Midsummer.

Midsummer – and, at long last, his wedding day.  Aragorn’s nervousness was not helped by the advisors, servants and pages scurrying around him, all offering a babble of conflicting advice.   As the door to his chambers opened yet again, adding even more to the throng, he was half minded to make a break for freedom, seize Arwen, and simply elope into the hills with her.

Relief filled him as he saw the newest arrivals.   His brothers could be irritating, but just now they were a most welcome sight.  He flung them a pleading glance across the crowded room, and they nodded in one accord.    Elladan raised his hands and spoke softly to the crowded room, but the shrill chatter died away instantly.  “Your pardon, my lords – would you excuse us?  We wish to have a quiet word with our brother the King.”

Without a word of protest, the courtiers left – all of them, leaving in their wake blissful silence.   Aragorn breathed a sigh of relief.  “Thank you.   I have rarely been so glad to see you!”

“Are you not ready yet, little brother?”  Elrohir asked him.  “We came to escort you to the Court of the Fountain.”

“I have been dressed and ready four times so far,”  he said sourly, indicating the jumble of clothing littering the room.  “Each time there was something wrong – the cut, the colour, the fabric, the colour again …”

Elrohir pulled open the wardrobe door.  “Then we will have to help you, little brother – now, do you have anything left to wear?”

Aragorn pushed the door shut again.  “I had enough with the servants and pages – I do not need your help to get ready for my own wedding!”  he protested.

“You may be King now, but you will always be our little brother,”  Elrohir observed.

“And you are marrying our sister,”  Elladan added.

Aragorn frowned.  “When you put it like that, it sounds faintly incestuous,”  he objected.

Elladan ignored him.  “We are going to make sure you are properly turned out, littlest brother – and do not let the family down.  Father expects it of us.  And you do not want to disappoint Arwen, do you?”

The thought that Arwen would finally be his wife was the only thing that made this whole sorry charade bearable.  He gave a resigned nod.  “I suppose not.”

“Good.”  Elrohir opened the wardrobe again, wrinkling his nose in distaste.  “Valar, Estel – do you still have that disgusting wolfskin cloak?  I had hoped the moths had long since eaten it!”

“It probably smells too foul even for moths.”

“I am not planning to wear it today!”  Aragorn snapped in exasperation.  “Are you sure you have to help me?”

Elladan grinned.  “It is a brother’s duty and privilege at a time like this, Estel.”

“And if you need any help or advice for tonight …”

“Enough, Elrohir!”  Aragorn barked.  He knew he was blushing, and cursed older brothers – especially when they were nigh on three thousand years older.

Grinning, Elrohir turned back to the wardrobe.  He pulled out a pair of dark blue trousers, and leather boots a shade or two darker.  From the pile on the bed Elladan extracted a silvery grey undershirt and threw it to Aragorn.  “Put this on,”  he ordered.  “You need to blend the colours of Imladris with those of Minas Tirith.”

Elrohir rummaged in the wardrobe again.  “This, then,”  he suggested, producing a leather jerkin of midnight blue.  The white tree of Gondor was embroidered on the front, and the stars above it were picked out in gleaming silver thread.

As Aragorn dressed, his brothers studied him carefully.   “Perfect,”  Elladan declared at last.   He glanced at Elrohir.  “He washes up quite well when he makes an effort!”

“When we make an effort,”  Elrohir corrected him.   He turned to Aragorn.  “And now, little brother, it is time to go.  Are you ready?”

Aragorn took a deep breath.  “I’m ready,”  he agreed.  With the twins at his side, he walked through the citadel to the Court of the Fountain.

And Aragorn the King Elessar wedded Arwen Undómiel in the City of the Kings upon the day of Midsummer.