.|. Radical Dreamers .|.

Chapter 3

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* * * * *

          Journey to Mirkwood – Day Two

The first day of marching had been uneventful, and so the morning of the second one. Around midday, upon seeing a deer, Elladan and Elrohir decided to have a hunting contest, and the problems started. The company set up a small camp as the two Elves played, trying to determine who was ‘more male’ of the young heirs of Rivendell. Thanking the Valar Gandalf had had the foresight to carry along a good provision of pipe-weed: it took four hours for the contest to end.

And, unsurprisingly, the winner had been Arwen. Once her patience had grown thin she’d risen from the log they were all on, and without a word entered the woods, her bow and one single arrow in hand.

Two minutes time and she was back with the deer. She stepped into the camp, pristine and perfect, almost gleaming with light, and beamed proudly at her muddy, sweaty and dusty brothers, dropping the deer at their feet.

The author will gladly forget to mention Elladan and Elrohir’s reactions, as to keep the rating of this fic somewhat low.

To prove her supremacy Arwen decided to cook the deer then. It took her a good couple of hours, not counting the other three Boromir spent trotting back and forth from the camp to the woods and back, in search of the herbs she needed to make what she assured would be a delicacy. Boromir never got to taste it though – he fell asleep as soon as Arwen delightfully proclaimed the herbs he’d brought her were the very ones she needed. But we must understand him… he’d brought her more than one hundred types of herbs, and each time she would dismiss them with a wave of her hand, and yet could not describe or name the kind she wanted.

As Arwen cheerfully cooked, singing delightedly, Boromir shifted and groaned in his agitated sleep. In the background, Elladan and Elrohir could be heard, swearing under their breaths as they retrieved the arrows they’d lost in the woods. Aragorn too could be heard muttering as he sulked, crouched down in a shadowed corner, complaining about meeting his spouse behind schedule.

* * * * *

          Journey to Mirkwood –Day Five

It was dinner time, and again Arwen had insisted to cook. She’d never cooked anything before this journey, but luckily for them she was learning, though not as quickly as the Company would like. She hadn’t poisoned anyone yet, though, and that was a start. Not that they would ever dare tell her she needed lessons in cooking – throw themselves into the fires of Mount Doom would probably prove to be less deadly.

As he ate, Boromir risked a glance at his Prince, careful not to be caught. Indeed Aragorn was *still* sulking and grumbling about ending up late at the meeting with his spouse.

“Aragorn, about your spouse…” Aragorn’s look turned from annoyed to dreamy in less than a second. Boromir instinctively jumped away.

“She must be heavenly, right? Golden tresses that glimmer in the sunlight, eyes as bottomless as the Ocean itself, skin as pale as cream and just as sweet…” He sighed, and the other Man glanced briefly at their package to check on the supplies of wine.

“Ehm… right.” He turned back toward Aragorn. The wine was still there. That was mere food poisoning maybe? He instinctively dropped the plate he’d in hand. You can never be too safe. “Who told you that?” Immediately Aragorn looked up at his friend, frowning.

“Arwen, who else? She is close friends with the Heir of Mirkwood, you should know that.” Boromir felt like fainting. Arwen… had… done… what? “She told me the Morning Star is incredibly beautiful, and sweet, and caring, and has a wonderful voice, the most wonderful eyes, and--” the knight groaned as Aragorn lost himself in a world of shiny hair and blue eyes.

“Elbereth…”

“No, Aurêl is how they call her…” he sighed dreamily.

“…”

* * * *

           Journey to Mirkwood – Day Nine

“So you would not mind it if the Aurêl was a skilled archer?” Boromir asked. Seeing how Aragorn could not *get* it that Legolas was a male –or that his spouse was called Legolas at all- when he yelled it right to his face, Boromir had decide to try another strategy, guiding Aragorn to the truth gradually.

“I don’t see how she could be but – no, I wouldn’t mind.” Aragorn conceded with a wistful sigh.

“But if she was, then she would have to use rather masculine clothing, wouldn’t she?”

“I suppose so, but…” he paused suddenly, an eyebrow raised, and watched Boromir as he advanced through the foliage, moving branches from his way as he went. “Boromir, look…”

“You wouldn’t mind it then, if your spouse wore leggings?”

“Well, I don’t think I would. But Boromir, please, look…”

“Good! But what if she was a bit *masculine*, too?” There! He had Aragorn in a corner!

“Boromir… look…”

“What would you say then?”

“…Boromir, look…”

“Seriously.”

“Boromir!”

“I want to –SPLAAAAASH!”

“*sigh* I tried to tell you… there was a lake behind the bush you just moved…”

“…”

“Boromir?”

“…” Bubbles appeared on the surface of the lake.

“…*Boromir*?!”

“…” More bubbles.

“Err… Arwen?”

“Hm?”

“Does Boromir know how to swim at all?” she looked down at the bubbles, tilting her head as they grew in number.

“…Oooops…”

* * * * *

Defying the most basilar laws of nature the Company managed to reach Mirkwood in just ten days and with little more problems; undamaged, un-delayed, free of any unwanted meeting with foul creatures and with still many supplies of food and water. Obviously the way back won’t be *that* easy, but we’re getting ahead of ourselves.

Presently Aragorn and the Company had assembled inside one of Mirkwood’s impossibly high halls, while a hear-splitting bell was ringing to announce their arrival.

“Aragorn, about your spouse…” Boromir began. He hesitated a moment, and then, yelling. “Is named Legolas and is a male!” Aragorn turned toward him slowly, and Boromir was surprised to see Aragorn react so calmly. Then the Prince shook his head while pointing to his ear, and Boromir felt his shoulders slump.

“I didn’t hear you Boromir: the bell was ringing too loud… what did you say?”

“Valar…”

“Just that?”

“…” Where the *hell* is a border swarming with Orcs and deadly Dark Lords when you need one?!

* * * * * 

“Oh Éowyn, let me tell you: you look so *lovely* in a dress. Absolutely lovely. No Men in his right state of mind could ever resist you.” Legolas grinned wickedly, playing thoughtlessly with one of his daggers. He was sprawled onto his Mother’s old bed, watching Éowyn with barely contained amusement as tens of servants slipped her into one of the Queen’s gowns and styled her hair to cover her rounded ears.

“Not a word.” She warned. “Not a *single* word.” Legolas bowed his head.

“I’m your servant.”

“Go throwing yourself down a cliff, then!”

“Can’t!” Legolas replied, slipping the dagger back into its sheath. “I’ve to get married in few days, remember?” Éowyn sneered.

“I hope your husband is old and fat and disgusting.” Legolas made a face.

“I hope that he falls for you at first sight and refuses me, if he’s really that disgusting.” A faraway bell began ringing, sure sign that the ‘princess’ was needed into the Main Hall.

Checking her gown one last time, Éowyn muttered a curse and dashed out of the room, bouncing on one single foot as she put her shoe on the other. Legolas dashed after her with her other shoe in his hand.

“Thanks!” Éowyn grabbed the shoe and somehow managed to keep running even as she put it on, and then doubled her speed, ignoring the pack of guards and servants scurrying after her as she went. They reached the great hall in almost no time at all, but upon seeing it filled with unknown people Legolas had the strangest urge to hide. And so he did, skipping to an abrupt halt and hopping behind a column, his back pressed against it as his breath became, strangely enough, uneven. Why was that strange excitation seeping through him, he wondered. When the noise of steps clattering on the marble floor ceased Legolas peeked around and saw that, in her haste, Éowyn had bumped against someone and sent him sprawled on the floor. 

Barely keeping his chuckles at bay Legolas surveyed the Company there gathered. He recognized Gandalf, of course, and Arwen, resplendent in her Amazon outfit. Next to Arwen stood two other Elves, so alike to her in features and proud stance that could be none other but Elladan and Elrohir, the twin sons of Elrond he’d heard so much abut but never seen before. They were rarely in Rivendell when he still used to visit its fair glades, for they often left to hunt Orcs with the Rangers of the North, and never before had the twins set foot in Mirkwood. Next came one of the race of Men, a comforting presence at Arwen’s side. Legolas was positively sure to recognize in his hard features those of the child Arwen used to carry along whenever she went once, and that proclaimed to be her bodyguard. His face had grown hard and stubble was on his chin; grey wasn’t yet in his hair, but all traces of his childish cuteness had gone. He had surely changed greatly, yet Legolas had no doubt that was Boromir. At that moment the Man Éowyn had collided with rose to his feet, and Legolas’s eyes fell on his back as if after their own volition. He was tall, as much as Boromir if not taller, yet surely younger, and Legolas found himself bouncing slightly on his toes as he tried to catch a glimpse of his features. Part of himself wanted to stay away from him, for some reason; yet another, huger, part of him wanted to go to the Man in gaze into his eyes.

Éowyn’s enraged screech abruptly brought the Elf back to reality, and whipping his head toward her Legolas chuckled at the funny picture she made.

“My gown! Ruined! You… barbarian!!” She wailed, throwing her arms up into the air. Upon closer inspection one would see that a microscopic mark of mud tainted now the pristine gown -mud that could come only from Aragorn’s spotted clothes- but it was almost invisible, and for the longest of moments Aragorn wondered what was that crazy woman yelling about. Then he thought she may be noble and thus expected him to apologize for their crash. That thought in mind Aragorn bowed his head, though he raised an eyebrow as he did.

“I’m sorry Milady,” He took a step back and swallowed the rest of his sentence when Éowyn gave another cry, her arms shaking slightly.

“The Queen’s gown! Ruined! Thranduil will have my head!!” she advanced toward Aragorn then, teeth bare and angry enough to exhale smoke as she yelled.  “It’s all your fault! He will get my head and it will be all your fault!!” she said, her voice hitting a squeaking note on the last few words. He blinked.

“Ehm… sorry?” Aragorn asked, more than state. The woman looked around her quickly, as if her impending doom was looming behind one of those huge glided doors, her breathing hard. Faint chuckling came from the general direction she and her escort had come from, and Aragorn turned quickly toward the source of the noise. He saw nothing, even though he heard it when Legolas gave a gasp. That Man’s skin was… dark, bronzed by the sun with hot kisses, Legolas noticed. Something he’d never seen before. It looked like clover honey, and black stubble stood in sharp contrast against it. The Elven Prince had the sudden urge to go and touch that skin, until there wasn’t an inch of it he didn’t know by heart.

“Sorry?! Is that all you can say?! I should get *your* head for that!” She raised a fist and shook it for emphasis. Aragorn gave her a ‘yeah sure’ look, both eyebrows raised now.

“Don’t look at me like that, you…you… you… YOU!! I can do it!” Aragorn’s look did not change in the slightest, and she screeched again, puffing her cheeks out like some animals do when they want to look scary. Then, abruptly, she whipped her head to a side, flipped her hair angrily from her shoulder and waved a hand toward him. “Cut his head off.” The guards behind her almost face-faulted, but surrounded Aragorn anyway, bows and swords and daggers and spears pointed at his throat.

My, being a spoiled princess was *fun*!

“I beg you, fair Lady. Show pity on him, and let him live! He’s my chief and best friend, and it would pain me to lose him so!”

…or maybe not.

Boromir had dropped to one knee in front of her, and winced when she whirled on him, eyes aflame. But as quickly as her rage had burst, it dissipated. Éowyn blinked.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Then her blinking became strangely close to fluttering her eyelashes flirtatiously, even if Boromir did not notice that, and a growl seemed to come from amidst the Company.

“I wish not to cause any pain to you, noble…”

“Boromir.” He supplied quickly. The smile she flashed him then literally dropped sugar. A low growl resounded again. Strange: it came from Arwen’s direction… But noble maidens as she do not growl, right? So it must been a mere mistake…

Maybe Thranduil had a pet, or something? 

“I will not execute him.” Éowyn conceded, looking Aragorn over quickly, and the guards scattered away. “Who are you, anyway? You’re not an Elf.” He regarded her scornfully.

“Of course I’m not an Elf. My name’s Aragorn. I’m a human and a Ranger, known as Strider up north in my own lands.” He noticed then that her unusual hairstyle covered her ears, and wondered why that was. Elves were so proud of their pointed ears that to find one that hid them was simply astounding. “Who are *you*?” he could not help but ask.

“I’m the one asking questions, here.” She replied, arms crossed. “And show more respect: I may have been merciful this once, but I *can* get your head.”

“I’m shaking,” Aragorn said idly.

“Oh, shut up.” She gave a whistling breath, her shoulders unwinding some, though irritation was still obvious in her posture. “And answer me, instead: what are you doing here? And who do you serve?” A growled wrenched its way out of Aragorn’s throat.

“I *can’t* answer you if I shut up,” he pointed out coldly. “But for this once I will. I act for Gondor and Rivendell’s sake, and I came…” Éowyn interrupted him by giving a cry, pressing both hands to her mouth.

“By the Valar, you’re the Company of Warriors Lord Elrond sent to--?!”

“Yes, but…”

“Elbereth!” Picking her skirt up Éowyn dashed to a shadowed corner of the room, produced a small mirror from somewhere we don’t really want to know, and began putting a white, fine powder on her cheeks, patting them with a small cloth. Aragorn raised an eyebrow. Éowyn began checking her hair then, making sure her human ears weren’t visible under the twined tresses and silver tiara, before focusing on cleaning the dirt her previous encounter with Aragorn had left on her gown.

No need to say it disappeared almost immediately.

Then she turned, flipped her hair from her shoulders and stepped forward, gesturing vaguely to a servant. He dashed toward a nearly window with a bow and threw it open suddenly, so that when she advanced holy light seemed to radiate from her. So much of it that many had to shield their eyes as she came closer. Luckily the servant noticed and lowered the blinds some, flushing slightly.

“My name is Éowyn, dear warriors. Welcome in my realm.” She smiled sweetly, surveying the company, and batted her eyelashes outrageously… at Boromir. “You made a long and hard journey to reach me, coming across much and many perils-” she began, glancing quickly between the speech she’d scribbled on the inside of her arm and… Boromir. Once again the growl came. Okay, let’s admit it: there was *no* way that was a pet.

In all probability Thranduil kept a lion or some other wild predator inside the palace.

“-and I thank you greatly, for the journey you’re making will help us end the war. Brave warriors, I plead with you to let us go at once, so that I can reach Gondor and-” she nonchalantly rolled up her sleeve some, to get the last part of her speech. “-celebrate my wedding with Estel as soon as possible.” Aragorn’s eyes went round.

“WHAT?! NO WAY!” He hollered, pointing Éowyn with a shaky finger. “You’re NOT the Morning Star! You CANNOT be her! You just are NOT her!!” He was breathing hard, face pale. Éowyn snorted in reply. Okay, she wasn’t the real Aurêl, but what need was there to react like *that*? He looked like he’d just had a close encounter with one of the Nazgûl and…

No, wait just a moment here…

What was he implying? That she was *not* pretty enough to be Legolas?! OI!!!

“*I* am the Morning Star of Mirkwood, unworthy Ranger. Do you dare doubt me?” Her eyes flashed, but the flames in them were smothered immediately by strong will. Hadn’t been for all those witnesses there gathered she’d have strangled him for sure. Three minutes in his presence, and she already hated him. *Abhorred* him!! Aragorn did not pay attention to her, or the murderous glance she gave him, though. He was too busy trying to stop the hall from spinning round in front of his eyes, to even notice.

That… that… that… crazy, harsh, unfriendly witch was his soon-to-be bride?! Goodness… Aragorn felt like fainting. But someone beat him to it. When he felt a thumping sound behind him, like one of a huge weight dropped on the ground, Aragorn immediately turned around, and found Boromir lying spread-eagle on the floor, out cold. Arwen was kneeling beside him, making a poor job at fanning the Man as she gaped, mouth wide, at the Morning Star.

What was going on?!

Where the Hell was Legolas?!

And… does anyone in the audience have some aspirin? Boromir and Arwen both may need it now, considering the Man’s headache seemed to have gone against nature’s laws and was affecting the Elven Lady as well.

*grins* How was it? Legolas seems already fascinated by Aragorn, doesn’t he? ;) And poor Boromir! *glomps him* He doesn’t seem to realize what kind of troubles he’s in, does he? I wonder if I should develop those hints of A/B and E/B into something more, or if I’d better keep dropping just faint (and fun!) hints of Arwen and Éowyn being, indeed,  rivals, but just for fun.

Next chapter, Legolas and Aragorn finally meet!!! *waves her Aragolas flag*