for reignfall
Sep. 11th, 2021 03:26 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
nearamirHe has been, for the most part, content. This comes as a surprise to him; for he had not known that he could overcome his grief in this way, or that so soon after the war, happiness could come upon him at all. But although his sorrow has not entirely left him, and although his nights are still troubled by dark and uneasy dreams of flame and shadow; despite all of this, there is a level of peace. He has his duty, and he has his comforts, and he has his bride.
She has become dear to him very quickly. She seems to him the most breathtakingly beautiful woman he has ever seen, and there is in her a life and a ferocious light that does not die; she is voracious, and energetic, and she is all that he is not. And if she is not perfect - if she is at times demanding, jealous, or arrogant; if she is unused to the customs of Gondor and can fit poorly at times into its court; if her temper can burn too hot and her forgiveness come slow - still she is his, and he is hers, and that is enough. It is a life, where he had not thought one could be. It is a love, where he had thought there was only death and desolation. It is enough.
But still, it does not overcome his duty, and in those long months after their wedding, his duties are many. Some do not take him from her side for long - the rebuilding of Emyn Arnen, where their new home already stands, or the work of the King's court, for she can easily travel with him to Minas Tirith, and perhaps is more comfortable in the grander halls of the capital than in the still-wild surrounds of Ithilien - but he cannot always linger at her side. There is work to be done that is not fit for such a lady; the brutal work of sword and bow, of rough sleeping on stony ground, and reclaiming what the Shadow has touched. The Morgul Vale is still infested with creatures of the Shadow, and he cannot linger with Cersei always, and let other men fight battles in his name.
So he explains to her, then; and so he kisses her and bids her to be not sad in his absence; and so he rides out to the jagged claws of the mountains that border their lands, clad once again in the green and brown of a Ranger, his sword at his hip and his bow at his side. Two months he is gone, and the fighting is fierce, and he does not shrink from it, but he longs for its end.
It is autumn when the Vale is cleared to his satisfaction, and he rides back to Emyn Arnen with joy in his heart, weary and with fresh scars to show for his excursion, but grateful to return. The woods and the mountains are lovely, but lovelier still is it to know he is awaited, to know that he has someone to return to. He is sure (for he has grown to know her, by now) that she will shun him a little while, that she will be coldly angry at his prolonged absence; but he is sure, too, that she will warm again, and turn to him, and be glad at his safe return.
He is disappointed, then, to find she is away - out riding, he is told, and soon to return - but he cannot be too troubled by it. His return was not heralded, and if it had been, he might have beaten the messenger back, for how eagerly he had spurred his horse to gallop. Perhaps this is better, in any case, he decides. He will bathe, and change, and quench his thirst and hunger; and he will see to whatever concerns Hatholdir to make him so hesitant in greeting his lord; and then he may come to her in better condition, and give her all his time for a pace.
It does not come to pass that way. He awaits her in their chambers when she returns, but he is still in travel-worn leather and stained green cloth, still with the dust of the road on him. He stands at the window, a cup of wine in his hand, untouched; cast in the September light, his face is grimly set. He does not turn as she enters, but his jaw tightens, just a little, beneath the shadow of his hair.
"Close the door." His voice is quiet, but not soft. There is an edge behind it, that brooks no disobedience nor hesitation.
She has become dear to him very quickly. She seems to him the most breathtakingly beautiful woman he has ever seen, and there is in her a life and a ferocious light that does not die; she is voracious, and energetic, and she is all that he is not. And if she is not perfect - if she is at times demanding, jealous, or arrogant; if she is unused to the customs of Gondor and can fit poorly at times into its court; if her temper can burn too hot and her forgiveness come slow - still she is his, and he is hers, and that is enough. It is a life, where he had not thought one could be. It is a love, where he had thought there was only death and desolation. It is enough.
But still, it does not overcome his duty, and in those long months after their wedding, his duties are many. Some do not take him from her side for long - the rebuilding of Emyn Arnen, where their new home already stands, or the work of the King's court, for she can easily travel with him to Minas Tirith, and perhaps is more comfortable in the grander halls of the capital than in the still-wild surrounds of Ithilien - but he cannot always linger at her side. There is work to be done that is not fit for such a lady; the brutal work of sword and bow, of rough sleeping on stony ground, and reclaiming what the Shadow has touched. The Morgul Vale is still infested with creatures of the Shadow, and he cannot linger with Cersei always, and let other men fight battles in his name.
So he explains to her, then; and so he kisses her and bids her to be not sad in his absence; and so he rides out to the jagged claws of the mountains that border their lands, clad once again in the green and brown of a Ranger, his sword at his hip and his bow at his side. Two months he is gone, and the fighting is fierce, and he does not shrink from it, but he longs for its end.
It is autumn when the Vale is cleared to his satisfaction, and he rides back to Emyn Arnen with joy in his heart, weary and with fresh scars to show for his excursion, but grateful to return. The woods and the mountains are lovely, but lovelier still is it to know he is awaited, to know that he has someone to return to. He is sure (for he has grown to know her, by now) that she will shun him a little while, that she will be coldly angry at his prolonged absence; but he is sure, too, that she will warm again, and turn to him, and be glad at his safe return.
He is disappointed, then, to find she is away - out riding, he is told, and soon to return - but he cannot be too troubled by it. His return was not heralded, and if it had been, he might have beaten the messenger back, for how eagerly he had spurred his horse to gallop. Perhaps this is better, in any case, he decides. He will bathe, and change, and quench his thirst and hunger; and he will see to whatever concerns Hatholdir to make him so hesitant in greeting his lord; and then he may come to her in better condition, and give her all his time for a pace.
It does not come to pass that way. He awaits her in their chambers when she returns, but he is still in travel-worn leather and stained green cloth, still with the dust of the road on him. He stands at the window, a cup of wine in his hand, untouched; cast in the September light, his face is grimly set. He does not turn as she enters, but his jaw tightens, just a little, beneath the shadow of his hair.
"Close the door." His voice is quiet, but not soft. There is an edge behind it, that brooks no disobedience nor hesitation.
