Author/Artist: Samara
Fandom: Lord of the Rings
Claim: General
Rating: PG13
Worksafe?: Yes
Characters:
Aragorn
OFC
Pairing: Aragorn/Arwen (implied), Arwen/Legolas (implied)
Theme: Pain.
Genre/s: Angst, Friendship, H/C, Gen
Warnings: Mentions of drink and implications of wanting to lose oneself in alcohol.
Words: 1,673
Summary: Spotting the peril of the king’s grief, a young friend begins the long and difficult task of lifting Aragorn from his suffering after Arwen and Legolas’s betrayal.
Reviews/Constructive Criticism?: Yes please!
Disclaimer/Claimer: Lord of the Rings is the sole property of J. R. R. Tolkien and New Line Cinema. I own nothing and no one save Curieyle. No money is being made from the creation of this work and no copyright infringement is intended.
A/N: Written in response to
50ficlets,
table Mix 'N Match, prompt 33, Pain.
LJ Community
Aragorn stared into the goblet he
held, long fingers wrapped about the delicate stem, the amber liquid within
swirling like a miniature vortex. He could see his reflection amidst the
ripples, breaking and then reforming only to be swept away by the whirlpool of
spirits once more. He searched for his soul among the confines of the glass,
silently pleading with the patterns of crystal to show him where by the Valar
he had gone wrong. His mind screamed at him, railed
against the truth the warm liqueur had not yet been able to erase. Arwen had
left him.
The very thought sent a bitter taste
roiling into his mouth which he promptly eradicated with a deep draft from the
goblet in his hand. She had left him for his dearest friend. Legolas.
Betrayed by the two people he had cherished more even than his own life. They
had been secretly betrothed throughout the entire quest of the Ring's
destruction. Throughout the whole of the war against Sauron, Legolas had stood
steadfastly by his side, had comforted him when his heart was grieved by the
losses of kith and kin and had dared to speak words of love and reassurance while
the taste of Aragorn's life still danced upon the fringes of his waking dreams.
The hurt that knowledge caused was staggering, worse even than the king of
Gondor had thought it could be. It was as though a knife were being plunged
into his heart repeatedly while the fist of a cave troll slammed into his
stomach over and over and over.
His ada had spoken truth, he realized
with bitterness. Arwen would never be content with a mortal, Dúnedain or
otherwise. Her heart would forever be drawn to the firstborn.
"Her love for you is a mere
infatuation," the peredhel had said, gazing directly into Aragorn's eyes.
"She will never be content walking in the grey span of a mortal's years.
Release her, Aragorn, for she will not long remain yours. Do this thing, and
save yourself a heartbreak that is inevitable."
At the time, Aragorn had seethed
inwardly, certain his foster father was merely trying once more to tear Aragorn
from his daughter so that he might have her to himself. Twould not have been
the first time, and it certainly was not the last. But now...Now he had to
admit to himself that the older elf had spoken a truth Aragorn had flatly
refused to believe possible in his human ignorance. He had been certain he knew
all of Arwen's heart, but there had apparently been longings and yearnings she
had kept hidden from him, secrets of stolen moments in the dark of forbidden
nights.
What a fool they must have thought
him, the ignorant human, blissfully unaware of their betrayal. How they must
have laughed behind his back. And as he fought to save Middle-earth for his
friends and took up the weight of a destiny he loathed simply because twas the
only condition under which Elrond would grant his blessing upon the union of
his daughter and foster son, his lover and his friend had pledged a binding
troth which they knew could never be undone. Did they think he would not find
out? Did they think to procure an heir from him so as to keep both the lines of
Númenor and Mirkwood alive? He would not put it past them. Not anymore.
But he had found out. There were some
who were still loyal, some who would not see him used. There were some he could
still trust.
A deep sigh escaped the king of Gondor
as he thought of her. Curieyle. The
lone survivor of her line, just as he was of his own. All six of her
brothers and her father had been slain between Helm's Deep, the Pelennor Fields
and the Gates of Mordor. She had been the only one to escape the war unharmed
by arrow or sword, though her heart had been shattered when he had found her hiding,
curled into a darkened corner of an abandoned cottage, sobbing for a family never
to return and a relief beyond her soul’s reach. Without a word, he had swept
her gently into his arms and taken her to the citadel where, after much time
and many tears, she had healed enough to be able to arise in the mornings and
go about her tasks as Arwen's lady-in-waiting.
Now that Arwen was gone, Curieyle, who
had refused to accompany her to Mirkwood had, by unspoken consent, taken her
place as Aragorn's personal assistant, or King's Helper as she preferred to
call it, as "I do not only tidy up after you, my liege, but aid you in
your healing, listen to you rant, accompany you upon walks, deal with your
devious nature and a host of other tasks I have not the time to list before the
seventh age is upon us."
Aragorn allowed a small smile to touch
his lips as he thought of that particular conversation. She could always make
him smile, even when laughter seemed a thing of the far distant past. That
young girl could always seem to draw it out of him in fits and bursts that
stunned even Aragorn himself.
As if his thoughts of her had been a
summons, there was a quiet knock upon the chamber door.
"Enter," he called, not
taking his eyes from the spirits still swimming about in his glass.
Curieyle's eyes took in her king as
she stepped silently into the room. She noted his rumpled hair, bloodshot eyes
and broken expression, and as it always did, an indignant fury toward the
former queen of Gondor and the current prince of Mirkwood welled up inside her
breast, begging to be set loose. However, just as she always had, she
suppressed it, walking over to Aragorn and gently taking the glass from his
hand.
"My king," she murmured,
setting the goblet upon a nearby table out of his reach. "You will not
discover the answers you seek at the bottom of a crystal goblet."
"Aahh, Curi, but the search is oh
so comforting."
dangerous.
my liege."
"Mighty," Aragorn laughed.
"Be that as it may, twas a fools
hope which saved this world from the grip of evil, twas it not? Would you place
such little faith in a word that has released us all from the threat of a
second darkness?"
Aragorn finally looked up, staring at
her, mouth slightly agape. How did she do that? The girl seemed to have a
perpetual knack for rendering him speechless without so much as a second
thought or the bat of an eye.
Unaware of her king's gaze, Curieyle
gently pressed a cork into the neck of the bottle containing the amber wine
Aragorn had slowly been consuming, carrying it and the half-empty goblet to the
door and quietly bidding a passing maid to take both to the kitchens. Returning
to the table, she perched on the edge and folded her hands in her lap, gazing
steadily at the shattered man before her.
Feeling the eyes upon him, Aragorn
finally looked up, meeting his assistant's silver-grey gaze. Her delicate mouth
was pursed into a line both thoughtful and disapproving, her petite body ramrod
straight, ankles crossed beneath her frock, her hands clasped daintily before
her. Her chestnut locks were held back from her face by a slender band of
cotton, tumbling behind her shoulders and down her back in a rippling cascade of
satin softness and her skin was still a bit too pale, the lingering physical
effects of her grief.
"Is it your intention to sit
there and stare at me all day?" he asked, his tone somewhere between
amusement and exasperation.
"That depends. Is it your wish to
have me sit here and stare at you all day?"
"Not particularly."
"Then I shall."
Once more she had struck him dumb.
"However," the girl
continued, "I shall consent not to do so when you consent to accompany me
on an outing to the market. There is an errand I wish to run for Cook and you
are to be there to keep me from getting into trouble."
Aragorn raised an eyebrow. "Are
you commanding your king, Curi?"
"If that is how you wish to see
it, then I suppose I am. However, I like to think of it as a stubborn refusal
to accept anything less than your acceptance and full cooperation."
Laughing and shaking his head, the
king of Gondor tapped a finger against his lips. "Trouble, you say?"
I intend to cause mischief, 'tis only that the morals of others are not my own.
Hence, we do have a habit of clashing on a number of topics and
conditions."
save the sanity of my people and indeed to still have a kingdom to run in the
morning that has not been deserted in fear of my little assistant, I shall
consent to accompany you on your never-ending Endeavour to make Cook
smile."
"I knew you would see
reason!" Curieyle said with a smile, hopping down from her perch and
pointing a slender finger at him. "You, my king look horrid. Go bathe and
put on some fresh garments."
Aragorn's eyebrows rose again.
"Very demanding today, are we not?"
"Well, if you wish your people to
see you looking half asleep and intoxicated, then by all means, come as you
are. But if not"-she waved a hand in the general direction of the antechamber-"then
I would suggest you freshen yourself. Think of it as friendly chiding, and save
your glares for those who are frightened of them."
With this, she turned and, after one
last smile over her shoulder, left the king to stare after her with a look of
perplexity and extreme amusement.
How did she do that?
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