Bilbo's poem, it seemed, was to be about Earendil.  Arwen felt a smile tugging at her lips. Never let it be said that he shies away from large subjects! Ripples of amusement passed through the assembled Elves, but the hobbit appeared not to notice. Sitting on his little stool, he folded his hands in his lap and began, reciting simply with his eyes fixed on the middle distance, as though he could see the Mariner and his ship with its silver sails, glinting in the sun.

Arwen glanced to her left, wondering what her father thought of Bilbo's subject matter - but he was sitting impassively, listening to verses being made about his father...who had sailed away in a ship of mithril, never to see his sons again.  She felt her mind shy away from the all-too-familiar resonances of that thought.

She wanted nothing more than to lose herself in the poem, in the firelight and the music that filled the Hall - but found she could not. I feel - stretched too tightly, she thought. Like a weaving that has been badly laid out upon the loom, some threads too loose and some too taut, catching in unexpected places.

She knew she was not the only one so unsettled. The evening's merriment had a forced edge to it; she could feel the effort many of her people were making to be lighthearted. All at Imladris had known when Elrond called down the river on the servants of the Enemy, and they had felt it when Frodo entered the valley - felt the terrible presence of the thing he carried. 

Arwen could feel it still, like a cloth soaked in water lying heavy and dark on her mind.  She had tended Nazgul-wounded Men and Elves before, and had thought she was prepared to help her father care for Frodo - but the power that held the hobbit in its icy grip was like nothing she had ever seen or felt. Everything in her had recoiled from it so strongly that it had taken all of her self-command just to be able to touch Frodo and do what was needed to assist in his healing, without giving in to the fear and revulsion that swirled ceaselessly through her mind.

It had taken three nights and days for her father to find and extract the last fragment of the Morgul blade...three nights and days in a room that felt dark even though it was lit with many candles, and smelled suffocatingly of illness and sweat and evil.  Elrond had restricted Frodo's care to the three of them – himself, Arwen and Aragorn, who had insisted on being present in spite of his own utter exhaustion. “He was in my charge,” he had said quietly, “I promised I would see him safe. And he does not know where he is. A familiar face will lessen his fear.” And indeed, even her father had had to concede that, in the rare moments when Frodo had regained consciousness, Aragorn's voice and hands seemed to calm him when nothing else would. 

That I can well understand, she thought with sudden longing, wishing he was present now to steady her with a discreet touch and that almost imperceptible smile he reserved for public encounters. Bilbo says this poem is partly his - why has he not come to hear it spoken? What can Elrohir and Elladan have to say that takes this long to impart? 

Her brothers had arrived home with news that had allowed them only time to embrace her briefly and fiercely in greeting before they closeted themselves with her father and Aragorn. Elrond had emerged for the evening meal - but the others were still nowhere to be seen, and her father had refused to discuss their conversation where others might hear, saying it was a time for celebration of Frodo's recovery, not for worry over new dangers. Which was hardly calculated to settle my mind, she thought exasperatedly. Estel will tell me what has happened - if he ever makes an appearance.

Feeling fretful and impatient with herself for it, she tried once more to focus on Bilbo's poem.  By the end of the second verse she knew the answer to the riddle he had posed the company. She wondered if anyone else had noticed the reference.  On his breast an emerald, indeed! That cannot have come from Bilbo's imagination, as creative as he is... She was certain that the hobbit knew nothing of the great green stone that had come to Arwen from Celebrian, who had herself been given it by her mother. He could not know, either, that Arwen had left the stone with Galadriel in Lorien again, to be given in turn to her mortal lover when the time came for him to take up his inheritance, and the name that had been foretold for him.  I did not know that Estel himself even knew of it... They had never spoken of it. He, she thought, because he was not yet sure of himself or of his path, even with prophecy and the foresight of his fathers to guide him...and she because she did not want him to think that becoming King and Elfstone was a condition of her love for him.

My father insulted both Estel and me with that pronouncement! She had always known that Aragorn had great things to do, and that they could not be together until he had accomplished them. For that matter, there had been - and were - yet things *she* had to do as Arwen of Imladris. Perhaps not so great, but no less important – to me, at least. They had always known there was a war coming, one that would touch all of Middle Earth. I would never even have considered running off to be a Ranger's wife at such a time - as appealing as the prospect has occasionally sounded, she thought wistfully. We both of us knew how it must be - we did not need my father to remind Aragorn of the well-nigh impossible task before him, and dangle me as reward only if he proved his worth! If - no, *when* he becomes King of Gondor and Arnor, it will be because he was meant to be so - because no one else could reunite the West - not because he had to do it to secure my hand in marriage.

She struggled against the old resentment, mixed as always with guilt and grief at the knowledge of what had prompted her father to act so. He does not want to lose me. He has lost so many loved ones - his brother, my mother…his parents, although the poems and stories never tell that part of Earendil’s tale...

Applause for the end of Bilbo's poem brought her out of her introspection. They were debating the hobbit's riddle, and she smiled secretly, warmed by the small knowledge of Aragorn's contribution. She hoped he knew that she had meant her gift not as a reminder of his destiny so much as a token of love and hope - something of herself that he might carry with him into the darkness. But for all the Elfstone is a thing of power, it is no Silmaril to repel the Shadow, more's the pity...and I hope he does not expect me to do as Elwing did, and turn into a bird to fly to his rescue!

Fleeting amusement was dispelled by a familiar voice rising above the applause. Oh dear -  what is Lindir up to now, she thought with exasperation and some dread.

"It is not easy for us to tell the difference between two mortals," Lindir was saying to Bilbo. He was speaking seriously but Arwen could feel the undercurrent of mockery in his words, and knew that others nearby could also.  It was the sort of Elvish superiority she most despised in her own people, and he was taking very few pains to hide it. 

"Nonsense, Lindir," the hobbit replied cheerfully. "If you can't distinguish between a Man and a Hobbit, your judgement is poorer than I imagined. They're as different as peas and apples." 

Arwen sent a mental nudge in Lindir's direction. Stop baiting poor Bilbo! He blithely ignored her. His next comment about mortals and sheep was only a knife's edge away from being truly insulting.

Lindir! This time her mental tone made his eyes snap to hers. I said, that is enough. You have had your joke - stop patronizing him.

Lindir's eyebrow went up. She fought to master her annoyance, aware that her father and others around her were registering it. Bilbo was graciously declining to argue the point any further. He takes no offence - why should I? She wondered at the strength of her reaction. Valar, I am in a black mood tonight, she reflected ruefully. I should not have come to the Hall.

Lindir bowed with perfect politeness to Bilbo as the hobbit announced his intention to retire - only Lindir could make a courtly bow seem like a further mockery! she thought with renewed resentment. When the Elf turned back towards her, his expression was carefully neutral.

"I am sorry if I offended, my lady," he said. "It is only as I said - mortals have not been my study. As a rule, I do not find them interesting enough. But no doubt you are more...sensitive...to such matters than I."  His tone was deferential, but she felt the sneer that underlay it nonetheless - and, all at once, it was just too much.

"And why should that be, Lindir?" She put a whipcrack of anger behind the words, and was satisfied to see him blanch a little. Yes - you are surprised, are you not? I have let too many other such comments pass.

Will he actually come out and say it? she wondered. I know perfectly well that he and his friends think I am lessened by my love for Estel...that I am already well on the road to becoming a stupid and uninteresting mortal! 

She watched his eyes flick towards her father for support, and come up against Elrond’s impassive gaze...a gaze which somehow still managed to remind Lindir and everyone else present that the Lord of Imladris was himself the son of a mortal man...one who had spoken for the cause of Elves and Men before the Valar themselves, no less. Oh Lindir...were you not listening to the poem you have been criticizing? Arwen thought gleefully.

She let a little pause establish that there would be no help from Elrond, and that Lindir dared not answer her question. Then she continued, with just enough reprimand in her tone to make her authority clear.

"I fail to see how finding mortals interesting has anything to do with treating them as honoured guests of our hall."  She held his eye, waiting, until he muttered an apology through an insincere smile.  I ought not to be enjoying this as much as I am! It was, she realized, a relief to have something concrete to fight against, however small and petty. Still - it is unfair of me to be taking my mood out on such a one as Lindir. He is only a hypocrite, and a weak one at that.

"It is Bilbo who deserves the apology," she said, and would have followed it with something conciliating - but the words were never spoken, because at that moment Aragorn walked through the doorway into the Hall of Fire.

The hall was large, full of flickering firelight and Elves and song, and he was far away at the opposite end of it - but still Arwen felt the split second when their eyes met as a clash of swords, one that rang through her whole body.

Valar help me, it has been less than a day since I saw him last. Will it always be so? she wondered dazedly, watching him make his way down the length of the room. His progress was slowed by many greetings and he did not look at her again, but she could feel his awareness of her humming like a harp string between them.

He looks like a prince. She hoped she was not being too obvious in her enjoyment of the sight of him dressed - for once! - as befitted his rank, in a soft dark green cloak and elven-mail, with the star of the Dunédain gleaming at his shoulder.

When he finally reached her chair he bowed to her and to Elrond in the Elven fashion, hand over heart. I can think of several ways I would rather greet him - and be greeted, she thought wickedly. Wouldn't that give Lindir and the rest something to gossip about! She nodded to him regally, letting only her eyes show her joy at seeing him.

"Good evening, my lord. I am pleased to see you here."

"Thank you, my lady." He followed her lead, taking refuge in formality. But his eyes answered hers, likewise a little dazed, and she shivered.

"Have I missed Bilbo's recitation?"

"Yes - although only just," said Elrond. "It was...an ambitious work." Laughter rippled in his voice, and she smiled with relief as he let her feel some of the amusement he had been hiding behind his serious demeanour. Maybe tonight we will be able to talk easily, the three of us, she thought longingly.

Aragorn chuckled.  "I warned him that if he had the gall to make verses about Earendil in the house of Elrond, he deserved whatever would come to him. He would not be gainsaid, though. Hobbits are amazing creatures." 

The affection in his voice was warm and clear, and she followed his gaze to the doorway, where Bilbo was leaving with his young cousin. Just then, Frodo turned back towards the dais and seemed to be looking at them through the throng. She smiled at him, even though she wasn't sure he could see her, while her healer's eye assessed his condition.

"He is recovering well," said Aragorn beside her, echoing her thought with deep gratitude and something close to awe.

"It was a very near thing," said her father quietly. "He came very close to something much worse than death."

Before these last few days, I do not think I would have said there could be anything worse than death, Arwen thought. I never truly understood how Men could speak of it as Iluvatar's Gift - as a release, sometimes even a promise of peace...To us it has seemed ever a prison sentence, sundering us eternally from all that we hold dear. But... she remembered Frodo, in a moment of lucidity somewhere in the middle of the third night, begging "Strider" to kill him before the Ring overtook his mind completely, so he would not draw his friends into the Shadow with him. It had struck her forcibly. His death was the only weapon left to him. There would have been freedom, after all, in wielding it so - and a kind of power. Then, the inevitable, bleak thought: Will death be a gift or a weapon to me, when it comes? Or will it just be a meaningless ending, a disappearance into nothingness beyond the circles of the world?

She felt the touch of her father's mind, and knew that he had followed her thoughts. When she met his eyes, they were dark with the bottomless anguish that he had so seldom let her see since her betrothal. Grief and fear and anger suddenly spiralled through their connection, his and her own all tangled together, and she welcomed it all even as she struggled to encompass it. Please let this at last be a chink in the wall he has raised between us! Let him share the burden with me, that we might both be comforted...But even as she reached out to him, soul to soul, he closed his mind to hers so abruptly that she gasped in pain. Ada, please! she cried inwardly, but with shuttered eyes he turned away, sliding smoothly into conversation with Erestor on his other side, leaving her alone.

"Arwen?" Now Aragorn was looking at her with concern. She tried to smile at him, long-honed protective instincts holding sway. He feels guilt enough for the grief he thinks he has caused by loving me.

"I am well, my lord. Perhaps a little weary, that is all. I probably ought not to have come into the Hall tonight - I fear I am not very good company."

His mouth quirked up in a rueful half-grin. "Nor I - after so long in the wild, being in such a crowd comes hard to me at first...even in Imladris." He hunched his shoulders up briefly. "In fact, it makes me want to find a corner and hide in it," he said, trying to make light of the matter - but the tense line of his body echoed her own formless, vague uneasiness.

"Then why did you come, if I may ask?" She knew the answer, of course, but found that she needed to hear him say it, needed the intimate look he gave her that was like a touch of hands.

"To see you," he replied. This time her smile came more easily, but she found she could not meet his eyes for long.  She turned her gaze back towards the singers.

"Truly, Arwen, are you well?" he persisted quietly. "Just now, you looked - "

"I am perfectly well," she said, cutting him off with more force than she had intended. Please, not here, Estel! She took a deep breath. Her voice sounded brittle to her ears. "But...I think perhaps I would like to be somewhere quieter, just now. Will you come and walk in the gardens with me, my lord?"

He looked at her, and she knew what he was thinking. Is it wise for us to leave together, in front of everyone? They had never kept their association a secret...but usually they kept any overt demonstration of it private. Well, she thought with sudden anger, my father pretends so well not to feel anything, let him now pretend not to notice this.

As applause broke out for the end of the song, she stood and bade the company good night; including even her father in a brilliant smile she did not feel. Moving down the hall with Aragorn at her elbow, she felt Elrond's eyes on her back and lifted her chin, wondering how it was that centuries after coming of age, her father could still make her feel like a naughty child, half ashamed and half defiant. But I am not a child anymore, Ada, and I must make my own way.

By wordless common consent they followed the garden pathways until they were well out of sight and hearing of the Hall. Stopping in a small clearing, they looked at each other in the quiet moonlight. Aragorn let out a long breath that sounded like a sigh of relief. She was already moving towards him when he reached out to pull her into his arms. At last, she thought.  They rested like that, leaning against each other, listening to the night sounds of Imladris.

“This is what I wanted to do when I greeted you, back there in the Hall,” said Aragorn after a long minute, his voice muffled in her hair.

“This is what I wanted to do,” she replied, and kissed him, long and slow.

“Oh…” he said unsteadily, when they parted. She watched his eyes flutter open, dazed with desire.  Then, “May we sit? If you kiss me like that again I fear my legs will not hold me up.”

She laughed for what felt like the first time in a very long while, and let him pull her down on the moss beside him, to lean against a wide tree trunk. “Tell me the news my brothers brought,” she said, and he did. The laughter died in her throat.

A Ranger settlement in the Angle had been attacked by a large company of Orcs, and had suffered grievous losses before Elrohir’s patrol had arrived to drive the enemy away – by chance only, having travelled faster than anticipated on their way back to Imladris with messages from Cirdan of the Havens. 

“The inhabitants were taken almost completely by surprise,” said Aragorn grimly. Arwen could well imagine – Orc bands rarely fought by day unless they were themselves attacked…and they never raided fortified settlements. At least, they have not until recently, she thought with a shiver. 

“My brothers will have told you that this is the third such report we have had in as many months,” she said, and he nodded.

“The Enemy is moving everywhere, it seems,” he said. 

“And these latest attacks seem to speak of greater confidence…or greater discipline…” She spoke slowly, wishing she did not have to make the observation but knowing it was true.

”Aye, that is the heart of it,” Aragorn said bleakly. “The Dark Lord is gaining strength, and his hold on his servants grows. If he becomes strong enough bring all together in some sort of coordinated attack…”

All he would need for that would be the Ring. Aragorn did not have to say it aloud – Arwen felt suffocating fear seep cold into her veins. She struggled to keep her voice level, neutral.

“If he does so, we will just have to counter it.”

Aragorn’s lip twisted in a not-quite-smile. “Yes…but just now it is like trying to play a game of chess without knowing how many pieces there are…and I cannot see the board clearly…” He shook his head in frustration, and she felt a pang at how tired he looked.

“I am sure we will know more after my father’s Council, three days hence.” She lifted a hand to his face, tracing the bones in cheek and jaw with her thumb, wishing fiercely that there was more she could do or say to comfort him. But thankfully her touch seemed to be enough, for now; he closed his eyes and leaned into it, turning his lips briefly into her palm.  Then he let out a long breath, reaching up and tangling his fingers with hers, and she could feel him making a determined effort to shrug off dark thoughts.

“Why were you so angry with Lindir, in the Hall earlier?”

She looked at him in surprise; he quirked an eyebrow at her. “I could tell from the doorway. You looked…very much like your father, all of a sudden.”

"Did I?”

“Yes. Beauty like a knife’s edge…with a sheen of power over it, like frost in winter.”

“Oh!” I ought not to be flattered…I am not proud of how I reacted to Lindir’s jabs. “It is hardly worthy of mention. Lindir was being patronizing about Bilbo’s poem – teasing him about Elves being unable to tell the difference between a man and a hobbit, since both are mortal. ’To sheep, other sheep no doubt appear different…’” she mimicked the other Elf’s indolent drawl. 

Aragorn snorted. “Coming from Lindir, there is naught new in that.”

“I know.” She studied their intertwined hands. “Bilbo did not seem to mind – and it was certainly nothing I have not heard before, from Lindir and others who take it upon themselves to disapprove. I do not know why I bothered to be so wroth with him this time.” She frowned. “It was certainly not my intention to be so obvious about it – but as you tell it, the whole Hall must have known.”

“I think not,” Aragorn said. “I only noticed because I am very…aware…of you, always.”  She raised her head to meet his eyes. Yes, she thought, and you see me more clearly than anyone – even without the othersight of the Elves. How is that possible? She did not know – but she felt a familiar stab of gratitude, so keen it was almost painful.  Their gaze held, lengthened – and then his eyes darkened, and he turned away.

“Estel – what is it?” she prodded when he remained silent.  He hunched his shoulders up, letting go of her hand and curling his arms around his drawn-up knees. 

“It grieves me to think that associating with me leaves you open to insult from your own people. Added to everything else…it is unfair.”

Ai, added to everything else – the certainty of my own death, the prospect of leaving my people and my home, thus breaking my parents’ hearts, and cleaving irrevocably to a lover I fear I must only be parted from forever at the end…on top of all that, a few snide remarks seem little enough to bear! she thought but did not say. They had had variations on this conversation many times before.

“It is somewhat arrogant of you to assume it is my association with you that makes certain Elves think less of me, Estel,” she said. “After all, I have been open in my respect for all kinds of mortals since long before we ever met.”

He shook his head. “Do not play that card with me, Evenstar. Truly you have been a friend to many mortals – but no one would grudge you that, if you had not chosen to be so much more than a friend to me!”  Surprised at the depth of bitterness in his voice, she looked at him keenly.

“Estel, who has been at you?” She exhaled in frustration. “When will they realize that it is my choice and mine alone – you are not to blame for it.”

“Nay, no one has been at me, as you put it.” A little humour crept into his tone, but it was soon gone. “It is more what they do not say… even those who profess to understand, or at least not to condemn. They change the subject, or turn silent in my presence, and I can tell that they grieve. How can I fault them? And your father – behaves normally to me in all respects…but it is as if there is a wall between us, and sometimes I find him looking at you, or at us and – Arwen, it is as if he is bleeding from some invisible wound.”

“I know,” she said, her throat suddenly tight. “But he will not speak of it to me either. Tonight – just for a moment – I thought, perhaps, he might…but I was wrong.” She swallowed hard, staring blindly at her fingers, twisted together in her lap. After a moment she felt Aragorn’s touch on her hair.

“I am sorry,” he whispered. That brought her back up to face him, eyes flashing.

“Do not you apologize,” she said fiercely, “unless you are sorry you fell in love with me, or sorry that I chose to love you in return.”

He gazed back at her, his face stark with longing in the moonlight. “Never. May the Valar forgive me, but I cannot be sorry for that.”  Then he kissed her, hard and hungrily at first, but as she wove a hand into his hair and matched him passion for passion, it transmuted into something calmer and less desperate.  Warmth bloomed under his touch, and the aching tenderness of his mouth on hers seemed to loosen everything inside her that had been wound too tightly for so long. The relief of it, of having him close, brought tears to her eyes. With a shuddering gasp, she realized that she was crying. Aragorn gathered her against him and held her without a word.

“I am sorry,” she muttered in her turn, brokenly into the crook of his neck. “I do not know what mood is on me tonight…I am tired, truly that is all. It has been – dificult, these past few days.”

“I know,” he said. “The Shadow grows ever darker – and now it has come even into Imladris. I would I had not brought this burden to you, love.”

At that, Arwen felt a small exasperated laugh bubble up. “Oh Estel, will you blame yourself for everything tonight?” She took a deep breath, straightening her shoulders and pushing her hair back from her face. “You had no other choice, as you well know…and better in any case that it should come here, among Elves, who are stronger against its power, than stay out in the world where it might do its Master’s work too well.  We will bear the burden lightly enough, you will see,” she promised. Let that be my stand against the Shadow, since I am not to ride to war with my brothers and my lover.

“I have no doubt of it,” said Aragorn. “Not with you here to make it so.” He caught her hand and brought it to his lips. “You are a shining light, Arwen Undomiel. No one – not even Elrond – does more to keep the heart of Imladris strong.”

The compliment and the admiration in his voice and eyes sent another rush of warmth singing through her body.  “I do not feel very strong, just at present,” she admitted. And to no one but him would I ever say such a thing. 

“Nonetheless, you are.” He smiled suddenly, and she felt it as the sun coming from behind a cloud. “What a Queen you will make, if I ever manage to win us a realm! Gondor has never yet seen your like.”

Nor yours, my love… “That does not surprise me,” she replied drily, to cover the sudden giddy happiness that was coursing through her veins. “According to the histories I have read, the role of the Queen of Gondor seems hitherto to have consisted of, first, being a useful pawn in the game of strategic alliances, and after that, dutifully bearing children to assure the survival of the royal bloodline.”

“Ah, said Aragorn, looking at her seriously. “You have uncovered my true motive in courting you. An alliance with the Elves will greatly strengthen Gondor’s political position. And of course the blood of Numenor, which grows weaker with each generation, would benefit from being joined again with the line of Earendil.  It will be a very suitable match.”

"Will it!” He was very convincing, except for the laughter she could see dancing deep down in his eyes. It made her want to sing.  Instead she asked archly,

“Do the men and women of Gondor never marry for love, then?” 

“Sometimes.” He stretched his legs out and leaned back against the tree trunk. “But among the powerful, such things are usually arranged with everything but love in mind.”

She raised an eyebrow at him.  “It is a very strange custom. I cannot fathom sharing a life with someone based on such an arrangement.”

“Nor can I,” he said offhandedly, avoiding her eyes. “But then, you know, I had an odd upbringing.”

  “Odd?!” She sputtered. Exaggeratedly indignant, she poked him in the side, and as he jerked away, she tickled him – or tried to. Curse this elven-mail! I fear I am having very little effect…

“Oh yes,” he got out. “Very odd indeed…got all sorts of eccentric ideas in my head.” He was laughing breathlessly, and so was she. How long it has been since we could be playful together like this, she thought fleetingly. Then she started to overbalance, and he caught both her wrists and held her against his drawn-up knees.

“I do not want that sort of marriage,” he said, all at once serious again.

“I am glad,” she said. “I do not think I could be that sort of wife – or Queen.”

“Thank the Valar for that.”

“What sort do you want, then?” she asked. He let go of her wrists and dropped his eyes, suddenly diffident. They had never spoken so before, she realized, looking at his bent head. They had never discussed the shape their lives would take if the promise of his destiny were fulfilled. Can it be that we are afraid to hope, after all? she wondered.

He raised his head and faced her again, and she felt the full force of his longing, of dreams long and deeply held, so precious that he hardly dared speak of them, even to her.

“One who will share in everything with me,” he said roughly. “One who will be as my right hand upon the throne and in all things…who will help me build a kingdom and a life. A mother for my children - for I find I do wish to have them, and not just for dynasty’s sake… a friend and counsellor as well as lover, always…” His mouth quirked up in self-deprecation. “I do not ask for much, do I?”

And so it seems, beloved, that our dreams are the same. She swallowed hard and smiled tremulously, slipping her arms around his neck. “I believe I could try to be that sort of wife,” she said. 

He closed his eyes, letting his forehead fall forward to touch hers.  “I only hope I shall be given the chance to be worthy of you.”

“Idiot,” she said tartly. “You already are.”  He laughed shakily and pulled her close once more.  She burrowed into his body, loving the feeling of his arms around her. In the end, all the dreams come down to this, she thought. I simply want to be with him. Even if the moments are few and far between, and every heartbeat means one moment less.