Beneath my Feet
Author: Earanthiel
Cast: Arwen/Aragorn, brief Arwen/OFC, Rumil, Galadriel, Elrond, other OFCs
Genre: Drama/Romance
Warning: Some fairly explicit sexuality in this installment
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: This side of Aragorn may be unexpected, but we all lose control sometimes... Don't worry, he has other aspects as well, and they are infinitely more... agreeable. If you take my meaning. !
Note 2: Aragorn is descended from a long line of chieftains of the Dunedain, and he would have leadership instead of Selaine if he had not given it up, as will be explained later... so don't flame me on it please!
Chapter Five: Healing
It is difficult for me to speak of Celebrian, to think of her. In the retelling of every tale there are hidden things, and to set this one out in its fullest form is to experience it again. Every time in my life that I have spoken of her, it has begun with sadness, and ended with the greatest joy. This, in my mind, is her message to me: be strong, my daughter. Oh, strong.
So that I could not feel her, I blocked her out. When I saw the orc, I remembered the events that led to her death. Even though she is yet alive, she is dead to me. But even when I wanted to remember, I forced myself away.
Perhaps it is the same with every other story, that the teller feels and sees and tastes it all over again. But this one, of all the happenings of my life, is the most poignant, humiliating, and in the end, beautiful.
Arwen was safely stationed in Imion's tent, pensively silent. The last time Aragorn had seen her, she'd been sitting on her cot, hands hanging limp on her knees. He'd given her something to think about while she was subjected to Imion's treatment, and hopefully she would take the hint.
The Rangers' camp must be a shock compared to the elaborate grace of Rivendell. A large clearing, precariously near the ravine they had traveled the day before, scattered with tents, fire pits, and racks of weapons, armor, and various supplies. Selaine, as leader, had the most distinctive, spacious tent, and rest of the Rangers, Sentries, Watch and Scouts added small touches to distinguish their space from the morass. He preferred simplicity, but the herb-dyed ropes securing his tent poles to the ground were enough.
Aragorn uncrossed his legs and lay back, trying to keep his eyes closed. The thick, rough fabric of the tent was hardly meant to block the sunlight, but it was efficient at diluting it, and the interior was pleasantly warm...
His mind wandered.
Come to think of it, Elros' works had been the ones that provoked the most idle speculation and heated arguments between him and the myriad other scholars of Elrond's house, during his years there. Even the Lord of Rivendell had disagreed with him about The Lay of Iluvatar, claiming it was rambling and ineffectual. Not such a black sheep, then, after all...
Elves were adept at hiding their emotions, he knew. Elros, brother of Elrond, was long passed into Valinor, and to be able to denounce his longest work as useless must have taken great strength of will. Aragorn himself had never had cause to be so unfeeling, or to appear so, and the effort it must take to school your face impassive and cold at a breath was more than he could understand.
Lulled by the sounds of muted activity a cloth's thickness away, he found his mouth thick with sleep, his limbs heavy, his eyes.
There were fingers brushing his own. Not soft, but weathered, as if they had spent years clutching daggers and pulling back bowstrings. Gentle, caring, as if they knew what he needed to feel and were holding barely back.
Aragorn's mind woke swiftly, leaping to instant awareness. His lips were thick, unwieldy, and he could barely open them to breath. Far from easing his weariness, the brief sleep he had been able to steal had only heightened it. But he knew who was sitting beside him.
She seemed to understand, and ran her hands softly over his body until he opened his eyes.
"Selaine," he said, still swimming up through sleep. "News does travel swiftly."
The unspoken leader of the Rangers of the west loosed the tie around her burnished copper hair, letting it slide down over her shoulders and brush the contained swell of her breasts. She closed her eyes as if trying to remember her words, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. He waited until she opened them, her lashes sweeping slowly upwards.
"Why didn't you come to me?" she asked quietly. "You owe me a report, if nothing else." Her mouth twisted wryly. "Is it too much to presume you could have other motives?"
"I was told that you were occupied. Did not Yves tell you my account?"
"I would hear it again," she replied. "From your own lips."
His hand found hers, holding it briefly before moving up to her hip. It was warm and hard beneath his fingers. "There is nought to tell. She will be home soon enough. In the meantime, Imion will care for her and I... I will care for myself."
Selaine smiled. "Perhaps you will let me help you."
He felt his loins stir at the provocative imagines her sultry voice produced, while memories of previous nights made their way to the fore. They had been lovers for years, fading between passion, desire, and simple lust every time they made love. This was the first time she had seduced him in broad daylight, susceptible to the eyes and whispers of the rest of the camp, but already the urges of the flesh were overriding worry.
She leaned down and brushed her lips across his, moist and heavy with promise. He didn't respond. Seeing that he was unmoved by her chaste opening of the game, she sat up slowly and removed her tunic, dragging her fingers up her own body as she did so. Her breasts were luminous, gently rounded, with only a three-inch scar to mar the golden skin. She had never told him how she came by it, and he had never thought to ask.
It took him a moment to realize the thoughts creeping into his mind at the sight of her naked body were only memories. The idea was a mild shock.
Kissing him again, this time with no floodgates involved, she twined her fingers in his hair and tugged playfully. She was as tall as he was, and her body fitted perfectly with his own-each line, every curve. He growled deep in his throat, muffled by her mouth, and she undulated her hips against his, murmuring wordlessly in his ear.
Gods, no. I won't let her. Not now, not here, not here...
It was difficult to maneuver on the thin cot, but he managed to roll her onto her back and press himself against her. That one place where all of his arousal throbbed, from the swell of her breasts against his still-clothed chest to her thigh pushing into his own, was rubbing against her womanhood in time to his ragged breaths. She gasped with pleasure, her hands fumbling at his tunic. "Come," she whispered, "let go. They'll never know, not the elf, not anyone..."
All the thoughts that had rushed out of his mind came flooding inexorably back, jumbled, tangled together
do you love this woman? no. but what is that the answer to. do you think she will ever be more than an enchantress you thought the elves were such and now you have both at your doorstep which one which one which one will you choose
"What is wrong, love?" she said huskily. Her lips were open, panting, her hands weak with desire. "Why do you not look at me?"
disgusting
authority debased a whore underneath you how can you ever take her commands if you know she begged to have you deep and deeper inside you how can you ever let her?
He bent down and kissed her, a hungry meeting of teeth and tongue and sweat that left them both unsteady. He had his answer. It was nature, nothing more.
Pushing himself off her, he stood up and placed her tunic in her hands. She sat up, confused, her eyes brimming with questions. Nipples taut, hair in disarray.
"I cannot give you orders," he said, "but I will not take you willingly. I can only ask you to leave."
"Still tired?" she inquired playfully. "Did you take another lover while you were gone?"
Behind the words flowed a powerful undercurrent of anger, anger and jealously. Aragorn opened his mouth and roared inwardly, letting his frustration go. She had every right to suspect, no matter how wrong she was, and if she was furious, then she was within her boundaries. He smiled, trying to keep his voice light. "No lover," he replied. "Only you."
"Then why do you reject me?"
"I have been wandering coated in filth for days; you do not want me now."
"You have had me on the edge of the battlefield before," she said, "like a beast. What is the difference now?"
"Is is the law that I must submit to your wanton lust?" he asked sharply. "I was out on your orders. You cannot ask more of me than that."
"I may do with you what I will."
Selaine immediately knew she had said the wrong words. Aragorn stared at her, his eyes half-closed, teeth showing where his lips parted. If there was one thing she had always been afraid of doing, it was reminding him too sharply that she commanded him, that what she had just said was true.
"All right," he said. His voice was low, intense. He extended his fingers and curled them inwards, a gesture of seduction and desire she could not refuse. "But do not forget that if I wished for the command of the Dunedain, I could take it back in moments."
Instead of standing, she slowly removed her breeches, watching him as she did so. He showed no outward signs of arousal, but she knew that it was only a mask. Inwardly, and in choice areas not so, he wanted her.
She smiled.
He beckoned again. His mouth was thin. He wanted no games this time.
Selaine stood and walked towards him, her hips swaying gently, drawing his eyes between them to her belly and lower, to the curl of copper hair concealing her womanhood. He made a soft sound, between animal and loving, and closed the distance between them, their lips meeting and burning as they touched. His tongue slipped past her teeth and she writhed, her hands desperately unclothing him and wandering over the hardness of his muscles, the softness at his throat and cheeks.
He placed his hands on the curve of her buttocks, lifting her easily. She had been fighting longer than he had, and she was no gentle maiden; her skin rippled with concealed strength. If she wanted to, she could flip him over and practically rape him, but she knew what he wanted. The only sounds she made were of encouragement.
He lowered her onto the bed and straddled her, her knees lifted on either side of his legs, one foot curled around his lower leg. He lowered his mouth to her breast, suckling at the nipple and the soft flesh around it, exploring every inch. All the while, one hand wandered lower, stimulating her until she opened her mouth, gasping with intense arousal. She looked up at him, her eyes pleading, and he covered her mouth with his hand as she groaned.
"They can't hear," she said raggedly through his fingers by way of explanation. "Everyone..."
"Quiet," he said harshly. "Don't speak."
She opened her mouth, strangely afraid of him, but he covered it again until he felt her lips brush closed. His movements had changed from slow to urgent, almost angry. "Aragorn," she whispered, desperate, but he growled wordlessly and she stopped speaking.
He traced her glistening nipple with his finger and she lay back, her eyes closed. Tremors passed through her as he spread her legs, his hands running from her womanhood down her thighs, calves, all the way to the trembling tips of her toes. Her hips lifted, straining, but he pushed her down. She was breathing painfully, her lungs constricted with lust. He grinned frighteningly as she bucked, trying to hasten the inevitable joining.
"No," he said quietly. "Not yet."
And he proceeded to pleasure her like he never had before.
She might have seen it as tender, loving, gentle, if it had not been for the suppressed tension in his eyes and hands as they stroked and pulled and rubbed, leaving no area of skin untouched. From her nipples to her swollen lips, all the way to her forehead and the small of her back, he used his tongue and teeth and fingers in ways she never could have imagined. She was sweaty, shaking, gods, everything...
She tensed, and he looked up from her belly, which he was trailing his lips breathily across. "What is it?" he asked. "Do I not please you?"
She didn't answer, couldn't speak. He brought his mouth down to the meeting of her thighs, working with his mouth and fingers in a careful rhythm, making no movement to conceal her small noises as they threatened to build, letting her stifle her own cries. She only was able to do so by remembering the self-control he was exerting by only giving, and never letting her.
Her teeth came down on her lips.
"Answer me," he said, his voice deceptively light. "Is what I do displeasing?"
She bit harder. He reared up on his knees, leaning down to kiss her full on the mouth, stroking her cheek with the back of his hand.
"Perhaps I have not done enough," he said, musing. "Shall I continue?"
She was aching, throbbing, burning for him, sated and yet desperately unfulfilled. And as much as she did not want to give in, submit, let him laugh at her admission of agony, she knew he would continue until she said no.
He moved provocatively against her hips, promising more to come, and still she did not speak. There were tears welling at the corners of her eyes, and he saw them and gave a low laugh.
For a moment, she hated him.
"Just answer," he told her, "say yes... or no. Two words, one choice."
He kissed her again, so intensely that it stopped her breath. Nipping her tongue lightly, he drove into her mouth with his own, taking cruel, unending possession until it seemed she would perish from lack of air. She pushed him away, gulping great breaths, her lips moving in tandem with her heaving gasps.
"What is it?" he asked. "Have you finally decided to answer?"
"No," she said weakly, thrusting the words past her abating breaths, "no, no-"
"Does that regard your decision, or the answer itself?" he asked wickedly, his eyes glistening with perverse pleasure. "I will ask you again. Are my actions displeasing to you?"
"No," she said again, and he threw back his head, shaking with soundless laughter. She gripped his wrists in both hands, wrenching his head down, and saw that though his mouth curved in a smile, his eyes were cold. "Stop," she said furiously, "stop now. If you wish to torment me, I will stand and leave. If revenge was ever deserved, your honor is now fully engorged with it."
"Leave?" he inquired, twisting out of her grip and pinning her hands above her head with one swift stroke. "I do not think you can."
His phallus was positioned at her entry, ready to plunge inwards and finally fulfill the intense throbbing, but her legs were flat beneath him. He spread them once again with his knee and she bent them, thrusting her hips forward and up so that he could take her without trouble. Her eyes were closed as he watched, belly fluttering with her shallow breaths.
"I so love to hear you speak," he said, perfectly still, "that I have one more question for you. Once again, it requires but a simple answer. Do you want me?"
"Yes," she cried, drowned with the pain and shame. "Yes, I want you, I want you-"
She would have spoken further, but he thrust his hips forward and buried himself inside that familiar deep warmth, pulling fractionally out and pushing inwards again, pulling out slightly more, thrusting to the unique, charged rhythm until his neck tensed, eyes closed, and this time it was she who muffled his guttural cries of release.
It was a little while longer before she climaxed, and in the moments before she could feel him acutely, so deep that it seemed he would pierce her heart.
Imion was mixing a salve for his latest patient, grinding the soft stone into the bowl in a slow, lazy rhythm. The tent was stifling with the door closed, but already the speculation around the new elf was staggering. She was feigning sleep in the closed-off partition, and doing it fairly well, but her breathing was irregular and her movements sudden and sharp to his practiced ear. She didn't want visitors, and he wasn't about to provide her with any.
His ears picked up the footsteps as they approached the tent, and before the newcomer could hail he swung back the fabric door and secured it with a quick movement of his fingers. Pushing his hair out of his eyes, he saw the distinct figure of his sister, Selaine, and inclined his head. "The Lady sleeps," he said. "If you would allow me a moment..."
"I would speak with her," she said impatiently. "Now, Imion."
"Her injury and exertions have tired her," he told Selaine calmly. "I will tell you when she wakes."
"What exertion?" she demanded.
"The cliff, for one. She took it twice."
"Why in the name of Arda-?"
"The rope," he said simply.
What has she said told you?" Selaine asked after a moment. She seemed nonplussed, but he couldn't be sure. Her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes glistened at the corners, as if with suppressed tears.
"She is not given to words, and understandably so," he said.
"Understandably? Has she bewitched you, too, brother?" Selaine said, setting her head to one side and giving him a long, calculating stare. "Is not Yves home?"
The insult to his honor and his wife wasn't as barbed as usual; he hadn't seen his sister so angry for a long time. He was one of the only men in the camp that she would reveal her emotions to, and he was honored by her attention, even when it was such a mixed blessing. Knowing that a reply would only incense her, he watched her until she let out her breath in a burst and said, "You will warn me when she rises?"
"Only if you are civil, sister," he told her, stepping back inside his tent. "I will not tolerate your jealousy under my roof."
Instead of replying, she raised an eyebrow and turned on her heel to leave.
Arwen stayed in Imion's tent for a day, drifting in and out of uneasy sleep. Twice, when she woke, she found herself clutching her pack with no idea why she was doing it, only that she had been urged to in sleep. Both times, she subsided back into the cot and let herself go to dreams.
She only saw Aragorn a few times, and their conversations were at best cordial. The longest consisted of only a few sentences, which, she reflected, were deceptive in their simplicity. He had stopped her on the way to Imion's residence on the second day, weaponless and dressed casually. His hair was tied back against his neck, face still scattered with stubble.
"I have had a temporary tent set up for you," he had said. "Beyond mine, at the edge of the forest. You will stay there until we depart for Rivendell. It should only be a matter of days."
"Am I to lie there all that time?" she inquired indignantly. "Am I not allowed to go where I will?"
"If you wish to blunder into others' tents and cause havoc, you will take the consequences," he replied. "I will not go so far as to call you my ward. The layout is simple, as you have no doubt deigned to notice, and you stand no chance of losing yourself if you stay within the boundaries. Beyond that, you are free to wander."
"My thanks," she said with difficulty.
"Any favor is yours," he told her, but there was a warning glint in his eyes. He might well, she thought, have added, "But 'ware which ones you ask."
That was one order, though unspoken, that she could not bring herself to disobey.
A few times, Imion's wife Yves visited, bringing one of her husband's remedies with her. She was a willowy, joyful woman with a brilliant white smile and an open, friendly manner that gradually eased Arwen's suspicions. At first, she spoke little to the other woman, accepting her treatments and salves without words, but every time she was trapped into answering a question or observing Yves' loving, playful manner with her husband, she found herself wondering. Remember, she told herself, remember what you have set out to do. Create an image of yourself that is agreeable to the rest of these mortal men and women, and set Aragorn up as a foolish boor. If they think he is treating you cruelly, it is better revenge than you can give him yourself.
The tent was drab, and she had nothing to brighten it up save bundles of the small, white flowers she found growing around the camp. They cheered her, for no reason she could explain, and she tucked them into her hair and wound them into the fastenings of her cloak.
The only clothing she had was a few tunics and two pairs of breeches, and she took care to keep them clean. On her first visit, Yves had showed her the women's bathing pool, pleasantly located underneath a waterfall and surrounded by an array of spray-soaked ferns. Once she got over the cold, she went every day, submerging herself until she was forced to emerge, gasping, fanned with water and light. Yves assured her, laughing, that any man caught lingering would be dealt with severely, in most cases by the woman he'd been attempting to observe.
"I met Imion that way," she said, tossing back her dark brown hair. They were sitting on the edge of the ravine, dropping leaves and watching them turn back and forth on their way to the ground. "Despite his undoubted skills-ah, despite many things, he is not adept at concealment. I saw him hiding behind a tree while I bathed. Once I called him out, he fled, but not before I got a good look at his face. I beat him soundly in combat, and things proceeded from there."
"It must have taken skill," Arwen said after a short silence. She was still uncomfortable talking extensively with the mortal woman, but Yves was exceptionally good at filling awkward silences, and so kind.
"Oh, I wager he was afraid of me," she said. "I was in a passion." She laughed and lay back on her elbows. "It was over in a matter of minutes, but it didn't teach him his lesson."
Arwen's reluctant curiosity was piqued. "You mean-" she started, incredulous, and Yves grinned.
"I was called off to battle the next day," she said. "Small band of orcs, thought they could slip past the Sentries; the usual. When I came back, covered in sweat and gore, all I wanted was to bathe in peace. Imion never did try out for Sentry-I talked him out of it. He hid himself better that time, but stepped on a thorn. He says it was because he was staring at me."
Arwen blushed a deep crimson at the idea. Yves toyed with a fallen leaf, pretending not to notice. "I stepped out of the water unclothed," she finished, "and that time he didn't run."
"I would never... have thought it of him," Arwen said eventually. She was hard put to control her mortification. Imion had always been so quiet and caring to her; to think of him concealing himself in the bushes to watch a woman bathe naked...!
"It's isn't as uncommon as you might imagine," Yves told her. "I'd place my best bow against a broken arrow that Aragorn's done it at some time in his life as well."
"Aragorn!" Arwen exploded, turning to stare at the other woman. "What?"
Yves threw back her head and laughed, her whole body shaking with convulsions of joy. "Oh... gods..." she gasped, choking on a giggle, "you looked so... I'm sorry, Arwen-I shouldn't tease you so. Life here is so much stranger, is it not? How I must portray it, with lusty men and lovemaking at the edge of the-" She clapped her hand to her mouth. "Anyhow," she said, looking such a mixture of dreamy and guilty that Arwen had to swallow a laugh. "Is it not shocking?"
"Exceptionally," she said fervently, unable to stifle a laugh. "However..."
"Yes?" Yves said, her eyes twinkling. "Perhaps your elvish haven is not so chaste, after all?"
"Oh, Valar," she said, suddenly ashamed. She had felt the bizarre need to match Yves' unashamed tale with one of her own, but now it seemed to pale in comparison. "Let me only say that it... involved wine. One thing you may not have here," she said boldly, "is fine drink, and it leads to certain..."
Yves' eyes crinkled with humor. "Say no more," she said, sensing Arwen's creeping discomfort. "I have felt the effects firsthand. We may not have the climax of perfection-" Arwen winced at the double meaning "-but it is enough to encourage even the most timid of souls. You may count on them opening a cask in your honor tonight."
"Tonight?" she asked, taut with anxiety, but Yves waved a languid hand.
"You'll see," she said, with the air of a child with a secret. "I'll leave Aragorn the privilege of telling you."
That afternoon, Arwen found out why.
After her customary cleansing in the pool, Arwen stood naked in her tent, exulting in the feel of the air on her skin. Spring was just passing into summer, with the insects dispersing during the heat of the day and congregating in frantic swarms at evening, but the nights were still cool. She spun in a quick circle, letting the excess water snap and spray out of her hair. It dotted her night-black breeches in even darker patches as she pulled them on and held up the tunic she was contemplating wearing. She hadn't dared to, yet; it was deepest green, with the deepest crimson embroidery on the neck and hem. It was her favorite comfortable, versatile garment to practice her woeful archery and swordplay, but it had a frivolous side that she loved. By way of excuse, she'd told herself she would wear it when she saw Cirdan, but now that she was here it was an irresistible temptation.
"It will seem vain," she said aloud. "I want to be as unremarkable as possible until I get out of here, and it's..."
It had always been the most fitted one she had, and it set off her hips and breasts to their best advantage. She suspected Miriel had sewn it that way on purpose; Liath had been courting her at the time, and the seamstress had caught him kissing her in the garden with his fingers wandering a little more freely than was proper. That was exactly what she didn't want here, of all places.
It was either that or, she saw, the deep brown one-the gray was soaked on account of her forgetting a cloth to dry herself at the pool. With a loud oath, she braided a few select pieces of her damp hair, twined them together at the back of her head, and let the rest fall into its natural curls as it dried. She gave her torso a last moment of attention with the towel, and, satisfied, began to slip the green tunic over her head.
A discreet cough, almost inaudible, disrupted the silence.
Shrieking, Arwen spun, her head still encased in the tunic. If she could just get her arms in and pull it down, she could see the intruder's face, but no, she was facing him with her breasts fully exposed! With another scream of shock, she turned and tripped over her pack, which was lying on the floor. Her knees hit the floor with all the weight of her body behind them and she gave an unmaidenly roar, fighting to extricate herself from the folds, her heart pounding with terror. It was Imion, she thought wildly as she found one arm opening and thrust the required limb into it. He would seduce her and she would have the entire camp hungering for her blood-
Jerking the tunic down over herself, she picked up the pack and stood holding it defensively, searching the tent for the intruder. Aragorn was standing just by the door, wearing that amused, satirical smile, leaning against one of the posts that held up the makeshift door. It didn't help that she knew he had every right to be amused. But no reason for striding in without a knock, the bastard!
"By Sauron's balls!" she shouted. "What in the name of Anfauglir are you gods-damned doing?"
He had the grace to look contrite, at least. Bowing to her, he said quickly, "You had entered your tent some time ago, and I thought you would be in a state to receive visitors. Apparently, I was horribly wrong-please forgive my misjudgment."
"You were watching me?" she cried, folding her arms and staring him straight in the face, willing him to lie. She was still shaking with terror and outrage. He closed his eyes, but couldn't keep the tiniest twitch from the corner of his lips, and she waved the pack threateningly until he controlled the almost-laughter. "Only as you walked back from the pool, my lady. I wanted to speak with you."
"You've just about ruined your chances of that!" she shouted. "Get out! Get out!"
She picked up a wooden plate from next to her cot and flung it at him with an inarticulate shriek of rage. It narrowly missed his head, as she had intended, and split down the middle with a sickening crack. He didn't move away, as she had intended, but crossed the distance in a couple of steps and wrapped one arm around her waist. She opened her mouth, prepared to let him know exactly what she thought of him, but was cut off by his hand. It pressed inexorably against her lips, making it impossible to speak or even scream, as he pinned her against him, putting an end to her writhing struggles.
"The camp will come to its own conclusions if you attempt to raise Morgoth with your screams," he said calmly, "and most of them will probably think I am attempting to have my way with you, which I do not want. I came to tell you that you must attend the gathering tonight, for the evening meal at least. You cannot be the reclusive blossom any longer, Arwen. The clothes you are wearing will do for the purposes; come to the central fire when you can. They all expect to see you there, and I know you are no coward."
He disengaged from her and left the tent without looking back.
She stood there for a long time, remembering the feel of his arm securing her against him, his fingers pressed against her lips. Finally, she re-braided her hair, teased one of the small, snowy flowers behind one ear, and followed his footsteps outside.
Evening was falling by the time he got up and walked to the fire pit, slipping a dagger into one boot. There was a possibility that the wine casks would be opened; Selaine had had a new shipment brought in a week ago, or so the rumors said. He believed it. They hadn't had a meal with fine drink since the last great battle, and he needed fine ale.
There was already a small group around the fire, stoking the embers, laughing and talking quietly. Snatches of voices reached him through the drifting smoke.
"... wouldn't understand, would you, you've only ever been a Ranger, above us Sentry types..."
"... venison, of course..."
"... rains-"
He was greeted by a ragged chorus of hails. The group consisted of both men and women, all dressed casually, weaponless aside from the occasional belt dagger and long knife. A few, he was sure, were concealing more than met the eye; he could see where the fabric tugged on the tip and hilt of a dagger in more than one sleeve. There was always the chance, he thought, and was glad he was armed.
Amras clasped his hand warmly, and he returned the gesture with genuine affection. "Friend," he said after the initial greetings and pleasantries, "perhaps this is our chance to fight together once again. I remember the Trollshaws with no small pleasure."
Amras grinned in recollection. "You were a young, green youth," he said, adopting a poet's somber tones, "as yet untried. You fought well," he added as an afterthought.
Aragorn snorted. "You flatter me. Two orcs, nothing more," he said. "You were surrounded by bodies, and you call me skilled."
"I have my proof," Amras replied. "The entire camp is making preparations, whether they're likely to be called to battle or not. And they are talking about you. Selaine will have to act on your report. The only debate is what she'll say. Common opinion is that she'll dispatch the best warriors and scouts in a wide circle, the usual, only-" he made an incomprehensible motion of his hand "-the best."
"Then I will have many days of rest," Aragorn said, only half-jesting. Selaine knew he had just been out for weeks, and his contract to Arwen was still standing. Once more, he wished it had never come about. All it was was a hindrance, and she wasn't doing anything to make things any more bearable.
Speaking of which, where in Arda was she?
Amras moved away, seeing him scanning the crowd. He was easily taller than most of them, and could see over their heads easily, but the one person he was expecting, nay hoping to see, was absent.
He had probably been too loose with his words when he said 'come when you can.' If she took them literally and arrived for the last few moments of the dinner, he would strangle her with his bare hands. Besides the fact that she would set herself up as shy and vain if she did, he had an absurd desire to prove to her that mortal celebrations could live up to immortal ones. In their own way, at least. Even if they weren't surrounded by sugared arches and strips of fluttering gauze, they could eat and dance as well as any elf.
Minutes passed. Aragorn sipped from a flagon of month-old ale and looked around, trying to conceal his increasing dismay. He'd passed by her tent, flipping up the door with his foot, but it was empty but for the shattered plate, the cot, and a few other scattered items. Perhaps she was lost, or she'd stumbled off the cliff in the approaching darkness...
If the former was true, she'd be able to navigate by the fire. It was enormous, fed by carefully dried logs and the occasional handful of herbs, which made it flare up even higher. The entire camp, excepting a few afflicted with summer fever and tended by Imion, was gathered around, roasting venison on dripping spits, sitting cross-legged, bantering back and forth, with the light of passion or boredom or expectation hot in their eyes. Normally, he would be in the thick of them, but he hung back, filled with strange unease.
They would not be attacked now, at least not without fair warning. There were Sentries posted around the camp, waiting to be relieved as the night wore on, and a few even father out. They would have a cold, quiet night. They would also, he remembered, be on the alert for any movement, and if Arwen made some ill-advised bid for freedom, they would bring her in.
He had no reason to be worried. She would come, if he had to drag her by her heels.
The thought was hardly reassuring.
The first barrels of the newest ale and wine were being rolled in, and he took it as a chance to drift away, his eyes scanning the edges of the shadowy forest. It was like something out of a painting: the brilliant lick and kiss of the orange-gold flames set in painful, comforting contrast to the blackness. Where, by the gods...
A hand on his shoulder brought him to an instant warrior's stance, fists half raised. His state of awareness slipped as he saw Yves, her face calm, dressed in a low-cut tunic and blue breeches. Her eyes were lidded, watching.
"Arwen," he said, and she nodded in understanding.
"I made a remark about the celebrations," she said, "and told her you'd explain. I told her about the wine-she'd said..."
"What?" he asked quietly.
"It would betray her trust," Yves replied, her voice low, "and that I cannot do. She has been through more than you think, and not all of it has to do with lovers and drink."
When he turned his face away, she said, "The pool."
"I had guessed it for myself."
Aragorn had never taken the path to the women's impromptu bath, and the absence of light made the whole process ten times worse. He had good night-eyes and a sense of his surroundings, but nevertheless, he felt awkward, out of place, and foolish, as if the night air had stolen his wits and left him an awkward shell of what he was.
The sliver of moon reflected gently off the pool like a sigh. There was no one there.
On the far edge, to one side of the small waterfall, was a few feet of those flowers she so loved to wear. He crossed and sat down on a rock, his legs leaden. The far-off celebrations were only just beginning, and from the sounds of it, they would continue for a long time.
You should find her, he said to himself, you should help her and protect her and discipline her and whip her and mend the plate she broke and fill it with water and tears.
Such strange thoughts.
So different.
Like her.
The bark of the tree was rough against her hand and arm where her tunic had fallen, exposing the alien white of her skin. They would never accept her within their community of jests and deadly seriousness. They seemed to fluctuate so quickly, two sides of a blade. If she tried, they would only wave their hands and reject her.
Had they rejected Aragorn? Was that why he was sitting with his head bowed, alone?
She had seen him turn towards the pool and followed after a minute; she didn't trust her tracking skills to see her to the water without being heard. But no matter how clumsy she was, he didn't seem to hear her. Glancing nervously back, she saw the distinct mass of flames, dark shapes raising flagons or writhing in strange dances that drew and held her eyes. Not so unlike her birth celebrations, only a week ago, or even less.
Not so unlike after all.
As she watched, uncertain, he shifted position, his boot slipping into the bed of perfect blossoms. The one she had plucked earlier had long since lost its spark, and she had discarded it with a whispered thanks. She hated having to give them up. It seemed a betrayal.
Absurdly, she reassured herself that she only wanted to get a fresh flower. If she was going to join in a mortal revelry, she had to be adorned like a queen.
Heart hammering, she stepped into the open and started hesitantly towards the silent Man. She had half-expected him to look up, or stand, or challenge her, but he remained unmoving. Her body tense, she stepped around the rocks and ferns without looking, her breaths furtive and hushed in the still air. Her eyes were on his crouched form.
"Aragorn?" she said shakily, stepping as close as she dared. "Are you well?"
"Yes," he said wearily. He did not turn to her or even look up, but she felt his attention fix on her. "I am well. Is it any of your concern?"
Stung, she pulled her reaching hand away, unsure of what she had been about to do. She was less hurt by his words than by the bitter tone in which they were spoken, but her feet wouldn't obey her mind's screamed commands to turn and take her away.
"It is my concern," she said tightly, "if you think to force me into a promise you will not keep yourself."
"I made no promise," he said. His voice was resigned.
"If you want me to throw myself into your drunken brawling, you should at least-"
"Be there for you?"
The wind soughed through the trees. Behind her head, the stars winked encouragement.
"No!" she said, her voice rising steadily towards a scream. "You think I want your protection? I want your honor! I will not debase myself in your charnel-house while you sit here and dream! You have no reasons for keeping me here except to flaunt me as your plaything, and I will have no more. Get me out, Aragorn. You swore. Get me out!"
He let her finish without speaking. When she had exhausted her rage, he stood up and took her shoulders in both his hands. She tensed, expecting him to shake her, slap her, but he took her chin in two fingers and turned her face up to his.
"I am keeping you here until the Rangers are chosen," he said, so quietly she had to strain to hear him. "We are on the eve of an attack, and I am not permitted to leave. Worry not; I will be glad to see you gone, but I would never keep you here out of spite alone."
Something inside her was released, a great weight of expectation and sorrow, and she stepped away from him and sank down onto the grass. She heard a breath, the sound of weight being shifted carefully to the ground, and his voice, but it was easier to ignore.
After a while, he stopped speaking.
She was tired, and cold. The one immortal in a sea of those destined to die, and she had never felt so alone in her life. It was as if the world was rising to meet her, clamoring for inspection and decision, but she could not even see the details, only a huge mass pressing against her nose and mouth and slipping down her lungs, malicious, evil-
"It seems that my rejection of your comfort was the wrong step to take," he said, his voice dragging her relentlessly to listen, to look up at his face. "I must now ask you the same question you asked me."
It took a moment to remember what he meant, and then she grimaced weakly and eased herself into a crouch. She favored the position when she was trying to stay alert, but this time she didn't need a reminder. "No, I am not well," she said. "I will leave it to you to figure out why."
"You will be returned."
"Easy to say."
He moved closer, and she pulled her outstretched arm away. A strange expression passed over his face, too quickly to analyze, but it frightened her. His eyes were pits in the scarce light, his mouth a sliver of dark. Then it passed, and she could see those loam-brown irises, the lips poised between thin and full, the hands still.
"Easier to do. We are close to your home, and there is the possibility that we will meet some of your kind. They can lift my oath as quickly as they can swing you onto the backs of their mares."
"Then you can go and fight."
"I doubt it. They will have no space for me."
For a horrible moment, she was impaled by the thought of what she was taking away from him. It was no wonder he had turned against her; from the moment he first laid eyes upon her she had bogged him down. She was keeping him from what he loved and thrusting him into her world as violently.
... as he had thrust her into his.
"If you let me go now," she said, "he would not hold it against you."
He looked at her. She closed her eyes. If he saw that she did not want him to leave her, that she was afraid of what she would find, that she quailed in the face of death, she would lose all that she had tried to gain.
"Arwen," he said clearly, "when your honor, or your conscience, or your guilt allows you to tell me who he is, I want the truth. All I know is that you fled from a lover's quarrel, and you were followed. The elf who is even now tracing your footsteps found the orc I killed, wrecked its body, and left it there. I know you were involved with him before he turned bitter, and that you do not like being followed."
Her hand dug into the ground, pulling up a handful of dirt and grass and crushing them together. The dirt stained her skin, her nails, her fingers. "No," she whispered, "I do not like being followed."
"Will you go to them?" he asked. "There is venison, still, and a wealth of-"
"No," she replied angrily, standing up and brushing her hands on her tunic to clean them. "I will not."
And with one last, furious look back, she walked out of the clearing and away, her jaw set and her hands stiff at her sides.
Chapter Six: The consequences of Aragorn's behavior towards Selaine come back to bite him, Arwen decides to abandon her ingratiating tactics for yet another method of estrangement, and Aragorn makes a devastating choice that will alter the plot line immensely.
Author: Earanthiel
Cast: Arwen/Aragorn, brief Arwen/OFC, Rumil, Galadriel, Elrond, other OFCs
Genre: Drama/Romance
Warning: Some fairly explicit sexuality in this installment
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: This side of Aragorn may be unexpected, but we all lose control sometimes... Don't worry, he has other aspects as well, and they are infinitely more... agreeable. If you take my meaning. !
Note 2: Aragorn is descended from a long line of chieftains of the Dunedain, and he would have leadership instead of Selaine if he had not given it up, as will be explained later... so don't flame me on it please!
Chapter Five: Healing
It is difficult for me to speak of Celebrian, to think of her. In the retelling of every tale there are hidden things, and to set this one out in its fullest form is to experience it again. Every time in my life that I have spoken of her, it has begun with sadness, and ended with the greatest joy. This, in my mind, is her message to me: be strong, my daughter. Oh, strong.
So that I could not feel her, I blocked her out. When I saw the orc, I remembered the events that led to her death. Even though she is yet alive, she is dead to me. But even when I wanted to remember, I forced myself away.
Perhaps it is the same with every other story, that the teller feels and sees and tastes it all over again. But this one, of all the happenings of my life, is the most poignant, humiliating, and in the end, beautiful.
Arwen was safely stationed in Imion's tent, pensively silent. The last time Aragorn had seen her, she'd been sitting on her cot, hands hanging limp on her knees. He'd given her something to think about while she was subjected to Imion's treatment, and hopefully she would take the hint.
The Rangers' camp must be a shock compared to the elaborate grace of Rivendell. A large clearing, precariously near the ravine they had traveled the day before, scattered with tents, fire pits, and racks of weapons, armor, and various supplies. Selaine, as leader, had the most distinctive, spacious tent, and rest of the Rangers, Sentries, Watch and Scouts added small touches to distinguish their space from the morass. He preferred simplicity, but the herb-dyed ropes securing his tent poles to the ground were enough.
Aragorn uncrossed his legs and lay back, trying to keep his eyes closed. The thick, rough fabric of the tent was hardly meant to block the sunlight, but it was efficient at diluting it, and the interior was pleasantly warm...
His mind wandered.
Come to think of it, Elros' works had been the ones that provoked the most idle speculation and heated arguments between him and the myriad other scholars of Elrond's house, during his years there. Even the Lord of Rivendell had disagreed with him about The Lay of Iluvatar, claiming it was rambling and ineffectual. Not such a black sheep, then, after all...
Elves were adept at hiding their emotions, he knew. Elros, brother of Elrond, was long passed into Valinor, and to be able to denounce his longest work as useless must have taken great strength of will. Aragorn himself had never had cause to be so unfeeling, or to appear so, and the effort it must take to school your face impassive and cold at a breath was more than he could understand.
Lulled by the sounds of muted activity a cloth's thickness away, he found his mouth thick with sleep, his limbs heavy, his eyes.
There were fingers brushing his own. Not soft, but weathered, as if they had spent years clutching daggers and pulling back bowstrings. Gentle, caring, as if they knew what he needed to feel and were holding barely back.
Aragorn's mind woke swiftly, leaping to instant awareness. His lips were thick, unwieldy, and he could barely open them to breath. Far from easing his weariness, the brief sleep he had been able to steal had only heightened it. But he knew who was sitting beside him.
She seemed to understand, and ran her hands softly over his body until he opened his eyes.
"Selaine," he said, still swimming up through sleep. "News does travel swiftly."
The unspoken leader of the Rangers of the west loosed the tie around her burnished copper hair, letting it slide down over her shoulders and brush the contained swell of her breasts. She closed her eyes as if trying to remember her words, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. He waited until she opened them, her lashes sweeping slowly upwards.
"Why didn't you come to me?" she asked quietly. "You owe me a report, if nothing else." Her mouth twisted wryly. "Is it too much to presume you could have other motives?"
"I was told that you were occupied. Did not Yves tell you my account?"
"I would hear it again," she replied. "From your own lips."
His hand found hers, holding it briefly before moving up to her hip. It was warm and hard beneath his fingers. "There is nought to tell. She will be home soon enough. In the meantime, Imion will care for her and I... I will care for myself."
Selaine smiled. "Perhaps you will let me help you."
He felt his loins stir at the provocative imagines her sultry voice produced, while memories of previous nights made their way to the fore. They had been lovers for years, fading between passion, desire, and simple lust every time they made love. This was the first time she had seduced him in broad daylight, susceptible to the eyes and whispers of the rest of the camp, but already the urges of the flesh were overriding worry.
She leaned down and brushed her lips across his, moist and heavy with promise. He didn't respond. Seeing that he was unmoved by her chaste opening of the game, she sat up slowly and removed her tunic, dragging her fingers up her own body as she did so. Her breasts were luminous, gently rounded, with only a three-inch scar to mar the golden skin. She had never told him how she came by it, and he had never thought to ask.
It took him a moment to realize the thoughts creeping into his mind at the sight of her naked body were only memories. The idea was a mild shock.
Kissing him again, this time with no floodgates involved, she twined her fingers in his hair and tugged playfully. She was as tall as he was, and her body fitted perfectly with his own-each line, every curve. He growled deep in his throat, muffled by her mouth, and she undulated her hips against his, murmuring wordlessly in his ear.
Gods, no. I won't let her. Not now, not here, not here...
It was difficult to maneuver on the thin cot, but he managed to roll her onto her back and press himself against her. That one place where all of his arousal throbbed, from the swell of her breasts against his still-clothed chest to her thigh pushing into his own, was rubbing against her womanhood in time to his ragged breaths. She gasped with pleasure, her hands fumbling at his tunic. "Come," she whispered, "let go. They'll never know, not the elf, not anyone..."
All the thoughts that had rushed out of his mind came flooding inexorably back, jumbled, tangled together
do you love this woman? no. but what is that the answer to. do you think she will ever be more than an enchantress you thought the elves were such and now you have both at your doorstep which one which one which one will you choose
"What is wrong, love?" she said huskily. Her lips were open, panting, her hands weak with desire. "Why do you not look at me?"
disgusting
authority debased a whore underneath you how can you ever take her commands if you know she begged to have you deep and deeper inside you how can you ever let her?
He bent down and kissed her, a hungry meeting of teeth and tongue and sweat that left them both unsteady. He had his answer. It was nature, nothing more.
Pushing himself off her, he stood up and placed her tunic in her hands. She sat up, confused, her eyes brimming with questions. Nipples taut, hair in disarray.
"I cannot give you orders," he said, "but I will not take you willingly. I can only ask you to leave."
"Still tired?" she inquired playfully. "Did you take another lover while you were gone?"
Behind the words flowed a powerful undercurrent of anger, anger and jealously. Aragorn opened his mouth and roared inwardly, letting his frustration go. She had every right to suspect, no matter how wrong she was, and if she was furious, then she was within her boundaries. He smiled, trying to keep his voice light. "No lover," he replied. "Only you."
"Then why do you reject me?"
"I have been wandering coated in filth for days; you do not want me now."
"You have had me on the edge of the battlefield before," she said, "like a beast. What is the difference now?"
"Is is the law that I must submit to your wanton lust?" he asked sharply. "I was out on your orders. You cannot ask more of me than that."
"I may do with you what I will."
Selaine immediately knew she had said the wrong words. Aragorn stared at her, his eyes half-closed, teeth showing where his lips parted. If there was one thing she had always been afraid of doing, it was reminding him too sharply that she commanded him, that what she had just said was true.
"All right," he said. His voice was low, intense. He extended his fingers and curled them inwards, a gesture of seduction and desire she could not refuse. "But do not forget that if I wished for the command of the Dunedain, I could take it back in moments."
Instead of standing, she slowly removed her breeches, watching him as she did so. He showed no outward signs of arousal, but she knew that it was only a mask. Inwardly, and in choice areas not so, he wanted her.
She smiled.
He beckoned again. His mouth was thin. He wanted no games this time.
Selaine stood and walked towards him, her hips swaying gently, drawing his eyes between them to her belly and lower, to the curl of copper hair concealing her womanhood. He made a soft sound, between animal and loving, and closed the distance between them, their lips meeting and burning as they touched. His tongue slipped past her teeth and she writhed, her hands desperately unclothing him and wandering over the hardness of his muscles, the softness at his throat and cheeks.
He placed his hands on the curve of her buttocks, lifting her easily. She had been fighting longer than he had, and she was no gentle maiden; her skin rippled with concealed strength. If she wanted to, she could flip him over and practically rape him, but she knew what he wanted. The only sounds she made were of encouragement.
He lowered her onto the bed and straddled her, her knees lifted on either side of his legs, one foot curled around his lower leg. He lowered his mouth to her breast, suckling at the nipple and the soft flesh around it, exploring every inch. All the while, one hand wandered lower, stimulating her until she opened her mouth, gasping with intense arousal. She looked up at him, her eyes pleading, and he covered her mouth with his hand as she groaned.
"They can't hear," she said raggedly through his fingers by way of explanation. "Everyone..."
"Quiet," he said harshly. "Don't speak."
She opened her mouth, strangely afraid of him, but he covered it again until he felt her lips brush closed. His movements had changed from slow to urgent, almost angry. "Aragorn," she whispered, desperate, but he growled wordlessly and she stopped speaking.
He traced her glistening nipple with his finger and she lay back, her eyes closed. Tremors passed through her as he spread her legs, his hands running from her womanhood down her thighs, calves, all the way to the trembling tips of her toes. Her hips lifted, straining, but he pushed her down. She was breathing painfully, her lungs constricted with lust. He grinned frighteningly as she bucked, trying to hasten the inevitable joining.
"No," he said quietly. "Not yet."
And he proceeded to pleasure her like he never had before.
She might have seen it as tender, loving, gentle, if it had not been for the suppressed tension in his eyes and hands as they stroked and pulled and rubbed, leaving no area of skin untouched. From her nipples to her swollen lips, all the way to her forehead and the small of her back, he used his tongue and teeth and fingers in ways she never could have imagined. She was sweaty, shaking, gods, everything...
She tensed, and he looked up from her belly, which he was trailing his lips breathily across. "What is it?" he asked. "Do I not please you?"
She didn't answer, couldn't speak. He brought his mouth down to the meeting of her thighs, working with his mouth and fingers in a careful rhythm, making no movement to conceal her small noises as they threatened to build, letting her stifle her own cries. She only was able to do so by remembering the self-control he was exerting by only giving, and never letting her.
Her teeth came down on her lips.
"Answer me," he said, his voice deceptively light. "Is what I do displeasing?"
She bit harder. He reared up on his knees, leaning down to kiss her full on the mouth, stroking her cheek with the back of his hand.
"Perhaps I have not done enough," he said, musing. "Shall I continue?"
She was aching, throbbing, burning for him, sated and yet desperately unfulfilled. And as much as she did not want to give in, submit, let him laugh at her admission of agony, she knew he would continue until she said no.
He moved provocatively against her hips, promising more to come, and still she did not speak. There were tears welling at the corners of her eyes, and he saw them and gave a low laugh.
For a moment, she hated him.
"Just answer," he told her, "say yes... or no. Two words, one choice."
He kissed her again, so intensely that it stopped her breath. Nipping her tongue lightly, he drove into her mouth with his own, taking cruel, unending possession until it seemed she would perish from lack of air. She pushed him away, gulping great breaths, her lips moving in tandem with her heaving gasps.
"What is it?" he asked. "Have you finally decided to answer?"
"No," she said weakly, thrusting the words past her abating breaths, "no, no-"
"Does that regard your decision, or the answer itself?" he asked wickedly, his eyes glistening with perverse pleasure. "I will ask you again. Are my actions displeasing to you?"
"No," she said again, and he threw back his head, shaking with soundless laughter. She gripped his wrists in both hands, wrenching his head down, and saw that though his mouth curved in a smile, his eyes were cold. "Stop," she said furiously, "stop now. If you wish to torment me, I will stand and leave. If revenge was ever deserved, your honor is now fully engorged with it."
"Leave?" he inquired, twisting out of her grip and pinning her hands above her head with one swift stroke. "I do not think you can."
His phallus was positioned at her entry, ready to plunge inwards and finally fulfill the intense throbbing, but her legs were flat beneath him. He spread them once again with his knee and she bent them, thrusting her hips forward and up so that he could take her without trouble. Her eyes were closed as he watched, belly fluttering with her shallow breaths.
"I so love to hear you speak," he said, perfectly still, "that I have one more question for you. Once again, it requires but a simple answer. Do you want me?"
"Yes," she cried, drowned with the pain and shame. "Yes, I want you, I want you-"
She would have spoken further, but he thrust his hips forward and buried himself inside that familiar deep warmth, pulling fractionally out and pushing inwards again, pulling out slightly more, thrusting to the unique, charged rhythm until his neck tensed, eyes closed, and this time it was she who muffled his guttural cries of release.
It was a little while longer before she climaxed, and in the moments before she could feel him acutely, so deep that it seemed he would pierce her heart.
Imion was mixing a salve for his latest patient, grinding the soft stone into the bowl in a slow, lazy rhythm. The tent was stifling with the door closed, but already the speculation around the new elf was staggering. She was feigning sleep in the closed-off partition, and doing it fairly well, but her breathing was irregular and her movements sudden and sharp to his practiced ear. She didn't want visitors, and he wasn't about to provide her with any.
His ears picked up the footsteps as they approached the tent, and before the newcomer could hail he swung back the fabric door and secured it with a quick movement of his fingers. Pushing his hair out of his eyes, he saw the distinct figure of his sister, Selaine, and inclined his head. "The Lady sleeps," he said. "If you would allow me a moment..."
"I would speak with her," she said impatiently. "Now, Imion."
"Her injury and exertions have tired her," he told Selaine calmly. "I will tell you when she wakes."
"What exertion?" she demanded.
"The cliff, for one. She took it twice."
"Why in the name of Arda-?"
"The rope," he said simply.
What has she said told you?" Selaine asked after a moment. She seemed nonplussed, but he couldn't be sure. Her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes glistened at the corners, as if with suppressed tears.
"She is not given to words, and understandably so," he said.
"Understandably? Has she bewitched you, too, brother?" Selaine said, setting her head to one side and giving him a long, calculating stare. "Is not Yves home?"
The insult to his honor and his wife wasn't as barbed as usual; he hadn't seen his sister so angry for a long time. He was one of the only men in the camp that she would reveal her emotions to, and he was honored by her attention, even when it was such a mixed blessing. Knowing that a reply would only incense her, he watched her until she let out her breath in a burst and said, "You will warn me when she rises?"
"Only if you are civil, sister," he told her, stepping back inside his tent. "I will not tolerate your jealousy under my roof."
Instead of replying, she raised an eyebrow and turned on her heel to leave.
Arwen stayed in Imion's tent for a day, drifting in and out of uneasy sleep. Twice, when she woke, she found herself clutching her pack with no idea why she was doing it, only that she had been urged to in sleep. Both times, she subsided back into the cot and let herself go to dreams.
She only saw Aragorn a few times, and their conversations were at best cordial. The longest consisted of only a few sentences, which, she reflected, were deceptive in their simplicity. He had stopped her on the way to Imion's residence on the second day, weaponless and dressed casually. His hair was tied back against his neck, face still scattered with stubble.
"I have had a temporary tent set up for you," he had said. "Beyond mine, at the edge of the forest. You will stay there until we depart for Rivendell. It should only be a matter of days."
"Am I to lie there all that time?" she inquired indignantly. "Am I not allowed to go where I will?"
"If you wish to blunder into others' tents and cause havoc, you will take the consequences," he replied. "I will not go so far as to call you my ward. The layout is simple, as you have no doubt deigned to notice, and you stand no chance of losing yourself if you stay within the boundaries. Beyond that, you are free to wander."
"My thanks," she said with difficulty.
"Any favor is yours," he told her, but there was a warning glint in his eyes. He might well, she thought, have added, "But 'ware which ones you ask."
That was one order, though unspoken, that she could not bring herself to disobey.
A few times, Imion's wife Yves visited, bringing one of her husband's remedies with her. She was a willowy, joyful woman with a brilliant white smile and an open, friendly manner that gradually eased Arwen's suspicions. At first, she spoke little to the other woman, accepting her treatments and salves without words, but every time she was trapped into answering a question or observing Yves' loving, playful manner with her husband, she found herself wondering. Remember, she told herself, remember what you have set out to do. Create an image of yourself that is agreeable to the rest of these mortal men and women, and set Aragorn up as a foolish boor. If they think he is treating you cruelly, it is better revenge than you can give him yourself.
The tent was drab, and she had nothing to brighten it up save bundles of the small, white flowers she found growing around the camp. They cheered her, for no reason she could explain, and she tucked them into her hair and wound them into the fastenings of her cloak.
The only clothing she had was a few tunics and two pairs of breeches, and she took care to keep them clean. On her first visit, Yves had showed her the women's bathing pool, pleasantly located underneath a waterfall and surrounded by an array of spray-soaked ferns. Once she got over the cold, she went every day, submerging herself until she was forced to emerge, gasping, fanned with water and light. Yves assured her, laughing, that any man caught lingering would be dealt with severely, in most cases by the woman he'd been attempting to observe.
"I met Imion that way," she said, tossing back her dark brown hair. They were sitting on the edge of the ravine, dropping leaves and watching them turn back and forth on their way to the ground. "Despite his undoubted skills-ah, despite many things, he is not adept at concealment. I saw him hiding behind a tree while I bathed. Once I called him out, he fled, but not before I got a good look at his face. I beat him soundly in combat, and things proceeded from there."
"It must have taken skill," Arwen said after a short silence. She was still uncomfortable talking extensively with the mortal woman, but Yves was exceptionally good at filling awkward silences, and so kind.
"Oh, I wager he was afraid of me," she said. "I was in a passion." She laughed and lay back on her elbows. "It was over in a matter of minutes, but it didn't teach him his lesson."
Arwen's reluctant curiosity was piqued. "You mean-" she started, incredulous, and Yves grinned.
"I was called off to battle the next day," she said. "Small band of orcs, thought they could slip past the Sentries; the usual. When I came back, covered in sweat and gore, all I wanted was to bathe in peace. Imion never did try out for Sentry-I talked him out of it. He hid himself better that time, but stepped on a thorn. He says it was because he was staring at me."
Arwen blushed a deep crimson at the idea. Yves toyed with a fallen leaf, pretending not to notice. "I stepped out of the water unclothed," she finished, "and that time he didn't run."
"I would never... have thought it of him," Arwen said eventually. She was hard put to control her mortification. Imion had always been so quiet and caring to her; to think of him concealing himself in the bushes to watch a woman bathe naked...!
"It's isn't as uncommon as you might imagine," Yves told her. "I'd place my best bow against a broken arrow that Aragorn's done it at some time in his life as well."
"Aragorn!" Arwen exploded, turning to stare at the other woman. "What?"
Yves threw back her head and laughed, her whole body shaking with convulsions of joy. "Oh... gods..." she gasped, choking on a giggle, "you looked so... I'm sorry, Arwen-I shouldn't tease you so. Life here is so much stranger, is it not? How I must portray it, with lusty men and lovemaking at the edge of the-" She clapped her hand to her mouth. "Anyhow," she said, looking such a mixture of dreamy and guilty that Arwen had to swallow a laugh. "Is it not shocking?"
"Exceptionally," she said fervently, unable to stifle a laugh. "However..."
"Yes?" Yves said, her eyes twinkling. "Perhaps your elvish haven is not so chaste, after all?"
"Oh, Valar," she said, suddenly ashamed. She had felt the bizarre need to match Yves' unashamed tale with one of her own, but now it seemed to pale in comparison. "Let me only say that it... involved wine. One thing you may not have here," she said boldly, "is fine drink, and it leads to certain..."
Yves' eyes crinkled with humor. "Say no more," she said, sensing Arwen's creeping discomfort. "I have felt the effects firsthand. We may not have the climax of perfection-" Arwen winced at the double meaning "-but it is enough to encourage even the most timid of souls. You may count on them opening a cask in your honor tonight."
"Tonight?" she asked, taut with anxiety, but Yves waved a languid hand.
"You'll see," she said, with the air of a child with a secret. "I'll leave Aragorn the privilege of telling you."
That afternoon, Arwen found out why.
After her customary cleansing in the pool, Arwen stood naked in her tent, exulting in the feel of the air on her skin. Spring was just passing into summer, with the insects dispersing during the heat of the day and congregating in frantic swarms at evening, but the nights were still cool. She spun in a quick circle, letting the excess water snap and spray out of her hair. It dotted her night-black breeches in even darker patches as she pulled them on and held up the tunic she was contemplating wearing. She hadn't dared to, yet; it was deepest green, with the deepest crimson embroidery on the neck and hem. It was her favorite comfortable, versatile garment to practice her woeful archery and swordplay, but it had a frivolous side that she loved. By way of excuse, she'd told herself she would wear it when she saw Cirdan, but now that she was here it was an irresistible temptation.
"It will seem vain," she said aloud. "I want to be as unremarkable as possible until I get out of here, and it's..."
It had always been the most fitted one she had, and it set off her hips and breasts to their best advantage. She suspected Miriel had sewn it that way on purpose; Liath had been courting her at the time, and the seamstress had caught him kissing her in the garden with his fingers wandering a little more freely than was proper. That was exactly what she didn't want here, of all places.
It was either that or, she saw, the deep brown one-the gray was soaked on account of her forgetting a cloth to dry herself at the pool. With a loud oath, she braided a few select pieces of her damp hair, twined them together at the back of her head, and let the rest fall into its natural curls as it dried. She gave her torso a last moment of attention with the towel, and, satisfied, began to slip the green tunic over her head.
A discreet cough, almost inaudible, disrupted the silence.
Shrieking, Arwen spun, her head still encased in the tunic. If she could just get her arms in and pull it down, she could see the intruder's face, but no, she was facing him with her breasts fully exposed! With another scream of shock, she turned and tripped over her pack, which was lying on the floor. Her knees hit the floor with all the weight of her body behind them and she gave an unmaidenly roar, fighting to extricate herself from the folds, her heart pounding with terror. It was Imion, she thought wildly as she found one arm opening and thrust the required limb into it. He would seduce her and she would have the entire camp hungering for her blood-
Jerking the tunic down over herself, she picked up the pack and stood holding it defensively, searching the tent for the intruder. Aragorn was standing just by the door, wearing that amused, satirical smile, leaning against one of the posts that held up the makeshift door. It didn't help that she knew he had every right to be amused. But no reason for striding in without a knock, the bastard!
"By Sauron's balls!" she shouted. "What in the name of Anfauglir are you gods-damned doing?"
He had the grace to look contrite, at least. Bowing to her, he said quickly, "You had entered your tent some time ago, and I thought you would be in a state to receive visitors. Apparently, I was horribly wrong-please forgive my misjudgment."
"You were watching me?" she cried, folding her arms and staring him straight in the face, willing him to lie. She was still shaking with terror and outrage. He closed his eyes, but couldn't keep the tiniest twitch from the corner of his lips, and she waved the pack threateningly until he controlled the almost-laughter. "Only as you walked back from the pool, my lady. I wanted to speak with you."
"You've just about ruined your chances of that!" she shouted. "Get out! Get out!"
She picked up a wooden plate from next to her cot and flung it at him with an inarticulate shriek of rage. It narrowly missed his head, as she had intended, and split down the middle with a sickening crack. He didn't move away, as she had intended, but crossed the distance in a couple of steps and wrapped one arm around her waist. She opened her mouth, prepared to let him know exactly what she thought of him, but was cut off by his hand. It pressed inexorably against her lips, making it impossible to speak or even scream, as he pinned her against him, putting an end to her writhing struggles.
"The camp will come to its own conclusions if you attempt to raise Morgoth with your screams," he said calmly, "and most of them will probably think I am attempting to have my way with you, which I do not want. I came to tell you that you must attend the gathering tonight, for the evening meal at least. You cannot be the reclusive blossom any longer, Arwen. The clothes you are wearing will do for the purposes; come to the central fire when you can. They all expect to see you there, and I know you are no coward."
He disengaged from her and left the tent without looking back.
She stood there for a long time, remembering the feel of his arm securing her against him, his fingers pressed against her lips. Finally, she re-braided her hair, teased one of the small, snowy flowers behind one ear, and followed his footsteps outside.
Evening was falling by the time he got up and walked to the fire pit, slipping a dagger into one boot. There was a possibility that the wine casks would be opened; Selaine had had a new shipment brought in a week ago, or so the rumors said. He believed it. They hadn't had a meal with fine drink since the last great battle, and he needed fine ale.
There was already a small group around the fire, stoking the embers, laughing and talking quietly. Snatches of voices reached him through the drifting smoke.
"... wouldn't understand, would you, you've only ever been a Ranger, above us Sentry types..."
"... venison, of course..."
"... rains-"
He was greeted by a ragged chorus of hails. The group consisted of both men and women, all dressed casually, weaponless aside from the occasional belt dagger and long knife. A few, he was sure, were concealing more than met the eye; he could see where the fabric tugged on the tip and hilt of a dagger in more than one sleeve. There was always the chance, he thought, and was glad he was armed.
Amras clasped his hand warmly, and he returned the gesture with genuine affection. "Friend," he said after the initial greetings and pleasantries, "perhaps this is our chance to fight together once again. I remember the Trollshaws with no small pleasure."
Amras grinned in recollection. "You were a young, green youth," he said, adopting a poet's somber tones, "as yet untried. You fought well," he added as an afterthought.
Aragorn snorted. "You flatter me. Two orcs, nothing more," he said. "You were surrounded by bodies, and you call me skilled."
"I have my proof," Amras replied. "The entire camp is making preparations, whether they're likely to be called to battle or not. And they are talking about you. Selaine will have to act on your report. The only debate is what she'll say. Common opinion is that she'll dispatch the best warriors and scouts in a wide circle, the usual, only-" he made an incomprehensible motion of his hand "-the best."
"Then I will have many days of rest," Aragorn said, only half-jesting. Selaine knew he had just been out for weeks, and his contract to Arwen was still standing. Once more, he wished it had never come about. All it was was a hindrance, and she wasn't doing anything to make things any more bearable.
Speaking of which, where in Arda was she?
Amras moved away, seeing him scanning the crowd. He was easily taller than most of them, and could see over their heads easily, but the one person he was expecting, nay hoping to see, was absent.
He had probably been too loose with his words when he said 'come when you can.' If she took them literally and arrived for the last few moments of the dinner, he would strangle her with his bare hands. Besides the fact that she would set herself up as shy and vain if she did, he had an absurd desire to prove to her that mortal celebrations could live up to immortal ones. In their own way, at least. Even if they weren't surrounded by sugared arches and strips of fluttering gauze, they could eat and dance as well as any elf.
Minutes passed. Aragorn sipped from a flagon of month-old ale and looked around, trying to conceal his increasing dismay. He'd passed by her tent, flipping up the door with his foot, but it was empty but for the shattered plate, the cot, and a few other scattered items. Perhaps she was lost, or she'd stumbled off the cliff in the approaching darkness...
If the former was true, she'd be able to navigate by the fire. It was enormous, fed by carefully dried logs and the occasional handful of herbs, which made it flare up even higher. The entire camp, excepting a few afflicted with summer fever and tended by Imion, was gathered around, roasting venison on dripping spits, sitting cross-legged, bantering back and forth, with the light of passion or boredom or expectation hot in their eyes. Normally, he would be in the thick of them, but he hung back, filled with strange unease.
They would not be attacked now, at least not without fair warning. There were Sentries posted around the camp, waiting to be relieved as the night wore on, and a few even father out. They would have a cold, quiet night. They would also, he remembered, be on the alert for any movement, and if Arwen made some ill-advised bid for freedom, they would bring her in.
He had no reason to be worried. She would come, if he had to drag her by her heels.
The thought was hardly reassuring.
The first barrels of the newest ale and wine were being rolled in, and he took it as a chance to drift away, his eyes scanning the edges of the shadowy forest. It was like something out of a painting: the brilliant lick and kiss of the orange-gold flames set in painful, comforting contrast to the blackness. Where, by the gods...
A hand on his shoulder brought him to an instant warrior's stance, fists half raised. His state of awareness slipped as he saw Yves, her face calm, dressed in a low-cut tunic and blue breeches. Her eyes were lidded, watching.
"Arwen," he said, and she nodded in understanding.
"I made a remark about the celebrations," she said, "and told her you'd explain. I told her about the wine-she'd said..."
"What?" he asked quietly.
"It would betray her trust," Yves replied, her voice low, "and that I cannot do. She has been through more than you think, and not all of it has to do with lovers and drink."
When he turned his face away, she said, "The pool."
"I had guessed it for myself."
Aragorn had never taken the path to the women's impromptu bath, and the absence of light made the whole process ten times worse. He had good night-eyes and a sense of his surroundings, but nevertheless, he felt awkward, out of place, and foolish, as if the night air had stolen his wits and left him an awkward shell of what he was.
The sliver of moon reflected gently off the pool like a sigh. There was no one there.
On the far edge, to one side of the small waterfall, was a few feet of those flowers she so loved to wear. He crossed and sat down on a rock, his legs leaden. The far-off celebrations were only just beginning, and from the sounds of it, they would continue for a long time.
You should find her, he said to himself, you should help her and protect her and discipline her and whip her and mend the plate she broke and fill it with water and tears.
Such strange thoughts.
So different.
Like her.
The bark of the tree was rough against her hand and arm where her tunic had fallen, exposing the alien white of her skin. They would never accept her within their community of jests and deadly seriousness. They seemed to fluctuate so quickly, two sides of a blade. If she tried, they would only wave their hands and reject her.
Had they rejected Aragorn? Was that why he was sitting with his head bowed, alone?
She had seen him turn towards the pool and followed after a minute; she didn't trust her tracking skills to see her to the water without being heard. But no matter how clumsy she was, he didn't seem to hear her. Glancing nervously back, she saw the distinct mass of flames, dark shapes raising flagons or writhing in strange dances that drew and held her eyes. Not so unlike her birth celebrations, only a week ago, or even less.
Not so unlike after all.
As she watched, uncertain, he shifted position, his boot slipping into the bed of perfect blossoms. The one she had plucked earlier had long since lost its spark, and she had discarded it with a whispered thanks. She hated having to give them up. It seemed a betrayal.
Absurdly, she reassured herself that she only wanted to get a fresh flower. If she was going to join in a mortal revelry, she had to be adorned like a queen.
Heart hammering, she stepped into the open and started hesitantly towards the silent Man. She had half-expected him to look up, or stand, or challenge her, but he remained unmoving. Her body tense, she stepped around the rocks and ferns without looking, her breaths furtive and hushed in the still air. Her eyes were on his crouched form.
"Aragorn?" she said shakily, stepping as close as she dared. "Are you well?"
"Yes," he said wearily. He did not turn to her or even look up, but she felt his attention fix on her. "I am well. Is it any of your concern?"
Stung, she pulled her reaching hand away, unsure of what she had been about to do. She was less hurt by his words than by the bitter tone in which they were spoken, but her feet wouldn't obey her mind's screamed commands to turn and take her away.
"It is my concern," she said tightly, "if you think to force me into a promise you will not keep yourself."
"I made no promise," he said. His voice was resigned.
"If you want me to throw myself into your drunken brawling, you should at least-"
"Be there for you?"
The wind soughed through the trees. Behind her head, the stars winked encouragement.
"No!" she said, her voice rising steadily towards a scream. "You think I want your protection? I want your honor! I will not debase myself in your charnel-house while you sit here and dream! You have no reasons for keeping me here except to flaunt me as your plaything, and I will have no more. Get me out, Aragorn. You swore. Get me out!"
He let her finish without speaking. When she had exhausted her rage, he stood up and took her shoulders in both his hands. She tensed, expecting him to shake her, slap her, but he took her chin in two fingers and turned her face up to his.
"I am keeping you here until the Rangers are chosen," he said, so quietly she had to strain to hear him. "We are on the eve of an attack, and I am not permitted to leave. Worry not; I will be glad to see you gone, but I would never keep you here out of spite alone."
Something inside her was released, a great weight of expectation and sorrow, and she stepped away from him and sank down onto the grass. She heard a breath, the sound of weight being shifted carefully to the ground, and his voice, but it was easier to ignore.
After a while, he stopped speaking.
She was tired, and cold. The one immortal in a sea of those destined to die, and she had never felt so alone in her life. It was as if the world was rising to meet her, clamoring for inspection and decision, but she could not even see the details, only a huge mass pressing against her nose and mouth and slipping down her lungs, malicious, evil-
"It seems that my rejection of your comfort was the wrong step to take," he said, his voice dragging her relentlessly to listen, to look up at his face. "I must now ask you the same question you asked me."
It took a moment to remember what he meant, and then she grimaced weakly and eased herself into a crouch. She favored the position when she was trying to stay alert, but this time she didn't need a reminder. "No, I am not well," she said. "I will leave it to you to figure out why."
"You will be returned."
"Easy to say."
He moved closer, and she pulled her outstretched arm away. A strange expression passed over his face, too quickly to analyze, but it frightened her. His eyes were pits in the scarce light, his mouth a sliver of dark. Then it passed, and she could see those loam-brown irises, the lips poised between thin and full, the hands still.
"Easier to do. We are close to your home, and there is the possibility that we will meet some of your kind. They can lift my oath as quickly as they can swing you onto the backs of their mares."
"Then you can go and fight."
"I doubt it. They will have no space for me."
For a horrible moment, she was impaled by the thought of what she was taking away from him. It was no wonder he had turned against her; from the moment he first laid eyes upon her she had bogged him down. She was keeping him from what he loved and thrusting him into her world as violently.
... as he had thrust her into his.
"If you let me go now," she said, "he would not hold it against you."
He looked at her. She closed her eyes. If he saw that she did not want him to leave her, that she was afraid of what she would find, that she quailed in the face of death, she would lose all that she had tried to gain.
"Arwen," he said clearly, "when your honor, or your conscience, or your guilt allows you to tell me who he is, I want the truth. All I know is that you fled from a lover's quarrel, and you were followed. The elf who is even now tracing your footsteps found the orc I killed, wrecked its body, and left it there. I know you were involved with him before he turned bitter, and that you do not like being followed."
Her hand dug into the ground, pulling up a handful of dirt and grass and crushing them together. The dirt stained her skin, her nails, her fingers. "No," she whispered, "I do not like being followed."
"Will you go to them?" he asked. "There is venison, still, and a wealth of-"
"No," she replied angrily, standing up and brushing her hands on her tunic to clean them. "I will not."
And with one last, furious look back, she walked out of the clearing and away, her jaw set and her hands stiff at her sides.
Chapter Six: The consequences of Aragorn's behavior towards Selaine come back to bite him, Arwen decides to abandon her ingratiating tactics for yet another method of estrangement, and Aragorn makes a devastating choice that will alter the plot line immensely.