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entishramblings · 1 year ago

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The Scorpion of Sarn Ford [Aragorn/F!Reader]

A.N: the amount of weird shit I had to google for this….my FBI agent definitely thinks I’m planning some fucked up crap.

Inspired: this fic was inspired by @estelofrivendell ‘s fic A Change of Heart. I adored the Assassin/Ranger relationship and had to put my own spin on it!

Pairing: Aragorn X Fem!Reader

Summary: The Scorpion of Sarn Forn is a notorious assassin. Much to Strider’s dismay, they are both hired for a job.

Disclaimer: I tried my best with geography, once again, it isn’t my best subject. heh!

Word count: 8.2k (idk why I’m like this)

Warnings: enemies to lovers, angst, fluff, humor that will have you peeing, blood, torture, death, murder, brief insinuation to sexual abuse (side character), creepy men that get what's coming to them, a little bit of spice, brief shirtless aragorn. this sounds very dark but I promise you its good, besides: shirtless aragorn. duh.

MASTERLIST | AO3 | WATTPAD

Aragorn never thought he would be in this position. He never even anticipated such a scenario. It was, quite frankly, entirely unfathomable. Not once did it cross his mind that he might be in the same city as her, much less be forced to sit next to her at The Black Falcon Tavern and Inn with a potential contractor. You see, The Scorpion of Sarn Ford—or as Aragorn preferred to refer to her as: the heinous hellspawn that middle-earth would undoubtedly be far better off without—was a notorious assassin. She made her coin from slipping into the shadows and slaughtering her targets, leaving no trace besides a corpse—still warm from the blood that once ran through it. The men of the south-west were wise enough to be wary and the rich of such lands were stupid enough to empower her with their dark wishes. She’s rumored to have a body count in the hundreds, including kings and queens. Though, that is not how she acquired her title.

Percaric Rothswood, one of the richer dukes of Anfalas, sat with them at a table in the back of the tavern. The Ranger and the Scorpion occupied the bench alongside the wooden wall, granting them both a clear vantage point of the entire establishment, while Percaric sat in a chair across from them. Aragorn's arms were folded, a small blade discreetly nestled up his sleeve, and his ale remained untouched on the table. Yet, the assassin reclined casually at his side, her dark cloak draped loosely enough to unveil the myriad of weapons adorning her attire, with two empty pints before her and a third in her hand.

The peculiar grouping drew the attention of onlookers—it was indeed an unusual gathering, particularly with the presence of the infamous Scorpion of Sarn Ford, and her form specifically beside Strider. Nervous and inquisitive gazes, hushed conversations, subtle nods, and even more overt glances from passersby and bar-sitters were all directed towards the pair. If a meeting like this were to take place, something must be going down.

“So, what’s this job, Percaric, that requires a ranger and a shrew,” Aragorn gruffed, his scowl as deep as the sand pits of the eastern coast.

The woman beside him snorted. “A shrew. Just what a lady wants to be called.”

He shrugged. “An argumentative, ill-tempered rat. I see no difference between it and you.”

She raised a brow, twisting her head to look at him. “Technically a shrew is a mole.”

Aragorn sent her a glare in response.

She huffed at him. “A mole that will die if it doesn't eat every two to three hours.” She picked up her ale and took a swing. “That sounds nothing like me.”

“You reckon so? I bet if you didn't get new gold to chew on in that exact time frame you would also die of pompous deprivation.”

A deep chuckle escaped her throat as her jaw tightened and her eyes narrowed. She turned to quip back an insult; however, Percaric nervously interrupted the hostile hires.

“Well, uh, you see, it's quite a delicate matter. The-the job, that is. My client doesn't want his indiscretions aired out among the common folk because, well, uh, the matter is quite sensitive and—”

Aragorn rolled his eyes. “Just spit it out, Percaric.”

The man exhaled through his nose, nervously patting the table. “Right, right, very well then.” He cleared his throat. “Well, uh, my client, his daughter was taken by someone of high prestige and, well, he would like her back.”

Aragorn leaned back in the chair. “Why doesn't he just pay the ransom then? Instead of hiring someone to take her back. There is a ransom isn't there?”

“Of course, of course. But, well, you see, this daughter, ehem, she’s bastard-born. His wife doesnt know that she exists and he would like to keep it that way. Paying the ransom directly would cause too much attention. Like I said, he wants this discreet.”

Aragorn sighed, his morals pulling hard on his heart. “How old is the girl?”

Percaric winced. “Fourteen.”

The Ranger cursed under his breath. “She’s just a kid.”

“Yes, yes. Well, you see, that’s why my client asked for you, Strider. Not many would want to help a bastard daughter.”

The Scorpion leaned in. “Then why did he ask for me as well?”

Percaric’s face twitched. “Well, uh, Scorpion, there’s a matter a bit more delicate involved that requires your skill.”

She raised her brows.

“My–my client’s daughter is quite beautiful. Well, we can only assume what is being done to her by her captor during her stay. He, well, he wants the perpetrator killed.”

She snorted, leaning back into the wall behind her. “Why not make Strider here do it?”

The Ranger clenched his jaw. “He should be imprisoned, rotting in a cell for his crime.”

“Ah,” she started. “You would bring him in instead of kill him, and that would mean a trial.” She winked at Percaric. “Too public for this client of yours.”

An anxious and awkward giggle-like breath left the man’s lips. “Precisely.”

“So, where is she being kept?” The Scorpion asked.

The duke glanced around him before leaning in and letting his next sentence come out as a whisper. “The tower of Eastemnet.”

“Eastemnet?” Aragorn confirmed, wide-eyed and surprised. “But that would mean—”

“Lord Theovail,” the assassin interjected. “One of the richest, well-guarded men in Arda.”

Percaric bit his lip. “Yes, yes. Now, well, now you see why my client asked for you, Scorpion of Sarn Ford.”

Aragorn huffed, hot air coming from his nose, as he shook his head—now finally reaching for his ale. “We will take the job,” he stated reluctantly.

“Oi! Not so fast,” the assassin interjected. “What’s the pay?”

The Ranger shot her a glare. “A girl, a child, is being held prisoner, and you worry of pay?”

She glared right back at him before turning back to Percaric. “The pay?”

He cleared his throat. “Three hundred pieces of gold up front and another three hundred upon your return of the girl, alive, and proof of Theovail’s death. Though you will have to split it, I’m afraid.”

She raised her hands with a tilt of the head. “Fine by me.” She turned, flashing a devilish grin to the man next to her. “Let us go hunt a girl-snatching arsewipe, Strider.”

He offered no-response other than a scowling side eye.

“Fantastic,” Percaric replied, taking two coin pouches out and plopping them on the table.

The assassin was quick to snatch up one of the bundles, standing, ready to take her leave.

Aragorn, however, let his finger drift over the coin. He glanced up at Percaric. “What’s her name?”

The man’s expression softened. “Calista, daughter of Lord Kassim.”

Aragorn nodded, grasping onto the pouch. “We will bring Calista home.”

……

The pair had been traveling for approximately two weeks at this point, and their interactions during this time were characterized by sparse conversations intertwined with numerous glares and disdainful expressions. In those few moments when words were exchanged, they were often heated disagreements concerning which path to follow, strategies for infiltrating the tower, or debates over the responsibilities of meals. It was, quite frankly, the most miserable trek across Arda that Aragorn had ever taken upon. But it wasn't until they were passing through the gap of Rohan, between the Misty Mountains and Ered Nimrais, that they met any trouble.

An arrow, coming from the mountain’s rocky side, whizzing past Aragorn’s ear was the first sign of danger.

He whipped his head around. “Scorpion!” he called out in warning, his eyes meeting the assassin’s for a brief moment.

She drew her dual silver blades only seconds before a small pack of goblins began descending. She was quick to behead the first goblin whose feet hit the grassy pass they walked through.

“Goblin’s from the Mountains,” she hissed.

Aragorn too drew his sword. “They shouldn't be this far south! They stay up near Ehu Daur and Moira!” He drove his blade through one of the beasts, swinging around to slice another.

“Well, clearly, they dont give a fuck as to where they should or should be!” The Scorpion quipped back as she brought one of her blades through the neck of one of the creatures. “On your left!”

Aragorn twisted his body just in time to block a blow from a rusted scythe.

The assassin dodged the next beast that came at her and sprinted towards the biggest one. She was quick to push herself into the air, flip over the goblin, and slice its throat before her feet even landed on the ground.

She looked up to see the two final goblins, one in match with her companion and the other approaching his back.

The woman moved quickly. Her feet carried her towards the beast who held its blade above Strider’s head. Just before it was to be brought downward, she yelled out a war cry and grasped onto the few hairs the creature had. She yanked hard. The goblin fell backwards onto the ground and she pounced on top of him, sending her blade through his heart—his pungent blood spraying across her face, neck, tunic, and leather armor.

With heavy panting breath, she stood and turned to face the Ranger who had slayed the final beast. Kicking the corpse of the one she had just killed, she spoke. “Only nine. A scouting team. More will be coming upon their lack of return. We gotta get a move on.”

Aragorn’s lips were parted in surprise, realizing that he nearly lost his life. Surprising the assassin, he spoke words that she never would have thought to leave his lips for her. “Thank you, Scorpion.”

She raised her brows. “I have a name, you know, Strider.”

The Ranger turned away from her, continuing along their path. “I don't care to know it,” he gruffed out, his brief sincerity from moments before disappearing.

She snorted, calling out to him regardless. “It’s (Y/N).”

“Don’t fall behind, Scorpion,” he replied.

She huffed, her irritation obvious, before jogging to catch up with his wide strides. “I don’t like you very much either, but if we're gonna be on this job for a while, you could at least not be a dick.”

“Coming from the rudest and most corrupt person I have ever met, that's rich.”

She chuckled loudly. “Wow. Rude, okay, I deserve that. But corrupt? That’s a bit far-fetched.”

He stopped walking, twisting to glower down at her with disgust. “You truly think so? Let’s talk of why they attach the massacre of Sarn Ford to your name. You killed dozens. Women. Children. Innocents. All for what? Gold! Corrupt is too kind a word for you. Wicked, diabolical, vicious is more like it.”

(Y/N)’s brows shot upward as a pained and frustrated laugh thundered in her chest. “Really? Do you even know what was happening in Sarn Ford?!”

“They were farmers! Common folk! Living off the land in peace and you…you slaughtered them!” he yelled.

She got in his face, her hot, angry breath burning against his skin. “THEY WERE ALREADY GOOD AS DEAD, STRIDER!”

“How could you even say that?” he replied, horrified.

She closed her eyes, taking in a deep breath, before focusing back on the man before her. “A disease was making its way through their village. Incurable. Painful. An alchemist, who had been working for weeks to try and find anything to help them, hired me. There was nothing to be done for them except extend a hand of mercy. To give them a good, painless death.”

Aragorn stared at her, his brows pulled together with shock in his gaze.

The assassin clenched her jaw. “I had mothers plead with me to end their child's life while cradled in their arms, only to follow them into death. At least, that way, they could die together.” She looked up at him, her tone privy with rage. “So, yes, Strider, feel free to bestow upon me any epithet you see fit."

He was silent, his shock radiating into the wind around him. Quietly, he spoke again, “How did you not get sick?”

She exhaled slowly. “The alchemist instructed me to wear cloth over my face and cover all skin but my eyes. Once the deed was done, I burned everything I wore and paid for new clothes with gold born of their suffering.”

Aragorn nodded slowly, compassion in his gray eyes. “I am sorry. Doing such a thing mustn't have been easy. It was an execution of mercy.” He turned, continuing once more. “Though the tales of your other kills aren't so kind. Come along, Scorpion. There’s a town a couple days ahead.”

(Y/N) snorted, anger seething in her bones, but followed him nonetheless.”

…..

The pair strode towards the Inn, located not far from Gondor’s borders. They forcefully pulled the door open, unveiling a noisy uproar of laughter and boisterous shouting, mingling with the lovely odors of urine, sweat, and stagnant ale. Creating such an environment, one the Scorpion and Ranger were used to, were the disheveled bodies of inebriated men.

With a mischievous grin, (Y/N) expertly navigated through the crowd, leading Strider to a secluded table nestled in a dim corner. It wasn't long before the arrival of steaming platters of meat and bread arrived, along with two pints of foamy ale, both of which they heartily devoured. The Scorpion raised her hand, beckoning the barmaid over and placing an order for two more pints—both of which she downed, much to Aragorn's evident disapproval.

After releasing a loud belch, she casually swiped the back of her hand across her mouth, then rose to her feet. “Gonna go get some air,” she grumbled, her balance momentarily unsteady as she gained her footing. Aragorn, in response, merely offered an exasperated roll of his eyes.

The assassin maneuvered through the bustling throng of men, slipping through the sea of people before pushing through the doors. The sudden rush of frigid tranquility enveloped her skin as she stepped into the embrace of the night. With a deliberate intake of breath, she allowed the crisp air to fill her lungs. Her eyelids fluttered closed as she tilted her head upwards, letting the misting drizzle of rain kiss her skin. The sound of the tavern was muffled, and the echoes of the celebration they passed down the road drifted into the air. Though it was subtle, for it didn't drown out the sounds of the singing crickets or the croaking frogs. It was peaceful. Well, that is until a form slammed into her and pressed her against the wall.

The smell of ale-laden breath and sticky sweat filled her nostrils as her eyes shot open. Her gaze, fueled by adrenaline, locked onto the burly figure before her—a man with a rugged orange beard—who had forced himself upon her.

“What’s a pretty thing like you doing all alone in a dangerous place like this?” he asked, a knife held to her throat.

She snarled up at him. “Oh, you're about to find out—”

Before she could make a move, however, the man was suddenly struck from the side, his body sent sprawling onto the weathered, muddy path.

As (Y/N) peeled herself from the wall, her hand instinctively reached for the slight gash on her neck. Meanwhile, the bearded man found himself seized by the throat, forcefully hoisted upward, and pressed hard against the unyielding stone.

“Do you even know who that is?” Strider uttered sharply.

A chuckle escaped the lips of the man, his bloodied lip spraying a fine mist of red onto Aragorn's face. “You’re whore?” he sneered.

With an unrelenting grip on the man's throat, Aragorn pulled him several inches away from the wall, only to slam him back against it once more. The impact elicited a grunt from the man. "The Scorpion of Sarn Ford," Aragorn hissed through clenched teeth, his voice seething with restrained fury.

The assailant’s laughter was dripping with sarcasm. “Yeah and I'm the fuckin’ King of Gondor.”

The Ranger clenched his jaw, ignoring the secret dig the man's comment produced. “You know why they call her that? Hmm. The Scorpion? Scorpions incapacitate their prey with venom, paralyzing them before they deal the final blow. That woman over there? She severs her targets’ spinal nerve, rendering them unable to move before subjecting them to her torture and kill. And the worst part? She doesn't even need them paralyzed. She gets off from witnessing the terror in their eyes as they're rendered helpless.”

Another laugh escaped the man, but as his gaze shifted towards (Y/N), his amusement faded. The assassin now held a dagger, twirling it in her fingers, a sinister grin stretching across her features.

He turned to look back at Aragorn, the color now drained from his face. “Ye’ c-cant be serious,” he stammered.

The Ranger merely lifted his brows and tilted his head.

Driven by desperation to escape the woman beside them, the man started to shove against Aragorn. However, a single forceful punch to his jaw rendered him unconscious, his body collapsing onto the mud once more.

“I had it handled,” the assassin stated.

Aragorn shot her a stern glare before responding bluntly, "Sure, you did."

The woman emitted a snort, yet settled into a squat beside the man, her dagger poised.

The Ranger, however, was quick to grab her by the wrist, successfully stopping her actions. "Are you out of your mind? We can't kill him. That's the last thing we need – drawing attention to ourselves."

With a huff of mild exasperation, she sheathed her blade. "Fine." She then nodded to the black horse tethered nearby, gesturing with a nod. "That's his horse. Saw him dismount as we entered. Bring it here."

Aragorn frowned, confused, but did as she asked.

“Alright,” she stated, gathering the man’s arms in her hands. “Help me with his legs.”

“What the hell are you doing?” he asked.

“Strider, just grab his damn legs.”

Exhaling audibly, the Ranger complied, reluctantly gripping the man's ankles. With a coordinated heave, they hoisted the man up from the muck. After a few groans and sighs, he was draped over his horse's back.

The Scorpion then took the leather strapping of the saddle and began binding the man’s hands and feet to it. She nodded to the young maple tree behind the Ranger. “Get me a large twig from that. Bout a foot tall. Keep the leaves on it.”

“What?” he hissed, his hands spreading wide in a gesture of bewilderment.

“Strider, would you just get the branch,” she urged impatiently.

Another loud, reluctant exhale left his lips, yet he trudged toward the tree and pulled off what she requested. He approached her, holding out the twig.

“Ah, thank you,” she acknowledged with a grin, accepting it from him.

With that she moved to the side of the horse, close to the man's legs. She seized the waistband of his trousers and gave it a yank, reaving his bare ass.

“Scorpion,” Aragorn chided.

Undeterred, she grinned, sticking the small branch between his ass cheeks so it stood upright, its leaves rustling faintly in the breeze.

“Seriously?” he gruffed out, his arms crossed.

(Y/N) looked at him with a wicked smirk. “You hear that party still going on down the road? I think they would appreciate some impromptu entertainment.” With that, she smacked the horse's rear and, with a brisk snort, it took off down the path.

Not even a minute passed, when they heard the shouts of anger and amusement funneling from the gathering.

Strider turned to glare at her, his jaw clenched and his eyes burning with irritation. He grasped onto her bicep and pulled her towards the doors. "Get inside the damned tavern, quickly."

A loud, hearty laugh flew from her throat, yet she allowed him to pull her along.

Engulfed once again in the clamorous atmosphere of the inn, Aragorn wasted no time in steering her towards the bar. “You can't just put a branch up the arsehole of a person that pisses you off,” he hissed under his breath.

She grinned unapologetically. “Sure, I can.”

He blew hot air out his nose, opting to withhold a retort. With a determined demeanor, he maneuvered them through the crowd of men, navigating as close to the counter as he could get. "Barkeep," he called out, projecting his voice. "Two room keys."

The man approached them with a shrug. “Only got one room left.”

Aragorn huffed. “Fine. Well take it.”

With that, the Ranger deposited three gold coins into the man's palm, secured the key, and then swiftly tugged the Scorpion alongside him as they grabbed their bags and ascended the creaky wooden staircase.

They approached their door, marked the same as the key, and it swung open under Aragorn’s touch. Within, the room exuded a chill darkness, accompanied by a faint draft slipping in through the slightly cracked window. The space appeared quite sparse, furnished with nothing but a small dresser, a modest table accompanied by two chairs...and a solitary bed.

A muttered curse escaped the Ranger's lips as he unceremoniously dropped his bag onto the table. "I'll take the floor."

(Y/N) rolled her eyes. “Really, Strider? It’s the one night we get the option of having a bed. As long as you stay on your side, I don't mind sharing.”

“Fine,” was his gruff response.

With that, the pair began getting comfortable for the night. Aragorn lit the worn down candle, its feeble golden glow illuminating the area, proving slightly better light as he dug through his bag. Meanwhile, (Y/N) shed her cloak and vast assortment of weapons, earning a skeptical glance from the Ranger. Yet, when she began to unfasten the tightly-worn leather armor that clung to her figure, his reaction was far more dramatic. "What on earth is that stench?!" he blurted out, recoiling.

She shrugged nonchalantly. “Remember those goblins? Yeah, I got an unexpected bath in their blood.”

“That was days ago. You reek,” he retorted. He strode over to the dresser, opening drawers until he came across a gray towel. Returning to the table, he picked up the pitcher beside the candle and gradually poured water into a small basin, also provided. After submerging the towel and wringing it out, he flung the damp cloth towards her, which she easily caught. “Clean yourself up.”

She shrugged once more. Turning away, she shed her shirt and let it drop to the floor. Her swift movements were focused as she wiped her face, neck, and chest, cleansing her skin of the grime that clung to it.

Though Aragorn didn't intend to look, his gaze inadvertently flicked towards her silhouette against the wall. It was then that his eyes fixed upon her bare back, adorned with a network of vivid, angry scars. He’d seen scars like that. He knew what they were from: torture.

“(Y/N),” he whispered sincerely, his steps leading him closer to her form. “What happened?”

Hearing her name for the first time from his lips, she was caught off guard—her heart skipping a beat. The simple utterance carried an unexpected weight, a rare vulnerability that seemed to momentarily freeze her in place. Uncertainty gripped her as she stood still, her mind racing to process the unfamiliar tone from him.

His touch was tender as he raised his hand to trace the lines on her skin. “Who did this to you?” he growled.

Brought back to the present, she instinctively recoiled from his touch. "I'm an assassin. I've earned my fair share of enemies," she replied, her voice tinged with defiance. Shifting her gaze over her shoulder, she met his eyes. "Have an extra shirt? Mine's beyond saving."

"I, uh, yes. Yes, of course," Aragorn responded, seeming to realize the sudden intimacy of the moment. He retreated to his bag, rifling through its contents until he procured a cream-colored tunic. He tossed it to her. "This should suffice."

“Thanks,” she grumbled, pulling it over her head.

(Y/N) approached the table, the Ranger's shirt engulfing her smaller frame. The fabric's loose drape hung off her shoulder. If she wasn't such a menace, Aragorn would have thought that she looked cute in his clothes.

Ungracefully, she deposited the damp towel on the tabletop before proceeding to yank off her boots and socks, placing them with a deliberate thud upon the chair nearby. “We are not that far from the tower of Eastemnet. Perhaps a two day journey or so. However, our predicament remains unchanged: we don't have a solid strategy. We don't have any floor plans. We don't know how many guards will be stationed. And we don't know where the girl is being kept. We are gonna be going in blind—”

“You’re bleeding,” he interjected, his voice carrying an unmistakable note of concern.

“Huh? Oh, yeah. Just a scratch,” she dismissed casually.

Aragorn grasped onto her jaw, lifting her chin up to take a better look. "A seemingly insignificant wound could easily become infected, Scorpion," he asserted, his tone insistent.”

She pulled her head from his grasp with a snort. “I’m fine, Strider.”

He crossed his arms, an unyielding resolve in his expression. “If we are breaking into Lord Theovail’s tower and stealing from him, I'd prefer my partner not succumb to infection-induced delirium, potentially endangering both our lives." Swiftly, he nudged the empty chair towards her. “Now, sit down, Scorpion.”

(Y/N)’s brows lifted, followed by a teasing expression that animated her features. “Oh? So I'm your partner now?” she quipped, her tone laced with playful amusement. "What happened to the 'vicious shrew killer that you would rather leave tied to a tree,' as I seem to recall you once calling me?"

He glared at her. “Sit, or I will leave you tied to a tree.”

Surprisingly, she did as he asked, allowing herself to sink into the chair with her legs casually sprawled and her arms folded tightly across her chest. Aragorn dug through his bag, pulling out a couple small tins and a tiny glass bottle. Grasping the towel, he located a clean section and dipped it into the basin. Squatting down between her legs, he lifted the towel to her neck. "Chin up," he instructed, and she obeyed without protest. Gently, he began cleansing the wound, meticulously removing dirt and debris from the area. Next, he uncapped the small glass bottle. "This might sting," he warned.

She clenched her jaw, but said nothing as the alcohol was poured upon her neck. Aragorn gently dabbed the liquid away. He then opened one of the small tins, extracting a dollop of green goo.

“What is that shit?” (Y/N) asked.

“Athelas leaf paste.”

“Athelas leaf?” she echoed, seeking further clarification.

“Kingsfoil. Athelas is the elvish word for it,” he replied simply, his attention focused on gently applying the paste to the wound.

She raised her eyebrows. “Elvish, huh. You're full of surprises, Strider. Where’d ya learn that?”

“Shush. Be still.”

The Scorpion rolled her eyes, but complied as he completed the task.

Standing up, Aragorn rinsed his hands and addressed her once more. "We can devise a plan for the tower tomorrow. Right now, we need rest."

(Y/N) sighed, nodding in agreement, as she too stood. She made her way towards the bed and pulled back the thin sheet, eager to climb into the softness of a mattress—regardless of how old and worn it was.

The gentle sound of air extinguishing the candle was succeeded by the enveloping darkness that reclaimed the room. Soon, Aragorn’s footsteps followed. She discerned the rustle of fabric as, presumably, he removed his shirt. The bed then creaked gently as he settled beside her, lying on his back.

She, resting on her side away from him, let her eyes close. There she laid, for a moment, before shifting. Then she shifted again. And again.

“Stop moving, Scorpion,” Aragorn grumbled, his patience waning.

“I can’t get comfortable!” she retorted.

“That’s because you keep moving.”

“It’s cold and you're stealing all the blankets.” With a determined tug, she seized more of the fabric, leaving Aragorn with a minimal share.

He merely exhaled audibly, opting for a wordless response. At the very least, she had ceased her constant fidgeting.

Aragorn remained awake during the initial hours, unable to find slumber. (Y/N)'s breathing had swiftly settled into a rhythmic pattern after she commandeered the majority of the sheets, though her small unconscious movements kept interrupting the perceived tranquility. Occasional, soft whimpers escaped her lips, her brows furrowing with evident distress. In truth, Aragorn found himself uncertain of how to respond. He held onto the hope that the disturbances would cease on their own, perhaps that whatever troubled her dreams would eventually pass. And eventually, it did stop, but not without an unexpected turn of events.

The Ranger's senses jolted as the Scorpion’s frigid form rolled towards his side of the bed, seeking refuge in his warmth. Although she had mentioned feeling cold earlier, the intensity of her chill surprised him. The wave of uncertainty that washed over him did not leave as her cheek pressed against his bare chest. Initially, the thought of infection taking hold crossed his mind, but he quickly dismissed it; her skin would have been hot to the touch if that were the case. It only took seconds for him to realize that the draft from the cracked window was striking her side directly. With a sigh of reluctance, he tentatively encircled his arm around her, drawing her in further.

In her state of deep slumber, she instinctively nestled into him, drawing a slight skip from Aragorn's heart. He cast a cautious gaze downward, taking in her appearance.

She seemed so different—distinctly separate from the notorious assassin he knew her to be. There was an innocence, an unexpected purity, about her in this moment that rendered her almost unrecognizable. Gone was the perpetual scowl that often marked her features. Instead, her face had relaxed into a gentle expression of repose, free from the tension. Her lips, adorned with the faintest hint of a pout, moved slightly as she drew each breath, almost as if he warded off the nightmares that had plagued her.

In this vulnerable state, the Scorpion seemed untainted by her reputation, stripped of her fearsome persona. The layers of her identity, usually shrouded in crude comments and sharp weapons, had fallen away. It revealed that the facade that she showed the world was just that, a facade. A good one at that though. Even Aragorn—a man well-acquainted with the intricacies of human nature—hadn't thought it would be a mask; but her story of Sarn Ford was the first thing that revealed its possibility to him. It was as if the walls she kept built had crumbled away, allowing him a glimpse of the person beneath the lies. And, until sleep claimed him, he allowed himself to savor this glimpse—to see her beyond the assassin.

When the first light of dawn began to filter in, (Y/N) stirred, wrapped in the warmth and safety that had cocooned her during the night. She hesitated to peel open her eyelids, savoring the sensation. However, as her senses roused to full awareness, a gentle yet distinct rhythm reached her ears—the steady thud of a heart beating beneath her. In an instant, her eyes shot open, and a surge of apprehension raced through her.

Beneath her, Strider's form lay, his chest rising and falling in slumber. Anxiety tightened her chest and clawed at her throat. Reacting instinctively, she sat up abruptly and, fueled by adrenaline, threw a punch at him.

A resounding groan of pain escaped his lips as he scrambled to sit up, his expression twisting in both surprise and discomfort. "What the hell, Scorpion?!" he managed to sputter, his hand instinctively reaching to dab at his lip.

“I thought I told you to stay on your side of the bed!” she retorted sharply.

He glared at her, his irritation obvious. “I did. If you would take a moment to observe your surroundings, you would see you are in fact on my side of the bed.”

Wide-eyed and perplexed, she twisted her upper body around, casting a glance over her shoulder. As the reality of the situation dawned on her, she faced him once more. Her eyes filtered over his form briefly, taking in his muscled biceps and defined abs. Her expression then turned into a deeper scowl. “Fuck off!” she snapped.

He only stared at her, bewildered.

….

Under the shroud of darkness, the Ranger and the Assassin stood at the base of the tower of Eastemnet on the south side. Concealed within the protective embrace of the tree line, they had spent approximately three hours observing the guards' patterns and identifying vulnerabilities in the tower's defenses. There they had hidden two steeds that (Y/N) had procured for them at the inn—most likely through theft, though Aragorn didn't want to think of that—allowing for a quick escape with Calista. Strategically, they discreetly knocked out all the guards on the outposts, binding and gagging them, for they knew the element of surprise would be their only bet. So, now they stood, with a pretty loose plan, ready to steal back what Lord Theovail had taken.

The Scorpion grasped onto the vine that entwined itself along the stone surface of the tower. A swift, assessing tug confirmed its stability. Her gaze shifted briefly to the man positioned behind her. “About two hundred feet to the top. Best guess, that’s where Calista is being held.”

He nodded. “After you.”

The Scorpion adjusted her grip upon the vine and she initiated her ascent. Aragorn doing the same only minutes after.

They moved in a synchronized rhythm, the sound of their breaths and the faint rustling of vines mingling with the night's stillness. Each handhold and foothold was chosen with precision, the texture of the stone under their fingertips guiding their progress.

(Y/N)’s movements were fluid and practiced, evidence to her agility and experience. Her lithe form seemed to dance with the contours of the tower, making it look easy. Aragorn, not as accustomed to such endeavors, displayed a determination that rivaled his unease. His powerful muscles flexed and strained as he pulled himself upward, his eyes never straying far from the path she took.

After what felt like hours, the assassin spoke. “Nearly there, just a couple more feet.”

Aragorn only grunted in response.

The woman firmly gripped the vine adjacent to the windowsill, positioning her feet against the wall in a manner resembling a vertical walk. This facilitated her upward movement as she pulled herself closer to the window. Yet, as her head reached the level of the glass, she swiftly withdrew, instinctively lowering herself. In an unfortunate circumstance, the unconventional stance she maintained resulted in her ass colliding with Aragorn's face.

He groaned. “Really, Scorpion?! Really?!”

“My bad,” she huffed out. “Hold on a second. I think someone is in there.”

“Yeah, hopefully Calista.”

She resumed her ascent, then promptly lowered herself again. This time, Aragorn effectively maneuvered his head to the side, evading her buttocks.

Regardless of this, he shot her a glare—not that she would be able to see it.

“It was a maid.” she whispered. “I think we are in the clear now.”

With that, she heaved herself up for a final time and reached for the dagger strapped to her thigh. “Duck your head,” she commanded. With as much force as she could muster, she brought the blade against the glass, tucking her face into her elbow. It shattered, falling around them both like deadly snow.

The Scorpion pulled herself upward and through the window, careful not to be pierced by any stray piece of glass, and Aragorn did the same.

The room was small, but decorated to the extreme. The prominent feature was the bed, elevated upon a platform, its tall wooden posts adorned with a luxurious velvet canopy that cascaded in graceful drapes. The mattress was covered in ornate blankets and quilts, complemented by an array of plush pillows. However, any semblance of beauty was starkly contradicted by the grim sight of chains extending from the wall and ensnaring the wrists of a young girl, shattering the room's facade of luxury.

Immediately, Aragorn ran towards her side. “Calista,” he murmured gently. “Wake up. It’s time to go.”

Calista's golden hair framed a face that appeared worn and defeated. Her eyes fluttered open, revealing a gaze void of life. Her voice emerged as a feeble whisper. "Who are you?" she inquired softly.

Standing steadfast in the center of the room, (Y/N) maintained her posture with crossed arms. Her unwavering gaze fixed on the imposing wooden door that likely remained locked from the other side. “Your father sent us.”

Aragorn carefully manipulated the cuffs that bound Calista's wrists, gingerly freeing her from their constricting hold. "I'm Strider," he introduced himself, his fingers working skillfully. "We're here to help. Come.”

As if entranced, Calista began to sit up, struggling to rise from the bed. Aragorn extended his support, assisting her onto the floor. However, her weak frame proved too fragile to sustain itself. She leaned unsteadily against him, her body unable to bear its own weight.

The Ranger looked to his partner. “She’s too weak. There's no way I can scale down the wall with her on my back. She won't have the strength to hold on."

The Scorpion uttered a quiet curse. “You will just have to come with me to find Theovail.”

He shook his head. “It’s too dangerous. We can't bring her near him.”

“Well, we don't have any other choice,” she snapped. “But as soon as I kill him, we will have to haul ass. His guard will be coming for us then—if they don't already know we are here.”

Aragorn clenched his jaw, inhaling deeply. “Fine. Get that door open.”

With that, the Scorpion set to work picking the lock and Aragorn scooped Calista up in his arms, her golden head nestled into his chest. It wasn't long before the group was creeping down the tower, level by level. The Scorpion led the way, ducking behind walls and maneuvering around pillars, making sure the way was clear. When they came across a guard that was blocking their escape, she was quick to slice his throat and pull his body out of sight.

“Scorpion, why you can't just knock them out?” Aragorn whispered with exasperation.

She, dropping his legs as she stuffed him into a closet, glared at him. “And risk having him wake up and alert others? I think not."

He huffed, knowing she was right.

However, their path forward soon encountered a challenge they couldn't evade as easily. Just as they were on the verge of turning a corner, a young maid's panicked voice pierced the air. “The-the girl. She’s gone!”

(Y/N) slammed her back against the stone wall, Aragorn doing the same.

“What do you mean ‘she’s gone’??!” A deep male voice thundered.

A shared realization passed between (Y/N) and Aragorn—Lord Theovail had now entered the fray.

“FIND HER!” he snapped. “Or it will be your head!”

The servant scurried down the hall, running right past the Ranger and Assassin who slunk into the shadows with their charge.

(Y/N) cautiously peered around the corner. The room before them was every bit as lavish as the one that had imprisoned Calista, if not more so. A roaring fire crackled in the grand fireplace, casting flickering shadows that danced across the two plush velvet couches by it. Luxurious fur blankets adorned each sofa, hinting at Theovail’s rich indulgence. A sprawling fur carpet lay before the fireplace, while an ornate wine cart laden with deep reds was conveniently placed nearby. And there, infuriated, stood Lord Theovail himself, a glass of crimson liquid in hand, his temper fuming. To make matters worse, his guards were positioned near the room's exit—the very door that Aragorn would need to pass through in order to escape with Calista.

The Scorpion drew her knife, sending Aragorn a look. It was time. In a hushed tone, she whispered to him. “When you hear it’s over, take her and run to the doors. I'll be right behind you.”

He nodded in agreement.

She then disappeared into the shadows. Not even a minute passed before Aragorn heard the thumping of two bodies, one right after the other, followed by the telltale crash of a shattering wine glass meeting the floor.

“What is the meaning of this?!” Lord Theovail’s voice thundered, a mix of surprise and outrage lacing his words.

Aragorn cautiously peered around the corner, his heart pounding. Lord Theovail was now a whirlwind of fury and frustration, his gaze darting in every direction and a knife clutched in his hand. “I am not one to indulge in games!” he roared, his voice echoing through the chamber as he brandished the blade. “Reveal yourself, you coward!”

Within seconds, the Scorpion’s blade was poised menacingly at Lord Theovail's throat, her grip firm and unwavering as she held him in check from behind. Her voice dripped with a sinister malice as she spoke, her words slithering through the air like a venomous serpent. “Lord Kassim sends his regards.”

A broad chuckle bubbled from Theovail's lips, mingling with a mix of disbelief and arrogance. “A woman?! Kassim sends a woman to kill me?!”

Aragorn watched as the assassin drew another blade from her lethal arsenal, the steel glinting in the dim light. He winced inwardly, knowing what was about to unfold. In one swift, calculated motion, the Scorpion's blade found its mark, slicing deeply into Theovail's spine. The lord's body crumpled to the floor, staining the pristine white fur carpet with a gruesome red pool. His once-commanding presence now reduced to stillness. Though his eyes, wide and drifting in panic, showed his fear.

She then sat on top of him, bringing the blade to his neck once more. The Scorpion's lips curled into a chilling grin, her eyes alight with a dark satisfaction. “Not just any woman. You ever hear of The Scorpion of Sarn Ford?”

Instantly, a tidal wave of horror engulfed Theovail's blue gaze, his previously defiant demeanor shattered like the fragile glass of Calista’s window.

He knew the legend. He knew there was no escape for him.

However, at that moment, a large, burly guard burst in. Seeing what was unfolding, he was at his Lord’s assistance in a flash. His hand grasped onto the assassin’s hair, yanking her form from Theovail.

Aragorn clenched his jaw, giving her a moment before he intervened.

The collision sent shards of glass and splintered wood flying as the guard and the Scorpion crashed into the wine cart, locked in a fierce struggle. The guard, towering in his size, managed to regain his footing first and hauled the Scorpion up with him. His meaty fists struck out, landing brutal blows that drew crimson from her nose and brow.

The Ranger cursed. Quickly, he sat Calista upon the ground and rushed to his partner's aid. Unsheathing his blade, he lunged into the fray. His sword found its mark in the guard's back, the steel emerging through the man's stomach. Time seemed to freeze as the guard's bloodied gaze locked with the Scorpion's, a moment charged with shock and shared disbelief. The guard crumpled to the ground, revealing Aragorn.

With a swift motion, Aragorn twisted his blade downward and reached out to grasp the Scorpion's face, his hands marked by a blend of relief and fear. The touch, both tender and urgent, brought her gaze to his. Blood marked one cheek, while the other felt the cool press of his blade's hilt against her skin. His deep voice, a mixture of anxiety and care, called out her name. "(Y/N)," he stated, the word a lifeline that pierced through her dazed state.

"(Y/N)," he spoke once more, the urgency remaining. “Are you alright?”

She blinked, forcing a response. “Yes, yes. I'm fine.”

Aragorn released a sigh of relief, yet his hand remained for another heartbeat, a reassurance in the form of touch. "Take care of Theovail. I will get Calista," he instructed, his hands finally and reluctantly withdrawing as he moved to tend to their young charge.

The rest was a blur: (Y/N) slicing Theovail’s throat and grabbing his ruby ring, Aragorn hauling Calista into his arms, and the trio racing down the tower's corridors—fending off any obstacle that dared to stand in their path. Adrenaline drove them to the treeline, panting breath heavy and loud, as they climbed upon their horses and took off into the night—leaving behind the bloody assassination of the Lord of the Eastemnet Tower.

…..

Weeks later, at three in the morning, the trio stumbled into The Black Falcon Tavern, where they first met with Percaric. The establishment was eerily quiet, save for the slumbering figure of the barkeep, who had succumbed to the late hour with his head on the counter. At the far end of the room, Percaric and Calista's mother stood, their figures illuminated by a flickering candle on the table. An air of anxious anticipation clung to the atmosphere.

As soon as their feet crossed the threshold, that stillness was disturbed. Calista's voice pierced the quiet as she called out to her mother, her strength visibly renewed since the ordeal. Without hesitation, mother and daughter closed the distance between themselves, embracing as if they had been torn apart for eternity. Tears flowed freely, mingling sorrow with joy. The warmth of their reunion dispelled the darkness that had clouded their lives.

Percaric approached the Scorpion and the Ranger.

The assassin tossed the man Lord Theovail’s ring. “Proof of death,” she stated bluntly. “I was gonna bring you his head, but figured it would smell pretty rotten after the long journey.”

He nodded awkwardly, the thought making him feel ill. He took a quick moment to examine the ring. Seemingly satisfied, he spoke. “You did well. Lord Kassim sends his thanks.” He then tossed them both pouches of gold before turning back to the mother and daughter. As Percaric prepared to take Calista and her mother back home, he turned back to the two rescuers. His voice carried a sentiment with his words. "Thank you."

Aragorn's silent nod and the Scorpion's subtle acknowledgment conveyed their understanding and their shared commitment to a world that often demanded their sacrifice.

With that, Percaric, Calista, and her mother left the inn, leaving the assassin and the ranger alone.

“Well,” (Y/N) began, as she walked towards the snoring barkeep and leaned over the counter, fishing for the room keys. “I don't know about you, but I could do with a good night’s rest.” She pulled the ring from his waist and turned back to Aragorn. Holding it up, one key dangling, her grin faded. “You're kidding, right?” She shook her head with a huff but turned and made her way to the rickety stairs. “As long as you stay on your side of the bed this time, Strider—”

“Scorpion,” he interrupted as he followed her.

The wood creaked under her feet. “I am serious. Keep yourself in check—”

“Scorpion.”

“I will not hesitate to paralyze you—”

“(Y/N)!”

She froze upon the stairs, slowly turning to look at him on the step directly below her. Now they stood at the same height, face to face, only inches away from each other.

“You almost died out there,” he whispered, his hot breath brushing against her skin.

“Yeah, so did you. It happens,” she shrugged. “It’s what we do.”

“(Y/N),” he persisted.

“What?!”

With that, he grasped onto her face, his finger warm and calloused from the lifetime of travel and battle. Time seemed to freeze as the moment lingered, the air changing between them.

And then, his lips were on hers.

At first, a sense of uncertainty held her still, her mind grappling to comprehend the sudden intimacy. But as his touch deepened and the kiss became a dance, she surrendered to the moment. Her fingers found their way into his hair, tangling themselves among the dark waves, as her lips moved with just as much force—if not more—as his. He tasted of pine and fresh soil, she wast sure if she quite literally was consuming the dirt upon his face, but she didn't care. She couldn't stop herself from becoming enthralled by his lips.

“Scorpion,” he mumbled against her mouth.

She hummed a reply as her lips continued to move with his.

“Room. Now,” he practically growled.

She grinned, her teeth tugging on his bottom lip. “Make me.”

Aragorn pulled away from her, raising his brow with a smirk. With that, he grabbed her by the hips and hoisted her up. Her mouth found his again as he stumbled up the stairs, ignorant to the barkeep who woke and was now squinting at the pair.

“The Scorpion and Strider,” the old man huffed. “The boys aren't gonna believe this one.”

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morwensteelsheen · 4 months ago

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another one I’ve been working on which I refuse to think about until I can log at least four chapters

In the last seconds before she awoke, the spikes of a morning star collided with the side of Éowyn’s skull, rending flesh from bone and overwhelming her with pain unlike any she’d known before. She fell to her knees. Blood rose about her in a drowning tide, and even her own screams were distant and muffled.

The linens were soft beneath her fingers, fingers which scrabbled for purchase in the dark, short-cropped nails scraping and sliding hopelessly against the bed. She gasped hoarsely, desperate to fill her lungs with air, desperate to know that this had not become her tomb.

The bed was different to the one she had known for the previous twelve months; bigger, lighter, sturdier. Chest heaving, she fumbled blindly in the dark, searching the opposite side of the mattress. When she found it empty, her heart pounded faster, louder in her chest. In the distant marches of her mind, a wraith wailed in anger, furious its prey had escaped.

She opened her eyes and gave over control of her sight to the burgeoning sunlight shimmering through the far window. As her breathing began to steady and the beads of sweat that trickled down her back began to dry and grow cold, she remembered where she was.

Emyn Arnen. Home of the Prince and Lady of Ithilien. Her home, her chambers, rooms whose every detail she had pored over for months on joyous months. Nearly everything in the room had been selected by her, save for the tapestry that hung on the far wall, which Faramir had chosen. This was her domain, no harm would come to her here.

On shaking legs, she drew herself out of bed. The curtains that guarded the doors to the balcony were unsettled. Faramir, she realised, had gone to sit outside. And with that realisation swiftly came another, more worrying one.

They had spent the year after their wedding in the Mark, first at the Royal Lodge at Fenmarch, and later in the guest quarters at Meduseld. But neither place had been their home - their shared home - and they had thus been bound by other people’s rules. But this, this was their home, and they could live as they chose, and while that brought its own sense of freedom, it brought worry too. Éowyn had never known Faramir when he could live entirely at his own will. He knew her very soul, knew it as if he had known it her whole life, and she thought that she knew his, but she did not know his routines, his mannerisms, his wishes and preferences.

From the armchair beside the bed, she picked up a chemise (a rather presumptuous wedding gift from the Lady of Anfalas), and slipped into it. Absentmindedly, she scratched at her forearm, feeling the ridges where scars crossed to and fro upon her skin. She pulled the sleeve of her chemise down to no avail: the sheerness of the fabric could not obscure even the whitest of scars against her pale complexion. For a moment, she looked in anger at them, wondering how great the pain would be if she simply carved them away with a file.

The door handle was chill to the touch, and the door swung easily open, allowing a brisk breeze to whip around the room. It revealed also that she had been correct, Faramir had indeed withdrawn to the balcony despite the season and the frost that touched the surrounding land.

At once, Faramir stood. He had been seated on a low chair at the far end of the balcony, with only a blanket to cover him. “Éowyn,” he said, a little breathlessly. “You will catch cold - ”

“- I come from a colder land than you, my lord, I will weather it.”

For a moment, he looked as if he thought he should appear chastened, though could not quite manage it when his opinion was already so strongly set.

She cast her eyes around the balcony, the seat he had just been sitting in, and finally at him. “Is this,” she began, with a little scepticism, “a habit of yours?”

“It may become one,” he said with a hint of a smile. “I could not sleep.”

“Nor I. And I awoke and you were not there.”

“Forgive me,” he said, pulling the blanket from his shoulders and wrapping it around her. “I knew it would be a while yet before I had hope of returning to sleep or of beginning my day, and I did not wish to wake you prematurely.”

“And I wish that you would; you have made me give my word that I will not endeavour to face my night terrors alone, and I would have you give me the same promise.”

“Gladly,” he said, and returned to his seat. She slipped onto the chair next to his, her toes cold against the stone. “Except that it was not terrors that kept me from my sleep this night, but something rather more substantial.”

She looked at him curiously. She had learned, over what little time they had had together, that there was often a hazy, distant look in his eye when he discussed the war, or the fire, or his family. She saw no such look now; her shoulders relaxed.

“Minas -” She hesitated, then chose between two names - “Anor?”

He nodded, scratched at the angle of his jaw. They had not gone to the White City on their return from the Mark, but made directly for Emyn Arnen. Their return and her official arrival and entry into the realm of Gondor would come in a fortnight, once the requisite preparations had been made.

“It will not be - easy, I expect. When I departed, there was much unease; the return of a king is no simple thing, and amid so much turmoil… We were fortunate that the transition of power happened as swiftly as it did, with as little resistance as there was. But the path forward cannot always be a pleasant one, and I expect that there will now be greater dissension in the ranks.”

She took his hand, turning it over to trace the lines on his palm, the scars, the calluses, the freckle that sat beneath the gold band on his index finger. “Better dissension than silence.” She had suffered too much silence in her life, and it scared her more than any nonconformist personalities ever could.

“Perhaps,” he said. “If one is the king, and is not compelled to fashion the chorus of dissenting voices into something approximating a harmonious kingdom.”

“And that is to be your task?”

His ring finger twitched as she brushed her fingertip over it, featherlight. “Our task,” he said, and looked up at her with a smile, faint though it was.

“How very presumptuous,” she answered, though her heart swelled in delight. But the tension in his bearing had not lessened, and she ran her forefinger across the soft skin at his wrist. “From whence will it come hail, this inevitable discord?”

“Many places, if I know these realms well, and I think that I do. In the first, it will come as a question of territory, of the resources necessary for rebuilding, of populating the lands that were cleared.”

She frowned. “Ithilien?”

“In a manner of speaking. It is not, as a rule, common for so much land to have but one lord. It will be necessary to parcel it up, to bequeath it to those who merit it.”

“So you have said - the Rangers, those who were displaced when the Clearances began.”

He sighed, closing his fingers around hers. “I did say that, but those words now sound to me like the ramblings of a younger and infinitely more naive mind.”

Her laugh rang out clear, true, and not quiet, despite the hour. He looked - proud, as though making her laugh was an accomplishment of note. “You said that to me not three months ago! You have not changed so much in that time!”

“It may be that I have not, but the world has.” From the low table beside him, he retrieved a bundle of papers, then handed them to her.

She read. Though she had been tutored in the Tengwar in her youth, she was not overly familiar with its strange runes, and could only feel relief to see that the author had markedly larger script than Faramir’s.

For a while, he watched her as she read, but as the minutes passed, his gaze drifted elsewhere, and his brow furrowed. When she was done reading, she smoothed the pages down in her lap, savouring what little warmth they offered.

“The king commands you to give away your land to your father’s closest allies, to men who treated you with scarcely any respect, many of whom have plentiful lands of their own?”

“No,” he said calmly. “The king has asked me to, the final decision is ours.”

Ours. Despite her indignation, the word glimmered within her. Vanishingly little had ever belonged to her, even her own life had seldom truly been hers.

“Why do you delay? Should you not tell Elessar that you will not do it with time enough for him to implement another course of action?”

He looked at her, and at once she knew that he had no intention of denying the king. In an act of near-contrition, he held his hand out to her, pulling her down into his lap, twining his fingers through the ends of her hair.

“For nine hundred years my longfathers conducted themselves with nigh impeccable conduct. There was, some might argue, Pelendur’s error, though others might argue that has been suitably corrected. Nevertheless, my father’s conduct in his last hours fell regrettably short of the mark. It would be my preference that little record of those hours is kept, but I am not naive, and I am not unaware of the mechanics of the court, and so instead I must hope that what will inevitably be said about my father does not, at least where this matter is concerned, find itself reflected in my own conduct.”

She wished to laugh, to tell him that he surpassed his father’s conduct in every imaginable way, that only a fool might think otherwise. But the instinct was there, that instinct she had always known, to compensate and outperform, to outrun the darkness that lingered on the periphery, even when others could see only light. “I am not so certain that your only means of distancing yourself from your father’s - legacy is through this,” she said.

“That may be, but there are other things to be said for this proposal. The land nearest the Poros is wild land, it was abandoned decades before the more northerly lands of Ithilien were forsaken, and it is long since it has been properly tended to. In energy and resources, it will be costly to reclaim, and though I am not - especially - troubled by our expenses, it would not be my greatest concern. Were it gifted to other men, men who are not varyingly concerned with the well-being of all of Gondor and all of Ithilien, well, perhaps then it might be seen to with greater haste.”

“How much of the south?”

“Twenty leagues north from the banks of the Poros.” He shifted, putting most of her weight on one arm so that he could pull a small military map onto his knees. “The bulk of the frontier marches.”

It was not an immense tract of land, barely visible on the map; but Éowyn nonetheless frowned - it was land that was, by right, Faramir’s, land that he had defended when the eyes of the world turned elsewhere, land that ought to go to those men who had stood alongside him in that endeavour.

He laughed, quietly, breathily. “I am truly sorry, I should not have said anything on the matter.” He placed his thumb against the furrow in her brow, massaging it away. “Now you will be as conflicted as I, and we neither of us will find any more rest before the day begins.”

She wriggled in his lap, bringing her face closer to his eye level so that she could pepper a few chaste kisses to his jaw. “You are wise, lord, and know well the hearts and minds of others.” She took his hand, laying it against the inside of her thigh. “Perhaps you might think of a preferable means of whiling away that time.”

She chanced a look at his face, and saw that the light grey of his eyes had been crowded out by heady black, and his breathing grew more forced. When his voice came, it came as a deep rumble in his chest. “As my lady wishes.”

•

Faramir had listed the most prominent lords and ladies of the court for her, and had given her his assessments of their characters - there were a great many more now resident in Minas Anor than there had been in the immediate aftermath of the war, and she would soon need to know them all. Yet despite her forewarning, she was overawed by the sheer number of people that comprised the court of Elessar, and amazed further still by how many were fascinated by her.

She knew, of course, that her story was one told widely. But she knew it mostly in a distant way, for her story was, necessarily, her own, and while she could acknowledge that it fulfilled the requirements of a legendary story, she could not remove herself from it. There was great excitement for many in meeting the Lady of the Shield-arm, and perhaps she might have been excited too, were she in their position; but she was not, and she knew that after the shattering of her shield arm by the Lord of the Nazgûl came blinding pain, desolation beyond words, and a journey into pits of despair so deep that only repeated acts of preternatural strength had recovered her from them.

“But you were so bold in your actions,” said Lady Berúthiel - Lady of Anórien (a title that, while technically landed, was more a matter of ancient prestige than anything else), wife to the Lord Astron and mother to a daughter who was not yet wedded. “You will continue them, will you not?”

Éowyn blanched. She had little desire to wield a sword ever again. “My greatest wish is to see Ithilien restored to its rightful glory,” she said. “And in that, I will endeavour to help the prince where I might.”

“Oh, but you will not hinder your wife, will you, Prince Faramir? Is she not best suited to the ways of a warrior?”

Faramir, who had given up on feigning interest in the conversation a quarter of an hour previously, looked over at Lady Berúthiel for a brutal fraction of a second. “She is best suited to whatever she wishes to do,” he said mildly, drinking slowly from his cup and casting his gaze out towards the far end of the hall. Beneath the table, Éowyn squeezed his thigh in thanks.

“There,” said Berúthiel, returning her attention to Éowyn. “Your liberty made manifest - you will not be bound by your lord husband’s errantry.”

Frustrated but not shocked by her wilful dismissal of what Faramir had actually said, Éowyn grew only more frustrated when the Lady Goladiel, the daughter of the Lord of Anfalas, cut in next. “Yes, how good! You can continue along the path of your destiny unabated - it will be a very welcome sight indeed to see a lady of such nobility conduct herself with distinction in the arts of war.”

Éowyn squirmed. She had not wished to hear it put so plainly as that. She was not ignorant to why the ladies of the court took so keen an interest in her - though its potency was the lesser in Gondor, the belief that a worthwhile life came only through the execution of great martial acts was as pervasive in Minas Anor as in Edoras. And with ladies of noble birth excluded from any occupation that might allow them to have such vaunted victories, Éowyn was a titillating anomaly, proof that, elusive though it may be, a warriors’ eternal recognition might yet be an afterlife for woman. But these women, for the same exclusion that so thwarted them, did not know the truth of war, could not see that it brought no personal freedom that was not tainted by blood and the spectre of death. She had won her warriors’ name, but its cost had been great and terrible.

“And what of your manor?” Goladiel was unbothered by Éowyn’s comparative silence. “Is there much to be done to complete it?”

“My dear, you speak as if you desire to overwhelm the prince and deprive Gondor of her steward. Must you add trivial furnishings to the reunion of the Kingdoms, securing peace or conquest with our turbulent southerly and easterly neighbours, scouring Minas Ithil, rebuilding Minas Tir-Anor, and the roads and bridges and byways of our kingdom?” Lord Golasgil spoke to his daughter with kindness, but struck potent fear into Éowyn’s heart.

“You forget that he is obliged also to spend all his time and more with his new wife, lest tales of his gallantry fall out of fashion with Gondor’s storytellers!” Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth, who had until that moment been heaping heartwarming attention on the elderly and recently-widowed Lady of Halach, shot a coy smile at his nephew.

Faramir canted his head in wry acknowledgement of Imrahil’s deflection. “Would that they spoke of my lady’s gallantry instead, or not at all, except in order to promote the progress of the kingdom.”

“Ah! But you speak as the husband of Lady Éowyn, and we are not all so blessed and must subside on table scraps meted out by those storytellers.” He winked at Éowyn, who smiled warmly in return. “But I too am curious…” The lords and ladies gathered around the table were happy to follow the prince down the path of his winding questions, and happier still to see Éowyn and Faramir each play their parts dutifully.

It was an odd joy that Éowyn felt, to still be consigned to a duty that was not wholly what she desired to do and yet to feel neither bitterness nor resentment for it. Her laughter, when it came, was not stifled or false, and the warmth of her husband’s body inches from her own brought comfort she had not expected to know. If she were able to be among her burgeoning gardens in Emyn Arnen, she would have been happier, but it did not follow that she was unhappy here, and that knowledge - that neither path before her was a sorrowful one, was a blessing.

She cast her eyes up at Faramir. He caught her gaze, and though the hall was filled with the many lords and ladies of the land, and though the lights were bright, the conversations loud, and the expectations resting upon their shoulders great, she smiled a golden smile, and it was a moment that was entirely their own.

Through the laughter that surrounded him, Imrahil leaned back comfortably in his chair, another story fresh on his lips. It was not to be: the Lady Berúthiel leapt forth into the silence with a panther’s grace (and a similar degree of welcome in the feasting hall of Merethrond).

“You tease us, lords. What has been decided of our lost lands to the south? Surely men of your stature must know what the king intends to do - if he is to reclaim what is ours?”

“An interesting choice of words, my lady,” said Imrahil, with a particularly conspicuous glance to the left of Faramir, where Elessar spoke with reserved affability to Astron, Lord of Anórien. “And you are very courageous to broach such conversations - far more courageous than I, who would not wish to offend any of Gondor’s most loyal sons, wherever their counsel lies on this question.”

“I would have thought those debates answered in light of the southerners’ alliance with our Enemy,” Berúthiel said, and did not quail as the other ladies seated around her did.

Faramir set his bread back upon his plate, adjusting it to align near-perfectly with the edge of the ceramic detailing. “The settling of the Haradi coasts by the sons of Númenor was not destined to be an evil—yet was it not thence that Númenor’s fall came? Was not the capture of the Enemy by the usurper Pharazôn made in the haven of Umbar? And were not the sons of Númenor who lingered in Harad after the foundering of that great isle the very same sons who would later come to most viciously oppose Gondor herself?” Éowyn lowered her eyes to her lap, and stifled a smile that would do neither of them any good. Faramir continued: “Is it not true that all prior attempts to interfere in the southern lands have led not to a neutralisation of our foes, but a weakening of our own moral core? Does it not then follow than any further interventions would be to our own detriment?”

While the others in the conversation silently claimed time to think upon Faramir’s words, Berúthiel did not. “You speak with reason - or, at least, not without it - and I could scarcely challenge your mastery of our lore, lord. But I say this: is it not also true that all prior attempts to vanquish our Enemy ended in failure? And yet here we sit today, our Enemy vanquished.”

“Indeed,” said Faramir. “Though we cannot impose on Halflings to solve all our problems.”

Éowyn, forgetting herself entirely, laughed.

Later, after the pleasantries were thoroughly and rigorously dispensed with, after the servants were dismissed from the residential quarters of the Palace of the Stewards, and after all but a single light was snuffed out, Éowyn forgot herself again.

“No, Faramir, the left.” A peal of unconstrained laughter. “Push - yes, perfect.”

With a boyish grin: “Quiet, you will wake half the city.”

“I ought to - to alert the good people of Gondor to your competence.” A gasp. “Or lack thereof - oh, hand it here.”

The rear lacing of her undergown thus returned to her, Éowyn, with a smile yet upon her face, turned from her husband, fingers near-deftly loosening the remaining ties.

Beyond the chill-touched glass of the window, Minas Anor gave itself over to its exhaustion, lights dimming and flickering out of existence through each and every circle. Even Osgiliath, whose furnaces and forges glowed often through the night, seemed to yawn and relax into itself beneath the safety of its blanket of darkness.

As she looked, she felt Faramir approach behind her, a gentle kiss placed against her temple. She smiled, but pushed his hands away as she continued to untie.

As far away as where she knew Emyn Arnen to lay, small twinkling lights defined the rolling hills. She counted them, committed them to heart, wondered which - if any - were of their manor. Doubtless she would come to know this view and its opposite in time, but it did not dampen her desire to know it all now.

Faramir, undaunted by the weightiness of her meditation, tracked hot, insistent kisses down the line of her neck. She chided him, but she could not put force behind it: she moved her fingers faster against the laces.

The lights numbered fewer and fewer in Minas Anor. Soon, all would be dark (or near enough), the greatest city of Men lulled into a peaceful, sorely deserved rest.

Across many leagues, deep into the horizon’s darkened forest, beyond even the would-be lights of Emyn Arnen, fire erupted.

It launched upwards, a lance to obliterate the watchful dark. From the wretched halls of Minas Morgul to the hallowed few of Minas Anor, red light ran roughshod upon all who might defy it.

The light shuddered, and dimmed, and grew brighter. All at once it extinguished itself. It was as if there were no light or sound left in all of Middle-earth.

Alone in the dark, Faramir dressed once more. For Ithilien’s prince, rest would come another day.

#e writes #the voice here is…not the greatest #but I’m stretching my legs. things are gonna be rusty for a bit

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