“Can you imagine the pair, brother?” asked Rúmil of Orophin, newly returned from Lórien’s borders. “The Lady’s grand-daughter choosing a mortal wanderer, on Cerin Amroth itself!”
“A pity.” Orophin answered. “Undómiel could have wed any Elf, yet will lower herself to a Man‘s bed. Strange tastes must run in her Peredhel blood.”
“Lower?” A chill voice spoke. They turned and beheld the Evenstar herself, in a pale cold fury. “You speak ignorance. Perhaps you might speak again, with more care.”
Later, the brothers agreed that they would prefer tracking a hundred rampaging Orcs to raising the ire of Arwen Undómiel.
“You wounded my husband!”
Éomer had meant to mumble some excuse, but he could not. The Queen’s eyes seemed to pierce the depths of his soul. “We were sparring and I was careless,” he confessed.” My folly grieves me deeply.”
Arwen slowly rose from her chair. He quailed before her piercing gaze. How could one so fair be so terrible? Yet, was she not kinswoman to the Sorceress of the Golden Wood? Far rather would he face a hundred rampaging Orcs than this woman’s wrath. For a moment, she glared at him, then swept purposefully from the room.
“What have you done to him?” Arwen Undómiel stood tall and fell, eyes blazing silver fire. Though Faramir had long withstood his father‘s withering stare, he was unused to such wrath in Aragorn’s gentle Queen. He would rather face a hundred rampaging Orcs, for at least he knew how to fight them.
Faramir rose shakily. “My lady, the King is merely resting. We finished the trade agreement…”
The King in question grinned cheerily, cup in hand. “Vanimelda! Drink with us! ’Tis-it is a new batch of Dorwinion.”
“So I see,” she said, her face softening. “Well, let us celebrate together.”
“How could you, Estel?” Arwen glared at her husband while contemplating her bedraggled son. “You both look as if you had been dragged through a hedge backwards”
“We were,” Aragorn admitted wryly. ”I was showing him how Rangers concealed themselves.”
“His tunic, which I embroidered, is ruined!”
Aragorn quailed. He would rather face a hundred rampaging Orcs than his angry wife.” I am sorry, beloved, the work of your hands is wondrous fair, but is this son we made together not fairer still?”
“It is your bedtime, Eldarion.” Arwen’s expression suggested she would not be angry for long. “Estel, come!”
Drabbles I & III written by rakshathedemon
Drabbles 11 and IV by lindahoyland
Icons by elanordh