CHAPTER 5
MEETING
"Neithan," Aragorn repeated, surprised by the unusual name.
Arwen joined the exchange, standing beside her husband and nestling her cold hand in Aragorn's large and warm one. "That is a name I've heard only once before, a very significant name from past times that are already forgotten by most," she said.
"I know not what it means, or why was I called so," Neithan said. "The ones who cared for me as a child gave it to me, and I left their house when I was still too young to care for its meaning."
"You had no parents?" Arwen asked, seeing a glimpse beyond the man's exterior.
"No, and I don't know who my parents are or were. All my life I have been on my own, traveling and worrying about nothing but to see the next sunrise. That is why I must decline your offers, King of Gondor. I will bind my self to no city or realm, and I was not born to belong to your army. You see, I don't even know how to wield a sword."
Aragorn stepped forward, unwilling to accept a negative. "You saved what is most valuable to me in this world and beyond; please let me compensate you in some way. I could not live with such a debt unpaid."
"You owe me nothing," Neithan stated strongly, but still respectfully. "What I did, I did on my own accord and aiming for no reward. I sacrificed nothing but some travel time and a cold water dip. My clothes are already drying...." he said, feeling his ragged garments with his hands. Then, he furrowed his brow. "What do you know!" he said, feeling an absence in his belt. "Apparently my hunting knife is nowhere to be found."
Aragorn smiled triumphantly, reaching his belt for his own hunting knife, a gift from Lord Celeborn of Lothlorien that had seen service in the very War of the Ring. "Do not grieve for it, brother Neithan. I replace it right now with my own," he said, putting the curved blade on the man's hand.
Neithan admired the light and exquisite knife, knowing for a fact that elven nobility had crafted it. He had not the opportunity to object the costly gift, for a voice hinted with affront uttered his thoughts. "My King, you give this vagrant such a valuable heirloom," Hadathor said, sounding almost alarmed. "Let him have mine or one of the soldier's. That knife should pass to your heir only."
Aragorn fixed his eyes on the General's, looking at him with a mixture of irritation and pity. "Fool," he said through gritted teeth. "I would gladly give this 'vagrant' the very Anduril if he asked it from me." Then, the King stilled Neithan's hand, which was about to give back the much-famed knife. "Keep it, good Neithan," he said, closing the man's fingers around the beautiful hilt. "Too small a reward it is for the one who gave life back to me. This knife was a gift from Arwen's grandfather; surely he would be honored if you accept to have it."
"Arwen..." repeated Neithan, the elvish name rolling out of his tongue flawlessly. "Beautiful name; perfect for the one who bears it." He paused, while giving the Queen a brief, but intent stare. "I accept your gift, and thank you for it. I will use it wisely, and cherish it for as long as I live."
Aragorn patted the man's shoulder. "Your speech is refined, and your manners impeccable. It is hard to believe you are a mere wanderer."
"That I am," Neithan hurried to respond. "And I should be going back to my path now."
"And where does your path take you?" asked the King, a hopeful glint in his eyes.
"South; I heard there is a vast army camping at the River Poros, and I want to see it for myself."
Aragorn smiled jubilantly. He was hoping for the chance to get to know the intriguing young man. "Then you can travel with us. We are heading the same way."
"I travel alone."
"Come, young Neithan! Do not decline me so or I'll be affronted," Aragorn said lightheartedly. "I merely ask for the opportunity to converse with you."
Neithan hesitated.
"Come!" insisted Aragorn. "We are not such terrible company. Besides, if what you want is to see a vast army, then you don't have to go that far. The army of the White Tree marches south, only minutes from here."
"Alright," Neithan finally said, apparently out of excuses to reply.
....................................
And so, the young man joined the group on their journey. Aragorn lent him (since Neithan wouldn't accept it as a gift) a spare horse from one of the soldiers fallen in the river. The bodies of the courageous men could not be rescued for proper burial, and so the honors to them had to be paid from afar and to the very river that had consumed them.
Neithan felt somewhat clumsy and awkward on the steed lent to him, being the first time in his life he had ever been atop a horse; but Aragorn gladly and quickly helped him, whispering soothing words to the animal, and showing Neithan how to handle the bridles.
Arwen, despite being thankful for Neithan's rescue, couldn't help but to keep a distance from the young man. She felt intimidated and restless whenever the man's gray eyes were set on her. Something she couldn't quite comprehend behind the poignancy of his stare made her feel immature, like a sense of ancientness in him beyond her own days. But she did not voice her thoughts to Aragorn and tried to conceal her feelings, seeing the quick and strong fondness her husband had taken for Neithan.
Quickly enough, the reduced group of riders caught up with the slowly marching columns of the army. The monarchs took their place in front of the lines with Neithan never leaving their side, and they continued heading south until they reached the bridge of Pelargir at the borders of South Ithilien.
During the trip, Aragorn noted the awe in the face of his young new friend while he looked at the might of Gondor's army. Against his most essential instincts, the King was not concerned by the nearly covetous glint in the man's mysterious and disquieting eyes, and he even repeated the offer he had given earlier.
"You could be a part of this," he told Neithan under his breath, bringing him out of his contemplation. "You could be a very important part of this."
Neithan smiled, and Arwen could swear she saw irony in the man's face. But his voice was still courteous when he answered. "Again I must say no to you, King Elessar. I would rather seize the lonely but simple life of the woods and roads."
Aragorn nodded silently, his gaze focusing on the orange glimmer of the sunset lights over the now contrastingly calm waters of the Anduin beneath the Pelargir Bridge ahead. Arwen, too, looked at the landscape slowly uncovering before them; the sight was indeed beautiful, but it made her sad and almost sick with remorse.
"If only I could have waited," she thought to herself, looking at the slow and steady currents of the Great River that broadened before going into the Bay of Belfalas. It was almost impossible to believe this was the same river that had almost claimed her life and consumed three valuable and beloved soldiers. Her heart shrunk, thinking about the fallen ones, knowing that each one of them was someone's husband, father, or son. To know it wasn't a battlefield but her very stubbornness that had made widows and orphans ripped her heart like nothing else before, and so she remained silent, and deep in grief.
The imposing army stopped just before crossing the bridge, since Aragorn decided to camp and wait until sunrise to cross it for night was too near. With the last crimson lights coming from Belfalas, the group lifted up the tents.
Neithan was offered to spend the night inside a tent but he refused, claiming that he would rather go through the night by the fire and under the stars, and Aragorn was not surprised by his decision; after all, he still remembered the time when the only place he felt contented to sleep was over the warm soil and greeted by the shivering stars. Now, the King's only desire was to spend the night inside a warm and sheltered tent, sprawled over clean blankets, and clung to the body of his wife.
But first, Aragorn had insisted to go sit by Neithan's fire, bringing a simple and frugal dinner that the monarchs and their mysterious friend ate slowly and in silence, staring at the crackling flames. Aragorn tried to make conversation but Neithan did not show much enthusiasm to chat, and neither did Arwen, who shifted her body and diverted her eyes to the sides, feeling the man's disturbing gaze setting upon her from time to time.
Aragorn took his cue and called it a night. He got up, stretching his sore body and yawning lazily. "Well, I believe it is time to let this young man rest... though it seems that he needs no such thing," he said, looking curiously at Neithan, who was sitting straight and unmoved, showing absolutely no sign of weariness despite the day's events and long ride.
"Will you ever cease to amaze me?" Aragorn said, extending his hand to ask Arwen to join him. "You seem to be ready for a good hunt and not a good sleep."
"It is hard to wear me out," the young man answered simply, his eyes fixated on the reddish flames. "I wish you both a good night."
"Same to you, brother," Aragorn whispered, while Arwen finally dared to set her eyes upon Neithan, and was startled to see that he was looking straight at her. She gathered up courage and held her gaze to him, noting how his face seemed even more stunning when illuminated by the shifting light of the fire. Stunning, yes, but more disconcerting than ever. His big, primeval eyes appeared to magnetize the fiery light of the flames, shining boastfully while surrounded by the dark shadows of the angular bones beneath the skin of his face.
Arwen looked away, shaken by a single shiver that ran through her backbone, and turned to follow the safety of her husband's embrace. Nevertheless, she could feel those eyes following her as she walked away, nearly physically burning the back of her neck.
Indeed, Neithan watched every one of Arwen's movements as she hastily got away, aware that his attitude was risky and could be interpreted as suspicious, but unable to stop himself from looking at her. He squeezed his eyes shut, struggling to regain control; cursing himself for a weakness he had not yet known. Never before in his life had he seen a woman, and now he was confronted with one that was called the fairest of them all. He shook his head vigorously, for his master had warned him against the treacherous spell of the witch's face.
When his eyes opened again, they were as calm and firm as before. Still, he could not help but to feel glad that he had saved the Queen; even pleased that he had carried her winded body and allowed her to see the light yet for a time.
"Pity..." he muttered under his breath, so none else could hear his words; his eyes looking to the evening stars above, "... that such a beautiful thing ought to die so soon."
....................................
The night went by uneventfully, the peaceful darkness opening up to a beautiful sun rising up from behind the once dreadful ridges of Ephel Dúath. The camp woke to the first lights and packed hastily in order to continue their journey towards the south.
The wide bridge was crossed without incident by the well-arrayed columns, leaded by their King and Queen. Neithan stayed in the back of the group, claiming that he wanted to get a better look at the entire army, and already showing an uncanny ability and ease in the art of riding a warhorse. Aragorn looked back at the remarkable young man, his eyes filled with something that resembled fatherly pride as the now-skilled rider sprinted effortlessly through the tight passages between the infantry lines.
Arwen noted the admiration in her husband's eyes, still unable to voice her discomfort around the newcomer, and tried to convince herself that she was misjudging the young man; after all, he had saved her from certain death. Against the strong forewarning coming from the deepest fibers of her soul, she decided to ignore her own intuition, specially since as the journey continued, she once again began to feel the same physical illness that had urged her to go into the river; although this time she dared not to go forward or to get away from the thick air emanating from the group, and she focused all her energy and concerns in not getting sick.
....................................
Three hours they journeyed into the lush forest of South Ithilien, the large group trampling over not a small number of plant life, new sprouts and blossoms, leaving quite a large trail as evidence of their passing.
Suddenly, the dense forest around them became awfully quiet. The birds and bugs stopped their chirps, and the wind stopped its dance with the branches of the tall trees. Neithan was the first to notice the change in the forest air; and he pulled the reins of his steed to a halt, even before the susceptible animals sensed the tensing in the atmosphere and began neighing and kicking the ground nervously.
Aragorn lifted his fisted hand, signaling the group to stop at once, and began scanning the surroundings with his sharp eyes and alert ears. Hadathor motioned his horse to go forward and opened his mouth to speak to the King, but before he could utter sound, Aragorn shushed him.
"Shh! Listen..." the King hissed, while the horses grew even more restless under their riders.
"Something is out there," muttered Neithan, who had moved to stand beside the King. "And it is very near."
Arwen's senses were conscious of the presence as well, but she did not feel threatened or disturbed by it at all. "Fear not," she said softly. "I sense no evil, nor menace."
It was then that the powerful and piercing sound of a horn filled the group's ears. It was near, surprisingly near, and Neithan began turning his horse from side to side fretfully, as if expecting an attack from a still unseen enemy.
"Easy!" shouted Aragorn, so the entire group could hear him. "I can still recognize that as the sound of an elven war horn, though I cannot tell from which house."
Arwen was quick to elucidate. "It is the sound of a Galadhrim horn, from the fair Lothlorien, though the meaning of the call I cannot understand."
A soft smile appeared on the King's face, and he signaled the army to stand still and wait. "Keep your hands off your hilts. This is not the sound of an enemy," he said, resting his hands upon the horse's saddle, and expecting a small group of archers on foot to appear suddenly from behind the trees. What came next startled him as much as everyone else in his group.
The sound of pounding hoofs was heard only feet away from their position, and in an instant, many flashes of metal and leather emerged, apparently from the depths of the forest soil.
Before they could conceive another thought, Aragorn and his closest were tightly surrounded by a group of silent riders holding long bows, which were fitted with thick combat arrows, and steadily pointed towards the heads of all the Gondorian leaders.
"Be still!" shouted the King, more preoccupied by his men's reaction than the dark arrow sharply aimed towards the small area between his eyes. He examined the unnaturally swift riders, wondering how they had managed to take them by surprise with such a fine group of warhorses. It was then that he noticed the riders' armors, fixed and elegant, undoubtedly of elven making.
Elven archers on horses? That was a force too intimidating even to imagine.
One of the riders wearing an even more admirable armor came forward, and with a small gesture of his hand, signaled the riders to lower their bows, leaving no doubt that he was the leader of the unusual group. Afterwards, the proud-looking rider nodded towards one of his kinsmen, who blew a low call out of an elven horn.
"I apologize for our unkind welcoming....." came the rider's smooth voice, a voice Aragorn and Arwen did not fail to recognize, "...but we received no fore message of your arrival to our borders." The rider dismounted and bowed. "We salute you, monarchs of Gondor and Arnor," he said, taking of his helmet to reveal his fair face and golden hair.
Aragorn and Arwen dismounted as well. The Queen strode forward and boldly embraced her kinsman and mischief companion from the time she dwelt in Lorien the Fair.
"Rúmil of the Galadhrim!" She shrieked happily, holding the elf's face between her hands. His features were still as fair, but now they held the roughness and earnestness of one burdened with many responsibilities.
"Well met, old friend," Aragorn said, while gripping the elf's forearm brotherly. "It has been long."
Rúmil smiled sincerely. "Our meeting is indeed a joyful occasion," the elven archer said, letting show the smallest hint of excitement. "I am sure the King will be more than pleased to see you both."
"The King?" Aragorn questioned hopefully. "You mean Legolas?"
Rúmil let out a slight sign of mirth. "Yes... that is what his name used to be."
"I am afraid we cannot go all the way to your city to meet... Aramarth just yet. We have other urgent business to deal with prior to that," Arwen intervened, nodding towards the vast, and uneasy-looking group of men behind them.
"That will not be necessary," said Rúmil, quite pleased. "I already summoned him."
"He is near then?" Aragorn asked, anxious to see the one he for so long called his best ally.
"Yes," answered Rúmil, turning suddenly towards the forest. "Behold! He comes."
At the sound of Rúmil's announcement, all of his riders dismounted their steeds at once, with a synchronization and accord only a group of intensely trained elven warriors could attain. Their feet touched the ground in unison, and they pulled their horses to form what could only be described as an entryway for the one coming, two lines of soldiers and steeds facing each other, standing straight and unmoved.
Once again, the sound of the hoofs was not evident to the Gondor group until the horses were extremely near, so the new coming riders seemed to spring out of the ground, or simply appear from behind the trees. It was a group of 20 riders, just as many as the first squad, leaded by an elf clad in gold, black and white, and mounted on a lithe, white horse Aragorn immediately recognized as Arod, the steed once given to Legolas by the Rohirim.
Aragorn heard his wife gasp somewhere near his side, and the reaction became fully comprehensible as the rider over Arod approached to allow a better look. The usually calmed King found himself speechless and awestruck, as the golden rider swiftly came down from Arod's back and began walking towards the group, flanked by the elven soldiers who were bowing their heads and touching their chest as he passed.
For Arwen, time seemed to run both slower and faster than usual as her eyes were fixed upon the warrior coming towards her. To look at this being was both awesome and disquieting; a creature both fair and terrible, grand and overwhelmingly menacing; wearing an armor she instantly recognized from her past life. It was then that she tried to recover poise, realizing this being was no other than Legolas, the woodland archer.
She strived to still the rushed beat of her heart, telling herself that her disproportionate wonder was due to the imposing armor the wood elf was wearing, since it was an heirloom of the High Kings of old. She tried hard to convince her mind of its own folly, blocking out all signs of awe from her outer façade.
"It is only Legolas," she told herself over and over, wishing she had the mind power to close her husband's slightly open mouth from where she stood.
"It is only Legolas..." she insisted, less convinced as seconds passed by and the said elf approached, making her wonder how the eminent armor made the slender archer look even taller, and his shoulders broader. The Queen's eyes sought even for a hint of her husband's earthy and simple friend underneath the shining helm, but it only allowed the sight of his strong jawbone and thin lips.
The elven King seemed to have read the Evenstar's silent request, and he lifted his hands to remove the said helm as he walked. The Queen held her breath, expecting to see the clear eyes and plain, honest smile she remembered; but what the helm revealed weakened her knees with the realization and grief that the Legolas she had known was dead.
Aramarth's head was uncovered, and his bright hair, released from its bonds, gleamed with pale golden upon his shoulders. Beautiful he was, more than ever before, but his face was not uncomplicated any more, his lips held no smile, his eyes held no innocence nor joy.
Arwen felt stabbed across her heart while contemplating his face. his eyes. She expected warmth, simplicity, ingenuousness; but nothing could be found. His expression was sharp as steel-blade, endowed with the arrogance of the sun; his eyes even as they were brightest, were also cold and hard as a vast sea, so dissimilar to the curious stare he used to carry. No longer could he be conceived as young; he now seemed extremely wise, grave, and even sorrow-laden by the cares, pains and strives of many ages of watching over the world.
How could it be? How could one's nature change so much in such small a time? These and other questions assailed the Queen before she could realize Aramarth was already only inches away from her. To have him so near was overwhelming, even exhilarating and draining at the same time. Never before had she felt a presence so strong, so imposing; not even those of the Lord and Lady of Lorien, or any other elven nobles she had acquainted in her long years had a remotely akin effect on her.
She was besieged with the sudden urge to kneel before the King of her people, to pay homage to her newly found lord; and knew that the bearing of her loyalty would never be the same, feeling more elven in his presence than ever before when she had dwelt among her people. It was the clear and ringing voice of Aramarth speaking the beautiful language of the firstborn that kept her from bowing to the ground.
"Elessar Telcontar! Nae saian luume; cormamin lindua ele lle." [It has been too long; my heart sings to see thee.]
Aragorn tried to overcome his stupefaction. "Yallume, Legolas! Oio naa elealla alasse," [At last, Legolas! Ever is thy sight a joy,] he said joyfully, though he cursed his tongue for using such a plain name on such as the one standing before him.
"Amin hiraetha. Aramarth," [I am sorry... Aramarth,] Aragorn apologized. "Amin naa tualle," [I am your servant,] he said bowing down, but the strong grip of a hand upon his shoulder straightened him to look into his eyes.
"Aragorn! Do not bow before me, and cease your apologies. You can call me whatever you like, and should be embracing me as a brother," Aramarth said with the slightest of smiles.
The sorrow that had beset the heart of the Evenstar upon seeing Legolas's transformation started to fade away as she beheld the two kings clasping each other's shoulders and patting backs cordially. She realized that though she grieved the loss of the earthy Mirkwood archer, she was now looking at the rise of an extraordinary individual, capable of majesty no longer found amid the mortal circles of Arda; but from the few words she heard him exchange with her awestruck husband, she knew he was also capable of the great compassion and kindness that only well-placed power and wisdom give. A wave of warmth came to her soul, and she determined herself to rejoice in the very dawn of the King of the Elves.
Such thoughts filled her mind when Aramarth turned his attention from Elessar to her. "Amin elea vanimle sila tiri, arwenamin Undomiel." [I see your beauty shines bright, my lady Evenstar.]
Innocent coyness arose from the depths of Arwen's soul upon hearing his words towards her, and feeling his bright eyes upon her face. She tried her best not to let the exhilarating tension he caused on her show, and gathered herself to answer his salutation.
"Aaye, Aramarth! Beleger, heru en amin," [Hail, Aramarth! Mighty one, lord of mine,] she said demurely in barely audible whispers, while trying to stop her eyes from averting from his intent gaze, finding impossible to steadily look into his eyes.
The elven King bowed his head before her. "Amin vanima Tari," (My beautiful Queen,) he spoke softly, exuding reverence towards her. "Long have been the days since I last saw you. Would you care to bestow your servant with the touch of your blessed hand upon my face?"
Arwen hesitated for the slightest of moments, feeling that a mystic bolt of lightning would strike her if she dared touch him. She tentatively reached out her alabaster hand to his face, but no lighting came as her fingers touched the smooth warmth of his skin, although the beating of her heart hastened its pace once again while his hand covered her own, urging her to press her palm against him fuller; and Legolas, with eyes closed, reached out to touch her blushed cheek, completing the familiar salutation they had so many times shared.
It was at that moment that all shyness, awkwardness and qualms slipped from Arwen's mind and heart, and she understood what this new King meant to her: a lifetime ally, and a vessel for her trust. From that moment and on, not only would her loyalty be by his side, she also felt the silent promise of his unreserved allegiance being pledged to her. From such a powerful friend, it was a promise comforting to have, a solace for the constant concerns that had haunted her lately.
She smiled fully to him while her hand dropped from his face, now able to look into his eyes, freed from all reserves.
"We understand each other then?" Aramarth asked with solemn, hopeful eyes, and Arwen became aware that the unspoken trust exchange had been anything but unintended.
"Yes, we understand each other," she answered content, reaching her hand to hold Aragorn's, who stared at them in curious unawareness of what had just taken place between his wife and his friend.
"Very well then," Legolas said slowly. "Now allow me to unload a heavy burden from my heart." The elf's face turned stern, giving the word a new meaning, as a dismal shadow seemed to fall upon his features. "I have carried this with me for too long."
"Speak, friend," Aragorn said, worried by the elf's somber face.
"I was given the liability of delivering bequest to Lady Arwen, from Lord Elrond at the Gray Havens."
Arwen braced herself, holding back the pain that stabbed her from inside. "Word from father was already given to me by the Periannath."
Legolas's once hard eyes settled on hers, now bearing great sadness and commiseration, but unyielding resolution as well. "I bring you much more than words."
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AUTHOR NOTE
Forgive me if the elvish used in this chapter is inaccurate. I am still learning.
At last, the much-awaited King of Elves makes his appearance. Was that too ostentatious? Well he is ostentatious; at least in this fic, so get use to it.
Next chapter, Aramarth gives Arwen whatever Elrond sent to her. It will probably be a very emotional moment, so brace yourselves. Also, we'll learn more about Neithan, and some action will take place as well.
Stay tuned, and come on! Leave a review; don't you think I deserve one after such a long chapter? I hope you do.
Cheers.
Elwe
MEETING
"Neithan," Aragorn repeated, surprised by the unusual name.
Arwen joined the exchange, standing beside her husband and nestling her cold hand in Aragorn's large and warm one. "That is a name I've heard only once before, a very significant name from past times that are already forgotten by most," she said.
"I know not what it means, or why was I called so," Neithan said. "The ones who cared for me as a child gave it to me, and I left their house when I was still too young to care for its meaning."
"You had no parents?" Arwen asked, seeing a glimpse beyond the man's exterior.
"No, and I don't know who my parents are or were. All my life I have been on my own, traveling and worrying about nothing but to see the next sunrise. That is why I must decline your offers, King of Gondor. I will bind my self to no city or realm, and I was not born to belong to your army. You see, I don't even know how to wield a sword."
Aragorn stepped forward, unwilling to accept a negative. "You saved what is most valuable to me in this world and beyond; please let me compensate you in some way. I could not live with such a debt unpaid."
"You owe me nothing," Neithan stated strongly, but still respectfully. "What I did, I did on my own accord and aiming for no reward. I sacrificed nothing but some travel time and a cold water dip. My clothes are already drying...." he said, feeling his ragged garments with his hands. Then, he furrowed his brow. "What do you know!" he said, feeling an absence in his belt. "Apparently my hunting knife is nowhere to be found."
Aragorn smiled triumphantly, reaching his belt for his own hunting knife, a gift from Lord Celeborn of Lothlorien that had seen service in the very War of the Ring. "Do not grieve for it, brother Neithan. I replace it right now with my own," he said, putting the curved blade on the man's hand.
Neithan admired the light and exquisite knife, knowing for a fact that elven nobility had crafted it. He had not the opportunity to object the costly gift, for a voice hinted with affront uttered his thoughts. "My King, you give this vagrant such a valuable heirloom," Hadathor said, sounding almost alarmed. "Let him have mine or one of the soldier's. That knife should pass to your heir only."
Aragorn fixed his eyes on the General's, looking at him with a mixture of irritation and pity. "Fool," he said through gritted teeth. "I would gladly give this 'vagrant' the very Anduril if he asked it from me." Then, the King stilled Neithan's hand, which was about to give back the much-famed knife. "Keep it, good Neithan," he said, closing the man's fingers around the beautiful hilt. "Too small a reward it is for the one who gave life back to me. This knife was a gift from Arwen's grandfather; surely he would be honored if you accept to have it."
"Arwen..." repeated Neithan, the elvish name rolling out of his tongue flawlessly. "Beautiful name; perfect for the one who bears it." He paused, while giving the Queen a brief, but intent stare. "I accept your gift, and thank you for it. I will use it wisely, and cherish it for as long as I live."
Aragorn patted the man's shoulder. "Your speech is refined, and your manners impeccable. It is hard to believe you are a mere wanderer."
"That I am," Neithan hurried to respond. "And I should be going back to my path now."
"And where does your path take you?" asked the King, a hopeful glint in his eyes.
"South; I heard there is a vast army camping at the River Poros, and I want to see it for myself."
Aragorn smiled jubilantly. He was hoping for the chance to get to know the intriguing young man. "Then you can travel with us. We are heading the same way."
"I travel alone."
"Come, young Neithan! Do not decline me so or I'll be affronted," Aragorn said lightheartedly. "I merely ask for the opportunity to converse with you."
Neithan hesitated.
"Come!" insisted Aragorn. "We are not such terrible company. Besides, if what you want is to see a vast army, then you don't have to go that far. The army of the White Tree marches south, only minutes from here."
"Alright," Neithan finally said, apparently out of excuses to reply.
....................................
And so, the young man joined the group on their journey. Aragorn lent him (since Neithan wouldn't accept it as a gift) a spare horse from one of the soldiers fallen in the river. The bodies of the courageous men could not be rescued for proper burial, and so the honors to them had to be paid from afar and to the very river that had consumed them.
Neithan felt somewhat clumsy and awkward on the steed lent to him, being the first time in his life he had ever been atop a horse; but Aragorn gladly and quickly helped him, whispering soothing words to the animal, and showing Neithan how to handle the bridles.
Arwen, despite being thankful for Neithan's rescue, couldn't help but to keep a distance from the young man. She felt intimidated and restless whenever the man's gray eyes were set on her. Something she couldn't quite comprehend behind the poignancy of his stare made her feel immature, like a sense of ancientness in him beyond her own days. But she did not voice her thoughts to Aragorn and tried to conceal her feelings, seeing the quick and strong fondness her husband had taken for Neithan.
Quickly enough, the reduced group of riders caught up with the slowly marching columns of the army. The monarchs took their place in front of the lines with Neithan never leaving their side, and they continued heading south until they reached the bridge of Pelargir at the borders of South Ithilien.
During the trip, Aragorn noted the awe in the face of his young new friend while he looked at the might of Gondor's army. Against his most essential instincts, the King was not concerned by the nearly covetous glint in the man's mysterious and disquieting eyes, and he even repeated the offer he had given earlier.
"You could be a part of this," he told Neithan under his breath, bringing him out of his contemplation. "You could be a very important part of this."
Neithan smiled, and Arwen could swear she saw irony in the man's face. But his voice was still courteous when he answered. "Again I must say no to you, King Elessar. I would rather seize the lonely but simple life of the woods and roads."
Aragorn nodded silently, his gaze focusing on the orange glimmer of the sunset lights over the now contrastingly calm waters of the Anduin beneath the Pelargir Bridge ahead. Arwen, too, looked at the landscape slowly uncovering before them; the sight was indeed beautiful, but it made her sad and almost sick with remorse.
"If only I could have waited," she thought to herself, looking at the slow and steady currents of the Great River that broadened before going into the Bay of Belfalas. It was almost impossible to believe this was the same river that had almost claimed her life and consumed three valuable and beloved soldiers. Her heart shrunk, thinking about the fallen ones, knowing that each one of them was someone's husband, father, or son. To know it wasn't a battlefield but her very stubbornness that had made widows and orphans ripped her heart like nothing else before, and so she remained silent, and deep in grief.
The imposing army stopped just before crossing the bridge, since Aragorn decided to camp and wait until sunrise to cross it for night was too near. With the last crimson lights coming from Belfalas, the group lifted up the tents.
Neithan was offered to spend the night inside a tent but he refused, claiming that he would rather go through the night by the fire and under the stars, and Aragorn was not surprised by his decision; after all, he still remembered the time when the only place he felt contented to sleep was over the warm soil and greeted by the shivering stars. Now, the King's only desire was to spend the night inside a warm and sheltered tent, sprawled over clean blankets, and clung to the body of his wife.
But first, Aragorn had insisted to go sit by Neithan's fire, bringing a simple and frugal dinner that the monarchs and their mysterious friend ate slowly and in silence, staring at the crackling flames. Aragorn tried to make conversation but Neithan did not show much enthusiasm to chat, and neither did Arwen, who shifted her body and diverted her eyes to the sides, feeling the man's disturbing gaze setting upon her from time to time.
Aragorn took his cue and called it a night. He got up, stretching his sore body and yawning lazily. "Well, I believe it is time to let this young man rest... though it seems that he needs no such thing," he said, looking curiously at Neithan, who was sitting straight and unmoved, showing absolutely no sign of weariness despite the day's events and long ride.
"Will you ever cease to amaze me?" Aragorn said, extending his hand to ask Arwen to join him. "You seem to be ready for a good hunt and not a good sleep."
"It is hard to wear me out," the young man answered simply, his eyes fixated on the reddish flames. "I wish you both a good night."
"Same to you, brother," Aragorn whispered, while Arwen finally dared to set her eyes upon Neithan, and was startled to see that he was looking straight at her. She gathered up courage and held her gaze to him, noting how his face seemed even more stunning when illuminated by the shifting light of the fire. Stunning, yes, but more disconcerting than ever. His big, primeval eyes appeared to magnetize the fiery light of the flames, shining boastfully while surrounded by the dark shadows of the angular bones beneath the skin of his face.
Arwen looked away, shaken by a single shiver that ran through her backbone, and turned to follow the safety of her husband's embrace. Nevertheless, she could feel those eyes following her as she walked away, nearly physically burning the back of her neck.
Indeed, Neithan watched every one of Arwen's movements as she hastily got away, aware that his attitude was risky and could be interpreted as suspicious, but unable to stop himself from looking at her. He squeezed his eyes shut, struggling to regain control; cursing himself for a weakness he had not yet known. Never before in his life had he seen a woman, and now he was confronted with one that was called the fairest of them all. He shook his head vigorously, for his master had warned him against the treacherous spell of the witch's face.
When his eyes opened again, they were as calm and firm as before. Still, he could not help but to feel glad that he had saved the Queen; even pleased that he had carried her winded body and allowed her to see the light yet for a time.
"Pity..." he muttered under his breath, so none else could hear his words; his eyes looking to the evening stars above, "... that such a beautiful thing ought to die so soon."
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The night went by uneventfully, the peaceful darkness opening up to a beautiful sun rising up from behind the once dreadful ridges of Ephel Dúath. The camp woke to the first lights and packed hastily in order to continue their journey towards the south.
The wide bridge was crossed without incident by the well-arrayed columns, leaded by their King and Queen. Neithan stayed in the back of the group, claiming that he wanted to get a better look at the entire army, and already showing an uncanny ability and ease in the art of riding a warhorse. Aragorn looked back at the remarkable young man, his eyes filled with something that resembled fatherly pride as the now-skilled rider sprinted effortlessly through the tight passages between the infantry lines.
Arwen noted the admiration in her husband's eyes, still unable to voice her discomfort around the newcomer, and tried to convince herself that she was misjudging the young man; after all, he had saved her from certain death. Against the strong forewarning coming from the deepest fibers of her soul, she decided to ignore her own intuition, specially since as the journey continued, she once again began to feel the same physical illness that had urged her to go into the river; although this time she dared not to go forward or to get away from the thick air emanating from the group, and she focused all her energy and concerns in not getting sick.
....................................
Three hours they journeyed into the lush forest of South Ithilien, the large group trampling over not a small number of plant life, new sprouts and blossoms, leaving quite a large trail as evidence of their passing.
Suddenly, the dense forest around them became awfully quiet. The birds and bugs stopped their chirps, and the wind stopped its dance with the branches of the tall trees. Neithan was the first to notice the change in the forest air; and he pulled the reins of his steed to a halt, even before the susceptible animals sensed the tensing in the atmosphere and began neighing and kicking the ground nervously.
Aragorn lifted his fisted hand, signaling the group to stop at once, and began scanning the surroundings with his sharp eyes and alert ears. Hadathor motioned his horse to go forward and opened his mouth to speak to the King, but before he could utter sound, Aragorn shushed him.
"Shh! Listen..." the King hissed, while the horses grew even more restless under their riders.
"Something is out there," muttered Neithan, who had moved to stand beside the King. "And it is very near."
Arwen's senses were conscious of the presence as well, but she did not feel threatened or disturbed by it at all. "Fear not," she said softly. "I sense no evil, nor menace."
It was then that the powerful and piercing sound of a horn filled the group's ears. It was near, surprisingly near, and Neithan began turning his horse from side to side fretfully, as if expecting an attack from a still unseen enemy.
"Easy!" shouted Aragorn, so the entire group could hear him. "I can still recognize that as the sound of an elven war horn, though I cannot tell from which house."
Arwen was quick to elucidate. "It is the sound of a Galadhrim horn, from the fair Lothlorien, though the meaning of the call I cannot understand."
A soft smile appeared on the King's face, and he signaled the army to stand still and wait. "Keep your hands off your hilts. This is not the sound of an enemy," he said, resting his hands upon the horse's saddle, and expecting a small group of archers on foot to appear suddenly from behind the trees. What came next startled him as much as everyone else in his group.
The sound of pounding hoofs was heard only feet away from their position, and in an instant, many flashes of metal and leather emerged, apparently from the depths of the forest soil.
Before they could conceive another thought, Aragorn and his closest were tightly surrounded by a group of silent riders holding long bows, which were fitted with thick combat arrows, and steadily pointed towards the heads of all the Gondorian leaders.
"Be still!" shouted the King, more preoccupied by his men's reaction than the dark arrow sharply aimed towards the small area between his eyes. He examined the unnaturally swift riders, wondering how they had managed to take them by surprise with such a fine group of warhorses. It was then that he noticed the riders' armors, fixed and elegant, undoubtedly of elven making.
Elven archers on horses? That was a force too intimidating even to imagine.
One of the riders wearing an even more admirable armor came forward, and with a small gesture of his hand, signaled the riders to lower their bows, leaving no doubt that he was the leader of the unusual group. Afterwards, the proud-looking rider nodded towards one of his kinsmen, who blew a low call out of an elven horn.
"I apologize for our unkind welcoming....." came the rider's smooth voice, a voice Aragorn and Arwen did not fail to recognize, "...but we received no fore message of your arrival to our borders." The rider dismounted and bowed. "We salute you, monarchs of Gondor and Arnor," he said, taking of his helmet to reveal his fair face and golden hair.
Aragorn and Arwen dismounted as well. The Queen strode forward and boldly embraced her kinsman and mischief companion from the time she dwelt in Lorien the Fair.
"Rúmil of the Galadhrim!" She shrieked happily, holding the elf's face between her hands. His features were still as fair, but now they held the roughness and earnestness of one burdened with many responsibilities.
"Well met, old friend," Aragorn said, while gripping the elf's forearm brotherly. "It has been long."
Rúmil smiled sincerely. "Our meeting is indeed a joyful occasion," the elven archer said, letting show the smallest hint of excitement. "I am sure the King will be more than pleased to see you both."
"The King?" Aragorn questioned hopefully. "You mean Legolas?"
Rúmil let out a slight sign of mirth. "Yes... that is what his name used to be."
"I am afraid we cannot go all the way to your city to meet... Aramarth just yet. We have other urgent business to deal with prior to that," Arwen intervened, nodding towards the vast, and uneasy-looking group of men behind them.
"That will not be necessary," said Rúmil, quite pleased. "I already summoned him."
"He is near then?" Aragorn asked, anxious to see the one he for so long called his best ally.
"Yes," answered Rúmil, turning suddenly towards the forest. "Behold! He comes."
At the sound of Rúmil's announcement, all of his riders dismounted their steeds at once, with a synchronization and accord only a group of intensely trained elven warriors could attain. Their feet touched the ground in unison, and they pulled their horses to form what could only be described as an entryway for the one coming, two lines of soldiers and steeds facing each other, standing straight and unmoved.
Once again, the sound of the hoofs was not evident to the Gondor group until the horses were extremely near, so the new coming riders seemed to spring out of the ground, or simply appear from behind the trees. It was a group of 20 riders, just as many as the first squad, leaded by an elf clad in gold, black and white, and mounted on a lithe, white horse Aragorn immediately recognized as Arod, the steed once given to Legolas by the Rohirim.
Aragorn heard his wife gasp somewhere near his side, and the reaction became fully comprehensible as the rider over Arod approached to allow a better look. The usually calmed King found himself speechless and awestruck, as the golden rider swiftly came down from Arod's back and began walking towards the group, flanked by the elven soldiers who were bowing their heads and touching their chest as he passed.
For Arwen, time seemed to run both slower and faster than usual as her eyes were fixed upon the warrior coming towards her. To look at this being was both awesome and disquieting; a creature both fair and terrible, grand and overwhelmingly menacing; wearing an armor she instantly recognized from her past life. It was then that she tried to recover poise, realizing this being was no other than Legolas, the woodland archer.
She strived to still the rushed beat of her heart, telling herself that her disproportionate wonder was due to the imposing armor the wood elf was wearing, since it was an heirloom of the High Kings of old. She tried hard to convince her mind of its own folly, blocking out all signs of awe from her outer façade.
"It is only Legolas," she told herself over and over, wishing she had the mind power to close her husband's slightly open mouth from where she stood.
"It is only Legolas..." she insisted, less convinced as seconds passed by and the said elf approached, making her wonder how the eminent armor made the slender archer look even taller, and his shoulders broader. The Queen's eyes sought even for a hint of her husband's earthy and simple friend underneath the shining helm, but it only allowed the sight of his strong jawbone and thin lips.
The elven King seemed to have read the Evenstar's silent request, and he lifted his hands to remove the said helm as he walked. The Queen held her breath, expecting to see the clear eyes and plain, honest smile she remembered; but what the helm revealed weakened her knees with the realization and grief that the Legolas she had known was dead.
Aramarth's head was uncovered, and his bright hair, released from its bonds, gleamed with pale golden upon his shoulders. Beautiful he was, more than ever before, but his face was not uncomplicated any more, his lips held no smile, his eyes held no innocence nor joy.
Arwen felt stabbed across her heart while contemplating his face. his eyes. She expected warmth, simplicity, ingenuousness; but nothing could be found. His expression was sharp as steel-blade, endowed with the arrogance of the sun; his eyes even as they were brightest, were also cold and hard as a vast sea, so dissimilar to the curious stare he used to carry. No longer could he be conceived as young; he now seemed extremely wise, grave, and even sorrow-laden by the cares, pains and strives of many ages of watching over the world.
How could it be? How could one's nature change so much in such small a time? These and other questions assailed the Queen before she could realize Aramarth was already only inches away from her. To have him so near was overwhelming, even exhilarating and draining at the same time. Never before had she felt a presence so strong, so imposing; not even those of the Lord and Lady of Lorien, or any other elven nobles she had acquainted in her long years had a remotely akin effect on her.
She was besieged with the sudden urge to kneel before the King of her people, to pay homage to her newly found lord; and knew that the bearing of her loyalty would never be the same, feeling more elven in his presence than ever before when she had dwelt among her people. It was the clear and ringing voice of Aramarth speaking the beautiful language of the firstborn that kept her from bowing to the ground.
"Elessar Telcontar! Nae saian luume; cormamin lindua ele lle." [It has been too long; my heart sings to see thee.]
Aragorn tried to overcome his stupefaction. "Yallume, Legolas! Oio naa elealla alasse," [At last, Legolas! Ever is thy sight a joy,] he said joyfully, though he cursed his tongue for using such a plain name on such as the one standing before him.
"Amin hiraetha. Aramarth," [I am sorry... Aramarth,] Aragorn apologized. "Amin naa tualle," [I am your servant,] he said bowing down, but the strong grip of a hand upon his shoulder straightened him to look into his eyes.
"Aragorn! Do not bow before me, and cease your apologies. You can call me whatever you like, and should be embracing me as a brother," Aramarth said with the slightest of smiles.
The sorrow that had beset the heart of the Evenstar upon seeing Legolas's transformation started to fade away as she beheld the two kings clasping each other's shoulders and patting backs cordially. She realized that though she grieved the loss of the earthy Mirkwood archer, she was now looking at the rise of an extraordinary individual, capable of majesty no longer found amid the mortal circles of Arda; but from the few words she heard him exchange with her awestruck husband, she knew he was also capable of the great compassion and kindness that only well-placed power and wisdom give. A wave of warmth came to her soul, and she determined herself to rejoice in the very dawn of the King of the Elves.
Such thoughts filled her mind when Aramarth turned his attention from Elessar to her. "Amin elea vanimle sila tiri, arwenamin Undomiel." [I see your beauty shines bright, my lady Evenstar.]
Innocent coyness arose from the depths of Arwen's soul upon hearing his words towards her, and feeling his bright eyes upon her face. She tried her best not to let the exhilarating tension he caused on her show, and gathered herself to answer his salutation.
"Aaye, Aramarth! Beleger, heru en amin," [Hail, Aramarth! Mighty one, lord of mine,] she said demurely in barely audible whispers, while trying to stop her eyes from averting from his intent gaze, finding impossible to steadily look into his eyes.
The elven King bowed his head before her. "Amin vanima Tari," (My beautiful Queen,) he spoke softly, exuding reverence towards her. "Long have been the days since I last saw you. Would you care to bestow your servant with the touch of your blessed hand upon my face?"
Arwen hesitated for the slightest of moments, feeling that a mystic bolt of lightning would strike her if she dared touch him. She tentatively reached out her alabaster hand to his face, but no lighting came as her fingers touched the smooth warmth of his skin, although the beating of her heart hastened its pace once again while his hand covered her own, urging her to press her palm against him fuller; and Legolas, with eyes closed, reached out to touch her blushed cheek, completing the familiar salutation they had so many times shared.
It was at that moment that all shyness, awkwardness and qualms slipped from Arwen's mind and heart, and she understood what this new King meant to her: a lifetime ally, and a vessel for her trust. From that moment and on, not only would her loyalty be by his side, she also felt the silent promise of his unreserved allegiance being pledged to her. From such a powerful friend, it was a promise comforting to have, a solace for the constant concerns that had haunted her lately.
She smiled fully to him while her hand dropped from his face, now able to look into his eyes, freed from all reserves.
"We understand each other then?" Aramarth asked with solemn, hopeful eyes, and Arwen became aware that the unspoken trust exchange had been anything but unintended.
"Yes, we understand each other," she answered content, reaching her hand to hold Aragorn's, who stared at them in curious unawareness of what had just taken place between his wife and his friend.
"Very well then," Legolas said slowly. "Now allow me to unload a heavy burden from my heart." The elf's face turned stern, giving the word a new meaning, as a dismal shadow seemed to fall upon his features. "I have carried this with me for too long."
"Speak, friend," Aragorn said, worried by the elf's somber face.
"I was given the liability of delivering bequest to Lady Arwen, from Lord Elrond at the Gray Havens."
Arwen braced herself, holding back the pain that stabbed her from inside. "Word from father was already given to me by the Periannath."
Legolas's once hard eyes settled on hers, now bearing great sadness and commiseration, but unyielding resolution as well. "I bring you much more than words."
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AUTHOR NOTE
Forgive me if the elvish used in this chapter is inaccurate. I am still learning.
At last, the much-awaited King of Elves makes his appearance. Was that too ostentatious? Well he is ostentatious; at least in this fic, so get use to it.
Next chapter, Aramarth gives Arwen whatever Elrond sent to her. It will probably be a very emotional moment, so brace yourselves. Also, we'll learn more about Neithan, and some action will take place as well.
Stay tuned, and come on! Leave a review; don't you think I deserve one after such a long chapter? I hope you do.
Cheers.
Elwe