6. Peripheral Vision
He was disguised as a scribe, with his skin dyed dark and his hair cut short
and curling slightly in the heat. He looked cultured and soft. The
calligraphy flowing from his brush was elegant and swift, but his movements
seemed languorous, his eyes were half-lidded and his mouth pursed with bland
concentration on the task at hand. In the background voice droned dictation.
A subtle change in pace of breath was all the warning Arwen had before she saw
him launch himself forward, ramming a shoulder hard into the chest of the seated
man in front of him and sending them both toppling into a scatter of bright
cushions. A blur shot over their heads, and then a dart was briefly embedded
in the silk wall behind them before it fell onto the rugs below. Arwen
saw a tiny stain of greenish jelly in its place. He was already in a crouch,
with a dagger pulled from some recess of clothing. The man he had saved
was struggling upright. Arwen heard a yell and a scuffle, then saw the
dagger fly across the tent. Someone screamed. He was up and away,
shouting in the deep, gusty accents of Southern Khand. The near-victim
recovered his senses and charged after his somewhat-more-than-a-scribe, pulling
a long, curved sword from his belt as he did so. The shouting increased,
and a clash of metal sounded, and then, as quickly as the scene had entered
Arwen's dreamspace, it left, leaving only the deep, thrumming echo of its mortal
melody weaving against the stately harmonies of the Eldar. Arwen shivered
herself awake, letting her dream-senses recede and the uncomplicated faculty
of sight overtake her eyes. A vision of Aragorn had wandered, unlooked-for,
into an elven dream. Arwen sat on her windowsill for a long time, and
wondered.