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b2mem2015-03-01 09:54 am
starbrow.livejournal.com) wrote in b2mem2015-03-01 09:54 am
"Yet Were Its Making Good" by Amy Fortuna (![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
starbrow)
B2MeM Challenge: Rivendell, something falls out of the pages of a book.
Format: Short Story - 1200 words
Genre: Humour, Romance
Rating: PG
Warnings: none
Characters: Aragorn (Estel), Arwen
Pairings: Aragorn/Arwen
Creator's Notes: I particularly wanted to get this finished for today - please note the date in the story!
Summary: Estel studies Quenya and finds something unexpected in a book. He's a romantic boy.
Estel, age nineteen and three-quarters, was grimly determined to master the Tale of Beren and Luthien in Quenya. He’d read it in the Common Tongue, he’d read it in Sindarin, he’d even tried composing a poem himself on the theme, but all had gone ill with that, and it wasn’t worth speaking of to anyone.
The Tale in Quenya, rumoured to have been written by Maglor Feanorion himself, was in a very old-looking book on a high shelf in the library. He was over six feet tall but the average elf was a good bit taller and could reach that shelf with ease. He reached out and caught the edge of it with the tips of his fingers, pulling it, and the book promptly descended, smacking him firmly on the head.
Estel flailed, trying to catch it but missed, and the book landed on the floor, facedown, open. He groaned in dismay and quickly picked it up, hoping that it was not badly hurt - Elrond would be so disappointed, and Erestor might - well, violence would ensue.
The book seemed to be fairly intact, but something fell out when he picked it up. It was a length of blue lacy ribbon, a hair-ribbon for a lady Elf. He picked up the delicate fabric, wondering who in Imladris would own such a pretty thing. He raised it to his face, lips gently caressing the fabric. It smelled unlike any scent any of the few ladies in the House wore, certainly not his mother.
A door closed at the other end of the room, and Estel blushed. To be caught here by one of his half-elven brothers, caressing a length of hair ribbon - he would never hear the end of it! Shoving the ribbon roughly into his pocket, he checked the book over, determining that it had survived its fall without hurt, and made his way out of the library.
The Tale in Quenya was utterly captivating, and Estel found to his surprise that it was much easier to understand the Quenya when it was presented in the form of poetry, especially when it was a story he already knew and loved. He could figure out much of what was being said from context, but took notes on the words he couldn’t figure out, to ask Erestor later.
The hair ribbon he laid away with his own things, bringing it out from time to time. In the secrecy of his own mind, he fancied that it belonged to Luthien herself, even though he knew that could not possibly be the case.
The winter months went by, and on March the 1st, the day of his twentieth birthday, Elrond had a long conversation with him about who he truly was. The news of his heritage left him reeling, all the foundations of his being changing underneath him. He went for a long walk in the woods nearby, and as he walked, he sang the Tale he’d learned over the winter, as a way to distract his mind from all the darker thoughts that seemed to wish to crowd in now. Around his wrist he tied the blue ribbon, Tinuviel’s favour, or so it seemed.
And there she was, underneath the trees, dressed in blue herself like Luthien, long dark hair flowing down her back. For a long moment, they regarded each other, the young man, and the Elf maiden, then, “Tinuviel?” Estel breathed.
The maiden laughed. “No, I do not have that honour,” she said. “Arwen I am, Elrond’s daughter.” She pointed to Estel’s wrist, a merry smile playing on her lips. “Who might you be, and why do you have my ribbon?”
Estel went red and lost the ability to form sounds. A few choked noises escaped. He was on the point of fleeing the scene, but Arwen took pity on him, and came over, laying a hand on his arm.
“Do not fear!” she said, laughing. “For truly, I had not missed it. I have been away many a year, visiting my mother’s kin. I must have left this behind and you found it for me.”
“I found it in a book, my lady,” Estel finally managed to say more or less coherently. “In the Quenya translation of Beren and Luthien. Which I have been studying.” He was still unable to make much sense, and tried to carry on explaining. “When I saw you, I thought I had strayed into a dream.”
Close together now, their eyes met at last, and Estel could feel himself falling into the depth of hers. One moment with her and his heart was irretrievably gone from him.
The moment passed. Arwen smiled but drew back a little from him. “You still have not told me who you are.” One perfect eyebrow raised. “I cannot call you Beren.”
“I’m Estel-“ he began, but cut himself off. “No, I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn, of the Dunedain.” He sighed, looking away. “No, that does not feel right, not yet. I’m Estel, son of Gilraen, and I have lived here in this house as long as I can remember. Your father I also call father, and your brothers are mine too.”
Arwen smiled. “I am glad to meet you, Estel. I would say that you might call me sister if you wished, but somehow I do not think either of us wishes that.”
Estel blushed again, not able to meet her eyes. “I do not wish that.” Then suddenly words were pouring from him, and he was falling to the ground, on his knees in front of her. “In truth, all I know is this: that for all my life I have been waiting for you, for this moment. My heart now belongs to you forever, whether you will have it or no. I could never call you sister, but I would call you love -“ he caught his breath at the thought, “I would one day call you wife, if ever I can win you.”
Arwen put out her hand, laying it on top of Estel’s head. She did not laugh, but went so still and sober that he looked up at her, startled at the change.
“This is not -“ she began, but then paused. “You do not know what you ask of me, mortal man,” she said, very gently. She reached down, and took Estel’s hand, raising him up to stand before her. “Although I am not Luthien, I may yet share her fate.” Her eyes looked off into the distance. “But far off yet is that day, and I know not if you are the right one.” She looked back at him, and at the hand she held, around the wrist of which was tied her ribbon. “Keep it in hope, and may good fortune go with it!” She smiled at him, letting go of his hand, and moved away, vanishing among the trees.
Estel stood, breathless with wonder, leaning against a tree to hold himself upright. He brought the blue ribbon to his lips and kissed it, remembering the touch of her hand in his, and the light in her eyes. As if in a dream, he spoke well-loved and remembered words in Quenya to himself, with one single change to them: “Though all to ruin fell the world and were dissolved and backward hurled unmade into the old abyss, yet were its making good, for this - the dusk, the dawn, the earth, the sea - that Arwen for a time should be.”
Format: Short Story - 1200 words
Genre: Humour, Romance
Rating: PG
Warnings: none
Characters: Aragorn (Estel), Arwen
Pairings: Aragorn/Arwen
Creator's Notes: I particularly wanted to get this finished for today - please note the date in the story!
Summary: Estel studies Quenya and finds something unexpected in a book. He's a romantic boy.
Estel, age nineteen and three-quarters, was grimly determined to master the Tale of Beren and Luthien in Quenya. He’d read it in the Common Tongue, he’d read it in Sindarin, he’d even tried composing a poem himself on the theme, but all had gone ill with that, and it wasn’t worth speaking of to anyone.
The Tale in Quenya, rumoured to have been written by Maglor Feanorion himself, was in a very old-looking book on a high shelf in the library. He was over six feet tall but the average elf was a good bit taller and could reach that shelf with ease. He reached out and caught the edge of it with the tips of his fingers, pulling it, and the book promptly descended, smacking him firmly on the head.
Estel flailed, trying to catch it but missed, and the book landed on the floor, facedown, open. He groaned in dismay and quickly picked it up, hoping that it was not badly hurt - Elrond would be so disappointed, and Erestor might - well, violence would ensue.
The book seemed to be fairly intact, but something fell out when he picked it up. It was a length of blue lacy ribbon, a hair-ribbon for a lady Elf. He picked up the delicate fabric, wondering who in Imladris would own such a pretty thing. He raised it to his face, lips gently caressing the fabric. It smelled unlike any scent any of the few ladies in the House wore, certainly not his mother.
A door closed at the other end of the room, and Estel blushed. To be caught here by one of his half-elven brothers, caressing a length of hair ribbon - he would never hear the end of it! Shoving the ribbon roughly into his pocket, he checked the book over, determining that it had survived its fall without hurt, and made his way out of the library.
The Tale in Quenya was utterly captivating, and Estel found to his surprise that it was much easier to understand the Quenya when it was presented in the form of poetry, especially when it was a story he already knew and loved. He could figure out much of what was being said from context, but took notes on the words he couldn’t figure out, to ask Erestor later.
The hair ribbon he laid away with his own things, bringing it out from time to time. In the secrecy of his own mind, he fancied that it belonged to Luthien herself, even though he knew that could not possibly be the case.
The winter months went by, and on March the 1st, the day of his twentieth birthday, Elrond had a long conversation with him about who he truly was. The news of his heritage left him reeling, all the foundations of his being changing underneath him. He went for a long walk in the woods nearby, and as he walked, he sang the Tale he’d learned over the winter, as a way to distract his mind from all the darker thoughts that seemed to wish to crowd in now. Around his wrist he tied the blue ribbon, Tinuviel’s favour, or so it seemed.
And there she was, underneath the trees, dressed in blue herself like Luthien, long dark hair flowing down her back. For a long moment, they regarded each other, the young man, and the Elf maiden, then, “Tinuviel?” Estel breathed.
The maiden laughed. “No, I do not have that honour,” she said. “Arwen I am, Elrond’s daughter.” She pointed to Estel’s wrist, a merry smile playing on her lips. “Who might you be, and why do you have my ribbon?”
Estel went red and lost the ability to form sounds. A few choked noises escaped. He was on the point of fleeing the scene, but Arwen took pity on him, and came over, laying a hand on his arm.
“Do not fear!” she said, laughing. “For truly, I had not missed it. I have been away many a year, visiting my mother’s kin. I must have left this behind and you found it for me.”
“I found it in a book, my lady,” Estel finally managed to say more or less coherently. “In the Quenya translation of Beren and Luthien. Which I have been studying.” He was still unable to make much sense, and tried to carry on explaining. “When I saw you, I thought I had strayed into a dream.”
Close together now, their eyes met at last, and Estel could feel himself falling into the depth of hers. One moment with her and his heart was irretrievably gone from him.
The moment passed. Arwen smiled but drew back a little from him. “You still have not told me who you are.” One perfect eyebrow raised. “I cannot call you Beren.”
“I’m Estel-“ he began, but cut himself off. “No, I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn, of the Dunedain.” He sighed, looking away. “No, that does not feel right, not yet. I’m Estel, son of Gilraen, and I have lived here in this house as long as I can remember. Your father I also call father, and your brothers are mine too.”
Arwen smiled. “I am glad to meet you, Estel. I would say that you might call me sister if you wished, but somehow I do not think either of us wishes that.”
Estel blushed again, not able to meet her eyes. “I do not wish that.” Then suddenly words were pouring from him, and he was falling to the ground, on his knees in front of her. “In truth, all I know is this: that for all my life I have been waiting for you, for this moment. My heart now belongs to you forever, whether you will have it or no. I could never call you sister, but I would call you love -“ he caught his breath at the thought, “I would one day call you wife, if ever I can win you.”
Arwen put out her hand, laying it on top of Estel’s head. She did not laugh, but went so still and sober that he looked up at her, startled at the change.
“This is not -“ she began, but then paused. “You do not know what you ask of me, mortal man,” she said, very gently. She reached down, and took Estel’s hand, raising him up to stand before her. “Although I am not Luthien, I may yet share her fate.” Her eyes looked off into the distance. “But far off yet is that day, and I know not if you are the right one.” She looked back at him, and at the hand she held, around the wrist of which was tied her ribbon. “Keep it in hope, and may good fortune go with it!” She smiled at him, letting go of his hand, and moved away, vanishing among the trees.
Estel stood, breathless with wonder, leaning against a tree to hold himself upright. He brought the blue ribbon to his lips and kissed it, remembering the touch of her hand in his, and the light in her eyes. As if in a dream, he spoke well-loved and remembered words in Quenya to himself, with one single change to them: “Though all to ruin fell the world and were dissolved and backward hurled unmade into the old abyss, yet were its making good, for this - the dusk, the dawn, the earth, the sea - that Arwen for a time should be.”