Arwen’s Heart

‘Why,’ Arwen enquired politely, even as she set careful stitches in her embroidery, ‘am I being kept away from Imladris?’

Celeborn shifted his mild gaze from his granddaughter to fix it on his wife.  It was a question he had been long expecting.  In fact, the only surprise was that Arwen had not put it before.

Silver-grey eyes lifted to inspect the Lady of the Golden Wood from under long black lashes.  The silence extended, but Arwen was skilled enough at negotiating with her grandmother to recognise the ploy and she refused to fill the opening with needless remarks.

‘Are you no longer content with us here in Lothlórien?’ Galadriel returned gently.  The sun caught her needle as a spark of light before she buried it in the golden flower.

Not an answer, Celeborn thought, but clever.  Enough hurt in her voice to make a lesser opponent apologise, but, at the same time, not so much as to sound deliberate.  But Arwen, young as she seemed to him, was not a lesser opponent.  She was Celebrían’s daughter, and Elrond’s – and she had absorbed her grandmother’s own subtlety over these many years.

‘Daeradar?’

And that proved it, he decided ruefully.  He was now being pushed into siding with either his wife or his granddaughter – and either choice seemed to him to be dangerous.  He stood to annoy either one or both, depending on his choice of words. 

‘The passes are not safe, my granddaughter,’ he said.  ‘I would not wish to expose you to any risk.’

It was true enough, after all.  And a concern for her safety was not something she could dispute, not after what had happened to her naneth.

‘Yet my brothers arrived alone and will depart alone,’ Arwen remarked dispassionately.  ‘Are the passes safer when they are traversing them?’

Celeborn spread his hands.  ‘I would not have them travel without guards,’ he admitted.  ‘But they are warriors – and I cannot stop them.’  He sighed, a faint breath that would have passed unobserved by one who knew him less well than his daughter’s youngest child.  He did not like what his grandsons had become in their grief for their naneth.  For a century or two they had been as adamant in their quest to rid Arda of the orcs whose kind had dared lay hands on the Lady of Imladris and he had feared that, in their savagery, they were at risk of becoming what they desired to destroy.  He had done his best to open their minds to what they were doing, as had their daernaneth, but neither of them had been able to penetrate the diamond-hard shell of ice in which the twins had sealed themselves. Only time had served to thin this barrier; time and their growing affection for the men with whom they spent so much of their time.

Elrond, too, had been close to collapse as, yet again, he had faced the defilement of what he most valued and the destruction of his family.   It had been all Glorfindel could do to stop him breaking under the strain.  His son-in-law, however, was made of tough stuff and had been dragged to the brink before.  He had survived, and healed, as much as one could.  He would endure as long as was needed.

Their granddaughter, he thought, looking at her, had been all they felt they could protect from the ruin – and they had done their best to shield her, here in the timeless peace of the Golden Wood.  And in saving her, they had saved themselves.  The need to be strong for Arwen had forced him to put aside his own grief, and continue to plan the defence of their home.  Galadriel had turned her protective instincts to ensuring that Arwen continued to live in a home among those who loved her, while they both guarded her from the despair that came close to breaking her adar and brothers. 

‘Yet I would wish to spend time with them and my adar,’ Arwen remarked.  ‘I fail to see why I cannot travel with them.  I have done so before.  Is the journey so much more dangerous now that you would not trust me to their care?’

She suspected something, Celeborn thought, a sharp pang making him catch his breath as the endless nights of bitter dispute returned to pain him.  For all his insistence and for all her care, Galadriel had not managed to conceal from his Evenstar all awareness of the choices that would be set before her. 

‘Why now?’ Galadriel asked, taking her granddaughter’s attention and giving him time to recover.  ‘There is no urgency, surely?’   She leaned forward to select another skein of silk and her gilt curtain of hair hid her face.  ‘We can plan to visit in a few seasons, when we can travel with a large enough party to be sure that the dark creatures will huddle in their dens.’

Arwen gazed at her daernaneth steadily before lowering her eyes again to her stitching.  ‘My brothers tell me that a child of the Dúnedain has come with his mother to dwell among the elves of Imladris.  Yet the boy has only an elven name.’  She glanced swiftly at Celeborn, who remained impassive.  ‘He would seem to be a blessing from the Valar, this nameless child,’ she said conversationally.  ‘My brothers seem more alive than they have been for centuries – I believe they see themselves in him as he grows.’  She paused again, but her grandparents did not respond.  ‘He calls Elrond his adar.’ 

A whisper of sound came to Arwen’s ears as her daernaneth breathed a deep sigh.  ‘You know that your adar considers the Dúnedain of the North to be his kin,’ she said sadly.  ‘It would be like him to take a fatherless child under his care.’

‘Particularly,’ Arwen observed, ‘if the father he lacks was named Arathorn.’

She could almost taste the tension in the silence that followed and a spark of curiosity stirred to a flame as she wondered what it was about the child that caused her grandparents to feel – and hide – such concern.

‘Precisely,’ Galadriel agreed pleasantly.

***

‘Any luck?’ Elrohir asked as his sister joined them on the sun-warmed rocks by the pool.

Arwen’s flounce as she wormed her way between the twins made words needless.

‘I told you that you would not get anywhere with Daernaneth,’ Elladan said easily.  ‘She will tell you only what she wants you to know.’

‘She has told me – without a word spoken – that she has no intention of making it easy for me to return to Imladris in the next few years,’ Arwen said with exasperation. ‘And Daeradar is as bad.  I cannot see why they are proving so obstinate.’

‘Perhaps she has seen something,’ Elrohir shrugged.  ‘Nothing definite – but enough to make her cautious.  She would not want to see you in any danger.  I do not think she has forgiven herself for not foreseeing Naneth’s peril.’

Elladan looked up briefly, a bleakness in his eyes that sharpened the angles of his face.  Arwen put her hand on his arm and stroked it reassuringly.  ‘Stay here, little sister,’ he said flatly.  ‘Time means nothing – you can spend a hundred years making it up to Adar.  He would rather live without you for an age than see you put yourself at risk.’

‘Do you not think he feels the same about you?’  Arwen held her brother’s gaze.

‘We are past that now,’ Elrohir intervened.  ‘Being a warrior brings dangers with it – but we take no more chances than any other.  Trust me, Arwen.’  He smiled slightly and amended his final words.  ‘Trust us.’ 

Arwen continued to stare at her brother.  ‘You seem more at ease,’ she acknowledged finally.  ‘Warmer than you have been in a long time.’

‘Blame it on the boy,’ Elrohir said ruefully.  ‘We tried to keep him out of our hearts – we do not need to lose another heir of the Dúnedain to old age and death. . .’

‘Or to an orc’s arrow,’ Elladan muttered bitterly.

Elrohir frowned. ‘But he put his faith in us – we told him we would look after him, and he is holding us to our word.’

‘I would like to see him,’ Arwen admitted.  ‘It is part of the reason I would like to travel to Imladris now.  There have been no elflings in Lothlórien these many years – and the thought of a little one to mother is very appealing.’

‘He has his naneth, little sister,’ Elladan told her.  ‘Gilraen loves him dearly – and she would not allow poaching.  She wants the boy to grow up whole-heartedly a son of the Dúnedain – not an incomplete elf.’

Arwen sighed.  ‘I have helped Adar educate many of Isildur’s heirs,’ she remarked.  ‘And I fail to see why Daernaneth intends to make it so difficult for me to know Arathorn’s son.’

‘It is no matter,’ Elrohir shrugged.  ‘He will be young for a decade or two yet.  You have time to put your stamp on him.’

‘You could always run away.’  Elladan nudged his sister.  ‘You could sneak off among the trees, and we could pick you up as we leave.’

Elrohir’s eyebrows could not have lifted any higher. ‘And you think we might get away with something like that?’ he asked incredulously.  ‘With Daeradar’s march wardens on the prowl and Daernaneth’s uncanny knowledge of just exactly what is in your mind?’

‘We could try it.’  Elladan grinned and stretched lazily.  ‘It is a long time since we have tried to get anything over on our grandparents.  They would not be expecting it – and they would enjoy the challenge.’

‘Do not be so foolish,’ Arwen scolded them.  ‘I am not going to abuse Daernaneth’s kindness by trying to deceive her – and I still would refuse, even if I thought there was any chance of success.’

‘We could have fun with it, though,’ Elrohir mused.  ‘If Arwen agreed to keep out of the way when we left – we could pick up a suspicious-looking bundle and make sure one or two people caught a glimpse of us.  When they could not find our beloved sister, someone would be bound to make the link.  We could have a patrol chasing after us before we were half a day from the borders.’

Elladan laughed.  ‘And Arwen could turn up – looking perfectly innocent – just about then.  And, as Daeradar ripped into us for irresponsibility and failing to take care of our sister, Daernaneth could inform him that the whole fuss had been over nothing.’

‘And just think,’ Elrohir added virtuously, ‘we would be relieving all sorts of grand-parental worries about our being too serious and committed to battle.  It is almost our duty to do it.’

‘They would know,’ Arwen pointed out.  ‘If they did not realise straight away, they would know by the time your scheme had finished.  And I am the one who would be left here to bear their disapproval.’

‘They would blame us,’ Elladan dismissed her concern with a flick of his fingers. 

‘Daeradar would be certain that we had led you astray,’ Elrohir agreed.  ‘No-one ever thinks that you have anything to do with our evil schemes.’  He rubbed his hands together and leered at his sister.

‘I am 2700 years old,’ Arwen announced impatiently.  ‘I think I am old enough to accept responsibility for what I choose to do – I will no longer tolerate people blaming my brothers for my sins.’   She softened as she looked at the identical features of the twin and stretched out to take a hand of each.  ‘I will stay here,’ she said with resignation.  ‘I do not yet know why it is so important to Daernaneth that I stay away from Imladris, but I will make it my business to find out.  I will miss you both.’  Her grip on their hands tightened.  ‘And I will miss Adar.  Tell him how much I long to see him – and that I will come as soon as Daeradar is prepared to permit it.’

***

‘When I was young,’ Galadriel spoke reminiscently, ‘I longed to perform great deeds – to be the subject of songs.  It never seemed fair to me that all the great lays were of heroes – ellyth only seemed to feature occasionally as people to be rescued or to be offered as rewards to those great elves who had succeeded against all odds.’  She smiled wryly.  ‘I had four older brothers, as opposed to your two,’ she added, ‘all of them teasing me and goading me into fighting them.  I was desperate to be their equal – not just Finarfin’s little golden-haired daughter.’  She glanced at her granddaughter affectionately before turning to study the play of light on the cascade of water.  ‘Man-maiden, my mother named me, and I spent long decades striving to be one who took charge of events rather than taking a more usual role.  It has taken me a long time to realise that it is not necessarily the best path to travel, pen-neth.  I find I have had more joy in loving and being loved than in battle,’ she observed sadly. 

‘If you had been a typical elleth,’ Arwen pointed out, ‘you would have turned back with your adar and never crossed the Ice.  You would not have dwelt in Doriath, nor met Daeradar, nor borne my naneth.  I would not be here.’

Galadriel’s smile twisted.  ‘It would be ironic,’ she allowed, ‘if, in the end, it turns out to be the results of my love for your daeradar that change the world, rather than my use of power – and yet, you are right.  If I were any other than I am, I would not have been east of the sea.  And, if we were any other than we were, we would not have defied convention and the disapproval of our families to wed.’

Flicking her dark hair out of her eyes, Arwen gazed in surprise at her daernaneth.  ‘I had no idea,’ she marvelled, ‘that your joining had not been welcomed.  You seem so much a part of Arda – as inevitable as – as earth and water.’ She indicated the pool at the waterfall’s base, cupped in a cradle of worn rock with small plants creeping to dip their toes in its fresh waters and willows leaning to trail their long branches in the welcoming coolness.

‘You know that there are those who respect your daeradar, but who do not care for me,’ Galadriel remarked.

‘And those who would follow you, but turn their noses up at Daeradar,’ Arwen shrugged.  ‘It is part of who we are.  There are those – even among those who bow to him and do his bidding – who look down on Adar for being part-Edain.  We note who they are, but as long as they keep their opinions to themselves, we disregard them.  No-one can be loved by all.’

The Lady of the Golden Wood mused on Arwen’s words.  ‘I am not sure it is wise to allow those whose beliefs might affect their loyalty to remain close,’ she said carefully.

‘Still less is it wise to allow them to remove themselves to foster resentment among others.  Better to have them under your eye.’  She smiled as her daernaneth’s starlit eyes met hers.  ‘And young is relative,’ she added in response to words Galadriel had not spoken.  ‘I am older than you were when you crossed the Ice.   I am older than that tree.’  She nodded at a majestic oak on the far side of the pool.  ‘I am old enough to know my own mind – and to make my own decisions.’

Galadriel closed her eyes abruptly and her face became blank briefly before she reassumed her usual expression of amused tranquillity.  ‘Perhaps,’ she acknowledged. ‘Yet that will not stop those of us who love you wishing to keep you safe.’

‘Adar has written to me,’ Arwen sighed.

Her grandmother said nothing.  The dark-haired elleth cast her a look that suggested that she knew that neither the letter not its contents were unknown to the lady.

‘He requests me to remain here in Lothlórien for the time being.  He says that Gilraen and the child were very distressed when they first arrived, but that they have come to some accommodation with their life in Imladris and he does not wish to risk upsetting them by bringing me home.  Apparently, in my absence, Gilraen feels that she is being of some use in helping with the task of running the Hidden Valley – and the child is growing by the day.’  She waited to see if her grandmother had any response to make.  ‘He is not the first distressed child to have been brought to Imladris – but he is the first for whom my presence seems to be considered unwelcome.’  She focused on the colours the sun brought to the fine spray before her.  ‘I wonder why,’ she concluded evenly.

Galadriel remained silent as the light moved across the pool and shadows turned the water to bottomless green depths where before the sun had brightened the surface to glass.  She remained silent and unmoving, but her granddaughter could sense the pain beneath her stillness.

‘I think you have seen something in your mirror,’ Arwen said finally, ‘which you would much rather not have seen.  Something which you would, if you could, deny and prevent coming to pass.’ 

The moon had risen above the trees before either of them moved.

‘You cannot change it,’ Arwen murmured, as its beams lit her pale skin and made her gleam.  ‘You cannot be sure that it will happen and you cannot change it in any event.’

She turned to look at her grandmother’s face and saw the silver tears fall.

***

‘You told her!’  Celeborn snapped the accusation and his eyes blazed his fury at his wife.

‘I said nothing.’  Galadriel defended herself.  ‘She is her naneth’s daughter – and she has enough of her adar in her that she cannot be easily placated.  She knew what she was asking – and she knew what both words and silence meant in answer.’

He paced angrily.

‘I promised I would tell her nothing,’ his wife insisted, ‘and I did not – I have told her not one word of it.  We agreed that we would let events turn out as they must – even Elrond knows that he cannot intervene.’   She endured a scorching look from her lord. ‘If we learned anything from Lúthien’s fate,’ she added softly, ‘surely it is that there are times when any action can only make things worse.  I want this no more than you do, but we cannot imprison Arwen in a tree until all risk is past.’

Celeborn stopped, looking out over the forest night.  ‘I do not wish any ill to the heirs of Elros Tar-Minyatur,’ he said, quietly and precisely, ‘but neither will I willingly hand my granddaughter over to one of them.’

Surprised to see the splashes of tears stain the skirt of her white gown, Galadriel bent her head to watch her fingers brush at the fabric.  ‘I am not sure that we have any say in the matter,’ she mourned.

He turned slowly and allowed himself to see beyond the news she had brought him.  Her gift, her mirror – both had brought her more pain than enlightenment, he thought impatiently.  What use was it, to see, clouded, one of a thousand possibilities?  To know a possible outcome without knowing how it was to be attained?  At least when he assessed the potential dangers before his warriors and considered their strengths, he was making a judgment based on fact and experience.   She never knew whether her decisions might cause the disaster she had foreseen; whether nudging the participants to take a step to the left or right would bring success or failure.  What she had seen here could be the end of their hopes or the necessary adjunct to victory – and any one of a hundred actions from a thousand people could prevent it ever happening at all.  It was possible that what they had attempted to do to protect their granddaughter had already ensured her fate – and they would never know. 

He stepped towards her and ran his fingers through her silken hair to cup his palms beneath her chin. ‘It is as Arwen said,’ he murmured.  ‘We have done all we can.  Her fate will be for her to decide.’  He dropped to one knee and looked into her eyes.  ‘Maybe she has watched Isildur’s heirs with this in mind, knowing that in the end there will be one who will mean more to her than the rest.  If it is to be, my love, then it will happen.  I will not play Elu’s role in keeping them apart – but neither will I make it easy for them to be together.  Let her remain here in the Golden Wood for now.  We are agreed – Elrond has no more wish for this than we have.’

Galadriel reached out and touched his cheek, seeking the comfort that his closeness brought, and he moved instinctively to hold her to him.  ‘Let us all make the most of what time we have.’  She gave him a rather damp smile.  ‘We are worrying about keeping her away from one who is no more than nine or ten years old.  I do not think we need to concern ourselves yet.’

***

She came to him in the morning as he finished his training session.  He was calmer – there was no doubt that proving his skill with his sword made him feel better, even if it would leave his opponent nursing bruises for some time.  Armed with a crisp white napkin filled with fresh bread and apples, his granddaughter carried him off to the place where he had taken her when her brothers’ teasing had made her cry, where she had confided her secrets into his sympathetic ear, where they had comforted each other for the emptiness in their lives that Celebrían’s loss had left behind.

‘You should have let me bathe first,’ he remarked.  ‘I am in no condition to escort a lady.’

‘Oh, I am not sure of that.’  Arwen looked him over roguishly.  ‘I am sure that there are many ladies who would be only too happy to have you beside them – Daernaneth first among them.’  He had stripped off his training armour and was wearing only a simple tunic – rather sweat-stained – and leggings.  ‘And I believe that ellon was deeply honoured to have been soundly beaten by you.  He will doubtless boast of it regularly in years to come.’

She kilted up her skirts to climb up what she thought of as their tree, stepping easily from branch to branch until she reached the nest of greenery where they liked to take their ease, turning to smile at her daeradar as he followed her.

It seemed hardly any time, he sighed, since he had first carried her into the branches, since his hand had been there to steady her as she scrambled into the heights, since he had scolded her for taking risks as she leapt gaps on the edge of her reach – and now, here she was – about to tell him that she was too old to need his cosseting and that he must allow her the freedom to make her own mistakes.

Arwen settled beside him contentedly and rested her dark head on his shoulder, where his silver tresses combined with the black.  She was humming, he realised, as if she wanted nothing more than to spend time in his company here among the trees.  Celeborn closed his eyes and told himself to enjoy the moment, to take it and store it against the pain that would doubtless come.  He put his arm round her waist and rested his cheek on her head, inhaling the fragrance of honeysuckle that seemed to cling to her, and allowed time to pass.

‘Do you think you will ever sail?’ She turned her head and her serious grey eyes met his.

He gave her the courtesy of considering her question.  ‘I do not know,’ he said finally.  ‘Most of me thinks not – but I do not believe that I could live happily without your daernaneth for ever, should she be permitted to go home.’  He smiled wryly.  ‘And the question may well prove irrelevant – Sauron’s power grows and neither Galadriel nor I will surrender to him.  It is highly likely that the Halls of Mandos will greet us west of the sea.’

She studied him intently.  ‘I think you will go,’ she said.  ‘In the end.’  She sounded satisfied, as if her conclusion had relieved a concern long felt.  ‘When you do,’ she added matter-of-factly, ‘tell Naneth that I love her and that I have missed her always.’

‘You will be there,’ Celeborn told her fiercely.  ‘You can tell her yourself.’

Arwen smiled and patted the hand at her waist.  ‘I will never sail,’ she shrugged.  ‘I have long known it – and so did Naneth.  She told me before she left that what she regretted most was that she would never see my children.’

Celeborn felt as if he had been punched.  ‘She was wrong,’ he managed.

‘Make my brothers go with you,’ Arwen requested.  ‘I would not want to think of them remaining here – lost in a world that is not theirs.’

‘What has Galadriel said to you?’ her daeradar asked sharply.

‘Nothing.’ Arwen smiled.  ‘What does she need to say?’

‘If you want to go to Imladris, I will take you,’ Celeborn offered. 

‘It matters not.’  His granddaughter turned her head to face him.  ‘I wanted to see this child, but it does not really make any difference – you are probably right to feel that I am better here.’  She sighed.  ‘There is something in the air,’ she said.  ‘I can feel it – even here in the dreaming beauty of the Golden Wood.  Daernaneth would keep it out if she could, but. . .’ she paused, ‘we are only elves – and even you two have your limits.’

Celeborn’s hold on her tightened, but he remained silent.  He had seen Lúthien in his granddaughter from the time she first began to walk.  She had danced into his heart, just as had Elu’s daughter and he had seen Tinúviel again looking from her grey eyes – but he had never expected to endure watching her accept the possibility of a similar end. ‘It is probably as well that you remain in Lothlórien,’ he said softly.  ‘There is to be a meeting of the White Council to consider the growing power emanating from Dol Guldur – your Daernaneth and I will have to go.  Someone will have to stay to take control in our absence.  You are best suited to the role, my dear one – you have been training to rule all your life.  If something were to happen to us, you would ensure the safety of the Wood.’

‘Will Adar be there?’  She smiled.  ‘Foolish question – of course he will be.  Give him my love.’

‘If I can, I will bring him back with us to spend as long as he is able with his daughter.’

‘I will wait in hope,’ she agreed.  ‘I have missed him.’

‘No more than he will have missed you, my granddaughter,’ Celeborn told her, pressing a kiss on her dark head.  ‘But I am glad to have you here, nonetheless, and I am grateful to him for sparing us his most precious Evenstar.’

Duty

Only one who knew her really well, she hoped, would have any idea just how exasperated she was.

Arwen sat in her daeradar’s chair serenely, observing the elves who had found it necessary to come to her with her problems now – at this time when the Lord and Lady had departed to debate pointlessly with the White Council.  Of course, she thought, eyeing them cynically, that was precisely why most of them had chosen this moment to bring long festering disputes and dubitable requests for her judgment.  Elves were not, after all, above seizing advantage when they saw it – and even the most naïve among them knew that Celeborn would be reluctant to disavow decisions she made in his absence.

In the corner of her eye, she could see Harthad fidgeting, clearly longing to interrupt Neldin’s tedious list of grievances and put him in his place, yet struggling to remember Celeborn’s calm insistence that his granddaughter would take command of running the Golden Wood while he was away.  Arwen fixed her eyes on the sullen elf before her and concentrated on him in a way guaranteed to make him take a step back.  It took longer than she thought it should: he was too involved in admiring his own performance to pay attention to her response.  She would clearly have to practise if she were to hope to come close to her daernaneth.  Finally Neldin sensed the sharpness of her gaze and faltered.

‘Why have you chosen to inform me of this?’ Arwen said softly.  ‘None of what you say has any relevance to the safety of Lothlórien.  Your concerns about the design of new flets and the trees on which they are sited should be taken to the chief engineer – and, should you wish to debate his decisions, there are meetings of advisors to whom he reports, before they bring your thoughts to me.  Harthad, can I rely on you to analyse Neldin’s concerns – and report briefly on your findings?’

The advisor nodded.  ‘Indeed, my lady,’ he said briefly.  He stretched out an imperious hand and beckoned.  Neldin drew closer to him reluctantly and allowed himself to be drawn from the Great Hall.

‘Is there anything further?’ Arwen asked pleasantly, whilst managing to convey the impression that there had better not be any other time wasting demands.  A flurry of slight bows assured her that the morning’s business was complete.  ‘Then I have other tasks to which to attend,’ she said, dismissing the company.

‘Not quite up to the Lady’s standard,’ Cúraniel murmured in her ear, making her grin.  ‘A little too direct – and not quite scary enough.’

‘I am practising until I find my own style,’ Arwen said impishly.  ‘My naneth never quite achieved Daernaneth’s level of intimidation – but she was good.’  She stretched and yawned.  ‘Come, Rívwen wishes to talk to us about weaving and I believe she is concerned about winter stores.’

‘There is more to keeping the Wood running smoothly than I had imagined,’ Cúraniel said thoughtfully.  ‘Lady Galadriel keeps it operating so easily that I had never noticed how much she does.’

Arwen smiled.  ‘Do not forget that elves who would not dream of challenging my grandparents – at least not without waking in a cold sweat – are taking great pleasure in trying to get the better of me.’

‘They are not getting very far, though.’  Cúraniel looked at her friend consideringly.  ‘You are more experienced at this than they think.’

‘I spent around two thousand years helping my naneth run Imladris,’ Arwen pointed out, ‘and much of the last few hundred watching Daernaneth.  I know what needs to be done.’

‘But what about taking on your daeradar’s role?’ Cúraniel played with a braid the colour of dark honey.  ‘Surely your adar and brothers kept you away from those tasks?’

‘They are much the same,’ Arwen shrugged.  ‘It is a matter of making sure that the right things are in the right place at the right time.  Whether you are talking arrow-heads or flour, musicians or warriors.’  She grinned.  ‘As long as no-one expects me to plan battle strategy, I will manage.’

‘Battle strategy is not a great deal different,’ Harthad’s deep voice informed her.  ‘It is still having people in the right place to carry out the necessary actions.’

‘Though what is the right place is the part I am not competent to judge,’ Arwen answered dryly.

‘Knowing your limitations: that is probably the most important part of ruling well,’ he shrugged.

‘And delegation – choosing the right person in each position to carry out your directions,’ she added.  She looked at him.  ‘Does Neldin have a point?’ she asked.  ‘Or are his words just bluster?’

Harthad shrugged.  ‘It seems to me,’ he informed her, ‘that, underneath his irritating manner, he has a point.  He is good at what he does – he has vision – but he is dealing with a group of designers who are very much of the opinion that traditional styles cannot be improved.’  He smiled wryly.  ‘Or, as one of them put it, ‘How do we know that his constructions will still be standing a thousand years from now?’  And, of course, without building some of his flets, no-one will ever know.  I am not surprised that he can be sharp.’

‘A matter best left for Daeradar, I think,’ Arwen concluded.  ‘A few seasons delay will alter nothing.’

Harthad nodded his agreement as the two ellyth left the wide chamber.

‘We are spending too long indoors,’ Cúraniel sighed, as the golden light of a sunny afternoon greeted them and a gentle breeze stirred their hair.  They started down the winding stairway.  ‘Who runs Imladris when you are here?’ she asked curiously.

‘Delegation,’ Arwen reminded her impishly.  ‘On the whole, the same people run the same areas as when Naneth was in charge – and Erestor keeps an eye on things.’  She frowned slightly.  ‘And it is only recently that I have been constrained to remain here in the Wood.  While it is true that I have spent much of the last centuries here, I have always returned to Imladris often enough and for long enough to ensure that things run smoothly in my absence.  I really do not understand why Adar and Daeradar are being so dogmatic now.  If I could get Daernaneth to support me, I would fight them – but she refuses to intervene.’  She sighed.  ‘And more of our people are sailing, just as they are leaving Lothlórien.  There are gaps, now, in my network,’ she frowned, ‘– if Iavas should decide to leave, I would definitely have to go home.’

‘Could I come with you when next you go to Imladris?’ Cúraniel asked.  ‘I have spent all my years in the Wood and I would like to travel a little.’

Her friend looked at her cynically.  ‘You could, certainly.  But you would see no more of Elrohir there than you do here.  He and Elladan spend their time riding out with the Dúnedain – they are rarely at home.’

‘It is not that at all!’ Cúraniel flushed.  ‘I did not even think of that!  I am not interested in either of your brothers in that way.’   She lapsed into an offended silence.  ‘I could be,’ she added wistfully as they reached the ground, ‘but they do not even see me.’

‘Their loss,’ Arwen told her friend.  ‘But the wood has many leaves.’  She nudged Cúraniel gently.  ‘And many of them are far more attractive than my brothers.’

‘Then why are you not interested in playing among them?’ Cúraniel was not alone among the ellyth who had tried to interest Arwen in the large number of young elves who were enchanted by the lustrous dark hair and luminous beauty of Galadriel’s granddaughter.

‘I do not know,’ Arwen shrugged.  ‘They are just – ordinary.  Perhaps I am looking for what Naneth saw in Adar – or the enchantment that keeps Daernaneth at Celeborn’s side.’

‘Rúmil, now,’ Cúraniel suggested.  ‘He could be more than interesting, surely?’

Shaking her head, Arwen pursed her lips.  ‘I will know when I see him,’ she said with certainty.  ‘And I am not prepared to compromise.’

‘You will be like Elu Thingol,’ her friend sighed. ‘You will catch a glimpse of the one for you and be transfixed – and spend an age gazing into each other’s eyes.’

‘It would be terribly inconvenient, would it not?’ Arwen mused.  ‘What would you do about bathing?  And eating?  Not to mention all the tasks that you are obliged to carry out and all those who have expectations of you.  Then think of all the people who would be stepping awkwardly round you as birds nested in your hair and spiders used you as a framework for their webs.’

‘It would not happen like that,’ Cúraniel denied.  ‘Your daernaneth would see that you were dusted regularly.’

They both giggled at the thought.

‘I suppose love at first sight is in my blood,’ Arwen admitted reluctantly.  ‘What with Elu – and Lúthien – I cannot ignore it as a possibility.’ 

‘I suppose things were different then,’ Cúraniel shrugged.  ‘We are three millennia into the Third Age.  I cannot see a Maia turning up in Lothlórien to be stunned by your beauty.  Nor, come to that, one of the Edain.  If you want love at first sight, you will have to look elsewhere.  Mirkwood, perhaps.  I understand that Thranduil’s son is – rather attractive.’

Arwen wrinkled her nose.  ‘I would much prefer a more patient kind of love.  One that is prepared to wait and learn and grow.  Like Adar and Naneth.  They waited more than a thousand years for each other.’

‘It seems a little unromantic,’ Cúraniel complained.

‘Romance is over-rated,’ Arwen said with certainty.  ‘And not a good basis for a life-long bond.’  She smiled. ‘And there is no point in talking about it.  Not when we have to discuss important topics, like the weaving of grey cloth and the manufacture of leaf brooches.’

‘You can be very annoying, you know,’ the fair-haired elleth murmured.

Her friend laughed.  ‘It has taken years to get to this level of skill,’ she agreed.  ‘But my brothers trained me very well.’

***

Elrond closed his eyes wearily.  He rather wished that he had not given in to Celeborn’s demand that he should return to Imladris by way of the Golden Wood, so that he could spend some time with his daughter.  He was not sure that he wanted to spend time with his Evenstar while these thoughts churned within him.  He would rather imagine her, serenely beautiful, resting among the tranquil sunlit trees in an environment safe from the stresses and demands of a world that was twisting under his hands.

‘Her happiness will make it worthwhile,’ Galadriel said, her soft voice rich as honey.

He frowned.  Was his wife’s naneth incapable of making a remark that had only one simple meaning? 

‘She will be pleased to see you, my son,’ Celeborn told him.  ‘And I am sure that Elladan and Elrohir will be able to manage Imladris for a few weeks without destroying what has taken you thousands of years to build.’

His son-in-law winced.  ‘It is a long time since I have left them without Glorfindel to keep an eye on them,’ he said.

‘They are much older now,’ Galadriel pointed out.  ‘They are unlikely to make quite so many . . . errors of judgment.’

‘It was not any one thing that they did that was foolhardy,’ Elrond pointed out defensively.  ‘It was only when the events all came together that they produced chaos.’  He sighed.  ‘I would trust them to cope competently enough, were all things equal – but Estel can be as unpredictable as ever they were.’  He smiled ruefully.  ‘He is an interesting charge – as endearing as the twins were, but with a determination not to be beaten that would make him take on a dragon if offered the opportunity.’

‘He will have dragons enough to face,’ Galadriel said sadly.  ‘He needs to have a heart as big as his foster-adar’s – and the strength of his many times andaeradar, if he is to succeed in carrying out the tasks that face him.’

Celeborn and Elrond exchanged glances before turning their attention to the Lady.  ‘To which particular andaeradar are you referring?’  Celeborn asked mildly.  ‘Because some of his ancestors offer an example that is a good deal better than others.  Isildur, for instance, he would do better not to copy.  Are you referring to Eärendil, who pursued an impossible quest until, beyond reason, he succeeded?  Turgon, perhaps, who guarded a white city against the venom of Morgoth?  Finwë, who led his people to safety?  Or are you, by some chance, thinking of Beren?’

‘Isildur was corrupted by the ring he carried,’ Galadriel returned, ignoring the sharpness of his dart, ‘but he was a hero and a great warrior before he allowed a moment’s folly to lead him astray.’

‘But it was a moment’s folly,’ Elrond said softly, ‘that has led to a multitude of sorrows.  I have long wondered whether I should have taken the choice from him.’

Galadriel placed a white hand on his blue robe.  ‘You cannot take away people’s choice,’ she told him with conviction, ‘without becoming what it is that we are fighting.  It was Isildur’s decision to make, not yours.  You did your best.’

‘And failed.  As I had failed before and as I have failed since.’

The Lady of the Golden Wood leaned closer and took his face between her palms before kissing his brow affectionately.  ‘We all fail, Elrond Eärendilion,’ she told him. ‘We fall, and miss our path, and wish we could go back and start again – but we do the best we can.’  She looked at him seriously.  ‘Do you not think that my failures still keep me awake at nights at times?’  She shivered involuntarily.  ‘Faces haunting my dreams that accuse me of weakness, of rashness, of not caring enough, of being too ready to interfere – of being too reluctant to intervene.  It sometimes seems,’ she smiled narrowly, ‘that added years only give added opportunities for error.’  

‘It would seem, my lady,’ Celeborn said lightly, ‘that you have spent too many hours in my cousin’s company.  Thranduil would be horrified to find himself agreeing with you.’

Elrond smiled reluctantly.  ‘He does not mean all he says,’ he said mildly.

‘Just enough to sting,’ Galadriel nodded.  ‘And there is just enough truth in what he thinks to make me want to slap him back.’  She lifted an eyebrow at her lord.  ‘I hope you realise the cost of my self-control,’ she told him.

‘Indeed I do,’ Celeborn replied, his face straight.  ‘I have been paying it for a long time now.’

Even as he smiled, Elrond felt a stab of pain at the emptiness within him where his wife’s warmth should be.  One day, he determined, one day he would be free to join her.  One day his family would be whole again.

Celeborn rested his hand on Elrond’s shoulder.  ‘But this was no failure,’ he said.  ‘Against all odds, the White Council has driven Sauron from Dol Guldur.  Matters should improve here in the north.’

Elrond frowned as he considered the actions they had taken.  ‘It was too easy,’ he insisted.  ‘I expected that we would have to fight harder to expel him.’  He reflected.  ‘Curunír may be arrogant enough to believe that his very presence forced the Necromancer to withdraw, but I am not.  We have overlooked something.’

‘Which will become apparent soon enough,’ Glorfindel’s cool voice interrupted them.  ‘Do you intend to spend all night debating here, or will you deign to join us by the fire?’  He lifted an eyebrow of dark gold and fixed his gaze on the Lady.

‘It is a joy to have you here with us,’ Galadriel informed him with apparent sincerity.  ‘We have missed you over recent centuries.’

His lips stretched into a smile.  ‘I have been busy,’ he told her solemnly.  ‘Nursemaiding the Lord of Imladris is singularly time-consuming.  It does not leave enough time for pleasure-seeking.’ 

***

‘Do you think we might have been over-indulging him?’ Elladan asked quietly as they looked at the scowling boy.

Erestor cast his eyes up, but said nothing.

‘Caring for Estel is more difficult than I thought it would be,’ Elrohir agreed.  ‘It is different when Adar is here to insist that he should attend to his lessons and go to bed at a reasonable hour – and not eat too much of the wrong kinds of food.’  He glanced again at the disgruntled child.  ‘I was rather counting on Gilraen to keep him in line in Adar’s absence.’

Both twins turned their grey gaze on Erestor.  ‘Is she still unwell?’ Elladan asked.

‘She is running a temperature,’ the advisor told them.  ‘She apparently needs to remain in bed and rest – and she does not need to be bothered with the misdeeds of her son.’  He swallowed his amusement as the sons of Elrond heaved identical sighs.

‘You know you will have to be punished, Estel,’ Elrohir said reasonably.

Estel threw them a glance that revealed only too clearly that he did not see that at all.

‘What your foster brothers may have forgotten to point out to you,’ Erestor said, withstanding the boy’s frown with remarkable fortitude, ‘is that, although they were in constant trouble when they were your size, their misdemeanours were regularly followed by tedious periods of, shall we say, restitution.’

‘It was only a joke,’ Estel complained.

‘Ah, but you see,’ Elrohir explained patiently, ‘the qualification for being a joke is that both parties find the incident funny – and third parties are not put at risk.  Domenion did not find it funny having burrs under his saddle cloth – and, just as importantly, neither did his horse.’

‘I think,’ Elladan said reluctantly, ‘no riding for a week.  And, you will fill the afternoons freed by not being permitted to enter the stables by working in the infirmary.’

Estel folded his arms in a movement that was perilously close to a flounce, but wisely remained silent.

‘I will escort you there now,’ Elrohir sighed, ‘so that you may begin your penance.’

The child stiffened as his foster brother extended a friendly hand and Elrohir moved instead to indicate the door, following the reluctant youngster with a herding motion that was not missed by the two remaining behind.

‘Were we that bad?’ Elladan asked.

‘Far, far worse,’ Erestor laughed, sitting back and stretching.  ‘There were two of you to start with – and you encouraged each other.  Estel is generally much more amenable. The only reason you are having difficulty with him now is that he is not used to obeying you – you spend all the time you are at home treating him like a cross between an equal and a pet.  He cannot see where the boundaries lie.  With Elrond – and his naneth, come to that – he knows that he is a child and he must obey.’

Elladan’s lips twitched.  ‘It was funny, though.  I never thought I would be able to keep my face straight as we – how would Adar describe it? – reproved him.’

‘He did not believe you would, either.’  Erestor looked towards the door through which the other two had vanished.  ‘I think that perhaps, when your adar has returned, you should take Estel on a short expedition where he can learn the difference between being your brother and being under your command.’  He hesitated.  ‘It is easy to forget how quickly the children of men grow up.  They must learn in months what will take an elfling a decade or two.’ 

‘I do not look forward to Estel growing up and leaving us,’ Elladan sighed. ‘And yet he must – he is, after all, who he is, and we cannot keep him here in safety away from his people for ever.’

‘Are we ready to work?’ Elrohir breezed back through the door.  ‘There are two of us here now – we should be able to get rid of the paperwork twice as quickly as Adar.’

‘You do not think that years of experience and natural administrative talent might combine to speed Lord Elrond’s pace of working?’ Erestor raised his eyebrows.

Elrohir grinned.  ‘The difference is that we are not inclined to try for perfection,’ he teased.  ‘We know that everything we do will be inspected and checked for error once the Lord of the Hidden Valley is back in his chair – he will never count on us to have got everything right – so there is little point in poring over the paperwork until Ithil sets.’

‘You do not think that perhaps your adar expects me to ensure that you keep on the right path?’

‘The right path, perhaps,’ Elladan conceded, ‘but he would never expect you to achieve miracles.’

‘Besides,’ Elrohir said ruefully, ‘I promised Estel that we would swim with him this evening – and then tell him some stories of occasions when we were caught out and had to suffer Adar’s wrath.’

‘Well, in that case,’ Elladan grinned, ‘we had better get working – before he is released from servitude and finds a need to do something else to gain our attention.’

***

Elrond was off his horse before the beast had come fully to a standstill and his daughter threw herself into his arms. 

‘Adar,’ she cried, ‘Adar,’ and burst into tears that surprised them both.

‘I have missed you, my Undómiel,’ he choked, rubbing his cheek on her raven-black hair.

‘I did not think you would come,’ she told him, twining one of his braids round her fingers in a way that was so familiar that he could not help but smile.

‘How could I resist?’ he asked her.  ‘I could not be this side of the mountains and not make my way to the Wood.’

She gave him a final convulsive hug and turned to embrace Glorfindel.  ‘I am surprised to see you here,’ she smiled.  ‘Have you left Erestor to guard Imladris in your absence?’

He stroked her hair affectionately.  ‘I could not permit your adar to come so far on his own, Arwen.  He is clearly not to be trusted to look after himself properly.’  His eyes twinkled.  ‘But we have not inflicted on Erestor the responsibility for ruling the valley – although he probably would have preferred that!’

She pulled back and gazed at him.  ‘Not my brothers!’ she said appreciatively.

Her adar looked at her quizzically.  ‘Would you say they are too young?’ he enquired.  ‘They have, it would appear, managed quite successfully to become the siblings of a ten-year-old child.  Perhaps you are right and they do not yet have sufficient maturity to act as adults.’ 

Turning back to him, she put one arm round him while keeping firm hold of Glorfindel.  ‘They are quite capable,’ she said decidedly.  ‘They are just far too slippery!’  She giggled.  ‘I look forward to learning what kind of mess you find on your return, though.’

Celeborn escorted Galadriel to join them.  ‘And have you caused chaos among our advisors, my granddaughter?’ he asked.  ‘Or is the Golden Wood still in one piece?’

‘It is undamaged, my lord,’ she assured him.  ‘We have both survived the experience.’

‘In that case,’ Galadriel said warmly, ‘let us take time to recover from our journey, while you ensure that the Wood is ready to welcome your adar and Glorfindel – a feast, do you think?  And then you can spend as much time together as they can spare before they must return to Imladris.’

A shadow crossed Arwen’s face, but she pressed her lips together.  This was a moment for joy – it did not seem the best time to demand to know why she would be left in Lothlórien when her adar, together with Glorfindel and their guards headed across the passes to return home.  They could hardly claim that this was a matter of her safety, nor could they suggest that her presence would not be helpful in the hidden valley.  She was not a child – and her adar and grandparents would find that she was not prepared to let these matters rest.  For now, though, she was willing to hold her tongue. 

She slid her hand into Elrond’s.  ‘I will take you to your chambers,’ she said, ‘and see that you have everything you need first – and then make sure that tonight’s feast will be special enough to honour such long-looked-for arrivals.’

Elrond drew her close and pressed a kiss on her brow.  ‘Nothing more exotic than stale bread and water would be enough to turn tonight into a golden memory, my daughter,’ he told her.  ‘Just being with you is all I need.’

She squeezed his fingers.  ‘We can do better than that,’ she promised.  ‘My adar and favourite uncle will get my finest efforts.’  She glanced saucily at the Lord and Lady of the Wood.  ‘Even,’ she murmured with a false confidentiality, ‘better than I would offer my illustrious grandparents.’

Galadriel laughed.  ‘As it should be, child.  Be off with you now – or I will take over the task myself and try Elrond’s suggestions for the night’s food and drink.  It would be interesting to see if his stomach would agree with his mouth!’

As he looked over his shoulder at her, Elrond’s face seemed unexpectedly grim. ‘I can assure you,’ he said, ‘that I am prepared to make many sacrifices for my daughter.’

‘But that one, at least,’ his naneth-in-law said quietly, ‘will not be demanded of you.’

Innocence

Celeborn looked up to see his granddaughter watching him speculatively.

‘I have learned better than to trust the safety of those whom I would guard to periods of apparent peace,’ he said mildly, placing his pen on the stack of papers before him.  ‘Experience has shown me that when the Enemy appears to be doing nothing, he is, in fact, generally about to spring upon us an extremely nasty surprise.’

‘Has the Necromancer not been driven from Dol Guldur?’ she asked.

‘Because he is not there, my Evenstar, it only means that he is somewhere else.  Mordor, in all probability, but we do not know for sure.  In some ways, although it is a relief not to have him on our borders, I would rather know his whereabouts and be able to watch his every move.’

‘Better to have your enemy under your hand,’ she agreed, ‘than behind your back.’

Her daeradar raised an eyebrow, intrigued to know how she had come by such knowledge.

She smiled. ‘It is purely a matter of degree,’ she told him. ‘Playing games with Glorfindel and my brothers has been very educational.  And the principle is the same.’

‘I had never looked on their exasperating tendency to fool around as part of Glorfindel’s training in strategy,’ he said reflectively.  ‘Perhaps I should stop finding it so irritating.’  He sighed.  ‘People – of whatever kind – prefer to be optimistic,’ he continued.  ‘They would rather say, ‘he has gone,’ and cover their eyes and imagine that all will be as Ilúvatar intended – then spend a few years at play, until . . .’

‘He returns,’ Arwen nodded.  ‘To find our warriors idle and our borders unguarded; our supplies low and our treasury depleted.  And then,’ she snapped her fingers, ‘he would crack Lothlórien like an egg, between the hammer of the orcs from his former stronghold and the anvil of those from the Misty Mountains.’

‘We would not be undefended,’ Celeborn said slowly, ‘but I would not have him come close enough to try to take us.’

‘But that,’ Arwen said, sitting at the table with him, ‘means that he will be trying to take someone else.  Imladris, too, is defended – but an attack of sufficient strength on our allies has brought us forth before.’

Celeborn laced his fingers behind his head and lay back thoughtfully.  ‘This time I am not so sure,’ he mused.  ‘We are more distant from men and smaller in number and, should Sauron attack in the south, we are less likely to be drawn in to men’s struggle.’ He smiled wryly.  ‘And we are likely to have troubles of our own here.  The Necromancer will not forget us.  We were part of his downfall before – and he does not forgive.’

‘So it is a matter of keeping motivation high and skills at their peak in the absence of an obvious enemy,’ Arwen judged, ‘while yet permitting people to enjoy the lessening of their worries and take pleasure in the peace of the Wood.’

‘Any suggestions?’ Celeborn asked with a slow smile.

‘Games, Daeradar,’ Arwen said promptly.  ‘Entertainment that requires the display of a high level of skill – and is rewarded with renown and prizes.’  Her eyes laughed at him.  ‘Elves are creatures of joy,’ she said, ‘but they are competitive and will strive to outdo each other.’  She joined him at the table.  ‘We will get my brothers to come – the marchwardens of Lothlórien will go to remarkable lengths to attempt to beat them.’

‘You think that would serve?’

Arwen waved an airy hand.  ‘Much of the organisation is a matter of logistics,’ she said.  ‘Arrows and swords are not difficult to manage – and they stay where you put them.  People are far more difficult – but, as long as you give them the opportunity to do what they think they want, they can be shepherded gently along the path you would wish them to follow.’  She beamed at him.  ‘And, even better, they will never even realise that they are being managed.’

She drew a reluctant laugh from him.  ‘You are very like Lúthien, my enchantress.  Your adar’s andaernaneth would have been proud of you.’

Arwen moved to give him an affectionate hug.  ‘Lúthien provided much in the way of example for Daernaneth, my lord,’ she teased, ‘and she passed on her skills to Naneth and me.  We have had plenty of practice in dealing with difficult elves.’

Celeborn narrowed his eyes suspiciously at her innocent smile.  ‘We will try your scheme,’ he conceded.  ‘And I will leave its arrangement in your capable hands, my Evenstar, while I am left to deal with the – more practical matters.’  He caught her hand and gave it a quick kiss.  ‘And I am not the only difficult elf around here.’

‘Of course not!’ Arwen said, managing to sound shocked that he should take her words so.  ‘Daernaneth is far worse.’

***

Elrohir watched patiently as Estel tried to co-ordinate both spark and tinder to light their fire.  Elladan had removed himself after no more that a moment or two, with some vaguely given excuse about checking the horses, unable to endure the child’s inept attempts. 

‘You are close,’ Elrohir encouraged his foster-brother.  ‘Would you like me to hold the tinder?  Then you can concentrate on getting the spark.’

‘I want to do it myself,’ Estel insisted.  ‘I am not going to let it beat me.’

‘Take a brief rest, Estel,’ Elrohir suggested, looking at the boy’s flushed cheeks and the glint of tears in his eyes.  ‘Compose yourself as Adar has taught you.  You are trying too hard.’

Behind the boy, Elladan gestured to indicate that he was going to river to catch some fish for their supper.  His twin blinked his understanding, but remained calmly focused on Estel.  ‘I remember when Glorfindel and Adar first took us camping,’ he smiled reminiscently.  ‘We were so proud of ourselves!  Naneth waved us goodbye as if we were going off on a great adventure – much as Lady Gilraen did you.  It is definitely a special moment when you are considered old enough to go off into the forest to hunt.’

Estel’s hands slowed down and he sniffed slightly.  ‘Did you get the fire to light?’ he asked.   

‘I was hopeless,’ Elrohir confessed.  It was not exactly true, he knew, but it would make Estel feel better.  ‘I let Elladan do it.’  He smiled.  ‘It was midnight before we got to have our supper.’  He put a consoling hand on the child’s arm.  ‘You will get there, Estel.  But it is easier if you stay relaxed.’

Comforted by Elrohir’s confidence, Estel tried again.  The spark fell on the tinder and he leaned forward to blow on it gently.  As the dry grass caught, Elrohir closed his eyes and drew a grateful breath. 

‘Small sticks and grass first,’ he reminded the child.  ‘Let it grow slowly and surely.’

Estel nursed the blaze like a mother her infant, encouraging it to grow from a small flicker to a fire worthy of more than a small group of adventurers, until it was large enough to brighten their small clearing.

With a hidden grin, Elrohir told him, ‘I will find some more wood, my brother.  Will you be all right to look after the fire in my absence?’

The child’s chest expanded proudly.  ‘I will keep it going, Elrohir.  When Elladan gets back, we will be able to start cooking.’

‘If we are very lucky, he might have persuaded some fish to jump out of the river and offer themselves up for our meal,’ his brother commented.  He looked at the flames. ‘I do not believe you need to add any more wood for a while, Estel.  Hunters need to keep their fires pretty low – or all the creatures of the wood will know where they are.  Have a look in the packs and see if your nana put in any bread and cheese – and I suspect there might be some milk.’

‘Hunters do not drink milk,’ the child complained. 

‘They do when they can get it,’ Elrohir said firmly.  ‘If they know what is good for them.’

‘We could give it to Elladan,’ Estel suggested hopefully.  ‘He always says there is nothing like milk.’

Elrohir grinned.  ‘Just make sure I am around when you offer it to him,’ he said.  ‘It is something I would not want to miss.’

With the fire burned down to no more than glowing embers and Estel finally sleeping soundly in his blankets, Elladan looked at his brother.  ‘Why now?’ he said.  ‘Adar has refused to let us take Estel this far from Imladris before despite our requests – what makes now different?  And why in this direction?’

Elrohir lay back and looked up at the stars.  ‘Glorfindel was closeted with him,’ he speculated, ‘after word came from the patrols.   I suspect that someone was coming he preferred Estel not to meet.  He is far too curious to keep out of the way when there are visitors.’

‘Adar did not object to him meeting the dwarves that came with Mithrandir,’ Elladan objected, ‘or the perian.  From what sort of visitor would he wish to guard the boy?’

‘Or from what knowledge, my brother.’  Elrohir rolled to his side.  ‘I think that Mithrandir has returned – with information from which Adar would rather shield Estel.  He will grow swiftly enough without shadowing his youth with news of battle and death.  Adar will try to ensure that his childhood, at least, is free of the dark – and he is counting on us to see that he worries no more than any elfling.’

‘You have more patience with him than I have,’ Elladan admitted, turning his eyes to the sleeping child.  ‘I do not know if I could have left him to finish that task on his own.’

‘You will learn to extend your limits tomorrow then, my twin,’ Elrohir murmured, as he drifted along the path of elven dreams, leaving his brother to watch over them, ‘when you will be helping our little mûmak to fish.’

***

Galadriel radiated satisfaction.  ‘Haldir did not expect that,’ she said smugly.

Her husband shot her an amused look.  ‘He did not,’ he agreed.  ‘I had not realised myself,’ he added, ‘that our granddaughter was quite such a talented archer.’  He grinned.  ‘I believe the marchwarden thought he was humouring a lady.’

The Lady wrinkled her nose.  ‘He should have known better,’ she declared.  ‘As if Arwen would deliberately put herself in a position where she could be made to look foolish.’

‘As if one trained by Glorfindel would not know her skills – and her limitations,’ Celeborn agreed.  ‘She long since realised that she did not have sufficient strength to match her brothers with blades, but that, if she were accurate enough, her precision would overwhelm them at the butts.   And,’ he judged, ‘she has been practising.  Whatever Haldir might think, this display was planned.’

‘Perhaps I should challenge him to a bout with blades,’ Galadriel suggested.

‘No,’ Celeborn replied firmly.  ‘He would be too overawed to make a real attempt to defeat you, yet loss would still humiliate him.  He is too young to shrug it off.’  He gave her a predatory smile.  ‘If you wish to take me on, however. . . .’

‘You would beat me soundly,’ his wife objected.  ‘I have a certain level of mystery to uphold!’

‘If success is not worth the risk of failure, there is no point to it,’ Celeborn pronounced.  ‘I will not kow-tow before you like some lovesick ellon.  If you want to win against me, then you must earn the victory.’

Galadriel smiled. ‘Perhaps in private,’ she purred, ‘away from curious eyes.’  She tilted her head to meet his eyes.  ‘I have defeated you before,’ she reminded him.

He laughed and put his arms round her slender waist, drawing her to him.  ‘You are not above cheating,’ he accused her.

‘Tactics, my lord,’ she said demurely.  ‘Strategy is not cheating.  It is thinking ahead and using your opponent’s weakness to your advantage.’

‘But I do not fall for the same thing twice,’ he warned her.  ‘You will have to work to keep ahead of me.’

‘Perhaps another time, my lord,’ she decided. 

‘Coward,’ he murmured provocatively into her sun-kissed hair.

‘If it is cowardice to choose my battleground,’ she agreed, ‘then I will be a coward.  For you, at least, if for no other.’

He sensed her change of mood and his clasp tightened.

‘It approaches,’ she said huskily.  ‘It comes with the inevitability of winter and nothing we can do will turn it aside.’

‘But we will continue to fight,’ he reminded her staunchly.

She allowed herself a moment to rest her head against his shoulder.  ‘I sometimes wish that we could have been ordinary,’ she said.  ‘Lived tranquil lives dwelling among our family in harmony with a forest at peace.’

A tremor of silent laughter shook him.  ‘And then you thank the Valar for permitting you to escape that fate, my heart,’ he told her.  ‘You would always choose to be among those who make things happen.’

‘If only they would always turn out as I would wish,’ she said dryly, ‘I could deal with power more easily.  But I cannot control events and people as I would choose.’

He held her tightly.  ‘We stand, my love,’ he said. ‘We hold and attempt to push back the tides of time – but we are only two people among a multitude, and others, too, have a part to play.’  He paused and added gently.  ‘What have you seen that has distressed you?’

‘Nightmares and phantoms,’ she sighed.  ‘Possibilities and shadows.  Nothing other than I have seen before.  Nothing useful – nothing tangible – nothing that could help us fight what could come.’

He combed his fingers through her hair.  ‘You deal too much in uncertainties,’ he stated.  ‘You should look more at what is than what might never be.’

Galadriel raised her hand to cup his cheek.  ‘Your part is to deal with the practicalities,’ she said regretfully.  ‘I am condemned to seek in the shadows for insights that might give us the edge.’  She smiled sadly.  ‘Between us, we make a good team, my lord.’

‘And we will overcome,’ he insisted.

‘Perhaps,’ she sighed. ‘Perhaps.’

***

Cúraniel sat among the leaves, swinging gently as she observed the disgruntled marchwarden.  ‘I do not know why you are surprised,’ she said finally.  ‘You know Lady Arwen’s brothers – how could you not have expected them to teach her their tricks?’

‘She looks too innocent,’ he complained.  ‘I did not suspect her for a moment.’

Cúraniel tried to subdue her mirth but was unable to hold back her giggle. ‘Now there, you really should have known better,’ she told him.  ‘You are enough of a flirt to know that you should always be at your most suspicious when an elleth looks innocent.’

He scowled.  ‘I will know better next time,’ he said.  ‘And I will be prepared.  She will not beat me again.’

‘Perhaps not,’ Cúraniel reflected.  ‘I do not know.  She trains harder than you do.  Arwen says that she can beat her brothers because they have become sloppy.’

‘They are of Imladris,’ Haldir sniffed.

‘They were trained by Lord Glorfindel,’ she said, amused.  ‘And Lord Celeborn worked with them when they were younger.  I do not believe you can blame any lack of skill on their place of birth.’  She looked over the marchwarden appreciatively.  ‘It would be interesting to see if you could beat them,’ she said.  ‘Perhaps you and your brothers should challenge them when next they are in Lothlórien.’

‘They will not beat us,’ he said indignantly, turning to stamp away, ‘and Lady Arwen will not defeat me again, be sure of it.’

Cúraniel continued to sit in her tree, enjoying the feel of the sun between the dappled leaves and the gentle rocking motion of the supple branches. 

‘Well?’

The elleth looked down at her friend’s sparkling eyes. ‘Hook, line and sinker, my lady,’ she said tranquilly.  ‘He has taken the task of refining the skills of his marchwardens as a personal quest.  He will badger them into excellence whether they will or no.’  She smiled.  ‘I hope he does not beat your brothers too easily.’

‘Not a chance of it,’ Arwen told her, climbing easily to join her friend.  ‘I will let my brothers know that he intends to show up their incompetence.  That will be enough to make them practise.  Glorfindel will be quite pleased with me, I should think.’

‘When do you plan to hold these contests?’

‘Oh, in a year or so,’ Arwen said easily.  ‘Why?’

‘I believe I will require a new gown,’ Cúraniel said thoughtfully.  ‘Green, perhaps, with straw-coloured embroidery down the bodice.’

‘Oh yes,’ Arwen agreed enthusiastically, and she and her friend put their heads together to indulge in an hour of conversation about style and colour. 

***

Elrond sat at the head of the long table of gleaming cherry-wood, his long fingers steepled in front of him, and frowned.

‘Why?’ he asked.

Mithrandir allowed the deep red wine to swirl round the bowl of his glass and admired its colour.  ‘I am not altogether sure,’ he admitted.  ‘It must be a setback for Sauron.  He has lost three-quarters of his orcs from the northern mountains and been driven to seek safety in Mordor.  The dragon is dead.  The elves of Mirkwood have been forced into alliance – however reluctantly – with the men of Dale and the dwarves of the Lonely Mountain.  We can be grateful – but I am still confused.’

‘It is Curunír whose actions leave me most surprised,’ Glorfindel said idly. ‘All those years of holding back and acting cautiously; talking of being sure and guarding our backs – and he is the one who chose to leap into a course of action that left me advising care.’

‘There were undertones,’ Mithrandir agreed, ‘to the events of this summer that lead me to wonder if I am looking in the right direction.’

‘Thranduil’s elves survived the battle without undue loss?’ Elrond asked.

‘There were losses,’ Mithrandir acknowledged.  ‘Too many immortal lives were spent before the mountain – but there were fewer than there might have been.  The Eagles arrived in the very nick of time and Beorn slew the goblin’s chief.’  He looked sharply at the half-elf.  ‘Thranduil is not Oropher,’ he said.  ‘And, even if he shared his sire’s impulsiveness, he has learned from bitter experience that wars are not won by individual skill.’ He rubbed his nose thoughtfully.  ‘He has tenacity,’ he decided.  ‘He will hold on to his realm like a terrier and bite whatever threatens it, but he will not surrender.’

‘Your burglar did well,’ Glorfindel smiled.  ‘And he is remarkably modest about his skills.  ‘It was just a matter of being in the right place at the right time,’ he said.  I put it to him that evading the watch of a fortress full of Wood Elves – and the wrath of a dragon – suggest an unusual level of skill, but he would have none of it.’

‘Hobbits are remarkable folk,’ Mithrandir acknowledged.  ‘And there is more to them than meets the eye.’  He raised his chin, wagging his beard at Elrond.  ‘But there was no need to send the child away to protect him from Bilbo Baggins, my lord.  Hobbits take at least as much care of their young ones as elves and men.’

‘It may be, Mithrandir,’ Elrond told him straight-faced, ‘that it is from you I intended to shield him.  He will have enough challenges in his life.  I wish him to have these few years of innocence.’

The wizard harrumphed.  ‘I will happily allow you to treasure him, Master Elrond – that lad has many mountains to climb – but he will not thank you for keeping him safe.  Not until he is old enough to understand your reasoning, at least.’  He sighed, ‘And news of the battle will reach his ears soon enough and excite him in the way that such tales delight children.’ His face sobered.  ‘I believe I have tasks that will keep me from Imladris for a while.  Once I have parted from my burglar, I will head south.  I have questions to ask, and I am not sure where I will find the answers.  The northlands should be safer for a while,’ he reflected, ‘but I would not guarantee the peace holding for long.’

‘I have learned not to expect peace to come at the end of a sword, Mithrandir,’ the half-elf remarked dryly, ‘and, if there is one thing of which I am certain, it is that things can always get worse.’

***

‘Things are moving in the world beyond our borders.’  Galadriel stood beside the motionless pool of molten silver while the breeze lifted her hair of pale gold and her draperies stirred.  ‘The pieces are shifting and altering.  The shadow is re-forming, but there are hints of resistance here and there that make it wary.’

Arwen sat on the stone seat, her feet drawn up and her arms round her knees as she watched her daernaneth.  ‘It all seems very vague,’ she remarked.

‘Prophecy tends to be either vague or bewildering,’ Galadriel shrugged.  ‘And, either way, it is usually not until afterwards that you can look at it and say what it means.’  She smiled at her granddaughter.  ‘But it is still worth paying attention to its warnings – if you can.’

‘And it warns you that I should stay away from Imladris?’ Arwen asked plainly.

‘There is a – danger,’ Galadriel told her carefully.

‘One that is no risk to Adar or my brothers, but threatens me?’

‘Your adar believes it to be true,’ the Lady of the Wood said, ‘and I have seen that there could be results from ignoring his wishes that will, perhaps bring an unalterable change to all our lives.’

The sea-grey eyes that looked back at her were suddenly very old, Galadriel realised, and contained a depth of wisdom that she tended to forget that her granddaughter possessed.  Arwen had lived through largely peaceful times in sheltered havens, but she was no elfling and she had spent much of her life at the shoulder of great and powerful elves.  Little though the Lady wished to acknowledge it, her granddaughter was older than she had been when the First Age lurched into the Second – and she was her parents’ child.  

‘Change happens,’ Arwen said sadly.  ‘Even among elves, although they resist it more than most.’

Galadriel came and sat next to her granddaughter, reaching out to brush her hand over Arwen’s hair of ebony silk.  She had promised both Elrond and Celeborn that she would say nothing of their concerns, but she was increasingly certain that she had no need to mention anything.  Arwen, she felt, was possibly more aware of the situation than any of her elders.

‘Your adar – your daeradar – they have your best interests at heart,’ she said gently.  ‘They wish to shield you.’

‘But they cannot,’ Arwen stated.  ‘Any more than they could protect Naneth.  They keep me here, tucked away behind barriers as imperceptible as they are inviolable, away from the world, but they cannot stop the approach of my fate, Daernaneth.  I cannot be sure of what comes – or whether it will be in five years or five hundred, but their care cannot avert it.’

‘Grant them the right to try, pen-neth,’ Galadriel said simply, ‘so that they might console themselves with that.’

Arwen smiled.  ‘But you have little hope of their ultimate success?’ she asked.

Her daernaneth’s hand sought hers.  ‘We are bound up with the fate of these lands, I think,’ she said, ‘and to fight the Dark Lord as best we can is our duty.  Yours, as well as mine.  And if it takes us along paths that others would wish us not to follow, then there is little we can do to stop it.’  She smiled.  ‘And sometimes, we would not do so if we could.  If I could choose now,’ she added, ‘never to have walked the hard road that brought me to Ennor and your daeradar, I would not make that decision.  If I could choose to have turned away and followed the host westwards when Valar offered forgiveness, I would still opt to remain.  Each loss has come hand in hand with something too precious to yield – and I would not be who I am now if I had surrendered.’

‘You have still told me nothing of what you suspect,’ Arwen stated.

‘Nor will I.’

‘So it is as well that I am capable of reading between the lines.’

Galadriel regarded her steadily.  ‘Be happy with us here,’ she said.  ‘Do not fight the care my lord and your adar wish to give.’

‘I would spend these years with Adar,’ Arwen announced softly.  ‘He will be missing me.’ 

‘He believes that what he is doing is for the best,’ Galadriel insisted. ‘Allow him his way.’

 Arwen inclined her head with resignation. ‘For now,' she agreed.

Games

The twins bowed formally, hand on heart, dipping their heads to conceal identical grins. 

‘My lady,’ they said together.

Arwen looked at them graciously.  ‘You are most welcome here in Lothlórien,’ she told them.  ‘We are pleased that so many have responded to the challenge sent out into the elven realms.’

‘Who could resist the command of the Evenstar?’ Elladan asked, shooting a somewhat feral glance at the assembled warriors of the Golden Wood.

‘You are the last to arrive.’  A sister’s disapproval tinged her tone.  ‘We have greeted a contingent of archers from the realm of Aran Thranduil and even some from far Mithlond.’

‘My apologies, Lady fair,’ Elrohir said easily.  ‘We had a slight – problem – to deal with before we left the borders of Imladris and our departure was delayed.  But we are here now.’

‘And with tonight’s feast,’ Arwen declared, ‘the games will commence!’

Celeborn leaned closer to the lean figure of Glorfindel.  ‘What problems might those have been?’ he asked.

The golden-haired elf cast up his eyes.  ‘Do not ask!’ he said.  ‘Nothing that concerns the safety of elvendom in Arda, at any rate.  Although I would tell you now that the vagaries of adolescence are enough to make any sensible adult prefer the simplicity of battle.’

The Lord of the Wood grinned.  ‘Ah,’ he said.  ‘Isildur’s heir is proving as obstinate as his bloodlines suggest, is he?’

Glorfindel turned to look at him.  ‘Elrond is missing his daughter, Celeborn,’ he murmured.  ‘He is sure that this path is for the best – but I am not convinced.  I argued against it at the start and I still feel . . .’  He shrugged.  ‘Elrond needs Arwen’s support, my friend.  There are difficult years ahead.  I can smell it in the air.’

‘Later, Glorfindel,’ Celeborn insisted.  ‘This is neither the time nor the place to talk of such matters.’  He paused.  ‘I was surprised that Thranduil agreed to send warriors to take part in Arwen’s challenge.  He is not, as you know, too fond of my wife and tends to discourage links between our realms.’

‘He did not send his son though, I note,’ the Vanyar remarked.

‘I am told that Legolas suffered injury shortly before the party left – and that he was desolated to disappoint Lady Arwen by failing to take up her invitation.’

‘Convenient.’

‘Very convenient,’ Celeborn agreed.  ‘I suspect that only the fact that the challenges were issued under Arwen’s name brought about the polite fiction.  My cousin would have no hesitation in being far ruder to me.’

‘You are remarkably patient with his hostility.  I believe there was a time when you would have been inclined to try to beat some sense into his head.’

‘Please!’ Celeborn looked pained.  ‘I have learned the skills of diplomacy since my headstrong youth.’

‘Acquired them painfully,’ Glorfindel agreed.  ‘Learned as are all the best lessons.’

Celeborn laughed.  ‘Come with me, my friend,’ he said.  ‘Let us share a skin or two of wine and you can tell me of my son-in-law’s suffering at the hands of the latest scion of Elros’s line.’

***

Estel glowered. 

He had shot up recently, Elrond thought with resignation, and now he was all legs and floppy dark hair.  And surliness.  He must not forget that.  It seemed only ten minutes ago that the eager child had been only too willing to go out of his way to please his ada, but somehow, from somewhere, Estel seemed to have acquired the belief that he knew best.   The Lord of Imladris would have blamed his sons for the newly acquired attitude, if they did not clearly find the boy’s sheer contrariness just as irritating as he did.

‘You may not go with your brothers,’ he said patiently.  ‘You have your studies and your training – and I am not prepared to have you leave the safety of Imladris’s borders.’

‘There will be no training while Glorfindel and his chosen warriors are away,’ Estel argued.  ‘And Elladan and Elrohir cannot work with me, for they will be gone too.  I do not see why it should make any difference if I travel with them!  Glorfindel can give me lessons in history and – and languages while we are gone.  Travel is good for the mind.’

‘You will have plenty of opportunity to broaden your mind that way when you are older, Estel,’ Elrond said firmly.

The boy turned his scowl on his naneth.

‘No,’ Gilraen said simply.  ‘Lord Elrond is quite right.  You have work to do here – and, regardless of that, it is your duty to obey without complaint.  You get your own way far too often as it is – and I will not have you badgering Elladan and Elrohir until they intercede for you.  You will be adult soon enough, my son, and then you can make your own decisions, but for now you will do as you are told.’

Estel opened his mouth to protest, but closed it again without saying anything.  His naneth, he had discovered, put her foot down rarely, but, when she did, she was unyielding.  His adar might be willing to listen to reasoned arguments, although he rarely changed his mind, but when the pair of them stood shoulder to shoulder, Estel knew he did not stand a chance against them.

Gilraen and Elrond waited briefly to see if he would object to their ruling, then dismissed him to attend to his studies.

He was quite impressed with himself, Estel decided, for managing to leave Adar’s study without slamming the door, but, nevertheless, he had no intention whatsoever of mincing off meekly to listen to Erestor going on endlessly about mathematics.  He slouched along the corridor, his black mood obvious enough to deter any of the passing elves from speaking to him. 

Elladan found him in the small room at the end of the library where some of the oldest scrolls were kept, carefully wrapped in silk.

‘Clever,’ he said admiringly.  ‘I believe the search has extended to the stables and the training fields, but no-one has thought to look in the library for one escaping the trials of education.’

‘Except you,’ Estel replied, more mollified than he would have thought by his foster-brother’s approval.

‘Well . . .’ Elladan said deprecatingly, and laughed.

‘Did you hide here, too?’

‘Once or twice,’ the twin admitted.  ‘It is the last place Adar would have expected to find me.’  He grinned.  ‘Here, or the schoolroom,’ he added.  ‘Just in case you want another good place.’

‘They will not let me come,’ his young brother told him sadly.

‘I thought not.’  Elladan put a hand on Estel’s shoulder.  ‘But you are not the only one, my brother.  After all, Adar is remaining here – and he must want to go and see Arwen.’

‘I have never met her,’ Estel remarked.  ‘It seems odd that you should have a sister I have never seen.’

‘I am sure you will see her one day,’ his foster brother consoled him, ‘and it is not as if you would find the acquaintance too exciting – she is, after all, an elleth, with the usual unreasonable objections to such things as frogs in her bathing chamber and nettles concealed under her sheets.’

‘I am just so sick of being too young for everything I want to do,’ Estel groused, ‘except for all the times when I am considered old enough to know better.’

‘You will outgrow the problem soon enough.’  Elladan eyed the youth.  ‘You are growing like a weed, Estel.  Within five or six years, you will be a man – and you might look back and wish that you had not been in such a hurry to grow up.’

Estel’s expression of betrayal would have been funny, Elladan thought, had it not been for the gleam of resentment in his eyes.

‘Come,’ he commanded.  ‘You had best seek out Erestor and apologise for missing your lesson – before Adar decides to speak to you about courtesy and consideration.’  He grinned.  ‘And then make your peace with your naneth.  She is not pleased, Estel.  You are unlikely to escape without penalty.’

Estel frowned, but allowed himself to be led towards the advisor’s office, pulling away from his foster brother’s hand at the last minute, as if to assert his independence.

‘We will see you later, then,’ Elladan sighed with resignation as the youth tapped on the door and advanced reluctantly into the room.

***   

‘He ran away?’ Celeborn said incredulously.

‘Daeradar, please!’ Elrohir lifted a hand in denial.  ‘He decided that, if he was not respected for his true worth in Imladris, he would remove his unwanted presence and take himself off to camp in the woods.’

‘How is that different?’

‘He intended to come back, of course,’ Elladan grinned.  ‘Once everybody had had a chance to realise how essential his company was to their comfort and peace of mind.’

‘I was tempted to leave him,’ Glorfindel admitted.  ‘Give one or two of my best scouts the task of ensuring his safety, of course, whilst making sure that he found no game, little shelter and lost track of where he was.  It would have been a salutary experience – and shown him that he is nowhere near as skilled as he thinks he is – but Elrond was not prepared to allow him to suffer the consequences of his actions.’

‘Not in that way, anyway,’ Elrohir qualified.  ‘He should have a far deeper understanding of the ins and outs of food preparation by the time we return.’

‘Kitchen duty?’ Arwen grinned.  ‘It is not as painful a penalty as Adar seems to think.  Iavas seems to feel that those sentenced to labour in her kitchen need regular feeding with honey cakes and berry tarts.’

‘You ended up scrubbing pots and peeling vegetables a time or two, did you not, my sister?’ Elladan asked, putting his arm round the slender elleth. 

‘Nowhere near as often as my big brothers,’ she said airily.  ‘And I am sure you have found the cooking skills you learned to be of use to you.’

‘He sounds to be a remarkably tiresome young man,’ Celeborn said flatly.  ‘I am surprised that Elrond tolerates his tantrums.’

Galadriel shot an amused glance at him.  ‘The feast went well, Arwen,’ she said, deciding that enough had been said on the subject of the Dunedain concealed within Imladris’s borders.  ‘Although each group of elves seems determined to keep apart from their rivals – I hope that some of their suspicions are laid to rest by the time the games are concluded.  This is no time for elves to be wary of each other.’

‘We have not spent enough time in each other’s company over recent centuries,’ Glorfindel said ruefully.  ‘Each haven has become as an isolated island in a sea of men.’

‘Surely not.’  Celeborn lifted an eyebrow.  ‘Men are few and far between in most of these lands.  Orcs, on the other hand, spread like a disease over the face of the land.’

Shrugging elegantly, Glorfindel replied, ‘Orcs or men – what counts is that we have become estranged from each other.  It is no wonder that Mirkwood’s archers look on us with doubt – when did we last emerge from our havens to offer them aid?  When did the elves of Mithlond last come east?  We are too often our own worst enemies, my friend, and in our own pride, we offer up our throats to the blades of our foes.’  He clasped his hands behind his head and gazed thoughtfully up at the golden canopy of broad mallorn leaves. 

‘Were you not there when the White Council drove the Necromancer from Dol Guldur?’ asked Celeborn, with a puzzled frown. 

Elladan tightened his hold on his sister and leaned to murmur in her ear.  ‘Is Daeradar’s memory failing him, do you think?’

She smiled.  ‘It is like being home again, and an elfling,’ she breathed, ‘to have Daeradar and Glorfindel squabbling over nothing.  I had not realised how much I had missed it!’

‘All we need is Adar stepping between them to keep the peace.’  He grinned.  ‘I wonder who will take on his role and bring them together?’

She rolled her eyes.  ‘There can be no question!’ she declared. 

‘You know he was, my lord,’ Galadriel said mildly, as her granddaughter beamed at her brother triumphantly.  ‘And Glorfindel knows that we are too few to hold back the tide that comes to swamp us.  But I am pleased that Arwen’s scheme seems likely to remind us that we are all elves, no matter where we live, and that we share a common enemy.’

‘I am not sure that setting different groups to compete for trophies is a way to remind us that we are friends,’ Elrohir observed.  ‘Competition can stir up rivalries long since thought buried.’

‘Yet sharing information is a good way to understand that we are not alone,’ Arwen retaliated. 

‘On whom are you placing your bets,’ Elladan nudged her.  ‘Lothlórien or Imladris?’

‘I am not betting,’ Arwen informed him primly.  ‘It would be most improper in me.  As the organiser, it is my duty to be impartial.’

‘But she will be most disappointed in you if you allow yourselves to be defeated,’ Celeborn smiled at his granddaughter fondly, ‘and will doubtless see you suffer for your incompetence.’ His smile developed a fierce edge.  ‘As will Glorfindel.’

‘We should have stayed at home, my brother,’ Elrohir sighed.  ‘At least Estel has some respect for us and admires us for our multifarious talents.’

‘He has not really had long to get to know you, though,’ their sister teased.  ‘He will learn better in time.’

***

Cúraniel pored over the lists detailing who had achieved what scores and annotated the master copy before sitting back and sighing loud enough to attract Arwen’s attention.

‘Thranduil’s archers are excelling themselves, are they not?’ she remarked to Cúraniel.  ‘Are you disappointed?’

‘It is quite amusing,’ her friend admitted.  ‘Haldir and your brothers were determined to defeat each other – they have been prowling round each other with the sleek ferocity of wildcats – and they have been pushed out of the leading positions altogether.  The Mirkwood bows might be less powerful – but when an archer is as skilled as they all seem to be, it makes little difference.’

‘And they all laugh,’ Arwen said thoughtfully, ‘and claim to be barely competent in comparison to Thranduil’s son.’

‘He must be truly exceptional.’

Arwen raised an eyebrow.  ‘Rumour has it he is rather appealing in other ways, too.’

‘He is fair-haired.’  Cúraniel waved a dismissive hand.  ‘I have seen too many blond elves.  And he is far too young to be really interesting.’

‘Elladan is at the top of his group as far as sword-play is concerned,’ Arwen turned back to the information in front of her.  ‘And Elrohir is doing surprisingly well in unarmed combat.’

‘M’mm,’ Cúraniel agreed.  ‘He is broader in the shoulder – and more powerful.  Once he has his opponent down, it is hard for him to get away.’

‘You have been watching, then,’ Arwen commented.

Cúraniel flushed.  ‘Let me repeat it. I am not interested in your brother.’

‘Of course not – you just enjoy watching half-clad ellyn rolling around on the ground.’

A tiny smile began to play at the corners of Cúraniel’s mouth.  ‘Well, now you come to mention it . . .’ she said, opening her eyes widely.

Arwen giggled.  ‘It is a shame that we did not think to include swimming in the challenges offered.  Think of the opportunity we have missed!’

‘I shall miss this when it is over,’ Cúraniel said regretfully.  ‘This is the most fun we have had in years.’

‘Something else will turn up,’ her friend promised.  ‘I am sure of it.

***

Gilraen sat among the roses with her eyes closed, enjoying their fragrance and considering the problem that was her son.  He was neither one thing not the other, she sighed, that was the trouble.  Were his father still alive and they were living among their kind, Estel would be approaching manhood – old enough, at least, to take some responsibility on his young shoulders.  He would have a role and a sense of purpose that he lacked here in this tranquil haven.  Here – here, he was a child, considered barely old enough to do anything for himself.

The elves, for all their kindness, for all the love they showed towards a boy who had lost his father, simply could not understand the urgency of mortal lives.  Estel – Aragorn – was growing, and he had to be ready to accept the burden of his inheritance.  At this rate, she did not see that happening in the next decade.

He might be competent with weapons; learned in languages; knowledgeable about history – but unless he was permitted to develop as a man, it would be years before he was able to walk on his own, without the guidance of his teachers and the support of those who looked on him as their brother.  And then – then, he would not be able to stand as his father’s son.  How could the Dunedain accept him, take him as the leader he was born to be, follow him to the destiny intended for him, if to their eyes her son was an elf?

She had spoken to Elrond – several times, if truth were told – and each time he had protested that Estel was too young, that he deserved these years of innocence and joy to bolster him against the struggle ahead.  And he was right – she could see he was right.  She did not want her only child to be thrust out into a harsh world when she could protect him here.  But she knew, as Elrond appeared to prefer to ignore, that within a handful of years, that burden must be shouldered.

And he was not an elf.  Whereas as a child he had wept for that and longed to be like his brothers, he was now seeking to learn what sort of person occupied his skin, trying constantly to find just what he could do and butting his head against whatever barriers he found in his fight for some independence.   Unfortunately, she smiled ruefully, he lacked the maturity to be able to express what it was that was causing him to be so difficult and, instead, lurched from one disaster to the next.

But she did not.  Elrond must understand that Aragorn was like a caterpillar outgrowing his skin and that he must be allowed to expand his horizons if, when the chrysalis broke open, he was to be ready to fly.

It would not be easy.  Elrond had taken Estel as his foster son with a devotion that had surprised and humbled her when first she came within these walls.  Who would have thought that an elf lord of Elrond’s great age and might would sit with a grubby, tear-stained child dirtying his fine silken robe, with sticky fingers twisted possessively in his ebony braids?  But he had – and he had loved the child and cared for him as carefully as ever Arathorn could have done.  And now they were to face the hardest task that ever a parent had to endure – they had to let him go.

Gilraen stood.  The time had come for her to seek out Imladris’s lord and speak with him at length on the one subject she was better qualified than him to understand.  She simply hoped that, not only would he listen, but that she could convince him that change was needed to ensure that their hope became the man he was born to be.  After all, she had to.  This was too important for her to fail.

***

‘There is something about Lothlórien,’ Elrohir mentioned, as he and his brother watched the moonlight turn the water to a puddle of molten silver.

‘Mmm,’ Elladan agreed, adding several minutes later, ‘I am not sure I entirely like it.’

‘It is becoming more – remote, I think I mean.  More distant.’

‘Or are we becoming more involved with the outside world?’

‘Maybe.’  Elladan tilted his head back and let the cool light glimmer on his pale skin.  ‘I do not see how Daeradar endures it.’

‘I think he ignores it,’ Elrohir decided.  ‘He has decided that someone needs to be in touch with what is happening beyond the bounds of the Golden Wood – and he just gets on with it.’  A soft breeze stirred his dark hair.  ‘Though it would be a serious mistake to underestimate Daernaneth,’ he added.  ‘She might like the Wood to seem a place apart, but she has her eye on about a hundred possibilities at once and little escapes her watch.’

Elladan waved a hand dismissively.  ‘It is not our grandparents I doubt,’ he said.  ‘They are dangerous, whatever way you look at them.  ‘But those who dwell here – they are so accustomed to the shelter of their shielded little haven, that I cannot see them holding up in the face of sustained attack.  They are – soft.’

His brother threw him an amused glance.  ‘I am sure that Thranduil’s warriors would say the same of those who dwell in Imladris.’

‘Perhaps,’ Elladan granted, ‘but we do not shut out those from beyond our borders – even those who have not left the safety of Adar’s house in centuries are aware of the suffering of those who confront Sauron’s creatures and do their best to offer what aid they can.’  He turned his head and smiled to greet Arwen as she slipped from the shadows between the trees to join them.

‘Do not jump to conclusions.’  Arwen smiled affectionately at her brothers as they made space for her to sit between them.  ‘Many of those you are condemning as effete are anything but!  It is the fashion in Lothlórien to look as if an effect is achieved without any effort and to dismiss praise as unearned – but you have seen Daeradar’s marchwardens.  They are deadly and ferocious warriors – who just like to look as if they can dispose of armies of orcs without raising a sweat or untidying their hair.’

Elladan looped a long arm round her waist and leaned in to kiss her cheek.  ‘If you say so, little sister,’ he agreed amiably.

‘But you are not planning on bringing one of them home to meet Adar, are you?’ Elrohir enquired with a tinge of disapproval.

Arwen suppressed a smile.  ‘You never know,’ she said challengingly.  ‘And if I did, I would not want you tormenting the poor elf.’

‘That is our job,’ Elrohir said firmly, taking her hand.  ‘If he cannot stand up to us, he will not be worthy of you, Undómiel.   Not to mention that you would be able to make mincemeat of him without any effort at all.  Your suitors should thank us for deterring them.  Imagine the sheer horror of an eternity being bullied by you!’

‘I shall bear in mind,’ she laughed, ‘that – should I ever decide I am sufficiently interested in anyone – he will have to be able to take on my loving brothers and defeat them at their own game.’

The three siblings sat quietly, talking intermittently of old times, exchanging tales of their current activities and generally enjoying the rare opportunity to be together, until the moon set and the morning star gleamed down on them, promising another day.

‘I wish I could go home with you,’ Arwen said wistfully.  ‘Much as I love it here in Lothlórien, I miss the Hidden Valley – and I feel I need to spend as much time as possible with Adar.’

Elladan hugged her.  ‘We will pester Adar until he agrees to let us bring you home,’ he said comfortingly.  ‘The passes are safer now than they have been in years.  It would be a good time for you to travel.’

‘You said that before,’ Arwen reminded him sadly, ‘but I am still here.  I do not believe that he or Daeradar will allow me to journey back to Imladris until they are ready – whenever that might be.’

Elrohir dropped a kiss on her ear.  ‘There are times, my sister,’ he said, ‘when you just have to put your foot down and insist.  You cannot let Adar and our grandparents live your life for you – you are too amenable at times.’

‘They are only doing what they think is best.’  Arwen wrapped her arms round her knees and rested her chin as her silken hair covered her back like a cloak.  ‘They wish to fend off some danger that they believe threatens me – Adar and Daeradar are standing shoulder to shoulder on this and Daernaneth is willing to let them try.’  She turned to meet her brothers’ concerned looks.  ‘But she knows that they are fighting something too inevitable to resist.’  She smiled and took a hand of each of them.  ‘We all have a part to play in fighting the Shadow,’ she said, ‘and, for all they would keep me safely tucked out of its range, they will not succeed.  My fate awaits me, just as yours does you – and there is nothing we can do about it.’

His grip tightening on her hand, Elladan frowned at her.  ‘They are not the only ones who would protect you,’ he insisted.  ‘We are not about to let anything threaten our little sister either.’

‘You might be my big brothers,’ Arwen smiled, ‘but there are things that you cannot prevent.’

‘Maybe not,’ Elrohir spoke softly, ‘but we will look after you – one way or another.  On that you can rely.’

‘And you have no idea,’ she said, ‘how much that comforts me.’

Note:  Chunks of the last section have been taken from Appendix A: The Tale of Aragorn and Arwen.  Because some things you can't change.

_______________________________________________________

Meeting

‘There is more to running Imladris than the provision of regular meals,’ Arwen declared, her eyes snapping.  ‘You know that, Daeradar.  While you are protecting me here from I know not what, the life’s blood that supports the Hidden Valley is leaking to the Havens!  Soon there will be no-one left to deliver even the most basic care to those who stay at Adar’s side.  I am taking a stand, my lord!  Like it or like it not, I am going home.’

Celeborn stood immovable.  His granddaughter could rail as much as she wanted, but she was not fool enough to depart Lothlórien unattended.  The respite had lasted even less time than he had expected – and his hopes had never been high.  Orcs were breeding like maggots in the corpse of the brief peace and the Shadow again crept forth from Dol Guldur to crush the small signs of recovery that had sprouted in its absence.  Arwen knew only too well the dangers that confronted even the wary in the mountain passes.  As long as he remained firm, she would rest safe beneath the canopy of the Golden Wood.

Unexpectedly, Arwen’s face softened, as if she saw his stubbornness as an expression of his love rather than a desire to frustrate her wishes.  ‘I can go with your blessing or without, Daeradar,’ she said conversationally, ‘but go I will.’  And, having made her position clear, she stepped up to him and kissed his cheek before moving to the door and leaving with a cool maturity that surprised him.

From her seat by the wide window, Galadriel eyed her husband, but remained prudently silent.

Celeborn’s chin dropped and he appeared to examine the pattern of leaves that danced on the sun-brightened wood.  He remained silent, his brooding frown shadowing his tall figure, until finally he sighed and turned towards his wife.   ‘When did she grow so determined?’ he asked.

‘We cannot hold her against her will,’ Galadriel remarked mildly.  ‘To do so would only force her into taking action that we might regret for ever.’

‘But we have kept her safe for so long – I cannot bear to abandon that now and let her take her chance with what will happen.’  Celeborn’s pain was almost tangible and, without hesitation, Galadriel dropped her stitching and rose to embrace him.

‘We have done all we can,’ she murmured.  ‘To interfere further will only make things worse.  She will need her Daeradar before the end, my love, and you do not want to damage the bond between you.  Let her have her way.  The time has come to stand back: I feel it.’

‘Will you at least go with her?’ Celeborn pleaded.  ‘She will listen to you.’

Galadriel smiled wryly.  ‘As I listened to those who wished to advise me?  I am not so foolhardy.  We have both seen and experienced what happens when those who feel they know better choose to interfere – and we have always congratulated ourselves on having the fortitude to ignore the nay-sayers.’  She touched gentle fingers to her husband’s cheek, trailing them to follow his jaw.  ‘There is still hope.  One way and another – there are many paths that lead from this moment.  We cannot be sure which of them leads to the end for which we strive.’  She rested her head briefly on his shoulder and sighed.  ‘I cannot leave the Wood,’ she said.  ‘I am needed here – to hold what we have tried to build.  And neither can you go: not at this time.  There is too much at stake.’

‘There are times,’ he murmured intensely, closing his arms round her in a fierce clasp, ‘when I could wish to tell the world to care for itself and leave me to guard what is mine.’

‘Not and remain Celeborn,’ she replied, lifting her chin to smile at him.  ‘You were not born to let others down, my heart.  We will let her go – and we will offer our support to our daughter’s daughter and hold ourselves ready for the fall that will shadow us until the end of days.’

He stilled and watched the twist of a smile gleaming like sun through winter rainfall.

‘For a fall there will be – one way or another,’ she mourned.

***

Her arms filled with the silver stems of honesty, Gilraen emerged from the gardens just as the weary horses clattered through the entrance to the stable yard.  She shied back, disconcerted to see so many elves she did not recognise, fair-haired and clad in pearly-grey rather than the blues more familiar here in Imladris.  She had forgotten, she realised, how alien she had felt in those first difficult months in the valley, when everyone had seemed strange and unearthly to the eyes of a young woman brought up among the practical farms and villages of the Dúnedain.

‘Welcome.’  Glorfindel’s suave tones cut through the bustle of arrival with an impressive ease.  ‘This is an unexpected pleasure.  It has been some while since Lothlórien has sent so large a party to Imladris.’

A slender hooded figure around whom the warriors milled dismounted with a speed that disconcerted those whose task was clearly to offer protection and leapt towards the tall golden elf with an enthusiasm that made Gilraen wonder.   Even more surprising was the expression she caught briefly on Glorfindel’s face as he gathered the stranger into his arms.   For a moment, Gilraen wondered if this was the elleth who held his heart, but almost before the thought formed, she realised that it was a father’s concern she saw in his eyes rather than a lover’s, and she knew who the stranger must be.

‘I have missed you!’ The emphasis in the musical voice was heartfelt.  ‘You and the valley and Adar!  How is he?’

‘He will be displeased,’ Glorfindel informed her, kissing her affectionately on the brow, so that her hood fell back and the glorious satin of her hair unwound to tumble down her back. 

‘Oh, pish-tush,’ Arwen told him airily.  ‘It is not as if I have run away with no more than a bundle of spare clothing and a belt knife!  We have been quite safe on the road.  As if a couple of dozen of Daeradar’s most ferocious warriors could not keep me safe!’

Glorfindel lifted an elegant brow.  ‘I am sure he would trust anyone else to their care, child,’ he said, ‘but Elrond would not consider an army of elven warriors enough – and you know it.  I am surprised at Celeborn.’ 

A spurt of laughter like the ringing of bells acknowledged Glorfindel’s remark, but Arwen seemed disinclined to agree.  She twined her arms around the elf lord’s and turned towards the house, calling her thanks to the warriors busy seeing to their horses and inviting them to seek food and shelter as soon as they were ready.

So that, Gilraen thought, retracing her steps to seek another way to the house, was Lord Elrond’s daughter, of whom she had heard so much – and been told so little.  She could see a look of the twins in the elleth, Gilraen mused – a look that probably spoke of their naneth, whose fate haunted Imladris still – but her adar was there, too.  His strength and authority – his kindness – and the warmth that made the valley a place of healing to so many.  The exiled widow of the Dúnedain’s chieftain wondered if she would be discreetly shepherded out of the Lady Arwen’s way – as she had, from time to time, been kept from other visitors to the halls.   It would be interesting to discover, she smiled, if she would find a soft-eyed elleth requesting her assistance with some task that would keep them both out of sight over the next weeks.  Interesting, too, to see if the twins, when they brought her son back to their father’s house, would draw a veil over their eager faces and affect ignorance of their sister’s presence.  It was not unlikely – it had not taken her long to realise that she was told only what Elrond thought she should know and even less time to grasp that she learned more by listening than asking.

The dried seed pods looked good, she decided as she arranged them in the tall vases.  They lightened the corridor, catching and reflecting the light.

Gilraen paused, leaning on the carved chest, unexpectedly breathless.  Why did she feel that some event of great magnitude was upon her?  Some feeling of doom was bearing down upon them all, with all the inevitability of a flash flood, that could only be turned aside by something as solid as a mountain, while it tossed great trees and boulders from its path as easily as if they were leaves in a stream.  She closed her eyes to steady herself.  This was Imladris, she told herself firmly.   She let the peace of the golden afternoon fill her as she listened to the soft rustling of the leaves and the peaceful progress of the day’s duties.  Crises might happen elsewhere in the world, but not here.  Not in Elrond’s house.

***

‘Of course I am happy to see you.’  Elrond stroked his daughter’s hair as if every touch was a treasure to lay up in storage against some time of famine.  ‘But the passes grow more dangerous with every passing day, my daughter – and I would rather know you to be safe.’

His daughter smiled at him mischievously.  ‘I am safe now, Adar,’ she declared.  ‘And, should you have me remain so, then you will have to accept my presence in your halls.’

‘You have been absent too long, child.’  Elrond closed his eyes as he clasped her to him.  The boulder was rolling down the hill, he thought, gaining momentum over the steep slope.  Trying to place objects in its path to divert it had given them some illusion of control – but events were proving different.  The Third Age was moving to its close and all that was left for him was to stand firm.

‘What is it, Adar?’ Arwen’s voice was soft with concern. 

He shook his head.  ‘It is nothing,’ he told her.  ‘Just – I miss your naneth even more acutely as time passes, I think.’

His daughter combed her fingers in his hair and rested her head on his shoulder.  ‘The time will soon come for you to be reunited with her,’ she said.  ‘You have endured long enough, Adar.’

‘There is no reason why you could not go before me,’ he suggested impulsively.  ‘I would have no fears for your safety then.’

Arwen smiled.  ‘No, Adar.’  She stroked his cheek gently, offering him comfort.  ‘It is not my time to sail.  I am needed here.’

Elrond pushed his anguish from him.  He could not make her choose – he would not if he could.  Little though he liked the idea, she had the right to decide her own destiny.  ‘Then why have you crossed the mountains, my daughter?’ he asked serenely.  ‘Surely you do not believe us so helpless as to be unable to cope without your presence?’

‘Of course not,’ Arwen said with a wide-eyed and wholly artificial innocence. 

Her adar tilted his head and inspected her somewhat cynically, until she giggled.

‘I wanted to come home,’ she admitted.  ‘Badly enough to fight Daeradar – badly enough to win.  I needed to be here.  Why, I am not altogether sure.’

‘Oh, my Evenstar,’ he sighed.

‘My brothers are not here?’

‘Not at the moment,’ he said, hoping that their return would be delayed.

‘And their protégé?’

‘Is old enough to be learning the skills he will need to take up his role among the Dúnedain.’

‘Already?’ Arwen sounded surprised.

‘His naneth dwells still among us,’ Elrond offered.  ‘She will be glad to make your acquaintance.  I think she often feels lonely among so many elves – your naneth would have set her at her ease more easily than I have ever managed.’  He considered for a moment.  ‘She is a woman of great courage and resolution,’ he conceded, ‘but I think she longs for the day when she might return to her kin.’

‘I can understand that,’ Arwen agreed.

Elrond raised his eyebrows.  ‘Your grandparents are your kin,’ he pointed out.

‘And I love them dearly,’ she said.  ‘But there are times when I want you and my brothers.  And Glorfindel and Erestor,’ she added, ‘and my home.’

‘Well, you are here now,’ her adar remarked.

‘Indeed I am,’ she said contentedly.

***

A large drop of water rolled off the inadequate shelter of the leaves to land on Estel’s brow, scattering to wet a face already dripping.  He sighed.  It was one thing to abandon himself to the demands of the wilderness on fine summer days – such as the ones he had spent in the woods of Imladris when he was still a boy, when his foster brothers had spent endless days teaching him how to follow the faint trails of the small forest animals that watched him in bemusement.   It was quite another to slog through the clinging mud in search of any evidence of the passage of vile creatures whose one desire seemed to be to seek him out and put an end to his miserable existence.  And his brothers had spent centuries living this kind of life.  It was enough – almost – to make him wish to take up the life of a scholar.

‘The rain is easing off,’ Elrohir remarked in a low voice.  ‘The skies should clear by nightfall.’

‘Just in time for us to freeze in the dark,’ Estel grumbled.

‘More than likely,’ Elladan agreed.

‘And you will say that only a fool would light a fire and offer a beacon to those who would love to find us.’

‘You have at least been listening to some of my words of wisdom.’  Elladan grinned briefly at the young man, before returning to his careful study of their surroundings.

‘You may yet live long enough to prosper from them.’

‘Do not take Elladan too seriously,’ Elrohir recommended.  ‘We should be beyond the borders of the valley before dark.  Once there, we can afford to seek shelter – and I, for one, intend to rest in the dry and eat a hot meal, even if I can look forward to soaking in abundant steaming water and sleeping in my own room tomorrow.’

‘I have almost forgotten what it is like to be dry,’ Estel shivered, sending a spray of raindrops from his cloak. 

‘After only a couple of months?’ Elladan managed to sound incredulous.  ‘I thought we had trained your memory better than that.’

‘He will tell you now of the wet winter we endured some century or so ago,’ Elrohir commented idly.  ‘When we spent months on patrol with a group of Dúnedain – and everything was soaked – to the point where wood refused to light and food went mouldy in our packs.  The men had sores in places about which you do not even want to think.’  He smiled ruefully.  ‘Even we suffered – and that is not a common thing, let me tell you.’

‘But at least we escaped the fevers that carried off many of those too frail to endure cold and wet and hunger any longer,’ his brother added sombrely.

‘The life of a Ranger is hard.’ Elrohir glanced at his young foster brother.  ‘There is more to it than wielding your weapons well, or having an understanding of battle strategy.  The patrols spend most of their time surviving in uncomfortable conditions, unseen and unappreciated by those whom they keep safe.  Their life consists of endless boredom and discomfort interspersed with terrifyingly hectic bursts of action.  I would say that you are not yet old enough to undertake it.’

‘Elrohir!’ Estel was indignant.  ‘I am already older than most of those who start with the patrols.  You cannot continue to keep me safe in Imladris for ever – I am a man full-grown now.’  He urged his horse on along the slippery path.  ‘And, anyway, what am I supposed to do if I do not become a Ranger?   I cannot grow old sitting in the library and being lectured on history by Erestor.’  His face sobered.  ‘I have seen my naneth’s face, Elrohir – she is bidding me farewell every time she looks at me.  She knows that the time has come for me to take on adult responsibilities.’

Elladan glanced at his brother and they shared one of the silent exchanges that still managed to frustrate their young foster brother.

‘But tomorrow, at least,’ Elrohir said mildly, ‘she will be able to welcome you as you return to her.’ 

***

‘May I join you?’  Arwen hesitated at the entrance to the secluded garden, as the late roses bobbed round her head in the soft breeze.

Gilraen looked up from shirt she was embroidering.  ‘Of course, my lady,’ she agreed.  ‘It is surely I who should ask to join you – is this not, after all, your naneth’s garden?’

‘It was her sanctuary,’ Arwen smiled, cupping one of the small white flowers in her pale hand and enjoying the fragrance.  ‘But she has not needed it for a long time now.  It is good to see someone else finding it to be a place of peace.’  She turned back to Gilraen.  ‘I am only sorry that we have not met before,’ she admitted.  ‘I hope you do not think that I resented your presence in my adar’s house.’

‘I wondered, at first,’ Gilraen confessed, ‘but Lord Glorfindel assured me that it was nothing of the sort.’  She looked intently at the elleth.  ‘And I have learned that a score of years is an insignificant time in the lives of elves.’  She indicated the shady seat beside her in invitation. 

‘My grandparents and adar are very protective,’ Arwen told her, ‘especially after what happened in the Redhorn Pass . . .’  She paused.  ‘And I do not like to oppose them – unless it is necessary.’

‘It is always wise,’ Gilraen acknowledged, ‘to save your energy for the battles you do not intend to lose.’  She met Arwen’s eyes.  ‘I fought to marry my son’s father,’ she said.  ‘My father thought I was too young – and so did the one I loved.’  She glanced down at her hands.  ‘They both wanted me to wait – but I would not.’  She smiled wryly.  ‘And it is as well I did not.  We had little enough time as it was – and I would not have missed a minute of it.’

‘If you knew then,’ Arwen asked, ‘what you know now – would you have chosen otherwise?’

‘Not for one moment,’ Gilraen returned immediately.  ‘For all we had so little time together, I treasure every hour we had – and I have his son.  Some things are worth sacrifice.’

‘That is what I thought,’ Arwen mused.

‘And,’ Gilraen added, her fingers tracing the pattern on the shirt collar, ‘there are times when the outcome is more important than the wishes of the individual.  Much of the time,’ she sighed, ‘men cannot see that – time passes too swiftly and a single lifetime does not encompass the change that the elves can observe – but the birth of my son was one of those times.’  She smiled.  ‘He is my gift to Middle Earth.  My hope.  And, in the end . . .’ She stopped.

‘I remember Arathorn,’ Arwen said.  ‘He was a responsible young man – serious and determined to do what he could for his people.  I expect he was a good Chieftain.’

Gilraen gazed at her, but remained silent.

‘I am not a fool,’ Elrond’s daughter pointed out.  ‘Who else would your son’s adar be?’  She shrugged.  ‘But I will not ask for confirmation – at least until Adar agrees.’

‘I know,’ Gilraen said carefully, ‘in my head, that your naneth sailed some five hundred years ago – but it can still surprise me when elves speak so easily of times long past.’

‘And yet my family still treat me as if I am a child,’ Arwen informed her.  She smiled.  ‘It is best, I find, to ignore the passage of years and treat people as they seem.  You have, after all, considerable experience in dealing with my brothers in the guise of trouble-making adolescents – and they are older than I am.’

‘I do not know how I would have managed without them,’ Gilraen said affectionately. ‘Estel would have been a very lonely child without their light-hearted encouragement.  He loves them as brothers – and admires them as heroes.  They have trained him, played with him, led him into mischief – and taught him to face its consequences.  Much of the man he will become has been shaped by the sons of Elrond and their adar.’

‘And by his naneth,’ Arwen said.  ‘And because of his adar and kin – who had the courage to do what was necessary.’

‘He is the son of us all,’ Gilraen concluded.  ‘Borne, reared, shaped – and it is time to set him free.’

‘You will miss him,’ Arwen said sympathetically, ‘as he flies.’

‘It is what a parent does,’ Gilraen sighed.  ‘You invest your love in your children – and you let them go.’

Arwen’s clear grey eyes met those of the woman of the Dúnedain and her slender hand covered the fingers that still caressed the fine stitching on the white linen.  They sat together in silence beneath the nodding heads of the roses and contemplated the silent courage of those who remained behind.

***

Elrond rested his aching head on his hands, massaging his temples with his thumbs.  It could have gone better, he sighed.  He had given so much thought to this moment over the past year or two, questioning Estel’s – Aragorn’s – readiness, considering just how much he should reveal to Arathorn’s son, worrying that he would be putting too much pressure on one too young to understand why these decisions had been imposed upon him – but in all his picturing of the occasion, he had envisioned Estel as a silent participant.  He had not expected to see Elros’s accusing eyes in his distant descendant’s face, or to hear Elendil’s voice emerging from those young lips.  Or, come to that, to see in Aragorn the face of Isildur as he rejected Elrond’s advice and turned away from him.

And yet he loved Estel – Aragorn – as an adar.  No matter that he was a man.  No matter that he would grow old and take Eru’s gift, leaving his elven family to grieve his loss.  No matter that his taking-up of his destiny would signify the final sundering of elves and men.  Estel was his son, as Aragorn was not.  And he hoped – please the Valar, he hoped that he had not lost that son.

‘He did not take it well?’ Glorfindel’s hand placed a cup of steaming tea in front of Elrond.

The valley’s lord inhaled the fragrance gratefully, allowing the scent of summer meadows to disperse some of his tension.

‘It was less than easy,’ he allowed.

‘He needed to know,’ Glorfindel reassured him, ‘but he is, as yet, too young to understand.’

‘I hope he finds it easier to forgive Gilraen for her part in hiding from him the knowledge of who he is,’ Elrond remarked.

Glorfindel placed an affectionate hand on his friend’s shoulder.  ‘He will challenge your strength,’ he said, ‘but he will be gentle with his naneth.  And she, perhaps, will help him come to terms with what he has discovered.’

‘I hope so,’ Elrond replied soberly.  ‘It would be the ultimate irony if, in our desire to hide him and keep him safe until he was grown, we have driven him to reject his destiny.’

‘We have, among us, raised a better man than that,’ Glorfindel averred. 

‘He says he is leaving.  As soon as he has bidden his naneth farewell.  He intends to make his own way among the Dúnedain.’

‘He is very young,’ Glorfindel said tolerantly, as he turned to watch the activity beyond the window.  ‘His kin will care for him as he learns to be his father’s son.’

‘He intends not to tell them who he is.’  Elrond sighed.  ‘He said that, if nothing else, he has learned the art of keeping secrets.’

‘He deludes himself.’

‘And he demands that Elladan and Elrohir keep their distance.’

‘That, at least, is probably wise.  Even though he demands it in a welter of hurt feelings.’

Elrond looked up from his cup.

‘He needs to become a man among men, my friend,’ Glorfindel pointed out.  ‘His companions will be watching his every move – they do not need to see him as the protected pet of the Elrondionnath.’  He pressed his lips together as he inclined his head to inspect the dark-haired half-elf.  ‘You are seeing this as his adar, Elrond.  Look at the broader picture.’

‘I cannot.’

‘Not yet, perhaps,’ the golden-haired elf allowed.  ‘We have been training him towards this over the last decade, Eärendilion.  He has been taught all we can cram into him in the time we have had – and he is as ready to be your brother’s heir as we can make him.  He now needs what only added years and experience will give him – and to gain that, we have to release him from tutelage.’   He tapped his long fingers on the frame of the wide window.  ‘He is angry,’ he shrugged, ‘and resentful – and unsure of how his world has changed.  But he will grow into what he has learned.  All we can do is love him and assure him that Imladris is still his home – and that we are still his family.  He will return, my friend.’

‘I hope so,’ Elrond said softly.  ‘I hope so.’

***

Estel – Aragorn, he told himself angrily – could not rest in his elegantly tidy room, cosseted in his soft bed, enclosed by billowing curtains of pale fabric.  This was not his home – he had been brought here: disposed of by those who should have cared for him: tolerated by an alien race for the sake of a bond ages old: deceived by those who should have told him the truth.   Adar – Lord Elrond – had deliberately kept him in ignorance and hidden him even from his kin.  His brothers – the sons of Elrond – had connived in misleading him.  Even his naneth – the person he should have been able to trust above all others – had remained silent and permitted him to forget who he was.   He sniffed and was immediately enraged by his feeling of betrayal.

The moonlight gleamed through the trees; cool shafts of light casting sharp shadows.  Night’s cool breeze stirred his hair and calmed him somewhat.

It had been done with the best of motives, his naneth had said.  He would not have lived to grow to adulthood outside the sanctuary of Imladris.  Estel – Aragorn – tensed.  So many had sacrificed themselves that he might live.  How could he be worthy of those who had invested their faith in him?  The young man leaned against the rough bark of an ancient oak and lifted his face to the sky.  He was not fit to be Chieftain to the Dúnedain.  How could they not hate this impostor coming out of nowhere to assume a position he had not earned?

His naneth said they were waiting for him.  That he was not a stranger to them, for all he had not known who he was.  That he had grandparents and uncles who knew that he would soon emerge from his secret life to take on his father’s duties.  And he was not sure that that was not worse.  How could he measure up to a line that could be traced back to Eärendil the Mariner and beyond?  How could he fulfil the role expected of him – he who was still little more than a child?

He cupped his hands before him, the ring of Barahir feeling like a shackle, binding him to a future over which he had no control.

Tears began to gather in his gleaming grey eyes and he wished desperately that he could return to the ignorance in which he had returned to Imladris, when his greatest worry had been proving himself to be worthy of being foster-brother to the sons of Elrond.  A time that now seemed long past, when he could dream of establishing himself and making his own way in the world.

He did not know how long he had stood there before the song of the stars began to penetrate his self-absorption, but as the perfection of the sound harmonised with the sounds of the forest round him he found himself drawn towards the clearing where Ithil’s beams turned the rippling stream to silver and sparkled like diamonds on the beads of moisture that trembled on the blades of grass.

And she was there.

Her bare feet flicking above the grass, her shining hair twining round her in the dance, her pale face gleaming, she span in a ghostly radiance.  The music of the trees and water echoed in harmony with her song – as clear as the tones of the nightingale, as pristine as the wind over the wide sea, as pure as snow melt in spring sunshine.

She was beauty incarnate, the night made real, Imladris personified.

Aragorn came closer, drawn by threads of light twisted by the dancer into bonds of mithril, enthralled by her song, spellbound by her movements, entranced by the sight of this dream made real.  ‘Tinúviel,’ he whispered, and sang to himself the words that had haunted him from the time he had first heard them.

The dancer faltered, turning to gaze into the shadows that concealed him.  ‘Who are you?’ she said.  ‘And why do you call me by that name?’

‘You can surely be no other than Lúthien Tinúviel,’ he said, more boldly than he would have believed possible, ‘for you walk in her likeness.’

Grey eyes filled with stars considered him.  ‘So many have said,’ she answered gravely.  ‘Yet her name is not mine.’  She studied him thoughtfully, adding, ‘Though maybe my doom will not be unlike hers.  But who are you?’

‘Estel I was called,’ he said, ‘but I am Aragorn, Arathorn’s son, Isildur’s heir and Lord of the Dúnedain – or so I am told.’ 

She laughed breathlessly.  ‘Then we are akin from afar.  For I am Arwen, Elrond’s daughter, named also Undómiel.’

Aragorn moved forward, as one walking in his sleep.  ‘Often is it seen,’ he said, ‘that in dangerous days men hide their chief treasure.  Yet I marvel at Elrond and your brothers; for though I have dwelt in this house from childhood, I have heard no word of you.  How comes it that we have never met before?  Surely your adar has not kept you locked in his hoard?’

‘No,’ she said, and looked up at the mountains that rose in the east.  ‘I have dwelt for a time in the land of my naneth’s kin, in far Lothlórien.  I have but lately returned to visit my adar again.  It is many years since I walked in Imladris.’

‘Then I am fortunate,’ he said, ‘that this is the moment of your return to your adar’s halls.  For I would not have missed this chance to see you dance and your image will live with me and sustain me as I go out into the world beyond these bounds.’

Arwen inclined her head and reached out to place her hand on his arm.  ‘Perhaps,’ she said.  ‘But I believe that it is not yet time for you to depart, son of the Dúnedain.’ She smiled.  ‘We will yet have the chance to learn to know more of each other.’

The breath Aragorn drew was ragged.  Her lightest word would hold him, he thought dizzily, where Elrond’s calm reason and Gilraen’s pain would not.   For, despite the elven light in her eyes and the wisdom of her many days, he knew at once that his heart was lost to Arwen Undómiel.

Note:  Again, chunks of speech - and the events themselves - have been taken from Appendix A: The Tale of Aragorn and Arwen.  Because there really are some things you shouldn't change.

Devotion

Glorfindel watched Elrond compassionately as his family gathered round him in the Hall of Fire.  He had thought he was in pain before, the golden-haired elf mused, as his much-loved foster son had pulled away from his care, resenting the painfully-arrived-at decisions to conceal him in open sight in the hidden valley.  Yet Estel – Aragorn’s impulsive desire to put as great a distance as he could between himself and Imladris had been far less painful than watching him lose his heart to the elf-lord’s Undómiel.

It was not, he had told his friend emphatically, that Arwen returned the boy’s obvious devotion.  She was kind to him, it was true, but no more than that.  And Estel, he was sure, would soon learn to relegate the elleth to some distant corner of his heart and accept the practicality of begetting heirs for his house on one of his own people.

Glorfindel sighed.  Not that he, any more than Elrond, believed it.  Estel had the all the dogged loyalty of which men could be capable.  And Arwen – Arwen kept her own counsel.  She said nothing – but she was still here.

The singing spun round him like a web, twining fair elven voices in patterns of sound, supported by rippling strings and plaintive pipes, in songs some of which were as ancient as he was while others were as fresh and young as Estel. 

He froze suddenly in recognition of one lay, sung now in a voice that was no longer a joyful boyish treble.  Estel – Aragorn’s voice had matured and his clear baritone had developed confidence.  Even, Glorfindel thought, if its owner was still some decades short of achieving wisdom. 

‘I will stop him,’ Elladan murmured in his ear.  ‘Then I will take him outside and beat some sense in him.’

‘No point,’ Glorfindel shrugged, glancing at Elrond’s pale face.  ‘It will take greater powers than any you possess to change what has happened.’

‘Perhaps we should have left him with the Rangers,’ Elrohir sounded weary.  ‘But Adar needed to speak to him first – we could not leave him among his people, ignorant of his name and lineage.’

‘It is not your fault,’ Glorfindel said.  ‘Nor yet Arwen’s.  Not even Estel’s, really.’  He sighed again.  ‘It may turn out to be the one thing that enables Aragorn to endure the years ahead – I cannot tell.  But it is not comforting your adar.’

‘Well, that has stopped him,’ Elladan said gleefully.

Glorfindel turned to look.  ‘What has?’ he asked.

‘Arwen has slipped out of the room,’ Elladan pointed out.  ‘And Gilraen has gone to sit where Estel can see her watching him.’

‘I cannot imagine that she is any more impressed than your adar.’  A hint of a smile lifted the corners of Glorfindel’s mouth.  ‘The more she is exposed to the vagaries of elves, the more Lady Gilraen values the common sense of the Dúnedain.  I think I might prefer to confront Elrond than come up against the displeasure of Estel’s naneth.’

‘That,’ Elrohir declared, ‘is because you can manage Adar without breaking sweat.  You have much greater difficulty organising females – whatever their race or species.  Naneth and Arwen had you wrapped round their little fingers – Arwen still has!’

Glorfindel’s eyes narrowed.

‘We, of course, respect you enormously,’ Elladan added hastily, ‘and would never consider challenging your authority or questioning your omniscience.’

The elf lord held his gaze coolly until Elrond’s son looked away.

‘If only we could say the same of Estel,’ Elrohir sighed.

***

Gilraen cornered her son by entering his chamber before he had fully woken, knowing that even his reluctance to hear her opinion of his behaviour would not impel him to leave unclothed.  She had, she reflected, looking round the room, respected his privacy over the last several years, since he showed signs of being embarrassed by the care of his naneth – but this was not an occasion for such scruples.  Aragorn – she smiled as she allowed herself the use of his name – Aragorn, Arathorn’s son, needed to hear what only she could say, and he was now too old and too wily to be chased through the halls of Imladris in the game they had enjoyed when he was too small to escape from her.

‘Go away, Elrohir,’ her son groaned as the door closed behind her.

‘Guess again,’ she said.

‘Naneth?’ He emerged from beneath the pillow, his hair wildly dishevelled and the shadow of a beard discolouring his jaw like a bruise.  He looked, she thought, her heart contracting, both very young and very human in this elegant elven haven.

‘Naneth!’ he protested, pulling the fine linen sheet up over his shoulder and flushing under her inspection.

‘My son,’ she said, striving to conceal the pity she felt for one who had yet so much to learn.  ‘Your aim is high, even for the descendant of many kings.’  Aragorn’s colour deepened and he did not pretend to misunderstand her.  ‘This lady is the noblest and fairest that now walks the earth.  And,’ she added firmly, ‘it is not fit that mortal should wed with the Elf-kin.’

Aragorn lifted his chin defiantly.  ‘Yet we have some part in that kinship,’ he said, ‘if the tale of my forefathers is true that I have learned.’

Sighing, his naneth sat beside him on the wide bed.  ‘It is true,’ Gilraen conceded, ‘but that was long ago and in another age of the world, before our race was diminished.’  She reached out to caress his cheek.  ‘Therefore I am afraid, my son, for without the goodwill of Master Elrond, the heirs of Isildur will soon come to an end.’  The sorrow in her voice carried more conviction than any wrath.  ‘And I do not think that you will have the goodwill of Elrond in this matter.’

Her son met her eyes briefly, reading truth in her glance before flinging himself back on his pillow with a groan of despair.  ‘Then bitter will my days be, and I will walk in the wild alone,’ he declared.  ‘For I will love no other than the fairest elf-maid to dwell in the world since the days of Lúthien Tinúviel and the line of Elros Tar Minyatur will end with me.’

‘Such will indeed be your fate,’ Gilraen agreed, determined that her son should understand the consequences of his choice.  ‘And your people will dwindle and fail, who have striven over centuries to protect your line and hold true to their faith that the king will return.’

Aragorn did not reply.  It was too much, she sighed, for one of his tender years to absorb over so short a time.  Love and duty, exile and authority: the weight of so many hopes resting on his untried shoulders.  And yet, she reminded herself, she had been little older than he was when she wed the Chieftain of the Dúnedain and become mother, widow and sacrifice.  She had in a measure the foresight of her people, it was true, but this was no time to speak more of her foreboding.

She smoothed the untidy hair back from his face.  ‘I will say no more,’ she said, ‘other than to remind you that your task lies elsewhere, my son, and you must be ready for it.’  She eased her fingers through the tangles.  ‘Imladris is not the world, Aragorn.  It is apart from all that you need to know and understand.’  She blinked back her tears with determination.  ‘You must leave this haven, my son,’ she told him, ‘to become who you are meant to be.  For only then might you be able to achieve your heart’s desire.’

***

‘He is dazzled by you,’ Elrohir complained.  ‘He called you his shining star, for goodness sake.  It is not fair, Arwen.  Can you not do something about it?’

‘What?’ Arwen demanded, weaving daisies into her brother’s braids as he rested his head on her lap.  ‘If you have any advice for me, I am willing to hear it!’

‘We run,’ Elladan admitted.  ‘There have been occasions when a daughter of men has become overly interested in one or other of us – we have always found that distance and time dispose of the problem.’

‘I am not being driven out of my home,’ Arwen stated firmly.  ‘And I am not being cruel to him.  He is a sweet boy.’

‘You are not seeing him at his best,’ Elrohir informed her.  ‘He does not normally trail around with his mouth open . . .’

‘Drooling,’ Elladan added.

‘And writing bad poetry,’ Elrohir concluded in disgust.

‘It is not that bad,’ Arwen protested.

Her brothers looked at her incredulously, until she grinned in acknowledgement.

‘Estel’s talents include fighting with blades and staying on almost any horse,’ Elladan said, ‘and he is not bad with a bow. . .’

‘He understands battle strategy and can speak several languages fluently – in which he can curse very inventively for his age,’ Elrohir added, ‘but his attempts at poetry cannot be described as anything but dire.’

‘He has a very pleasant singing voice,’ Arwen considered, ‘and he is remarkably good-looking.  Much handsomer than his adar or daeradar.’

‘He is naturally scruffy,’ Elladan insisted.  ‘And he is growing whiskers, my sister.  Like a horse.’

‘He has beautiful eyes,’ she countered.

‘Like a horse,’ Elladan nodded.

Elrohir reached up and grasped her wrist.  ‘You are not really interested in him?’ he asked with some concern.  ‘He is our little brother – but he is a man, Arwen!’

‘He is as yet a child,’ Arwen retaliated.

Her brother met her eyes, recognising that her response was not a denial.  ‘Adar will do all he can to keep you apart,’ he warned.

‘Aided, I suspect by my brothers, our grandparents and every elf and Dúnedain from Mithlond to Mordor,’ she said dryly.  ‘You do not need to worry.  I have no intention of eloping with him on the strength of a few weeks’ acquaintance.  But neither am I about to make any binding undertakings – not about Estel and not about anyone else.  I will make my own decisions, my brothers.  And I will have that clearly understood.’

‘But you will listen to advice, Arwen?’ Elladan asked.

‘I will listen,’ she agreed.  ‘I may choose not to follow it, but I will always listen.’

They relaxed together, comfortable as only siblings can be, as the song of the waterfall stirred memories of past times when they had sat watching the valley beneath them.

‘He said you were like your daeradar,’ Elladan said suddenly, clearly puzzled.  ‘I cannot see any resemblance, myself.  Daeradar is like moonlight, whereas you are dark as a winter’s night.’

‘Estel has never seen Celeborn, orc brain,’ Elrohir told him impatiently, ‘and even he is not blind enough to make that comparison.  He meant Eärendil.  The brightest star in the sky.’

Arwen said nothing, but flushed slightly. 

The twins exchanged glances and Elladan cast up his eyes as they moved to flank her.  ‘We will be here for you, little sister,’ he said staunchly.  ‘No matter what, no matter when.  Now and for ever.  As long as you need us. You can rely on us.’

She took a hand of each of them and clasped them tightly.  ‘I count on it,’ she said.

***

If only, Aragorn wished fiercely, things could go back to the way they were.  Before – before Elrond’s words had stolen from him the adar he loved to return to him a father he could not remember.  Before he had been burdened with an ancient destiny.  Before the star-kissed eyes of Lúthien’s living image had torn away his heart. 

He swallowed nervously.  It seemed hardly any time ago that Elrond’s face would have brightened to see him and he would have run into his foster-adar’s arms, eager to tell him of all the discoveries of a day packed with learning and adventure.  But Elrond’s face was pale now and his eyes dark, as the shadow of a distant fate came between them.

Elrond smiled at him, sad smile though it was, and beckoned his foster son to join him before the cold fireplace, where only sprays of leaves blazed in crimson and gold.  Aragorn sighed and fidgeted as the elf lord watched him as if wishing to store away the memory of his face.

‘Aragorn, Arathorn’s son, Lord of the Dúnedain,’ Elrond said finally, taking refuge in formality, ‘listen to me!  A great doom awaits you, either to rise above the height of all your fathers since the days of Elendil, or to fall into darkness with all that is left of your kin.  Many years of trial lie before you.  You shall neither have wife, nor bind any woman to you in troth, until your time comes and you are found worthy of it.’

Dropping his head, Aragorn blushed scarlet, then paled.  ‘Can it be that my naneth has spoken to you?’ he asked.

‘Oh, Estel,’ Elrond said, his voice no more than a sigh.  ‘No, indeed.  Your eyes have betrayed you long since.’  He inspected the young face, but folded his hands together to restrain his urge to take his foster son in his arms.  ‘But I do not speak of my daughter alone.  You shall be betrothed to no man’s child as yet.  But as for Arwen the Fair, Lady of Imladris and of Lórien, Evenstar of her people, she is of lineage greater than yours, and she has lived in the world already so long that to her you are but as a yearling shoot beside a young birch of many summers.  She is too far above you.  And so, I think, it may well seem to her.  But even if it were not so, and her heart turned towards you, I should still be grieved because of the doom that is laid on us.’

‘What is that doom?’ Aragorn asked, his voice strangling in his throat.

‘That so long as I abide here, she shall live with the youth of the Eldar,’ answered Elrond, ‘and when I depart, she shall go with me, if she so chooses.’

In the silence that extended between them, Aragorn could hear the whisper of the breeze in the trees and the buzz of bees.  Birds sang and the horses in the distant meadows called, but in Elrond’s chamber the air was still and filled with sorrow.

‘I see,’ said Aragorn, ‘that I have turned my eyes to a treasure no less dear than the treasure of Thingol that Beren once desired.  Such is my fate.’   Swift memories passed through his mind of tales he had been told throughout his childhood – of the love of Beren and Lúthien, of Tuor and Idril, the great friendship of Túrin Turambar and Beleg Cúthalion, of Finrod and Bëor: tales told so that he would learn not to be ashamed of himself as a man among elves, to teach him that he was as necessary to Ilúvatar’s creation as the elves who surrounded him – and for a moment he felt cheated, as if the stories had been no more than sops to please one who was somehow lesser.   Then suddenly the foresight of his kindred came to him, and he said, ‘But the years of your abiding run short at last, and the choice must soon be laid on your children, to part either with you or with Middle Earth.’

‘Truly,’ said Elrond.  ‘Soon, as we account it, though many years of men must still pass.  But there will be no choice before Arwen, my most beloved daughter, unless, you Aragorn, Arathorn’s son, come between us and bring one of us, you or me, to a bitter parting beyond the end of the world.’  He closed his eyes briefly. ‘You do not know yet what you desire of me.’  He sighed, and after a while, looking gravely upon the young man he had learned to love as a son, he said again, ‘The years will bring what they will.  We will speak no more of this until many have passed.  The days darken, and much evil is to come.’

Aragorn rose automatically as Elrond stood, and tears stung his eyes as the only father he had known drew him into an embrace that was as loving as any he remembered.  ‘Yours will be a hard path and a long one, my son,’ he murmured, kissing the unmarked brow before him, ‘and I cannot see the twists and turns it will follow.  But I know that you are as gallant a man and as bold as the most valiant of your ancestors.  The borders of the hidden valley will always remain open to one who is as a son to me.’

In a last moment of childhood, Aragorn clasped convulsively the lean figure of the tall half-elf and rested his head on the shoulder before him, before releasing him to step back.  ‘I will not dishonour you, Adar,’ he said, ‘or the teaching that has been given to me here.’

‘Return home when you can, my Estel,’ Elrond said softly, cupping the young face in his hand.  ‘You will always be welcome among us.’

***

‘His is a cruel destiny,’ Arwen said as the pale winter sunlight brightened her hair and reflected from the needle in her slender hands.

‘Cruel,’ Gilraen agreed with resignation, ‘yet a necessary part of something that is greater than us all.’

‘He is so young.’

‘Younger than Elrond Half-Elven when he lost his parents to the needs of Middle Earth?’ Gilraen asked.

Arwen raised her eyes from her stitching.

‘He has a chance to save much of what is best in the world,’ Aragorn’s naneth remarked.  ‘It may well cost him all he is and all that he might be – but I refuse to believe that there is no chance of success.’

The elleth continued to watch her.

‘It is not easy to live the life of a Dúnedain,’ Gilraen said conversationally.  ‘For all we live longer than most men, we strive to keep alive a tradition that faded from the world a score of generations ago.  We live simple lives unseen, wedding late and bearing sons whose task is to protect those who barely know we exist.  We bolster ourselves with the knowledge that we are the descendants of Westernesse and that what we do is part of who we are – but we fade.  What to you is memory is to us but legend.  My son is young among us, true, but he is of the lineage of kings and to him it is given to bring hope – not only to the Dúnedain, but to the whole of Middle Earth.’  She rested her hands in her lap and gazed at the ordered gardens beyond the window, her eyes seeing them not.  ‘I shall not live to see him succeed or fail,’ she mused, ‘but you will.’  Her eyes sharpened.  ‘You will.’

The Evenstar of her people, Gilraen thought.  Was prophecy involved in that, as in so much else, or was it merely the darkness of her hair that had led to her name?  It seemed as unlikely as her son answering to the name Estel.  She felt again the twist of pain that bound her to Elrond.  Hard enough, she acknowledged, to have spent a quarter of a century enduring the knowledge of her only child’s burden.  How had it been for him, to fear for the best part of an age that his success would cost him his daughter?  Little wonder that he fought it as best he could.  But he knew.  It was in his eyes as he looked at her – in his hand as he held her – in his voice as he murmured her name.  A cruel sundering for one who had lost his brother to mortality and his parents to a fate more alien still.  Still, she thought, he could at least hope to be reunited with his wife in that place beyond the sea.  And one’s children were lent only – to be loved and raised and freed to live their own lives.  But she found she still hoped that Elrond would not be divided from his sons.  He deserved all the comfort he could be given.

‘Why should you not see him succeed?’ Arwen asked.  ‘You are young among the Dúnedain.’

Gilraen shook her head.  ‘I think he needs to be single-minded,’ she said, ‘and I have played my part.’  She smiled faintly.  ‘I am content,’ she stated.  ‘It is not I who will be needed to help him endure to the last.’  She studied Arwen’s pale face.  ‘I hear that the groves of Lothlórien are beautiful, my lady,’ she remarked, ‘and that men are unwelcome under their shade.’

‘That is so,’ Arwen allowed.

‘My son needs not to be torn,’ Gilraen spoke carefully.  ‘His life will be hard enough without spending many nights alone beneath the stars yearning for what he can never have.’

Arwen smiled.  ‘Are you saying that it would be better if I returned to my grandparents’ care?’  She lowered her work and turned her attention to Aragorn’s naneth.  ‘He is not the first – or even the tenth – of Isildur’s heirs to look at me with eyes dark with longing.  He would not be the first among them to remind me of the choice of Lúthien.  Who is to say that he will not transfer his devotion to a maid of the Dúnedain and live happily with her as others have before him?  He is young,’ she added softly, ‘even for a child of men.’

‘He is young,’ Gilraen allowed, ‘and he needs all the help that we might offer him.’

Arwen set a careful stitch in her embroidery, so that a silver star shone from the midnight cloth.  ‘I will consider what you say,’ she agreed.  ‘I am loath to leave my adar, but it might be as well if I were to return for a time to the Golden Wood.’

‘As I will leave Imladris to join my kin,’ Gilraen sighed.  ‘For the time of secrecy is past and I am no longer needed here.’ 

***

‘Once more,’ Elrohir warned, releasing the arrow to strike the heart of the target.  ‘One more mention of Estel – one more sigh – and I might just turn the next arrow on you.’

‘I had not realised,’ his brother admitted, ‘how much time we had spent with him – and how much of our energy he had absorbed.’

Elrohir lowered his bow.  ‘It is ridiculous,’ he said flatly.  ‘We spent centuries as warriors before his arrival and we will spend many more defending Imladris now he has gone.  We trained him well, my brother, and prepared him for his task as much as we could.  We cannot follow him like a pair of sheepdogs and protect him from whatever threatens him.  He is grown.’

‘He is grown,’ Elladan conceded, ‘but he is still our little brother – and it does not feel right to abandon him to the dangers of the wild while we sit snug and sheltered in Imladris.’

A snort of suppressed laughter made him turn.  Glorfindel rested his elbows on the rail, his hair braided away from his face and his tunic sweat-streaked. 

‘You look as if you have been enjoying yourself.  To whom have you been teaching a much-deserved lesson now?’ Elrohir grinned.

Glorfindel flicked at his tunic to remove a streak of dust and lifted a single eyebrow.  ‘Just a little exercise,’ he remarked. ‘But I would be happy to take on either or both of you, should you so desire.’

‘Such an honour,’ Elrohir said swiftly, ‘is only merited by my adar’s first-born.’

Elladan threw him a look of disgust.  ‘I would not wish to put you to so much exertion, Glorfindel,’ he said politely.

Glorfindel grinned.  It was good, he thought, to see that he still maintained an automatic authority over the Elrondionnath, despite their added years and skills.  Círdan, he had noticed, could do it still with Elrond on their rare meetings – and the power to send a mature elf back to the schoolroom with a look was not to be under-estimated.  Of course, there were those who would debate whether or not the twins deserved the adjective ‘mature’, but he knew better.  Their light-mindedness was largely an act – a defence against the black dog that had seized them after their naneth’s wounding – and hid a sense of responsibility and duty of which most were unaware.

‘Estel is old enough to make his own way in the world,’ he advised them.  ‘But that does not mean we have abandoned him.’  His fingers picked at the thong holding his hair back.  ‘You have ridden with the Rangers over many years – there is no need for you to desert them simply because Estel is now among them.   Carry on as you did before he came to us – as you did when he was a child.   Avoid his patrols until he has settled into his new life, but be around.’  He grinned ruefully.  ‘You will be no more wrong in that than in staying away.’

‘We will be wrong in whatever we do?’ Elrohir asked dubiously.

‘Of course.’  Glorfindel shrugged.  ‘Think back.’  He untwisted the braid and shook his hair free.  ‘If I kept you close, you thought I did not trust you to behave – yet when I sent you out under a different captain, you felt I did not think highly enough of your skills to have you on my patrols.  You were unbearable for a while.  If your naneth had not been there to talk me round, I might have considered stitching you each in a bag and disposing of you at the bottom of a deep dark hole.’  He returned their scowls with a bland smile.  ‘At least Estel will only sulk for a few years.  We had to endure the best part of a century of your growing pangs.’

The twins exchanged glances of exasperation.  ‘In time, we must sail,’ Elladan declared, ‘if only so that we can seek out those to whom this piece of perfection will always be an infuriating elfling.  I would give a great deal to see him humbled by one who knows precisely the stories that will make him squirm like a fish on a hook.’

‘Perhaps,’ Elrohir agreed.  ‘When we are no longer needed here.’

A shadow passed swiftly over Glorfindel’s bright face.  ‘That time will come,’ he said confidently, ‘when your naneth will welcome you as you step onto the quay.’

‘And we will send messages ahead,’ Elrohir murmured in his brother’s ear, ‘with all those who leave before us, to ensure she is accompanied by Glorfindel’s most embarrassing relations.’

***

Elrond leaned on the frame of the balcony door and watched his daughter as she drifted across the garden below him, selecting from the late flowers blooms with which to decorate the family rooms.  Rusts and dark golds, he thought, had replaced the roses of summer.  Darker colours that fitted his mood, scented with the fragrance of endings.

He closed his eyes briefly.  Just for a moment he had seen Celebrían there among her flowers and his heart had lifted, but his daughter’s dark hair, so like his own, had swung forward and the illusion had passed.  His summer was long gone and he was left with the chill of loss and the decay of all his hopes.

Should he have given in to Celebrían’s longing for more children?  Would that have made this – this offering of all he most cared for – any less painful?  Or would it, as he had feared, just have given him more to lose?  Yet was not Estel his son?  Not of his blood, whatever any might think, but of his heart.  And did not that make it worse?  How could he hate one he had raised, who trusted him, who loved him and whom he loved in return?  It was not his fault.  It was the fault of neither of them. 

He drew a ragged breath and forced himself to leave go of the tension inside him.  As yet the knowledge was his – not theirs.  He was facing the admiration of a boy for a vision of perfection and the kindness of his Evenstar.  It was only he who feared what would come of it.

Yet he could stop it, he knew, if he would.  He could push Estel into a duty match with one of his own kind and use Arwen’s love of her family to make her reject the impossible demands of any link between her and the Dúnedain.  He might even be able to persuade his daughter to put the Sundering Seas between them and be reunited with her naneth as she waited for the age to end.  But should he?

‘Adar?’  Arwen sounded doubtful.

He forced himself to smile easily.  ‘My daughter?’  He sighed.  ‘I was lost in the past,’ he told her, extending an arm to invite her into his grasp.

‘It would seem that your thoughts were painful,’ she observed.

‘Sometimes pain is necessary,’ he said.  ‘It is part of living and growing.’  He stroked her silken hair.  ‘It is part of loving.’

She twisted one of his narrow braids round her fingers as she had done when she was a child.  ‘Love should not be accompanied by pain,’ she said disapprovingly.

‘Ah, but it is,’ he sighed.  ‘And it is often the sweeter for it.’  He rested his cheek on her head.

Would he have refused to wed Celebrían had he known the agony he would have to endure in her wounding?  Would he have relished the years with her more had he known they would come to an end?   Would their separation have been even more intolerable had he not believed with all his heart that they would be reunited?  

He knew deep inside himself that he could not have turned away from the love he felt for her.  Not for his parents, whom he had hardly known, not for the demands of his friends, not for his duty to his king.  The elf he was now, he was because Celebrían loved him.  He could not deny his daughter that, simply because it did not suit him.  Because he would rather have her safe and by his side – now and for ever.   She had her part to play in the fate of Arda – as much as his parents had, as much as Elros, as much as Estel.  He would have to live with the pain.

Arwen’s eyes sparkled mischievously.  ‘I do not know what my brothers have done to irritate Glorfindel,’ she told him, ‘but they are looking remarkably unkempt and smelling rather less than fragrant.  He had better watch out – they are no longer youths and their revenge might be rather more effective than it used to be!’

‘They will have to become a great deal more subtle before they can catch out that old fox,’ Elrond laughed, putting his concerns to one side.  ‘Glorfindel has the advantage of age and authority – and he is not above using them.’

‘But my brothers also have an advantage that they will not hesitate to employ,’ she remarked primly. 

Her adar dropped a kiss on her hair.  ‘Glorfindel will simply take whatever you do to him out of their hides,’ he said serenely.

Arwen smiled, cat-like.  ‘I know,’ she said and hugged him.  ‘Sometimes it is possible to hold the balance of power while doing nothing – and then tweak the strings that make them all dance.’

‘You are evil, my daughter,’ Elrond told her, shaking his head.  ‘Your naneth taught you too many of her tricks.’  He smiled.  ‘She would be proud of you.’

‘I miss her,’ Arwen murmured, the shadows in her grey eyes making him catch his breath.  ‘I will always miss her.’

Silent, Elrond closed his daughter in his arms.  There was nothing he could say or do without imposing his own choices on her.  All he could manage was to love her and support her while she needed him – and leave the rest to her.

Commitment

Arwen had changed, Cúraniel thought. 

She had never known her friend to be carefree – at least, not since the hideous incident that had taken the Lady Celebrían from them all to take ship for the Undying Lands – but neither had she been inclined to seek solitude where she sat as if gazing into some vision that only she could see.  Yet, despite her determination to return home, within no more than a dozen seasons she had returned to the Wood, slightly paler and quieter, like one who faced a painful choice.

At first, Cúraniel had thought her friend had, at last, found the ellon whose fëa called to hers – perhaps one who had settled in Imladris since last she had dwelt within her adar’s halls.   But she had rapidly seen that, where Arwen was concerned, nothing could be that simple. 

The Lady had greeted her granddaughter as she rode up, flanked on each side by a brother whose eyes were bright with an eagle-like ferocity, but the golden gleam that surrounded their daernaneth had been muted and the gentle grief of an autumn glade had radiated from her.  The Lord, though, had been incandescent, burning with silver fire, as a cold rage had hardened his spirit.

He had enveloped his granddaughter in his arms, as if he would, with his own body, come between her and anything that threatened her, but she had touched his cheek gently and smiled and shaken her head and he had melted like an icicle in the sun.  He had dropped his chin, his hair blending with hers, silver and ebony, and held her as if she would break.  The glare with which he had burned the Lady, though, had been unforgiving – and she had endured it meekly, taking refuge in greeting grandsons who seemed, too, as if they had seen shadows of distant events that pleased them not.

The emotion that had rippled through the trees had faded soon enough, but, Cúraniel felt, had left an increase in the gentle melancholy that affected the golden trees and echoed in the plaintive songs of the elves.  It smacked of endings, she thought, and loss; of hope abandoned and a veiled future – and she was not sure she wanted to know its cause.

‘You cannot sit here indefinitely watching Anor sink into the west,’ she said disapprovingly as they curled up on a grassy bank by a rippling stream.  ‘Idleness becomes you not, Undómiel.’ 

Arwen sighed.  ‘I suppose you are right,’ she said.  ‘Though it seems to me there is little I can do but wait – action is not for such as me.’

She sounded almost bitter.  Cúraniel tilted her head and inspected the dark elleth.  Something had happened while Arwen was in Imladris – something she was not altogether certain she liked.  Just for a moment Cúraniel felt intensely relieved that her kin were simple elves tied only to Middle Earth by their love of its song.  You thought, she allowed herself to muse, when you were half-grown and silly, that to be the subject of song would be a grand thing, but when – if – you grew to wisdom, you came to realise that there was a lot to be said for being ordinary.  Most of those of whom elves sang, after all, were the victims of tragedy with no happy-ever-after to reward them for their endeavours.

‘I would not agree,’ Cúraniel reflected.  ‘True, no-one would thank us for demanding the right to ride off and slay orcs – I would much rather not attempt it, anyway – but there is plenty to do.’

‘I was not counting weaving grey cloth and baking lembas – or making salves and grinding nuts – as action,’ Arwen said scornfully.

‘It is, though.’  Cúraniel lay back on the soft grass and watched the last of the day’s light burn in the high cloud.  ‘Where would they be, those who oppose the dark forces face-to-face, without what we provide?  It is more than a reason to fight – I have no wish to be merely a symbol of what should be preserved – but the wherewithal.  Without those who harvest the forest and weave the cloth and forge the blades and supply their needs, there would be none to fight.’  She paused.  ‘Orodruin is again aflame; Gondor weakens; Curunír scorns our Lady’s advice and shuts himself up in Isengard brooding over the Gap of Rohan.  We are needed – whether what we do seems important to us or not.’

Arwen sat up, as if her friend’s words were a call to action.  ‘You are right,’ she acknowledged.  ‘Whatever the outcome might be, it is our duty to stand and hold.’  She raised her chin.  ‘We are not ciphers, to be moved and controlled as others wish.  I will not be a cipher – my fate is my choice, not my adar’s, not Daeradar’s, nor yet something set down at the beginning of time.  It is my decision.  And I choose not be helpless and mindless and compliant.’

‘And what difference does your choice make?’ her friend asked.

‘I know not.’  Arwen sounded deflated.  ‘Everything.  Nothing.  Somewhere in between.’

‘Have you asked your Daernaneth?’

‘She will not say!’  Arwen gave a brief laugh of frustration.  ‘She says it is not her role to guide me – that I must make my own decision if it is to mean anything.’

‘But you know what you must do,’ Cúraniel said shrewdly, ‘or it would not distress you so much.’  She propped herself up on one elbow and examined Elrond’s daughter. 

‘I do not want to cause anybody pain!’ Arwen declared.

‘Of course not,’ Cúraniel said so mildly that it took the other elleth some moments to catch the undertone. ‘Everyone should be friends.  We should spend our lives ensuring that we never displease anyone – and giving in to others’ desires so that they should be happy.’

Arwen scowled.  ‘I did not mean that kind of wishy-washy mindlessness, and you know it.’  She sighed.  ‘It is not time for any kind of action – there is too much happening in the world beyond the wood.  My part in any of it is minimal at best.  But you are right,’ she added.  ‘Much must be done – and we cannot drift like falling leaves through the time that remains to us and leave the responsibility to others.’  She grinned.  ‘There is much that my grandparents can teach us – and much they can delegate to us so that they might continue to fight in the way that best suits them.  It is time we took up the burden.’

‘You, my lady,’ Cúraniel emphasised.  ‘Much that you can do.  I am only an elleth of the Wood, remember.  I have no lords and princes cluttering up my family tree.  I am no heir to power and dignity.’

‘Some are born to it,’ Arwen said airily, ‘and to some it comes unbidden.  You would not leave me to do this alone, would you?’  She batted dark eyelashes at her friend.

Cúraniel sighed.  ‘No,’ she agreed.  ‘If you want me there, I will stand by you. That is what friends do.’

***

‘Evil spreads,’ Galadriel said with foreboding.  ‘Like rot through an apple, it takes what it good and fouls it – and leaves it to corrupt all it touches.’

‘Thranduil struggles to hold back the dark tide that swells from Dol Guldur,’ Celeborn observed.  ‘The marches of the Wood need ever stronger guarding to hold them inviolate.  We run short of those skilled enough to serve as still more head for the Havens.’

Galadriel’s head bowed.  ‘It is not for us to end this age on the fields before Mordor,’ she said.  ‘We must stand firm, but . . .’ she looked at her husband, her eyes wide and unfocused, ‘we are to watch and wait and make possible.’  She opened her pale hands and offered them, spread with the palms upwards.  ‘It is in surrender that we hope for success.’

‘I do not surrender.’  Celeborn looked at her grimly.  ‘The Wood and those it shields are in my care – and I will hold it until the end.’

His wife nodded.  ‘Do you think we are wrong?’ she asked.  ‘Might Curunír be right – and the Ring lost to Sauron?’

‘I think that I would not trust the Istar to tell me that the day was fine,’ Celeborn said shortly.  ‘Too many times has his cozening voice convinced us not to act – too many times he has sought his own advantage while we have held our hand.  No, my love, too many things are coming together in the dwindling of this age – we must prepare now: either for disaster or decline.’  He took her hand.  ‘I would not have it end in the triumph of the Dark Lord,’ he said.  ‘Whatever I have said, I would fight to offer Men a future worth having.’

‘Our time is passing.’  Galadriel’s voice whispered like the rustle of a breeze through autumn leaves.

‘But not yet spent.’

‘So many years to end in such a way.’

Celeborn watched her.  The long trials were wearing on her, he thought.  And she was always one who would rather have the drama of a battle than endless erosion and long endurance.  But she would smile graciously, and look like a queen, and accept her diminution of power as if it were of no moment to her, and fade – if they ever got to that point, of course, before the dark forces overwhelmed them.  He could wish that she had never taken Celebrimbor’s ring – wish that that sprig from Fëanor’s tree had never thought to meddle with baubles of power under Annatar’s greedy eye, but he could not fault her courage.  Or, he rued, her desire to use her uncertain sight to contrive certain ends.

‘What has Elrond told you of Isildur’s heir?’ he asked.

Galadriel shook her head.  ‘Little,’ she admitted.  ‘He finds it hard – he has lost them both at a time when he needs his family around him.  Our grandsons watched the Dúnadan for a while – until he had grown into his skin, but he is no longer in the north.’

‘Lost?’ Despite his reluctance to accept this distant son of Elros’s house, he could not keep the apprehension from his voice.  Isildur’s heir was needed, for, without him, their long trial would end in disaster: that much he knew.

‘Sauron’s cries of triumph would echo from the hills, were that so.’

‘I do not wish him ill merely because I have no desire to hand him my granddaughter.’

‘He has her already.’  Galadriel’s thought twined through him like mist.  ‘And she inspires him to endure what is beyond the capacity of mere mortals.  For all his youth, he is true as mithril and shines as bright.’

Her husband raised his hand to stroke her gleaming hair.  Her pain was tangible, but she controlled it.  If she had learned one thing over more than three ages, he reflected, it was that sometimes it was necessary to submit to the inevitable.  Not a lesson he was prepared to learn.  Not yet, while there were battles still to fight.

‘Only time will tell,’ he said, prepared to compromise so far.

***

‘Mithrandir!’  Haldir emerged from concealment among the dense trees fringing the Wood.  His bow remained unstrung, but his hand rested on the hilt of his long knife.  ‘You are welcome in these lands.’

The white beard stirred as the Istar pressed his lips together to conceal a smile.  If he were welcome, he would not care to arrive unwelcomed beneath Lothlórien's shade.  For all the marchwarden’s apparent casualness, Mithrandir had little doubt but there were others in the trees whose arrows were ready to fell him.

‘It is good to see you, Haldir,’ he said easily.  ‘It has been some time since I have sought the shelter of the Lord and Lady’s realm and much has happened in the world.’  He looked at the tall elf under the veil of his hat, his bushy eyebrows in no way concealing the sharpness of his eyes.  ‘I would welcome your company on my way to Caras Galadhon.’

The warden bristled – so slightly that only one expecting it would notice.  Clearly, to his mind, any who arrived in the lands under his charge did not set the terms of their journey to the tree city of the Galadhrim where Celeborn and Galadriel dwelt.  ‘I would be happy to serve as your escort,’ he replied.

Mithrandir turned his laugh into a throat-clearing harrumph.  ‘Good.’ He gathered up his pack from its place at the foot of a sturdy oak and slung it over his shoulder.  ‘You can tell me about your brothers as we walk.’

The brief glance Haldir cast into the canopy clearly conveyed all the information he felt it necessary to send, for he turned obligingly and led his way between apparently trackless trees.  ‘There is little to tell,’ he shrugged.  ‘We guard the borders against those few who dare to breach them.’

‘I am fortunate to be able to pass your watch then,’ the Istar commented.

‘My lord has granted you access to the Wood at any time.  You are an honoured guest.’  Haldir sounded non-committal, refraining from mentioning that he was of the opinion that Mithrandir’s arrival was generally ominous, presaging as it did some time of trouble.

The aged-seeming Istar found himself relaxing as the atmosphere of the Wood breathed into his lungs and spread throughout his body, allowing the wary tension of a cautious traveller to seep from him.  Here, at least, he was safe.  Only here and in Imladris could he really afford to let his guard down a little and rest, sure that Elrond and Galadriel shielded their realms from the uncertain winds that blew across the rest of Arda.  The treesong was easy and content and the forest’s creatures scurried busily about their activities with an amiable disregard of the elves among them.  It made him homesick, Mithrandir realised, for a world where danger was the exception rather than the rule.  Yet, at the same time, he was not sure that Galadriel was wise to invest so much of herself in recreating her birthplace here.  Failure of Nenya’s power would shatter her – more so, he was certain, than the loss of Vilya would drain Elrond, whose haven acknowledged and welcomed the calls for aid that came from beyond its borders.  But, he had to concede, the peace was welcome, if only for a time.

‘Tell me,’ he invited.  ‘What news is there here among the Galadhrim?’

***

Elladan urged his mount into the cold water.  ‘Come, my brother,’ he said.  ‘If we keep going, we can reach the Wood before dark.’

‘And be within sight of Caras Galadhon by the time Ithil rises,’ Elrohir chanted.  ‘I know, my twin – and, if you say it again, I might be forced to aim an arrow at your back.’

His brother grinned, as his horse picked its way between the rocks.  ‘You want to be careful that I do not force you to take a bath,’ he warned.  ‘And the Celebrant is always as cold as Caradhras.’

‘Come, my pretty one,’ Elrohir coaxed the nervous mare, ‘the cool water will feel good on your hooves.  Take no notice of my foolish brother – just remember the sweetness of the grass in the Golden Wood and the softness of the breeze.’

‘Reduced to talking to your horse.’  Elladan shook his head.  ‘It is sad to see.’

‘I need some rational conversation.’  Elrohir’s mount consented to step delicately into the rushing stream.  ‘And I have had little choice in recent weeks.’

Elladan’s horse scrambled up the bank to stand squarely blocking the only good exit from the water.  ‘You might come to regret that statement, Elrohir.’

‘Not if you want to spend what is left of the night resting on cool linen with your head cushioned on down pillows.’  Elrohir looked up at his brother.  ‘After supping on roasted venison and sipping on mead made from mellyrn honey.’

His brother’s eyes brightened.  ‘I will forgive you – for now,’ he declared.  ‘I am not one to hold a grudge.’  He grinned.  ‘Are you ever going to get that animal on dry land – or are you thinking of exchanging . . .’

A waft of air like a sigh brought a putrefying scent of decay and between breaths both brothers switched to alertness.  Elladan turned, his sword in his hand before his enemy was more than a movement in the sheltering rocks, but his twin was swifter. 

Even as the figure moved, Elrohir’s arrow skimmed within inches of his brother’s horse to pierce the orc and send it tumbling backwards.  The roar of fury died to a gurgle and the creature’s clawed hands clutched at the air before dropping limp to the dust.

Elladan pulled his horse round, examining his surroundings in minute detail, but he could neither see nor sense anything out of place nearby.  The water danced, silver in the evening light, and the trees stood calmly, their brief tension released.

‘How?’ Elrohir dismounted easily to check the huddled heap.

‘How?’ Elladan was confused.

‘How did this creature come to be so close to the Wood, my brother?’  Elrohir glanced up.  ‘Daeradar’s wardens permit nothing to cross the Silverlode unobserved – how did this thing escape them?’

Elladan watched warily as his brother completed a brief examination.  They had been surprised once – believing that they were close enough to the guarded borders to be safe – but he was not about to let that happen again.  ‘What can you tell me of it?’

‘Hurt,’ his twin said briefly, ‘and doubtless in hiding – waiting its moment to retreat and try to find its way back to its lair.’  He wiped his hands fastidiously on the hem of his cloak.  ‘I am surprised the wardens had not finished it off.  They must have smelled it.’

‘We nearly failed to scent it,’ Elladan pointed out.  ‘It must have been mad with hunger to risk attacking us.’

‘Well – this is one orc, at least, will never attack again.’  Elrohir stirred the body with the toe of his boot.  ‘Do we burn it?’

His brother nodded towards the trees.  ‘There have to be some advantages to rank,’ he observed.  ‘Let us delegate that task – and continue on our way.’  He gazed soberly at his twin.  ‘If the borders of the Wood are beleaguered by foul creatures, it is yet another indication that hard times are coming.’  He sighed.  ‘Let us take what pleasure we can, while we can.’

With a final glance at the orc’s carcass, Elrond’s sons rode to meet the elves emerging from the shelter of the trees.

***

Mithrandir puffed at his long pipe, enjoying the subtle way Celeborn moved away from him to avoid the drifting smoke.  It was bad of him, he acknowledged, but he took a malicious pleasure in observing just how far he could goad elven courtesy before his hosts felt impelled to take steps.  Galadriel, of course, knew exactly what he was doing – it took a lot to pull a veil over her eyes – and he got the impression that Elrond’s daughter suspected him of deliberate mischief, but most seemed simply to take their places to the windward and watch him, their gleaming silver eyes wide with amazement at his bizarre habit of inhaling the fumes of crumbled leaves.

He examined Galadriel’s dark-haired granddaughter, sitting like a damask rose among the Wood’s eglantine.  He had seen her before, of course – many times over the course of the age – but he needed to know that she was ready for the task that faced her.  And, perhaps more importantly, that she was prepared to accept the role that confronted her.  Time was, after all, running short and what had once been of little importance had now become the difference between success and failure.

‘She passes your test?’ Celeborn asked waspishly.

The wizard gazed up under his bushy eyebrows.  ‘You are not yet reconciled, then?’

‘Nor ever will be,’ Celeborn declared.

Mithrandir blew a smoke ring and watched it contemplatively as it dissipated in the still air.  ‘Never is a long time, my friend.  Too long even for the wise to be able make such irrevocable pronouncements – if they are truly wise.’

‘It is not I who claim wisdom,’ the elf lord frowned.  ‘I seek merely to protect those in my care.’

‘If only it were possible.’  The Istar spoke softly.  ‘You are not omnipotent, my lord – you know your limits.  Better to grant her the right to play her part in this – for I tell you that, should you prevent this, then our chances of success diminish to nothing.’ 

‘And you have demanded this of Elrond?’ Celeborn challenged him.  ‘Asked him to sacrifice his only daughter to fuel the fight against the Dark Lord?  To abandon her to death?’

‘Death is Ilúvatar’s gift – releasing the Aftercomers from the bonds that tie the Firstborn to the world.’  Mithrandir spoke sharply.  ‘Would you put yourself in the place of Ar-Pharazôn?  Be blind enough to believe that the immortality of the elves is to be craved at all costs?’  He paused as Celeborn drew a quick breath, then continued more gently.  ‘Will you sail to join all those who passed across the sea – or took the swift route to Námo’s Halls?  Will you abandon those who will remain here?  Choices must be made, my friend, and not all of them are joyful.  Pain is part of life – and sometimes the greatest satisfaction lies in submission to a greater need.  Elrond knows this – his whole life has been one of sacrifice.’  He settled back against the tree, drawing on his now-empty pipe, allowing himself to lapse back into the image of the dishevelled old man.  ‘It is not that easy, my friend.  It is never that easy.’

The silence between them hovered, charged with emotion.  ‘I see Melian in her,’ the Istar mused. 

Celeborn watched his granddaughter.  ‘Every now and then,’ he admitted, ‘she will turn her head, or move to music only she hears – and it is Lúthien before me.’

‘Would you deny Arwen what they had?’

Her daeradar’s shoulders slumped almost imperceptibly.  ‘No,’ he sighed. ‘I would not – but I would have her be sure that this is what she wants.’

‘She will have some time to convince you,’ Mithrandir said comfortably.

***

‘The pressures are intensifying.’  Celeborn drew the comb through his wet hair.  Only his grandsons, he thought, would bring information to him here, as he bathed in dawn’s clean light.  Of course, only family would be permitted to approach him so closely in this hidden glade.  He shook his head, spraying them with the drips from his long locks.  ‘The south used to be relatively safe from attempted intrusion – but in recent years. . .’  He shrugged.   ‘That is no longer the case.’

‘The orc we saw,’ Elrohir said slowly.  ‘It was – not typical.’  He watched his Daeradar pick up his tunic of sun-bleached linen.  ‘Bigger than those to which we are accustomed.  Less afraid of daylight.’

‘It was wounded, true,’ Elladan agreed, ‘but, even hungry, the mountain goblins would not attack before dusk at the earliest.’

Celeborn inclined his head.  ‘I have seen them,’ he acknowledged.  ‘There is something about them that concerns me – it is as if Morgoth’s abominations have begun to change after millennia of stagnation.  And it cannot be good.’

‘Those that crawl forth from their lairs in the mountains are still as they were,’ Elrohir said thoughtfully.  ‘And no word has come from Thranduil of any change.  Life grows ever more difficult in the shadow of Dol Guldur, but that is because of quantity rather than quality.’

‘My lady seeks to see the pit in which they breed,’ Celeborn mused, ‘but it is hidden from her.’  He looked narrowly at his grandsons.  ‘You travel more freely than most in the lands beyond the bounds of the elven havens.  What have you seen?  Do these creatures crawl into the light beyond Mordor’s gates to threaten Gondor?  Are they feeding on the flesh of the Rohirrim?’

‘We have heard nothing – nothing, that is, beyond what is expected.’  Elladan linked his fingers behind his dark head and stretched.  ‘There are more orcs breeding – the Battle of Five Armies caused little more than a setback in the north and affected the forces of the dark on Gondor’s borders not one whit.’

‘Their origin is closer then.’  Elrohir frowned.  ‘Somewhere between Gondor, Dol Guldur and the Misty Mountains.’

‘Isengard?’ Celeborn asked.  ‘I like Curunír not at all, but he is Istar.  He would not betray the Valar so.’  He considered.  ‘He is very sure of himself.’

‘And very contemptuous of those he considers less,’ Elladan remarked.  ‘He conceals it from Adar, but he has never considered us worthy of any care.’

‘He is cautious around your daernaneth . . .’

‘He is arrogant, not stupid,’ Elrohir pointed out.

His daeradar grinned.  ‘But he is less – guarded – where I am concerned.  I, after all, am of the Moriquendi – and inferior.’ 

‘He might be worth watching,’ Elladan commented.

‘I will send scouts to keep an eye on him,’ Celeborn agreed.  ‘It is as wise to know those who pretend to be your friends as it is to watch those who are your enemies.  And now we have decided that,’ he added emphatically, ‘do you think you might remove yourselves for a while?  Go and bother your sister – or disturb your daernaneth and talk to her.’

Elrohir laughed.  ‘We are no more foolhardy than Curunír, Daeradar.  But we will leave you to your morning peace.’ 

‘Come, my brother.’  Elladan clapped him on the shoulder.  ‘We have placed the matter in the best hands.  Let us now go and enjoy the delights of the Wood.’

***

‘Well?’ Arwen rested her hand on her hips and stared at her brothers expectantly.  ‘What have you done with Isildur’s heir?’

Elrohir folded his arms and quirked his eyebrow in imitation of their adar.

‘We have done nothing with him, my sister,’ Elladan protested.  ‘It might seem remarkable, but in men’s eyes, he is considered old enough to look after himself.’

Their sister inspected them incredulously.  ‘What reason, then, did you have for travelling so far south?’

‘Very well,’ Elrohir conceded.  ‘We have seen him.’  He paused.  ‘He needed to know what was happening among the Dúnedain – and Adar thought we would make the best messengers.’

Arwen bit her lip.  ‘And how did you manage among the Horse People?’ she asked.  ‘They are noted for their superstition – and they do not care for the idea of elves.’

‘They did not see us as elves.’  Elrohir lifted a sardonic eyebrow.  ‘Show them dark hair and they see Men of Gondor.  Men, my sister, are good at deluding themselves.  They see what they expect to see.  They accepted us – those few of them that saw us.  With some confusion, I admit.  But they refused to see anything strange.’

‘And Aragorn dwelt among them?’  She spoke his name apparently carelessly, but her tongue caressed the syllables.

‘Mithrandir and Adar said he should know those who would be his people.’ Elladan watched her.  ‘They said it was not uncommon for rangers of the north to serve in the southern lands – and that Estel should learn what he could while he might.’

‘He is no longer as pretty as he once was.’  Elrohir shook his head sadly.  ‘You would not wish to see him now, my sister.’  He exchanged a swift glance with his twin.  ‘Do you remember Nyéni?’

‘The goat?’ Arwen was bewildered.

Elladan moved his hands to indicate dwarf-like growth of beard and sighed.  ‘Estel certainly found himself among men who shared his standards of grooming.  Were it not for his colouring, he would have fitted perfectly among the Rohirrim!  For the sake of his kin, we had to escort him south – any longer in Rohan and Isildur’s heir would have resembled nothing more than a bush.’

‘But he is well,’ Elrohir intervened. ‘I think his time among the Rohirrim suited him.  He liked being no-one in particular, standing out merely because of his dark hair.’  He grinned.  ‘And it did not take him long to prove the superiority of elven training – Thengel took him as a captain quickly enough, and was sorry to see him go.’

Arwen looked at him.  Untold stories, she realised, hung between them, neatly ruled off and closed away.  ‘What of Lady Gilraen?’ she said.  ‘How is she?’

‘Enduring his absence.’  Elladan’s face had sobered.    ‘She has not yet left Imladris, but she spends an increasing amount of time visiting her kin.  Did Adar tell you?  We have been to see her.’

Elrohir’s eyes were concerned.  ‘She ages,’ he said, ‘although she should not, for among her people she is still young.  It is as if she has lost her hope.’  He sighed.  ‘She has done all she can – and I think she is afraid to hold him back.’

‘And even more afraid to see him fail.’

‘He will not fail.’  Arwen’s eyes hardened.  ‘We will not let him fail, my brothers.  Will we?’

In the silence a song thrush’s pure notes dropped into the air between them, like molten silver.  ‘If you are sure, Undómiel,’ Elrohir said intently.

‘I will do what I must,’ she said.  ‘And this son of Elros’s line will have his due.’  She stepped between them and stretched out a hand to each.  ‘He must not falter now,’ she coaxed.  ‘He has grown up your brother as well as Adar’s son – and he needs our support.’

Elladan sighed as he wrapped one arm round his sister’s waist.  ‘The Evenstar gleams in his eyes, my sister, and brightens even his darkest nights.  And he is true as mithril – he will hold.’

Again, this story has wound its way through the intricacies of Appendix A.  Some situations are very reminiscent of Tolkien's words - and some parts are quoted directly.

______________________________________

Devotion

Thorongil paused, allowing his weary horse a brief rest.  Below him to the east, the Anduil meandered its way across the broad plain, a silver ribbon in the palette of muted greens and browns.  The intimidating depth of green behind marked where Fangorn brooded between the Downs and the Misty Mountains, but, in front of him, shimmering like the promise of eternal bliss, the distant gleam of gold spoke to those who knew of the mallorns of Lothlórien and the power of the Lady.

He released a slow breath.  Thorongil no longer, he reminded himself.  It was time – again – to resume the identity to which he was born: to become himself.  He allowed himself a moment of self-pity as his mind skittered over the nearly fifty years of his life so far – if he knew who that person was.  There were scarcely any to whom he was Aragorn and even fewer called him by the name.  He was ‘my lord’ to some, ‘captain’ to many – and to some he was more than a title, more than a figurehead, but few among them recognised him by the name his father had given him. 

Adar had warned him, he thought.  His path would be long and hard and lonely before at last – if he were lucky – he could steer his ship into harbour.  He rubbed his hands over his gritty head and pictured for the thousandth time the baths of Imladris, wishing he had known enough to appreciate them while he had been able to enjoy them.   There had been times, he acknowledged, when the shallow comfort of a soft body and a comfortable bed had almost been enough to lead him astray – but he had held to his purpose.  The inspiration of her – like a lighthouse guiding vessels to safety through knife-edged rocks of desolation – had burned in his mind: clear and cool and perfect as the moonlit night – and her grandfather’s star had shone before him as a perpetual reminder of his faith.

For he was more than a single man.  He was the heir of Elros; the descendant of Isildur; the Dúnadan; raised by the Lord of Imladris; calling the Elrondionnath his brothers; befriended by Mithrandir; sought by Sauron.  He grinned wryly.  Eking an existence in the wild, wallowing in mire, living by the sword, passing the finite years of his life in the shadows, while around him the world turned and the age spiralled towards its end.  Since he left Gondor’s service, if it had not been for the occasional arrival of a Ranger of the North bringing quiet word of matters beyond his power to affect, or a brief visit from his brothers, he would, he felt sure, have begun to doubt his own reality. 

But he could not sit here forever, he thought, allowing the weak spring sun to warm him and cleanse him of the despair of Mordor.  He was, for the first time in years, free to go home for a while – and the thought lifted his heart.  For upbringing told, he decided, urging his horse to continue.  Man he was in body, man in experience, man in mind – but his heart was still among the elves.

Despite the apparent emptiness of the broad plain, the man bearing the symbol of the White Tree on his worn leather coat kept careful watch, taking advantage of what shelter he could find.  Orcs, he knew, crept into the dark corners of the nameless lands beyond the Limlight – and he would be a fool to take a chance now, after surviving so much worse.  If he was lucky, the Lord and Lady of the Wood would grant him sanctuary for a while – and then he could aim for Imladris with a light heart.  Of course, if he were to be turned away, he would end up wishing that he had decided to journey on the far side of the Misty Mountains, for his path would pass too close to the core of evil that festered in Dol Guldur and that was a place worth avoiding.

His voice rusty with disuse, he found himself starting to sing – a rhythmic ditty that his naneth had taught him when he was still young enough to rest on her lap, with silly words about farmers riding to market.  His mount twitched shaggy brown ears and he matched the pace of the song to the loping canter as they advanced across unchanging grasslands to a horizon of trees that remained ever-distant.

***

The sound of the looms always soothed her, Arwen decided.  Even though she did not greatly enjoy engaging in this task with those who worked within to produce the tight-woven grey cloth that shielded from cold and wet – and the prying eyes of enemies, she liked the sound and the sight and the smell of the growing expanses of fabric.

‘The stores are growing,’ Galadriel approved, ‘and the quality is good.  Cúraniel is proving a hard task-mistress.’

‘She has surprised me,’ Arwen admitted.  ‘And her own work grows better with every bolt she produces.’

‘I will save this for something special.’ Galadriel ran her hand over the dense weaving appreciatively.  ‘This will conceal the wearer from all but the most determined sight.’  She looked up under her eyelashes to observe her granddaughter.  ‘And it is not just here,’ she smiled.  ‘The storehouses are full – lembas fills more barrels than I knew we had, and the bushels of arrows are sufficient for an army, while our few smiths work constantly to produce more weapons than tools.’

Arwen shook her head.  ‘It is still not enough,’ she said.  ‘I have discussed it with Daeradar – and spent time with Haldir considering the needs of our wardens.  It is a matter of mathematics.’  She folded the cloth Galadriel had released and moved it to a section of the shelves reserved for the Lady of the Wood.  ‘Mathematics and availability,’ she amended.  ‘Centralised stores are all very well – they are easier to record, for one thing, but should attacks come on more than one front, as Daeradar fears they might, it will be essential to have caches of weapons in reserve, hidden in places of safety.’  She sighed.  ‘And the needs of the healers must be considered.  Much of what they need has a finite life – and must be replaced at intervals.’

‘Incursions are – as yet – rare,’ Galadriel commented. 

‘And unsuccessful,’ her granddaughter added with satisfaction.  ‘But Glorfindel long since taught me that it is foolish to rely on your enemy continuing to behave in a way that suits you.’

Her daernaneth raised eyebrows of dark gold.  ‘So Imladris is constantly prepared for war?’

Arwen smiled brightly, but refrained from speaking.

‘Yet,’ Galadriel looked through the screens to the pale sunlight warming itself on the rich butter-yellow of the leaves, ‘we cannot be prepared for everything.  There is always the unexpected – the jolt that comes from nowhere to remind us that we are not invincible.’

‘I believe that Glorfindel refuses to concede that he has frailties,’ Arwen said solemnly.  ‘He prefers to be prepared for all outcomes.’

‘The way to appear all-knowing, my child, is to be aware when defeat stares you in the face – and have someone cut in and hamstring it,’ her daernaneth said wryly.  ‘Glorfindel has learned flexibility – something your adar has yet to do.’

‘Adar is a healer,’ his daughter remarked lovingly.  ‘It offends him that there should be anything he cannot make better.  He spends himself and asks little in return.’  She sighed.  ‘I miss him,’ she admitted.  ‘I have spent far too many years away from him.’

‘Come,’ Galadriel commanded, refusing to take up something that had been the subject of so much debate, ‘there are tasks to complete beyond these walls – I would have you ensure that those who dwell here do not lose themselves in preparations for a war that is, as yet, only a smear on the horizon.  We are elves, child, and we need to cherish the beauties of Arda.  Let us prepare a feast, where we can dance and sing and watch the stars.’

***

Elrond stood at the wide window and looked south where the midday sun hung low in the sky.  The doors stood open and the air smelt of rain and good turned earth and growth.  The cup of tea in his hands steamed as it warmed his long fingers.

‘So none will die here this day,’ Glorfindel’s honeyed voice remarked as he closed the door behind him. 

‘No.’ Elrond sounded absent, as if he was listening to something beyond the hearing of most.

‘I am surprised the Dúnedain made it this far,’ the golden elf said chattily.  When Elrond was this exhausted, he needed nothing more than to be brought back into the world – something Celebrían had always been able to achieve with no more than a touch.  Although, Glorfindel conceded privately, she had had resources lacking to the chief among Elrond’s advisors. 

‘It is remarkable what parents can achieve if the end result is the life of your child,’ the dark half-elf stated unemotionally. 

Glorfindel glanced swiftly at the still figure, unsure if his friend intended the shades of meaning that those close to him would read into the words.

‘You need more than tea, Elrond,’ he said finally.  ‘When did you last eat?’

‘Before the horses came.  Whenever that was.’  He raised one hand and smoothed it over his dark hair.  ‘It was so close, Glorfindel.  If the patrol had taken any longer to find them – or had the orcs been any further from Imladris, that Ranger – what is his name? – would have lost more than his wife.’

Glorfindel swallowed.  He had heard enough about what the patrol had found to worry about the effect the information might have on the elf-lord, but he had rather hoped that the news had not yet reached the ears of the one who had been focusing his attention on saving the children whose grasp on life had been so tenuous.

Elrond threw him a sardonic look before returning his gaze to the sun-bathed freshness of spring.  ‘The girl was conscious enough to know what was happening to her mother,’ he said.  ‘And old enough to understand.’  He sighed.  ‘She will recover physically,’ he said, ‘but I do not know if she will be able to come to terms with her survival.  The boy was worse injured, but had the grace of remaining ignorant of much of what occurred.  He will do well, I think.’

‘The filth were too close.’  Glorfindel’s jaw tightened.  ‘We have spoken of this before and I know that you are against it, but I want your agreement to take patrols beyond the borders,’ he said.  ‘We can join with the Rangers to attempt to eliminate the menace – or, at the very least, drive the orcs back into the pits that spawned them.’

Elrond waved a hand.  ‘As you will,’ he said.  ‘I leave such matters in your hands.’  He kept his head turned away to conceal the bleakness in his eyes.  ‘I should have ensured this ended last time,’ he murmured.  ‘I should have made sure that Gil-Galad’s sacrifice was not in vain and that the Ring went into the fire – even if it meant wresting it from Isildur’s hand.’

‘No.’ Glorfindel pronounced.  ‘We have spoken of this many times, Elrond.  It was not the task appointed to you – still it is not.  You cannot take the choice from those to whom it is given: not without becoming like Sauron.  You guided Isildur – advised him well – but the decision was his.’

‘And how many have died because of his choice?’

‘Many,’ Glorfindel acknowledged.  ‘But it is not your fault.’

‘If I had forced his hand, Celebrían might never have been hurt.  The Age of Men would be here – the elves would have taken ship.  The North Kingdom might not have dwindled – there would be no prospect of the heir of Isildur taking my daughter from me.  My failure leads to her sacrifice.’

‘To her,’ Glorfindel said softly, ‘it is not a sacrifice.  Any more than Celebrían sacrificed herself in taking you to husband.’  He smiled.  ‘And now you know how Celeborn felt.’

‘It is not the same.’

‘No,’ his friend sighed.  ‘It is not the same.  It is never the same.  Finarfin parted from his daughter in the knowledge that she was exiled and he would not see her again in the lands of her birth.  Elu endured Lúthien’s passage beyond the circles of the world.  Nerdanel knows that Fëanor and her sons will never return to her while Arda endures.  But it is never the same.’  He stepped closer to the other and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder.  ‘You will have to trust Arwen to know what is best for her,’ he said.  ‘And have faith that she makes the choice that will ensure the success of everything for which we have striven for so long.’

Elrond turned his head and a sad smile lifted the corner of his mouth.  ‘This is Arwen, my friend.   She will no more betray her heart than she would defy the dictates of her reason.  She has always known what fate holds for her – and she will not try to evade it.  I just wish . . .’

‘You just wish that all your children could follow you to peace in the Blessed Realm,’ Glorfindel concluded.

Closing his eyes, the elf-lord drew a deep breath.  ‘Do you think he is well?’ he asked.  ‘It so many years now since he left Imladris.’

‘But it will not be long before he returns,’ Glorfindel predicted.  ‘No longer a boy, my friend, but a man and a leader grown and honed.  If your sons are to be believed, he is another of whom you can be proud.’  The tall elf tightened his fingers.  ‘Will you hold him to your demand that he shall remain alone until his destiny is fulfilled?’

Elrond sighed.  ‘It is not I who demand it,’ he said.  ‘For all I would wish him to change his heart and find a woman of the Dúnedain with whom he can be happy.  I have seen that his quest will fail lest he follows the narrowest of paths – and I would not have that happen.’  He glanced at his friend.  ‘You doubt the wisdom of this?’

‘He has done well so far,’ Glorfindel admitted, ‘but harder times come fast upon us – and I believe he will fight more fiercely if the jewel before him is closer to his grasp.’

They stood in silence as Anor moved steadily to the west, dropping finally toward a bed of distant pines.

‘Perhaps,’ Elrond said at last.  ‘I shall do nothing to encourage it – but I shall let events take their course and put no obstacle in the way of their meeting.’

As if in approval, the final rays of light turned the streams of high cloud to molten gold and the blue took on a glowing blush of pink, so that the hidden valley was crowned in radiance.

‘Now, if only I could make it do that at will,’ Glorfindel said dryly. ‘I would be able to convince you of anything.’

***

Elrohir fastidiously wiped his hands on the short grass.

‘Polluting nature’s gifts,’ his brother observed.

‘I do not intend to remain covered in orc’s blood,’ Elrohir protested, ‘merely in order to keep grass – or water – free of it!’

‘It is too cold to bathe.’  The gruffer voice of the stocky Ranger sounded more horrified than it had at the appearance of the band of orcs.

‘It is never too cold to clean away the stains of battle,’ Elrond’s son said firmly.

Elladan looked suspiciously round him, taking in the scrubby pines and the shadows thrown by the weather-worn rocks.  It was dark enough and wild enough, he conceded for Sauron’s creatures to feel safe – but he could not see why the Dark Lord’s captains would find it necessary to have their minions roam these hills.  What was there for them here?  For every Ranger patrol that roamed the landscape, there were wide swathes of bleak land empty of all but the hardiest of life.  Orcs must, at times, be reduced to going hungry – or feeding on each other, in which case he supposed he should be glad that they were here.

‘They are seeking him.’  Elrohir interrupted his thoughts.  ‘And they are getting more desperate.  They see him now in every Ranger that rides the north – and are working on the idea that, if they kill them all, they will eventually rid themselves of the danger he represents.’

‘Perhaps,’ his brother agreed slowly.

‘They watch you, my lords.’  The broad-shouldered Ranger finished cleaning his blade and returned it to its sheath.  ‘You are more noticeable than others – elves in battle are not forgotten, however invisible they can be the rest of the time – and you have been in battle more than most.  The orc captains care not how many of their patrols are slain in keeping track of you – those who drive them are certain that, sooner or later, you will lead them where they want to go.’

Elladan looked at him.  He was not unlike Estel, he considered.  Not as tall; not as lean, but dark-haired and grey-eyed like most of the Dúnedain; weathered by long years of service in the wild and clothed in the bedraggled cloak pinned with the star that reminded him of his heritage.  ‘We are endangering you?’ he asked.

A brief laugh escaped the Ranger.  ‘No more than we endanger ourselves simply by being here.’  He looked at the bodies gathered now for the funeral pyre that would rid the lands he guarded of a few more of the orcs that infested them.  ‘And your presence is often all that keeps disaster at bay.  We have all walked away from this today because you were here.’  He stood, stretching until his joints popped.  ‘And I, for one, am grateful.’  He left with a brief nod, going to check on the rest of his men.

‘I had not thought of that,’ Elrohir admitted after a few moments of considered silence.  ‘Might we lead the enemy to our brother?’

‘It is not impossible,’ his brother granted reluctantly.  ‘I think, at times, we underestimate the mind behind our enemy.  We fight these . . .’ he indicated the smouldering bodies, ‘disposable dogsbodies – and, if we are not careful, we can be deluded into thinking that this is all there is.’  His eyes looked dark as they lingered on the orcs.  ‘If it were that simple, this would have been over long ago.’

‘Must we avoid him?’ Elrohir asked, before turning his question round.  ‘We must not seek him out – we would never forgive ourselves if we led his enemies to him.’

‘Neither would our sister,’ Elladan added dryly, ‘and we have had experience of how long she can hold a grudge.’

‘And over so paltry a matter as a doll, too!’ Elrohir shook his head.  ‘We would do well not to stir up her wrath, my brother.  She expects us to keep Isildur’s heir safe – and we had best use whatever means are under our control to comply.’  

***

The pale-haired marchwardens had been instructed to let him pass, Aragorn realised.  They looked at him suspiciously, as if afraid that, like an untrained dog, he would foul the purity of their wood, but they accepted him grudgingly and sent two to escort him to the Lady.  Largely, he felt, that they could be sure that one had the point between his shoulder-blades in view at all times. 

He kept his hands carefully away from his weapons, certain that those piercing eyes had noticed the bulge of each hidden knife and kept his soft Sindarin for his horse.  They had gazed at him blankly when he had addressed them in the accent of Imladris and affected not to understand – but he was just as certain that they did as that they were familiar with the basics of Westron.  The Lady, from what his brothers had told him, would not tolerate ignorance among those who served her – and elves, after all, had plenty of time to learn.  Unlike him.  Aragorn sighed and strove to recall the hours he had spent being drilled in the Silvan tongue, even though he was fairly convinced that his – escort – would feign not to understand that either.

Brandor whickered, making the man grin and pat his neck consolingly.  ‘Do not worry, my friend,’ he whispered.  ‘I am fairly sure that even in Lothlórien, elves do not eat horse.  I am not nearly so safe.’

‘We do not eat men, either,’ the elf behind him sounded offended.  ‘They would taste foul.’

‘I did not mean to suggest that you might.’ Aragorn attempted to placate him.  ‘But I do not feel that many of my kind pass your borders.’

‘You are the first in your lifetime,’ the elf before him remarked.  ‘And you will probably be the last.’  He turned enough for his mist-grey eyes to inspect the man thoroughly, looking him up and down before fixing his disconcerting gaze on Aragorn’s face.  ‘I do not understand why our Lady should wish to see you.’

The man withstood the stare easily.  That was one thing, he decided, to be said for growing up with elven foster-brothers.  It took Glorfindel at his most haughty, or Elrond gleaming with authority, to intimidate him into submission with no more than a look.  The Lady – or the Lord – could doubtless send him gibbering to his knees if they so chose, but no mere marchwarden could achieve it.  ‘Does she always confide in you the reasons behind her decisions?’

The elf turned away abruptly, a faint flush high on his cheekbones, clearly disconcerted by the unexpectedness of the man’s reaction.  ‘You will learn soon enough the folly of attempting to withstand her will,’ he said.

Aragorn sighed deep in the privacy of his mind.  Too isolated, he thought fleetingly.  He had heard Glorfindel deplore the way the elven havens had cut themselves off from each other, like islands in a wild sea, and he had, over the years come to believe that the elf-lord was right – and that his words applied not only to elves, but to men and dwarves.  This suspicion played into Sauron’s hands, making it easier for him to exploit the divisions between his enemies, who, when it was said and done, all wished to live in peace in a world free from evil.

Such structured thought, though, did not survive long as his guides took him deeper among the trees.  This Wood was not the ordered glades of Imladris, nor yet the hostile groves of the Old Forest or Mirkwood’s half-strangled shadows.  This – the rays of light blessing the verdant dells of golden elanor and white niphredil, the pure silver notes of birdsong, the trickling of ice-pure water in little rills, while grey-green trunks of the trees soared skywards, broken only by the delicate tracery of fresh leaves: this was a dream of perfection in a marred world.  He could feel the peace dulling his wariness as the pressures of time and duty faded – and he could understand why the Rohirrim dreaded the Wood and the Sorceress they believed to be at its heart.

‘I will not harm you.’  The voice seemed to be all around him, yet rang in his mind as if the words had always been there.  Soft, amused – amiable – but a power that left him in no doubt that these were the Lady’s words.

Aragorn saw her then: a figure spun from light – gold and silver and white, too bright, almost, for his sight to comprehend.  Beautiful beyond the understanding of men: tall and slender; crowned only with hair the gold of winter sun; eyes deep with the knowledge of ages and the awareness of ages yet to come.

He did not even notice when his escort melted away, taking Brandor with them.  He stood – whether for moments or hours he knew not – while Galadriel considered him.

‘You need to bathe,’ she said finally, her voice sounding more like his naneth’s than that of the intimidating Elda whom he had glimpsed so briefly.  ‘And I do not know what you think you are wearing, but it will not do!’

‘My apologies, my lady,’ he said, a bubble of half-hysterical laughter rising in him.

The touch of her hand was like fire on his skin – or ice – and it made him gasp, before he realised that it was neither, but the warm touch of one who cared for his well-being.  He wondered that he saw her perfection only with his eyes and not with his heart, but, even as he thought it, the dark beauty of the Evenstar shone in his memory and the Lady’s golden flawlessness was eclipsed.

She smiled with satisfaction.  ‘Come,’ she commanded, ‘the water is warm – and you may take your leisure, as once you did among the pools of Imladris.  Wash the weariness of these last years from you and take respite among the mellyrn.  I will see to it that you have food and fresh clothing – and then we will talk.’

***

She clothed him in silver and white, with a cloak of elven-grey.  His dark hair gleamed to his shoulders, less like silk than satin, its rebelliousness curbed and held in place with a band of mithril studded with a bright gem at his brow.  Unknowing, the descendant of kings straightened to fill his princely raiment: tall and grave and full of the promise of a strength as yet only at its beginning.  He seemed less a man, Galadriel sighed, than an elf-lord from the west, more than he was now, but still less than he could be.

Aragorn walked where she pointed him beneath the trees of Caras Galadhon, and the mellyrn showered him with golden flowers, heady with fragrance and bright as hope.  He caught a few as they fell and cupped them in his strong hands as gently as he would hold a butterfly, continuing aimlessly on the soft path.  He did not know why the Lady had chosen to favour him, but the dream-like beauty of the Wood had him bemused, so that all he felt able to do was listen to the song around him and wish that he could be part of it.

The Evenstar saw him emerge from between the trees, no longer the boy he had been, but a man striving for success on a quest that could take him to the stars and beyond, and, as he had loved her at sight in the glades of Imladris, so she loved him and her choice was made. 

‘You have changed,’ she said as he stopped before her.

‘But you are as beautiful as ever you were,’ he answered.  He hesitated, then offered her the flowers in his hands.

She smiled, aware that he knew not of the significance of the offering, and deliberately took them, tucking one blossom in the braid behind her ear.  ‘You do not look in the least bit like a bush,’ she said solemnly.  ‘Nor do you resemble a goat.’

‘Elladan and Elrohir?’ he sighed.  ‘When did they say that?’

‘Some years ago.’  Arwen placed her right hand formally on his arm and, with a nod in the right direction, allowed him to lead her along the sunlit paths.  ‘After they had visited you in Rohan.  I have not seen them since.’

‘They were most scathing about the style of the Horse People,’ Aragorn told her.  ‘They seemed to think that the only time the Rohirrim thought grooming mattered was in relation to horses.’  He grinned.  ‘They were not far wrong.  I had not realised that your brothers were so very elven until I spent years among men.’

‘They have their peacock moments.’ Arwen looked up at him, her eyes sparkling. ‘Although they are not as bad as Glorfindel.’

‘Ah well,’ Aragorn shook his head.  ‘He is a lost cause.’

Their pace slowed and they turned to look at each other, each lost in the other’s face.  Arwen reached up to touch his cheek gently.  ‘You must tell me what you have been doing since last we met,’ she said.

‘Thinking of you,’ he said softly.  ‘Dreaming of you.  Seeing your face before my closed eyes, hearing your voice, feeling your touch, smelling the scent of your hair.’

She drew a breath and released it slowly.  ‘I am surprised you have made it this far, then,’ she reproved him, ‘and that no enemy has managed to remove your head.’

He took her hand and lifted it gently to his lips.  ‘Oh, you mean, how did I waste the moments in between?’ he asked.

Celeborn’s fingers tightened bruisingly on Galadriel’s arm.  ‘You have permitted this to happen?’ he breathed from their vantage point in the trees. 

She shivered slightly.  She tended to forget that her husband could, when roused, be dangerously single-minded.  ‘I did not prevent it,’ she said staunchly, refusing to be intimidated.  ‘It is not my right to prevent it – and I could not if I would.’

‘I could,’ he declared in a voice that rang of the finality of blades. 

‘Kinslaying?’ she challenged. 

‘He is no kin of mine,’ her husband pronounced.

‘Look at him.  Look at him without prejudice, without resentment – he is the heir of more than Isildur,’ Galadriel hissed.

Celeborn reluctantly took his eyes from him granddaughter to gaze broodingly at the man who drew her attention and his fingers slowly eased their grip.  ‘Eärendil,’ he said in surprise.  ‘Who know how many generations have passed – and Elros’s heir stands there looking like the Mariner!’

‘I desire this outcome no more than you do,’ Galadriel murmured, allowing her distress to shade her tone, ‘but this is part of the price we must pay.’

The elf-lord shifted his grip to one more comforting and folded his wife in his arms.  ‘We shall see,’ he said.

***

Days flowed like water and nights drifted by like smoke.  Arwen wandered through the dream-like groves of Lothlórien, Isildur’s heir at her side, with eyes for nothing but each other.

Cúraniel watched, aware that a step had been taken from which there was little chance of return.  This was no tale that promised a happy ending for all, but instead offered only a temporary satisfaction for any of those involved.  She had thought to remonstrate with her friend, but knew from the set of Arwen’s jaw, from the look in her eyes, from the sound of her laughter, that there was no point.  The cause of her friend’s increased gravity in recent years was apparent: Elrond’s daughter knew what was asked of her.  She had considered it and, in full understanding of what it meant, had decided to accept it.

The man felt it not, but the gentle sorrow of the Wood echoed with the song of loss, as the elves watched him win their Evenstar.  Some hated him, but most watched Galadriel and Celeborn and accepted his presence with dignity and restraint.

Haldir watched him with eyes like flints, hoping that his lord would say the word that would expel the intruder from the golden glades.  ‘Why do they tolerate him?’ He jabbed his finger towards the waterfall where Arwen sat with Aragorn, their eyes seeing none but the other.  ‘Why does my lord not simply offer him up to the orcs that haunt our borders?’

‘It is obviously not that simple.’ Cúraniel hunched her shoulders in irritation.  ‘If you want to know, why do you not go and ask?  I am sure my lord would appreciate your curiosity.’

‘I would take her home,’ Haldir declared, ‘and let her adar see off this menace.’

‘Or perhaps you would carry her off,’ Cúraniel said sharply, ‘and put her on a ship heading west.  After all, she is an elleth – why should she have the right to decide her own destiny?’

‘You would permit her to offer herself to this . . . this Aftercomer?’ Haldir said incredulously.

‘She is old enough to recognise what she wants to do!’ her friend declared.  ‘I might not like it, but I have enough sense to see that it is none of my business.’  Cúraniel met Haldir’s eyes unflinchingly.  He pressed his lips together and turned, clearly unconvinced.  She watched him march away before turning to look again at the besotted couple by the water.

All they were doing, she sighed, was standing and looking into each other’s eyes.  As far as she knew, they had not yet taken the irrevocable step of plighting their troth to each other – and it was a step that would take them across a vast chasm into the unknown.  Few elves had sworn faith with mortals – and those that had generally learned over uncounted centuries that their brief happiness came with a price.  Not, the elleth thought ruefully, that Arwen would pay the same penalty for her love as others of her race.  While Mithrellas dwelt still among the golden trees, yearning for a man long dead and grieving for children who had grown old and left the world in their turn, Arwen’s fate would be that of Lúthien.   She would forsake her people in full truth and become mortal, following her love beyond the circles of the world, sundered from her family until the end of days.

And Arwen had known, Cúraniel realised.  She had returned from Imladris knowing that this choice lay before her.  It was no wonder that her face had been more grave and her laughter seldom heard in recent years.  It was no wonder, either, that her brothers seemed ever more protective of her, holding her close as if to savour the final taste of a special vintage. 

***

The days lengthened and the mystery of night retreated before the sun.    The devotion that had been slightly embarrassing from the boy, from the man stirred Arwen’s pulse.  The gentle touch of the calloused hand on her cheek stirred her blood and stopped her breath.  This bearded stranger, clothed in fine linen and rich silk, looked at her through elven eyes, his heart clear for her to read, and told her of his life.  He was not free, as other men, but trod the path of duty, wherever it took him.  He spoke to her of Gondor, of the White Tower gleaming in dawn’s light; of the plains of the Rohirrim, where grasses bent before the wind with the song of the sea; of distant Harad, of the burning sun leaching life from the earth; of the ice flows in the far north, where frozen rivers tumbled finally to the hungry sea.  He spoke of Gilraen, of what he had learned of his father, but he did not speak of love.

She knew why. 

The boy had not seen what he demanded of Elrond in his youthful arrogance, had not known its cost – but the man understood.   His devotion was unswerving, but he knew the sacrifice demanded of them all if he were to achieve his heart’s desire and he would not ask.

Why he thought it better for them all to suffer, she could not fathom.  He knew little of the fidelity of elves if he imagined that she could forget him and thrust her love for him aside to choose another – and he had little faith in an adar’s love if he believed that Elrond would rather have his daughter abandoned to a life of heartbreak and his foster-son to loneliness than accept the cost of their union.  She smiled.  Aragorn could not accept happiness at the expense of those he loved, she knew.  It was part of what made him fit to rule – but this time she had to make him understand.

‘Your adar told me,’ he said seriously, ‘when first I set eyes on you, that I should have no wife, nor bind any woman to me in troth, until my time comes.  I am a wanderer, Arwen, driven across the world by the demands of destiny.  I have no home to offer any bride, no position to give her honour – I live in constant danger of my life.’  He looked at the elanor and niphredil about their feet as they walked on the fair hill of Cerin Amroth.  The softness of the grass caressed their bare feet and the gentle breeze stirred their hair.  ‘I would not choose to come between you and Lord Elrond, Undómiel.’

She smiled.  ‘What makes you think the choice is yours, my lord?’ she asked.  ‘The roots of this are buried in a time so far past that few but my grandparents remember it.  I have been waiting for you for close on three thousand years – and, in you, I have found all I have ever hoped.  It matters not that I must wait until your time is finally come – it only matters that I will not be parted from you – here or beyond the circles of the world.  My adar would have it otherwise, but he will accept my decision, for he loves us both.’

Aragorn bowed his head, his hair falling forward to conceal his eyes.  It was not, he felt, as easy as the Evenstar would have him think.  Perhaps because he only had a century or two to consider the matter, he felt himself tormented by the thought of taking his adar’s daughter from him throughout all the ages of Arda.  He loved her beyond question, beyond thought, beyond the limited days of his life – but how could he take a child of the Eldar and expect her to give up her people for him?  For a blaze of happiness that might last no longer than a shooting star across a night sky?

Her long fingers pushed back his hair and tucked it behind his ear and his heart stopped at the touch of her cool hand.  He could not even think while she was this close.  The softness of her breath on his cheek removed his will and left him nothing to do but adore her. 

‘Here, in the heart of the Golden Wood, on the hill of Cerin Amroth on this midsummer eve, I do plight thee my troth, Aragorn, son of Arathorn, Isildur’s heir,’ she said deliberately.  ‘No matter what the cost, I will have none other than you.’

He looked at her in shock as the repercussions of her words burned in him and he felt the change in the very core of his being.  No longer alone, for the words of Elrond’s daughter had bound her fate with his, and his mouth automatically produced the words of his own vow, dreamed of for so long, that he had never expected to speak.  ‘Arwen Undómiel, Elrond’s daughter, you are as far above me as the star for whom you are named,  and I deserve you not, but if you will have me, I will plight you my troth, that I will be true to you now and for ever.’

She kissed him then: as the shadow to the east cowered from the fiery whips of the westering sun, and they were glad.

Knowing

Glorfindel was unsure what woke him, but he knew instantly that something in the calm order of Imladris was amiss – and the only person whose distress would be enough to make the atmosphere of serenity resound with discord was the Master of the Last Homely House.   His eyes narrowed, adjusting to the subdued light, and he dressed swiftly.  Whatever had happened, it was not urgent enough to drag him from his room in little but his skin – and had the tang of a pain attacking the heart rather than the body. 

He was not in his rooms – that was, in itself, significant.  Elrond’s occasional surges of grief for his wife tended to draw him to the parts of the house where he could still, in memory at least, scent her hair and see the bright warmth of her smile.  Glorfindel paused.  He was unlikely to be outside.  On this night of all nights, there would be elves wandering beneath the stars and entertaining themselves in various quiet nooks.  Even Celebrían’s gardens of fragrant roses and sweet honeysuckle were unlikely to be entirely unoccupied on this night of solstice.

The door to Arwen’s room was ajar and the opened shutters allowed the moonlight to shimmer on the silken bedcovers and gleam on the polished mirror.   Awareness of what might have occurred hit him like a punch that left him short of breath and aching.  Not this, he thought fleetingly.  Not now, when the Vilya’s bearer needed all his wisdom and strength.

Elrond raised his head, his eyes in the glass meeting Glorfindel’s.  ‘She has chosen,’ he said.

The tall golden-haired elf’s jaw tightened.  ‘You told him that he must not do this,’ he said in a tone that promised retribution.  ‘That he must offer himself to none, let alone bind the Evenstar to him.’

‘He did not.’  Elrond closed his eyes and raised his face to the ceiling, folding his arms in front of him defensively.  ‘I am not fool enough to think he did.  Estel did not understand then how I could ask him to wait until his time had come and his path shone clear before him – but he has spent enough years fighting in the shadows to know now.  My daughter has done this – she has bound him.’

Glorfindel stared searchingly at his friend, considering his insight in fulminating silence for a few minutes.  ‘Does she know what she has done?’

‘Does it matter?’  The aching loneliness in Elrond’s voice made Glorfindel want to hit something.  ‘It is done.  She will stay here and wed him – accept mortality and pass beyond the circles of the world and I will never see her again.  She will never dance with her naneth on the white shores of the west and her song will fade into silence while we are left to mourn her until the end of days.’  His head dropped and slow tears fell, each one like crystal in Ithil’s white light.  ‘I have endured this separation before, my friend.  I thought that nothing could be worse than losing my brother – but I find that it cannot be compared to the prospect of losing my child.’

‘Where is Mithrandir when you want him?’ Glorfindel sighed.  ‘I cannot speak of what awaits the Secondborn, Elrond.  I can talk of Námo’s Halls – I can tell you of being rehoused – but I cannot comfort you when it comes to Ilúvatar’s gift.  But,’ he approached and looped his strong arm round Elrond’s shoulders, ‘it is a gift, my friend.  Arwen would long for Estel with every fibre of her being – just as you yearn for Celebrían – without hope of reunion, were it not for this choice that has been granted her.  Do not begrudge her love, Eärendilion.’

‘I begrudge her nothing, Glorfindel.’  The elf-lord ran his hands over his face, brushing the tears away.  ‘As well you know.  But I would want her to have so much more than a few decades of joy.  She knows not what she will have to endure – and how much the ending will pain her.’

‘We cannot prevent the young from stepping in the water, my friend, merely because they might find it too deep.  Arwen is no fool – she has thought on this long and hard before coming to a decision.’ 

Elrond turned to take in the neat remnants of the room in which his daughter had dwelt as she grew from child to adult.  ‘I have feared many times that my sons would be reft from me.  That their torn bodies would sprawl lifeless on some field of battle while their fëar flew to the Halls – with no certainty of when, or if, we would be reunited.  But I always hoped. . .’  His voice trailed away as Glorfindel’s grip tightened.  ‘I shall not see it,’ he murmured.  ‘For, if Estel should come into his own and be free to join with Undómiel, my time will be done and I will have to sail.’

‘I will not leave her, my friend,’ Glorfindel assured him.  ‘While she might need me, I am hers.’

Elrond fixed his sea-grey eyes on his friend’s fair face.  ‘I would endure if I could,’ he said, ‘to see her happy and watch her children grow.’

‘She understood why her naneth sailed,’ the golden-haired elf stated, ‘and she will understand why you, too, will be able to remain no longer.  But,’ he smiled gently, ‘if you want my advice, you will send for her to return now to Imladris, so that you might spend what time you have together.’

***

Aragorn stood like a king easy with his power, in robes of silver-embroidered blue.  Not as tall as the elf confronting him, but straight, apparently relaxed with his head held high and nothing but a slight crease between his brows as he faced the fury of the Evenstar’s daeradar.

‘You would have had him insult me?’ Arwen demanded.  ‘Reject me?’  She crossed deliberately between the two, drawing the eyes of both.  ‘It is my choice, Daeradar.  Do not delude yourself with the belief that my fate is in any other hands than my own!  I have known since I outgrew childhood that my destiny lay in the realms of men – and I will not have you denigrate my right to choose through some foolish male need to treat me as if I do not have the intelligence to make my own decisions.’  She met his eyes unflinchingly.  ‘If you would pity anyone,’ she added with an attempt at humour, ‘pity Aragorn – he has no idea of what he will have to endure.’  She stepped forward and closed her fingers round Celeborn’s arm.  ‘Please, Daeradar,’ she said.  ‘I have done no more than is necessary.’

His frozen stillness melted suddenly and he raised a hand to run his fingers through her ebony hair.  ‘Oh, Undómiel,’ he said, his voice cracking as he pulled her into his arms.

‘Be happy for me, Daeradar.’

Galadriel studied the Dúnadan as the emotion hanging in the air made him swallow convulsively.  ‘Of course,’ she remarked with a calm that seemed out of place, ‘the time for this is not yet.’  Her star-kissed eyes seemed warm with sympathy.  ‘Elrond told you your path would be long and hard – and you have not yet reached its end.’

‘I cannot be sorry that this has happened.’  Aragorn kept control of his tone, but the tightness in his throat made it difficult.  ‘But I would not dream of taking the Evenstar from her family to live the life of a homeless vagabond.  All I have ever asked is to be permitted to love her.’

‘And she has given her consent to that.’  Celeborn’s eyes gleamed sharp as polished steel.  ‘But I will not have you remain longer under these trees.  You must return to Imladris and tell Elrond Eärendilion what you have done.’

Aragorn drew an unsteady breath and his eyes darkened, but he bowed his head in acceptance.  ‘I will, my lord.’

‘And you, too, my granddaughter, must return to your adar’s house and ask his forgiveness for the pain you will cause him.’

She raised her hand and touched his cheek gently.  ‘I will,’ she promised.

A glint of green caught his eye and he took her hand, drawing it down to examine it.  ‘Barahir’s ring,’ he pronounced, glaring at Isildur’s heir.  ‘You are sure of her, indeed, to give her this heirloom of your house.’

Galadriel withdrew her granddaughter’s hand from his clasp and looked at the ring with interest.  ‘It was my brother’s once,’ she remarked.  ‘Worn by him in days long past at my grandfather’s court and gifted to Barahir, who saved his life.  It is fitting that it should, for a while, adorn the finger of a daughter of Finwë’s house as a symbol of a union between the two.’

‘Nothing about this is fitting,’ Celeborn snapped.  He closed his eyes briefly and inhaled.  ‘What is done is done,’ he said finally.  ‘And I will say no more.’ 

‘But I will say,’ Galadriel intervened, ‘that, when your fortitude has led you to the end of your striving and all turns out as it should, you will be blessed.’

Her husband’s frown failed to subdue her. 

‘And until then,’ she declared, ‘you must be patient.’

***

‘Why does Mithrandir have you watching these borders?’ Elladan enquired.  ‘Can he think of no better use for you?’

The young Ranger shrugged.  ‘It is a pleasant enough posting,’ he said.  ‘Perhaps he feels it makes a change from the bleakness of the Ettenmoors.’

‘I doubt that is his first thought,’ Elrohir commented.

The broad ribbon of the Baranduin wound lazily between fields of bright green, butting on the east against a towering forest of ancient trees, while to the west hills and orchards interrupted the neat pattern of farms interspersed with villages.

‘They are a curious people,’ the Ranger offered.  ‘They seem oblivious to us – but every now and then we will come to a campsite to find a farmer has left a parcel of cured ham or a cheese wrapped in muslin, all safely secured against animals – or a halfling will look to a grove where we have taken refuge from their sight and bow a greeting.’

Elladan grinned wickedly.  ‘Perhaps they think they are giving an offering to some protective spirits – creatures that come out of the darkness to see off unimaginable dangers, yet which exist only in the mind.’

‘If that is the case, they think that the mind has a healthy appetite,’ the Ranger said stolidly, ‘for they offer enough food for double our number.’

‘Do you travel among them?’ Elrohir asked, his eyes dreamy.  ‘It looks a good place.’

‘We stay near the road, my lord, or keep beyond the bounds.  The Captain has told us to keep our distance.’  The young man hesitated.  ‘We have, on occasion, seen elves in the groves and heard them singing in the moonlight.  If you chose to wander, we would not stop you.’

Elladan’s lifted eyebrow said that he would like to see the men try, but his brother batted him lightly to keep him silent.  ‘I know not what you think, my twin, but I would like to follow the river for a while.’

His brother returned the blow.  ‘As you wish, Elrohir.’  He tilted his head to examine the countryside before him.  What do they call this place?’

‘I do not know about west of the river,’ the Ranger told them, ‘but the land between the water and the forest is named Buckland.’

It was the slap of wood on water that drew the brothers’ attention from their study of the small and jewel-like land.  Ithil gleamed on the still water, deluding any who watched into thinking that the water was as kind as it was beautiful.  The disturbance of the water would have gone unnoticed by any whose hearing was less than elven and the spreading ripples would have remained unobserved.  As it was, by the time Elladan saw the upturned hull of the small boat, its occupants had disappeared, tangled helplessly in the grasping weed that reached up towards the light.  A small oar drifted downstream, turning in helpless circles.

Elrohir stripped off his outer garments as he ran, his dive skimming the surface of the water.  The river pushed him back: unexpectedly powerful, it seemed determined to keep him away from the site of the boat’s capsize.  ‘Go further up,’ he gasped, coming up to breathe.  ‘The river wants to keep them.’

Long minutes passed in a desperate trawling of the resistant waters.  Finally, Elrohir’s fingers tangled in a trailing mass of what could only be hair.  Taking his knife from his belt, he slashed at the clinging weed, even as he dragged the small figure free of its clutches.  He was gasping as he broke the surface, but there were no signs of life from the halfling.

He reached the muddy bank to find his brother working urgently to clear the mud and weed from the mouth of a pale female form, but ignored him in his own frantic need to try to save the dark-haired halfling in his own arms.  Ithil dropped below the horizon and the steel-grey dawn had begun to flower when finally he sat back on his heels.

‘It is no good,’ he said, the hopelessness of failure colouring his voice.  ‘He is gone.’

Elladan rubbed his hands over his mud-stained forehead.  ‘She, too,’ he agreed desolately.  He gently straightened the wet dress and closed the staring eyes.  ‘We were too late.’

The sun rose, bringing colour back to the world, but to Elrond’s sons the small river beach remained grey, and only the distant sound of distressed cries stirred them.

‘They do not need to find us here,’ Elladan said.  ‘There is nothing we can do for them.’

Elrohir rose.  ‘We will wait in the trees,’ he suggested.

Stiff and still wet as they were, they had barely retrieved their belongings and taken cover before the first of the rescuers arrived.  They carried lanterns with candles still burning in the fresh early-morning sunlight, but they were not needed.  Dressed haphazardly, like those who had been dragged from their beds to seek some who had not returned home, their curly hair dishevelled over pointed ears, their feet bare in the mud, the faces of the halflings showed despair and confusion.  Quite why the river had chosen to give up its burden on this quiet strand, they could not tell, but its victims rested here, a gentle mist rising from them as if they breathed.  But they did not, and they never would again.  A stout halfling cried out and dropped to his knees beside the bodies, while the others crowded round.

Too preoccupied to notice, they did not see a slight dark youth behind them.  Elrohir touched his brother’s arm, but, short of leaping into the middle of the group and frightening them out of their wits, there was nothing they could do.  The lad crept forward, silent on careful feet, only to freeze as he realised what was holding the eyes of his grief-stricken elders.  He swayed, a pale hand moving to his throat.  The twins could not see his face, but his scream stayed with them, an echo their naneth’s agony, joining a hundred similar denials that lived in their memories.

‘Take him away from here!’  Even as the stout hobbit commanded, one of the watchers swept the lad into his arms and bore him off past the tree that sheltered the twins, curls framing a face as pale as the two by the river, leaving a haunting impression of a pair of wide eyes dark with horror. 

***

Elrond had kissed his brow and embraced him as an adar would his son – and all Aragorn could feel was guilt. 

How could he even consider wresting away his adar’s only daughter – not only for his lifetime, but for all eternity?   How could he live with himself if he allowed her to sacrifice herself for him?  Their mutual love – that had seemed such a certainty under the golden boughs of the mellyrn – had become, he felt, no more than self-delusion.  She could not love him.  He deserved it not.

The elf-lord sighed.  Much as it grieved him to admit it, he could understand his daughter’s reasoning.  Estel – Aragorn – had still so much to do, and he would find it impossible to endure without the strength afforded by her staunch love and support.  He let his fingers linger on the face of one who was as dear to him as a son.

Aragorn met his eyes briefly and drew an unsteady breath before slipping from his hold to drop to one knee before him.  ‘My lord. . . ’ he began.

‘No, my son.’  Elrond spoke firmly.  ‘You have nothing to confess that I cannot forgive.  Come with me now – and we will talk over a glass or two of wine.  You are a man full-grown and have accomplished much of which I would hear – and the evening will be soon enough to talk of what is on both our minds.’

Glorfindel smiled.  It would do Estel no harm to believe that Elrond possessed the omniscience he had always suspected of his adar.  He found it rather touching to see the love and trust of the boy in the face of the man – and his anger had definitely been defused by Aragorn’s expression of ecstatic incredulity.  Whatever Estel felt for Arwen, it was she who had claimed him – and he would save his displeasure for her.

Imladris’s lord raised the Dúnadan to his feet.  ‘Welcome home,’ he said simply, drawing him inside the airy halls.

‘I will see to his horse, then, shall I?’ Glorfindel muttered.  ‘And carry his baggage – such as it is – to his chamber?’

It was worth any indignity, he reflected, to see Elrond’s mischievous grin.  He would not have thought that his friend would be able to suppress his grief at this meeting, but it seemed that he was wrong.  It was a pleasure to realise that, even after all these centuries, Idril’s grandson could still surprise him.

‘No biting,’ he commanded the weary horse as he took hold of the reins, ‘or I will feed you an excess of green apples.’  Brandor followed him meekly, responding to the gentleness of his hand rather than the sharpness of the words, and the tall elf patted his neck in approval.  ‘Estel will check on you later, I have no doubt.’

It seemed smaller, Aragorn thought.  The corridors were not as long or the doors as imposing – but it was more beautiful than he had remembered – and Imladris glowed in his mind as the epitome of beauty.  And this was home in a way that no other place ever could be – the home of his childhood. 

‘My naneth?’ he asked. 

‘She is well,’ Elrond told him.  ‘She will be happy to see you.’

The man’s serious grey eyes met his resolutely.  ‘Later,’ he said.  ‘There are words that must be spoken before I give her the opportunity to scold me.’

‘I meant what I said.’  Elrond shook his head.  ‘We will leave it for now – speak after Gilraen retires.  An hour or two will make no odds.’  He reached out to close his hand on Aragorn’s shoulder.  ‘We will say no words in haste, my son.  Greet your naneth and spend some time with her – she has yearned for you over too many years to keep you from her now.’

***

‘When I left your care, I knew I was a man,’ Aragorn said, ‘but I thought like an elf.  I spoke like an elf – I even dressed like an elf.’

‘You fought like an elf, too,’ Glorfindel interrupted.

Aragorn’s quick grin was appreciative.  ‘I fought like an elf,’ he agreed, ‘and, as far as those around me were concerned, that made up for the rest.’  He leaned forward, resting an elbow on each knee and studying his hands.  ‘And I was young,’ he marvelled.  ‘Younger than I could have believed – even growing up here among elves many thousands of years my senior.  I had been shielded from the harsh realities of life as one of my people.  I had never gone so hungry that I had ceased to want food, or done without sleep until I could barely stand.  I had never slept in the dirt through bone-aching cold, or had any looking to me to save them from the fears that come in the night.’  His face reminded Elrond suddenly of Gil-Galad, resting in his tent on the bleak plains of Dagorlad.  ‘And, suddenly, I was no longer a child, no longer an indulged little brother – but a man, and a chieftain and the hope of a whole people.’

Glorfindel’s hand rested on his shoulder.

‘We wanted to give you time to grow,’ Elrond sighed.  ‘And keep you safe until you were skilled enough to defend yourself – but we could not keep you here indefinitely.  Gilraen insisted for several years that we needed to release the ties that held you here and send you out to learn to take your place, but . . .’

‘I was so rude,’ Aragorn apologised, ‘when finally you told me all.  My naneth took me to task and her truth was so much more blunt – and unflattering.  And beneath the surface, I resented what you said.’  He smiled ruefully.  ‘I rode off in arrogance and soon learned that I was nothing remarkable – the world was not going to come to me and beg me to save it.’  He sat up and admired the unchanged grace of Elrond’s private sitting room.  ‘I could not come back,’ he admitted.  ‘Not until now – for I know not if I could have brought myself to leave again.’

‘And there was Arwen,’ Elrond said.

The branch of candles that lit the hearth on this warm night flickered in a soft breeze that brought with it the scent of night-blooming flowers.  Aragorn dropped his head again.  ‘Yes,’ he said, his voice low and strained, ‘there was the small matter of your daughter.’

‘I understand,’ the elf-lord stated, choosing his words carefully.  ‘I do not blame you, my son,’ he said.  ‘I do not blame Arwen.  It is not as simple as that. Years come when hope will fade, and beyond them little is clear to me.  It may be that your love has been determined since the beginning of time and that by my loss the kingship of men may be restored.’  He held up his hand.  ‘But,’ he stressed, ‘but Arwen Undómiel shall not diminish her life’s grace for any less cause.  She shall not be the bride of any man less than the king of both Gondor and Arnor.  To me then even our victory can bring only sorrow and parting – but to you hope of joy for a while.’

‘Do you think for one minute,’ the man said, his words dropping into the silence like pearls into a pool of unimaginable depth, ‘that I would consent to any less?’  His eyes, silver-grey as Elrond’s own, met his gaze unfalteringly.  ‘I would not ask even that of her if I could persuade her to take another path.’

Elrond reached out to place a hand on Aragorn’s wrist.  ‘Alas, my son,’ he said, clearing his throat.  ‘I fear that to Arwen the Doom of Men may seem hard at the ending.’

His foster-son turned to clasp the pale hand and they both fell silent, contemplating the fate chosen by the Evenstar.

***

Had she grown smaller, Aragorn asked himself, or was it that he had grown?  She was thinner – he could swear she was thinner – and her stillness gave the impression that she was waiting for something.  He realised, as he had never done throughout his childhood years, that, for all her apparent tranquillity, she was not at home here.  She seemed, he thought, like appleblossom set among orchids: sweet and fleeting in the midst of elegant exotics, and he wondered what kept her still beneath the roof of Elrond’s house, when she so clearly would prefer to withdraw to the halls of her kin.

Her eyes inspected him minutely – seeking out each line, each scar, each callous, striving to absorb each experience that had kept him battling in the world while she waited in the hope of his return.  He told her tales of far distant places, of adventures in which he had played a less than glorious part, of people he had known over the years of their separation.  He spoke most of his time learning to be his father’s son among the kin she had left to keep him safe.

‘Your uncle speaks well of you,’ she said, her voice sounding as if she used it but little.  ‘As do your cousins.’

‘My uncle is a good leader,’ Aragorn commented.  ‘A skilled fighter, but a wily one, too.  I am amazed how well he has done in defending the northlands with so small a force.  I enjoyed my years among the Dúnedain patrols – and would have been happy to remain longer among them, but Mithrandir . . .’  He fell silent.  Did it matter to her why he had abandoned his duties in the north to serve Gondor’s Steward?  Or merely that he had returned?  ‘My uncle, too, seemed to think it a wise move – and said that there were always those among the men of the north who would spend some years coming to know the southern realms.’

‘It is so,’ she agreed.  ‘My own father did so – and so did Arathorn, although he was not gone as long as you were.’  She stopped.  ‘He was called home,’ she finished, ‘when the Fell Winter was followed by the floods that emptied Tharbad and devastated the northlands.’

Aragorn watched her lift her needle and set it carefully in the fabric on her lap.  ‘Naneth. . .’  He drew a deep breath.

She smiled.  ‘You need not tell me,’ she told him.  ‘I can see in your eyes what I saw in your father’s – long before I was old enough for him to say anything.’  She hesitated and raised her chin to settle her gaze on him once more.  ‘I saw it before you left – for all I told you it should not be.  And now. . .’   She looked at him with eyes in which he saw an unexpected depth of knowledge. ‘What did Lord Elrond have to say?’

‘That we must wait – until my time comes and I have proved worthy of such a prize, for he will not consent to her marriage with any less than the king returned.’

‘As it should be,’ Gilraen declared. 

‘In my youth I might have argued the case – for that day may never come,’ her son said dryly.  ‘But I hope I am wiser now.  I would not take her to wife should she come to me in despite of her adar’s words.  She is to me the star that appears at the summit of the highest mountain – almost beyond the reach of man, yet offering a promise that inspires the climb.  I will work for her until my last breath – but I would not reave her from her family for a lesser place than that of the Queen of Men.’

His naneth smiled at him.  ‘My son,’ she said proudly.  She held out her hand to him and he took it, slight and frail in his strong fingers. 

‘And if – when – that day arrives, you will be there,’ he said confidently, although his eyes were filled with doubt, ‘to see it happen.’

***

Elrond refilled his glass and blinked at the ruby wine.  ‘I do not know how much choice Beren had in the matter once Lúthien had made up her mind.  Or Elu, come to that.’

‘He probably thought he had.’ Glorfindel smiled wryly.  ‘When he decided to incarcerate his daughter until the presumptuous man had been removed.’

‘But she would not stay caged.’  The ruler of Imladris raised his goblet, then lowered it without drinking.  ‘I wonder what Beren thought,’ Elrond mused, ‘when his delicate, fair nightingale turned up in Angband’s dungeons to wrest him from Morgoth’s grasp.’

‘I would imagine he was terrified,’ his friend said, ‘and knew better than to resist.’

‘I am surprised Elu did not recognise her determination.’  Elrond stretched his feet out in front of him and crossed his ankles.  ‘He had, after all, been entranced by Melian for who knows how long – until he surrendered.’

Glorfindel sniffed elegantly.  ‘You cannot talk, my friend.  You should have seen yourself when Celebrían’s eyes met yours.  Her adar was beside himself.  I am sure that only Galadriel’s strong grip on his sword arm saved you.’

‘And then there was Idril.’  Elrond shot a glance at his friend.

‘She made the decision,’ Glorfindel admitted, a pleasantly reminiscent smile on his face.  ‘Tuor adored her at first sight – much like Maeglin, in truth – but he asked nothing of her.’  He shook his head.  ‘She, however. . . Nothing would have stopped her.  As tenacious as a . . . Noldo.’

‘That is my daernaneth you are insulting!’

‘Is tenacity an insult?’  Glorfindel looked down his nose with mock hauteur.  ‘You have it yourself, so you should be able to tell me.  Turgon grieved for her,’ he added more seriously.  Not because he would lose her, but because he knew that Idril would be parted from Tuor – her adar knew the pain of such a separation.’  He contemplated the glass in his hands, turning it so that the wine caught the light.  ‘You come of a long line of strong ellyth,’ he said.  ‘They know their own minds and they will not give in.’

‘I never had a chance of changing her mind.’  Elrond placed his glass on the table beside him.

‘And Celebrían will know that, my friend,’ Glorfindel reassured him.  ‘You can count on it.’

***

Aragorn met their eyes steadily.  It was not, after all, the first time that his foster-brothers had confronted him, shoulder to shoulder.  It was, however, the first time that they had turned on him the full impact of their power – and the first time that they had looked on him as a potential enemy.

‘Adar said,’ Elladan remarked in a pleasantly conversational tone that contradicted the threat in his ice-grey eyes, ‘that Arwen made the decision to claim you as hers.’

‘It seems unlikely,’ Elrohir chimed in.  ‘The last I recall, a certain Dúnadan was writing bad poetry about our sister, while she was telling us to be kind to him.’

Elladan smiled dangerously.  ‘Perhaps we were too kind,’ he suggested.

‘Perhaps we allowed him to think that we would not tear him to shreds and feed him to the crows if he ever did anything to hurt her.’

‘Perhaps we let him believe that we would not mind having him wrest our sister from her family and subject her – and us – to the pains of mortality.’

‘Perhaps he feels that being Isildur’s heir entitles him to an elven bride.’

‘Perhaps he is of the opinion that being our foster-brother will make us welcome him as a brother indeed.’

Aragorn drew a deep breath.  It was as well, he reflected, that his years of dealing with Ecthelion’s son had taught him to control his tongue, for it was very tempting – and would probably be foolish – to respond in kind.  

‘You cannot stop me loving her,’ he said reasonably.  ‘Your sister is clearly worthy of all the love that any can offer.’

‘True,’ Elladan conceded.

‘I adored her the moment I saw her – and I will love her until I die.’

‘Understandable,’ Elrohir pronounced.

‘I did not claim her,’ Aragorn sighed.  ‘Adar made it plain that I had no right to do so – and I have learned enough to agree with him.  But, when she placed her hand in mine and pledged herself to me, how could I resist?   Rather than hurt her, I would offer myself to you in the full knowledge that I deserved to be fed to the crows.’

The brothers contemplated him.

‘Adar says that you cannot claim each other unless you become king,’ Elrohir remarked.

Aragorn inclined his head.

‘We had better put our great minds to bringing about that end, then,’ Elladan sighed.  ‘For Arwen has her mind set on you – for some reason I cannot fathom.’  He looked over the Dúnadan with a jaded eye.  ‘You have always been an entertaining little brother, Estel, but you are no prize when it comes to looks.   I do not know what she sees in you.’

The man looked at the twins warily.  ‘So I am in no immediate danger from you?’

‘Are you mad?’ Elrohir asked.  ‘Arwen would have our hides if we hurt you.  As long as she continues to be besotted by you, you are perfectly safe.’  He smiled pityingly at Aragorn.  ‘Just bear in mind, Estel, that – should the occasion arise – Arwen has first claim on our loyalty.’

‘And we will remain by her side as long as she might need us.’

Aragorn closed his eyes at the easing of a worry he had not even realised he felt.  ‘Thank you,’ he said sincerely.

‘She will never be alone as long as we live,’ Elrohir promised.

***

She walked straight into her adar’s arms and held him as if she could never bear to let him go.  ‘I am sorry, Adar,’ she said in the end, her voice no more than a pained whisper from her tight throat.  ‘I am sorry.’

He cupped the back of her dark head in his hand, even as he had when she had been young enough to believe that her adar could set right all the wrongs in the world, and held her softly to him, but he did not speak.

‘He was in pain and alone – and his fate bore down on him.  It was more than any man could endure.  I could not leave him to face the coming years alone.’

‘Tell me you have not bound yourself to him merely because he needed you, my Evenstar,’ he adar pleaded. 

‘Oh, Adar!’  Arwen twined one of his braids round her finger like a jet ring.  ‘He lightens my heart.  He is so sober – and so driven, yet he is as humble as a fresh loaf and as necessary to me.  He will not see that he is part of me as I am of him – and persists in thinking that I am making a great sacrifice in caring for him.’

Elrond said nothing, but tightened his grip on his daughter.

She leaned back to look into his face.  ‘You have known this would be the end,’ she said gently.  ‘It does not make it hurt less, but we can none of us pretend we did not know.’

‘You are my child,’ Elrond told her.  ‘I would have you be happy.’  He caressed her cheek.  ‘But your years of happiness will be short, my daughter, and you will know grief and fear before the finish.’

‘Better to share his fate than to be left behind – to live in pain and ignorance until the end of days,’ she said.

‘Your naneth will sorrow for your absence.’

‘I have known since before the division of Arnor that my fate was intertwined with the heirs of Elros’s line,’ she said.  ‘Naneth and I discussed it many times.’  She shot an amused glance at her adar.  ‘It is not only the bearing of a ring of power that brings wisdom.  We knew I would never sail.’  She hesitated.  ‘It is partly why she tried so hard to remain, even when she had come to know that she would not heal.’  Arwen closed her eyes as the pain of those days lived again in her memory.  ‘We said our farewells then, knowing we would not meet again before the world is remade.’

Elrond considered her words.  ‘You could not speak to me of this?’ he asked, hurt that his wife and daughter had kept from him something so important.

‘If you did not know then,’ Arwen said, shaking her head, ‘it was better for you to remain in ignorance.  Too many of the Dúnedain needed your care.  You did not need to feel suspicious of their motives.’  She smiled sadly.  ‘And I did not wish to be sent from Imladris – to protect me from the inevitable.  When Naneth sailed. . .’ she paused, ‘I wished to rebel against a fate I had no part in choosing and withdrew to the Golden Wood, where Isildur’s heir would concern me not, but in time I came to see – to accept – that I, too, have my part to play.’

‘You are home now,’ he said.

She laughed.  ‘There is little point in my being elsewhere.  Aragorn needs us all, Adar.  We are his family.’  She rested her head on Elrond’s shoulder.  ‘And the end approaches,’ she whispered.  ‘We choose no longer which of a dozen paths will bring us to the moment of decision.  All hangs by a thread and it may be that none of us will live to see what will come of all our endeavour.’

***

Arwen joined Gilraen in an arbour of white roses, sitting beside her silently.  Gilraen seemed distant in the soft light of evening, her gown of dove grey overshadowed by the gleaming petals and her pale face faded among the dancing branches of bright blooms.  In contrast, Undómiel shone.  Clad in silver-embroidered white, her dark hair catching and reflecting the light, she looked like a star come to earth.

The woman of the Dúnedain studied Elrond’s daughter for some time before speaking.  ‘It would destroy him if you were to change your mind,’ she said abruptly.

‘I will not change,’ Arwen said tranquilly.  ‘I have had long enough to make my decision.  This match was decided ages before I was born – and I have accepted it.’

‘You love him?’ Gilraen asked.  ‘I would not wish on him a marriage based on duty only.  He is worth more than that.’

‘I did not love him when I left Imladris,’ the Evenstar said honestly.  ‘He was no more than a lovesick boy – but time brings changes to all things.  When he came to me in the Golden Wood, the boy had become a man – and that man stirred my heart.’  She looked at Gilraen and her silver-grey eyes shone.  ‘I did not expect that,’ she said candidly.  ‘I expected to feel affection for him and do my duty.  You understand.’

‘I do.’  Gilraen moved her head and Arwen caught sight of silver hairs glinting among the dark.  ‘When Arathorn declared himself and asked my adar to let him wed me, I had no way of knowing how deeply I would care for him.’  She smiled wryly.  ‘He was so much older than I was – and rather frightening – but Naneth told me it was my duty and persuaded my adar to permit it.’  She fell silent.  ‘He will leave you,’ she warned.  ‘Time and again over the years.  He will go into battle and leave you dreading the day that he will not return.  And, one day, you will be left bereft, to mourn him until you follow him into death.’

‘I have never marked the days.’  Arwen took a deep breath.  ‘But I will count each one a joy that we might spend together.’

‘Your time may never come.’

‘We are treading softly at the edge of the world,’ Arwen agreed, ‘and success or failure are on a knife’s edge, but he will not fail for the lack of anything I can do.’

Gilraen gazed at the elleth’s face for some time before she nodded.  ‘It seems a poor reward to Lord Elrond for all his care,’ she remarked wearily. 

‘The defeat of the Dark Lord is an end he has long sought.’  Arwen raised an opening bud to her nose.  ‘He would sacrifice himself willingly to attain it.’

The woman smiled sadly.  ‘But you are more than even he would offer.’

‘It is not up to him to constrain my choice,’ the elleth said mildly.

‘I shall not see it.’ Gilraen turned her head away.  ‘And, like your adar, I shall not see my grandchildren.  I am sorry for that.  I would like to see those dark-haired children with eyes like stars.’

‘You are young yet,’ Arwen told her.  ‘There is no reason why you should not be there to see your son take his birthright.’

‘No,’ Gilraen agreed, taking the elleth’s hand, ‘there is none.’  But, as they sat in the darkening evening beneath Celebrían’s roses, they both knew that Aragorn’s naneth had handed to Elrond’s daughter the care of her son, and that she would not endure to see him succeed or fail.

The Years of Waiting

Gilraen closed her eyes.  ‘I need reality,’ she said.  ‘I need to have people around me to whom I am more than a passing inconvenience.  I need the urgency of fighting a recalcitrant winter and striving to defeat an ever-present death.’  She raised her head to inspect her son’s betrothed.  ‘I do not expect you to understand,’ she sighed.  ‘Not yet – but you will, one day, if our frail hopes are ever realised.’  Pity softened the frosted shadows of her gaze.  ‘You have chosen a hard path, Undómiel.’

‘Would not he wish you to remain here in safety?’  Elrond’s daughter asked gently.  ‘It gives him one less thing about which to worry as destiny drives him across the face of the world.’  The gentle breezes of Imladris caressed them, even as the scents of autumn breathed across the land and reminded them that the days were shortening.

‘I will be safe enough in my brother’s house,’ Gilraen declared.  ‘It is not as if I have not spent months there at a time – and, with his wife’s illness, he needs me as none here do.’  She smiled.  ‘I wished to know you, Elrondiel.  I wished to know in my heart that you would love my son as he should be loved – I know that now.  There is no need for me to remain longer here in Imladris.’

‘Adar will be grieved to feel that you cannot be happy here,’ Arwen tried. 

‘My part is played.’  Arathorn’s widow shook her head.  ‘It is no matter what becomes of me now.’

A slight flush coloured Arwen’s pale cheeks.  ‘Surely you are not accusing my adar of cynicism!’ she protested.  ‘He does not consider anybody to be disposable!  Even if you were not Aragorn’s naneth, he would spend of himself to protect and support you – you are under his care.’

Gilraen laughed.  ‘I do not doubt your adar for a minute,’ she said.  ‘He has spent far more time than the matter deserves trying to convince me to remain and assuring me of his esteem – but I know what I need, Undómiel, and it is not this cushioned life.  If I am to stand any chance of enduring the coming years, I need work – work that is suited to the hands and heart of a woman of the Dúnedain, and I will not find that here.’  She contemplated the beauty of the elleth beside her.  ‘Imladris leaches the meaning of life from men,’ she tried to explain.  ‘There is no need to try – all is provided, and so much better than any man can do it.  I have been here far too long as it is – but, if I am to try to endure, then I need to feel the sting of snow and see the green of spring struggle to sprout in the cold rain beyond this sheltered valley.  I need to see women swell with the promise of children and to help ease the passage of those to whom life has become a burden.’  She brooded for a moment.  ‘We face hard times, Arwen,’ she said.  ‘I do not believe that I will come to see them end – but that is part of being one of the Secondborn.  We strive in hope – and give of ourselves for a future that belongs to those we will never know.   Elves,’ she mused, ‘endure for the whole of time – they can expect to see the ending of all their efforts, but men must fight and die and trust in their heirs.  I have done what I can to raise his father’s son – with the aid of all those here in Imladris – and Aragorn has become a man of whom we can be proud – but I have had to let him go.  What will be is in his hands.’

Arwen inspected the polished pink of her nails.  How was it, she wondered, that this woman, nearly an age younger than she was, could make her feel so inexperienced?  It was not as if Gilraen had said anything she had not heard before.  It was the relevance, the Evenstar realised.  This was no gentle deploring among elves of the limitations of a mortal life – this was what she had chosen.  She would, if they survived the fight, go forth from her adar’s house to take her place among those whose every day brought them nearer to death, those who knew that the future for which they fought was for the benefit of those not yet born and that they would not live to see it.  Would she be able to accept it with as much grace as this daughter of the Dúnedain?  She would not know until she had no alternative.

Gilraen’s thin fingers covered her hand.  ‘You will be fine,’ she said comfortingly.  ‘You will find that there are compensations that make even the most difficult times worthwhile.’

***

Glorfindel unrolled the message weighted down with Dain’s dark red seal.  It was not often that the dwarves who passed from the Lonely Mountain back and forwards to the Blue Mountains bothered to visit Imladris with scrolls from their king.  Not because Dain and Elrond were not on diplomatic terms, but more because the dwarves saw little point in the elaborate courtesies in which the elves delighted and preferred to keep their knowledge to themselves.

‘I take it that the King under the Mountain has something of importance to convey,’ he said idly.

‘Just read it,’ Elrond suggested.  ‘A page of cautiously-phrased Westron should not tax you too highly.’

‘I am insulted,’ his friend returned.  ‘Are you insinuating that I cannot read?’

‘Would I?’

‘Not if you wished to retain your health.’  Glorfindel grinned.  ‘I just find dwarf-drawn letters hard on the eye.  They seem to feel obliged to make their letters look architectural.’  The tall elf leaned in the doorway to the balcony to read the document, reluctant to settle in Elrond’s study when he could be outdoors.  He reached the end and turned it over to inspect it before returning to the beginning and picking his way through the information again.  ‘Foolishness,’ he said flatly.

‘The time to reclaim Khazad-dûm is most assuredly not yet,’ Elrond agreed.  ‘I doubt that any of this party will survive to return to their kin.’

‘Why did Dain feel the urge to tell you this?’ Glorfindel stared speculatively at the paper.  ‘He is not generally much inclined to impart information – not, at least, unless it is a choice between speaking and having an axe between the ears.  And I would certainly not expect him to speak with outsiders on the subject of Moria – from which the dwarves fled so reluctantly and so secretively.’

‘I suspect he knew that there were enough in Dale who would be willing to pass the information on.  They would not be able to kit out such an expedition in total secrecy – and Dain is clever enough to make a generous gift of information we would receive in any case.  He obliges me to inform him of various matters we have learned of the spread of the vile creatures throughout the mountains – and he seeks to learn what the elves might know of the time of flight.’  He smiles wryly.  ‘I think he is torn between hoping we are completely unaware of Durin’s Bane and wishing we knew enough to justify his recalling this expedition.’

‘Balin,’ Glorfindel said meditatively.  ‘Was he one of Mithrandir’s dwarves?’

‘I doubt he would appreciate the description, but yes.’ 

‘I cannot recall which.’  Rolling the message up, Glorfindel strolled across to the desk and deposited it in front of Imladris’s lord.  ‘I salute his courage and wish him good fortune – but I doubt he will find it.’

‘No.’ Elrond sighed.  ‘I wanted to speak to you about the valley’s defences.’

Glorfindel hitched his hip on a corner of the desk and waited.

Elrond studied the quill between his fingers.  ‘We have to ensure that everyone’s skills are refreshed,’ he said.  ‘There are many who laid down their swords after Dagorlad and took up more peaceful pursuits – but I do not think we can allow that situation to continue.’  He raised his head to meet his friend’s eyes.  ‘It may come to that.’  He kept his voice even.  ‘I will not have my people unprepared.  Those who are not willing to take up arms must consider whether they should sail.’

It was as if Anor had lost all warmth.  Glorfindel suddenly realised that he had stopped breathing and inhaled.  ‘Things are not that bad,’ he objected.  ‘Our borders hold – and what is beyond them is little worse than it has been for years.  Imladris is safer than Thranduil’s realm – where Dol Guldur again spews forth its poison.  We are safer than Lothlórien – which rests on the wrong side of the mountains and too close to Dol Guldur.  We must prepare, certainly – it would be foolish not to do so, but there is not yet a need for such extreme measures.’ 

The Lord of Imladris rested his head on his hand.  ‘You know as well as I do, that by the time it is clear that we need to prepare, it will be too late to do it.’

Glorfindel fixed his gaze on his friend.  Celebrían’s wounding had changed something deep in Elrond’s heart.  He had never felt invulnerable – he was not that arrogant and he had seen enough disaster in his time – but he had retained some faith in power of right.  Now – he never wanted to see anyone else dear to his heart suffer as she had suffered.  ‘It is too much,’ he said.  ‘Too much, too quickly.’  He pushed himself to his feet and began to pace back and forth across the still room.

‘I want scouts in the lands beyond our borders.  Not to be seen – but learning what is normal, so that they will know at once what changes.  My sons will be able to train them – they are not as insensitive as they would have people believe.’

Glorfindel stopped, settling into stillness.  ‘You have read more into the dwarf’s message than I have seen,’ he said.

‘They are stirring up what would be best left undisturbed.’  Elrond looked up.  ‘I feel it is a beginning.’

A crooked grin lifted one side of the Balrog-slayer’s mouth.  ‘It will take time to set in motion,’ he said.  ‘But who am I to gainsay the foresight of Elrond Eärendilion?’

***

She sat beside his bed, her eyes on the gentle rise and fall of his chest.

The door opened and closed, but she did not move her head to see who crossed the room.  Elladan came up behind her and rested his still-damp hands on her shoulders.

‘Adar wants me to go back to Daernaneth for a while,’ she said, her voice remote even to her ears.

Several minutes passed before he spoke.  ‘Will it make any difference?’ her brother asked.

She bowed her head.

‘I thought not.’  Elladan’s raised one hand to run his fingers through her hair comfortingly.  ‘You might as well go – provided Adar sends half Imladris’s guard to see you there safely.  It is not as if remaining here will enable you to see much of Estel.’  He looked at the figure in the bed.  ‘And when you do see him . . .’ He stopped.

‘He is invariably in need of Adar’s care rather than mine,’ she finished.

They watched the man in silence until Elrohir entered with a tray of dressings.  ‘Has he roused?’ Elrond’s son asked.

Arwen shook her head slightly as her brother placed the tray on the bedside table and took his foster brother’s wrist gently in his long fingers.

‘If men only washed,’ Elrohir murmured waspishly, ‘they would be a great deal less likely to come to harm.  ‘But they wind bandages round wounds and leave them to fester and then . . .’

‘How they can have failed to notice that a clean wound – treated by clean hands – is less likely to become infected is beyond me,’ his brother agreed.  ‘They look on Estel as some kind of wonder because those he treats heal – and talk of elven medicine, when the solution is – literally – in their own hands!’

‘Please!’ Arwen drew a ragged breath.

Her brothers looked at each other.

‘He is strong, little sister,’ Elladan told her gently.  ‘He has survived worse than this.’

‘And how long will he continue to survive?’ she asked.  ‘Or will his life pour out on some unconsidered piece of earth in some insignificant combat – leaving the line of Isildur to fail and the hope of men to end?  Will I be left to mourn him until my life, too, is forfeit to the minions of the Dark Lord?’

Elrohir blinked. 

Arwen’s thumb brushed a tear from her cheek impatiently.  ‘And all I can do is wait,’ she said savagely.

Elladan drew a deep breath.  ‘He would rather you were safe,’ he said.  ‘We would rather you were safe.  To go out into the world and fight – you do it with an easier heart if you do not have to worry about those you love.  To know that they dwell in safety and comfort brings consolation as you confront the perils of the night.’

‘And what of me?’ she asked.  ‘What of those who remain?  Clad in silk and sleeping in featherbeds – wrapped in a cocoon of care until we suffocate.  How do you expect us to survive sending those we love into constant danger?  Waiting in the desperate hope that one day you will return – and that the blood on your clothing is not yours.  Dreading what your arrival might bring: dreading your absence even more.’

The weak movement from the bed was a relief, Elrohir decided, as he really had no idea how to respond.  For all his long years as a warrior – for all the many times he had returned to Imladris in need of care – he had never thought what it must be like to wait in perpetual fear of hearing that those you loved would never return.  Their adar had been a warrior – of course he had – but he had put his sword down at the end of the Second Age and his children had only ever seen him as a healer – they had never seen him ride off to battle.  Elrohir busied himself with pouring the sticky elixir he intended to give Estel before the man was aware enough to refuse it. 

‘Elrohir?’  Estel’s voice was croaky with disuse.

‘Take this, my brother, and then I will give you water to drink before we look at those dressings.’

‘Did you have no marigold petals, little brother?’ Elladan asked teasingly.  ‘No powdered clove?  Or do you think using these things to prevent infection is beneath you now?’ 

Aragorn ignored them, blinking owlishly at the vision beside his bed.  A blissful smile spread across his sweat-stained face.  ‘Undómiel,’ he breathed.

She stared at him stonily.  ‘I will fetch Adar,’ she said.

The three males gazed at the door as it slammed behind her.

‘What did I do?’ Estel asked in confusion.

***

His dusty boots looked rather broken down, but they were comfortable.  Mithrandir picked his way among the rocks and the sun-hardened ruts of the road.  It would open out again soon and he would be able to walk on the rabbit-nibbled turf – which would be easier on his old feet.  And, he thought, it would not be long before he was joined by a lean figure in shabby grey, his cloak pinned with a star.  You told the Rangers to guard – and guard they did, he thought approvingly. 

The sun had set and the steam beginning to rise from the small pot of water boiling over his fire before his expected guest stepped out of the shadows.

‘You took your time,’ the wizard grumbled.

‘I was on my way to Bree,’ the new arrival said mildly.  ‘If you remember, you were planning on heading to Imladris after you left the Shire.’

‘Yes, well. . .’ Mithrandir waved his hand irritably.  ‘Things change.’

The Ranger stepped silently up to the fire and removed the water, adding some leaves from his pack and leaving it to steep.

‘That was going to be soup,’ Mithrandir complained.

‘Remarkably flavourless soup unless you got round to adding some other ingredients,’ the Ranger said easily, taking out a loaf of rather stale bread and some cooked rabbit.  ‘This will do for now.’

‘Do you have someone following the halfling?’  The wizard ate as if he had seen no food in days – which was, the Ranger thought, extremely unlikely, considering that he had been visiting some of the foremost halflings of the Shire.

‘My brothers said they would do it.’

Mithrandir nodded.  ‘If any can keep him safe while remaining unobserved, the Elrondionnath should manage.’

‘Why is it so important?’  Aragorn took a meagre portion of the remaining food.

‘I think I have come close to making a very big mistake.’  The wizard’s deep eyes brooded on the events of the past half century.  ‘And I am not sure yet that we can escape disaster.’  He glanced quickly at the man sharing his fire.  ‘I might need to go to Minas Tirith,’ he declared, ‘to discover if what I suspect is true.’

Aragorn raised his head, like a deer scenting danger.  ‘Denethor will be less than pleased to see you,’ he said.  ‘Are you sure that you will not find what you seek in Imladris?’

Mithrandir shook his head.  ‘If it were there, I would have found it long ago.’  He stopped.  ‘The guard on the Shire must be tightened, my friend.  Trust me in this – keeping the Shire safe might be the most important thing in Arda right now.’

Accepting the wizard’s word without explanation was testing of even the closest of friendships – and Aragorn knew that concentrating his forces here would reduce what he could achieve elsewhere.  But the wizard did not ask lightly.  ‘I will do what I can,’ he promised.

The relaxing of Mithrandir’s shoulders suggested that he had not been certain that the Ranger would comply with his demand.  ‘I must find news of a creature that has been lost these fifty years,’ he said.

‘It still lives?’  Aragorn raised an eyebrow.

‘Oh yes,’ the wizard said in a low voice.  ‘If what I fear is true, it still lives somewhere among the dark places of the world.’  He stared into the heart of the fire, watching the embers fall into grey dust.  ‘I think I need your help in this, Dúnadan.’

‘My duty lies with my people, Mithrandir.’

‘And your people extend further than this small corner of the northlands, heir of Elendil.’  A red gleam lit the wizard’s sharp eyes as they focused on the shadowy face.  ‘You have left your people before, Estel, for your sake and for theirs.  There is nothing more important than what I need of you now.’

The fire had died down to ashes and the glade lit only by the stars before either spoke again.

‘I will do what you ask of me, wizard,’ Aragorn said softly.

***

The small house was simple – nothing about it could compare to Imladris – but, as Gilraen had told him, it was hers.  She had lived in her parents’ house, dwelt for a few years in Arathorn’s ancestral home, spent his youth as Elrond’s guest, left to care, for a while, for her brother’s rambling farmhouse, but now, at last, she had a place that she could call her own.

He did not see her often enough.  It did not mean she was not in his mind, in his heart – but she knew, none better, that duty did not permit the Dúnadan to indulge in the satisfaction of family visits.

Gilraen was milking the goat.  Her long black hair was dusted with grey and her over-gown a simple brown wool.  Her head rested again the animal’s flank as she squeezed efficiently at the turgid teats, sending a spray of white into the bucket.

Her son watched her, pain tugging at him.  When had she turned from his pretty young mother to this angular woman whose clothes seemed too big for her?  Over the years when she had been left to endure the loneliness of a widow whose only son spent more time in the company of orcs that he did with her?   How did women endure this hard life?  Would he do this to Arwen, if ever the time came when he and she could be joined?  Was he doing it to her now as she endured their endless separation in the sun-kissed beauty of the Golden Wood?

He drew a deep breath.  If he were to wed Arwen, he would be king – and she would be by his side.  And if he failed – then she would sail to that land beyond the sea where elves lived in peace and ease.

‘Naneth?’  He spoke softly, not wanting to startle her.

‘Aragorn?’  She raised her head and turned to look at him.  Her cheeks were flushed and she wore a look of dreamy satisfaction.  ‘Aragorn, is it really you?’

No-one said his name the way his mother did.  She rolled the word over her tongue as if the mere syllables gave her pleasure.   He stepped closer and took the bucket before the goat could kick it over.

‘My son!’ Gilraen said with pleasure, touching his straggling hair with her warm fingers.  ‘I have water heating in the kitchen.  Let us go and wash and find you some dry clothes.’

‘I am not the only one who is wet, Naneth,’ he protested.

‘I would not want you to get chilled,’ she told him firmly, sending him straight back to boyhood.  The disregard the elves showed for cold and wet had always irritated her – and she had spent far too much time organising hot baths or forcing him to drink ginger tea after some adventure with his brothers.  He had not understood at the time, but had gradually become aware that he, alone of all those in Imladris, was likely to become ill.  It had been yet another reason to resent his humanity.

‘I would rather have some tea,’ he suggested.  ‘And talk to you.’

‘You can do both,’ she insisted, ‘once you are clean and dry.’

‘I sometimes think you spent too long among elves, Naneth,’ he teased.  ‘You seem to have developed an aversion to dirt.’

‘Dirt, the smell of long-unwashed bodies, horses and goats,’ she nodded.  ‘Not to mention dead orc, butchered deer and gutted fish.  Do Rangers never bathe?  Is it written somewhere that it reduces their masculinity and weakens their sword arm?’

‘Probably,’ Aragorn agreed easily.  ‘Although it may only be superstition.’

Grey eyes met grey and they laughed.  ‘I will get the bath,’ he offered.  ‘Far be it from me to offend my naneth’s nose.’

His visit was short – as they always were: an interlude on his way from one place to another, a few short hours spent in the company of one who had given him all her time.  They talked – but never of what he was doing now, never of what he hoped the future would bring.  Their words were always of the past, of his father who had died too young, of the years of his boyhood.  She fed him, dressed him warmly and filled his pack with waybread and dried meat and freed him to go on his way.

‘I want to go even less this time, Naneth,’ he said.  His trained eye saw evidence in her face that his heart wanted to deny.  She was too thin; her eyes too big in her face – and the stain of colour along her cheekbones gave only an illusion of health.  She subdued the cough while he was there to hear, but he did not need it to know that she was ill.  ‘Let me take you to Imladris.  Elrond can help you better than any other.’

She smiled slightly and shook her head.  ‘No, Aragorn, my son.’  She took his hand between both of hers and held it to her cheek, her eyes bright with tears.  ‘This is our last parting, Estel, my son.  I am aged by care, even as one of the lesser men; and now that it draws near I cannot face the darkness of our time that gathers upon Middle Earth.  I shall leave it soon.’

Aragorn drew her into his arms and held her close.  She leaned her head on his leather coat and savoured the strength and gentleness of her only child.

‘Yet there may be a light beyond the darkness; and if so, I would have you see it and be glad.’  He rested his cheek against her hair.  ‘It it not yet time for us to be parted.’

They stood in silence, their distress too powerful for words, until Gilraen murmured in Sindarin, ‘Onen i-Estel Edain, û-chebin estel anim.’  She drew a deep breath to steady her voice and repeated as if to herself, ‘I gave Hope to the Dúnedain, I have kept no hope for myself.’

Gilraen it was who stepped back from their embrace.  ‘You have my blessing, my son,’ she told him.  ‘Wherever your path takes you, I know you will conduct yourself as befits your father’s son.  Fly with eagles, Aragorn son of Arathorn, the hope of men, and you will reach your heart’s desire.’

He mounted his horse in silence, heavy of heart, and turned only once to look at her, a silhouette against the light of early morning, one hand raised in farewell. 

He did not see her again.

***

Celeborn worked loose the buckles that held his armour in place.  ‘They are coming more often,’ he said.  ‘And they are getting bigger – and less inclined to hide from the light.’

His granddaughter came to help with the buckles that were out of his reach.

‘They come from the south,’ Galadriel mused.  ‘I am ever more convinced that Isengard is at the heart of this new wave of orcs’

‘We have always been able to keep our face turned principally towards Dol Guldur,’ Celeborn wriggled out of the leather and metal to drop it to the floor like an insect shedding its outer casing.  ‘But that is no longer possible.’

‘Curunír has betrayed us,’ the Lady of the Wood said.  ‘If we cannot trust an Istar, who can we trust?’

‘You cannot trust people for who they were born to be,’ Arwen remarked.  ‘Only for what they are.’

‘You think that your Dúnadan can stand up to forces that break an Istar?’ Celeborn asked cynically.

‘He is true through and through,’ Arwen said firmly.  ‘Whereas Curunír has long seen himself as better than those he is here to defend.  Curunír would think himself strong enough to stand up to Sauron himself – while Aragorn has too much sense to try.’

‘I will not deny your Dúnadan’s courage,’ Celeborn admitted.  ‘Or his persistence.’

‘It is a start.’ Her husband’s frown made Galadriel smile.  ‘I feel that the urgency is growing,’ she said.  ‘Events are moving ever faster – and they will soon be out of our control.’

Celeborn laughed.  ‘I was not aware that they had ever been under our control in the first place.’

‘Well – they will be even less under our control.’  Galadriel closed her eyes and listened to the trees.  ‘A cold wind is blowing beyond the shelter of these woods.’

‘Will the elves go to war?’ Arwen asked.

‘I think not,’ Galadriel said.  ‘Not this time.’

‘We will not need to.’ Celeborn bent to pick up his armour.  ‘War will come to us.’  He exchanged a quick look with his wife.  ‘I do not want you to see it, Undómiel.  You, at least, should remain unaware of what one creature can do to another.’  He straightened and gazed at his granddaughter.  Behind him Galadriel shook her head and pressed her lips together.  ‘Your daernaneth should be able to hold the wood inviolate,’ he said, ‘while we defend its bounds from those who would breach them – but I think you would be safer in the hidden valley.  Lothlórien is too close to the evil that emanates from Dol Guldur.’

‘Bathe, my lord,’ Galadriel said firmly, pushing him towards the door.  ‘You smell of metal and sweaty leather – and it is not my favourite fragrance.  I will talk to our grandchild.’

‘Convince her,’ Celeborn commanded, turning to draw a teasing finger along his wife’s jaw before leaning to kiss her.

‘I will do my best.’

Arwen looked at Galadriel wistfully as her daeradar left them, racing down the stairway as swiftly as her brothers did on their rare visits.

‘You are more likely to see Aragorn in Imladris,’ her daernaneth remarked.

‘I am not an elfling; I am not a simpleton; I am not a piece of fragile glass to be wrapped in cloth against a bitter frost.’  Arwen looked out over the forest.  ‘I have spent decades doing my part in readying the Golden Wood for war – but I am to be packed off to safety.’

‘You are our insurance for the future, Undómiel.’  Galadriel joined her.  ‘As Estel is man’s hope, you are ours.’  She sighed.  ‘Whether my lord admits it or not.  Without you, all will fail.’

‘I do not notice Aragorn being shut away from peril.’

Galadriel shrugged.  ‘That is the way it is,’ she said.  ‘Orcs would need to be swarming in the talans of Caras Galadhon before your daeradar would see me take my sword in my hand – and, even then, he would die to defend me.’

‘I do not see a happy end to this,’ Arwen’s murmur was almost inaudible.

‘All hangs by a thread,’ Galadriel admitted.  ‘A single thread, mithril-bright – strong, for all it is so thin.  But even the culmination of all our hopes will come at a cost, my granddaughter – and we must be prepared to pay it.’

‘Daeradar will come to you in time,’ the Evenstar said softly.  ‘He will not leave willingly, but he will be unable to endure without you for ever.’

‘I will miss you.’  Galadriel put her arm round her granddaughter’s waist.  ‘I will miss you always, but your adar needs you now, Undómiel.’

The Drums in the Deep

She stirred to the scent of the dried rose petals and her hand brushed the embroidered linen of her pillow.  When had she stitched this?  Six centuries ago?  More?  As she sat beside her naneth in the spring garden and laughed over the foolish gallantry of her brothers.  The steel of night’s fading beyond the open windows shadowed her room, but it was not what had woken her.

The stench of decay was in her mind; endless festering pools of abandoned hopes and noiseless screams beneath a sky of frowning doom.  He slept. She knew it.  Alone and close to despair in a place sinking slowly back into the bones of the earth.  Seeking she knew not what with the dogged persistence of which he was capable, buoyed up by no more than a promise.

She reached out to him, her ghostly fingers brushing his lips and her song, distant as the ocean’s roar, in his ears, offering him the only comfort of which she was capable.  No Lúthien she, she thought bitterly, to take on the werewolves that confronted him.  At best a tenuous hope of fulfilment was all she could provide in these odd moments when she felt as if she existed on two planes, in two places, in two hearts.  Fleeting; too fleeting.  No more than a moment, when Aragorn was so exhausted that his barriers weakened, or when the sheer hopelessness of it all touched him. 

Taking her robe and wrapping it round her, she slipped barefoot into the corridors of Imladris.  Tea, she thought.  The answer to all things.

The fires were banked in the kitchens, and only the bakers were at work, kneading the dough that would provide the morning’s bread.  She paid them little heed, nodding politely and passing through to the small hearth where water was kept boiling to serve their needs and provide refreshment for any who rose too early for the cooks.

She was not alone.  Elbows on the table and head resting on his hands, her adar sat, looking weary beyond the capacity of even elven endurance.

‘Adar?’

‘Undómiel?’

‘Have you made tea?’ she asked.  Without waiting for a reply, she took down several of the containers and spooned what appeared to be a random mixture of leaves into a pot and added boiling water, leaving the mixture to infuse before straining the fragrant liquid into two cups.

‘You feel I need my mood lightened?’ her adar asked.

‘If you do not, then I do,’ she announced, sitting beside him and curling her fingers round his.

‘I believe there may be some honey cake,’ Elrond suggested.

‘Honey cake is nearly as good as sugared plums,’ Arwen admitted.  ‘Not quite, but it will do.  Would you care for some?’

‘What brings you here, my Evenstar, in the hour before dawn?’ Elrond accepted the square of honey cake, breaking off a section and eating it absently.

‘What news did my brothers bring?’ Arwen disregarded the question.  Elrond knew only too well what disturbed his daughter’s rest.  ‘They stayed barely long enough to speak to you.’

‘There have been attacks in the Angle,’ Elrond murmured.  ‘Someone – several someones are determined to draw the Rangers away from their duties and bring them back where they can be picked off more easily.’

His daughter stared at him.  ‘Will you bring the women and children here?’

‘Those who will come.  Some would rather remain and try to hold what is theirs.’

‘We have food in plenty – stores enough to last ten times our population over a decade or more.’  Her eyes narrowed.  ‘And we have plenty of most things.  Sanitation might be a problem if our numbers grow too rapidly.’

‘Most of the Dúnedain would be happier on the farmlands – and they would not wish to be a burden on us.’

‘There is land,’ Arwen nodded.  ‘And housing – of a sort.  Many have sailed over recent centuries and there is room among us – for their animals, too, if they are able to herd them.’ 

‘I am reluctant to disrupt their lives – but I would wish to preserve them.’

‘Warriors fight better when they know their families are safe – or so my brothers say.’

Elrond smiled.  ‘It is so.’  His gaze lingered on his daughter’s face.  ‘You are very efficient, Arwen.  And wise.’

‘And you, Adar, are very tired.  You have let my brothers and Glorfindel keep you up all night – and you need to take some rest.’

‘Sometimes it is more comforting to sit in good company like this, Undómiel.’  He slipped his arm around her waist and she rested her head against his shoulder.  ‘Aragorn?’ he asked gently.

‘He seeks it still, whatever it might be,’ Arwen murmured.  ‘But he feels he is no closer.’

‘He will find it soon: I am sure of it.’

His daughter laughed.  ‘Foresight – or consolation, Adar?’

‘Both,’ he said firmly. ‘Both.’

***

Haldir shifted uncomfortably as the healers treated his injury, but he pressed his lips together and refused to acknowledge the pain.  It was bad enough that the orc arrow had caught him, without the indignity of letting those about him know he suffered.

‘Take him with the other wounded,’ Celeborn commanded.

The Marchwarden looked at him in mute protest.

‘You are of little use to your brothers until you have had time to heal,’ his lord advised. ‘We have no resources here for cosseting the injured.’ He sighed and rubbed his sweaty hair.  ‘They are coming too often – and in ever greater numbers, as if something drives them forth.’

Harthad clucked his tongue in exasperation.

It was odd, Haldir thought, that, while he was not in the least disconcerted by seeing Celeborn sleek and dangerous in gilded armour, the sight of the sober advisor dressed in warrior’s garb seemed – wrong.  Yet Harthad had been at Dagorlad – and before that in Eregion – and might, for all the Marchwarden knew, have been at Celeborn’s side in the War of Wrath. 

‘I am thankful that the Lady holds them back to the margins of the Wood,’ Harthad said.  ‘Our warriors are too few to fight on so many fronts.’

‘I am thankful that they test us,’ Celeborn said grimly, and Haldir’s eyes flew to him in horror.  ‘Can you imagine how it would be if they all attacked together – against a force that had not been tested in action since the days of Gil-Galad?’

‘The orcs fight like fools,’ Haldir remarked, the elixir he had swallowed enough to loosen his tongue.  ‘They have no thought of defence and charge headlong at their foes.’

‘Enough fools can kill one wise elf,’ Harthad pronounced.  ‘Do not under-estimate a creature that has no fear of death.’

His mouth felt slightly numb and his head seemed larger than it usually was, Haldir noted.  Give him his bow and he could see off a hundred orcs!  If only – if only he could stand up.  His eyes closed involuntarily and he subsided to his stretcher.

‘I would get him well away from here before he rouses,’ Celeborn suggested to the healers’ assistants.  ‘I am sure his displeasure will be expressed at length when he realises that he will spend some weeks recovering.’

The ellon grinned.  ‘As you command, my lord.’

Celeborn nodded his thanks and he and Harthad stepped away from the busy scene.

‘We are well prepared, my lord,’ Harthad said seriously.  ‘I thought Lady Arwen was being overly zealous, but she has seen to it that our warriors will lack for nothing – and that there are those working to replace anything that it lost.’

‘Except for our people.’  The light through the trees painted shadows across Celeborn’s face and made him look tired.  ‘We cannot afford to lose our warriors in these skirmishes, Harthad.   There is an elf today who will not return to his family – I will not preside over another bloodbath.’

His friend rested a hand on his forearm.  ‘You cannot stop them fighting, Celeborn.  This is their home – even more than it is yours.  They have a right to defend it.  That elf – Siriaur – came south along the Anduin at the time of the Great Journey.  He had dwelt under these trees since before Ithil rose – he would not permit them to be defiled.’

Celeborn stared at the forest floor, where small creatures burrowed among the fallen leaves, returning them to the soil to provide for new life, then leaned back his head to catch a glimpse of the brilliant blue between the spreading leaves.  ‘You are right,’ he said helplessly.  ‘But I do not wish to be the bearer of any more bad news.’

‘I have little doubt but that there is worse to come, my lord.’   Harthad shook his head as his lord glared at him accusingly.  ‘And you know it for truth.’

***

The child leaned back, staring at her and sucking at his fingers.  He was – not clean, Arwen thought with resignation, but then who could expect him to be after his journey from his home to these quiet fields close to Imladris’s borders?  At least he smelled mainly of leaf litter and wood smoke – unlike some of his kin, who would be much more welcome after immersion in hot water.  With scented soap.  And preferably, she sighed, having had their clothing burned and replaced.

She smiled easily and offered him a piece of oatcake.  He dropped ridiculously long dark lashes over his eyes and checked for his naneth before taking it and putting it to his mouth. 

More of the Dúnedain than expected had accepted Elrond’s invitation to take sanctuary in Imladris – which only went to show, she feared, that life outside had become far more dangerous than she realised.  There were few men among them – some white-haired ancients, bearing arms she doubted if they could now manage to wield, a few who were missing limbs and a boy or two, adolescents too young even for men to take into battle.  Most of those herding children, trying to control a cow or a goat or two, or carrying the most precious of their possessions, were women.  Weary-looking, faces pinched with anxiety, hair unkempt, in clothes that had not been changed over the course of their journey.  Some among them, too, were armed – and a few even looked as if they knew what to do with the swords at their sides and the bows on their shoulders.

‘They would prefer to remain together, my lady.’  The elf whose family had worked this land before they sailed, leaving him the only one remaining east of the sea, looked at her in some confusion.  ‘They say they will sleep in the barn.’

‘They need time to see that they are in no danger,’ Arwen said compassionately.  ‘They can defend themselves better as a group – and they cannot yet know that here in Imladris they will be as safe as is possible anywhere in Middle Earth.’

The child leaned to one side, offering the half-chewed oatcake to the new elf.

‘Smile at him,’ Arwen recommended as Edebion stepped back.  ‘He likes you.’

‘If it is all the same to you, my lady,’ the young ellon said, ‘I would rather keep my distance.’  He looked doubtfully round the group of Dúnedain.  ‘They are – very strange.’

‘I daresay they think the same of us,’ she answered.  Tall and slender, pale skin glowing, long silken hair braided over pointed ears, the elves helping the Dúnedain move into this corner of the hidden valley moved so quietly that they were on occasion lucky that they were also swift, as Ranger reflexes twitched over knife hilts.  Few among the women and children had seen elves – other than her brothers, that was – and they were clearly less than comfortable in the presence of the dozen or so apparently ethereal creatures around them.

Briefly Arwen tensed.  Would it be like this should Aragorn gain his throne?   She corrected herself determinedly: when Aragorn became king?  Would she spend the rest of her life being looked on with suspicion by those to whom she would seem unearthly and alien?  Would she be forced to remain in silent obscurity: unable to take a full part in the life of those who would be her people, permitted to be no more than the bed-mate of their king and the womb that bore his children?

‘Shall I take him, my lady?’ a shy voice asked.  ‘I hope he is being no trouble.’

Arwen smiled.  ‘You look too young to be his naneth,’ she said, rejecting the thoughts and forcing her worries back into the box in her mind.  It would not be like that.  These people had been displaced from their homes – it was only to be expected that they would be jumpy.  They dealt perfectly well with her brothers, whom they knew.  It would be the same with Aragorn’s people.  In time.  She focused on the present. ‘Who are you?’

The girl blushed.  ‘I am Hannaswen, my lady.  Ecthel is my brother.  I look after him now.’

‘Their naneth died.’  An older woman came up behind them and placed a hand on the girl’s shoulder.  ‘In an orc raid.  And their adar is patrolling the northlands as the Chieftain commands.’

‘You will be safe here.’  Arwen looked from one pair of wary grey eyes to another.  ‘Imladris will be safe unless all falls to the Dark Lord.  And that,’ she said, looking more like her brothers as she tightened her jaw, ‘will never be, if we can do anything to prevent it.’

***

He dared not sleep.  Aragorn placed himself so that any weakness would make sure that the vicious thorns on the encroaching vines would prod him back to wakefulness. 

It had taken years, he thought.  Eight, if he counted them right, since Mithrandir had set him this task – and he had travelled the length and breadth of Middle Earth: from the Anduin to Thranduil’s realm, to Rhovanion and finally to the filth of Mordor in search of this creature.  Alone, for the most part; desperate to remain hidden in places where discovery would lead to his death; seeking the traces of something that was neither man nor goblin, perian nor dwarf – a creeping thing, corrupted in the rotting dark of the Misty Mountains.

He had almost given up – would have given up – had not a brief meeting with the wizard convinced him that he was close.  How Mithrandir had been so sure of that . . . he was not sure he wished to know.  But here he was. . .

The Dead Marshes had been – close to unendurable.  It was one thing to learn, in your bright-eyed boyhood, of the sacrifice of those who had been lost in the fight against evil: to hear of the heroism and gallantry of Elendil and Isildur and Gil-Galad, the reckless courage of Oropher, the endurance of men and elves.  He shuddered.  But it was quite another to pick your way through this graveyard of abandoned hopes.  To see the corpse-lights burning in the night; to scent the stench of decay; to watch, rolling up from the fetid water, the shade of some gleaming elf who should have lived in beauty until the world ended; to feel, on your living flesh, the touch of ghostly fingers; to hear, in imagination at least, the pleas of the dead for release; to taste their despair.

He should not have been surprised, he supposed, to find it here.  Aragorn stared at the twitching creature lying bound on the small dry islet among the deceptive tufts of sharp-edged grass.  Skeletal.  Pallid and cold.  Like some dead thing dragged from its tomb – until it turned its eyes on you.  And then you caught your breath at the anger in it.  The need.  It lived on hunger – and it was lucky that it had avoided being dragged off to end its miserable days in the dungeons beneath Barad-dûr.   He had found it, finally, sniffing its way through the marshes, not sure, it would appear, whether to go forward or back – and it fitted Mithrandir’s description of what he sought.  And there could not, Valar’s mercy, be two such creatures.

It was devious, though – and stronger by a long way than it looked.  Twice, so far, it had made a break for freedom – and the bite on his hand still festered from the last time.  The elven rope subdued it and, for some strange reason, seemed to weaken it, so that even as it fought its contact the creature was more compliant – and Aragorn’s own touch made it cringe as though he was inflicting on it some intolerable cruelty.  It could not bear to travel by day, so it seemed better to rest while Anor sailed the sky – when the creature huddled in any patch of shade, eyes screwed up, whimpering with pain – and remain alert in the dark hours, hauling the scrawny thing northwards in the hope of encountering someone who knew of Mithrandir’s whereabouts.

Failing that – he supposed the Lady was the best option.  Lothlórien was closer than Imladris by far, and risking the Misty Mountains seemed unnecessarily foolhardy when he could leave the creature in the charge of the elves.  Although Mithrandir had suggested Thranduil as a guardian for it – and the Grey Pilgrim usually had his reasons for anything he said, even if he was not prepared to reveal them to those who had to carry out his commands.

Aragorn kept steady eyes on his prisoner as he huddled in the mud of this forsaken place.

So many years, he thought bleakly.  So many years and not one step closer to the goal that drew him on.  He served as best he could, but there seemed little hope of any fulfilment of his dreams.  He should free her.  Free her to seek the happiness she deserved, released from a foolhardy moment of impulsive kindness to one as worthless as he was, free her to sail to the Blessed Realm where she could be who she was supposed to be.

As happened sometimes when his mood was darkest, her spirit washed through him briefly.  Amused devotion and a sting of reproach that he should be so impatient, that he should think to speak for her.  Trust: strength: encouragement.  Assurance that his time would come – and he would hold true.  In the moment between one heartbeat and the next, he felt refreshed – as though he had slept under Imladris’s friendly stars.  One step at a time, he agreed, one step at a time was all it took.

The creature twitched, dragging the fine rope that joined them. 

Dispose of this task, Aragorn decided, and he could spare a few days to spend in the hidden valley before he took up his next responsibility. 

He would take the creature to Thranduil.

***

Cúraniel eyed the Lady warily through her long lashes.  Galadriel doubtless had her reasons for fixing her attention on her granddaughter’s friend, but the elleth would be much more at ease if only she thought she knew the reason behind the Lady’s notice.  Probably, she added privately.  Although it was possible that understanding Galadriel’s motives might be even more alarming.

An unseen smile brightened the Lady’s controlled gleam of power.  The elleth was, after all, right to be suspicious – and it spoke well of her intelligence that she understood that it was her easy association with Arwen that spurred her daernaneth’s desire to get to know her better.  For the Evenstar would not be left alone.  Not if Galadriel Finarfiniel, wife of Celeborn, naneth of Celebrían and bearer of the ring Nenya had anything to say in the matter.  As the Dúnadan’s bride, Arwen would forsake her people, accept mortality and pass from the world – but she did not have to be abandoned by those who loved her.

A princess marrying into a foreign house would have her household.  No-one – no-one – would expect her to endure alone and unprotected far from home.  Galadriel could, without any effort at all, list the names of dozens of these wives of kings who had taken with them handmaidens, scribes, grooms, seneschals, seamstresses – all to give them a haven of familiarity in a stranger’s world.  Of course, she acknowledged, she could also name dozens of wives of kings who had been hated for their strangeness, for their reluctance to adapt, for their foreign looks and ways.  Arwen had more than enough sense to avoid those traps.  And she loved him, this Dúnadan, who understood the ways of elves, who treasured her for her wisdom even more than for her beauty – and who would hear nothing said against her.  No Tarannon Falastur he, to turn against his queen and vilify her name. 

Arwen would take no train of followers to serve her in the Stone City.  Before she quickened with her first child, her people, barring a few obstinate remnants, would be abandoning the homes that had held them for three ages of Anor – and more of the restful dark – and making their way west beyond the sea.  She would be left alone to live in a different world, where all her certainties would be lost.  Her brothers would remain, her daeradar, too – Galadriel tensed at the thought – but it was not the same as having a friend, an equal, an elleth with whom you had shared your youth.

Already there were few enough ellyth remaining.  Those ellyn who suspected what was coming had done their best to convince their wives, their naneths, their daughters, to sail beyond the reach of danger.  Soon. . .   Galadriel observed the elleth at her weaving.  She must ensure that Cúraniel understood what Galadriel wanted of her.  Before she, too, chose to depart – as, one day, the Lady must, whether she would or no. 

Galadriel smiled wryly.  Assuming, of course, that all did not plummet into catastrophic failure.  It was so finely balanced – and disaster lay no more than a breath away.  She pored over her mirror until her head ached, but the shadows passing over it – of fire and ice, darkness and blazing light, sacrifice and selfishness, pride and humility – she could not assemble into any sense.  Her husband curled his lip and recommended that she should stop chasing phantasms, said that they would deal with what came, but she knew that, while he fought with blades and arrows, it was this – her discernment of the unseen that gave them an advantage. 

Cúraniel worked steadily at the small loom.  The loose weave, she found, required more concentration than the grey cloth of which she had made so much, but the fine white linen needed to have the right number of threads if it was to receive the healers’ approval.  At least, she thought, being narrow, it did not take long to make a good length – and times were not yet so bad that she needed to make bandages to the exclusion of all else.  Her next project, she decided, would be to use some of the tightly spun nettle yarn – dyed, for choice, in the softest green – to make cloth for a cool summer gown.  She examined critically the work in front of her.  And she would take the time to embroider bands of twined leaves, studded with a few golden flowers.

‘Walk with me a while, Cúraniel,’ the Lady invited.

The elleth jumped.  She had forgotten, in her planning of the pattern of her as-yet-unmade gown, that the Lady was still present.

‘I would be honoured, my lady,’ she responded politely.  There was no way to avoid so direct a demand.

The smile that greeted her words was incredulous enough to show that Galadriel was well aware that the younger elleth would prefer to be elsewhere, but that she would do as she was asked without question.  Cúraniel flushed slightly.  It was an honour to have the Lady show an interest in you – it was just that those in whom Galadriel invested her time seemed to end up with a bemused look on their faces, doing something that they would normally avoid.

The Lady’s own glade was peaceful beyond the general tranquillity of the Golden Wood.  Even the light seemed to slow down as it descended through the broad leaves that spread protectively over the hidden nook to caress the sparkling water of the pool that trickled from the bowl that was her mirror.

‘How does. . . ?’ Cúraniel blushed and fell silent.

‘Ask,’ Galadriel said pleasantly.  ‘I doubt it is a secret.’

‘How does the water find its way into the bowl?’

‘There is a spring.’  The Lady’s smile was unexpectedly mischievous. ‘Disappointing, is it not?  No secret magic of the Eldar required.’    

Cúraniel eyed the water shrewdly.  Perhaps not, she thought, but then again. . .  She let the thought pass.  It did not matter.  People would always suspect the Lady of the use of power, whether she employed it or not – and the suspicion alone was enough to gain her a reputation as a fearsome opponent.

‘I would ask a favour of you.’

Galadriel carefully avoided looking at the elleth.  She wanted Cúraniel to agree willingly.  A resentful companion forced into remaining through duty would be of no use to Arwen, who would need a friend.

The younger elleth blinked.  What could she offer the Lady of the Wood?

‘You are aware, of course, that my granddaughter has chosen to bind her life with that of Isildur’s heir.’  If any in the Wood knew the details, Galadriel thought ruefully, it would be this elleth.  ‘And that, should matters turn out as all hope, she will leave her people.’  Cúraniel turned to look at her, face blank, but her thoughts racing.  ‘If. . .  When. . . ’  Galadriel closed her eyes and started again.  ‘Whatever happens, I would have you stand by her – as long as she needs you.’

‘I will be happy to do that, my lady.’ 

‘Even if it takes you from your home to dwell among men?’

Cúraniel drew a breath.  ‘Even then, my lady,’ she said steadily.  ‘Lady Arwen is my friend and I would be happy to support her for as long as I am needed.’

Galadriel turned her smile on the elleth.  ‘Good,’ she said.  ‘Good.  And I will see that you are cared for and brought home when the time comes.’ 

A chill drifted over Cúraniel that had nothing to do with the gentle breeze stirring the leaves.  When the time came.   Involuntarily, she shivered.

***

Elladan offered his most winning smile, but let it fade as Mithrandir’s bristling beard clearly displayed his refusal to be impressed.

‘It is a long journey,’ Elrohir said mildly, hiding his enjoyment of his twin’s discomfiture.  ‘And we are in unfriendly times.’

‘Are you suggesting that I need a keeper?’ rumbled the wizard.

‘One does not need the companionship of warriors for their presence to be of benefit,’ Elrohir persisted.  ‘Adar does not need Glorfindel at his back – but he has found it useful on occasion.’

Mithrandir’s steel-grey eyes brooded on the twins, but found – as many had before – that the need to stare down both simultaneously reduced his glare’s effectiveness by a factor of ten.  ‘Minas Tirith is not the right place for either of you,’ he pronounced.  ‘The Steward has too tight a clutch on the practicalities of life in the teeth of war to appreciate the arrival of two creatures from the mythology of a long distant past.’

The twins exchanged a doubtful glance.  ‘I think we have been insulted,’ Elladan declared.  ‘Although I am not quite sure how.’

‘If we are mythological,’ Elrohir pointed out, ‘does not that make you, too, an impossibility in a world of men?’

‘I am too old and shabby to be a myth,’ Mithrandir said firmly.  ‘And too much of an irritation.  Besides, Denethor knows me – and, even if his dislike of me colours his understanding, he is too clever to deny me entrance to his library.’

‘He will have you watched.’

‘Let him.’  Mithrandir’s eyes sparked, like steel under a hammer.  ‘He will find out nothing useful from me.’

‘Why would he expect to be the first?’ Elladan agreed smoothly.

The wizard’s eyes narrowed.  They encouraged their acquaintance to forget it, but these – disturbances – were, after all, the latest products of some very obstreperous lines of elves and men, and power flowed in their veins. 

‘At least let us see you safe through the mountains,’ Elrohir suggested.  ‘And see you on the right road.’

Mithrandir’s eyes took on a depth that made them even more knowing than their indomitable daernaneth’s.  ‘The right road,’ he stressed, ‘is not always the shortest one.’

‘Nor yet,’ Elladan retaliated, ‘the easiest one – but if you wish to get to Minas Tirith and back before the season turns, short and easy help.’

‘And so,’ Elrohir added reflectively, ‘does a good horse.’

‘We will take the High Pass,’ Mithrandir said abruptly, ‘and follow the river south to the Old Ford – whence the sons of Elrond will return home.’

‘And I,’ Elrohir offered, ‘will take your nag, while Eriol bears you swiftly south.’  

The Istar’s eyebrows twitched like caterpillars.  ‘And you would trust me with your horse?’

‘Oh yes,’ the apparently innocent elf said, smiling smoothly.  ‘After all, he knows his own way home – should he need to seek it.’

***

Tired.  Dirty.  Thin.  Some white hairs now among the dark locks.  Straggly beard in dire need of a trim.  Clothes that merited the name merely because they covered his body and kept in some level of warmth.  But his eyes had not changed – and they sought her as a man in a desert seeks water, refreshing themselves in her face.

He dismounted easily, more used to days in the saddle than others were to sitting at a desk, and stilled as their gaze met.  The noisy stable yard, the busy grooms, her brothers – all faded to insignificance as their silence renewed old promises, fed old hunger, salved old injuries.

‘You need to bathe,’ she said when she remembered to breathe again.

‘As my lady commands,’ he replied, his tone as intimate as a kiss.

‘You all need to bathe,’ she wrinkled her nose, extending her attention to include her brothers.

‘And by the time you are suitably attired to enter your adar’s house,’ Glorfindel’s cool voice greeted them, ‘we will have prepared a more suitable welcome.’

Arwen smiled at them and whisked away eager to ensure that the celebration that greeted them would be worthy of the occasion – and provide sufficient opportunity for her to check Aragorn’s health more closely.

‘Mirkwood?’ Glorfindel said quietly, running a hand over the shoulder of Elrohir’s mount.  ‘What took you there?’

‘Not us, my friend,’ Elrohir denied.  ‘Not this time.’

‘Later,’ Aragorn murmured, turning to meet Glorfindel’s warm hug.

‘You have been missed, Estel,’ the commander of Imladris’s guard told him.  ‘And even I have, on occasion, wondered what you were doing that was important enough to keep you so long from these halls.’

‘You have been reproved, my brother.’  Elladan’s irrepressible face appeared over Glorfindel’s shoulder.  ‘If you are sufficiently contrite, the Balrog-slayer might leave it there.’

‘On the other hand,’ Elrohir added, nodding at the groom leading his horse away, ‘he might not.’

‘I would rather only have to go over it once.’  Aragorn addressed his former mentor.  ‘And Adar’s study would be the best place for it.’

Glorfindel held his eyes for a moment and nodded.  ‘When you are ready,’ he said.

‘Where is Adar?’ Elrohir asked, looking towards the house.

‘We have Dúnedain dwelling in the valley,’ Glorfindel reminded him.  ‘And one of their purposes seems to be to test Elrond’s healing ability to the full.  There is a child who seems to be doing his best to exceed his Chieftain’s record of visits to the Halls of Healing.’

‘Dúnedain?’ Aragorn blinked.

‘I will tell you as you bathe.’  Glorfindel took Estel’s arm and his imperious gaze gathered the twins.  ‘The Evenstar is right – you are offensive.  Let us deal with one thing at a time.’

***

She paused behind him, her hand resting lightly on the back of his chair and Elrond had to avert his eyes at the sense of intimacy between them.  Partly, he acknowledged, because the sight reminded him too powerfully of a time when Celebrían’s simple presence had been enough to distract him from the piles of paperwork that littered his desk.  He would have felt much the same, he told himself, whoever had won his daughter’s heart.  He closed his mind to the subject firmly.  This was not the time to brood on what was still only a distant prospect.

‘Did it speak of anything?’ he asked.

‘Nothing coherent,’ Aragorn told him.  ‘As I told Mithrandir – the creature gibbered and moaned, but the only words I could pick out were ‘Baggins’ and ‘Shire’ – and I am not sure that they were not my imagination.’

Elrond’s long fingers tapped the desk as he thought. 

‘The guard on the Shire is strong?’ Glorfindel asked.

‘As strong as it can be.’  Aragorn ran his sun-browned hand over his hair.  ‘We are spread too thinly – so thinly, it would seem, that we can no longer protect our own.’

The Lord of Imladris waved his words away.  ‘We have space enough – in truth, I would prefer it if all your people would seek refuge here.’

‘Those with children have come, Adar,’ Arwen said gently.  ‘And you cannot fault those who remain for wanting to defend what is theirs.’

The rhythmic tapping resumed.  ‘Why Thranduil?’ Elrond asked.  ‘I can see why Mithrandir would want the creature held beyond the reach of the forces of the Dark – but why Thranduil?  Would he not be more secure in, say, Lothlórien?  Or here?  Or even, although it is a long way, with Círdan in the Havens?  Thranduil’s forces are too close to Dol Guldur.’

‘I can see good reasons behind it.’  Glorfindel shook his head at Elrond’s enquiring look.  ‘And little that Mithrandir does is idle, for all we might not understand his choices.’

‘And he is gone to Minas Tirith.’

‘On your horse.’ Glorfindel lifted an eyebrow at Elrohir.

‘Well – you saw what he was riding,’ Elrond’s son grinned.  ‘Although at least it ensured we had a suitable mount for the Dúnadan here when he came down to the Old Ford on one of Mirkwood’s wilder horses.’

‘I was managing him,’ Aragorn declared.

‘Indeed you were, little brother,’ Elladan agreed.  ‘Managing to fall off him, at any rate.’

‘I would have been fine – if only Thranduil’s horsemaster had provided a bridle.’

‘But he did not, Estel.’  Elrohir’s lips twitched.  ‘I got the impression that the Woodland King’s warriors were not too grateful for the – gift – you delivered, and they showed their displeasure as best they could while complying with their king’s commands.’

‘But, of course, it only took the elven touch of Elrohir Elrondion to turn the uncooperative creature to a perfectly trained horse.’ Aragorn snapped.

‘Of course.  My brother is half elf – half horse,’ Elladan teased.

‘What now?’ Glorfindel ignored the byplay, too accustomed to the twins to need to follow their train of thought.

‘I will head west,’ Aragorn said.  ‘Bree and the Shire – to see that all is as well as it can be.’  He closed his eyes.  ‘I must find Halbarad, too, and find out what can be done to strengthen our forces.’

Arwen stilled.  ‘So soon?’ she asked involuntarily.

‘You need to rest, my son,’ Elrond said firmly.  ‘Sleep, food and a fresh horse – it will be a week or two before you are ready to leave.’  His healer’s eye wandered over his foster son.  ‘You have not been looking after yourself very well.’

Aragorn smiled.  ‘As you wish, Adar,’ he said.  ‘A few days should make little difference.’

‘Not at this point,’ Glorfindel agreed.  ‘Although a time comes soon when we will count time in heartbeats and the threads of the past will make the rope from which we will all hang.’

‘Was that foresight or poetic licence?’ Elladan asked cheerfully, averting his eyes from his sister’s face.  ‘Because it sounds to me far too much like Daernaneth to be normal conversation.’

Glorfindel looked at him disdainfully.  ‘I cannot help it if you lack insight, Elrondion.’

Elrond shook his head.  ‘Enough, children!’  He stood up.  ‘We will enjoy Estel’s return and pass a peaceful evening in the Hall of Fire – and then spend tomorrow sharing what we know, what we suspect and what we only fear.  The time to part again will come soon enough without our chasing it.’ 

Left Behind

They had left – and the halls of Imladris rang with their absence.  There were dozens – hundreds – still walking the corridors, debating over stiff maps, corners held down with velvet-covered weights, sharpening swords and polishing old skills, gathering small treasures into convenient packs.  But they had gone.

Arwen found herself sitting where she could watch her Adar.  Whatever happened, her world would end.  Whatever happened, she would lose the elf who had offered her unstinting care over the best part of an age.  If Sauron prevailed, Elrond would take up arms as he had before and he would spill his life on the battlefields of Arda before he would surrender.  If, against all odds, the Dark Lord was overcome – then her beloved Adar would fulfil his promise and place her hand in Aragorn’s.  And smile, no matter what it cost him.

Her brothers had been less than impressed when Elrond had decided that they would not be at Aragorn’s side through this – endeavour – but she could not help but be glad.  It was bad enough as it was.  And, as Glorfindel had told her as they sat in the winter garden and listened to the wind blowing through the bare trees, it was not force of arms that would achieve success.  With the exception of Boromir, all those chosen were accustomed to passing unseen, unheard, unsuspected.  To watching from the shadows and slipping past dangers without being noticed.  Even the hobbits.

Still, the twins had been furious – although they hid it well.  Being left behind did not suit either of them.   She could understand only too well how they felt.

‘It is too cold, Undómiel,’ Elrond said gently, sitting beside her on the bench where once Gilraen had spoken to her of her son.  ‘Come inside and take a glass of wine with me.’

Arwen took his hand and twined her fingers in his, but did not speak.

‘It does not help Aragorn,’ her adar said after a few moments, ‘if you sit here until your fingers are icy and your gown is wet…’

‘Has anything I have ever done helped him?’ she asked in a low voice.  ‘Or have I just given him one more thing for which to feel responsible?’

Elrond’s thumb smoothed over the back of her hand.  ‘You have,’ he acknowledged without embarrassment, ‘but it is a responsibility that he treasures.  You are, my dearest daughter, a constant inspiration in his life – the one who cares for him no matter what, who soothes him when he is worn, heals his spirit, trusts him implicitly, has faith in him when his own falters.’  He leaned closer and rested his head against hers.  ‘You are his hope – you do not need to fight dragons to help him, my child.  Your simply being is all he needs.  You stir him to actions beyond the capability of most men – you give him the strength to resist.’  He hesitated.  ‘His love for you is pure,’ he added, ‘and wards him better than any words of mine or wisdom of his own.’

‘Will he succeed?’

‘I do not know,’ Elrond said honestly.  ‘It seems an impossible task.  And yet I cannot say that trust is in vain.  In my heart,’ he admitted, ‘I believe that they will pull through – and yet, at the same time, my mind says that the chances are infinitesimally small.’

Arwen tightened her clasp comfortingly.  ‘And yet Lúthien and Beren retrieved a Silmaril from Morgoth’s crown,’ she said, ‘and Eärendil passed the Valar’s barriers to reach Aman.  Why should they not walk in the Black Lands?’  She lifted her chin defiantly.  ‘You have chosen well – and they will succeed.’

Elrond drew her to her feet and they walked hand in hand to the doors leading to their private rooms.  ‘We will not doubt them, my daughter.  We will have faith in their constancy – and we will continue to prepare for the war that is coming.’

***

‘The Gap of Rohan,’ Elladan insisted, ‘is the obvious path.’

‘Obvious,’ his brother retorted, ‘but not necessarily right.’  He tapped the map.  ‘You know Daeradar has long had his doubts about Curunír – and, from what Mithrandir says, his treachery is now beyond dispute.  It would be foolhardy beyond belief for them to place themselves within the reach of Isengard.’

‘There are only nine of them!’  Elladan prodded the map in irritation.  ‘If they cannot slip past Curunír, I would be disgusted with them!’

‘You want to take the chance?’ Elrohir asked incredulously.  ‘Mithrandir says that Curunír has one of the Palantíri, and you want to take the chance of walking past him carrying the one thing he most desires?’

‘What are the alternatives?’ Again his twin focused on the map.  ‘The Redhorn?  That would be a hard route – and no safer than the Gap.  Or do you perhaps think they should head for the sea and sail round to Cair Andros so they can arrive at Mordor’s gate properly rested?’

‘There is no need for sarcasm, my brother,’ Elrohir replied, unimpressed.  ‘The Gap of Rohan will be watched – and Estel is not careless enough to risk it.’

‘You do realise,’ Glorfindel sprawled easily, his long legs stretched out in front of him, ‘that it makes no matter what the pair of you decide.  It is out of your hands.  Estel is a grown man and has long since been able to make his own decisions.’

‘Have you seen his choice of clothes?’ Elladan protested.

‘Except sartorially,’ Glorfindel agreed.  ‘For that he has the Evenstar.’

‘I hope you are not suggesting,’ Arwen looked up at him reproachfully from under her eyelashes as she threaded her needle, ‘that the sole purpose of my existence is to ensure that the Dúnadan is colour co-ordinated.’

‘No,’ Elrohir declared, ‘you are also needed to see that he brushes his hair.’

‘I have no wish to be his naneth,’ his sister objected.

Noting her pallor, her brother joined her on the window seat and eased a strong arm round her waist.  ‘I think that is just as well,’ he observed.  ‘He does not, it seems to me, look at you in a way that would be suitable for a man to look at his naneth.’  He squeezed her gently.  ‘He is a wily old Ranger, sister mine,’ he added, ‘and he has been in tighter spots before.’

Glorfindel opened his mouth, then closed it.  He looked at the map in front of Elladan.  ‘We would be better absorbed in preparing Imladris’s defences.’

‘We are in less immediate danger than the Golden Wood,’ Elladan took his eyes from his sister’s face and looked down.  ‘Lothlórien – and Thranduil’s realm – are vulnerable to attack from Dol Guldur.  And Daeradar has to deal with the threat of Moria – and who knows what evil might breed in the depths of the mountains.’

‘The Wood is as prepared as it can be,’ Arwen told him, ‘and neither Daeradar nor Daernaneth is exactly inexperienced.  Thranduil has been fighting the evil of Dol Guldur for centuries – he knows what he is doing.’

‘Yet, should the quest fail…’ The words came involuntarily from the Balrog-slayer.  ‘Should it fail, no amount of experience will prepare us for what we will face.’

Elrond’s children looked at him.

‘If the worst should happen,’ Glorfindel’s gleaming eyes settled on Elladan, ‘you and your brother are to take Arwen and ride for Mithlond as if the Dark Lord himself were after you – which he will be.’  His gaze turned to Elrohir and Arwen in the window.  ‘For there will then be no hope left for men or elves in the wreck of Arda.’

***

The atmosphere under the trees would undoubtedly seem serene to those who were unfamiliar with the timeless peace of the Golden Wood, but Cúraniel could taste the tension.  It was that feeling of apprehension that filled you as you waited for the first crack of thunder, she thought.  The anticipation of a threatened storm that could rend apart the world with which you were familiar – and yet which you could do nothing to evade.

She worked at her loom.  There seemed little point.  If they needed more bandages than they had prepared, there would be none left to wind them.  But it gave her something to do that occupied her hands and made her feel useful.   The scent of simmering salves pervaded Caras Galadhon as others worked on producing vats of creams and lotions – cleansing, soothing, healing – to provide against injuries caused by fire and blade and poisoned arrow.  As yet, nothing had happened – or, at least, nothing more than had happened over any similar period of time over the last centuries: a broken bone, a training injury or two, a burn from cooking too many salves!

It was interesting, she thought, to observe how subtly preparation had been made for war.  Who would have thought that Arwen’s swathes of marigolds had been scattered with this end in mind?  Or that the hills of nettles had been encouraged so that there would be the fibre needed to spin into thread for weaving these narrow cloths?  And yet, now she looked, it had been in far more areas than the obvious provision of blades and arrows that Arwen had been busy.  Cúraniel only hoped that she had had the time to do the same in Imladris.

She felt it when the borders were breached by the strangest group of travellers she had known.  Elf, yes: he could have passed unnoted – but the dwarf?  Not since the last days of Amroth had she seen one of Aulë’s folk – and Lord Celeborn was known to be none too fond of the race.  Two men – both of them with elven blood running in their veins.  She knew one of them at sight, although he no longer looked as he had done when he escorted the Lady Undómiel down from Cerin Amroth.  The small folk – one of them was in shadow, and all were grieving with the simplicity of a people who did not find it necessary to pretend. 

The news of Mithrandir’s fall spread swiftly.  How could it not?  Odd though he was, he was a character with an aura of ancient power about him: old, yet unchanging, he was clearly more than he wished to seem.  And then, the Lady’s sorrow whispered through the trees like soft winter rain, to find an echo in the hearts of the Galadhrim.  If Mithrandir could fall, how could any be safe?  If Mithrandir could be lost, what chance was there for Celeborn or Galadriel, for Thranduil or Elrond?  If Mithrandir could perish, so too could the world of the elves.

They sang for him, their voices twining with the song of the forest and the mournful melody of the flowing streams.  Even the rock beneath the layers of leaf litter and soil held and returned the sound. 

They sang for Mithrandir, but on the whole they watched the strangers from a distance – they were too different, too dangerous.

‘I would have denied them entrance,’ Haldir sniffed.

He seemed, Cúraniel thought with amusement, to have set his own guard on the motley group, watching them as suspiciously as a cat introduced to a group of wolf cubs. 

‘The Lady, of course, would have heeded your advice,’ she said solemnly.

‘They will bring trouble on us,’ he declared.

‘Trouble comes anyway,’ she shrugged.  ‘And they seem harmless.’  She shook her head at him.  ‘One is a kinsman here and has a right to our care.  One of the men carries the blood of our own – and the other is distant kin to both the Lord and the Lady.  You cannot convince me that you fear the halflings – and is the presence of one dwarf enough to lay the Wood low?’

Haldir scowled.  He jabbed a finger at her.  ‘You cannot tell me that the Lord and Lady are comfortable in their presence.  For all their smiling, there is something about this visitation that makes them uneasy.’

Cúraniel tilted her head in thought.  Since her undertaking to remain at Arwen’s side, she had found herself spending a lot more time in Galadriel’s company as the Lady ensured that she would have the experience and wisdom to support her friend – and she had discovered herself developing a greater understanding of the Elda.  ‘It is not the dwarf who concerns her,’ she reflected.  ‘Yet her guard is strong – and my lord watches her fiercely.’  She lifted an eyebrow at the Marchwarden.  ‘I doubt that it is our business,’ she told him.

He shrugged.  ‘If it affects the Wood, it is our business.’

The odd fellowship sat in the glade by their pavilion, absorbed in the tasks that occupied any group of travellers during a brief period in a safe haven.  Cúraniel watched them.  ‘I think there is something happening here that will affect more than the Wood,’ she said soberly.  ‘And those we see before us are as much victims of the workings of fate as we are.’

***

Travel-stained and exhausted, the Galadhrim closed the door behind them as they followed the elleth to the rooms prepared for them.  Behind them, they left a group stunned to silence.

Finally Glorfindel released a breath that he seemed to have been holding since the messengers had clattered over the bridge.  ‘At least Galadriel withstood the trial,’ he said.  ‘And Celeborn will not have that on his conscience.’

‘Not yet, at any rate,’ Elrond qualified.  He rested his head on his hand and used his thumb and middle finger to rub his temples.  Without speaking, Arwen moved behind his chair and began to massage the tension from his neck and shoulders.

‘Mithrandir was a fool to risk Moria!’ Elladan burst out.  ‘He of all of them must have known the dangers that slept there!’

‘Who is to know what is folly and what is wisdom?’ snapped Glorfindel.  ‘Half the time they wear the same face – and only the outcome proves which is which.’

Elrohir glanced at his sister’s frozen face.  ‘What is done is done,’ he said flatly.  ‘We cannot change what has happened.  The question is what we can do now to aid them.  Daernaneth suggests we send help.’

‘They will head for Minas Tirith,’ Glorfindel said.  ‘That is, if they do as I would advise.  It is the easiest route – and the place where they are mostly likely to gain aid in their endeavour.’

Elrond shook his head.  ‘Denethor is not his father,’ he said wearily.  ‘And Estel knows he can expect little support from him.  Estel will lead Frodo and Sam into Mordor, leaving Boromir to take the younger hobbits to the White City.  I suspect Legolas and Gimli will stand by the Ringbearer.’

‘Who now is speculating on matters they cannot know?’ Elladan smiled.  ‘What matters here is what we are going to do.’

Arwen dropped a kiss on Elrond’s dark hair.  ‘Aragorn is well enough at the moment, Adar.  I would know if he were not.’

Her adar reached up to clasp her wrist.  ‘You would not consider journeying to Mithlond, my daughter?  So that we can know that you, at least, are safe?’

She shook her head.  ‘Not this time, Adar.  I will remain here in Imladris at your side and await the end – whatever it might be.  I could not live with myself were I to seek safety when so many others cannot.’

‘Anyway,’ Glorfindel said practically, ‘it would be almost impossible to ensure safety on the road west – and Imladris’s warriors are needed here to guard the hidden valley.’

‘Except us,’ Elrohir stated firmly.

‘We will take the news to the Rangers,’ Elladan added, ‘and travel south with as many as can be gathered.’

‘It will not be many,’ Elrohir said.  ‘Their numbers are few and scattered and time is short, but, if Daernaneth has seen them in battle at Estel’s side, then the Men of the North must be there.’

‘Bring them back here first,’ Arwen commanded.  ‘We can provision them and see that they have all they need.  And some of them have family here who would wish to bid them farewell.’

Elrond lifted an ironic eyebrow at Glorfindel.  ‘When did we become superseded, my friend?’ he asked.  ‘It seems not long ago that such plans were our responsibility – and we sent these young ones to carry them out.’

Glorfindel grinned lazily.  ‘That is surely the point of training the young well,’ he said.  ‘You take puppies and turn them into skilled dogs – and that saves you the bother of barking yourself.’  He folded his hands behind his head and leaned back.  ‘As long as they decide nothing with which I disagree, I am happy to let them do the work.’

‘Well, as long as we are airing clichés,’ Elrohir said dulcetly, ‘I am reminded of the one about old dogs and new tricks.’

Elladan winced.  ‘I think it is a good thing we are just about to ride out from Imladris,’ he said.  ‘I cannot imagine Glorfindel letting that insult pass.  Perhaps, if we give him a victory to celebrate, he might let you off, but I doubt it.’

‘Go and organise yourselves,’ Elrond commanded.  ‘You know what we will do now.’

The room seemed quiet once his children had left and the sound of the crackling wood in the fireplace was disconcertingly loud.

‘If this fails…’ Elrond said suddenly.

‘You do not need to say anything, my friend,’ Glorfindel responded instantly.  ‘Nothing has changed.  I will not let you fall into Sauron’s grasp.’

‘I have left letters.’  Elrond smiled wryly.  ‘Not that there will be any left to read them, I daresay, but I felt I had to state the truth for all to see.’

‘Do not lose hope yet, Elrond.’  Glorfindel looked at him with sympathy.  ‘I have seen slimmer hopes come to success.’

‘I shall endeavour to keep that in mind.’

***

There were not even three dozen of them, Arwen thought, trying to swallow back the despair that threatened to swamp her.  Not even three dozen to join a force of she knew not how many thousands to face the swarming hordes of Mordor.

And yet – she looked at their storm-grey eyes and dark hair, young faces confronting their first muster, older ones who had survived years of patrolling the northlands, all wearing their grey cloaks pinned with star brooches – they were proud to bear arms in this fight; proud to represent the heirs of Númenor, of Elros, in this desperate battle; proud to ride forth to stand at their Chieftain’s shoulder; proud to offer up their lives for the sake of those whom they would protect. 

She sought out Halbarad – only being bound to his sickbed would stop him from heading to Aragorn’s side – and saw him beside one who was little more than a boy on what must be his introduction to life among the Rangers.

‘Halbarad!’

He looked up at her.  She had always thought him to be more than a little doubtful about her – wanting his Chieftain, no doubt, to settle down with a nice practical girl of the Dúnedain and produce a dozen children to secure the line – but he approached her courteously.

‘My lady?’ he asked.

She brought out the banner, rolled and wrapped in ebony velvet.  ‘Take this,’ she said.  ‘He will need it.’

It did not occur to Halbarad to question who ‘he’ was.  He knew.  He raised an enquiring eyebrow and she shrugged. 

‘What else have I been permitted to do for him?’ she asked somewhat bitterly.  ‘He will need his standard in the fight that it to come.’

‘I will see he receives it, Lady Arwen,’ the tall Ranger told her.  ‘It will bring him hope.’

‘Then it will serve its purpose.’

As she turned, Halbarad stopped her.  ‘My lady,’ he said, then stopped, clearly uncertain whether it was wise for him to speak.  Their eyes, shining grey and thundercloud dark, met and he shrugged.  ‘If it is meant to be, it will, my lady.  And I have yet to see the Dúnadan fail through any weakness of his own.’

She looked at him long enough to make him shift uncomfortably.  ‘Thank you,’ she said.  ‘I wish you all good speed and good fortune on your journey.’

He nodded.  ‘The sooner it starts, the sooner we will arrive.’

Elladan grabbed her from behind and clasped her into his arms.  ‘Until we meet again, little sister,’ he said.

‘Look after Elrohir,’ she demanded, turning to face him and using the form of words she had employed since she was a child.  ‘He is my favourite brother.’

‘Of course,’ he smiled.

Elrohir prised her away from his twin to hug her.  ‘Do not let Adar worry about us,’ he insisted.  ‘We will be fine.’

‘Look after Elladan,’ she told him shakily, holding him tightly.  ‘He is my favourite brother.’

‘And we will both make sure that our little brother stays in one piece,’ Elladan assured her.

The Grey Company mounted up and took the leading reins of the spare horses, now laden with all that they would consent to carry.

A child wailed, but the remainder of the onlookers watched in silence as the small army of the Northern Dunedain left on the desperate quest to bring what help they could to their Chieftain.

When even elven hearing could no longer pick out the sound of hooves, people began to move off about their daily business, but Arwen continued to stand looking towards the south.

‘This is not new,’ Glorfindel said softly in her ear.  ‘You have stood here before, many times, to bid your brothers safe journey.’

A deep sigh eased slowly from her.  ‘Many times,’ she agreed, and the desolation in her voice made him shiver.  ‘But this will be the last.’

***

The attacks, when they came, were uncoordinated – as if the commander intended to take charge of the war west of the Misty Mountains had his attention taken up elsewhere.  The orcs fought savagely – well, they always did, Glorfindel allowed.  They were bred to kill and they took delight in the business of slaughter.  But they were not, on the whole, intelligent opponents – and his patrols were well-trained and better organised.  Even those who had not taken up weapons in years could take orders – and understood the need to protect their fellows.  They took casualties, of course they did, but far fewer than Imladris’s commander had feared.  And the concerted attack – the sheer numbers – that could have broken them never arrived.

Elrond had been under pressure of a different sort.  Holding Imladris safe in his hand as the Ring had crept its way through Mordor had sucked from him more energy than he could spare – and he had not, of course, gone easy on himself when it came to working on saving the injured elves and men who had been transported back to the care of the healers. 

It had been an impossible situation, Glorfindel acknowledged privately.  Perhaps, had the twins been there, he could have let them take charge of the defence while he himself concentrated on Elrond – but they had not, and he had found himself compelled to take Erestor and, ultimately, Arwen into his confidence.

‘If Sauron regains the Ring,’ he said bleakly, ‘there will be little time to act.’

What had amazed him most was that Arwen had nodded with cool acceptance.  He tended to overlook, he allowed, that she was a daughter of a very tough house, instead preferring to regard her as a precious flower to be shielded from adverse winds. 

‘As with the Ringbearer and the shard of Morgul blade,’ she said. 

‘In a way.’  Erestor was frowning, he observed.  He had not approved of the idea of revealing this possibility to the Evenstar, but he was not constantly with Elrond in the healing rooms while Arwen was.  ‘But different.  At one moment all will be as it is now – but within the space of a breath…’  Glorfindel’s voice trailed away.

‘And who will be guarding Daernaneth?’ Arwen asked.  ‘For, as with you, Daeradar will be fighting at the borders of the lands he protects.’

‘He will not leave it to chance,’ Glorfindel said firmly.  ‘Be sure of it.’

Arwen met his gaze steadily and nodded.  ‘I will see that Adar is not taken,’ she said.

And now it had all proved to be unnecessary.  Even as they confronted another group of frenzied orcs desperate to throw themselves on elven arrows, the lowering sky had cleared and a startling freshness had stirred in the land.  The orcs had faltered and fallen back as if whatever had driven them had released its grip on them – and, as Anor had broken through the cloud, the enemy had turned and run.

He had desperately wanted to turn himself and race back to Elrond’s side – for all that their only hope had been that the Ring would go into the mountain, it could not help but put a strain on one who was already stretched almost beyond endurance – but he could not.  Sending patrols after the escaping orcs and tightening the guard on the borders was too important – he, of all people, should be aware that it was possible to fall in the moment of success.

And all he knew here and now was that victory had been achieved.  What remained to be seen was its cost.

***

She could have done with more information.  Arwen studied her adar.  He seemed more solid – more present than he had been.   Pale, certainly; unconscious, definitely; but a wraith – no.  She fingered the sharp blade she had taken to carrying.  Glorfindel had said she would know the moment if it came – and all she could do was trust her instincts. 

A pale spring sunlight gleamed tearfully through the wide window and settled on the limp lord of Imladris. 

Arwen smiled as the ray lit glinting fires in his dark hair and traced the angles of his cheek.

‘Adar?’ she said, kneeling beside him and pushing his hair back from his face.  ‘It is over, Adar.  Whatever we might have lost along the way, in this one thing the Ringbearer has achieved our goal.’

She chafed his cold hand between hers, noting in some surprise that the gold ring he wore in token of his bond with her naneth was joined by a mithril band on his middle finger: a band that showed a radiant stone of purest blue.  She had known of its existence, felt it on occasion, glimpsed it but rarely – but she had never before seen it displayed so clearly.  Somehow, seeing it was reassuring.  This was not a token of power subjugated by the Dark Lord – but a ring, no more and no less.

Elrond stirred.  He felt – different.  He forced his eyes open, wanting to know – but his study floor appeared just as it always had.  Except that he did not generally view it so closely.

‘Drink, Adar,’ his daughter commanded.

He turned his head and squinted as the light shone in his eyes.  ‘What happened?’ he asked.

‘Nothing,’ she said.  ‘Well, nothing obvious.  The clouds parted and Anor shone through.  And the world felt – renewed.’

‘And you did not feel it necessary to use the knife,’ he remarked, pushing himself to his elbow and taking a mouthful of red wine.

‘Renewed,’ Arwen stressed.  ‘Not regained.  There was no feeling of evil triumphant, of glee, of vengeance long awaited.  And in here,’ she placed her hand on her heart, I felt Barad-dûr fall.’

‘Perhaps it is well that Glorfindel placed the blade in your hands, then, my child.’  He sipped again.  ‘I doubt that any other would have been aware of what is happening in Mordor.’

‘Glorfindel will be worrying,’ Arwen remarked.  ‘It might be as well to send a messenger to find him and let him know that you are well.’

‘Well.’  Elrond tasted the word thoughtfully as looked down at his hands.  ‘Yes.  He will be pleased to know that yet another crisis appears to have passed and that the One Ring is no more.  Poor Glorfindel.  If he had only known what a task he was accepting, I doubt he would have consented to return.’

Arwen helped her adar to his favourite chair and settled on the arm.  ‘He would not choose to be anywhere other than by your side, Adar.’

‘Oh, I am not sure of that.’  Elrond linked his fingers with hers and rested his head on the chair’s high back, closing his eyes to shut out the absence he was beginning to sense in himself.  ‘I think you might find that he would.’

‘Will you be all right if I leave you alone, Adar?’ Arwen asked doubtfully.  ‘I must see to a few things – I will come straight back to you.’

Elrond lifted their hands to his lips and kissed her fingers gently.  ‘You do what you must, child.  I will be fine.  The last thing I want is for you to be worrying about me.’

His daughter leaned over and kissed his brow.  ‘But I will do it anyway, Ada,’ she teased.

He smiled.  ‘If you will let me do the same.’

‘A bargain!  I will hold you to it.’

Elrond closed his eyes again as she left the room.  Improbable as it seemed, he had survived – and now he just had to learn to endure the loss of a power he had come to take for granted.  And learn to let go.  That was very important – for the age of the elves had ended and his daughter had chosen to bind her fate with men.  There was nothing he could do about it – and he would not if he could.

He studied the sapphire ring dispassionately.  Would it have made any difference had he refused it?   Or used it differently?  He would never know. 

***

The smell of charred wood hung over Lothlórien – and the atmosphere of dreaming perfection had vanished in the urgency of war. 

At least, Cúraniel thought, the fighting seemed to be over.  Pretty much, at any event.  Lord Celeborn had organised an effective defence and had now left the Wood in the care of a skeleton force while taking most of the warriors to drive the orcs back to Dol Guldur itself. 

She drew a deep breath of the slightly acrid air.  They would soon have time to turn their attention from the preservation of the living and mourn their dead.  She gathered a further supply of bandages and wrapped them in clean linen.  Those who were still under the care of the healers were the more seriously injured – any with minor wounds had been treated behind the lines and returned as soon as they could to throw their skills into turning the tide of the fight – and there were some among those here who might still find themselves greeting Lord Námo. 

It had shaken her, she had to admit, to see at close hand the damage that one living creature could do to another.   She had never had any desire to be a healer – but need had forced most of the available ellyth into doing what they could.  At times, it had been almost more than she could manage to keep her hands steady and hold back her tears.

When she got back, Galadriel was talking to an ellon who had lost half his right arm to an orc blade.  Her smile brought a flush of colour to his face and he seemed to become more animated as she encouraged him to talk to her.  It was a good thing, Cúraniel decided as she stacked the bandages in the chests.   Some of the more seriously injured had decided to give up once they realised what they had lost and they were now in danger of losing more to depression than incurable wounds.  Yet, in the Lady’s presence, they could see their scars as badges of honour, earned in defence of their home, and worthy of respect.

She placed her hand on his damaged arm, Cúraniel noted.  Easily and without embarrassment – and refraining from making any uncomfortable remarks about hurting him.  Treating him just as she would anyone else.  The elleth glanced round the improvised hospital – open to the air, save for a roof of canvas.  So many lives changed irrevocably: people who would never be the same as they had been.  Including, she rather thought, herself.

And including, too, the Lady.

Galadriel was pale, thinner than she had been and less luminous than translucent.  Whatever had happened on that day when the ground had shaken and the sky seemed to shatter above them had shaken her to the heart.  Cúraniel could well believe that the Lady had spread herself too thin in her fight to preserve enough for Celeborn to defend, and it looked as if she might have overdone it.  The elleth frowned.  She hoped that Galadriel was not hurt badly enough for her to fade – stories had been murmured for centuries that the Lady was one Exile who would not be permitted to return to the lands of her birth, yet surely the Valar would not condemn her spirit to drift houseless on the winds of Arda.  She pushed the thought away: the fires that had burned so many of the tranquil groves had barely been extinguished.  It would take time for all of them to recover from the pain, for the rivers to run clear and the saplings to sprout.

And victory was victory, was it not?  It did not come with limitations and a sting in its tail.  Did it?

***

Aragorn slept.  Sweat-stained and filthy, bedraggled and bloody – save for his healer’s hands – he slept the sleep of utter exhaustion, sprawled face downwards and fully clothed on an improvised cot.

‘I suppose,’ Elrohir remarked from the awning where they rested, as Ithil’s cool light brightened the silver hairs among the dark and picked out the White Tree on Estel’s discarded surcoat, ‘that it was too much to hope that our little king would have brought with him some spare clothing.’

‘I doubt, at the time we headed towards the Black Gate, he was expecting to be confronted with the problem of looking properly regal,’ Mithrandir said dryly.

‘You seem to have managed to keep the worst of warfare from your own robes,’ Elrohir commented.

The wizard smoothed his hand over his lap.  ‘Yes, well…’ he said, eyes twinkling.  ‘There have to be some advantages.’

‘If he would only take his clothes off,’ Elladan complained, ‘we could have them washed – or burn them, or something.’

‘I am sure he would rather return to Minas Tirith clothed,’ Mithrandir told him.  ‘You probably trained him in his earliest youth that he would be unwise to let you part him from his breeches.’

‘It was only once,’ Elrohir grinned.

‘Once is enough.’

The stars shone intermittently through the ragged cloud. 

‘I hope Faramir sends him some suitable clothing for our return to the city, though,’ Mithrandir muttered.  ‘Gondor tends to be a bit conventional about shows of status.  Or do I have to think of everything?’

The twins exchanged a wicked look of amusement.   ‘We must head north soon,’ Elladan said, changing the subject.  ‘We need to know what has happened in Lothlórien – and fetch Adar and Arwen.  Is there any doubt, you think, that Gondor will acclaim him king?’

‘None.’  Mithrandir filled his pipe and lit it with a spark, not bothering for once to pretend that he needed to take a spill from the fire.  ‘Faramir accepted him on sight – and he is the best of men: a true son of Númenor.  Imrahil, too.  And where the Steward and the Prince of Dol Amroth lead, the rest of Gondor will follow – if they know what is good for them.’

‘By the time the army makes its way back to the Pelennor,’ Elrohir mused, ‘our services as healers should no longer be needed.  We will remain to see Aragorn crowned and then ride for Imladris.  I expect we will meet them about half-way.’

‘How long will you be gone, do you think?’

Elladan stretched and leaned back on his hands.  ‘In the region of two months, I should think.  The return trip will be deplorably slow – there are bound to be dozens in that party and half of them will not want to spend a full day in the saddle.’

‘And there will be baggage horses galore,’ Elrohir added.  ‘They will be lucky not to get bogged down over the mountains – the thaw will have left the pass under thick mud.  And then Daernaneth is bound to double the numbers.’

‘At least,’ Elladan agreed.  ‘She has been planning this over the last forty years.’

‘There are reasons,’ Elrohir shook his head, ‘why elven betrothals customarily last only a year – and female relatives are a major one.’

Mithrandir laughed.  ‘Aragorn does not know what he can expect,’ he said.

‘War is one thing,’ Elladan grinned, ‘but weddings?  They are far more dangerous!’

The sky began to lighten and the first birds began to sound the arrival of dawn. 

‘You are sure that Elrond will not withdraw his consent?’ the wizard asked.

Elrond’s sons looked at him with eyes that were dark pools of concentrated pain.  ‘This is Elrond, my friend,’ Elladan said in an amiable tone that still allowed for no debate.  ‘Giving is something at which he is unstinting.’

‘And our sister.’ Elrohir sounded almost absent.  ‘They will not cheat him now, whatever may come of it.  Of that you can be sure.’

Marriage

Arwen’s attention remained fixed on the brass scales in the window of the discreetly expensive shop.  Why did it have to be that way?  Why was one thing always weighed up against another?  Why did years of happiness with Aragorn have to be countered by the loss of her kin?  It seemed unjust.

‘The goods are not that interesting,’ Elrohir murmured in her ear, too low for the men around them to catch his words.  ‘Dwarves are good with stone, and men with ploughs – but for delicate work, give me elves any time.’

His sister looked at him reprovingly.

‘You may be their queen now, Undómiel, but that does not mean that you have to lose your sense of proportion.’  He grinned and offered her his arm, so that she might step graciously among those few of her people who frequented this quiet street.  ‘It is not far now – we will soon be able to sit under some less rigidly controlled trees and enjoy the scent of some greenery.’

‘If I can change nothing else,’ Arwen smiled, ‘I am going to stop the gardeners pruning the life out of every plant they see.’

‘Sam would agree with you,’ Elladan muttered.  ‘There is a lot to be said for what he calls ‘good hobbit sense’.  He seems to think that the stone has got into their heads and they will not be happy until everything looks like a piece of marble.’

Elrohir pushed open a rather rickety gate and led his brother and sister into a rather aged orchard of lichen-covered apple trees.  ‘It seems deserted,’ he remarked.  ‘Faramir says that many of those who own these houses removed themselves to their country estates as the situation in the city worsened – and some, of course, have not survived to return.’

‘These trees have not been tended in twenty years or more,’ Arwen remarked, spreading her cloak and settling on the lush grass.

Elrohir promptly stretched out and rested his head on her lap.

‘Unfair,’ Elladan complained.

Arwen’s eyes twinkled.  ‘Aragorn might say the same,’ she said mildly, running her fingers through her brother’s hair and gently massaging his scalp.

‘He is busy doing king things.’ Elrohir was smug.  ‘And leaving us to look after his wife.’

She stopped as if he had slapped her.

‘What is it?’ Elladan looked at them with concern.

‘I shall never get to see your wives,’ she said, ‘and your children will know me not.’

‘You never know…’ Elrohir started.

She touched a finger to his lips.  ‘You will sail west,’ she insisted, ‘and live in peace and contentment and have half a dozen elflings.’

‘In which case he will certainly not live in peace and contentment,’ Elladan teased.  ‘I remember how much trouble we were.’

‘We will not sail until and unless we are ready, my sister,’ Elrohir said, clasping her hand in his.   ‘Nor would Adar expect us to do so.’

‘Your presence here will change nothing.’  Arwen looked from Elrohir to Elladan.  ‘My choice is made – and I would not change it if I could – but I would have you sail.  Naneth will need you – and so will Adar.  Promise me!’

‘You ask too much.’ Elladan shook his head.

‘I promise,’ Elrohir told her, ‘that I will not choose not to sail.  We will wait, Arwen.  We said we will not leave you – and we will not.  You might think it unnecessary, but you will just have to live with it.’

‘What does Estel say?’ she asked.

‘He says we are always welcome,’ Elladan pronounced.  ‘His house is ours.’

‘Although he might want to reconsider,’ Elrohir said gleefully.  ‘Once he remembers some of our less responsible ways.’

***

The King of the Reunited Kingdom walked shoulder to shoulder with his foster father and wished that he was young enough to put his head down and howl out his problems for his adar to solve.  But he was a man and a king – and he was the cause of most of the pain that Elrond was suffering.

‘I do not blame you.’  Elrond sounded remarkably calm – and almost amused.  The king was not sure if that was not worse, but Estel found it comforting.

‘Neither do I blame Arwen – nor Galadriel, nor Elros, nor the Valar, nor Eru.’  Elrond stopped and turned to face his foster son.  ‘Partings happen, my son,’ he said.  ‘They are unwelcome and we regret them always – but they happen.  I have not seen my parents since I was an elfling – I do not know whether it will be possible ever to see them, even in the west.’  He clasped his son’s arm affectionately.  ‘I do not wish to leave my daughter – but, unless I wish to preserve her as an eternal child, I could not find a better man to take her into his care.’

‘But there could,’ Estel said in a low voice, ‘be a better elf.’ 

‘Do not let guilt for what must be ruin the years you have together, my son.  My daughter knows her heart – and she has long been certain that you are the one for her.  And you are my son, of whom I am as proud as I am of Elladan and Elrohir – how can I disagree that you are worthy?’  Elrond resumed their stroll.  It seemed the only way to deter those who were still determined to draw themselves to the new king’s attention.  ‘Arwen has always been the one to stay behind – to nurture, to make things right for others – but she, too, is Eärendil’s grandchild.  It is only appropriate that she should be the one to undertake this adventure of the spirit.’  Aragorn halted in surprise.  ‘It will hurt – I make no attempt to argue that we will not miss her as long as the world endures, but…’  The elf lord mused briefly.  ‘My brother took this route, and I have had many years to contemplate the fate Lúthien chose.’  He glanced at the bemused man.  ‘I have often wondered if I took the coward’s way, clinging to what I knew.  Elros was always the one who would seize opportunity and shake what was good from it, while I held back.’

‘Had you not chosen to be numbered among the Firstborn, the world would not now be free of Sauron,’ Aragorn insisted.

‘Perhaps not,’ the elf lord reflected.  ‘Although it may prove that my greatest contribution to the well-being of Arda rests in having given life to my daughter.’  They reached the wall and stood overlooking the circles of the city below them and the wide expanse of the Pelennor leading to the broad ribbon of the Anduin as it sought the sea.  ‘She does not understand yet what is asked of her,’ he said in a low voice.  ‘So far, all her sights have been set on reaching this moment – we have all found it difficult to see beyond Sauron’s fall.   We have tried to talk to her at times, those of us who have any experience of what the next years will bring her – but we know only from observation of the leap of faith that is needed to release one’s fëa and move beyond the world.  There is none who can tell her how it feels to be an elf who will accept the Gift of Men.’

‘How did Elros manage?’ 

Elrond smiled wryly.  ‘He took four centuries to allow his understanding to grow,’ he said, ‘before coming to the conclusion that the time had come for him to seek new challenges.  I do not think Arwen will have that much time.’

‘What if I am killed?’ Aragorn burst out, releasing one of the fears that had been niggling at his new happiness.  ‘Sauron is gone – but there are many others who would happily put an end to my life.  What would Arwen do then?’

‘She would do what she saw as her duty,’ Elrond replied promptly.  ‘She would raise your children to rule Gondor and see them take up their roles as your heirs and then… then she would take the time to think about what she must do.’

Aragorn opened his hands helplessly.  ‘My naneth told me I was looking above myself when my heart set itself on the Evenstar – that our race was too diminished to think of allying itself with the noblest that walked the earth.  I did not wish to see it – and over the long years, Arwen has been a constant inspiration to me – but I fear that Naneth may have been right.  I never wanted my lady to become less than she is because of me.’

‘Gilraen’s sight was clear,’ Elrond told him, ‘but she was not always right.  Arwen does not become less for giving herself to you.  I would say, in fact, that she has become greater – as have you, my son.  Between you, you have given hope to men – and mankind will be the better for it.  But,’ he added firmly, ‘you must stop questioning your fitness to be her husband.  I could never see what made Celebrían choose me when she could have had whomsoever she chose – and you will probably never understand what made Arwen select you from all those who would have wished to wed her.  But they chose us and we must just accept our good fortune.  Love her and trust her and help her understand what will come only too soon.’

They stood together in silence looking over the activity below them.

‘I am still sorry,’ Aragorn said simply.

‘I, too,’ his adar answered.  ‘Sorry that I cannot remain with you both as long as you need me.’

The king smiled sadly.  ‘A first lesson in mortality,’ he said.  ‘Our fathers pass beyond our reach, leaving us to strive to mould a better world for our children, with only the hope of eventual reunion in Eru’s own time.’

***

‘Are you sure?’  Arwen looked at her friend as they inspected the dusty tapestries in the more remote corridors of the Royal apartments.  ‘I cannot imagine anywhere more of a contrast to the mellyrn of Lothlórien.’

‘Oh, I do not know.’  Cúraniel inclined her head to one side.  ‘The dungeons beneath Barad-dûr, perhaps.  The bleak snow-fields atop Caradhras.  There must be some places less congenial to elves.’

Arwen looked doubtfully at the musty stone and faded hangings.  ‘It is hard to imagine where,’ she said.  ‘It will not always be like this – but it will take time to bring fresh air into these petrified halls.’

‘At least it is summer,’ Cúraniel shrugged.  ‘And we can open the doors and windows to let in some of the scent of the outside without arousing too much comment.  Imagine if it were snowing!’  She grinned.  ‘We need to set our minds to changing fashion, too.  I have no intention of burying myself under acres of heavy brocade – or dressing myself in garments that require three maids to lace me in.’

‘Nor I!’ Arwen declared.  ‘Formal robes are bad enough, but I am not going to adopt Gondor’s more peculiar styles.’  She considered what she had seen at the plethora of social occasions with which Gondor’s lords and ladies had greeted the wedding of the king and queen.  ‘They seem designed to keep women helpless,’ she said disapprovingly.

An amused laugh revealed her daernaneth’s arrival.  ‘Not women, but ladies,’ she said.  ‘What is the point of having wealth and position if everyone cannot observe from your dress that you need do nothing for yourself?  If you wander round the lower levels, you will see people far more practically clothed.’

‘I find it impossible to wander round anywhere,’ Arwen complained.  ‘Even here I have little doubt but there is a guard outside the door who would follow me the moment I decided to leave.’

Galadriel raised her eyebrows.  ‘You are an elf, my granddaughter!  I would be very disappointed if you could not evade the observation of an unsuspecting man.’

‘I could, of course,’ Arwen allowed, ‘but it does not seem very fair – he would only get into trouble.’  She smiled.  ‘Apparently his captain was displeased enough when my brothers dismissed him and said they would guard me.  None of them would credit that I am perfectly well able to care for myself.’  She opened a door to inspect another room that looked as if it had not been used since the days of the last kings.  ‘Aragorn asked me to be patient.  He said it would take time to train them to our ways.’

‘They will be willing enough to copy you,’ her daernaneth agreed, ‘just as long as you let them feel that it is their choice.’

‘Perhaps we should let them see us training with our bows and throwing knives,’ Cúraniel suggested.  ‘That could be amusing.  Your brothers could make bets on who would be first to imitate us – and who would be first to injure herself.’

Arwen looked from one to the other.  ‘Daernaneth has not persuaded to offer to remain?’ she asked.  ‘At least I have Aragorn to remind me why I am here.’

‘My lady is not displeased by my willingness to stay in Gondor,’ Cúraniel admitted.  ‘But the choice is mine.’  She gave a little nod.  ‘I have long wanted to travel and see other places,’ she reminded her friend.  ‘And I can think of no better place to be than at your side.’

The Queen of Gondor was surprised to find her eyes filled with tears.  ‘Thank you, my friend,’ she said sincerely.  ‘I will be grateful for your company.’

***

‘I will not leave her.’  Celeborn spoke pleasantly, but he left the wizard in no doubt as to his determination.

‘It might not help.’

‘Who might it not help?’ The elf asked acerbically.  ‘Galadriel, who must needs sail, whether I would ask her to delay or not?  Estel, who already blames himself for an abandonment that he will never willingly make?  Elrond?  My grandsons?  Or are you thinking that the presence of her kin might make Arwen’s choice harder to endure?  And, if you are, would you mind explaining why!’

Mithrandir sighed.  ‘It will make it harder for her to commit herself to another people and another age,’ he said simply.  ‘You will be constant reminders of a life that is no longer hers.’

Light angling through the high windows illuminated the dancing dust motes in the archive of ancient records.  Celeborn stood motionless, considering the wizard’s words.  Could it be true that the kindest thing that any of them could do for Arwen would be to leave her to her new world?  He did not believe it.

The movement of Mithrandir’s beard indicated a tightening of his jaw.  ‘I do not know, of course,’ he added.  ‘How can I?  How often has anyone had to deal with this situation?’

‘If we sail,’ Celeborn said, ‘and it turns out that my granddaughter needs the support of her family, it will be too late for anyone to turn round and admit that they were in error.’  He frowned at the wizard, who endured his disapproval with an aplomb that was only to be expected in one who had confronted a Balrog.  ‘I have no intention of hovering over her like a sick-nurse.’

Mithrandir sighed. ‘I never suggested for a minute…’  He waved a dismissive hand.  ‘I admit I would be glad to have you remain – at least until the age is well under way.  Few may be the elves remaining, but they will be needed to ensure that the lingering effects of Sauron’s malice do not corrupt what seems a fair beginning.’  He smiled slightly.  ‘I cannot, of course, say that Galadriel will be pleased – what is her thought?’

‘We have been parted before.  She will survive it.’

The wizard lifted a bushy eyebrow.  ‘She is reluctant?’

‘She knows that I must do this.  What we want is for you to lend your authority to our plea that my grandsons might delay their choice so that they do not need to sail with Elrond.  If the choice is forced on them now, they will remain – and mortality was never meant to be their fate.’  He extended a hand to rest on the Istar’s sleeve.  ‘It is not much to ask, Mithrandir, that Elrond and my daughter should be spared the doom of losing all their children.’

‘I can make no promises, Celeborn.’

‘Promises, no – but your word must carry some weight!’

‘It does not seem to me to be a problem,’ the wizard admitted.  ‘Although I imagine that their choice cannot be delayed indefinitely.’  He shot a look at the elf lord.  ‘Arwen’s end will be hardest on them,’ he warned.  ‘Even if she has herself come to terms with the Gift – and she probably will not begin to understand the full implications until Aragorn starts to show signs of age – her brothers will find it unendurable.’

‘Knowledge,’ Celeborn declared, ‘is better than ignorance.  They would rather watch over her decline than sit in the comfort of Aman and fear her passing.’

‘Maybe,’ Mithrandir said doubtfully.  ‘But I will lend my voice to your request.  You – and they – are old enough and experienced enough, in the end, to come to your own conclusions on the matter.’

‘And we will.  Of that you may rest assured.  We will do nothing to make Arwen’s fate harder for her.’

***

The guards, Aragorn was pleased to see, managed to keep their faces impassive when passed by their hastily-clothed king in pursuit of their fleet-footed queen in her floating robe of white, feet bare and hair unbound.

She turned to tease him with a provocative smile before bunching up her skirt and leaping down the steps that led into their private gardens.

‘Arwen,’ he hissed.  Quite how the lords of Gondor would react to this unconventional behaviour.…  He realised that did not care.   Gondor’s rules of protocol could be twisted into spills and used to light the fire.  He would do his best for Gondor, now and always – but he had sought the throne for one reason only, and that reason was currently standing in the branches of the only good-sized tree to survive in the Citadel.

‘Come and catch me,’ she teased.

‘You are not the first elf to issue such a challenge,’ he told her, grasping the lowest branch and swinging himself up.  ‘I have been evaded in trees by far more ruthless elves than you.’

‘Is that a challenge?’ she asked, leaning over a narrow branch to admire the sight of the Dúnadan climbing in a remarkably neat and cat-like way.

He paused and looked up at her, Ithil’s light shining on his face.  ‘You cannot go far,’ he pointed out.  ‘This is the only tree to be found here – other than the White Sapling!’

‘We must grow more,’ she instructed her husband.  ‘More trees, more flowers, more fruit, more vegetables, more air – less stone!’

‘I will make it a priority,’ he promised, stretching up a hand to touch hers.

He scarcely noticed her lithe move to join him lower in the tree.  She moved her long fingers gently over his cheek.  ‘You are tired,’ she said.

‘Not too tired for you,’ he vowed, the passion in his voice reminding her of the boy who had seen her first in the glades of Imladris.  ‘Never too tired for you.’

She tilted her head thoughtfully as she allowed herself to sink into the love in his eyes.  ‘My husband,’ she said, tasting the strangeness of the words on her tongue.

‘My queen,’ he replied, the words not strange to him at all.

Their kiss lacked the desperation of the caresses they had exchanged in previous brief encounters – there was no need.  Time, at last, was on their side.  For the present, at least.  It was, instead, a gentle exploration of a bond so deep that even a glance could stir it, yet one that made their senses reel.

‘Shall we retire to bed, my queen?’ Aragorn asked huskily.

‘I am tired of walls,’ she murmured.  ‘And the gardens are private.  Why do we not seek the secluded corner where the roses nod and ...’

The king hesitated briefly, but the ranger’s need surged.  ‘Faramir would be horrified,’ he smiled.

‘Then it is just as well that he is not here.’  Arwen drew her husband from the tree to take advantage of the spot she had noted.  ‘Although I cannot imagine that his shield maiden will not teach him to be – rather less restrained.’

‘You shock me.’ Aragorn slid his hand gently down his wife’s back to cup her hip, slightly disconcerted when she mirrored his move, but recovering rapidly as she responded to his touch and pulled him down to the mossy bed she had chosen.

‘We will have to return to our rooms before they come to search for us,’ he remarked before losing the will to waste energy worrying about how anybody might react to their situation and focusing instead on their mutual pleasure.

***

The lines of horses and riders had followed Théoden's funeral procession to Edoras and Gondor’s Queen had not left her adar’s side – except, on occasion, to cede her place to Gondor’s King.  The passing days, that had never caused her any concern, except over recent years, had caught up with her and every separate moment seemed more precious than a century of her youth.

‘Stay here, my daughter,’ Elrond murmured as they stood on the wide terrace and looked over the whispering grasslands.  ‘There will never be a right time for the words we must speak.  You could ride with us all the way to Imladris – but the parting must still come.’

The noise from the Golden Hall sounded akin to a river in flood, but Elrond and his daughter drew round them a privacy so profound that they heard none of it.  

Arwen’s hand sought his and he closed his long fingers around her palm.  ‘Let us walk,’ he said, casting an imperious glance in Glorfindel’s direction.  The golden-haired elf shrugged and gathered an armed warrior or two to follow at a discreet distance and ensure that they would not be disturbed.

The hills gleamed subtly under the crescent moon and the stars hung bright and low over the open plain.  Neither of them spoke, each seeking only the comfort that came from the presence of the other.

‘I cannot remain,’ Elrond said at last, his voice flat.  ‘I would that I could – I feel that I am letting you down, but…’  He lowered his head to look at his hands, where the light caught two rings.  ‘I go not because I wish to leave you, but because…’  He sighed.  ‘I can no longer endure the weight of years,’ he admitted.  ‘For centuries I have leant on the power of Vilya to preserve Imladris and to hold back the shadow.  For centuries I have been a channel for the Ring of Air and it has left me … hollow.  Drained.  Too tired to endure further.’  He looked at his daughter with a silent appeal for understanding.  ‘And I miss your naneth.  We are one – as you and Estel are now one – and I have been broken for too long.’

Arwen turned and wrapped her arms round him and he rested his head against her dark hair.

‘It aches,’ he said. ‘Like a broken bone – but it gets no better.’  He struggled for a moment, and finally admitted.  ‘It is getting harder.  Your daernaneth believes that there is no healing for us east of the sea.’

‘I will miss you,’ she whispered, her throat too tight to speak louder.  ‘I will always miss you – but I will know that you are happy with Naneth and I will be able to think of you together in the Blessed Realm.  Do not fear for me, Adar.  I am happy.’

‘I will not see your children.’  He smiled sadly.  ‘Speak of me to them sometimes.’

‘Always.’  She blinked back her tears.  ‘They will know and love you.’

He sighed.  ‘The path you have chosen is not an easy one, my child.  Do not close your eyes to what will come, or its bitter taste will spoil Estel’s later years for you both.  Come to understand the Gift of Men – study it and learn to love it.  I think,’ he smiled sadly, ‘the most helpful thing I can say to you here is to repeat what Elros said to me in his last decade – he had accepted that you cannot take all responsibility upon yourself – sometimes the hardest thing you can do is to let go, but there is a special joy in surrender to Eru’s will.’

Arwen smiled.  ‘Perhaps you should have listened to your brother,’ she said.  ‘You have done all you can for Arda – and it is time for you to take some consideration for your own needs.’

They walked together until Anor was high in the sky, exchanging fond memories, speaking of loved ones, holding each other in silence as the time for parting grew closer.

Finally, they could no longer ignore the waiting party.  The Evenstar hugged her daernaneth, their gaze holding steadily, before she turned her attention to her daeradar and brothers, and bade a smiling farewell to those who would not return to Edoras.  As they got ready to ride, she turned again to her adar, as a lodestone to the north, her eyes dark with unshed tears.

‘Until we meet again, my daughter,’ Elrond said.

She clung to him as if she could not bear to let him go.  ‘You are sure that day will come?’ she asked, her voice cracking.

‘Oh yes,’ he told her with supreme confidence.  ‘Of that, I have no doubt at all.’

She did not watch them as they rode away.

***

‘You could have summoned us earlier,’ Elladan complained as he and his brother surged past the servant determined to herald their arrival.

‘I could have,’ the proud father said mildly, ‘but then you would have been sitting here kicking your heels – with no more idea than I had of when your nephew would arrive.’

‘He came before we expected him,’ Arwen informed them, barely taking her eyes from the infant in her arms to look at her brothers.

‘We were early,’ Elrohir mentioned.  ‘The midwives were most disconcerted – apparently elven babies are usually far too well behaved to arrive without invitation.’

‘Elven babies are usually far too well behaved to appear in pairs, too.’

‘Do not be cheeky, little sister!’  Elladan’s grin made it difficult for him to sound properly reproving.  ‘We are your older brothers, let me remind you.’

‘And that means that, in Adar’s absence, you both owe us the respect due to the Lords of Imladris.’

‘I think not,’ Aragorn said with brotherly rudeness.  ‘And, anyway, has Lord Celeborn not taken on that role?’

‘He has gone to dwell a while with Thranduil,’ Elladan informed him.  ‘I think he grew rather weary of our irrepressible cheerfulness and constant activity.  He said it was most un-elven.’  He grinned again.  ‘We sent your messenger on to him.’

‘Let me see our nephew,’ Elrohir demanded, crouching beside his sister’s chair.  Despite the surge of restless energy that seemed to radiate around the twins, the long fingers that pushed back the lacy shawl were gentle and the baby did not even stir.  ‘He is beautiful, Arwen,’ he murmured, touching the fine black hair that covered the little head.  ‘I have not seen such a lovely child since you were this small.’

‘He looks like you did when you were a baby,’ Elladan agreed. 

‘Do my son’s looks owe nothing to his adar?’ the king protested. 

‘His ears,’ Elrohir pronounced.  ‘They are definitely odd.  I suggest you encourage him to grow his hair long as soon as possible.’

‘If you are going to be provoking,’ his sister said firmly, ‘you can go away.  Our son has his adar’s eyes – and he is a big, strong boy.’  Her eyes returned to the sleeping infant.  ‘Are you not, my little pet?’

Elladan looked at his foster brother and brother-in-law.  ‘They are besotted,’ he said, shaking his head.  ‘I will warrant the news of your son was well received in the White City.’

‘The noise of celebration did not settle down for several days,’ Aragorn admitted.  ‘I would not have thought that one small child could cause so much excitement.  And the gifts that have been sent!’

‘Most of them totally inappropriate,’ Arwen disapproved.  ‘What need has a new-born baby of barrels of wine?’

Elrohir grinned.  ‘They could be used to wet his head,’ he suggested.  ‘Drunk out of duty by his loving relatives.’

‘I hope you will not feel the same way about the gifts we have brought,’ Elladan stroked his sister’s hair and dropped a brotherly kiss on the top of her head.  ‘Daernaneth and Adar would be most distressed to think that their forethought had not been appreciated.’

‘Elladan!’

The teasing look left his face and he glanced swiftly at his twin, who fetched the pack that he had brought in with him.  The parcels he placed swiftly on the low table to be looked at later, burrowing deeper among the soft contents to bring out a carved box. Elrohir knelt before his sister and opened the lid towards him, so that she could see what it held.  

‘Letters,’ she marvelled, tears welling unbidden in her eyes.  ‘From Adar.  From Daernaneth.’  Her fingers stilled as she touched a third missive addressed in a flowing script of particular elegance and her breathing paused.  Disturbed by her tension, the baby in her arms began a protest they all ignored.  ‘Elrohir!  Elladan!  It is from Naneth!’  Her breath caught so that her voice was reduced to a whisper.  ‘Even as she left us, she knew this day would come and prepared for it.’

***

‘It is when I see her here, Legolas, that I know I have trapped an elf in a city of stone.’

The Queen of Gondor chased her last-born daughter into the trees, musical laughter ringing with unconstrained delight as it never did in the formal Citadel.

‘You have not trapped her, my friend, any more than my adar trapped my Silvan naneth in the corridors of his Stronghold.  If servitude it is, then it is a choice they both made through love.’

‘How did Thranduil make the confinement in ritual more endurable for her?’

Legolas cast him an ironic glance.  ‘As their son, I really do not think I should be the one to explain.’  He laughed as his friend flushed slightly.  Aragorn’s occasional flashes of puritanical Gondorian propriety were enormously entertaining – and he knew that Undómiel took great delight in teasing him into abandoning them.  ‘You are king, Aragorn – you have been king long enough that the members of your council do not need to have you guiding them at every moment of the day.  Put your foot down and take your wife and children off into the woods.  Build yourself a hunting lodge in some remote mountain area and disappear – they will soon write it into your schedule.’

‘When it will become as much part of the ritual as everything else.’

‘It is not just Arwen, my friend, is it?’ Legolas said shrewdly.  ‘You, too, feel trapped in a velvet prison.’

‘I find myself constantly having to pore over my blessings,’ Aragorn admitted.  ‘And remind myself of how much I have gained that I never thought to win.’

‘You need to get away.’  Legolas spoke with conviction.  ‘These last few years, you have not even had the excuse of taking your armies into the field.  You have encouraged Faramir to take time away from the routine of ruling and take his ease with his family.  Why do you not grant yourself the same grace?’

‘I hope you have better luck persuading Estel than I have.’  Arwen’s flawless face peeped at them from the tree above their heads.  ‘Eldarion has taken on the task of pursuing our daughters and making them squeal,’ she said with satisfaction.  ‘It has done him good, too, to get away from the city to come where he can permit himself to be young and silly and learn to be himself rather than a Crown Prince.’

Aragorn smiled up at her with undisguised adoration.  ‘You are all ganging up on me,’ he said with obvious pleasure.

‘You are, here, among those who do not need to grovel to the King Restored,’ Legolas informed him.  ‘We remember – only too well! – when your kingdom consisted of a single horse and a broken sword.’  He grinned.  ‘And we refuse to take your dignity too seriously.’

‘And I am glad of it, my friend,’ Aragorn puffed out a breath that expressed his dislike for the constant weight of sycophancy. 

‘You may have imprisoned an elf in the Stone City,’ his wife said in sympathy, ‘but I know that I have captured a ranger from the wild northlands and that, for me, he has moulded himself into a king.’ 

‘Leave the city behind for a time, my friends,’ Legolas advised.  ‘Give yourselves time to be.  The walls will still be there when you return.’

***

Faramir’s frailty was only too apparent, Arwen sighed, but his eyes shone with content and he was clearly at peace with himself.

She took his hand as she sat beside him on the wide terrace overlooking the tranquil fields and woods of fair Ithilien.  He curled his fingers round hers and smiled at her.

‘It is nothing to dread,’ he said with the straightforwardness and understanding that she had come to love in this son of Gondor.

‘Is it not hard to leave this behind?’ she asked.

He shook his head slightly.  ‘It becomes unreal as the Gift draws you on,’ he said.  ‘There is a glory beyond this world that you glimpse as the barriers thin.’  He drew a deliberate breath.  ‘And I think more, as time goes on, of those I miss and with whom I wish to be reunited.’

Arwen sighed.  ‘I find it hard to see how anyone can grow tired of the song of Arda,’ she said in a small voice.  ‘And I fear…’  She stopped.

‘That you will cling to it.’  Faramir’s grey eyes gleamed silver in the soft light.  ‘Has Aragorn not spoken to you of this?’

‘We avoid the subject,’ she admitted.  ‘It makes him feel guilty – he has never forgiven himself for being the cause of my choice.  If he could restore me to my Adar after his death, he would do it.’

‘Of course,’ Faramir mused, ‘Aragorn grew up among elves.  He has his own doubts, I think, as to whether the Gift of Men is a liberation.  It must be hard, when you are raised by those who will live for ever, to see that a short life ending in death might offer a greater freedom.’

‘How can it?’ she murmured.

‘Men strive,’ the Steward told her.  ‘We strive to build as best we can for a future we will not see, but, as the years pass, we are forced to yield our responsibilities to our children.  Elboron, now, is Prince of Ithilien in all but name, as I have grown too weak to do what must be done.  And I am left’ he smiled, ‘to prepare myself for what is to come.  Lord Elrond never needed to pass his duties on to your brothers – they remained always sons and grandsons: children in the eyes of their elders – and his tasks never ended, never changed, never offered him respite.’

‘That is how it is,’ Arwen said defensively.

‘Eldarion – will become king,’ Faramir continued thoughtfully.  ‘Not soon, but one day.  Aragorn will hand on the Winged Crown and be free of its constraints.  You, too, have been offered the same release.  You have spent long enough confined to duty and you let can go of it and move beyond this world to begin a new adventure.’

The light in Faramir’s face showed more clearly than his words that he anticipated his release with unreserved joy.

‘It is a matter of accepting change,’ she said thoughtfully.

‘Of trust,’ he added.  ‘Of taking that step in the dark to emerge into the light.’  His fingers tightened on her hand.  ‘You will see it,’ he told her with certainty.  ‘When the time comes, you will be ready.’

***

The Queen of Gondor slipped her hand into the King’s grasp and squeezed convulsively as she watched the expression on her son’s face.  ‘It seems only yesterday,’ she murmured.

‘She will be good for him,’ Aragorn smiled, tilting his head slightly to glance at her from the corner of his eye while still retaining his formal pose of regality.  ‘A man should be married.’

A spurt of laughter shattered Arwen’s gracious demeanour.  ‘It has not taken Eldarion as long as it did you!’ she reminded him.

‘I only wish Faramir could have seen this day.’

‘His granddaughter will make a fine queen,’ Arwen mused.  ‘But, far more importantly, she will make Eldarion happy.’

‘I doubt your son knows quite what has hit him yet.’  A light elven voice spoke at the king’s shoulder.

‘Legolas! I wish you would stop doing that!’ Aragorn complained.

‘From the expression on his face, the lad has begun to wonder if he is quite as much in control of this as he thought.’  The dwarf, his grey beard braided with an abundance of jewelled mithril beads to dignify the occasion, made no attempt to approach quietly.

‘Which is as it should be.’  Arwen’s eyes twinkled as the three males looked at her accusingly.

‘Females are dangerous creatures,’ the dwarf grumbled, boldly voicing an oft-held belief that the other two were too wary to utter.  ‘They have a liking for tugging the rug from under your feet when you least suspect it.’

‘We should send them on their way soon,’ Arwen judged, ‘while Eldarion is still able to maintain his dignity.’

‘And before the bride’s kin from Rohan have any more to drink,’ the dwarf agreed.  ‘Have you somewhere safe for them to retreat – where they can evade the traditional pranks?’

‘Would that not be undiplomatic?’ Aragorn asked with mock seriousness.  ‘We would not wish to embarrass our brother king.’

Arwen laughed.  ‘The Rohirrim will be permitted their traditions – and the bride and groom will be oblivious to it all in a location I will not reveal.’

The wedding ball continued with even greater enthusiasm after the departure of the guests of honour, ending finally only as the oncoming dawn began to lighten the sky.  Arwen stood by an open doorway as the servants began the business of clearing the wide hall and, in the gallery above them, the musicians packed away their instruments.  She drew in a deep breath of the fresh early morning air, before impulsively crossing the terrace to kick off her shoes and walk on the dewy grass. 

‘If our new daughter makes Eldarion one tenth as happy as you have made me…’  The ranger had abandoned his robes and circlet to stand looking over the Pelennor.  ‘He will have fortune beyond the deserts of any man.’

The light of Eärendil’s star gleamed in Aragorn’s eyes and Arwen drew closer to him to run her fingers through hair that had lost its glossy blackness to become as grey as smoke.  ‘No greater fortune than has been mine,’ she said softly.  ‘Every day I thank the Valar for giving me the chance to be by your side.’

He lowered his head to lean his brow against hers.  ‘I age, Undómiel,’ he confessed.  ‘I begin to feel the passage of years.’

She pressed a finger against his lips.  ‘It does not come yet,’ she said.  ‘It is still too soon.’

‘But come it will, my Evenstar – and there is nothing we can do to hold it back.’

‘Then let us savour every moment we have,’ she said, and they held each other close in the rose-scented breeze as another day dawned. 

On January 2nd, there was a discussion on Nilmandra's lj about the bitterness of mortality, in which Nilmandra put a draft of her scene of Arwen's death.  Reading it actually changed the tone of this chapter considerably in an attempt to present the same events in a different way.  However, the discussion was very interesting and all sorts of points came up which have probably influenced my view of events.  I have not deliberately incorporated anybody's thoughts, but still would like to thank Nilmandra, elliska, kln1671, meckinock, karenator, levade, meldewen04, lindelea, boz4pm, ramblin rosie, dot, dreamflower, perelleth and mumstheword04 for their insights.

____________________________________________________

Endings and Beginnings

So little time, passed so swiftly, Arwen mourned, watching Elessar try to maintain his concentration as the Ambassador from Harad pontificated.  The king shifted slightly in his chair and moved the food round his plate.  Aragorn was finding it harder and harder to pretend satisfactorily that nothing was wrong. 

Elboron spoke, distracting the slight dark man and turning his attention away from Estel.   Even Faramir’s son was now showing signs of old age, Arwen sighed, while Faramir, of course, and Éowyn – and practically everyone else who had offered her support and love when she had come to Gondor – had long since passed beyond the confines of Arda.

‘This banquet seems to be lasting for ever,’ Aragorn murmured, leaning closer to her.  ‘How many more courses do we have to endure?’

She smiled at him.  His eyes were unchanged, she thought, even though his hair was now as white as Mithrandir’s had been and his bones ached when he had been riding in the cold and damp.  ‘Not many,’ she consoled him.  ‘I think the cooks have made some special pastry creation to impress us all – and then we can withdraw to permit the young ones to indulge in an evening of dancing.’  She slipped a hand in her sleeve and withdrew a twist of paper.  ‘Perhaps this would make the remainder of the meal less intolerable.’

Aragorn looked at her, his stillness enough to attract the attention of those who knew him.  Further down the table, Legolas lifted his head as if he scented the sudden tension.  ‘How long have you known?’ the king asked ruefully.

‘I do not know,’ his wife corrected him, ‘for you have not seen fit to tell me, my husband, but I am not Elrond’s daughter for nothing – I have seen enough over recent months that I suspect.’

‘I will tell you all.’ Estel palmed the twist and added its contents to his goblet surreptitiously.  ‘I simply wished to spare you the worry.’

‘My brothers have not been able to discover anything in the libraries of Imladris that is any more informative than you have found here, then?’

Aragorn smiled engagingly.  ‘I clearly do not need to tell you anything, my love, because you are always ahead of me in any case.’

‘Does Eldarion know?’ 

‘No, not yet.’  The king took a gulp of the wine.  ‘This is not something of which it is easy to speak.  I have been putting it off in the hope that some solution would turn up that would make it unnecessary.’

A burst of laughter from the group around Gimli turned eyes in his direction.

‘I do not believe,’ Arwen said, the pain in her voice not showing on her face, ‘that any solution that might come on us unawares would be any easier to endure than the truth.’

Aragorn reached out to touch her hand gently.  ‘I am sorry,’ he said.

‘It is not your fault.’  Arwen absorbed the pallor of his skin and the new lines that had appeared around his eyes.  ‘If I had been paying attention, I would have seen much earlier.’  She turned her hand to clasp his.  ‘But I see you always as the bold Dúnadan who stole my heart – and this shell of age and wisdom you have donned seems irrelevant to me.’

Their eyes met and held in one of those breathless moments when nothing mattered but their bond – and then the voice of the Ambassador broke their absorption and Elessar was forced to return his attention to the unwanted visitor.

***

Cúraniel set careful stitches in the frame.

‘Why did you not summon me?’ Legolas demanded.  ‘Why was it left for Gimli to tell me that I should come to the White City?’

Cúraniel continued to sew as he turned impatiently from the window.  Few came to this out-of-the-way room, and, at this time of year, still fewer chose to remain long.  There were advantages, the elleth thought, to her race’s indifference to cold.  Frost patterns curled in sparkling feathers on the glass, yet the fireplace remained empty and the air was deliciously crisp.   She had long since found the distant room a pleasant retreat from noise and the presence of too many people in the crowded citadel.

‘You were not – yourself,’ she replied carefully.  Reference to Legolas’s increasingly draining periods of sea-longing was likely to make the usually amiable prince snap.  ‘I heard that you were out of reach.’  She glanced up.  ‘Gimli was due here soon enough – and I knew that, if anybody would be able to find you, it would be him.’  Legolas was paler than the snow fields at the peak of Mindolluin, she thought, and his eyes were haunted by the memory of all those from whom he had been parted.

‘What could you have done had you been here sooner, lad?’ the dwarf asked.  ‘This is a time for releasing old ties and settling old grudges.  For handing on the torch.  Aragorn does not need us for that.’

She was frozen, Cúraniel realised.  Cold far beyond the capacity of winter weather to chill her.   She had not, at first, seen what had drawn Arwen to forsake her people for the rather self-deprecating king with the clear eyes, but he had become part of her extended family and she did not want to lose him.  But want, as she knew Legolas understood only too well, had nothing to do with what would happen.  Elessar would pass beyond them with the inevitability of Eärendil sailing across the night sky: he would pass and Arwen would accept her doom and Legolas would sail and she – she did not know what she would do.

‘Will you stay with Arwen until the end, lass?’ Gimli asked her softly.  ‘I would not have her left alone to endure the pain of this parting.’

‘I will stay as long as she will let me.  But she will not let me remain until the end – she will send me away,’ the elleth said with confidence.  ‘To Mithlond, with all she has gathered over the years to send to Lady Celebrían and Lord Elrond.’  She smiled sadly.  ‘I know her.  From the first she said that she will not let me suffer her death.  As if the reality of the event could be any worse than the anticipation.’

The dwarf shot a protective glare at his friend.  ‘Pig-headed elves,’ he grumbled. ‘Always sure that they know best.’

Legolas’s slight smile did not reach his eyes.  ‘If you discover differently,’ he observed, ‘I give you leave to come to me – in a millennium or two – to inform me of my error.  I will gladly apologise.’  He sighed.  ‘And do not tell me that I knew these days would come – it does not make them any easier to endure.’

‘Will you sail, lass?’ Gimli’s glare was unexpectedly warming.  It seemed heartening to have him concerned for her welfare – and the dwarf reminded her in some ways of the adar she had not seen in she knew not how long.  Not, she thought fleetingly, that he would have been flattered by the comparison.

‘In time,’ she said.  ‘When a ship is ready.  What else will there be left for me here?’

***

Aragorn thought he had never seen the twins look so sober.  Not even when they had exchanged that petrified stare over his wounded body after that first unexpected encounter with a party of orcs.

‘It had to come,’ he consoled them.  ‘And at least it is in my power to choose the day.’

‘Does Arwen know?’ Elladan asked.

‘She has known for longer than I realised,’ their foster brother admitted wearily.  ‘I should have known better than to try to hide it from her.  She hoped you might…’  He stopped.

‘I am afraid not,’ Elrohir said.  ‘Adar might have…   But there is nothing.’

‘We should have spent more time over the years discussing this end – but we always put it off.   I am not good,’ the king sighed, ‘at talking over matters of faith and hope.’  He leaned back in his chair.  ‘And I did not want to acknowledge, even to myself, that this parting would come.’ 

‘There is still time.’  Elladan rested a gentle hand on Estel’s shoulder.  ‘You have the opportunity to prepare.’

‘How can I leave her?’ Aragorn’s voice was anguished.  ‘How can I let her suffer this severance from her family?  Does she not deserve better?’

‘Are you not her family now, Estel?’  Elrohir met his eyes staunchly.  ‘Are not her children her family?   Even if it were possible for her to sail west, do you think she would want to abandon you all to dwell for ever in her past mourning you with every breath?’

‘I never wanted to hurt her,’ the king whispered.

‘I do not believe that is an undertaking that anyone can keep.’  Elladan’s grip tightened to a gentle shake.  ‘Arwen will find the next months hard enough – do not let her feel that you fear the outcome.’

‘I do not – not really.’  Aragorn put his hand over his brother’s.  ‘I long since came to terms with the Gift – and I think that I will welcome it when the time comes.  What I fear is leaving Arwen to do this by herself.’

‘She will not be on her own.’

Aragorn smiled.  ‘Not physically, perhaps – but this… this journey of the spirit can only be accomplished alone.   She could remain in the middle of the White City and be on her own.’

‘When Naneth sailed,’ Elrohir said, ‘for the longest time, everyone feared for Adar.  He was close to breaking – and we failed him.  We were too absorbed in our own grief and rage to be there for him.  We will not make that mistake again.’

‘She will need to accept the past,’ Aragorn told him, ‘before she can move on.’

‘We will do what we can.’  Elladan managed to keep his voice steady.

‘I know.’

***

Arwen watched from the shadows as they acclaimed her son king, and the voices rang from the city.  There would be no celebrations: not now, when Elessar the Renewer lay in his tomb, the spirit scarcely fled from his body.  That would wait until convention permitted again the wearing of colours.  But what colour was there now for her in a world turned grey?

She could not stay here, where every corner spoke of him. 

She needed to leave: go somewhere where once she had been one and whole and prepare herself for this leap in the dark.

‘Not yet,’ Cúraniel murmured, a solid presence at her shoulder.  ‘First you must mourn – and let your children see that you are not abandoning them in your first wild frenzy of grief for fear of being left behind.’

‘I will wait.’  Even to herself, her voice sounded remote, Arwen noted.  Try as she might, she was no longer entirely present in this rain-drenched city.  ‘After the coronation feasts.  When time begins to move again – for all save me.’  She drew another deliberate breath – one after the other, that was all she needed to do.  ‘I had not realised,’ she said, ‘how it would feel to be torn in two.’  A faint smile crossed her pale face.  ‘I am bleeding and no-one can heal the wound.’

The elleth took her hand and drew her back from the balcony into the privacy of her rooms.  ‘I have seen many who faded when their loved one was torn from them,’ she said, ‘many who could not endure the emptiness where once their fëar had been twined together.  But you are a naneth and a queen as well as Aragorn’s wife: a sister – a granddaughter – a friend.  You cannot simply give in to your desires.’

‘Yet none of it seems to matter.’

Cúraniel looked at the friend she had known since they had been young together.  It would not be long, she thought, before those who would treasure the Evenstar and keep her with them began to acknowledge that this wound was mortal.  Arwen had made her choice and bound up her life in the life of her grey-eyed Dúnadan – and, without him, her grasp on the world had loosened to the point that she could no longer understand the process of living.

‘How have you endured so many empty years trapped amidst this cold stone?’ Arwen asked distantly.  ‘This is no place for elves – here where the air is stale and the melody of Arda is dimmed to a distant murmur.  I had Aragorn’s love to warm me and my children to watch grow – but what made you stay?’

‘I have not dwelt here constantly,’ Cúraniel pointed out.  ‘I have spent many seasons among the forests of Ithilien – but friendship drew me back to the Stone City: friendship and an old promise.’

‘You will sail now.’  Arwen’s gaze sharpened.  ‘Like Legolas, you will seek a ship that will take you into the west, away from the wounds that come from opening your heart to the song of mortal lives.  There is no need for you to remain longer.’

‘When I am ready,’ Cúraniel agreed easily, ‘I will sail.’

The silence in the room weighed down on them: heavy with stone, muffled with tapestries, choked with velvet, cumbersome with memory.

‘I cannot stay here,’ Arwen said suddenly.  ‘I will suffocate.’

‘There is no need to stay, nor any hurry to leave,’ Cúraniel shrugged.  ‘Give yourself enough time to comfort those who will miss you.  You will all be ready soon enough.’

***

His naneth had become as vulnerable as an icicle in the spring thaw, Eldarion realised.  She was wearing away – her pale skin was translucent, and her eyes had lost all colour. A wave of pain tensed his stomach and stopped his breath.  He had tried to convince himself that the worst of her grief would pass – that she would be able to resume a life among them – but he was wrong.

She sat in the arbour beneath the first roses, where so often he had seen her.  He had run to her there for comfort when he had been a child, sat beside her as a young man to tell her of his triumphs and disasters, sought her wisdom when he had believed himself unworthy of the woman he wished to wed, brought her his children to hug – this had always been a place that was distinctly hers in this Stone City. But now, he realised, she was scarcely visible between the nodding blooms.

‘You must let her go,’ his great grandfather murmured.  It was not a command: Eldarion could have resisted a command.  Celeborn’s words were mild, no more than an observation of the scene before them.

‘She has left us anyway.’

His sisters had told him the same: told him that he was refusing to see what was in front of him: insisted that, if he was convinced she should remain among them, he should spend long days sitting with her and trying to stir her interest in the living world – but he had not wished to see what they saw. 

He could not deny it now.

He swallowed.  ‘Where will she go?’

‘She wishes to return to the Golden Wood – where she and your adar plighted their troth.’

‘I will arrange to leave the city and come with you.’  Eldarion set his jaw.  She was his naneth and he was not going to hand her over to her brothers and grandfather as if she was no longer important to him – a piece of the past to be discarded.

The silver-haired elf lord considered him impassively and decided that he would not be the one to tell Gondor’s king that he doubted Arwen would allow it.  He doubted she would consent to their presence either, but he and Glorfindel and the twins had the advantage of never having been subject to her authority – and if they chose to ignore her demands, they would.  And they could point out to her that Gondor would never let her leave alone and unguarded – better them, he would tell her, than a heavy-footed squad of the King’s Company requiring her orders.

Eldarion broke his gaze away from Arwen and swallowed.  ‘What will you do,’ he asked, ‘when Naneth passes beyond the world?’

Celeborn bowed his head and closed his eyes.  ‘I cannot tell,’ he said.  ‘I do not feel my time has come to sail – but I know not how your uncles will endure this blow.  It may be that it will be more than they can endure.’

‘It seems,’ Eldarion said, his voice desolate, ‘that all those who remained are abandoning us at once to live without hope in a world from which all wonder is missing.  It will be a bitter thing to be left to rule here in a world that has become so much less than it was.’

His great grandfather placed a comforting hand on his shoulder.  ‘There is always wonder,’ he said, ‘if you know where to look.’

***

She relaxed as the peace of the Wood soaked into her and the rustle of the leaves greeted her.  It was not as it had been – time had entered them both, she thought, and brought about a gentle waning.  Now all she needed was to be alone, to listen to the world around her and let it go.  And for that she had to persuade her fierce protectors to depart.  She sighed: that would be harder, no doubt, than convincing Eldarion and his sisters of her determination to do as their father had and persuade them that there was no need for them to witness her long decline.  At least, as the heirs of Númenor, they should understand the reason behind her choice.  It was more, she suspected, than her brothers would.  She must induce them to leave – and soon, while her certainty could withstand their distress.

‘I am sorry that we will be parted, but it is a passing thing.’  Her eyes glowed silver, luminous with something they could not see.  ‘We will meet again,’ she said with supreme confidence.  ‘And this division will be as nothing.   Tell Naneth that I love her, and Adar that I am sorry for the hurt I have given him.’

‘Little sister,’ Elladan protested, his voice choked.

‘I do not want you to be here,’ she insisted.  ‘Daeradar!   This is hard enough without watching you suffer.’

‘We cannot leave you to die alone, child,’ he said huskily.

‘I am not alone.’  She smiled brilliantly.  ‘I am never alone.  I had not understood before,’ she moved her thin hands to touch her fingers to her chest, ‘but all that I have been, all that I am, it is with me still.’

Her brothers held her between them and she stroked their dark heads gently.  ‘I had thought to fear it, here at the end,’ she said, ‘but it is nothing to dread.  It is merely that I, this time, am the one to leave in search of the unknown.’

‘Safe going, little sister,’ whispered Elrohir.

‘Look after Elladan,’ she responded with a smile.  ‘Elladan, keep Elrohir safe.  You are both my favourite brothers.’  She turned to Celeborn and invited him to join their embrace.  ‘Do not leave it too long before you join Daernaneth, Daeradar – or it will take you centuries to placate her.  Take my brothers home.’

Arwen looked at Glorfindel.

He shook his head even as he came to close the circle round her.  ‘Be satisfied with the success you have had so far,’ he said. ‘I gave Elrond my word that I would guard you – and guard you I will.

Celeborn straightened up.  ‘No, you will not,’ he said firmly.  ‘If my granddaughter needs a hermitage, a hermitage she will have.’

They withdrew reluctantly and Arwen knew that a simple word would have been enough to recall them, but she did not speak it.   They would be happy again, she sighed.  In time.  And time was something they had in plenty.  They would not forget Estel and her, or cease to miss them – but life went on.  It would simply be one in which she had no part.

She tested the thought.  It was not, she was sure, that she would not be, just that she would no longer be tied to Arda.  It was a strange concept, but peculiarly liberating.

Beyond her sight, at the marches of the Golden Wood, Glorfindel stopped.  ‘I am not leaving,’ he said mildly.

Elladan’s eyes were hard.  ‘Did you think we were?’ he asked.

‘I have known you since your first hours, Elrondion.  I have never yet known you to do willingly what would be best for you.’

‘Hardly fair, my friend,’ Lothlórien’s last lord told him. 

‘It would be better for you, too, not to be here, Celeborn,’

‘But I am no more likely to leave than you are.’

‘There is no point arguing,’ Elrohir said mildly.  ‘We will remain – silent and unseen – and watch over her, whether she will or no.’

***

She sang with the rapture of a nightingale on a starlit night.

Elrohir marvelled at the lightness of her spirit.  It was the last thing he had expected.  He and his twin had been convinced that this time waiting for their sister’s departure would be as dark as Moria’s endless deep as she resolved to take a path never meant for the Firstborn – but it was not so. 

At first she had been quiet – and so still that they had often thought to disregard her wish for solitude and approach her with the comfort of loving arms.  But, as the shortest days passed, she had uncurled and looked to the light as if it called her.

She drank from the cupped leaves of the willing trees and ate but little – a few berries, a nut or two, an occasional mushroom – and her body grew increasingly frail.  Pale she had been when they reached the Wood, but now she took on the look of fine glass, bending light, rather than reflecting it.   Yet she filled the Wood, that had been alone and silent since the last elves left it: filled it and made it ring.

For she was undeniably happy.  It confused those who watched her: who had expected these final months to be a time of intolerable pain: who had armoured themselves to endure this guard rather than abandon her to desolation.

As the days began to lengthen, she brightened and a feeling of anticipation stirred in the ancient trees.

Glorfindel looked knowing.  The Gift of Men was as alien to him as to the rest of them, but there was something in the music that echoed through the Wood that spoke to him not of an end, but of a beginning: a return to purity and innocence in a new form.  It was nothing he could explain – not to those who had not experienced it – but he began to see in Arwen’s final surrender an unexpected delight.

‘It makes me wonder,’ Celeborn said, as the returning birds greeted a glowing dawn, ‘about Melian in those last days before she abandoned us.’

‘I doubt she had any choice in the matter.’  Glorfindel presented him with a mug of hot tea.  ‘She was granted the grace to stay with Elu – but these concessions come with a demand for payment.’

Celeborn took a sip of the hot liquid.  ‘Yet she was Maiar,’ he said.  ‘How could we expect frailty from her – one who could raise and preserve the Girdle with a thought?’

‘Her presence was a loan,’ Glorfindel mused, ‘one that had to be given back.’  He watched Celeborn as he leant companionably against a tree, like two veterans of a wearing conflict.  ‘What of Lúthien?  Did she follow Beren without any hesitation?’

‘She had already died once before.  She had more idea what to expect.’

Glorfindel sighed.  ‘I know not what Arwen is waiting for now,’ he said.  ‘She is ready to depart.’ 

‘Perhaps,’ her daeradar said, ‘she is waiting for us to be prepared to wish her joy on her journey.’

‘Do you think she knows we are here?’ Glorfindel lifted an eyebrow.

‘I am sure of it.’

***

‘She was happy.’

Facing Lady Celebrían was the hardest part, Cúraniel decided.  The Lady Galadriel had known – she always did – and she had accepted Arwen’s fate long before the ship had left Mithlond.  Lord Elrond’s pain was doubtless great, yet he was far too controlled to let it show, but Lady Celebrían…

Cúraniel had still been in the White City when the four shattered elves had returned to tell Arwen’s children of her end.  She had promised to go to the Havens, she knew, and carry Arwen’s messages to her parents, but she had never agreed to go immediately.  And elves, after all, had a reputation for evasiveness.  She had waited while Legolas had built his ship and set sail with the dwarf in search of peace in the Blessed Realm.  She had waited as winter passed and spring stirred in this southern kingdom.  She had waited as those who had seemed broken by sorrow had picked up their lives and relearned the pleasure of laughter.  And they had come.

The Evenstar’s brothers were as taut as bowstrings.  Elrohir looked thoughtful, as if he had seen something unexpected, but Elladan had worked himself up into a cold rage at a fate that had taken his little sister from him and he paced incessantly, only physical exhaustion enough to give him short periods of rest.  Celeborn hid it better, spending hours with his great-grandchildren and telling them of Arwen’s willing surrender – but his eyes, Cúraniel thought, were more deeply shadowed than she had seen them since it became apparent that the Lady would no longer be able to endure in Arda.  Glorfindel, on the other hand, shone – as if he had seen a wonder beyond the ability of most men and elves to understand.

He had sought out Cúraniel, knowing that she would soon sail, and tried to explain to her the joy that had surrounded Arwen’s end.

‘Let Elrond know,’ he insisted, ‘that she understood before the end.  She embraced the Gift as she stepped willingly into the unknown.  She knew that she would be reunited with Estel and that this was only the first step in a greater adventure.’

‘Is that a good thing?’ Cúraniel asked.

He smiled brilliantly.  ‘It is a hard thing for an elf to understand,’ he admitted.  ‘But we felt her as she became free of the confines of the world – I can only look at it in terms of what I have experienced and say that in her end there was nothing to lament.’

She looked at him doubtfully.  ‘Can you not tell him yourself?’ she asked.

‘In time I will.’  He looked rueful.  ‘Elrond’s sons will not choose to take ship for some time – not as long as Elladan can find something on which to work out his resentment.  But tell Celebrían that I will bring them – if I have to bind them and carry them west in a sack.’

Cúraniel drew a deep breath.  It was not easy, talking to Celebrían of her daughter’s life in the White City and telling her of the grandchildren she would never see, but it was a story of love and deep contentment.  And, had she been Arwen’s naneth, she would have wanted to know every detail of her life – and of her final willing acceptance of a fate beyond the understanding of elves.

***

Elrohir was scarce visible in the deep green shadow of the ancient yew.  He caressed the deeply scored bark of a tree that had provided bows for the elves of the Greenwood over two ages.

His brother watched him in silence.

‘The song of Arda has become a dirge,’ Elrohir said at last.  ‘And, with every voice that is lost, we come closer to the end.’

‘What would you have us do?’  Elladan knew his brother’s answer.  For more than three centuries now his twin had been waiting for Elladan’s restless quest for peace of mind to be concluded and for him to concede finally to their Daeradar and Glorfindel that he was ready to sail.  But he had not been ready to abandon this land of his birth to accept the passing of long ages in a place that meant nothing to him.  Thranduil had understood him better – he, too, would fight as long as he may.

‘Sooner or later,’ his twin said softly, ‘we must make the choice – to accept that we are elves, bound to Arda until the end, and sail to join Naneth and Adar in the West – or choose mortality and let the Gift take us beyond the circles of the world.’  His lean figure disappeared against the gnarled trunk.  ‘We cannot hesitate for ever between the two.’

It was the closest, Elladan realised, that his brother had come to giving him an ultimatum.

‘I envy Adar the need that made him take ship,’ Elrohir’s murmur continued in a dreamy monotone.  ‘I envy Arwen the love than made her surrender herself.   We thought it cruel – we thought ourselves so much more fortunate to be able to ignore both Gifts and remain.’  He pushed himself away from the tree and came into the light.  ‘But we are cowards, my brother.  Not to choose – is not some kind of trick we are playing on the Valar.  It is not some way of having both.  We have neither.’  His sudden burst of energy dwindled.  ‘We have neither,’ he breathed.

Elladan contemplated him in some alarm.  When had his brother become so lost?  He had been selfish, pushing his twin into doing as he wished, confident that Elrohir would give him the time he needed to make up his mind.  ‘What does Glorfindel say?’ he asked.

‘That it is time.’  Elrohir shrugged.  ‘He has been saying that since Arwen…’  He stopped.  Just for a moment, as his sister’s fëa had flown the confines of the world, it had seemed to him a beautiful thing to accept the Gift and trust his spirit to seek freedom beyond the mundane.  Glorfindel had been shaken – he had realised that he had come close to losing all Elrond’s children in that moment.  But Elrohir knew, as his twin appeared to doubt, that he was an elf and that inner certainty had drawn him back to sob out his grief in the dying remnants of the Golden Wood.

‘I am coming round to his way of thinking,’ Elladan said carefully.

A spurt of weary laughter shook his brother’s shoulders.  ‘How much longer do you think it will take you to stop equivocating?  For I do not think you have the time to dither much longer.’

Elladan smiled wryly.  ‘I, too, am an elf, it would seem.  I might not relish the thought of sailing – but I have at least come to admit that I will not take Arwen’s route.’

‘That is something, I suppose.’

‘I am sorry in a way,’ his brother added.  ‘I have rarely turned down an opportunity to test the unknown.’

‘Or been prepared to let our little sister lead the way!’

Elladan rested his hand apologetically on his brother’s shoulder.  ‘I did not mean to take so long,’ he said.  ‘It can be hard to let go – I doubt I would have shown Arwen’s courage had her fate been mine.  I would still be haunting the fallen groves of mellyrn trying to make up my mind.’

‘We will meet again,’ Elrohir said with confidence.  ‘When we have finished our task and everything is remade.’

Elladan sighed.  ‘Then I shall hold that hope in my heart over the passage of the years to come.’  A slow smile began to spread across his face.  ‘We shall see Naneth,’ he said. ‘And Adar.’

‘You have become reconciled to the thought of taking ship?’ Elrohir said incredulously.  ‘Just like that?  I cannot credit it!’

‘Well,’ Elladan shrugged.  ‘I have always been impulsive.’  He grinned.  ‘And we cannot keep Daernaneth waiting indefinitely – Daeradar will be in enough trouble as it is.’  He looked thoughtfully at the grove of ancient trees.  ‘Arwen will be no further from us under the trees of the Blessed Realm than she is here.’

‘True enough.’  Elrohir drew his brother towards their horses.  ‘So you are agreed?  Is it time for us to seek our own adventure beyond these lands – where we will wait in hope of meeting Estel and Arwen again in that time outside time?’

Elladan gazed up at the patch of sky between the spreading leaves and drew a deep breath.  ‘We go, my brother,’ he said.  ‘Arwen told us to go home – and we will.’

Originally this was the end of Chapter 14, but I decided that this bit just had to be isolated. 

____________________________________________

Epilogue:  Flown

For all the time spent in preparation, when the moment came, it could not have been easier.

Like a diver at the edge of the cliff, she closed her eyes and took the step that led her beyond the world she could see.  She flew, free from the constraints of place and time, as light as a feather on the wind.  For a moment it was dark: then the golden glow of a summer morning gleamed on her eyelids and warmed her flesh and the scent of mellyrn made her giddy.

She felt at ease, held in a gentle cocoon so soft that she could not feel its embrace, but that reminded her of sleeping in her naneth’s arms in the Hall of Fire while elven voices sang of the creation of the stars.  She was deeply serene, at peace, able at last to shed the shadow of years and loss and duty.  All that was asked of her was that she should simply be.

It was the touch of a well-remembered hand and the feel of a bearded face against her smooth skin that roused her.  ‘Welcome,’ he said.

She smiled. ‘I hope I have not kept you waiting,’ she said, as she looked into a face that was young and joyful and free of the marks of a lifetime of responsibility.

He laughed, a laugh of pure delight such as she had not heard since their early days together.  ‘Here there is no time,’ he told her.  ‘No time!’

What did he mean, she puzzled?  Why should the absence of time beyond the circles of the world mean anything to them?  She reached up to run her fingers through his dark hair and reassure herself that he was one and whole.

‘He is well, my daughter,’ Elrond’s familiar voice assured her.

She span, more frightened than comforted.

‘Truly, Naneth.’  Eldarion’s face, so like Aragorn’s and yet so different, grinned mischievously.  ‘As are you.’

‘What are you doing here?’ she blurted out, more awkward than she had ever been.

‘Greeting you, Naneth.’

‘Do not worry, my Undómiel,’ Elrond said calmly.  ‘You, too, will be here to greet us.  There is, as Estel said so pertinently, no time here.   The long ages of Arda are as nothing.’

‘Adar!’  Arwen pulled herself free of Aragorn’s grasp and flung herself in her adar’s arms.  ‘I have missed you!’

‘But not me?’ Eldarion protested.  ‘I am hurt!’

‘You I left in perfect health in the White City,’ she said sternly.  ‘And I did not expect to see you here so soon.’ 

‘But what is soon in a place where there is no time?’ Aragorn approached her again, drawing her back into his arms with a remarkable lack of self-consciousness.

Arwen frowned.  ‘I do not think I can deal with this,’ she protested.

‘No,’ her husband agreed.  ‘It works better, I find, if you ignore what your mind tells you is logical and just accept the presence of those with whom you wish to be.’

‘Naneth,’ she whispered, as if almost frightened to voice the hope.

Her adar’s smile was radiant.  ‘Naneth,’ he agreed.  ‘And your brothers and their families, your children and grandchildren, your grandparents, my brother – everyone you have ever longed to see – all are here.  Together at last, in safety here beyond the end of days.’

Arwen drew a deep breath and the joy within her blazed into brilliance.  Not what she had feared, not what she had expected, not what she had hoped – what she had found here was already more, so much more than she would have thought possible.  She doubted that any of them had believed her choice would lead to this final reunion beyond Arda’s confines – but it had, and she knew now, incontrovertibly, that it had been right.

Aragorn dropped a gentle kiss on her hair, knowing only too well how overwhelming these first moments could be.  ‘Come, my love,’ he said gently.  ‘Let me take you home.’