“…because I need a holiday.  I need to feel moss and earth under my feet again…to hear the silence of the wood, to listen to the trees grow.”  Frustrated by her husband’s impassive silence, the Queen exclaimed, “You will never understand what it means to be an Elf.”

            “No, I won’t,” thought Aragorn.  He was a Man, not an Elf, and he was growing tired of feeling he ought to apologize for that fact.

            The Queen continued, “I need to be surrounded by growing things, to hear my native tongue again as it ought to be spoken, falling like music from the lips of the Quendi."  Her word choice implied that the Elves were still the only race in Middle Earth to truly possess the power of speech. “Do you know our children, my children, can barely speak Elvish?”  She was exaggerating, of course.  Their children spoke Sindarin as well as any others their age in Gondor, but they were not fluent enough for their mother’s discriminating ear. "And little Idril has never even met my grandfather, or my brothers.  Soon it will be too late.  They will take ship at the Havens and none of us will ever see them again.”

            The fire in the Queen’s eyes was daunting even to Aragorn.  How many times had they had this argument?  Although her request to take the children to Rivendell for a few months seemed innocent enough on the face of it, he knew there was more to the story. She might claim she only wanted a brief holiday, but he feared she was really looking for more than that.  He could not bring himself to say yes.

            “It will only be for a short while, a matter of months …”

            How often had he heard that in his lifetime?  Elves had an infuriating disregard for the passage of time.  Growing up in Rivendell, he’d been surrounded by people who did not age, for whom a hundred years was like a week.  As a boy, he could remember hanging on Elrohir’s stirrup, begging to know when he and Elladan would return.  “In a short while,” they replied enigmatically.  By the time he saw them again, three years later, his beard was coming in and he’d grown half a foot taller.  The Sons of Elrond remained ageless and unchanged.  If he’d learned nothing else, he knew to never rely upon an Elf to return in a timely fashion, if at all.

            “I don’t want you to go away.  I want you here with me.”

            “Come with us.  You could use a holiday.  But whether you’re coming or not, I must get out of this city or I shall go mad.  Please, Estel, I want to go home.”

            Aragorn could see it was pointless arguing with her any further.  She would have her way, whether he agreed or no.  He was tired of fighting.

            “Please, don’t go Arwen.”

            “It will only be for a few months,” she assured him, “We’ll be back before you know it.”

            The King said nothing in reply.

            The rest of that day, Queen Undomiel busied herself with preparations for her journey.  They would travel as lightly as possible, but packing for herself, her son, and three daughters was still a daunting task.  She fell into bed late that night, too exhausted to notice that the King never joined her.

            In the morning, she met her children for breakfast, excited to discuss their upcoming visit to the home of her kinsmen.  Her twin daughters, Celebrian and Gilraen, were thrilled at the prospect of seeing their uncles again.  They had been only four years old when they had first met Elladan and Elrohir, but in the four years since, the idea of having identical twin uncles had lost none of its fascination for them.  Idril, who was only three, was excited by the prospect of going on such a long journey.  Never before had she ventured so far from home. 

            In high spirits, Arwen went over some of the details of their journey with her young daughters.  Her joyful mood turned to concern when Eldarion entered carrying a small packet sealed with the King’s seal.  Her son was now twelve years old, and looking more like his father with every passing day.

            “Look what I found on my pillow this morning,” the boy said, presenting the packet. 

            Arwen lifted the wax seal, looked into the packet, and caught her breath.

            “Why would Father give me his ring?” the boy asked, more puzzled than alarmed.

The ring of Barahir was an heirloom of the house of Elendil more ancient than Numenor itself.  Aragorn had entrusted it to her when they were betrothed as a symbol that she would bear his children, the heirs of his body.  Since their wedding he had worn it every day of his reign as King of Gondor and Arnor.  It symbolized his right to rule as the heir of Elendil.  The fact that he had now entrusted it to their twelve year old son could mean only one thing.  He was passing the scepter to Eldarion.  He meant to abdicate the throne.

            Arwen’s heart raced.  She tried to hide her fears from her son.

            “I think he has gone on a journey and he means you to keep it safe,” she smiled at her first-born, but the corners of her mouth were tense with worry.  “I shall go and find out if he left any word of where he’s gone.”

            Eldarion and his sisters stared after her as she rushed out of the room, the ring of Barahir still tightly clutched in her hand

            Wrapped in his weathered cloak of dark green, a lone figure rode across the grassy fields.  His chestnut brown horse whinnied contentedly.  It had been many years since they had gone riding together, all alone in the wilds.  They came to a stream, and the rider dismounted, letting his beast drink its fill.  The man fished around in his saddlebag a moment, and produced a pipe, a small pouch and a tinderbox.  He sat down in the grass, leaning his back against a large grey rock, and stretching out his long legs.  Quietly he filled his pipe, lit it and sat back to enjoy a smoke as he watched the horse graze awhile.  Strider the Ranger had returned.

            He thought back over the events of the previous night.  He was still not sure he’d made the right decision by leaving, but in the face of Arwen’s stubbornness, he didn’t know what else to do.  He knew that once she was determined to depart, even he could not stand in her way.  He wondered if it would even be wise to try.

            It wasn’t merely her desire to take a trip to Rivendell that bothered him.  It was more the sense he got when she spoke of it that she would always be one of them, and never truly his own.  She belonged with the Elves.

             He feared she would go back to Rivendell and re-immerse herself in that world, losing all track of time.  Soon she would forget about him.  He would be nothing more than a dim memory on the fringe of her consciousness.  She would be content in the society of Elves, perhaps for a long season.  But soon or late, she would grow weary of Middle Earth.  The sea-longing would awaken in her, and she would seek the Havens, as Elves were wont to do. 

            His mother had been right.  She had warned him, saying, “It is not fit that mortal should wed with the Elf-kin.”  She had tried to dissuade him, reminding him that Arwen was the noblest and fairest lady that now walked the earth.  She was of far higher birth than he, even though he was the descendant of many kings. 

            Yet in his youthful arrogance and indomitable passion, he would not be denied.  He would win this lady, no matter the cost.  His mother had been right when she told him that he would not have Elrond’s good will in the matter, and almost prophetically, he had responded, “Then bitter will my days be, and I will walk in the wild alone.”  Never had he spoken a truer word.

            Had it not been for Arwen, he might have been content to live out his days as his father and grandfather had done.  He might have had no higher ambition than to be Chieftain of the Dunedain, wandering the wilderness of Eriador.  But Elrond had taught him that he must aim far higher if he would reach the Evenstar.

            He had won her heart, but only Elrond could give him her hand.  That he would not do unless Aragorn achieved the unimaginable.  Until he was King of Gondor and Arnor, Elrond would not surrender his only daughter.

            Aragorn had not looked for greatness, it had been thrust upon him.  But he bore it willingly for Arwen’s sake.  To win his lady he would walk the Paths of the Dead and assault the very gates of Mordor.  He could endure all these things knowing that at the end of the day, the Evenstar would shine upon him.

            Elrond had kept his word.  That Midsummer’s night twenty-one years ago he had surrendered the scepter of Annuminas and Arwen into Aragorn’s keeping.  It seemed the King of Men had won. 

            But the final victory would belong to Elrond.  In the end, Arwen would grow weary of Middle Earth and she would embark for Valinor.  Elrond would receive back not only his own daughter, but Aragorn’s daughters as well.

            Though the prospect of losing her filled him with sorrow, Aragorn didn’t feel he ought to hinder her.  She had always been too good for him, and they both knew it.  If she didn’t want him anymore, if she wanted to seek the Havens, to take his children and go to the Undying Lands, how could he stop her?

            He didn’t deserve her.  He ought to be grateful for all she had already given him: her love, beautiful children, an heir, long years of happiness.   It would seem the height of selfish ingratitude for him to demand that she give up her life for him as well.

            Once, he had foolishly believed that his love would be enough for Arwen, that she would never regret forsaking her people and the immortal life of the Elves.  Now he knew this wasn’t true.  There were yearnings in her soul which he could never satisfy.  In spite of what she had sworn to him, that she would forsake the Twilight and accept the Doom of Men, she would always be an Elf.  He was exhausted from trying to compensate her for the fact that he never would be. 

            He would not try to hold her.  He had wanted to be her lover, not her jailer.  If she had grown weary of him, weary of the world, why should he stand in her way?  Yet as the King of Gondor, he had to consider the welfare of his people.  If she took Eldarion, there would be no one to rule when he was gone.  She might think he could beget more sons, but in his heart he knew that the mother of his children was irreplaceable.  Eldarion was his heir and Eldarion must rule after him.  So he would make Eldarion the king.  He would go now, before she departed.  He would disappear into the wild, to the life he had known before.  He would become Strider the Ranger again, because he could not face being Elessar the King without her.

            Once he had made up his mind, it had been easy to lay out his plans.  He packed hunting gear, a small hatchet, a hunting knife, a light bow and a short sword.  He would leave his great sword, Anduril, for Eldarion.  Aragorn would have no need of it.  He was not going to war, and it was the rightful property of the Heir of Elendil.  The ring of Barahir he would leave sealed in an envelope on the boy’s pillow. He wished he could speak to the boy and explain why he had to leave, but he feared he would be unable to carry out his plan if he did so.  It was better to leave quietly, to disappear and let the world go on without him.

             He had kissed his son’s curly head as he left the packet and stole out of the room.  Perhaps in twenty or thirty years, he might return in the guise of Thorongil to advise the young King, as he had the Stewards of Gondor in days gone by.  But for now he must simply disappear.

            After a morning spent interrogating every valet, groom, butler or chambermaid in the palace, Arwen still had no definitive idea of where her husband had gone.  He had taken very little with him.  He had even left Anduril behind.  If the ring were not enough evidence that his intention was to abdicate, certainly this confirmed that theory.  He had ridden off on a chestnut brown gelding, not a war horse, but a trail horse, well suited to long journeys.

            How could he do this to her?  Just when she finally thought she might get to go home to Rivendell, he had disappeared without a trace.  But had he done this simply for the purpose of ruining her holiday?  Where could he have gone? And why?

            The Queen realized that she couldn’t hope to keep news of this a secret.  She sent out messengers to Rohan, to Dol Amroth, to Fornost, to every conceivable destination her husband might be heading.  To Ithilien she sent a summons.  In the king’s absence, his Steward must come to Minas Tirith.  She hoped Faramir would know what to do.  Until he arrived she resolved to give all her attention to her children, in an effort to calm their fears and relieve her own.

            Faramir arrived the following day, striding purposefully into the garden where she was reading with her daughters.

            “My lady,” he began, bowing deeply.  Arwen’s eyes lit up when his wife entered behind him, and curtsied to her.  Eowyn had been an indispensable ally to Arwen, and a dear friend.  A gifted and compassionate healer, Eowyn had delivered all four of Arwen’s children, and had tended them during their most serious childhood illnesses.  Her mere presence comforted Arwen, as the wise Steward had known it would.

            “Faramir, Eowyn, thank you for coming so quickly.”

            “You may rest easily, my lady.  I have come to take the reigns of governance as Steward of Gondor, and I will remain until the King has safely returned.  If you should need anything at all, send word to me immediately,” and with that, Faramir bowed deeply and took his leave.

            “How is it with you, my Lady?” Eowyn asked gently.

            “Honestly, I’m worried sick, and have barely slept since his disappearance.  I keep blaming myself.  I stubbornly insisted on taking the children away for a holiday to Rivendell.  He didn’t want me to go.  I thought he had finally relented, but then he just disappeared. A part of me is infuriated with him for doing this, and a part of me just wants him home.  I keep wondering…”Arwen broke off, unwilling to voice her fear aloud.

            Gently the healer probed for the source of the pain.  “What is it you fear, my Lady?”

“I fear…what if there is someone else, Eowyn?”

            Eowyn smiled reassuringly, “I hardly think you need worry on that score.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because, for one thing, it’s not logical.  If there were someone else, wouldn’t it be easier for him to simply wait for you to leave for Rivendell?  He wouldn’t need to disappear.  But more importantly, infidelity is not in the King’s nature.  It would be quite out of character for him.”

            Arwen looked at her friend quizzically.  There was something Eowyn wasn’t telling her.  “How can you be so sure?”

            “You mean, he’s never told you?” Eowyn asked, somewhat taken aback.

            “Eowyn, what are you talking about?”

            “It was during the siege of Minas Tirith as the armies of Rohan were mustering to ride to the aid of Gondor.  Lord Aragorn rode out of Dunharrow, where King Theoden had assigned me to guard our people.   I begged Aragorn to take me with him.  Desperate for his affection, I pleaded with him not to leave me behind.  Of course, I didn’t know he was betrothed.  I was smitten with him.  It was a childish infatuation, really, more hero worship than anything else.  In my desperation, he represented an escape from the life in which I felt trapped.  He was mighty, strong and glorious and I thought he could rescue me from my misery.

            He was an honorable man, and very kind.  He viewed me with compassion and pity, but his love for you kept him steadfast.  He would not take advantage of the folly which could have made me vulnerable.  He has always loved you faithfully.  It surprises me that he never spoke of this.  Faramir and I have often discussed it.”

Arwen was dumbfounded by this revelation.  Her husband had never been unfaithful, but the woman who was now her dearest friend had once practically flung herself into his arms.

            Caught up in her own thoughts, Eowyn went on, “With Faramir it was different.  He looked on me with more than pity or compassion.  He looked on me with desire.”

            Arwen studied the woman’s face, but she saw no trace of embarrassment at this admission, only a fierce, possessive satisfaction.  It was as if Eowyn understood a secret which she herself could not grasp.

            Just then they were interrupted by the entrance of a servant carrying a large, neatly folded bundle of black cloth.

            “Pardon me, Your Majesty, but the Steward ordered me to bring this to you.  He thought you’d want to keep it safe, until the King returns.”

            Eowyn, realizing what the man carried, grasped her lady’s hand and squeezed it supportively.  Without a word, Arwen took the bundle, tears welling in her eyes.  It was the King’s standard, which she had woven with her own hands.  The white banner of the Stewards must fly over Minas Tirith until there was a King in Gondor once again.

            Arwen sat alone in her chamber, the standard of the House of Elendil spread across her lap.  Every fiber, every stitch was the work of her fingers.  She thought back on the long years of its making.  She had worked tirelessly, every day weaving together a future for her beloved.  She had believed in him, believed in his destiny.  She would give him her heart, her energy, the work of her hands, and the fruit of her womb to help him achieve that destiny.  He would become king of Gondor and Arnor, the last lord of the Numenorians.  Why had he walked away from the fulfillment of that dream?

            She thought of what Eowyn had said that afternoon.  Eowyn was secure in her husband’s desire for her.  She had no doubt that he wanted her.  It occurred to Arwen that she could no longer say the same.

             She had always taken Aragorn’s desire for granted.  At first she’d been amused by it.  The passionate adoration which the twenty-year old boy could not conceal was flattering, but nothing to be taken seriously.  When they met again nearly thirty years later, she realized that this Man’s desire for her was a thing she could no longer dismiss or put off.

            She had had other admirers in the thousands of years before she met Aragorn, but none like him.  It seemed that the nature of Elves was ruled by far cooler humors than that of Men.  An Elf could be content to admire beauty at a distance, saying nothing, making no demands upon the object of his affection for a hundred years.  Should he speak of his love, he might ask for his lady’s favor, and count himself blessed to receive only a lock of her hair.

            Aragorn was different.  She had realized, as he confessed his love for her on Cerin Amroth, that he wanted far more than any of her previous admirers.  He wanted her to commit herself to him with no hope of going back.  It would not be enough even for her to abide with him for the brief season of his life.  He asked that she forsake the privilege of her birthright, never to sail into the West when the burden of endless years became wearisome.   Instead he wanted her to cleave to him, so that one fate would bind them both.  He was mortal and so she too must accept the Doom of Men.

            It had been a hard choice, but no one had ever loved her with such unfailing passion as Aragorn.  She had never been wanted as he wanted her.  She had never been pursued with such ardor.  The intensity of his love was irresistible.  She knew that her father had been disappointed by her choice.  He had warned her it would be a hard road, but it was a path she had willingly chosen.

            Through the long years of their betrothal, she had never doubted Aragorn’s love for her.  His desire for her had been the underlying constant of her life since she had met him.  But it was a treasure which she had prized too lightly.

            She had become his wife, and the mother of his children, but she had never fully committed herself to him, not the way he’d wanted.  A part of her, she now saw, had resented the demands he had made on her.  In subtle ways, she had held against him all that she had sacrificed on his behalf. 

            At last she began to understand why he didn’t want her to go to Rivendell.  She was holding onto her father’s house instead of holding fast to her husband. 

            She had considered Aragorn too possessive, but now she saw she had given him reason to be jealous.  Her allegiance was divided. 

            She also began to see that his possessive nature and his passion were both the fruit of his mortality.  He knew he was subject to death, and so he must seize each day.  He had not given her a hundred years to consider his suit because time did not give him that luxury.  He had not wanted her to be parted from him because his life was fleeting and he had wanted to share every moment of it with her.

             Yet he had left her, disappearing into the night without a word.  Could the desire which had always bound him to her have died?

            “No, no, please, no,” Arwen whispered, burying her face in the banner.

          Faramir paced along the battlements of the White Tower, looking out over the city.  He had never thought he would follow in his father’s footsteps, had never wanted to, yet here he was, ruling as Steward of Gondor.  He would have much preferred to be back in Ithilien, hunting with his own nearly grown sons.  He’d never cared much for city life, had always longed for the woods and wild places.  He was a Ranger at heart, and always would be.

            Though he’d never been particularly interested in politics or statecraft, he was a scholar and he knew enough about Gondor’s history to recognize the terrible crisis which now threatened his country.  King Elessar’s absence left his realm in a precarious position, and any misstep now could result in disaster.  Faramir was not naïve enough to believe that the peace which Gondor had enjoyed since the defeat of her Nameless Foe was unshakeable.  There were still evil men in distant lands who would rise against them if they saw the opportunity, and there were still evil things lurking here and there in the dark places of Middle Earth who would readily join forces with Gondor’s enemies.  But what Faramir feared more than this was the threat of civil war.

            He remembered that dynastic strife and civil war had helped to extinguish the line of Anarion, leaving Mardil, and his descendents after him, to hold the office of Ruling Steward.  If he could be certain that Aragorn was coming back, his responsibility would be clear.  He would need only to manage the kingdom until the King’s return and then surrender his authority.

             But what if the King did not return?  What if he were dead, or had decided to abdicate the throne?  In that case, he, Faramir, could easily be taken for a usurper unless he made a move to establish a clear line of succession from Elessar to Eldarion.  If Elessar wasn’t going to return, Faramir had to crown Eldarion King of Gondor.  His people needed a King.  They had been subjected to the custody of Stewards for generations, and then for a brief season, their dearest hopes had been fulfilled.  There was again a King in Gondor.  To have that hope dashed away would be a crushing blow to the spirit of his people.  He had to assure them that the days of the King were here to stay, that the scepter would pass from father to son, as it ought to do. 

            Eldarion was a mere boy, nearly three years younger than even Faramir’s youngest son.  He could not rule the country alone, but if he were the anointed king, Faramir’s role would be clear.  He would be a Steward-Regent, an advisor and aid to the young King, and not a Ruling Steward.  He would not be a power hungry usurper, who was unwilling to submit to his true lord.  He would not be like his father.

            Faramir’s musings were interrupted by the arrival of Bergil, son of Beregond, the young man whom he had dispatched as leader of the search for King Elessar.  Beregond, his father, was Faramir’s most faithful vassal, the captain of his White Guard, and one who had risked everything to save Faramir’s life.   He had entrusted to Beregond the management of his own estates and the supervision of his sons while he and Eowyn were in Minas Tirith.  Beregond’s son, Bergil, had already proved himself to be equally loyal, a young man of intelligence and ability.  He expected to entrust him with increasing responsibilities in days to come.

            “My lord Steward,” the young man said, bowing.

            “Bergil, I’m glad to see you’ve returned.  What news?”

            “Alas, there is little to report, my lord.  We searched all the lands between the Ered Nimrais and the Great River Anduin.  We found no trace of the King.”

            Faramir’s face fell.

            “I’m sorry I have no better news to report, my lord.”

            “Yes, so am I,” said Faramir, “finding the King would make my job far easier, but he seems to have disappeared without a trace.”

            “It is most strange.”

            “Very well, Bergil, you may go.”  The young man bowed deeply and departed.

            Faramir sighed to himself.  If only there were a way to know the King’s mind.  He wished he could see him and know for certain whether he were dead, or being held captive, whether he intended to abdicate the throne or to return.

            Suddenly he realized there might just be a way, though his heart quailed at the thought of it.  He could attempt to use the Anor stone, Denethor’s palantir.  He knew he might be taking a terrible risk.  It was by means of this stone that the Nameless One had ensnared his father, deceiving him and dragging him down to madness and despair.  Faramir did not believe there were any more dark powers lurking in Middle Earth who would seek to manipulate the minds of men through the seeing stones.  But he couldn’t be absolutely certain.  Not all seven of the palantiri had been accounted for. 

            He was aware of only two that remained.  The Orthanc stone which had once belonged to Sauruman was now the property of the King since he had wrested control of it away from the Nameless One.  Faramir shuddered at the thought of that ordeal.  The King had returned that stone to its original place at the tower of Orthanc.  The other was the palantir of Denethor.

            The thought of trying to use it put Faramir’s stomach in knots.  Apart from the threat of an evil mind which might seek to seduce him, there was a more personal reason behind Faramir’s reticence.   He could never forget the time years ago when he had tried to look into Denethor’s palantir.  The horror of that vision made his blood run cold.  Though he had exerted every ounce of his strength, he could not make the stone show him anything but flames.  His father’s aged hands devoured by the flames Denethor himself had ignited.  The seared skin, the blackened flesh, and then finally the ash grey bones withering in flames.  He shivered.  He knew he had very narrowly escaped immolation on that same pyre.  Yet it was not for himself but for Denethor that he had grieved when he looked into that stone.  His father was immortalized forever in unquenchable fire.

            That had been many years ago.  Since that time, he had grown in both maturity and wisdom.  He had tried to let go of the bitterness he had once harbored toward his father. He was a much stronger man now.  Must he be haunted forever by the ghosts of the past?  Could he summon the courage to try again, to bend the palantir to his will and then search the stone for the answers he needed? He could be taking a great risk.  Yet, he was the Steward of Gondor.  The fate of his country rested on his shoulders.  He must at least try to find the King and to discern his will.  His mind made up, he strode off quickly to find the stone.

            Faramir’s search had yielded what he sought.  The palantir was exactly where he had expected it would be, where he had left it years ago, in the treasury along with the Crown of Gondor in its black cask, the scepter of Annuminas, and Anduril, the sword that was broken and now reforged. 

            “Odd that he didn’t take his sword with him,” Faramir mused.

            The palantir was carefully wrapped in a covering of black cloth.  He lifted a corner of the cloth to confirm that this was indeed what he sought, but he wouldn’t try to use it here.  Considering his past experience, he wanted to ensure that he would be undisturbed before attempting to look into the seeing stone.  

            Carefully, he rewrapped the stone, and left the treasury, locking the door behind him.  He had carried the palantir to his private study, telling no one of what he planned to do.

            Now he sat hunched over the desk where he’d spent so many hours as a young man studying the lore of wizards.  He gazed intently into the ball, focusing his mind on it until it filled his field of vision. 

            At first the shapes and patterns were blurred and indistinct.  Gradually the images came into sharper focus.  Angry flames danced before his eyes.  Tensing his jaw, Faramir pushed against the image. 

            With his thought, he reached out for something else, something familiar.  Beads of sweat began to form on his brow as he commanded the stone with his mind.  Ithilien.  His sons.  No sooner had he thought it than their figures appeared before him; three young men riding through the woods with falcons on their wrists.  They were going hawking without him, he realized with a touch of envy.

            His body relaxed and he took a deep breath.  He had done it. He had bent the palantir to his will.  Just as he began to feel confident in his ability to control the ball, he saw the image within it begin to change.  A tongue of fire sprouted from a tree above his middle son’s head, then another, and another.  At first, he thought the woods of Ithilien were bursting into flame!  As the fire roared up, engulfing his sons, and hiding them from his view he realized that he was no longer seeing Ithilien.  Now he could see the shadow of his father’s hands on either side of the ball.  Denethor had risen up to haunt him again.

            Faramir closed his eyes to shut out the horrible vision.  He did not want to see that.  He did not have to see that.  For an instant, he had made the orb obey him.  He was determined to make it obey him again. 

            The Steward took a deep, slow breath.  With his eyes still closed, he tried to picture in his mind’s eye the one for whom he sought.  He envisioned King Elessar as he had first appeared to him, when he lay dying and delirious, overcome by the Black Breath of the Nazgul.  He had appeared then as a great lord, clad in glittering mail and wrapped in a snow white cloak.  A brilliant star shone on his brow, and a green elf-stone gleamed upon his breast.  The fresh, reviving scent of Athelas hung about him.  In one hand he wielded a sword of flame, brandishing it in defiance of the encroaching darkness.  With the other hand he had reached out to him, calling his name again and again, “Faramir!  Faramir, tolo dan nan galad.” Faramir had taken his extended hand, and the mighty lord had led him out of the blackness, out of the delusion.  Though he had never before met him in waking life, Faramir had known him at once.  He was the heir of Elendil.  The King had returned.

            Anchoring his mind on this image of his lord, Faramir summoned all his strength and opening his eyes, he commanded the palantir once more.  Show me King Elessar.  Instantly a vision appeared in the depths of the seeing stone.

            He saw a tall man with his back turned to him.  He was splitting wood with a small hatchet.  The place where he was working was obviously high in the mountains, a small clearing surrounded by many tall trees.  Faramir did not recognize the place.

            Again and again, the man set a large piece of wood on a smooth rock in the midst of the clearing, raised his axe and drove it down, cleaving the wood into smaller, more portable pieces.  He had laid aside his tunic, and sweat glistened on the muscles of his bare back.  Could this be King Elessar?

            No sooner had the doubt arisen in his mind, than flames began to encroach on the image.  No.  Not again.  He would not allow this thing to overmaster him.  Closing his eyes he again envisioned his rescuer as he had first appeared to him.  “Show me King Elessar,” he commanded.

            The Steward opened his eyes to a restored vision of the man in the glade chopping wood.  Faramir could not be certain of the man’s identity.  He was accustomed to seeing his King fully clothed, in regal attire befitting his rank.  The man’s height, build and coloring certainly matched the King’s.  Faramir studied the figure more closely.

            He noticed a tracery of white lines, which marked the man’s arms and torso.  Battle scars.  Whoever he was, the man had seen his share of action. Now he laid aside his axe, and began stacking his firewood.  Wiping the sweat from his brow, he sat down and drank deeply from a water skin.  Now Faramir had no doubt.  This was indeed Elessar the King.  This was his lord.

            Here was a side of the King which Faramir had not seen before.  He realized that he had always thought of his lord as a kind of almighty hero, immune to weariness, sorrow or pain.  Now he saw that his King was an ordinary Man, like himself.  A great Man, to be sure, but a Man, nonetheless.

            The King looked about him contentedly.  It was obvious from the expression on his face that he was intoxicated by the wilderness.  He breathed in the mountain air like a rare perfume.

            For the first time Faramir felt a deep kinship with Aragorn.  The Steward had known his lord as a great warrior, a mighty and regal leader of men.  Somehow he had nearly forgotten that Aragorn had spent long years as a Ranger, living alone in the wilds.  His lord was a Ranger at heart, just as he was.  They might have taken the King out of the wilderness but they could never take the wilderness out of the King.

            Faramir was moved with sympathy for the plight of his sovereign.  After having led his people to victory in the most horrific war they had ever known, he had worked tirelessly to rebuild, to ensure his country’s continued security, to establish a lasting peace.  But the war of the Ring had surely taken a toll on him.  The scars on his body bore testimony that he had not escaped unscathed.  Who could guess what scars he might bear on his soul?  Many of the others who had led the fight against the Nameless One had already sought peace beyond the Western sea.  Not only the Elves, but the stout-hearted perian, Frodo Nine Fingers, who had carried the ring to Orodruin, and even the mighty wizard, Mithrandir had taken ship and found rest from their labors.  But the King could not follow them.  That way was barred to him. 

            Others might criticize the King for abandoning his responsibilities, but Faramir could empathize with his desire to seek rest in the wilds.  What’s more, it was not Faramir’s place to judge his lord’s conduct, but to carry out his will.  The King’s domestic problems were regrettable, but they were hardly Faramir’s business.  If the King’s bed had grown cold and his home was no longer a refuge, could he be blamed for seeking rest in the solitude of the wilderness?  After all he had endured, after all he had accomplished, why shouldn’t he be allowed to retire from public life in peace? 

            Faramir owed King Elessar not only his fealty, but his very life.  The King had called him forth from the torments of the shadow world as he lay dying.  He would not repay that kindness by forcibly dragging his lord back from paradise. 

            As the King’s Steward, it was Faramir’s responsibility to act in the King’s interest, to obey his orders and carry out his bidding.  And now he knew without a doubt what his lord would want of him.

             The king yawned and stretched his arms.  Gathering his clothing into a bundle, he laid his head upon it, folded his hands on his chest, and closed his eyes.  Faramir could not begrudge his lord the repose he sought.  The king had stood watch over him and his people through their darkest hour, his Steward could surely stand guard awhile so that his lord might at last find rest. Eldarion was young, but in twenty years or less he would have achieved his full manhood and would be able to rule on his own.

            “Sleep awhile, my lord,” he thought to himself, “I will take the second watch.”

The king’s breathing slowed and his chest rose and fell in an even rhythm.  Almost as if in response to his steward’s reassurance, the King had fallen asleep.

            “Faramir!” a voice called to him from what seemed a great distance away.  “Faramir, what are you doing?”

            Disoriented, Faramir looked about him.  He had been so captivated by the vision in the palantir that he hadn’t heard Eowyn let herself in to the room.  Her eyes were wide with alarm as she glanced from his face to the palantir in his hand.  The fear reflected there told him that she had not forgotten his previous attempt to use Denethor’s seeing stone, nor the weeks of black depression which had seized him afterward.

            “It is all right.  It did not overwhelm me.  This time, I was able to beat back the flames,” he said to reassure her.

            “What in the world could possess you to look into that thing again?” asked Eowyn, her voice quavering.

            Faramir reached out his hand and gently drew her to his side.  Looking into her eyes he said, “I’m all right, Eowyn.  Do not be troubled. I was using it to look for the King.”

            “Have you seen him?”

            “Yes, I have.  But, I wouldn’t tell the Queen.”

            “Why not?  She’s been worried sick about him.”

            “Because I don’t think he’ll be coming back.”

            “O, my poor lady.  That could very well kill her,” said Eowyn.

            “But she’s an Elf.  I thought they could only be slain by the sword.”

            “No, indeed.  Though I have never seen such a case myself, it is well established in ancient lore that an Elf may be slain by grief.”

            “And you really think the Queen may be in such danger?” asked Faramir incredulously.

            “All I know is this: despair preys upon abandoned women,” she paused for a moment, weighing her words.  “When he left me behind, I laid aside every vestige of my womanhood, and in the guise of a man, I rode out looking for death!”

            “And instead, you found the Steward of Gondor,” said Faramir, tenderly stroking her hair.

            “Yes, and you made me glad to be alive, again,” Eowyn said earnestly, “And for the first time in my life, glad to be a woman.”

            “How blessed I am to be the man who tamed the wild shield-maiden of Rohan!” Faramir exclaimed.  Eowyn pulled away from him, a mischievous gleam in her eye.

            “Who says I’m tame?”

            Smiling, Faramir lunged for her, grasping her by the wrist.  She gave a gleeful shriek as he pulled her into his lap, kissing her again and again with an intensity that took her breath away.   A gentle knock abruptly banished the intimate mood.  In an instant, Eowyn was on her feet, shaking her skirts into place, and smoothing her hair.  Faramir had quickly hidden the palantir in the drawer of his desk. 

            “Come in,” he said, shooting a nervous glance at Eowyn.

            It was Queen Undomiel.  Considering her appearance, Faramir found Eowyn’s concerns for her health far more believable.  She did not look well.  Not well at all.

            “I heard that Bergil and the search party had returned.  I wondered if there was any news.”

            “Unfortunately not, my lady.  They were unable to find any trace of the King.”  Arwen’s face fell.  Eowyn thought she might break into tears.

            As she turned to leave, the Queen said, “You will inform me as soon as you hear any news of him, won’t you?”

            “Yes, of course, my lady.  As soon as we hear any news,” said Faramir.  In his mind he was weighing whether or not he should tell the Queen of what he’d seen in the stone.  He hastily decided that he shouldn’t.  It would only make matters worse. 

            As the door closed he turned to Eowyn.  “I think perhaps you should encourage Queen Undomiel to make that trip to Rivendell, after all,” he said.

******

            “Nana, is Ada ever coming home?” Arwen’s three year old daughter had voiced the fear which all of the older children had lacked the courage to speak aloud.

            “I hope so, Idril.” Though she knew this wasn’t very comforting, Arwen didn’t want to give her daughters false hope.  It had been more than a month since Aragorn’s disappearance, and still they had heard nothing.

            “He doesn’t love us anymore, does he?” asked Celbrian, who was eight.

            “Your father will always love you.”

            “But what if he never comes back?” now that they were speaking openly about it, her quiet twin sister, Gilraen wanted reassurance as well.

            “Fathers never stop loving their daughters.  Even when they are far away, even if they never see one another again,” Arwen declared with firm conviction.  This was not empty reassurance, this she knew from her own experience, and believed with all her heart.

            Her daughters seemed to find comfort in this, at least for the moment.  For Arwen herself, though, there was no such assurance.  Though fathers might never stop loving their daughters, husbands did stop loving their wives.

            Their father’s absence had affected each of her children, but in different ways.  Gilraen and Celebrian, who had been outgoing and vivacious, had become pensive and irritable.  Idril cried at night and refused to be comforted.  Though she knew she might regret it later, Arwen often took the child to bed with her, just to quiet her down.

            While the girls had become more emotionally dependant on her, Eldarion had become withdrawn.  This would have caused her greater concern if it hadn’t been for Faramir.  The Steward seemed to intuitively understand the boy’s plight and had taken him under his wing, involving him in the day to day business of the kingdom as much as was possible.  In place of his father, at least he had a compassionate and capable mentor.  But Faramir’s investment in Eldarion was motivated by more than sympathy, as she would soon learn.

            The Steward requested an audience with her to discuss the current state of affairs.  Eldarion escorted her to a seat beside the Steward’s chair in the throne room, and then to her surprise, sat down along with them.

            “My lady,” Faramir began, “I know that these past weeks have placed a great strain upon you, and it is not my intention to add to your distress.  However, I feel we must discuss the future of Gondor.  I have a responsibility, not only to you, but to the people of this country, to ensure that the Heir of Elendil is restored to the throne.”

            Arwen nodded her agreement.  This seemed obvious enough.

            “In the month since the King’s disappearance, we have had search parties scouring the countryside.  We have sent messages to every conceivable habitation where the King might have gone.  They have turned up nothing. 

            I don’t need to tell you that the King is an experienced woodsman, a Ranger of vast experience who could likely live off the land indefinitely.  The point being that if King Elessar doesn’t want to be found, then we will never find him.

            It is my belief that the King left deliberately and has deliberately continued to remain in hiding.  This coupled with the fact that he left behind all symbols of his office, including Anduril, the sword of his forefathers, and the ring of Barahir, leads me to conclude that he has abdicated the throne.”

            Arwen couldn’t argue with his reasoning.  She had certainly thought the same when Aragorn first disappeared.

            “The people of Gondor spent too many generations waiting for the return of Elendil’s heir to be permanently subjected once more to the care of a Steward.  Therefore I feel it is my responsibility to crown the heir of Elendil as the new King of Gondor.”

            It took Arwen a moment to grasp what Faramir meant.  When she did, it came as a crushing blow.  If he crowned Eldarion king, it would be an admission that her husband was never coming back.  It would be like giving him up for dead.

            “No. I won’t allow it!”

            “My lady, please try to understand, I need to do what’s best for the good of this country.  While your personal loss is grievous, I need to look toward the future.”

            “You must give me more time to find him.”

            “Very well, but I will not put this off indefinitely.  I will give you six weeks, after which point, if King Elessar has not returned, I will crown Eldarion king of Gondor.”

            Arwen had no choice but to agree.  Yet finding Aragorn in the vast wildernesses of Middle Earth within six weeks seemed an impossible task.  She knew of only one person who could help her now. 

            “Legolas Greenleaf, Prince of Mirkwood,” the tall Elf announced, presenting the royal summons which he had received from Queen Undomiel to the Guard of the Citadel.  Bowing deeply, the guard said, “We will inform Queen Undomiel of your arrival at once,” then calling for a page, he continued, “Show Prince Legolas to the Queen’s Garden.”

            Legolas followed the young man in black livery through the Court of the Fountain where the white sapling was thriving, through echoing passageways of pillared stone, down a short flight of steps and out an arched double door to the Queen’s garden.  Looking around, he was pleased to see that the trees and flowering bushes which he and his fellow Elves had planted here looked vibrant and healthy.

            He remembered the work they had done to make this place a serene retreat, a sanctuary of green in this city of stone.  When he had come, as he had promised, with his team of Elven gardeners, Aragorn had insisted that the transformation of this place be their first project.  He intended it to be an anniversary present for his beautiful bride, Arwen Undomiel, the most noble Lady of the High Elves yet remaining in Middle Earth.

            Through the weeks of their labor, Aragorn had insisted that their work remain hidden from Arwen until the task was complete.  Only then would he allow her to see his long awaited gift for her.

            It had been Midsummer Night, Legolas remembered.  He and a score of other Elves had climbed into the trees, to await the Lady’s arrival.  Silver lamps of Elvish design bathed the garden in soft, white light.  As twilight faded into evening, Aragorn had at last escorted his Lady, blindfolded, into the garden.  As he uncovered her eyes, the chorus of Elves had begun singing in the tree tops. 

            Legolas would never forget the look of wonder on her face.  Joy transformed her countenance from beauty to a stunning radiance.  Her eyes shone like stars.  She embraced and kissed Aragorn with grateful delight.

             Legolas’ heart had swelled with pride to have given this noble Lady such pleasure.  He had a profound reverence for her, which was completely devoid of covetousness.   What he wanted more than anything in the world was to see Arwen happy, and Aragorn made her happy. 

            He wondered why she had summoned him.  He was more than willing to aid her in any way he might.  Her summons had been urgent, but somewhat vague. 

            The Queen hurried into the garden toward him.  “Dear Legolas, thank you so much for coming.  I’m in desperate need of aid, and I believe you alone can assist me.”

            Legolas was appalled by the change which had come over her since he’d seen her last.  Her face bore the marks of extreme fatigue, and the light in her eyes had all but died.  They were red from weeping, and her skin had an unnatural, sickly pallor.  Her whole demeanor reminded him of one who is overborne by grief.

            “Lady Undomiel, how may I be of service to you?”

            “Please, dear friend, I beg you, find my husband!”

            “What has happened to him?”

            “He disappeared without a word, riding off into the night without telling anyone.  He took only a few things with him, gear such as he might take on a hunting trip.  No one has seen or heard from him for over a month now.  We don’t even know whether he’s alive or dead.”  In just recounting this story, the Queen was having difficulty holding back the tears.  It was painful for Legolas to see her in such distress.

            “And what’s more, if Aragorn doesn’t return soon Faramir plans to crown Eldarion as king.  Please, Legolas, you know my husband as well as anyone alive.  If anyone can find him, you can.”

            “Have you any idea where he might have gone?  Any clue which direction he headed?”

            “Only this,” Arwen answered, producing a piece of parchment from her sleeve, “shortly after I sent the summons to you, we received word that a horse similar to his was seen wandering free in the fields of Anorien, near Mardol.  Though several people have reported seeing the horse, no one has thus far been able to capture it.  I know that’s not much to go on…”

            “Don’t worry, my Lady.  I will do whatever I can,” the Elf assured her.  “I am honored to be of service.”

            Legolas had ridden out in haste, and arrived quickly in the village where the sightings of the horse had been reported.  The villagers agreed that they had seen a chestnut brown horse roaming free in the fields northeast of their town.  Several attempts had been made to capture the animal, but none had been successful. 

            Legolas rode out to the pasture lands where the horse had been sighted.  Dismounting, he bent his ear to the ground and listened intently.  The sound of distant hoofbeats coming from the direction of the mountains was unmistakable.  Remounting, he turned his own horse in the same direction. 

            As he rode, the Elf watched the ground.  Soon the tell-tale signs that a horse had passed that way were everywhere to be found.  From the age of some of the animal’s scat, it was obvious that the horse had been roaming out here for several weeks.

            Legolas turned his keen eyes to the horizon.  Scanning in all directions, he was soon able to spot the truant gelding.  Speaking to his own horse in Elvish, he urged it to gallop toward a high rock face near the mountains’ foot.

            The escaped animal spotted the Elf coming and turned and ran in the opposite direction.  This didn’t surprise him.  The horse was wary of people and had clearly become quite skilled in evading capture, but he had never encountered a hunter like Legolas.

            Coming to the foot of the rock face, the Elf dismounted and whispered to his horse in his native tongue.  The white animal nickered, shook its mane and began contentedly eating the tall grass.  Meanwhile her master clambered up the steep cliff face, clinging to hand and foot holds which were barely visible in the sheer rock.  In a few minutes, the Elf arrived at the summit.  Crouching low to the ground, he crept like a large cat to the edge of the cliff.  He waited there, in perfect silence, poised to spring.

            Ten minutes passed, then twenty.  Legolas remained perfectly still, barely breathing, as he peered down to the plain twelve feet below.

            Soon, the runaway spotted the Elf’s horse, and trotted over to meet his new neighbor.  The two horses snorted at one another amicably.  Having sniffed the white horse and determined that she was not a threat, the gelding lowered his head to graze.

             In that instant, the Elf sprang like a wildcat down from the cliff onto the brown horse’s back.  The horse laid its ears back and tore off across the pasture land, screaming as though a Nazgul were at its heels.  Hanging on for his life, Legolas gripped the terrified creature with his knees as it careened across the field.  He leaned far forward on its neck, gently stroking it and speaking soothing Elvish words in its ears.  The animal slowed his pace and began to relax, soon recognizing that the cat on his back had no claws.

            Legolas turned the horse and rode back to where his own animal was complacently looking on.  “What can you tell me about your Master, hm?” he asked, dismounting and beginning to examine the truant horse from nose to tail.  It was obvious from the brand on his flank that the animal had come from the royal stables.   “Why would Aragorn leave you behind?”  The horse bore no claw marks or other signs of injury from predators.  He began examining the animal’s hooves, one at a time, and quickly discovered the answer.  The animal’s back left shoe was missing.

            Aragorn would have known that he could not continue riding this animal for a long distance without having it re-shod.  Yet this close to Minas Tirith, he had obviously been unwilling to risk being recognized if he took the horse to a blacksmith.  The horse would be fine if he turned it loose, and he would have assumed that someone would catch it eventually.

            Legolas thought it most likely that Aragorn had been heading for the North to the regions where he had grown up and lived as a Ranger.  Such a long journey would require a horse, though.  Deprived of his mount, and at risk of being recognized, where would Aragorn go next? 

            “When hunting one must think like the quarry.  He didn’t want to be recognized by a blacksmith.  He felt vulnerable.  He would look for cover,” the Elf thought.  Legolas looked up at the high mountain range looming over the plain.  That would be the next place to search, but first he needed to return Aragorn’s horse.

            Slipping a halter of rope around the gelding’s neck, Legolas mounted his own horse and began leading the run-away back toward the village.  He stayed near the foot of the mountain, his keen eyes scanning its terrain as he rode past.  He noted every slope that looked like it would provide an easy path up the mountain for the Ranger.

            As they passed by, he noticed a rock face which jutted out at the top, creating a sloping recess at the bottom.  Legolas signaled his horse to stop.  There was something unusual here, something which warranted further investigation.

            Against the rock wall, at its base, there was a pile of stones.  They were heaped up like a funeral cairn, but there were far too few to conceal a body, and the little cairn did not smell of death.  Legolas dismounted and began examining the pile, carefully removing a few of the rocks at the top.  He had discovered another missing piece of the puzzle.  Concealed beneath the rock pile were a saddle, and the bit and metal parts of a bridle.  The reigns, and all the other leather parts of the headstall had been removed, as had the straps which should have connected the stirrups to the saddle.  There was no sign of a saddle blanket, either.

            This was obviously the work of a Ranger.  He had been forced to abandon his horse, but he would not abandon anything of the horse’s tack which could prove useful in the wilderness.  After taking all that could serve him, he had cached the saddle, and other pieces of harness under these rocks, where they would be safe from discovery and relatively safe from damage by weather, in case he might have need of it in the future.

            Legolas looked over the slopes in the area around the rock overhang.  There were a few different paths which Aragorn might have taken up the mountain, but he had undoubtedly started from this location.  Replacing the rocks piled over the saddle, the Elf hurried back to the village with the horses.  He was certain now of what his next move must be.

            By the next day he had returned to this spot, having taken both horses to the local farrier.  He left instructions for Aragorn’s horse to be re-shod, and for both it and his own horse to be returned to Minas Tirith, along with a message for the Queen reporting his progress so far.  If Aragorn were on foot, the easiest way to track him would be on foot.  He might easily have taken paths which the Elf’s horse couldn’t follow.

            Legolas began his trek up into the mountains, in pursuit of his quarry.  There were three things which Aragorn would need to survive in the mountains: food, water, and fire.  The most critical of these needs was water, so Legolas began searching for any stream, spring or rivulet which might have attracted the Ranger.

            After a few hours search, he found what he was looking for: a small mountain stream flowing down from the heights above.  He followed the stream, searching for footprints, broken branches any evidence that a Man might have passed this way.  It wasn’t long before he found a tell-tale sign.  At the base of a large rock, the ground beside the stream was covered with fine grey ashes.  Legolas rubbed some between his fingers and brought it to his nose.  It was pipeweed ash, the odor was unmistakable.  The hunter was closing in.

            The day was fading and the new moon would not afford much visibility for Legolas to continue his search.  Though he felt little need for rest, he didn’t want to overlook a vital clue in the darkness.  Somewhat frustrated, he sat down to consider the situation.  It was then that he caught the faint wisp of wood smoke coming from far away on the evening breeze.  Was his nose sharp enough to guide him in the dark?  He decided to try it for a few hours, any way.

            Around midnight the smoky smell dissipated completely.  Aragorn must have put out his fire for the night.  Without the scent to guide him, Legolas decided to rest until dawn and continue his search by daylight.

            At first light, the Elf resumed his hunt.  Always staying fairly close to the stream, he ranged through the woods searching for clues.  At one point, he found a clearing where wood chips littered the ground, giving evidence that Aragorn had used his small hatchet to split some firewood.  Legolas rubbed his fingers lightly over them.  There was still a trace of dampness on the rough surface.  These chips had lain here less than a week.

            The light was fading, and the smell of wood smoke began to rise on the wind.  For a second night, Legolas followed the scent of smoke as long as he could.  When it could guide him no further, he laid down to rest and lose himself awhile among the stars of Elbereth.

            The Elf was up before the sun.  He continued making his way upstream, searching both banks and the nearby woods for signs of the Ranger. 

             In the mud by the stream bed he found the unmistakable mark of the Ranger’s heavy boot.  Up the hill, he found an Oak tree, which upon careful examination, appeared to be missing all the acorns from its lower branches.  What’s more, some of the stems had not been torn, but cut with a knife blade.  These stems were still oozing sap.

            Legolas quickly climbed to the top of the tree.  From this vantage point, his sharp eyes could see far and wide.  In the sky, not too far distant, he saw a flock of geese flying in a “V” formation.  He could have counted the birds as they made their way south for the winter.  Suddenly there was a cry of alarm, and one of the birds plummeted to the ground, an arrow in its breast.  A hunter had brought down his goose.  Now the Elf must go and bring down the hunter.  He took off at full speed, racing through the woods like a stag to the place where he’d seen the bird fall.

            Legolas ran tirelessly for hours on end.  Now that he’d located his prey, he didn’t want him to run for cover.  He knew he was closing in.  He had found the spot where the bird had fallen.  A few scattered feathers bore witness that it had been killed there.  From there he could see the smoke rising above the top of a nearby ridge.  He followed it over the ridge and down to a hollow below on the stream-ward side of the summit.  Taking a deep breath, Legolas paused for a moment.  From here, he could clearly see Aragorn, tending his fire and preparing to roast his goose.  He made his way quietly into the Man’s camp.

The Ranger’s rugged face brightened as he saw the Elf approaching.

            “Mae Govannon, Legolas!  You are most welcome, old friend.” Gripping the Elf’s forearm, he clapped him warmly on the shoulder.  “It’s good to see you.” Legolas noticed his voice was gruff from disuse.  Could he have been out here that long?

            Legolas studied the Man’s face.  The grizzled streaks in his beard and at his temples were far more pronounced than when last they’d met.  He was thin.  Too thin for his large frame, the Elf decided.

            “You’re just in time,” Aragorn said, gesturing to the goose roasting on a spit over his fire.  I can’t offer you much to drink, but this is the fattest goose I’ve shot in days, and I’d be glad to share it with you.” 

            “Now there’s an offer I can’t refuse.  And in exchange for your hospitality, you’re welcome to share a little of the best Mirkwood’s cellars can furnish,” the Elf laughed as he produced a wineskin from his pack.

            Man and Elf sat down beside the fire, taking turns at the spit as they discussed old friends and old times, battles they had fought and places they had traveled.  They laughed heartily over old jokes, as if this were nothing unusual, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to find the King of Gondor living like a vagabond.

            Sitting by the fire, they ate their fill of the roasted goose, and drank their fill of the wine, passing the skin back and forth between them.  The sun set and the stars began to twinkle in the sky.

            Finally Legolas said, “Aragorn, why are you here?”

            There was a long silence as Aragorn stared into the embers.  He took anther sip of wine then said, “You’ve never been married, have you Legolas?”  Aragorn gave his friend a rueful smile.

             At length, he continued, “I tried to take a wild nightingale and cage her in a city of stone.  And now she sings no more.  She has grown weary of me, Legolas, and I fear she has grown weary of this world.”  This was not hard for the Elf to believe, considering her condition when he had last seen her.

            Aragorn went on, “So, I will no longer be her keeper.  I had to leave to set her free.”  The fire flared up as Aragorn stirred the embers and the sorrow in his eyes was unmistakable.  “I don’t deserve her,” he concluded with a sigh.

            “No. Maybe you don’t,” the indignation in his friend’s voice took Aragorn by surprise.  He stared at Legolas.

            “Well, what should I have done?  Kept her a prisoner?  Demanded she stay?”

            “Do you know what an Elf would have done, what an Elf would do, were he in your place?  He wouldn’t run away disappearing into the night without a word.  He would do what Elrond did for Arwen’s own mother. If his Lady was weary of this world, an Elf would escort her to the Havens himself and put her safely on a ship.”

            Aragorn knew in his heart that his friend was right.  This was what Arwen would expect of him.  This was what he was really running from.  He found it far easier to walk away and imagine that she had gone than it would be to kiss her goodbye and stand alone on the quay, watching her ship disappear beyond the horizon.  It would be far worse for him than for any Elf in his position, because he knew he could never follow her.  There would be no reunion on a distant shore.  He would lose her for eternity.

             He would have liked to explain this to Legolas, but he already knew what his friend would say.  He would tell him that if he loved Arwen so deeply, he would do what was best for her, even if it caused him pain.

            He knew he ought to go back, but if he did so, he would be compelled to remain on as King.  If he had to live the rest of his life alone, he preferred to do so in the solitude of the wild.  With time, the wound Arwen’s abandonment would inflict on him might heal in the wilderness, though he would always bear the scar.  But the thought of life in Minas Tirith without the woman he loved, sentenced to live out his days and nights alone in a place where everything would remind him of her, would be a lifelong torment.  It was more than he could bear.

            “If you cannot find the courage to go back and escort her to the Havens, then at least let her come to you and bid her farewell face to face.  The Lady is worthy of at least so much courtesy.”

            Aragorn didn’t argue, but stared shamefacedly into the fire, chastened by his sword brother’s reproof.

            “I will bring her here when the moon is at its full.  If ever you were a Man of honor, if ever the Lady was worthy of your love, you will meet with her and speak to her.”

            “Agreed,” said Aragorn.

            Legolas stood before the Steward of Gondor to report the results of his search.  The Queen and Prince Eldarion were seated on either side of the Steward’s chair, both literally on the edge of their seats in their eagerness to hear what he could tell them.

            “I have found the King.  He is alive and well.”

            “And yet he did not return with you.”  Faramir was not questioning the Elf, but stating a fact.

            “No, my Lord, he was unwilling to come back with me, but he has agreed to a meeting with the Queen on the night of the next full moon.  I will escort her to the place where he is encamped high in the Ered Nimrais, northwest of Minas Tirith.  There is little time to spare, my Lady.  We must leave as soon as you can prepare for the journey.”  A light of hope was rekindled in Arwen’s eyes.  She was nearly to her feet, eager to go and make ready, when Faramir broke in.

            “I’m afraid that is out of the question. It would be unseemly for the Queen to journey into the wilderness with you alone.  Rumor of it would spread and bring dishonor upon her.”

            Arwen stared at Faramir in disbelief.  “My Lord has summoned me.  I must go to him.  Surely you can understand this, Faramir.”

            Faramir knew he dare not voice his true fears for the Queen.  It was not merely her reputation which concerned him.  He was reasonably certain that nothing improper would happen between Legolas and the Queen on their journey to meet the King.  But how would she react if the King refused to return?  As Eowyn had been quick to remind him, abandoned women often act rashly.  Mightn’t she be tempted to seek solace in the arms of this Elf?  And if she did, she would lose not only her husband, but her virtue and her self-respect, as well.

            “Protecting your honor, as Queen Mother of Gondor is part of my responsibility.”          Inwardly, Arwen fumed.  Why must he insist on calling her the Queen Mother?  Her husband was not dead!

            “It would be different,” Faramir continued, “if one of your own kinsmen could accompany you, but I cannot in good conscience send you into the wild with Legolas alone.”  It would be impossible for her kinsmen to escort her, as Faramir well knew.  Even if her brothers left Rivendell today, they could never be here in time to take her to her husband.

            “We have no time to lose.  If Queen Undomiel does not meet with the King as arranged, I have little doubt that he will disappear into the wild, and even I will be unable to find him again,” urged Legolas, barely concealing his exasperation.

            Arwen could feel the tears of frustration welling in her eyes.  She had to get to Aragorn!

            “I will escort my mother.”  Every head turned in stunned amazement toward Eldarion.  “I will chaperone her, and Legolas will guide us to the King.”

            Faramir was momentarily dumbfounded.  Arwen smiled to herself.  Her clever son had him cornered.  Faramir could not reasonably claim that Eldarion was both old enough to be King of Gondor, and at the same time too young to act as his mother’s escort.

            “I am her kinsman, am I not?” asked the Prince.

            Faramir slowly nodded.

             “Then it is settled,” Eldarion continued, “We will leave immediately.”

            “Yes, my Lord,” the Steward replied, bowing to the Prince.

            With that, Prince Eldarion, Legolas, and the Queen hurried away to make preparations for their journey, leaving the Steward alone with his thoughts. 

            Faramir was quite pleased by this turn of events.  Though Eldarion’s offer had caught him by surprise, Faramir couldn’t help but be impressed by the boy’s initiative.  He had recognized the need of the moment and had boldly offered himself as a solution to the problem.  That was leadership.  One day Eldarion would surely make a great King, and a masterful leader of Men.  The Steward smiled to himself.  Perhaps his watch would turn out to be even shorter than he had expected.

  *****

            In the silent, grey hour before sunrise, a small company could be seen setting out from Minas Tirith.  They climbed the winding road up Mt. Mindoluin, and into the wilds of the Ered Nimrais.  At the head of the column, a tall figure dressed in green rode a white horse without saddle or bridle.  Behind him, cloaked in silver-grey on a dapple grey horse, her form nearly disappearing into the morning mist, rode a stately woman of noble bearing.  The last rider who sat astride a black horse with a white blaze on its forehead, was far shorter than the others.  His blue cloak was wrapped tightly about him, and he exhaled great clouds of steam into the chill morning air.  Behind him, tethered to his mount’s saddle, came a fourth animal without a rider.  Luggage and supplies were strapped to its back, though it was no mule or baggage pony.  It was Aragorn’s own horse, the chestnut brown runaway.

            As he had helped Legolas to ready their horses, and to load their supplies onto the back of his father’s horse, Eldarion had asked the Elf a question.  “Do you think my father will come back with us?” 

            “That all depends,” the Elf replied enigmatically.

            “Depends on what?” the boy persisted.

            “On your mother.”

            As they wound their way through the mountains, mile after mile into the wilderness, Eldarion reflected on Legolas’ answer.  He looked down at the ring of Barahir, which hung by a cord about his neck because it was too big for his hand.  He did not feel ready to be King.  He felt like a small boy alone in a wide world.  He certainly hoped his father would come home.  He wanted a father far more than he wanted a kingdom.

            In the weeks since his father’s disappearance his emotions had run the gamut from rage to melancholy.  For awhile he had been angry with his father for leaving.  Then he had been angry with his mother for driving him away.  Later on, his wrath had given way to loneliness, and to a poignant sorrow which was closely akin to grief. 

            More than anything, he had felt powerless, a helpless spectator watching his future be decided by others.  Faramir had told him that he would one day be the King of Gondor and Arnor, the most powerful Man in all middle earth, but what good would that do him?  At present, he was powerless to make the two people he loved most in all the world remember how to love each other. 

            Yet one thing he could do.  He could bring them together.  Though he knew he was really far too young and inexperienced to keep pace with two adult Elves on this journey, he was determined not to complain and to do his best not to lag behind.  He would do his part to reconcile his parents by escorting his mother to the appointed meeting with his father.  The rest would be up to her.

*****

            Alone, lying wrapped in his blankets on the hard, cold ground, Aragorn looked up toward the waxing moon.  It hung above him like an evil omen, like a mocking face, too eager to witness his heartbreak.  He had no doubt that Legolas would fulfill his threat to bring Arwen here.  He would be forced to look into her beautiful eyes and bid her farewell for the last time.  Aragorn dreaded this meeting far more than any battle he’d ever fought.  Arwen could wound him like no enemy he’d ever faced.  Only she could slay his heart.

            But, Legolas was right, she deserved better treatment than he had given her.  She deserved to be honored and cherished and adored. She deserved to share in the life of the Eldar, not to be held prisoner by her husband, awaiting the Doom of Men.  His love for her had always been selfish.

            He wanted her too much.  Entranced by her beauty, he had wanted not merely to admire her but to possess her, forever.  He had reached out his hand to catch the Evenstar, but now he found that, though he might grasp her for a season, he could not hold her forever.  Freeing her to sail into the West, to be reunited with her kin, to share in the unending life of her people, was the right thing to do.  It was what would be best for Arwen, even if it cost him his life. 

            If he had to see her face to face, he didn’t know that he could trust himself to act so selflessly.  He feared he might stoop to pleading that she remain for his sake.  He knew such a course would be both selfish and futile.  She might return with him like a captive creature to its cage, but her heart would always yearn for freedom.  She would never stop longing to go home. 

            The coming ordeal would test his mettle like no trial he had endured before.  He knew his love for Arwen could be his undoing.  In just a few nights more, his doom would be decided as the full moon looked on.

*****

            The little company on horse back traveled on for many days, Arwen always urging them not to slacken their pace.  As the moon waxed fuller she became more and more anxious to reach their goal.  Making only brief evening stops to rest the horses and eat a little, she insisted that they continue riding by moonlight late into the night.  Several times, Eldarion nearly fell asleep in the saddle.

            Finally they watched the full moon rise above the hill top which sheltered Aragorn’s campsite.  Leaving Eldarion to tend to the horses and set up camp, Legolas led Arwen on foot to the summit and down the far side to the hollow near the stream where Aragorn was encamped.

            He was waiting there to meet them.  He had kept his word.  Legolas raised his hand in greeting, then turned to climb back down the far side of the mountain.  Alone now, Arwen made her own way down to the place where Aragorn stood waiting for her.

            Aragorn watched her approach, his face impassive.  Why must she do this to him?  Why couldn’t she just leave quietly, as he had?  Why must she disturb his solitude to bid him farewell, and twist the knife in his already wounded soul?

            He watched her in silence.  If he spoke even a word to her he might break down.  In spite of his resolve, he might weep and plead with her not to leave him.  He swallowed hard and said nothing.

            She walked swiftly to him, grasping for his hands, and then before he knew what was happening, she had dropped to her knees before him.

            “Forgive me, my lord.  I have been haughty and willful and by my own stubbornness, I drove you away.”

            Aragorn looked down at her in shocked confusion.  This was not what he’d expected.  He raised her to her feet, but before he could say a word she went on.

            “Too long I have looked backward at what I have given up for your sake.  Thinking only of my own sacrifices, I have taken you and your love for granted.  I thought I wanted to go home, but I see now that my home is anywhere you are.  When you disappeared, at first I was angry with you for putting me through such misery.  Then I realized how much I missed you, how much your presence means to me, and at last I understood why you never wanted me to leave you alone.  Please, I don’t want to waste anymore precious time in quarreling and trying to have my own way.  We have only this lifetime, this brief span of years in which to love one another.  I want to seize this day, and every day while life lasts, to love you with all my strength.” 

            She studied his face in silence for a moment, mustering the courage to pose the question which haunted her.  “Do you still want me?”

            “Ah,Tinuviel!” Aragorn cried.  Though he spoke no more words, with his lips and his hands he eloquently answered her question. 

            Eldarion opened his eyes to see the sun already rising above the tree tops.  He was startled, thinking he’d overslept, since every other day of this journey they had been in the saddle long before this hour.  Then he remembered.  They had reached their destination.  Now there was nothing to do but wait.  He rolled out of his blankets, stiff from sleeping on the hard ground.  Legolas had lit a small fire, and was stirring a pot of porridge.

            “Good morning, sleepyhead,” he teased.  “Are you hungry?”  Eldarion nodded, gratefully accepting the steaming bowl which the Elf served up for him.  The two of them sat together, eating in silence, both alert for any sign of what was to come next.

            As Eldarion finished his bowl, he looked up at the hillside above them.  Would his father return with them?  When would they know?

            The boy looked for something to occupy himself.  He began inspecting his horse’s hooves, picking rocks and mud out of the grooves in them with a small knife.  He brushed his horse’s coat from nose to tail until its black hair shone in the morning sun.  He was so engrossed in this work that he noticed nothing else around him, until he heard Legolas cry out a greeting.

            Turning back toward the hillside, he saw his father and mother coming down toward their camp.  Their arms encircled each others’ waists, and he could see from the way she was leaning against him, that there was peace between them.

            “Father!” the boy exclaimed, running to the bottom of the hill.  The tall man let go of his wife and scrambled quickly down the slope.  He engulfed the boy with his great arms, clasping him to his chest.  He clung to his son, sobs of joy shaking his body.  Here was his only son, whom he had feared he might not see until he had grown to Manhood, if ever again.  Taking Eldarion’s face in his large rough hands, he kissed his brow.   

            “I missed you, Father,” the boy said.

            “I missed you too, my Son,” Aragorn answered earnestly.  “I love you, Eldarion.”

            “I love you too, Father.  Here,” he said, presenting the ring of Barahir to Aragorn, “this belongs to you.”  Aragorn took it in his hand, and just looked at it for a long time.  Was he ready to resume his role as the heir of Elendil? 

            Sensing his hesitation, Arwen moved to his side.   “I will cleave to you, Dunadan, and turn from the Twilight,” she said quietly, restating the vow which she had made to him on the day he had given her that ring.   She slipped the ring of Barahir onto his finger.  He kissed her hand.  Willingly would he shoulder the burdens of Kingship, if she would remain his Queen.

            “Shall we be on our way?” Legolas asked.

            “Yes, the sooner the better,” said Aragorn.  Calling Eldarion to come and help him, he hastily climbed back over the hill top to collect his gear, while Legolas and Arwen packed up their camp and began saddling the horses.

             Aragorn had hardly any gear to pack, and they might easily have distributed the load between all four horses. Instead Aragorn had loaded Arwen’s dapple grey horse with all the supplies.  After helping her to mount his horse, he had swung up behind her in the saddle, taking the reigns in one hand, as he wrapped his other arm tightly about her waist.  Following Legolas, and with Eldarion bringing up the rear, they began the long journey back to Minas Tirith.

             Arwen leaned back against Aragorn’s chest, resting her head on his shoulder.

            “Estel,” she said quietly, “please don’t ever leave me again.  I would far rather die than lose you.”

            “I am sorry, my love,” he whispered kissing her hair.  He looked wistfully about at the surrounding forest, drinking in the fresh scent of the trees.  “It did feel good to be out in the wild again.”

            Concern furrowed Arwen’s brow.  “If you love me, promise me you’ll never run away from home again.”

            He smiled and hugged her close to him.  “I promise I will never run away from home again, without you.  Is that good enough?”

            “That will do.” She smiled, but he could feel her body stiffen.  There was a tension in her posture which told Aragorn she wasn’t really amused.  He realized with regret that he had made light of something that was too near to his lady’s heart.  By leaving her, he had given her reason to doubt him, and now she desperately needed to be reassured that she could trust him with her heart again.  He sighed deeply.  What a mess he had made of things.

            “Arwen, can you ever forgive me for the way I wronged you?” Aragorn asked, leaning around her shoulder to look into her face.  Before she could answer, he went on, “I thought only of my own pain, and I abandoned you when I ought to have pursued you.  I should have fought to regain your love, and instead I turned my back on our marriage. I know my behavior was inexcusable.  All I can do is beg for your forgiveness.  Can you find it in your heart to pardon me?”

            “Yes, my Hope, I forgive you,” said Arwen, tenderly stroking his bearded cheek.  “If I had been unwilling to do so, would I be here now?” she asked smiling.

            “I suppose not,” said Aragorn, hugging her closer.

            “Life is too short for holding grudges,” she said, settling back against him.

            Though Aragorn could sense that he had assuaged her fears, there was still something more he needed her to know. 

            “Arwen, as I live, I swear I will never abandon you.  Even if I should meet my doom before you, I will await you beyond the circles of this world.”

            “I have no doubt of it, my love,” said Arwen, fondly caressing his face.  “But let us not think on that now.  Today we are alive, and today we have each other.  Let us not allow fear of the future to steal the joy of the moment.”

              “I love you, Tinuviel, with all my heart.”

            “And I love you, Estel, more than life itself.”

 ******

            The little party rode on through the forest all that day.  Though Legolas led them back along the same trails they had followed in coming, the return journey bore little resemblance to their preceding trip.  Instead of anxious haste, they rode at a relaxed, though steady pace. Instead of strained silence there was laughter and singing.  The journey was far more enjoyable, not only for Arwen, but for all of them.  It was as if all that had been wrong with the world had now been made right.

            They continued riding until evening, and then halted before the sun went down.  Eldarion began gathering wood for a fire, as Arwen and Aragorn bestowed the baggage and provisions they would need for the night. 

            Meanwhile, a little way off from the main campsite, Legolas began to unsaddle and groom the horses, providing each with a nose bag full of fodder.  While he was busy attending to the animals, Aragorn came to find him.

            “I owe you a great debt, my friend,” he said.  Legolas looked up from the horse he was brushing to his friend’s face.

            Aragorn continued, “Thank you for hunting me down and confronting me with my own cowardice.  Had you not goaded me into facing my fear, I might have lost all those whom I love the most.”  The Man dropped his gaze in remorse.  After a moment, he looked back to Legolas’ and concluded, “I don’t know how to repay you.”

            The Elf smiled broadly, and affectionately clapped Aragorn on the shoulder.

            With a merry twinkle in his eye, he asked “Isn’t that what friends are for?”

******

            In a corner of the Queen’s garden, the three little princesses of Gondor sat huddled together around a huge book.  Celebrian was reading them a story of the history of Gondor, of its kings and stewards, and their wars and political intrigues.  It was a very grown up sort of story, which was why Celebrian had chosen it.  In the Queen’s absence she had assumed the role of mother hen, trying to act far too grown up for her eight years, and, on occasion, becoming insufferable bossy.

            “I’m tired of this story,” little Idril complained, “It’s too boring!”

            “It’s important history.  If you don’t like it go play somewhere else.”  With that Celebrian continued to read.  Idril squirmed in her seat, but she didn’t interrupt again.  Even being bored was better than being alone. 

            It had been more than a month since their father had left home, and several weeks since their mother and older brother had gone after him.  Though they were surrounded by servants who took more than adequate care of them, they felt very much alone.  As a result they became much more attached to one another, in fact they had become nearly inseparable.  Gilraen would even let Idril share her bed on nights when she was crying for their parents.  This was a great comfort to her little sister, but a less than ideal arrangement for her because Idril tended to steal the covers and kick her bedfellow.

            The Lady Eowyn had been kind enough to take special notice of the girls.  At times she even took them out for riding lessons.  The first time she did so, one of the grooms had objected that Idril was too young to ride.  “Nonsense!” Eowyn had exclaimed.  “My sons were in the saddle as soon as they could walk.” 

            After that she had often taken them riding, but, as the Steward’s Lady, she had many responsibilities and she couldn’t devote all her time to keeping the little princesses company.  So they were learning to keep each other company.  They needed to stick together since they were the only family they had left.

            Finally, Celebrian came to the end of her tale.  Seeing her opportunity, Idril jumped in, “Read the one about the star ship!”

            “Star ship?” asked Celebrian disdainfully.

            “O, I know the one she means,” chimed in Gilraen, “Here give me the book.  I’ll read it to her.”

            Celebrian handed over the book with a look which clearly communicated that she was unimpressed by her sisters’ literary tastes.

            Gilraen quickly flipped through the large tome, searching for the story they wanted.  At last she found the page.  Showing Idril the picture, she cleared her throat and began to read the story of Earandil the Mariner.  She was just warming to her tale when a shadow fell over the page.  She immediately turned to ask whoever it was to step out of her light, but instead she cried out for joy, “Ada!”

            In a moment, all three of his daughters had flung their arms around Aragorn in delight.  Idril even climbed up onto the back of the bench and, grabbing for his neck, leaped into his arms.  Soon they had wrestled the big man to the ground, and piled on top of him like a litter of puppies. 

            “O, Ada, we missed you so much!” said Celebrian.

            “We love you, Ada, please don’t ever leave us again!” said Gilraen

            “Yes, we love you very much.  Did you bring us anything?” asked the ever practical Idril.

            Aragorn laughed, “No, I’m sorry but I didn’t bring you anything.  I did miss all of you, very, very much.  I’m sorry I was gone so long.  I love all of you.”

            “We love you, too!” the little girls exclaimed in chorus.

            “Excuse me, your Majesty,” Faramir said, looking down at the King who was still buried under a pile of children.

            “What is it, Faramir?” the King asked, sitting up.

            “I wanted to ask if you would like us to fly the royal banner now, or to wait until morning?”

            “Let’s wait until tomorrow, Faramir.  I will meet with you tomorrow.  I will resume my authority and you can brief me on the state of the kingdom.  Tonight I just want to enjoy my family.”

            “Very good, my Lord.”

            “And Faramir, Eldarion and the Queen have been telling me all about the job you’ve been doing guarding my kingdom and my family in my absence.”

            “Yes, my Lord?” Faramir was unsure what might be coming next.  He had tried his best to faithfully keep watch over all that the King had entrusted to him, but he wasn’t sure the Queen would see it that way.

            “Excellent work, my Lord Steward!  I think we shall need your assistance far more often in the future (of course, from now on, we will try to notify you before your services are required). Well done!”

            Faramir bowed low, a flush of pleasure on his face, “It is an honor to serve you, my Liege.”  It was good to have the King back where he belonged. 

            Faramir turned to go and then hesitated.  Was this really where his lord belonged?  This fellow Ranger, this Man of the wilderness, had returned to the Tower of Guard to resume his watch, and so to bless both his family and his country.  But what about the Man himself?  His yearning for the wild should not always be at odds with his duty.

            “My Lord,” said Faramir aloud, “my kinsman, my brother,” he added in his heart.

            “Yes, Faramir?” the King responded.

            “When you are at leisure, I would be honored if you and Prince Eldarion could come to Ithilien and go hunting with me and my sons.”

            The King smiled, and the same look of peaceful contentment which the Steward had seen in the Palantir spread over his face.  “Thank you, Faramir.  I should like that,” said the King, “I should like that very much.”

            Idril, having decided that her father had spent enough time talking to the Steward, began climbing onto the King’s shoulders. 

            “Get up, Ada.  I want a ride!” she exclaimed, driving her heels vigorously into his chest.

            “Idril!” Celebrian chided with a reproving scowl for her little sister’s rudeness.

            The child opened her eyes wide, looked down into Aragorn’s face, and with the most adorable smile said, “Please, Ada!”

            Laughing, Aragorn nodded to Faramir.  “Duty calls,” he said, struggling to his feet.  Carrying Idril on his shoulders, he began galloping about the garden with Gilraen and Celebrian close at his heels.

            Faramir made his way back to the great double doors which led from the garden to the halls within.  He paused a moment with his hand on the handle, listening.  It had been far too long since this garden had echoed with that wonderful sound.  It was the sound of children laughing for joy.

 ******

            That evening, the royal family gathered for a quiet dinner in their private quarters.  Their friend Legolas was the only guest at this intimate homecoming meal.  The fire on the hearth cast the room in a warm, golden glow.  The food was plentiful and delicious, a welcome contrast to the rations they had eaten on the road.  The wine was excellent, and after dinner, Legolas raised his goblet to propose a toast.

             “To Arwen and Aragorn.  May you always give each other joy, and never take each other for granted.”  They could certainly all drink to that.

            “And to Legolas,” said Aragorn, “who had the courage to tell a king what he didn’t want to hear.  A true and faithful friend is a priceless gift. ”

            Setting down her goblet after this toast, Arwen turned to Legolas.  She reached for his hand saying, “Dear Legolas, how can we ever repay you for the service you have rendered to us?”

             “I could ask for no greater reward, my Lady, than to see the light of the Evenstar rekindled.”  Legolas kissed her hand, and made a courtly bow.  “And now, I must take my leave.”  Aragorn rose to see his friend out.  “Farewell, old friend,” said the Elf, putting his arm around his shoulder.  With only a hint of mirth in his eyes, he said, “Remember to treat the Lady with the courtesy she deserves, or you’ll have me to deal with.”

            “I’ll keep that in mind!” said Aragorn, with a laugh.

            Aragorn looked around the room at his beautiful family.  His throat tightened as he thought of how close he’d come to losing them.   Celebrian and Gilraen’s little raven heads were beginning to nod.  Even Eldarion stifled a yawn.  Idril had laid her head down on her mother’s lap and had fallen fast asleep. It had been a long, wonderful, emotional day, and now it was time for rest.

            Arwen picked up the sleepy Idril and began carrying her to her bedchamber, but the child rubbed her eyes and said, “I want to sleep in Nana’s bed.”

            Aragorn took the tired girl into his arms, kissed her and said, “Now, Idril, be fair.  You’ve had your mother all to yourself for a long time now,”  he rested her head against his shoulder, then looking up into Arwen’s eyes, he added, “I need her all to myself tonight.”

 ******

            Idril, Gilraen, Celebrian and Eldarion in turn had all been kissed goodnight and tucked snuggly into bed.  Then Aragorn and Arwen made their way, arm in arm, back to their own chamber.  Here was the one place in the world where they didn’t have to be King and Queen, or father and mother, but simply husband and wife.  In this sanctuary they could lock the door, draw the bed-curtains and be merely lovers.  Tonight, after their long separation, both of them felt a renewed appreciation for the privilege of loving and being loved, of knowing and being known, and then for the priceless comfort of falling asleep in each others arms.  Could there be any two people in Middle Earth more blessed than they were?

            In the shadowy stillness, as they drifted toward sleep, Aragorn said, “I was thinking of asking Faramir to come back and look after things so we can both take the children to Rivendell for a few months.  What do you think?”

            “It’s a lovely idea, Estel,” Arwen said sleepily, “but not for a while yet.  We’ve already been gone for some time,” she nestled closer to him, “and it feels so good to be home.”

            Aragorn couldn’t agree more.

Thank you to everyone who reviewed my story, especially Julia, whose enthusiasm was both encouraging and inspiring, and Raksha, whom I consulted as a Faramir expert and who gave me some very helpful tips on chapter three.

I also wanted to cite some of the sources for my inspiration.  “Slip Slidin’ Away,” by Paul Simon influenced my depiction of Aragorn and Eldarion’s relationship, specifically the verse “I know a father who had a son, he longed to tell him all the reasons for the things he’d done.  He came a long way just to explain, he kissed his boy as he lay sleeping then he turned around and headed home again.”

My portrayal of Aragorn’s initial attitude toward Arwen owes something to the song “Graceland,” also by Paul Simon, specifically  the verse “She comes back to tell me she’s leaving, As if I didn’t know that, As if I didn’t know my own bed, As if I hadn’t noticed the way she pushed her hair back from her forehead.”

The motif of a reunited married couple riding off on a single horse was drawn from the story “Erec and Enide,” by the great medieval author Chretien de Troyes in Arthurian Romances, translated by D.D.R. Owen.

Legolas’ stern reproof of Aragorn was influenced by Proverbs 27:6a “Faithful are the wounds of a friend….”

Another significant source of inspiration for this story was the following passage from the Psalms:

                        Listen, O daughter, give attention and incline your ear;

                        Forget your people and your father’s house;

                        Then the King will desire your beauty;

                        Because He is your Lord, bow down to Him.

                        And the daughter of Tyre will come with a gift;

                        The rich among the people will entreat your favor….

                        In place of your fathers will be your sons;

                        You shall make them princes in all the earth.

                        (Psalm 45:10-12 &16)

And, of course, I am completely indebted to J.R.R. Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings, especially“The Tale of Aragorn and Arwen” in Appendix A.

Finally, I want to wish you all a very happy Valentine’s Day and to leave you with this last thought (the moral of the story, if you will): It’s very hard to live happily ever after when you start taking the love of your life for granted.

Adieu,

Wordweaver