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And just when you thought it was safe...
...here's another version made into, you guessed it, drabbles. Six of them to be exact. Same idea as "Evenstar" though with a slightly different spin.
Arwen/Aragorn, Aragorn/Boromir
Title: Season of Roses
Disclaimer: These characters are not mine.
Feedback: Hoped for, but not required.
~*~
Spring
He spreads her dark hair out on the pillow. He breathes words of love against the lustrous strands twined around his fingers, and she can feel it, all around them, permeating the very air just as surely as the scent of the blooming roses that cling to the trellis outside the open window. She can feel the memory of another, she knows that he remembers fairer locks tangled between his fingers, locks that were once sun-washed and dusky golden and far shorter than her own. She knows, but she will not yet ask him of it, not this bright morning.
~*~
Summer
He comes to her late, after the candles have burned low, when the world slumbers without even the barest of breezes in the heavy, sullen air. He presses close, already sweating, roughened hands gentle against her soft, timeless skin that bears no mark of the relentless passage of years and seasons. She breathes in his scent, and that of ripe roses, the last of the season that hasn’t yet wilted away, and shudders beneath him. She knows he will not find the scars and flaws his loving hands instinctively search for, and one day, she will ask, but not now.
~*~
Autumn
The morning dawns crisp and cool, the sun rises in the stark blue sky, sending bars of white-gold light streaming through the thick paned windows. She pulls the fur trimmed coverlet higher, wants a fire in the hearth but does not yet wish to wake him. She awaits the end of his dreams, and when his eyes open they are heavy with sleep, unguarded, and she knows, even as he reaches for her, that he has dreamed again. He’s dreamed of eyes that once were as green and pale as the first blush of spring, as the season of roses.
~*~
Winter
The bedroom is cold despite the fire snapping in the hearth, a bitter winter having settled over the lands. Frost had touched the windows with lacy patterns, not even the warmth of the afternoon sun melting their swirls. She watches as he studies the parchments that occupy so much of his time now, imagines that she smells the scent of roses, though the vine outside their window has fallen dormant, awaiting springtime, its blooms long since withered away. She longs for the spring, and as he looks up and smiles, she asks, quietly, gently, “My love, tell me of Boromir.”
~*~
A New Year
She tells him that she does not fault his heart, as it was his heart that captured her from the very first, that their love is deep, abiding, unbreakable, and so he kneels at her side, begins to quietly speak. She smoothes his hair, weeps with him, aches with him, loves him, and only when the night falls away, and a New Year rises with the morning, does his hoarse voice still. She feels his loss, has learned it as her own and together, for the first time, they mourn the lost son of Gondor, and what might have been.
~*~
Spring
Warm winds issue from the south, reawaking the lands, greening leaves and grass. His arms are tight around her, and he has not yet asked why she is standing in these long vacant rooms. They linger some time without speaking before he turns her attention to the bud laden vine wreathing the window. She looks to him, finding him lost deep in memory, but it is only for a moment, and then he is smiling warmly at her. The season of roses has returned to the city, to Boromir’s window, and she welcomes it. She welcomes it with open arms.
Arwen/Aragorn, Aragorn/Boromir
Title: Season of Roses
Disclaimer: These characters are not mine.
Feedback: Hoped for, but not required.
~*~
Spring
He spreads her dark hair out on the pillow. He breathes words of love against the lustrous strands twined around his fingers, and she can feel it, all around them, permeating the very air just as surely as the scent of the blooming roses that cling to the trellis outside the open window. She can feel the memory of another, she knows that he remembers fairer locks tangled between his fingers, locks that were once sun-washed and dusky golden and far shorter than her own. She knows, but she will not yet ask him of it, not this bright morning.
~*~
Summer
He comes to her late, after the candles have burned low, when the world slumbers without even the barest of breezes in the heavy, sullen air. He presses close, already sweating, roughened hands gentle against her soft, timeless skin that bears no mark of the relentless passage of years and seasons. She breathes in his scent, and that of ripe roses, the last of the season that hasn’t yet wilted away, and shudders beneath him. She knows he will not find the scars and flaws his loving hands instinctively search for, and one day, she will ask, but not now.
~*~
Autumn
The morning dawns crisp and cool, the sun rises in the stark blue sky, sending bars of white-gold light streaming through the thick paned windows. She pulls the fur trimmed coverlet higher, wants a fire in the hearth but does not yet wish to wake him. She awaits the end of his dreams, and when his eyes open they are heavy with sleep, unguarded, and she knows, even as he reaches for her, that he has dreamed again. He’s dreamed of eyes that once were as green and pale as the first blush of spring, as the season of roses.
~*~
Winter
The bedroom is cold despite the fire snapping in the hearth, a bitter winter having settled over the lands. Frost had touched the windows with lacy patterns, not even the warmth of the afternoon sun melting their swirls. She watches as he studies the parchments that occupy so much of his time now, imagines that she smells the scent of roses, though the vine outside their window has fallen dormant, awaiting springtime, its blooms long since withered away. She longs for the spring, and as he looks up and smiles, she asks, quietly, gently, “My love, tell me of Boromir.”
~*~
A New Year
She tells him that she does not fault his heart, as it was his heart that captured her from the very first, that their love is deep, abiding, unbreakable, and so he kneels at her side, begins to quietly speak. She smoothes his hair, weeps with him, aches with him, loves him, and only when the night falls away, and a New Year rises with the morning, does his hoarse voice still. She feels his loss, has learned it as her own and together, for the first time, they mourn the lost son of Gondor, and what might have been.
~*~
Spring
Warm winds issue from the south, reawaking the lands, greening leaves and grass. His arms are tight around her, and he has not yet asked why she is standing in these long vacant rooms. They linger some time without speaking before he turns her attention to the bud laden vine wreathing the window. She looks to him, finding him lost deep in memory, but it is only for a moment, and then he is smiling warmly at her. The season of roses has returned to the city, to Boromir’s window, and she welcomes it. She welcomes it with open arms.
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You should post this on Edhellond.
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Thank you, thank you for posting them!
Thank you for letting me know how much you enjoyed. It's always a lovely thing to hear. I was initially a tad nervous, but I'm glad that I posted them now! ;)
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She feels his loss, has learned it as her own...
And we feel the loss of both of them thought your writing. Bravo.
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I like how you put that! That's exactly what a drabble is isn't it? I think that why I like them so.
And we feel the loss of both of them thought your writing. Bravo.
Thanks so much! That's wonderful to hear, as I very much wanted the loss to be shared by them both by the end. I'm glad you enjoyed, thanks for commenting! ;)
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