Aragorn sighed, fingering the reins of his horse as he stared unseeing over the enemy arrayed below. His mind was not on the coming battle, but back in Minas Tirith with his new queen. Where he felt he should be.

‘Estel, are you well?’

He looked round in surprise into Elladan’s worried face. The elf raised an eyebrow as he waited for an answer, concerned by his brother’s obvious preoccupation.

‘I am well,’ Aragorn replied at length, forcing a smile. ‘I was thinking.’

‘Of the Easterlings?’ Elrohir queried with a knowing grin. ‘Or of our fair sister?’

But this did not elicit the response he had been expecting. Instead of relaxing into humour a look of pain flashed across his younger brother’s face, and Aragorn turned away, focusing his attention once more on the field before them. ‘Of Arwen,’ he agreed softly, dragging on the reins and wheeling his horse around, back from the edge of the cliff.

The twins shared a puzzled glance before following, unsure what to make of the strange mood that had settled on their brother these past weeks. 

‘He is tired,’ Elrohir offered with a shrug. ‘The months since the coronation have not been easy. Sauron may have been defeated but enemies there are still who must be faced before Gondor is secure.’

‘Too many perhaps.’ Elladan studied Aragorn’s back, seeing the tension strung through the man. ‘But I think Estel is troubled by more than just war.’

‘Will you speak to him?’

The older twin sighed. ‘I will try. Getting him to open up is not as easy as it used to be.’

‘Aye, he is not a child anymore, nor even a young man.’ Elrohir’s eyes darkened with sorrow. ‘And he does not laugh like he used to, not even with Arwen. She is worried for him too, I sense it when I am with her though she does not speak of it.’

‘She is getting as bad as Estel,’ laughed Elladan, kicking his mount into a canter to catch up with their brother. ‘Perhaps we could persuade Legolas to do this for us. Estel seems to think the fact we are family is excuse enough to lose his temper if he wishes. The Prince of Mirkwood may dare to go where we cannot!’

‘Dare to go where my lord Elladan?’ came an amused voice from above, and moments later the fair-haired elf dropped down from the branches as the twins pulled their horses to a surprised halt.

‘Legolas!’ Elrohir announced with a sheepish grin. ‘Were you following us?’

‘Following you? Why no, dear friends. I was merely passing. I am teaching Gimli the elements of tracking.’ He paused, head swivelling from side to side. ‘I have not seen him for a while now.’

‘In a tree?’ Elladan murmured, shaking his head. ‘The dwarf will be hot enough to cook with when he catches up with you I suspect.’

Legolas shrugged carelessly, though a twinkle of amusement shone in his blue eyes. He caught hold of Elladan’s bridle and began to walk back towards the camp. ‘I could not help overhearing my name spoken,’ he began delicately, ‘and in such a tone that I have come to recognise will bring me nothing but trouble. Perhaps you would care to tell me what mischief you are planning that I am a part of?’

‘No mischief,’ Elrohir assured him. ‘We were speaking of Estel.’ He glanced at his twin.

‘We are worried for him,’ Elladan finished. ‘He does not seem himself.’

‘Ah that.’ Legolas frowned, turning to stare after the retreating figure of Aragorn surrounded by his guards. ‘And you wish for me to speak with him?’

‘Yes.’

The Silvan elf shook his head sadly. ‘Not this time, I am sorry.’ He let go of the bridle and fell back as an outraged roar came from the trees to his right. ‘This is one time when he needs his family,’ he told them as Gimli charged headlong out of the undergrowth.

‘Legolas! Do not tell me I have been following a rabbit while you have been hobnobbing with the King!’

‘Peace Gimli. I assure you I have been here only minutes.’

The twins watched in startled amusement as Legolas held up his hands in contrition, attempting to pacify the angry dwarf. Then they kicked their mounts on. ‘What did he mean?’ Elrohir wondered as he followed Elladan, leaving the two friends bickering in the grove. ‘Does he know what is wrong?’

‘I do not know,’ Elladan replied thoughtfully. ‘But I think we should find out before this battle is joined.’

* * *

‘Estel?’

Aragorn turned, smiling as his brother pushed open the tent flaps and came inside.

‘Elladan.’ He paused, seeing the troubled expression on the elf’s face. ‘Is something wrong?’

‘Perhaps. Is all well with you?’

‘With me? I am fine.’ He walked to a chair and sat down, picking a scroll from the desk and glancing over the words.

Elladan sat down beside him, taking his brother’s chin in his hand and turning his face towards him. ‘I know you too well Estel,’ he murmured. ‘You cannot hide your pain from me. Tell me what trouble you.’

For an answer Aragorn closed his eyes, tearing himself free of his brother’s grasp. ‘Will you go over the sea?’ he asked after a pause. ‘When our father leaves, will you and Elrohir go also?’

Elladan sat back, confused. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘Because I think you will not,’ Aragorn answered softly. ‘I think you plan to stay but you have not yet told Elrond of your decision.’

‘And this is what troubles you? That Elrohir and I might make the same choice as Arwen?’

Aragorn sighed, meeting the elf’s eye for the first time. ‘It is a part of it,’ he admitted. He swallowed, as tears pooled in his grey eyes. ‘I worry that she has made the wrong choice. I fear that Arwen has chosen mortality for love of me and it will bring her only pain. Since we married it seems to me I have spent less time with her than ever before. I have been in Minas Tirith a few days only, the rest of my time spent on campaign and it never seems to end. Will it always be this way? Has she given up so much to be with a man who can never truly be with her because of the demands of his kingdoms?’

‘Estel, she has made her choice. Her choice, not yours. She cannot go back on it now and nor would she. And these troubled times will not last forever. Sauron’s allies will soon crumble and flee.’ A wry smile tugged at the elf’s lips as he regarded his youngest brother. ‘Though it may not seem it now, there will come a time when you will yearn to march once more at the head of an army, when you will long for adventure outside the safe walls of the White City. You wish for peace now, but some day you will look back on these days with fondness.’

‘I will always long for peace!’ Aragorn snapped, pushing himself to his feet.

‘Aye, that you will,’ Elladan agreed sadly. ‘That is not what I meant.’

Aragorn scrubbed a hand through his hair, channelling his agitation into fretful pacing. ‘I never wanted this, and yet I had to want it. I love Arwen with all my heart and I wished for nothing else but to have her by my side, yet now she is mine I feel only guilt. That I have taken her from her people, her family, her true home. And Ada, when I see the way he looks at her, and the sadness in his eyes I. . .’ He swung back to Elladan. ‘He never says anything yet I do not see how he cannot hate me for what I have taken from him. And what I might still take.’

‘All this you knew before,’ his brother pointed out. ‘And she did also. I say again, it is her choice, and it is ours too, if Elrohir and I decide to remain in Middle Earth. This he understands Estel. You do not live so long as our father without gaining some wisdom along the way.’ He reached out a hand and caught Aragorn’s in his. ‘You are his son too, and he loves you as much as any of us. Do you think that the thought of leaving you behind does not tear at his heart as much as losing Arwen? He will grieve for you both when the time comes, but it is not here yet. The elves will remain for many years before the last of our people depart. Do not torment yourself Estel, it is not you alone that is hurt by this.’

‘What do you mean?’

Elladan sighed. ‘Arwen feels your pain little brother. Elrohir and I feel your pain. You must put it aside and live in the present. The future, like the past, is not within your control.’ He stood also, holding out his arms to embrace his troubled sibling. ‘We will talk of this later Estel. But now is not the time for these thoughts. The Easterlings will show you no mercy in battle if you are too preoccupied to defend yourself. You must put aside your troubles and be the king you are, the king your people need you to be. When this is over there will be time for you and Arwen to be together and then you will understand that for her this is the only fate she would chose. Valinor is no protection from grief Estel. Even there she would mourn you.’  

* * *

Elladan’s words were true, he knew, yet words alone were not enough. His brother would shield him from blame no matter what he did, no matter how guilty he was. The eldest of Elrond’s sons was fiercely protective of his human foster brother. But what he could not see was what Elladan had tried to tell him, that there was no blame, not for him. Each one of them had to make their own choices and he could not be responsible for any but his own. Yet exhausted beyond his limits by months of campaigning and burdened by the sudden responsibility to a people in a role he had yet to settle into, he could not accept such simple truths. And weariness and despair made poor bedfellows in a battle.

Aragorn felt his arm tire, his movements grow sluggish, and his eyes flickered over the heaving knots of conflict that surrounded him. The Easterlings were disorganised, no longer a great army under formidable captains and bolstered by the support of Mordor, but small rabbles cut off from the main force yet refusing to surrender. Many such bands he had faced in the past months with the army of Gondor at his back, or what remained of it. Each time they had been victorious, and each time the survivors had fled only to join up with others and come back at them. This was the last, his scouts had confirmed. Defeat this last band and he would be free to return to Minas Tirith and to Arwen. He was so close, but at the end it seemed one step too far.

He heard Legolas shout out a desperate warning as an arrow whistled past his head. He spun around, stepping aside and out of the path of a savage sword slash, just as another arrow shot towards him, this time tearing his mail coat and slicing through his side. He staggered, his arm pressed to the wound, but the arrow had merely ploughed a furrow in his flesh and he knew the hurt was not serious.

A second later he felt a steadying hand on his arm, and looked up into Elrohir’s face. ‘I am fine,’ he insisted, shaking himself free of his brother’s grasp. Elladan and Legolas arrived a moment later, taking up positions around him, protecting him from the enemy who sought him out as the King of Gondor.

The sudden presence of the elves seemed to attract still more, a confirmation of his rank to the desperate men who opposed them.  For many minutes there was no pause to speak, as the four companions of old fought a desperate battle for their survival until the King’s guards could get to them. Bows abandoned, the elves wielded their deadly knives at lightening speed, white steel flashing in the sunlight as they took down their foes. Anduril swung in great arcs, slicing through the ranks of the enemy soldiers, but the blood was flowing from Aragorn’s right side, hampering his movement, and it was not long before he began to falter. Sensing this his brothers tried to force him between them, but Aragorn would not be coddled when such an action would endanger his friends. 

A blade nicked his shoulder; a shield slammed into his ribs, almost taking him to his knees. Left breathless and stunned he could only stare at his attacker as an elven blade suddenly appeared in his throat, and his triumphant expression changed to fear and pain. Aragorn staggered again and a strong arm slipped round his waist, taking the weight from his trembling legs. He tried to shake it off but the arm was insistent, pressing him gently to the ground.  He looked back at the Easterlings and saw their armour had changed, and the white tree of Gondor adorned the mail of the soldiers surrounding them. His guards had arrived.

Elladan squatted before him, fear in his eyes. ‘Estel? How badly are you hurt?’

He shook his head. ‘Not badly. Just tired.’

Elrohir appeared beside his twin, their expressions mirror images of concern. ‘So that is not your blood soaking your tunic?’ he asked lightly.

Aragorn looked down, saw the dark spreading stain and blinked in confusion. He put his hand to his side and it came away sticky with blood. ‘But it is just a scratch.’

His brother shook his head, gently removing his sword from his grasp and lifting up his mail shirt and tunic to expose the injury. ‘That is not a scratch,’ he observed. ‘And it is bleeding far too much.’ He glanced at Elladan and Aragorn saw the look that passed between them. The twins were frightened.

A wad of leather was pressed to his side and Aragorn bit off a gasp. The pain flooded back, held off until this moment by the adrenaline of battle, and for a moment everything went black. Stars danced in his vision as he strove to keep hold of consciousness.

A cool hand touched his cheek. ‘Estel? Stay with us, brother.’

He nodded, holding his eyes open with an effort. ‘I’m fine,’ he murmured. ‘Just tired. Very tired.’

‘I know, Estel, but you must not sleep yet.’ He thought that was Elladan. ‘You are bleeding too much.’

‘It was a crossbow bolt,’ a new voice entered the discussion. ‘From close range.’ He saw Legolas leaning over him and tried to smile at his friend but even his face hurt. Still the blond elf seemed to understand the look in his eyes. ‘Yes, my friend, here we are again,’ he whispered fondly, brushing a strand of hair from the ranger’s face. ‘You are fortunate the man had such a bad aim. If he had been an elf you would not have been so lucky.’

‘Don’t feel very lucky,’ Aragorn replied, finding the energy to grin from somewhere. His eyes searched the men around them. ‘The Easterlings?’

‘Defeated,’ Legolas assured him as the elf suddenly disappeared from his line of sight. Soldiers were replaced by blue sky as he found himself on his back. The movement made his head spin and he closed his eyes, only to have them prised open a moment later by a worried brother.

‘Elladan?’ he whispered, unable to identify the blurred face.

‘Yes, it is I,’ a distant voice soothed. ‘Please try to stay awake, Estel.’

He nodded, or thought he did. The face swam into focus for a second, hovering over him with thinly veiled fright, then everything blurred and the lights winked out. And one thought only floated on the edges of his mind as he spiralled into darkness, that if he died now, she still had a chance to go to the sea.

* * *

Elrohir sat back on his knees. ‘He is unconscious,’ he told his twin. ‘And he could not recognise me.’

Elladan spared him a brief glance, working frantically to stop the bleeding from the arrow wound.  His hands were covered in his brother’s blood and his eyes were wild with fear. ‘I cannot stop the bleeding. I don’t understand. The injury is not that deep.’

Elrohir’s face paled and he turned away from his twin, staring into his human brother’s pale face. ‘Hold on, Estel,’ he pleaded. ‘You cannot leave us now.’

‘He is not going to die!’ his twin shouted at him, pressing down hard on the wound, eliciting a pained groan from his patient. ‘Estel, you will not die,’ he commanded the unconscious man. ‘It is not that bad. You have survived much worse. Ada will heal you, just hold on.’

‘It is as if he does not wish to live,’ Elrohir murmured, watching the blood seep through his brother’s fingers. ‘Why would that be?’

‘Because he feels he has stolen the happiness of your family,’ Legolas answered as he knelt down beside his friend, thrusting a fistful of bandages into Elladan’s hands. He laid light fingertips on Aragorn’s temples, feeling the chill creeping into his skin. ‘As much as he loves her he cannot bring himself to believe that Arwen has made the right choice.’

‘But I told him that was not so,’ Elladan protested in despair. ‘I told him we love him no matter what, that Ada loves him. I thought he understood!’

‘Valar!’ Elrohir breathed, smoothing his brother’s hair from his face. ‘He thinks that? Oh, Estel, after all these years you still doubt us?’

Legolas shook his head, reaching out to the grieving twin. ‘He does not doubt you. He doubts himself. He does not believe that he is worthy of the love you have given him; that Arwen has given him.’ He leant down so his lips brushed against Aragorn’s ear. ‘Do not leave us Estel, for we cannot go on without you. And Arwen will not be freed by your passing, unless death itself is the freedom you seek for her.’ And I know that is the last thing you wish for you lady, he added silently.

‘The bleeding is slowing,’ Elladan’s voice, faint with relief, cut through his thoughts. ‘We must move him out of here, back to the camp. He is too cold.’

Legolas looked up, then turned his gaze back to his stricken friend. ‘Can you hear me?’ he wondered aloud. ‘Do you know how much you mean to us?’

‘He knows.’

The elf spun around. ‘Gimli! You startled me.’

‘I? Startled you, master elf?’ The dwarf hitched up his belt, huffing to hide his delight. ‘Surely you heard a leaf rustle, a twig break, but did not wish to hurt my pride?’

‘Nay, Gimli,’ Legolas replied with a grin, as his eyes slid back to his friend. ‘You did surprise me. Though I admit my attention was elsewhere.’

‘Hmmph, how is he?’

‘Not good,’ the elf admitted, watching the twins as they lifted their brother in their arms and prepared to bear him back to the tents. ‘But he will live, I hope.’

‘He is strong Legolas,’ Gimli spoke to reassure his friend. ‘He has much to live for.’

‘Ah, but it seems Estel is the only one who does not see that,’ the elf mourned, his blue eyes full of tears. ‘Mere months ago one life ended and another began and not one of us stopped to see how difficult that might be for him.  He was a ranger, and now he must be a king. He was alone and now he has a wife. Much as Aragorn loves Arwen and Gondor he can never again lead the simple life that was his for so many years. Where once his sole responsibility was to himself, he now has a whole people who depend on him for guidance and protection.  It cannot be easy, even for one who was born to be a king.’

‘No, it will not be easy,’ the dwarf agreed. ‘But he has many friends to help him through it. And he has his family.’

‘For a dwarf,’ Legolas conceded with every appearance of sincerity. ‘You are quite perceptive.’

The twins’ voices flitted across his consciousness. He recognised the tone, amusement touched with weary concern. They were discussing him, as usual.

‘Is he awake yet?’

‘Not yet. But he has slept long enough I think.’

Aragorn winced. That was Elrohir, and he sounded . . .malevolent.Still, he did not open his eyes, could not in fact. The sleep that had claimed him on the battlefield was not yet ready to release him, and he had no wish to return to the waking world.

‘Perhaps we should just strap him to his horse for the ride back to Minas Tirith,’ Elladan suggested innocently. ‘Or we could have the guards construct a litter. . .’

Aragorn felt a growl rise in his throat. He would not be carried back to his city like an invalid! His fists clenched on the sheet and he heard a muffled laugh.

‘Come now, Estel, we know you are awake,’ Elrohir urged. ‘Just open your eyes for a moment and we will leave you to sleep. For a while.’

‘Or we will have that litter made,’ Elladan threatened, smiling as he saw his brother’s eyes flicker open.

‘You will not,’ Aragorn corrected him, his voice weak and unsteady.  He tried to frown but the effort merely made his eyes scrunch and start to close again. ‘No litters,’ he repeated more firmly.

Elrohir chuckled at his irritation. ‘We shall see little brother. You have slept for two whole days and you will have to satisfy us that you are fit to be up before we let you on a horse.’

‘Without strapping you on,’ Elladan added wickedly.

In control of his face now Aragorn glared at them, but underneath the joking he could see the real worry he’d caused them. Two days? It had been such a small injury. Thinking of the wound brought the pain to his attention and he grimaced, instinctively reaching a hand to his bandaged side, but Elladan was too quick for him.

‘Don’t touch Estel,’ he berated sternly in his best imitation of his father. ‘You will not disturb the dressing with your fiddling. I will check the wound.’

Aragorn groaned, letting his hand fall away. ‘Now?’

‘Yes now. How else can we determine whether you can ride tomorrow?’

‘We’re leaving tomorrow?’ he asked puzzled. ‘For where?’

‘Where?’ Elrohir raised a surprised eyebrow. ‘Minas Tirith of course. The Easterlings are defeated, Estel. You can go home now.’

‘Home,’ Aragorn murmured, his eyes drifting to Elladan as his elder brother removed the bandages from his side. Those underneath were spotted with blood and the elf sucked in a disapproving breath as he saw. He frowned as he caught Aragorn’s eye. ‘Only you could bleed so much from a scratch, Estel,’ he admonished. ‘No, keep still, it has not stopped bleeding yet.’

‘I am fine,’ he protested as he caught his brother’s eye.

Elrohir snorted, concern sparkling in his gaze. ‘You nearly bled to death and you tell us you are fine?’

‘Fine now then,’ Aragorn amended. ‘And perfectly capable of getting up. Tell me, what has happened these last two days?  You are sure it is over?’

‘Quite sure. Legolas has been tracking the few survivors and they have fled back towards their homeland. It seems your scouts were correct in their belief that this was the last group of any size left in Gondor.  The wounded have been tended to and the dead buried. Your army awaits only your word to return to Minas Tirith.’

‘Then they shall have it. As soon as you are finished, Elladan.’

The older twin muttered under his breath as he secured the bandages in place. Sitting back he fixed his youngest brother with a stern look. ‘You must take it easy, Estel,’ he warned. ‘The wound is not yet healed and may break open again if you are not careful with yourself.’

‘I will be careful,’ Aragorn promised with a grin as he pushed himself up with his elbows, not feeling much like a king. Dizziness clouded his sight for an instant but he refused to let it show. Then after a moment he sat up, swinging his legs out of the bed as he thrust himself to his feet. The movement was too swift, and the world tilted sickeningly. Blood pounded in his head as blackness encroached on his vision and his legs went limp. Strong hands caught him as he fell and lowered him back onto the bed.

‘Careful I said,’ Elladan scolded. ‘Do you remember nothing our father taught you when it is you who are injured? You have lost so much blood you should expect to be dizzy. Now, will you take your time or must I keep you here another day?’

Aragorn growled. ‘You will not keep me anywhere my dear brother. If it has really been two days since the battle then a meeting with my officers is long overdue.  Legolas tracked the survivors you say?’ The twins nodded. ‘Then I must speak with him also.’ He stopped, looking at himself for the first time and scowled at the amusement flickering on his brothers’ faces. ‘Where are my clothes?’

* * *

The journey back to Minas Tirith took several days, and it was a black and painful journey for the king.  As his horse carried him closer to his home his thoughts turned inward and dark and he would not let his brothers or his friends near him. 

His side hurt, the constant travel aggravating the wound, and it was not long before the tightness and heat of his skin alerted him to the onset of fever.  Long years he had cared for himself in the wilds, treating his own injuries, sleeping through the worst of the wound-sickness hidden in thickets or small caves, waiting out his weakness with no one to see.  But now he was a king and nowhere was he given the privacy to deal with his hurts in his own way and his brothers hovered round him as though he were still a child who needed their constant attention. No one could afford for anything to happen to Gondor’s king just as he had been found again, and his sense of suffocation only added to his irritation. Elladan had tried to examine him many times since he had left the twins in his tent, only to be driven back by a stream of invectives that left his brother wide-eyed with hurt and worry. In his opinion Aragorn judged he could make it back to Minas Tirith before his body gave out on him, time enough to get to Arwen before he surrendered to the fever and pain, and he would let her tend him in the privacy of their apartments. Anyone who thought differently would find out what it meant to cross the will of the king.

Arwen. How he longed to be with her again, but his longing was tinged with apprehension that the sickness in his veins magnified until the secret guilt he harboured loomed huge and dark in his dreams and stole his fragile peace.  The White City still lived in a kind of dream since the threat of Mordor had been defeated.  Sporadic celebrations livened the streets as relieved citizens gave voice to their joy in this new freedom and the restoration of the royal house.  His father and brothers had not yet left for Imladris and neither Legolas nor Gimli showed any sign of imminent departure. Even Gandalf was still to be found from time to time, appearing at strange times in strange places much as he had always done. No, it was not real this world he lived in, it was a dream, and like all dreams it would come to an end. When that end came, when her family left at last to return to their home if not yet the sea, would he be enough the keep the light of happiness shining in Arwen’s eyes? And when his subjects stopped celebrating and returned to their lives, could he be a good enough king to fulfil the expectations they had for this new age of Middle Earth. And for himself, so privileged in his upbringing among the elves, how would he survive the passing of such beauty from the land on top of the restrictions placed upon him when the crown of the reunified kingdom had been placed on his head?

Such were the doubts of the new king, but a king is allowed no doubts, so he refused the company of those who knew him well enough to read the troubles in his heart and bore his suffering in silence. 

The sharp ring of hooves clattering on cobbled stones sent shafts of pain through Aragorn’s aching head as the company entered the courtyard of the citadel.  Grooms and servants appeared from doorways to help weary soldiers dismount and take care of their sweating, stamping mounts. For many minutes confusion surrounded the king as officials converged on him, each clamouring for attention and speaking over the next. He waved them aside impatiently even as he saw Faramir hurry towards him, placating phrases on his lips designed to spare his king the trials of listening to bureaucrats who felt they had been ignored too long in his absence.

Aragorn spared his steward a grateful glance as his eyes strained to make out the window of the room where Arwen would be waiting. She never came to meet him here, saving their reunions for the privacy of their chambers where they were free to express their joy in each other. Arwen. Her name stirred so many different feelings in him he could not begin to sort them. He had been too long away from her. There was so much he needed to say.

A hand caught his arm as he started to walk towards the entrance closest to his apartments, his steps a little too close to a stagger to completely hide. ‘Going somewhere in a hurry, Estel? The Houses of Healing are not that way.’

‘Leave me be, Elrohir,’ Aragorn snapped, catching sight of Elladan watching them from a distance, his face a mask of concern. After the reception he had received last time he voiced his worry it would be a while before the older twin approached him again. He ignored the flash of guilt, turning his attention back to his current tormentor. ‘I am fine. I merely wish to see my wife.’

‘You are sick little brother, I can see it in your face,’ Elrohir corrected him gently, ignoring the angry tone. ‘Arwen can come to you there.’

‘Please,’ he pleaded, hating the weakness in his voice. ‘Please let me see Arwen first in private. The Houses of Healing are no place for her to greet the husband she has not seen in months.’

Elrohir dropped his hand in surrender and stepped back, a frown kinking his forehead as he nodded. ‘Very well, Estel, go to Arwen. But if you do not afterwards come to the healers, they will come to you. I will make sure of that.’

Aragorn gritted his teeth, forcing out an acceptance of his brother’s terms. If he did not agree he had no doubt that Elladan would back up his twin and he would find himself dragged to the Houses of Healing in a manner that in no way befitted a king.  Even after thousands of years of life as lords in their own right his brothers were still capable of displaying a total lack of propriety, or respect for his position, if they believed it was necessary for his continuing health.  To ones so old, even when his hair was grey he would never truly have grown up.

The thought brought a smile unbidden to his lips. Spinning around lest the sudden burst of affection show on his face, Aragorn stumbled. Feeling the movement behind him as Elrohir leaned in to help, and fearing a retraction of the reprieve just granted, he righted himself by a sheer effort of will and continued on his way without looking back.

The corridors of the palace twisted ahead of him as he stepped through the doorway. The rush of cool air soothed his burning skin and, out of sight of the soldiers and servants in the courtyard, he leant wearily against the marble wall, allowing a wave of fatigue to wash over him.  He knew the way he was treating his brothers was wrong but a part of him harboured the desire to keep pushing them away, show them he did not need them, and then perhaps they would not make the choice he feared they would – or was it hoped? – when their time of choosing came upon them. But where then would that leave Arwen, if he deprived her of the comfort of her brothers’ presence to expunge his own guilt?

The quandary made his head hurt even more fiercely. Eyes that were grainy and sore slid closed, and when he opened them again he could not longer banish the blurry haze that had hovered at the edges of his vision for the last hours.

It always came back to Arwen, his most precious of treasures. For many years he had yearned for the day he would become king, even as he dreaded it, for only then would he be united with the other half of his heart. That she would give up her immortality for him had at first frightened him, then supported and succoured him when everything around him was lonely and grim. Yet in all those years of waiting it had seemed a dream that would never come true, a tantalising prize forever out of his reach, and he had blinded himself to the reality of such a sacrifice. And now the day had come, his dream had come true, and because of him this fairest of immortal beings was facing the coldness of mortal death even as he was. What had he done?

With a sigh Aragorn pushed himself off the wall, taking a shaky step towards his destination.  The corridor had become a tunnel, the walls of which were closing in on him at an alarming rate, the light of the window at the end slowly shrinking to a pinpoint. Trailing a hand along the blocks of smooth marble he forced his tired body to put one foot in front of the other, each step taking him that much closer to Arwen.  But at some stage he realised he was not going to make it.

Determined not to collapse in the corridor to be found by the next of the palace staff who passed by, Aragorn felt for the nearest door, his sight already dimming from grey to black. Grasping fingers closed over the cool metal of an embossed handle. Someone’s study, his muddled mind reasoned. Whose? But that question could no longer matter. He just hoped the room was empty, wanting no witnesses to what was promising to be an undignified crumple to the floor. He just needed a few minutes to steady himself, then he would find Arwen.

He pushed. The door swung open and no cries of surprise greeted the king’s stumble into the room. Beautiful darkness surrounded him. Closed shutters blocked out the bright light of the sun and he sighed with relief. He did not even have time to make his way to his own chair before consciousness fled. Pain disappeared as he relaxed into the comforting arms of oblivion.

* * *

News of the return of Gondor’s army preceded the host by several hours, as these things tended to do. Hours ago Elrond had left the company of his daughter and made his way to the Houses of Healing, preparing himself to assist the healers with the dead and wounded that reason dictated would accompany this victorious return. Fear fluttered in his heart that one of his own might be among this number, injured or worse, but no flags of mourning had been reported sighted and he allowed himself to hope. He had already lost too much.

Elven hearing picked up the sounds of approaching men before any other in the halls were alerted. Stilling his desire to rush to his feet and see who came, Elrond remained calmly seated, as befitted the Elf-lord he was. 

The captain who entered first, blood-stained and weary, was known to him on sight but not by name. The man bowed in respect, stepping aside to let his men past, some walking under their own steam, others carried by their comrades. A healer’s instincts prodded him to action, though his heart demanded he wait until the last had passed through the stone arch, and he was deep in concentration treating a nasty arrow wound when his eldest son’s voice penetrated his awareness.

‘He told you he would come here? As soon as he had seen her?’ Elladan frowned, his eyes searching the sea of people. ‘Well he is not here.’

‘Who is not?’ his father enquired, straightening from his work.

‘Ada!’ Elrohir called out, walking swiftly to his side. He looked down at the pale face of the soldier being tended. ‘How is he?’

‘He will be fine,’ Elrond assured him, smiling down at the fear in the young man’s eyes as he turned back to his son. ‘Whom do you seek?’

‘Estel. Has he been here?’

Elrond shook his head. ‘I have not seen him.’ He spoke a few quiet words to the girl who had been assisting him then took Elrohir by the arm and drew him away to a private corner. The turmoil in his son’s shadowed eyes had not escaped him and the fear returned as he asked, ‘Was he hurt?’

The younger twin nodded miserably, his eyes locking onto Elladan’s.  ‘He was,’ his brother stated bluntly as he hugged his father. ‘And it was clear he was sickening from it though he would not let us near him. We would have made him come here first but. . .’ He trailed off, unable to meet his father’s eye.

‘But what?’ Elrond prompted, looking between the two. Identical expressions of pain marred features so similar even those who had known them many years could still be fooled if the twins wished to dissemble – a habit they had not grown out of even yet – and he felt a sensation of dread settle in his heart. ‘What can’t you tell me?’

Elladan turned away, a sob constricting his throat. ‘He nearly died Ada,’ he confessed at last. ‘And even though he did not I fear we have still lost him’

Elrond felt his knees go weak. He sat down hard on the wooden bench at his back and allowed himself a brief moment to compose his breathing before he spoke. ‘Tell me,’ he commanded his sons softly. ‘What has happened?’

They told him, haltingly and reluctantly, of the last few days. By the end Elrond was white as parchment but inside he felt the warm flush of guilt. He should have seen this coming, he had always known it would, but he had never thought Estel would turn from his brothers who were always so close to his heart. It seemed that just as he had locked his emotions away so had Aragorn, and he prayed it was not too late to undo the damage and draw his son back into the fold of his family’s love. The role of a king would be lonely enough without Aragorn isolating himself from the support of those who knew him best. And Elrond knew him well enough to guess that he would view his turmoil as a weakness, a failing, not understanding that so many changes in so short a time would be hard for even the strongest to bear. The fact that they had come on top of the dangers and trials of the recent months would make the transition that much harder. His son was exhausted, and when the body was hurting it was often the spirit that suffered most.

‘Take me to him,’ he demanded when they had finished, getting to his feet. He forced himself to breathe deeply. Elves did not give way to such displays of feeling in front of others. ‘I am sure that Arwen is more than capable of tending him herself,’ he added, taking a firm grip on his emotions. ‘But I would see for myself that Estel is well.’

His sons nodded, happy to accompany their father. They too wished to make sure that their brother was in no danger, and were not a little frustrated that he had once again made them follow through on Elrohir’s threat to send the healers after him.

Hurrying through the corridors it was Elrond whose eyes noticed the door that stood slightly ajar. The twins turned as he stopped and he put a finger to his lips, motioning them to him. He pressed his hand to the door of Aragorn’s study and pushed it open, letting the light fall on the body curled protectively against the desk, eyes closed but far from peacefully asleep.

Elrond could not help the small smile that twitched his lips even as he felt worry clench his heart. So many times when he was growing up he had found his youngest son like this, hiding himself away ashamed of his weakness. Even from a very young age Estel – no he was Aragorn now Elrond corrected himself – had preferred to deal with his own hurts, and it was partly this tendency to disappear when he needed help the most that made his brothers so protective of him. Yet as skilled and capable as he was, this time it seemed he had not been successful.

Kneeling beside his shivering son, the Lord of Imladris placed a gentle hand on his forehead to gauge the fever that burned in his veins.  Then, just as carefully, he eased the sick man to the floor so he could check the injury. The twins watched their father work, and did not speak until he sat back on his heels, his examination complete.

‘It is not so bad,’ he reassured them before they could ask. ‘His body is tired and will need some help to fight the infection but there is no danger.’

‘That is good,’ Elladan replied as he knelt beside his father. He smiled, shaking his head as he reached out to lift his brother. ‘I warned him we would have to carry him.’

Elrond caught his hand. ‘No Elladan. He is the King now. You cannot shame him by carrying him to his bed as though he were a child.’

‘But Ada, he is hurt.’

‘He may be hurt, and he may be your brother, but he is also a king and we can no longer treat him as we once did.’ He sighed at the confusion that greeted his words and held his eldest son by the shoulders, willing him to understand. Why was it so much harder, he wondered, for Estel’s own family to accept this change even though they were of the few who had known it must come?

He looked into Elladan’s eyes and perceived the sense of rejection that was so hurting him. With Aragorn’s ascension to the throne their racial difference, so long ignored, had come suddenly to the fore. They could no longer maintain the illusion of simple brotherhood under the scrutiny of a nation; the new king could no longer be Estel of Rivendell even if he wished.  And despite the human blood that flowed in their veins his sons were still elvish enough to overlook the disparity in the societies of the two races that demanded different standards from those who would rule them. The need for strong leadership in times of war was something the twins understood well enough, but what they could not seem to grasp was that this image had to be maintained beyond the battlefield. Or that the obligation to treat Aragorn thus applied to them also. Here Elrond himself was forced to admit that perhaps he had slipped too easily into the stiff courtesy of one ruler to another, excusing his own cowardice towards his son by hiding behind courtly propriety.

‘The King of Gondor can show his people no weakness, especially in these uncertain times,’ he explained sadly. ‘Or he will cease to be an effective ruler. If Aragorn’s advisors and servants see him coddled by his family – and an elven family at that – they will lose respect for him, and if they do how will he retain his respect for himself? You must try to understand my son, for if we who are closest to him cannot come to terms with this how can we expect Estel to? And he must, or his reign will be a short one.’

As Elladan nodded miserably Elrond turned to Elrohir. ‘Go to your sister and tell her we are caring for Estel and will bring him to her soon. She will understand. Then find Faramir and explain what has happened so he may forestall any panic when the king cannot be found. Tell him alone and make sure he knows there is no cause for concern. When you have found him fetch me some supplies from the Houses of Healing and return here. When Estel can walk we will take him to Arwen and let her care for him in private. That is how he would want it.’

Elrohir left and his eldest stir restlessly. ‘Go and rest,’ he urged. ‘You must be weary. I will stay with your brother.’

‘But you might need me,’ Elladan protested, unwilling to leave.

‘I can cope,’ his father assured him. ‘When he awakes it would be best if we do not crowd him. You know that he does not like that.’ And there is another poison I must draw from him that has nothing to do with this fever, he thought silently. It is past time for us to be father and son once more.

* * *

Alone with his son at last Elrond settled himself for a long vigil. Elrohir had returned minutes earlier with medicines from the Houses of Healing and both his and Elladan’s cloaks. The younger twin had not needed his father to tell him to leave them; he had placed the things quietly on the floor and withdrawn without a word.  So alike in many ways his elven sons were also startlingly different, and Elrohir had always been more sensitive to the unspoken needs of others than his older brother.

Smiling, Elrond picked up the cloaks and folded them under Aragorn’s head. It would spare him some of the discomfort if he insisted on sleeping on the floor. Still, he reflected, the former ranger probably found it easier to sleep on the ground than in the huge soft bed he shared with his wife.

Uncorking the flask Elrohir had brought he sprinkled some herbs into the water and raised his son’s head so he could swallow without choking.  The unconscious man offered little resistance, a clear sign of his exhaustion, and when he was satisfied he had taken enough Elrond laid him down again and moved away, anticipating his awakening.  He had no desire to suffer another bruised and tender jaw because he had scared his son into a defensive reaction, having learned long ago that it was dangerous to startle frightened and hurting rangers. Especially those trained by elves.

The bitter liquid rolling down his throat brought Aragorn out of his stupor. Grey eyes flickered open and Elrond watched the play of emotions flash through them with interest. Panic there was first, and confusion. Where was he, what had happened? Then his hand felt the cold floor, his eyes strained against the blackness of the room and the elf almost felt the ripple of relief that he was somewhere safe and secret, away from his enemies. How many times had his son awoken like this, the father in him wondered, sick and disorientated and all alone in the dark? The thought brought tears to his eyes that had not known such wetness in many a long year. Not since the child had become a man and left the safety of his home to journey into the unknown.

A moment later, as he watched, the relief faded as full awareness returned. For a second he stilled, distressed and wary, then Aragorn turned his head towards the presence he sensed at his side. ‘Father?’

‘I am here,’ Elrond answered softly, moving to his son’s side. ‘You are safe Estel. Sleep now.’

‘How. . .?’

The elf-lord permitted himself a chuckle. ‘How did I find you? Ah, my son, you will have to hide yourself better if you wish to remain hidden these days. And do not forget I have had many years of practise.’ He stroked his fingers over hot skin, soothing the fire with the coolness of his touch. ‘Sleep, rest. When you are well I will take you to Arwen.’

‘Arwen.’ Even spoken in a whisper her name held a note of passion Elrond recognised in himself when he thought of his Celebrian. They were not really so different in the end, father and son. And as the thought of his wife lulled Aragorn towards sleep, heavy eyelids slid closed, ragged breathing evened out and deepened and the pain was washed away in the peace of healing rest.

Yet Elrond found no peace. With nothing to do now but wait he faced his own test of the soul, sitting there in the dark. As his foster-son drifted back into the world of dreams the smile left his face. He could not banish from his mind the image of the way Aragorn’s eyes had tightened, wary and shuttered, as he’d realised where he was, how the relief had faded when he discovered he was not alone somewhere in the wilds but in the citadel of Minas Tirith. Do you fear this place so much, he wondered, is this life truly so abhorrent to you?

Elrond sighed. That Aragorn loved his people well he had no doubt. He had loved them in fact before he had ever known them, before he had known who he was. The stories of ancient Numenor had entranced him as a young child and he had delighted in the exploits of the kings of old, holding tight to pride in his human heritage as a defence against the elven world in which he lived but could never truly be a part of.  Those who did not know him well always thought Estel longed for nothing more than to be an elf, but there were some who knew better. Aragorn was proud to be of the race of Men; rather it was his elven family who were in denial, incapable of accepting the inevitable parting. So when the Heir of Isildur and the Even- Star of the elves met and sealed their doom it had brought this reality crashing home to the ones who loved them most. Aragorn would one day die and with him the last likeness of Luthien in Middle Earth would also fade. It was a long time before Elrond had been able to see this as anything other than a tragedy.

As he watched at his sleeping son Elrond knew that he must not have hidden that pain as well as he’d believed, and that to someone as sensitive to the moods of others as Aragorn was, his distress would have been an accusation he couldn’t answer. He realised too just how long it had been since he had shown this man any other face than that of a stern, forbidding Elf-lord, though his reasons were not as his son had supposed. They had pulled away from each other, hiding behind masks of indifference and detachment to protect themselves from the pain the future would bring. The easy love and trust of his childhood years had disappeared, not gone but buried deep under the unbearable weight of two things; the truth of Aragorn’s bloodline and his love for Arwen.

Oh my son, if only you had been born as any other man, Elrond mourned as he brushed a strand of hair from the burning forehead. I would have spared you these burdens if I could.

Yet it was Elrond himself who had forced Aragorn into acceptance of those very burdens, using his daughter as a spur to push him to claim his birthright. Explanations were long overdue, that despite the words spoken so many years ago in Imladris Elrond would never have denied Arwen the man she loved, just as he could not have denied his foster-son. The grief of loss was something he understood well, an agony he had felt every day since Celebrian departed for Valinor, and he would surrender his only daughter, as much as it hurt him to do so, to spare her the shattering pain of forsaking her love.  Elves were immortal, but other races seemed not to understand what this really meant, conscious every day of their own mortality.  They saw only eternal life protected from the ravages of old age, and rarely stopped to consider what living without death might mean to those who could still lose the ones they loved. If he forced Arwen to accompany him to the Undying Lands even the peace and healing beauty of that place would not heal the wound in her heart. He could not ignore the chance that she might still die. And though remaining here the day would come when her husband passed on, that parting would not be forever and she could follow him in death as she had in life and wherever went the souls of the Second Born in their dying they would always be together.

He only hoped that it was not too late to say these words to the one who needed to hear them. He had to make his son understand, his son who had hidden the breaking of his heart even in the happiest of times, before the pain of it poisoned his soul and caused him to reject the life that was opening up before him. For his daughter’s sake, as much as his own, he had to try.

Hours later, when night had fallen and the silvery sheen of moonlight through the shutters was all that illuminated the room, Elrond became aware of grey eyes studying him in darkness.  He smiled, knowing his elven sight allowed him to see his son far better than Aragorn could see him; knowing also that viewed through a ranger’s eyes his outline was signpost enough to read the colour of his mood.

‘Feeling better?’ he asked lightly, making no move to close the space between them since the immediate need was gone. He would wait for an invitation now, his right to assume even physical intimacy long in the past.

Aragorn nodded as he pushed himself up on his elbows, his face schooled to betray no sign of the pain he must be feeling. ‘Don’t tell me I never made it out of here.’

‘Would you have me lie to you, Estel? Your brothers and I found you here some hours since.’

‘Valar, Elladan!’ Aragorn rubbed his hand across his forehead. ‘I suppose they are fit to skin me for this? Elrohir made me promise to come to you.’

Elrond’s lips twitched. ‘Their retribution has been forestalled for the moment though I dare not hope it will be so forever. But tell me my son, why did you refuse their aid? They could have spared you a sore neck at least.’

Aragorn’s face closed in an instant. The easy banter, so reminiscent of years past, vanished as though it has never been and the air seemed to grow cold.  ‘I can care for myself, my lord,’ he replied stiffly. ‘I have done so for a long time now.’

‘But that argument falls rather flat, does it not,’ Elrond commented dryly, ‘when you cannot even make it to your own bed? Ah no,’ he added quickly, seeing the anger rise in his son’s face. ‘I do not mean to imply that you cannot look after yourself, only that you did not. And that is what worries me.’

A flash of irritation showed his barb had hit home. ‘I am recovered now,’ Aragorn assured him in a tight voice. ‘You need worry for me no longer.’

‘Need I not? Who else has more right? Did I not raise you as my own son, are you not married to my daughter?’

At the mention of Arwen Aragorn flinched, jerking his head away. ‘And that is the real issue isn’t it, Estel?’ Elrond pressed. ‘Even now you have her, my daughter still comes between us.’

Aragorn sucked in a hissing breath, his whole frame trembling with the effort not to erupt. ‘What would you have me say to you?’ he demanded in a voice flayed raw by grief. ‘That I am sorry I have taken her from you? That now it is done I realise that what I thought was the greatest gift has become the heaviest of burdens? I love her so much, how could I have done this to her?’

‘Estel. . .’ Elrond stopped, bereft of words, watching as his son curled up on himself, arms wrapping tightly round his knees as though the physical pressure could somehow contain the agony in his heart. A father’s desperate need to soothe his distress prompted him to close the distance between them, even as a healer’s eye winced for the stress being laid on newly healing flesh. With infinite tenderness Elrond lifted Aragorn’s face towards him, brushing away the single tear from his cheek. ‘Your apologies are misplaced, my son. They were never owed to me, much less to Arwen who has married the only man who could make her happy. It has been said to you before, and many times I believe, but never by me and for that I apologise. And understand now that my reluctance to speak was never because of anger at you, but a struggle to understand my own daughter and this simple fact: Arwen made her own choice.’

‘That I know,’ Aragorn ground out, tearing his face from his father’s grasp. ‘That it was her choice I cannot gainsay, but neither can I ignore the fact that she could never have made that choice if I had rejected her.’

Elrond gave a choked laugh, shaking his head. ‘Could you have rejected her, knowing as you did so that you condemned not only her to a life without love, but yourself as well? Knowing what that could mean for her, Elven as she is?’

His son turned back to him then, his mouth forming words that never left his lips.  Challenged so baldly he was caught by surprise for he had never looked past the question to find the answer, choosing instead to wallow in the guilt the posing of it brought. He remembered the instant of despair when the Elf-lord had taken him aside and denied him the comfort of any woman until he had succeeded in his quest, and later, more hurtful still, he recalled his return from Lothlorien, and Arwen. That he was not good enough for Elrond’s daughter had been made plain to him and even after so long the words rang clear in his memory, reshaping his relationship with his foster father from that day forth. And just for a moment, in the recollection of the pain that had accompanied them, a light burst through the clouds of his doubts as he realised that rejecting Arwen was never a choice that had been in his power to make. Then the echo of those words returned and the shadows crowded in.

‘Well? Elrond asked, watching the progression of his thoughts. ‘Have you found your answer?’

‘No, I have not,’ Aragorn flung back, hiding his confusion behind anger at his father.  ‘You sent me out into the world to seek my destiny hoping I would forget your daughter and never realised that I took your words as a promise that one day you would give her to me.  And that promise you could not go back on, not once I had turned my thoughts at last to Gondor as you wished. I did not understand what you truly meant, and if I had given her up then Arwen would never have loved me as she does now. I did have the chance to save her and I didn’t take it, but honour prevents you from ever saying so. Who can say I am not guilty?’

‘I can!’ Roused from his shock by the need to deliver a swift answer or lose his son forever to this warped reasoning, Elrond found that truths he had never uttered to any other tumbled from him now in an outpouring of his own guilt. That such thoughtless words, spoken in the heat of anger, had haunted this man for so long was almost more than he could bear. ‘Your understanding was not flawed. It was a promise. But I said so only to encourage you in your destiny that I feared you were rejecting, never to call into question your worthiness for either prize. You were so young, Estel, and may the Valar forgive me, I used the only leverage I had to force you to face that duty.’ Ah, but he had never pleaded so with anyone before this! ‘Never doubt that I love my daughter with all my heart, nor that our parting will bring me the bitterest pain, but even a father must acknowledge that there are other issues of importance in this world. The elves might be leaving Middle Earth, I might be leaving, but this is my home, the land of my birth. And this land needed you to become the man you are. I could not stand aside and let you refuse to answer that call. If anyone has cause to hate me for what I did, it should not be you but Arwen, whose love I dangled before you as a lure.’

‘Ah, my destiny!’ Aragorn spat scornfully. ‘My duty to my people, to my country, so important to this world! Well Sauron was defeated, but not by my hand. It is the hobbits who have brought this troubled age to an end and yet Gondor looks to me as their hero. If Frodo had not succeeded, what difference would it have made that a king had returned to the White City? None. This is all a lie. How can I be what I am not?’

Elrond’s eyes narrowed, measuring the depth of hurt that caused Aragorn to shy away each time his words came too close; realising just how much of that hurt he himself had inflicted. And in attempting to deflect the conversation to less painful topics his son only exposed himself to more pain. For Elrond understood that though Aragorn’s agonies for Arwen were genuine, they were enmeshed in even deeper fears; that he was not good enough for her or his new kingdom, that he deserved neither and would fail both. Arwen, Gondor, in the end it made no difference. The true problem sat before him now, a smouldering bundle of frayed nerves and tight-strung emotions stressed to breaking point. He had demanded so much of this man, too much, everyone had. It was time to give something back.

‘Had Frodo succeeded while you had fallen, then it would all still have been in vain,’ he replied calmly. ‘Even with the great enemy gone Middle Earth would still have been ravaged. These people need a leader who can unite them, as you will do. With the departure of the elves many things will come undone and new, uncertain times lie ahead. Chaos can destroy just as surely as evil.’

‘You have seen this?’

Elrond laughed. ‘I do not need foresight to understand this simple fact, Estel.  You are needed more badly than you know.’ He paused as he gazed into Aragorn’s haunted eyes, searching for a sign he was getting his message across. ‘Accept your success and take your prize, for you have won a great victory and you will be a great king. Some things are difficult for us to face, but face them we must. Your life has changed, and though there was once a time when you had neither a kingdom nor a wife and were free to do as you wished, that time is now past.’ He took a deep breath, preparing to wound in order to heal. ‘For Arwen’s sake you must let go of this coil of poison, Estel. Separate what you feel for me - the guilt and the anger - from what you feel for my daughter, or your heart will be forever closed to this love you have dreamed of. And believe me, my son, if you continue in this way you will have cause to feel guilty. No man who is unhappy in himself can bring love and happiness to another, and if you cannot bring her happiness Arwen will have given up her immortality for nothing.’

Aragorn flinched, his skin paling even further, but the truth of those final words was not lost on him. What was done could not be undone. The choice had been made. He could turn away from Arwen now because it was easier than facing up to the enormity of her sacrifice, and in doing so reject everything that was precious between them, but that would be a devastating betrayal of all the years she had waited for him. Or he could acknowledge the gift for what it was, embrace her choice and rejoice in it as the ultimate expression of love. Many men had sworn they would die for him, and many he would have given his life for if called, so why could he not accept such a pledge from the woman he loved? For that is what she had done when she’d married him, promised to submit to a mortal life, and death, to remain always at his side. Would he not have done the same had their positions been reversed?

‘I know you would have given up everything for Arwen,’ Elrond continued softly, reading the moment with an understanding that was ages old. ‘It is not your place to demand any less of her than you would of yourself.’

For a long moment there was silence. No dams burst, no storm of hot, salty tears marked the moment of understanding. Aragorn was too old now to throw himself into his father’s arms and seek comfort in the warmth of his embrace. But the desire was there all the same and it was plain on his face. ‘I diminish her gift,’ he whispered at last, ‘by seeing only a sacrifice.’

‘Yes you do,’ Elrond replied with a fond smile. ‘But you always did take greater burdens on yourself than it was your right to assume.’

Aragorn’s breath hitched in his throat. He blinked away tears as he looked up. ‘And you always could lighten them with a word.’

Their eyes met, and something unspoken passed between them in that moment, something that could not quite restore what had been lost but breached the cold distance nonetheless. And Elrond forced himself to hold this steady gaze though he felt as though his heart was breaking. It was the barest of acknowledgements of what had been, but it was enough, and he only just stopped himself from reaching out. He thought for an instant that Aragorn would abandon his reserve and come to him as he once had, as he seemed to want to do, but then the moment fled and he knew that time was truly past. For a father it was both a bitter reminder of the changes time wrought, and also the most poignant of moments. He ached to give in and hug the man as he had hugged the boy but recognised that some boundaries were not meant to crossed, contenting himself with the knowledge that some of the lightness he remembered and cherished had returned to his youngest’s eyes. The small smile that hovered on Aragorn’s lips was enough to warm the lonely place in his heart and allow him to hope that there was time to renew the closeness of years past before his ship sailed for the west.

They walked together down the corridors, Elrond with one hand placed unobtrusively in the small of his son’s back to steady his steps if needed, careful that his support should go unnoticed by those who passed them on their way.  At the doors to the King’s apartment they paused, hearing the soft murmur of conversation within. Aragorn turned to his father with a small smile. Both of them recognised the voices of his brothers.

Elrond shrugged slightly. ‘Where else would they be?’ Then he motioned to the guard who pushed open the heavy doors.

The voices fell silent as they entered. The twins looked up, surprise, relief, and a touch of guilt flickering swiftly across identical faces, and for all their loose-limbed elegance, sprawled at their ease across the cushioned benches, neither their father nor brother missed the minute tensions that gave them away. Aragorn sighed. Where else would they be, indeed, and who else would they have been discussing but him? Then another figure entered his line of sight and his breath caught in his throat.

Arwen stood by the doors to their bedchamber watching them, her dark hair spilling loose over her shoulders.  Every time he saw her she seemed even more beautiful, more unattainable, yet undeniably his in a way he could not fathom.  He gazed at her in silence, and caught off-guard by his own reaction and hemmed in by the presence of his family, he could not find the words to speak.

Elrond sensed his son’s dilemma and quietly withdrew, leaving his children alone. Neither the King nor the Queen noticed as he left, still locked into immobility by their first sight of each other after so long. Elladan turned to his twin, amusement twinkling in his eyes. Elrohir grinned back, pushing himself upright with an exaggerated sigh as his brother made it to his feet. Together they walked towards the door, slipping between the love-struck pair, but as Elladan’s hand closed on the door handle Aragorn’s head turned towards him and they stopped.

Two pairs of grey eyes locked intently on the bedraggled form of their younger brother, though the youngest looked many years the oldest now. Once such intense scrutiny had caused him discomfort, but grown now into greater experience with elves Aragorn no longer felt stripped of defences under their ageless gaze. Not defenceless, but still speechless.  His own forced revelations were too fresh to frame the apology he owed his brothers for his rejection of their care and companionship, and though some burdens had been lifted from his shoulders not all such worries could be erased with simple words. There remained much the three of them needed to work out for themselves, to adjust to the changes in their lives. He did not wish in that moment to utter some platitude to smooth over wounds in their relationship, only to promise that it mattered to him to do so.

In the end it was Elladan who broke the silence, tipping his head towards Arwen as he spoke. ‘Our sister is growing impatient, Estel,’ he said with a grin. ‘When she has finished scolding you, Elrohir and I will be glad to patch you up. We’ll be here if you need us, anytime,’ he added after a pause. He turned to leave, hooking an arm over his twin’s shoulders, all three of them overcome with the sudden urge to look anywhere but at each other.  When their eyes met again, Aragorn’s bright gaze conveyed his unspoken thanks. The twins nodded in acknowledgement, both together sketching slight, teasing bows as they left. Some lessons they had learned also.

Aragorn smiled as the door closed behind them, turning back to his wife who was still watching him without expression. He grimaced, eyeing her warily. ‘Am I going to need their assistance?’

Arwen said nothing, her eyes travelling slowly over her husband’s weary, rumpled form. Concern flickered in her eyes as she took in the bloodstains on his tunic, and the exhausted slump of his shoulders. Then her gaze settled on his face and she smiled. ‘I think you might survive.’

Aragorn made a strangled noise halfway between a sob and a laugh. Swiftly he closed the distance between them, overwhelmed by emotion and needing to feel her closeness. She allowed herself to be gathered into a tight embrace, burying her head in his shoulder.

‘I have missed you, my love,’ she whispered, feeling the tremors that ran through his frame at her touch.

Aragorn sighed, teasing his fingers through her hair. ‘I am sorry I have been gone so long. I should not have left you alone.’

‘I was not alone, Estel,’ she answered. ‘But that is not what I meant.’ Huge liquid eyes held his for a long moment as she looked deep into his heart. ‘Are you ready now to love me as you promised you would?’

He let his forehead to rest against hers, unable to answer at once. ‘I have always loved you,’ he said at last as he held her tightly to him. ‘Always.’ The word was spoken with such fierce insistence that Arwen could not help but smile.

‘I know, Estel. Perhaps instead I should have asked, are you ready yet to love yourself?’

He tensed and began to pull away, but she grasped him fiercely in her turn and prevented his retreat. ‘Please Arwen,’ he begged. ‘Please don’t do this.’

‘Why not? Is it right that you should discuss your fears for us with my brothers and my father but not with me?’ She released her grip on him and took a step back. ‘If my decision troubles you, it is I who should reassure you.’

‘Ah, but I did not wish for you to be troubled also,’ Aragorn replied, watching her sadly. ‘If the fault was in my understanding, why should you suffer for it?’

‘And what is your understanding?’ she challenged him, sudden fire flashing in her eyes. ‘Mine is simple. I love you, and that is enough for me.’

‘And I love you, so much.’ He drew her close. ‘Do not mistake me. It may have taken me longer but I understand now, that our love is both triumphant, and a tragedy, and that it must be both. To see it otherwise would be to diminish the wonder of it.’

‘A tragedy it may be for one of us,’ Arwen replied softly, her lips brushing his cheek. ‘But that time is not on us yet.’ Her hand snaked round his neck and slim fingers curled around a lock of dark hair, yanking it sharply. As he gasped at the sudden pain she pulled again, her voice bared steel at his throat. ‘And that time is a long way off, Estel, unless your foolishness should bring it on us before our time.’ She drew back without releasing her death grip on his hair. ‘If you ever endanger your life again in such a way you will realise that all the trials you have faced so far are nothing compared to what I will do to you. Do you understand that?’

He laughed, removing her hand from his hair. ‘I do, very well. And you shall not need to, I promise. For I have no wish to suffer the humiliation my brothers shall heap on my head if I need to seek them out when you are done with me.’

‘Wise choice, my love,’ she agreed approvingly, taking his hand and leading him to the bench. ‘Sit,’ she ordered, ‘for I can see you are weary.’

He grinned, slipping an arm around her waist as he made to sit. Ignoring the comfort of the cushioned seat, he settled on the floor, dragging her down with him so she sat in his lap. ‘I have missed you, Undomiel. I have missed the way you make me smile, and lighten the burdens of this life.’

‘Must it be a burden, Estel?’ she asked, suddenly serious. ‘Is this not what you wanted?’

‘You are what I want,’ he replied. ‘What I always wanted. The rest. . .’ He shrugged. ‘The rest I had to do, for you and myself, but with you by my side it will never truly be a burden.’

She kissed him lightly on his chin. ‘Then I am content.’

* * *

They sat there, together, for many hours, in a silence more beautiful for the perfect understanding between them. It was an understanding that had never been lacking, just lost for a time under the pressures of change. Lost but now found, and they celebrated its return in quiet contemplation of each other.

At length Arwen stirred, raising her head from her husband’s shoulder. ‘What are you thinking?’

Aragorn laughed. ‘That if I am going to be spending so much time on the floor we really need to get some rugs. This stone is uncomfortably cold.’

‘Perhaps we should retire somewhere warmer then,’ Arwen suggested with a coy smile. ‘You have been gone a long time, my love.’

‘That I have,’ he answered, grinning at the shyness that was all affectation. There was nothing coy about Arwen.  He leant down to kiss her when the sound of voices outside the doors made him pause. Sighing in irritation he drew back, and contented himself with just gazing into her eyes and the promise that burned in them.

The voices fell silent. For a moment they held their breath, willing their visitors to go away, then there was a sudden commotion and the doors swung open as Gimli stumbled through and almost fell on his face on the threshold. The dwarf swore viciously as he straightened, looking naked without his steel helm and ringed tunic, then he caught sight of them sitting there watching him and flushed deeply. Muttered apologies were lost as he began flinging curses at the blond elf leaning negligently against the doorframe, arms folded across his chest.

Unsure whether to be amused or angered Aragorn just shook his head. ‘Do not apologise, my friend,’ he assured the outraged dwarf as he got to his feet and reached down a hand to help Arwen up. ‘Legolas has few qualms when it comes to my privacy. That he learnt from my brothers.’ He turned his attention to the dwarf’s companion with a cool smile. ‘And what brings you here that is so urgent you could not knock?’

Legolas looked affronted. ‘Why I was just about to knock when Gimli lost his footing and fell through,’ he explained innocently, ignoring the rumble of fury at his side. ‘And it was Lord Faramir who sent me, to remind you of the banquet to be held this night in honour of your return.’

‘Tonight?’ Aragorn looked puzzled. ‘We have only this day returned.’ But even as the words passed his lips he realised his error and winced at the sudden gleam in his friend’s eyes that told him he would not let this one go by.

Legolas arched one delicate eyebrow. ‘Today, Estel? I’m afraid that we returned yesterday. Perhaps you were so caught up in your reunion you did not notice?’ His blue eyes widened even further as he appeared to take in the ragged state of the king for the first time. ‘Or perhaps not,’ he murmured, mischief sparkling in his gaze. ‘We heard you had been taking you rest in odd places, Estel, but I did not realise your brothers meant you had been sleeping in the stables.’ At Aragorn’s growl he looked even more astonished. ‘You were not? Well then I cannot think how you have come to be so, ah, dishevelled. Perhaps it would be best if you were to change before coming to the feast? Or you may find yourself arrested for disgracing Elessar’s fine table.’ He smiled beatifically in the face of his friend’s mute rage. ‘Come Gimli,’ he motioned to the embarrassed dwarf at his side. ‘Let us at least not keep Gondor’s fine nobility waiting.’ And with that the elf spun on his heel and left the room, a slight hitching of the shoulders all that betrayed his mirth.

Gimli hesitated a moment before following, his face beet red to match his beard. He looked between the king and queen, the one silent and angry the other openly amused, and shook his head. ‘How. . ?’ he began, then stopped, muttering into his beard as he turned to retreat hurriedly after his friend. The unmistakable tones of an angry dwarf as he berated the unrepentant elf reached them long after the pair had disappeared.

Left alone once more Arwen laughed. ‘I think that was Legolas’ way of seeing how you fared,’ she said in defence of her friend as Aragorn’s scowl deepened. ‘It is Gimli I feel sorry for.’

‘Indeed,’ a gruff, worn voice commented from the doorway. ‘I see that the prince has not yet tired of tormenting our poor dwarf. Though I fear Legolas may test his patience to its limits soon, and have a shock of his own.’

Aragorn spun around in surprise and stared at Gandalf. He had not heard the wizard enter. ‘No doubt, though Gimli is not the only one he torments,’ he replied wryly, hiding his wince at the sudden movement. His eyes narrowed as he saw the glimmer of laughter in the wizard’s gaze. ‘In fact sometimes I think the whole fellowship has taken a leaf out of my brothers’ book and taken it upon themselves to torture me. Forgive my suspicion, but I doubt you have come here to inquire after my health.’

‘Your health?’ Gandalf murmured, managing to look put upon. ‘Does it need inquiring after? I had not heard.’ This they both knew for a lie as little happened without Gandalf being aware of it, but taking this as an assurance that he was not about to be pestered Aragorn was prepared to forgive the evasion. ‘No, no, I was hoping you could spare me a few hours. There is something I wish to show you.’

Aragorn glanced at Arwen, then back at the wizard. He was dressed in the travelled stained grey robes of old, the pristine white of his new position nowhere in evidence. ‘I find it is easier to sneak about like this,’ he explained with a small shrug. ‘White stands out so much more, and your guards are really quite alert.’

‘We will be needing to evade my guards?’ the King asked with forced patience. He looked again at Arwen, and saw the curiosity in her clear eyes had turned to mild apprehension, and guessed its source. To Gandalf he said, ‘You are aware there is a feast this evening that I must attend.’

The wizard smiled. ‘Of course you must, my dear boy. It is a feast to welcome your safe return. I promise I shall not keep you too long. But if your lady will permit, there really is something you I think you need to see.’ He bowed to Arwen, a crafty glint in his eyes.  ‘That is, if you are well enough.’

Suppressing a growl of annoyance, Aragorn reached out to catch hold of his sword belt and strapped it round his waist. He knew when he was beaten. ‘Very well,’ he agreed with obvious reluctance, ‘let us go.’

‘Oh, not that way,’ Gandalf stopped him hurriedly as he walked to the door. At Aragorn’s impatient look he gestured at his travelling garb, and his battered hat held snugly under one arm.

Aragorn grinned. ‘Ah, I forgot. We’re evading my guards.’ And he turned towards his bedroom, walking straight out onto the balcony. As Gondor’s king climbed somewhat stiffly over the edge and perched lightly on the narrow rail, Gandalf looked on, impressed and delighted. ‘I see you have been practising,’ he observed as Aragorn looked up. ‘If only your advisors could see you now.’

A pleasant afternoon for a gentle stroll was Gandalf’s evasive reply to Aragorn’s rather insistent demands to know where they were going. He has become very . . . commanding . . . since ascending to the throne, the wizard mused irritably as he observed his companion’s tight expression. Well, I suppose that is not such a bad trait in a ruler, he allowed, if only he did not practise it on me.

But Aragorn knew Gandalf well and had ceased to ask several hours ago, having learned first hand that when the wizard did not wish to answer a question he could ignore it indefinitely. They had been walking in silence for some time now, old friends used to travelling in each other’s company, yet this was not quite the same silence as of old. There was a tension between them that made the quiet oppressive rather than companionable, and Gandalf found himself giving into nostalgia – not an emotion he usually indulged in. As he looked at the grown man beside him he remembered with fondness the youth he’d met so long ago, little more than a boy really, a young ranger on his first outing into the wilds alone. For years he had watched Estel from afar as he rode out with his foster brothers, but the wizard had never intruded on their company, understanding that for the elves, though they held great love and respect for him, his presence would be a bitter reminder of the future they strove so hard to deny. And so, when Aragorn departed Rivendell and his family amid the turmoil of many revelations, Gandalf engineered a chance meeting with the man, unwilling to allow Isildur’s Heir to go unguarded through this first real test of his strength.

They became good friends, this unlikely pair, though unlikely were all Gandalf’s affairs and acquaintances, and whole seasons they spent together on their travels, roaming far across Middle Earth. Even back then Aragorn had been a troubled man, burdened by the weight of discovering his true identity – the past failures of his line and the uncertainty of his future - not to mention the awakening emotions Arwen had roused in him, yet he had always been merry and open, and full of mischief unrivalled since the sons of Elrond in the years before Celebrian’s departure for the West. But as the years passed, and the young man grew older, he changed. He travelled more often alone into dark places and great dangers, shunning the company of the rangers and his family for years at a time and only meeting with Arwen again in Lothlorien had lightened his grim countenance and the worried hearts of his friends.

But Arwen’s love, so long desired, had brought its own griefs to the solitary ranger. Against his father’s express command he had accepted Arwen’s pledge at Cerin Amroth and the resulting fallout had damaged the relationship between father and son, driving Aragorn further from the support of his family and deeper into despairing solitude. Gandalf had long been aware of the growing distance between Elrond and his fosterling but it was neither his place nor inclination to interfere in the matter. Aragorn had never spoken of it to him and the wizard knew him well enough to allow him the privacy he so obviously desired. Others had not possessed such patience, two rascal elven twins in particular, and they had received short shrift for their trouble. The way Glorfindel told it, they had never looked so discomforted when Aragorn told them in no uncertain terms that he did not appreciate their meddling.

Well, Elrond and Aragorn might have resolved their differences but Gandalf could feel an argument of his own with the Elf-lord coming on. He will have my hide for this, he thought, looking sideways at his companion, studying him closely without appearing to. Aragorn’s posture was stiff and forced. His efforts to hide his discomfort might have succeeded in less observant company, but the old wizard had known this man a long time, and through many trials. The slight tightening around the eyes and casual bracing of his side as he climbed fairly shouted his pain to those who knew what to look for.

Halting for a moment, hands resting lightly on his knees, Gandalf allowed the King of Gondor a moment to recover without forcing him to ask. Regretting his decision to make this journey now, his gaze travelled up the slopes of the mountain, attempting to gauge the difficulty of their path. Feeling a movement behind he turned to find Aragorn perched awkwardly on a rock, staring out over the city far below. On the verge of suggesting they turn back Gandalf heard him sigh, and the curious mixture of love and despair in his eyes gave the wizard pause. No, this is right, he corrected himself. He needs to know that this is where he belongs. Surely Elrond will understand.

Gandalf sighed. Elrond. There was another who worried him. It was his encounter with the Elf-lord that morning that had caused them to be here, and he could not remember ever having seen him so unsettled. Not that his agitation had been apparent on his face – for he always retained his outward calm - but Gandalf had known the Lord of Imladris for centuries, long enough that from him Elrond could never completely hide his feelings.  And it was a testament to just how distressed he had been that the wizard had managed to draw from him the details of his talk with Aragorn.

Already alerted to the fact that something was amiss by the fact that the king had not been seen since the return of the army to Minas Tirith, and Faramir’s tight-lipped silence, Elrond’s story had alarmed him enough to seek out Aragorn for himself. Among the wise of Middle Earth he might be, but even wizards were fallible, and it was with sincere regret that Gandalf realised that the conflict he’d observed in the new king had brought him to such a low; regret that he had not revealed his secret before. But he’d wished to save this moment until the last of Sauron’s minions had been driven from Gondor, unwilling to proclaim the final proof of the return of a dynasty while its figurehead, and only true heir, could still be slain in the war to free his lands.

‘Why have we come here, Gandalf?’ Aragorn asked suddenly, watching him with a curious frown.

The wizard started, realising that their brief rest had already stretched into several long minutes. He smiled, hitching up his robes as he pressed his staff firmly into the ground, preparing to move on. ‘Oh, we are not there yet,’ he replied, inclining his head once more towards the summit of Mount Mindolluin. ‘And if you wish to return in time for the feast we had better get going.’

Aragorn grimaced at the unwelcome reminder of one of his least favourite kingly duties and pushed himself to his feet. ‘It was not I who stopped to admire the view,’ he pointed out mildly as he began to climb. ‘And you have not yet answered my question. Why here?’

Gandalf grunted and didn’t reply, turning his attention once more to the trail. After a pause he felt Aragorn swallow his irritation and do likewise. At least he has not abandoned patience entirely, the wizard thought. For that is an indispensable virtue in a king.

As the path levelled out, winding between the great rocks to the ancient hallow of the kings, Aragorn stumbled over a jagged stone and pulled up sharply. Gandalf turned on the track, watching with narrowed eyes as his friend straightened slowly, one hand pressed tight against his side. It was hard to pick out any fresh blood on a tunic already rusty with drying stains, but the red tint to his finger’s told their own tale.

Striding swiftly back down the path to offer his assistance, cursing his own foolishness and dreading Elrond’s lecture, Gandalf was brought up short by the trapped and angry look on the king’s face that told him clearly to stay back.

‘Peace, Aragorn,’ he said gently. ‘Your enemies are all defeated; you have only friends here. Though Master Elrond does not take kindly to those who undo his good work, and unless he has learned greater tolerance both you and I will be feeling the rough side of his tongue if I return you in this state.’ He stopped, as Aragorn’s frown transformed into a far more familiar look. Gandalf smiled. ‘I will not fuss, my friend,’ he assured him. ‘I only wish to help you, as I have done before. Will you let me?’

‘I may not like to be fussed over, but that does not mean I would refuse your help did I need it,’ the king snapped tiredly, conveniently forgetting his actions towards his brothers in the days just gone.

‘That you do not need it is no reason I should not give it,’ the wizard corrected mildly, a note of amusement in his voice. ‘There is no one to see us here, King Elessar. Your reputation will remain in tact.’

A spasm of anger crossed Aragorn’s face for an instant, then the tension seemed to drain out of him and he eased himself down to sit on a rock. ‘In which case, Mithrandir, I will gladly accept your aid, though my need is slight. Between my father and my brothers, I have been well cared for.’

Gandalf grunted, joints creaking as he lowered himself to his knees to better tend to his patient. ‘That is not quite the way I heard it,’ he commented at last, and felt the muscles under his fingers tense. ‘Oh yes, my boy, I have spoken with Master Elrond, and he told me of your uncomfortable night.’ Looking up into a troubled pair of grey eyes, he shook his head slowly and asked, ‘What happened, Aragorn? It is not like you to be so careless.’

Aragorn laughed softly, running a hand through his unruly, tangled hair. ‘Careless? If you wish to provoke me you’ll have to do better than an accusation I have long since tired of hearing. I would guess you have been speaking with my brothers, for that is just such a word as Elladan would use.’

‘Aye, your brothers and Legolas also. And they are only worried about you so you need not be angry with them,’ he added hastily as he saw Aragorn’s face darken with displeasure. ‘So tell me, is it the right word? Were you careless?’

‘How would they know?’ the king replied with a fond smile. ‘They are elves. They are never careless, though they seem convinced we mortals are forever plagued by this fault.’

Gandalf laughed. ‘Yet some of their own traits have worn off on you, I see, for you are still avoiding my question. What happened?’

Aragorn stirred restlessly, peering down to watch the wizard at work as he rebandaged the wound with practised skill. He was silent so long that Gandalf feared he would refuse to answer, and felt something in himself mourn for the apparent loss of trust between them. Yet after a while Aragorn shook himself from his reverie, and the unhappy bent of his thoughts was clear as he spoke. ‘War happened. Always war. Men marched and fought and died for me.’

‘Not just for you, but for Gondor also,’ Gandalf replied quickly, looking up and holding his gaze. ‘You cannot claim all the credit, nor take all the blame.’

‘They were still my men,’ Aragorn countered, uncomfortable under the wizard’s penetrating gaze. ‘They still died because I sent them into battle. A whole army, Gandalf! Thousands of men who go to war at my orders, who are sworn to protect me. Who am I to command their life and death?’

‘You are their king, a king who has finally returned to them after centuries of waiting. Why should they not fight – and yes, die – for their rightful king? A man who fought for years in secret to keep them safe. If not for you, and others like you, this land of Gondor would have fallen under the shadow and yoke of Mordor. They know this.’

Aragorn shook his head, his face weary with pain, wincing as the wizard tied off the linen and lowered his shirt. ‘Perhaps, but kingship brings such responsibility, such dizzying power. Whole armies . . .such a power is easily abused.’

‘But not by you, Aragorn.’ Gandalf rose to his feet, placing his hands on his friend’s shoulders. ‘I know you too well. Such abuse as that is not in you or you would have succumbed to the power of the ring long before this day. Were you that man, Gondor would be a dead land, and all her people forgotten. You will neither abuse nor neglect your trust. You will be a good king.’

But Aragorn did not reply, and the wizard sighed. He had not believed the man’s doubts would run this deep. ‘Do you think I have not noticed your suffering,’ he asked gently. ‘This has not been easy for you, and nor should it have been. The man who did not doubt as you do would not be fit to sit on your throne, but neither is he who cannot get past those doubts. Have a care, Aragorn, that you do not let your doubts become those of your people also, or you may find that you can still lose all that you fought so hard to win. And I would not like to see that happen,’ he continued, a smile breaking the gravity of his face as he gave a comforting squeeze to the shoulder under his hand. ‘For I am glad you have finally returned home.’

Aragorn turned away, breaking the wizard’s hold, and stared out at his city once more. ‘So you say,’ he murmured, gazing sadly at the White Tower. ‘So everyone tells me, and so I hope in my heart. But soon you will leave, my father and the elves will leave, and I will be without your counsel that I sorely need.  And the Tree in the Court of the Fountain stands withered still and there is no more life in it. If I am the rightful king, the true king, when will I see a sign? For if I do not, I will always doubt.’

‘Then look outwards not inwards,’ Gandalf commanded, leaning on his staff. ‘Turn your eyes from your city where all is green and full of life. Look where it is barren and cold and behold the other seed that has come to fruition in the long years of your trials.’ And he stood aside so Aragorn could see past him into the hallow where he had not yet looked, and there he saw the youthful growth of the silver sapling, a small cluster of flowers sparkling in the sun’s light reflected by the snow. ‘There is your sign. You need doubt no longer that the true king of Gondor has returned.’

* * *

Aragorn didn’t move at once. His face was frozen in an expression of wonder, happiness and utter desolation. As he stared at the youthful sapling he read his own future, one that was both feared and longed for, but as he felt the final barriers inside himself crumble at this final proof of his destiny he also perceived his last escape route slam shut behind him with such force that he imagined the ground trembled beneath his feet.

This was the moment.  All others had simply been building up to this. Forcing back the thoughts he knew were unworthy of him Aragorn allowed the sight of the silver tree to unlock that place within him that even Arwen had been unable to reach, the part of him that was born to be king. For so many years visions of this moment had invaded his dreams, tantalising him with its promise, and it was only now, in the fulfilment of that vision, that he realised how deeply the lack of it had tormented him in the months since he had ascended the throne. This was the final seal on his victory, and the absence of it had felt like a rejection of his kingship. Yet all that time and longer the tree had been here, waiting for him, and he wondered how long Gandalf had known for it was several years at least since the first shoots had broken through the cold earth.   

‘Go on,’ Gandalf prompted, when still he didn’t move. ‘Take it. It is for you and your descendents that it grows, and it too longs to be returned to its rightful place.’

He took one shaky step forward, then another, and as he walked his steps grew firmer and full of purpose. Folding to his knees on the frozen ground he reached out a hand to touch the smooth bark of the trunk, and ran his fingers along the blossoming branch to cradle the delicate flowers in his palm.

‘How is it that it is here?’ he murmured. ‘The White Tree withered and died many generations ago, yet this is no more than a few years old.’

‘Who can say?’ the wizard answered him. ‘But here it is, and this is the hour when it has been found. Take it, King Elessar, and cherish it, and if ever this tree should bear a ripened fruit, take it and plant it here, for this is an ancient and noble line and it should not be allowed to fade from this world.’

‘Your wisdom shall guide me in this, as in so much else,’ Aragorn replied, taking hold of the slender yet sturdy trunk. To his surprise shallow roots released their grip in the earth at only the slightest pressure, and the tree came away undamaged in his grasp. Taking off his cloak, oblivious to the mountain chill, he wrapped the soft elven cloth around the sapling, lest rough handling damage any of the precious boughs. Then he rose to his feet and turned back to Gandalf and smiled, the genuine, infectious expression of happiness the wizard had so missed.  ‘Shall we go?’ he inquired with a tip of his head towards the city. ‘For I fear we have already kept them waiting long enough.’

‘That we have,’ Gandalf replied with a smile of his own. ‘That we have.’

* * *

It was dark by the time they returned to the citadel and the courtyard was empty except for the guards, for everyone else was at the feast. Gandalf walked a few steps in front, Aragorn behind him cradling the precious sapling in his arms, wrapped in the folds of his cloak. They crossed to where the withered tree still stood, a haunting skeleton in the silver moonlight, and the king knelt on the flagstones, reverently placing his burden under the barren eaves of its forebear.

‘You’re late.’

Aragorn jumped, startled by the unexpected voice. He swivelled round in a crouch and saw Legolas sitting in the shadows of a recessed doorway, watching him. Straightening up, embarrassed to have been caught by surprise, he looked questioningly at the knife the elf was sharpening with long, deliberate strokes with his whetstone.

‘Expecting trouble?’ he asked.

Legolas gave him an odd look. ‘Only for you,’ he replied laconically, rising smoothly to his feet. ‘I have distracted your brothers for the moment but I fear they are not happy with you. The feast began at sundown and you were not to be found. Arwen was, well, let us say she was not pleased at having to preside in your stead, and you know that when Arwen is not happy, her brothers can get quite difficult.’ He smiled, jumping lightly down the steps and walking towards the nervous king. ‘However, I believe they will be occupied elsewhere for sometime.  Gimli was very cooperative, after a bit of persuasion.’

Aragorn’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. ‘What did you do?’

‘Oh, nothing serious,’ the elf replied airily, peering past him to where Nimloth’s sapling nestled in the folds of his cloak. ‘What have you there? Flowers would have been better but I suppose you can hardly expect such courtesies from a ranger. The bush will do well enough, Estel. I’m sure Arwen will forgive you everything.’

Aragorn scowled and behind him he heard Gandalf choke back a laugh.

‘That is no bush, young prince,’ the wizard told him, though he knew Legolas was merely baiting his friend. No elf could look upon the seed of Telperion and not recognise what they saw.  ‘This is a scion of the Eldest of Trees, awakened now in the hour of the king’s return. A worthy excuse for tardiness, wouldn’t you say?’

‘Oh, I would,’ Legolas replied. ‘But I am not the one you have to convince.’

Aragorn laughed, as behind him two figures stepped silently through the archway. ‘I think this once they will understand.’

‘Indeed, Estel?’

‘What will we understand?’

‘The fact that you have, yet again, contrived to make us sit through another feast while you entertained yourself elsewhere?’

Aragorn swallowed as he turned to his brothers, side-by-side and darkly dangerous in the shadows of the arches. ‘Elladan. Elrohir. We were just speaking of you.’

‘So we heard,’ Elladan replied, advancing on him with controlled steps. ‘You were, perhaps, going to offer your apologies for not attending? And you, Thranduilion,’ he added, giving Legolas a hard look. ‘Do not think that we will forget this episode.’

The Silvan elf’s eyes widened innocently, and without a trace of the fear most would feel on receiving such a glare from Elrond’s eldest son. ‘I am not responsible for Gimli,’ he pointed out reasonably. ‘A drunken dwarf is his own master.’

‘LEGOLAS!’

The twins smiled smugly as the elf spun around, and Aragorn was amused to see a look of trepidation cross his face as Gimli stalked towards him. The dwarf was soaked, water dripping from his braids and clinging to his beard, and his boots squelched as he walked. His face was an angry red and his eyes held a wild, crazed look, but without a glimmer of the intoxication of which he had been accused. Whatever mischief Legolas had cooked up this evening, it seemed that for once it might catch up with him.

‘That,’ growled Gimli, as he crossed the courtyard, ‘is that last time I let you talk me into anything!’

Casting a desperate glance in the direction of the gates, Legolas backed up a step only to find that the twins had moved to block his escape. Realising he was going nowhere, he turned his attention to the irate and dangerous dwarf.

‘Come now, Gimli,’ he soothed. ‘I merely suggested that you . . .’

‘You set these two rogues onto me is what you did!’ the dwarf interrupted, jabbing his finger into his friend’s stomach. ‘Such a pair of uncivilised, ill-mannered, disrespectful . . .’

‘What have my sons done now, Master Dwarf?’ another voice asked wearily, and they all turned to see Elrond enter the courtyard, Arwen and Faramir at his back. ‘I assure you I shall punish them appropriately for it.’

‘Ada!’ exclaimed two voices simultaneously. ‘We thought you were at the feast!’

‘As I believed you to be,’ their father returned acidly. ‘Though it seems the real gathering is out here.’ He paused, watching as Arwen made her way to her husband’s side and was welcomed into his arms. Keen eyes scanned the weary form of his foster son, then sought out the wizard at his shoulder. ‘Mithrandir,’ he greeted Istari coolly, ‘I would have expected you to know better.’

‘Oh nonsense, Elrond,’ Gandalf retorted, ignoring the poisonous glares directed at him from more than one quarter. ‘The boy’s fine. We just went for a short stroll.’

‘Short?’ Elrond’s eyebrow climbed into his hairline. ‘You have been gone all day and half the night and you tell me it was short?’

‘Well, perhaps I misjudged the timing slightly,’ the wizard conceded, unruffled. ‘But I hope you will agree that the result was worth the effort. Now,’ he continued hastily before Elrond could object, ‘I think everyone who should be is here. Aragorn, it is time to uproot the old, and set the new in its place.’

And Aragorn nodded, pulling away from Arwen and kneeling beside the withered tree once more. With kingly reverence he took down the dead trunk and laid it on the earth, and released the silver sapling from the folds of his cloak. A collective gasp of awe filled the small courtyard as the moon’s light picked out the new blossom on the crown, then silence descended as Aragorn gently placed the roots in the hole left by its predecessor and stepped back.  The White Tree, descendent of the Eldest, stood tall and proud without support, and he bowed his head in acknowledgement of its beauty, and silent welcome to his home.

How long he stood thus he could not have said, lost in the moment than was bittersweet in so many ways. He had stepped up to claim his place in the new order, for his sovereignty had begun, and the sovereignty of Men over Middle Earth, but here he stood among his elven kindred whose time had been proclaimed at an end. Yet there was no sadness in the silence that enveloped him, only great love and hope, and he opened his heart to embrace it as he opened his arms to encircle his wife. When at last he raised his head and looked around, he saw shining in the eyes of his friends their loyalty and adoration for the king whose true crowning they had just witnessed. And he knew he had finally found his peace.

The End