Beneath my Feet
Author: Earanthiel
Cast: Arwen/Aragorn, brief Arwen/OFC, Rumil, Galadriel, Elrond, other OFCs
Genre: Drama/Romance
Warning: Some violence, angst, innuendo-more PG-13 than R for the most part.
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.
Notes:
brettley: Don't worry if this is confusing-it will be resolved! It will probably take a few chapters, though... : )
lindajinglin: Estel was Aragorn's childhood name, given to him by Elrond ("hope"). Erestel is an elf, not a mortal, and about as far from Aragorn as it is possible to get. (OC...)
all and sundry reviewers-you keep me writing, editing, and on my toes... thank you, and expect more chapters soon!
Chapter Three: The Son of Gilraen
My father has many secrets. Of course, so do we all. But Elrond Halfelven, Lord of Rivendell, is notorious for his silence, and his ability to communicate the urgency of forbidden knowledge to others. No tongues danced in the familiar pattern of gossip when Gilraen came to Imladris. Thus, no one seemed to think that I needed to know that my father had raised the child from infancy, trained him in arms, and given him an Elvish name. If I had known, I would perhaps have looked at the Ranger harder, and let my eyes pierce deeper than his weathered skin and cold, cold eyes.
As soon as Aragorn saw the riderless horse slumped, still standing, in the road, he began to look around, taking in the finely woven bridle, the dried sweat streaking its flanks, its skewed saddle. To the side of the road, he could see that the long grass had been disturbed, as if by more than one clumsy person.
He drew his long knife, concealing it underneath his worn cloak. A call for aid had reached him but last eve, carried on the wings of a crow. He had been raised among the elves, and trained at their warrior arts, so he was therefore privy to their signals and hidden signs. Different birds meant varying degrees of desperation, but the stone was a summons, to elf and mortal alike. A crow: urgent need.
Perhaps the party of orcs he had come across the day before was at the root of this new trouble. He'd managed to kill one of them, but the rest had showed an uncharacteristic cowardly side and fled, confirming his suspicions that they were mere scouts. At the time, he'd thought there was no need to send word to Elrond, but now he saw that his decision could have caused more ill than good: the elves would wonder who had fought, and who had prevailed. He hadn't been able to warn his fellow Rangers yet, and now more of his time was being wasted.
With a creeping feeling of unease, he loosened his sword in its scabbard and took the small bank with barely a stretch of his long legs. The wood was warm near the upper branches, but lower down the light filtered away, leaving the forest floor dim. Glancing up at the crow, he saw it alight upon a branch, head cocked and beady eyes bright. He looked around again, this time with more than his usual care, but the area around him was unmistakably empty.
"Where are they?" he asked softly. "Lead me, friend."
The crow let out a harsh caw and flapped its wings several times. Aragorn put his back against a stately elm and closed his eyes. His awareness centered on the slight sounds of movement, he tried to form a mental picture of the approaching elf. The crow, its work finished, let out another cry and pumped its way through the leaves and out of sight.
Aragorn opened his eyes.
The figure standing a handful of yards away was swaying on his feet, his hair tied in a loose, uneven knot and his clothing stained. Despite the beginnings of shadows under his eyes, he was standing upright, his hands clenched on two gleaming daggers. His cheeks were flushed, but he spoke with an intense clarity that was almost unsettling.
"In the name of all the Gods, I thank you."
Slightly thrown off, Aragorn inclined his head. "You will always have my aid."
The elf paused, his face tight. "I was in perfect sincerity when I... when I sent the crow. The Lady Arwen of Rivendell is here... ill..." He took a breath. "I need you to get her back to Rivendell, and heal her, all without any mention of how you found her, where she was, or what befell her save that she saw the dead body of an orc and it unsettled her greatly."
"A dead body? Is she so weak, that the sight of a foul orc can make her so gravely ill? Tell me the truth, master Elf. What happened to your Lady Arwen?"
There was an undertone of derision in his tone, and it touched something deeply rooted in the Elf. "It had been mutilated. Horribly. She is not so much sick, my lord, as in shock. I cannot bring her back, and for this, I am forced to say that I need you."
"Are you ill as well? Do you need aid?" Aragorn kept his voice light . "Perhaps you spent a sleepless night, and are too exhausted to care for the Lady yourself?"
It was obvious what he meant, and the elf's lip curled. "Is this all your filthy mind seeks as explanation? You will care for my lady, and you will speak of this to no one. Give me back my token, and I will show you Arwen."
"Perhaps, or perhaps not. I owe nothing to you or your kind," Aragorn spat. He could feel it-the urge to strike out, wound this arrogant elf with fists and well-placed words. "There is no bond between me and people like yours-people with such stony perfection you do not seem to have a soul. You can take your jewelry, and your secrets, but first tell me this. What is behind that mask? What have you done to your lady?"
The elf flinched as if struck. His fingers were shaking at his sides. "I have done nothing," he replied, "and you would do well to remember it. If not for Lord Elrond, you would be dead now, with nothing to show for yourself but a grave marker! Your mother came begging to his doorstep in the night, and he took her in and healed her with all the power he possessed. You cannot deny me now."
"If there was ever debt, it has long been repaid, and in more ways than you know," Aragorn said softly. "A cruel jest, to bind me to this mockery of servitude, when I could slaughter any of your warriors in the time it takes to draw a sword. You may keep your promises, since you are too cowardly to break them."
The stone thudded to the ground with almost unnatural heaviness, scattering fragments of leaves. Aragorn was breathing hard, his hair straggling into his eyes. "Ravish her all you like," he murmured through tight lips, "and I wish you the joy of it."
The elf watched him leave, smiling, and when he had vanished between the trees he threw back his head and roared, "Do not walk away from me, Aragorn!"
He waited another moment, and started off to find the man.
Aragorn was standing, his back stiff but head bowed, waiting. The elf circled him, the stone's circular silver edging biting into his palm. The sight of the proud face closed in defeat coupled with the memory of his mother's naked body straining against Elrond's own sent delicious shivers of pleasure all through him. Elrond had made sure the elves of Rivendell called him Estel, no more, but the elf had been there, that night, and watched Gilraen submit. No one else knew his name, and it was the one weapon that would pierce his tough hide.
It had only just begun.
"Your mother is a beautiful woman," he said slowly. "Once, I envied the man who had broken her to his hand. She was like a wild mare, but in submission, as tame as a virgin. I thought that a woman so lovely, so perfect, could never break her husband's trust."
Aragorn's fingers twitched towards his sword, but the elf barked, "Hold! Hear me out, before you act rashly on her behalf. She does not deserve it. Though any woman that skilled between the sheets is worthy of some kind of commemoration, so I tell it to you. No one else knows. It all rests on me." He gave a harsh, coughing laugh. "And my ability to stay silent."
He swung his bow off his shoulder and held it loosely, one hand reaching over his shoulder to the full quiver of arrows. In a fair fight, the man would rip him in two, but if he could carry the lie successfully, it would be only too easy. But if he drew the sword...
The fear was thrumming through his blood, twisted with the heady taste of triumph. He drew out an arrow. "Gilraen told me everything," he said calmly. "She chose your name because of your father. Arathorn, she said, was a fine name, but she feared that you would grow too like him if you were given it. Your mother never wanted to leave you, but Arathorn overrode her in that regard. After Elrond healed her, she came to me."
"You lie," Aragorn whispered. "She would never betray him for an elflet. You can give no proof that you defiled her, can you? If you can show me without a doubt that what you speak is the truth, then by all my gods and yours I will-"
The cold point of an arrow grazed the side of his chin, traveling slowly downwards through the stubble to his throat. His lips drew back in disbelieving scorn, then closed on a barely audibly intake of breath as the point pierced the skin.
The elf watched the blood roll painstakingly down his neck and dug in harder. Besides that first gasp, the man made no sound, even when the point was buried half an inch deep. The trail of blood was thick on his neck.
"I can kill you like this," the elf said. "Not what you could call a glorious death, is it? But I warn you-I do not lie. Do as I bid you, and I will remove the arrow."
"I would gladly die at the hands of a skilled warrior, who bested me fairly. But I will not suffer death at the hands of a liar and a coward." The arrow jerked, pressed harder. "If you had any honor, you would remove your arrow and draw your sword."
He waited a moment, but the elf stayed silent.
He had him now.
"Are you afraid of me?" he asked, not trying to keep the laugh out of his voice. "A mere dirty, tired mortal? Come. I long to fight with you. I long to pin you to the ground with a sword at your throat and hear you tell me the truth."
With a flick of his wrist, the elf tore the arrow free. Before the man could reach for his sword, he circled to the front of him and deliberately secured the bow over his shoulder. Their eyes met, and Aragorn saw contempt, ill-concealed rage, and the smallest touch of fear.
He palmed his dagger into one hand and raised it slightly, point ready to stab upward into the elf's belly. The movement was met with a lazy smile, and he twitched in revulsion. If only he could lay aside his doubts, it would be an easy slaughter. But even as he imagined the elf's blood streaming in a constant warm flood from his stomach down his sides and into the dirt, he saw his mother pinned underneath that same sculpted flesh, moaning in desire as he befouled her body. He couldn't kill.
Yet.
"You may not remember many things about Gilraen," the elf said, as if reading his mind, "but you must have seen the marque on her chest, above her breasts. A circle, twined around with thorny vines, all the way to the center, where there was a strange tree. It was not tall, yet it seemed like the symbol of a queen."
Aragorn raised his head slowly, and he met the elf's triumphant eyes. Everything seemed sharpened by despair, the trees more green, the air thin and cool. Only someone who had bedded Gilraen could have known about the marque-or her infant child. He remembered her singing to him as he fed:
"Leaves of green will fade and die, now
Autumn's chill will sweep them clear
Little birds will up and fly, now
While I lie beside you here
But one tree will ne'er be broken
And one heart will e'er be true
'Til the King is new awoken
I will sit and sing to you."
"Fade and die," he said suddenly, making the elf twitch. "Even those who claim immortality can be killed." His hand darted out, closing around the fair skin, and he lifted the emaciated body a foot from the ground and forced it backwards into the rough bark of the oak behind him. He raised the dagger, tracing a slow line from the elf's delicate eartip down to the hollow of his throat. He could feel him shudder slightly as the point caught on his skin. "Where is the lady?" he gritted through clenched teeth. "Tell me!"
The elf's hand stirred at his side, but he held it there. If he showed this brute where to find Arwen, he would most likely kill her where she lay. The scene he had laid so carefully out in his mind was shattering, and he was afraid of it. There was nothing to stop this man from slaughtering him, and the thought was horrifying. He had always thought of himself as truly immortal, with his life laid out clear and shining like a carpet of crystal, and now-
"If you die, I will still find her." Aragorn's voice was shaking with rage. "And it will be all the more painful for her when I do. There are more painful ways of death than by the sword, elf, though most of them only exist in the darkest corners of your mind. Show her to me. Now!"
The dagger dug into the flesh, not deep enough to draw blood, but all the sharper for the fact. Aragorn could feel the impatience welling up behind his hand. This foolish waiting was only making his lust for vengeance harder. He would be happy to torture this idiot elf to death, to use Elrond's daughter to manipulate him, to exploit her innocence and his love-
He hated this side of himself. It was like a living, malicious beast that waited, quiescent, until his guard was down, and then attacked with overwhelming force. When he fought, it battled beside him, and every time he killed it dug its claws in a little harder. It isolated him, tortured him like he could imagine doing to the elf, and the thought stayed his hand before it pressed harder.
He had numerous oaths standing in his way, and he would destroy them all in a moment if he followed the maddening desire, and if he refused to answer the call for aid.
"I cannot kill you without being at best made outcast, and most likely killed before that, if I cannot escape," he said with effort. "The Rangers have codes of law, even as you do. I also cannot harm your lady. If she is truly Elrond's daughter, I will have both my people and yours after my blood." He laughed harshly and let go his hold. The elf began to fall, but caught himself on one knee and pushed himself off the ground with explosive force. His eyes were boiling with white-hot humiliation.
"West of here, not far," he said, his voice shaking. "And on my word as a warrior, if you do anything, anything-"
"If we are to swear by skill with weapons, then," Aragorn replied, cutting him off, "then on my word as a Ranger I will do nothing..." Impossibly, one corner of his mouth twitched upwards in a lopsided grin. "... to her. But as for those who violate honor, attempt to wound me, and order me about like a dog, I will hold to my own laws."
Before the elf could move, Aragorn grasped one of his arms and wrenched it up and around, pinning it against his back. He felt the Ranger's hot breath against his ear for a wretched moment before a fist exploded into his jaw, stunning him. He stumbled to his knees in the dirt, fighting to open his mouth, to breath-
"You are naive," Aragorn murmured, "but you will learn."
The elf felt a booted foot connect with his spine, throwing him forward onto his chest. His mouth smashed into the ground, lips tearing on the rough dirt. He spat blood, trying to get to his feet, but it suddenly felt so much better to let himself fall...
Arwen reveled in the sensation of waking. She spent a wretched moment trying to figure out where she'd gone to sleep the night before, but an explanation was hovering just out of reach, and it was easy work to catch it. It couldn't be Rivendell-it was too quiet. The only sounds were a few intrepid birds and the deep, masculine breathing of someone lying a few feet away.
She lay there for a moment, savoring the quiet that came just after dawn. She must have spent the night outside, then. That accounted for the calm, the birds, and the sharp bite of the air, but not for the man who was lying beside her.
A thrill ran through her at the thought, but underneath it was a stirring of fear. Valar, why didn't she know...
Then came the name. She smiled, a pure grin of bashful pleasure, and rolled onto her side, repeating it over and over in her head until she could hardly bear to keep silent. But she must let him sleep. Curling her head into her chest and pressing her lips into her fingertips, she whispered, "Rumil..."
She only wished she could remember what had passed in more detail. The thought brought a hot flush to her cheeks, as did the resulting images. Despite her embarrassment, the wide grin returned. Was she presuming far too much, or-
Still reluctant to open her eyes, she bit her lip, wishing he would wake. At the sight of his face, perhaps...
A soft rustling interrupted her thoughts, and she stiffened. Despite all of her half-formed dreams, she was afraid, afraid of seeing him and realizing that she'd been wrong. It seemed, suddenly, all the more likely that they'd left Lothlorien as mere companions, and that she would wake to his laughing sarcasm and effortless charm as she had for days and...
Days...
No.
There were other memories, that didn't fit at all. The brush of his lips across her cheek, his sudden smile as he helped her astride her horse, the slap to its rump that sent it careening out of Lothlorien with her clinging frantically to its back. Elrond, smiling-Galadriel, throwing off her cloak-the horse-the orc-
She thrust herself up, blinking at the onslaught of sunlight, reaching frantically around her with shaking fingers. Where was her sword? Oh, Valar, her bow was nowhere within reach, and her pack was gone as well-
Another small noise, to her right, froze her grasping hand, and the full horror of the situation struck. She was in the forest off Rivendell, Valar knew where, weaponless (and hopelessly inept even if she had them) and alone save for a man who seemed to be in the process of walking leisurely towards her.
Gods.
She whirled towards the sound, throwing the blankets off her feet and struggling painfully to her feet. Her body, accustomed to sleeping buried in lush, soft blankets and pillows, shrieked its protests to any and all sudden movement. It was the feeling of that first morning in the wilds multiplied a thousandfold, and it was immobilizing. Pushing her hair out of her face with a soft groan and reaching down to straighten her clothing, she saw the reason for the other source of her complete and utter discomfort. She was wearing only a thin chemise.
Looking up in shock, she met Aragorn's eyes.
He was standing directly in front of her, his mouth curling in a knowing smile. For the second time that day, her cheeks stained a deep red, and she found herself unable to meet his eyes for more than a moment before glancing away. Acutely aware of the insubstantial nature of the chemise, she reached quickly down for the blanket at her feet, only to see it lifted away.
The man deftly folding the blanket and laying it behind him was tall, so very much so that Arwen, who had always considered herself as fairly towering, had to tilt her head slightly to see his face. As she did so, the thought that he would be able to bend her backwards quite nicely to kiss her flitted into her head, fought a quick, decisive battle with embarrassment, confusion, and rage, and lost spectacularly. How could she even consider such a thing, with this-this-
Then she looked, really looked, at his face. His hair was a deep, loam-brown and fell in unruly waves to his shoulders, striking what would have been an agreeable chord with his lighter, hazel eyes in an elf. Then, it would have been uniquely handsome, but in this man it was set against a face lined with care and beaten a strange, albeit rich color by the sun. She looked down at her own hands, white and smooth as honey, and up at his. They were dark, scarred-one nail was splitting in half, and his knuckles were reddened as if from recent use. He was wearing a simple tunic and breeches, softened from long use, and there was a small dagger slung round one hip.
She glanced up, slowly, and saw a faint spark of amusement in his eyes as he looked at her. His gaze lowered, taking in her barely clad body, from her breasts, nipples taut with cold, to her thighs, feet, and slowly back up. Arwen found she was shaking with anger.
"Who," she said slowly, "who in the name of Morgoth are you?"
"Aragorn, son of Arathorn, my lady Arwen," he said with a bow. "Your servant."
"That answers nothing," she said, stepping around him and reaching for the blanket. "It is only a name. You will explain yourself, and you will give me back my sword and horse. Now."
"I am a Ranger," he said, matching her imperial tone with his cool one, "the greatest fighters west of the Misty Mountains, and that includes your elves. If you think you could take me on barehanded, I would have to punish you, and I think that you would not enjoy that very much. I will give you back your pack, but never your sword, lest you kill me in my sleep."
He laughed and handed her the blanket, and she snatched it, hoping to cut off his perusal of her figure. His fingers brushed along the back of her hand and caught, so briefly, on her own. She snapped her head up to look at him, but his face was impassive. Or was that a glimmer, beyond those cool eyes, of laughter?
Instead of providing reassurance, the idea incensed her, and she snatched her hand away. Even with the blanket held over her body, it felt as if she was still nearly naked. "By all the gods!" she shouted, "will you not tell me what is going on? I wake in the company of some dirty, foul-smelling mortal who boasts and brags, and he will say nothing but nonsen-"
"Perhaps," he said, cutting her off, "I may ask you a question first. Such as: how is it that you come to be here, and who is that insolent elf that was with you?"
Arwen wrapped the blanket around her shoulders without looking at him, clutching it with one hand at her hip and the other arm held across her breasts. He, however, didn't seem to notice her attempt at a shield. "I know of no other," she said sharply. "I was alone."
"Then how is it," he replied, "that I am under oath to see you to Rivendell, leave you at the gates, and tell anyone who cares to ask that you saw an orc and you were frightened?"
Arwen was employing every effort to hold on to her indignation and anger, but they were slowly slipping into confusion. Ever since Rivendell, she had seen no one, and now there was a man, a mortal, claiming to be sworn to protect her. And sworn, no less, by an elf. An elf who had seen everything.
"Hold!" she cried, "wait! Was he auburn, reddish-haired, shorter than me by a head or so-"
"No," Aragorn said, shattering her eager hope, "he was tall, fair. Listen to me," he murmured, stepping closer and placing his hands on her shoulders, "if you are lying, I will find out. Do you know who he was?"
"Tall, fair," she said wildly, "there are so many that fit that description! I know of no elves in these wilds besides myself and the patrols-was he wearing dark green, with a bow inlaid with ebony?" Aragorn was shaking his head. "Describe him to-"
"Brown eyes," Aragorn said, still so close to her that his hip touched her thigh. The smell of him was intoxicating: smoke, sweat and spice. He moved even closer, and Arwen took a faltering step back, tripped on a tree root, and almost fell. "Unusual with light hair, is it not? And, oddly, those eyes... they were flecked with deepest gold, if you looked deep enough, but I can't imagine you would ever have gotten so close..."
But then, she had.
"No," she said softly, "NO! You liar, you bastard, tell me the truth! He's not following me, he can't, please, please, no-"
Moved by inexplicable impulse, he pinned her arms to her sides and slid the blanket from her heaving shoulders, drawing her to his chest and laying her head against him. She brought her hands up, trying to push him away, but he folded her wrists into one powerful hand and held her there. At first she fought him, huge sobs tearing out of her throat, and he wrapped his arm harder around her until she stopped moving.
Arwen imagined it was Rumil holding her, and managed to quiet her grief, wrapping one arm around his back and pressing her face blindly into his tunic. It was as if all she had ever dreamt of, longed for-it had turned against her and was spearing her heart. Unconscious of everything but the great aching pain and the warmth of Aragorn's body beneath her hands, she moaned and twined her fingers around his own. His hand was unexpectedly gentle, as was his whisper, soft and throaty in her ear. "He's not badly hurt. I expect you'll find him waiting for you."
She froze. He's not badly hurt... A wave of horror rolled through her. She was letting this man comfort her, this knell of doom, this mortal. No matter his likely great age, his filthy state-he had attacked-wounded-
Aragorn made a startled noise as she grasped his hand and thrust it away from her body, but let her go. She took a huge breath, less of anger than relief-if he'd tried to hold her back, she would never have been able to extract herself. Her heart hammering so hard in her chest she could barely speak, she shouted, "What have you done?"
His brow creased in confusion, but she opened her mouth again, aware only of the intense tide building in her chest and forcing her lips to move. The courage was a welcome feeling: it was as if a new weapon had been pressed into her hand.
"You dare to act as if you don't know what I say! How could you even think do this? I demand you give me back my things and tell me where you left him, and do it now. Now!"
Infuriatingly, Aragorn smiled, but there was no mirth in his eyes. "And what gives you the right to take control of me?"
"I am Elrond's daughter!" she shouted, reaching down and wrapping the blanket around her again with impatient, jerky movements. "If I can order even the patrols to obey me, then I can undoubtedly command you!"
There was a definite note of contempt in her voice, and once again Aragorn rose to the bait. This time, however, there was a voice behind it warning him that the best way to destroy the self-satisfied princess in this elf was indifference.
"Have you considered," he said lightly, "that I am not of your people, and therefore not troubled by your notions of rank and obedience?"
For a moment Arwen was at a loss, but she rallied herself with what grace she could muster and shot back, "How is it, then, that you are under oath to protect me?"
"There are certain barriers that must be crossed, sometimes," he replied easily. It took all he had not to show what he was feeling. He had to commend her, he thought, for being able to affect him so deeply with a few well-chosen words. It had been a long time since a woman had treated him this way, and that time, the end result had been as painful as it was lustfully satisfying.
"And what, pray, are those?"
"Even if I am not of your kind, I must still answer to an urgent call for aid, and this was what your gallant savior sent to me," he said. "He told me you had been taken ill by the sight of an orc, and that I was to-"
"I know what he said," she replied coldly. "There is no reason to repeat yourself. My question for you is: what kind of answer to a desperate call is your sword?"
"I have my honor," he replied, "and when it is slighted, I am breaking no codes of conduct in defending it."
"What?" she cried, caught completely off guard. "W-your-"
"The elf you seem to be so intent on defending decided to put me beneath him, just as you are doing now. He tried to persuade me to help you by force, and I turned his hand back."
"Turned...?"
"Showed him exactly what superior power can do, in this instance. Usually, it would mean I took my just revenge."
He expected her to bristle at the insult, and was inwardly looking forward to the opportunity to challenge her again, but she merely inclined her head and turned an extremely stiff back.
After a somewhat meager meal, made distinctly uncomfortable by Arwen's unyielding silence and frigid glare, Aragorn picked up his sword and left to find a suitable place to practice. He would have been already finished in the usual course of things, but his encounter with Arwen had taken up more time that he'd expected.
Perhaps it was because he'd slept late, as well. He'd tried to rise at dawn, but his limbs, not to mention his brain, had been heavy and unwilling to function. After a glance at the sleeping Arwen, he'd fallen back into contented sleep. She'd looked so peaceful and lovely, with those full lips parted and her thick black hair setting off her flushed cheeks...
Once awake, it was a different matter entirely.
He went through the sword forms without thinking, trying to remember everything she'd said. For an impetuous, spoiled brat, she knew how to hold up her end of an argument, he'd give her that much. She also looked extremely beautiful when put out. He grinned: "put out" was hardly a strong enough word. What really bothered him was not her impertinence, but the niggling suspicion that he'd started the argument in the first place. She'd looked so innocent, with that half smile on her face as she dreamed, that he'd assumed she wouldn't mind a jest or two.
Now he'd effectively ruined any chances he'd had for a normal-dare he say pleasant-ride back to Rivendell, and seriously endangered his relations with the elvish community at large.
And then there was that ethereal quality about her that made him feel both aroused and infuriated, wanting to throw her down and take her while ripping her swan-white throat out...
Groaning in frustration, he swung his sword into a nearby tree. It was immensely satisfying. With a small nod to the entity he was attacking, he ripped the blade free with a spray of sap-laden wood and left the clearing, fully intending to discipline Arwen to within an inch of her life.
It was easy work to find her pack and clothes, but a different story to get them down from the tree he'd hung them in. Obviously, he'd climbed to do it, and she had no idea how to manage with the blanket. Even tying it at her neck in a parody of a cloak only covered her rear, and she did not want him staring at her breasts again. The fabric was so sheer that she could see every contour of her naked body underneath it.
All right, she told herself, setting a foot on the lowest branch and pulling herself up, he's not here, and he shouldn't be coming back soon anyhow. You have just enough time to get your things, untie Faon, and leave. Rivendell's not far, and Erestel will be-
To mask her sudden panic, she took hold of the next branch and began to climb, unconsciously adjusting the movement of her hips and hands to accommodate the limbs to either side. The bark was rough against her hands, and her body was lithe and weightless, beautiful. The ground was so far away, and so was her fear and doubt and humiliation, all withering and fading in the sunlight.
Beautiful.
She reached the limb where her clothes and pack were hanging and slung them both over one shoulder. The blanket was scratching against her shoulders and hampering the sunlight on her skin, so she untied it and let it fall. The brief warning that Aragorn should be returning soon invaded her bubble of bliss, but she knew that even if he did, she didn't have it in herself to care.
She'd just secured her overtunic and was opening her pack to check the contents when a voice behind her made her whirl and drop it. Aragorn was standing a few feet away, one hand placed lightly on the trunk of a tree. His eyes were fixed on hers, and they were far from pleased.
"You didn't think I would actually wear that moldy blanket!" she snapped.
He glanced at her again as if he hadn't noticed she was clothed and said, "I expected you to find them. You did well."
"Why the praise?" she said. "You hid them, and I took them back. You should be punishing me."
"Arwen," he said, slowly, dangerously, "is that what you really want?"
She swallowed and fixed her eyes somewhere on his chest. "I want you to give me the rest of my things, which I note are missing, and leave. You can do nothing to help me here."
"Ah, but you forget," he replied, walking past her and dousing the dying embers of the fire, "I am oath-bound. Which brings up the question I have wanted to ask you ever since I saw your lovely face: what happened here?"
"W-what do you mean?" she stammered.
"You know perfectly well. Why are you here, and who was that damned elf?"
This time she knew she'd gone too far. His face was veiled, but the sharp bite of his voice was enough by far. "There was an elf who wanted me as his lover," she said quickly, "and I... had to much wine, and led him to believe I would. I had to leave, just for a while, visit Cirdan, perhaps-" She realized she was babbling and shut up. "As to the... other... I had no idea he was following me, and I still do not know who he was."
She looked away swiftly so that he could not see the lie in her face, but all he said was, "Is it true, the tale of the orc?"
"I was weak," she said, instinctively looking up at him to push away the memories, "and I am ashamed of that weakness. It will not happen again."
"I killed that orc," he said after a pause. "It-"
"Why?" she said sharply, trying to cover up the waves of sickness. "It was already dead-why did you have to do it?"
"What?" he said, stepping closer with his hand lifted. "What are you saying?"
She slapped his fingers away. There was a great crying in her ears, like eagles keening, and she shouted and shouted to overcome it, "You mutilated it! By the Valar, I hardly knew it was an orc! I will not let you-do not come near me!"
Disregarding her rage, he said softly, "I killed the orc in all haste and left it in the middle of the road with a stab wound to the heart. Nothing more. If anyone mutilated it, it must have been the one who followed you-the one on whose orders I am here."
In the ensuing silence, he loosed Faon's tether, secured his bedroll to his own pack, and placed hers in her unyielding arms. "Secure it well," he said, "we have a long ways to go." And, slapping Faon's rump to send her off through the trees, he set out in the opposite direction, sword swinging at his side.
Chapter Four: Aragorn is revealed as more of an enigma than ever, Arwen conceives a new plan for revenge, battles, angst, and ancient lays abound, and absolutely nothing is resolved...
Yet.
Author: Earanthiel
Cast: Arwen/Aragorn, brief Arwen/OFC, Rumil, Galadriel, Elrond, other OFCs
Genre: Drama/Romance
Warning: Some violence, angst, innuendo-more PG-13 than R for the most part.
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.
Notes:
brettley: Don't worry if this is confusing-it will be resolved! It will probably take a few chapters, though... : )
lindajinglin: Estel was Aragorn's childhood name, given to him by Elrond ("hope"). Erestel is an elf, not a mortal, and about as far from Aragorn as it is possible to get. (OC...)
all and sundry reviewers-you keep me writing, editing, and on my toes... thank you, and expect more chapters soon!
Chapter Three: The Son of Gilraen
My father has many secrets. Of course, so do we all. But Elrond Halfelven, Lord of Rivendell, is notorious for his silence, and his ability to communicate the urgency of forbidden knowledge to others. No tongues danced in the familiar pattern of gossip when Gilraen came to Imladris. Thus, no one seemed to think that I needed to know that my father had raised the child from infancy, trained him in arms, and given him an Elvish name. If I had known, I would perhaps have looked at the Ranger harder, and let my eyes pierce deeper than his weathered skin and cold, cold eyes.
As soon as Aragorn saw the riderless horse slumped, still standing, in the road, he began to look around, taking in the finely woven bridle, the dried sweat streaking its flanks, its skewed saddle. To the side of the road, he could see that the long grass had been disturbed, as if by more than one clumsy person.
He drew his long knife, concealing it underneath his worn cloak. A call for aid had reached him but last eve, carried on the wings of a crow. He had been raised among the elves, and trained at their warrior arts, so he was therefore privy to their signals and hidden signs. Different birds meant varying degrees of desperation, but the stone was a summons, to elf and mortal alike. A crow: urgent need.
Perhaps the party of orcs he had come across the day before was at the root of this new trouble. He'd managed to kill one of them, but the rest had showed an uncharacteristic cowardly side and fled, confirming his suspicions that they were mere scouts. At the time, he'd thought there was no need to send word to Elrond, but now he saw that his decision could have caused more ill than good: the elves would wonder who had fought, and who had prevailed. He hadn't been able to warn his fellow Rangers yet, and now more of his time was being wasted.
With a creeping feeling of unease, he loosened his sword in its scabbard and took the small bank with barely a stretch of his long legs. The wood was warm near the upper branches, but lower down the light filtered away, leaving the forest floor dim. Glancing up at the crow, he saw it alight upon a branch, head cocked and beady eyes bright. He looked around again, this time with more than his usual care, but the area around him was unmistakably empty.
"Where are they?" he asked softly. "Lead me, friend."
The crow let out a harsh caw and flapped its wings several times. Aragorn put his back against a stately elm and closed his eyes. His awareness centered on the slight sounds of movement, he tried to form a mental picture of the approaching elf. The crow, its work finished, let out another cry and pumped its way through the leaves and out of sight.
Aragorn opened his eyes.
The figure standing a handful of yards away was swaying on his feet, his hair tied in a loose, uneven knot and his clothing stained. Despite the beginnings of shadows under his eyes, he was standing upright, his hands clenched on two gleaming daggers. His cheeks were flushed, but he spoke with an intense clarity that was almost unsettling.
"In the name of all the Gods, I thank you."
Slightly thrown off, Aragorn inclined his head. "You will always have my aid."
The elf paused, his face tight. "I was in perfect sincerity when I... when I sent the crow. The Lady Arwen of Rivendell is here... ill..." He took a breath. "I need you to get her back to Rivendell, and heal her, all without any mention of how you found her, where she was, or what befell her save that she saw the dead body of an orc and it unsettled her greatly."
"A dead body? Is she so weak, that the sight of a foul orc can make her so gravely ill? Tell me the truth, master Elf. What happened to your Lady Arwen?"
There was an undertone of derision in his tone, and it touched something deeply rooted in the Elf. "It had been mutilated. Horribly. She is not so much sick, my lord, as in shock. I cannot bring her back, and for this, I am forced to say that I need you."
"Are you ill as well? Do you need aid?" Aragorn kept his voice light . "Perhaps you spent a sleepless night, and are too exhausted to care for the Lady yourself?"
It was obvious what he meant, and the elf's lip curled. "Is this all your filthy mind seeks as explanation? You will care for my lady, and you will speak of this to no one. Give me back my token, and I will show you Arwen."
"Perhaps, or perhaps not. I owe nothing to you or your kind," Aragorn spat. He could feel it-the urge to strike out, wound this arrogant elf with fists and well-placed words. "There is no bond between me and people like yours-people with such stony perfection you do not seem to have a soul. You can take your jewelry, and your secrets, but first tell me this. What is behind that mask? What have you done to your lady?"
The elf flinched as if struck. His fingers were shaking at his sides. "I have done nothing," he replied, "and you would do well to remember it. If not for Lord Elrond, you would be dead now, with nothing to show for yourself but a grave marker! Your mother came begging to his doorstep in the night, and he took her in and healed her with all the power he possessed. You cannot deny me now."
"If there was ever debt, it has long been repaid, and in more ways than you know," Aragorn said softly. "A cruel jest, to bind me to this mockery of servitude, when I could slaughter any of your warriors in the time it takes to draw a sword. You may keep your promises, since you are too cowardly to break them."
The stone thudded to the ground with almost unnatural heaviness, scattering fragments of leaves. Aragorn was breathing hard, his hair straggling into his eyes. "Ravish her all you like," he murmured through tight lips, "and I wish you the joy of it."
The elf watched him leave, smiling, and when he had vanished between the trees he threw back his head and roared, "Do not walk away from me, Aragorn!"
He waited another moment, and started off to find the man.
Aragorn was standing, his back stiff but head bowed, waiting. The elf circled him, the stone's circular silver edging biting into his palm. The sight of the proud face closed in defeat coupled with the memory of his mother's naked body straining against Elrond's own sent delicious shivers of pleasure all through him. Elrond had made sure the elves of Rivendell called him Estel, no more, but the elf had been there, that night, and watched Gilraen submit. No one else knew his name, and it was the one weapon that would pierce his tough hide.
It had only just begun.
"Your mother is a beautiful woman," he said slowly. "Once, I envied the man who had broken her to his hand. She was like a wild mare, but in submission, as tame as a virgin. I thought that a woman so lovely, so perfect, could never break her husband's trust."
Aragorn's fingers twitched towards his sword, but the elf barked, "Hold! Hear me out, before you act rashly on her behalf. She does not deserve it. Though any woman that skilled between the sheets is worthy of some kind of commemoration, so I tell it to you. No one else knows. It all rests on me." He gave a harsh, coughing laugh. "And my ability to stay silent."
He swung his bow off his shoulder and held it loosely, one hand reaching over his shoulder to the full quiver of arrows. In a fair fight, the man would rip him in two, but if he could carry the lie successfully, it would be only too easy. But if he drew the sword...
The fear was thrumming through his blood, twisted with the heady taste of triumph. He drew out an arrow. "Gilraen told me everything," he said calmly. "She chose your name because of your father. Arathorn, she said, was a fine name, but she feared that you would grow too like him if you were given it. Your mother never wanted to leave you, but Arathorn overrode her in that regard. After Elrond healed her, she came to me."
"You lie," Aragorn whispered. "She would never betray him for an elflet. You can give no proof that you defiled her, can you? If you can show me without a doubt that what you speak is the truth, then by all my gods and yours I will-"
The cold point of an arrow grazed the side of his chin, traveling slowly downwards through the stubble to his throat. His lips drew back in disbelieving scorn, then closed on a barely audibly intake of breath as the point pierced the skin.
The elf watched the blood roll painstakingly down his neck and dug in harder. Besides that first gasp, the man made no sound, even when the point was buried half an inch deep. The trail of blood was thick on his neck.
"I can kill you like this," the elf said. "Not what you could call a glorious death, is it? But I warn you-I do not lie. Do as I bid you, and I will remove the arrow."
"I would gladly die at the hands of a skilled warrior, who bested me fairly. But I will not suffer death at the hands of a liar and a coward." The arrow jerked, pressed harder. "If you had any honor, you would remove your arrow and draw your sword."
He waited a moment, but the elf stayed silent.
He had him now.
"Are you afraid of me?" he asked, not trying to keep the laugh out of his voice. "A mere dirty, tired mortal? Come. I long to fight with you. I long to pin you to the ground with a sword at your throat and hear you tell me the truth."
With a flick of his wrist, the elf tore the arrow free. Before the man could reach for his sword, he circled to the front of him and deliberately secured the bow over his shoulder. Their eyes met, and Aragorn saw contempt, ill-concealed rage, and the smallest touch of fear.
He palmed his dagger into one hand and raised it slightly, point ready to stab upward into the elf's belly. The movement was met with a lazy smile, and he twitched in revulsion. If only he could lay aside his doubts, it would be an easy slaughter. But even as he imagined the elf's blood streaming in a constant warm flood from his stomach down his sides and into the dirt, he saw his mother pinned underneath that same sculpted flesh, moaning in desire as he befouled her body. He couldn't kill.
Yet.
"You may not remember many things about Gilraen," the elf said, as if reading his mind, "but you must have seen the marque on her chest, above her breasts. A circle, twined around with thorny vines, all the way to the center, where there was a strange tree. It was not tall, yet it seemed like the symbol of a queen."
Aragorn raised his head slowly, and he met the elf's triumphant eyes. Everything seemed sharpened by despair, the trees more green, the air thin and cool. Only someone who had bedded Gilraen could have known about the marque-or her infant child. He remembered her singing to him as he fed:
"Leaves of green will fade and die, now
Autumn's chill will sweep them clear
Little birds will up and fly, now
While I lie beside you here
But one tree will ne'er be broken
And one heart will e'er be true
'Til the King is new awoken
I will sit and sing to you."
"Fade and die," he said suddenly, making the elf twitch. "Even those who claim immortality can be killed." His hand darted out, closing around the fair skin, and he lifted the emaciated body a foot from the ground and forced it backwards into the rough bark of the oak behind him. He raised the dagger, tracing a slow line from the elf's delicate eartip down to the hollow of his throat. He could feel him shudder slightly as the point caught on his skin. "Where is the lady?" he gritted through clenched teeth. "Tell me!"
The elf's hand stirred at his side, but he held it there. If he showed this brute where to find Arwen, he would most likely kill her where she lay. The scene he had laid so carefully out in his mind was shattering, and he was afraid of it. There was nothing to stop this man from slaughtering him, and the thought was horrifying. He had always thought of himself as truly immortal, with his life laid out clear and shining like a carpet of crystal, and now-
"If you die, I will still find her." Aragorn's voice was shaking with rage. "And it will be all the more painful for her when I do. There are more painful ways of death than by the sword, elf, though most of them only exist in the darkest corners of your mind. Show her to me. Now!"
The dagger dug into the flesh, not deep enough to draw blood, but all the sharper for the fact. Aragorn could feel the impatience welling up behind his hand. This foolish waiting was only making his lust for vengeance harder. He would be happy to torture this idiot elf to death, to use Elrond's daughter to manipulate him, to exploit her innocence and his love-
He hated this side of himself. It was like a living, malicious beast that waited, quiescent, until his guard was down, and then attacked with overwhelming force. When he fought, it battled beside him, and every time he killed it dug its claws in a little harder. It isolated him, tortured him like he could imagine doing to the elf, and the thought stayed his hand before it pressed harder.
He had numerous oaths standing in his way, and he would destroy them all in a moment if he followed the maddening desire, and if he refused to answer the call for aid.
"I cannot kill you without being at best made outcast, and most likely killed before that, if I cannot escape," he said with effort. "The Rangers have codes of law, even as you do. I also cannot harm your lady. If she is truly Elrond's daughter, I will have both my people and yours after my blood." He laughed harshly and let go his hold. The elf began to fall, but caught himself on one knee and pushed himself off the ground with explosive force. His eyes were boiling with white-hot humiliation.
"West of here, not far," he said, his voice shaking. "And on my word as a warrior, if you do anything, anything-"
"If we are to swear by skill with weapons, then," Aragorn replied, cutting him off, "then on my word as a Ranger I will do nothing..." Impossibly, one corner of his mouth twitched upwards in a lopsided grin. "... to her. But as for those who violate honor, attempt to wound me, and order me about like a dog, I will hold to my own laws."
Before the elf could move, Aragorn grasped one of his arms and wrenched it up and around, pinning it against his back. He felt the Ranger's hot breath against his ear for a wretched moment before a fist exploded into his jaw, stunning him. He stumbled to his knees in the dirt, fighting to open his mouth, to breath-
"You are naive," Aragorn murmured, "but you will learn."
The elf felt a booted foot connect with his spine, throwing him forward onto his chest. His mouth smashed into the ground, lips tearing on the rough dirt. He spat blood, trying to get to his feet, but it suddenly felt so much better to let himself fall...
Arwen reveled in the sensation of waking. She spent a wretched moment trying to figure out where she'd gone to sleep the night before, but an explanation was hovering just out of reach, and it was easy work to catch it. It couldn't be Rivendell-it was too quiet. The only sounds were a few intrepid birds and the deep, masculine breathing of someone lying a few feet away.
She lay there for a moment, savoring the quiet that came just after dawn. She must have spent the night outside, then. That accounted for the calm, the birds, and the sharp bite of the air, but not for the man who was lying beside her.
A thrill ran through her at the thought, but underneath it was a stirring of fear. Valar, why didn't she know...
Then came the name. She smiled, a pure grin of bashful pleasure, and rolled onto her side, repeating it over and over in her head until she could hardly bear to keep silent. But she must let him sleep. Curling her head into her chest and pressing her lips into her fingertips, she whispered, "Rumil..."
She only wished she could remember what had passed in more detail. The thought brought a hot flush to her cheeks, as did the resulting images. Despite her embarrassment, the wide grin returned. Was she presuming far too much, or-
Still reluctant to open her eyes, she bit her lip, wishing he would wake. At the sight of his face, perhaps...
A soft rustling interrupted her thoughts, and she stiffened. Despite all of her half-formed dreams, she was afraid, afraid of seeing him and realizing that she'd been wrong. It seemed, suddenly, all the more likely that they'd left Lothlorien as mere companions, and that she would wake to his laughing sarcasm and effortless charm as she had for days and...
Days...
No.
There were other memories, that didn't fit at all. The brush of his lips across her cheek, his sudden smile as he helped her astride her horse, the slap to its rump that sent it careening out of Lothlorien with her clinging frantically to its back. Elrond, smiling-Galadriel, throwing off her cloak-the horse-the orc-
She thrust herself up, blinking at the onslaught of sunlight, reaching frantically around her with shaking fingers. Where was her sword? Oh, Valar, her bow was nowhere within reach, and her pack was gone as well-
Another small noise, to her right, froze her grasping hand, and the full horror of the situation struck. She was in the forest off Rivendell, Valar knew where, weaponless (and hopelessly inept even if she had them) and alone save for a man who seemed to be in the process of walking leisurely towards her.
Gods.
She whirled towards the sound, throwing the blankets off her feet and struggling painfully to her feet. Her body, accustomed to sleeping buried in lush, soft blankets and pillows, shrieked its protests to any and all sudden movement. It was the feeling of that first morning in the wilds multiplied a thousandfold, and it was immobilizing. Pushing her hair out of her face with a soft groan and reaching down to straighten her clothing, she saw the reason for the other source of her complete and utter discomfort. She was wearing only a thin chemise.
Looking up in shock, she met Aragorn's eyes.
He was standing directly in front of her, his mouth curling in a knowing smile. For the second time that day, her cheeks stained a deep red, and she found herself unable to meet his eyes for more than a moment before glancing away. Acutely aware of the insubstantial nature of the chemise, she reached quickly down for the blanket at her feet, only to see it lifted away.
The man deftly folding the blanket and laying it behind him was tall, so very much so that Arwen, who had always considered herself as fairly towering, had to tilt her head slightly to see his face. As she did so, the thought that he would be able to bend her backwards quite nicely to kiss her flitted into her head, fought a quick, decisive battle with embarrassment, confusion, and rage, and lost spectacularly. How could she even consider such a thing, with this-this-
Then she looked, really looked, at his face. His hair was a deep, loam-brown and fell in unruly waves to his shoulders, striking what would have been an agreeable chord with his lighter, hazel eyes in an elf. Then, it would have been uniquely handsome, but in this man it was set against a face lined with care and beaten a strange, albeit rich color by the sun. She looked down at her own hands, white and smooth as honey, and up at his. They were dark, scarred-one nail was splitting in half, and his knuckles were reddened as if from recent use. He was wearing a simple tunic and breeches, softened from long use, and there was a small dagger slung round one hip.
She glanced up, slowly, and saw a faint spark of amusement in his eyes as he looked at her. His gaze lowered, taking in her barely clad body, from her breasts, nipples taut with cold, to her thighs, feet, and slowly back up. Arwen found she was shaking with anger.
"Who," she said slowly, "who in the name of Morgoth are you?"
"Aragorn, son of Arathorn, my lady Arwen," he said with a bow. "Your servant."
"That answers nothing," she said, stepping around him and reaching for the blanket. "It is only a name. You will explain yourself, and you will give me back my sword and horse. Now."
"I am a Ranger," he said, matching her imperial tone with his cool one, "the greatest fighters west of the Misty Mountains, and that includes your elves. If you think you could take me on barehanded, I would have to punish you, and I think that you would not enjoy that very much. I will give you back your pack, but never your sword, lest you kill me in my sleep."
He laughed and handed her the blanket, and she snatched it, hoping to cut off his perusal of her figure. His fingers brushed along the back of her hand and caught, so briefly, on her own. She snapped her head up to look at him, but his face was impassive. Or was that a glimmer, beyond those cool eyes, of laughter?
Instead of providing reassurance, the idea incensed her, and she snatched her hand away. Even with the blanket held over her body, it felt as if she was still nearly naked. "By all the gods!" she shouted, "will you not tell me what is going on? I wake in the company of some dirty, foul-smelling mortal who boasts and brags, and he will say nothing but nonsen-"
"Perhaps," he said, cutting her off, "I may ask you a question first. Such as: how is it that you come to be here, and who is that insolent elf that was with you?"
Arwen wrapped the blanket around her shoulders without looking at him, clutching it with one hand at her hip and the other arm held across her breasts. He, however, didn't seem to notice her attempt at a shield. "I know of no other," she said sharply. "I was alone."
"Then how is it," he replied, "that I am under oath to see you to Rivendell, leave you at the gates, and tell anyone who cares to ask that you saw an orc and you were frightened?"
Arwen was employing every effort to hold on to her indignation and anger, but they were slowly slipping into confusion. Ever since Rivendell, she had seen no one, and now there was a man, a mortal, claiming to be sworn to protect her. And sworn, no less, by an elf. An elf who had seen everything.
"Hold!" she cried, "wait! Was he auburn, reddish-haired, shorter than me by a head or so-"
"No," Aragorn said, shattering her eager hope, "he was tall, fair. Listen to me," he murmured, stepping closer and placing his hands on her shoulders, "if you are lying, I will find out. Do you know who he was?"
"Tall, fair," she said wildly, "there are so many that fit that description! I know of no elves in these wilds besides myself and the patrols-was he wearing dark green, with a bow inlaid with ebony?" Aragorn was shaking his head. "Describe him to-"
"Brown eyes," Aragorn said, still so close to her that his hip touched her thigh. The smell of him was intoxicating: smoke, sweat and spice. He moved even closer, and Arwen took a faltering step back, tripped on a tree root, and almost fell. "Unusual with light hair, is it not? And, oddly, those eyes... they were flecked with deepest gold, if you looked deep enough, but I can't imagine you would ever have gotten so close..."
But then, she had.
"No," she said softly, "NO! You liar, you bastard, tell me the truth! He's not following me, he can't, please, please, no-"
Moved by inexplicable impulse, he pinned her arms to her sides and slid the blanket from her heaving shoulders, drawing her to his chest and laying her head against him. She brought her hands up, trying to push him away, but he folded her wrists into one powerful hand and held her there. At first she fought him, huge sobs tearing out of her throat, and he wrapped his arm harder around her until she stopped moving.
Arwen imagined it was Rumil holding her, and managed to quiet her grief, wrapping one arm around his back and pressing her face blindly into his tunic. It was as if all she had ever dreamt of, longed for-it had turned against her and was spearing her heart. Unconscious of everything but the great aching pain and the warmth of Aragorn's body beneath her hands, she moaned and twined her fingers around his own. His hand was unexpectedly gentle, as was his whisper, soft and throaty in her ear. "He's not badly hurt. I expect you'll find him waiting for you."
She froze. He's not badly hurt... A wave of horror rolled through her. She was letting this man comfort her, this knell of doom, this mortal. No matter his likely great age, his filthy state-he had attacked-wounded-
Aragorn made a startled noise as she grasped his hand and thrust it away from her body, but let her go. She took a huge breath, less of anger than relief-if he'd tried to hold her back, she would never have been able to extract herself. Her heart hammering so hard in her chest she could barely speak, she shouted, "What have you done?"
His brow creased in confusion, but she opened her mouth again, aware only of the intense tide building in her chest and forcing her lips to move. The courage was a welcome feeling: it was as if a new weapon had been pressed into her hand.
"You dare to act as if you don't know what I say! How could you even think do this? I demand you give me back my things and tell me where you left him, and do it now. Now!"
Infuriatingly, Aragorn smiled, but there was no mirth in his eyes. "And what gives you the right to take control of me?"
"I am Elrond's daughter!" she shouted, reaching down and wrapping the blanket around her again with impatient, jerky movements. "If I can order even the patrols to obey me, then I can undoubtedly command you!"
There was a definite note of contempt in her voice, and once again Aragorn rose to the bait. This time, however, there was a voice behind it warning him that the best way to destroy the self-satisfied princess in this elf was indifference.
"Have you considered," he said lightly, "that I am not of your people, and therefore not troubled by your notions of rank and obedience?"
For a moment Arwen was at a loss, but she rallied herself with what grace she could muster and shot back, "How is it, then, that you are under oath to protect me?"
"There are certain barriers that must be crossed, sometimes," he replied easily. It took all he had not to show what he was feeling. He had to commend her, he thought, for being able to affect him so deeply with a few well-chosen words. It had been a long time since a woman had treated him this way, and that time, the end result had been as painful as it was lustfully satisfying.
"And what, pray, are those?"
"Even if I am not of your kind, I must still answer to an urgent call for aid, and this was what your gallant savior sent to me," he said. "He told me you had been taken ill by the sight of an orc, and that I was to-"
"I know what he said," she replied coldly. "There is no reason to repeat yourself. My question for you is: what kind of answer to a desperate call is your sword?"
"I have my honor," he replied, "and when it is slighted, I am breaking no codes of conduct in defending it."
"What?" she cried, caught completely off guard. "W-your-"
"The elf you seem to be so intent on defending decided to put me beneath him, just as you are doing now. He tried to persuade me to help you by force, and I turned his hand back."
"Turned...?"
"Showed him exactly what superior power can do, in this instance. Usually, it would mean I took my just revenge."
He expected her to bristle at the insult, and was inwardly looking forward to the opportunity to challenge her again, but she merely inclined her head and turned an extremely stiff back.
After a somewhat meager meal, made distinctly uncomfortable by Arwen's unyielding silence and frigid glare, Aragorn picked up his sword and left to find a suitable place to practice. He would have been already finished in the usual course of things, but his encounter with Arwen had taken up more time that he'd expected.
Perhaps it was because he'd slept late, as well. He'd tried to rise at dawn, but his limbs, not to mention his brain, had been heavy and unwilling to function. After a glance at the sleeping Arwen, he'd fallen back into contented sleep. She'd looked so peaceful and lovely, with those full lips parted and her thick black hair setting off her flushed cheeks...
Once awake, it was a different matter entirely.
He went through the sword forms without thinking, trying to remember everything she'd said. For an impetuous, spoiled brat, she knew how to hold up her end of an argument, he'd give her that much. She also looked extremely beautiful when put out. He grinned: "put out" was hardly a strong enough word. What really bothered him was not her impertinence, but the niggling suspicion that he'd started the argument in the first place. She'd looked so innocent, with that half smile on her face as she dreamed, that he'd assumed she wouldn't mind a jest or two.
Now he'd effectively ruined any chances he'd had for a normal-dare he say pleasant-ride back to Rivendell, and seriously endangered his relations with the elvish community at large.
And then there was that ethereal quality about her that made him feel both aroused and infuriated, wanting to throw her down and take her while ripping her swan-white throat out...
Groaning in frustration, he swung his sword into a nearby tree. It was immensely satisfying. With a small nod to the entity he was attacking, he ripped the blade free with a spray of sap-laden wood and left the clearing, fully intending to discipline Arwen to within an inch of her life.
It was easy work to find her pack and clothes, but a different story to get them down from the tree he'd hung them in. Obviously, he'd climbed to do it, and she had no idea how to manage with the blanket. Even tying it at her neck in a parody of a cloak only covered her rear, and she did not want him staring at her breasts again. The fabric was so sheer that she could see every contour of her naked body underneath it.
All right, she told herself, setting a foot on the lowest branch and pulling herself up, he's not here, and he shouldn't be coming back soon anyhow. You have just enough time to get your things, untie Faon, and leave. Rivendell's not far, and Erestel will be-
To mask her sudden panic, she took hold of the next branch and began to climb, unconsciously adjusting the movement of her hips and hands to accommodate the limbs to either side. The bark was rough against her hands, and her body was lithe and weightless, beautiful. The ground was so far away, and so was her fear and doubt and humiliation, all withering and fading in the sunlight.
Beautiful.
She reached the limb where her clothes and pack were hanging and slung them both over one shoulder. The blanket was scratching against her shoulders and hampering the sunlight on her skin, so she untied it and let it fall. The brief warning that Aragorn should be returning soon invaded her bubble of bliss, but she knew that even if he did, she didn't have it in herself to care.
She'd just secured her overtunic and was opening her pack to check the contents when a voice behind her made her whirl and drop it. Aragorn was standing a few feet away, one hand placed lightly on the trunk of a tree. His eyes were fixed on hers, and they were far from pleased.
"You didn't think I would actually wear that moldy blanket!" she snapped.
He glanced at her again as if he hadn't noticed she was clothed and said, "I expected you to find them. You did well."
"Why the praise?" she said. "You hid them, and I took them back. You should be punishing me."
"Arwen," he said, slowly, dangerously, "is that what you really want?"
She swallowed and fixed her eyes somewhere on his chest. "I want you to give me the rest of my things, which I note are missing, and leave. You can do nothing to help me here."
"Ah, but you forget," he replied, walking past her and dousing the dying embers of the fire, "I am oath-bound. Which brings up the question I have wanted to ask you ever since I saw your lovely face: what happened here?"
"W-what do you mean?" she stammered.
"You know perfectly well. Why are you here, and who was that damned elf?"
This time she knew she'd gone too far. His face was veiled, but the sharp bite of his voice was enough by far. "There was an elf who wanted me as his lover," she said quickly, "and I... had to much wine, and led him to believe I would. I had to leave, just for a while, visit Cirdan, perhaps-" She realized she was babbling and shut up. "As to the... other... I had no idea he was following me, and I still do not know who he was."
She looked away swiftly so that he could not see the lie in her face, but all he said was, "Is it true, the tale of the orc?"
"I was weak," she said, instinctively looking up at him to push away the memories, "and I am ashamed of that weakness. It will not happen again."
"I killed that orc," he said after a pause. "It-"
"Why?" she said sharply, trying to cover up the waves of sickness. "It was already dead-why did you have to do it?"
"What?" he said, stepping closer with his hand lifted. "What are you saying?"
She slapped his fingers away. There was a great crying in her ears, like eagles keening, and she shouted and shouted to overcome it, "You mutilated it! By the Valar, I hardly knew it was an orc! I will not let you-do not come near me!"
Disregarding her rage, he said softly, "I killed the orc in all haste and left it in the middle of the road with a stab wound to the heart. Nothing more. If anyone mutilated it, it must have been the one who followed you-the one on whose orders I am here."
In the ensuing silence, he loosed Faon's tether, secured his bedroll to his own pack, and placed hers in her unyielding arms. "Secure it well," he said, "we have a long ways to go." And, slapping Faon's rump to send her off through the trees, he set out in the opposite direction, sword swinging at his side.
Chapter Four: Aragorn is revealed as more of an enigma than ever, Arwen conceives a new plan for revenge, battles, angst, and ancient lays abound, and absolutely nothing is resolved...
Yet.