Beneath my Feet
Author: Earanthiel
Cast: Arwen/Aragorn, brief Arwen/OFC, Rumil, Galadriel, Elrond
Genre: Drama/Romance
Warning: None needed.. again.
Disclaimer: All characters originally created by Tolkien remain his: I have no claim over them and am making no profit from this story. All other aspects, however, including plot and original characters, are a product of my own imagination and are therefore my property.
Chapter Six: Decision Aragorn once told me that he had to remind himself that he hated the ground beneath my feet, with the most concentrated frustration and confusion he had felt in decades. He told it to himself in his mind when I left him that night by the pool, when I smiled at him at the cliffside, when I tried to murder him with a plate. But, when he turned this over and over in his mind, he realized that frustration was not hate.
And confusion? Disagreeable, yes, but that was all.
After a while, he abandoned this difficulty and turned to a new emotion. This one was even stranger and harder to recognize than hate.
Yves stood, watching her husband as he stoppered vials of treatments and placed them into a small hardwood chest, his hands darting unevenly over the glass. Once every few minutes he glanced up at her, but didn't meet her eyes.
"Will you not look at me, Imion?" she taunted, stepping closer. He gave a muted sound of rage, but continued to work, his jaw set. "There is nothing to fear but fear itself."
"I do not fear Selaine's decision," he said spitefully, tossing a bottle into the chest without looking.
"Then you are afraid of the whispers," she replied. "What you think the rest of the camp will say if she forbids you to fight is far from the truth, and you know it."
"What do you think of a man who cannot fight?" he shouted. "That he is a coward, a fool, an idiot. I do not shrink before the orcs, least of all my own sister-kin. Selaine does not control me!"
"As your kin, she does not," Yves said, unshaken by his rage. "But as your commander, it is her duty to see that you serve as best you can. There are no healers in this camp as skilled as you."
"False flattery," he said dismissively. "You insult me. If I am as good a fighter as you say, what is the danger of my being killed?"
"Imion," Yves cautioned, "you are straying into dangerous ground. You are not impervious to death; no one is. You remember the Trollshaws, do you not? You could easily have died."
"Infection," he started, but his wife cut him off, her lip curling.
"Imion!" she said again, this time with the distinct bite of anger behind her words. "You behave like a spoiled child. I will hear no more of this. If you expect me to listen to your empty-headed babbling because it is my duty, or proof of my love, or whatever you can think up to fool me, I will have no more. You are wallowing, husband, wallowing in your own self-pity."
"You think I take pleasure in this?" he whispered, incredulous. His hands were still.
"Why else would you do it?" she demanded. "Lash out at me, retreat to the forest at all hours, drink yourself into a stupor. They will scorn you for these actions, if nothing else!"
One of the vials shattered, disturbing the air with its discordantblend of glass and liquid. Yves' mouth twisted, and she picked up a cloth and cleaned Imion's hand, cleansing it off the needle-sharp shards. He pulled his fingers away, but not, she noticed, until she was finished.
"I am sorry," she whispered.
"I cannot blame you for what Selaine has done."
"You must understand," Yves said despairingly. "Don't you see? She loves you. You are the only remaining member of her family. What she does is for your protection."
"I am her elder of years," he replied. "She needs not guard me like a helpless child!"
"There is a reason," she said softly, "that Selaine is in her position, not you."
Imion's back stiffened. "You think to deepen my shame," he said. "In all my years, I have never been subject to a lesson this biting."
Yves laid a hand on his where it rested on the ledge. Her voice was filled with all the love and caring she had ever felt for her husband, as was the finger she moved gently up and down his white, clenched knuckles.
"I seek only to protect you, too."
Imion was silent, his lips pulled together in thought. After a moment, he placed his own hand on top of Yves', fingers twining around her own. "Should I feel amused, loved, or forsaken by honor?" he asked. "It is difficult to tell."
"Who am I to tell you what you should be thinking?" Yves inquired wryly.
"My love."
She placed her other hand on top of his. Despite the absurdity of the situation, Imion didn't laugh.
"It would be so much easier to take orders from someone other than my own sister," he said bitterly. "Aragorn is the rightful heir, and we need him. Why to Morgoth will he not do it?"
"Imion," Yves said quietly, "you know why."
Aragorn stopped outside the healer's tent, wracked with thoughts to myriad and strange for him to even attempt to define. He had tried to put aside his guilt at the memory of his coupling with Selaine, but the previous night had brought it all back. He had been overtaken by the feeling, the same one that took hold when he fought, and killed his enemies, and humiliated the emaciated elf in the unnamed clearing. She had expectations, as did he, and he had turned over every single one.
Even spending himself deep inside her had not been satisfying. Physically, it had been the fulfillment of an hour of unending arousal, and in its own way it had gratified his needs, but mentally he was overcome with shame.
It had come so close to rape, oh, too close. If she had asked him to stop, pleaded, her voice breaking, if she had struggled, he didn't know if he could have stopped. There were any number of women who would have bedded him after only a few preliminary days of flirting and seduction, but she was the only one he wanted.
He eased the pain slightly by reminding himself that she had said she wanted him, that no matter what he had done she had still practically begged him to take her. He hadn't spoken to her since that afternoon, and only seen her from a distance. Admiringly, still. The way she commanded was so wordless and complete that she had risen to the leader of the most capable fighters of the West without declaration or even challenge.
He could hear raised voices inside the tent, but they were too quiet for him to make out. Not wishing to eavesdrop on any quarrel between two of the people he respected most in the camp, he stepped away a few feet, hoping they would resolve whatever trouble had arisen soon. Imion would have been at the revels last night, and he would have heard what Selaine had said, and who she had dispatched.
Of course, he could ask anyone else, but he didn't want questions. Imion would accept what he was asking, and the emotions that he couldn't hide, without outward speculation, and he would tell no one. Except, perhaps, Yves, but he could rely on her to stay silent.
There was a brief silence. Restless to find any distraction from his burden, he stepped inside the tent with his customary lack of announcement.
All he could see of the two was Yves' back, but he gathered from their movements that he had not entered at an opportune time. She stepped away after a moment and began to clean up a circle of glass pieces on the floor underneath her feet with hardly a glance his way. Imion raised one eyebrow in a manner agonizingly reminiscent of his sister and followed Aragorn outside.
"Tell me," he said without preamble, and Imion nodded. He seemed to be searching for the easiest way to break bad news.
They took a little-used path that rounded the camp and wandered along the edge of the ravine, courting danger a mere twelve inches from the drop. All Aragorn could hear was their combined footfalls, and the brief wind, sighing through the leaves, teasing one or two from their branches, flirting ineffectually with others. He was impatient, but he knew that he had broached a difficult subject, and was grateful for Imion's care.
"Selaine arrived in the middle of the festivities," he said, "soon after the wine was flowing. None were drunk, yet, and she stood on a chair and delivered like I have never seen. She was impassioned. It was as if she had returned from an encounter with Morgoth himself, and won."
Aragorn nodded shortly. Imion looked at him for a moment and continued, "She said that we were to face this threat no differently than usual, no matter how the orcs attacked and fought. They were still the enemy, she said, and we the warriors.
"She mentioned you."
Before Aragorn could speak, he went on, "I will quote her as best I can. She spoke, 'We have been duly warned by Aragorn, son of Arathorn, and for this we are in his debt. But we do not need the warning. If they attacked in the darkest hours, we could slay them all.' "
"Are you to go?" Aragorn asked, masking his frustration.
"I am to heal," Imion replied, "but not to fight."
"I am sorry," Aragorn said, but Imion waved a hand.
"Do not pity me," he said. "I recognize her wisdom. Gods, I apologize," he said suddenly. "There was another thing she said, concerning you. Besides the list itself."
"Imion," Aragorn said, his voice dangerous, "if you wish to say something, I will not be offended. I am not in the habit of killing the messenger."
Imion gave a mirthless smile. "In Selaine's words, you are to take your elf maiden back to Rivendell, and have the joy of it."
It took an enormous effort of will to continue walking at all, much less at his customary natural pace. He wanted to stop, to turn and run, to rip aside the veil of time and bed Selaine again, this time with the gentleness and caring he had never shown.
Instead, he nodded as if the entire matter was as unimportant as the rising and setting of the sun and said, a little too quickly, "I thank you, and wish you luck. I am sure that the lives you will save will be far more than the ones you would have ended."
Imion bowed his head in acknowledgment and thanks and said, "In two weeks' time, the first band is sent out. And as for your quest," he added, "I will not say I am sorry. You will understand."
Aragorn hardly noticed Imion turn and leave.
If he had not committed that horrible, unforgivable slight to Selaine, she would have found some excuse to send him to fight.
Without the slightest twinge of self-satisfaction, he knew that he was one the best Rangers she had. Surely, there were others that far surpassed his limits, but she would do well to bring him with her, and she knew it. However, personal pride would make it impossible.
There was no way around it. He had shamed and humiliated Selaine beneath him, and ended by spilling himself into the depth of her, as if they were lovers, not adversaries. One thing was sure, and that was that if they had ever felt any degree of passion that transcended the physical, it was gone.
Arwen. It all came down to her. She was the temptress in his path (figuratively, without a doubt), the boulder, the lion. If he could get her out of the way, perhaps some of Selaine's jealousy would be sated and he could persuade her, with logic and disguised sweet words, to let him come.
To fight. It was all he had left.
He felt dirty, disgusted with himself. His thoughts of Arwen were selfish and mean-spiritedÑshe had no control over the actions of some demented elf, and she obviously wanted to leave as much as he wanted to get her away. Underneath her spite and anger, she could be gentle and unexpectedly kind. The streak of rebellious energy underneath the mask of maidenhood only added spice to the illusion of innocence, and it intrigued him. If she had been mortal, he would have pursued her, spoken to her, learned the secrets to unlock her tongue.
There had to be some way to dispose of her (he writhed inwardly at the word). Oaths were not always concrete, unless they took hours to speak. There were always loopholes to be found.
Arwen would be in her tent. It was time to find her.
Arwen had dreamed of Elrond the night before. He was standing before her, his hand outstretched, speaking words in a twisted, archaic tongue strange to her. She asked him to explain, to speak her language, but he began to mouth in Westron, his voice fading as his hair became shorter, lines appearing in his face, his lips fuller, eyes changing from sloe-black to a rich, deep brown
She woke with the image of Aragorn standing before her, but in her mind he was smiling.
Wondering how she could have thought up such a preposterous image, since she'd never seen him wear any expression besides sarcastic, annoyed, resigned, or mock-amused, she sat up to see him standing before her.
The possibility of ordering him out in a rage flitted through her mind, but she brushed it away. She could not summon up the necessary emotion. Instead, she sat up, wrapping the blanket around her, and looked up at him. Sleep was still heavy about her, and all she could remember was that huge, welcoming smile.
"What is it?" she asked, swinging her legs over the side of the bed and sitting up straight. The light streaming in through the open door flap was intensely bright and searing, even through her closed eyes. "Gods, what is the hour?"
"Close to noon," Aragorn said curtly. She looked up in shock at his tone, but the moment she opened his mouth he raised a hand and asked, "Have you any skill at archery or swordplay?"
"I was taught by one of my kind, who has great skill with a blade and bow," she replied, her good mood evaporating at the hardness in his eyes. "But if you expect me to accompany you and fight, I will not."
"Will not or cannot?" he asked, but it was obvious that he didn't expect an answer. "I will instruct you then. You have five days to prove yourself, and then you will be on your own."
A chill was settling in her stomach, creeping from the inevitable realization of what he was about to say. While her thoughts were clashing and blending and battling each other, her body lifted her up to stand in front of him, her lips and tongue to form the words she didn't, couldn't want to say
"I do not understand."
"The first Rangers leave for battle in two weeks, and you will be traveling in the opposite direction."
"On my own," she said, still stupid with sleep.
"I cannot bring you back!" he said harshly. "Do you not understand? You are going back to Rivendell alone."
He turned to leave, his back stiff and his head held deceptively high, but she stood and ran to block the doorway. The blanket fell from her shoulders as she held her arms out, closing the way, but she could hardly have cared.
"You are under oath!" she cried. "You owe me an explanation for what you have done. Do you think you can teach me to fight in five days?"
"I think that whatever I can do will be enough," he said, and without looking at her he took her arm, removed her from the doorway with ease, and stepped outside.
When he had gone, and all that was left was the lingering scent of him, that blend of smoke and spice that she had come to know so intimately well, she fell to her knees and sobbed. The tears welled up from the undefined place in her that held all her anger at being left alone, her fear of death, her loathing of Aragorn, and her longing for Imladris, and it erased everything else in its tide. Her shoulders heaved with it, her nose ran, and she curled up on the ground, letting the coolness of the earth seep into her skin.
Elrond was there, once again.
So overwhelming, so present, so there that she didn't believe its truth. He was holding his hand out to her, but wrapped around her fingers was a thin, fluid chain, hanging heavy and burdened to the luminous weight at the end, a thin vial of pure crystal, twined with what could only be described as fingers, living rays of light. It was shining in his hand, illuminating every line of his skin, and he was grave yet amused as he handed it to her.
She stretched out a hand and let it fall into her palm. As it came into contact with her, the light dissipated, shining for a sliver of a moment and dying into dark.
Her eyes brimming once again with tears, she looked up at her father, trying to speak, but he only smiled and said, "I will not say I am sorry."
She bowed her head and wept once more, but this time the tears were silent. When she raised her eyes, Elrond Halfelven was gone, and both of her hands were empty and cold.
Weeping had cleansed her, and the feelings of betrayal were gone. Somehow, she understood. She would have broken her oath if battle was her life, and if she had brought the news of an impending attack and been forbidden to defend it.
But that didn't mean she could forgive him.
She tried to console herself by saying that once she resumed her old life, he would be nothing more than a memory, but it was shattered by the realization that she didn't have an old life. Erestel had changed, her view of Rœmil had been replaced, and Aragorn had shown her the mortal world. He would never leave her.
There was nothing she could do but what he said she must.
She arrived at the clearing when he told her to come, and he was waiting with her weapons. Something seemed to have closed in him, that small window through which his jests and humor would slip unchallenged, and in response she shielded herself as well.
From the beginning, she saw that his style and skill was so different from Rœmil's as to be a world apart, separated by different enemies, bows, and cultures. She held her bow in one hand, her quiver heavy on her shoulder, watching him as he shot. The arrow sang through the air to bury itself an inch from the center, and with a grunt of dissatisfaction he shot another, which found the middle exactly.
No sooner had she lifted her bow than he corrected her, changing everything from her stand to her fingers on the string. She obeyed without protest, trying to clear her mind of apprehension as she sighted along the arrow towards the target. No matter how hard she tried, she could not lift the feeling that she must perform well in front of him.
With a small intake of breath, she loosed the arrow.
Even as she did so, she knew it would not strike where she wanted. The strange position was confusing her, as was the placement of her feet, and the arrow fell quivering in the dirt a foot away. She selected another without comment and set it to the string, judging where she had gone wrong, and loosed. This time it struck the outer edge, a few inches in, and she breathed a sigh of relief. Perhaps it would not take so long after all.
The next arrow went wide, missing the target abysmally. Desperate to hit it again, she sighted too quickly, and the arrow grazed the edge before loosing itself in the grass. She was sweating slightly now, and even the sound of the fourth arrow striking the target was not enough to reassure her.
Aragorn stood to one side, hands on his hips, watching. Every so often, he would approach her and change one infinitesimal mistake she was making, then resume his untiring vigil. She could feel his eyes on her, and every time she stopped to think about it, her arrows missed their mark.
He is not there, she told herself. You are alone.
It helped slightly. The next arrow struck a few inches towards the center, closer than she had brought it during the course of the morning, and she took it as a sign of encouragement. Her muscles were already tired, unused to the strange stance and position still, and she swung the bow down to rest them for a moment.
"You are weary?" Aragorn asked.
She looked up, expecting to see surprise or annoyance on his face, but it was calm. Nodding shortly, she lifted the bow and chose another arrow, closing her eyes briefly. Whenever she was tired, both physically and mentally, the small nerve underneath her right eye twitched, and it was making it difficult to see the target.
The next three arrows struck the edge, and the fourth missed completely. Unable to conceal her sigh, she went to retrieve them, setting the bow down with a marked lack of care.
"Mind how you handle it," Aragorn said softly, "or you will find it is reluctant to answer to your hand."
Perhaps you should take your own advice, she thought suddenly, but didn't speak aloud.
Once she had collected all the arrows, conscious all the while of his presence at her back, she turned to find him standing with her bow in hand. Flustered and upset, she dropped the quiver, sending the shafts spilling to the ground at her feet. Infuriatingly, he made no move to help her, or any comment to make light of the situation, leaving her to scramble about on her hands and knees. And all the while, he watched her.
Standing, unable to meet his eyes, she reached out for the bow, but instead of its weight felt the cool brush of air. She glanced up and saw him placing it against a nearby tree and unsheathing her sword. A few sharp protests came to mind, each more cutting than the last, but her throat was constricted by every breath she took.
"You have had enough of the bow," he said. "I can see it. Practice is all you need. You have had an incompetent instructor thus far, and I mean to remedy that. Meanwhile, we shall test your skill with the sword."
She took the sword in mute assent and took up a guard stance, feet planted firmly, sword held angled towards him. His own blade was in his hand, held loosely, and he began to circle her, eyes hooded like a predatory beast's.
"Do you think you have more skill with the bow, or the sword?" he asked, stepping to one side and back to the center. His eyes were fixed on her torso and chest, and a hot blush rose to her cheeks as he spoke.
"The sword," she replied, moving warily back.
"By how much?"
"The smallest amount."
"Gods, it is like to extracting a nail from the stomach of a horse, speaking with you," he observed, making as if to lunge but pulling back at the last moment. "Perhaps in battle it is the same."
Without the vaguest idea what his last remark signified, except that it was spoken in the tone he used when aiming to make her angry, she thrust inwards, aiming for his heart. Surprise sparked in his eyes before they closed, fully intent on the fight, and she rose, eager, to the challenge.
From the first moment, it was clear that his ability far surpassed hers, almost to the point of eclipsing it. It was also obvious that he was holding back, and though a little insulted by it, she was also inwardly grateful. If he had decided to fully shame her, she would hardly have lasted past his first stroke. He was so graceful when he fought, so focused, so dead yet vibrantly alive, that it was easy to want to kill him. Every thrust she made had more power behind it than she had initially desired to use.
He parried easily, twisting his wrist to throw off her blow and stepping inwards, slicing towards her neck. Ducking, she drove upwards into his belly, only to be blocked and forced backwards, stumbling. Rœmil had never fought like this, but he too had had that deadly, concentrated cast to his face, and the intensity in his movements that was never, had never, been there at any other time.
Aragorn grinned suddenly and pressed towards her, holding her sword off with his own, using his body to force her back. No matter how she twisted and fought, trying to step away and let his momentum carry him forward, he stayed on the attack, his eyes bright with the end. Her foot caught on a root, and she barely managed to save herself by a swift look down and back. There was a tree behind her, and he meant to press her against it and cut off all means of escape.
With a savage scream, she placed a hand underneath his shoulder, in the soft place where his arm joined his torso, and thrust up and out. It wasn't enough to throw him off balance, but it was unexpected enough to break his relentless attack and allow herself an opening. Falling back, he nodded and said, "It is to be a fight, then."
Caught off guard, she lowered her sword, and he attacked. This time, he was not holding back.
It took a matter of moments to send her blade stabbing into the ground and to bring his up to her throat, pressing into the white skin. She opened her hand, and the ring of metal on the hard ground brought him back, as if it had called him from another place. He pressed the honed edge of his blade against her, not hard enough to make her bleed, but uncomfortably nonetheless, and whispered, "You yield, I presume?"
"Yes."
"You have some skill," he said, cleaning his sword on the edge of the tunic and extending a hand for hers. "Perhaps your instructor knew more about the blade."
"No," she replied, surrendering it. "He did not."
"Then you accepted it more readily, perhaps."
"Perhaps, yes."
"You are to practice with the bow half an hour for the first two days, an hour the next until your departure. I will continue to teach you the sword, every day, the same time," he told her, turning back as he left the clearing. His face was outlined in the dying light, blurring his features. "I expect you to be here."
"Do not stay awake nights over it," she said with a flash of her old spirit, but her face was cold. "I will."
He watched the man leave, and saw Arwen rub her eyes fiercely with the back of her hand. She looked tired, fatigued, and close to tears. More than ever, he wanted to go to her, hold her, and tell her that he loved her. If only he had not already done so, then he would take the chance now, when her protector had turned on her and she was tired and alone.
But she would recoil in horror if she could see him now.
He'd followed her for days, since he commissioned Aragorn to guide her, and watched his plans crumble to nothing. First, he had taken her here, and then he had abandoned her to the forest. Lack of food, anxiety, guilt, and a great, empty grieving had wasted his body, and his hair was dirty and tangled around his face. Even his best, sturdiest tunic had been torn down the side by a wayward branch. Everything was falling.
Everything.
But still, he could not think of himself. If Arwen was in need, then his own desires paled. She was obviously in more trouble than she could comprehend, especially with the added danger of a massive orc invasion. From he gossip he had overheard, and the quiet, driven signs of preparation, there was more to fear than a few gibbering goblins with crossbows.
The Rangers, he grudgingly admitted, were some of the best warriors he had ever seen. They rivaled even Elrond, Valar help him, and he had seen the Lord of Rivendell fight. Surely, Elrond would defeat any of theirs, but not without a trying battle. If Arwen were to be escorted back to Rivendell with one of them, he would not have to fear for her safety, but to be set loose alone...
She looked up, coming out of a deep, hazy reverie, and set off for the camp, her head low. He followed the unconscious sway of her hips with his eyes. She had unbound her hair, and it was lying heavy down her back, its curls damp with exertion. Once more the desire jerked within him, lust tempered with love. If his emotions were a wine, it would be of the most exquisite make. Bittersweet.
If Aragorn was true to his word and left her, which he could not doubt, perhaps he would show himself then. Mend his previous conduct and show her how he wished her to see him. Which, eventually, would be as his wife, but he would approach that gently.
He would teach her how to love him.
It felt wrong, to think of it that way, but those were the only words he had. If he could not persuade her or force or coax her, he would be subtle. He would watch, and learn, and use his knowledge. Her Ranger had left her, and he was the only one watching.
She was gone now. The clearing was quiet.
And he knew that his following, his observance of her, was what she did not want.
He had been there, when she spoke to Aragorn, when she let down her barriers and invited him in. She had only done it twice; once, after Bane had disarmed her with his charm and attention, and Aragorn had rescued her and tended to her injury, and then when he had laid his vulnerable side bare. If he was interested in her, and if he had any sense, he would remember both times, and use them to his advantage. But there was no doubt that the great hulking brute could care less about her feelings, or her beauty, or her...
Or was there? Aragorn had seen how she responded to him, and he had not been indifferent. In fact, he had opened his door and practically extended a hand to help her through.
a dirty, disheveled Aragorn lying on the ground, his mouth smeared with brilliant crimson blood. Arwen on top of him, the tentative, almost terrified look on her face melting into wonder, and slow, slow recognition. Lowering her lips to his in a gentle, fearful caress, too questioning to be a kiss, but so close, his hands in her hair, drawing her closer, his leg wrapping around hers
He tore his mind away, shaking. The image had not been of his own making. It had appeared fully formed, driving him to question what had only been an idea, to move his lips in silent prayer. Please, Valar, let it never be.
It will not, he told himself, trying to believe he spoke with the voices of the Gods. It can never. He is mortal, she is elf-kind. What has never happened will not happen now.
What about Beren and Luthien? a nagging voice at the back of his mind insisted. They were the most pure lovers the world has ever known. They risked all for each other, Beren giving up his pride and his hand, Luthien her very immortality. The child of Elrond is Arwen, and Aragorn is the last of an unending line of kings and chieftains that began in the womb of the wife of Elros. Will you deny the heritage of Earandil and Elwing, from whose union were born these two great elven-kings?
He has forsaken what noble blood he ever had, the elf argued savagely. Only a thread of elvish blood is in his veins, and he has ignored it enough as to destroy it completely.
No rogue thoughts rose in challenge, and he smiled in cold triumph. Arwen could never love a Man.
Chapter Seven: A strange object is discovered that should not have been in a mortal camp, Aragorn gets an unsettling idea, and Arwen... well, Arwen is unsettled as well, but by many more things than just one...
Disclaimer: All characters originally created by Tolkien remain his: I have no claim over them and am making no profit from this story. All other aspects, however, including plot and original characters, are a product of my own imagination and are therefore my property.
Chapter Six: Decision Aragorn once told me that he had to remind himself that he hated the ground beneath my feet, with the most concentrated frustration and confusion he had felt in decades. He told it to himself in his mind when I left him that night by the pool, when I smiled at him at the cliffside, when I tried to murder him with a plate. But, when he turned this over and over in his mind, he realized that frustration was not hate.
And confusion? Disagreeable, yes, but that was all.
After a while, he abandoned this difficulty and turned to a new emotion. This one was even stranger and harder to recognize than hate.
Yves stood, watching her husband as he stoppered vials of treatments and placed them into a small hardwood chest, his hands darting unevenly over the glass. Once every few minutes he glanced up at her, but didn't meet her eyes.
"Will you not look at me, Imion?" she taunted, stepping closer. He gave a muted sound of rage, but continued to work, his jaw set. "There is nothing to fear but fear itself."
"I do not fear Selaine's decision," he said spitefully, tossing a bottle into the chest without looking.
"Then you are afraid of the whispers," she replied. "What you think the rest of the camp will say if she forbids you to fight is far from the truth, and you know it."
"What do you think of a man who cannot fight?" he shouted. "That he is a coward, a fool, an idiot. I do not shrink before the orcs, least of all my own sister-kin. Selaine does not control me!"
"As your kin, she does not," Yves said, unshaken by his rage. "But as your commander, it is her duty to see that you serve as best you can. There are no healers in this camp as skilled as you."
"False flattery," he said dismissively. "You insult me. If I am as good a fighter as you say, what is the danger of my being killed?"
"Imion," Yves cautioned, "you are straying into dangerous ground. You are not impervious to death; no one is. You remember the Trollshaws, do you not? You could easily have died."
"Infection," he started, but his wife cut him off, her lip curling.
"Imion!" she said again, this time with the distinct bite of anger behind her words. "You behave like a spoiled child. I will hear no more of this. If you expect me to listen to your empty-headed babbling because it is my duty, or proof of my love, or whatever you can think up to fool me, I will have no more. You are wallowing, husband, wallowing in your own self-pity."
"You think I take pleasure in this?" he whispered, incredulous. His hands were still.
"Why else would you do it?" she demanded. "Lash out at me, retreat to the forest at all hours, drink yourself into a stupor. They will scorn you for these actions, if nothing else!"
One of the vials shattered, disturbing the air with its discordantblend of glass and liquid. Yves' mouth twisted, and she picked up a cloth and cleaned Imion's hand, cleansing it off the needle-sharp shards. He pulled his fingers away, but not, she noticed, until she was finished.
"I am sorry," she whispered.
"I cannot blame you for what Selaine has done."
"You must understand," Yves said despairingly. "Don't you see? She loves you. You are the only remaining member of her family. What she does is for your protection."
"I am her elder of years," he replied. "She needs not guard me like a helpless child!"
"There is a reason," she said softly, "that Selaine is in her position, not you."
Imion's back stiffened. "You think to deepen my shame," he said. "In all my years, I have never been subject to a lesson this biting."
Yves laid a hand on his where it rested on the ledge. Her voice was filled with all the love and caring she had ever felt for her husband, as was the finger she moved gently up and down his white, clenched knuckles.
"I seek only to protect you, too."
Imion was silent, his lips pulled together in thought. After a moment, he placed his own hand on top of Yves', fingers twining around her own. "Should I feel amused, loved, or forsaken by honor?" he asked. "It is difficult to tell."
"Who am I to tell you what you should be thinking?" Yves inquired wryly.
"My love."
She placed her other hand on top of his. Despite the absurdity of the situation, Imion didn't laugh.
"It would be so much easier to take orders from someone other than my own sister," he said bitterly. "Aragorn is the rightful heir, and we need him. Why to Morgoth will he not do it?"
"Imion," Yves said quietly, "you know why."
Aragorn stopped outside the healer's tent, wracked with thoughts to myriad and strange for him to even attempt to define. He had tried to put aside his guilt at the memory of his coupling with Selaine, but the previous night had brought it all back. He had been overtaken by the feeling, the same one that took hold when he fought, and killed his enemies, and humiliated the emaciated elf in the unnamed clearing. She had expectations, as did he, and he had turned over every single one.
Even spending himself deep inside her had not been satisfying. Physically, it had been the fulfillment of an hour of unending arousal, and in its own way it had gratified his needs, but mentally he was overcome with shame.
It had come so close to rape, oh, too close. If she had asked him to stop, pleaded, her voice breaking, if she had struggled, he didn't know if he could have stopped. There were any number of women who would have bedded him after only a few preliminary days of flirting and seduction, but she was the only one he wanted.
He eased the pain slightly by reminding himself that she had said she wanted him, that no matter what he had done she had still practically begged him to take her. He hadn't spoken to her since that afternoon, and only seen her from a distance. Admiringly, still. The way she commanded was so wordless and complete that she had risen to the leader of the most capable fighters of the West without declaration or even challenge.
He could hear raised voices inside the tent, but they were too quiet for him to make out. Not wishing to eavesdrop on any quarrel between two of the people he respected most in the camp, he stepped away a few feet, hoping they would resolve whatever trouble had arisen soon. Imion would have been at the revels last night, and he would have heard what Selaine had said, and who she had dispatched.
Of course, he could ask anyone else, but he didn't want questions. Imion would accept what he was asking, and the emotions that he couldn't hide, without outward speculation, and he would tell no one. Except, perhaps, Yves, but he could rely on her to stay silent.
There was a brief silence. Restless to find any distraction from his burden, he stepped inside the tent with his customary lack of announcement.
All he could see of the two was Yves' back, but he gathered from their movements that he had not entered at an opportune time. She stepped away after a moment and began to clean up a circle of glass pieces on the floor underneath her feet with hardly a glance his way. Imion raised one eyebrow in a manner agonizingly reminiscent of his sister and followed Aragorn outside.
"Tell me," he said without preamble, and Imion nodded. He seemed to be searching for the easiest way to break bad news.
They took a little-used path that rounded the camp and wandered along the edge of the ravine, courting danger a mere twelve inches from the drop. All Aragorn could hear was their combined footfalls, and the brief wind, sighing through the leaves, teasing one or two from their branches, flirting ineffectually with others. He was impatient, but he knew that he had broached a difficult subject, and was grateful for Imion's care.
"Selaine arrived in the middle of the festivities," he said, "soon after the wine was flowing. None were drunk, yet, and she stood on a chair and delivered like I have never seen. She was impassioned. It was as if she had returned from an encounter with Morgoth himself, and won."
Aragorn nodded shortly. Imion looked at him for a moment and continued, "She said that we were to face this threat no differently than usual, no matter how the orcs attacked and fought. They were still the enemy, she said, and we the warriors.
"She mentioned you."
Before Aragorn could speak, he went on, "I will quote her as best I can. She spoke, 'We have been duly warned by Aragorn, son of Arathorn, and for this we are in his debt. But we do not need the warning. If they attacked in the darkest hours, we could slay them all.' "
"Are you to go?" Aragorn asked, masking his frustration.
"I am to heal," Imion replied, "but not to fight."
"I am sorry," Aragorn said, but Imion waved a hand.
"Do not pity me," he said. "I recognize her wisdom. Gods, I apologize," he said suddenly. "There was another thing she said, concerning you. Besides the list itself."
"Imion," Aragorn said, his voice dangerous, "if you wish to say something, I will not be offended. I am not in the habit of killing the messenger."
Imion gave a mirthless smile. "In Selaine's words, you are to take your elf maiden back to Rivendell, and have the joy of it."
It took an enormous effort of will to continue walking at all, much less at his customary natural pace. He wanted to stop, to turn and run, to rip aside the veil of time and bed Selaine again, this time with the gentleness and caring he had never shown.
Instead, he nodded as if the entire matter was as unimportant as the rising and setting of the sun and said, a little too quickly, "I thank you, and wish you luck. I am sure that the lives you will save will be far more than the ones you would have ended."
Imion bowed his head in acknowledgment and thanks and said, "In two weeks' time, the first band is sent out. And as for your quest," he added, "I will not say I am sorry. You will understand."
Aragorn hardly noticed Imion turn and leave.
If he had not committed that horrible, unforgivable slight to Selaine, she would have found some excuse to send him to fight.
Without the slightest twinge of self-satisfaction, he knew that he was one the best Rangers she had. Surely, there were others that far surpassed his limits, but she would do well to bring him with her, and she knew it. However, personal pride would make it impossible.
There was no way around it. He had shamed and humiliated Selaine beneath him, and ended by spilling himself into the depth of her, as if they were lovers, not adversaries. One thing was sure, and that was that if they had ever felt any degree of passion that transcended the physical, it was gone.
Arwen. It all came down to her. She was the temptress in his path (figuratively, without a doubt), the boulder, the lion. If he could get her out of the way, perhaps some of Selaine's jealousy would be sated and he could persuade her, with logic and disguised sweet words, to let him come.
To fight. It was all he had left.
He felt dirty, disgusted with himself. His thoughts of Arwen were selfish and mean-spiritedÑshe had no control over the actions of some demented elf, and she obviously wanted to leave as much as he wanted to get her away. Underneath her spite and anger, she could be gentle and unexpectedly kind. The streak of rebellious energy underneath the mask of maidenhood only added spice to the illusion of innocence, and it intrigued him. If she had been mortal, he would have pursued her, spoken to her, learned the secrets to unlock her tongue.
There had to be some way to dispose of her (he writhed inwardly at the word). Oaths were not always concrete, unless they took hours to speak. There were always loopholes to be found.
Arwen would be in her tent. It was time to find her.
Arwen had dreamed of Elrond the night before. He was standing before her, his hand outstretched, speaking words in a twisted, archaic tongue strange to her. She asked him to explain, to speak her language, but he began to mouth in Westron, his voice fading as his hair became shorter, lines appearing in his face, his lips fuller, eyes changing from sloe-black to a rich, deep brown
She woke with the image of Aragorn standing before her, but in her mind he was smiling.
Wondering how she could have thought up such a preposterous image, since she'd never seen him wear any expression besides sarcastic, annoyed, resigned, or mock-amused, she sat up to see him standing before her.
The possibility of ordering him out in a rage flitted through her mind, but she brushed it away. She could not summon up the necessary emotion. Instead, she sat up, wrapping the blanket around her, and looked up at him. Sleep was still heavy about her, and all she could remember was that huge, welcoming smile.
"What is it?" she asked, swinging her legs over the side of the bed and sitting up straight. The light streaming in through the open door flap was intensely bright and searing, even through her closed eyes. "Gods, what is the hour?"
"Close to noon," Aragorn said curtly. She looked up in shock at his tone, but the moment she opened his mouth he raised a hand and asked, "Have you any skill at archery or swordplay?"
"I was taught by one of my kind, who has great skill with a blade and bow," she replied, her good mood evaporating at the hardness in his eyes. "But if you expect me to accompany you and fight, I will not."
"Will not or cannot?" he asked, but it was obvious that he didn't expect an answer. "I will instruct you then. You have five days to prove yourself, and then you will be on your own."
A chill was settling in her stomach, creeping from the inevitable realization of what he was about to say. While her thoughts were clashing and blending and battling each other, her body lifted her up to stand in front of him, her lips and tongue to form the words she didn't, couldn't want to say
"I do not understand."
"The first Rangers leave for battle in two weeks, and you will be traveling in the opposite direction."
"On my own," she said, still stupid with sleep.
"I cannot bring you back!" he said harshly. "Do you not understand? You are going back to Rivendell alone."
He turned to leave, his back stiff and his head held deceptively high, but she stood and ran to block the doorway. The blanket fell from her shoulders as she held her arms out, closing the way, but she could hardly have cared.
"You are under oath!" she cried. "You owe me an explanation for what you have done. Do you think you can teach me to fight in five days?"
"I think that whatever I can do will be enough," he said, and without looking at her he took her arm, removed her from the doorway with ease, and stepped outside.
When he had gone, and all that was left was the lingering scent of him, that blend of smoke and spice that she had come to know so intimately well, she fell to her knees and sobbed. The tears welled up from the undefined place in her that held all her anger at being left alone, her fear of death, her loathing of Aragorn, and her longing for Imladris, and it erased everything else in its tide. Her shoulders heaved with it, her nose ran, and she curled up on the ground, letting the coolness of the earth seep into her skin.
Elrond was there, once again.
So overwhelming, so present, so there that she didn't believe its truth. He was holding his hand out to her, but wrapped around her fingers was a thin, fluid chain, hanging heavy and burdened to the luminous weight at the end, a thin vial of pure crystal, twined with what could only be described as fingers, living rays of light. It was shining in his hand, illuminating every line of his skin, and he was grave yet amused as he handed it to her.
She stretched out a hand and let it fall into her palm. As it came into contact with her, the light dissipated, shining for a sliver of a moment and dying into dark.
Her eyes brimming once again with tears, she looked up at her father, trying to speak, but he only smiled and said, "I will not say I am sorry."
She bowed her head and wept once more, but this time the tears were silent. When she raised her eyes, Elrond Halfelven was gone, and both of her hands were empty and cold.
Weeping had cleansed her, and the feelings of betrayal were gone. Somehow, she understood. She would have broken her oath if battle was her life, and if she had brought the news of an impending attack and been forbidden to defend it.
But that didn't mean she could forgive him.
She tried to console herself by saying that once she resumed her old life, he would be nothing more than a memory, but it was shattered by the realization that she didn't have an old life. Erestel had changed, her view of Rœmil had been replaced, and Aragorn had shown her the mortal world. He would never leave her.
There was nothing she could do but what he said she must.
She arrived at the clearing when he told her to come, and he was waiting with her weapons. Something seemed to have closed in him, that small window through which his jests and humor would slip unchallenged, and in response she shielded herself as well.
From the beginning, she saw that his style and skill was so different from Rœmil's as to be a world apart, separated by different enemies, bows, and cultures. She held her bow in one hand, her quiver heavy on her shoulder, watching him as he shot. The arrow sang through the air to bury itself an inch from the center, and with a grunt of dissatisfaction he shot another, which found the middle exactly.
No sooner had she lifted her bow than he corrected her, changing everything from her stand to her fingers on the string. She obeyed without protest, trying to clear her mind of apprehension as she sighted along the arrow towards the target. No matter how hard she tried, she could not lift the feeling that she must perform well in front of him.
With a small intake of breath, she loosed the arrow.
Even as she did so, she knew it would not strike where she wanted. The strange position was confusing her, as was the placement of her feet, and the arrow fell quivering in the dirt a foot away. She selected another without comment and set it to the string, judging where she had gone wrong, and loosed. This time it struck the outer edge, a few inches in, and she breathed a sigh of relief. Perhaps it would not take so long after all.
The next arrow went wide, missing the target abysmally. Desperate to hit it again, she sighted too quickly, and the arrow grazed the edge before loosing itself in the grass. She was sweating slightly now, and even the sound of the fourth arrow striking the target was not enough to reassure her.
Aragorn stood to one side, hands on his hips, watching. Every so often, he would approach her and change one infinitesimal mistake she was making, then resume his untiring vigil. She could feel his eyes on her, and every time she stopped to think about it, her arrows missed their mark.
He is not there, she told herself. You are alone.
It helped slightly. The next arrow struck a few inches towards the center, closer than she had brought it during the course of the morning, and she took it as a sign of encouragement. Her muscles were already tired, unused to the strange stance and position still, and she swung the bow down to rest them for a moment.
"You are weary?" Aragorn asked.
She looked up, expecting to see surprise or annoyance on his face, but it was calm. Nodding shortly, she lifted the bow and chose another arrow, closing her eyes briefly. Whenever she was tired, both physically and mentally, the small nerve underneath her right eye twitched, and it was making it difficult to see the target.
The next three arrows struck the edge, and the fourth missed completely. Unable to conceal her sigh, she went to retrieve them, setting the bow down with a marked lack of care.
"Mind how you handle it," Aragorn said softly, "or you will find it is reluctant to answer to your hand."
Perhaps you should take your own advice, she thought suddenly, but didn't speak aloud.
Once she had collected all the arrows, conscious all the while of his presence at her back, she turned to find him standing with her bow in hand. Flustered and upset, she dropped the quiver, sending the shafts spilling to the ground at her feet. Infuriatingly, he made no move to help her, or any comment to make light of the situation, leaving her to scramble about on her hands and knees. And all the while, he watched her.
Standing, unable to meet his eyes, she reached out for the bow, but instead of its weight felt the cool brush of air. She glanced up and saw him placing it against a nearby tree and unsheathing her sword. A few sharp protests came to mind, each more cutting than the last, but her throat was constricted by every breath she took.
"You have had enough of the bow," he said. "I can see it. Practice is all you need. You have had an incompetent instructor thus far, and I mean to remedy that. Meanwhile, we shall test your skill with the sword."
She took the sword in mute assent and took up a guard stance, feet planted firmly, sword held angled towards him. His own blade was in his hand, held loosely, and he began to circle her, eyes hooded like a predatory beast's.
"Do you think you have more skill with the bow, or the sword?" he asked, stepping to one side and back to the center. His eyes were fixed on her torso and chest, and a hot blush rose to her cheeks as he spoke.
"The sword," she replied, moving warily back.
"By how much?"
"The smallest amount."
"Gods, it is like to extracting a nail from the stomach of a horse, speaking with you," he observed, making as if to lunge but pulling back at the last moment. "Perhaps in battle it is the same."
Without the vaguest idea what his last remark signified, except that it was spoken in the tone he used when aiming to make her angry, she thrust inwards, aiming for his heart. Surprise sparked in his eyes before they closed, fully intent on the fight, and she rose, eager, to the challenge.
From the first moment, it was clear that his ability far surpassed hers, almost to the point of eclipsing it. It was also obvious that he was holding back, and though a little insulted by it, she was also inwardly grateful. If he had decided to fully shame her, she would hardly have lasted past his first stroke. He was so graceful when he fought, so focused, so dead yet vibrantly alive, that it was easy to want to kill him. Every thrust she made had more power behind it than she had initially desired to use.
He parried easily, twisting his wrist to throw off her blow and stepping inwards, slicing towards her neck. Ducking, she drove upwards into his belly, only to be blocked and forced backwards, stumbling. Rœmil had never fought like this, but he too had had that deadly, concentrated cast to his face, and the intensity in his movements that was never, had never, been there at any other time.
Aragorn grinned suddenly and pressed towards her, holding her sword off with his own, using his body to force her back. No matter how she twisted and fought, trying to step away and let his momentum carry him forward, he stayed on the attack, his eyes bright with the end. Her foot caught on a root, and she barely managed to save herself by a swift look down and back. There was a tree behind her, and he meant to press her against it and cut off all means of escape.
With a savage scream, she placed a hand underneath his shoulder, in the soft place where his arm joined his torso, and thrust up and out. It wasn't enough to throw him off balance, but it was unexpected enough to break his relentless attack and allow herself an opening. Falling back, he nodded and said, "It is to be a fight, then."
Caught off guard, she lowered her sword, and he attacked. This time, he was not holding back.
It took a matter of moments to send her blade stabbing into the ground and to bring his up to her throat, pressing into the white skin. She opened her hand, and the ring of metal on the hard ground brought him back, as if it had called him from another place. He pressed the honed edge of his blade against her, not hard enough to make her bleed, but uncomfortably nonetheless, and whispered, "You yield, I presume?"
"Yes."
"You have some skill," he said, cleaning his sword on the edge of the tunic and extending a hand for hers. "Perhaps your instructor knew more about the blade."
"No," she replied, surrendering it. "He did not."
"Then you accepted it more readily, perhaps."
"Perhaps, yes."
"You are to practice with the bow half an hour for the first two days, an hour the next until your departure. I will continue to teach you the sword, every day, the same time," he told her, turning back as he left the clearing. His face was outlined in the dying light, blurring his features. "I expect you to be here."
"Do not stay awake nights over it," she said with a flash of her old spirit, but her face was cold. "I will."
He watched the man leave, and saw Arwen rub her eyes fiercely with the back of her hand. She looked tired, fatigued, and close to tears. More than ever, he wanted to go to her, hold her, and tell her that he loved her. If only he had not already done so, then he would take the chance now, when her protector had turned on her and she was tired and alone.
But she would recoil in horror if she could see him now.
He'd followed her for days, since he commissioned Aragorn to guide her, and watched his plans crumble to nothing. First, he had taken her here, and then he had abandoned her to the forest. Lack of food, anxiety, guilt, and a great, empty grieving had wasted his body, and his hair was dirty and tangled around his face. Even his best, sturdiest tunic had been torn down the side by a wayward branch. Everything was falling.
Everything.
But still, he could not think of himself. If Arwen was in need, then his own desires paled. She was obviously in more trouble than she could comprehend, especially with the added danger of a massive orc invasion. From he gossip he had overheard, and the quiet, driven signs of preparation, there was more to fear than a few gibbering goblins with crossbows.
The Rangers, he grudgingly admitted, were some of the best warriors he had ever seen. They rivaled even Elrond, Valar help him, and he had seen the Lord of Rivendell fight. Surely, Elrond would defeat any of theirs, but not without a trying battle. If Arwen were to be escorted back to Rivendell with one of them, he would not have to fear for her safety, but to be set loose alone...
She looked up, coming out of a deep, hazy reverie, and set off for the camp, her head low. He followed the unconscious sway of her hips with his eyes. She had unbound her hair, and it was lying heavy down her back, its curls damp with exertion. Once more the desire jerked within him, lust tempered with love. If his emotions were a wine, it would be of the most exquisite make. Bittersweet.
If Aragorn was true to his word and left her, which he could not doubt, perhaps he would show himself then. Mend his previous conduct and show her how he wished her to see him. Which, eventually, would be as his wife, but he would approach that gently.
He would teach her how to love him.
It felt wrong, to think of it that way, but those were the only words he had. If he could not persuade her or force or coax her, he would be subtle. He would watch, and learn, and use his knowledge. Her Ranger had left her, and he was the only one watching.
She was gone now. The clearing was quiet.
And he knew that his following, his observance of her, was what she did not want.
He had been there, when she spoke to Aragorn, when she let down her barriers and invited him in. She had only done it twice; once, after Bane had disarmed her with his charm and attention, and Aragorn had rescued her and tended to her injury, and then when he had laid his vulnerable side bare. If he was interested in her, and if he had any sense, he would remember both times, and use them to his advantage. But there was no doubt that the great hulking brute could care less about her feelings, or her beauty, or her...
Or was there? Aragorn had seen how she responded to him, and he had not been indifferent. In fact, he had opened his door and practically extended a hand to help her through.
a dirty, disheveled Aragorn lying on the ground, his mouth smeared with brilliant crimson blood. Arwen on top of him, the tentative, almost terrified look on her face melting into wonder, and slow, slow recognition. Lowering her lips to his in a gentle, fearful caress, too questioning to be a kiss, but so close, his hands in her hair, drawing her closer, his leg wrapping around hers
He tore his mind away, shaking. The image had not been of his own making. It had appeared fully formed, driving him to question what had only been an idea, to move his lips in silent prayer. Please, Valar, let it never be.
It will not, he told himself, trying to believe he spoke with the voices of the Gods. It can never. He is mortal, she is elf-kind. What has never happened will not happen now.
What about Beren and Luthien? a nagging voice at the back of his mind insisted. They were the most pure lovers the world has ever known. They risked all for each other, Beren giving up his pride and his hand, Luthien her very immortality. The child of Elrond is Arwen, and Aragorn is the last of an unending line of kings and chieftains that began in the womb of the wife of Elros. Will you deny the heritage of Earandil and Elwing, from whose union were born these two great elven-kings?
He has forsaken what noble blood he ever had, the elf argued savagely. Only a thread of elvish blood is in his veins, and he has ignored it enough as to destroy it completely.
No rogue thoughts rose in challenge, and he smiled in cold triumph. Arwen could never love a Man.
Chapter Seven: A strange object is discovered that should not have been in a mortal camp, Aragorn gets an unsettling idea, and Arwen... well, Arwen is unsettled as well, but by many more things than just one...