may it be an evening star

[theevenstar]

Who| Arwen and open
What| The Arena gets an elf princess
Where| West, toward river and mountains
When| Week 3, Tuesday
Warnings/Notes| tbd

a:

The snow is what stands out to her the most, balanced as precariously she is on the little podium, just a breathe away from trying to crawl back down the tube to relative safety or leaping forward and taking her chances on the ground. So different from the eternal summer she left behind. Arwen chooses the latter after another moment's hesitation, reminding herself that she needs to get to cover. Her brothers are not here to save her, nor is her father. Or Lord Glorfindel. Or, anyone, really, who possesses the warcraft that she does not. Why has she been chosen? Of all those who could be here this moment with a far better chance of surviving battle. The concept of a death-game is still one she's struggling with -- and, frankly, anyone taken from the environs of Rivendell would be doing the same thing -- but the people who brought her to this place were very adamant about getting her into the Arena. She's also still sure that magic was somehow involved, despite any protests to the contrary. How else could they get past her father's defenses?

Unless the game makers are allied with the Dark Lord.

She suppresses a shiver and the idea lest Fate be tempted, moving as quickly as unfamiliar shoes will carry her, until the treeline looms ahead. Every second feels like a minute or, agonizingly, an hour. Like she's waiting for a stranger to burst forth from underneath the snow, or drop down from the sky like a fire-breathing dragon and attempt to take her life. But Arwen does make the shelter of the pine forest, such as it is, stooping to make herself less of a target. She settles near several close trees to get her bearings - and listen.


b:

Eventually Arwen decides to take a chance and head west, toward the mountains. She's traveled through those before, knows the general sort of terrain even though the ones in the Arena aren't the Misty Mountains. She finds a fallen tree branch, far too small to fashion into a bow -- and that would be a useless endeavor anyway, she's not a bowman in any sense of the word -- but it is large enough to use as a makeshift weapon. As the elf walks, she strips off tiny branches from the main trunks, smoothing it out into something more useful. By the time she's done, it closely resembles a quarterstaff; though not nearly as tall.

The humming starts innocently enough, just something to keep her spirits up as she travels, but soon it transforms into a full-blown song.

"*O Star-queen. Star-kindler, glimmering white, sparkling like jewels. The glory of the heavens slides down from the firmament."

Technically, it's a prayer to Elbereth, but she feels better just saying the words out loud. As if the queen of the Valar is protecting her from even this distance. Though she is not Luthien, capable ensnaring the unwary with the power of voice alone, hers is still lovely and crystal-clear. She's aware of the exact moment when she's no longer alone in the immediate area, but continues singing - both as a distraction and to keep her own spirits up. "Having gazed afar at the distance from tree-tangled lands of Middle-earth on this side of the ocean, here, great ocean. Fanuilos, I will sing to you on this side of the ocean, here, great ocean..."

Arwen lets the tune die away, her heart pounding a little too loud to ignore, hands gripping the tree branch like a lifeline. When she speaks again, her voice is pitched to carry a fair distance.

"Friend or ... not friend, I would entreat you come out, that we might speak face to face. It would set my mind at ease to know who has followed my path."

(*lyrics by jrr tolkien)

Comments

[foundafamily]

Lie low. That's been Firo's goal this whole Arena and, though his luck will soon run out, he thinks it's been working all right for him so far. At least in the case of physical conflicts. Trying to survive in conditions that could hardly be farther from his home city has left him feeling pretty ragged. As he heads for the mountains, all he really wants is to find a place to rest that'll keep him out of sight.

The troubling sounds of monsters and fighting and even gunshots--where the hell did they get those?--are what Firo's keeping his ears open for. The last thing he expects to hear is singing--of any sort, but especially something that sounds so lovely.

Lovely or not, he's pretty sure singing out loud is just asking to die here. He curses under his breath as he follows the sound to its source.

He hangs back behind one of the larger boulders, trying to think of a way to warn her that won't freak her out. She spares him from that, though, when she calls out. "Are you tryin' to get people to attack you? Keep it down!"

[theevenstar]

Lying low is probably something that Arwen should look into immediately. At least figuratively, because she tried sneaking from tree to tree shortly after getting the hell away from the launching pad and the cornucopia, and felt foolish rather quickly. Picking a direction and heading that way is how she's coping. Well, that and the singing. It's been fairly quiet singing, as far as that sort of thing goes, nowhere near belting showtunes at the top of her lungs.

Not that she knows any.

Still, it's a show of 'you can't scare me', and makes her feel better, even if it may not exactly be true. They do scare her.

"No." Arwen turns, eyeing the boulder behind which he stands uncertainly, then tucks the stick against her side. "Do those here often attack those who sing?"

Above and beyond the death matches, she means.

[foundafamily]

He steps out the rest of the way from the rock. Almost as an afterthought, he carefully sticks his hunting knife in his pocket. He may want to warn her, but he's not fond of the idea of scaring her into turning on him.

"They'll attack anyone. Didn't they fill you in before they threw you in here?" Firo doesn't quite get that she means outside of the reason they're all stuck here.

Sure, Firo hasn't actually gotten into any skirmishes here, but he's certain it's only a matter of time. People are brutal enough even when they don't have a crowd cheering them on.

[theevenstar]

His expressions softens from carefully neutral into something more friendly, gray eyes radiating a kind of comfortable peace despite the less-than-comfortable circumstances.

"They," Though her tone is not quite so friendly when invoking the masterminds that have brought them to the Arena for amusement. "... told me that I was to fight other tributes to the death in the name of Entertainment."

She lowers the branch as well, to let Firo know she has no intention of hurting him at this point or any point, really.

"But I was not aware song is considered a death sentence as well."

[foundafamily]

He can't hide something of a crooked smile at her summary of The Games. Hopefully it won't upset any of the head honchos who may have heard it, because he's pretty sure that's about as accurate a description of this thing as it gets. "I guess they did, then."

He rubs the back of his neck. As scary as the electric chair and the noose are, a punishment as long drawn out as this is even worse. And both she and Jack are right; this isn't anything other than an especially cruel death sentence. "Anything is. Even if nobody else decides to come bother you, there's weird animals and stuff that might hear you and hunt you down."

"Hell, even the birds are crazy around here."

[theevenstar]

It is only the truth. Arwen is unaccustomed to the taste of lies on her tongue, and has no intention of sampling such a bitter treat.

Arwen would have no concept of electricity if someone described it to her (which is going to make any outing outside the Arena something the gamemakers want to sell tickets to when she discovers it exists), and hanging isn't a thing she's ever seen either. Although can presume it exists somewhere in her world, in place where a sheltered elf maiden does not go.

"That is terrible." She makes a face, frustrated and aghast at the same time. "Animals only hunt to sustain themselves, or to defend offspring. How cruel this realm is."

[foundafamily]

His expression takes a turn for the bitter. "...Dunno where you're from, but people kill each other all the time where I'm from. For anything from revenge to a poker game." For something like cards, Firo'd only ever beat someone up. And that was for cheating and it was his job, so really, it wasn't even close to all this in his opinion.

"But they're worse about it here, I'll give you that. This is some sick shit." He scowls and stares at the ground, trying not to think of the kids he's run into during his time here. How could anyone stick a kid in a place like this?

[theevenstar]

She opens her mouth to tell him that murder is less common in her homeland, but the nagging suspicion that perhaps she does not know everything there is to know holds her tongue. Instead, after an awkward moment, Arwen just nods.

"... Sick feces is bad, yes?" She thinks. His way of speaking, the words he uses, are not altogether making sense, and she wants to be sure there isn't a misunderstanding. At least over something potentially simple to fix.

[foundafamily]

Of all the things to be questioned, he didn't think a common colloquialism would be it. "Oh." Then again, what she's said so far sounds almost a little antiquated. Even Ennis doesn't talk like that. "Yeah, really bad. Sorry."

The apology, absurd as it may seem, is for the language, not the not-at-all-comforting assessment of their situation. The way he figures it, she already knows what's going on and trying to be nice about it would either be patronizing or dangerously misleading.

Speaking of the harshness of this place makes him even more conscious of the fact that all she seems to be carrying is that stick. "...Is that thing all you've got?"

[theevenstar]

Sadly, not all colloquialisms are common to all worlds, and Arwen does encounter rough speech often. At least the kind of speech she, or her father, might classify as such. It's a hard life being a sheltered elf noble, let me tell you. "That is kind of you."

The apology. He sounds sincere enough, which makes it easier to accept. She looks down at the tree branch, then back to Firo.

"Yes. We were not given other weapons before being put in those unsual ... tubes?" It sound like the right word, but she's never encountered their type before.

[foundafamily]

"Uh, sure..." He doesn't think an apology really counts when words don't cost anything. And he has to worry about someone who so quickly classifies a simple action as kindness. By his thinking, being nice like that is what gets you a knife in your ribs.

Or it could be a ploy and he's about to get stabbed with that stick. You really never know.

Taking another cursory look at her, though, he's still not inclined to be that suspicious. He nods, "Yeah, they ain't nice enough to give you a hand goin' into the action."

He fiddles with the strap of his backpack, hesitating from the awareness that he's about to do something stupid. Parting with any supplies is difficult and he's not ready to give up his one good weapon, but... "I can give you some food, if you need it."

[theevenstar]

But words do count; they cost, they heal, they hurt. They matter, especially in the context of people's actions. As such, Arwen remains where she is, her stick just a stick for all intents and purposes. It won't become a weapon unless someone tries to hurt her.

She does not think Firo will, unless he gets provoked.

"It puts participants at a great disadvantage." The tone of her voice is very disapproving. At least until he offers some of his food store, and receives a smile in return. "That is very generous, my lord, but I can last another day without food. Please save it for yourself."

Or someone else who might need the sustenance for immediate survival.

[foundafamily]

Firo nods; he doesn't see how leaving the odds stacked against certain arrivals makes the arena any more fun to watch. Then again, he doesn't understand much at all about this whole thing.

As much as there’s a part of him that wants to gratefully accept her refusal, the better part is more reluctant. Privately, he decides to blame that on the influence of his family—or maybe he’s just losing his edge. He shakes his head, "First off, I'm no 'lord' or anything. And two, if you can last another day, then so can I. If you don't want it now, then save it for when you need it."

The food from Swann and the Cornucopia won't last him long, but he's managed to save it with a combination of scavenging, amateur hunting attempts, and simply not eating. He doesn’t relish the idea of going without, but he’s done it before and he knows he can last.

“You can look at it as a middle finger to those guys,” he flicks his gaze upward to indicate the gamemakers, wherever they may be watching.

b, after she's met everyone else in this log

[elfstone]

Before she reaches the end of the song, she'll hear another voice join with hers. It's not in Sindarin -- it can't be, not with the devilry put on him by the Capitol that forces all he says to come out in the language they speak here (Aragorn refers to all technology he doesn't understand that has been put to evil use as "devilries") -- but the words are translated the same, and come out the same, and he knows the song as well as she does.

He also knows the voice as well as his own, and prays he is mistaken. Perhaps it is Luthien. Perhaps it is a trick by the Game-makers. Perhaps he is asleep. There are many possibilities besides that of Arwen actually being here.

He hasn't seen her yet. He's on the other side of a rise, in the foothills of the mountains -- he was checking the traps he'd set when he heard her voice -- and though he stands, he makes no move to come closer. He can put off having his fears confirmed a few more seconds.

[theevenstar]

The sound of a male voice -- a recognizable male voice -- stops Arwen dead in her tracks. It's not just the familiarity, or that the other singer is joining in and harmonizing on a song that is many thousands of years older than she is. It's ... she'd know the timbre, the caress of this particular voice anyway. Has, in fact, heard it even in her reverie dreaming.

Her breath stills. Motionless, the elf might appear to be a very life-like mannequin, dressed in this season's Tribute fashion, and set out as a taunt or practical joke.

Then her head turns in the direction of his melody, eyes closed for a moment as she just listens. Unsure whether or not to believe what her own senses are telling her. She moves almost as an afterthought, stick held at her side in case there's a reason to defend herself, running up the side of the incline like a noiseless gazelle in flight --

And suddenly she's there at the top of the ridge, wide gray eyes locked on his form.

"... Ranger?"

[elfstone]

It is her. He looks up, and sees her, and his heart breaks.

"Lady," he says, and in it there is joy and fear and sorrow: he says with the respect of your majesty and the familiarity of beloved.

(His clothes are strange -- he's dressed like her, but with a warm jacket and gloves and scarf. Apparently, he's impressed enough Capitol folk for them to try to keep him alive. A bow, rough-hewn, is slung over one shoulder next to goose-fletched arrows, and a pack sits at his feet next to an empty trap. Aragorn has been in this place for a while.)

[theevenstar]

And hers swells with unexpected hope, the echo of starlight shining in her gaze.

"Lord," his lady returns with equal gravity, remaining where she is. Eyes trail over him, from head to toe - taking in the suit (and oh the stab of pain that recognition brings) to the strange jacket and accessories. The weapons, obviously hand-crafted, bring the hint of a smile, and her legs start down the slope after a long moment of deliberation. His trap is ignored for now, it might as well be a tree stump as far as she's currently concerned.

When Arwen reaches his position, she slows down and halts, tilting her head to the side. Up close he looks exactly the same; Aragorn may have been here for whatever duration of time but it has not marked him physically. Not yet. The fingers of her free hand reach up to brush gently against his stubbled jaw. As if to assure herself he's solid, not a phantom to evaporate with wind gusts.

"You are truly here." Her eyes are now troubled, clouded with worry and anger. "I am so sorry, Estel, that you ... were brought to this place."

[elfstone]

--she pities him? His mouth opens for a moment, lost for words. Her fingers feel all too real against his cheek; he catches her hand in his gloved one, and there is anguish in his expression.

"Tell me this is a Capitol trick," he says, grieved. "Tell me I am deceived. I would not have you here for any price."

[theevenstar]

Of course. She pities anyone caught up in this deathtrap, but especially those she cares about. It is not the reunion she has longed for, no matter how briefly since his departure from their home, but present circumstances are what they are. Arwen will make do with what she has.

"If it is a trick, it is one in which we are both snared, beloved." The urge to apologize is overwhelming, and she opens her mouth to do so, but -- but the words are stuck in her throat. How can she apologize for something that was not her choice? Instead, her fingers lace with his, ignoring the glove. "But I am here, and if you wish me to leave your side," Now that she's found him. "Tell me now."

Arwen has no intention of obeying if he does, but it is nice to let the men have an opinion sometimes.

[elfstone]

The grief turns to distress -- not fear, but a clear, knee-jerk absolutely not. "Nay," he tells her, "now that I have found you, I would not have you leave my sight. Not here." His other hand lifts to her face, to brush fingers across her cheek. He cannot feel so much as her warmth through the gloves.

Aragorn's mind begins to race. Her presence means there are more things to consider here than just himself. He will protect her; there is no doubt about that. However, there can be no concealing who she is. There may have been a hope of that if she had not been brought directly into the Arena, but they cannot have that discussion, not here, not with the entire Capitol watching and listening, and she may have said her name already. Therefore, if her identity cannot be concealed, that leaves him two options: risk revealing his own, or conceal his own closeness to her.

The latter, he cannot do.

In that moment, Aragorn is resigned to the Capitol knowing his identity. How much worse can it be, he considers, if they know he is the heir of Isildur? If a servant of Sauron is brought here, that servant would have greater concerns than Aragorn's life -- it would be pitted against the Capitol, and Aragorn suspects the Capitol would not allow him to be murdered by a fellow Tribute off-camera. It would be bad for the blood sport.

His jaw sets. If that is how it must be, so be it; he will be Aragorn, so that he can protect Arwen.

Aragorn's shoulders straighten for a moment, weeks of care and concealment falling from them. His hands find the sides of her neck, gently bringing her face to him. And, if she does not pull away, he will kiss her there, in the snow, before the Capitol and its cameras. The kiss is warm and gentle, but there is a resolve in it she may not understand, a defiance with context she is unaware of. It is a decisive kiss.

[theevenstar]

She looks visibly relieved; that he wants her to remain, that she does not have to countermand any request to the contrary, and sags against him as that particular weight is taken from her shoulders. They can face anything as long as they are together. Admittedly, the Arena is a big thing, and Arwen is still coming to terms with it. The depths to which others will sink, how bad things will get, have not yet truly registered. Her sense of honor is still somewhat sheltered, despite the few terrible events she has lived through.

As if in agreement to her own thoughts, Aragorn straightens his shoulders, determination flaring within gray eyes. Before she can ask a single question, however, he cups her face so tenderly in his hands and takes her breath away with that simple, gentle kiss. The determination underlying warm lips remains untranslated, or even noticed, all of her concentration taken up with the physical. The beating of her heart, the feel of his skin beneath her fingers when they dip to rest near his collarbone.

Then, finally, when the first rush of wild, pure emotion passes, Arwen can feel the intent behind, though not yet the cause. Or even why. Eventually she leans back, just far enough away to speak, nose brushing against his.

"Then I will never leave you, Aragorn. Not in this world, or the next."

[elfstone]

His heart aches, hearing that. He knows the choice before her, and knows with which choice her heart lies. Aragorn has a lot of complicated feelings about it.

But they do not belong in this moment. With one last brush of fingers against her cheek, Aragorn steps back, offering a hand to her.

"Come, then. It is dangerous to stay out in the open. There is a place not far from here where we can talk."

He leaves the trap where it is; it is empty and unsprung and will wait here for any unwary creature who happens to come along.

[theevenstar]

They both do. It is a complicated situation, if one looks with the head and not the heart. Otherwise, her choice is surprisingly simple. And underscored with the gentleness of his touch. This is where she belongs.

"Then lead on," Arwen opts to keep her voice light, less to ignore the peril of their surroundings, and more to raise their spirits. Insomuch as her presence may be able to, there is so much about this place she does not know. "And I will follow."

Long, slender fingers wrap around his, and Aragorn's elf falls into step beside him, her free hand still gripping the stick. Just in case.

[elfstone]

She walks lighter than he; he must trudge through the snow while she walks upon it. But the going is not slow, and the cave is not far. Aragorn leads her quick and quiet toward the snow-covered lower slopes of the mountains and stops in front of a deep drift.

Letting go of her hand, he steps up and pushes at the drift; snow falls away to reveal an animal skin that has been wedged into fissures in the rock above it. It belonged to a smilodon, once. Now it belongs to Aragorn and disguises his shelter when snow falls hard enough.

He pulls it aside, gently so as not to disturb too much of the snow that is caught in the fur that turns it nearly white, and steps halfway through, reaching back to take her hand and help her in after him.

The cave is significantly warmer than it was outside; there's no fire, but it carries the lingering smell of cooked food. In a shadowy corner is a sizable stack of wood; close to the entrance, where it's coldest, is a tightly packed pile of snow. Aragorn drops the pack that was slung over his shoulders onto the ground by the wall, and sets the bow next to it.

"It is no elf-hall," he admits, wondering if maybe Thranduil could have crafted a better shelter, "but it is out of the wind, and it is hidden when the snow comes, and there is food and wood for a fire." He's keenly aware that this is one more thing in a long line of Things Aragorn Does That Are Not Good Enough For Arwen Undómiel No Matter What She Herself Might Have To Say About It, and he's irrationally half afraid she will think it an unacceptable place to stay. Probably not, he knows -- she's too good for that -- but even if she doesn't say anything, what if she's thinking something like oh god so this is the kind of situation I've fallen into, I'm so fucked--

[theevenstar]

For now she does, but the effects that this world will weave around her are not yet known. The natural affinity of elves for the natural world is what keeps her boots from sinking deeply into the snow, but there are faint footprints if one takes the time to look.

The drift that is not a drift takes her by surprise, curiosity and amusement lurking in grey eyes for his cleverness. As she steps inside after him, her free hand reaches out to gently pat the pelt in silent thanks, then she's fully inside the cave and out of the weather.

It's small, she thinks, unintentionally echoing his comment, but small can be cozy, and who is Arwen to turn up her nose at the genuine offer of warmth and shelter. No one, that's who. She is not above the kindness of anyone willing to reach out, especially if that 'anyone' is someone she holds very dear.

"No, it is not." She leans forward to press her lips against his cheek. "It is better, because you are here." And, frankly, that is all she will ask for from this strange, brutal place. Except maybe the ability to read minds, so that she can punch his arm the next time her ranger mentally thinks about Things Aragorn Does That Are Not Good Enough For Arwen Undómiel No Matter What She Herself Might Have To Say About It.

"Thank you. For sharing your home with me."