Chapter 4: Restless
Arwen was restless. More restless than she could remember being in a very, very long time. The unease had hit the moment Legolas and the twins left three days previously.
This day, the bouts of disquiet had been the worst and nothing she did would quell its demanding place in her heart.
She had paced the halls until Erestor had threatened to throw her out of Rivendell on charges of burning a hole though the neatly waxed floors.
She had then scoured the gardens until Glorfindel had begun to complain of her ruining the peace with her endless inquiries after her brothers and when they would return.
She had tried to help Aranduriel with the supper but the finicky cook had told her to leave the moment she set foot on the door jam.
She had even helped clean out the old eastern wing until Alanya, the head housekeeper, had caught her staring out at the hills while smacking the dust out of an elaborate coverlet. She had instead hit a small pot of flowers, nearly shattering the delicate thing.
"Arwen, Arwen, you have too much on your mind, tithen pen." The merry elf maid took Arwen gently by the shoulders, relieving her of the bedclothes, and pointed her in the direction of a sitting place where all her drawing tools were housed. "Put those thoughts on paper or this place shall never see peace again."
"But-"
"Just go," she smiled. "I daresay the coverlet will wait for you."
Arwen had not the least bit of desire to draw but seeing as she'd been kicked out of every other place in Imladris she did not see any other alternative.
The newness of summer had draped her radiance over the valley and Arwen walked through the twisting paths to the soft sound of swishing leaves. With the golden sunlight streaming over the bright beds of flowers and the tree boughs above her dark head, she normally would have reveled in the beauty of the day. However, today it was lost on her.
Ahead lay her haven, its view overlooking the valley. It had once been her mother's and as Arwen came close, the softness of her mother's scent enveloped her.
No matter what she'd been around, Celebrian had always smelled of elanor, a little golden flower native to her home in Lothlorien. Mounting the shallow steps, Arwen entered the wide, airy pergola and smiled as she could almost imagine her mother's golden form sitting before a tapestry, her nimble fingers setting another delicate blossom on the cloth.
But those days had passed long ago and though her mother's scent remained Celebrian had sailed and the sunny gazebo had become Arwen's place of refuge.
She blew out a gentle breath and seated herself before a large easel. Her fingers drifted over the paints, brushes, pencils, and inkpots. She finally lifted a pencil, the light wood fitting perfectly to her elegant grasp.
A few unplanned, hap dash lines later and a picture had begun to take shape. As if asleep, she let her fingers let the drawing go where it would, never once truly paying attention to what they did.
After a length of time had passed, she laid down her pencil and sighed, staring out at the forest and hoping to see her brothers and Legolas to appear from the massive trees. But no one came.
Resigning herself to a dull afternoon, she turned back to her drawing intending to complete it but instead her heart stopped at what she saw.
A light sketch of Legolas gazed back at her, the impish grin that he had become known for playing about his features. The light of the forest glowing in his eyes and the firm jaw set.
Quick as a wink, she snatched the drawing from the easel and laid it inside one of her books, snapping the cover closed and hiding the sketch.
Her eyes fell to her hands, trembling like fall leaves in her lap.
She had never considered herself much of an artist, let alone a portrait taker. Yet she had not only drawn Legolas, but she had drawn him well. For a short instant, it was as if he was standing before her, staring back.
Standing rapidly, she strode out of the pavilion, hoping the entire afternoon could be forgotten.
One sound, however, caused her to freeze. Hoofbeats. Three sets of them.
Spinning and breaking into a run, her destination became the main courtyard. She flew through the arches and skidded, in a rather unladylike form, into the clearing.
Sure enough, three horses stood, sweat lathered like soap along their hides, tossing their heads and stamping restlessly.
"Faeron?" Arwen recognized Elrohir's horse instantly. Behind the grey mare stood Tirithon, Elladan's chestnut steed, and finally Astaldo, the jet black stallion belonging to Legolas.
Elrohir's silver mount snorted, the long, white mane trembling as the horse flopped its head back and forth.
"Faeron, where are my brothers?"
A quick stomp was her only answer.
"Astaldo, where is your master?" she tried the dark stallion, hoping against hope itself that the stallion could understand her. Gently, she reached out a stroked the silky coat.
Frowning, she drew her fingers away staring at the liquid sparkling on her hand. Blood. She did not need to see the deep red color to know what it was. The pungent odor was more than enough.
It also provided an answer that sent chills of dread skittering up and down her spine. This was Elven blood shed on Legolas' horse. That meant…
Her mind buzzing with worry, she darted toward the healing rooms. The distance seemed entirely too long and each step seemed slower than the previous.
After what felt like an eternity, she burst into the hallway lined with healing rooms. Two figures stood at the end of the corridor, heads bowed.
TBC...