FIRE AND FATE¹ ━ legolas greenleaf

𝐅𝐎𝐔𝐑, the council of elrond

RAELYN DRESSES FOR the council as she might for a funeral. 

It sounds worse than it was; yes, perhaps Arwen raised a questioning eyebrow as she saw Raelyn's chosen dark attire, compared to the elven angel's white-silver dress and accessories. And maybe Elrond held back a laugh at the sight of her dawdling awkwardly as she noticed every other ambassador wearing light, golden, silver colours, and realised she stood out like a sore thumb in her black dress. 

But nothing compared to the indignation she felt when Aragorn questioned her outfit. "You're wearing that?" He asks, raising his eyebrows in a strange sort of mixture, disgust and amusement. "This is a council, not a sepulture."

"How humourous," she replies without humour, elbowing him in the stomach. "No wonder — " She's cut off as her eyes meet a man standing behind, watching Aragorn with an unreadable expression in his eyes. "Who's that?"

"Hmm?" Aragorn swivels, twisting his head as he scans the room for the object of her attention. He finds it, and his shoulders slump slightly at the sight of the man. "Oh, that's Boromir."

She waits, feeling as though he must have a longer title, to be invited to this critical council. Aragorn doesn't elaborate. "Is that all? Most people have more than one name."

"He's the future steward of Gondor," he says quietly, turning away from the man, shadows falling over his face. Oh. Oh. That explains a lot. "Don't stare at him, you'll only draw his attention."

"You do that without trying," she rolls her eyes. patting his arm in a way that is supposed to comforting. "Has he been bothering you?" 

"Of course not." He says instantly, and Raelyn raises an eyebrow, unbelieving. Aragorn is a typically noble person, no matter how he denies it. He would defend any man, elf or dwarf with his life, especially a man from Gondor. He would not tell her if Boromir had upset him; especially because he knows she would make him stop. Aragorn is her best friend, and if Boromir hurts him...it's on his head. "Look, are we going in or not?"

Raelyn watches him gesture toward the council room, as a group of dwarves sort of stumble in. "I'll meet you inside."

He narrows his eyes, and Raelyn tries to smile as innocently as she can. unconvinced, he gives a shrug and moves on. He knows now not to bother trying to get her to obey him; she does as she wishes. 

She takes a deep breath, squares her shoulders, and marches over to Boromir with a sickly sweet smile. Oh, she feels nauseous even when faking it. "Can I help you?"

"What?" He stutters, before taking a breath and narrowing his eyes at her. "I mean, I'm sorry. I don't understand — "

"You keep staring at Ar — Strider and I." she tells him blankly, raising an eyebrow. He swallows; suddenly she's glad she wore the black. Much more threatening. "Is there a problem? Can I help?" She smiles, and he relaxes slightly. 

"Who is he?" He asks, his shoulders easing as he nods toward Aragorn's taut, retreating back. "Why is he here, at a council for noblemen?"

He's worth ten of you, she thinks. Instead, she smiles, leans in conspiratorially. "I would tell you —" he leans forward, ears pricking up. "—if it were any of your business. But I'm afraid it's not."

That upsets him; nostrils flare and fists clench as he glares down at her. He's taller, but she's got all the power. Literally, and figuratively. "Why are you even here? A woman, aren't you? And no noble blood, that's clear."

Something about the way he says woman boils her blood, so she allows her hand to reach out and grasp his wrist; cold, tight, hard. "If woman is the worst insult you can think of, I shall take it as a compliment."