The White Shores

The Book

Aragorn rubbed his temples, his eyes drifting to the stark white city before him. There was no doubt that Minis Tirith was beautiful, but Aragorn longed to gallop across the surrounding lands of Gondor and feel the wind once again across his face.

"My king," Eowyn did not even bother to bow. He sent her a smile, but it was forced across his face. She must have noticed the tenseness in his features, but she mercifully did not comment. "Thranduil sends word. He will join the meeting."

Aragorn looked with surprise at her. He had truly not expected Thranduil to accept, though he had invited him with his most flowery language.

"In fact, he offers up his home as a venue," Eowyn continued cautiously. Aragorn contained a mirthless laugh.

"So that is the game he is playing," he nodded, "Very well. We will follow his rules. Send word to the others that the place has been changed."

"Aragorn," Eowyn's voice was soft, "How is Lady Arwen?"

Aragorn turned to her, his face softening at her earnest expression, "She is not alright, Eowyn. And I do not know how to make her so. I will bring her with me on this journey - perhaps she will then feel better once she is surrounded by her kin."

"They are no longer her kin," Eowyn said.

"She does not realize that," Aragorn gazed back out over his city, "She does not know."

The ride to Mirkwood was long, but Aragorn appreciated every second of it. Hasufel galloped swiftly across the even terrain, leaving the party of Arwen, two of her handmaiden's, and Eomer behind. Aragorn tried to let the wind sweep away any dark thoughts, but the persistant ache of his heart would not fly away on the swift breeze that passed him. That night, though, he fell exhausted onto his bed rolls and slept a merciful, dreamless night for the first time in a very long time.

It took them three days to arrive, and it seemed eons went by before the trees of Mirkwood graced the skies above them. The ride up to the castle was silent save for the birds that twittered. Eomer was clearly nervous about meeting the elves for the first time, especially when Aragorn informed him that Thranduil and his elves were not as kind as Legolas. He had forgotten to mention that Thranduil was Legolas' father, and hoped against all hope it would not be brought up in this meeting.

The elves welcomed them in a courtly enough fashion, paying special heed to the needs of Lady Arwen, who seemed slightly rejuvenated. They were led into their rooms, though they caught no sight of Thranduil or any other highly important elves.

Aragorn took a deep breath. Tonight, he and his wife would share a room for the first time in two fortnights. He entered the chamber and cast off his light riding cloak, using the end to mop some sweat off his face. His hair lay somewhat limp across his face, though Arwen had several times told him that the restless, wild look suited him. Now, however, he decided that perhaps he should clean himself before joining her in bed - just to sleep. When he reemerged from the bathroom, however, a haunting scene met his eyes.

Arwen was murmuring quietly, her eyes fixated on a large book sprawled across her lap. The book was large and bound with shimmering, golden cloth, the clasp of bone lying open. A faint sheen was glimmering on her skin, and a faint white glow filled the room, the edges a biting grey. The language she was muttering was elfish, and yet strangely not, the vowels disappearing and the sounds harsher. It was almost -

"Orcish," Aragorn breathed, "Arwen, you cannot!"

She tore her eyes away from the book, the sprawling script now menacing, and stared unseeingly at him. Aragorn leapt for the book and tore it away from her hands, slamming the bone-clasp shut with a loud click. She collapsed on the bed, all the light vanishing from the room. Aragorn scooped her body up and ran for the door.