Title: While the Light Burns Clear
Author: Elly
Character: Aragorn, Boromir, Arwen- A/B/A pairing
Rating: PG-13
Notes: Written for twinkledru's ficathon, for freedomfry who wanted someting in Lothlorien, either during the quest or after Aragorn's death. These are, of course, not my characters and I am doing this for fun, not profit. The title comes from the song "Light Burns Clear" by Sparta.
|
They took turns missing her. Which is not to say that there was ever a time that the both didn't feel the absence, a chill in the air that snuck between them at night. But some days were for Aragorn to miss her and some days were for Boromir. Aragorn knew when Boromir was feeling the heartache, his eyes darkened and his gaze lingered on the jewel around Aragorn's neck. He was sullen and spoke little, save to Merry and Pippin, whose infectious charm seemed to lighten his mood, if only for a moment. And always his eyes were shadowed. And Boromir could see Aragorn's longing in the way he walked, the stories he told, the way his voice sounded when he sings. He knew that particular twist of his lips meant he wished she were there, and that look on his face meant he was worrying about how she was feeling. He alone could see Aragorn's heart reflected in his face, though sometimes the way Gandalf looked at him had him wondering just how much he kept hidden behind those sharp eyes. As the quest wore on, they took turns comforting each other as well. There was never time for much, but not much was needed. Aragorn's voice was sad, but one look and a sudden embrace could change it. Boromir was a rational man, a predictable one and Aragorn could appreciate what it took for a warrior whose singular affection was for a brother far away to kiss him, hold him like a lover instead of a soldier. And during the dark moments, he took comfort in that. There was one who loved him here. When Boromir's eyes turned dark and reflected a circle of gold, Aragorn would go to him in the quiet moments and kiss each of his palms, the way she did the night before they left her alone in her father's empty house. A benediction for him, a reminder that some things were for him, just for him, not for Gondor or for the white city or his father's expectations or his brother's protection or his mother's absent affection. That he could have something of his very own to cherish. And that he hadn't left it behind in Rivendell, part of it was here. The darkness would fall from his eyes, but the circle of gold remained.
Arwen was alone in the chamber where they had slept, remembering. She did not have a companion to help ease the absence, but elves have excellent memories. She lay in the dark and imagines their voices, the feel of their hands on her skin. The soft skin of her fingertips tracing her body is no comparison for theirs. She wished for a moment that her hands were wide and calloused, rough and strong. But they are not, so she is content with what she has, waiting for the time she can feel safe between them.
It was in Lothlorien that they were able to love one another at last, slowly in the night, instead of in stolen moments away from camp, rushed and rough and almost without the passion of love, almost. Her whispered words of love and romance would fill their heads and give them the sweetness they were striving for. They took time to reacquaint themselves with their bodies, remembering with hands and mouths. Pulses racing, they moved together, feeling her absence but pressing together anyway, building pressure to erase the ache. Hands and mouths traced and pressed and moved against skin that was flushed and heated. Twist, slide, shift, moan. They had been forced to be fast and silent so often that the sound of voices seemed a new and constant delight. They were louder than they should have been, perhaps, but in this place no one will hear. And even if they do, it won't matter. Faster and harder, they moved in rhythm and thought of her, clever slender hands and soft curves, voice low and husky. It's almost like she was there with them pressing and urging them on. The heat took them and Boromir called a name without knowing or caring whom it belonged to while Aragorn's fingers clutched at him. Then in one moment the world exploded and they were just two, together and above time and distance. Aragorn does not carry the weight of kings and the hope of the West and soft starlight replaces the gold ringlight in Boromir's mind, light that had been beginning to blind him. The moment passed and they sank back down, remembering what they do not have, cherishing what they do. True, they did not have their lady there to speak their names and add to the heat, but she was not lost to them. They knew what she wants for them, what she needs for them. She wanted their happiness, their safety in this time and place. There would be time enough for reunions and being one part of a whole later. This is where they were now, in the dark garden, and for now they are safe. Safe in body, save in love at least. Minds are a different matter. While the world reassembled they lay together, comfortable. Aragorn slipped into sleep but Boromir lay in the darkness and found his mind was free of the gold glint that had so often crept into his thoughts. And there in the darkness, after the uncertainties of the quest, the loss of the wizard who led them and the startling presence of the Lady of Lorien in his mind, he found that he missed it.
She is old, now. Through all her long life, she had never felt old. Not when her mother left, or when a grey-eyed boy had called her Tinuviel, or a when a proud man whose heart was hers fell fighting, not when her children had children. She had never been old, until now. She sits in the spot where she first fell in love, with that grey-eyed boy who didn't know her name. The wood is dark and cold, the light of her people- nay, not her people any longer- had left this place. She is old and her body aches, her eyes beg for sleep. She knows, too, from the knowledge she gained the moment she became mortal, that when she closes her eyes to sleep she will not wake again. She thinks of the love that has gone before her. She remembered a night when she had dreamt of the world bursting into a thousand pieces and starlight steadily surrounding her and she knows that it was in this place that it happened. This is where the two she loved more than anything and anyone had loved each other, wholly for the first time. And her mind is a peace. They loved her as they loved each other and though they are gone, they will return. They will come for her in this place, to take her past sleep and into whatever lies beyond. The lore of the elves does not speak of what happens to men when they die. There is no song or tale or tome that knows the truth. She must simply wait for what she feels in her heart will happen. As she closes her eyes, her mortal knowledge tells her what will be. They will be three there and one as well, in a place where the world is in a hundred thousand pieces and bodies are made of starlight and the only golden light comes from the heat of the rising sun. When she opens her eyes, they are there, waiting for her, as she knew they would be. |