The Last Ring-bearer - Kirill Yeskov [82]
"This was the precise statement, Aragorn son of Arathorn. It's the honest truth: only the king of Gondor and Arnor can become the husband of an Elvish princess, but did anybody promise that he will actually become one?"
Aragorn smiled crookedly. "You're right, as always. A baby such as myself could never think of such a thing – the Ruler of Rivendell trying to weasel out of his words! Well, he can find a loophole very well, better than any Umbar shyster."
"You were paid for your work in honest coin – the Re-forged Sword and the throne of the Reunited Kingdom."
"Yes, the throne I don't control!"
She frowned a little. "Don't demean yourself. You knew from the very beginning that you'd get an Elvish advisor once you ascended the throne."
"You mean a regent."
"Again you exaggerate. Besides, we met you halfway: Lórien sent you not just anyone, but myself as the advisor, so that to your subjects it looks like a regular dynastic marriage. You, on the other hand, have imagined who knows what and now desire to add the daughter of the Ruler of Elves to your collection of sluts!"
"You know that this is not so." There was nothing but weary submission in his voice now. "Back in Lórien, when you accepted Barahir's ring from me…"
"Oh, that. Do you wish to remind me of the story of Beren and Lúthien? Understand already that this is a legend, and a human legend, at that – an Elf can only laugh at it."
"Thank you for the explanation. To put it bluntly, you consider love between an Elf and a Man to be bestiality, right?"
"Let's end this stupid conversation. You have rightly mentioned the need to adhere to one's agreements. Don't you think that a second 'accident' befalling a man from my entourage in as many weeks is a bit much?"
"Oh, so that's what you wanted to discuss."
"Precisely, my dear. If you have imagined that Lórien is incapable of protecting the people working for it, we will teach your Secret Guard a lesson they'll remember forever – if there's anyone left to remember."
Resurgent anger helped him come back to his senses, like the stink of smelling salts helps a man out of a swoon; the hex dispelled, and the Dúnadan was becoming himself again – a white polar wolf facing a pack of jackals. "Allow me to remind you, my dear, that you're not the masters here – not yet. Let's call a spade a spade: had your 'entourage' been a real embassy, all of them would've been expelled long ago 'for activities incompatible with diplomatic status.'"
"You know," Arwen said thoughtfully, "sometimes you're undone by excessive logic – it makes you predictable. You wouldn't have resorted to such measures without a dire need; therefore, the dead men have sniffed out something top-secret and extremely important. Hence, all I need to do is determine what they were doing in their last days."
"Any progress?"
"Oh yes, quite a lot! If one can call it progress. I'll admit that we've tended to overlook your games with the dead; to be honest, no one believed that a mortal could master the Shadow Spell well enough to actually bring them back to life. But now you have decided to inherit the black knowledge of Mordor, too; you're gathering those poisoned shards everywhere you can and expect to get away with it. There's no denying that you're a top grade swashbuckler (that's what we were choosing for among very many): highly intelligent, desperately brave, and totally merciless to others and himself. I know that you're no novice at juggling live cobras, but believe me: you have never – by the Halls of Valinor! – never played a game as dangerous as this!"
"I'm also very practical. The thing is, those games are as dangerous to you Elves as to me; I'm glad that you've finally understood the danger. I am ready to undo it all if I'm properly paid."
"Ah so? What is your price, then?"
"You already know the price, and there'll be no other."
Arwen walked away in silence, like a vertical ray of sun piercing a dusty room; when she looked back at his soft: "Wait!" it was a victory greater than Pelennor or Cormallen.