Cadenza

Set in the same universe as ‘Adagio’ and ‘Mayflies’. One hundred years into the fourth age.

Drama/Adventure/Angst   A/L/G OC Friendship fic. No slash. R for violence.

Beta by the wonderful Theresa Green – Read all her stuff it is great.

 Minuial may have been met before by readers in ‘Adagio’ and ‘Mayflies’.

Chapter Eight

Celeborn watched Minuial watching Arwen.

The Hall of Fire was an oasis of peace this evening, the song drifting like dream from lay to lay, with no more complication than a bud unravelling itself in the spring.

Minuial, Thranduil’s March Warden; once memorably described by Aragorn as, ‘…just about the most frightening Elf woman I have ever met, and that includes my grandmother-in-law, Galadriel,’ sat at one of the long tables, at her ease. She was unarmed in this gallant company, but, like an unstrung Galadhrim bow, radiated an air of waiting power. Anon, she leaned towards her lord, King Thranduil, and murmured or listened to some soft voiced comment of his, but her eyes never left the Queen of Gondor.

Arwen could have been a study in portraying Minuial’s opposite, soft where Minuial was iron, dreamy where Minuial was alert, but she also radiated a sense of power equal to that of her warrior contemporary. The power of water on stone, sun on leaf, light over dark, even as her life’s grace faded in tandem with her lover’s, so this sense of power grew. The mystery of it kept Minuial’s eyes on her, and spread its influence throughout Rivendell. Celeborn had never experienced its like in all his long life.

“My Liege, with your permission?” Minuial rose and waited for the King’s attention. Thranduil inclined his golden head and Minuial stalked over to where Arwen was perched, lost in the dance of the flames.

“Arwen, may I join you?”

Arwen came back to herself unhurriedly and smiled up at Minuial, the smile becoming more eager as she recognised the March Warden.

“Minuial. Good, here, sit by me.” Arwen patted the long seat. “Tell me of your summer and the doings of your kin.” Arwen leaned so that their two heads became conspiratorially close. “I am sadly out of touch; Celeborn has a mouth like a discreet clam.”

Minuial laughed and leaned in likewise to share.

Celeborn raised an amused eyebrow and caught Thranduil looking at the unlikely pair askance. The two males shared a look. Who could fathom women?

The next afternoon Minuial once again sought out her friend, finding her at last set up in a glade outside the weaving house. Arwen was central to a flutter of ladies; a large tapestry stretched on a frame the object of their industry.

“Repairs again?” Minuial came up beside Arwen and peered at the stitching.

“This section.” Arwen turned her serene smile on Minuial and pointed with the tiny gilded scissors in her hand. “The brown crumbles in time and you can see the weft, here, and if you look carefully over here.” She sighed. “It’s the iron in the dyes, none of my father’s charms could prevent it.” She dimpled a mischievous glance at Minuial, “although his words were wonderful at keeping away the moths. He sometimes claimed they were the only residents of Rivendell who obeyed him without question.”

Minuial looked over the rest of the large hanging, a merry hunting scene. The action drew the eye as was intended by the designer, Arwen herself if Minuial was not mistaken, but now with her attention directed she could see the areas that needed work.

“You will be busy awhile then. I thought to steal you for a ride up the valley. My liege is occupied with Celeborn and he has released me.”

Arwen stepped back, put her hands on her hips and glared at the elf woman working beside her, who smiled but did not look up from her work.

“You have been conspiring,” she accused.

The Elf shook her head but her smile broadened.

Arwen turned her frown onto a bewildered Minuial.

“Arwen, what?”

Arwen softened her expression.

“Luthial has been nagging me all morning to take some exercise, and now you…” She shrugged and smiled once more. Defeated she handed her scissors into Luthial’s safekeeping and linked arm with Minuial’s. “Lead me to the stables, I am your willing captive.”

*****

“And how fares the stony course of your feast day friendship with our friend the Prince of Ithilien?”

Arwen’s question broke the musical lulling of the Bruinen’s waterfalls. The two elves had ridden up to the watch-heights in companionable silence, and were now enjoying the still unparalleled view across Rivendell’s golden valley.

Minuial picked up a loose rock and pitched it over the drop.

“I know not,” Minuial stated with a deliberate lack of emotion. “You could tell me how we fare better than I, as you have seen more of him lately.”

“I am dismayed, Minuial. Did he not ride to join you this midsummer? Aragorn told me he was unavailable for our celebrations.”

Minuial stalked away a few paces and balanced on the stony edge of the chasm. Her voice mingled with the water’s roar.

“We quarrelled.”

“Again.”

Minuial glanced at Arwen ruefully, then turned and jumped down from the rocky edge. She moved over to the grazing horses and patted her mount’s wither.

“Aye, again. Ever we strive against each other, even as often as we meet as loving friends. He is so fierce.”

Arwen blinked and smiled, somewhat surprised to hear her gentle friend so described.

“Legolas? Who allowed Eldarion as a babe to ride him horseyback, using his braids as reins? Legolas who befriends and is beloved of most of the free people of Arda, are we speaking of the same Elf?”

Minuial swung round to glare at Arwen. “ He is fierce. Have you never seen him in combat, Arwen? He is as deadly as a knife and as focussed as one of his arrows. He will follow but refuses most stubbornly to be pushed. He is as self sufficient and powerful in his own way as this gentle river before it pours unstoppably over the cliff.” She waved at the tumbling water.  ”We disagree over how he bestows his loyalties, and he is not disposed to forgive me my criticisms.”

The elf warrior walked over towards the queen and stood before her, her stern face looking suddenly vulnerable. “I find myself hungering for news of him, and have to content myself with the official despatches he sends to his father on the progress of his colony. It does not suffice.”

Arwen put a consoling hand on the other woman’s arm. “Well I can tell you what I know. Aragorn writes to me often. He has told me of Legolas doings, how he is much recovered from that unfortunate skirmish and almost back to his old form with the bow. Come, we will go get my letters and pick through them for news….” she started away towards their horses then suddenly stumbled and fell to one knee.

“Arwen! What ails thee?” Minuial caught her arm and helped her to her feet, the queen’s face had drained of all colour, and she clutched at her chest as if it pained her.

“Aragorn. “ She panted as if hunted. “He is hurt. Treachery, Minuial,” Arwen was fighting to stay conscious despite her distress. “Treachery in Helm’s Deep,” her gaze turned inward as if she was sleeping, and she wavered and started to fall. Minuial slid to the ground behind her and caught her in her arms.

Fighting for her own composure she gazed out across the valley to the south, as if elven vision could pierce the veil of distance and show her the kingdom of Rohan and all who dwelt there.

“Arwen, Arwen come back, follow not the road of your bond now. Arwen!”

Arwen sighed and relaxed into Minuial’s wiry grip, her eyes drifted closed then sprang open to meet those of the warrior.

“We must ride, Minuial. They need help, and Aragorn is not well. Come.” She sprang up as if her illness had been some phantom and raced for the horses.  ”Come, I must ride with my guard to his aid.”

Minuial followed but despite her fitness and training Arwen was first off the plateau, Minuial was close behind her. That Legolas was at Helm’s Deep she would not allow to colour her attendance to duty, but she knew that he would be in the thick of any battle, and so worried nonetheless, and wondered if she could convince his father that now would be a good time to travel south, as he had not for centuries.

*****

“You mind now Lad, that’s another advantage that Dwarvish warriors have, for not only are we small and feisty but our axe’s never run out of ammunition, as flighty archers do...”

Gimli paused in his lecture to Earnulf, hoisted said axe further over his shoulder and shot a cautious glance up at his elven friend, who should have risen to this last remark.

It was twilight, and they were wending their leisurely way back to Aglarond from weapons practice in the woods, Legolas on Ascallon, Earnulf on Stybba and the Dwarf on his sturdy two legs for a change. Gimli was determined to regain his fighting fitness, feeling his wind was sadly compromised following his near drowning, and so disdained his usual position riding behind Legolas. The elderly Dwarf did not seem to be distressed at the pace but Earnulf had the feeling Ascallon was checking her walk to accommodate the small being.

This was a suspicion he wisely kept to himself; the two friend’s constant bickering was disturbing enough without him adding to it.

Earnulf looked up at Legolas also, for even in his limited experience it was odd for the elf to let a barb pass. The elf lord was fairly quivering to attention and Ascallon stopped, head up, ears forward, pointing to the north. Stybba’s ears, then head also swivelled to catch an unheard something and then she let out an unmannerly neigh.

“Gimli.” Legolas looked down with his face shining with eagerness. “Up, now, behind me. A party approaches the like these young woods have never experienced.”

Gimli gave him a considering glance, then meekly reached up a hand to be swung up. His friend looked as if he was about to jump out of his skin with excitement.

“Earnulf, stay close. We will go meet them.”

Ascallon spun round on her hocks and cantered off the path and into the trees to the north. Stybba gamely following at an increasing distance behind.

Soon even Earnulf could hear the sound of some unearthly music and saw a pearly light approaching through the trees, gentle harness bells like the ones on Ascallon chimed on the harness of a large travelling column of horses and walkers.

Legolas on Ascallon could be seen straddling the route and Earnulf heard him hail the outriders in his musical native tongue.

“Elves,” Earnulf muttered to Stybba, pulling the pony to a reluctant halt. “Lots and lots of elves.”

The boy hung back, suddenly and for the first time in his life, embarrassed by his rude mortality in the face of the Eldar. The singing reached a swelling peak and then finished as the column’s guard returned Legolas’ greeting and the riders at the head of the column pulled up around him. Earnulf heard laughter and saw more than one elvish hand reach to touch Legolas’ jaw length hair; all the other elves wore theirs long and intricately braided, Earnulf noticed.

Stybba had been creeping forward while Earnulf watched the exchange and the boy turned his attention to her again to make her behave and stand. When he looked up again it was to see his friend dismount, leaving Gimli sitting on Ascallon, and run forward to greet a powerful looking Elf Lord who was riding in the second group. Earnulf was amazed to see his friend go down to one knee in front of this person. Stybba by this time had inched her way up beside Ascallon where she was finally prepared to stand. Gimli was looking at the scene in front of them with his arms folded, a considering look on his open face.

“Who are they?” Earnulf whispered to the Dwarf Lord.

Gimli glanced across at the boy and then at the party at the head of the column, “There rides the Queen of Gondor, boy, and never a more beautiful sight will you see, even if you live as long as I.”  He looked at Earnulf’s absorbed expression and guessed he had just spoken prophetically. The Dwarf gave him a moment, then continued, indicating the second party where Legolas was now standing and talking animatedly up to the regal Elf on his magnificent horse.

 “And that, if I am not mistaken, is Legolas’ father, the famed, or infamous if you be dwarf-kind, King of the Greenwood, Thranduil. I wonder what his presence in these lands heralds?  Some interesting times I warrant.” He narrowed his eyes at the royal party and stroked his beard as if deep in thought.

Earnulf looked back at the elves, and tried to impress the scene on his mind so he could carry it like a fire to light the dark nights of winter. He could see the sturdy dwarf had his reservations but all the boy could see was the glamour and magic of the elves;  Arwen flanked by two warriors that had to be twins, they looked so alike, and all the ethereal company strung out behind like pearls on a necklace.

Then his awe was made complete as Arwen rode forward to greet Gimli, and even graciously himself, to his everlasting tongue-tied embarrassment.

The Queen was kind and smiled at him, capturing his heart forever. Arwen turned her lambent gaze back onto Gimli and then spent what felt like the next age interrogating the dwarf over the health of her husband and of Gimli’s people following the treacherous attack of less than a fortnight ago.

“So why do we tarry, Gimli? Forth now to Helm’s Deep. Come Elrohir, Elladan. We must finish our journey.” The Queen whirled her horse and started away closely followed by her escort.

Earnulf saw that several companies of troops dressed in the livery of Gondor followed the Elves, and cemented an ambition to join them when he was grown. When he looked back Legolas was once again mounted on Ascallon and the other party of elves were travelling deeper into the woods in the direction of Legolas’ practice green.

“Will your father not lodge with the men in the Hornburg, Legolas?” Gimli’s voice sounded gruff after the musical tones of the elves.

Legolas followed the other party with his eyes until the glow of their passing was quite faded and the strengthening night closed around them once more.

“Nay, my friend. It is enough that he has come south, more than one miracle a night is not to be sought.” He turned his rare smile on both his friend and the boy.

“We must away, and warn poor Elfwine that he has more royalty to deal with. Still I would not be a rebel in these days, I suspect the time of banditry is finished in Rohan. Come,  let’s go home.”

*****

Aragorn suffered.

Deep in his mind there was a place, reached only when fevered, drifting in and out of the confines of flesh. He’d been here often enough in his unsafe life to recognise the mental furniture – the opening that beckoned now he had even visited in his dreams when he was well. It seemed a door, a door barred but able to be opened by him, if he wanted.

He squirmed fretfully and turned his head on the sweat-chilled pillow, the pain in all his joints protested the slight movement and his chest tightened.

A barking cough jerked him more awake and half onto his side, then racked him until he was gasping and retching. The pain, in his chest acutely, and in the rest of him generally, crowded black fog into the edge of his awareness even as firm hands caught him and smoothed healing cool across his face.

“Hush, lie still love. Lie still, let the steam do its work.”

He blinked his eyelids open a crack. Athelas, that inevitable sick room smell. It was daytime and that surprised him more than a little. Surely it was night. When had he slept?

He shivered and drifted his eyes closed again. Slipped into the comfortable dark and contemplated that opening again. The bars seemed absent. Perhaps he could lean a little, open that door just…

Arwen wiped a hand across her own forehead, absently tucking her hair behind her ears again. Looked forlornly up at Legolas who had taken up a seemingly permanent perch in the deep window embrasure.

“This fever does not seem to want to break. Have you ever seen him so sick?’

Legolas looked at Arwen’s worried face and then,  as she turned back to her husband, glanced out of the window of the Hornburg at the deceptive calm of the mountains. His own demons tugged at him; his need to stay close to his friends when they were threatened by sickness and strife warring with his duty to his father and his duty to his colony in Ithilien, the ever present and wearing sea song that always seemed louder in times of stress, Minuial and all the complications of their relationship brought suddenly into this place where he had not thought to have to deal with them. He sighed, his worries were known enemies and he suppressed them, as usual. He looked back into the sickroom and saw  the wide bed with Aragorn dark and tormented in the middle of twisted covers. Arwen, hovering over the oil burner, Master Tolman working in the corner with mortar and pestle grinding another of his cures. Elladan had stepped out only a few moments ago and he expected Elrohir any minute. Sickness was a state he rarely experienced, being elf-kind, but sick rooms seemed to have become something of a hobby of his in the latter years. He met Arwen’s blue eyes as she turned away from the bed again, and told her the truth.

“I have, Arwen. So have you, even in these usually peaceful times. He will not go yet. He will not go until he chooses, this is but a wearying step along the road.”

Arwen closed her eyes for a second and seemed to pull calm around her again like a cloak. Then she smiled up at her steadfast friend and found a mournful smile for him.

“How fares Gimli?”

“He coughs still, when he thinks I cannot hear him, but is more and more hale each day. The fire of his rage is burning so hot against those rebels that attacked us that I think no contagion has the strength to bow him. He storms around Aglarond supervising the repairs. Gliver is avoiding him for fear of coming to blows, and I am truly hiding here because this is the one place he will not come and harangue me for a timetable of attack on all men who hale from Dunland. “

He cast a melting look upon Arwen that begged for understanding and looked so much like a repentant puppy that Arwen found a laugh jolted out of herself involuntarily.

“And here I was thinking you were hiding from Minuial.”  Legolas’ look changed from chagrined to embarrassed and he turned his head to look out of the window again.

“And here I was thinking you were looking after me.” Aragorn’s weak voice from the bed summoned all the occupants of his room to his side. The King looked weak, but the fever had subsided again and his wry comment proved his personality was as intact as ever.

Arwen took his hand.

“Which of course we are, my love.” She wiped his forehead with a cool cloth again and Aragorn closed his eyes for the pure comfort of it. Then his grey eyes snapped open again and focussed on his wife.

“You are in Rivendell.”

“Not any more.”

“How did you get here?”

“I was escorted by your guard, Rivendell’s guard, and the King of Eryn Lasgalen, yonder scapegrace’s father, no less. The Eldar has not made such a showing since the Ring war so I hope you are satisfied. Your dignity, and that of Gondor’s Queen were royally upheld.”

Aragorn closed his eyes again. “I can feel a relapse coming on,” he murmured weakly.

Arwen flicked him on the end of his nose with a long finger and he opened his eyes again in outrage.

“Awake now, here comes Elrohir.”

Aragorn’s dark haired foster brother entered the room silently and patted Tolman on the shoulder by way of greeting on his way to the bed. He carried a large slightly steaming goblet.

“Good morning, sister. How fares our patient this noon.”

“I’m fine.” Aragorn spoke up, inaccurately. He stifled a cough, with a little effort.

The elf handed the goblet to Arwen, who sniffed at the contents cautiously as the twin helped Aragorn sit up a little in bed. Aragorn eyed the cup uneasily, well acquainted with Elrond’s unpalatable potions.

Elrohir retrieved the cup and handed it to the King, who took a quick look at the contents then swallowed the lot in a gulp. He closed his eyes, whether against the taste or because the effort had exhausted his meagre store of energy was debatable.

 Elrohir placed an experienced hand on Aragorn’s head and placed the other over the wound in his shoulder. Aragorn felt the healing power that the twins had inherited from their father flow into his weak and disobedient body, it commanded sleep and in his disordered state he was unable to resist. He slipped into a healing darkness again.

Arwen bent over him for a minute, feeling this more healing sleep, then straightened and gathered up the occupants of the room with a regal glance.

“Tolman, I believe it is your time to sit with him now?”

The hobbit simply nodded and clambered up onto the chair beside the bed, toting a leather bound volume that would have dwarfed even a man.

“Research, ”  he stated explanatorily.

Arwen smiled at him.

“Then the rest of us will take a meal and rest break. Elrohir you are staying?” The elf nodded at his sister and took up station in the window seat recently vacated by Legolas.

The Queen linked her arm with Legolas’ and swept out of the chamber.

TBC

Reviews are gratefully welcomed, treasured and replied to.

Rose Sared