Damn, I'm good.
Of course, I actually had nothing to do with it except the fact that I have a tendency to eavesdrop that my mother never managed to guilt out of me. All the credit goes to Eomer. Man, he is GOOD at this guilt thing. I pity his children.
Once we're outside the Halls of Healing, Legolas gently grasps my arm and pulls me off to the side. "You need to rest," he says quietly, "or you'll be of no good to anyone."
I make a rude noise. "You're one to lecture, Goldilocks. When was the last time you slept?"
He frowns at me, and I resolutely ignored all the somersaults my stomach is doing at being this close to him. "I am an Elf. I don't require sleep as you do."
I roll my eyes and take a step away. Being reminded of the fact that he's going to outlive me by millenia and we're not even the same species is roughly the equivalent of a kick in the stomach. I dislike it. Muchly. But he gives me this look, this gentle, concerned look, and I give. Like a cheap card table. "Yes, mother, I'll go to bed. Wake me up when something happens, all right?" I fold my arms and glare at him, like a sulky eight-year-old who was denied the before-dinner cookie.
He sighs and passes a hand over his eyes, looking tired. "We have much to do before this is over, Kayli, and we'll need everyone."
I narrow my eyes. "Even me," I mutter.
Oh, god, look at all the fucking self-pity. I really need to get over myself. I shake my head and run both hands through my hair. "I'm sorry, I just..."
"You're afraid," he says softly.
I nod my head, wrapping my arms tightly around myself. "I'm afraid, I'm exhausted, and..." I all comes welling up at once, and I have to look away from those gently concerned eyes or I'll burst into tears and sobbingly confess everything that I don't want him to know. Like the fact that I'm a fraud, or the fact that I'm madly in love with him.
He reaches out, gently turns my face back towards his. "Kayli? What troubles you?"
I stare at him for a moment, long and hard, and realize I apparently haven't been as obvious as I thought. "You really don't know, do you?" I pull away, shaking my head. "When all this is over, if we both live, ask me again, then I'll tell you, all right?"
Legolas just stares at me for a moment, like he's looking into my soul.
See, I have a theory. Once Elves reach a certain age, like the Elvish equivalent of eighteen, or maybe twenty-one, one of their parents takes them aside and teaches them the LOOKs. Those LOOKs that manage to be aloof and arrogant while being deep and insightful and are specifically designed to make us poor mere mortal feels like window glass. The cheap kind. Plexiglas.
He nods once and steps away from me, suddenly the cool, aloof Elven warrior. "Agreed."
I nod and walk away.
Honestly, when I walked away from the Halls of Healing and shanghaied a maid to show me to my rooms, I thought I was too high-strung to sleep.
Heh. Shows what I know.
Next thing I know, Boromir is throwing my blankets on the floor and calling loudly for me to wake up, and I'm calling him a wide variety of obscene and anatomically insulting names. Which he's LAUGHING at.
Ah. A clue Sherlock. D'ya think Faramir's all better?
I try and find the edge of my bed and promtly roll off it. I land in a graceless, slightly deformed, barely concious and extremely painful heap on the floor. "Ouch."
Boromir peels me off the floor and sits me on the edge of my now-naked bed. "We," he says proudly, looking smug, "have a plan."
I yawn. "Oh, good," I say, and tip over, searching for a pillow. My soon-to-be-disowned adopted brother grabs me by the arm and hauls me back into a sitting position, ignoring my whine of protest.
Boromir rather pointedly sniffs the air. "You smell," he informs me, as if I didn't already know.
I yawn again. "Tell me that again after I've had about a day and a half of sleep."
"You've already had a day and a half of sleep. If you sleep any longer, you'll miss the battle."
"And this is a bad thing HOW?"
Boromir laughs at me, grabs my arm again, and pulls me up. "Your bath is ready, my Lady. Go and take advantage of it. I'll have a servant bring you fresh clothing, and then you can join us in our planning."
I frowns at him. "I thought you already had a plan?"
"Well...I might have exagerated a bit," he admits. "But fear not, for we have the BASICS of a plan, and all we have to do is fine-tune it."
Somehow, I am not reassured.
"Oh, no. What the HELL is THAT?"
My new maid, an easily frightened, doe-eyed girl younger than me, is currently staring at me with eyes that take up most of her face and a confused look that seems to be her usual expression. "It's...your gown, milady."
Oh, you have got to be fucking kidding me. "I don't wear...gowns," I try and explain for about the tenth time.
She shrugs. "It's all I have, milady," she whispers, staring at the hem of her dress.
I sigh and roll my eyes. "It's all right, it's not your fault," I mutter. If I yell at her again she might cry, and I don't need THAT on my conciense, thank you. "JUst help me get into the damn thing."
She smiles shyly and steps forward, silently listening to me bitch about how I can't wear weapons with the dress. I really shouldn't complain, it's actually a lovely gown, a pale lavender color that will go well with my black hair and blue eyes. She has silver pins that go in my hair, holding it back off my face but leaving the rest loose down my back.
When I look in the mirror, I barely recognize myself. I'm clean, for starters, no blood on my face or in my hair. I'm unarmed, not a knife or sword in sight. My face is bare, no dirt or orc blood, and my hair is braided and twisted up, and looks very elegant, really. And I look like I have a female body, not hidden by leathers and mail. Damn, but I look GOOD.
"You're very pretty," the girl whispers, looking at my shyly.
I smile at her. "Thanks, but it was all you, really. What did you say your name was, again?"
"Iariel, milady. Lord Boromir's waiting for you."
I nod, smooth my skirt, walk out, and watch Boromir's jaw hit the floor. Behind me, Iariel giggles.
"By the White Tree, you look like a lady," Boromir laughs.
I make a face at him. "You did this, didn't you, you bastard?"
He grins, not even trying to deny it. "I wanted to see if you would clean up well enough to be a Lady of Gondor, dear sister. Besides, it'll be quite amusing to see the look on the Elf's face."
I roll my eyes. MEN.
TBC...
PS -- There you go, Iariel. You're not noble, but you'll get yours, don't worry.
To Catherine Maria -- I'm still for that Gondorrian name. Last call for Boromir, honey.
Of course, I actually had nothing to do with it except the fact that I have a tendency to eavesdrop that my mother never managed to guilt out of me. All the credit goes to Eomer. Man, he is GOOD at this guilt thing. I pity his children.
Once we're outside the Halls of Healing, Legolas gently grasps my arm and pulls me off to the side. "You need to rest," he says quietly, "or you'll be of no good to anyone."
I make a rude noise. "You're one to lecture, Goldilocks. When was the last time you slept?"
He frowns at me, and I resolutely ignored all the somersaults my stomach is doing at being this close to him. "I am an Elf. I don't require sleep as you do."
I roll my eyes and take a step away. Being reminded of the fact that he's going to outlive me by millenia and we're not even the same species is roughly the equivalent of a kick in the stomach. I dislike it. Muchly. But he gives me this look, this gentle, concerned look, and I give. Like a cheap card table. "Yes, mother, I'll go to bed. Wake me up when something happens, all right?" I fold my arms and glare at him, like a sulky eight-year-old who was denied the before-dinner cookie.
He sighs and passes a hand over his eyes, looking tired. "We have much to do before this is over, Kayli, and we'll need everyone."
I narrow my eyes. "Even me," I mutter.
Oh, god, look at all the fucking self-pity. I really need to get over myself. I shake my head and run both hands through my hair. "I'm sorry, I just..."
"You're afraid," he says softly.
I nod my head, wrapping my arms tightly around myself. "I'm afraid, I'm exhausted, and..." I all comes welling up at once, and I have to look away from those gently concerned eyes or I'll burst into tears and sobbingly confess everything that I don't want him to know. Like the fact that I'm a fraud, or the fact that I'm madly in love with him.
He reaches out, gently turns my face back towards his. "Kayli? What troubles you?"
I stare at him for a moment, long and hard, and realize I apparently haven't been as obvious as I thought. "You really don't know, do you?" I pull away, shaking my head. "When all this is over, if we both live, ask me again, then I'll tell you, all right?"
Legolas just stares at me for a moment, like he's looking into my soul.
See, I have a theory. Once Elves reach a certain age, like the Elvish equivalent of eighteen, or maybe twenty-one, one of their parents takes them aside and teaches them the LOOKs. Those LOOKs that manage to be aloof and arrogant while being deep and insightful and are specifically designed to make us poor mere mortal feels like window glass. The cheap kind. Plexiglas.
He nods once and steps away from me, suddenly the cool, aloof Elven warrior. "Agreed."
I nod and walk away.
Honestly, when I walked away from the Halls of Healing and shanghaied a maid to show me to my rooms, I thought I was too high-strung to sleep.
Heh. Shows what I know.
Next thing I know, Boromir is throwing my blankets on the floor and calling loudly for me to wake up, and I'm calling him a wide variety of obscene and anatomically insulting names. Which he's LAUGHING at.
Ah. A clue Sherlock. D'ya think Faramir's all better?
I try and find the edge of my bed and promtly roll off it. I land in a graceless, slightly deformed, barely concious and extremely painful heap on the floor. "Ouch."
Boromir peels me off the floor and sits me on the edge of my now-naked bed. "We," he says proudly, looking smug, "have a plan."
I yawn. "Oh, good," I say, and tip over, searching for a pillow. My soon-to-be-disowned adopted brother grabs me by the arm and hauls me back into a sitting position, ignoring my whine of protest.
Boromir rather pointedly sniffs the air. "You smell," he informs me, as if I didn't already know.
I yawn again. "Tell me that again after I've had about a day and a half of sleep."
"You've already had a day and a half of sleep. If you sleep any longer, you'll miss the battle."
"And this is a bad thing HOW?"
Boromir laughs at me, grabs my arm again, and pulls me up. "Your bath is ready, my Lady. Go and take advantage of it. I'll have a servant bring you fresh clothing, and then you can join us in our planning."
I frowns at him. "I thought you already had a plan?"
"Well...I might have exagerated a bit," he admits. "But fear not, for we have the BASICS of a plan, and all we have to do is fine-tune it."
Somehow, I am not reassured.
"Oh, no. What the HELL is THAT?"
My new maid, an easily frightened, doe-eyed girl younger than me, is currently staring at me with eyes that take up most of her face and a confused look that seems to be her usual expression. "It's...your gown, milady."
Oh, you have got to be fucking kidding me. "I don't wear...gowns," I try and explain for about the tenth time.
She shrugs. "It's all I have, milady," she whispers, staring at the hem of her dress.
I sigh and roll my eyes. "It's all right, it's not your fault," I mutter. If I yell at her again she might cry, and I don't need THAT on my conciense, thank you. "JUst help me get into the damn thing."
She smiles shyly and steps forward, silently listening to me bitch about how I can't wear weapons with the dress. I really shouldn't complain, it's actually a lovely gown, a pale lavender color that will go well with my black hair and blue eyes. She has silver pins that go in my hair, holding it back off my face but leaving the rest loose down my back.
When I look in the mirror, I barely recognize myself. I'm clean, for starters, no blood on my face or in my hair. I'm unarmed, not a knife or sword in sight. My face is bare, no dirt or orc blood, and my hair is braided and twisted up, and looks very elegant, really. And I look like I have a female body, not hidden by leathers and mail. Damn, but I look GOOD.
"You're very pretty," the girl whispers, looking at my shyly.
I smile at her. "Thanks, but it was all you, really. What did you say your name was, again?"
"Iariel, milady. Lord Boromir's waiting for you."
I nod, smooth my skirt, walk out, and watch Boromir's jaw hit the floor. Behind me, Iariel giggles.
"By the White Tree, you look like a lady," Boromir laughs.
I make a face at him. "You did this, didn't you, you bastard?"
He grins, not even trying to deny it. "I wanted to see if you would clean up well enough to be a Lady of Gondor, dear sister. Besides, it'll be quite amusing to see the look on the Elf's face."
I roll my eyes. MEN.
TBC...
PS -- There you go, Iariel. You're not noble, but you'll get yours, don't worry.
To Catherine Maria -- I'm still for that Gondorrian name. Last call for Boromir, honey.