My Winter

A/N Thank you to Daisy Princess and Anne Withane for their reviews.
A/N The poem in the beginning of the story belongs to me.
A/N I forgot to put a disclaimer on the first chapter. Here it is: I don’t own any of Tolkien’s characters, save for the original ones mentioned in this story.
A/N This chapter is a bit of a dark look into Aragorn’s soul. Might be OOC, but not sure. I promise this will probably be the darkest chapter of the story.
Ch. 2 …We Challenge the World With Our Sweat and Our Tears…
Let’s Just Pretend
My feet take me to you
Every starless night.
For empty promises
And your hollow kisses.
We don’t seek commitment
Just hard, bruising contact;
Only enough to prove,
These bodies still have life.
As we reach the crescendo
My heart sags with guilt.
I’m not screaming in ecstasy
For I seek a deeper touch.
Let’s just pretend,
You’ll stay the night;
Holding my heart,
Instead of my body.

~Aragorn’s POV~
Sitting here in the large, ostentatious banquet hall in the castle of Gondor causes me to long for the simplicity I lived for during my life as a Ranger. Back then, it was hunt and kill. Now, my prey is much more interwoven in politics and decisions. It is times like this I miss being in the heat of battle, with naught but my sword and friends to worry about.
Uneasy is the head that wears the crown. That was what Eldarion said to me over a fortnight ago when we dined privately in my quarters. Since Arwen’s death five years ago, I have begun to push Eldarion away. He no longer seeks me out to go riding or to even just speak. He has taken my distant manner towards him as a personal offense, as his nurse told me a year ago. He buries his dark head in the old scrolls and parchments in the library, absorbing and learning all that he can. For an eight-year old prince, he is exceptionally well-read, though he does not enjoy the rough housing his peers partake in. I suppose part of that might be my fault, but I am often to busy to notice.
Much has changed since Arwen’s death. I am no longer the valiant, chivalrous man I was when I took the throne eleven years ago. I have become a hard ruler, though fair in my decisions. It is the way about which I conduct myself that has seen the most change. No longer do I look to the horizon with the hope of a new day; rather, I see it as an unending existence of the shell of a man I used to be.
How I long to recapture the hopeful and optimistic man I was during my time with the Fellowship! Even in such dark days, a light of faith shined in my stormy gray eyes. But I know that such a light came from the belief that I would live happilth mth my love, Arwen. When she died, my light went out and my eyes become a steel gray, hardened by time and experience.
It is an empty life, the one in which I live now. Filled with empty conversations from my court and superficial actions from those who claim to be my peers. I know that I should take heart in the fact that I have a son who embodies all that was true of Arwen. But to look at him sometimes is like re-opening an old wound; it is much to sore and raw to rehash.
Between the multitude of parties and gatherings I find myself hosting at the castle, I have become a man who takes comfort in the carnal pleasures of life; sex and blood. If I am not found in counsel with my advisors, I am often burying my pain in bed with some lovely lady of the court eleaeleasing my anger on the numerous hunting parties I organize. It is those few moments of pure ecstasy and aggression that the perpetual pain my heart is heavy with eases, if just for a moment.
For my legendary deeds and claim to kingship, I am not lacking in women eager to be my courtesans. Men clamor to accompany me on my hunting trips in order to say they have killed with Isildur’s heir. But over all this time, a small part of me cannot help but be filled with loneliness for I know their motives to be with me are shallow in nature.
Such is the way of the world, I suppose. A malicious and cruel Mistress who allows us simple times of happiness, then snatches them away in the blink of an eye. It is probably better that Eldarion learns this lesson now rather then growing up with illusions of goodness and hope as I did.
So this is where I am, five years later. I sit at the head of a lavish table, filled with delicious food from the farthest reaches of my reign. Lords and ladies eat and drink at the table of an empty man. My son sits farthest from me at the end of this large oak table, no doubt lost in some new scroll.
But tonight, we have special guests at my dining table. Legolas and Gimli have returned from some of their infamous adventures and are regaling my court with tales of their travel. While all sit and listen with rapt attention, I feel Legolas’ eyes watching me; probably filled with pity and sympathy. I scowl inwardly; I have no use for such needless emotions.
Tomorrow, Eomer and his men will join us for my annual hunting trip into the woods around Ithilien. We will meet up with Faramir in his city, then hunt for three nights. I always prefer to hunt in the dead of winter; it is the only time when nature imitates my inner chill.
I have been so lost in thought, I barely notice as people begin to retire for the evening. Looking to the end of the table, I see Eldarion has disappeared. Looking to my lady for the night, the daughter of one of my advisors, I stand and we both walk to my quarters.
Dark hair and blue eyes are the only features I require of the ladies I bed. This one, Elianora, has soft ebony hair and fair blue eyes. Such a lovely consolation for my troubles. As we tumble into my room, I swear I could have seen Eldarion walking by with a look of disgust on his face. Caring not, I slam the door and begin to advance on my prey. Undergarments, robes and boots all lead a trail to the bed I find myself on. I look down at Elianora and can almost trick myself into believing it is Arwen.
I have been told by many of my ladies that I am like an animal in bed; savage, ruthless and dominant. Tonight is no exception. With a harsh kiss and low growl, I am buried between Elianora before she can comment. Hard and quick are my thrusts, blinding is my pain. Within moments, I feel the familiar build-up in my stomach and snake an arm down between Elianora to bring her with me. Seconds after, I am free from the ache in my heart, if only for a moment. Hearing the sobbing pleasure of Elianora brine bae back to reality.
With a low yell, I command her to leave. Such is the way of my love-making; rough, fast and cold. From the look in her eyes, I can see she had hoped she might be different. That she might be the one to break my icy walls. That she might be the next Queen of my Heart. With a shake of my head to ground her dreams, I throw her gown to her and fall back onto my pillow. Callous, I know, but such is life.
Once I hear the door shut, I throw my pillow against it in a careless attempt to rid myself of the guilt that has made its home in my heart. I know that the way I treat these women is heartless and cruel, but I cannot bring myself to be the man I once was. It is almost as if I am in a state of continuous mourning and to be who I was again would mean acknowledging Arwen is really gone. And that is something I don’t think I will ever be ready to confront.
Standing up, I throw my silk crimson robe over my body and move to stand in front of the mirror on my wall. I look on, my eyes squinting into the dark robes of Lady Night. I don’t know what I was expecting to see.
As I turn away, my mirror begins to fog. I look around, reach for my sword and draw into a battle stance. As I look back to the mirror, I see that it is not my reflection staring back at me; rather, it is a picture of a strange room.
It is a beautiful room, painted in the colors of autumn. A e wie window lines one side of the mysterious room, showing a tall mountain topped with snow. A huge bed sits on the far right wall, four posts towering above it with lace falling from them. From the darkness, I can tell it is night in this strange room.
Suddenly, a door in the far left corner opens. Inside walks a lady that seems vaguely familiar to me. Then, it hits me. She is the mysterious lady from my dreams the other night. The one with whose lip prints I found on my hand that morning.
She is strange, this woman. Rosemund, I remember her saying as her name. Sinking into my large oak chair, I watch as she moves into the room and shuts the door behind her. She moves to stand in front of the window, softly tracing the wooden panels that lie at its top.
Rosemund turns from the window and makes her way to the large bed. Suddenly, she turns and comes to stand in front of me. Or what I assume is a mirror. I am able to get a good look at hew thw then I was in my dream. She is about an inch or two shorter than me, tall by the standards of women in Gondor. She is wearing a deep blue shirt and some kind of white breeches. Her short honey blonde hair is curled away from her face in a most peculiar, but attractive manner. I notice that she is not as young as I thought she was. Tiny lines lie at the ends of her eyes and in her brown depths, I see a soul that is guarded and shielded. She is by no means breath-taking or striking, but there is an unconventional beauty in her.
Suddenly, I am take a step back as she begins to speak. Her voice is soft like a lark, but with an edge buried beneath its gentleness. “I must really be dreaming because I am looking at a man in my mirror,” she said.
“You can see me, my lady,” I asked in disbelief.
“Yes, I can. And I thought we established at our last meeting that it’s not ‘my lady,’ but Rosemund,” she said with a soft laugh.
“Pardon me. I forgot…Rosemund,” I said, the name sounding strange on my lips.
“What brings you to the mountains of Vancouver,” she said as she took a step back and sat down in a chair.
“I know not of such a place, Rosemund. Nor do I know what kind of magic this is that lets me see you,” I replied cautiously.
“I chalk it up to dreaming. I must have been so tired from going through my mother’s things that I didn’t realize I had fallen asleep,” Rosemund said with a wave of her hand.
“Then do you think I am dreaming as well,” I asked, somewhat shocked at my politeness. This was the first woman in a long time that I was remotely civil and cheerful with. Even if it was in my dreams.
“Only in my dreams would I be having a conversation with royalty through my mirror,” she answered with a smirk.
“It is a bit strange,” I thought out loud.
“Truth is stranger than fiction. Or something like that,” she remarked.
“Where was thace ace we met in our dreams last,” I asked with curiosity.
“It was the lake by the house I grew up in. I suppose when your subconscious is trying to tell you something, it picks a familiar place to tell you,” she said.
“Such strange words you use, Rosemund,” I said with interest.
“Such formal language you use with a woman who is as far from royalty as you can get, Estel,” she said with a slightly-high pitched voice that reminded me of the ladies in my court.
“It is rather odd how we have met. Are you from some part of Middle Earth that has yet to be discovered,” I asked.
“Unless you are referring to the Middle Earth my daughter is reading about, I am now completely convinced that this is my subconscious trying to tell me something. And I have never been known for strange dreams,” she said, more to herself than to me.
“So you are not from this world,” I inquired.
“I am of this world. Maybe the world you are thinking about is not the one I’m talking about,” Rosemund said, then looked behind me, “but I can see the rules of sex still apply with the royalty of my world as it does in yours.”
“What are you implying, my lady,” I asked, emphasizing her title.
“Unless you are a cross-dresser, I don’t think that’s your chemise laying on the bed,” she said matter-of-factly, pointing to the piece of incriminating clothing, “and your room doesn’t look like it’s had a lady’s touch. So what I am assg isg is that the lady that belongs to is not your wife. In fact, your wife is probably in another room.”
I was so blinded by my anger that I didn’t feel the mirror vibrate against me as I rushed to throttle the insane woman. Stepping back and rubbing my forehead, I said in a low voice, “Did it ever occur to you that the woman this belongs to is not the woman who holds my heart? That I am finding pleasure where I can because the woman I love is dead?”
We both stared at the other for what seemed like an eternity. Brown eyes looked incredulously at my blue ones. Finally, Rosemund stepped back and said, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have jumped to such conclusions. I know what it’s like to lose someone close to you.”
“But not someone who you loved with all your heart. A sister or mother perhaps, but not your reason for living,” I yelled, my usual control slipping with the mere voice of this woman.
Suddenly, I saw a fire sparked in her hazel eyes, almost like a forgotten memory that was found. With a voice seething in anger, Rosemund said, “Don’t assume things you know nothing about. I, too, know the pain of losing the one you love. Of merely existing because they aren’t there to give you a reason to wake up in the morning. Of living in a perpetual winter because your spring has been forsaken.”
She jumped from her chair and moved towards the door. Looking back, she said softly, “I know what my subconscious is trying to tell me. That there are more important things to worry about right now than the death of my husband. But do me a favor; send someone else to tell me such messages in the future because they kind of need to be handled with a bit of delicacy. Not with the bluntness you use.”
With one last look, she disappeared. I suppose she had gone to wake up from her dreams, as she so eloquently put it. As I stood and retreated back to my bed, I couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that this would not be the last time I saw Rosemund. And a part of me thought maybe that wouldn’t be so bad. For almost five minutes in five years, I almost felt like myself again.