The Same Woman

By Rose-Arwen-Padme

Light Green Tunics

Fate is so kind to me, Glir thought smugly to himself. He smiled from ear to ear as he stood with his hands behind his back on a balcony. It was dawn, but he had been up for several hours. The magical place of Rivendell, in all it's splendor, had been quiet and still when he had first awoken some time ago. But now, even at the time when Rivendell usually became busy with the start of a new day, it was still quiet and slow. It was as if everyone walked under a heavy blanket of timidness. Elves, especially Rivendell elves, were never rowdy or loud by nature, but today if any stranger ambled through the grand gates of the city they would think the inhabitants were all mutes.

The thoughts tugged the haughty grin from Glir's face, replacing it quickly with a scowl. Mourning should be nothing new to them—they had befriended mortals before, and lost them over time. Why should this Aragorn be any different?

Forcing the unwelcome notions from his mind, Glir concentrated again on what events would be taking place after the "mourning period" was over. His grin came back with full force.

Although his ribs still ached, Aragorn comforted himself as he rode with the knowledge that his other wounds had healed. He had been traveling for over a month now, and had progress from Rohan long ago. He had met little resistance, which was very good, though what trouble did manage to cross his path had not been severe enough where even an injured Aragorn could not deal with it. He never attacked first, however, and if he could he tried to inflict wounds that were not life threatening. Serious wounds, to be sure, that left his opponents unconscious or immobile on the ground as he continued on, but nothing that couldn't be healed with treatment. Of course, if the orc, as it usually was, came upon him with the vengeance of purely wanting to rip the very life from him… well, Aragorn wasted no time in permanently extinguishing any nuisance that kept him away from Rivendell that much longer. There had been more orcs so far than Man robbers, whose only desire had been to kill him. As a result, Aragorn's blade had spent more time being driven directly into chests, than making cuts into legs and arms.

Rivendell. The city together enticed and haunted his dreams. Visiting it was both paradise and prison, but as he neared the actual place, he was glad to note that there had been more paradises than prisons. Still, he feared sleeping at night, weary of his mind trespassing into the hell of nightmares. Nightmares of Arwen, dead after refusing to love Glir. Or worse, nightmares where she did give in, and she was happy in his arms. His heart broke a thousand times with the images of two blissful elves, a female and a male, one the radiant Arwen, and the other a satisfied Glir. He needed his rest at night, but nevertheless awoke with a relieved sigh whenever the bright sun intruded underneath his eyelids after another unbearable nightmare.

Aragorn idly guided the horse over a stream, careful not to lead it into deeper water as they crossed.

But then, of course, there were the heaven dreams. Dreams where afterwards he awoke with a cry of agony when the retched sun stole him away from his paradise. One morning the sun was an ally, a friend pulling him away from a dark dungeon he could not escape while he was subconscious. Another morning, the sun could be a hated foe, an enemy worthy of a loathed, high pedestal next to Glir.

But those dreams…. dreams where Arwen was always safe in his protective arms. Where Glir, species, and time did not exist. He would kiss her, tell her how much he loved her, and she would respond with the same passion, proclaiming that her deepest of all affections would never fade. He would run his fingers through her hair, an ocean of sweet darkness that fell to her back like a cape. Aragorn would sing to her, and make her laugh. Sometimes, after he awoke, he remembered a joke or two that he had said to her in her dreams, that his 'dream Arwen' had thought was particularly funny, and stored it in his memory. He was curious to see, when they were finally reunited, whether or not when the 'real Arwen' heard it she would produced the glorious sound of her musical laughter, or simply smile warmly at his attempt at a joke, shake her head, and sigh, "Oh, Estel."

But there was no Arwen to talk with, to laugh with, to joke with. No Arwen around to gaze in wonder at, or to shower with urgent kisses. Aloud, Aragorn moaned despairingly, "Oh, Arwen…"

It was several hours later when Aragorn heard a twig crack nearby. As he had been making his way back to Rivendell, he had come across a few roads. He would follow them, knowing he was still heading north, but always stayed just off the road, hidden out of sight, but where he could merely guide his horse a step and could see the obvious, wide path.

As he heard the unmistakable sound of voices, coming from the direction of the road, he stopped the horse, listening with his trained ears. They were muffled, but he gathered enough information from the voices to know that there were five males traveling. And these five males were speaking elvish.

Aragorn immediately steered the mammal he rode out of the trees and shrubs and emerged onto the road only a few yards behind the elves. They turned around in surprise, but seemed not to really care that this strange, ruggish, unusual man had suddenly appeared from the foilage. In fact, after their initial surprise, the five elves broke out into slow grins.

Tipsy grins, Aragorn noted.

The elves were slender, with no clear weapons, and though they were probably several hundred years older than Aragorn, in the elven appearance they looked young. By Man standards, they would seem to be no more than teenagers.

"Good day to you!" one of the elves in a light green tunic exclaimed in the basic tongue, his voice slightly slurred. "Come stranger, help us lessen our burden!" His eyes grew wide, but shut for a second as he hiccupped loudly. "The woooonderful burden of… elven wine."

Aragorn had known there was something amiss with these elves, but the slurring of this one's speech, combined with the uneven, swaying stances of the others, and barrels of something under each's two arms… those fact confirmed it.

Never, never in all his years of life had Aragorn ever come across drunk elves. Drunk Men, drunk hobbits, and other species that had been intoxicated by the pull of wine… but never elves! He knew that they thought themselves to dignified for such "intolerable behavior". These five of their races obviously were not from Rivendell, and judging by their clothing, were not from Mirkwood either. Aragorn knew that the Mirkwood elves tended to wear darker clothing, not a comparison to their personalities, but because it allowed them to blend in with the forest around them. These five elves wore very light, almost pale colored greens.

"Elven wine, sir?" Aragorn asked, though he knew that must indeed be what was incased in the barrels.

Hiccup. "Yes, stranger." Hiccup. "We—" Hiccup. "—were given some to take as a gift—" Hiccup. "— to the party. But some miles back when our wagon broke beyond repair, we continued on foot. But the barrels were so heavy!" He smiled hugely, and then hiccupped loudly. "We decided to lessen the weight of the baggage."

"Indeed," Aragorn mused softly, much amusement in that one word. These elves made him smile. He hadn't done that in quite a while. "I'm sure the recipient's of this gift," he pretended to clear his throat, when really he was trying to hide a laugh, "won't mind in the least. They'll have to understand your, ah, predicament."

The elf squinted his eyes in confusion for a moment, as if the word 'predicament' was far to complex to recognize and understand in his given state of mind, but then broke out into a smile and replied, "Yes! Riiight."

"And where might this party be?" Aragorn asked off-handedly, not really as interested as he made his voice out to be. But this was the first conversation he had had with any creature since he had left Rodwen and Joui's home.

"Ah, a fine place if there ever was—" Hiccup. "—one. Such a place like me is rare to been seen in a elf like that." He smiled, and Aragorn knew that the elf thought he was making perfect sense. The Man raised an eyebrow in even greater amusement. "Rivendell!"

Aragorn blinked several times, but that was the only clue that a torrent of emotion had been released inside of him. "Ri-Rivendell?" he croaked.

Hiccup. "Yes. Heading for the grand wedding of Lady Arwen, daughter of Lord Elrond, and Glir, son of Egerio." Hiccup. "This wi-wine is mighty tasty, sir. Would you like to try it?"

Aragorn practically ripped the barrel from the elf's hand. He didn't wait for the cup that was being passed to him—he immediately just pulled the cork out of the hole at the side end with a POP! and drank till wine continuously trickled down his chin. He only stopped when his lungs protested, and he started to choke. Coughing and sputtering, he handed the now empty barrel back to the surprised elf, his hand trembling.

His whole body was on fire, but it wasn't from the alcohol.