Aspects of Aragorn 21 part 1 "Roheryn"
Nov. 15th, 2008 08:01 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
inzilbethDisclaimer: No profit will be made from these stories. All quotes from the works of J.R.R.Tolkien are reproduced here without the permission of The Tolkien Estate or New Line Cinema. No copyright infringement is intended.
To Cairistiona and Estelcontar: my most grateful thanks for their ongoing encouragement and support.
And thanks to Cairistiona for the beta.
Chapter 21: Roheryn
Their horses were strong and of proud bearing, but rough-haired; and one stood there without a rider, Aragorn’s own horse that they had brought from the North; Roheryn was his name.
The Passing of the Grey Company The Return of the King
Oh, he would be glad to be home. This hunt for Gollum was beginning to feel as if it would never bear fruit. Aragorn wondered how many more weary miles must he drag his aching feet before he finally admitted defeat. In his effort to find this creature, there could scarcely be a rock he had not peered behind or a mere into which he had not delved in all the vastness of Wilderland. Fifteen long years had passed since he and Gandalf first begun this venture. It felt as if they had walked the entire length and breadth of Middle-earth and yet this last trip had been as unrewarding as any previously. Even now, his return to the North was only to be a brief respite, nothing more. They would resume the hunt soon enough.
“We will go South next time,” Gandalf had said when they parted. Somehow the wizard had managed to impart a measure of enthusiasm into his voice and still did a passable imitation of one who retained some hope that their quest may yet end in success. But undeniably, they were both rapidly losing heart. In spite of their long search, there was still no sign of their quarry.
And Aragorn found that, of late, he fretted far more about his home lands when these journeys abroad detained him for so long in the East and the South. His long bouts away pursuing this creature had only been punctuated by a handful of brief return visits to Eriador. It was not like in the past when he had felt able to be gone from home for many long years. Beyond the
Halbarad and the other captains did a marvellous job in his absence; he could not fault their endeavours in the slightest, but there was no denying the presence of the chieftain made a difference, hard to believe though it was at times. Somehow he still managed to put heart into his men even though, more often than not, he barely knew how to put heart into himself.
But he would be bringing precious little in the way of comfort for the Dúnedain on this return visit. If he had been unable to persuade his own mother that he was any nearer reaching his goal, what words of hope could he possibly bring to those who still waited with seemingly infinite patience for that elusive light that was forever his charge to find.
The last time he returned North he had visited the village where his mother had made her home in her final years. But he had not gone to the house. He had stayed away, afraid to confront his memories and reopen the wound inflicted on his heart the moment he learned of her death. Somehow, he doubted he would be any braver this time. It still grieved him terribly that, for all his endeavours, in the end she had simply lost all hope. His failure to restore the kingdom in her lifetime was a grief and a shame he had no choice but to bear.
But first he was going home to Rivendell. He was looking forward to the simple pleasures of spending a night in a comfortable bed and eating food he had not had to catch himself. As he trudged along the high moors that led to his father’s house, idly dreaming of warm rooms and cooked meals, he wondered if his brothers would be there and whether Bilbo had finished his translations yet.
Suddenly, behind him on the path, he heard the gently jangling of many ringing bells. His head whipped round in surprise, but he smiled as he recognised the incongruous sound. He stepped to one side of the path and waited. Sure enough, there soon came into view a great elven horse, loping along at an easy canter, his rider’s golden hair streaming out behind him. As they approached the lone walker, the horse came to a swift halt.
“Mae govannen, Dúnadan,” said the rider, smiling down at Aragorn as he all too obviously took in his mud-stained clothes and dishevelled appearance. “You have the weary look about you of one who has walked many long miles. Asfaloth, I am sure, would happily offer to carry you the rest of the way to Imladris.” The horse snorted as if indicating his agreement.
“Your timing is appalling, Glorfindel,” laughed Aragorn, stepping forward to pat the horse’s neck. “Would that I had met you some thirty leagues back.”
Glorfindel’s musical laugh filled the air. “You do not have to accept my offer. Neither of us shall be offended if you prefer to use your own legs to bring you home.”
“I do not doubt it,” said Aragorn, “but, if Asfaloth will consent to bear me, then gladly do I accept.”
“I rather thought you would,” smiled Glorfindel as he reached out his arm to aid Aragorn who, rather stiffly, swung up onto the horse’s back. It might not be the most comfortable position to ride, but Aragorn could not believe what a relief it was to take the weight off his tired feet. The horse trotted on at a steadier pace, but Asfaloth carried man and elf with ease, his footfalls as light and unburdened as before.
“And where have your travels taken you this time, might I ask?” said Glorfindel, glancing back at Aragorn from over his shoulder.
“East, far to the East again, even to beyond Mirkwood. Have you ever been to Rhovannion?”
“I can not say that I have, nor have I any desire to travel to such inhospitable-sounding lands. Your ways are as strange as ever, Dúnadan. Is this the same business that occupied you the last time you were gone for so long?”
“It is; and the time before, and the time before that.”
“Ah! Do I perhaps detect a note of weariness in your voice, my friend?” Aragorn could tell the Elf was smiling, but he was too tired to even attempt to disguise his despair.
“I fear you do. I can not pretend that my continued failure to find this creature does not sap both my strength and my heart.”
“Oh, I should not worry unduly about a sapped heart,” said Glorfindel, far too dismissively for Aragorn’s liking. “I have a feeling a cure for that might be at hand.”
Aragorn was sure he was smiling now. Even though he could only see the back of his head, he was certain that on his face would be that same self-satisfied smirk that always irked him so when they sparred together. It invariably meant Glorfindel had some stroke up his sleeve that he wished his pupil to know was coming but, infuriatingly, not when he was going to deliver it.
“And as to your strength, Estel, I think you underestimate yourself. I believe you have deeper reserves than you yourself know.”
Aragorn, with his sore feet and weary muscles, did not think he had any reserves left at all, hidden or otherwise. “I think you forget sometimes that I am not an Elf but a mortal man.” The eternal optimism of this Elf could be a little tiring at times, especially when you were struggling so hard to maintain your own
“My point exactly,” said Glorfindel, cheerfully. “Do not forget, I was there, Estel, when the tireless men of Hithlum saved Turgon’s host at Rivil and remember, I knew and loved Tuor well. A mighty man was he and you no less so, I deem. It was not for nothing that I made my great sacrifice.”
It was Aragorn who was smiling now. “You have never been one to turn a conversation to include your own achievements have you, Glorfindel?”
Glorfindel sounded indignant. “Barely a night passes when my adventures are not celebrated in the Hall of Fire. I would not wish to appear immodest, Estel.”
Aragorn felt his shoulders shaking with suppressed mirth at Glorfindel’s mock brevity. The jest was an old one and definitely wearing too thin to be as amusing as he found it, but somehow Glorfindel had always managed to raise his spirits. He could be a hard task master and had been a ruthless tutor, but nothing ever fazed him, which, Aragorn thought, was not to be wondered at in one who has been through death itself.
Asfaloth’s long strides brought them to the house in seemingly no time at all. Aragorn jumped down when they reached the courtyard and thanked Glorfindel who continued on his way to the stables. It was June and the house looked as lovely and as welcoming as ever. The roses were in bloom and the swallows flitted around the eaves as they busied themselves catching insects for their chicks. Aragorn stood for a moment relishing the welcome illusion of the passing of unchanging years; it was one he felt all too infrequently these days.
He shook himself and strode towards the main entrance of the house. As he did so, the door opened and a figure appeared in the doorway, but seemed to hesitate before coming forward to greet him.
Then it was that he first saw her, as she stood for a moment in the porch watching him, the bright sun shimmering on her dark hair, forming a cascade of light that fell about her shoulders. He stopped still, rooted to the spot in disbelief. He had to look again, so convinced was he that his eyes were deceiving him. Here before him was a vision of the unparalleled loveliness that was his Arwen; transformed from being no more than a memory that for so long had filled his waking dreams, into actual flesh and blood that moved and laughed and smiled at him.
She raced towards him, her face ablaze with joy and her arms reaching for him. In an instant, Aragorn found that everything about him; the house; the courtyard, even the trees and the sky, simply faded away to nothing as everything else was forgotten. He thought his heart would burst out of his body and the rest of him would take flight at the explosion of joy inside him, though for some reason, his legs still stubbornly refused to move. Somehow, he managed to open his arms and Arwen flew into them. She was laughing and crying all at the same time and he realized he was doing the same. He clung to her, as if she was a phantom that might vanish again at any moment. So tightly did he hold her, he suddenly feared she would be unable to breathe, but he did not release his grip and, to his absolute joy, beneath the cool silk of her gown, he could feel the real substance of a warm and living woman. Her hair swept against his face and her laughter filled his ears. How he remained standing he did not know; he was shaking so much. At last he stepped back for a moment to look at her properly, still scarcely able to believe she was truly here. Gently, he cupped her chin in his trembling hand.
“Oh Arwen, my dearest, most beloved, Arwen; it is truly you.”
He could barely see her through his tears. She reached up a hand and brushed them lightly from his cheeks, her fingers soft against his weather-beaten skin. He so wanted to smother her in kisses, to taste her, to be totally and completely absorbed into her very being, but instead he was cautious. They had been apart for so long. To his eyes, she looked as lovely as ever, as radiant and as perfect as he had for so long remembered her to be. Yet he could only imagine how he must appear to her; weary, careworn, travel stained, and ageing, a shallow reflection of the man she fell in love with. But as his tears cleared, he gazed upon her lovely face and looked deep into her eyes, and there, in their depths, he saw everything he needed to know. Caution abandoned, he did not hesitate. His mouth met hers and in that blissful moment, he poured into that kiss all his longing and his frustration and his love. Arwen met him just as passionately and, as he held her in his arms, a bolt of the purest joy surged through his quaking body.
How long they stood there, he could not tell, but he was sure he could hear the sound of a throat being cleared behind him. At first, Aragorn ignored this unwelcome intrusion into his happiness. But eventually, he reluctantly looked up and, to his horror, saw Elrond standing there watching them. Instantly, he was jolted back to reality and immediately began extracting himself from Arwen’s arms.
“Master Elrond, adar, it is good to be home,” he said, quickly holding out his hand, his embarrassment, he knew, only too obvious as he felt his cheeks turning crimson. He doubted he had ever felt so ashamed in all his life.
But Elrond smiled at him and accepted his out-stretched hand. “I too am glad you are home, my son. Arwen has been here waiting for you these last three months.”
Aragorn turned to look sadly at Arwen. “Three months? While I have been trudging the wilds? If I had but known.”
Arwen took his other hand. “It can not be helped, my dearest,” she said. “Other duties have ever called you. But come, you are here now, let us not waste a moment of our time together.”
She started to lead him away, but Aragorn was acutely aware of the weight of guilt that always seemed to settle upon him where Elrond was concerned and he hesitated.
Elrond noticed and said, kindly: “Go, Estel, we can speak later.” But although he smiled, Aragorn did not fail to read the regret in his eyes and he still wavered. Elrond’s only response was to broaden his smile and, ushering them both away with his hands, he silently mouthed: ‘Go!”
Unable to find any words that could possibly do justice to the whirling emotions inside him, Aragorn apologetically nodded his thanks and allowed Arwen to lead him across the courtyard towards the house.
“The scouts told us you were on your way here so your bath should be ready by now,” she was saying.” I expect you’re hungry too. Oh Estel, I have waited so long to care for you.”
Arwen was so excited, her eyes shining and brimming over with love for him, that he all too easily pushed thoughts of Elrond to the back of his mind and followed her into the house. She led him down the corridors and up the stairs to the door of his old room.
“Go and enjoy your bath while I find you some clean clothes and see about getting you something to eat,” she said as she kissed him lightly on the cheek. “I won’t be gone long.”
She walked away and, as Aragorn reluctantly watched her go, he realised he had no wish to be parted from her again even for a moment. His head was still swimming that she was here at all, but he knew he could only stay in Rivendell for a few days before he would have to leave again. He could not help but wonder how he was ever going to endure the separation. But no sooner had the dismaying thoughts settled in his mind than he immediately admonished himself for indulging in such melancholy. No good would come of it. He could not stay; it was that simple. Instead, he told himself he was the luckiest man alive; he was going to spend a few days in the company of the woman he adored. What more could he possibly desire?
He opened the door to his room and there, as promised, was a steaming tub of hot water. He quickly stripped off his clothes and plunged in. The water was very hot, but he soon became accustomed to the heat and settled down for a good soak. He lay back in the tub and the warm water immediately began smoothing his sore muscles. He closed his eyes and thought of Arwen. He could still feel her kiss on his lips and her arms wrapped around his body. All thoughts of Gollum, and Gandalf and long endless miles, completely vanished from his mind. Right now, he wanted only to think of his beloved lady. But in spite of his excitement, the weariness of his body soon overwhelmed him and before long he drifted off to sleep. The next thing he knew, the door opened and Arwen’s head popped round it.
“May I come in?” she asked. “I have your clean clothes for you.”
Aragorn realised, to his pure delight, he had awoken from his dreams only to find he was living through one.
“Of course,” he said, smiling happily.
Arwen walked in and, putting the clothes on the chest, came and sat on a stool beside the tub. Suddenly Aragorn was unsure of what to say. They had been apart for thirty-six years, during which time he had dreamt of nothing more than the day he would see her again, but now that she was actually here, he felt a little shy and awkward. Tentatively his fingers appeared over the rim of the tub and he gently hooked them around hers.
“I can scarcely believe you are truly here,” he murmured quietly. “For so long have I waited for this moment.”
She smiled at him sympathetically as her fingers tightened on his. “It will take time for us to find the right words, but, trust me, find them we shall.” Her voice was pure honey to his ears. “You are weary and in need of rest. This is more than enough.”
He smiled his gratitude. He knew she would understand.
Then he noticed her eyes had strayed to his hair which she was clearly studying with a certain amount of amusement.
“I could perhaps do something about that bird’s nest on your head though, Estel,” she said. “Would you like me to help you wash your hair? I would gladly do so.”
Aragorn could not think of many things he would enjoy more.
“Thank you, I should like that very much,” he said politely.
Arwen moved her stool so that she was positioned behind him and picking up the soap, began lathering his hair. She tried to run her fingers down the length of his locks but the strands matted as she did so.
“Your hair is quite unbelievably tangled, Estel; do you never use a comb when out in the wilds?”
Aragorn was enjoying the sensation of her fingers in his hair so much he could hardly speak. He found he had to concentrate hard on forming a coherent reply.
“I confess I do not. When I first went to live in the Wilds, I made an effort to remain presentable, which for some reason amused Halbarad enormously. ‘Pampered elven princeling’ he used to call me, so I soon abandoned such habits.”
“He sounds very disrespectful, your Halbarad,” said Arwen who frowned as she encountered a particularly stubborn knot. “He shouldn’t have been so discouraging.”
Aragorn wondered briefly what she would make of his second-in-command and the easy, comfortable friendship they had enjoyed for so long. He knew perfectly well what Halbarad would make of Arwen.
He closed his eyes and lost himself to the delicious sensation of his scalp being massaged by the tender hands of his beloved. It was so different from when he was a child and his mother used to wash his hair. He smiled as he remembered the battles they had a bath time.
“What amuses you so?”
“I was just recalling how I used to hate having my hair washed as a child.”
“I’m very relieved I didn’t know you when you were a small boy, Estel. I might not have become so besotted.”
“So, you are besotted are you?” Aragorn tilted his head back to look at her, the tease in his eyes all too evident, yet Arwen also detected the insecurity underlining his question. She forbore to tease him back; she loved him too much to allow him to suffer for even a moment longer.
“Yes, my beloved, I am besotted,” she smiled as she kissed the top of his head.
That was all the encouragement he needed. Their years apart completely melted to nothing and Aragorn could no longer resist reaching up a soapy hand and drawing her closer to him. As their lips met, he said: “You’re not the only one.”
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Date: 2008-11-16 01:21 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-11-16 07:56 pm (UTC)