Beneath my Feet
Author: Earanthiel
Cast: Arwen/Aragorn, brief Arwen/OFC, Rumil, Galadriel, Elrond, other OFCS
Genre: Drama/Romance
Warning: None needed this time
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.
Note: Tolkien says that elves drift in a open-eyed reverie when mortals sleep (to be poetic), but I took Middle-Earth into my own hands once again and assumed that they could sleep as well. I need dreams for my fics, especially this one!
Chapter Four: Poetry and Pain
Those next days were difficult, but in them I found something I never would have had the courage to see: that even when your mind rises up against your heart, it can be beaten back down. I fought many battles with what I thought I knew and what I felt.
Why did I loathe him like I did? Was it that I saw he was beneath me, and yet guarding me, or was it the mere fact of his mortality? Was is his jests, his indifference, and his sudden flashes of rage? Or was it, in fact, the opposite of all those things...
When Arwen had gotten over the ignoble dismissal of her horse, heard his explanation, and started after him with her mouth set in a tight line and her fists clenched-it wasn't all that horrid, really. True, she was sullen, disagreeable, and still acted like she was above him in every way possible, but her silence was much better than her arguments.
At least she was intelligent. Aragorn had told her that he'd seen a scouting party of orcs on his way to her and that he had to warn the Rangers, and she had accepted it without comment, nodding when he explained that they couldn't ride through the kind of forest they would be traveling. And all the time, not a word.
Of course, he thought, as they began another day of the same relentless quiet, it would be even better if she would drop her grudge and be more... more responsive. If she was trying to annoy him by pointedly not saying a word, it was working far better than anything else she could have done. It seemed that the discovery of her mad friend's attack on the orc-it was the only possible explanation-had humbled her, but it hadn't diminished her pride.
Pride. If he admitted it, it would tear him to pieces, but her attitude of automatic, almost unaware superiority was wearing him down. It was slow, but every time she looked at him with those scornful eyes, her mouth set it the barest curl of contempt, it made him want to take a supple stick and whip her within an inch of her life. The animal within him, baring its teeth, yawning and stretching in readiness to stir again.
Before, he'd thought they would have an easy time of this-conversation, perhaps a kiss or two. From the first, those perfect lips had been begging for it, but she seemed completely unaware of herself. She was beautiful, he'd give her that. It was probably a good thing she wasn't trying to arouse him, otherwise he'd have to throw honor to the wind.
There was the familiar boulder-the gorge was close, and he felt the soft thrill inside him at the thought. "We approach the camp soon," he said. "There's climbing to do-I hope your boots can stand it."
No answer. He hadn't expected one.
He looked back at her and saw her stop, hoist her pack up around her shoulders, and continue, a small frown on her face. Her hair was coming loose from the knot at the nape of her neck and trailing over her shoulders and chest. "You have the straps too loose," he said shortly, walking over to her and tightening them for her. "You will strain your shoulders."
She looked up at him, her eyes straying over his face, and he stood still under her scrutiny. When she looked away, it wasn't without a glance back up, and he wondered what she was thinking. Feeling.
"We have to climb into the bottom of the gorge and walk a mile," he told her, turning back to the little-used path. It had appeared a few hours back and continued its thready way through the trees to the drop, slicing downwards so suddenly it could catch any naive traveler completely unawares. "They'll lower ladders for us from the top. Do you think you'll make it down?"
She didn't answer, and he looked back with the beginnings of annoyance to see a small, knowing smile on her face. He raised his eyebrows, startled, and she said, "If you mean, do I fear, then no."
"You've climbed before, then?"
She inclined her head in agreement and began walking again.
Gone.
When Aragorn stopped, lifting a hand to indicate that she should do the same, Arwen ignored him and pushed aside a rough bush to stand at his side. For a moment, he looked as if he wanted to speak, but she looked in the decided other direction, and with an undisguised sigh he threw up his hands. He looked so ridiculous, frozen in the gesture Rumil always used when she did something uncalled for, that she had to bite down cruelly on her lip to keep from laughing.
"You truly think you can do this, then?" he asked, and saw her with the same secret smile on her face. Oddly, it reassured him. If she was going to act so wise and all-knowing, she would take the consequences.
Aragorn produced a rope from his pack and lashed it to a tree a few feet back from the sudden edge. "I will go before you, my lady," he said. "In case you lose your hold."
Before she could try and stop him, he crouched down and placed his feet on the first well-known hold. She could tell that he knew the way, his body falling into the familiar pattern of long practice. Well, she thought, it only heightened the challenge.
As soon as her own foot touched the rock, she knew. Trying to force down overconfidence, she slid her other leg down until she found a firm hold and wrapped her hand around the warm stone. If Aragorn could do it, she could as well. For a moment, her first foot slipped and lost its hold, and she bit back a terrified scream. She could hold herself up by her hands until the hanging foot found the rock face again, there was no need to panic-
A hand touched her dangling ankle, guiding it gently to the left and placing it on the next hold. Her breath escaped her lungs in a whirling gasp as she relaxed and pulled her booted foot out of his hold, and she heard Aragorn's voice below her, "It's not far. Look down."
"I-" she started, but his voice overlaid hers. "You'll never make it down before sunset if you can't see the next hold. Trust me on this at least."
The lift of his voice was so self-assured, so arrogant, that she forced her head around before she could even consider the idea. Below her, the seemingly random tumble of rocks formed the walls of the gorge, with here and there a tree clinging to the side, wizened roots desperately seeking purchase. She followed their progress down the cliff, to the roaring river that had dried into a trickle, through sun-warmed rocks and down a twisted path that disappeared into the stone-scattered distance. It was so high, so precarious, that she felt her breath catch and struggle in her throat. Valar, she whispered, help me. It's another tree, only another tree...
Summoning up the memory of the transcendent bliss, she was assailed with another, stronger memory. When Elrond retired to his room early, or with an important visitor, she would climb up the vines outside his bedroom window, tying her skirts about her waist to free her gangly, child's legs. Retracing her progress downwards had been harder for her, even then, but when she was with-
No. No.
Concentrating fully on blocking out the image, she found the next protrusion with her eyes and brought her foot down to it, shifting her weight to accommodate the change. The pack dragging at her shoulders, the dizzying height, the swirling terror of falling-they were a backdrop now, a distant hum like an insect outside a window. If she could fix her attention wholly on the challenge of the climb, she would forget his face.
From the set of Aragorn's face, it was obvious that he was surprised, and she warmed with happiness. That veiled stare he gave was so satisfying, especially the reluctance of respect. Of course, he would have expected her to be afraid-comfort with height was rare among her kind. That would be why he hung her clothes in a tree, she realized with a breathy curse. She would defy his expectations to the very last one, and the bullying, bragging mortal would be replaced, no matter the cost. And Gods, would it be satisfying.
She looked down, reveling in her small victory, and saw his head tilted up to hers. His face was devoid of any expression whatsoever, blank and yet oddly calculating, and it sent a dart of doubt into her glee. His muscular arms were outlined in the thin fabric of his shirt as he held the face of the rock, rippling as he looked away and shifted his grip on the rope. Many of his kind had used this path-she could where they had passed, where he wasn't even deigning to look. As she made her slow, liberating way down the cliff, she tried and failed to imagine the effort, the hours it had taken him to reach his strength and ability, and, reluctantly, how long it would take her. Her own arms were burning with the effort, her entire upper body stiff and painful-the nights spent sleeping on the ground combined with her current situation, and she was only halfway down the cliff.
The strange thing, she thought as she paused, catching her breath with difficulty, was that he made her more aware of her body than any other elf she had ever known. With her companions, she couldn't have cared about her figure and features; when Rumil turned over her heart had been the first time she'd begun to worry about the shape of her breasts, the curl of her hair. Aragorn made her think about every area-her muscles, or lack of such, her height, her eyes. It was as if she was the ambassador of an entire race, and she must be perfect, or fail.
Her hand, slick with sweat, slipped on the rock, and she began to fall. Her heart battling against her ribs, she fumbled for the rope, clinging to it so hard her knuckles went white. It was the second time she'd made a thoughtless mistake, and again it was because of her thoughts of Aragorn.
Not far, she told herself. He had already reached the sand and was standing, watching her. His piercing stare made her agitated, and as she tried to continue downwards she slipped again, her foot sliding off the rock and jerking her body down to the next hold. Ridiculously, she felt tears welling in her eyes. To be made a complete fool of, with the Man watching, assessing her every movement...
The same hatred surged up once more. Who was he, to make her feel so stupid and clumsy? He was only a hired guardian. If his behavior was any indication, life among the race of Men must be a curse indeed. But, of course, she would never have to experience such a horrible thing. Once she reached Imladris, she could forget him completely.
Galvanized, she passed both hands over her tunic to dry them and continued on down the cliff, clearing her mind into a blissful blank. The holds were spaced in a fairly even pattern, and once she figured out how to adapt her body to them she could find her way down without thinking. The distance lessening and her confidence rising, she glanced back once at Aragorn and saw him reaching into his pack, his back to her.
She jumped the last few feet and brushed her hands against her tunic, smoothed back her sweat-soaked hair, and took a deep breath. At the sound, Aragorn straightened up, a quizzical smile playing about his lips. "My lady?" he asked. "What is it you desire?"
"Why?" she cried, "why do you do it? While I make myself look like an utter idiot, you look on like Morgoth at a torture!"
"If you fall," he said coolly, "my life will be ended as well. If your father is devoted enough, he will rip me apart with his bare hands."
"Do you expect me to fall straight onto your back, then?" she demanded.
"By the end, you seemed skilled enough."
"Perhaps there are other reasons," she said. "Your oath to protect me? No matter how your precious pride was hurt-I have done nothing to you. Do you think to take your revenge on me, because of what my people have done?"
Infuriatingly, nothing in Aragorn's stance or face changed, and she watched him with no small apprehension. Her words seemed to have no effect, except for the smallest crinkling at the corners of his eyes, which made it look suspiciously like he was laughing. But no, that would have to mean-
"Lady Arwen," he said formally, startling her, "since you seem to feel the need to exhaust yourself further with this useless shouting, you may climb the cliff again and bring my rope back to me. It is valuable, as such things go, and I would be grateful to have it back."
For a moment, she was convinced she had misheard, and then the words began to sink in. Closing her gaping mouth in an effort to stall the inevitable truth, she said, "I believe I have not heard you correctly. Did you ask me to..."
"Retrieve my rope, yes," he said. There was a definite note of mirth in his voice now. "I will not wait for you, as it makes you so uncomfortable. Follow the path west."
Nodding to her, he turned as if to leave, swinging his pack up with effortless ease. Arwen's state of unreality had evaporated with these final words, replaced by an even stronger sense of refusal. She stepped in front of him, tipping her chin up to look him in the eye. "Do you think you can force me?" she shouted.
"No, I cannot," he said casually, "but I can warn you of the orcs that are likely to be infiltrating the forest as we speak. If they see a rope hanging down a cliff, they will look more closely, and see that there is a path below. Then they will find the Ranger's camp, and I will certainly not take the blame for their slaughter. If you do not want that on your shoulders, pretty one, I would suggest you do as I bid you."
Taking a step forward, he was confronted by Arwen once again, and this time there was a wicked gleam in her eyes. "My lord," she said, her mouth twitching, "I will gladly follow you to the ends of the earth and the heights of the sun. However, I can only do so if I am not completely exhausted. As I will not need this-" she threw her pack to the sand at his feet "-I would be obliged if you would take it for me. Now, if you will let me pass..."
With the tiniest toss of her head, she stepped around him, placed her foot on the first available hold, and began to scale the cliff. Not before, he noted, flashing him a very mischievous smile.
The Sentry confronted Aragorn halfway down the path, freshly polished sword brilliant in the sun, his face shadowed underneath a thick, dark cloak. Aragorn wearily gave him the correct words, hardly even glancing beneath the hood. The Sentry gave an ill-disguised snort that could have been a disbelieving laugh, and when Aragorn's only reaction was a cocked eyebrow, he pulled it from his head.
The tired, defeated expression on Aragorn's face was instantly replaced by delighted recognition at the sight of his face, and he enfolded the Sentry in a rib-cracking embrace that left them both laughing. "Bane!" he shouted, shaking his head in disbelief. "It cannot be!"
"Elrond's balls, it is so," Bane said, grinning at his friend, "and you will be pleased to learn that your advice did me some good, in the end. It seems that Sentry is the only position that I can succeed at; they would have placed me against Imion if I tried out for anything higher. You know how he is with a blade, and his hand-to-hand combat-Well," he went on with a slightly forced smile, "what makes you so exhausted? Deny me at your peril."
"If you had an irritable member of the elvish royalty in tow, you would feel the same," he said, clapping Bane good-naturedly on his back. "But duty calls. There are orcs on the move," he told his companion, his face grave, "and the Rangers must be warned. All of them."
"How-" Bane started, brow creased in confusion. "How can you know?"
"There was a scouting party," he replied, "unusually large, and cowardly-they fled before I could kill more than one. They have new weapons, fresh orders, and something tells me that we are on the verge of a new kind of attack. It is only a feeling, but it is strong. Very strong."
"Selaine will have my head to top her tent if I leave my post," Bane said doubtfully. "Can you not leave the elflet?"
"How could you even remotely think that I want her with me?" he shouted, his temper fraying dangerously. "She is an accursed complication, and I would be glad to rid myself of her! If I could leave her in the forest to find her own way home, I would do it gladly, but I cannot break an oath. Do you want a lovely, arrogant, shapely, stubborn maiden saddled to you? Then by all means, speak!"
He stopped speaking. Bane was staring at him as if he had sprouted an extra head. After a silent moment, in which he began to regret his outburst extremely, Bane began to laugh. He bent forward, abandoning all Sentry-like authority for unaltered mirth, grasping his knees with shaking fingers. Strange noises began to issue from his mouth as if he was trying to speak, and Aragorn watched, torn between amusement and annoyance, until he had pulled himself under control and straightened up to face him.
"You truly expect me to believe you hate her this much?" he said, wiping away an errant tear of laughter. "What has she done to you, to twist your thoughts so? Only a very skilled maid could make you think you disliked her when you are so obviously interested. I must congratulate her when I see her, by all means."
"You will do no such thing," Aragorn said. He was grappling with his insulted dignity, but it was slowly slipping away. "But let me tell you, my friend, if you had seen her as I did, you would not hesitate to praise her."
"If you did such to her face," Bane said shrewdly, "I can imagine you will have soured her against you. Sometimes, Aragorn, I think you are a fool."
"And I think you are drunk on promotion," Aragorn said with a grin. "Your head will split if you smile once more. If you are afraid Selaine will spoil your mood, I will go in your stead, but while we wait for Arwen, a round of sparring will most definitely not hurt you."
"Against you? Likely it could. But I am tired of standing and waiting. Where is your elf, for want of a serviceable explanation?"
"She took the cliff very well, and I sent her up for the rope."
"You truly do love to dally with your life, don't you?" Bane said, shaking his head. "Have you considered what will happen to you if she dies?"
"Worry not," Aragorn replied, "I have considered both my death and her own, and I know she will not fall."
"Your confidence is beyond me," Bane said slowly, "but it reassures me without fail. One round, then?"
In answer, Aragorn dropped both packs and drew his sword.
Through her dazed, worn state, Arwen heard the distant clash and ring of blades, but her mind redirected it into the back with other small things of insignificance before she could consider what it might mean. Her arms had stopped their incessant trembling, but her sweat-drenched tunic clung to her back and breasts, and every so often her feet lost their hold in the soft sand. Her ankle was throbbing, a constant, pulsating pressure, but there was no emotion behind her weariness-only a state of suspended calm.
When she had reached the top of the cliff, flung the rope down, and realized she could no longer use it, it had taken gentle hold. It was like a heightened state of fear, the perfection of terror, and it reenforced her strength and courage every time she slipped and lost her hold. Once, she had slid down the cliff face, her sweat-slick hands refusing to move, a shriek suspended on her lips, but the ledge below had broken her fall. It had taken her a long time, too long, to recover.
Just the thought that there was no rope made it worse-nothing to break her fall, nothing to slice into her hands and reassure her that it was real. And so it went on, her control slipping, her strength ebbing away, but her will bolstered by the accursed calm. Until the end.
That was the fall that had ended in the sand, sand that had seemed so soft and yielding to her feet before but that bent her leg underneath her and turned her ankle the wrong way. It was beating to the rhythm of her heart, a strong, relentless pain. No, no, no, no.
The sound of metal on metal continued, growing louder and more insistent. Finally, she realized what was she was hearing, but it was too late to retrace her steps. She was standing directly in front of Aragorn and his opponent, who was holding his sword in one hand, his feet moving in an intricate pattern uncontrolled by and strangely fitted to the angle of his head and the easy sweep and parry of the blade. She had seen swordplay before; Rumil had attempted to instruct her so many times, but never like this.
She never thought of the danger to him-the other, shorter than him by at least a head and dressed in similar clothes, had a look of intense concentration on his roughened features, but his eyes were infused with laughter. Every now and then, when the tip of Aragorn's sword darted past his guard, he nodded his head in recognition, and when he himself made a skillful pass his face broke out in a wolfish smile.
"Do you think you can weary me with your dancing?" he cried, stepping back to avoid a carefully controlled sweep at his head. "In the end, strength will win any battle."
"I disagree," Aragorn replied between clenched lips, "and this is why you would lose to Seliane. You may be strong, but she can slip past your sword, and easily. If the enemy were like her, you would be dead before you could even try to bear down on them."
"But they are not," the other said, as he attacked, his sword meeting Aragorn's and sliding down with a screeching tear, "and orcs will never be swift. They can be subdued with force-"
"You are getting too used to idiot opponents," Aragorn said with a barklike laugh. "Someday you will encounter someone of superior muscle, and find that your own arguments return to stab you in the back. I think I shall have to speed the coming of that day."
As he spoke, his foot slipped in the sand, and he forced himself back up with a brief grimace of self-disgust. The other lunged, and Aragorn blocked the thrust with his usual ease, his shaggy head twisting to lock his eyes on his opponent's face. Some time in the next minute, Arwen felt her own spent state bow in deference to what she was witnessing; a silent testimony to his hold on her mind.
I will be rid of you, she told him. Without words, it was less biting. She wished she could shout it. I will have my revenge.
His foot had slid again, and this time it was a sharper miscalculation. His opponent's sword grazed his breast, tearing a slit in the cloth. "Ah," he said, quietly. His face was covered in a light sheen of sweat. "Not so quick, then, after all? Have thoughts of your maiden tied your mind?"
Arwen drew in her breath with a hiss. It could only mean one thing-that he had spoken of her while she was gone. In the space of an instant, she had gone from slight hostility towards her warden's attacker to a potent desire to pick up a rock and fling it at Aragorn's head from behind. Ah, satisfaction.
Once again, his opponent's pierced through Aragorn's guard, his sword touching the unshaved beginnings of a beard at his neck. Aragorn's eyes closed, his mouth set in dissatisfaction-
-and he dropped, rolling to the side with the grace and agility of a cat. Before the other could do more than settle into a deeper stance, he was standing again, attacking from behind, his blade flashing and dipping like a crazed springtime swallow. Eyes, widening, a shout of insane triumph, cry-silver-soaring-
The sword landed quivering in the sand a foot away from her, and with it, the perfect plan for revenge.
Aragorn was thoroughly satisfied with the results of the match. It had felt perversely good to send Bane's sword spinning out of his hand, to see his friend's look of disbelief. It was one of his favorite ruses, and every so often he used it on a particularly difficult opponent-as Bane had proved to become. So much happened every time he was gone; many times he had seen a man he thought he knew transform, and not always for the better.
The scrape of his sword against the soft stone was seductive, drawing him into its rhythm with its quiet whisper. It was one of the few things that remained unchanging, along with Selaine's irresistible, forbidden grace, his own ability to lose touch with himself after a fight, and the lift and swell of the Misty Mountains on the far distant horizon. He supposed he should add insufferable elf maidens to the list, but what exactly was consistent about them was yet to be explained. Arwen seemed to change tactics moment by moment, and the only one he had found agreeable so far was that impish, disarming grin she'd given him before beginning to climb.
He glanced over at her and saw her talking with Bane, her head tilted to one side, hands moving in the air as if to illustrate her words. Taken aback, he looked again, and saw an attentive, almost caring look on the Sentry's face as he listening, absently cleaning his sword with a cloth. She was standing with her shoulders thrown defiantly back, but he could see she did it with effort. It was written in the way she seemed to wrench her attention back to the man speaking to her every time he paused, the tired curl of her fingertips. He knew fatigue, and she was only barely standing.
Not for the first time since she'd picked up Bane's sword and presented it to him hilt-first with an elvish bow given only to the highest royalty, he wondered if he should have made her climb. She had shown extraordinary skill for the first time she'd attempted the cliff, and he figured it would do her no harm at all show her some of his power over her. Instead, it seemed that he had made a serious mistake.
It surprised him how much it pained to admit that.
Bane beckoned her closer to him, his lips moving quickly, and she took a step towards him. Aragorn was stabbed with guilt when he saw the way she held her foot, the toe of her boot barely touching the ground. Every inch of her screamed of pain. It could be broken-fractured-splintered-
He was up and striding towards her before Bane could finish his sentence, his teeth clenched. What a little fool she was, to pretend she wasn't injured when every step she took was making it worse. Elrond had never exhibited this type of stubbornness-she was the most exceptional black sheep he'd ever seen...
Reaching her, he took her upper arm in a firm grip and dragged her away from a startled Bane, who thankfully didn't protest. To his immense relief, all she did was stare for a moment before looking guiltily away. He spun her so that she faced away from Bane and murmured, "Do you know what I'm going to say?" It took him intense effort not to take her by the shoulders and shake her until she answered.
She pulled out of his grip. Her face was pale, but her lips quirked. "No, my lord and-"
"Yes," he said, disregarding her all-too-obvious sarcasm, "your master. Before you get yourself into any more trouble with that lovely mouth of yours, recall what happened the last time you opened it. Please," he said, flinging semblance to one side, "explain exactly what happened to you, and with as little attempts at insulting me as possible. If you can."
"It's unfortunate you weren't there to see it," she said, with another courtly obeisance, but this time she had a small, self-deprecating smile on her lips. "Without the rope, I was an absolute wreck."
"You fell."
"Yes."
"And likely broke your ankle."
"I'll have to leave such judgment to you, O healer of the unworthy."
In spite of himself, he chuckled. "You are hardly undeserving of my attentions, gracious flower," he told hr, "and if you resist, I will have to subdue you by force."
"To take advantage of a wounded maid!" she said sharply. Was that a wink that fluttered her eye shut, or chance? "Oh, to be so cold."
"When chance presents itself, it is only a man asleep who will not take it up," he admonished sagely. "If you can walk..."
"Who said that?" she asked as she followed him. I was not of the opinion that your people were of-were great scholars," she finished, with a attempt at jocularity.
"The gasp of pain ruined that one," he said dryly, "but your surprise seemed genuine enough. I am wounded!" he cried. "It is not often my wisdom is disregarded!"
"The sarcasm is dripping," she replied with a dismissive gesture. "Now, my gallant hero, will you heal me?"
Deciding not to point out that it was the first close-to-civil request she'd made to him in three days, he removed the offending boot. Her ankle was grossly swollen, and he had so much difficulty trying to roll her breeches up to the knee that he had to draw out his dagger and slit the cloth. Her mouth opened, but she appeared to decide against speaking. He bit back a thankful sigh.
Running the tips of his second and third fingers over her skin, he discerned with what limited skills he had that she had merely twisted it. There was the small possibility of a sprain, but the bone was intact, at least. Healing had never been a strong point of his, and Bane was even worse. He would have to wait for Imion, whose fighting skills just barely surpassed his ability to cleanse and mend. Just the thought made him bitter.
"You'll survive," he said shortly. "Once we get back to the camp, they can care for you better than I."
Realizing too late how sharp his voice had been, he looked up, prepared to apologize, and saw a veil drop over her face. It was shocking in its suddenness, filled with the depth and blackness of a dead man's eyes. She tilted her head back and sat up, her back ramrod straight. In the space of a moment, she had become the Lady Arwen again.
Aragorn rubbed a pungent-smelling ointment into the ankle and bound it up tightly-rather, he reflected as she stalked away, too much so.
Confusion. Anger. Disappointment, disgust, scorn. Arwen sighed. It was all she could do to keep on walking without trying one of the scores of scathing comments she had prepared, without trying to name the primary emotion sitting heavy in her heart. Besides, the only thing she could imagine doing to lessen any one of them was slapping Aragorn across the face. Satisfying. Deserved. Stinging, delightful, perfect.
The truth was, she was going to have to be very careful. Bane had reacted very well to her attention, and she hoped the rest of Aragorn's kind and kin would oblige her so well. Excepting, naturally, Aragorn himself.
She had let down her guard in the face of his jests and unexpected good humor, and it couldn't happen again. It had been, to put it frankly, totally unexpected, and not all that unpleasant, if she forgot his unwashed, dirty, dull, rude...
What?
She pulled surreptitiously at her tunic, trying to straighten out the wrinkles. The truth was, she wasn't all that fresh either, and she felt horrible. That was probably what Aragorn and Bane had held their quick, heated final exchange about: herself. It was enough having Aragorn centrally focused on her, without the stares of the entire mortal population of Arda thrown in as well!
But then again, she was an elf. Everything from her milk-white skin to the delicate point of her ears was strange.
She could probably attempt an accurate portrait of Aragorn's back and be satisfied with the results, she thought bitterly. From the gentle waves of his hair to the slash in the back of his left boot, she had memorized most of the pertinent details, and many of the useless ones as well. For what reason, she couldn't imagine-maybe because she'd spent most of three days staring at it. The breath she'd been holding escaped her lips in a long, exasperated sigh.
Aragorn's relentless paces slowed, until he had stopped completely. She bit her lip. If she could have picked the worst thing to do at that point, she thought, it would have to have been that.
Aragorn didn't speak until she came abreast of him and watched him for a few moments, trying to discern what was running through his head. His lips were knotted, eyes closed, but his hands were at his sides, instead of on his sword hilt. Struck by an irresistible urge, she said, "O Master, forgive my sins," pitching her voice to reverence and praying he wouldn't turn on her at the same time.
"Elros," he said, "The Lay of Iluvatar. One of his finer works, if I may presume to judge."
"You forget Tar-Minyatur, surely," she said, disbelieving. There was already a fully-formed argument bubbling to her lips. Unaware, she began to assume her time-honored debating posture, letting his words filter deep enough to process...
Elros. The Lay of Iluvatar.
All he gave in response to her wide-eyed gaping was a brief smile.
Chapter Five: Old lovers are revealed (and slightly more than that), friendships are tentatively formed, and comfort fails to be given when it is needed the most. Ah, the hardships of lo- ah... life...
Author: Earanthiel
Cast: Arwen/Aragorn, brief Arwen/OFC, Rumil, Galadriel, Elrond, other OFCS
Genre: Drama/Romance
Warning: None needed this time
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.
Note: Tolkien says that elves drift in a open-eyed reverie when mortals sleep (to be poetic), but I took Middle-Earth into my own hands once again and assumed that they could sleep as well. I need dreams for my fics, especially this one!
Chapter Four: Poetry and Pain
Those next days were difficult, but in them I found something I never would have had the courage to see: that even when your mind rises up against your heart, it can be beaten back down. I fought many battles with what I thought I knew and what I felt.
Why did I loathe him like I did? Was it that I saw he was beneath me, and yet guarding me, or was it the mere fact of his mortality? Was is his jests, his indifference, and his sudden flashes of rage? Or was it, in fact, the opposite of all those things...
When Arwen had gotten over the ignoble dismissal of her horse, heard his explanation, and started after him with her mouth set in a tight line and her fists clenched-it wasn't all that horrid, really. True, she was sullen, disagreeable, and still acted like she was above him in every way possible, but her silence was much better than her arguments.
At least she was intelligent. Aragorn had told her that he'd seen a scouting party of orcs on his way to her and that he had to warn the Rangers, and she had accepted it without comment, nodding when he explained that they couldn't ride through the kind of forest they would be traveling. And all the time, not a word.
Of course, he thought, as they began another day of the same relentless quiet, it would be even better if she would drop her grudge and be more... more responsive. If she was trying to annoy him by pointedly not saying a word, it was working far better than anything else she could have done. It seemed that the discovery of her mad friend's attack on the orc-it was the only possible explanation-had humbled her, but it hadn't diminished her pride.
Pride. If he admitted it, it would tear him to pieces, but her attitude of automatic, almost unaware superiority was wearing him down. It was slow, but every time she looked at him with those scornful eyes, her mouth set it the barest curl of contempt, it made him want to take a supple stick and whip her within an inch of her life. The animal within him, baring its teeth, yawning and stretching in readiness to stir again.
Before, he'd thought they would have an easy time of this-conversation, perhaps a kiss or two. From the first, those perfect lips had been begging for it, but she seemed completely unaware of herself. She was beautiful, he'd give her that. It was probably a good thing she wasn't trying to arouse him, otherwise he'd have to throw honor to the wind.
There was the familiar boulder-the gorge was close, and he felt the soft thrill inside him at the thought. "We approach the camp soon," he said. "There's climbing to do-I hope your boots can stand it."
No answer. He hadn't expected one.
He looked back at her and saw her stop, hoist her pack up around her shoulders, and continue, a small frown on her face. Her hair was coming loose from the knot at the nape of her neck and trailing over her shoulders and chest. "You have the straps too loose," he said shortly, walking over to her and tightening them for her. "You will strain your shoulders."
She looked up at him, her eyes straying over his face, and he stood still under her scrutiny. When she looked away, it wasn't without a glance back up, and he wondered what she was thinking. Feeling.
"We have to climb into the bottom of the gorge and walk a mile," he told her, turning back to the little-used path. It had appeared a few hours back and continued its thready way through the trees to the drop, slicing downwards so suddenly it could catch any naive traveler completely unawares. "They'll lower ladders for us from the top. Do you think you'll make it down?"
She didn't answer, and he looked back with the beginnings of annoyance to see a small, knowing smile on her face. He raised his eyebrows, startled, and she said, "If you mean, do I fear, then no."
"You've climbed before, then?"
She inclined her head in agreement and began walking again.
Gone.
When Aragorn stopped, lifting a hand to indicate that she should do the same, Arwen ignored him and pushed aside a rough bush to stand at his side. For a moment, he looked as if he wanted to speak, but she looked in the decided other direction, and with an undisguised sigh he threw up his hands. He looked so ridiculous, frozen in the gesture Rumil always used when she did something uncalled for, that she had to bite down cruelly on her lip to keep from laughing.
"You truly think you can do this, then?" he asked, and saw her with the same secret smile on her face. Oddly, it reassured him. If she was going to act so wise and all-knowing, she would take the consequences.
Aragorn produced a rope from his pack and lashed it to a tree a few feet back from the sudden edge. "I will go before you, my lady," he said. "In case you lose your hold."
Before she could try and stop him, he crouched down and placed his feet on the first well-known hold. She could tell that he knew the way, his body falling into the familiar pattern of long practice. Well, she thought, it only heightened the challenge.
As soon as her own foot touched the rock, she knew. Trying to force down overconfidence, she slid her other leg down until she found a firm hold and wrapped her hand around the warm stone. If Aragorn could do it, she could as well. For a moment, her first foot slipped and lost its hold, and she bit back a terrified scream. She could hold herself up by her hands until the hanging foot found the rock face again, there was no need to panic-
A hand touched her dangling ankle, guiding it gently to the left and placing it on the next hold. Her breath escaped her lungs in a whirling gasp as she relaxed and pulled her booted foot out of his hold, and she heard Aragorn's voice below her, "It's not far. Look down."
"I-" she started, but his voice overlaid hers. "You'll never make it down before sunset if you can't see the next hold. Trust me on this at least."
The lift of his voice was so self-assured, so arrogant, that she forced her head around before she could even consider the idea. Below her, the seemingly random tumble of rocks formed the walls of the gorge, with here and there a tree clinging to the side, wizened roots desperately seeking purchase. She followed their progress down the cliff, to the roaring river that had dried into a trickle, through sun-warmed rocks and down a twisted path that disappeared into the stone-scattered distance. It was so high, so precarious, that she felt her breath catch and struggle in her throat. Valar, she whispered, help me. It's another tree, only another tree...
Summoning up the memory of the transcendent bliss, she was assailed with another, stronger memory. When Elrond retired to his room early, or with an important visitor, she would climb up the vines outside his bedroom window, tying her skirts about her waist to free her gangly, child's legs. Retracing her progress downwards had been harder for her, even then, but when she was with-
No. No.
Concentrating fully on blocking out the image, she found the next protrusion with her eyes and brought her foot down to it, shifting her weight to accommodate the change. The pack dragging at her shoulders, the dizzying height, the swirling terror of falling-they were a backdrop now, a distant hum like an insect outside a window. If she could fix her attention wholly on the challenge of the climb, she would forget his face.
From the set of Aragorn's face, it was obvious that he was surprised, and she warmed with happiness. That veiled stare he gave was so satisfying, especially the reluctance of respect. Of course, he would have expected her to be afraid-comfort with height was rare among her kind. That would be why he hung her clothes in a tree, she realized with a breathy curse. She would defy his expectations to the very last one, and the bullying, bragging mortal would be replaced, no matter the cost. And Gods, would it be satisfying.
She looked down, reveling in her small victory, and saw his head tilted up to hers. His face was devoid of any expression whatsoever, blank and yet oddly calculating, and it sent a dart of doubt into her glee. His muscular arms were outlined in the thin fabric of his shirt as he held the face of the rock, rippling as he looked away and shifted his grip on the rope. Many of his kind had used this path-she could where they had passed, where he wasn't even deigning to look. As she made her slow, liberating way down the cliff, she tried and failed to imagine the effort, the hours it had taken him to reach his strength and ability, and, reluctantly, how long it would take her. Her own arms were burning with the effort, her entire upper body stiff and painful-the nights spent sleeping on the ground combined with her current situation, and she was only halfway down the cliff.
The strange thing, she thought as she paused, catching her breath with difficulty, was that he made her more aware of her body than any other elf she had ever known. With her companions, she couldn't have cared about her figure and features; when Rumil turned over her heart had been the first time she'd begun to worry about the shape of her breasts, the curl of her hair. Aragorn made her think about every area-her muscles, or lack of such, her height, her eyes. It was as if she was the ambassador of an entire race, and she must be perfect, or fail.
Her hand, slick with sweat, slipped on the rock, and she began to fall. Her heart battling against her ribs, she fumbled for the rope, clinging to it so hard her knuckles went white. It was the second time she'd made a thoughtless mistake, and again it was because of her thoughts of Aragorn.
Not far, she told herself. He had already reached the sand and was standing, watching her. His piercing stare made her agitated, and as she tried to continue downwards she slipped again, her foot sliding off the rock and jerking her body down to the next hold. Ridiculously, she felt tears welling in her eyes. To be made a complete fool of, with the Man watching, assessing her every movement...
The same hatred surged up once more. Who was he, to make her feel so stupid and clumsy? He was only a hired guardian. If his behavior was any indication, life among the race of Men must be a curse indeed. But, of course, she would never have to experience such a horrible thing. Once she reached Imladris, she could forget him completely.
Galvanized, she passed both hands over her tunic to dry them and continued on down the cliff, clearing her mind into a blissful blank. The holds were spaced in a fairly even pattern, and once she figured out how to adapt her body to them she could find her way down without thinking. The distance lessening and her confidence rising, she glanced back once at Aragorn and saw him reaching into his pack, his back to her.
She jumped the last few feet and brushed her hands against her tunic, smoothed back her sweat-soaked hair, and took a deep breath. At the sound, Aragorn straightened up, a quizzical smile playing about his lips. "My lady?" he asked. "What is it you desire?"
"Why?" she cried, "why do you do it? While I make myself look like an utter idiot, you look on like Morgoth at a torture!"
"If you fall," he said coolly, "my life will be ended as well. If your father is devoted enough, he will rip me apart with his bare hands."
"Do you expect me to fall straight onto your back, then?" she demanded.
"By the end, you seemed skilled enough."
"Perhaps there are other reasons," she said. "Your oath to protect me? No matter how your precious pride was hurt-I have done nothing to you. Do you think to take your revenge on me, because of what my people have done?"
Infuriatingly, nothing in Aragorn's stance or face changed, and she watched him with no small apprehension. Her words seemed to have no effect, except for the smallest crinkling at the corners of his eyes, which made it look suspiciously like he was laughing. But no, that would have to mean-
"Lady Arwen," he said formally, startling her, "since you seem to feel the need to exhaust yourself further with this useless shouting, you may climb the cliff again and bring my rope back to me. It is valuable, as such things go, and I would be grateful to have it back."
For a moment, she was convinced she had misheard, and then the words began to sink in. Closing her gaping mouth in an effort to stall the inevitable truth, she said, "I believe I have not heard you correctly. Did you ask me to..."
"Retrieve my rope, yes," he said. There was a definite note of mirth in his voice now. "I will not wait for you, as it makes you so uncomfortable. Follow the path west."
Nodding to her, he turned as if to leave, swinging his pack up with effortless ease. Arwen's state of unreality had evaporated with these final words, replaced by an even stronger sense of refusal. She stepped in front of him, tipping her chin up to look him in the eye. "Do you think you can force me?" she shouted.
"No, I cannot," he said casually, "but I can warn you of the orcs that are likely to be infiltrating the forest as we speak. If they see a rope hanging down a cliff, they will look more closely, and see that there is a path below. Then they will find the Ranger's camp, and I will certainly not take the blame for their slaughter. If you do not want that on your shoulders, pretty one, I would suggest you do as I bid you."
Taking a step forward, he was confronted by Arwen once again, and this time there was a wicked gleam in her eyes. "My lord," she said, her mouth twitching, "I will gladly follow you to the ends of the earth and the heights of the sun. However, I can only do so if I am not completely exhausted. As I will not need this-" she threw her pack to the sand at his feet "-I would be obliged if you would take it for me. Now, if you will let me pass..."
With the tiniest toss of her head, she stepped around him, placed her foot on the first available hold, and began to scale the cliff. Not before, he noted, flashing him a very mischievous smile.
The Sentry confronted Aragorn halfway down the path, freshly polished sword brilliant in the sun, his face shadowed underneath a thick, dark cloak. Aragorn wearily gave him the correct words, hardly even glancing beneath the hood. The Sentry gave an ill-disguised snort that could have been a disbelieving laugh, and when Aragorn's only reaction was a cocked eyebrow, he pulled it from his head.
The tired, defeated expression on Aragorn's face was instantly replaced by delighted recognition at the sight of his face, and he enfolded the Sentry in a rib-cracking embrace that left them both laughing. "Bane!" he shouted, shaking his head in disbelief. "It cannot be!"
"Elrond's balls, it is so," Bane said, grinning at his friend, "and you will be pleased to learn that your advice did me some good, in the end. It seems that Sentry is the only position that I can succeed at; they would have placed me against Imion if I tried out for anything higher. You know how he is with a blade, and his hand-to-hand combat-Well," he went on with a slightly forced smile, "what makes you so exhausted? Deny me at your peril."
"If you had an irritable member of the elvish royalty in tow, you would feel the same," he said, clapping Bane good-naturedly on his back. "But duty calls. There are orcs on the move," he told his companion, his face grave, "and the Rangers must be warned. All of them."
"How-" Bane started, brow creased in confusion. "How can you know?"
"There was a scouting party," he replied, "unusually large, and cowardly-they fled before I could kill more than one. They have new weapons, fresh orders, and something tells me that we are on the verge of a new kind of attack. It is only a feeling, but it is strong. Very strong."
"Selaine will have my head to top her tent if I leave my post," Bane said doubtfully. "Can you not leave the elflet?"
"How could you even remotely think that I want her with me?" he shouted, his temper fraying dangerously. "She is an accursed complication, and I would be glad to rid myself of her! If I could leave her in the forest to find her own way home, I would do it gladly, but I cannot break an oath. Do you want a lovely, arrogant, shapely, stubborn maiden saddled to you? Then by all means, speak!"
He stopped speaking. Bane was staring at him as if he had sprouted an extra head. After a silent moment, in which he began to regret his outburst extremely, Bane began to laugh. He bent forward, abandoning all Sentry-like authority for unaltered mirth, grasping his knees with shaking fingers. Strange noises began to issue from his mouth as if he was trying to speak, and Aragorn watched, torn between amusement and annoyance, until he had pulled himself under control and straightened up to face him.
"You truly expect me to believe you hate her this much?" he said, wiping away an errant tear of laughter. "What has she done to you, to twist your thoughts so? Only a very skilled maid could make you think you disliked her when you are so obviously interested. I must congratulate her when I see her, by all means."
"You will do no such thing," Aragorn said. He was grappling with his insulted dignity, but it was slowly slipping away. "But let me tell you, my friend, if you had seen her as I did, you would not hesitate to praise her."
"If you did such to her face," Bane said shrewdly, "I can imagine you will have soured her against you. Sometimes, Aragorn, I think you are a fool."
"And I think you are drunk on promotion," Aragorn said with a grin. "Your head will split if you smile once more. If you are afraid Selaine will spoil your mood, I will go in your stead, but while we wait for Arwen, a round of sparring will most definitely not hurt you."
"Against you? Likely it could. But I am tired of standing and waiting. Where is your elf, for want of a serviceable explanation?"
"She took the cliff very well, and I sent her up for the rope."
"You truly do love to dally with your life, don't you?" Bane said, shaking his head. "Have you considered what will happen to you if she dies?"
"Worry not," Aragorn replied, "I have considered both my death and her own, and I know she will not fall."
"Your confidence is beyond me," Bane said slowly, "but it reassures me without fail. One round, then?"
In answer, Aragorn dropped both packs and drew his sword.
Through her dazed, worn state, Arwen heard the distant clash and ring of blades, but her mind redirected it into the back with other small things of insignificance before she could consider what it might mean. Her arms had stopped their incessant trembling, but her sweat-drenched tunic clung to her back and breasts, and every so often her feet lost their hold in the soft sand. Her ankle was throbbing, a constant, pulsating pressure, but there was no emotion behind her weariness-only a state of suspended calm.
When she had reached the top of the cliff, flung the rope down, and realized she could no longer use it, it had taken gentle hold. It was like a heightened state of fear, the perfection of terror, and it reenforced her strength and courage every time she slipped and lost her hold. Once, she had slid down the cliff face, her sweat-slick hands refusing to move, a shriek suspended on her lips, but the ledge below had broken her fall. It had taken her a long time, too long, to recover.
Just the thought that there was no rope made it worse-nothing to break her fall, nothing to slice into her hands and reassure her that it was real. And so it went on, her control slipping, her strength ebbing away, but her will bolstered by the accursed calm. Until the end.
That was the fall that had ended in the sand, sand that had seemed so soft and yielding to her feet before but that bent her leg underneath her and turned her ankle the wrong way. It was beating to the rhythm of her heart, a strong, relentless pain. No, no, no, no.
The sound of metal on metal continued, growing louder and more insistent. Finally, she realized what was she was hearing, but it was too late to retrace her steps. She was standing directly in front of Aragorn and his opponent, who was holding his sword in one hand, his feet moving in an intricate pattern uncontrolled by and strangely fitted to the angle of his head and the easy sweep and parry of the blade. She had seen swordplay before; Rumil had attempted to instruct her so many times, but never like this.
She never thought of the danger to him-the other, shorter than him by at least a head and dressed in similar clothes, had a look of intense concentration on his roughened features, but his eyes were infused with laughter. Every now and then, when the tip of Aragorn's sword darted past his guard, he nodded his head in recognition, and when he himself made a skillful pass his face broke out in a wolfish smile.
"Do you think you can weary me with your dancing?" he cried, stepping back to avoid a carefully controlled sweep at his head. "In the end, strength will win any battle."
"I disagree," Aragorn replied between clenched lips, "and this is why you would lose to Seliane. You may be strong, but she can slip past your sword, and easily. If the enemy were like her, you would be dead before you could even try to bear down on them."
"But they are not," the other said, as he attacked, his sword meeting Aragorn's and sliding down with a screeching tear, "and orcs will never be swift. They can be subdued with force-"
"You are getting too used to idiot opponents," Aragorn said with a barklike laugh. "Someday you will encounter someone of superior muscle, and find that your own arguments return to stab you in the back. I think I shall have to speed the coming of that day."
As he spoke, his foot slipped in the sand, and he forced himself back up with a brief grimace of self-disgust. The other lunged, and Aragorn blocked the thrust with his usual ease, his shaggy head twisting to lock his eyes on his opponent's face. Some time in the next minute, Arwen felt her own spent state bow in deference to what she was witnessing; a silent testimony to his hold on her mind.
I will be rid of you, she told him. Without words, it was less biting. She wished she could shout it. I will have my revenge.
His foot had slid again, and this time it was a sharper miscalculation. His opponent's sword grazed his breast, tearing a slit in the cloth. "Ah," he said, quietly. His face was covered in a light sheen of sweat. "Not so quick, then, after all? Have thoughts of your maiden tied your mind?"
Arwen drew in her breath with a hiss. It could only mean one thing-that he had spoken of her while she was gone. In the space of an instant, she had gone from slight hostility towards her warden's attacker to a potent desire to pick up a rock and fling it at Aragorn's head from behind. Ah, satisfaction.
Once again, his opponent's pierced through Aragorn's guard, his sword touching the unshaved beginnings of a beard at his neck. Aragorn's eyes closed, his mouth set in dissatisfaction-
-and he dropped, rolling to the side with the grace and agility of a cat. Before the other could do more than settle into a deeper stance, he was standing again, attacking from behind, his blade flashing and dipping like a crazed springtime swallow. Eyes, widening, a shout of insane triumph, cry-silver-soaring-
The sword landed quivering in the sand a foot away from her, and with it, the perfect plan for revenge.
Aragorn was thoroughly satisfied with the results of the match. It had felt perversely good to send Bane's sword spinning out of his hand, to see his friend's look of disbelief. It was one of his favorite ruses, and every so often he used it on a particularly difficult opponent-as Bane had proved to become. So much happened every time he was gone; many times he had seen a man he thought he knew transform, and not always for the better.
The scrape of his sword against the soft stone was seductive, drawing him into its rhythm with its quiet whisper. It was one of the few things that remained unchanging, along with Selaine's irresistible, forbidden grace, his own ability to lose touch with himself after a fight, and the lift and swell of the Misty Mountains on the far distant horizon. He supposed he should add insufferable elf maidens to the list, but what exactly was consistent about them was yet to be explained. Arwen seemed to change tactics moment by moment, and the only one he had found agreeable so far was that impish, disarming grin she'd given him before beginning to climb.
He glanced over at her and saw her talking with Bane, her head tilted to one side, hands moving in the air as if to illustrate her words. Taken aback, he looked again, and saw an attentive, almost caring look on the Sentry's face as he listening, absently cleaning his sword with a cloth. She was standing with her shoulders thrown defiantly back, but he could see she did it with effort. It was written in the way she seemed to wrench her attention back to the man speaking to her every time he paused, the tired curl of her fingertips. He knew fatigue, and she was only barely standing.
Not for the first time since she'd picked up Bane's sword and presented it to him hilt-first with an elvish bow given only to the highest royalty, he wondered if he should have made her climb. She had shown extraordinary skill for the first time she'd attempted the cliff, and he figured it would do her no harm at all show her some of his power over her. Instead, it seemed that he had made a serious mistake.
It surprised him how much it pained to admit that.
Bane beckoned her closer to him, his lips moving quickly, and she took a step towards him. Aragorn was stabbed with guilt when he saw the way she held her foot, the toe of her boot barely touching the ground. Every inch of her screamed of pain. It could be broken-fractured-splintered-
He was up and striding towards her before Bane could finish his sentence, his teeth clenched. What a little fool she was, to pretend she wasn't injured when every step she took was making it worse. Elrond had never exhibited this type of stubbornness-she was the most exceptional black sheep he'd ever seen...
Reaching her, he took her upper arm in a firm grip and dragged her away from a startled Bane, who thankfully didn't protest. To his immense relief, all she did was stare for a moment before looking guiltily away. He spun her so that she faced away from Bane and murmured, "Do you know what I'm going to say?" It took him intense effort not to take her by the shoulders and shake her until she answered.
She pulled out of his grip. Her face was pale, but her lips quirked. "No, my lord and-"
"Yes," he said, disregarding her all-too-obvious sarcasm, "your master. Before you get yourself into any more trouble with that lovely mouth of yours, recall what happened the last time you opened it. Please," he said, flinging semblance to one side, "explain exactly what happened to you, and with as little attempts at insulting me as possible. If you can."
"It's unfortunate you weren't there to see it," she said, with another courtly obeisance, but this time she had a small, self-deprecating smile on her lips. "Without the rope, I was an absolute wreck."
"You fell."
"Yes."
"And likely broke your ankle."
"I'll have to leave such judgment to you, O healer of the unworthy."
In spite of himself, he chuckled. "You are hardly undeserving of my attentions, gracious flower," he told hr, "and if you resist, I will have to subdue you by force."
"To take advantage of a wounded maid!" she said sharply. Was that a wink that fluttered her eye shut, or chance? "Oh, to be so cold."
"When chance presents itself, it is only a man asleep who will not take it up," he admonished sagely. "If you can walk..."
"Who said that?" she asked as she followed him. I was not of the opinion that your people were of-were great scholars," she finished, with a attempt at jocularity.
"The gasp of pain ruined that one," he said dryly, "but your surprise seemed genuine enough. I am wounded!" he cried. "It is not often my wisdom is disregarded!"
"The sarcasm is dripping," she replied with a dismissive gesture. "Now, my gallant hero, will you heal me?"
Deciding not to point out that it was the first close-to-civil request she'd made to him in three days, he removed the offending boot. Her ankle was grossly swollen, and he had so much difficulty trying to roll her breeches up to the knee that he had to draw out his dagger and slit the cloth. Her mouth opened, but she appeared to decide against speaking. He bit back a thankful sigh.
Running the tips of his second and third fingers over her skin, he discerned with what limited skills he had that she had merely twisted it. There was the small possibility of a sprain, but the bone was intact, at least. Healing had never been a strong point of his, and Bane was even worse. He would have to wait for Imion, whose fighting skills just barely surpassed his ability to cleanse and mend. Just the thought made him bitter.
"You'll survive," he said shortly. "Once we get back to the camp, they can care for you better than I."
Realizing too late how sharp his voice had been, he looked up, prepared to apologize, and saw a veil drop over her face. It was shocking in its suddenness, filled with the depth and blackness of a dead man's eyes. She tilted her head back and sat up, her back ramrod straight. In the space of a moment, she had become the Lady Arwen again.
Aragorn rubbed a pungent-smelling ointment into the ankle and bound it up tightly-rather, he reflected as she stalked away, too much so.
Confusion. Anger. Disappointment, disgust, scorn. Arwen sighed. It was all she could do to keep on walking without trying one of the scores of scathing comments she had prepared, without trying to name the primary emotion sitting heavy in her heart. Besides, the only thing she could imagine doing to lessen any one of them was slapping Aragorn across the face. Satisfying. Deserved. Stinging, delightful, perfect.
The truth was, she was going to have to be very careful. Bane had reacted very well to her attention, and she hoped the rest of Aragorn's kind and kin would oblige her so well. Excepting, naturally, Aragorn himself.
She had let down her guard in the face of his jests and unexpected good humor, and it couldn't happen again. It had been, to put it frankly, totally unexpected, and not all that unpleasant, if she forgot his unwashed, dirty, dull, rude...
What?
She pulled surreptitiously at her tunic, trying to straighten out the wrinkles. The truth was, she wasn't all that fresh either, and she felt horrible. That was probably what Aragorn and Bane had held their quick, heated final exchange about: herself. It was enough having Aragorn centrally focused on her, without the stares of the entire mortal population of Arda thrown in as well!
But then again, she was an elf. Everything from her milk-white skin to the delicate point of her ears was strange.
She could probably attempt an accurate portrait of Aragorn's back and be satisfied with the results, she thought bitterly. From the gentle waves of his hair to the slash in the back of his left boot, she had memorized most of the pertinent details, and many of the useless ones as well. For what reason, she couldn't imagine-maybe because she'd spent most of three days staring at it. The breath she'd been holding escaped her lips in a long, exasperated sigh.
Aragorn's relentless paces slowed, until he had stopped completely. She bit her lip. If she could have picked the worst thing to do at that point, she thought, it would have to have been that.
Aragorn didn't speak until she came abreast of him and watched him for a few moments, trying to discern what was running through his head. His lips were knotted, eyes closed, but his hands were at his sides, instead of on his sword hilt. Struck by an irresistible urge, she said, "O Master, forgive my sins," pitching her voice to reverence and praying he wouldn't turn on her at the same time.
"Elros," he said, "The Lay of Iluvatar. One of his finer works, if I may presume to judge."
"You forget Tar-Minyatur, surely," she said, disbelieving. There was already a fully-formed argument bubbling to her lips. Unaware, she began to assume her time-honored debating posture, letting his words filter deep enough to process...
Elros. The Lay of Iluvatar.
All he gave in response to her wide-eyed gaping was a brief smile.
Chapter Five: Old lovers are revealed (and slightly more than that), friendships are tentatively formed, and comfort fails to be given when it is needed the most. Ah, the hardships of lo- ah... life...