Tales of the North
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Back to Middle-earth month 2012: 1. Midsummer, 3019
Drabble series written for the 'textures' prompts for B2MEM 2012
It will need to be repaired. Arwen touched the splintery edge of the deep gouge on her clothes chest. It must have happened either during the unpacking of their baggage or somewhere along the journey from Imladris. At least the damage was only to the wood, and the metal bands, with their detailed scrollwork, were intact.
She would see to it the next time it caught her attention. Careful not to snag her sleeve on the wood, and casting a last look at the pale green dress inside the chest, she lowered the lid. Already, her thoughts moved ahead. Tomorrow...
Why does the time pass so slowly? Just let it be noon now.
She'd rather have paced to quell her impatience, but for the sake of outward composure, she settled for counting the flowers she once embroidered on the sleeves of her dress. She knew every stitch, and every unevenness and every small bump her fingers slid over was familiar.
She nearly jumped out of her chair when Galadriel sat down next to her. She'd forgotten her grandmother was waiting with her until it was time to go to where Aragorn also waited – Is he as impatient as I am?
Texture: fuzzy (also Smells: Pipeweed)
"You smell of pipeweed," Arwen observed in a mock-prim tone as she slowly ran her fingers over the fuzzy hairs at the back of Aragorn's head, giggling as he closed his eyes in pleasure. "Hmmmm… If I do that again, will you start purring?"
In reply he pulled her even closer, his hands moving to tip her head upwards for a kiss. "Try me," he murmured, but stopped suddenly, looking worried. "You don't mind, do you?"
"Mind about what?"
"The pipeweed smell?"
"No silly, it is part of you," she laughed. "At least, as long as you don't smoke inside."
They had kissed before, but never like this. Those times had been the promise, now was the reality.
"I could go on kissing you all night," he said, his voice soft and husky.
She caressed the pale smooth skin on the inside of his arm. "Truly?" she asked.
"Truly," he replied.
"Truly? Just kiss me? I thought…" And if her laugh just then sounded nervous as much as bold, no matter. There were just the two of them here, and she could feel the tension in him also. Neither of them was exactly afraid, but it still felt almost unreal.
No one wore clothes by the pools where people swam or in the bath house, and as a healer's daughter and a healer in her own right it would have been difficult for her not to know what a naked man looked like. It did make a difference whether the man in question was a brother in need of having a wound stitched or her husband on the night they had both awaited for so long.
Answering the unspoken question in Aragorn's eyes, her own robe, its patterned folds pooling around her feet, was quickly discarded, and the quicker forgotten.
Her skin was smooth and pale in the light of a nearly full Moon, and her unbound hair flowed over his hands like a black river, her head on his shoulder. The sight and touch of her naked beside him...
"Vanimelda," he sighed.
Her hand moved slowly across his chest – how coarse his skin must feel to her, hairy and with scars old and not so old – and she looked up at him. He knew by the longing in her glance, and her quick breath, that – somehow, despite his flaws – he was as desirable to her as she to him.
He woke up beside a strange, yet familiar presence. One moment of disorientation, and then… Not a dream.
For fear of waking her, he dared not stir; instead, like a man thirsting, he drank in the sight of her. Her hair fell over her shoulder like heavy silk; the moonlight brushed lightly over her half-upturned face; her lashes were pools of ink.
Yet, fair as this sight of her was, it only suggested her keen glance, the sweetness of her smile, her wisdom, and her quicksilver wit. Dare I wake her? he wondered as he drifted off to sleep again.
She wanted to wake him, but the sun had not risen yet, and the sky had barely begun to pale. She drew aside a stray tendril of hair, but stopped when he stirred, and silently made her way to the balcony.
Aragorn merely observed, "Elrond's daughter in truth," when he found her reading an hour or so later.
She looked briefly guilty, then laughed, and said, "I didn't know you had kept this."
When he saw the book, it was his turn for embarrassment. Inside its thin pages lay a perfectly preserved dried elanor flower, its papery petals carefully arranged.
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