The Fallen

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*

Dinner was a quiet affair within the great dining room. They had eaten, talked of Sauron’s schemes and were now scattered abroad. Vana sat alone at a table with Arwen and Eldarion, but again her attention wandered. This time her eyes held a moving target. At a table not far sat a group of Men surrounding the Steward, who held a glass of ale in his hand. His skin was flushed and his eyes hazy. He was drunk, or very near it. Something about the way he seemed not to care caught her attention for reasons unknown.

“Talk to him.” The voice caught her off guard and Vana knit her brow, looking at Arwen as if she had suggested she speak with an orc. The queen took a sip from her wine goblet and continued. “If his behavior troubles you, tell him. He won’t listen, of course, but at least you may be rid of it and stop staring.”

Vana smirked. “I am not staring.” Her eyes trailed back towards him, catching those stormy eyes on her. She blushed at his puzzled expression.

Arwen leaned forward, saying, “You see. Even he wonders why you are watching. Talk to him. What are you afraid of?”

“You’re making fun of me,” the archer accused with a frosty look at her dear friend.

To her annoyance Arwen laughed. “Only a little. I know this is your first time among so many mortals. You are curious, but I cannot help but play. Come now, if Boromir frightens you so, perhaps I can arrange for him to be sent away.”

“Boromir does not frighten me,” she insisted, taking a renewed interest in her wine. Vana tilted the goblet to her lips and took a drink. “Good wine.”

The queen nodded, but her eyes still held a glint as she pushed back her chair. “Indeed. Very good wine. Please, excuse me as I take my son to his bed.” He was falling asleep in his chair. “Will you join me?”

Considering it, Vana shook her head and took another sip. “I think I may go on to my rooms. I was up quite early.”

Arwen nodded her goodnight, lifting her son from the table and departing. Vana watched them go, thinking again on her friend’s choice to become mortal. Estel was a fine example of his race, no doubt about it, but to make such a fundamental choice about her life…Vana wasn’t sure she could have under the same circumstances. She would not deny to herself she was curious enough to play with one of them, but to fall in love with someone so vastly different was unthinkable. She looked over where Aragorn sat with Elrond and a few others. He was a good man.

Drawn to the best of mortality, it was only natural that afterwards her eyes would flit to Boromir again. He was laughing at something one of his friends had said, his lips tilted in a mirthful grin as he listened. A lock of his hair strayed down across his forehead and she fought the urge to go over there and brush it away. Everything about him was irritating, she decided upon reflection, watching in distaste as he took another long drink of his ale, then laid the mug down a little harder than was actually necessary. One of his tablemates shoved his arm off the table, but he was too relaxed by the drink to retaliate beyond a dirty look.

Then he looked at her. In his expression dawned curiosity tinged with aggravation. Annoyed by that she knit her brow, frowning at him and he returned it, though his expression betrayed he was not particularly sure what was going on. She felt ruffled by his scrutiny and wanted now to be away from it, so she stood up and without pushing her chair in, stalked towards the exit, noting as she did that Elrond was watching her. Sighing, she bowed her head in polite respect, then hastened out of the dining hall as quickly as she could. Once out where the fresh air of nearby windows could caress over her, she slowed, enjoying the breeze.

Wandering to the window, she allowed it to wash over her and for a peaceful second her ire with the Steward was forgotten. It did not last long. The door behind her banged open and startled, she whipped around. Her eyes widened when she saw him and for some inane reason that caused him to smile. Crossing her arms, she turned towards the hallway to escape to her rooms, but his hand dropped to her shoulder, preventing her from going forward.

He looked down at her through half-lidded eyes. “A moment, please.” His dark blue eyes fixed on her face. “Would you care to explain what happened in there?”

Vana watched him coolly, removing his hand. He unsteadily accepted that, looking as if he expected she would remain. For a moment she did. “You were looking at me like an oaf, so I frowned at you. Mystery solved.” With that she turned and managed to get a few steps away.

He followed of course. “I beg to differ, Elf, but it was you that was looking at me. I could scarce make it through a moment without those wild eyes of yours stalking my every move.” She was walking fast and he seemed to have trouble with that in his current state. She picked up her pace.

“Wild eyes?” she repeated harshly, crossing her arms. “I was only looking because you were looking. And before you say you didn’t look, you just tell me how you knew I was looking if you weren’t looking, huh?”

He stopped in the middle of the hall, rubbing his head with a vague look is fis face. “Say that again and try not to sound like a silly bint this time.”

Vana gave a frustrated sigh and kept on, conscious that he was following her. “What do you want?” she asked in an exasperated tone.

Aggravated, he again put his hand on her shoulder, stopping and turning her towards him. He tried hard to look threatening, but it didn’t work out very well. “What I want is to know what you want!” he hissed, then lost his balance slightly, falling forward. He caught himself against her other shoulder, then took a moment to become steady again. “This isn’t getting any easier.”

She grunted, taking his wrists and pushing him off her. “Perhaps you shouldn’t have had so much to drink, Lord Boromir. Then perhaps you might not have stared like a boorish idiot all night and we could be saved this embarrassing conversation!”

He frowned at her, visibly searching for some sort of comeback to that. Pointing his finger, he breathed, “Who is a boorish idiot, you foolish woman? If Madam Elf is so embarrassed perhaps next time she’ll remember to keep her eyes on her own company. I do not like being watched by strangers who may well be assassins or spies.”

“Ha,” she grunted, pushing his finger out of her face. “Like anyone would waste their time trying to murder you. Stop following me.”

He grabbed her shoulder again, unwilling to give in. “Let us get one thing straight. I’ll not suffer your irritating behavior for very long. The next time you get it into your head to watch me, you had best think twice.”

Not caring for his tone, she drew herself up and glared him full in the face, challenging, “Or what?”

That threw him off for a moment, which was long enough for the drink to throw him off balance again. He stumbled into her, again catching her by the shoulders, invading her space. He was uncomfortably close, his hands warm even over her tunic. His eyes met hers in that half-lidded way that suggested tiredness, gazing as if he were trying to figure her out. Annoyed, she reached ud brd brushed that stray lock of hair from his eyes, knitting her brow in disproval.

Exhaling, he pushed himself off her and shook his head, muttering, “Pestersome Elf.” He moved around her, walking a little more slowly than usual. A few times he wavered and with an inward groan, she followed after him. “What?” he demanded, eyeing her.

“You’oingoing the same way I am,” she hissed angrily.

After a few halls they made it to his rooms, where he stopped at his door, opening it and watching her as she watched him. Once it stood ajar, he stopped and glared at her, which didn’t have quite the intimidating effect he had intended, given the circumstances of his slightly drunken state. He settled for verbal pressure. “Would you mind telling me what you’re waiting for? I assume you aren’t looking for a nightcap.”

For whatever reason she decided to answer his rude tone snidely. “Not from you, anyways.”

Boromir grunted, looking a shade more tired now that he had finally made it. Even still he approached her with an amused, challenging expression. “Mm. You sure, Elf? Because you’re hanging around me tonight a little more than would suggest the dislike you think you’re displaying.” He laughed, running his fingers through her dark hair.

Vana narrowed her eyes at him, annoyed. “You’re a pig.”

“I’m only drunk,” he countered playfully, watching through half-lidded eyes that ran down her face and body, then back up again. He grunted. “I would have to be.”

Wondering how far he would take this game, she decided to play a little herself, leaning forward with a sensual smile. “I meant you are a pig in general. Drink only enhances that.” She bit her bottom lip thoughtfully, then increased her smile. “You would have to be drunk to what?”

His flush seemed to increase as he fingered her hair, taking a long, speculative breath. “For this,” he whispered, then bent down. He pressed his lips against hers and she could taste the alcohol on him, sharp and touched by a berry flavor. His tongue pressed against hers in a seeking way that quite took her breath away and for a moment she forgot herself. When she remembered she pulled away a little too rapidly.

Boromir lost his balance again and stumbled into her, his hands seeking any sort of stabilizing hold they could. She felt a thrill pass through her when one landed on her chest. Her eyes widened instantly and she shoved him away, watching as he stumbled back. When he caught his footing he frowned, not understanding his trespass until she crossed her arms over her chest protectively and said, “You are a pig!”

“You don’t think I did that on purpose!” he hissed, looking more embarrassed than angry. “You little minx, I would sooner touch an orc’s breast!”

She hadn’t really thought he had, but after that little comment she didn’t care. “Your females may permit themselves to be handled like animals, but I am an Elf and demand to be treated with respect. If you so much as look at me again I will tell the king of your disgusting behavior!”

He glared a moment, then stormed to his room and pushed open the door roughly. “It will be a cold day on Mt. Doom before I again lay my eyes upon you by my own will!” He didn’t even wait for her to reply, entering and then slamming his door shut.

For a moment she stood there, mildly surprised and wholly irritated. She pictured him standing behind that door, smirking at having cheated her of the last word and swaggering towards his bed, peeling his clothes off…

Turning on her heel, she crossed her arms and headed towards her rooms, trying to banish him from her thoughts. He was not worth her ire. He wasn’t.

*

“What of the Lórien Elves, Ada?” Arwen’s soft voice carried with a distinctive grace. She straightened the folds of her red dress, looking down as Eldarion pawed at her skirt. She sighed, trying to gently urge his hand away.

“Nana,” he whispered, persisting in his attack.
(Mommy.)

Arwen shook her head absently. “Hush, Ion.” She knit her brow in thought, then looked to her father’s contemplative face. “I know they grow weary of this place, but none shall flee to Valinor if Sauron’s hold upon the Grey Havens is not destroyed. Can not my grandfather send Elves to our aid?”
(Hush, Son.)

Elrond nodded thoughtfully, looking to Aragorn’s curious and hopeful expression. “It is true, the Lórien Elves are mobilizing. As a people we recognize that we cannot fade from Middle-Earth as once we thought we could. The darkness spreads. The problem is in numbers. Even should Gondor call to arms all of its men, and should Rohan come to fight and Lothlórien, still there would be too few.”

“What of the Noldor?” Aragorn asked quietly.

The Lord of Rivendell shrugged. “I could call them from fighting at the Grey Havens, but even still I fear the numbers of Sauron’s hordes would overtake us.” Sitting in a lush chair, his hands folded, he knit his brow and considered.

At the window seat Boromir leaned against the stone sill and looked outside, sick of considering and reasoning. He recognized the need for analyzing the numbers, but they could speak until the next spring fell upon the earth, but it would not change that Sauron controlled an almost indomitable force of Orcs and other dark beasts. There would never be enough to make the battle a comfortable one. He was tired of trying to make it into something it would never be. Either they attack or they wait. He wanted a settled answer because thinking on the vast confrontation every hour of the day was disheartening.

“I will send for the Rangers and again send word to King Thranduil,” Elrond continued. He did not look hopeful and his gift of foreseeing the future coupled with that did not leave the Steward much comfort.

Boromir was tired of these endless conversations and meant to do something about it. He stood and bowed to Aragorn with a dry expression. “My apologies, Aragorn. I have just remembered a prior appointment. If I may be excused?”

The king raised an eyebrow at him. “We could use your wisdom, Boromir.”

The Steward shrugged. “You have it. Quit talking and make a choice. Nothing will change what we must do.”

From across where Aragorn was seated Arwen called for him. He turned and saw her motioning Eldarion towards him. “As long as you mean to go off, would you mind caring for the prince? As a personal favor?”

Blinking, Boromir gazed at her for a continuous moment, then exhaled. The child had already reached him with such a look of innocent joy he could not bring himself to turn him down. “Very well,” he groused, picking up the prince, who had lifted his arms and beckoned to be carried. He fixed Aragorn a look. “You owe me for this.” His king only grinned in reply.

He scooped Eldarion up and stalked towards the door, muttering to the child about how irritating people could be.

*

Vana stood out upon the parapet, her hair moving with the breeze as she looked out across the cloudy sky. It was closing in upon evening time and already the sky was dark and angry with another storm. She sighed as she estimated the arrival to be at most another hour away, maybe less. She enjoyed the soft gentle rains that came upon Middle-Earth, seeming to wash away the darkness that sullied the earth, but here the storms were violent and noisy. She was tired of the seemingly endless thunder, the sharp flashes that filled the air. She would like to be riding in the wilds, but the land was covered in mud.

So she had elected to stand here and dream of things she would rather be doing, other than waiting upon the edge of a war. She felt restless inside, wanting something to happen to make an end to the monotony. As it was, something did turn the corner, halting in surprise, then continuing on to preserve his pride. The Rivendell archer turned to see Boromir walking with the little prince following him, hard-pressed to keep up. She couldn’t help but say something. “I hadn’t realized the duties of the Steward were so arduous,” she quipped as he walked by.

He stopped and gave her an appraising look. “I see your wit hasn’t sharpened any. Oh and by the way, sorry about the breast incident. I’ve made a full recover from my drink and will surely not make that mistake again.”

Vana rolled her eyes and looked out across the distance. “From the bottom of my heart I thank you, Steward. I’ll leave you to your babysitting.” She eyed the little prince that had come to stand at her side, his hand wrapped around her pants as he stared at a guard passing by.

Looking up she saw Boromir grinning. “He seems to like you. I therefore leave him in your charge.”

She knit her brow at him in irritation. “I believe you were entrusted with the task. Why should I allow you to escape it?”

His reply was quick and simple. “Because you’re better with children.”

Raising an eyebrow at that, she crossed her arms and cocked her head. “Because I’m a woman?” she asked him.

He shrugged. “Naturally.”

A hand tugged at her pants. “Like Bo-mir, Nenna?”

Vana snorted. “Bo-mir’s a pig” Eldarion giggled at that. She smiled, then looked up to see Boromir walking off, so taking the prince in hand, she followed. “Just where do you think you’re going?” she hissed, holding the child over her hip.

The Steward grunted, stalking ahead of her, visibly irritated when she caught up again. “Out to graze with the other pigs,” he quipped smartly. “Do not follow.”

“Far be it from me to want to be anywhere near you and your pig friends, but I am not going to be your dupe. I was…going to go for a ride.” She glared at his challenging expression.

He shook his head, entering into the stairwell leading up to the higher level. “Take the child. He enjoys riding, particularly during storms.” Offering a mocking grin, he stepped into the threshold of a door, turning away.

“I don’t think so,” she growled, grabbing his arm and hauling him back. He whirled back around with wide, annoyed eyes from which she did not back down. “Don’t you dare presume to…”

She would have said more, a lot more, but there was no time. Movement behind him caught her vision and what she saw startled her, but before she could speak a vase crashed over his head and he fell into her arms, nearly causing her to topple backwards. Eldarion groaned in irritation and everything happened at once. A form in black swept in from the hall, shoving the Steward from her and yet another that had come in from the outside reached for the prince. Desperately she tried to fight off the men, but without harming Eldarion there was no way she could keep him. One of the shadowy forms snatched him away while two others approached her.

The Elf archer kicked out at her assailants, winning a blow to the stomach. He fell back with a groan and she moved to attack the other, but the first figure in black had moved in behind her. A hand went to her back, shoving her into the one she had meant to attack and he grabbed her, putting his hand over her mouth. “What do we do with them?” he asked in a dark, low tone.

Taking her arms and drawing them behind her back, the other breathed, “We take them to the Prince.” She struggled hard against the attack, but it was no use. Her wrists were bound tightly and her weapons taken away. She watched in horror as the one holding Eldarion put a hand over his mouth as he began to cry.

“You’ll never make it out of Minas Tirith,” she growled, thrashing back and forth in her captor’s arms.

The shadow holding Eldarion snorted from beneath his black hood. “Quiet the Elf.”

That was the last thing she heard before blackness took her with a hit to the head.

*

tbc...