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He still hasn’t learned how to face Arwen after coming back from the wilds.
There must be some skill to it, for other men do it all the time – come home after months on the road, shrug off the wilds like shrugging off their travel-worn clothes and somehow become human again, husbands and fathers and sons. All the battles, the blood, the grime, the endless cold, enemies maimed and killed forgotten in a matter of seconds as they embrace their loved ones. Aragorn doesn’t know how they do it.
He could ask his men for their secrets, he supposes, but it is not quite the same. None of them are betrothed to her. His immortal, unmarred, practically perfect elven love who has spent her long life sheltered from the worries and battles of men, who has only ever known gentleness.
There is no one to ask, so he does his best on his own, even if his best consists of avoiding her, disappearing into his rooms and locking the door, taking baths to scrub off the blood and the mud and the wild, layer by layer. Hiding until he can put aside the ranger, the hunter, and become someone resembling Estel again.
It is so rarely he has a chance to see Arwen, a part of him hates himself for wasting even a minute that could be spent with her. But then he tries to imagine himself standing beside her in the Hall of Fire, listening to poetry and singing, all the while desperately grasping for the thin veneer of civilization, and he knows he can’t do it.
So Aragorn hides. He rides to Imladris when night has already fallen. He leaves his horse at the stables without speaking to anyone; he avoids the eyes of lord Elrond’s servants as he apologises for arriving once again without a warning. He turns down the offers of food and drink, promises he’ll speak with his foster father first thing in the morning, and then he makes a quick escape to the rooms the elves thankfully keep prepared for him, even when they never quite know when he will appear.
Only when the door is safely closed behind him does he allow himself to breathe, to feel the weariness that slowly descends upon him, the hunger and the cold. His muscles ache. There is a shallow cut in his side that is starting to burn. He knows he should see to it but is too tired. Knows he should draw a bath, knows he would feel better after one, but doesn’t have the energy for that either.
Instead, he crosses the room and leans on the windowsill, trying not to think of the mud he is leaving in his wake. He closes his eyes and lets the sweet night air of the valley fill his lungs. Through the open windows he can hear leaves rustling in the autumn breeze. Somewhere farther away, someone singing softly across the valley.
Being in Imladris after a year in the wilds is giving him a whiplash.
Aragorn is still trying to find the strength to remove his boots, at least, when he hears the door open and realises with dread that he forgot to lock it.
Arwen slips into the room, closing the door quietly behind her. She is lovely and otherworldly as ever, a vision in her blue gown, dark hair flowing around her.
“Estel.” Her voice is like music.
Aragorn goes still.
So does Arwen as her gaze settles on him. Takes in the dirty clothes, the unkempt hair, the scruffy face. The blood that no doubt sticks to his clothes and skin; there is always blood somewhere, no matter how carefully he tries to remove it. Aragorn’s stomach plummets as he sees her eyes grow wide, the smile die on her lips. He wants the ground to open and swallow him on the spot.
“Arwen – “
He doesn’t quite know how to finish the sentence.
He shakes his head, clears his throat, determined to try again. Before he finds the words to apologize, she is crossing the room to stand in front of him.
“You are hurt.” Her fingers touch his lip, which he had forgotten was bruised until now, then move to inspect the cut on his side.
“I’m fine.” Aragorn has trouble looking her in the eye. “You should not be here, my lady.”
The formal my lady earns him a frown, but she merely says: “Take off your coat.”
“Arwen. There is no need.”
“There is a need, my love. Or shall I fetch my father and his army of healers?”
“Over a simple cut?”
“You say it is a simple cut. I have no way of knowing until you take off your coat and let me see it properly.”
For a moment Aragorn considers refusing and letting her fetch his foster father and the healers. They would be irritated at being summoned to look at a simple nick of a sword at that time of night, but it might be worth the price, if it meant no longer being exposed to Arwen’s gaze, if it gave him more time to separate himself from Strider.
But it would not be fair on their Adar and the other healers, who have earned their rest, Aragorn reminds himself. With a sigh, he bows his head and removes his coat, placing it on the windowsill.
“This, too.” She touches his jerkin, her voice unreadable.
His fingers make quick work untying the ties of the cloth. He is grateful she lets him keep the shirt, torn as it is. He refuses to look at her as her warm fingers carefully probe at the shallow wound on his side.
“This was no orc blade.”
“I met a group of bandits near Hoarwell. They would have liked to borrow my horse", Aragorn says, his voice hoarse.
“Borrow?”
“Their words, not mine. I managed to make them change their minds.”
It is difficult to focus on the discussion when he is all too aware of her eyes, raking him over, of her pale hands on his dirty clothes and skin. Everything in him is screaming at him to move away, to send her away instead of exposing her to him when he is like this.
Well, almost everything. There is another part of him that revels in her proximity, in her sweet smell, in the warmth of her skin radiating through the thin cloth of her dress. That is the hunter in him, desperate to pull her closer, to hold her and kiss her until he knows nothing but her skin. He is usually so very good at keeping that part of himself in check, but the wilds are still too close to surface.
He clenches his fists as Arwen bends to inspect the wound closer.
“It needs to be cleaned properly, but I should not think it needs stitching, not if you are careful not to aggravate it further.”
“Thank you, my lady.” That little frown again. He chances a light, apologetic touch on her cheek, although he still doesn’t feel like he can look her in the eye. “You should go and rest, vanimelda. I am quite capable of cleaning my own wounds.”
Arwen is quiet for so long that finally he has no choice but to look at her properly. Her lovely face is troubled; she is biting on her lower lip.
“Why do you do this?”
“Do what.”
“Try to keep me at arm’s length. I am a healer, Estel. I have seen all kinds of wounds before. My brothers make sure of that.”
“I am not your brother”, Aragorn mutters.
Your brothers don’t track mud around the house whenever they arrive. Your brothers don’t stink of sweat and horses and death. Your brothers don’t have to fear touching you lest they do something they would regret later.
Arwen looks at him like she knows exactly what he is thinking. Rare irritation sparking in her eyes, she says:
“Please stop putting me on a pedestal, my love. It is lonely up here.”
A moment, a movement, and then Arwen kisses him. All thoughts escape his mind, leaving it blissfully empty of everything except the feel of her lips against his, soft and inviting. He must use all his willpower not to pull her closer, to keep the kiss gentle and undemanding.
You are human you are human you are human.
The instinct to lose himself in her is strong enough to make him afraid. He briefly wonders if this is how his rangers cope with coming home from battle. If they drown themselves in their wives, trusting them to handle the storm until it has burned away.
It is different, Aragorn reminds himself.
Somehow, he finds enough strength to pull away from her lips, to take her hand and press a tender kiss on the inside of her wrist instead. “Meleth nín, you should go.”
“Your hands are shaking.” Arwen places their entwined hands over his heart.
How can he explain? A year is nothing to someone who has lived as long as her. To him, not seeing her for a year, and then suddenly getting to touch her, to hold her… It is enough to make him feel slightly unhinged.
Something flashes in her eyes, something like knowing, and she is kissing him again. More urgently, more insistently than she ever has before. He can feel his bruised lip throbbing, but it is soon forgotten as his fingers tangle in her long hair. He finally gives in and pulls her closer until their bodies are pressed together.
A small, delighted sigh against his lips. She goes soft in his arms, letting him take control of the kiss. Through the fabric of her dress, her skin burns against his palms. He can feel his pulse in his throat.
Before he can even register moving, he has her back against the wall, his lips tracing her skin from her ear down to where her neck meets the shoulder, biting down. His hands are on her hips, pulling her close against his want. She makes another sound that makes his head spin, but does not move away, instead reclaiming his lips with a force equal to his.
Flawless, Aragorn thinks hazily. Absolutely flawless. And then: His.
The sudden thought strikes him light a lightning. Grounds him. Slowly, recognising a stronger force, the wilds start to lose their hold on him. He lays his head against her shoulder and closes his eyes, sighing deeply.
“Do you see? You do not have to hide. Nothing bad happens when you let go.”
Aragorn smiles against her neck. “I do not think that counts as letting go. If I did let go, your father would have my head. And he would have every right.”
“But do you feel better?” Her hands caress his back.
“Immensely. Thank you, vanimelda.” He kisses her chin, then the corner of her lips; takes her mouth in a long, languid kiss that has them both trembling. “Stay.”
**
She helps him clean up and cleans his wound. With a light touch does something miraculous to his muscles that has all the aches melting away in a matter of minutes.
When he has to sleep, she wordlessly gets to bed next to him. Their legs intertwined, her body curled around his, feeling her breathe, Aragorn thinks he has finally unlocked the secret.