Chapter 9 – Arwen's Third Dream

Arwen sighed. Long and deep.

A smile crept to her face and she giggled as she felt the air in her heavily inflated chest tickle her unbearably. The air immediately rushed out between her lips like a strong dam broken through and the violent sensation made her giggle even more. Touching the slender necklace on her chest she forcefully pressed her face into the large pillow, stifling her laughs. For a few moments the muffled sound continuously echoed through, and then they wearily subsided. Slowly she rolled over onto her back and gazed up at the ceiling of her bedroom, a gentle smile still beautifying her face.

She thought about the stars just out of reach above the ceiling. She thought about the Evenstar; she thought about its fate, how it gleamed white like a pearl cast into the darkest ashes, and yet still caught everyone's eye, still beauty beyond recognition. She thought about how it would one day fade away and disappear forever. She thought about why. She was meant to be sad. But Arwen was happy. It was Aragorn.

The image of a band of Southrons in bare wood shone in front of her eyes. She was curious as to why she was there and what was happening. While she realised that she was being carried along amidst the fierce men, she discovered that her hands were bound and her captors' hold on her was like a vice-lock. Whenever one of the men with slits for eyes and vicious grins touched her bare skin, Arwen cringed and shrank away. They laughed at her. She saw their faces: streaked with vile black and blood-red paints all over their sun-browned skin, eyes glinting like stoked coals of a fire, bodies loosely strung with oddly woven armour. In their hands they held whips and spears, and over their shoulders were ivory bows and menacing spiked hooks. They knew she was frightened. And they were pleased.

Yet suddenly they stopped, and the men carrying her dropped her harshly. Arwen fell to the ground. Quickly she stood up, nervously flattening out her dress, and wondering what she would do if they struck her. But when they moved on her it was so fast that she could not do anything to stop them.

They pushed her hard against a rigid tree and before she could even think to try to escape they were binding ropes tightly around her body. In pain she could not hold back a whimper, but it was a mistake, for a tall man with crude face paintings and flaming red eyes cackled and roughly wrenched a gag round her mouth to silence her words. For a moment she choked, and the men howled with mocking, but then they left her helpless and alone, talking amongst themselves in their coarse-sounding language.

Arwen was not hurt, but just uncomfortable, with the bonds biting so close over her body, and she felt extremely self-conscious and bare like that. No longer was she afraid, but there was something which she desired more than anything else… to see Aragorn again. The tender thought of him drove all her fear away. She imagined so vividly how he would come and rescue her, and they would be free, together.

But she did not want to be seen like this by him, her figure so highlighted and her dress revealing. She would feel so nervous if he looked at her.

But how she needed to look at him. Arwen could not decide. It was unbearable. And yet her mind was disturbed as she saw the savage men, in their feathers and strange wicker armour, all unexpectedly turn their attention on her. Their unblinking eyes stared at her ceaselessly and crept forward to make a single circle all around where she was chained to the tree. She was trapped. But not frightened.

Aching for Aragorn inside.

They now lit their flame torches, even though it was still white daylight, by passing the fire round in a circle, until it was sealed and they all in one step slid in closer. The odd lamps made their body-paints glow spooky colours and unearthly shadows fell upon their snarled faces. An echoic chant started up like a rising smoke from the dry ground and suddenly their voices were ringing all about her, cursed words winding around her like serpents and hastening to scare her. The sound was haunting and shook Arwen down to the bone.

But she was not scared. She was filled with hunger for Aragorn.

But suddenly there was a new harmonious cry uplifted above the others, from a different man, not far away, with a warm, pure voice. The Southrons were cut off and suspiciously turned their eyes in the opposite direction from Arwen, toying with their weapons and bickering over who would dare to disrupt them.

Yet first there was no sign. Arwen's heart beat rapidly in her chest.

And then a man leapt out of the trees and she saw the flash of a long sword, lashing out eagerly at the painted men. Immediately the angered Southrons swarmed towards him just like angry wasps, thrusting forward their pointed hooks; but the man fought them all off incredibly powerfully, and threw them down one by one in mere seconds.

There was a gap in the group of Southrons, adjusting to this new addition, and the man turned to ran straight for her.

It was Aragorn.

A couple of the fierce men lunged at him and he hastily dodged out the way, before hastily stabbing them as he ran by. Then with the men as ferocious as stirred-up wasps, chasing after him a few paces behind, he headed straight for her at top speed. The surprise filled her chest and her heart flipped over in a somersault. She tried to express herself and her love for him, but only her eyes could explain in her forced silence. When he reached her she saw his eyes flit down over her body and Arwen felt her heart quiver with such a nerve-itching feeling. She watched as he looked back at her, the pupils of his eyes dilating, and his face softened.

Gently he brought a hand up and stroked two fingers down the side of her cheek, running over her smooth skin and the white cloth, and down on to her chin. His touch was so affectionate and sweetly meaningful that made her even more desperate for him. Arwen knew that her eyes were betraying her, and she could see the loving recognition in Aragorn's eyes.

But the jeering Southrons pounced upon him, and Aragorn turned away in a lightning flash to be drawn into quick sword battle. Arwen watched with hope, when she saw two more Dunedain appear over by the far clump of Southrons. But as soon as she saw them, they vanished.

It was completely illogical, and still she heard their yells every so often, before they disappeared completely for a minute. She shook the confusion away and instead lingered on the look which had been in Aragorn's eyes when he had looked at her, for she could not bear to see him attacked so brutally. As many as six extremely violent Southrons were against him at once, and he fought them all. He was encircled, but he killed one and escaped, and with fury the irate men raised their bows and drew their arrow shafts.

Aragorn fled for his life behind a tree just before they let loose a whole volley of sharpened arrows, peppering the trunk so that after a slice of second it was no longer recognisable. Then Aragorn shot out from his hiding place sooner than they could shoot to him. Their strained cries filled the air as his strokes cut through them, and they despised his sword with the utmost black hatred and festering loathing. As he suffered under two muscly chieftains and threw them both off like a surging wave Arwen wondered with amazement how he could do all this - and would do it… for her.

The Southrons seemed so livid and angered that Aragorn was fighting them to take her back. They would not stop leaping upon him and nearly throttling him with their shields, but Aragorn had such strength or will power that he would not reside and he swung round in a circle, slicing their open skin and giving wounds which were deadly deep. He charged at them and stabbed them and hurled them down… until there was only one circle left.

They were angry. Very angry.

The seething Southrons with slitted eyes watched Aragorn as he momentarily paused. They were drawn around Arwen, and she could no longer see their faces, but she could see very clearly the potential in the needle-sharp arrows tight against the bow-string. If Aragorn moved, they would fire.

His grey eyes glided over them all, counting their number. Sixteen was a lot for him to fight, tremendously skilled as he was. He looked back down the line, and his gaze lingered on Arwen. As he looked into her blue eyes they began to water.

Then something strange happened.

Aragorn moved his hand up to place a finger to his lips, still watching Arwen. But because he did this, immediately she saw the Southrons pelt their arrows at him and she gasped into the cloth bound around her mouth.

Yet Aragorn did not get hurt, or even brushed by their cascade. He jumped forwards to the soily ground, diving under the arrows, before rising and charging energetically towards the deceived Southrons. Caught unawares he blocked their blows and cut them down, spilling their blood to save hers. Arwen saw the weariness on his face, and could sense his dwindling strength, but he would not give up.

Rapidly the chieftain sprang up behind him and Aragorn did not see in time as he fought the other Southrons. His sword scraped Aragorn's leather clothing and he let out a cry of anguish as he spun round to face the last of the evil Southrons. But he was not easily defeated. Aragorn tried again and again to strike him, until finally, glaring into his livid eyes, he kicked him and immediately swept his long sword through his body. Arwen saw not his face or his wounds as he fell, and for that she was relieved.

Aragorn rushed to her, faster than he had even run to kill an evil murderous Southron. Panting he halted in front of her, his eyes swimming dazedly over her. Then as his eyes met hers, his face softened significantly, and his complexion was love mingled with sadness and concern. Arwen felt herself mirror him perfectly, her heart pouring out like a river.

He cautiously moved nearer to her, and as if in slow motion Arwen saw him stretch out his hand and caringly press two fingers on her cheekbone above the scratchy cloth. The pressure made butterflies dance off and her tiny prayer was answered breathlessly when she felt his fingertips slowly begin to untie the tight knot in the cloth. He drew the coarse cloth off so tenderly that his light touch on her sensitive cheek made her pulse run through all her hot blood. She sighed and glanced down to see him pull the cloth away, hardly daring to look back up to him.

She fell inside his eyes, drawn in like a swirling whirlpool, out of the depths of time and sound. All she could see was him, she could see the flickering stars in his eyes, the forlorn affection which lay there, and she could smell his warm manly scent, rushing to her veins impulsively. His breaths like the sighing of the wind filled her ears, and the parting of his lips gave away the irresistible sign.

The one way to heal her. Just one kiss. To give her his innocent love.

It was heaven. And beyond. She was suddenly so whole, that the thought to be apart and not in this kiss seemed unreal, unliveable. The way he expressed his love was so delicate and like the touch of an angel, and the feeling would never leave her soul, it would never fade away; it would never be more than a memory… or a dream.

And when Arwen slowly awoke in the early hours of the morning before light, she could still powerfully taste the sweetness Aragorn on her tender lips, and the sudden remembrance of his gentle kiss inflated her heart once again.