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Summary:
The reunion between Aragorn and Arwen in Imladris.
Disclaimer:
The characters in this story were created by J. R. R. Tolkien. I use them
without permission, but nobody is giving me any money for writing this story, so
I hope the copyright holders will overlook this.
Author’s Note:
This story is set during the events laid out in The Fellowship of the Ring as
written in the book, not as shown in the movie. I am not an expert on Middle
Earth; please overlook any mistakes I may have made.
A Note about Language:
Words in italics are in Sindarin (the language of the Elves as created by
Tolkien, subject to translation). Unattested words may be used. English
translations follow. Special thanks go to Lothenon for assistance above and
beyond the call of duty; any mistakes are my own.
Feedback is greatly appreciated at Taramiluiel@cox-internet.com
~
Frodo Baggins, pale and near death, was carried by an Elf of Imladris into the House of Elrond and taken to a spacious bedroom on the ground floor. His small still body was gently laid on an ornately carved bed, which made him appear especially tiny and frail. A runner had been sent ahead to raise the alert, and the chamber had already been prepared. A fire had been kindled to warm the room, and many candles had been lit to chase away the encroaching darkness.
Elrond, wise and learned Lord of Imladris, was waiting. His clear gray eyes swept over the Hobbits, and he inclined his head briefly in greeting to Aragorn, even as he went to Frodo’s side. He felt the Hobbit’s cold forehead and looked into his eyes, and his lips narrowed in concern.
Frodo’s three Hobbit companions, anxious for his well-being, entered the room from the wide porch opening on to the gardens. They had followed the Elves of Imladris from the Ford of the river Bruinen, hurrying down the steep, winding path as fast as their exhausted legs could carry them. Aragorn and the Elf-lord Glorfindel had brought up the rear with the two horses, listening closely for any pursuit from the Nazgûl that had hopefully been washed far away down the flooding river.
Sam flew breathlessly to the side of the bed. He clasped Frodo’s hand, looking up anxiously at the grave face of the noble Elf in whom he now placed all his desperate hopes. He wanted to ask if Frodo would be all right, but thought it best not to interrupt the healer. Merry and Pippin were uncharacteristically subdued. They approached the bed slowly, trepidation in their eyes. Aragorn, leaving the horses to Glorfindel’s care, remained by the graceful arches of the porch, knowing that he would only be in the way.
Master Elrond laid a hand on the closed wound on Frodo’s shoulder, breathed deeply, and closed his eyes. He had healing skills beyond even those of Glorfindel, but Aragorn had grave doubts that even he would be able to heal the Halfling. It had been two weeks since Frodo had been wounded at Amon Sûl by the Nazgûl’s morgul blade. A mortal man would have faded into the shadow world before now; it was a miracle that the Hobbit had survived so long, but how much longer could he hold out? Aragorn kept his thoughts to himself, however; he could tell that Sam clung fervently to hope, and he wouldn’t be the one to quell it.
There was nothing more he could do for poor Frodo. Nothing he could do to ease the frightened expression on Sam’s dirt-streaked, exhausted face. Nothing he could do to help Elrond. The helplessness didn’t sit well inside him; he was restless with the need to take action.
It was more than that, he admitted to himself. He was restless to find Arwen.
He rested his hand on Sam’s small shoulder for a moment in mute support and sympathy. The Hobbit didn’t take his eyes off Frodo, willing him to wake up with all his strength as Elrond’s soothing voice flowed through the room. The ranger lowered his head briefly in both greeting and parting to Elrond, and left Frodo in his care.
Although he felt troubled by burdens that he feared would grow heavier yet, he also felt an eagerness sweep through him as he walked down the endless meandering halls of the house. She was here, somewhere nearby, and it had been so long since he’d held her in his arms, breathed in her sweet scent, and lost himself in her sweet embrace. Although he felt weary, and was covered with grime from the journey across countryside from Bree, he could feel a cleansing of his soul begin. It was always so when he arrived here. Imladris had ever been a safe haven of peace and beauty for him.
Was it the ever-present sound of the Bruinen tumbling and splashing down the Hithaeglin like merry laughter? Was it the sweet fragrance of flowers growing in every room and the rich smell of loamy earth outside every window? Could it be the light caress of the breeze that carried both sound and scent through the open halls? Or perhaps it was something in the elegance of the house’s delicately carved spires, arches, and curling rails that blended so harmoniously with the trailing ivy and surrounding trees.
Perhaps it was simply Arwen’s presence here.
Whatever it was, Aragorn could feel it beginning to soothe him like balm on a wound. No matter what perils he faced in his journeys, or what ills befell him out there, all became well when he was here.
He had been raised in Imladris with the Elves. His mother had brought him here for safety when he was but an infant of two years. Elrond’s house was his own. He knew which steps would creak when his weight was upon them, and which chair was most comfortable to sink into when he was weary; he had grown from infant to child, from boy to man, within the warm embrace of this house, this family.
Unable to find Arwen in the house, Aragorn instinctively took a well-worn path down to a secluded glade. There, a narrow stone bridge overlooked a gentle waterfall and rippling pool. She was standing mid-span with her eyes closed and her face tipped back to the caress of the rising moon, as beautiful as the day he had first met her, so very long ago. Her flowing gown fluttered in the breeze, one moment appearing blue like a summer sky, and then with a waft of air turning silvery like the moonlit spray of water behind her. Unfettered, her long hair fell down her back in soft dark waves. He yearned to feel its silkiness in his calloused hands.
Her ethereal beauty suddenly made him feel unclean and uncouth, like a barbarian approaching a Maia, and he hesitated. His clothes were still spattered with mud from the trek through Midgewater Marshes; Frodo’s blood was upon his shirt; there was dirt under his fingernails and worn into the lines on his palms; his hair hung lank and dirty. He became aware of his own strong animal scent. He almost hoped that she wouldn’t see him; that he could turn and escape disappointing her, and come to her after he had freshened himself.
Then she turned to him, sensing his presence. Her gray eyes shone with the light of the stars; her lips curved in a radiant smile. She held out one pale, soft arm to him, welcoming him and inviting him closer. “Mae tollen na mbar, Estel (Welcome home),” she said in a low, slow, liquid voice that made him shiver and yet filled him with warmth. There was no hint of reproach about his appearance, and he felt his worry slide off him as if it were just another drop of the Bruinen cascading away.
~
Arwen didn’t notice Aragorn’s clothes or unkempt appearance; she saw instead the love in his clear blue eyes, and the power and grace in every movement of his strong body. She sensed, too, the need in his soul. As he approached, her keen gray eyes noticed lines sketched across his brow, and a shadow of unease wrapped itself around her heart. Something weighed upon him heavily, and she feared that it was not just the well-being of the Hobbit he had been charged with protecting. Even in the dimming light of evening’s twilight she could see that he looked older; made weary from the sorrows in the world; increasingly bowed by the weight of a destiny he both desired and feared. Yet he did not look broken, he remained her Estel, and she would love him still if he grew withered and bent with age.
She slipped her arm around his waist to draw him near and raised her face to him. He gently cupped her cheek in one warm, strong hand and lowered his head to brush his lips against hers with infinite tenderness. The shadow around her heart was banished by the nearness of him. Whatever troubled him, she would attempt to soothe; whatever hardships he faced, she would offer respite from them. “Bennich anann ar hae, melethen. Mennich nad? (You have journeyed long and far, my love. Have you eaten?)”
“Ú-vennin. I left the Hobbits with your father and came looking for you.”
Arwen’s soulful eyes saddened as she saw his concern, but her voice was soothing as she told him, “Mithrandir told us you were bringing Halflings here.”
“Mithrandir? He is here?” Aragorn asked, relief flooding his features at the news. “He was to have met me in Bree. I feared the worst when he did not come.”
“He said he had been unavoidably detained. He arrived two days ago.”
“I must go to him,” he said, knowing that the wizard would wish to hear of the Nazgûl who had pursued them and wounded Frodo.
“I just left him, not five minutes ago; he said he was going to help my father heal the injured Halfling; surely it is best not to disturb them now.”
“I have important news.”
“The Nazgûl, yes. Mithrandir already knows; he helped flood the Bruinen. A runner arrived barely half an hour before you with the news.” She tilted her head to one side and gave him a small smile, touching his rough cheek with her delicate hand. “You have done your duty, melethen. Rest now, and let others do what they can. Frodo is in good hands; you must wait.”
“I have not the patience of the Elves. Waiting is not easy for mortals,” he reminded her.
“The time will pass quickly while you eat and bathe,” she assured him, in a voice deliberately light and determinedly cheerful. “Which is to be first?”
“I would eat in my bath if I could!” Aragorn replied with a small smile that grew wider as he saw her lips curve upwards in response. “But in truth, these hands are not fit to hold food,” he confessed, showing his filthy hands for a moment and then, embarrassed, clasping them behind his back.
“Then off to the bath chamber, guren vell (my dear heart), and I will have food prepared while you bathe,” she replied comfortingly.
~
Aragorn sighed in anticipation when the last ewer of hot water was poured into the bath. As the servant left the chamber, his fingers flew to the ties on his shirt. It would feel so good to get out of his muddy clothes, to scrub at his skin until all the filth and stench had come off. To be clean again! He lived with dirt so much of the time, sleeping on the ground, usually able to wash only in cold rivers. Baths were a luxury he had taken for granted in his youth but had learned to fully appreciate in adulthood.
Letting his clothes drop to the stone floor in a careless heap, Aragorn stepped down into the bath and sank gratefully into its steamy embrace. It was hot enough to sting, but he submerged even his head, reveling in its heat. For a while he reclined in the water, content to let it soothe his aching muscles, inhaling deep, cleansing breaths of the steam. Soon, though, he reached for the soap, carved into the shape of a delicate swan.
He began to lather himself enthusiastically. The soap’s fragrance soon filled his nose, and at last he ceased to smell of smoke and sweat and blood. It was not a feminine scent; not flowery or oversweet. There was a suggestion of pine, and a hint of berries. The combination was invigorating, and he was sure that Arwen had made this soap herself, especially for him, and his face broke into a smile.
~
Aragorn came down the stairs, looking, smelling, and feeling like a new man. His body felt at ease and relaxed for the first time in many days. His shirt was made of a shimmering silken material as only the Elves could make, in a bright blue that made his eyes sparkle, and stitched with an intricate pattern of swirls. His pants were warm and luxuriously soft against his skin. On his feet he wore shoes of the lightest leather, also embroidered in decorative stitching, that made him feel as though he were walking on air compared to the heavy protective boots he normally wore.
Arwen looked up from the book she was reading when she heard him in the doorway of the library, and her face lit up in a radiant smile. “You seem much refreshed, in body and spirit,” she said in satisfaction, closing the tome.
“I am,” he assured her, coming to her and holding out a hand to help her rise.
She slipped her hand into his happily and put the tome away. “A feast is served in the hall. Let us join your friends and enjoy their company.”
Aragorn would have been just as happy to avoid their company and dine alone with Arwen in the kitchens, but her delight was infectious, and he led her to Elrond’s Hall with happy heart. The long chamber was lit by many candles, and beautiful ancient tapestries adorned the walls. There were several empty tables filling the length of the room, but at the far end of the hall was a table on a dais, at which were seated a number of Elves and Hobbits.
The noble Elf-Lord Glorfindel was seated there, as well as Elrond’s chief counselor, Erestor, and a dozen others whom Aragorn had known since childhood. He greeted them in the traditional elvish manner, placing a hand over his heart and lowering his head, to which they responded in kind. Before he could speak he was all but bowled over by the unexpected embraces of Merry and Pippin. They scrambled out of their seats, scattering their cushions, and greeted him as old friends, hugging him around the middle with enthusiasm and trying to outdo each other in telling him what they had seen in Imladris. They were scrubbed clean and in borrowed clothing that was very large on them. From the looks of their plates they had been eating for some time already, and from the volume and speed of their chatter, Aragorn was sure that they had imbibed several goblets of Elrond’s fine elvish wine.
Seated rather more calmly at the table was old Bilbo Baggins, and Aragorn clasped his shoulder fondly. “Mae govannen, Bilbo! (Well met!) I hope you’ve got some of your special pipeweed blend to spare for a poor ranger,” he said with a smile.
“Yes, yes, dear boy, plenty to go around,” Bilbo assured him jovially. Being in the presence of Hobbits again, even such rowdy young ones as Merry and Pippin, did his soul a world of good. “We’ll have a bit of a smoke after supper, shall we, and reminisce?”
Aragorn’s gaze strayed to his beloved’s face in alarm, for he did not intend to remain with the company for all hours of the night; not tonight! Her face was calm, but he could see the laughter in her eyes. “Why Bilbo,” she purred, “you are a most generous Hobbit indeed.”
The old Hobbit’s chest puffed out in pride. “There’s nothing better than having a smoke and reminiscing with old friends; isn’t that right?”
Aragorn could think of something, but he kept his mouth closed in a polite smile.
Merry was also able to think of something. “What about having supper?” he put forth immediately.
“And don’t forget dinner,” Pippin reminded. “A toast to the Elves; they really know how to serve a feast!” He raised his goblet, and the others of course followed suit, including the smiling Elves.
Smiling, Aragorn escorted Arwen to her seat, and sat down beside her. Realizing how hungry he was, he let the young Hobbits entertain the company, while he focused on selecting from amongst the many fine dishes set upon the table. He usually ate quite well, for a ranger, but never as elaborately as when he was in Imladris. There was pheasant and fish, potatoes and three different breads, corn and assorted greens, a platter of different fruits, and an assortment of sweet pastries for after the meal, which had clearly already been sampled by the Hobbits.
“Where is Sam?” he asked in between mouthfuls.
“He’s with Frodo; wouldn’t leave his side, not even to eat!” Pippin’s voice conveyed his utter astonishment at the idea.
“The Elves took some food to him there,” Merry assured him around a mouthful of pheasant.
“Dear Frodo,” Bilbo murmured worriedly.
“Don’t worry, Bilbo. He’ll be all right, now that the Elves are taking care of him,” Merry said confidently. “The Elves are amazing!”
“Magnificent!” Pippin agreed, reaching out for another piece of fruit. “You couldn’t ask for a better feast, not even in the Shire!”
Aragorn smiled at Arwen. It was impossible not to like the Hobbits.
He finished his meal, not too hurriedly but not at the leisurely pace he might otherwise have done. When he saw that Arwen, too, was finished, he rose from the long table and smiled congenially around. All three Hobbits were still happily serving themselves pastries, and the Elves were partaking of more wine. “Well, my fine friends, it seems that your feasting and revelry could continue all evening! Stay, Master Hobbit,” he said, waving Bilbo back into his seat with a broad smile. “Enjoy the company of your friends. I will join you in a smoke on the morrow. I am tired from our travels, and will retire now. I bid you all a goodnight.”
“I, too, will leave you to your reunion,” Arwen offered, following Aragorn to the door.
The Elves bowed their heads in courteous farewell. The Hobbits called good night cheerfully, and as they walked towards the stairs to the upper rooms, Aragorn and Arwen could hear them raising their glasses in yet another toast to the Elves.
~ The End ~