The Same Woman

By Rose-Arwen-Padme

Stubborness and Succumbing and White Knuckles

One week. One week and six days since he had awoken in their home. Joui and Rodwen had ignored his persistent, pleading exclamations to let him leave and return to Rivendell. They had said he had needed rest to recover his strength first. Besides, some of his wounds were not yet healed.

At first, Aragorn had stubbornly paid no attention to their demands. That was until he had tried to sneak out one night while they were sleeping in their room. Aragorn had made it as far as the front door before he collapsed.

All the same, Aragorn had agreed to wait two more weeks, starting that night, until he left. His heart had screamed, "No! Get to Rivendell! Get to Arwen!" But in his head, a faint but firm voice, perhaps the only rational part of him left after being in love, repeated that his body did need rest and to heal more if he was to make the grueling journey across Middle Earth back to Rivendell from Rohan. But that didn't make the final decision and harder to swallow.

One week and six days. And the morning was quickly approaching.

She had lost track of the days. She had lost track of all time. She only felt… emptiness. She felt numb.

Scraps of an olive tunic. Drops of blood on fallen leaves leading deeper into the forest. A clearing where there were signs of a struggle. Disturbed dirt that was usually untouched and broken twigs on the ground.

Still, Glir had volunteered lead the hunt, and taken a team of elves, whom she had never heard of or seen before, and searched far and wide. He said he had passed through every boundary on Middle Earth. From Mirkwood to Mordor. From the Shire to the sea.

If she had had a clearer mind, if she had not been so overwhelmed with her present emotions, she might have noticed that he was only gone three weeks. That he had traveled all the corners of Middle Earth intwenty-one days.

He was dead. Aragorn was dead.

There was no body, but despite the persistent objection somewhere deep in her heart, she had believed Glir. There was proof enough in the clearing.

She had refused to accompany him there to see for herself.

She felt like she was inside one of those winter scene dioramas that were agitated to create a blizzard. The world had been shaken in a terrible way.

She was in a daze, and plans had already been put into motions that she could not stop, even if she wanted to. Everything was a blur around her. She was in a ferocious storm, and was anxiously waiting for the eye to come.

Talks of a memorial service…

Talks of a statue to be built…

Talks of a gown to be made…

Talks of an immediate wedding…

Arwen was in a daze, and was anxiously waiting for it all to be over. Would all of eternity be like this?

Love shouldn't hurt so much.

Aragorn kissed Rodwen's delicate hand, and shook Joui's firmly. For the hundreth time it seemed to Aragorn, Rodwen check his bag again. It had to be light enough for him to carry over all those miles, yet still have all of the necessary items like food, water canteens, knifes, etcs.

"Please, Rodwen, everything is still there from the last time you checked it five minutes ago," Joui pleaded, smiling at his beautiful wife.

"I swear," Aragorn remarked seriously, turning to Joui, "that I will never forget your kindness." He wrinkled his brow, rubbing his palm across it agitatedly. "Someday… if I decide to have… if I find myself entitled to… power and authorization… I will use it to thank you both the way you deserve." His voice sounded funny. He was thinking about his lineage. There was so much to do, so much to make up for… but if being king meant he could be able to help people like these, and be able to repay them for their generosity—

Joui slapped him hard on the back, abruptly bringing him out of his thoughts. "Well, between your not understandable nonsense words, I think I detected a thank you." He laughed. "A thank you which is not needed." He looked his new friend over. "My goodness, Estel! I see you are practically sweating to leave! That anxious to get to this, ah, Rivendell?"

Aragorn shook his head, an image of beautiful Arwen forming there. "You have no idea."

Rodwen stepped forward. "I suppose if you want to make it to the ruins before sundown, you should leave while you can." Her voice was sad and reluctant. She too had found a friend in this Estel.

"This will notbe an everlasting farewell," Aragorn said to her. He bowed before her, like she was a lady in a court, and Rodwen blushed. He wasn't swayed. He was convinced Rodwen was a natural lady, and made a silent promise to mention her to Arwen. As Queen, Arwen would need handmaidens and—

There he went again! Aragorn tried to keep his frustration and his reckless thoughts to himself. The only thing clear and certain in the future for him was that he was going to be happily reunited with Arwen.

"You are right, My Lady," and Rodwen blushed and shook her head again. Her red cheeks matched her red hair. "I must be moving."

He wished both of them good-bye once more, then mounted the horse they had so graciously given to him. "Farewell, my friends," he called, then raced off. He continued to look back at their figures, waving their arms in earnest, until they became nothing more than two specks in the distance.

Now, onto Rivendell.

A part of him thought he would never get this far. A part of him thought he would have collapsed for good several miles backwards. But here he was, struggling on, slightly bent over on the horse. It was only the burning need inside of him to get to Rivendell, the longing in his very soul to see Arwen's face that kept Aragorn going. At night he dreamt endlessly of her, but the smoky image created in his sub-consciousness could never be compared to the real-thing he knew was dwelling in Rivendell.

Each step took him closer to home; each step took him closer to Arwen. But with each step of the horse, every time another front hoof moved, his longing increased too. By now, after having left Joui and Rodwen's house a week ago, the sheer need to be home threatened to submit him to insanity. It overwhelmed him, making it difficult to detect any approaching visitors. He needed to be on the lookout, day and night, and though he had traveled alone many times, it wasn't normal to have his frustrations over Glir pounding him.

Glir. Just the name and Aragorn absent-mindly clenched his fists into tight punching balls. Unfortunately, this was the only subject that actually moved his longing for Arwen from the front and center of his mind, if only temporarily. His outrage—Aragorn had no doubt at all that—that—elf had done this to him…

At that moment his sword, encased securely in its leather sheath, rubbed ever so softly against his thigh at his side. He looked down at it quietly and calmly. He slowly raised his hand and rested it on the hilt of the weapon—the engravings of that handle being the only portion of the sword he could actually see and feel.

He looked down at the hilt again, gradually gripping it tighter and tighter, till his knuckles turned white.

"Be patient," Aragorn murmured aloud to the deadly weapon he mastered so well. "Be patient. Glir can run… but he cannot hide forever."

He returned his hand to the reins, and his eyes focused again on the horizon. With each step closer to Rivendell, he was closer to seeing Arwen.

And Glir was closer to his fate.