Chapter Text
5 January 3019 | Eriador | Maeve
Only days away from a full moon, their nightly path should have been well lit, but biting winds returned with a vengeance and overcast the sky, smothering the light. Maeve had been pleased she was finally afforded enough moonlight to stop tripping up in the dark, but as soon as it had been given, it was taken away. The cutting chill only added to her irritation as she stumbled continuously, Aragorn’s quick hands saving her from eating the dirt. Many close calls resolved with Aragorn taking her hand and placing it on his sleeve, where it was laced to his vest so she might grip onto it with some ease and save his ‘poor nerves.’ He’d unknowingly put the image in her head of him dressed up like Mrs Bennet in a regency bonnet which had her more unbalanced in a fit of giggles. She ended up with her fingers dipped into the laced shoulder seam where they remained, slowly warming her finger’s tips inside his insulated warmth. It was nice.
The winds became violent over the next few hours, the chill sapping the energy from them all. Many rests were taken when they would stumble up natural windbreaks in the form of scattered boulders. One such rest, she slumped next to Legolas in exhaustion and dropped her head against his shoulder. He wrapped his cloak around their front like a blanket, and with Aragorn seated close beside her, all directions were covered from the unruly gales. After smearing a generous amount of balm over her wind-burnt face and cracking lips, she passed the small copper tub towards Aragorn to use. He did the same and passed it down the group as they’d begun to do routinely. It wasn’t just her face that was suffering the elements. She snatched it from a pouting Legolas who had just received it from Sam. His face was still perfect as usual and she knew it was wasted on him as he’d confessed he enjoyed the smell mostly. She had to ration it because of course none of the males had thought to bring along more hygiene items than what they considered necessary.
“I thought we were finished with these bloody winds when we left December behind, but it seems determined to follow us,” she groaned. Her eyes flicked to Aragorn when a surprised hum emanated from his chest, his expression one of enlightenment.
He spotted her questioning look and, with a twitch in the corner of his balm-coated lips, proceeded to quote the poem from Earthly Paradise in perfect verbatim. In the nights where the company shared tales and prose, she’d heard Aragorn’s offerings and thought him to have an excellent voice for performing; his tone and elocution held them all in rapture. Reciting poetry and the written word was a skill that could be taught, but some people had an inherent gift that set them apart from other bards. He could definitely claim to be such.
“That through one window men beheld the spring,
And through another saw the summer glow,
And through a third the fruited vines a-row,
While still, unheard, but in its wonted way,
Pip’d the drear wind of that...December day.”
Maeve’s jaw went slack as he quoted so beautifully a piece of art so intrinsic to her heart. His resonant euphony had her body at odds with nature as she felt a cascading warmth that spread through her which contrasted the icy air that shivered goosebumps over her skin. She felt like she was in a hot and cold plunge pool, just from his voice. He must have taken her dumbfounded expression for further confusion.
“I was uncertain as to whether the word ‘December’ in the last line pertained to a season or wintertime, but now see it is your final month,” he explained, abashed. “I apologise if I have not done it justice in my rendition just now.”
His embarrassed apology had her shaking off her awe. She waved her hands in a panic as she rambled.
“Oh my god, no! That was perfect. How—you just spoke it almost perfectly after hearing it once. I’m genuinely impressed. Like, wow.”
He smiled, looking pleased with himself before Legolas decided he might comment as well.
“Ah, but you did not recount entirely without error, Estel. It is ‘fruited vines a-row,’ and you said ‘fruited vines row,’” Legolas sniped before letting out a small yelp as Maeve elbowed him in the ribs.
“Don’t be pedantic.”
“You said he spoke it perfectly, but he did not. I am only saying—”
“Blondie, respectfully, shut the f*ck up.”
“I fail to see how that could be considered respectful in any situation.”
Aragorn only laughed at their bickering.
“I was lucky to recall that part as well as I did, though I doubt I could recite the rest as well as that. The last verse stayed with me after you spoke it,” he smiled before huffing another laugh. “If Legolas had not been introduced to me as Thranduil’s only son, I would have assumed you to be brother and sister by how you act, regardless of your differing appearances.”
“He’s doing a pretty great job of standing in for the annoying older brother role,” Maeve joked after a beat. The subtle undertone of grief that lined the words for her out-of-reach brother wasn’t missed by the elf who wrapped a comforting arm around her. Years on, and still, every time she reminisced about her brother, she felt that nausea-inducing guilt for the state she’d left their relationship in. She hoped for his sake that Anthony didn’t feel the same. If it didn’t hurt so much, she’d almost be impressed by how efficiently any thought of her family managed to chase her happiness away. Shuffling closer into her friend’s embrace, she prayed that the grief would one day be easy to bear.
6 January 3019 | Eriador | Maeve
Most of the time, Maeve’s position in the walking procession was due less to desired socialising and more to do with where Bill the Pony was situated in the line. She wasn’t unfamiliar with equines. Royal events were often in the form of horse-related sports due to the late Queen’s love of them. Her family owned horses, as titled peers were wont to do. Learning how to ride a horse was still considered a rite of passage in her community. Like algebra, it was a skill she learnt against her will to a passable degree and then never engaged with again. She could ride just fine; she just didn’t care for it. She’d never been a Horse Girl. Or a Dog Girl…or any sort of Pet Personality Girl.
If there was one thing that united people in the debate of being a dog or cat person; it was the shared disgust of someone who liked neither. Maeve didn’t like animals. She didn’t like the smell of animals; she didn’t like that they would jump at her or lick her. She HATED when they moulted. Caged animals made no sense to her either. As much as she disliked birds, she didn’t like the idea of them unable to fly free. She could admit that aquariums were pretty but frankly, fish were stupid. Pet reptiles freaked her out. Guinea pigs, mice, rats, weasels, ferrets. They were all vermin in her book and grossed her out.
It had been considered a fault by her close friends and family. One boyfriend had even called her sociopathic for her complete disinterest in any pet. Cute baby animal videos were fine but honestly not that great. She didn’t hate animals (except rodents, ugh); she just didn’t particularly care for them. Of course, she couldn’t stand scenes in movies where animals made hurt noises. She was a meat eater but had little strength to keep anything in her stomach down when seeing hunted game being prepared for cooking. She’d sobbed her eyes out once when a bird had crashed into her windscreen and died during a drive down to Surrey.
So where Maeve appreciated the benefits of having a pack-horse in the form of Bill, she avoided him as much as she could. Not even because she didn’t like him. He just shat…a lot.
Walking at the rear with Legolas during the beginning of their trek had her trodding in pony droppings constantly. She had no idea what the hell Sam was feeding that thing but its noxious farts could be bottled and weaponised for chemical warfare. On the off chance they ended up in battle at the gates of Mordor, Maeve’s backup plan was to stuff Bill full of beans, eggs, and sprouts before dropping him off in the middle of the field like a bomb.
Sam and Bill had moved up the line that day, which meant she was limited for choice if she wanted to avoid the danger zone. Gandalf and Aragorn had been locked in a tense discussion for an hour now at the front. Gimli and the two troublemaking hobbits were behind Bill in the danger-zone, with Legolas at the rear as usual. So her walking companion that day ended up being Boromir.
The two of them had come to a sort of peace settlement over the past few days. Her pregnancy horror stories had cowed whatever prickly feelings he had towards her every move. He was hesitant in their interactions but not unkind, and it had been days since he’d said something insulting to her or her to him.
She felt a bit bad for him when she really thought about it. He’d arrived on his own, desperate for help. Believed he’d found the secret weapon to save his people only to be told it was going in the bin. She could understand why he was so snappy. It probably felt like calling the firefighters to come put out his burning house and then spotting them standing in line for a coffee on their way there. It was frustrating when your sense of urgency wasn’t being matched by others. She’d barely seen him relax over their travels, always tense with a permanent line in his brow. Her accruing sympathy for the man only tenfolded when she realised he felt even worse around her because of the f*cking ring.
Embarrassingly, she had to check it was still there the night before because she’d actually forgotten about it. You know, the very specific item that this quest and her presence was centred around. She literally had one bloody job. How f*cked would it be if it had just fallen off her and they’d been walking ages without knowing? She’d probably not mention it and then throw herself into Mt. Doom to save face.
“Does it truly not bother you? You really hear nothing in its presence?” It took a second for Maeve to realise Boromir’s mumbled question was directed at her.
“The Ring?” She clarified, getting a nod in return. “No, not at all. Does it speak to you?”
His second nod was barely a jerk of his head, one she wouldn’t have noticed if she wasn’t waiting for it. He seemed to tense up even more.
“Damn, that sucks,” she punctuated by blowing a raspberry. “Have you tried telling it to shut its gob?”
He finally looked at her.
“ Shut its gob ?” He repeated, incredulously.
“Yeah. When it’s talking to you, tell it to shut it.”
“You desire me to demand it cease when speaking evil machinations into my mind?” He let out a harsh laugh, looking vaguely insulted.
“We can practise. I’ll be you and you be the ring. Go on, tell me something it’s said to you. I promise I won’t judge.”
“I am not going to—”
“Come on, Boromir. It can’t be that bad. It’s not like it’s your thoughts; it’s the thoughts of an evil ring. I literally cannot judge you for thoughts that aren’t your own.”
He stubbornly held tight-lipped.
“Ugh, fine. How about I guess and you tell me when I get it right, yeah?” She took his continued silence as consent. “Hm. If I was an evil ring trying to corrupt people into doing my bidding…what might I ask? Hah, I know.”
Maeve proceeded to suggest evil ideas in a terribly lame spooky voice, “Murder the strange woman and steal the ring from her corpse~ ooOOoOoh ! No? How about…Commit tax fraud! OooOOOoooh very evil! Oh. Wait. I got it. Flay the would-be King and wear his skin like a suit and claim the crown for yourself~ oOOOoooh! ”
“WHA—I—No! NO! That…that is utterly repugnant!” He spluttered, looking green at the thought of fictionally mutilating Aragorn. The wizard and said royal ranger must have overheard as they both looked back at them with bewildered looks before turning forward again.
“See? Whatever’s going on in that big Boromir brain mustn’t be so bad then. So spill ye’ beans.”
He huffed a bit more, trying to pull himself together before setting his shoulders in a soldier like fashion.
“"It tempts me, compelling me to take it from your resting place and bear it back to Gondor, where I could save my people. It tells me of my failures, of the suffering endured by my kin, and forewarns that my brother's fate is sealed if—”
“SHUT UP RING!” Maeve cut him off with a yell that had Gandalf immediately shushing her. Boromir halted his walk, startled by her volume and the aggression in her voice. She smiled sweetly up at him, for that extra bit of emotional whiplash.
“Your turn.”
“I—I do not…”
“You can do it. Say it. Shut up, Ring. Shut up, you ugly dumb bit of metal.”
He stared, paralysed by his apprehension of her demand.
“Say it, Boromir!” She yanked the ring from the internal lacing of her vest and let it hang over the top of her neckline. “You can look at my chest when you say it, just don’t make it weird. Go on.”
“Err, shut…up…ring?”
“Yeah! Again!”
“S—shut up, ring…!”
“Again! With feeling this time!”
“Yes. Shut up, ring.” Boromir started off awkwardly but quickly let loose his rage, yelling at her chest. “Shut up, ring! Silence thine foul mouth, you hideous adornment of Morgoth’s poxy yaldson. Yes! Hah! You heard my words! Cease thine wicked vexing, thou malevolent gallows-gift!”
Maeve was absolutely loving his Shakespeare-worthy freak-out, wishing she could write some of those insults down. Noticing the stares of their other companions, Boromir started to shrink as his eyes met Maeve’s, so she jumped on the bandwagon so he wouldn’t feel so alone. Angling her head to her chest, she let out her own cursing.
“Yeah! What he said! f*ck you, ring. Ugly piece of sh*t. f*ck you.” She awkwardly yelled at her own breasts. Embers still burning, Boromir was alight once more.
“Yes! f*ck you!”
“f*ck you!”
“f*ck—! YOU—!” He finished his cry with a roar as though purging a great inner turmoil that had everyone frozen in shock. She didn’t blame them. It absolutely was a strange sight to see a burly noble warrior shouting obscenities at a woman’s chest before letting out a battle cry.
Breathing hard, he looked much lighter as though he’d shed a great burden. He stood much straighter than before, shoulders no longer inching up towards his ears.
“Feel better?” Maeve asked and was given a warm smile from the grim man that had her smiling uncontrollably in return. When he wasn’t moping and scowling, he was actually quite handsome. Not everyone was so lucky as to pull off the sexy brooding look like Aragorn.
“Indeed. Thank you.”
“Just do that when it’s giving you grief. I don’t mind if you need to shout at my chest every now and then for your mental health. Just give me a heads up.”
“I will do so.” He laughed.
Their goofy smile at one another was interrupted by a loud harumph from a very grumpy Gandalf.
“Are you quite finished?” He sassed. Boromir flushed while Maeve just turned her stupid grin on the wizard instead.
“Yep!” She chirped, making him huff and continue the walk. She bumped Boromir’s shoulder with one last cheeky grin before falling into line once more. He did revert back to that shy hesitance, but he was much less tense than before. Though he became tense in a different way when they sat for their break and Aragorn approached them.
“Maeve, did my ears deceive me, or did you suggest to Boromir to strip my flesh and don my skin as a guise to claim the crown and my title?”
“Whaaaaat ? What a weird and paranoid thing to say! You should go to bed early tonight, Estel. Your mind must be playing tricks on you.” Maeve cried dramatically before sending an exaggerated wink to a cringing Boromir.
“It is indeed a relief. Boromir, though valiant, has shown little aptitude for the art of flaying during our hunts. His efforts often leave the pelts far from intact. Such a plan would surely falter. He should seek the expertise of another to ensure success.” Aragorn advised, sagely. There was a muffled moan of embarrassed despair that spilled from the Gondorian’s hands as he clutched at his face. Maeve let out a cackle, grinning up at Aragorn.
“You’re so messed up; I love it.”
“Then I shall accept it as a compliment.” He smiled back with a boyish grin.
They both descended into laughter when they overheard the badly whispered commentary of the hobbits.
“We should do away with calling them Big-Folk. Strange-folk is more accurate.”
7 January 3019 | Eriador | Aragorn
A day away from the outskirts of the borders of Eregion, they were greeted by clear skies, tame winds, and a beautiful sunrise in a glory of pinks and oranges. The cloudy and dour weather had followed them from their first steps out of the Homely House and not abated until now. It sparked a happy atmosphere which was compounded when Gandalf declared they’d have a hot meal. Aragorn had volunteered himself to hunt some game for the stew that Samwise was preparing in his camp cauldron, feeling a restlessness that he couldn’t quite pinpoint its origin. He had spent many journeys resting in the ruins of Hollin, among the holly trees and crumbling statues, the melancholy remains of a civilisation strangely beautiful and restful. Yet, the first of the holly trees heralding their destination made him unsettled. There was a waylaid eagerness for a place of familial comfort or the beginnings of something more sinister. So he found a few coneys, shot them down and made his way back to the campsite. The restlessness did not abate.
Sam must have noticed his fidgeting and requested some extra greens for his soup, like nettles or chickweed if he might find any. Armed with a netted bag and a new purpose, he explored the surrounding greenery. It took not long at all to find the desired greens, he was careful to wrap the stinging nettle before harvesting it, lest he end up in a miserable state. Making his way to the waterway to rinse the soil and bugs from his foraged goods, he came upon a breath-taking sight.
The wide creek was somewhat shallow, with large rocks spotted about it, and sat upon one such rock, combing her wet hair, was Maeve, water droplets glistening on her bare chest like twinkling gems. She wore tiny braies that protected her behind from the rough surface from where she apricated. The sparkling water lit her from behind, illuminating the outline of her hair in a fiery glow that had him completely entranced. Not even as a man might be by the sight of her unbound breasts but of the image as a whole. Maeve, ethereal in her beauty, one with nature.
Aragorn shook himself from his stupor, cursing himself for disrespecting her in such a way as to look upon her vulnerable state without her knowledge. A voyeur of an innocent maiden. It was a betrayal of trust. He felt honour-bound to beg forgiveness for his transgression but thought it a kinder mercy to save her any embarrassment by secreting away before she became aware. It would only benefit him to make her aware of his guilt, for it was added to by his withholding of his wrongdoing.
A ranger he was and thus a master of stealth yet it was for all for naught as by some divine amusem*nt of the Valar, she opened her eyes and met his gaze.
Aragorn froze under her sure stare.
She did not cower away, attempting to hide herself from him. There was not a hint of discomfort in her face. Instead, she took a dainty step into the water that rose to the tops of her knees, holding his gaze all the while. Words failed him, as though her eyes held his voice captive until she desired it; how was he to apologise, to explain himself? Never had he felt so beholden to the mercy of a woman.
A smirk played about her lips, and then he knew she was enjoying this. It was a power play. She held a confidence about her, like a soldier in mail. As though her nudity was her armour and this here lake be her arena. He had thought himself embarrassed for her sake; the chasteness of ladies was something he came to learn in his time among his kin in the north. A shame of the flesh that he did not know growing up amongst the elves who felt no such thing in their natural state. This was no lack of shame but a pride that was present in the woman before him.
So concerned for her vulnerable state before yet it was now him who looked to be the vulnerable party. He truly should avert his gaze, but somehow he felt this might be more offensive than his current blatant stare. With his gaze upon her, she held the power true.
“Hello Estel, come for a bath?” Her voice was soft, teasing. Aragorn’s mouth went dry, and he struggled to find his voice. Valar, save him from this woman before she stops his heart dead. He felt his ears grow hotter by the second.
“My apologies, Maeve. Sam required some extra ingredients for supper which I was rinsing, and I did not realise I’d happened upon you until too late.”
“Hmm.”
Her response spoke of neither belief nor disbelief; it held a condescending amusem*nt. There was no dismissal either. The hum was drawn out like a predator might play with its prey. For that was what he felt like…prey. Strangely enough, it was not an unwelcome feeling. Arousal and danger were a peculiar combination, one he wished would vacate itself from his vessel before it was made more visibly known. Though he was under the chilled shadows of the forest and she, warmed by apricity, her relaxed pose made him sweat all the same. He ignorantly waited to be dismissed yet she appeared fain to hold his gaze as long as he dared to do the same. He dared not long, for he could no longer bear the shame of his prurience.
“Ah—I will leave you to your bathing.” He farewelled, voice catching.
She smiled innocently, which relieved him to think she felt no ill will towards him for this invasion of privacy. But the feeling was quickly swept away as she turned her back to him and bent at the waist to dunk her hair in the water. The indecent braies had a split on the side like a tulip flower that rode high on the curves of her callipygian behind in such a particularly delicious way that he was in no way prepared for. He struggled to swallow as his mouth dried out.
Aragorn, rightful king of Gondor, an experienced warrior and ranger of eight decades, sprinted back to camp with his tail between his legs. The sound of her laughter dogged his heels all the way.
“Strider, back just in time. Where’s the nettles? Why are you so red, Strider? Strider ?”
His face burned anew when she returned sometime later with his abandoned bag of greens. The teasing wink left him faint.
8th January 3019 | Hollin Ridge, Eregion | Maeve
“Look yonder, Maeve,” Legolas spoke in Sindarin, pointing towards the mountains. “It is your namesake.”
Following his finger, Maeve could see the dim shapes of lofty mountains that now seemed to stand across the path the Company was taking. To the left of this high range rose three peaks; the tallest and nearest stood up like a tooth tipped with snow. Its great, bare, northern precipice was still largely in shadow, but where the sunlight slanted upon it, it glowed red. The Redhorn. Caradhras.
“I know you spoke of trimming the white ends once your hair had grown long enough, but I think I shall miss it,” he mused, giving her braid a tug. Maeve gave him a fond look before holding up the braid in front of her eyes so it lined up with the mountain in the distance.
“Huh…it really does look like Caradhras.”
“Indeed, it is a fitting moniker.”
Gimli, too, was pointing out the mountain to the hobbits and explaining the names of each of its companions.
“Barazinbar, the Redhorn, cruel Caradhras—”
Maeve turned back to Legolas with a twitching eyebrow.
“Cruel Caradhras? Cruel?”
Legolas blanched, and in his silence Gimli assumed it was he whom she spoke to.
“Yes, the cruellest of the mountain range. Do you know of its tales?”
“Not really, only its appearance that resembles my hair, which inspired my supervisor to call me by its name.”
“I see how the elf might have come to such thoughts, but to be addressed as such is an insult. The mount is respected only because it is feared, not beloved.”
“Oh great,” Maeve snorted. “Hithlain and I are having a chat when I get back, and he’s not going to like it.”
Gimli continued in his lyrical descriptions of what lay beyond the mountains. Gandalf piped in at times when it was in relation to their path, giving the dwarf encouraging words about seeing the sacred sights he had longed to experience.
“But whatever you may do, we at least cannot stay in that valley. We must go down the Silverlode into the secret woods, and so to the Great River, and then—”
He paused.
“Yes, and where then?” asked Merry.
“To the end of the journey—in the end,” Gandalf sighed. “We cannot look too far ahead. Let us be glad that the first stage is safely over. I think we will rest here, not only today but tonight as well. There is a wholesome air about Hollin. Much evil must befall a country before it wholly forgets the Elves, if once they dwelt there.”
“That is true,” Legolas piped up. “But the Elves of this land were of a race strange to us of the silvan folk, and the trees and the grass do not now remember them. Only I hear the stones lament them: deep they delved us, fair they wrought us, high they built us; but they are gone. They are gone. They sought the Havens long ago.”
Maeve shared a bewildered look with Boromir while all others appeared nonplussed by Legolas admitting to telepathy with inanimate objects. She was unable to muster up excitement for their promise of prolonged rest, still utterly bewildered by his statement. It was a few minutes later when Maeve managed to whisper privately to him in his language.
“You can’t really hear the stones right? It’s a metaphor…yes? Trees, I can understand to an extent but…rocks?”
The pointy eared bastard gave her a judgemental look as though it was she who confessed to being the crazy person who could hear the thoughts of pebbles and not him.
That morning, they lit a fire in a deep hollow shrouded by great bushes of holly, and their supper-breakfast was merrier than it had been since they set out. They did not hurry to bed afterwards, expecting to have all of the night to sleep and not planning to set out again until the evening of the next day.
Maeve would have taken her time washing up and going to the bathroom, but the ridge was home to an abundance of wild goats with oral fixations. In a brief moment of distraction, they’d eaten a pair of her undergarments. Her distraction was warranted by the distressing state of her underarms that had, until recently, been permanently bare. Of course laser hair removal wasn’t forever, but this was just another reminder of how long she’d been away from home. A stray hair could be plucked but they were beyond that now. Perhaps her body was trying to make extra insulation for the alpine conditions? All she knew was that it irritated her.
She waved to the hobbits and Gandalf on her return from battling off the goat hoards, signalling them to head into the woods to clean up. Without thinking, she slumped down next to Aragorn with a huff.
Maeve had been giving him space after he caught her unaware while bathing the other day. Though by his reaction you’d have thought it was the reverse scenario. She probably shouldn’t have teased him, but she honestly couldn’t help herself. Their friendship was built on banter and he mostly gave as good as he got but this time it might have been a bit beyond his boundaries of teasing. Teasing and flirting were synonymous in her book, neither were to be taken seriously. Though it seemed that might be where he drew his line.
In her defence, what was she to do? Shriek and shield her naked body and make them both extremely uncomfortable for the foreseeable future? Hard pass. She didn’t mind putting herself on display for others. She was proud of her body and comfortable in it. There had been a period of time where she was so hyper-conscious of it, of all the little flaws and bits that didn’t look how she desired them but she grew out of it. She couldn’t claim to be au naturelin her self love, because that would be false advertising. She’d had a nose job for f*cksake and even if it had originally been for correcting a deviated septum, the additional rhinoplasty was purely cosmetic. Regardless of the laser treatments and botox, there were always bits that people didn’t like about themselves and it took a while but Maeve eventually realised there weren't enough procedures in the world to make her perfect because perfect was a state of mind. So Maeve had lied to herself until she believed her own lie. Until it was no longer a lie and entirely the truth. She was fit as f*ck, a goddess in the flesh. Her face would launch a thousand ships and her body would inspire a second renaissance. She looked good in all of her clothes because she made it so but she looked even better out of them because she believed it so. She felt powerful because she decided she was.
Aragorn himself held a quiet power, the one consistent trait in his collection of identities. She could feel it and part of her was drawn to it. This imbalance of power was entirely in her head of course, it was her pride more than anything. She resented the lure he presented because it was only ever she who was the one who drew men in with her own power. She was the flame and they were the moths. So when the opportunity to switch the power dynamic between them presented itself, she grasped it just to remind her that she could. That and the mild ego boost, of course. There was something utterly exhilarating about holding someone so powerful completely at her whim. It was a good thing the Ring didn’t work on her because she was one traumatic event away from her villain origin story with thoughts like that.
“Are you well, Maeve?” he asked her, a hint of red still dusting his cheeks. Maeve bit her lip, turning her head away to hide the smile that would show how amusing she found his embarrassment. Aragorn misinterpreted her silence as embarrassment over her own discomfort rather than her lame attempt to not further his.
“If you speak of it to me, I will endeavour to help.”
Unless he had an electrolysis machine hidden in his cloak, she doubted he’d be able to do much.
“Ignore me, I’m just being silly.” She waved him off. Which he did not because he was stupidly beautiful inside and out, of course he couldn’t leave a friend in peril–or take a hint.
“I may not understand its context, but I can see it is important enough to cause you dismay. Please, share with me your burden; I will listen without judgement.”
Somebody Saint this man. He was so unfailingly good and empathetic that it made her instinctively defensive. Never before had she known a man to be so genuinely kind without a hidden motive. But time and time again, Aragorn proved he was one in a million. It would make her sick if she wasn’t so attracted to him.
“No really, it’s just my vanity getting in the way…and a little bit of mild discomfort, but it’ll sort itself.”
“I would hope by now that we could trust each other with our well-being. I am a healer of my people; there is little that would shock me, even of the female persuasion.” He assured her with the seriousness of a modern medical professional. She hoped this man had daughters because having a dad who was both knowledgeable and comfortable with ailments of the ‘female persuasion’ in this type of society would be rare as hen’s teeth. He would be such a girl-dad. Ugh. She needed to stop thinking about him with children.
“Fine…it’s sort of complicated. Um. Before I arrived here, I had cosmetic…procedures done to somewhat permanently remove hair from…certain regions of my body, and now th–”
“PERMANENTLY!?” Maeve was cut off by a shout of outrage, not from Aragorn but from Gimli who had been eavesdropping on their conversation. Unaware they were being listened to, both she and Aragorn jumped in fright.
“—uhh.”
“Surely you jest? No sane folk would put themselves to such folly!” Gimli looked quite upset by the thought, being the hairiest of the bunch. Tying for third hairiest place, after Gandalf, was Aragorn and Boromir, who was now curious as to the outrage occurring.
“Of whom do we speak, and what action of folly is their undertaking?” he asked, completely ignorant.
“Christ.” She grumbled to herself, earning a look of pity from Aragorn.
“The removal of hair 'semi' permanently from the body for the sake of appearance,” Legolas answered with a chirp.
“Yes, thank you, Legolas. Guess I’ve got an advice panel now,” she said, baring her teeth at him and his stupid bat ears.
“I do not understand. How would one do so permanently?” Boromir asked.
“Semi-permanently,” Legolas corrected him, earning an irritated side-eye from the Gondorian.
“Cutting hair is reasonable, but to remove it is a practice reserved for beards. Clearly, you do not possess one.”
“Okay?”
“Were your beard like that of the darrow-dames, ‘twould be a travesty to part with such magnificence!” defended Gimli.
“Oh my god! It’s not a beard! It’s my armpits!” she yelled, completely fed up with the peanut gallery.
“The…underarms? Why—?”
“It’s a beauty standard in my home, alright?! It’s considered standard practice for women to remove the hair of their armpits and legs. Being hairless everywhere except for your head is the ideal beauty standard for the majority of women my age in my part of the world. Got it?” Her explanation was growled out to the wide-eyed audience.
“Everywhere?” Boromir whispered, at a loss.
“I intend no disrespect to your customs, lass, but it seems arduous to reject your natural self.” And now she was getting a body positivity speech from Gimli. What a day. Legolas chose to jump back in at that moment.
“You did not explain how one removes hair to an almost permanent state.” Of course, he had to circle back to that. She peeked a look at the silent Aragorn, who had been watching the proceedings with a cool look, but even this seemed to pique his interest.
“There are plenty of ways. Uh—”
“What ways have you attempted thus?”
“Like recently? Or all the types I’ve tried?”
“I am curious to hear the range of options.” She felt like it wouldn’t have been odd to see Legolas pull out glasses and a field notebook at this point, fully immersed in an anthropological study.
“Well, shaving is one, pretty much the same as you guys do now,” she nodded to Aragorn and Boromir, “but razor blades have evolved in design quite a bit. Then I tried waxing for a bit—”
“Similar to how one might treat an oilskin?” Boromir asked with a frown.
“Err, no. It’s a wax that is heated into a thick liquid and then spread over your hairy skin like butter. You wait for it to dry, which adheres it to the hairs and the top layer of dead skin. Then you pick up the end and rip it off in the opposite direction of your hair growth, which yanks the hairs out at the root. This gets you like a month of smooth skin, if you’re lucky.”
“Mahal!” Gimli let out a horrified cry, followed by a keening wheeze of pain that had his eyes tearing up as though he had just been waxed himself. Maeve was startled by his distraught reaction, not yet noticing how white Boromir had gotten as well.
“E-everywhere besides the head, you say?” he stuttered.
“Oh, actually I used to get it on my face as well to shape my eyebrows.”
“Sweet Elbereth,” he prayed under his breath.
“O–kay. Um, so around my mid-teens, laser hair removal became a thing which I’m not actually sure how to explain but imagine a lightning bolt so small you can’t see it that is shot directly into your hair strand and deep into the root. It shrivels it up until it falls out, and you get that done a couple of times and then have no hair for a year or more, but you can get top-up sessions to keep them from regrowing. Which is what I had done and is now starting to wear off,” she finished, turning to Estel with a shrug. Her attention was immediately withdrawn back to her dwarven companion by his choked echo of her words.
“Lightning—! Shrivelling the hair?” Maeve was completely bewildered as she watched as a single tear dribbled down his fuzzy cheek. Gimli looked as though he might faint. “Lass, why would you harm yourself like this?”
“Oh no! Laser doesn’t hurt; it’s like a little sting. Waxing was the worst and I used to bleed a lot, which is why I switched to laser.”
“I struggle to fathom why a woman would rid herself of her body's hair. It is the mark of womanhood! Why aspire to appear as a child? Why would anyone desire their woman to resemble such? I-I apologise, Maeve, but it disturbs me greatly to think of the type of society that encourages a practice that may cultivate an amorous attraction for children.” Boromir despaired, looking slightly sick. There was a small part of her that was kind of amused by his and Gimli’s outrage and distress over such a common thing in her life. Another part was moderately humiliated and the final part was genuinely impressed by man she wrote off as a misogynist, spitting straight facts.
“Boromir, it is unwise to criticise a culture you do not fully comprehend,” Aragorn chided, but Maeve placed a hand on his knee with a placating look.
“He sort of has a point.”
“I do?”
“Yeah, it’s a common perspective that people who reject the look will present, and it’s a valid one. We don’t do enough to protect children from harm back home. Promoting a sexualised image that reflects childhood bodies probably does have a negative effect in that way. I know I got a lot of unwanted attention from grown men when I was a young girl,” Maeve casually added with bitter amusem*nt without thinking first of her righteous audience.
Gimli spat on the ground and began ranting in a mixture of Khuzdul and Common. “Anyone who would dare harm a child in such a way only deserves the most gruesome of punishments!” Gimli proceeded to switch solely to Khuzdul. The angry words were made more severe by the harsh tones of his language. Boromir nodded along in spirit, their shared outrage transcending linguistic divides. Legolas seethed to the side where he perched above them on a boulder like an overgrown bird of prey.
She watched them all in fascination and was completely taken off guard when Aragorn gently took her hand in his. Said hand had been accidentally left on his knee all this time and was now cradled in his own firm grip. He was staring at their entwined hands with a fierce look upon his brow. One that spoke of violence. One she had yet to see on his face before. One that evoked a strange feeling inside of her.
“Guys, guys! No one did anything physically harmful to me! It was just harassment and inappropriate conversation. The worst I got from actual adults was them touching my hair or cheeks or giving me an unwanted hug.” She held back any comments about what occurred in her later years for fear of them exploding.
“Did they cause you unease? Did you fear them? Did you expect security, only to encounter dread from those who approached you in such a manner?” Aragorn asked, so quietly that she almost missed it over Gimli’s continued ranting. She turned her head properly to him this time. His grey eyes were steely cuffs that imprisoned her gaze and demanded her truth.
“I, uh, yeah…I suppose I did,” she admitted, hesitantly. It was not really a topic she enjoyed bringing up. As a young girl and teen, the attention she received was an uncomfortable reality she had learned to cope with over time. Not always in particularly healthy ways.
Dwelling on it actually did more harm than good in her opinion. The first few times she had replayed those moments in her head where she had truly believed she was going to be harmed, it built a suffocating pressure inside her that demanded to burst. The few times she almost hadn’t been able to push it back down, to deflate it. How easy it would have been to just open her mouth wide and scream out the pain. She didn’t let it out in the end. Because Maeve worried if she let out a single peep of that building dam of distress and shame, she might never stop screaming.
She, like every woman, had an inherent awareness ingrained into her of men. Not a positive one, but a wary kind. Against her will, the world did in fact revolve around them. To them, it was with the arrogance of the mediaeval church who deemed the earth the centre of the universe and she was the sun that orbited them. Instead, it was more akin to being stuck on the ring of a maelstrom, forever swimming away but being drawn back to danger. She couldn’t recall the very first time she became aware of the constant threat she lived under, but she remembered being warned of it from as early as she could recall. Cautioning children doesn’t always work. Telling them that fire is hot and will burn if touched is enough for some but for others, they need to feel the hot flame right on their skin. Clarity blooms when the pain receptors kick in. Being told to fear strange men and actually feeling fear around strange men are two separate comprehension experiences. So while she had been taught to do so, it felt like the primal instinct that bloomed later was when it truly dawned on her. It was why she adored women so much, even those who resented her. They were safe. Her child brain had struggled to make sense of this new and uncomfortable awareness that was only reinforced by the continued warnings from both the women and men of her life.
“Don’t talk to strange men.”
“Don’t ever be alone with your male teachers.”
“Don’t wear that outside, you’ll be having all sorts of trouble.”
“Don’t drink too much around them, Maeve, you have to stay vigilant.”
“The Law is my mistress, Mae, but she will not protect you when it comes to things like this. You have to protect yourself.”
What had confused Maeve the most about these warnings were two specific things. Firstly, it was the men in her life who were telling her that men were not to be trusted. The only ones you could trust were your father, grandfathers, brother and uncles. But Maeve had known that plenty of the strange men out there were fathers, brothers, and uncles. What made them different? The second thing that Maeve struggled to wrap her tiny child brain around was; if men were such a danger to women and girls, then why did we stay near them? Why did we allow them to come close to us? She’d been taught never to tempt danger. Don’t spook the horse lest he stomp on you. Don’t drive without a seatbelt. Don’t stick forks in sockets. Living in the world of men was like sticking your head in the gaping maw of a lion and praying you could pull out before it bit down. Because there was no doubt about the fact that it would bite down.
Any high-risk dangers in her life had been cautioned to avoid, so why was this any different? It still baffled her, if she was honest. Why did women allow themselves to be put in danger? The presence of men in their lives was like the Sword of Damocles, an ever-constant peril held back by a single thread. Removing women from the domains of men may ensure the demise of the race with a lack of procreation to continue it, but if they did continue it, wasn’t that just breeding more monsters and more prey to suffer the same fate? At what point do you shatter the wheel entirely? She wondered if it was that women all believed they were the only ones who felt so and could not do it on their own. So they repressed the rage and the hurt and the fear so they might live a semblance of a happy life under the lion’s tooth. At least that was what she had done.
Since her arrival, Maeve’s instinctual trepidation of males had remained but to a lessened degree. Yet, in over two years she had not experienced one single scenario of the harassment and fear that she experienced regularly back home. It certainly helped that to all intents and purposes, the citizens of mirkwood were asexual when it came to her. Regardless, it had her wondering if maybe her experiences with men were worse than others in an unlucky draw of life and maybe there were more Aragorn's out in her old world who made the risk of lion’s teeth worth it. God, she hoped so, she really did.
The absence of threats should have given way to relief, but almost three years in and she still hadn’t convinced herself that the other shoe was just waiting to drop. Her lifetime of caution was not easily undone. A tightening grip on her hand brought her out of dark thoughts. Aragorn’s face was filled with a quiet wrath, grey eyes like sharpened steel.
“They do not even merit death, for that would be too merciful compared to what I would demand as justice in your name. You deserve to feel safe.”
Oh. Oh . Oh no.
His declaration was like a boot on her chest, slowly crushing the air from her lungs. There were no words for her to say, nor the ability to say them. Maeve was the blissfully ignorant leader of her existence who had just been deposed in a military coup led by her traitorous heart. His words took direct hits. Every one of her defences had been disabled, long infiltrated without her ken. She was ship laden with vessels of greek fire and this was the single incendiary arrow that set off the inferno. He’d placed those pots himself, for weeks and weeks, and yet it was still a shock to feel the reactive burn. She felt hoodwinked. Like the victim of a long con who’s enlightenment to their misfortune felt even more humiliating. If she didn’t know him to be so wholly good, she’d have claimed this to be a calculated attack.
It burned. It hurt.
f*ck.
f*ck.
The longing, the hunger, the greed, the desire. So long she’d repressed this component of her heart and this man had slipped by the lock and key and flung open Pandora's box, unleashing the chaos into her soul. She slammed it shut before more could escape but it was too late. The damage was done. Was this love? She’d been wrong so many times before, hurt so many times but it had never hurt like this. Burnt like this. Desire and pain cohabitated in her chest. This blasted world had nourished her poet’s heart but in her naivety, she’d forgotten that classics were filled with more tragedies than romance.
Her mental encyclopaedia of prose was her personal rolodex of dead poets who made sense of her feelings and put them into words. Catullus answered her agony.
Ōdī et amō. Quārē id faciam fortasse requīris.
Nesciŏ, sed fierī sentiō et excrucior.
I hate and love. If you ask me to explain
The contradiction,
I can’t, but I can feel it, and the pain
Is crucifixion.
“Maeve?”
This entire time, she’d been gaping at him like a fish. Lost in her own head. He stared back at her with those stupid stormy eyes, filled with genuine concern. Concern for her. f*ck. Just answer him!
“Uh.”
Three time eisteddfod winning, poetry loving, multilingual bitch; where were her words now? Why could she only conjure up Latin in her brain? If it was not Latin, it was swear words. Profanities raced through her mind, each more vivid than the last, as she struggled to control her rising panic. The silence grew louder in the absence of her answer and she felt as though she was going to be ill. Instead of vomit, she spewed out the least convincing apology that sounded painfully shrill to her own ears.
“Sorry~! Just got a little in my head there. Whoopsie!” She let out a forced chuckle, snatching her hand away. Swivelling back around to face the still ranting Gimli, she didn’t see Aragorn’s face fall.
Whoopsie ? What the f*ck was she, five years old? f*cking f*ck f*ck.
“What did we miss?” Pippin called out on his well timed return to the camp. The hobbits and Gandalf hesitated at the edge of the camp as though sensing the chaos that had unfolded. They sure looked to be a frazzled lot, a spectrum of emotions and none of them good. No one seemed able to answer Pippin either.
“Please don’t ask.” She cringed before busying herself with her pack to keep her hands occupied so she wouldn’t try and choke herself out. It was all too much.
Maeve was the first to bed, settling under the holly brambles that gleamed red in the rising sun. She eventually fell to sleep to the sounds of her companion's quiet chatter. No more fatigued than usual, it was an attempt to escape her revelations in the oblivion of sleep. It was not meant to be for her oblivion was short lived. She woke from the feeling of two hobbits gripping her hands as a deafening cacophony of birds seemed to descend upon them. Whether those hands held hers for comfort, or to prevent her desperate need to remove her eye mask, she didn’t know. It was a full minute of blind terror until the birds moved on and her hands were released.
Maeve sat up abruptly and ripped the mask from her face, to meet the distressed eyes of the rest of the group.
“Regiments of black crows are flying over all the land between the Mountains and the Greyflood,” Aragorn explained beside a stricken Sam. “They are not natives here; they are crebain out of Fangorn and Dunland. I do not know what they are about. Possibly there is some trouble away south from which they are fleeing; but I think they are spying out the land. I have also glimpsed many hawks flying high up in the sky. I think we ought to move again this evening. Hollin is no longer wholesome for us: it is being watched.”
Gandalf let out a great sigh of defeat.
“And in that case so is the Redhorn Gate, and how we can get over that without being seen, I cannot imagine. But we will think of that when we must. As for moving as soon as it is dark, I am afraid that you are right. We must not dally here as planned.”
The company stayed hidden throughout the day, catching little sleep in their anxious state as the crebain returned a few more times in their search, each time more deafening than the last. Their failed search riled their frustrations. Any hope of the passage south was completely destroyed and their path over the cruel mountain cemented.
The intermittent terror was not a welcome distraction though it diminished the weight of her romantic anguish in the wake of the present threat. She’d rather be free of both but apparently that was too much to ask.
At twilight, they began their march.
REFERENCES
Lexicon & Translations
- Limerence | a state of mind which results from romantic feelings for another person, and typically includes intrusive, melancholic thoughts, or tragic concerns for the object of one's affection as well as a desire to form or maintain a relationship with the object of love and to have one's feelings reciprocated.
- Morgoth’s poxy yaldson | Boromir is referring to Sauron as Morgoth’s pox-ridden son of a whor*
- Poxy | having or having had syphilis, rotten; lousy
- Yaldson | A 15th-century word meaning “the son of a prostitute.”
- Gallows-gift | a deadly individual; the gallows are where you’re executed so its existence will only gift him death
- Braies | Braies area type of trouser worn by Celtic and Germanic tribes in antiquity and by Europeans subsequently into the Middle Ages. In the later Middle Ages they were used exclusively as undergarments. Braies generally hung to the knees or mid-calf. Maeve has been referring to her’s as tap pants which are from the 1940s.
- Apricate | To bask in the sun
- Apricity | the warmth of the sun in winter (neither of these words have anything to do with apricots)
- Prurience | The quality of beingprurient (Uneasy withdesire;itching; especially, having alasciviousanxiety orpropensity;lustful)
- Callipygian | having a shapely rear end (My head cannon: Aragorn is an arse guy)
General
- Mrs Bennet of Pride and a Prejudice | YOU HAVE NO COMPASSION FOR MY POOR NERVES sorry but there’s no debate, the BBC P&P series is better than the movie. I will not be taking questions or complaints at this time.
- ‘So spill ye’ beans’ | This is a reference to The Lighthouse lol
- In LOTRO game, Hollin Ridge has a heck tonne of wild goats everywhere.
- Deviated septum | A nose job to fix this is called septoplasty, A deviated septumoccurs when your nasal septum is significantly displaced to one side, making one nasal air passage smaller than the other. When a deviated septum is severe, it can block one side of the nose and reduce airflow, causing difficulty breathing.
- Rhinoplasty | plastic surgery procedure for altering and reconstructing the nose, generally for cosmetic purposes
- Pebble Whisperer Legolas | That was an actual quote from the books and everyone was like yep cool we’re gonna ignore the elf and his weird hippy sh*t once again.
- Electrolysis | A hair removal treatment. A trained electrologist inserts a thin wire into the hair follicle under the surface of the skin. An electric current moves down the wire to the bottom of the follicle, destroying the hair root. The follicle damage prevents hair from growing and causes the existing hair to fall out.
- Sword of Damocles
- I could go on and on about how western society’s ideal woman is an infantilisation of femininity that both enforces the patriarchal power imbalance but more disgustingly; it sexualises girlhood and endangers minors. Instead I’ll link you to this essay which I found to be a good read. I wish we could just say its all about personal preference and leave it at that but aesthetic has always been political. Rejecting what is considered the desired look is a form of protest. That is why POC’s hair is political. Conforming to an image that only serves others and actually harms you is not a good thing. One day I hope our society will be in a healthy place where there is no cultural appropriation and everything is shared and appreciated and women’s bodies aren’t objectified and gender aesthetics aren’t used to harm, but we ain’t even close. So go forth and disrupt. Question the ‘done thing’ and upset delicate sensibilities when they have no place in modern society.
- Catullus 85 | Ōdī et amō is a poem by Catullus *one of the most vulgar poets of the classical periods* on about his lover, Lesbia (lol)
- I specifically like James Michie’s translation from 1967
- This article shows how translators put their own spin on poems so there’s lots of variation.
