.|. Radical Dreamers .|.

Chapter 15

~

* * * * *

The sun was at its zenith, and casting warmness through the trees, reaching its golden fingers across Morfëataur. Birds chirped high in the sky, but from amidst the woods came the noise of stomping feet, the low thumping punctuated every now and then by a foul cry – Orcs marched through Morfëataur towards Lothlòrien, just slightly behind the Hobbits’ terraship.

As the host of foul creatures sped up past Dol Guldur –former stronghold of their Lord Sauron– an Eagle flew from the ruins over the Orcs, as if to follow them. It was huge, incredibly so, its auburn body blazed like fire in the blue. Its keen eyes flashed, as it eyed the host speeding off far below. The regal Eagle circled over the Orcs twice; then, with a shrieking cry, set off towards the sun, disappearing in the golden radiance as if it had never been there.

Oblivious, the Terraship continued its underground journey.

“Cookies, anyone?” Pippin grinned happily as he slid open the compartment door and launched himself in a vacant seat.

“Please!” Éowyn said cheerfully, reaching for a handful of Sam’s butter-and-honey cookies. Elladan and Elrohir were happy to grab each a dozen of cookies and recline back in their seats to munch on them. Boromir and Gandalf declined the offer politely, while the other Hobbits pounced on the offered food. Arwen just picked up one cookie, smiling delightedly as she took a bite off it.

“These cookies are the most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted, Master Sam.” She said. “I hope you’ll teach me the recipe one day?” Sam, blushing to the roots of his hair, stole the tray of cookies from Pippin and Éowyn’s eager hands and hurried to save a couple of cookies for the elven Lady.

“They’re not that good, Milady…” he said, offering her one cookie. She took it, laughing gently.

“Arwen will do. And yes, they’re truly delicious.”

“I want the recipe, too.” Éowyn said through a mouthful of cookies, nodding emphatically. “The best way to win a Man’s heart is through his stomach, after all!” She said, glancing at Boromir.

“Is it?” Elladan said, one eyebrow quirked up. Under Éowyn’s sudden glare he squirmed slightly, thoughtlessly stealing a cookie from his brother’s hands.

“*Yes*.” She said.

So far, the journey of the “Fellowship-of-the-Star-with-the-momentary-addition-of-Four-Hobbits-and-one-Squirrel” (has Gandalf had called it), had been safe and pleasant. Soon after the departure, the members of the company had eaten and dozed off a little. Now, between a load of cookies and one of cake, the Hobbits were telling their guests the story of Morfëataur, positively basking in all the attention they were getting.

Sam in particular, was very proud to say that Arwen thought him the nicest and cutest of them all, and the Hobbit was doing everything in his power (and beyond) to prove her right, please her and, most of all, make her laugh. If anyone was to ask for his opinion (which he noted they did not) he’d confess he didn’t like in the slightest the look of sadness that had stolen in Arwen’s eyes, making her silent and her face less radiant.

The sweet Hobbit had been making a show of himself for the last hours - standing tall on his seat and saying poetry, while helping Frodo relate the tale of Morfëataur, just to try and swipe it away.

What could have caused her light to diminish so? Sam asked himself. And why does no one seem to notice, not even her brothers? Could it mean… ? Sweet Lady… she’s been suffering for so long that they think it normal for her Spirit Light to be so low…?!

“—will you, Sam?” The Hobbit was hauled from his reverie and back to terra firma when Pippin smacked him on the back of his head using, (surprise, surprise) none other than poor Lascaran. The Squirrel gave a yell upon impacting with Sam’s nape, the Hobbit jumped on his seat, and Pippin looked very pleased with his success.

“He has,” Pippin began, jerking a thumb towards Frodo (Who was trying hard to hide his amusement, but failing miserably all the same), “…been asking you to relate the end of the tale of Thorin for the last ten minutes, Sam. Where were you? ” He blinked. The blush that rose on Sam’s cheek was lovely.

“Uh, really?” he stammered. “But, Mr. Frodo, you know it better than me… and my voice isn’t as sweet, I mean, as beautiful, I mean, as good as yours… I mean, it couldn’t compare… I mean…” Exasperated with himself for what seemed a calculated quest for embarrassment, Sam lapsed into silence.

He was grateful when Frodo waved one hand at him, a smile on his lips.

“I’ll do it, Sam. No worries.” He said. Then, turning toward the non-Hobbits occupants of the carriage:

“After a long struggle Thorin and his companions killed the Dragon that occupied the Ancient Capital of the Dwarven Realm. And finally, after hundred and hundred years, thirteen Dwarves set foot again in the Halls of Stone.”

“Gloin Gimli’s father, Thorin his Lord, Bifur, Bofur, Bombur, Fili, Kili, Dwalin, Balin, Oin, Dori, Ori and Nori.” Merry reminded, as Pippin counted the names on his fingertips.

“But, Alas!” continued Frodo. “The Capital was in ruins! The water, the very air and earth had been poisoned by the Dragon’s vile breath, and no plants had survived in the shining gardens! The glittering fountains now sprout poisoned water, brown and stinking. The great monuments of marble were dark and burned, and the devices of old, left behind when the Dragon had occupied the City and driven out its rightful habitants, were useless and torn.

“Much they despaired at seeing the Ancient Capital so ruined, and shed tears of anger and sorrow in front of the Tombs of the Dwarf Lords of Old. But as they cried and pulled the hairs from their heads and beards, a being of dazzling beauty answered their calls.”

“Cloaked in light, and covered in heavenly smell, she appeared to them. A silver harp was in her hand and stars upon her brow. She sang and cried for them, and as she stepped close the Dwarves all fell on their knees in awe. For beautiful she was, with her hair of gold and glittering white skin. She looked like one of those jewels their kin loved so dearly, and her eyes were topazes brightest than they could ever hope to dig from their profound mines.” Here Frodo paused, turning toward Arwen with a smile. “The Lady who conquered their hearts and eased their worries was none other than Galadriel of Lòrien, Milady.”

Arwen’s eyes reached the size of teacups. “Grandmother?” she whispered. Frodo nodded.

“She was very young at that time, and often she would leave Lothlòrien to walk alone the holy ground of Morfëataur, whose name was still Celebtaur then, the Silver Forest.

“It came to pass that, while walking and singing tales of old in those woods, she heard the Dwarves’ desperate cries, and couldn’t find in her heart to refuse them help. So, singing, she walked the Capital’s ruined streets, with a star shining as bright as a thousand dawns on her finger. And, behold! The plants grew lush and green again, the water became limpid, and the air filled with the smell of flowers. The Capital became dazzling with light and green again. And the grateful Dwarves pledged their lives to the Lady of Lothlòrien.

“The Ancient Capital, you must understand, is situated right under the woods now known as Morfëataur,” continued Frodo, “and it’s the same underground City we Hobbits live in nowadays, and that you’ve seen with your very eyes.”

Arwen gave a small nod, and touched her fingertips to her lips. Beside her, Boromir gaped at the Hobbit, mouth wide. The twins too seemed unable to even blink. Gandalf created a whole miniature 3D model of Galadriel and the Dwarves in the Ancient Capital with the smoke of his pipe.

“But…” said Arwen softly. “How did the Hobbits come to live in Morfëataur? Your kin, I thought, dwelled far in the East, in the lovely Shire, near the Grey Havens, concealed from Sauron’s evil eye by both Magic and the courage of the Dunedain.” Her eyes were huge, and a look of confusion stole on her beautiful face. Beside her Éowyn nodded, showing her own interest, while ‘lovingly’ pushing into Boromir’s mouth one of Sam’s remaining cookies.

The Man looked as if he would explode if anything else made it to his stomach, but the firm hold Éowyn’s had on his chin made it impossible for him to refuse the offered food. Eyes shut, he swallowed the cookie. Arwen cast him a quick glance and then focused back on the Hobbits, smiling slightly.

Éowyn frowned.

What was wrong with the Elven-girl anyway? By this time she should have pried them apart screeching like a Nazgûl! Oh, well. She shrugged. It was no fun this way, not fun *at all*, but she supposed that, as long as she got to stay close to Boromir, it didn’t matter… though it annoyed her to have her fun ruined so blatantly. Shrugging, she turned back to Frodo, thoughtlessly forcing another cookie into Boromir’s mouth. 

“That they do. But the Hobbits that live in Morfëataur have never seen the Shire, nor heard of it, if not in tales or ballads.” When he answered, Frodo’s eyes were bright and a little sad, and Arwen couldn’t help but beg his forgiveness. He conceded it gladly with a smile bright and huge, one smile so pure, mature beyond his years and yet so innocent that made his whole face shine.

“You see,” Frodo continued. “Some centuries ago, a group of brave Hobbits left the Shire to join those that fought Sauron. Unsure about where to go, they went towards Rivendell, seeking the council of Lord Elrond. What they found instead was toil and pain by the hands of Orcs: Sauron’s creatures captured the Hobbits just outside Imladris, unknown to the Elves of Rivendell, and would have taken them to Mordor, hadn’t the Elves of Lothlòrien fought to free them.

“For weeks the fair Elves of Lothlòrien fought with the Orcs, and the brave thirteen Dwarf Lords were alongside them. In the end, Elves and Dwarves won the battle, and all Orcs were gone. But the victory was bitter indeed: Thorin had given his life to save the Hobbits, and the blood that had been spilled on the Holy ground of Celebtaur had tainted its trees forevermore. They became dark and towering, filled with battling rage, and when questioned, the trees told the Elves that the woods would be called Morfëataur from then on, till either the destruction of Sauron or the end of Time.

“Thorin died, but he was so glad to see the Hobbits free and so worried about their welfare, that he offered them to stay in the Dwarves’ Underground City. His last words on his deathbed were his offer to open the City’s gates to them and their descendants. Moved, the Hobbits agreed. The remaining Dwarf Lords vowed solemnly to always protect those Hobbits, and with the blessing of the Lady Galadriel they took them to the Underground City.

“Time passed, and one by one the Dwarf Lords died of age or illness, until Gimli son of Gloin inherited from them the mission to protect the City and the Hobbits. Since he became the ruler of the City, often we offered him to come back to his kin, for how could he be happy among us, only Dwarf in a city of Hobbits? But whenever we ask, he just gazes at us sadly and shakes his head.”

Minutes of silence passed, and then Pippin shifted in his seat, pushing away the plate of cookies. “It’s so… sad.” He said. None could find the wit to disagree.

Anyway, seeing how this story can’t be serious for more than a few paragraphs, the mood was ruined when the compartment door burst open. Strider staggered in, almost in a daze, and following a process known as Murphy’s law, slumped into the only empty seat of the compartment that was not, well, *empty*. Let’s just hope that poor Lascaran finds a way out from under Strider’s backside, or that the little one surprises us again, materializing something along the lines of a reserve of oxygen complete with plastic mask and everything.

Few of those in the compartment, though, gave much of a thought to the poor Squirrel, busy as they were taking in Strider’s funny, blissful look. Dishevelled and flushed (like every time he spent time with Legolas) he was murmuring something constantly under his breath, and his eyes were suspiciously scattered with stars. Trading curious glances, the others resolved in leaning close to his mouth. When they heard him murmur “Legolas…” dreamily though, Elves, Squirrels, Hobbits, Men and Wizards alike leaped as one at Éowyn, who was, in turn, about to pounce the unsuspecting Ranger (unsuspecting because he had absolutely no idea of where he was whatsoever, lost as he was in his Legolas daydream). When he regained his wits enough, Aragorn pointed the door and mutter a little louder:

“Wants to see Éowyn. Needs talking. Now.”

Immediately, Éowyn was on her feet, looking about her to see where she could put the tray of cookies and the Man she was clutching. The aforementioned Murphy’s Law, also called Blind Lady Luck’s Twisted Sense of Humour, or more commonly known as The Author’s Wickedness, kicked into action. Éowyn spun round, shoved the plate into the closest person’s hands, and then shoved Boromir in their lap, before hurrying outside the door, leaving a trail of dust behind.

All in less than 5 seconds.

Now, if we happen to look closer to the ‘closest person’ in whose hands and lap Éowyn had pushed Boromir and the cookies, we would see a bewildered and blushing Arwen with her hands clutching at the plate, and her face –and lips- few inches from Boromir’s own.

“Uh…”

“Ahh…” the said at the same time.

“I…”

“I…” Perfect synchronism again.

“A… cookie…?” she whispered after a long pause in which nothing sounded, if not Pippin’s soft giggling and his small cry when Merry elbowed his cousin into silence.

“Uh… thanks…”

“…”

“…”

“…”

“Can I…?”

“…yes?”

“…have another…?”

“Uh… yes… should I…”

“hm?”

“Fed you… uh… again?”

“Please?”

Elladan and Elrohir turned expectant eyes towards Gandalf, seeing in their sister and her Knight the perfect opportunity to win back the Gold Gandalf had won.

“Say, old friend…” began Elladan, putting an arm round Gandalf’s shoulders.

“What about… a bet?” Elrohir ended, batting his eyelashes, and trying to sound tempting.

The smirk that Gandalf flashed them made them wonder if the Wizard knew something they didn’t – but by all means, should.

“What a wonderful idea, dear friends…”

* * * * *

Éowyn burst into Legolas’s compartment like a fury. That one compartment was, in truth, not in the same carriage as hers, but in the one that had been reserved for the Hobbits. Right before their departure from Morfëataur Aragorn had not-so-gently ordered Frodo & Co. to go and relate tales to his companions in the other carriage, so that he could stay alone with his *ehm* with Legolas during the journey and cuddl--*ehm* discuss important matters with him.

Snickering, the Hobbits had complied, and until now none, not even Éowyn, had dared enter the carriage and interrupt their idyll. In truth, she was suddenly sorry that she’d let Legolas alone with Aragorn. Back when they had first entered the Terraship, Legolas had taken her hand and asked her if she could let him travel in the Hobbit’s carriage alone with Aragon, adding some comment about how easy it would be for her to go from her compartment to theirs if ever need be. Éowyn smiled remembering the blush that had come to his face with her next words.

“You know I’d come to your aid even if you were held prisoner in Mordor… if you called, I wouldn’t mind tramping over the carriage’s roof and crash into a window to help you… it’s just, I’m not sure either of us would like it if I walked in on you and the Ranger after hearing you scream his name at top of your lungs.” Éowyn had been joking, but Legolas had blushed beetroot red at the innuendo in her voice all the same. She’d smirked at him, yet he could tell that she was arguing with herself, her desire to protect him at odds with his choice to experience those last few days of freedom he had.

At last, she’d relented.

“Just this once, Legolas. And I *will* come if I hear you scream, whether if you want me to come or not.” Legolas had hugged her, still pink to the tips of his ears.

“Fair enough.”

Now she regretted it.

Oh, how she regretted it.

When he’d entered their compartment, that cursed Ranger seemed far *too* content, if you asked her. And if that satisfaction of his involved even remotely Legolas, or touching Legolas’s body… well, he was dead.

She entered Legolas’s compartment in a rush, so wrapped up in her own thoughts that she nearly knocked him over when she jumped suddenly in. Hearing the door to his compartment door open with a loud crash, Legolas looked away from the window and to the door, and then to Éowyn who, flailing her hands wildly in order not to crash down on him, stumbled backwards unceremoniously in the seat opposite Legolas’s, drowning in the fluffy cloud of her white gown.

He *tried* not to giggle.

Really.

Tried being the keyword there.

Blinking, Éowyn made herself comfortable, clearing her throat and trying hard not to blush.

“So… what did you want to tell me?” Legolas’s smile instantly faded. He turned around to look outside the window, squinting to see something in the oppressing dark. The lines of grief were etched deeply in his fair face, and Éowyn felt her heart constrict. What could have caused that fair creature, Star among his people, such sorrow? Sorrow that could, she remembered with a shudder, easily kill him.

“You grieve.” She said softly, touching the back of his hand sympathetically. She watched him nod, while trying to catch his eyes in the pale reflection of the window. “Why, my friend? What burdens you so? So bright a soul as yours was never meant to feel such pain. Will you not share yours thought with me, as you did once?”

“Oh, Éowyn…” he sighed. She leaned closer, taking his hand in both of hers.

“Who caused you this Grief, my friend?” Legolas closed his overly-bright eyes.

“…Aragorn.” One moment, and he had to leap up and wind his arms around Éowyn’s waist to hold her back from dashing in the other carriage and run Aragorn through with her sword.

She kicked and wriggled in the Prince’s hold, screeching profanities, angry enough to have trails of smoke rising from her ears.

“That bastard! What has he done to you?! I *said* he was *too* content! If he laid one single finger upon you, I *swear*--!!!!!”

“Eowy, *please*!” Legolas begged. “Why do you always have to be so biased against him?! He hasn’t done anything! Eowy! *Please*!” He tugged almost roughly at her waist, staring at the floor in horror when she, despite all his efforts, began to advance sloooooooooooooowly towards the door, dragging him along as she went.

“Eowy!”

“Kill him! Kill him! Kill him!”

“Eowy, please! He has done nothing!”

“Kill him! Kill him!”

“Nothing! Nothing at all, Eowy!” And then, screaming: “NOT YET!”

“Ki—uh?!”

Éowyn stopped, turned, glared, and, grabbing two fistfuls of his tunic, pulled Legolas up and back into his seat, before sitting in front of him and glaring harder, their noses almost touching.

“Explain.”

“Uh… wellllllllllll…”

* * * * *

The dreadful, piercing scream reverberated through the air.

Pippin started on his seat, jumping in the hair and landing straight onto Merry’s lap.

“What was that?! A Nazgûl?! A Nazgûl has made it into the Terraship?!” Merry momentarily threw away his ever-present book, and held onto his cousin, looking around wildly.

“Valar! Elbereth!”

Sam bravely threw himself at Frodo, shielding him with his body from any danger. He must have miscalculated his sprint though; because not only the two landed in a tangled heap on the floor, but accidentally dragged with them the other two unsuspecting Hobbits and the even more unsuspecting two Elves. Gandalf managed not to be dragged down as well by placing his feet on the seat and his arms over his head. Aragorn managed the same by… well, by being simply the way he was: so lost in Legolas-filled dreams, he couldn’t have been awoken and moved from his seat even if Sauron himself came into the compartment and asked him the quickest way to Rivendell.

In the following commotion Frodo, Sam, Merry, Pippin, Elladan and Elrohir managed to knock over the last plate of cookies and send their cups of tea soaring through the air. Probably there’s some concealed, extremely philosophical meaning in all of this but, like Lost Rings of Power always are attracted to the most unlikely creatures imaginable, so the cookies and the tea rained all over the only person in the compartment that had just re-styled his previously burnt hair and was dressed with his most precious, valuable and simply EXTREMELY EXPENSIVE garb of Lòrien Silk his Grandmother had gifted him.

Luckily for all, Merry’s book decided it would be good to land on Elrohir’s head as well, silencing him before he could make real the yelled threats that were surging from deep within his chest.

But that’s just minor details.

No small amount of cursing, cries, yells, death threats and wails after, the Elves and the Hobbits managed to sit back in their chair with a resemblance of dignity. Aragorn sighed, blissfully unaware of anything that wasn’t his Legolas daydream. Putting his feet back on the floor Gandalf raised a thick eyebrow at the Man, barely restraining himself from puffing out from his pipe a sensually swaying Legolas-miniature, and send it his way.

“If you asked me,” the wizard told Pippin, “I’d say it sounded suspiciously like Éow--.” 

He didn’t get to end his thought, that the compartment’s door burst open again, and a panicked Legolas appeared in the doorframe. Upon seeing him Aragorn snapped out of his trance, cried his beloved’s name out happily and, lips puckered and eyes closed, leaned forward for a kiss.

Legolas rushed past his seat and knelt in front of Gandalf, eyes wild.

“Please, tell me we’ve smelling salts with us!”

“I reckon…”

“We have them?!”

“Well yes, but…”

“Where?!”

“Strider’s bag, but--”

Legolas turned, fumbled with the bag hanging from Strider’s side (the Man was, by the way, still leaning forward expectantly in his seat, eyes closed, waiting for his kiss.). He found what he was searching for and disappeared again, as if he was nothing more than a breath of spring breeze.

Only long after the Elf had left did Aragorn peer on eye open and mutter, “Legolas?” then, shoulders slumped, he shrank back with a pout.

“My *kiss*!” he mumbled. The looks he received as he sulked were priceless, and absolutely indescribable.

* * * * *

Éowyn came to consciousness slowly. Not unlike a drowning person drifting ashore. She squinted up, seeing a shining figure above her patting her face worriedly.

Ooooooooh… I didn’t know Valar had pointy ears. The-eh. This Vala’s beautiful. Must be one important Vala. Ihihih… looks like Legsy… … … … … … Legsy? … … … … no, wait… … … … … … …hold everything!

“LEGSY?!” She shot up to a seated position, almost headbutting her Prince on the nose.

“Ohy, Eowy! My ears! They’re sensitive!”

“And you’re mad! Completely mad! Does the Man already know of your plan?!” Legolas’s ears turned pink.

“No…”

“By the VALAR, Legolas, what do you *think* you’re *doing*?!” The Elf lowered his eyes.

“Spending time with the one I love. And asking you not to come between us.”

“Legolas, you *can’t* be in *love*. Not you! Not now! Not with *Strider*, damn it!” Now why did that outburst sound strangely familiar, Legolas mused. “You’re to be married in a few days…” Éowyn reminded softly. Legolas nodded.

“I know. And I *will* marry. Too much is at stake to call off the wedding. The safety of the whole Middle Earth may depend on it. I just… I just want to spend with Aragorn whatever time we’ll have in Lòrien.” His blush turned deeper. Éowyn rolled her eyes.

“Yeah, and have some *real* fun with him in the meantime.” Legolas glared at her through his lashes. Leave it to Éowyn to kill the poetry in his intentions.

“Eowy,” he began, an edge of sorrow honing his melodic voice. “I *love* Aragorn, and you know as well as me that once an Elf gives his heart, it is forever. I’ll love Aragorn till the end of time, but I will have to marry someone I don’t even know, and stay bound to him, until death parts us. And even if Aragorn was still alive and in love with me by that time, I’d have to stay faithful to the Memory of my Husband and rule Gondor in his wake, only to wither away and die the moment death claimed my Aragorn.” He sighed, smiling when Éowyn cupped his shoulder affectionately. Slowly he raised his eyes, and let her see all the sorrow and hope and worry and joy he held inside. “I’ve been given this one chance to stay with my love. I won’t let it slip. I want to be his completely… I want Aragorn to make me completely his, to mark me, before we part ways forevermore. I want him to make love to me, once we’re in Lòrien.”

TBC

Err… yeah, right. I wonder if Legolas will succeed with his plan to seduce Aragorn, and if Éowyn will indeed decide not to ruin it.

As always I’m eager to know your opinion. =)