#so thanks 2 zainab for enabling that

[philtstone]

Aragorn/Arwen, 33

#33 -- your laugh is the best sound I have ever heard meleth = love/my love. a missing scene from fellowship of the ring bc i had to write some arthurian level yearning or whatever

They cross paths in one of Imladris's many halls, as she is exiting a room. Not the room, wherein the small Halfling is fluttering back from the edge of doom under her father's careful ministrations. But a room. Arwen was folding clean bandages, for something to do.

There has always been some quietly striking thing about Estel, the way he is at all times, even covered in grime and with an expression that does not well hide his fear. He looks as if he ran the entire remaining distance to Rivendell on foot, with three panicky Hobbits in tow besides. Which, in part, she is sure he must have.

"Arwen," he begins, not quite on a pant, but startled by her appearance and desperate enough for her to inhale and step forward, reaching for him.

"Unharmed," she says, of herself, and then, "healing, under my father's hand. We made it across the river in safety."

He makes to grasp the hand she offers him but Arwen reaches for his cheek instead. She watches his eyes close and feels the tacky, bristly jaw beneath her fingers. Here in the gentle, clean glow of her father's house he stands out in a way he had not in the wild, yet unwashed and so very obviously a man. Very warm, as he always is, but the damp heat under his skin confirms his carefully-hidden distress further. His cloak is hanging lopsided from familiar broad shoulders and his hair is a nest. She wishes to tease him again, as she did in the woods, but finds in this moment she cannot; she's missed him dearly.

They inhale, together, her hand upon him. Arwen is no fool; his trust in her did not discount the real danger and magnitude of their last several hours.

"You're injured," he says, even through his closed eyes. "And you've been weeping."

Arwen touches her free hand to the mostly-faded cut on her cheek. An injury it is not. She allows his lover's perspective nonetheless.

"You know that I weep often," she chooses to say.

"Do you?" Rhetorically, in a restrained murmur.

"Yes; I am quite as tender-hearted as you are, my love."

Estel opens his eyes, startled into a sudden laugh, which stretches crooked and a little pained across his face. It is then that they both relax. They are alone in the corridor; dear Frodo is alright; she wishes very much to kiss him.

"Unharmed," Aragorn repeats, on an exhale this time, one further bout of confirmation. Arwen has come to learn this about men -- this man -- the small stretch of time required to come to terms with a simple truth. There is something soothing about its necessity. But her peace is disrupted almost immediately; quite suddenly she is feeling the strain of want in her throat as he smooths rough fingers over her wrist, then her palm, lifting her hand away just so from his face.

"Arwen," he says a second time, very differently. "Meleth ..."

Oh, to fall into his arms ...

"You are very filthy, Estel," she says instead, allowing a touch of that teasing to return.

He turns his head and kisses the inside of her wrist in response, long and lingering and silent and warm, and holds her gaze all the while.

Her name is called, once, twice, from the room she only just exited.

"My lady Arwen!"

She sighs and he releases her, offers her the smallest of bows and another tired smile, and goes, presumable to check on his charges. But she is smiling in return. Time is not something she had great consideration for until she met Estel. She thinks of it now -- its brevity, its urgency. For now, Arwen hopes, they have escaped the danger, and may see each other happy for a short while longer.