Light On the Way

Preface

       Tolkien said in one of his letters (I can’t remember which one) that The Lord of the Rings is ultimately a story about death.  I think most good stories do look at this ultimate reality for us mortal beings, for we all end up contemplating what it may be like for us as we each face  our own eventual demise.  This is another of the reasons we resonate so to the work, as we can see how Frodo and Aragorn and others respond to their own mortality and look forward to their own ends within Middle Earth, and how they prepare for them even as they prepare to live.

       The story of the deaths of Aragorn and Arwen as told in the appendices is very sad and yet uplifting.  Yet I found myself wondering, why would Arwen have reacted the way she did? She knows the story of Lúthien, of how she and Beren were reunited in the Halls of Mandos and were given time together in Middle Earth before they left the Circles of Arda. So I began to play with the idea, and this was what came out.

       The cost of love has always been the probability of loss of that which is loved, either as we leave it or it leaves us. Yet sometimes it is only in giving our belovéds freedom that we can hold them most truly within our hearts.

       I hope this, too, resonates in the hearts of others, and that it causes thought.

Light on the Way

 A Bell Tolls

       How does one say goodbye? he wondered as he carefully fastened the ties on his shirt, and looked at the surcoat he’d chosen to wear over it.  This was something he’d found himself wondering repeatedly over the past few weeks, even as he’d done it repeatedly.  He’d ridden to Ithilien to personally inform Legolas, and Legolas had immediately left all other business and taken horse to Rohan to bring Gimli to Minas Anor.  He’d stopped at the Steward’s House to summon Barahir to accompany him back to the capitol with him, to be on hand when the moment came to support Eldarion.  He’d greeted his brothers on their arrival two days past and held them for longer than any of the three had intended, and he’d begged them to stand by their sister.  He’d looked into the ancient eyes of the Lord Glorfindel, who knew well where he was going and what he could expect on arrival, and had seen the reassurance there.  He’d sat at his desk penning the proclamation for his people, making fifteen copies--seven for the City, one that had been sent off three days ago to Dol Amroth to the hands of the Prince of the Silver Swan, one to the Seneschal of Ithilien who ruled there now in the absence of his Lord, one that had been sent to Edoras, one to his Steward in Annúminas, one to the Thain in the Shire, one to Erebor, and one to the Vale of Imladris, all sent a month past, to be opened and read on this day at sunset.

       The signs his time was coming had begun four months past--suddenly a shortness of breath as he rose from his bath; an ache in his head on awakening; his joints suddenly stiff after only an hour in the saddle.  And there were the dreams--the dreams of his father and his Adar together, looking at him from afar, both shining, and beyond them two other lights that were intimately familiar, watching with concern, love, and trust; of his mother smiling at him as she hadn’t since his childhood; of a Voice, unfamiliar yet known, telling him, "You have some time to choose."  He’d been granted time, time to take his leave with dignity and with planning for the future, time to go unhurriedly, time to avoid the indignity that had claimed some of his ancestors and predecessors, who had simply fallen from their thrones unmanned when their bodies failed them.  No, he would not present that spectacle to his family and his people.  But it would be hardest, he knew, for his beloved Arwen.  He closed his eyes and uttered a silent prayer for her, for her comfort.   As he opened them and straightened, he felt again the pain in his chest that had been the latest sign, and knew he had been right to choose now.  He wondered how Bilbo had managed it all the years he had lingered, and found himself smiling to remember the old Hobbit and his determination to last just a bit longer than his grandfather had done.

       A knock at the door heralded the arrival of Faramir Took, who’d come to Minas Anor after the death of his wife Goldilocks, following the lead of his father and cousin, giving over his office to his own son Frodo, who’d been born shortly after the death of his uncle Frodo Gardner and had been named in his honor as well as the honor of the Ringbearer.  The idea of a Frodo as Thain of the Shire was pleasing to the King of Gondor and Arnor, and he saw in it a sign that all would continue well in that peaceful land he’d ridden through only four times in his life.  Aragorn turned to greet the Hobbit and to smile into his eyes, tightened with anxiety and the anticipation of loss.  He’d had time to come to appreciate this one, the humor so similar to that of his father’s, the quieter subtlety of his intelligence, the still active curiosity, which nonetheless was more controlled than Pippin’s had ever been, the deep well of compassion in his heart.

      Faramir Took was no warrior, nor had there ever been any sign of him ever being so.  He was a scholar, as had been his son’s older namefather; and when he was asked if he would wear a sword at a formal ceremony he’d turned red with embarrassment.  He carried instead a cane, a cane of lebethron left to him by Master Sculptor Ruvemir of Lebennin, who’d had it from the King himself many years ago when he’d been released from the Houses of Healing after his hip had become disjointed.  This cane had been well cared for by both its bearers, and Aragorn knew it would one day be entrusted to another as it had been entrusted to Faramir.  Faramir’s own leg had healed badly after a severe break as a child, and as he himself approached old age he’d found the cane a welcome aid.  Now, as he stopped a few feet short of his father’s friend--and now his own as well, he clutched at its handle and leaned heavily on it.

       "You are still set on it being today, my Liege?" he asked.  At Aragorn’s nod he dropped his eyes.  "It’s going to be a shock to your people."

       "I know, but that cannot be changed now."  Aragorn picked up the sealed scrolls that lay on his desk, carefully slid them into the carrier bag he’d asked be brought in earlier, and asked, "Has the messenger to the Guard arrived?"  At the Hobbit’s nod, he asked, "Will you please bid him enter, then?"

       The messenger entered, a young man, great grandson, Aragorn knew, to Beregond, Captain of the Guard to the White Company, the personal guard of the Lord Faramir, Prince of Ithilien and Steward of Gondor.  "Welcome, Bergemon," the King greeted him as the young man bowed.  "One of these is to be given to the Herald for each Gate of the City, with directions they are to be opened and proclaimed aloud at the tolling of the bell."

       "At the tolling of which bell, my Lord?" asked Bergemon.

       Aragorn smiled wryly.  "That will be plain when it occurs," he said, then stayed the leaving of the messenger with a gesture.  "Your great grandfather was a good man and true, as were both his son and your father.  To have had four such in service to the realm has been an honor.  I thank you for what you and your fathers before you have offered to me and to Gondor."  So saying, he bowed his head, which confused the young man.

       "My Lord?"

       His lord smiled.  "Go now, and do your duty, Bergemon of the Guard," he said in dismissal; and as the messenger disappeared on his errand, he said softly, "And may your sons and your sons’ sons be as faithful in their turn."  He turned to Faramir, who was waiting at the doorway.  "Five generations I have known in that family, actually, and every one of the five has been a man of great honor.  Will you call my valet, please, Faramir?"

       He ordinarily preferred to dress himself, but lately this had become more difficult, as to raise his arms over his head had become painful.  The surcoat was heavy with silver and white embroidery on green velvet so dark as to appear almost black, a gift long ago from his wife after the birth of their first child, beautiful Melian.  It was the work of Miriel of Lebennin, Master Embroiderer.  And the effigy that would be placed over his tomb had been the last work of her brother Ruvemir.  It was fitting, he thought, that both should be honored today, that the work of both would be part of his own memorial.  He remembered the two unusual artisans, the shyness of the sister, the boldness of her brother, the beauty that had been their gift for so long to the realm.  Would he see them soon? he wondered, and thought, for the first time, that this was going to be a time not only for goodbyes but for greetings as well.  Suddenly his own mood lightened, for he could think of many now he wished to greet.

       Faramir noted the change in mood as he returned with young Lasgon, whose grandfather of the same name had once served his own father, and wondered at it.

       Lasgon assisted the King to don the surcoat, straightened it carefully, brought forth the soft whisk to brush free the few stray hairs and dust motes that had fallen on it, and smiled with satisfaction.  "You look very fine, my Lord," the valet commented  He suddenly laid the whisk on the table nearby and hurried forward to catch up Beruthiel, the Princess Idril’s favorite cat, before she could brush up against the King and leave more hairs behind.  But Aragorn stopped him before he could put it out, took the animal from his arms, and hugged it close.

       "Stay by her, little one," Faramir heard the King whisper into the cat’s ear, which twitched as the breath tickled it.  "Stay by her and comfort her."  The cat turned its head to look up into the Man’s face and examined him gravely, butted her head against his beard, then leapt down and departed.  With a sigh Lasgon reached again for the whisk, and the King laughed.  "Do not begrudge it, my friend," he said.  "It was worth the bother for me, you know."  Then, when the young man was satisfied his master’s appearance was appropriately spotless, Aragorn thanked him for his service, donned his sword belt and Andúril, nodded at Faramir to follow, and went out of the room.

       As they walked toward the stairs down to the throne room, the Hobbit asked quietly, "He does not know?"

       The King, again preoccupied, shook his head.  "No, I’ve not told them.  They will learn of it with the rest of the city."

       "Then why did you tell me?"

       King and friend stopped, looked at one another.  Faramir had lagged behind as they descended the stairs, and his eyes were now on the level of the King’s own.  He searched the keen grey gaze of his father’s friend, which was leveled unwaveringly on his own.  Finally Aragorn answered, "Because you, my friend, understand as they won’t.  You know I am mortal, while they think of me as one who will be here always.  You have seen the devastation that still marks much of the Northern Kingdom, and have seen the faces of those who remember the Time of Troubles.  Few here in this city can think of what happened in the time of their fathers’ fathers as quite real.  It is one of the marks of difference, I think, between Halflings and Men."

       After a moment of silence, Faramir sighed, "Some distinction, my Lord."

       Aragorn raised his hand to Faramir’s shoulder, squeezed it in comfort, and the Hobbit placed his own, smaller hand on the King’s wrist.  Aragorn could see the unshed tears gathering, but that there was acceptance there, also.  He smiled at Faramir, and Faramir smiled back reflexively.  "Come. Time grows short."

       Faramir gave a small shake of his head, held his place for a moment longer.  "How long would you remain, do you think?"

       The Man shrugged.  "Not long--perhaps two months more, not much longer.  The weakness is spreading rapidly through my body now.  I would not have my people see such happen to me.  Better I give back the grace granted me, accept the Gift of Ilúvatar now, than lose all along with my dignity."  With a nod of understanding the Hobbit released the King’s hand and gave a short bow; and straightening, the Lord Elessar Telcontar turned, and continued on his way.

       Near the Throne of Gondor stood Eldarion, formally dressed in armor, holding his father’s white mantle in his arms.  His face was pale and strained, and that of his wife Loreth was white and tear stained.  Their son Valandil, a slender, tall child of twelve years, stood straight and with great dignity, holding his grandfather’s crown.  Melian stood with her husband Hirgion, grandson of Húrin of the Keys and Keeper of the Keys of the Kingdom in his turn.  Hirgion had only just been informed of the day’s proceedings, and was standing stiff with disbelief and shock.  The door at the far end of the room opened, and Barahir entered, followed by Legolas and Gimli, who carried his own cane now, and no longer an axe.  Gimli’s beard and hair were now completely white, his face heavily wrinkled with time and humor--and now grief.  Only the extreme pallor of Legolas’s features betrayed his own grief, and Aragorn was grateful for his long-time friend’s steadiness.  He still had to face Arwen’s grief, for Arwen had risen before him this morning, had found herself unable to eat the breakfast he’d asked be brought to her, and had finally told him she would await him at the White Tree.  Aragorn looked to his older daughter and asked, "Your sister is with your mother?"

       "Yes--she will accept comfort more readily from her than from me right now--still thinks of her as a child.  And Arien is there, and Elladan and Elrohir and the Lord Glorfindel are with her as well."  Father and daughter shared a brief smile of understanding.

       "Will you wear the Crown, Adar?" asked Eldarion.

       Aragorn considered.  Finally he said, "No.  I think I would wear the Star of Elendil and carry the Sceptre of Annúminas today."  He turned to his grandson.  "Are you willing to carry it for a time, Best Beloved?" he asked.  At the boy’s nod, he nodded in return and straightened.  He looked at all of them.  "I could not remain long with you at any rate.  Please accept this.  I honor and love each and all, and rejoice to have you as friends and family.  And it eases my heart to have you all with me this day."

       Barahir opened the ancient casket in which Aragorn’s Crown and Circlet were kept, and produced the Star of Elendil as Eldarion carefully laid his father’s mantle about him, fastening it with the brooch of the Elessar stone.  With a deep bow the Steward of Gondor placed the Circlet in his King’s hands, and with a return bow Aragorn accepted it and placed it on his brow.  Accepting the Sceptre, he straightened one last time, the King of Gondor and Arnor.  He smiled at them all, a surprisingly joyful smile, and turning he led the way down the Throne Room of the Citadel of Minas Anor to the door.

       The Captain of the Guard himself, Bergevir son of Bergil son of Beregond, stood straight and proudly as he gave the sign the door was to be opened, his face white but self-possessed.  He led the King’s Honor Guard, drawn from both Gondor and Arnor, three before, three after, as they paced out to join those waiting beneath the White Tree.  His son had not been told the nature of the King’s plans for the day, but he had had both the right and the need to know.

       The King did not go directly to his wife, but directed the procession was to go beyond the Court of the Tree to the grouped statues which stood beyond it in the midst of a raised bed of elanor and niphredil and athelas, warded behind with a hedge of rosemary plants.  He looked into the timeless eyes of four Pheriannath carved in finest marble, the marble of Casistir, set up here to honor four who had given so much for the freedom and safety of all the Free Peoples as well as those who’d previously not known freedom, and he reached forth to touch the hand of Frodo Baggins, the Ring lying in his palm, and murmured, "Soon, mellon nín, soon."  Faramir saw that Aragorn touched the fingertips, nowhere near the circle, saw the tenderness of the King’s expression, the pride, the longing.  Faramir’s own tears, long held in check, began now to fall.

       Finally the King gave a deep bow, straightened slowly and with a visible twinge of pain, then turned with great dignity to circle the monument back to the White Tree, before which he again bowed deeply, then set his hand on its bark and closed his eyes.  "Continue to grow and bloom," he said in a low but carrying voice.  "Let Middle Earth continue to know the dignity and honor of our people, our lineages."  He looked up, turned to look at the light of the Sun, which stood now at her zenith, and finally turned to his wife, daughter, and granddaughter, his brothers, and the closest friend to his foster father.  "It is time," he said simply, moved to his wife and put his free hand on her shoulder, and led her, reluctant, toward the Silent Street.

       The Warden opened the door with the dignity of his office, bowed as the procession entered, closed the door after and then took the lead, bringing them to the Kings’ House.  Aragorn looked at the doors with sudden revulsion.  "No," he said.  "I wish to take my leave out here, beneath the open sky."

       If the Warden was surprised at this he was too well trained in the ways of grief to betray it, but at a clap of his hands those whose duties were to care for the Houses of the Dead appeared from whatever parts of the cemetery they’d been working in, and at a quiet order they went into the Kings’ House and brought out first a pedestal set on a cart flat to the ground, then after carrying it to a stone slab set nearby placed it with great care.  They disappeared back inside and returned with a large slab of finest marble, and under the direction of their master carefully centered it over the pedestal.  Finally one went back inside and brought out a pall and pillow of red silk, draped cloth over the stone, laid the pillow at the west end of the bier so made, and bowed to the King.  The Warden joined in the bow.  "You are not the first to desire such a thing, my Lord.  Would you prefer you remain here after?  We do have the tomb and cover prepared long ago by the Master Ruvemir."  At the King’s thoughtful nod, he nodded in return.  "So it shall be done, then, My Lord.  Rest well."  All saw that, in spite of his respectful, professional demeanor, the man himself was weeping quietly as he gave a sign to the others to withdraw as well, to allow these their grief in privacy and dignity.

       Aragorn unfastened his sword belt and handed it to his son.  "When the time of honor is done, take it, my son, and wear it with honor, and in his time give it to Valandil."  Eldarion nodded solemnly.  The two embraced, and then Aragorn embraced all others, whispering words of leavetaking to each.

       When Faramir’s turn came, the King knelt, held him very close, and the Hobbit felt, for the first time, the labored beating of the Man’s heart, realized at last that the King had reason to know his time was short.  He straightened with concern, touched his King’s face, and whispered, "Go with the blessings of all with you, my Lord, my father’s friend.  And when you see him, bear him my love, tell him it shouldn’t be too long ere I join you all."  Aragorn smiled.  His face was now visibly tired.  He nodded.

       What was said between the King and each of the others no one heard, but at last he stood alone one last time, and all could see he suddenly swayed before he found his balance.  Eldarion handed sword belt and Andúril to the Steward, aided his father to sit, then to lie down, straightened first pall and then mantle around him, smoothed his hair.  The King’s face was definitely pale.  "It is coming more swiftly than I’d expected," he said, when all was in order.  "I’m sorry--but it would have come almost as swiftly if I’d tried to delay."  He smiled into his son’s eyes.  "I will be all right, my son.  This is the natural order of things, after all."  He turned his head slightly, looked to his grandson, who came forward to set the Crown of Gondor in his hands.  He smiled into the boy’s eyes, and the boy smiled back, the grief briefly fled.  "I am so very glad," the King whispered, "that I was granted the grace to know you in this life.  Support your father well, Valandil.  And when you come to marry, may you know the great joy he and I both have known."  He reached up to touch the boy’s temple, then withdrew his hand and looked to his son.

       "It is time, Eldarion, for you to accept this.  Wear it proudly, and wear it in humility as well.  Remember that its weight represents the responsibility you owe not only the peoples of Gondor and Arnor, but to all others outside our sway as well.  Let all who see you wearing it know you do so in honesty, fealty, strength, honor, justice, mercy.  Let you never betray a treaty or your word.  May the Valar guard and guide you, and our people, always."  He started to lift the Crown to his son, but his hands were trembling, and the younger man reached down and took it from him, and at a weak gesture from his father, set it on his head.  Aragorn’s voice regained its strength.  "Behold the King!" he pronounced, and Hirgion and Barahir repeated the declaration as all others, save Arwen, knelt.

       Eldarion knelt over his father’s form, embraced him, weeping, and the King briefly embraced him one last time in return, until his hands fell away.  His face was very pale now, his eyes growing distant.  Eldarion laid his fathers’ hands on his breast, and he took Andúril from the Steward and laid it on his father’s body alongside the sceptre, and Aragorn grasped it one last time.

       "Leave us," he whispered.  "Leave Arwen and me.  May Ilúvatar bless you all."  The others withdrew.

*******

       A bell had been carried to Middle Earth from foundered Númenor on the ship of Elendil, and when the Dome of Stars had been raised in Osgiliath it had been placed in a high tower built beside it.  When the former capitol was abandoned, this bell had been brought to Minas Tirith and placed high in the tower of the Citadel.  No rope hung from it, no way it could be rung by Men.  It had not been heard sounding for over a thousand years, and no one had given much thought to it for many lives of Men.  But suddenly it tolled, the great Bell of the Kings, gift to Elendil from the artisans of Tol Eressëa, tolled a single note for each year that Aragorn son of Arathorn and Gilraen, Heir to Elendil and Isildur and Valandil, the Dúnadan, Man of the West, the Lord King Elessar Envinyatar Telcontar, the Elfstone and Renewer and Far-Strider, Lord of Gondor and Arnor, bearer of the Star of Elendil as well as the Crown of Gondor and Sceptre of Annúminas and the Sword Reforged and the Elessar stone, once known as Strider, the Lord Captain Thorongil, Ælric, Swiftfoot, Estel, and other names long forgotten, he who had been the Hope of the Free Peoples of Middle Earth--for each year he had lived.  All looked up in wonder and consternation, not immediately understanding the meaning, then all suddenly realizing all too well the message it proclaimed.  Their King was dead! 

       As the tolling continued, they gathered, each to the gate nearest to them, those who lived out on the Pelennor hurrying forward to the Great Gates set in place in the fifth year of the King’s reign to hear the news confirmed, those from the Citadel itself to the Court of the White Tree.  Two hundred ten strokes were sounded by that Bell, giving all ample time to gather, for the pale-faced Heralds to unseal their scrolls with trembling fingers, to take their places where all gathered near could hear.  And when at last the Bell went silent, each unrolled his scroll and began to read.

       “To my people, I give you my greetings and my farewells.  Today my story in Middle Earth is completed, for the sands in the glass of my life have at last run out.  Let it be known that it has been a blessing to have served you as your Lord and King.  Our son Eldarion has received the Winged Crown from my hands, and is now Lord and King of Gondor and Arnor" (although those scrolls sent to the northern realm had the names reversed).

       "Let all rejoice that the King is with you and will remain among you.  And may he remain true to you and you to him for as long as the Valar hold Their Thrones.  Blessings be upon and remain with you all.

       "The King is dead.  Long live the King."

       And there was weeping in all parts of the city, and at the setting of the Sun in the Southlands, the Northern Kingdom, Rohan, Ithilien, Imladris, and the Shire.

       "The King is dead.  Long live the King."

The Time of Honor

          Those who had attended the Lord of Gondor and Arnor to his final rest withdrew to allow him privacy with his wife ere he left them completely, but as far as they were from the King’s bier, several of those could still hear most of what was said, particularly his children, his brothers and the Lord Glorfindel, Legolas, and the Hobbit, Faramir Took.  These had, of course, the enhanced hearing of their kinds and could not help hearing the pleas given by the Lady Arwen for him to linger at least a little longer.  Much of this interchange was spoken in Sindarin, and a little even in Quenya, but it was all too well understood by those who stood by.

          Then came the moment when as the Queen spoke there was a sudden arching of the King’s back, an opening of his mouth with surprise, then its smoothing into a smile as his eyes closed into final sleep.  The Star of Elendil on his forehead suddenly flamed with a brilliant light which dazzled all, then dimmed.  All went completely still, and time even in that apparently timeless place seemed suspended.  Faramir felt he saw a shining form rise from the figure on the bier and hover briefly over them all, looking down with compassion and love at those who waited, reach down to caress with shining fingers the still dark tresses of his wife; and then it looked away, toward the West, and began to be drawn that direction, growing brighter and brighter as it began to move away from them--and then it was gone, hidden by the bulk of Mount Mindoluin.  Only briefly did Arwen respond to that Light before focusing her attention back again on the body lying before her; but Faramir could tell Glorfindel saw it clearly and followed its progress, that Legolas saw it and wept and bowed his head, that the Sons of Elrond watched it with only partially comprehending attention, that the children of Aragorn and Arwen saw it, honored it, then turned their attention back to their mother, and that for the others it was only dimly perceived and beyond their comprehension.  No, perhaps the Lord Barahir saw it.  Perhaps he saw it; but with the attention of his new Lord, his was drawn to the sight of the Queen’s grief.

          The tolling of the Bell of the Kings startled all save the Queen, who in the depths of her loss did not appear to hear it at all.  All remained still for some time after it had finally stilled, and finally Eldarion came forward to kneel by his mother and embrace her shoulders as the Warden of the Silent Street returned, as others came near with the cruel tools that needed to be used next. 

          Arwen finally raised her eyes from the beloved face of her Lord, looked with eyes that refused to comprehend at those waiting.  The new King spoke gently.  “My beloved Lady Mother, we must leave these for a time to do what must be done.  When they are finished, you can return.”

          She looked at the roll of knives in the hand of the embalmer, and went so much paler that her son held her close to keep her from falling.  “They cannot cut him!  You must not cut him!”

          Eldarion, who had fought alongside his father at times, and who had campaigned among the Rangers of the North, shook his head.  “He was the King, and his body must lie in state for ten days.  It is the law and the custom, that there may be witnesses of all levels that he is indeed gone from us.  He cannot stay as he is.”

          She looked imploringly into his eyes.  “But he--”

          He shook his head.  “No, he won’t waken.  Not here.  He awaits us in the Halls of Waiting, Naneth.  This is but the shell he wore when he was with us.”

          He turned to the embalmer.  “He did not wish to lie as a specimen for the eyes of the curious, and indeed, if his true wishes were followed he would be buried directly in the earth in the custom of Arnor.  An effigy and cover were prepared for his tomb.  I wish that as little be done to his body as possible, for his sake and for that of my mother.”

          The embalmer nodded.  “If that is the will of the King.”

          “It is the will of both Kings, and that of the Queen as well.”

          The Warden then spoke.  “What will be buried with him, then, my Liege?”

          King Eldarion looked to his sisters, then to the others about him.  “A sword will be brought that he bore during his youth.  I will bring it to the internment, and will exchange it for Andúril.”  All nodded agreement.  “I will then take the Sceptre of Annúminas and the Star of Elendil, replacing them with a different circlet and a lesser rod.”

          The gruff voice of the Dwarf could be heard saying, “With your leave, my Lord Eldarion, I will craft a circlet for my friend to wear in his rest.”

          And Legolas added, “I will aid in this crafting, in the honoring of the memory of our friend.”

          Eldarion looked at both with gratefulness for their offer.  “So be it, then,” he said.  “My father would consider himself in your debt for this last gift from you both.  You will have ten days, and the use of any materials within the treasury.  But he would wish it to be plain.” 

          The Dwarf’s nod was so slight that it was barely perceptible, and he put his hand on the forearm of his friend, which embraced his shoulder.

          The Warden gave a small cough.  “His brooch?  His ring?”

          Eldarion looked at his own hand where the Ring of Barahir shone in green glory, then looked again at his uncles and sisters.  Finally he said, “Let them be buried with him.  Once my son is invested formally as my heir when he comes of age, the Ring of Barahir will go to him as it came to me, and from him to our future heirs.  But the Elfstone was his and his alone, and with the passing of our mother’s people, it is only right that it remain with the one of our lineage who knew them best.  If it is needed, one of our line will come to claim it.  Until that day, let it remain with him.  And I shall wear my own Ring of Kingship, as will those who follow after us.”

          Arwen’s expression was one of shock, as if this mundane talk of what was to be done with the signs of her husband’s Lordship was a sacrilege, but although he held his mother close, Eldarion forcefully ignored her unspoken protests, dealing with the realities of his father’s death.

          The Warden nodded.  “Then we will make it so, my Lord.  Long live the King!”  The others bowed deeply as the New King drew his mother away, out of the Silent Street, and back to the Citadel.  Two of the Guard of Honor remained in the Rath Dinen, turning away from the bier, their weapons at the ready, while the other four bowed deeply to the late King, saluted him, then turned at a quiet order to honor the new, and to accompany him back out into the living world.  Followed by the others who had stood vigil, they left Aragorn to his rest and the attentions of those who care for the body after death.

          Three hours later word came that all was in order, and Eldarion allowed his uncles and sisters to accompany his mother back to his father’s bier.  He, however, had other business; and an hour before sunset he came forth to the Court of the Tree and showed himself to the folk of the upper city, then walked to the far heel of the outthrust spur of the Mountain that divided the city and stood on its end, and the Heralds of the City, led by the declaration of the Steward of Gondor, called out, “Behold the King.”  To the acclamation of his people he stood, an isolated figure dressed in a white mantle and the dark armor of the King, the Winged Crown on his head, the light of the setting Sun sparkling from the Ring of Barahir on his finger as he raised his hand as it did on the jewels of the Crown.

          The next day the procession began forming before dawn, as the people of the city of Minas Anor made the pilgrimage up the steep streets of the city to look one last time upon the face of their long-time Lord, bringing tributes of flowers and greenery to lay around the roots of the White Tree as they emerged from the precincts of the Hallows.  As the day progressed others arrived from the hamlets on the Pelennor, and from beyond the Rammas Echor, from Anorien and Osgiliath and nearer Ithilien.  On the fifth day the King of Rohan arrived with his wife, son, and sister; and later in the day came the Prince of Dol Amroth and other notables from the Southlands.  Late on the ninth day others arrived on swift post horses from Eriador and Lake Evendim, along with them, riding before the Steward of Arnor, Frodo Took, Thain of the Shire; and on the saddle of one of his guards the current Frodo Gardner, with his brother Holfast co-Master of Bag End.  They joined the procession into and out of the Rath Dinen, and went into the Citadel to learn their places for the final internment on the morrow.

          At sunset the body of Aragorn was removed to the Citadel where it would lie during the night as all was set for the final resting of the King.  All during the night the procession continued, now going past the bier that stood at the foot of the Throne, and standing among the soldiers of Gondor stood Frodo Took, wearing the mail once worn by his grandfather Peregrin, holding a sword only few had seen before but which was familiar as its image was held in the hand of the statue of Samwise Gamgee, Esquire of the Ringbearer--the Elven blade known as Sting.  Troll’s Bane, the sword carried by the Ernil i Pheriannath, lay displayed at the King’s feet.  All who walked by noted the white light seemingly reflected by both ancient blades, the one wrought in the Eldar Days by the Elves, the other by those who fought the Witch-king of Angmar ere the disintegration of the Northern Kingdom.

          And they looked one last time at the face of their King.  When he came to the Crown he’d been already long Chieftain of the Dúnedain, had already walked, ridden, and sailed thousands of miles throughout Middle Earth, had fought the enemies of Arnor and Gondor from his coming to manhood, had known Kings, Stewards, Lords, and Captains of many lands; so his face had already been lined with responsibility and nobility.  In the years of his Lordship the lines had been deepened, but had been joined with lines of humor and joy as the need for grimness had finally failed.  His hair had remained full, as had his short beard, but had gone white in the last few years.  But never had there been sign of weakness of body or spirit reflected there, and none could be seen now, as they saw the strength and hope of his youth, the courage and dedication of his early manhood, the wisdom and joy of his rule, the peace of his final years.  All looked on him with honor, and many with tears, and as they left the Citadel they left their flowers and greens around the White Tree and the Fountain, where the circle of tribute now stood a foot high and stretched out a score of feet from the Tree’s roots.

          But few noted the dark figure of a woman veiled in black who stood near the head of the bier all during the final vigil, failing to recognize the failed brightness of their Queen.  Indeed many wondered afterwards why they had not seen her, although she had stood before them the whole time.

          Only the next day as they watched the now limited procession bearing the King at last to his final internment did those near enough to see recognize the Queen, and then by the closeness of her children and the attendance offered by her brothers.

          The pedestal previously there had been moved, Faramir saw as they paced back to the place where Aragorn had indicated he wished to lie, and in its place lay a sarcophagus of stone, surprisingly simple.  On its sides were depicted Star of Elendil and Winged Crown, with the Sceptre of Annúminas between them, over a depiction of Andúril lying horizontally with its pommel toward the west, and beneath a depiction of the Elessar stone brooch.  On the west end was a depiction of the Sun in glory, and on the east the White Tree, Crown, Star of Elendil, and Seven Stars between stylized depictions of the Two Trees of the Valar.  Nearby stood the repositioned pedestal, waiting for the bier; and on a second pedestal stood the effigy that would lie over the King’s body.

          One other change he saw, and noted with shock--on either side of the king’s tomb lay now two other tombs, brought out of the House of the Lords of the City, much smaller tombs--the tombs of his father and that of Meriadoc Brandybuck.  He looked up into the face of Barahir the Steward, who looked down and smiled at him.  “It was their wish and his, you know, that they might lie as honor guards to him in death.  It has been a long time since that wish was stated, but now it is done.”

          The tightness in his breast at this news seemed as if it would stop his breath, but Faramir Took realized that if this was to be, it would be to end with gladness.  But it appeared as the ceremony continued that he would survive this, too. 

          Eldarion came forward with the sword his father had borne in his younger days and as the Lord Captain Thorongil, and exchanged it for Andúril, which he gave into the keeping of the Steward.  He then accepted from Gimli the circlet he and Legolas had prepared, set with a single green beryl, and exchanged it for the Star of Elendil, then took the lesser rod from Hirgion of the Keys and exchanged it for the Sceptre of Annúminas.  He then kissed his father’s brow for the final time, and drew back for his sisters to do the same, and then his uncles, and finally for his mother.  Arwen’s paleness and lack of vitality shocked all who saw her, but she gently walked forward to embrace her husband’s form one last time, kissed his mouth gently, laid her hand over his eyes, and finally stepped back.  Then Eldarion gave Star and Sceptre to Hirgion, stepped forward one last time and gently lifted the sides of the pall to cover his father, accepted the ends of the ribbons that had been laid under the body and tied them in place, and finally, gently lifted the still form in his arms and carried it to the sarcophagus, laid it softly to rest with the now shrouded head on the pillow placed there by Idril, straightened it, and finally stood at attention, signing to those who stood to place the cover with its effigy in place.  The King wept one last time over the remains of his Sire, then turned to those who had witnessed the proceedings.

          “Let all know that the King Elessar Telcontar, Aragorn son of Arathorn, once Lord of Gondor and Arnor, has been laid to rest.  Let none dishonor his remains while the Thrones of the Valar stand.”

          Frodo Took and Frodo Gardner stood forth and sang the hymn to Elbereth, and finally all left the Hallows--all save the Queen and her brothers.

He Who was as a Son

          “Are you restless?” a familiar voice asked in Westron as Elrond came forth from his dwelling, leaned on a railing, and looked at the glory of Anor rising in the East.

          Elrond turned, startled by the language and the voice, and both surprised and amused at the form he saw sitting on a nearby bench.  He examined it closely.  “You need only the pipe,” he commented.  “Is the Lady Livwen giving a Shire tea that you appear thus?  It is very, very long since I last saw Gandalf the White, much less Gandalf the Grey.”

          “No,” the Wizard said as he looked down at grey robes and silver scarf, “no tea.  But I felt it heartily fitting.”  He sighed.  “Time does not run here as it does in the mortal lands, perhaps, but all in Arda stands beneath it in the end, and today the time there intersects with that here.”  His face was solemn.

          Elrond looked down.  “Then he has chosen today indeed?”

          “Yes, around midday in Minas Anor.”

          Elrond’s eyes closed, and his jaw clenched with grief.  “Alas for our daughter, for the Gift of  Iluvatar will look this day more like Doom to her, I fear.”  He bowed his head and offered a silent plea for comfort for her and his sons, who still remained in Middle Earth, reluctant for some reason to follow after their parents.  Exactly why the Valar had lifted the limit for their choice from the time of his own he did not know, but he had thought at the time perhaps this day and its aftermath were part of the reason for this decision.  Finally he spoke.  “I have seen him in my own dreams, Mithrandir.  I have stood side by side with his father Arathorn, looking down on him lying in his bed beside Arwen, and have seen him looking back with us with recognition and love.  I have seen that his heart has finally begun to fail, the joints to suddenly seize, and that he knows precisely what the signs mean.”

          “You have been granted sight of Arathorn?  And to stand by him?  An honor for both of you.”

          Movement from within gave news of the approach of Celebrían.  She came out to join her husband, saw the form the Maia Olórin had chosen for the day, and paled.  “Our daughter?” she asked, taking her husband’s arm and holding it close.

          The form of Gandalf the Grey bowed before her.  “She is well enough, but is even now bereft, even now anticipating the separation with horror.  Her brothers are with her and will remain with her, but that will not ease the grief, I fear.”

          The Elven lady nodded, her face again filled with the pain of loss.  “She was born with a heart to be given wholly, and when he leaves her he will bear it with him.”  She shook her head, her eyes closed with sorrow.  “I only pray she does not linger long.”

          The glory of the East was enhanced by the arrival of other forms, as Celeborn and Galadriel came to stand below the porch on which their daughter and her husband leaned with Gandalf.  Celeborn looked at his daughter with compassion as his wife surveyed the Maia with a level of amusement in her gaze.  “I clothed you better than this when you returned, Olórin.  I’d not thought to see these robes again.”

          Gandalf straightened.  “This was how he saw me most of his life, my Lady.  He would not begrudge me my nostalgia, nor would he see disrespect in this guise.”

          Her smile grew more solemn, then faded.  “No, the husband of our granddaughter would honor it as you say, and accept the tribute of respect you offer.”

          “Their son will be worthy of much honor, and their daughters are known and will continue to be known for their knowledge, wisdom, gentleness, compassion, and beauty.  Idril favors you, by the way.” 

          She smiled.  “And Melian?” 

          “She is her own being, favoring all and none at the same time.  She is wondrous fair, they say, although her daughter Arien is her grandmother in gold rather than russets.”

          “And Eldarion?”

          “There is no question that he is descended directly from the sons of Eärendil--and from Aragorn.”

          Elrond straightened, nodded.

          Celeborn and Galadriel climbed the stair to stand by their daughter and her husband, and all looked to the East, standing their own vigil.  At last they felt it as another link in the chains of their loves broke, felt a breath far away still, and finally perceived the approach of a shining form, controlled and disciplined in death as it had been in life, full of the Joy of its sudden freedom.  And they saw it pause briefly to look on them with honor and recognition--and love--ere it passed on, on to the uttermost West.  They bowed at its passing, then looked East again, East with concern for the one who lingered.

          “May she not linger long,” Elrond prayed.

The Halls of Waiting

          He was aware, briefly, of the final pain as his heart failed him, but even before his heart stilled he was drawn up, away from his body, and he stood up and saw about him all watching the bier with grief and pain mirrored on their faces.  He felt compassion for them, turned and looked down--somehow he stood above her--and saw Arwen leaning in great pain over an empty thing that lay upon a table on a pale cloth that they thought was red.  He leaned down to caress her hair, and for a brief instant she looked up at him and saw him clearly; and he heard, deep in his own heart, You carry my heart with you, oh my Beloved.  I am nothing without you--have been nothing without you--since we were wed. 

          He felt compassion for her, tried to speak his own message back, I will hold it for you, Lady, until you come to join me.  But he could not be certain she heard him.

          He could no longer fight the command he turn to the West, and afar he saw the way he must go, straighter than the Straight Path.  A great Light was there, and he must go to it.  Briefly he looked to them again, saw that several were aware of him, and that Glorfindel was smiling to honor him, and that Faramir Took’s mouth, so reminiscent of that of his father, trembled with a smile of wonder.  He laughed with heart’s ease, turned to the West and gave himself to the Light, found himself speeding toward it, as if he went through a great tunnel. 

          As he went, he found he was being awaited.  He found at one point his flight slowed as he looked down on four he had loved and one he knew only through the love of the others, and they offered their honor and recognition as he came near, and he paused briefly--he could not stay his flight long--to rejoice in them.  He heard the prayer offered by his Adar, and grieved with him.  Then he was back in the tunnel of Light, and at its end stood two figures, watching his coming with delight. 

          It’s him!  Merry, it’s him at last!

          Well, I must say it’s about time!  He did take his leisure about the process, didn’t he, Pip?

          What do you expect?  Suspect Arwen was difficult about it at the end, you know.  No, he’d have made sure he did it right.

          What’s that he’s carrying with him?  You’re not supposed to bring things with you.

          Think about it, Merry.  It would come ahead of her if he came first, you know.

          But--what is she going to do without it?

          Wait till she rejoins him, I suppose.  Same with Frodo and Sam, if you will remember.

          But Frodo wasn’t here then, and Sam brought it after.

          No, he wasn’t, but the same process applies, I suspect.

          And then he was coming nearer, slowing as he came before them, and the two figures bowed low before him.  “Welcome, my Lord,” intoned one, reminiscent of a day long ago.

          They were not as he remembered them--they were taller than Men, taller than Elves--yet he knew them at once.  One appeared to be a tall, slender youth with auburn curls hanging unregarded about his face and shoulders, his slender face alive with merriment; the other an individual of authority, a look of joy and delight filling his features.  Beyond them were two Ways, one to a great Edifice, the other to a Garden.  He stood, a bit dazed, looking beyond them, then back to them, shaking his head.  Was it his head?  He appeared to have a form, as they did.  He looked to the youth, and laughed.  “Oh, Pippin!  My shadow!  You are--you are....”  Words failed him, but he found the meaning was conveyed fully, and Pippin beamed at him.  He looked to the other.  “Meriadoc Brandybuck.  Yes, I knew this was in you!”

          Merry shone with laughter of delight.  “While you, Aragorn, haven’t changed at all.”

          Pippin snorted--if such a one could snort.  “Well, if you can call being Estel and Strider and the Captain Thorongil and Aragorn and Elessar, King and father and lover and son all at the same time ‘unchanged’ I suppose you could say that.” 

          “Did you really order that our tombs be placed alongside yours?”

          “I certainly did.”

          Pippin laughed.  “That will certainly give your Master of Protocol nightmares.  Inside or outside the House of Kings?”

          “Outside.”

          “Good.  Never liked the Hall of Lords, you know.  Too dreary.”

          And they embraced.

          Finally he asked, “Which way do I go?”

          Merry shook his head.  “It is your choice.”

          “Will you go with me?”

          Pippin answered, “We can take you to the door of the Edifice, or we can go with you into the Gardens and beyond.  It is your choice.”

          He wanted to go to the Gardens--oh how deeply he wished to go there--but he had duties to perform....

          They accompanied him to the Doors to the Halls of Waiting, smiled as he turned from their company to enter in.  We will await your coming forth.

*******

          The Doors opened and admitted him, and as he entered he heard familiar voices calling out, “Behold the King!”  He was met by the three he had known as Stewards of Gondor, the Lords Ecthelion, Faramir, and Faramir’s son Elboron, who bowed before him, and three who had served as Stewards of Arnor under him; and behind them those who filled the Hall he’d entered bowed with them.  He stopped in surprise, humbled, for the honor held by those he saw before him was what he had been taught all his life to revere--it was he who should bow before them, not the other way around, for this Hall was filled with the Lords and Ladies of Gondor and Arnor and before--his ancestors and predecessors, Stewards, Chieftains, Lords, Queens, Kings.  He sought to bow himself, but was stopped by the hand of Ecthelion. 

          “No, you do not bow here--not this day.  For you have restored honor to the lands we loved, restored dignity, restored justice and mercy.  And you have sought counsel from all worthy to give it, great and small alike, respecting the wisdom and dignity of those under you, and teaching that this is the way of honor through your own example and rulings. 

          “You served under me, but always you served Gondor first, and me only because I represented Gondor before the world.  And when I would have acclaimed you for your heritage, you stayed me, recognizing the time had not yet come.  You have done well by the land I ruled in your name as well as that which you led before and after you came to me.  And you have raised a worthy successor who will do well by all of Middle Earth.”

          Aragorn felt the love he’d held for the man in life rise once more within him.  “Your own example helped teach me how to rule, as well as the wisdom and skills of those who served under you.”  He looked carefully around, then turned his eyes in unspoken question to the one he’d once addressed as Lord.

          Ecthelion shook his head.  “He still recovers from the damage to his spirit.  He is not here in this chamber.”

          Aragorn felt grief for Denethor, whom he’d admired as a fellow Captain of the Hosts of Gondor.  Then he turned to Faramir and his son, and embraced both of them, his brothers in rule and love.  And then he turned to the right, where his Uncle Halbeleg and cousins stood, Hardorn and Halbarad, Halladan and Gilfileg, Eregiel and Erevil and Merevin, rejoicing to at long last be reunited with them, embracing them with gladness.  Then they parted to let him see others, and there were those who had led the troops of Arnor and Gondor, those he’d led and those he’d fought beside and those he’d fought under; and in the midst of them one tall form he delighted to see as he came forward to embrace and honor Boromir son of Denethor and brother to Faramir, whose own embrace filled him with the Light of Joy.

          “Welcome, my Brother, my Captain, my King.”  Boromir’s words filled his heart.

          At last Boromir released him, and stepped aside, and he saw approaching him from the hosts of Eriador one he’d known only from the images shown him by those he’d called his brothers, and from the stories told him by those who remembered him:  and as Arathorn son of Arador came forward to do honor to his son, Aragorn found a part of himself he’d not realized for years was missing filled in.  Then he saw a woman approaching, grey and sad but brightening as she came closer, and as he embraced her and his father together, his mother’s years seemed to fall away.  As he held her close he whispered, “Hope you gave to the Men of the West, and now, Naneth, may you receive it back again!”  When at last they pulled from one another to look on one another’s Joy, he saw she was young and beautiful again, with no hint of sadness left to her, and she stood now proudly at the side of the one she’d known once as her husband as she must have done in the few years of her marriage.

          He suddenly remembered thinking that this would be a time of greetings, and so it proved.  Those he’d known and loved followed after, ushered him forward, deeper and deeper into the Hall, and now there were few he recognized--until he came upon Arvedui, last King of Arnor before him, who looked on him with pride.  “You have done well by our lands and peoples, my son,” he greeted him.  “Once again the wastelands will be fulfilled and cared for; and your people will honor those who lived and died to protect them.”

          Opposite him stood Eärnil and Eärnur of Gondor.  “Welcome, Elessar.  The Renewer you have been for our lands as for the lands to which you were born.  We rejoice that Arnor and Gondor are again joined together as they began.”

          Deeper and deeper he went into the Hall, until he saw three approach him together, tall forms whose images he’d seen in the throne room of the Citadel of Minas Anor, in the ways of the city and on its gates, and also in the ruins of Osgiliath, Amon Sul, Annúminas, the Argonath, and elsewhere throughout the lands they’d once ruled together--Elendil the Tall and his sons, Isildur and Anárion.  These, too, greeted him with honor.  “Welcome, our Son.  After years of division and strife you have united the free peoples of our lands.  We give thanks that again our vision for Middle Earth has been fulfilled, and that the great Enemy of our times has at last been cast down.”

          Isildur bowed before him.  “You did what I could not, our Son.  You refused to touch that which caught my heart and soul, and sent it to its destruction.  You have renewed our heritage and cleansed it of strife.”  Behind him his four sons bowed as well.

          Further into the Hall they led him now, until he saw standing before a High Seat one he had seen no images of in his lifetime, but one whom he recognized because of his knowledge of that one's brother and the likeness to his own image he’d known--the Lord Elros Tar-Minyatur, founder of his line, who looked down on him with pride and indicated a Seat beside him.  Aragorn looked at that Seat with wonder, and slowly approached it, looked again at his long-father, then turned to stand before it, and heard at last that great voice, so familiar and strange at once, proclaiming, “Behold the King!”

          How long he’d sat in the Hall of his Fathers he had no idea, but at last he was aware of One of a different Light approaching him, and he looked on a being he recognized immediately in spite of the great difference in his appearance.  The face was beardless, the eyes full of the Youth of Springtime and the Wisdom and Peace and Maturity of Winter, the mouth promising the Joy of Being.  He bowed his head before the Maia Olórin and gave him greeting and honor, and stood to embrace him.  “Gandalf, my friend and counselor, I saw you along the way, and had not hoped to see you again here.”

          Olórin smiled.  “I suppose I am a special case, for I, unlike most of my kind, have also known Death, and so am allowed to wander at times where the rest of my brethren cannot come.  You did well, in your beginning, in your rule, and in your ending.  Now I have been asked to come to you, to beg you to come forth if you will, for there are others who desire to greet you, and to be reunited with you.”

          “But if this is the place appointed for my line...”

          “My Child, you are free to remain or go as you please.  You have entered this place as is right and proper; and now you are part of it, as is also right and proper.  However, you are not required to keep all of your awareness here; and the two who wait outside the Door may well decide yet to while away their time of waiting by devising mischief to remind you of their strained patience.  I believe Mandos is watching them warily, in fact.  Also, if you remain fully here you will not be able to return that which you bear when the Time comes.  Will you come forth?”

          The joyous laughter of Aragorn filled the Hall as he stepped down to follow, once more, the Wizard.

"In Whose Mighty Company"

       Olórin led him toward a different doorway, and as he came to it Aragorn paused to look back, saw himself still seated on the High Seat beside Elros, Elendil seated at his other side.  He looked questioningly at his guide.  "Time here is not as it is in the Mortal Lands, nor even as it is outside of this place in the Undying Lands.  A part of you is now a part of this Hall, for you are the fulfillment of years of waiting.  It was not for nothing Elrond named you Estel, or your people called you Elessar.  In you the Song of the Aínur for the greatness of your line has been renewed and brought into full being.  A full circle from the greatness of Elros Tar-Minyatur and Elendil the Tall."  At which the Maia turned and led the way into a long passage.

       Aragorn was led to another doorway, where he looked in and saw a feasting hall of the Rohirrim, filled with tables and folk, their long hair shining like spun gold, their faces filled with delight.  There were calls as they looked up to him.  "Ælrich!"  "Thorongil!"  "My Lord Eagle!"  "My brother, Lord Aragorn!"  "Come inside and join us!"  "Come, Swiftfoot, my brother!"   He found himself met by Hama the Door Warden, and greeted by lords and marshals he’d known long before, and a cup of greeting was born to him by a woman tall and slender in whose eyes were no hint of desire but instead sheer joy.

       "Westu, Aragorn, hal," smiled the White Lady of Rohan, and she led him among the others--her brother, the cousin he’d never met, her uncle and great uncle, her father and mother, the Riders he’d ridden behind and beside and before, and the ladies.  He saw the joy of them all as he sat with them, the pride of Théoden, the pleasure of Thengel, the delight of Éomer, the laughter and joy of those who’d been his fellows.  He heard Faramir call to him to sit beside him, saw Boromir’s gladness, saw the son Elboron born to Faramir and Éowyn looking young and happy sitting between them in his great-uncle’s Halls, saw others of the Northern and Southern Dúnedain who’d ridden at times with the Rohirrim laughing and rejoicing, the shining form of Lothiriel seated by her Lord husband, then a small figure in the livery of an esquire of Rohan seated beside Théoden, the two forever sharing stories of their own lands.

       Four forms, tall and proud, came to him.  "So," said Eorl the Young, "it was partly for your sake we came out of the North to these lands, that they might be kept intact for your time.  I am glad to see you are worthy."

       Baldor son of Brego smiled on him.  "Long I wandered in spirit, lonely and lost, until the day you found my bones at the door where I died, not able to open it, and brought light in to show me my folly.  I was able then to leave that place and find my way here.  I thank you, Lord Aragorn."

       Another stood there, far older still, who looked at his remaining companion and said, "I see one full worthy wears here the ring you bear, Barahir.  Your descendants are indeed worthy of our allegiance and of the honor these bear them."  And Aragorn rose to honor Barahir Elf-friend, father to Beren One-Hand, from whom he was also descended, and his gladness was overwhelming.  Afar off he saw another small figure laughing with the Riders of Rohan, a tankard almost as large as his own head before him.

       At last he rose, leaving himself feasting here among those he’d loved as brothers and sisters, and rejoined Olórin at the door.  The Maia’s face sparkled with amusement.  "I see you have learned the trick of it.  Well done, my child.  Yes, you belong here as well, and in many other places, also.  But I think you can come back in the future to see the Halls of Rhun and Harad and Umbar.  Yes, Aragorn--Umbar as well.  For there are very many there who remember you there with respect, and even a few with honor and love.  The two without the Door are growing very restless, and there is one more you must see ere you go out to them."

       As they walked, Aragorn asked, "Why are not Merry and Pippin within the Halls of the Dúnedain if they are in the Halls of the Edain?"

       Olórin shook his head.  "Pippin will not enter there as yet, not till the first he knew as sworn Lord has accepted his place; and Merry honors the wishes of his brother."

       He led the way deep into the Edifice till Aragorn saw a small, narrow door behind which it appeared a red flame glowed.  Here Olórin stopped, and turned solemnly to Aragorn.  "The one who has constructed this room for himself needs healing, and we hope that he will accept it from the hands of the King, for he will not allow any others to approach him.  He accepted false intelligence, was betrayed by his fears and his pride, and he blames himself for his foolishness.  Will you enter?"

       Aragorn knew who waited behind that door.  "I’d looked for him in the Hall of our peoples, and grieved he was not there.  I’d wished to beg pardon for the griefs I left him with, with the uncertainties as to the love of those he loved, as to the honor given him by his people to whom I was a stranger.  Yes, I will try."  With a nod the Maia made a gesture and the door opened.

       Olórin murmured softly, "He wrought this room at first with no openings, but with a great mirror on one wall so he could watch with fascination his own immolation.  We made a window so he could, in time, look out into the Garden; and we opened a Door.  When finally he turned to the window we were able to remove the mirror at last.  The fire is finally burning out, but it is not yet quite quenched.  I wish you good fortune, my child."  Aragorn smiled into the face of his guide, then turned to the figure about whom dark fires still blazed, and entered the chamber.

*******

       He was aware when the door opened behind him and that a Maia stood there, even knew the identity of that Maia.  But he did not turn, would not turn.  He did not wish to look on those who knew his folly.  But another was there, another Light that was distantly familiar, one he’d once honored and then resented.  His sorrow and shame filled him.  

       This one had not seen him caught in the madness of despair and grief, although he had known him in the grip of jealousy and suspicion.  This one, however, had also recognized in his sworn Lord’s son experience and wisdom and a shared love of learning and discovery.  As he approached Denethor did not pull away as he had for others.

       The other stopped short of him, stood quietly, and the Light of him shone about Denethor, projected his shadow on the wall before him--save for the open square of the Window.  Denethor was surprised, for he’d not thrown a shadow for a very, very long time.  That this one’s Light was great enough to overwhelm the flames that endlessly burnt about him was sufficient of a shock that Denethor at last turned.

       He turned, and beheld the King, the King whose coming he’d eagerly desired to see when he was a child, whose coming he doubted as he entered his youthful training, whose coming he’d feared as an adult in whom ambition was growing great.  He recognized in that one the form of Captain Thorongil, and the image he’d seen reflected many times in the Palantir of Minas Anor--before Sauron had realized that Denethor of Minas Tirith had possession of the Anor stone and began to seek to capture his awareness, to suborn him.  The visage that looked back at him was almost his own, save that this one had never given in to despair, may have doubted himself but never what was right to do, had never sacrificed his honor for expediency and ambition, had taken what was his by right, but had confirmed in others the honors they’d also gained by right and by worth demonstrated.  Denethor was ashamed, and bowed his head.

       At last the King spoke.  "Hail, Denethor, son of Ecthelion.  Your father grieves you are not at his side.  Your sons grieve you have not seen them in their glory.  Your grandson grieves not to have known you.  She who was your wife grieves you have not greeted her, she who loved you in life and bore your sons.  Your captains and men grieve not to have been able to offer you the honor you deserved from them.  Your mother and sisters grieve to not have held their son and brother one more time."

       "And what do I have to do with them?  I have no honor--I forfeited what little I had long ago."

       "You earned honor before the Enemy drove you mad with his lies and deceptions.  It is still valid, Denethor."  For several moments they simply looked at one another.  "And I found you not there when I entered the Halls of Waiting, even as I found you not there when I entered into Minas Tirith, now Minas Anor once again.  I had hoped to see you, to greet you, to beg your pardon for the ill you received on my behalf."

       "You, beg my pardon?"

       "Yes, I beg your pardon, for when my presence drew attention from your competency, your wisdom, your counsel.  For when others saw me as worthy of honor without knowing why, and seemed not to see that you were equally worthy.  For when you thought I stole the love of your father, your men, your people, even of the woman you loved."

       "She would have had you had you asked."

       "I would never have asked.  I had already seen the one I loved, as I told you at the time, and I could not love another as I loved her."

       "But you said her father would not agree to the match."

       "I did not say so--I said that at the time he would not agree, but that in time he might accept me, once circumstances changed.  They did change.  Nor would Finduilas have accepted me.  My lineage was unknown to her.  My friendship was there, and my regard, but no passion, and she knew it.  And whenever I saw in her that which reminded me of the woman I loved, it was my beloved’s image that grew in my heart, not that of Finduilas.  I was never a rival for her heart save in the imagination of Men."

       "And so you were able to marry the one you loved?"

       "Yes.  After I became King."

       Denethor considered.  "She must have been of the pure blood to have waited that long."

       Aragorn smiled.  "Purer blood than you or I bore, Denethor.  She is the daughter of Elrond Peredhel."

       Denethor stood, shocked into stillness in wonder.  Finally he said, "You dared to love one of Elf-kind?"  Aragorn stood steady, looking deeply into the former Steward’s eyes.  "And she accepted you?"

       "Her father was as father to me after my own father was killed.  She was not in Imladris when I dwelt there as a child, for she was across the Misty Mountains with her mother’s parents.  I saw her first the day I came of age, and her beauty smote my heart.  I was singing the Lay of Lúthien when I first saw her, and thought I’d wandered into a dream brought on by the song I sang.  Whether she discerned the love that had kindled in my heart on first seeing her I have no idea.  Her father saw it, though, and told me that I might not bind any woman to me until the Enemy was thrown down.  When at last I learned she saw me as I saw her and she told me she would bind herself to me and accept the fate of Lúthien for herself, I feared her father would ban me from his house as one who defied his will, but he did not.  But he told me he would grant her plea only if I became King of Gondor and Arnor."  He smiled at Denethor.  "I had--great motivation--to seek the Throne of Gondor.  But I would not seek it until I was certain I would be accepted."

       "And they accepted you."

       "And they accepted me."

       Each regarded the other.  Finally Denethor spoke again.  "Why do you seek me here?"

       "To call you forth.  There are many who desire to be reunited with you, many who love you."

       "I killed my son."

       "You killed neither of your sons, Denethor.  Boromir died protecting those who were weaker than he, two who stood under his protection.  He died doing what a great warrior is supposed to do, and with his honor intact.  Faramir recovered, and served Gondor for many years."

       "He was not Steward as I was."

       "He surrendered his rod of office to me when he brought out to me the Winged Crown from the Hallows, and I gave it back again.  He retained his office until he surrendered it to his son Elboron, who kept it until he surrendered it to his son Barahir."

       Denethor stood considering.  "How long have I been here?"

       "Over a hundred years in the Mortal Lands, Denethor."

       "You ruled that long?"

       "I was of the blood of Númenor unmingled.  I lived two hundred ten years.  Will you come forth?"

       "Why should I do so?"

       "I had hoped to have one who knew me serve as my Steward in Gondor, one whom I honored, one whose knowledge rivaled my own.  Faramir was wise and learned beyond the standard of most men of his day, but he was not you, Denethor.  I had hoped to be reunited with you and our differences washed away by friendship ere either of us came to this place.  But as that was not possible, I must seek it now."

       "Why do you wish to be friends with me?"

       "Because I loved you when I knew you, Denethor.  Because I honored you, learned of you."

       "I am unworthy."

       Aragorn laughed.  "Few are truly worthy, Denethor.  But love does not rest on worthiness, but in the depths of the heart.  I loved you then, and I still love you, I find.  Will you bear the touch of my hand?"

       Denethor felt a strange trembling within himself.  He looked with desire at the King he’d rejected in life, the one who’d become King anyway.  But he still held back.  "The Enemy was cast down?"

       "Yes."

       "By your power?"

       "No, not by my power.  I was but a mortal, and not even the Elves were able to bring him down.  Only the grace of Ilúvatar served, aided by the dedication of two who went into Mordor itself bearing no skill at arms and no hope for their own survival.  Ilúvatar led them, guarded them, guided them, saved them from themselves and the fall of Mordor at the end."

       "The Halfling?  The Enemy showed me his clothing, his sword.  He was taken, and the Ring found."

       "He knew not why a Halfling entered his lands, only that one did so.  That there was a second he did not know.  Nor did he ever learn how the one he captured escaped.  He lied to you, Denethor.  Always he controlled the information the Palantir gave you, and through it he lied.  He showed you the Black Ships coming up the River, but from a distance the last time, is it not true?"

       "Yes, that is true."

       "He could no longer see those on the Ships at that point.  He did not know they then contained my troops."

       Denethor stood again stilled by shock.  "Then you saved the city?"

       "Yes, my troops saved the city.  And when I would have sought you out, you were not there, my brother.  Please, will you accept my hand, Denethor?  For long have I desired to see you once again."

       And Denethor at last looked into the heart of the King he’d denied, and without thought he stretched out his hand, and took that of the one he’d long thought his rival.  A thrill ran through him, a shiver of intense pain which turned to Joy as he stood there.  His eyes widened in surprise.  At last he said, "It was long said that the Hands of the King were the Hands of a Healer."

       Aragorn smiled.  "And thus was the rightful King known, you who were Lord Steward.  Come forth, Denethor.  Two wait, I am told, impatiently for me to come to them, and one of them waits for you as well as for me.  He seeks to do you the honor he swore to you.  Denethor, do you wish to enter that Garden?"

       "Oh, yes."

       "Then come forth, and we can go there."  Holding Denethor by the hand, he led him forth, turned toward the door to the Ways.  As they came out, two figures turned toward them, shining with relief, and with a cry they ran forward.  Trembling with weakness and surprise, Denethor son of Ecthelion accepted the reverence of he who had been Peregrin Took.

       "I told you, my Lord, I would not be released from my vow or from your service.  But neither would I allow you to betray yourself by killing your son.  He awaits you, Denethor, he wishes to show you his love for you.  If you are unready now to enter the Hall of the Dúnedain, you may still find him elsewhere.  May I show you?"  And he led the way into the Garden, Aragorn and Denethor and Merry following behind.  In a bower they found Faramir seated with Éowyn and Elboron their son, and nearby stood Boromir brother to Faramir, and their mother Finduilas.

       Denethor looked on his younger son, whose being shone with the Light of his Love, and bowed low before him.  "Forgive me, Faramir," he said, "for I would not see you, would not honor you, saw you as weak because you were not the warrior your brother was.  I knew my learning was great, but thought strength in arms was what was needed to save our land, and would not see you held both.  I wronged you so many times over the years, so very many times.  Please forgive me."

       But Faramir rose and approached his father, took him into his arms in an embrace.  "You are here now, my Father, here now and healed at last.  And my heart is full that at last I may see you again, love you again as so long I desired to do."

       From the Door emerged another soul, come to seek out his son who had been lost for so long.  So at long last this family was reunited, and years seemed to fall from Denethor’s appearance.  Suddenly he was young, and a white light shone now from him where before had been red flames, and the tears of his release fell unheeded, and flowers of red bloomed where they fell upon the ground.

A Reunion Long Awaited

          Aragorn and Olórin drew away, and together they ventured deeper into the Garden.  Finally they saw before them a stream shining in a dawning light, and over it a silver Bridge.  Aragorn stood looking at that Bridge for several moments before turning to his guide.

          “He is not on this side, then.”

          “No, neither of them is.  They did not enter the Halls of Waiting at all, but crossed the River immediately.  Too long had he waited for that release, Aragorn.”

          “So I must cross to come to him again.”

          “Yes, although as long as you do not go out of sight of the Bridge you may return to do what you must do.”

          “Will you come with me?”

          Olórin laughed.  “No, I bound myself to Arda again when I was sent back to complete my task.”  Then a look of deep longing crossed his face.  “Although I will tell you, I look forward to again approaching the Presence, and once again hearing, ‘Welcome, my good and faithful Servant’ as I heard before.  But I know when that day comes, there will be many already there with whom I will be joyfully reunited, both among my own brethren and among yours.

          “I am content with my lot, Estel.  When I saw the beauty of Arda shining in the Void I was drawn to it with the Aínur, and rejoiced to be allowed to bring it to its full glory.  And when my own brother betrayed the vision of it, following the way of he who was once Melkor, I knew that in the end I should have to oppose him to set things right again.  That along the way I should know such as Galadriel and Elrond and you and Gerontius and Bilbo and Sam and Iorhael--that was more than I’d ever imagined.  I will come back into the Presence when the time is right, and I have not forgotten the last time I stood there and my agony was relieved.”

          “So--when you fell with the Balrog, you did not come to the Halls of Waiting.”

          “No--I, too, am a Child of Ilúvatar, but the Halls are not for our kind, but for those created specifically for this Creation.”

          “Shall I bear your greetings to them?”

          “Oh, please do, although they know already how much I rejoice in them.”

          Nodding, Aragorn embraced the Maia, then turned to the Bridge.  Immediately he found he was again accompanied, the tall youth who had been Pippin and the authority who had been Merry joining him once more.  “We will make certain you do not lose sight of the Bridge,” Merry announced.  “Wouldn’t do not to be there when she is ready.”

          Together they moved to the slender Bridge, and there Aragorn paused.  He looked at Merry.  “You have been across it before?”

          Merry laughed, living up to his nickname.  “Oh, yes--and in doing so we found these forms.  Within the Halls we find ourselves assuming the shapes we were known in before, but they are not fully us, you know.”

          Pippin nodded.  “I had not thought to be a youth again, but find this is my true shape.  Wonder if you will be transformed, too, although I doubt there is much needed to express you more fully than you are.  You were always a bit mysterious, even when we saw you fully Elessar; and always worshipful, even when you were guised as Strider the Ranger.  Are you ready?”

          With that deep dignity even the scapegrace of the Great Smials had displayed deep inside, Pippin led the way forward to the further Gardens.  There was a tingling within Aragorn as he stepped onto the silver Bridge that continued as he finally essayed the last step back onto living turf.  Merry and Pippin examined him closely and with delight once all three were on the far side. 

          “I knew that was within you, Estel,” Pippin laughed, “but I didn’t see how you could be improved upon--but there you are!”  And reflected in the eyes of the youth before him, Aragorn saw the youth he himself had been, but shining with a clear light, a familiar light he’d seen once in another he’d not yet found again.  This youth was tall and royal, but also full of deep joy, and on his breast he wore a green and gold and wine-colored gem intended for another.  He looked down to see the gem, to see his shining arms and form, and was surprised.

          Merry smiled, “He told me once he’d seen the Light shining within you as you called him back, Aragorn, that only that convinced him to return.  Believe me, he will know you, and you will know him.”  And he indicated the narrow opening between two flowering bushes.

          Bowing, Aragorn turned to that opening, went through it.

          He saw the Guardian first, tall and strong and golden, his proud face shining with Joy, that responsible stance so very familiar.  And before him the mithril-pure light of the other he’d desired to see again for so very long, slender, nurturing, surrounded by the forms of children.  Young and ancient at the same time this one was, neither fully male nor female, but beautiful as the dawn and the twilight and the Light of Varda’s Stars, and tears of sheer Joy and relief fell from the eyes of he who had been King as he beheld the one who, briefly, had been Frodo Baggins and Iorhael.  And those tears were mirrored in the eyes of the other, who swept forward and took him in its embrace, murmuring into his heart itself, My Friend--my Brother!  How long it’s been!  How I’ve awaited your coming!  The children clustered about both, demanding to be allowed to share in the joyful reunion. 

          The golden Light of the Guardian embraced both and all.  “About time, Strider,” he heard whispered into his ear. 

          He heard delighted laughter, looked up, and saw advancing toward himself another Being of Light, the Teacher, as full of humor and mischief as the youth who had been Pippin, as full of good sense as the authority who had been Merry, as full of wisdom and nurturance as the Light that embraced him now. 

          Aragorn straightened, pulled free briefly to honor he who had once been Bilbo Baggins, and found himself pulled into another embrace.

          More children clustered about all, and Aragorn found himself drawn to one, a delicate girlchild who smiled up into his face with delight when he swept her up into his arms.  Iorhael laughed, “So, little Celebrían, you intend to know your grandfather before you go to your parents, do you?”  Aragorn raised his head and looked at his companion with surprise.  “Yes, some of these are newly returned, and others preparing for their lives to come.  And this one will be soon born to Eldarion and Loreth, a delightful sister for Valandil.  We’ve been allowed to prepare her some, as we did her brother.  And this one--” Iorhael caressed the hair of a sturdy boy, “will be the firstborn of Idril.” 

          Aragorn knelt down to look into the smiling face of the child, and saw in it the reflection of what his own face had looked like as a boy, but with less solemnity, more delight.  He loosed one shining arm from his granddaughter’s form to clasp the boy’s shoulder, and he laughed with sheer pleasure.  “You must bear my greetings to your mother and whomever she has chosen as husband, my son.  Let them know I watch over you all with pride.  And I give to you my own child’s name to bear, if you will, Estel.”  The boy shone with Love as he accepted the gift.

          He looked once more into the face of Iorhael.  “You have your family, your children, at last.”

          A shining head, crowned with white Light, nodded.  “Yes, Sam bore me this gift ere the end.  None are mine, and yet all are mine.”  Eyes more blue than summer skies searched his own, searched his heart.  “You must go back ere we can go on together.”

          “Yes, I must guide her so she can find her way.  She gave herself into my keeping completely when she gave me her love, and I must return the gift.”

          Another nod.  “Then you’d best go, beloved Brother.  Merry and Pippin are waiting for you there,” indicating the way Aragorn had come here, “and they will come no further until you are ready.”

          “Then we will go on together?”

          “Yes, that is what I have waited for.”

          With one last embrace they parted, Aragorn reluctantly setting down the form of his granddaughter to be, and smiling one last time into the eyes of his grandson.  The Guardian who had been Sam walked with him to the edge of the glade, his eyes shining with that core of Love.  “Rosie’s waiting for us, you know.  She knows I belong to both, and has been content.”

          “I know, Sam.  Panthael you have always been.”

          The Guardian laughed, “That’s what they called me on Tol Eressëa, you know.  No ‘Half-wise’ business with them.”

          Aragorn joined in the laugh.  “No, they’d not bother with a half truth, I’m sure.  Until I can return, Brother.”

          Again he was embraced.  “Until you return, Brother.  Give her my Love.”

          And so Aragorn returned past the bushes, saw the two who awaited him, who accompanied him back to the Bridge and across it, led him to the start of the Way....

The Queen’s Grief

       "My Lord King?"

       The Warden of the Silent Street watched as the King raised his eyes from the papers on which he had been working.  His face was composed, but there were still signs of pain and grief there to be seen.  The King sighed and backed reluctantly from his desk and rose.  "Yes, my lord Warden. You wished to see me?"

       "Yes, my Lord. It is about your mother...."  He stopped, uncertain how to continue.  The King was not making it easy for him, simply stood, looking at him from those sea-grey eyes of his.  Finally, he forced himself to go on.  "She--she haunts your father’s tomb, my Lord."

       A brief nod of acknowledgment was the only response.  What was with the man?  Did he not care for the well-being of his own mother?

       "It--it is not healthy, my Lord," he finally said with more force than he’d intended.

       "I am well aware of that, sir."

       Taken aback, the Warden simply looked at his King with surprise for several long moments.  He shook his head.  "She must let go the grief, can she not see that?"

       The King bowed his head and shook it, then raised it with a pitying look.  "I don’t think you quite understand the matter, lord Warden.  You cannot command grief to go even in a common mortal."

       "But she will fade, my Lord."  He felt desperate.  He had himself been smitten by the Queen’s loveliness and the light she seemed to bear when he was little more than a boy, and he’d never truly recovered from that first fascination.

       "Yes, there you have the right of it--in part, at least.  Except there is no ‘will’--the fact of it is that she is fading, fading as we now speak."

       "But it could be stopped--"

       The King’s voice was harsh with his own grief:  "How, my lord Warden?  How are we to stop it?  Do you not understand?  This is the way with her people!"

       The Warden’s mouth fell open with shock and perhaps the beginning of understanding.  The King’s eyes bored into his relentlessly.  "What was my mother, lord Warden?"

       Surprised by the question, the man sought to frame an answer.  "Your father’s wife for--"  He stopped, not certain of the answer he’d thought to make.

       "My father’s wife for one hundred twelve years?  Is that what you were going to say?"

       The man stood a little stunned.  Had it been that long?  Looking into the King’s eyes, he gave a small shrug.

       "Do you know anyone who has approached seventy years of marriage?" the King asked.

       The Warden shook his head.  "No, my Lord King.  Perhaps two who passed fifty years together."

       The King sighed, as if he were teaching a difficult lesson to a bright student who still cannot see what is plainly before him.  "Now, why was it my parents had so much more time together than the usual?"

       "Your lord father was of the pure blood of the Dúnedain unmingled, it is said."

       "He was the Dúnedan, lord Warden, as I am now.  Now, think of the heritage of my mother."

       "She was of the Northern Lands...."

       The King looked shocked. "Of the Northern Lands, you say?  Do you not know where she was born, sir?"

       "It was said she was born in Imladris, my Lord."

       "That is true."

       The Warden was beginning to feel confused as to the King’s point.  He looked long into the King’s eyes, saw the grey depths of memory....  At last he lowered his own eyes in defeat.  He could not understand what the King plainly meant him to parse out for himself.

       Finally the King asked, "What is my name?"

       Startled still again, the man raised his head and answered, "Eldarion, my Lord."

       "And what does that name mean?"

       The Warden dropped his eyes to the desktop.  "Son of the Elves...."  He raised his eyes to the King’s, then stilled.  "Are you speaking of the claims your mother was of Elf-kind, my Lord?"

       The King slapped his hand upon the surface of his desk with sudden anger.  "Claims?  Have you not looked closely at my uncles, lord Warden?  Have you not considered the fact that my father was accompanied to his death by Lord Glorfindel of Imladris?  My mother was daughter to Elrond Peredhel, granddaughter to the Lady of the Golden Wood and her lord husband Celeborn.  Do you question her Elvish heritage?  Or that of myself and my sisters?"

       "No, my Lord."  He felt a bit faint, and wished he were anywhere but in the King’s study.

       "My mother accepted mortality when she bound herself, against her father’s will, to my father.  But she is still of Elvish nature.  Perhaps to you to remain fair, youthful in appearance, and without a silver hair on her head after a century of marriage to the King, who in the same time turned totally white of hair and beard, may seem normal, but I assure you that it is not.  And I will remind you I am approaching a hundred years of age myself, and am beginning to gather grey hairs.  My mother, on the other hand, counts her age not in years or centuries, but in millennia, my lord Warden.  She lived through all of the Third Age.  And she loved my father not as mortals do, but as Elves do.  My father died the death granted to our Númenorean ancestors, as I hope one day to do also, if I do not fall in battle as so many of the Lords of Gondor and Arnor have done; but my mother will die of fading, as is the way of her kind.  She cannot go over the Sea for healing as her mother did, for she gave up that right to cleave to the one she loved.  And so she fades, and I can do nothing for her."

       "But, how?"  As he spoke the question, he realized how utterly without sense it appeared.  He watched as the King turned to the window, walked to it, leaned with his hands on the stone sill.

       "Elves love but once in their lives, lord Warden.  Their love is intended to last to the end of Arda, so they give their hearts fully, fully to the ones they love.  And when the ones they love are slain, usually those left behind will follow soon after."  The King sighed and straightened, then turned to look at the Warden.  "Even those of us with Dúnedain heritage cannot usually love more than once.  And though we are mortal, all too often we, too, will fade at the loss of the ones who bear our hearts.  My mother is fading, and all I can do is to pray to the Valar she does not suffer long, and that at the end my father finds his way to her to return her life’s spirit to her so that once she is finally released she may find her way where she must go."

       "Your father find her way to her?"

       "Adar and I spoke of this long ago when Loreth and I looked to marry, for this is part of the heritage we bear as the Children of Elros, part of our responsibility.  When he died, our father bore with him her life’s spirit.  He must return it at her death.  He feared, however, that once he had passed into the Uttermost West he would find it hard to return long enough to do this, or to look for her coming to the Way."

       "The Way?"

       The King did not answer, simply looked into the man’s eyes.

       Finally he asked the hard question his profession demanded of him.  "If she fails at the King’s tomb, what am I to do?"

       The King gave a choking sound, half laugh, half sob.  "At least she would not have far to go, would she?"  And at this his eyes began to finally fill with the tears the Warden suddenly realized had been waiting to fall for the full length of the interview.  He stood weeping silently for several moments, and finally shook his head once more.  "I do not believe she will remain here much longer.  And she has never had the desire to lie in that dead place, lord Warden, not even by the side of my father’s body.  For no one knows more fully than she that he does not dwell there any longer.  No, she will one day leave, and most like will go north, probably to the vale of her birth.  I do not think you and your people will need to deal with her remains at all.  Do you understand?"

       The Warden stood quietly considering for several more moments, then said sadly, "She no longer shines."

       "No, the Evenstar of her people and then ours no longer shines, for the Light of her spirit had been given into the keeping of my father, and his own Light has itself left Middle Earth, taking hers with it."

       "I am sorry, my Lord."

       "There is no need for apologies.  You are only doing your duty--or trying to do so.  If she were merely mortal, your concern could bear fruit, perhaps.  But in this case...."

       "Yes, my Lord Eldarion, in this case...."  And he reached out his hand, and the King took it, and for a moment their grief was shared and eased for both.

*******

       She felt a familiar weight on her shoulder as he put his arm across it, smelled his scent, the crisp odor of the soap he preferred, a gentle hint of his sweat, a memory of a horse ridden yesterday in spite of having bathed since, and a gentle scent of the sea wind that always seemed to hang about him.  There was no scent of pipeweed as there had been with his father, no memory of countless woodland hills walked, countless fresh streams and rivers crossed.  The rhythm of his lifeblood, of his respiration, of his heartbeat, however, were very like that of his father, and had she gone only on that she might have convinced herself--or almost so--that it was her Estel who stood behind her, who embraced her.  She turned and gave him the memory of a smile that was all she could now give.

       "I love you so, Naneth," he murmured, burying his face in her hair.

       "And I you, Eldarion."  Even to her own ears her voice was but a ghost of itself.

       "Why do you haunt this place?  He is not here, and would not think to return in any case--not to this place of stone.  For all of a century of dwelling here most of the time, his heart was always of the North."

       "It was here he left me.  It is hard to go from this place, in hopes his spirit will seek me out here."

       "He will not, Naneth.  He will seek you out to the North, I think.  At least that is what he told me."  He straightened and pulled away to look into her face.

       "You spoke of this?"

       "Yes, years ago when Loreth and I first bound ourselves to one another.  He wished to tell me of our responsibilities to those who remain behind when we must accept the Gift of Ilúvatar."

       She did not respond, merely looked into his face with almost empty eyes, but eyes into which perhaps a germ of hope had returned.

       "It is a gift, Naneth, a gift he looked forward to receiving when the time was right.  And he accepted it when his body began at last to fail him.  He had been given the most blessed of lives, and the most blessed of loves, and he rejoiced at the idea of being able to face Ilúvatar and to thank Him for both."

       She had begun to shake gently, and he reached out and drew her to him, seeking to will his own vitality into her.  "He waits for you, Naneth, for you, the only woman he loved with his whole heart.  He has seen his own naneth and has sought to give her back her hope, which long ago she gave to the Men of the West.  Now he wishes to give you back the Light of your spirit, even if you choose not to go with him to Ilúvatar’s presence...."

       "He could never think I would not go with him!"

       This time it was Eldarion who did not answer, but who looked deep into her eyes with compassion and grief and love--and giving.

       "I never abandoned him in life--am I to do so once we are both together again?"

       She saw him smile involuntarily, then he buried his face again in her hair.  "Oh, my mother, my Naneth, I must lose you that you may find the Light of your spirit again--but at least I know now you and he will be together again, as is right."

       She reached up to stroke his hair.

       Finally he looked up, wiping the tears from his eyes.  "The Warden of this place is heartbroken for your grief, and has feared you would fail here."

       She drew a shaky breath.  "Here?  In this dead place of dead shells?  I think not, my son."

       "I told him not, but still he worries.  He loved you, adored you, when he was younger."

       "I know, and I grieve I cause him grief.  It is not a joyful position he holds."

       "No, not joyful, but a necessary one, and one which gives him satisfaction, as you know.  And it gives our people a feeling of continuity."  At her shudder, he continued, "Which is why I have myself wondered why you continue here, Naneth.  You know he will not wait for you in this place--it is as repugnant to him as it is to you.  He will look for you where life is, as he found you.  It will be there he will seek to return your Light."

       "And you, my son, you who were born in this place--will your spirit find joy here?"

       Now it was his turn to shudder.  "I am your son, and his.  And the love of my heart, who has the Light of my spirit in her keeping--she, too, is of the North.  No, if we do any lingering at all, it will be there in Arnor, not in Gondor for all I love its people with all my soul.  And I suspect that I will give the Crown early to Valandil so that we can spend what little time may be left to us there.  They would never have allowed that of Adar, but I think they might of me."

       She gave a ghost of a smile, and nodded.  Together they turned and looked together one last time down into the stone face of the effigy of the King Elessar, Aragorn son of Arathorn, then down at the two tombs that lay beside it.  Finally she whispered, "Thank you for confirming his order, for none of the three deserved to have their remains lie inside away from the light of Sun, Moon, and Stars, and away from the touch of the free wind."  He pulled her tight to his side.  "I will take my leave of your sisters tomorrow, and I will go."

       "To Imladris?"

       She considered only a moment.  "No," she said at last, "no, although that was where we met.  No, he will look for me where we first pledged our troth, in Lothlórien."

       "It is Lórien no longer, Naneth."

       "Perhaps not, but it is where I will go."

       She allowed him to stand by her, holding her close, accepting the unspoken love, the unspoken farewells.  When at last she pulled from him and looked deeply into his eyes he allowed it, opening his heart to her as fully as he could.  Finally she whispered, "I have given the keepers of my heart to the Men of the West.  May they always be worthy of them."  She leaned forward and kissed his brow, and quietly left him.

       For another half hour he remained there, his heart full of so many emotions, and he found himself praying that Ilúvatar and the Valar lead her truly where she must go, and accept her life gently.  At last he left that place, returning to his wife and son.  As he turned to his wife that night in their bed, she looked on him with delight and barely suppressed excitement.

       "I must tell you tonight, my Love and Lord--I am with child, and it has quickened this day!"  He looked at her with astonishment, his grief starting to fall away.  For Life and Death must always stand so, side by side, with pleasure and pain, birth and dying, always on the opposite sides of the same coin.

Leavetaking

       "Idril, have you seen Naneth?"

       Idril turned with surprise at the sound of her brother’s voice from across the hall.  He had obviously dressed in haste, for his shirt’s ties were undone, and it was only partly tucked into his breeches, which was entirely unlike his usual care for his appearance.  "No, I’ve not."

       He closed his eyes with obvious distress.  "I sent Lasgon to see if she had returned to Adar’s memorial, but she’d not been seen there since she left me there yesterday."

       She crossed to him, certain he did not wish for the details of this interchange to be gossiped widely through the Keep.  "She left you by Adar’s memorial?" she said as she came even with him.

       "Yes.  She will be leaving, Idril, probably today, but I cannot imagine her doing so without her bidding you and Melian farewell."  He began walking back toward the stairs to the private quarters, his sister following.

       "You haven’t sent her away, Eldarion?"

       He looked at her distraught.  "Of course not!  But she must go soon, which she realized yesterday."

       She stopped, her face pale with shock.  "She will be accepting the Gift?  Now?"

       He shook his head.  "She will do so soon, I think, but not here, Idril.  She will go where he will know to come to guide her, to give her back her spirit’s Light.  Neither would wish to do that here."

       Idril’s eyes filled.  "Oh, Eldarion, why cannot she stay with us?  For at least a time?  Perhaps heal...."

       He looked at her with deep sadness in his eyes.  "She cannot heal--you know that, my sister.  He took her heart with him, and to get it back she must join him."  Again his eyes closed in grief, and he hung his head.  "Oh, Naneth."  Then he straightened and looked into her eyes once more.  "We said our good-byes yesterday, and she knows I love her past bearing.  I do not think she will come to me again, but she will approach you and Melian, I am certain.  Please tell her, when you see her, that her third grandchild will be born in the Spring, probably at the New Year."

       "Oh!  Loreth is certain?"

       He nodded.  "It quickened yesterday, and she finally told me.  I see a daughter, a dark haired daughter this time."

       "She will not say goodbye to our people?"  He shook his head.  She found her own eyes closing as she accepted what her heart already knew to be true, and she gave a brief nod, then looked back into his eyes, already more distant with responsibility since he’d accepted the Winged Crown.  "I will tell her."  He leaned forward and kissed her cheek, and she put her arms about him for comfort--for only a moment of time, then they pulled apart.  For another moment they simply gazed into one another’s eyes--they, at least, were not alone now in their shared grief, not as she was.  "Send word to the stables in the first circle that she may have her choice of horses."

       He smiled ruefully.  "I already did, last night.  And I sent down Adar’s Ranger saddle and his cloak from Lothlórien, and her sword, and his dagger."

       "And supplies?"

       "Yes, but I doubt she will take those."  She nodded.  "Elladan and Elrohir will undoubtedly follow her.  I sent down supplies for them, too.  They may accept them."

       "They’ve been across the River, wandering in Ithilien, most of the time since the internment."  For a moment both were silent.  "They have seen so many of our ancestors come and go, come and go, over the years.  They know how short our lives are compared to those they know.  Why is the grief so much greater this time, do you think?"

       He shrugged.  "Perhaps because the world has changed so, Idril.  So few of our mother’s people remain in Middle Earth, and most who do will soon leave, for our father was the last tie most of them had to the world of Men.  Our line will be the last vestiges of the glory of the Elves, and in time that, too, will dim."  He shook his head with sadness for that which was passing--which had mostly passed by now.  "Legolas and Gimli will go very soon."

       She looked at him with surprise.  "Where will Master Gimli go?"

       He gave a small smile, and the pain around his eyes was relieved slightly.  "He’s been granted the right to go to Elvenhome."

       Her mouth fell open with astonishment, then she smiled.  "How odd!  How wonderful!  Then the two races are no longer estranged!"  She stood for a while, then said, "I will go to Melian, so she will hopefully find us more easily.  We will go down through the city together.  And I will tell her of the babe."

       "Thank you, little sister."  He turned back to the stair, tucking in his shirt as he went.  

       When she went out of the Citadel, she saw her sister near the Fountain of the White Tree, the small figure of Faramir Took beside her.  Idril hurried to join them, calling out, "Melian!" as she and her escort went forward, and it was as she approached the Tree that she realized that their mother was there, also.  Arwen’s face was as fair as ever, but the inner light that had always filled it was gone, and no longer was she able to draw eyes to her simply by being present.  But there was more life to her eyes now than had been seen there since her husband’s death.  "Naneth," Idril breathed.  "I am so glad to find you here."

       "Walk with me," her mother sighed, and together they walked toward the ramp down to the sixth level.  "I came to bid you farewell, for I am going back north, north to find your father."

       Faramir started to protest but was stayed by a gesture from Melian.  "That is wise, Mother.  He would not wish to return here for you.  Will you go back to Imladris?"

       "No, we plighted our troth in Lothlórien.  I will go to Caras Galadhon and await him there."

       Melian seemed surprised and concerned at this.  "But that land is almost totally deserted, Naneth.  Will you wait for our uncles?"

       Their mother shook her head.  "They will know where I go."

       "Do you have supplies?"

       Idril said, "Eldarion has sent some to the stables for you, Naneth."

       "I knew he would.  His father and he appear to have discussed how this would affect me.  But I need but little."

       "Winter will be here soon, Naneth."

       After a moment of silence, they heard her whisper, "My winter is upon me."

       They were in the fourth circle when Idril felt it was quiet enough and secluded enough to give her mother her brother’s message.  "Eldarion asked me to tell you one thing more--a grandchild will be born to you in the spring, at the New Year."

       Her mother stopped, turned to her, and she saw a bit more light in her eyes, a truer smile than she’d seen from her since her father’s announcement he was accepting the Gift.  Then her eyes went distant as they often did, and then she smiled again.  "A daughter this time, a dark haired daughter."

       "So he said, also."

       Arwen nodded, then turned and led the way onwards.  They did not speak again till they were near the garden of the King’s Head in the second circle.  Then she turned to her daughters and told them, "Let her be named Celebrían.  And Idril, your first child will be a son.  Please call him Estel."  At her daughters’ nods of agreement she again gave her slight smile.  "I would like to go on alone from here.  This is your city.  For all that I have dwelt here for over a century, my home is yet outside these walls, now that your father is no longer inside them.  I love you more than I can tell, but I cannot stay longer."  They nodded.  "I love you both, am so proud of both of you, am glad to have seen you come to womanhood in honor and joy.  Give my remembrances to the children and your husbands."  And she embraced them, then turned away.

       Faramir Took stepped forward.  "I will see you to the stables, my Lady."

       She looked down on him, and a hint of her gentleness could be seen in her face.  "If you so desire."  He turned and gave a bow to the two Princesses, and seeing Idril’s escort nod at him, he moved to the Queen’s side as she headed for the gate to the first level.

       In the stables they found the Queen was indeed awaited.  The stable master came forward to ask her if she would accept the King’s choice for her, and when she indicated she would look at it first to see if it suited, he led her to one of the stalls near the doors but out of the draft where a grey steed stood, looking over the gate of its enclosure at her.  She looked at the horse for some moments.  "He chose Elrond for me?"

       "Yes, for the King said that he was wise and would watch out for you, and when you needed him no more would choose whether he would return here or to Rohan or find another master.  Also, he will accept no rider here save our late Lord and the Lord King--or you, my Lady."

       Arwen nodded, and signed for him to open the stall.  She entered and approached the horse, who thrust his head into her shoulder in an accepting manner.  "Will you bear me where I must go, Elrond, you who were named for my father?"  The stallion raised his head and looked at her, then bowed it down to her.  "So be it, then."

       The stable master nodded toward a saddletree nearby.  "The King sent down a saddle for you, and other items he wished you to have, if you will."

       She came out and inspected the saddle, recognizing it readily; looked at the garments which had been sent down, then stopped as she found herself unrolling a familiar cloak.  "I will take this back to its home, then," she said as she took it up and held it to her breast.  There was a warm riding skirt and tunic, and beneath it a dress she recognized, and smiled at.

       "I will not need the saddle, but will ride Elf fashion, for Elrond prefers that.  But I will need a carrier of some kind for the few things I take with me."

       He bowed and went back into the depths of the building, and she turned to the Hobbit who’d served as her escort.  "I thank you," she said, "for your friendship to my husband and to myself, and to our children.  You have the practical wisdom of your people, and the great heart of your people as well.  I will bear your greetings to your father and those others you would have me greet in your name."

       "Thank you, my Lady.  And I pray he will find you soon."

       "He knows where to look for me.  Keep a watch on my son, and bid him rest when he would seek to push himself too far.  And comfort my grandchildren for me."

       "I will, my Lady."

       She took the riding garments and headed for the stable privy, and came back out wearing them as the stable master returned.  The widow’s weeds she left on a bale of hay.  She took the dress Eldarion had sent down and the other items of clothing and carefully stowed them in the carrier bag that had been produced.  She picked up a swordbelt which Faramir had not realized leaned against the saddle tree and fastened it around her waist, checked the seat of sword and dagger in their sheaths, then donned the grey-green cloak, fastened the loop over its knot, and then fastened the leaf brooch to hold it closed.  She then spoke a word to the horse, who came out and approached the mounting block.  She swiftly mounted, accepted the carrier bag, into which the stable master had been stowing packets of supplies, then accepted a water skin, and hung them over her shoulders.

       "I thank you, Master, for the service you have given to King and land over the years."

       "I bid you a good journey, my Lady.  We already miss you."

       "I know.  But my way is north now."

       He and the Hobbit stepped aside as the great horse turned himself to the doors, and both bowed to the Queen as she left the stables and headed for the gates, apparently unnoted by the rest of those who filled the first circle at this hour.  Two horsemen had been headed for the stables, but turned their steeds as she approached, spoke to her, then one turned again to the stables and came riding rapidly toward the stable master.

       Elladan of Rivendell asked quietly, "Did the King send down aught for my brother and myself?" and at the master’s nod he stayed still while the man disappeared back inside, bringing out two sets of saddlebags and two filled waterskins.  The Elf nodded his thanks as they were handed up to him, and gave a surprisingly graceful bow from horseback.  He spoke to Faramir.  "Thank the King for us, please, and let him know we will follow our sister."  With a second graceful bow he turned his horse, the bundles over his arms, and rode to where his brother waited.  Neither the Queen nor the grey horse she rode was now in sight.  The two Elves went back the way they’d come, and could be seen trotting swiftly toward the great gates of the city.

       Although the citizens of Minas Anor did not appear to notice their former Queen riding through their midst, the gate guard did see her, apparently advised she would be passing, and they saluted as Arwen, daughter of Elrond and Celebrían of Rivendell, once Queen of Gondor and Arnor, left the city, looking for her release from the world of Men.

Light Returned

       He stood at the beginning of the Way, the Youth and the Authority beside him, Olórin nearby, and he looked to the East, listened.  "I must go to her soon," he said.  "She is on her way north."  The Maia nodded.  "Frodo is very happy."

       "Yes, I suppose he is.  The one thing in all his life he wished to know again was the joy of family, a pleasure he could not truly know even in Tol Eressëa.  Since his parents died he always believed he was borrowing other families’ members to construct one of his own, and it made him feel terribly guilty."

       "Yes, I suppose he would have felt so.  And there," he indicated the opposite side of the river, "all are equally Children of Ilúvatar."

       Olórin smiled.  "You have the right of it.  Always children were safe with him."

       "And Sam brought to him both the experience of family and his full life to help him be complete."

       "And received in his turn Iorhael’s experience with Beauty, which he also needed."

       Aragorn nodded.  He looked at his companions.  "Will you accompany me?"

       They looked at one another, and Pippin smiled.  "Why not?"

       Merry asked, "And what do we do?"

       Aragorn laughed.  "Just stay by me."

       Realizing the moment was come he focused his thoughts on her, on where she would be, and he cradled what he wore on his breast, rejoicing she’d entrusted him with something so precious.  He leaned forward....

       "That way?" asked Pippin, indicating the north.

       "No," Aragorn said, and he indicated a peak that shone red in the light of a setting sun.

       Merry looked at it with recognition.  "Caradhras.  So, she’s going to Lothlórien?"

       "That is where she would go.  She always felt her mother’s parents were more sympathetic than her father."

       "Didn’t he tell you that you could not bind any woman to you until you were King?  What if you’d died--would the line of Kings have ended with you, then?"  Pippin was as curious as ever, Aragorn realized.

       "Yes, it would have done so."

       They sped forward, and as they started over the mountains, Pippin slowed, looked down, and the others found themselves doing the same.  They looked at the blasted ruins of a tower standing on one of the three peaks, and below that a shattered slope where snow was blown into fantastic shapes.  "Two of the Maiar fought there," Pippin said, and bowed with honor to the tower, then went on.

       "Had we known ahead of time what we faced," Merry wondered, "do you think you would have gone anyway?"

       "We knew it was going to be bad, and we’d already been pursued by Black Riders before we reached Buckland."

       "You three had--I got my first real encounter with them in Bree, if you will remember.

       "Would you have gone?"

       "I’d already decided I wasn’t going to let Frodo go alone.  I’d have still gone."

       "And I’d still not have let the two of you go without my protection."

       "And we needed it, Pippin."

        And they approached the remains of Lothlórien....

       Aragorn saw her arrive, unaccompanied.  She was riding Elrond--and Elrond was descended from Olórin, son to Shadowfax, one of the Mearas, Lords of Horses.  She wore a riding habit and his Lórien cloak.  She had barely anything with her.  All this he noted.  She looked for him, but was looking too hard, and it was not yet quite time.

       He lifted her Light from his breast, cradled it in his hand.  But she was now distracted by what she saw about her.  He saw her shock at the change in the place she had once loved, the fallen leaves no longer gold and silver but brown with decay; the ancient mallorns beginning to fall or go hollow; the hollow where Galadriel’s garden had grown and her Mirror had stood now crumbling from neglect; young, aggressive trees of the outer world crowding out the double ring of trees that had stood on Cerin Amroth.  Some of the flets and the halls that had crowned the still-standing mallorns remained--but they were few.  Shocked and disheartened, she traveled the length and breadth of what had once been the Heart of Elvendom in Middle Earth, and everywhere she saw signs of death and disease where no stain had touched land, people, or growing things in time out of memory.

       Pippin and Merry mourned for her.  "It is as it was for us when we arrived in the Shire and found that the will of the Enemy had come there in spite of all we had done to try to draw evil away from it.  For this is home, and now it can no longer be as it was," Pippin whispered.

       "Except that was the work of an evil will, where this--this is just the result of protections removed," his companion returned.

       Aragorn watched her, sorrowing for her sorrow, grieving for her grief.  He stood and watched and waited, seeking the chance to return her Light, awaiting the time for her to turn to him once more.  But he realized she must do this, must mourn what was lost and what further would be lost.  They’d spoken of it so many times--but now she saw with her own eyes the results of the fading of the Golden Wood, heard the mourning of the wind in the bare treetops, felt the softness of wood fallen to the elements, tasted the essence of fallen leaves in the water, smelled the odor of logs as they rotted into loam and the distant odor of smoke from the village of Men that had begun to grow on the edge of the Wood.  She sang the loss of Lórien to the Stars, cradled a young tree that had been blown over by a wind which previously would not have blown there, and sang its dirge.  Where she sat in the afternoons the elanor bloomed its last blooms; where she lay to sleep at night the niphredil did the same the next day.

       The great mallorn on Cerin Amroth still shone bravely, and there, where they had first spoken together of love, where she had pledged her troth to him, where they had turned from both twilight and shadow, there she went, and at last he could draw near to her.  On the grassy bench where they had once sat together and dreamed the sweet dreams that lovers always dream, she took to resting at night, lying on her side, looking off to the great hill on which Caras Galadhon had once stood.  About that bench the elanor and niphredil grew as if she were their personal source of light, rejoicing to have again one there who knew the way of their growth, one last vestige of Elvish blood in an abandoned land.  Seeing this, her grief for the land began to fade, as she sought to nurture the gentle plants that had been the symbol of the Golden Wood, speaking to them of her gladness she’d once known here, the songs she’d heard sung here, the stories told here, the beauty of the Ladies Nimrodel and Galadriel, the greatness of heart of the Lords Amroth and Celeborn, the industriousness and steadfastness of the Galadhrim.

       Always there were a few berries on the bushes to feed her, always the water ran clear when she came to drink.  And after a child, exploring deeper into the forest perhaps than was wise, saw her, he began to come daily and bring her bread, cheese, and sometimes meat, dried apples, pockets filled with nuts, pitying her loneliness and her obvious sorrow, gathering fallen wood for the comfort of a fire, weaving a bower about the bench for her to stay in when it was wet.  The boy would often stay to listen to her, and took many of her stories away in his heart.  As the winter passed she began to teach him the ways of the wood, to show him where the deer would come, where the squirrels played, where the foxes had their dens, where the badgers dug their sets, where the rabbits hid their warrens, how the trees had stood, where the snow would lie the deepest and the shallowest.  She explained the flets and described the halls, pointed out what remained of the high ways of the trees on which her people had walked freely and fearlessly.  And he smiled to realize he was now the caretaker of this great place, one of the few remaining in Middle Earth who had some understanding of what it had once been.

       Aragorn was glad for this child, and saw the gentle pleasure that would show in her eyes when she heard his step in the woods.

       But as the winter finally began to wane, she weakened, and often she lay on the bench enclosed within the bower the boy had woven for her, and looked out of the open door, and sighed, realizing the time was coming for her at last.  One night there came a great storm, and the wind blew the bower away, leaving her lying exposed, and she rose and took refuge near the great mallorn, was sheltered by it through the night from wind and elements.  When day came, all was suddenly still, and the skies were now clear, the sun shone over the land which was about to waken again.  It seemed warm to her, so she changed into the dress her son had sent down to the stables for her, the embroidered dress of deep wine colors her husband had had made for a gift for her at the birth of their first child, the work of Miriel of Lebennin, and wrapping the Elven cloak back around her she crept back to the bench once more and laid herself on it in gladness for Anor’s warmth, and smiled up--and saw him, saw him waiting for her, holding the gift she’d given him and that now he sought to return, and she smiled up at him, lifted up a hand to receive back her Light....

       He gave it to her gladly, helped her to rise up, embraced her with great gladness, and with a gentle joy kissed her, and they turned back to the West, accompanied by his shining retinue of two....

*******

       They had sought her long.  She’d not stayed for them, had ridden out of the city and headed north.  She’d not told Elrohir her destination, and he’d assumed she would go to her birthplace, and had not thought to consult with the King or his sisters.  That was where the brothers went first.  They went north but missed her trail, turned west in Anorien toward the Gap of Rohan.  That they never quite caught up with her was not surprising, for she was riding the horse Elrond, who was descended from the Mearas of Rohan, whose strength, speed, and stamina was of the stuff of legends, even among Elves.  That they heard no rumor of her passing did not bother them, for they knew their sister could pass through crowds now and raise no attention.

       But when they heard no tales of her from the trees of Hollin they began to become distressed; and when their own trees in Rivendell denied having seen her they realized at last she’d taken a different way.  But the winter on the western side of the Misty Mountains that year was harsh and heavy, and none could make it through the mountain passes, so they were forced to go south, back through the Gap of Rohan until they could turn back toward the Eastfold and the valley of the great River Anduin.  Thus it was that they came to the remains of the Golden Wood just as winter was considering giving its sway to a gentle spring, and they found a boy entering the woods carrying food for the one he called the Sad Lady, and he agreed to show them where she sheltered.

       They found her body, wrapped in the cloak their grandmother had given to their foster brother, lying on the grassy bench, a gentle smile of recognition on her face.  All about her grew and bloomed elanor and niphredil.

       Grieving, they dug for her a grave under the place of the bench, carefully lifting away the turf to cover it over after; and wrapping her in the cloak they laid her to rest there, the last inhabitant of the Golden Wood, one whose body would never leave it.  They sang over her grave songs of loss and confusion and grief, and songs of the hope that she and her Estel were together again, beyond the uttermost West.  And then they left that place, never to return.

       The niphredil withered, and the elanor failed, for there was after her none to remind them of how they should grow here, here in the mortal lands.

*******

       Every day the Lord Eldarion, King of Gondor and Arnor, walked out to the White Tree to give it greeting; and one day he came there just ere noon, and heard from the tree a great sigh, and realized that somewhere, afar off, a link in the chains of his loves had broken, and he knelt by the Tree and wept, knowing his mother was no more in the mortal lands.  His sisters came seeking him out, troubled by the loss they’d felt in their hearts and seeking reassurance from him.  He went into the high chamber where he’d placed the Palantir of Orthanc in place of the Anor Stone, and looked into it, and saw his uncles grieving over their sister’s body, come too late to give her their blessings.  At dawn a bell in the citadel was rung, and the people gathered at the gates to hear the news, and it was told to them that their Lady Queen, the beautiful Arwen, wife to their late King, had died in the Northern Lands, and they grieved for her.

*******

       "My Lord?"

      Eldarion raised his head from the book he was reading, looked his question at the guard who’d entered his private chamber.  Loreth looked up from her woolen work, where she was crafting a garment for their daughter’s birth.  The King nodded to indicate he was ready to hear the news brought to him.  "The gardener’s lad is without, my King.  His master asks if you will join him at the memorial for the Pheriannath."

       "Tell him I will come.  I will be there in about a quarter of an hour."

       "Yes, my Lord."  With a bow the guard went out to relay the message to the gardener’s lad.

       The gardener was a Pherian of the Shire, a grandson to Samwise Gamgee, son to Frodo Gardner, who’d asked to be allowed to serve the realm by tending the gardens of the Citadel.  He and his wife and children had come to Minas Anor in the train of King Elessar after the summer of the Dancing Stars, and they had built a house of Hobbit architecture in the First Circle of the city where one had never been rebuilt after the War of the Ring.  Hamfast Gardner, as had been his grandfather and great grandfather, was a master of growing things, and he knew each plant in the Citadel’s gardens intimately.  His lad was his nearly grown son Sam, who looked fair to being the next Master Gardener of the Citadel.  There had been frequent messages from him to the Lord Elessar, who by tradition was always addressed by his Halfling gardener as "Lord Strider"; and now it amused King Eldarion to have inherited his father’s title.  He walked with some anticipation to the designated bed, accompanied by Faramir Took, wondering what marvel of nature Ham had found to share with his Lord King this time, only this time the face that greeted them was saddened.

       Alarmed at the gardener’s expression, the King asked, "What has troubled you, my friend?"

       "It’s the niphredil and the elanor, sir," the Halfling whispered.  "They’ve stopped growing, Lord Strider."

       Surprised, the King knelt down to look.  There were the spikes of the Elven lilies that grew here and the signs that the athelas plants were beginning to push out of the ground; but the low mounds that had always brought forth the golden elanor blooms had gone dry, and the leaves of the niphredil plants had folded together, and the plants were withering.  The King felt one of the plants, and seemed to feel a lack of vitality to it, as if it had suddenly lost the will to live.  He looked into the troubled eyes of the Hobbit and asked, "Do you have any idea what is wrong with them?"

       "I don’t know, Lord Strider.  It’s as though they were fading, sir."

       The King and Faramir Took and Hamfast Gardner exchanged troubled looks.

*******

       In the Shire, Frodo Gardner was awakened by his son Tolman, who said to him, "Da, there’s something wrong with the niphredil by Mr. Frodo’s Window.  The plants are folding up."  Surprised, he drew on a dressing gown and followed his son out the back door.  That bed was always known as the bed by Mr. Frodo’s Window, and niphredil, elanor, and elven lilies had always grown there with kingsfoil through three generations of Gamgee descendants, since the restoration of Bag End.  Frodo knelt there and saw his son was right.  But worse than that, the elanor plants for which his aunt had been named had gone brown and appeared to be dying. Alarmed, he turned and hurried around the back of the smial to the way to the top of the Hill, and he found the same was true there, the elanor and niphredil in Mr. Frodo’s Circle was also fading.  He felt down into the soil, tried to touch the roots, tried to find what had troubled these plants, and felt there an echo of sorrow and loss.

       Tolman was grief stricken.  “Did I do something wrong for them, Da?"

       His father shook his head, listening to the plants.  “No, Tom, it’s nothing you’ve done.  They’re grieving, and fading, like the Elves do."  He looked up into his son’s weeping eyes.  “They were Elven flowers, you know."

*******

       When the New Year started in Minas Anor, the stable master of the First Circle found a thin but hale grey horse standing before the doors one morning as he came to ready the stables for the business of the day.  He bowed his head in grief, then greeted the steed.   “Welcome back, Elrond.  A stall is ready for you."  And he sent word to the Citadel that the King’s horse had returned.

Rejoice in Your Daughter

       Olórin stood on the high porch of the dwelling of Elrond and Celebrían, staring off to the East.  Elrond saw him there, understood why he had come again, and his heart full of grief, came out to stand beside him, his wife, her face pale, following reluctantly.  Again Celeborn and Galadriel appeared to join them, this time none speaking, all waiting with dread the breaking of this link, the one they’d prayed for as a release for some months.  When it came all felt it--a sharper wrench this time, as if something vital within themselves had broken--sharper, and yet at the same time joyous.

       Joyous?  How could there be joy in this final loss of the daughter of their house?  All straightened, and the four Elves looked to one another with question.  It was Galadriel who smiled first, who looked first to the East again to see, then her lord husband, then her daughter with an unfamiliar hope in her heart, and finally Arwen's father, straightening to attention.

       At last they saw what they’d watched for, a shining light so bright it dazzled even their eyes, as accustomed to the unfiltered light of Aman as they now were.  It approached, slowed its swift pace, paused over them.  With tears of loss and giving and rejoicing in their hearts, all saw above them the shining form of their daughter, her face alive with Joy and Delight and Love, her heart full once more.

       She was not alone--beside her was the young shining Lord who had been her consort in life, for whom even the cost of ruling two realms had not been too great a price to pay in order to rejoice in her presence as his Lady Wife, who had been willing to risk the wrath of the Lord Elrond of Imladris in order to give her the worship with which his heart had been filled at his first sight of her.  He had restored the Light of her Spirit, and it was plain she was now in fuller bliss than she’d known even in life.  And beside him were two more, a youth of delight and honor and mischief, and one to whom authority and responsibility were natural, who accompanied the shining Lord and his Lady in respect for their worthiness and in delight for their reunion.

       Rejoice for me, Adar, Naneth, my beloved grandparents! they heard in their hearts, for the pain of the separation was worth it for the Joy that I know now!  May the Valar and Ilúvatar fulfill you as I am fulfilled.

       And the joy of the young Lord too could be seen and felt clearly, as he proclaimed, Rejoice in your daughter!

       Two unfamiliar forms for two familiar beings bowed in respect, then turned to serve as honor guard to their daughter and her beloved as they continued their journey to the West.

       When the awe of that vision was finally experienced and allowed to pass, they turned to Olórin, and it was Celebrían who broke the reverent silence.  "I had thought it would be grievous!"

       He smiled at them.  "What is grief but the cleansing fire that prepares the vessel to be filled with Joy, my Lady?" he asked.  He looked after, and they saw the longing in his face, reflected in his Light.

       Elrond asked, "Then, it was with reluctance you returned?"

       Olórin smiled.  "Reluctance?  Some, perhaps.  But I knew I must if he who was once my brother was to be stopped in his mad designs.  But I will confess I await my next summons that Way with anticipation."  He looked into Elrond’s face.  "It is the Way all must take one day, and I cannot deny that I left the Presence somewhat unwilling.  But, because I did so in Obedience and Love, I am never truly far from it."  He looked after again.  "And she is so ready to enter it."

       Then he looked closely and searchingly into the faces of each of the four who stood with him, and in a soft tone he repeated the words of Arwen’s consort: "Rejoice in your daughter."

       Galadriel smiled fully into his face, saying, "How can we do otherwise?  Thank you, Olórin, for standing by us this day."  She looked after, and the longing in the visage of the Maia was reflected in her own eyes.  "A good arrival, Arwen.  Bear our respects with you."

Seeking the Presence

       Olórin was not present when they came to the beginning of the Way.  Arwen stood with a circlet of niphredil and elanor in her hair, her beauty an equal to the light of Varda’s stars; and she looked deeply into the eyes of he who had been her husband and smiled.  "I am sorry if I kept you waiting, my beloved, as I did what I had to do."

       He laughed.  "It was very little compared to my last wait for you.  Last time it was I who labored, and this time you did so.  We are even, I think."

       They turned to look at the Way.  "What say you, Lady?" he asked.  "Shall we go through the Halls, or through the Garden?"

       She sighed.  "The Halls first, my Lord," she said at last, then laughed.  "They will remember me little in the mortal lands, but here they will be reminded."  And they laughed together as they approached the doorway.

       There they paused as Aragorn looked to their escort.  "Will you enter with us this time?"

       "Gladly, Strider," Pippin answered.  The doors to the Hall of the Dúnedain opened to admit them.

*******

       The King Elessar sat upon his High Seat and watched as the doors swung open, admitting a shining light such as had not entered the Halls of Mandos since the days of Lúthien and Beren, Tuor and Idril.  He stood in joy and delight, and descended from his place, and all gave way before him as he approached his Queen Evenstar.

       She came to him as she’d come before, erect and shining with Joy, approaching with delight and anticipation as the call was made by the Stewards Ecthelion, Faramir, and Elboron, "Behold the Queen!"  Flanked by two proud Halflings, one in the armor of Gondor and the other in the mail of Rohan, she stepped forward to greet him.  They met in the center of the Hall, and he took her in his arms and kissed her deeply, then turned her in a full circle to show her to all.

       "Behold my Queen, the daughter of Lord Elrond and the Lady Celebrían, the granddaughter of the Lord Celeborn and the Lady Galadriel, the rulers of the Golden Wood.  She is the Lady Arwen Undómiel, Evenstar of her people within Middle Earth, and the like of her will come to Middle Earth not again save in the heritage of our children.  Rejoice with me at our reunion."

       And all rejoiced, and once more the Lady Arwen was reunited with many she had known over the long centuries of the fostering of the heirs of Valandil in the vale of Imladris.  A joyful lady came forward to embrace the love of her son’s life, giving thanks for her care for the son she’d left at her own fading.  A proud father bowed before her, glad to call her, who had been as a sister to him at one time, daughter.

       Behind her came still another, the Lord Steward Denethor son of Ecthelion, who bowed before the man he should have served had madness not taken him, and he begged pardon humbly for not fulfilling his duty, and before all he was forgiven and embraced.  "I rejoice only," the King said, "that you have been healed at last and are restored to me, you whom I always thought of as my brother."

*******

       "Enough of this," Aragorn whispered into his wife’s ear.  "Shall we leave them to it?"  Laughing, they slipped away toward the inner door, Pippin and Merry behind them.

       "Is it always so formal and full of solemn declarations in there?" asked Pippin.

       Aragorn laughed richly.  "Alas, I fear it is.  Too solemn by half, which is why, I suspect, you have enjoyed your time so well among the Edain where the feasting and laughter are more in keeping with your own mortal heritage."

       "Can we peek into some of the other halls?" asked Merry.

       "Peek?" snorted Pippin.  "I have the right to enter several of them.  My trip to Harad has earned me my place in a few, you know."

       And quickly they looked to see which doors would open to them, entered in, established themselves, and left.

       Last they came to the Halls of the Edain, and there Arwen entered in with her Lord, then found herself approaching him as he rose from his bench and came to greet her.  Théoden came down from his high seat to embrace her, accompanied by his small esquire; Éomer and Lothiriel rose from their places; Éowyn came running from down the Hall to bear her the cup of greeting; Queen Morwen came near and bowed down in honor; and others she’d known raised a shout of joyful greeting.  And Barahir came near, his eyes full of memory and honor.

       "My daughter," he murmured, "I greet you, who so resemble the one who delighted my son.  Welcome indeed, and surprised I am that you did not choose to bypass this place."

       She embraced him gladly.  "My father you are as you are to my beloved Estel.  How could I not give honor to those with whom you are identified, you who are as much Adar as he who loves my mother?"  And the joy of that meeting filled the hearts of all.

*******

       Finally she looked into her love’s eyes.  "It is time," she said, and the two of them turned to the doorway.  Their hearts were full, and a part of them would always thrill to the solemnity of the Hall of the Dúnedain, the pleasures of the Hall of the Edain, the surprised and surprising honor shown to them in the Hall of Umbar, and the other chambers they’d entered, singly or together.  But they did not wish to linger in the Halls, they who had the right and desire to go further.   They had with them a fuller escort as they made their way out the great Door and turned to the Garden and beyond, for several were ready to follow that deeper Way now.  Together they wandered through the great Garden, extending the anticipation, rejoicing the closer and closer they came to the Bridge.  Wherever the Queen stepped niphredil and elanor sprang up in her wake, and wherever the Lord walked athelas grew in the margins.

       There, waiting for them at last, was Olórin, who stepped forward and embraced the Lady Arwen, receiving from her a grateful kiss, which seemed to gratify him deeply.  Many there were who bowed to him or greeted him by one of his many names, and all he knew and honored in their turn.

       "Bear my greetings," he said.

       "We shall," Lord and Lady assured him.  Then Aragorn turned to Pippin, saying, "I almost forgot--your son wished me to tell you he will come soon, and loves you dearly."

       Pippin laughed.  "Actually, although you may not have been aware of it, that message was made known to me on your first arrival.  We all tend to be a bit overwhelmed when we first get here, you know, so the messages we bear seem to get delivered automatically."

       With a last embrace between Maia and the Lord he’d once mentored, Lord and Lady turned to the silver span, and crossed over it.

*******

       Guardian and Mother stood up from the midst of the Children, and the shining Light of the Nurturer turned as the further Lights drew nearer.  The one who had been once Frodo Baggins and Iorhael quivered with delight as branches parted and a troop of shining souls approached its own Light.  The Nurturer bowed down before Lord and Lady, was embraced and kissed by both, was honored by all present, was embraced by those who had been its cousins.  Lord and Lady knelt among the children, greeted the child who one day would become Estel, looked around.  Aragorn looked into his Friend’s shining visage. "Celebrían has gone on her way, then?"

       "Yes, and those who will be her parents are ready to hold her in their arms as they hold her already in their hearts, and Valandil is thrilled to know he will be allowed to share in the nurturing of his sister."

       "Do you wish to remain here with the Children?"

       "Oh, I am always here.  But we have waited long to accompany you."

       "My Lady Rose, it is with Joy we greet you this day.  And, Sam, your grandson does honor to the gardens of Minas Anor."

       The Guardian smiled with delight.  "Am glad he gives satisfaction."

       The Lord laughed.  "Satisfaction? Delight, rather.  Always he has found joy in the ways of the Creator, and always he has shared it with me and with those with heart to understand his own delight."

       "Good enough, then.  Glad to see the blood runs true."  His face shone with Humor and Joy.

       Together they turned, Aragorn and the one he’d long considered his Brother, their arms around one another, and began on the Way to the Presence.

       "The Way is so very beautiful, Aragorn."

       "Then you will teach me to see it, as you have done before."

The Cost of Love

       "It isn’t too late--not quite yet. I could take you back, you know."

       The Dwarf grunted.  "So, you’re tired of my grumbling, are you?"

       Legolas laughed.  "Tired?  No, my friend, but I thought you might be.  It will be easier once we reach the Straight Path."

       "But how do you even know where it is?  How does anyone find something that leads from Arda to--to a place not properly in Arda any longer?"

       The Elf shook his head, and thought how to try to explain.  Finally he thought of an example Gimli might understand.  "When you first see a glint of ore, how do you know which direction it will follow through the rock in which it is found?"

       "What does the Straight Path have to do with ore?"

       "Just think on it, my friend."

       The Dwarf shrugged.  "The stone will tell you, if you pay enough attention."

       "It might tell you, but it is unlikely to tell me.  It’s similar to Sam Gamgee and his plants--he could simply touch a plant and tell you exactly how it felt about the situation in which it found itself.  Or perhaps Bilbo creating a poem, knowing automatically which words would best go together both to sound pleasing and to convey meaning most effectively.  The wind and waves tell me where I am to go.  It is simply that I know because it is right."

       The Dwarf continued to grumble, but did so with sufficient quiet that Legolas could ignore it.

       For the first time in several months the Elf felt free--free of grief, free of the stress of knowing he must go soon, go now.  For he had finally set upon his way, and as a young bird knowing it is time to seek lands it has never seen at the changing of the season, he knew now he was doing what was proper for him.  He was not going alone as he’d feared he would.  He was grateful Gimli had been given this grace to come with him, that the Lockbearer was given the chance to overcome the great differences that usually divided the Firstborn from the Children of Aüle.  Long he had tarried in Middle Earth, unwilling to leave while Aragorn was still alive; but that time was now over.  Aragorn had accepted the Gift of Ilúvatar, and he had left his body behind, risen up shining from it, and been drawn to the Uttermost West more surely than the arrow flies from the bowstring.  Now Legolas, too, was going West--not as far West as his friend had, or as this friend would go one day, but West enough for his own kind.  As he held the tiller and watched the sails, he sang, sang the wind, sang the waves, sang the clear air and the slap of water on carefully shaped and set wood.  He smiled.

       He had felt great grief at the passing of Aragorn Elessar, for together they had done much, known much that generations before and after could not share.  He looked on his friend’s son and saw that he, too, would be an extraordinary man, an extraordinary leader, an extraordinary father to fine children; but he could not share with the son what he’d known with the father.

       They were the last of the Fellowship to have lingered in Middle Earth, he and Gimli; and now they were going to meet with the one who was oldest and who would remain longest after.  And the song of Olórin the Maia crept into the music he’d been singing already.

       Then a new set of notes intruded--notes he’d certainly not intended, the notes of Arwen Undómiel.  She was lost to his people, but her offspring offered hope to the world of Men who now took lordship over Middle Earth, now that the Firstborn were almost all gone from it.  But when Aragorn Elessar died, he’d carried the Light of her spirit with him, and her joy had fled.  He’d not seen such a fading ever in his long life, and it had shocked him even more than the loss of his friend had done.  He’d felt helpless, for he could not give her any aid, not since she’d embraced mortality.  Why should he sing of her now, as bereft of Light as she’d become?

       Suddenly he felt the small ship he’d built find it--the Straight Path, and a thrill passed through him; and looking at Gimli he saw that the Dwarf, too, had noted the change, was lifting his head.  Suddenly Gimli rose, turned to the stern, peered intently behind them.

       "What is it, my friend?  Seeking a last sight of Middle Earth? You will see nothing of it, I fear."

       But Gimli held up his hand.  "Listen, Elf!" he said.  "Can’t you hear it overtaking us?"

       Legolas was shocked, for since when were the ears of a Dwarf more sensitive than those of an Elf?  But he did as he was bade, and listened, looked behind...looked up in amazement.  He could hear it clearly now, and was amazed he’d not heard it before.  He’d never heard this song in all of Arda!  A quick glance at Gimli showed the ancient Dwarf was smiling with recognition and delight.  "He’s done it!" Gimli whispered.  "He’s done it--restored her Light!  Hear the Joy of it?"

       Then he could hear it, hear it clearly and fully; and its joy filled him with awe and wonder.  He saw the Shining overtaking them, saw above them his Friend and his Beloved and two others together heading for the Uttermost West, sheer delight on their faces, expressions confident and joyful and full of anticipation--and fulfilled!

       "Well, if that isn’t just like a pair of Hobbits!" Gimli exclaimed.  "Give their remains the honor of lying by the King, and they take it seriously!"

       Legolas looked at Gimli with question, but Gimli had turned to follow the song of completion, the shining forms as they sped Westward.  The Dwarf, Legolas realized, was weeping, weeping with joy.  "You be there, Lad, be there to greet me when I come, you hear?" he was saying.  "Not," he continued, now speaking to his companion, "that I’m planning on going immediately or anything like that.  But I must follow fairly soon. I am grateful, however, to know I will see my Lady before I must follow, see her and be certain she is in bliss."  He wiped his eyes with his sleeve.  "But his Lady, she has been able to join him.  She’s fading no more.  And those two rascals are there to honor the both of them!"  And Gimli started to sing.

       Legolas was amazed, for all other songs he’d heard from his friend had been very--earthy.  But this song was one of emotion, one of triumph, one of longing and joy.  Analyzing the song of his friend, the Elf began to create a harmony for it, a descant that celebrated friendship and love and fulfillment.  His hand, with no direction from his conscious mind, kept the small ship upon the Straight Path.

*******

       On the morning of the New Year a daughter was born to the King of Gondor and Arnor and his beloved Queen Loreth; and once the babe was cleaned and diapered and wrapped in a soft, warm blanket, her brother was allowed to carry her out of his mother’s room to the solar where many were gathered to see the royal daughter for the first time.  Followed by his aunts, he walked straight and tall, as dignified as only a boy of thirteen can be, carrying his own sister, smiling down into her eyes, open and blue and peering curiously up at him.

       His father had delivered the child, but once it was come and he was assured his wife and daughter were both safe and healthy, he’d given over to the demands of the womenfolk that he get on with him, and he now sat in the solar, surrounded by those who must see first--the Steward Barahir and the Northern Steward Eregil, Hirgion of the Keys, and representatives of Rohan, Umbar, Rhûn, and Harad, the Prince of Dol Amroth, Faramir Took, Lord Glorfindel of Imladris, Elrohir and Elladan....

       Eldarion watched his son with pride, smiling at the youth’s delight and dignity, and held out his arms to receive the precious burden the boy carried.  "Welcome, my daughter," he said.  "Welcome, Celebrían of Gondor and Arnor.  Let the world rejoice to receive you as we do."  And, as he held the tiny form close, he murmured into her ear, "Your grandmother named you, little one, named your for her own naneth.  And today she must be overjoyed to know you are with us at last, in our arms as you have been in our hearts for so long."

       Words about Frodo Baggins he’d read years before from the green book written by Samwise Gamgee filled his heart.  "Mr. Frodo Baggins is one of the ones who is born in the world, I think, to teach us beauty.  And almost everyone who knows him loves him.  But I’ve seen that there’s all too often a terrible cost for us to have such among us."  Sam had seen the King's father as being another of the same kind, two with the same light within them, shining side by side.  Sam had held that as much as possible Frodo had always tried to pay the price for himself, while many had paid the price for the light of the one known as Aragorn, the King Elessar, to shine in Middle Earth.

       What is the cost of love? the King wondered.  He answered his own question: The probability of loss.  Then he asked himself, Is it worth it?  Looking into his new daughter’s eyes, he knew this answer, too:  Yes, well worth it at twice the price.  Afar off his parents, standing in the Joy of the Presence, surrounded by the Lights of many others, including that of the one who had been Frodo Baggins, agreed with him.

Author’s Notes

            I first wrote and posted this in November of 2004.  I was more than a bit gushy and fond of beginning sentences with And, I admit, and I am so glad that Imrahoil and others bore with me and convinced me to do some very needful editing at the time.  Well, I’ve finally finished that editing and have the story updated on the different venues where it’s now posted.  I hope that those who have not read it in the past appreciate it now, and that those who have done so appreciate the corrections I’ve made.

            Arwen and Aragorn stood upon the hill of Cerin Amroth and forswore both the Shadow and the Twilight; but at the end Arwen found it difficult to accept that the bliss of her life with her beloved had come to a close.  For all her awareness of the relative fleeting nature of mortal life, still when Aragorn celebrated his two hundred tenth birthday by offering up his mortality to receive the Gift of Ilúvatar she found herself unwilling to accept that he was doing so, and that their life together as man and wife was at its end.  For all of the heirs of Isildur she must have seen pass through her father’s house, she still had no appreciation that at the end Aragorn, too, must in time die.  What she had hoped for when that day came cannot be properly known, I suppose—even with fictional characters we cannot always appreciate just what their thoughts on particular subjects might be.  She appears to have lingered for an undetermined time in the capital before she bade farewell to her son and daughters and left to seek her ending in what remained of her grandparents’ abandoned realm.

            The Master tells us that Aragorn both was born and died on March 1, the first day of spring in the calendar of Middle Earth.  Arwen is said to have died as winter was beginning to give way to spring, indicating that she survived her husband by approximately a year.  It appears that she may have felt paralyzed by her grief and loss for some months before she finally accepted that the time had come to seek her solace and her own death elsewhere.  We aren’t told whether she walked northward or rode, nor whether she traveled swiftly or slowly.  So those of us who have explored this period of Arda’s history have some leeway, and one can find a variety of different scenarios available on how she came to Cerin Amroth and the particulars regarding how she died and how it was her body was interred there.

            Elves did not die of age, although they could fade from grief or from the weariness of bearing with the losses and disappointments of an interminable life.  It was with this knowledge in mind that I chose the particular manner of death for her I’ve depicted, with her mourning both her husband and Lórien at the end.  That Tolkien indicated that the elanor and niphredil stopped blooming in Middle Earth following her death I felt to be significant, the earth’s own indication that the Eldar Days were indeed past, and those Elves who might linger on east of the Sea are swiftly approaching the time when they may not be able to actively sail to Elvenhome. 

            I chose to give Aragorn and Arwen two daughters, naming the first for the mother to Lúthien and the second for the daughter of Turgon and mother of Eärendil the Mariner.  In my-verse Melian is actually the firstborn child of their parents, but that she chose not to accept the rule of either land, ceding her rights to her brother; in time her granddaughter will marry Eldarion’s grandson, and thus the rule will return to the proper line once again, but will pass from Aragorn to his son in keeping with canon.

            Tolkien himself played with the idea of adding still another Power to the pantheon entrusted with the care of Arda, this Power being in control of Time.  In the end he slid away from this idea, but it is important to realize that although Time is one of the dimensions that define the creation within which we live, it may not be what is experienced within Eternity.  Once one has crossed the boundary between life within Time to life within Eternity, one is no longer bound to one place at any particular point in time, as it is believed that within Eternity all times are Now.  In my-verse the Halls do not lie wholly within Arda, but are not fully within the Timeless Halls, either.  Time is still experienced; but once one has established oneself within a particular Hall one can remain within it even when one leaves it to explore the other halls established by each civilization and culture or to go beyond Arda’s boundaries into the Timeless Halls.  Some individuals will not wish to leave any traces of themselves lingering on this side, while others will not feel able to face those of their culture and will seek out a corner in which to hide and either heal or seek to punish themselves for the evils they committed in life.  So I have Denethor constructing for himself a cell furnished with a mirror in which he morbidly watches himself burning eternally, with Námo’s Maiar quietly giving the room a door and window until, bored at last with his narcissistic contemplation of his nonproductive burning, Denethor loses interest in the mirror and begins to look about himself and realizes he doesn’t have to content himself with such a pointless existence in the end.  I found it most interesting that J. K. Rowling conceived of a similar situation in which both Harry and Tom Riddle find themselves within a waiting room that Dumbledore indicates is the creation of Harry’s own imagination, and that from this room he can leave when he so wishes, either to find passage beyond the life he’d offered up or to return to know fulfillment as a living man.

            I will admit that I was also inspired in great part by the book The Great Divorce by Tolkien’s friend C. S. Lewis, a book I first read when I was in high school.  One does not have to linger within the Halls of Mandos—one can go on, and eventually know one’s own True Shape, the form that best defines one’s individual personality.  So, once he has crossed the Silver Bridge Aragorn shows forth all that he has ever been, and is the King indeed, while Frodo, who’d always been one who sought the best for others, becomes the Nurturer, who within Eternity always rejoices in helping nurture those children entrusted to his care, those newly come from life here and those preparing to enter into life.  Thus he knows the fulfillment of parenthood denied him during his own life as Frodo Baggins of the Shire, while accepting that he’d always been as a parent to those for whom he’d cared.  Plus the Presence must be sought after, even as Tolkien in Leaf by Niggle and Lewis both used the Mountains as the destination for those who have left this life.

            The boundary between this life and the next has been defined in many different ways—as a river or sea that must be crossed via a bridge or boat, as a tunnel we must go through, as a burning desert that must be traversed, as a series of challenges we must face and meet.  Tolkien himself imagined at one point that Námo and his Maiar were the greatest shipwrights, ever constructing the boats intended to bear those who have died beyond his halls to those of Iluvatar.  I chose to use the image of the silver bridge over the river to indicate the boundaries between Time and Eternity, between the Bounds of Arda and the Timeless Halls.

            For those of us who are mortal, life and death are ever the two sides to the same coin.  All who are born into this world will one day die, only to be reborn into what comes next, which apparently is the reality from which we departed to enter into this creation.  I have always loved the image with which Lewis leaves us at the end of The Great Divorce, in which he sees the gods playing at life upon a great playing board defined by Time just before he returns to the mundane life he’d thought he’d left behind to enter into that world where he is not yet real enough to cause the grass to bend or the drops of dew to scatter.  What a wonderful concept, that there we are so much more than what we are here.

            And it was such a wonderful chance to look at the differences between Legolas’s perceptions and Gimli’s, as Gimli is the first to appreciate what it is he senses approaching as Aragorn and Arwen speed West once she has finally been able to shuck off the burden of her life and body.  Legolas has seen Men die, but he still has little appreciation of what a freeing experience that death can prove to be when it is met openly and without fear.  The third brother in Beadle the Bard’s tale met Death fearlessly, for his life had been lived fully and without regrets.  Aragorn also has no regrets in the end.  He has done all expected of him and has known both joy and loss, grief and bliss.  His death is expected, something he has known has been awaiting him at all times, and he doesn’t regret accepting it now.  But Arwen doesn’t understand, for she was raised in the expectation she will always exist.  That her form of existence will change and that the mechanics of that change will involve going through and past her own death is something that, once she’s faced with her beloved’s death, she has to accept for herself, and that’s a change in world-view she finds is far more difficult to appreciate when it becomes imminent than she’d anticipated.  And so Legolas cannot appreciate that now that Arwen has died she is no longer less than she’d been as Elessar’s Queen, but more, while Gimli appreciates this right off.

            Anyway, it has been pleasant to revisit this story, and I find myself appreciating just why the Master kept revising his own works until the day of his death.

  August 6, 2013

These notes are for you, Febobe.