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philtstone · 1 year ago

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Frodo (or your chosen Blorbo from the Shire), 4

i cant actually remember which prompt list this was from so i am splicing together the taylor swift prompts "a secret language" and "caressing the other's hand" and humbly offering you an unedited This. also i MIGHT be playing fast and loose with canon but i swear i read somewhere that aragorn asked the besties to sleep over at his place (stay at the palace) for an extra month bc he wanted them to be there for his wedding. if it isnt canon it is now .. in my heart

In the streets of Minas Tirith there is joy today.

Frodo notes this absently, from a short distance, as he seems to feel everything these days. Actually, he ought to correct himself: not everything. He feels some things quite closely. He feels desperately homesick for Bilbo's pipeweed in a way that sits heavily in his heart. He feels like every new day he cannot imagine taking even one more step forward -- even just to get from gardens to the kitchen to greet Sam -- despite the fact that he always manages. And he feels that quiet lancing pain of distance between his self and everything else, like a darning needle going through an old wool sock you just don't want to give up on yet -- quite closely.

None of these feelings are truly capable of ruining the pleasantness of his stroll through the marketplace, so Frodo doesn't think it's much use to dwell on them. The sun is shining, making the weather a balmy warm and bringing out the green of new little saplings against the white stones. And even though on many another day, the bubbling chatter would be a tad too much for his tired spirit to handle, today it is making it easier to take those steps forward.

"I'm grateful for the leisurely pace you've set, dear Frodo," says the musical presence at his side, as if she has read his mind. Frodo can't remember if that's something she can properly do, but doesn't think it appropriate to ask. "I do not think I have the will to hasten through such a day as this."

Her eyes are glimmering with a gentle mirth. Frodo's come to realize, in the weeks he has spent recovering and observing his old companions outside of imminent crisis, that a favourite pastime of Lady Arwen Undomiel is teasing the newly-crowned King of Gondor.

"It's not Aragorn's fault he's got such long legs," Frodo observes. A good tease has got to be honoured, hasn't it? Arwen's responding smile is small but brilliant. Her eyes dance like daffodils in spring. They watch as their unwitting victim moves effortlessly through the crowd several -- admittedly long -- strides ahead of them, conversing animatedly with the sellers, the shoppers, their families, the children, and every so often, a horse or two. Aragorn seems to know everyone already (he's barely been king for three weeks) but that was true from the first night Frodo met him. Sam calls it a stoutly developed sense of sociability, which makes him sound like his Gaffer and Bilbo all at once, but Frodo is not sure it is all so simple.

Aragorn is now listening very intently as a cabbage seller gesticulates regarding the specifics of his innovative new watering technique.

"Do Men always take the details of cabbage-growing so seriously?" Arwen asks Frodo. She leans sideways towards him -- elegantly -- that the tactful whisper might be better heard. Frodo's not sure; he hasn't actually known that many men.

"He does seem to be selling very large cabbages," Frodo says.

A sudden, exhausting melancholy grips him. It is not precisely because of the cabbage, but not unrelated to it either. Arwen has paused to study the daisies being sold by a Gondorian girl and her mother, and so to distract himself, Frodo looks over at the nearest stall. It occurs to him that cousin Lobellia would have been awfully covetous of the coloured glass wind-chimes they have on display. They've got silver along the rims. Strange, how even now, a lifetime later it seems, Frodo is capable of suddenly remembering Bilbo's silverware related woes.

"They are very beautiful," comes Arwen's sweet, sincere voice. Frodo turns; her arms are full of the flowers, and she is moving with beaming interest towards the wind chimes. Behind her the girl's mother looks a bit dazed, while the little girl herself looks transfixed. Everything the elf says is always brimming over with an effortless sincerity, but in these resolutely human streets it becomes all the more apparent. Frodo wonders if Arwen doesn’t feel slightly out of place. "Oh -- we must put some in the courtyard garden. Dear Frodo, do you think Sam will like them? Four, please."

Unlike Aragorn, Arwen doesn't ask after families or host serious discussions about irrigation systems. She carries all of this interest and care and understanding completely unspoken in her presence alone, and when subject to it directly can be somewhat overwhelming to the uninitiated. Frodo knows this from experience. At any rate, they are leaving a series of increasingly overcome Gondorians in their wake. He wonders if she will learn or change, with time, or if there will always be that intensity and strangeness, untempered.

“Sam would suggest we make tea out of these,” says Frodo, without thinking, when Arwen hands Frodo two daisies and a wind chime to carry. The ends of her raven hair float in the breeze behind them. She’s walking very slowly, so Frodo doesn’t have any trouble keeping up, but he still looks up at her to speak. “Have you had daisy tea before, Lady Arwen?”

“Hmmm,” says Arwen cryptically. “I think I will be trying many new things, these coming weeks.”

“I don’t know if I want to try new things anymore,” Frodo says quietly, without thinking. Beside him, Arwen pauses. The hem of her soft green skirts swirl at her feet as she turns to face him.

“Oh, Frodo,” she says. The simple words carry very many great and deep and feeling things, as is always the way with Arwen.

Frodo traces a finger over the colourful glass petals of the chime. They have arrived at a less busy patch of the cobbled alley, past the florist and trinket seller. “I think I must be homesick,” is what he decides to say.

Gently, Arwen takes his hand in hers. “Would you like to return home?” she asks. To the Shire. Sam certainly would not be opposed. Merry and Pippin, perhaps with less urgency, but they all seem to be waiting on Frodo to be recovered …

It shouldn’t be a very complicated answer. Worrying his bottom lip beneath one tooth, he looks up and over, back into the market: Aragorn is kneeling to better scratch a grinning hound under its chin, all while looking up to better ask the old woman manning its stall about her youngest grandchild.

“Don’t you feel strange, being so far from home?” he asks. Frodo feels his face grow hot. “Well … I mean, I know it is different.”

“The concept of return is not materially the same for me,” Arwen agrees, gently, with a tilt to her head. “But even so. I have chosen to stay here for a long long while, Frodo; you have no such dreams.”

Frodo’s dreams are altogether unpleasant these days, but he feels his brow quirk at the first thing. “You’ll be staying?” he asks, more curious than anything.

“Well,” says Arwen, in a secretive way that he finds terribly comforting – just as her friendship was so terribly comforting that first week, so many months ago – “I believe I am getting married sometime soon. So I must be here to attend my wedding, you see, as I’ve much desired it for many years.”

Oh. Well, that is obvious, isn’t it – now that she’s said it all out. Frodo feels a little bit silly for not guessing.

“It’s alright,” Arwen reassures him. “It is technically yet unplanned.”

“Is that why Aragorn asked us all to stay at the palace another month?” says Frodo, still watching the King. As if noticing eyes on him, Aragorn looks towards them, one hand occupied in caressing the soft crown of a child’s curly head. His brows furrow in askance even as his mouth grows into a wide, decidedly un-Kingly grin. He’d been sincere in his offer, Frodo remembers. Merry and Pippin claimed they were staying because of their wise contributions to the building of a nation, and Frodo hadn’t quite believed that part, but certainly, Gimli and Legolas had no need for a period of convalescence. The thought makes him tired again, but it cannot get too bad, because Arwen is looking over with him, and with another of those secretive smiles says,

“I think he is taking great comfort in the company of his friends.”

This time the tease is barely present. Arwen speaks with a quiet, sincere fondness that carries no little amount of tender ache. Oh. Frodo swallows. One’s friends – friends, something deeper than those one is friendly with – it is true, that they bring comfort. So much. He is not sure … well, he cannot have ever …

Abruptly, the daisies and glass feel heavy like granite in his arms. He struggles to put them down; Arwen, gracefully, notices and helps him. By the time they are done she is properly kneeling, the way Aragorn had been, just in front of him.

“Frodo,” she says, softly. It is strange to think of her as the Queen of the realm. It is stranger still to think of Aragorn as the King, despite his easy manner in the market and obvious qualities; the last time Frodo saw him before they were separated, he was covered in dirt and had slept in the same shirt for three nights in a row. Arwen, on the other hand – he maintains that it has been true from the moment he met her: Arwen glows. Literally sometimes. Less now that she is mortal, and on a sunny day like this one it's a little hard to see, but it still lingers around her like a stubborn gauzy cloak.

"My Lady," he says suddenly, before he can stop himself, "is it very hard? Being different from your old self, now, I mean."

The birds twitter; the marketplace bustles; life moves forward on this joyful day in Minas Tirith. Arwen’s hands, wrapped still around his, are cool in a way that is soothing the distance in his heart.

“We are never given burdens we do not have the strength to carry,” Arwen says, with all of her sincerity.

For the first time in some weeks, Frodo feels the words absorb into him, and lay a gentle blanket on the horrible well of darkness that lingers.

“I’d be honoured to attend your wedding,” he says.

Arwen smiles, as brilliant and gentle as the sun. It is only a few short moments that they are joined by a loping gait, and Aragorn is bending over to help Arwen to her feet and ensure Frodo is not too tired to continue.

“You are both well?” he asks, about four additional questions lingering in the back of the look he gives Arwen, but she only nods, and touches his wrist in a soft caress.

“Quite well, my love. We were discussing your very long legs.”

“And you have told me many a time your fondness –” Aragorn catches himself just in time, which does not do much to make up for the depth of suggestion in his low, affectionate voice just a moment before. “I – ahem. Well, Frodo … I know you are not very fond of dogs, but Lady Dolmoron has a brood of kittens; I thought surely, they would appeal to your gentle sensibilities. And Master Kerrell’s stall just over there offers a delicious smoked eel stew.”

“You know,” Frodo says, “I am sure you’re right, Aragorn. Lunch sounds wonderful. And let us go visit the kittens. I’ll have to tell Sam – he’ll be sure to want to name one.”

It does not become easier, but gentler, somehow. There is a comfort in the presence of friends.

#IS THIS SOMETHING???#ive had this idea and this prompt sitting in my head and heart for months. LITERALLY months. indeed almost a YEAR #and i finally had a brainwave for it tonight #my writing #taylor swift prompt meme #lord of the rings #frodo baggins #arwen undomiel #aragorn #arwen x aragorn #frodo & arwen are friends in my head. and also in canon actually. its all right there for those w the Sight #return of the king

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