evocates: (Real: Viggo - With one glance)
• just another dreamer • ([personal profile] evocates) wrote2013-10-06 07:40 pm

[FIC] Lord of the Rings: The Captain and the Queen [6/6]

I know I was supposed to post this in the morning, but I just got home. Sorry for the lateness!

The Captain and the Queen [6/6]

Characters/Pairing: Gradually-building Boromir/Arwen; established Aragorn/Arwen and Aragorn/Boromir; leading up to Aragorn/Boromir/Arwen. Also featuring: Faramir and a literal village full of OCs.
Rating: NC-17 in this part
Words: ~5800 in this part, ~32,800 in total
Disclaimer: All recognisable characters belong to the Tolkien estate. I’m just playing with them.
Summary: Three years after she was crowned the Queen of Gondor, Arwen finds Boromir in a small village near the Stone of Erech. Finding him seems easy when compared to her new Quest of bringing the Son of Gondor back home. Sort of fulfils this Arwen/Aragorn/Boromir prompt on [livejournal.com profile] hobbit_kink.
Notes: Subtitled “An Exploration of the Problems of a Postwar Gondor”. This is the last part; I’m done posting.
Warnings: Threesome sex in this part, still Arwen-centric.

Part V

Part VI

“He intends to leave for the Undying Lands,” said Boromir.

He sat in the sitting room of the Queen’s Bower. Outside, beyond the heavy curtains, the spring rains broke the silence of the Citadel. The winter snows had all but melted, and the New Year had come but days ago, heralded by fresh new shoots and buds peeping through the wet, muddied ground.

And Boromir of Gondor had come home.

“This I have suspected,” murmured Aragorn. “His wound from the Witch-king has never fully healed.”

“Aye,” agreed Boromir. “They haunt him still.” He hesitated, and continued, “The Ring does as well, though he tells me that he finds great comfort amongst friends and neighbours, and in the peace of the Shire.”

“Perhaps he will take my place upon the White Ships after all,” said Arwen, looking down at the embroidery which she had used to busy her hands with. “My father and grandmother will seek refuge in the West soon.”

Both Men’s eyes turned towards her. Aragorn’s gaze was darkened, turning haunted, and she shook her head. She would not reassure him that she did not regret her choice in the least – he should know it already.

Instead, she placed aside cloth, needle and thread, standing and walking over to the windowsill where Boromir had seated himself. Reaching out, her fingers caressed his cheek gently, rubbing her thumb over the edge of his jaw.

“What of you, Boromir of Gondor?” she asked. Aragorn’s eyes were like fire on her skin. “Have you found your peace in the Shire as well?”

Boromir shuddered, tilting his head towards her touch. “Aye, my lady.” His breath trembled against her hand. “There is peace within my heart, but for…”

His eyes were hidden beneath heavy lids, but Arwen knew the words he could not voice by the way he leaned towards her, as if trying to urge her touch to enfold his entire body. She found herself dizzied, all of a sudden, as he licked his lips.

Aragorn came forward, his footsteps Elven-silent upon the carpeted ground. He took Boromir’s hands into his own, pressing soft kisses upon the knuckles, one by one. Arwen’s breath caught in her throat when she saw the gazes exchanged between the two men, hotter than any flames.

“My lord,” Boromir whispered. “You have held my heart since Amon Hen.” He looked up at the both of them, smiling. “Though ‘tis a poor thing, and one you have to share with-”

Arwen caught his lips, swallowing his words before he could voice them.

The King and Queen drew their Captain-General to his feet together, skin touching skin, Boromir like a conduit between them as they led him to the royal bedchambers, a hallway down from the Queen’s Bower. The night was full-dark and the Citadel Guards had been long dismissed, but it was Aragorn’s hand on the small of Boromir’s back that steadied his feet.

So Aragorn took the lead and Arwen followed, turning around to place the heavy bolt upon the door of the bedroom once they had all stumbled within. She watched through the veil of her hair the way her husband and his Captain looked at each other, and smiled before she padded to the corner of the bedroom, folding herself into the plush armchair.

She had asked Aragorn if he wanted to have his first time with Boromir alone. He had loved him first, and she had so much time with Boromir that he did not – yet Aragorn refused, looking at her with earnest eyes, telling her that he wished for her to be there. Arwen wondered how her King looked upon the two of them, and she thought perhaps they were like a mountain: the two Men holding the base, joined together, while they held her up in a pedestal at the very summit.

It took her some effort to calm down, to still her hands and feet so she would not reach out for them. She released all thoughts of herself and her own pleasure – there would be time aplenty for such things soon – for her King and his Captain deserved this time to themselves despite all of Aragorn’s politeness.

Leaning back against the soft cushions of the chair, Arwen crossed her legs as she watched Aragorn draw Boromir gently, slowly into a kiss. Boromir’s eyes darted towards her, but she did not meet his gaze, and eventually he sighed, leaning into Aragorn. His hand was golden against Aragorn’s neck, darker than the King’s skin for Boromir had spent long years working the fields while Aragorn had been cooped up in sheltered rooms for the sake of his duties.

The beauty of their movements was undeniable: the arch of Boromir’s throat as Aragorn’s teeth moved down the strong column, making dark marks that would be barely covered by his clothing; the trembling of his fingers as he reached out to his King, clasping onto a hip before dragging him onto the bed; the smiles they exchanged as they landed, their breaths already short, panting against each other as they kissed again, sliding their mouths against each other.

Arwen watched as they undressed, seeming to have completely forgotten her presence. They touched each other reverently, so gently that she thought that they were afraid that the other would disappear like mist if they pressed too hard. Boromir sighed softly as Aragorn drew his tunic and undershirt over his head, and Aragorn bit down on a shoulder as he unlaced Boromir’s breeches, pulling back and tossing the worn leather over the side of the bed. His teeth caught onto the knot of Boromir’s smallclothes, tugging them loose and sliding the pale white cotton across Boromir’s thighs before he pushed them away.

For the first time, Boromir was bared to her eyes, and Arwen trembled at the way her own blood heated. Elves took a far longer time to reach their peak, but Arwen had waited for long seasons, and now she found herself impatient. Yet she could still find some control over herself, taking a long shuddering breath as Boromir tossed his head back, scattering strands of gold all over his face.

Her fingers twitched on the arm of the chair, wanting so terribly to reach out, to walk over to brush his hair away so she could look into his eyes as the darkness of arousal took him.

Boromir’s hands were unsteady as he tugged at Aragorn’s clothes, and Aragorn laughed. He leaned into Boromir, letting his Captain pull loose the laces of his cotton shirt and tug it over his head. Despite the days Aragorn had spent behind his desk, despite the long decades that Arwen had known him, the sight of his lean muscles with his steady heart beating beneath his ribs still took her breath away.

Aragorn’s breeches and smallclothes met the same fate as Boromir’s, fallen over the side of the bed, forgotten. On the chair, away from them, Arwen’s fingers tripped over each other as she unbuttoned her light spring dress, letting it pool at her hips.

Biting her lip, she watched Aragorn kiss the pink, puckered scars on Boromir’s shoulder, chest and side – surely the marks of the orc arrows that had miraculously not taken his life. Her fingers twined together, clenching hard enough for the whites of the bone to show as Aragorn pressed Boromir down onto the bed with a force he never seemed to dare to use with her, holding his Captain still as he took him between his lips.

She gasped as Boromir’s head turn, catching and holding her gaze as he arched up towards the heat of Aragorn’s mouth. He breathed her name as his hand slid into Aragorn’s hair, and her King smiled, his gaze flickering towards her as he gave his Captain pleasure.

It was more difficult than Arwen had ever thought to stay where she was, to keep the promise to herself to not interfere – not just yet. She crossed her legs even tighter, feeling her thighs tremble slightly as Aragorn’s fingers dug in tight onto Boromir’s calves, nails creating little red moons on the skin.

She found herself stumbling forward, standing like a newborn foal, nearly tripping over her dress as it fell to the ground. Walking over to the nightstand, she took out the small vial of oil, pressing it into Aragorn’s hand. As she turned to leave, Boromir’s hand caught her wrist, and her breath hitched as she turned around.

“My Queen,” whispered Boromir, his gaze holding hers, scorching hotter than the fires of Mount Doom. Slowly, he brought her fingers into her mouth, his teeth scraping against the tips, the sides, tongue teasing the thin skin in between until Arwen shivered hard, barely recognising her voice as she let out the tiniest of whimpers.

Elbereth, but he was beautiful, and she knew she would never regret sundering herself from her kin, for this was what she had gained in return.


The sound of her name, turned into an obscene prayer by her Captain’s tongue, broke Arwen’s control entirely.

She leaned forward, brushing his hair away from his eyes and took his mouth. A callused hand caught her still-clothed hip – Aragorn – and she fell forward, her knees sinking into the bedsheets as she darted her tongue between Boromir’s teeth, swallowing his quiet moan, feeling the staccato beat of his heart as he arched upwards – towards her, towards their King. Her fingers curled around Aragorn’s, blindly kissing the tips, and she tore her eyes from Boromir’s. She watched, dizzied, as Aragorn’s fingers sank into their Captain’s body; watched as Boromir jerked, and swallowed the hiss of breath that escaped his lips.

Arwen shifted, moving until her back was against the headboard. Aragorn smiled at her from beneath hooded lashes, and she understood him in the language of long-time lovers. They moved Boromir together: drawing him upwards into her arms as Aragorn pushed himself forward, kissing him as his fingers pushed even deeper inside. Boromir moaned, his lips wet and swollen, irresistible, and Arwen swallowed every sound, her fingers moving downwards to curl around his length, still wet from Aragorn’s mouth.

They bracketed him like this, teasing pleasure from every inch of his body but still careful to not overwhelm. Boromir’s head rested on her shoulder, his mouth brushing over her jaw, her neck, her chin, refusing to break contact as if he could lure her very essence out from his skin. Arwen shivered, pressing her breasts against his back, feeling her silk shift slide over her nipples, and she hid her moan between his lips.

There had not been barely a single word spoken between them since they stepped into the bedroom, but Arwen knew they spoke a more intimate language: that of bodies, of pleasure. Boromir trembled in her arms, gasping like a man drowning, and Arwen smiled against his temple as she dipped her thumb into his slit, circling the head of his length with her fingers. Out of the corner of her eyes, she watched as Aragorn pushed three fingers inside their Captain, and her nail moved down slowly, then upwards.

And Boromir came apart in their arms.

He shivered hard, his body sinking into hers, and Arwen reached out. Aragorn took her wrist with both of his hands, his rough tongue cleaning her fingers of Boromir’s essence. There was so much heat in his eyes that Arwen thought her nerves had become liquid fire, and she gasped, her hips pushing upwards, pressing against Boromir’s back. Aragorn laughed, and he leaned in to kiss her over Boromir’s shoulder, and the salt-sweetness on his tongue was a new taste that Arwen had never experienced until now.

Change and newness: she would give up the stagnant peace of Valinor over and over for this every time.

Her head thudded against the headboard as she tried to breathe. Her shift stuck to her body now, soaked with sweat, and she watched with heavy-lidded eyes as Aragorn shifted down to kiss Boromir again. Boromir made a soft, surprised sound, his hand catching the ends of Aragorn’s hair, tugging and tugging.

Her men rose at the same moment, reaching towards her with scrambling, needful hands. Arwen laughed breathlessly and went to them, lifting her arms to allow them to pull her shift over her head. Boromir’s fingers were rough on her skin, tremulous as they traced the curve of her breast and the inward dip of her waist. Arwen knew she must be a strange sight to him – Elf-smooth, without a single scar – but he pressed a kiss against her ribs, right above her heart, and she knew he didn’t care.

How far he had come from the Man who fled from the sight of her in Imladris! How far they had all come! Arwen had lived for nigh two millennia before she had met Aragorn, but she had never felt more alive before she gave up her immortality – indeed, at times she wondered if she had ever lived before she decided to embrace the possibility of death.

She shelved the thought to the corner of her mind to ponder upon later, for now Aragorn’s lips were close to her, and she tilted her head and met them. Boromir’s hands slid through the long curtain of her hair before he cupped her neck, and his teeth were sharp against the curve of her arm. She gasped into Aragorn’s mouth, feeling her King smile, and was dizzied by the joy that nigh overtook her.

Distracted as she was, she was surprised as Aragorn pulled her to the side. She yelped, falling against her King, and laughed again when she saw him nearly throw Boromir down to the bed, leaning over him. Aragorn had never truly lost the impatience of his youth – only tempered it – and she smiled as she kissed him, their hands linking above Boromir’s chest, holding him down together.

As Aragorn shifted downward, she kissed Boromir again, her fingers trailing down his chest. She circled the scar at his hip, nail scraping the skin, and caught his breathless moan as Aragorn folded his legs backwards and entered him.

Moving back, she watched the way Boromir’s mouth fell open as his hips jerked; watched the sheer intensity of Aragorn’s gaze as he took his Captain, inch by inch. There was something beautifully obscene in the way Aragorn’s length pressed into Boromir, stretching him open, and Arwen reached out, tracing the edge of Boromir’s entrance, wrenching a groan from his throat that was wholly hers.

Then their hands were reaching out for her again, gliding up her thighs, and Arwen threw her head back, gasping, as callused fingertips stroked over the slickness of her folds. She had not realised how much she wanted to be touched until now, and she bit her lip hard as their fingers pushed inside her, sliding inside her, pressing against the edge of her walls.

Boromir’s thumb found the small nub beneath her folds, and Arwen fell forward. Aragorn’s arm caught her; and their lips were crashing together, too lost in pleasure to kiss, simply breathing in each other’s exhales. She found Boromir’s other hand, tangling his fingers with her own as they rocked together in a rhythm of their own making.

A circle, joined with each other at every point, and Arwen found her thoughts unravelling. Her ears were filled with the sounds of their pleasures – Boromir’s stuttering cries, Aragorn’s harsh moans, and her own quieter whimpers every time their fingers drove inside her.

Aragorn pulled away at the same moment she did, and they turned towards Boromir, kissing his lips, his cheeks, his shoulder, every spot they could reach. Her mouth found Aragorn’s again, and she moaned into his mouth. Three fingers slipped inside, two catching the third in their grasp within her, and Arwen gasped, shivering, clawing at the sheets before she found Boromir’s hip. Her fingers wrapped around their Captain’s length again, stroking him, and Boromir’s thumb flicked over the nub above her entrance, Aragorn’s tracing her folds, and their sharp cries rang out together.

The air in the room seemed too thin and her head spun. The heat, the pleasure seemed unending and the edge seemed far too close. Arwen dropped her head onto Aragorn’s shoulder, gasping as they pushed inside her and Aragorn’s fingers caught her nipple within his grasp, twisting it until starlight burst behind her eyes. She sank her teeth into his skin as she trembled hard.

Distantly, she heard Boromir’s ragged cry ring out in the room.

She bowed her head, panting and blinking, trying to regain her vision. She turned to look at Boromir. His head was dropped back to the bed as he gasped for breath, and she could see the signs of his pleasure on his stomach. But Aragorn’s every muscle was still tense between her hands, his teeth gritted as he stopped in his thrusts.

Arwen shifted, letting out a shuddering exhale as their fingers slipped out of her. She drew her hand down Boromir’s abdomen, tasting his come on her tongue. Aragorn’s eyes were on her, but she did not turn her head.

Exchanging a glance, Queen and Captain leapt upon their King, dragging him forward. Boromir’s legs wrapped tight around Aragorn’s waist, rocking upwards, urging, and Arwen draw his fingers into her mouth, licking and stroking, her fingers sliding down his chest to toy with his nipples.

Boromir took Aragorn’s mouth again as their King lost his control, his hips driving hard into Boromir, sharp pants escaping him with every thrust. Arwen shifted, her fingers sliding down his back, using the slickness of Boromir’s essence to press a single finger inside his entrance, curling it upwards. Aragorn cried out, half-muffled by Boromir’s mouth, and his hips slammed forward. Arwen stroked his hair away from his neck, fitting her teeth against the jut of his spine, and bit down as she thrust her finger into him again.

This time, it was Aragorn who fell apart, bracketed by his lovers. Arwen rested her head on his shoulder, feeling him tremble beneath her hands, and smiled.


“There is no Man more fortunate than I in the whole of Arda,” breathed Aragorn minutes later. He laughed quietly. “Perhaps even in the whole of Arda’s history.”

They laid side-by-side on the bed, with Aragorn in the middle. Arwen felt his every breath beneath her cheek, and her hand was tangled with Boromir’s on his hip.

“Nay, Aragorn,” murmured Boromir. “’Tis I who is the most fortunate, for I have been given so much joy when I am still undeserving.”

Aragorn shifted, but Arwen was still quicker. She reached over her King’s chest to place a finger on Boromir’s lips, silencing him.

“’Tis us who decides if a Man is deserving, Boromir of Gondor,” she said. “Do not distrust our judgment.”

Boromir parted his lips to argue, but Aragorn kissed him then, pressing his lips hard against his Captain’s.

“I have found it best to obey the advice of our Queen,” said Aragorn, grinning. “No more, Boromir. Let us rest and wake early in the morn – Gondor has long deserved to know that her dearest Son has returned.”

There was a moment of silence as Boromir cast his eyes downwards. Then he chuckled, shaking his head. He took Arwen’s hand, his lips brushing over her knuckles.

“Aye, my lady,” he murmured. His eyes flickered towards Aragorn. “My lord.”

Arwen smiled. She watched as they kissed once more before settling down, their breathing gently slowing.

She watched them as they fell into sleep’s embrace, though it was long before she followed.



Autumn, the First Year of the Fourth Age

Hallam was fidgeting again, tugging on a loose thread of his best tunic. Dagmar watched him for a moment before she heaved a sigh, batting at his hand.

“Stop that,” she scolded. “You’ll ruin the threading, and ‘twill be me who’ll have to fix it.”

“I can sew it myself, woman,” grumbled Hallam, but he stilled his hand.

“And I’ll have to sew it again,” she snorted in reply. “You men with your rough hands ain’t good with a needle.”

Hallam opened his mouth to retort, but a voice interrupted them.

“Do you really think the Lord Boromir would see us?”

Dagmar turned, her lips curving into a smile at the sound of Sage’s sweet voice. The younger woman was seated opposite her in the tavern- inn of the fifth level, her hand nervously stroking over the small swell of her belly beneath her dress. She had found out about her pregnancy halfway through their road towards Minas Tirith, and though Beranor wanted her to turn back immediately and follow her, she had stood firm. All in the village knew the steel in her spine since the orc attack two years ago, but it seemed Beranor had needed a reminder more than most.

“Aye, I’m sure of it,” Sage’s husband replied gruffly. “’Twas he who called us here.”

“But Lord Boromir called every soldier who is willing to come back home,” replied Sage, nibbling worriedly at her lip. “Surely he will not have the time?”

Hallam snorted. “Lass, he’ll meet every single one of us and remember our names.” He smiled crookedly, a light in his eyes that Dagmar knew was entirely reserved for the lord whom he had sworn himself to so long ago. “He’s a Man like that.”

“It’s why the place is so crowded,” said Beranor, shrugging. “It don’t matter if Lord Boromir’s been gone for years: if he needs us, we’ll come.”

“Boromir is a lucky Man indeed, to have such loyalty.”

Dagmar started, her hand going towards the knife strapped at her thigh, hidden under her dress. She blinked at the hooded stranger who stood there beside their table, his arms crossed. There were harsh words on his lips, but before she could release them, the stranger spoke once more.

“He’s waiting for you down the hall.” He jerked his head. “I’ll take you there.”

The four of them exchanged quick glances at each other, and it was Beranor who finally said: “How are we to know that you speak the truth?”

The stranger smiled from beneath his hood. “A good question.” He swept out his cloak, revealing the garb of a Ranger beneath. “I have no answer for it, but I am unarmed. Will that satisfy?”

Dagmar narrowed her eyes. Few of Gondor trusted the Rangers of the North, but something told her that this Man was surely not whom he seemed.

“Aye,” she said before anyone else could speak. “We will follow you.”

They stood at once, and Dagmar watched out of the corner of her eyes as Beranor wrapped his arm around Sage’s shoulders, ready to protect her as need be. She shot Hallam a dark look before he could attempt the same, and kept her hand half-curled at her thigh, ready to reach for her knife if necessary.

Yet the stranger was as good as his word: he led them to a private room on the second level of the inn, and as he threw open the door, Dagmar heard Sage gasp.


The Man who used to answer to Dwyte stood up. He shot the hooded stranger an amused glance before he walked around the large table, reaching out a hand towards them.

“I go by ‘Boromir’ now,” he said, grinning hard.

Beranor’s lips were twitching as he led a gaping Sage towards one of the seats within the room. When she was seated, she turned around and smacked her husband hard on the arm.

“You didn’t tell me!” she accused.

“My lord asked me to keep my silence,” said Beranor wryly, and Sage sighed. She – like all lovers of soldiers – knew better than to try to test a man’s loyalty to his lord with his love for her; after all, she understood that she would always lose. Dagmar was only glad that Sage had yet to realise that she knew as well, and she was under no obligation to keep Dwyte’s identity a secret.

“My apologies, Sage,” said Boromir, his smile dimming. “Please do not be angry with me. I had asked.”

Sage shook her head, blinking hard to try to not stare. Dagmar knew that she was much the same way – she had little contact with Dwyte when he was back at the village, and it would always be odd to hear a lord apologise to common folks like them.

“My lord Boromir,” she said. “May I ask if Ioreth is in the city as well?”

Out of the corner of her eyes, she watched at the strange Ranger start, nearly spilling the pipeweed he was pressing into the pot of his pipe. He had chosen a chair half-hidden in the shadows with his hood still up, and Dagmar wondered who he was that Boromir seemed to be so at ease with his presence.

Likely to be the Lord Boromir’s escort, she thought to herself. After all, no lords went alone, did they?

“Ioreth will be here,” Boromir was saying, and his lips twitched upwards slightly. “She apologises for her tardiness.”

Cocking her head to the side, Dagmar sat down, wondering what could delay Lord Boromir’s wife and not him. (Was Ioreth his wife? There had been no announcement, and surely such a marriage would merit a great celebration? The identity of the village’s two strangers had long lingered in her mind, and Dagmar truly could not think of anyone else the Lord Boromir would treat like he had treated Ioreth.

Unless it was the Queen herself, but that was a ridiculous thought.)

Lord Boromir asked of them about the village then, and as the men spoke, Dagmar watched both Boromir and the hooded stranger. She liked her mysteries, and this Ranger was as mysterious as one came. They had only been in Minas Tirith for two days, she thought, and life was already more exciting than it had been in the village for two years.

Then again, didn’t she run all the way westward just to escape the excitement of the city? Though there seemed to be fewer soldiers patrolling the streets now, and she had heard that orc attacks were far less than before, she still preferred a quiet life to one where her home could be ripped apart at any moment.

The door opened as Lord Boromir expressed his delight at the landlord’s new marriage. Another hooded stranger stood in the doorway, and Dagmar felt her breath caught in her throat.

“Forgive me,” said a voice all of them knew. “I was delayed by duties I could not avoid.” She raised white hands and tugged back her hood.

Dagmar knew her jaw had fallen open. In front of her stood the most beautiful woman she had ever seen in her entire life, and she knew in an instance the person who stood before them. All in Gondor knew their Queen, and it was truly their Queen: her Elven ears stood in full display, and her pale skin seemed to glow even in the dim light of the three candles of the room.

Her Majesty, the Lady Arwen Undómiel, tilted her head to the side in a movement so achingly familiar that Dagmar nigh fell out of her chair.

“Don’t you recognise me, my friends?” she asked, sounding almost disappointed. “If not my face, then at least my voice?”

It was Hallam who found his tongue first.


The Lady Arwen laughed, a musical little sound that made Dagmar feel like the most awkward and ungraceful of monkeys. She strode over to them, dropping down on the seat beside Boromir. Folding her hands, she leaned forward.


Almost as if it came from a long distance away, Dagmar could hear the Lord Boromir laughing himself sick.

The Queen turned away from them (and Dagmar released a breath she wasn’t even aware she was holding) and shot a glance towards the hooded stranger sitting at the window.

“Won’t you put out that pipe and join us?” she asked, as if swallowing laughter. “You might adore pretending to be a vagrant, my lord, but ‘tis rather impolite when amongst friends.”

My lord? Friends?

Standing, the stranger chuckled. He tapped the ash out of his pipe and killed the flame before tucking it into his cloak. Time seemed to slow as he walked forward, and he ducked his head down before pushing his hood back.

Coins for the new reign had been issued by a year before, but even before then all knew the face of Gondor’s King Returned: portraits had been issued throughout Gondor to hang upon public halls and houses from the moment of his coronation. Yet not even the best portrait seemed to have captured the regal arch of Elessar’s brow, the sharp curves of his cheeks – much less the wide, mischievous grin he now bore.

Dagmar felt her legs giving in. She slid onto the floor on her knees, bowing her head.

“Your Majesty,” she breathed. Her eyes flickered upwards, staring from Elessar King to Queen Arwen, and bowed even lower. “Your Majesties.”

She could feel herself shaking. The Lord Boromir she could deal with, for she had seen the Captain-General aplenty during her time in Minas Tirith and heard stories of his kind and down-to-earth nature. The King and the Queen, however, were another matter: they were like legends come to life to the people of Gondor, the King who returned after a thousand years, bringing along his Elven bride, the wise, immortal Queen whose beauty was so great that many was struck dumb upon looking upon her face.

The stories said that the Queen gave up her immortality for the sake of the King, and that was a greater tale of love than any Dagmar had ever heard in her life.

Now they stood before her, and Dagmar realised with sinking horror how rude she had been to her sovereign lord, to the Man who ruled them all. She had thought him suspicious, and – oh Valar – she had thought to threaten him with a small knife when it was he who led the armies towards the Black Gates themselves! He who commanded the Dead, and cleared the Path that had been feared for hundreds of years!

Strong arms wrapped around her shoulders, and Dagmar found herself gasping for breath as Ioreth – as Queen Arwen – drew her into her arms.

“Oh, my friend,” she murmured, and her hand was soothing as she stroked through Dagmar’s hair. “We have been cruel to you all.”

“My Queen,” she whispered.

The Lady Arwen pressed a single finger upon her lips. “Ioreth,” she said, and Dagmar felt her hard-won breath knocked out of her again when she saw those ageless eyes turned upon her. How had she not noticed how deep Ioreth’s eyes were, and how strange and immortal they looked?

“Dagmar is Ioreth’s friend,” said the Lady. “If you still find a place in your heart to have a friend named Ioreth, Dagmar, please call me by that name.”

Closing her eyes, Dagmar dragged in a long, harsh breath. She could not speak to the Queen Arwen – it would be akin to speaking to one of the Valar – but she knew Ioreth well. She could look Ioreth in the eye; she could speak to her.

When she had calmed herself, she stumbled to her feet, dropping onto her chair. Out of the corner of her eyes, she noticed Ioreth holding Sage tight, rubbing her back like the young woman was no more than a child.

(Then again, compared to her, they were all children, weren’t they?)

She rubbed her eyes hard, shaking her head. The King and Lord Boromir had finished speaking with their soldiers, and Dagmar tore her eyes away from Elessar as he slipped back to his seat.

“Thorongil,” said the King abruptly. “I am not Elessar here, but Thorongil.”

Later, Dagmar would marvel at the change a single name had made. Elessar King lost none of his regal bearing, but she looked upon him and thought him Thorongil – a strangely familiar name – and she found the knot around her lungs loosening.

“You have used that name before,” murmured Lord Boromir, glancing over to Thorongil.

“Aye.” He nodded. “Once, long ago.”

Ioreth shook her head, and Dagmar realised with a start that she had pulled her dark hair forward until the strands rested on her shoulders. Though she knew that the Elven ears were hid right beneath, she could not see them now, and she could pretend that this was only Ioreth, a friend and a seamstress, and none else.

She took a deep breath, glancing over to her companions. The soldiers still seemed much in shock, and Sage was staring at her hands. It was up to her, then. Dagmar leaned forward, ignoring the way her hands clutched together underneath the table.

“You missed a lot, Ioreth,” she said softly. “Much has happened in the village since you left. We have told Dwyte,” she nodded to Lord Boromir, “some of it, but not all.”

Turning, she placed a hand on Hallam’s elbow. “Won’t you tell Ioreth and Dwyte about the lessons you lot have been giving the villagers, Hallam?”

Her lover started. He stared at her for a long moment, and Dagmar gave him a shaky smile. Nodding at her, he turned, and Dagmar’s heart ached at her luck as his eyes met Thorongil’s gaze without flinching.

“Well, I’m sure the incident with the orcs is well-known to you,” he began. “After that- well, after you two left, Sadoc and I started talking about maybe setting up an outpost. Some of the boys from the neighbouring village wanted to do that as well, especially since we know that there’s no guarantee that the few soldiers left behind will be able to protect us if something like that happens again…”

Dagmar allowed Hallam’s voice to wash over her, and she leaned back on her chair to take up her position as observer once more. Thorongil and Ioreth were leaning slightly towards each other, but, oddly enough, Dwyte’s gaze seemed constantly drawn towards them.

What was their story, she wondered. Why was Lord Boromir in their small village when all thought him dead? Why had Ioreth come stumbling in? They both seemed greatly at ease with each other, but Dagmar remembered a short period when Dwyte seemed to avoid Ioreth as if she had the plague.

Much had happened in the two years in a small, quiet village. Dagmar wondered what had happened between Dwyte and Ioreth – and now Thorongil – in those same years, and if she would ever have the chance, or courage, to ask.

Well, all four of them would be staying in Minas Tirith until Dwyte had no more use of the soldiers. She hoped that would give her plenty of time.


Notes: In the fashion of the first translator, the names of plain Men and Hobbits with Westron names have been translated from the original into tongues more familiar to the readers of this tale.
makamu: (realms of thought and knowing by truly_t)

[personal profile] makamu 2013-10-06 03:40 pm (UTC)(link)
I really like this fic! Sadly, right now I don't have the time to comment properly, but let me just say that the note at the end is just perfect. Just goes to show how weird I am - there's a smoking hot sex scene to be had and I focus on the translator's note and the creation of fictional realities...:)

[identity profile] evocates.livejournal.com 2013-10-13 02:20 am (UTC)(link)
Hee, no worries about it - whichever part that you prefers makes me happy. Thank you for commenting, and I'm really glad that you like the fic! ♥

[identity profile] alex-quine.livejournal.com 2013-10-07 07:49 pm (UTC)(link)
Your lovers have found their haven in one another, that is far from the 'stagnant peace' of Valinor, but I have to admit that the story is only
really ended by bringing in the villagers again, so that Dwyte and Ioreth's story has come full circle. thanks for sharing.

[identity profile] evocates.livejournal.com 2013-10-13 02:21 am (UTC)(link)
I wanted to end it there with the sex scene too, but you're right - it didn't feel right to not bring the villagers back again. Thank you so much for following this fic with each part I post up, lovely, and for commenting! ♥!

[identity profile] alex-quine.livejournal.com 2013-10-13 10:13 am (UTC)(link)
It was a pleasure.

[identity profile] offski.livejournal.com 2013-10-11 12:21 pm (UTC)(link)

You chose your LJ name well - this is sooo evocative. I really like your use of slightly archaic vocabulary and turns of phrase - it helps to set the story into its far away and long ago setting.

Alex is right, the epilogue is perfect, it completes the circle.

I cried when Boromir first saw the White Tree in bloom.

[identity profile] evocates.livejournal.com 2013-10-13 02:25 am (UTC)(link)
The White Tree is really such an amazing symbol, isn't it? Thank you so much for commenting, lovely! I'm so happy to hear that you enjoyed the fic, especially the writing style - I always do try to emulate Tolkien whenever writing LotR FPF. ♥!

[identity profile] noalinnea.livejournal.com 2013-10-13 07:13 pm (UTC)(link)
Nothing like a rainy Sunday evening for catching up with commenting! This ending actually worked for me (despite naked! Arwen... I like naked Arwen even less than clothed Arwen... naked Elves, that feels a little bit like a sacrilege... it seems like something that they maybe just don't do. Oh well, or it's that damned animal cracker scene from Armageddon that ruined Liv Tyler for me for life). There is, however, nothing wrong with your naked Arwen, she's a beautiful as your Arwen dressed in royal robes. I think what I enjoyed most about this story is how naturally Arwen takes the lead in this triangle, and both men just accept it and are obviously comfortable with it. Your Boromir undressed and overwhelmed by his King's (and then his Queen's touches) is beautiful as is the whole setting of their encounter with both Aragorn and Arwen fully embracing their feeling for each other and him and making him their companion rather than a mere guest in their bed. I loved the way Aragorn handled Boromir, his touches rougher than the ones reserved for Arwen, the ranger's, the warrior's, a very powerful image!

I agree with alex, bringing their friends from the village back at the end nicely closes the story arch and completes it. I loved the interaction between these three in that scene, radiating peace of mind and so obviously at ease around each other. And Aragorn's smile when she scolds him for being impolite- so very Viggo in that moment :)

What a ride! Thanks for sharing! (and you did it! I read a whole Arwen-centered fic without pulling my hair and screaming "I hate Arwen!" ;) That's a true achievement!)

[identity profile] evocates.livejournal.com 2013-10-15 04:18 am (UTC)(link)
Eeeeee, I'm so glad you feel that it's natural for Arwen to take the lead! Because I think the men are still unsure and stumbling a little, while she knows what she feels and wants. Plus she's the oldest out of all of them, though she certainly doesn't look it. 8D I just had to put the bits about Boromir being overwhelmed because he's my favourite so of course I have to spoil him. :3

Yes, it's very Viggo, isn't it? 8D Thank you so much, lovely! It's a huge compliment to know that I made you like Arwen, if only for the span of one fic. ♥!

(PS: I will be coming online only in a few hours, so I'll probably catch you later in the afternoon my time. I have work to rush even on a public holiday.)