AN:  An explicit version of this chapter can be found on AO3.  My penname is the same there as here.

~ Chapter 62 ~

“When the kingdom ended the Dúnedain passed into the shadows and became a secret and wandering people, and their deeds and labours were seldom sung or recorded. Little now is remembered of them since Elrond departed.”

Appendix A: Annals of the Kings and Rulers

~oOo~

“Nay, lady, leave that.” 

I falter in scraping the last of the bowls of the remains of our meal.  So fine are their make, it seems an insult to leave them to grow sticky and resistant to all but the most vigorous of scrubbing.  It can be naught but an inconvenience for the kitchen.

“I will take them when we wake,” says my lord softly, raising a hand to urge me to him where he sits amongst a pile of cushions and a mattress upon the floor, there at the foot of the couch where his daughter sleeps.  “Come.”

And so, laying the bowl upon the stack of plates and fussing with the cups so they do not jangle and rattle one tother when he shall pick it up, I leave the tray my lord brought with him upon a table just inside the door. 

I had seen their arrival.  So weary my lord and the halflings they could bare stumble their way upon the paths of Rivendell.  Glad was I the elf-lord had found them, for he bore them up, his fair face drawn and his hand touching upon them.  Even my lord seemed at his limit, whose back bends most readily to labor, his shoulders sagging as were he bearing a great weight.  And then did my hands smart where I clenched them into fists so I would not reach to my lord, and my face burned for the shame.  For the first time in our shared years, I was permitted no more than to turn away at the sight of his suffering.

Mayhap my lord had long ago been given his own rooms when he reached an age where they were warranted.  For I did not see him ere we retired to our own rest and knew not whether he had cast himself down upon a bed or bench elsewhere, or spent his time in a haze of the tedium of council.  ‘Twas not until the small hours ere dawn I knew him there.  The lack of warmth from the small body that most oft clung to me through the night awoke me.  And, indeed, his daughter had clambered of herself o’er my knees and to the floor, there to be found clutched against her father’s side, his arm her pillow and her curls a blanket upon them.  We did not speak then, nor gave each other greeting, for he was gone ere I awoke and had left his daughter curled in the nest he left behind. 

I thought then I might catch glimpse of him upon the even, though it be from across a hall filled with folk.  We were called to attend upon the Lady of Imladris who sat in her father’s place at their feasting.  But it was not to be so. I had no warning of my lord’s intent but his feet upon the short rise of steps.  He bore with him a tray laden high with food meant for our host’s table.  We were not to attend upon the mighty of Rivendell at their meal after all, it seemed.  His greeting was glad, but he could not meet my eyes at the first.  

And so, instead of appearing together, he did his best to make merry and cut small pieces of roasted meats and breads and other preparations of which I had no knowledge and fed them to his wife and daughter.  Each had a tale of his time among the elves of the Hidden Vale, from his mother’s favorite pudding of dates and cream curdled in wine, to roast duck in a sweet sauce he recalled as a child.  There he set his daughter to giggling as he tickled her belly and told her silly stories of a wayward goose and the young boy who had been set to catching her and begging for her eggs.      

So weary was he upon the first even of his return, he built up a fire in the brazier upon the terrace and lay his back upon the cushions, placing his head in my lap.  We spoke little.  The past held too much of grief to bear in words; the future too much of uncertainty.  He drew his daughter onto his breast, at first with the intent to sing the simple songs of childhood with her, but soon his limbs grew heavy and his eyes closed.  Elenir soon tired, too, of her fruitless attempts to wake her father.  And so, ere she became fretful and woke him with her fussing, straining against the weight of my lord’s head in my lap, I dug her poppet from the couch.  Clutching it to her, she lay upon her father’s breast and sucked on her fingers.  I then drew my fingertips through their hair as they slept and listened to the soft sounds of elven voices as they passed beyond the screen of tree limbs and balustrade, and the distant roar of the Bruinen. 

Once he regained his strength, he sat upon the cushions after our meal as our daughter slept and drew me to his lap.  He ran his thumb across the skin of the long bones of my hand and together we watched the flames as they danced within the covered hearth indoors.  For though the days were warm, the nights were chill with the press of walls of stone about the valley and the rising mist of the river. Though he came to us smelling of pipeweed, he had none of his own to smoke, and I had not found the courage to steal wool from the Lady’s weaving hall and so lacked aught of the drawing of thread to entertain him.  

Such was then to be the pattern of our hours when my lord was in Rivendell.  I knew not where he spent his days nor when I would next see him.  But he came to us in the evens, when the sun slipped behind the high cliffs and the sky yet glowed with its light and sent ripples of gold and red down the river.  The sun would set, and I would hear his soft steps upon the stairs without and his calling to us, or when the evens grew cold, his light tapping upon the door begging to be let within.  But, just as like, should we not be called to attend upon the Lord and Lady, we would eat our meal without him, Elenir and I.  Oft, then, it seems still he would return to us, though late was the hour.  For I would wake the next morn and find the cushions at the foot of the couch where my daughter and I slept, and a pillow that yet held the imprint of his head, turned so he may look upon us lit by the wheel of stars that shown bright o’erhead in the thin air of the mountains or by the waning flames within the covered hearth.  

My lord lifts his cup, putting it aside when he pulls me to him.  His hands about my waist, he lowers me to his lap and there takes in a deep breath when I settle against him.  Tithiniel’s clever fingers have woven the small, fragrant blossoms of the high meadows in the braids about my head.  There he presses his face and breathes deeply, kissing above my ear ere pulling me more closely to his breast as he leans his back against the cushion propped up behind him and sighing.  He is warm, and real, and there. 

There among the pillows upon the floor, we sit together.  I do not know if he avoids the heavier wines apurpose, but, though heady, the smell is light and smells faintly of the sharp green tang of apples and rising of sap.  With my ear pressed to his shoulder, I can feel the pull of sinew in his neck and hear the rush of each swallow as he drinks from his cup above my head.  Warm and comforted by the weight of his hand upon me, I listen, and do my best not to think of aught outside the circle of his arm.

Naught catches upon my thoughts so much as the tickle of silk shot through with flecks of gilt thread upon his breast. I run my fingertips across the cloth of his long vest and puzzle out the complex knots of its closures and the weaving of long spiraled arms of silver stars amidst a deep blue the color of the horizon at sunset.  ‘Tis of the finest wear in which I have seen my husband clothed, and I cannot think of how such a thing might be made.  

When I do not take up the telling of tales of his daughter’s doings or what little I know of events about us to lighten either of our moods, ‘tis then my lord speaks, his voice soft and close to my ear.  First, I learn all he knows of Isildur’s Bane, from its fashioning in the forge of Mount Oroduin, to its hiding place beneath the Misty Mountains, to the pitiful creature twisted by long years bearing it.

“I had not credited their resolve, nor their resilience,” he says, speaking of his companions upon the road hither.  It seems he has grown fond of them, for his voice has softened some.  “Which is a good, for, when we found him on the other side of the river, I thought sure Frodo was dead, so cold and pale was he.”

Even I had heard the Lord of Imladris’ swift flight to meet them, the hooves of their small company rattling amongst pillars and covered paths, and had seen the halfling borne hither beneath his watchful eye. 

“Will he recover, do you think?” I ask and my lord makes a small, startled sound.  It seems he was submerged deep in his thoughts.   

“He must!     

“I hope he shall,” he goes on, placing his hand upon the cup by his hip and rubbing his thumb upon its rim ere taking it up, “indeed for our own sake as well as his.  A pitiable tale it would make, do you not think, to travel through such threats as we faced only to lose him in the end, and the Mighty among the Free Folk to then fall to wrangling over the thing he bore so bravely and with such hope that we would aid him.”

He falls to a somber silence after he drinks from his wine.  

“Alas! Had I but been more vigilant upon Amon Sûl!”  He rubs vigorously at his face.  “But I was too careless there and Gandalf was not with us.”  

He sighs and his hand falls to my thigh, where he plucks at the folds of cloth upon it.  

“But, we are no longer alone upon the Wild and forced to a decision,” he says, his hand stilling upon me.  “It is no longer in my hands what shall happen to Frodo should he succumb to his wound and become subject to the will of the Ring’s Master.  And for that, lady, should I not be allowed to hope for his recovery, I am very grateful.”  

I do not like the grim sound of his voice and straighten so I may look upon his face, rising from his breast.  He does not return my gaze, and, indeed, his eyes flicker to catch upon somewhat upon my dress where the broidered work catches the light.  Ai! This, too, I have seen too oft of late; this mix of grief and shame hidden beneath a thin gloss of stubborn resolve.  

“You think you would have forced it from him, or worse?”  

He winces, a pained look flashing upon his face.  

“I have seen it,” he says, and it seems his voice trapped in his throat for all he can bare force words or breath from it.  “And it is fair,” he grates out between gritted teeth, ere he swallows hard and harsh upon the words.  

 He downs the last of the wine in his cup in a swift pull and sets it upon the floor with a clank.  

“But, still, my lord, you succeeded,” I say, and I know not why, but of a sudden I am deeply frightened.   

“Aye, well, it is here,” he says, “and now in the hands of the Council to decide what is to become of it.  I know what shall be my vote; it shall be to destroy this thing utterly.  Even the thought of it is perilous.”

I wonder with what it tempted my lord, and should I have caught the change in him upon his return had the fates not turned upon somewhat so simple as the ringing of bells upon the harness of an elf-lord’s horse.

It takes him by some surprise when I rise from his arms, though it is but to turn and then lift my skirts about my hips so I might straddle him. Still, he allows it.  His hands come to rest upon my thighs. Lightly he rubs at the velvet of my skirts with his thumbs.  For the Lady of Rivendell has dressed me in garments of a dark red silk broidered in threads of gold more fine than even I wore when I was wed, and the cloth is soft and no doubt warmed by the skin beneath it.  

“I think, my lord,” I say and take a strand of his hair fallen from his temple between my fingers and smooth it back in place, “we are very lucky it was you who was sent to find them. And I am lucky, too, that you have returned to us as you are, no matter how weary and heartsore and afraid.  I know it is sure to be but the first of your trials.  But you succeeded where those afore you failed.  I know not upon what you drew strength to resist.  But, whatever it is, I am grateful for it.”  

His smile in response is slight and a little sad, but he takes my hand briefly in his and presses a kiss upon its knuckles.  “Should it bring you hope, then I am glad for it.”  

I know not should he believe truly in what he says, but his eyes fix upon my lips. And that, I think, shall be enough. 

He allows the running of my fingers upon his jaw and down the thin skin upon his neck where I can feel the thrum of blood from the beating of his heart.   My kisses, too, he allows.  Sweet and soft he returns their touch, his lips warm and pliant when I take them between mine but seeking no more than what I ask.  For long moments there is naught to hear but the spatter of rain against the tile roof with the freshening breeze, the wet slip of lip on lip, and the rustle of silk where he runs the tips of his fingers in long sweeps upon arms and back. But it is when I dare deepen the kiss, with my body pressed to him and the stiff cloth of his tunic scratching the backs of my thighs that he halts and puts me away from him. But he does not rise nor refuse, nor gentle me on to some milder display of affection as once he used to. Instead, he searches my face.  

“Come my lord, thou are at rest, wouldst thou refuse the comfort thy wife would offer thee?” I run a finger through the tickle of the soft hair of his beard to the cleft of his chin.  “I would have my husband bed me,” I say with an attempt at a clever smile and he twitches beneath me where I rest upon him. 

And yet he does not move but regards me solemnly.  For a long moment he is silent, as though unsure of what I had just asked of him. 

When he moves, his hand comes to brush the backs of his fingers upon my cheek. “Do you truly wish this or seek only to please me?”

I cannot bear to look upon him, and crumple so that my face rests against his shoulder. 

Ai!  Even this I cannot do aright.  

“My lord, should you not desire this, I beg you tell me plainly,” I say, my voice muffled against the cloth of his long vest.  “Do not leave me wondering where your thoughts tend.”

His hands runs up my thighs to pool the soft silk of my skirts about my lap.  He comes near to speak low in my ear and the scent of bay leaf and sheep’s milk soap is so strong on him somewhat twitches in my belly at the memory.  

“Lady, my desire for you is as an ache in my bones no rest can allay,” he says ere he sighs and withdraws.  “But I am well versed in the wait.  You need not push yourself to give what you do not have just to please me.”   

Ai!  For all my attempts to greet him with a glad smile and agreeable form wrapped in the silken cloth and flowers of our hosts, I have not fooled him.  Indeed, now he has started upon this path, his voice grows more heated the longer he speaks.

“I am thy husband and would welcome what comfort thou art ready to give, but put no pretenses afore me in attempt to beguile me, wife, nor return to paring away parts of yourself for what thou deemst is to my benefit.  I have not asked it of thee.  I do not wish it.  I have never wished it.  I have asked more of thee than any other and I have seen the cost.  But each time thou hast taken that small, sharp blade to thyself it but stirs doubt in my heart as to the nature of thy consent to give all thou hast sacrificed at my behest!”

In the past, such words from my lord would have blinded my thoughts to all but the beating of my heart, but it is his heart that beats in my ear, quickening with his words, as had he been running, not sitting upon cushions and cradling his wife to him.  

“Thou art the Lady of the Dúnedain. Ask plainly of me what you wish, and it is yours,” he commands. 

It is some time ere I can speak, for, in truth, so much conflicts in my mind I am unsure what I truly want.  I listen, instead, to the pounding of my lord’s heart beneath my ear and ride the tightly coiled movement of his breast.  

Oh, so petty have been my thoughts in the world he has woven of the great forces moving about us. What heed gives the storm to the leaf it has torn from the tree of its birth?  Whither it is flung and its fate have no bearing on the tale. And yet, leaf that I am, I do not wish to be forced to beg for scraps of the comfort that should be mine. 

“I wish you to show me that you are here, with me,” I say in a voice so small I cannot help but despise the sound of it. 

He takes my face firmly between his hands to lift my head.  I must stare at him, a pang of guilt closing my throat.  Ai!  He had been weeping and I had not discerned it.  

“I am here,” he says, his voice firm and keen eyes sharp upon mine.  “Put thy mind to rest.  I made my choice.”

Oh, ai!  Would that my heart listened more closely, and my head might be more silent. 

With my hands clutching at the cloth of his vest, it is I who pulls him to me.  He comes willing, his arms wrapped about and crushing me against his breast as his mouth works upon mine.  He tastes at first of the bite of apple and musk of oak of the wine but soon I can discern naught but the tingle of the brush of his tongue and the sharp tug of his teeth. They are not tender, nor soft, his kisses.  But neither are mine, and should the running of his thumbs upon my sides make somewhat inside begin to throb in time with my heart, he in turn groans when I nip at the corner of his mouth, tugging and licking at the skin upon jaw and cheek and then neck where he taste of salt.  

I thought mayhap he might slow and his touch grow gentle.  But this is not so.  Already his hands run upon my thighs.  The broad tips of his fingers bite, and with a sharp tug he pulls me flush against him.  Aye!  That!  That is what I wish. I want him gasping for breath and unable to think.  I cling to him.  The tip of my tongue drawing upon the tender skin beneath his ear sets him to breathing deep and moaning. 

Unfocused as they are, his eyes do not fix upon me when I push him away, and, at first, his groan of frustration sounds more like unto a growl than aught else.  But then, I am pulling at the ties upon his vest and he joins me.  With clumsy hands made frantic by the wait, we yank at his buttons made of precious stones and closures whose construction confound me.  But at last we have drawn tunic and vest and shirt off his body and tossed them aside, and I can run my hands upon him as he fumbles and jerks at the ties holding his breeches closed.  Ah, the blessedness of the warmth of his skin o’er shoulders and arms and breast.  

Ai!  It has truly begun to rain, and only now am I aware of the drumming of water upon the tile o’erhead and the chill upon air seeping in beneath the door, for though the fire is warm upon my back, a draft draws prickles across the skin of my lord’s breast.  And so I lean close and run my mouth upon the skin of his breast and shoulders while his hands jerk at knots and ties beneath me. ‘Tis then somewhat rips with his tugging upon it and he curses.  

“Ai!  Lady, your fingers are the more clever for these things.  Could you not – “  

I latch upon his lips and brush his fingers aside.  No words.  I have heard enough of them and do not wish for more. 

He groans, clutching at my shoulder and running his fingers beneath the low line of my dress.  

“Would you, I beg thee, lady –“

He may not say it, but I know what he wishes.   He does not stop me and seems to give no thought to what he might want, but is content to allow whatever touch I deem best, whether it is to speed him to completion or draw curses from his lips with my teasing.  It is this, more than his mouth upon me that brings heat and makes me ache.  We are, finally, of a height and when we settle together, he need not bend his head to me nor I press to my toes to meet him.  

So beautiful the heaving of his breast and sweet the slip of his breath upon my cheek, yet when he would press his fingers to me to urge us to greater pleasure, I wrap my hand about his wrist and pull his hand from me.  

He stills, drawing back and searching my face.  “Do you not wish – “

“No,” I say and press his back to the cushioned wall behind him.  

So hungered is his look, I cannot not bear it, but place my hand upon his cheek where he might turn his face into my palm and, at last, close his eyes.  No matter the warmth and satisfaction that rises from our coupling, a veil lies between my heart and the world, and little touches it.  And so, it is the rising of blood upon his breast and neck and the soft burst of cursing between tightly held breaths in which I find pleasure.  No matter the restless shifting of limbs nor his straining in an arch against the cushions, I am unmoved until I catch but a glimpse of joy bursting upon his face when he curls against me and clutches me to him.  

Ah, lady,” he says when he can next speak.  He laughs softly between the heaving of his breast.  He has released me and lies back against the cushioned wall, his hands lying upon my hips and chasing folds of cloth up my sides.  “I am in your debt.  You must give some thought to how you wish it paid.”  

He wipes at his face and sniffs, ere releasing a long, sighing breath and settling.  He smiles at the touch of my fingers upon the rim of his lips and kisses their tips as they pass. 

I am unsure what he sees when he opens his eyes, but such had been the light shining upon his face at our coupling, my heart had brimmed o’er with yearning for him, as were he far, far away beyond hope or touch and not lax and warm beneath me, nor I, with the pleasure of it thrumming through sinew and belly and my heart pounding.  

He takes my hand and presses its palm to his cheek, putting a halt to my soft, questing touch upon his lips.  

“When you are ready, then,” he says.  

Rising from where he rests against the cushion, he cups my face in his hands and presses his brow against mine.  He then whispers in the small space between us where we share breath. 

“I am here,” he says.  “I will not say your fears are unfounded, lady.  Though I am sure of my course, it would be cruel of me to deny I have given you reason for doubt.  Put me to the test, should you need to.

“But, hiril nin,” he goes on, brushing his thumb upon my cheek and pressing his lips gently to the side of my nose, “no man leaves a battlefield untouched.  You have a long road you must travel on your return.  I know it well.  I shall wait for thee as thou didst for me.  Do not despair for its length.

“I am here.  Come back to me.”  

~oOo~