NEW LIVER, SAME EAGLES

from

themergirlandthesea

What kind of nightmares keep Arwen Undomiel awake at night?

from notbecauseofvictories

It takes Arwen Undomiel three months and fourteen days to find the courage to leave the White City, and venture out onto the flat plains of Pelennor. The cairns for the dead still stand, but the grass is short and fine where it was once torn up and muddy with blood. She can see in every direction, the guard of Minas Tirith at her back and still—
She knows just how far to roam from her father’s house, before she would go beyond the ambit of the guards. She has lost count of how many times she found herself racing Haldir through the mallorn, and circling back under his watchful eye. But she is not at Imladris or the house of her grandmother; she does not know how far her protection extends, here on the plains of Pelennor. (She does not trust herself to test them)
It is Aragorn who notes it first, a curious look and then a idle mention of her sudden closeness—not that he does not like having her so near the throne, especially now that he ventures further afield looking for war, but he does not seek to cage her.
She knows. If he sought to cage her, they would be having a different conversation.
Arwen thinks of telling him, but—
She wakes one night in a cold sweat, shuddering as she gasps for breath, praying for the blood to return to her cheeks. She is very cold, then. “It was only a bad dream,” her husband says, stroking her shoulder. “You will not be alone in this earth, I swear it.” And she is breathless again, at how terribly he has misjudged her.
(She is Elrond Half-Elven’s daughter; if she must bear up under the weight of everything she has ever loved dying before her eyes, this she will do. Loneliness is a burden, but not one she would buckle under the weight of.)
(….unfortunately, she is Celebrian’s daughter too.)
It is Eowyn who guesses at last. Arwen might have expected that—Elven or Mannish, the trials faced by women are much the same. Still, it is Eowyn who comes to sit beside her, and says, lightly, “My cousin encountered bandits on the road, once. They slew her guards and stole her finery, but she was unharmed. Still, it weighed on her mind, and she would not leave the castle for months after.”
“Is that so,” Arwen says levelly, though her needle falters, and she loses the delicate thread. Arwen folds her hands over the surcoat she had been embroidering for Aragorn, trying to hide their shaking.
“How did she overcome it, your cousin?” Arwen asks. Not then, but later, when they are standing and watching the parade of soldiers below.

(Embroidery and smiling for crowds are not the primary duties of a Queen, but they are the few allow for rest, conversation. Arwen is grateful for the reprieve—if she has to watch another starving family accept the meager rations Gondor can offer, her heart will break.)

Eowyn’s expression is distant, and grave. Arwen wonders if she dreams of the Black King that slew her uncle, that took her to the threshold of death herself. Perhaps she spends such feverish hours bent over books of healing for the same reason Arwen stalks the parapets. “My cousin needed only time,” Eowyn says. “Courage, and time.”
From the corner of her eye, Arwen can see the White Tree. It is too late in the year for it to be flowering now, but time—she has that.

It takes Arwen Undomiel three months and fourteen days to find the courage to leave the White City, and venture out onto the flat plains of Pelennor. The cairns for the dead still stand, but the grass is short and fine where it was once torn up and muddy with blood. She can see in every direction, the guard of Minas Tirith at her back and still—
She knows just how far to roam from her father’s house, before she would go beyond the ambit of the guards. She has lost count of how many times she found herself racing Haldir through the mallorn, and circling back under his watchful eye. But she is not at Imladris or the house of her grandmother; she does not know how far her protection extends, here on the plains of Pelennor. (She does not trust herself to test them)
It is Aragorn who notes it first, a curious look and then a idle mention of her sudden closeness—not that he does not like having her so near the throne, especially now that he ventures further afield looking for war, but he does not seek to cage her.
She knows. If he sought to cage her, they would be having a different conversation.
Arwen thinks of telling him, but—
She wakes one night in a cold sweat, shuddering as she gasps for breath, praying for the blood to return to her cheeks. She is very cold, then. “It was only a bad dream,” her husband says, stroking her shoulder. “You will not be alone in this earth, I swear it.” And she is breathless again, at how terribly he has misjudged her.
(She is Elrond Half-Elven’s daughter; if she must bear up under the weight of everything she has ever loved dying before her eyes, this she will do. Loneliness is a burden, but not one she would buckle under the weight of.)
(….unfortunately, she is Celebrian’s daughter too.)
It is Eowyn who guesses at last. Arwen might have expected that—Elven or Mannish, the trials faced by women are much the same. Still, it is Eowyn who comes to sit beside her, and says, lightly, “My cousin encountered bandits on the road, once. They slew her guards and stole her finery, but she was unharmed. Still, it weighed on her mind, and she would not leave the castle for months after.”
“Is that so,” Arwen says levelly, though her needle falters, and she loses the delicate thread. Arwen folds her hands over the surcoat she had been embroidering for Aragorn, trying to hide their shaking.
“How did she overcome it, your cousin?” Arwen asks. Not then, but later, when they are standing and watching the parade of soldiers below.

(Embroidery and smiling for crowds are not the primary duties of a Queen, but they are the few allow for rest, conversation. Arwen is grateful for the reprieve—if she has to watch another starving family accept the meager rations Gondor can offer, her heart will break.)

Eowyn’s expression is distant, and grave. Arwen wonders if she dreams of the Black King that slew her uncle, that took her to the threshold of death herself. Perhaps she spends such feverish hours bent over books of healing for the same reason Arwen stalks the parapets. “My cousin needed only time,” Eowyn says. “Courage, and time.”
From the corner of her eye, Arwen can see the White Tree. It is too late in the year for it to be flowering now, but time—she has that.

252 notesReblogged at 09:39pm, 04/20/18

Via: fyeahtolkienladies

Tags: ▪arwen▪lotr▪fanfic