Disclaimer: It's not mine. It never has been. It never will be. If I had a dollar for every time I wished it was, though, I wouldn't need to work... Oh, except Polara. She's very definitely mine.
A/N: I feel bad even offering an apology for the delay on this, but the only excuse I have is that of real life... I'm not entirely thrilled with this chapter, but the more I fiddle with it, the more it DOESN'T seem to get any better. So I'm going to post it anyway, and try to make the next one a bit better... Please let me know what you think! Also, I have no beta reader. So if you find mistakes, they're mine...sorry.
As the day wore on, Aragorn found himself struggling to squash his impatience. He'd had many long years to learn control over that sort of thing, but all that effort seemed to have been for naught, as he found himself once more pacing his study. Who is she, he wondered for what was surely the thousandth time. What does she know? He sighed and forced his attention back to the paperwork that lay strewn in great heaps over his desk. It wasn't going to do itself, no matter how hard he wished. And wishing wouldn't hurry the girl- Polara?- in her recovery, either. He ordered his mind to concentrate, and bending over the desk, got to work.
Polara opened her eyes very slowly. Everything hurt…but she'd been dealing with pain for many days now. The ceiling above was stone, instead of sky, and she lay in a bed, instead of on the ground. Where- oh, yes. Minas Tirith. The White City of Gondor! She was finally here! And alive… That brought the memories back, things she wanted- needed- to forget. And with the memories came the reason why she was here- the queen! She needed to see the king, and quickly. If he had somehow found out where she was and decided to set out to find her…
She carefully sat up and began to remove the blankets from her body…and realized that she'd been bathed, bandaged, and was, more importantly, without clothing! She cast around and saw a dress draped over a nearby chair, along with some boots and a cloak. Her old clothes were nowhere to be seen. She grimaced as she attempted to get herself out of the bed, both from pain and from irritation at having to wear a dress. She'd promised herself she'd never wear one of them again, not after- no. Not thinking of that, she told herself sternly. She stiffly moved to the clothing and haltingly drew it on, painfully aware of the abuse her body had taken for a long time. The bruises were beginning to slowly heal, but her other injuries…well, it appeared they'd been cared for. She hoped they would heal in time.
In the meantime, she had more important things to worry about. Like how she was going to manage to find the king in a city she didn't know. Trying hard to conceal her pain, she moved carefully towards the door, only to have it open before she reached it. There in the doorway stood the object of her search.
Aragorn had finally given up and decided to check on his visitor. Opening the door to her room, he was shocked to find her out of bed, upright, clothed, and moving toward the door with a determined look on her face. There was silence for a moment.
"Hello, Polara," he said. "I'm relived to see you awake." Though I doubt you are really strong enough to be out of bed yet, he added mentally. She awkwardly and painfully bowed, then retreated across the room and sank onto a chair. He followed her and took his place in another chair a few feet away. She looked at him warily.
"My lord, I understand theQueenhas already gone missing…" she trailed off, seeing the anguish in his face.
"Yes…." His eyes left her face and focused on his hands, which lay in his lap and which, almost of their own accord, came up to rub across his face. He remained that way for a moment, bent over, head in his hands. Polara watched steadily until with an effort that seemed almost visible, he seemed to remember where he was and brought his eyes back up to meet hers.
"You know something." There was not the slightest hint of question in his voice. They were both aware of it. She looked away for a long moment, her eyes dropping to the floor and she was silent. Aragorn held his tongue, his earlier impatience gone. He sensed that it was something she would have to tell him on her own terms. At last she began to speak, and her voice was flat, emotionless.
"I am from Harad. The northern part, close to the border or Mordor. The Queen has been taken there, to a stronghold in the mountains. A man called Matshah keeps her there. I had thought to warn you before it happened, but it seems I am too late. Matshah and four other leaders of Harad have plotted this against you…to draw you out, perhaps trap you and kill you, and divide your kingdom. I do not know the full extent of their plans. But I can tell you where to find your lady. And I can also tell you that you must not go yourself." She raised her eyes to meet his, and repeated, as though for further emphasis, "You cannot go. You are their objective. They knew when they took her that you yourself would come after her, that her safety is not something you would delegate to another. And if you go yourself to rescue her, they will have you exactly where they want you."
Aragorn rose and began to pace the room. "You seem very certain of all of this. How am I to know you speak the truth? How do I know you are not part of some plot yourself?" He rounded on her suddenly, eyes blazing. "You tell me you know of Arwen's whereabouts, of the reasons behind her kidnapping, and yet you would ask me to do nothing? You have provided me no reason to trust you. Perhaps you have been sent to kill me? Perhaps you are part of this!" He was about to continue, but just then she raised her head and stopped him by the force of her gaze alone.
There was fury there, fury and pain. Deep, lingering pain, and the remnants of some past terror, for he could discern a hint of fear as well. She began to speak.
"I speak the truth. My reasons for coming here are my own, and I will ask you not to question me about them. My advice, however, comes from a desire to see this ended with as little bloodshed as possible, and certainly from the hope that if there must be blood spilled, that none of it is yours. I can advise you on where to find here, and I can also tell you, as many times as necessary, that you must allow someone else to deal with this. I will help in any way I can, no matter your decisions, but it is in the best interest of your kingdom for you to remain here. Safe." She continued to stare at him. He felt a kind of reluctant admiration for her tenacity…she had courage, that much was certainly obvious. He wondered at her reasons.
Polara suddenly felt weak and the room began to move. She cried out softly and swayed, struggling to force herself to remain on her feet. Strong hands caught her, and sat her carefully back in the chair, and when her vision cleared, she found Aragorn leaning over her, concern having replaced the earlier anger in his gaze. She attempted a smile, which was quelled when he began to sternly reprove her.
"You should not have been out of bed. You are still injured and likely still affected by your journey here. I am grateful for your advice, and for the news you bring, but you must rest. In bed. And you will stay there this time, until I or the healers allow otherwise. Is that understood?"
"I'm fine," she protested, resisting his efforts to get her to stand and return to the bed. "I do not wish to be a further burden to you, nor do I wish to allow my life to be dictated by past events." What on earth does that mean? he wondered, continuing to try and get her to move to the bed. She was having none of it, and informed him, again, that she was fine. "It was very momentary, it has already passed, and I do not need to go back to bed. What I do need, however, are some new clothes- like the ones I had before. I refuse to go about dressed in this fashion. It is neither comfortable nor practical, so I will ask that you return my old clothes to me, or else find me new ones similar to those which were taken from me!" A small voice in the back of her head whispered that arguing with a man she was trying to convince of her sincerity was not the brightest idea. Especially since the man in question happens to be the king of Gondor, the voice insisted. She resolutely ignored it-
-and was startled when said king, despite her grip on the chair, picked her bodily up from it, carried her to the bed, and set her down before she could form a protest. Polara glared up at him and attempted to rise from her prone position, ready to resume the argument, and was stopped by a firm grip on her shoulders. There was something definitely odd in Aragorn's face when he looked down at her, almost as though….no. No, he couldn't be laughing at he? But when he spoke, there was a definite hint of suppressed mirth in his voice, and he looked as though he was trying very, very hard to be stern and forceful…and not quite succeeding.
"I see that you have a stubborn streak in you…very well. I propose a truce to this matter- you will stay in bed the rest of today and I will find you some new clothes. Does that suit you?" Aragorn was having a difficult time controlling his amusement. She was stubborn…that was an understatement. The bruises and welts she had sustained had to be making themselves felt, and he had noted the slight tremor in her limbs…no doubt from fatigue and suppressed pain…and yet she was still insisting that she needed neither rest nor further care. And she managed to argue with him about his own safety! She certainly had spirit. And he was finding his orders ignored, by a young woman whose parents had likely been babes when he himself was of age and commanding men….the urge to laugh doubled, and suddenly he had to let it out.
Turning, Aragorn, fled the room, pulling the door closed behind him and sinking to the floor in a helpless fit of laughter. He wasn't even sure about exactly what was funny…but for some reason, he had to laugh. And laugh he did, until he was exhausted. And then, sitting on the floor in the corridor, he sobered. The tension, the unbearable not knowing was over. He knew who, and where, and perhaps even part of the why. Polara could tell him how to find this place. He would go alone…and he would get her back. Arwen. His Arwen, his heart, his love… He leaned his head back against the cool stone wall and closed his eyes. I'm coming for you, he whispered in his mind, hoping that somehow she would know.
Polara remained on the bed where he had put her, staring at the closed door, first in bewilderment, then in relief as the sound of laughter reached her, even through the thick wooden door. She smiled slightly, the absurdity of the situation amusing her as well. Well, he knew she could hold her own now. She had shown that she wasn't to be pushed about. She let out a long, shaky breath. It had been harder than she'd even thought, standing up to him. The past….she had no wish to let it control her, but it was difficult to forget. She'd been terrified the entire time… And now, gods, she was so tired…maybe he'd been right after all, she thought, closing her eyes. Maybe she did need rest. Her last thought before sleep took her was a fervent wish that the dreams would not come to haunt her.