Into the West (A Lord of the Rings Fan Fic)

Chapter Two

Amaruil woke up disorientated, the golden sunlight drifting into her room at completely the wrong angle. She leapt out of bed and was at the window before she remembered where she was, collapsing back on her bed happily as she let the warm sun kiss every ridge of her face.

Eventually she left her bed and dressed slowly, choosing a deep red dress; as she pulled it out of her dresser she ran her hands along the material, delighting in the softness of the velvet. She located the matching slippers and sat down at her dresser to brush her hair.

“Would you like me to do that for you sister?” asked Merenwen as she stood in the doorway.

“Tancave,” Amaruil replied as her sister moved to stand behind her and began to run the comb through her hair.

“Your hair is so beautiful,” she said as she began braiding it.

“Your hair is the same as mine,” Amaruil pointed out.

“But yours is so much longer and such a rich brown. I have never seen so many colours in one person’s hair than in yours. Look, there is… light brown, dark brown, black, gold, auburn… Mine is just brown,” Merenwen pouted.

“Yes but from far away mine too just looks brown. If you examined yours with half as much dedication as you do mine then you would see that it is not so different after all.”

“There, it is done,” she said, stepping away from her sister.

“Le hannon Merenwen,” she smiled and stood up fluidly. “Shall we go and eat?”

After breakfast Amaruil left and wandered the paths of Imladris, letting her feet take her where they would. Before too long she found herself gazing out at the river which gurgled in the valley below her. Amaruil had always felt a strong pull towards water and spent many contemplative hours by the river as she watched it lap at the banks on either side. She was, however, a little scared to see the sea in all its majesty for fear that she would feel the inescapable pull of the Sea-longing and leave everything which was so dear to her behind in Ennorath.

She spent many of her days in a similar fashion, walking with her sister or Arwen or hiding in the library with Erestor and poring over the many stories which were collected in the annals there.

One morning Arwen found her gazing at the river and shook her from her reverie. “Amaruil!” she said as she sat down beside her.

“Yes?”

“I met a man last night,” Arwen said with a laugh.

“Continue.”

“He called out to me and he said, ‘Tinúviel, Tinúviel!’ as I walked beneath the trees,” grinned Arwen as Amaruil smiled as well. “And I asked him what his name was and he replied, ‘Aragorn, Arathorn’s son, Heir of Isildur, Lord of the Dúnedain.’ And he asked me why he had not heard of me before when he has been living in Imladris for so long,” Arwen finished, waiting for Amaruil’s reaction.

“So there is hope?” she finally asked.

“It would seem so. He was raised in secret.”

“Arwen, I know you well and I know that this is not the case but you must be wary of him.”

“Why because you think that I will fall in love with him?” she said, her voice containing a mocking lilt.

Amaruil did not bother to contradict Arwen’s statement, merely continuing with, “Arwen you have too much at stake. Imagine how your father would react.”

“Do not trouble yourself Amaruil; I will not fall in love with him. I was just amused by his words and I thought you would like to hear my story,” Arwen said, assuaging Amaruil’s worries.