. "Is it possible?"
"It is," she said, forcing the corners of her lips down and trying not tear her gaze away. "I came to apologize for my behavior the last time you offered me your hospitality. It was-"
"-utterly uninfluenced by rules, regulations, or manners, which is what makes me so grateful to have you back," he assured her, opening the door as wide as possible so that she could slip by him and into the room.
It was bathed in the crisp light of early morning, flooding through the windows ringing its circumference. She circled it, head back, until he coughed indiscreetly and she snorted. "Must you cut off my abject appreciation?" she asked, running a hand along the gold decoration around the edge of a chair. "You have quite the collection of finery here, you know."
"I have no eye for decoration," he said. "Most of it was Orophin's idea. He thinks that-" he put on a ridiculous cultured voice "-the green and gold set off the radiance of the sun, which, as you can see, is being captured in great quantity to illustrate the point. Sometimes I think that my entire living quarters are a statement of Orophin's, though in whose favor... Forgive my rambling, I beg you." He sat down at the small table in the center of the room, pulling out a chair for her. "Somehow," he said shrewdly, "it seems that you are not only here to admire-or apologize," he added quickly as she opened her mouth. "It is too presumptuous to hope that you wish to take me up on my offer?"
"Galadriel says that I am free to wander as I please; that she cannot teach me anything more. You may have noticed that she did not teach me weaponry."
"Thought not for lack of skill. She is a mean hand with a blade when she has a mind. I think that she knew from the beginning that you had another teacher in mind."
"I sound so pompous! Was I that obvious?" she cried, dismayed. "I could always ask her, if you don't want to waste your time."
"Tell me," he said, grinning wickedly, "do you think this room beautiful?"
"The epitome of," she replied warily. "My lord-"
"Enough of that. I'm hardly your superior. Think on the fact that you are the daughter of the lord of Rivendell, and I am only the brother of Lothlorien's March Warden. So you think my room lovely. Do you think the lowly sun is wasted on it?"
"Not hardly... "
"Then it therefore seems obvious that my humble services cannot be wasted in further enhancing your loveliness. Does that convince you? Then to the practice field, my budding flower!"
"Hold, hold!" Arwen cried. "Is not the sun mightier than a single flower?"
"The sun's brilliance is not pleasing to look upon, but you shine with a light that is more heavenly than it by far. Now will you come?"
"I thought we would-you would teach me here... ?"
"Here? You would break another vase, and I don't believe in destroying perfectly acceptable things without a reason."
"If I told you my reason was that I didn't want to humiliate myself in front of scores of people, would that make a difference?"
"Sadly, it would not. They'll understand. You can wear these." He tossed a tunic and breeches of well-worn cloth into her arms. "Well? Are you coming, or not?"
Arwen had come out of that first lesson feeling even worse than she did now, and much more exasperated. The thought was comforting. That and the fact that she would be seeing Rumil again this very night. She hoped he was still as cynical and amusing, not to mention handsome, as before. He would probably get along with Erestel exceedingly well, she thought as she dressed. The two of them had much the same appetite for trouble.
The gown she chose was so deep a red it was almost black, like a bleeding rose. It was a heavy velvet, with tiny jet buttons all down the front and gold embroidery all along the hem and neckline. There was a twining gold coronet that went with it, and she hesitated a moment before settling it on top of her swept-up hair. The effect was regal and, she thought with a self-conscious smile, stunning.
She practiced walking with her head held high down the steps and through the courtyard, where she was almost knocked over by Nethilia. "Lothlorien is here!" she cried. "The March Warden and the Lady both! You must come!"
On account of the gown, she could not run as she would have liked, and therefore arrived slightly behind everyone else. Due to her height, however, this was not too great of a problem. Looking over the shoulders of the elves in front of her, she scanned the procession. Galadriel had most likely already passed, and if Rumil were here, he wouldn't be too far behind.
In the wake of excitement came the first stirrings of doubt. What if he weren't here? Someone had to stay and guard, and if Haldir himself had come...
The procession had almost drawn to its close, winding its way towards the stables with the horses, laughter scattering backwards like tiny birds on their first flight. Arwen sighed. She shouldn't have expected him to be here in the first place, but the thought of his red-gold hair and merry eyes was the wave that capsized her fragile heart.
No need to be so sad, she told herself sternly. He's one elf among hundreds, and there'll be enough merriment tonight to more than make up for it. She caught sight of Erestel taking the arm of a small Lothlorien maiden brought a reluctant smile to her lips; she'd be one of many tonight.
Perhaps one of these so-called admirers would approach her tonight. If Erestel hadn't just been trying to lift her spirits when he told her about their questionable existence.
"He told me himself that he wouldn't be coming."
Arwen started and whirled. "Oh, my lady-who?"
Galadriel was heavily cloaked in deepest green, with her head bowed so that her face was hidden in shadow. She stood shorter than Arwen remembered, but her voice was quite the same.
"Listen," Galadriel told her, an odd trace of amusement in her normally tranquil tone. "I know only too well that this despairing look on your face is only because of the absence of Rumil. The look on his face was all too telling-he wanted to see you just as much as you want to see him."
She smiled. Of course he would have said so. He also said she was a flower, once, and himself the sun. "Stuck-up thing," she said. "I'm sure he was in the deepest mourning."
"Oh, don't worry. He was fairly sobbing when he relayed the news to my waiting ears," she said. Her voice was low and unmistakably sarcastic.
"Thank you, my lady," Arwen replied, bewildered. "It is... my pleasure... to see you again."
"But do you really see me?"
"As you stand, my lady... "
"Didn't I tell you not to use such royal titles with me? How dare you!"
"Truly, I am sorry," Arwen said, lowered her eyes and making a gesture of deference.
Galadriel threw off the cloak.
Rumil said later that her expression was one of the strangest things he had ever seen, and she could well believe it, torn as she was between rage, delight, and disbelief. "Rumil!" she cried, throwing herself at him. "Rumil, what in the name of all that is sacred are you doing? Galadriel- oh, Lords," she groaned, gasping for breath in his unbearably strong hold. "I wouldn't be surprised if you were wearing one of her dresses!"
He embraced her tightly and let her stumble backwards, eyes still shining with disbelief. He took of the cloak with a sigh, and the sight of the fateful green and gold tunic sent her until paroxysms of laughter, once she'd torn her eyes away from his face.
...
Most of the Lothlorien maidens had already sampled Erestel's considerable charm, helped along, to be quite honest, but a few too many glasses of wine. It was heady stuff, deep red and potent as a sword blow, with a pleasant aftertaste of guilt. The only truly disappointing incident had involved a maiden, Tarenuel; she seemed more serious than all the others, despite the fact that she had submitted fairly willingly to his first kiss.
She'd watched as he smiled at her. She was certainly lovely, and had proved able to hold up her end of a conversation with unique style. Certainly, he thought as he leaned towards her once more, an intriguing prospect, if only for one night.
He almost didn't notice when she stood, and just managed to save himself and rise as well. "My lady," he began quickly, "is there-"
"I didn't think you wanted this much of me," she said quietly, taking a few steps away. "I have a lover who is here tonight, and I cannot betray him in this way. Please do not take my words amiss-I meant no offense," she added as he turned away. "If you would speak more with me-"
"I am sorry," he said, taking her hand. "I should not have been so bold."
"I should not have let you," she said, and with one look at his still face left him to watch the dancers. They made a colorful tapestry, pleasant to watch, and, he thought, even more enjoyable to join. But the one person he would dance with was engaged.
He watched her face. It had changed, some time during the night while he was away with another, turned bright with happiness. She'd honored some unspoken vow to her partner, hardly ever leaving his side, laughing with him as if they were old friends.
Much, it seemed, had happened while she was away.
A name was making its slow way to the surface of his memory, along with a vivid picture; her face, looking up at the sun, feigning shock. "Oh Elbereth! The sun... "
Rumil of Lorien was so kind to me...
Rumil...
The wine was certainly popular. Rumil had consumed a carefully proper amount, at odds with his nature, and Arwen, going against her instincts, had already downed two glasses. It was enough-enough to loose the thoughts she tried to lock back.
Rumil was a good dancer, she found herself thinking. Exceptionally skilled, and more than a little handsome. There were no real excuses she could make except ignorance; he'd been wearing this same splendid tunic when she met him. She wondered why she hadn't noticed it before.
Then she realized she had.
It was hard to look at him, even when the dance forced her to, and she had to fight down the flush that crept up her face when she did. Was it the wine? she wondered. It couldn't be. She was still clear-headed, by her judgment, but the thought of the long night ahead brought a telltale heat to her cheeks. Had he taken a lover while she was gone, or had he remembered her? There was no way she could think to possibly ask.
She stumbled, missing a step, and throwing their rhythm into disarray; he stepped back and waited until she took his arm again. His expression was carefully closed, she couldn't fail to notice, and his eyes darted to a certain corner of the room every time they turned that way. It had to be chance, she told herself. There was no one over there except an elf she didn't know, who was in the midst of what looked like a spirited discussing with Erestel. The thought of him stabbed shamefully into her breast; she hadn't talked to him all night.
Arwen spun the wrong way and fetched up against Rumil's chest, looking full into his face. He didn't move, and she waited for the smile and the wry comment about her lack of grace. Neither came.
They finished the dance in a decidedly uncomfortable silence, after which she turned and walked quickly away. Erestel must be close, she thought, and if not I can always check the bedrooms. She tried a smile at the idea.
...
Arwen found him in the garden, just outside the open arch, with hardly any difficulty, following his preoccupied eyes to the maiden he'd been talking with before dancing with Rumil. They were executing the steps as if she'd practiced them with him all her life. She'd picked up a full glass of wine on the way and drunk it far too quickly-her head was already spinning. "Failed conquest?" she asked, grinning.
He didn't smile back. "More than. She has a lover, and she has that sense of honor that is my curse."
"Who is the lover?" she asked cautiously.
"Considering the circumstances, I didn't think to ask. She said he is here, tonight."
"I'm surprised she isn't with him now, for all her honor."
He looked at her sharply, but didn't reply. She was watching Rumil, which carried the benefit of his being able to study her face for as long as she liked, and the sting of the look in her eyes.
I love her.
I love her with all I have, and she is besotted with an elf who, for all I know, doesn't have a certain maiden in his arms right now. She doesn't see it, does she? She wouldn't think to notice that he doesn't feel a thing for her, would she, because she can't see beyond her own nose.
"I didn't think to ask," he said, "but I know, well enough."
"Who is it?" she asked, with a pronounced lack of interest. So she didn't see, and couldn't care. After all, Tarenuel was one of many, and no one, no one, knew it better than she did.
He regretted saying anything, but, oddly, the thought of lying didn't even enter his mind. There was no going back with this, because if he didn't say anything now, his very bones would explode with the force of holding back and he would fall down bleeding and scrabble at the hem of her gown as he died.
"Rumil. The one you danced with."
Her eyes closed, and she let out her breath in a tiny sigh that filled his ears and his heart. Disgusting, sick remorse. He opened his mouth but the words were pressed back by a wordless desire that lifted his arms around her waist and lowered his mouth to hers.
Arwen let him kiss her, clinging to him like a drowning woman. She knew she'd collapse if he wasn't holding her, and it frightened her. His lips were warm, moist, tongue brushing across her bottom lip. She pulled her head back, gasping, and looked up to see his eyes averted, chest rising and falling gently below her arms.
She knew she should say something, about anything besides Rumil, but the first words out of her lips were, "Is it true?"
"True enough," he said wildly. "Perhaps, then, if we have both been rejected by one of them, we should accept each other."
"Erestel-" she said. "I can't-I've never-"
In answer he kissed her again, fiercely. "I know you do not love me," he said at the end of it, his eyes searching frantically for hers, "but if you will have me now, I will never, ever, speak of it again! I swear it!"
Arwen was terrified by his mood, swayed as it was by drink, rejection, and desire. It is not in Elven nature to make love without commitment, and even Erestel had never strayed so far as to spend the night with a woman and go about his business as if nothing had occurred. Kisses and sweet words were well enough, but this was far beyond, and the danger of it was frightening beyond words.
And beneath the fear...
Erestel was experienced, and she had no knowledge of how far his skills might reach. She herself had come close enough to making love on two occasions-one too near for her taste-and she knew what it entailed in good detail, but the prospect itself...
"Come to bed with me, Arwen," he whispered. "The stars will bless our union."
The third glass was going to her head. She whispered something unintelligible, the whisper making her skull ache, and kissed him awkwardly. She felt his arms grasping at her as she slid down, but she did not know whether he followed her to the ground.
...
They were naked, entwined, gasping-her voice and his own. She had no idea how they'd gotten into her bed, but the reality was stark enough. His lips on her breast were harsh, dry with desire, and her hands were on his shoulders, pulling him closer, body responding like a lyre string to his own.
She would lose it all soon; her virtue, honesty-what elf would have her now? His lips moved down her body, leaving a glistening trail, finding the sacred space between her legs and pleasuring it with his tongue until she arched against him, moaning, pleading. His phallus was erect and shining with fluid-had she taken him in her mouth? Something said she had-poised to enter her with one thrust and end it forever. Desperate to prolong the moment, she reached for his hair, twining it in her fingers, trying to pull him down, but he jerked his head away. The tip of his phallus just touched her skin and she bit back a cry, and he laughed at her, waiting, waiting, until she tossed onto her stomach and pulled her silken bedsheets around herself, sobs shuddering the whole length of her body, mourning his twisted face.
His hand grasped her shoulder, and she turned to face him with a scream, to see nothing but her empty room, the first light of dawn shattering against her eyes as she closed them, moaning with the pain. Her head was splitting open, and Erestel was nowhere in sight.
Her body still throbbed with the aftermath of the dream, painfully, and for a moment she thought that he'd taken advantage of her immobile state the night before. Tears starting in her eyes, she threw the sheets off to find herself still in the red gown, her hair in tangled disarray, and the door locked from the inside.
The inside...?
She stood up shakily and went over to the window. It was open a crack, a breeze ruffling the curtains, and she could see the marks of a grown elf descending the curling vines down the wall. Opening her eyes a mere crack more and sobbing with the pain of it, she made out the body below.
He must have fallen. From how high? She could see no trace of movement, and one arm was bent strangely below his body. Oh, Valar, was he dead? Fumbling for a robe, she made her way through the fog of agony to the door, down the deserted steps. By the time she had rounded the corner of the building and crashed, ungainly, through the garden, tears were streaking her cheeks and her fingernails had left white crescents against her forehead.
He was breathing. She shook him once, twice, whispering his name. Her lips were cracked and dry. Erestel's mouth opened and closed slightly, head lolling. "You have to get up," she sobbed, "they'll find you here and ask questions, Erestel, get up, wake up!" Still he didn't move. She whispered a prayer and began to hit him across the face, stinging slaps on both cheeks until he groaned and cracked open an eye. "Get up," she cried, "get up! You're underneath my window and the whole house will be waking soon! Can you stand?"
She put her hands under his shoulders and tried feebly to lift him, but his weight sagged against her knees and forced her onto her back on the cool earth, soil pressing gently against her skin. Her stomach boiled upwards and she rolled over and vomited over and over until she was reduced to spitting out bile. Then Erestel's hands were around her waist, lifting her, cradling her against his chest, his voice like the creek in summer in her ear.
How long she lay there, she did not know. It was long enough; to calm her rebelling body and still the irregular pounding in her head to a distant rhythm. His fingers were clenching into her flesh like vices; she pulled away, trying to look up at him, but he pulled her roughly upright and began to stumble away.
"Erestel!" she cried, wavering on her feet. He looked back, face torn, and made his way back to hold her up. "You need to wash," he said. "Get back to your rooms."
"What's wrong?" she asked, but her words fell to the ground through the dead air and shattered there.
Leaning on each other, they managed to get back up the curving stairway to the top, where the path ended in a fountain before a series of arches leading into the house itself. There they both stopped, exhausted. Arwen collapsed on the rim of the fountain and splashed herself with icy water until her face was flushed and dripping.
Erestel was leaning against one of the pillars, face a disturbing shade of grey. He saw her looking and his eyes slid away as if meeting with an insurmountable barrier, a flush creeping impossibly through the pallor.
"Will you forgive me?" he demanded suddenly, turning her way and locking her eyes with his, holding her gaze with an almost physical exertion.
"For what?" she replied blearily, still in shock from the cold.
"For speaking improperly to you and violating your honor."
"Violating-? It was a kiss, Erestel!" she half-shouted, unable to hide the uncertainty in her voice. She'd passed out, she knew that much, and the sleep had been deep-she hadn't even woken when he picked her up and carried her into her room, and if he'd done anything, anything at all...
"Yes, it was! And I could have done more," he shouted, mouth twisted in insane rage. "I could have had my way with you while you slept, and you would have been none the wiser except for the pain between your legs! Time would tell, yes, and the rest of them would wait on your word." He buried his face in his hands, hair tangling between his fingers. "Ah, I am cursed. Cursed, that I would have to resort to drunkenness to tell you of my love, and because of it-"
His shoulders shook beneath her as she held him, face buried in the fabric of his tunic. She didn't love him; it was beyond her to do so, and she knew beyond doubt that this was what he couldn't say. "How long, Erestel?" she asked. "How long has it been?"
He was silent, but she knew.
"Years, then."
"Yes."
"I had no idea," she said desperately. "None at all-"
"For this I can only blame myself," he said, twisting out of her arms. "Leave me. I would speak no more with you."
She ran after him a ways, but her legs were still weak, and her breath was coming in clenching gasps before she'd gone five yards. He would be rooms and rooms away, she thought as she grasped at the wall to steady herself, but it was only an excuse not to follow. She would have been afraid to face him no matter what the circumstance; as lover, friend, or whatever she had become to him now.
Arwen examined the problem from every side The incident with Erestel was bad enough, but Rumil... ah, Valar, Rumil. Elves rarely love, truly love, without eternal commitment, and they could already be planning marital celebrations for all she knew. Which wasn't all that much. She'd developed a close friendship with Rumil during her stay in Lothlorien but hadn't found out all that much besides his family, military exploits, and numerous odd and fairly useless bits of information such as what type of stew he liked to eat in lulls during the fighting and that he hated roses as an expression of love.
She thought briefly of finding his room and leaving one at his bedside while he slept. The ultimate irony, she thought with a grin. He'd have to know who it was from, and what it meant, and meanwhile he'd have no way to reach her.
It was a pleasant thought, but she knew she'd never be able to do it. The sight of his face would irrevocably ruin her plans, and she'd probably either kiss him or slap him, which would wake him, and she'd have to explain.
The problem, she thought as she tacked towards the stables, was that she couldn't even explain it to herself.
...
The window was a lofty one, affording a view of the both the gorge and the path leading parallel to it and eventually out of sight. It was currently open, letting the bitingly cool morning air flood in, accompanied by the elusive scent of mist and the sharp, clipped sound of hoofbeats.
The elf standing at it looked down and saw a familiar rich brown mare pounding precariously down the path, mane whipping back to tangle with the loose hair of the rider. It was a woman, and competent; she was handling the horse with reckless skill. She had a large pack strapped to her back and a sheathed sword at her waist, belted down securely so as not to tangle with her legs. It was all he could see at a glance.
He knew the horse and the rider. It was slightly surprising to him that she should be leaving at this hour of the morning in full battle dress, especially with a bow. Her skills with this instrument of death needed considerable work, though from what he'd seen of her archery sessions, practice was all that was really required.
The settling dust had just about exhausted his capacity for staring blankly at one thing for long periods of time when the second horse tore past. He only caught the horse's sleek flanks disappearing below, and what he could see of the elf astride offered no ideas as to his identity. He was heavily cloaked and hooded, with a bow and twin daggers strapped to either hip; he could see their handles protruding through the deep green weave.
It was none of his business what she did in the spare hours of the morning. Time enough to see her when she woke.
He turned away from the window.
...Thanks all for reading, and please review! I find flames pointless, usually stupid, and mainly amusing, but if you feel you must...
Chapter Two: The secrets of Gilraen's past are brought to light, Arwen is being followed by someone more dangerous to her than she could ever imagine, and Elrond is revealed to have strangely erotic healing skills...
Author: Earanthiel
Cast: Arwen/Aragorn, brief Arwen/OFC, Rumil, Galadriel, Elrond
Genre: Drama/Romance
Warning: Het sex in this chapter and upcoming installments
Disclaimer: All characters originally created by Tolkien remain his: I have no claim over them and am making no profit from this story. All other aspects, however, including plot and original characters, are a product of my own imagination and are therefore my property.
...........................................................................
Chapter One: It Begins
The waves of time beat ceaselessly against the shores of the present, eroding them, changing them, shaping them anew. The children of Men are born, age and die, as do all the other races. But I stand with my feet in the frigid ocean, gazing across its endless depths while the foaming tide swirls around my legs, immune to the pull of time. I am of the elven folk. I will not join in the cycle of age and death. I was born, once. But I shall not lay down my life, merge with the endless seas where mortal lives are extinguished forever. I am of the undying race, born before all others, and living beyond a million mortal lives, and more! Though we may pass from Middle-Earth to the Undying lands if we so choose, the spark of our lives will never be extinguished unless we are slain, in battle or otherwise, or die of a heart broken. We are not troubled by the small, insignificant illnesses of mortal folk. We are noble and courageous, proud, skillful warriors in battle and a lovely, graceful people when at peace and surrounded by the splendor we have created for ourselves. We reside in the lovely places of the world, the fairest and loveliest realms. We are immortal. We are the most perfect of all races.
Ah, to see this way. Some may have called my vision clear as glass, while others must have laughed at my foolishness, dismissing it as the ramblings of an elflet's mind. I drew on my father's skill in battle and the depths of his stores of wisdom as proof of perfection, spinning myself a web from the confines of my mind. Looking back, I see myself as spiderlike, perched at the center of a tangle of lies.
Perhaps it began with an arrow. Or a kiss. Or a falling sword.
One cannot live in falsehood forever.
.........
Erestel couldn't find a word for the languor that was infusing his bones. He mulled over it as he lay on the couch watching dust motes in the syrupy sunlight of late afternoon. It was a combination of laziness and anticipation; the celebrations tonight would be sumptuous enough to satisfy the entire population of Imladris, and there would be plenty of opportunities for trouble.
He remembered back to the last event Imladris had hosted and allowed himself a small twinge of pride. That elf maiden had been a thorn in his side, bringing him wine, trying to sway his attentions and arouse him to foolishness. She'd had about as much success as a wet cabbage would have. He'd put on a pretense of desirous interest and directed her to what she assumed was his room to wait for him.
Erestel only wished he'd been able to see Elrohir's face when he came into his own room and found a lovely, barely clothed maiden waiting for him. He suspected Elrond's son had taken full advantage of the chance.
The memory had successfully dissipated all traces of tiredness. Tonight, he thought contentedly, would be one to recall for years.
...
All Lady Arwen of Imladris wanted was a bath. The thought of the water cleansing the sweat from her skin and washing away the strain of exertion was like balm to a wound. Ah, for cleanliness, a rest... Instead, she forced her legs to move, jerking arrows from trees, the ground, and, in the case of one, a nearby bush. This one proved more difficult. As she straightened up and removed the twigs and leaves she'd collected from her clothes, she could have sworn the target was eyeing her scornfully.
When she reached back to place the hard-won arrow in the quiver, it was empty.
She put down her bow and swung the quiver off her back. She hadn't been wrong; it was empty except for a new green leaf in the bottom. She swung it back, confused, and reached down for her bow. It was gone.
Bewilderment was slowly giving way to a name in her head. Only one person she knew could steal a bow from directly behind her without making a sound, and remove every single arrow from a quiver on her back. Smiling, she opened her mouth-
-and closed it with an unmaidenly snap when she felt the bowstring cold against her throat, silken thread tightening as she took a breath. What... ? Either this was a serious attack, in which case all of Rivendell was in danger, and she had to
Whoever was behind her let out their breath in a barely concealed laugh, and she groaned in dismay. "Erestel," she said, "you'd make a terrible warrior, you know. Afraid of killing a helpless maiden, now, are you?"
The string lifted, and Erestel turned her around, taking her in his arms. "My lady, I most humbly beg your forgiveness for the liberty I took with your noble person. If you would be so good as to pardon my-"
Arwen wrapped one arm behind his head and traced the line of his jaw with the other. "A kiss, if you would be so good, and your wrongdoing will be absolved."
He laughed. "Save them for your lovers, Arwen. You do me too much honor. Besides, you want to look your freshest for the rest of us, tonight."
"Poor taste," she said, accepted the offered bow and arrows.
"And how?"
"What do you think? 'The rest of us,' as you put it, wouldn't spare a glance for me." She gathered the straggling strands of hair that had pulled loose and tucked them back up again, watching his face. "They have their own lovers."
He looked genuinely surprised. "I know of at least three elves of Imladris alone that would count themselves lucky to catch your eye. Also, Lothlorien should be arriving today, those that the Lady chose, and you know them better than I."
"It was lovely there. Rumil was so kind to me," she murmured absently. "Oh, Elbereth! The sun, and I have to bathe before the celebrations-"
"Your celebrations!" he began, but she was already gone, two brightly feathered arrows slipping from the quiver and striking the ground with a muffled sound against the leaves with a vibrating pulse like the very soil whispering.
She'd been standing facing the sun the entire time; there was no way she could have not noticed it until then, he thought as he picked them up. The wood was warm against his skin. There was something very strange going on, and he'd bet a barrel of Elrond's finest wine that it would be solved tonight.
...
Oh, Erestel, if only you knew.
The only sound in the bathing chamber was the sluice gates gently opening and closing, draining water from the base of the bath and spilling steaming liquid onto the top. She knew the celebrations were soon, but suddenly, the fact that her birthday had merited them wasn't as important as other things.
She was frightened.
Dipping her head under the water, she rubbed an hour's worth of sweat and grime out of her hair and face, working soap into a lather and slowly cleansing her entire body. Her arms were aching from her archery work, and the thought that no matter how hard she worked, she could not hit the cursed target, galled. She was skilled in the writing of poetry and song and in performing what she wrote. She knew the histories of the elves back to the days of Gil-Galad and beyond, and could ride passably well. But sword work was beyond her, and archery was even worse.
She'd been a lovely maiden when she arrived in Lothlorien, and barely anything more. Galadriel, her grandmother, had educated her in all the skills she now possessed, and honed her talent to a point as sharp as her best warrior's sword. The Lady of Light, however, had neglected to mention swordplay and archery, and Arwen had assumed that she would have no need of them.
Then Rumil of Lorien had made his fateful entrance.
...
Arwen had never seen anything as beautiful as Haldir's sword. The hilt was leather-bound, pommel inlaid with gold leaf, in itself a miracle of craftsmanship. He'd been awarded it as commemoration of his border service in the last year, and, as Galadriel pointed out with a laugh, who better to present it to him than Arwen herself? She'd laughed, thinking her grandmother was complimenting her beauty, and set off with it cradled reverently in her hands.
Haldir's talan was close to the Lady's, near the center of an enormous mallorn. Above it, as she later learned, was his brother Orophin's, and below, Rumil's. She felt a small twinge of nervous energy as she tapped gently at his door; she'd never met anyone so elevated in military status as a March Warden. Receiving no answer, she tapped again, tucking the sword under her arm. It seemed cursed chance that the leather slipped on the fabric of her gown, and malicious intent when the sword clattered to the polished wood of the landing and pitched down the stairs.
Forgetting all decorum and yelling in dismay, she plunged downwards after it. Metal struck metal as it ricocheted off the wrought railing, accompanied by her shouts of self-loathing and terror. What if it bounced off the stairs and struck someone on the ground below? Could a blow from a sheathed sword kill? And if it did, what would happen to her?
Caught up in a mental picture of herself running all the way to the bottom only to find a bloodstained body impaled by the falling sword, she didn't notice the offending object until she tripped over it. Sprawling to her knees with a shout of pain, she reached for the sword, saw it mercifully unharmed, and threw it to the ground in rage. It, she thought as she glared at it, should have been damaged in some way, for all the trouble it caused her-
Looking up, she saw a door. Wood beneath her feet. For a wild moment she thought she was back at Haldir's talan, but the carving on the door was subtly different. They complimented each other, she thought in a daze. Almost as if...
Arwen picked up the sword and stood, clenching her hands around it as if to throttle it to death. "May the Valar curse you!" she shrieked, and with a last furious glare at the door, she turned to leave.
"My lady?"
She froze.
Oh, Valar, please...
"My lady, are you well?"
Summoning up her last vestiges of dignity, she lifted her head and turned. "I am well, my lord." She stared fixedly at the tunic he was wearing. It was of fine workmanship; pale green embroidered with golden leaves. "Please forgive my intrusion."
"Forgiven," he said. "Who are you looking for?"
She followed the delicate pattern of vines tracing the shoulders of the tunic. "Haldir, my lord. Might you-"
"Visiting the Lord Celeborn, as it happens."
She looked up sharply and opened her mouth to curse. Of course, she thought later, it was no coincidence that he stepped forwards as she did so, and she looked full into his face. Her first impression was of unusually short auburn hair and a pair of striking green eyes set in an extraordinarily handsome face before he grinning and offered his arm. "Would you do me the honor of staying with me until he returns? My name is Rumil of Lorien-his brother."
"Arwen of Rivendell," she said as he led her through the spacious front room and onto an open deck. "I'm here visiting-"
"So I've heard. And other things, as well."
"What other things?" she cried, outraged. "What have they all been saying-"
"Nothing disfavorable," he said. "It isn't much to be embarrassed about, however-"
"Oh, Valar! If all you're going to do-"
He laughed, throwing his head back and tipping the chair onto its back legs. "You do blush easily... "
"At least I'm civilized!" she shouted, and clapped a hand to her mouth in horror. "Oh, my lord, please forgive my rudeness! I meant no offense, truly!"
"None taken. If you'd come out while I was cursing an inanimate sword, I probably would have been just as angry."
"Considering, you would more likely have laughed it off."
"Yes, you're probably right. What brings you to fair Lorien?" he asked, deftly changing the subject. "With no knowledge of how to make swords answer back! Shame on you."
"Oh, for the sake of the Valar!" she cried. This elf was as unconventional as he was oddly handsome, and there was something about him that seemed to bring the worst in her to the surface. She could almost believe that it was the fact that she'd been standing on the landing of his talan that had made her fly into a rage at the sword. "And I assume you know the art?"
"I can make any weapon answer to my hand," he said, taking the sword from where she'd lain it on the table and drawing it in a controlled motion. "This is one of the finest blades I have ever seen."
"That is quite a boast, my lord."
He tossed the sword into the air for answer, catching it by the hilt and whirling it about his head. Turning towards a pine chest at the far end of the room, he closed his eyes in concentration let go the hilt. Water, glass, and flowers sprayed into the air around the point, which had buried itself two inches into the wall.
Rumil strode up, wrenched it out of the wood, and presented it hilt-first with a, "Your sword, my lady."
"Was that quite necessary?" she asked, trying not show that she'd been visibly shaken by the display. He'd seemed calm, if rude and ridiculous, but this...
"I would not seem proud without a reason."
"And you surely... have one," she said, sheathing the sword. The point caught on the leather before it slid neatly into the hilt, and she spent a panicked moment checking for scratches before putting it warily down.
"It seems alive, does it not?" he asked, watching her. She looked almost frightened of it, but the caution lingered as she looked up at him. He stood just inside the door, ignoring the shattered vase behind him, close enough to touch.
"You could be my death," she said slowly. "Here, now. With that very sword."
"There are other ways to kill," Rumil said, gauging her reaction. A flicker of worry, and then, barely, interest. Ah yes, he thought. Yes. "And they do not take much to learn."
"You could teach me." It wasn't a question.
Yes.
"Easily."
Arwen wanted to, more than she could truly say. Or felt comfortable saying. To spend more time with this strange elf, learn how to make a sword sing in her hand...
"I must ask the Lady Galadriel before I answer," she said reluctantly. "I cannot consent without her blessing."
"She is your teacher, not your jail ward!"
"Nevertheless..." she said, standing. The sword was cool, the hilt still traced with the warmth of Rumil's hand. "I must go. Surely my lord Haldir will have returned by now."
"Don't count on it," Rumil said, laughing. "Both my lord and Haldir are great talkers, and skilled in the art of wiling away time doing absolutely nothing at all. You cannot expect him until at least-"
"Thank you for your hospitality, my lord," she said sharply. "I must go."
Rumil was left staring at the door, which still fairly quivered at the force of her hand.
Arwen stood staring at Rumil's door for a long time, half-expecting it to open again and cringing at the embarrassment she would suffer if it did. She imagined his face when he saw her. "Arwen! I am sorry, I do not know how to make doors answer by sheer power of the mind, but if I could teach you, it would be my pleasure..."
When she finally trudged up the spiral steps to Haldir's talan, she found that Rumil had been correct, and the door was as dark and unresponsive as his own. Haldir wouldn't be coming back until at least-
Now she wished she'd listened.
Unable to bear bringing the sword back to Galadriel and explain why she hadn't given it to Haldir, or, for no reason that she could explain, facing him, she placed the sword on the woven mat outside the door and left.
...
Galadriel looked her up and down curiously when she came in but didn't say anything. Arwen ran to her mirror in some trepidation and groaned at the sight. Her gown was in disarray from her undignified run down the stairs, and there was a tear at the knee where she'd fallen. She loosened her hair from its elaborate knot and closed her eyes, but instead of calm all she saw was Rumil's face.
"You could teach me."
"Easily."
"Arwen? I trust Haldir was pleased with his sword?"
She sat up and sighed. It would be such a sweet relief to tell her everything, to ask her permission to learn the sword and bow. However, all she said was, "He told me... that it was an honor merely to hold it in his hands."
"It was one of the finest I've ever seen," she said, and Arwen found herself blushing with shame, seeing her lie crumble before her very eyes.
"I sent word to your father many days ago, and have just received an answer. He says that he will send an escort for you. They will be here in seven days, in which time you are free to do as you will. I have taught you all I can."
"My lady, I am always willing to learn-"
"What I mean, Arwen, is that whatever else I tell you will mean nothing to you yet. There are things that only time can teach."
"I-"
"I cannot lay the stones of your life underneath your very feet."
"Yes, my lady."
With a brief brush of her lips across her granddaughter's forehead, she left the room.
You are free to do as you will.
She thought of Rumil's face and smiled.
A few discreet questions led her to his door days later. She ran her finger over the design of the door, nerves tightening her body like a taut string as she listened to his unhurried footsteps across the carpet. The wood was exquisitely smooth against her skin. He would see her, he would break into that unrestrained smile, and then...
"My lady Arwen!" he cried. "Is it possible?"
"It is," she said, forcing the corners of her lips down and trying not tear her gaze away. "I came to apologize for my behavior the last time you offered me your hospitality. It was-"
"-utterly uninfluenced by rules, regulations, or manners, which is what makes me so grateful to have you back," he assured her, opening the door as wide as possible so that she could slip by him and into the room.
It was bathed in the crisp light of early morning, flooding through the windows ringing its circumference. She circled it, head back, until he coughed indiscreetly and she snorted. "Must you cut off my abject appreciation?" she asked, running a hand along the gold decoration around the edge of a chair. "You have quite the collection of finery here, you know."
"I have no eye for decoration," he said. "Most of it was Orophin's idea. He thinks that-" he put on a ridiculous cultured voice "-the green and gold set off the radiance of the sun, which, as you can see, is being captured in great quantity to illustrate the point. Sometimes I think that my entire living quarters are a statement of Orophin's, though in whose favor... Forgive my rambling, I beg you." He sat down at the small table in the center of the room, pulling out a chair for her. "Somehow," he said shrewdly, "it seems that you are not only here to admire-or apologize," he added quickly as she opened her mouth. "It is too presumptuous to hope that you wish to take me up on my offer?"
"Galadriel says that I am free to wander as I please; that she cannot teach me anything more. You may have noticed that she did not teach me weaponry."
"Thought not for lack of skill. She is a mean hand with a blade when she has a mind. I think that she knew from the beginning that you had another teacher in mind."
"I sound so pompous! Was I that obvious?" she cried, dismayed. "I could always ask her, if you don't want to waste your time."
"Tell me," he said, grinning wickedly, "do you think this room beautiful?"
"The epitome of," she replied warily. "My lord-"
"Enough of that. I'm hardly your superior. Think on the fact that you are the daughter of the lord of Rivendell, and I am only the brother of Lothlorien's March Warden. So you think my room lovely. Do you think the lowly sun is wasted on it?"
"Not hardly... "
"Then it therefore seems obvious that my humble services cannot be wasted in further enhancing your loveliness. Does that convince you? Then to the practice field, my budding flower!"
"Hold, hold!" Arwen cried. "Is not the sun mightier than a single flower?"
"The sun's brilliance is not pleasing to look upon, but you shine with a light that is more heavenly than it by far. Now will you come?"
"I thought we would-you would teach me here... ?"
"Here? You would break another vase, and I don't believe in destroying perfectly acceptable things without a reason."
"If I told you my reason was that I didn't want to humiliate myself in front of scores of people, would that make a difference?"
"Sadly, it would not. They'll understand. You can wear these." He tossed a tunic and breeches of well-worn cloth into her arms. "Well? Are you coming, or not?"
Arwen had come out of that first lesson feeling even worse than she did now, and much more exasperated. The thought was comforting. That and the fact that she would be seeing Rumil again this very night. She hoped he was still as cynical and amusing, not to mention handsome, as before. He would probably get along with Erestel exceedingly well, she thought as she dressed. The two of them had much the same appetite for trouble.
The gown she chose was so deep a red it was almost black, like a bleeding rose. It was a heavy velvet, with tiny jet buttons all down the front and gold embroidery all along the hem and neckline. There was a twining gold coronet that went with it, and she hesitated a moment before settling it on top of her swept-up hair. The effect was regal and, she thought with a self-conscious smile, stunning.
She practiced walking with her head held high down the steps and through the courtyard, where she was almost knocked over by Nethilia. "Lothlorien is here!" she cried. "The March Warden and the Lady both! You must come!"
On account of the gown, she could not run as she would have liked, and therefore arrived slightly behind everyone else. Due to her height, however, this was not too great of a problem. Looking over the shoulders of the elves in front of her, she scanned the procession. Galadriel had most likely already passed, and if Rumil were here, he wouldn't be too far behind.
In the wake of excitement came the first stirrings of doubt. What if he weren't here? Someone had to stay and guard, and if Haldir himself had come...
The procession had almost drawn to its close, winding its way towards the stables with the horses, laughter scattering backwards like tiny birds on their first flight. Arwen sighed. She shouldn't have expected him to be here in the first place, but the thought of his red-gold hair and merry eyes was the wave that capsized her fragile heart.
No need to be so sad, she told herself sternly. He's one elf among hundreds, and there'll be enough merriment tonight to more than make up for it. She caught sight of Erestel taking the arm of a small Lothlorien maiden brought a reluctant smile to her lips; she'd be one of many tonight.
Perhaps one of these so-called admirers would approach her tonight. If Erestel hadn't just been trying to lift her spirits when he told her about their questionable existence.
"He told me himself that he wouldn't be coming."
Arwen started and whirled. "Oh, my lady-who?"
Galadriel was heavily cloaked in deepest green, with her head bowed so that her face was hidden in shadow. She stood shorter than Arwen remembered, but her voice was quite the same.
"Listen," Galadriel told her, an odd trace of amusement in her normally tranquil tone. "I know only too well that this despairing look on your face is only because of the absence of Rumil. The look on his face was all too telling-he wanted to see you just as much as you want to see him."
She smiled. Of course he would have said so. He also said she was a flower, once, and himself the sun. "Stuck-up thing," she said. "I'm sure he was in the deepest mourning."
"Oh, don't worry. He was fairly sobbing when he relayed the news to my waiting ears," she said. Her voice was low and unmistakably sarcastic.
"Thank you, my lady," Arwen replied, bewildered. "It is... my pleasure... to see you again."
"But do you really see me?"
"As you stand, my lady... "
"Didn't I tell you not to use such royal titles with me? How dare you!"
"Truly, I am sorry," Arwen said, lowered her eyes and making a gesture of deference.
Galadriel threw off the cloak.
Rumil said later that her expression was one of the strangest things he had ever seen, and she could well believe it, torn as she was between rage, delight, and disbelief. "Rumil!" she cried, throwing herself at him. "Rumil, what in the name of all that is sacred are you doing? Galadriel- oh, Lords," she groaned, gasping for breath in his unbearably strong hold. "I wouldn't be surprised if you were wearing one of her dresses!"
He embraced her tightly and let her stumble backwards, eyes still shining with disbelief. He took of the cloak with a sigh, and the sight of the fateful green and gold tunic sent her until paroxysms of laughter, once she'd torn her eyes away from his face.
...
Most of the Lothlorien maidens had already sampled Erestel's considerable charm, helped along, to be quite honest, but a few too many glasses of wine. It was heady stuff, deep red and potent as a sword blow, with a pleasant aftertaste of guilt. The only truly disappointing incident had involved a maiden, Tarenuel; she seemed more serious than all the others, despite the fact that she had submitted fairly willingly to his first kiss.
She'd watched as he smiled at her. She was certainly lovely, and had proved able to hold up her end of a conversation with unique style. Certainly, he thought as he leaned towards her once more, an intriguing prospect, if only for one night.
He almost didn't notice when she stood, and just managed to save himself and rise as well. "My lady," he began quickly, "is there-"
"I didn't think you wanted this much of me," she said quietly, taking a few steps away. "I have a lover who is here tonight, and I cannot betray him in this way. Please do not take my words amiss-I meant no offense," she added as he turned away. "If you would speak more with me-"
"I am sorry," he said, taking her hand. "I should not have been so bold."
"I should not have let you," she said, and with one look at his still face left him to watch the dancers. They made a colorful tapestry, pleasant to watch, and, he thought, even more enjoyable to join. But the one person he would dance with was engaged.
He watched her face. It had changed, some time during the night while he was away with another, turned bright with happiness. She'd honored some unspoken vow to her partner, hardly ever leaving his side, laughing with him as if they were old friends.
Much, it seemed, had happened while she was away.
A name was making its slow way to the surface of his memory, along with a vivid picture; her face, looking up at the sun, feigning shock. "Oh Elbereth! The sun... "
Rumil of Lorien was so kind to me...
Rumil...
The wine was certainly popular. Rumil had consumed a carefully proper amount, at odds with his nature, and Arwen, going against her instincts, had already downed two glasses. It was enough-enough to loose the thoughts she tried to lock back.
Rumil was a good dancer, she found herself thinking. Exceptionally skilled, and more than a little handsome. There were no real excuses she could make except ignorance; he'd been wearing this same splendid tunic when she met him. She wondered why she hadn't noticed it before.
Then she realized she had.
It was hard to look at him, even when the dance forced her to, and she had to fight down the flush that crept up her face when she did. Was it the wine? she wondered. It couldn't be. She was still clear-headed, by her judgment, but the thought of the long night ahead brought a telltale heat to her cheeks. Had he taken a lover while she was gone, or had he remembered her? There was no way she could think to possibly ask.
She stumbled, missing a step, and throwing their rhythm into disarray; he stepped back and waited until she took his arm again. His expression was carefully closed, she couldn't fail to notice, and his eyes darted to a certain corner of the room every time they turned that way. It had to be chance, she told herself. There was no one over there except an elf she didn't know, who was in the midst of what looked like a spirited discussing with Erestel. The thought of him stabbed shamefully into her breast; she hadn't talked to him all night.
Arwen spun the wrong way and fetched up against Rumil's chest, looking full into his face. He didn't move, and she waited for the smile and the wry comment about her lack of grace. Neither came.
They finished the dance in a decidedly uncomfortable silence, after which she turned and walked quickly away. Erestel must be close, she thought, and if not I can always check the bedrooms. She tried a smile at the idea.
...
Arwen found him in the garden, just outside the open arch, with hardly any difficulty, following his preoccupied eyes to the maiden he'd been talking with before dancing with Rumil. They were executing the steps as if she'd practiced them with him all her life. She'd picked up a full glass of wine on the way and drunk it far too quickly-her head was already spinning. "Failed conquest?" she asked, grinning.
He didn't smile back. "More than. She has a lover, and she has that sense of honor that is my curse."
"Who is the lover?" she asked cautiously.
"Considering the circumstances, I didn't think to ask. She said he is here, tonight."
"I'm surprised she isn't with him now, for all her honor."
He looked at her sharply, but didn't reply. She was watching Rumil, which carried the benefit of his being able to study her face for as long as she liked, and the sting of the look in her eyes.
I love her.
I love her with all I have, and she is besotted with an elf who, for all I know, doesn't have a certain maiden in his arms right now. She doesn't see it, does she? She wouldn't think to notice that he doesn't feel a thing for her, would she, because she can't see beyond her own nose.
"I didn't think to ask," he said, "but I know, well enough."
"Who is it?" she asked, with a pronounced lack of interest. So she didn't see, and couldn't care. After all, Tarenuel was one of many, and no one, no one, knew it better than she did.
He regretted saying anything, but, oddly, the thought of lying didn't even enter his mind. There was no going back with this, because if he didn't say anything now, his very bones would explode with the force of holding back and he would fall down bleeding and scrabble at the hem of her gown as he died.
"Rumil. The one you danced with."
Her eyes closed, and she let out her breath in a tiny sigh that filled his ears and his heart. Disgusting, sick remorse. He opened his mouth but the words were pressed back by a wordless desire that lifted his arms around her waist and lowered his mouth to hers.
Arwen let him kiss her, clinging to him like a drowning woman. She knew she'd collapse if he wasn't holding her, and it frightened her. His lips were warm, moist, tongue brushing across her bottom lip. She pulled her head back, gasping, and looked up to see his eyes averted, chest rising and falling gently below her arms.
She knew she should say something, about anything besides Rumil, but the first words out of her lips were, "Is it true?"
"True enough," he said wildly. "Perhaps, then, if we have both been rejected by one of them, we should accept each other."
"Erestel-" she said. "I can't-I've never-"
In answer he kissed her again, fiercely. "I know you do not love me," he said at the end of it, his eyes searching frantically for hers, "but if you will have me now, I will never, ever, speak of it again! I swear it!"
Arwen was terrified by his mood, swayed as it was by drink, rejection, and desire. It is not in Elven nature to make love without commitment, and even Erestel had never strayed so far as to spend the night with a woman and go about his business as if nothing had occurred. Kisses and sweet words were well enough, but this was far beyond, and the danger of it was frightening beyond words.
And beneath the fear...
Erestel was experienced, and she had no knowledge of how far his skills might reach. She herself had come close enough to making love on two occasions-one too near for her taste-and she knew what it entailed in good detail, but the prospect itself...
"Come to bed with me, Arwen," he whispered. "The stars will bless our union."
The third glass was going to her head. She whispered something unintelligible, the whisper making her skull ache, and kissed him awkwardly. She felt his arms grasping at her as she slid down, but she did not know whether he followed her to the ground.
...
They were naked, entwined, gasping-her voice and his own. She had no idea how they'd gotten into her bed, but the reality was stark enough. His lips on her breast were harsh, dry with desire, and her hands were on his shoulders, pulling him closer, body responding like a lyre string to his own.
She would lose it all soon; her virtue, honesty-what elf would have her now? His lips moved down her body, leaving a glistening trail, finding the sacred space between her legs and pleasuring it with his tongue until she arched against him, moaning, pleading. His phallus was erect and shining with fluid-had she taken him in her mouth? Something said she had-poised to enter her with one thrust and end it forever. Desperate to prolong the moment, she reached for his hair, twining it in her fingers, trying to pull him down, but he jerked his head away. The tip of his phallus just touched her skin and she bit back a cry, and he laughed at her, waiting, waiting, until she tossed onto her stomach and pulled her silken bedsheets around herself, sobs shuddering the whole length of her body, mourning his twisted face.
His hand grasped her shoulder, and she turned to face him with a scream, to see nothing but her empty room, the first light of dawn shattering against her eyes as she closed them, moaning with the pain. Her head was splitting open, and Erestel was nowhere in sight.
Her body still throbbed with the aftermath of the dream, painfully, and for a moment she thought that he'd taken advantage of her immobile state the night before. Tears starting in her eyes, she threw the sheets off to find herself still in the red gown, her hair in tangled disarray, and the door locked from the inside.
The inside...?
She stood up shakily and went over to the window. It was open a crack, a breeze ruffling the curtains, and she could see the marks of a grown elf descending the curling vines down the wall. Opening her eyes a mere crack more and sobbing with the pain of it, she made out the body below.
He must have fallen. From how high? She could see no trace of movement, and one arm was bent strangely below his body. Oh, Valar, was he dead? Fumbling for a robe, she made her way through the fog of agony to the door, down the deserted steps. By the time she had rounded the corner of the building and crashed, ungainly, through the garden, tears were streaking her cheeks and her fingernails had left white crescents against her forehead.
He was breathing. She shook him once, twice, whispering his name. Her lips were cracked and dry. Erestel's mouth opened and closed slightly, head lolling. "You have to get up," she sobbed, "they'll find you here and ask questions, Erestel, get up, wake up!" Still he didn't move. She whispered a prayer and began to hit him across the face, stinging slaps on both cheeks until he groaned and cracked open an eye. "Get up," she cried, "get up! You're underneath my window and the whole house will be waking soon! Can you stand?"
She put her hands under his shoulders and tried feebly to lift him, but his weight sagged against her knees and forced her onto her back on the cool earth, soil pressing gently against her skin. Her stomach boiled upwards and she rolled over and vomited over and over until she was reduced to spitting out bile. Then Erestel's hands were around her waist, lifting her, cradling her against his chest, his voice like the creek in summer in her ear.
How long she lay there, she did not know. It was long enough; to calm her rebelling body and still the irregular pounding in her head to a distant rhythm. His fingers were clenching into her flesh like vices; she pulled away, trying to look up at him, but he pulled her roughly upright and began to stumble away.
"Erestel!" she cried, wavering on her feet. He looked back, face torn, and made his way back to hold her up. "You need to wash," he said. "Get back to your rooms."
"What's wrong?" she asked, but her words fell to the ground through the dead air and shattered there.
Leaning on each other, they managed to get back up the curving stairway to the top, where the path ended in a fountain before a series of arches leading into the house itself. There they both stopped, exhausted. Arwen collapsed on the rim of the fountain and splashed herself with icy water until her face was flushed and dripping.
Erestel was leaning against one of the pillars, face a disturbing shade of grey. He saw her looking and his eyes slid away as if meeting with an insurmountable barrier, a flush creeping impossibly through the pallor.
"Will you forgive me?" he demanded suddenly, turning her way and locking her eyes with his, holding her gaze with an almost physical exertion.
"For what?" she replied blearily, still in shock from the cold.
"For speaking improperly to you and violating your honor."
"Violating-? It was a kiss, Erestel!" she half-shouted, unable to hide the uncertainty in her voice. She'd passed out, she knew that much, and the sleep had been deep-she hadn't even woken when he picked her up and carried her into her room, and if he'd done anything, anything at all...
"Yes, it was! And I could have done more," he shouted, mouth twisted in insane rage. "I could have had my way with you while you slept, and you would have been none the wiser except for the pain between your legs! Time would tell, yes, and the rest of them would wait on your word." He buried his face in his hands, hair tangling between his fingers. "Ah, I am cursed. Cursed, that I would have to resort to drunkenness to tell you of my love, and because of it-"
His shoulders shook beneath her as she held him, face buried in the fabric of his tunic. She didn't love him; it was beyond her to do so, and she knew beyond doubt that this was what he couldn't say. "How long, Erestel?" she asked. "How long has it been?"
He was silent, but she knew.
"Years, then."
"Yes."
"I had no idea," she said desperately. "None at all-"
"For this I can only blame myself," he said, twisting out of her arms. "Leave me. I would speak no more with you."
She ran after him a ways, but her legs were still weak, and her breath was coming in clenching gasps before she'd gone five yards. He would be rooms and rooms away, she thought as she grasped at the wall to steady herself, but it was only an excuse not to follow. She would have been afraid to face him no matter what the circumstance; as lover, friend, or whatever she had become to him now.
Arwen examined the problem from every side The incident with Erestel was bad enough, but Rumil... ah, Valar, Rumil. Elves rarely love, truly love, without eternal commitment, and they could already be planning marital celebrations for all she knew. Which wasn't all that much. She'd developed a close friendship with Rumil during her stay in Lothlorien but hadn't found out all that much besides his family, military exploits, and numerous odd and fairly useless bits of information such as what type of stew he liked to eat in lulls during the fighting and that he hated roses as an expression of love.
She thought briefly of finding his room and leaving one at his bedside while he slept. The ultimate irony, she thought with a grin. He'd have to know who it was from, and what it meant, and meanwhile he'd have no way to reach her.
It was a pleasant thought, but she knew she'd never be able to do it. The sight of his face would irrevocably ruin her plans, and she'd probably either kiss him or slap him, which would wake him, and she'd have to explain.
The problem, she thought as she tacked towards the stables, was that she couldn't even explain it to herself.
...
The window was a lofty one, affording a view of the both the gorge and the path leading parallel to it and eventually out of sight. It was currently open, letting the bitingly cool morning air flood in, accompanied by the elusive scent of mist and the sharp, clipped sound of hoofbeats.
The elf standing at it looked down and saw a familiar rich brown mare pounding precariously down the path, mane whipping back to tangle with the loose hair of the rider. It was a woman, and competent; she was handling the horse with reckless skill. She had a large pack strapped to her back and a sheathed sword at her waist, belted down securely so as not to tangle with her legs. It was all he could see at a glance.
He knew the horse and the rider. It was slightly surprising to him that she should be leaving at this hour of the morning in full battle dress, especially with a bow. Her skills with this instrument of death needed considerable work, though from what he'd seen of her archery sessions, practice was all that was really required.
The settling dust had just about exhausted his capacity for staring blankly at one thing for long periods of time when the second horse tore past. He only caught the horse's sleek flanks disappearing below, and what he could see of the elf astride offered no ideas as to his identity. He was heavily cloaked and hooded, with a bow and twin daggers strapped to either hip; he could see their handles protruding through the deep green weave.
It was none of his business what she did in the spare hours of the morning. Time enough to see her when she woke.
He turned away from the window.
...Thanks all for reading, and please review! I find flames pointless, usually stupid, and mainly amusing, but if you feel you must...
Chapter Two: The secrets of Gilraen's past are brought to light, Arwen is being followed by someone more dangerous to her than she could ever imagine, and Elrond is revealed to have strangely erotic healing skills...