Stories of Arda - Lord of the Rings Fan-Fiction Archive

We meet in the gardens of the Houses of Healing as often as we can, my beloved and I, even though neither of us has need of treatment now. Here it all began but a few weeks ago and both of us treasure the memories, and so we come here.

When he is with me, my heart feels light even in the face of my grief for those I lost in the war. This time, he has brought his harp with him. It is made of the dark Lebethron wood that grows here in Gondor and ornamented with silver stars, obviously well used and treasured. My beloved is a poet as well as a musician; and I wonder how the White Lady of Rohan came to love such a gentle person as Faramir of Gondor.

And so we sit in these fair gardens that overlook the White City, over which my beloved was Lord for a short time, and I watch and listen as his long fingers pluck the strings and his voice sings in a language not known to me. He plays it well. The Elvish lay is fair, though its tune is sad; and even though I do not understand the words, my heart knows their meaning. His voice is also fair and I am glad.

Then his hands still and he leans over. "I will tell you the meaning of the lay, if you will hear it." I nod and think he will translate it for me, but he does not. He sighs and is still for a moment and I fear that he might not talk again. But then he takes up his harp once more and plays a wordless tune. "I translated it myself when I was a young man, before the shadow lay so heavily upon us," he says softy, his voice accompanied by the harp's tune, and the last words are almost too low for me to hear, "and I have not a minstrel's skill, who might have succeeded better in capturing the ann-thennath, in which it was written."

He starts again; the melody is the same, but now I can understand the words. He sings to me of a forbidden love, a journey into dangers unimaginable, of death, love lost and love enduring beyond death.

When his voice finally falls silent, dusk has fallen over the White City. But neither of us has the desire to move just yet and we remain seated on the stone bench. I feel safe when he is with me, and at this moment it seems to me as if nothing in the world could ever harm me. I know that he loves me with all his heart, and so I love him as well.

I breathe in deeply and think back and see how foolish I was. But now my way is even and I see it clearly before mine eyes. My steps will be secure and again I feel how glad I am.

No queen will I be, but I desire it no longer. I am the Queen of his heart, and it is more than enough. "We will make a garden," he says. It will be in Ithilien where my beloved is now Prince. And it will be a beautiful one, many things will grow and flourish there. Who then, has need of a city of stone? I will have my horses in his beloved land. Peace, and happiness; could I wish for more?

But much healing and mending has yet to be done before our dream can come true. There is no house yet, and it will take time until we can go there. He will prepare it.

And I have other things to prepare. Tomorrow I will leave with my brother and our people to make ready a place of rest for our beloved king and uncle.

I stir then, for I need to be abed now. He removes his arms so I can stand. I feel the cool night-air and already I miss him. There will be many other nights, I tell myself.

When I turn around to face him, I see that he has stood also and now brings his face down to mine. Our lips meet in a gentle kiss and I know it has only just begun.

Deep they delved us, fair they wrought us, high they built us; but they are gone. They are gone." - Legolas, The Ring Goes South, FOTR.

The whole place is mourning, and so am I. I feel it in the hard earth that lies beneath me and the harsh wind and rain of the north that slowly take me apart. Bit by bit for many hundreds of years. The many-rayed star that once was so proudly chiseled upon my surface is now faded and no more than a memory - but I remember.

And there are others that also seem to remember. They come here, but no more than three or four at a time. Then they wander among the ruins and sometimes even caress me - and I know them. They remind me of the people that used to dance in the hall I once belonged to. But there is no more dancing now. Just silence.

So I lie here and wait silently for the day when I am lifted up again to form a new hall, a new city by the great lake. Until then I am nothing more than a forgotten stone.

Cold wind swirled around them and Aragorn cupped his hand around the candle he held to protect the flickering flame.

It was winter solstice and all of the inhabitants of Carastar had gathered in the huge square to await the dawn. They stood silently in a huge circle, each of them bearing a little light to chase away the darkness.

Aragorn watched as the sun made its slow ascend over the mountains; first a deep blue, which gave way to a pale red and a clear blue. As the sun's first rays touched the village, Gildor finally spoke with a solemn voice.

“The longest night has passed and a new day is dawning. Now is the time when the days wax and the nights wane. And so does our hope for a new, brighter time for the Dúnedain grow. Let us hold true to this hope that we have in our Lord returned.”

Gildor extended his hand towards him and Aragorn felt his stomach flutter. He was the one that symbolized hope for all these people here, and for many more that lived in the hidden villages of Eriador. He could not remember a time when he had not been Estel, although he had not known what it signified for almost all of his life. That knowledge he had only gained less than a year ago.

So much had happened in the past year that it was, when he looked back, unbelievable. A huge burden had unexpectedly been placed on his young shoulders the day his name and heritage was revealed to him. Filled with hope and great pride of his lineage, he had wandered in woods – and met the love of his life, and realized that all that he was was nothing compared to her dignity and loveliness. He sighed inwardly at the the memory of her face, her sparkling eyes when she laughed her musical laugh, which was for him the most beautiful sound in all of Arda. He was not sure what he had expected, but it all ended with a few stern words from the one he thought of as his father.

And then he had left his childhood home and come here to start a new life among his people, his new people, met with high expectations, and found new friends. He could still see Halbarad at their first meeting, standing there in the hall and muddy from curly head to toe. He had been somehow disrespectful to him, but Aragorn had found out that it was exactly what he needed. A friend who did not care about heritage or titles.

It had been a hard year and more than once Aragorn had come close to shedding tears. But Halbarad had always been there to cheer him up in those troubled times when fitting in had been difficult.

He looked down at the candle a last time before blowing it out, nodded at Gildor and then turned to the others.

Gildor – Aragorn's uncle and acting Chieftain in Aragorn's absence. He can be found in my story “World of Men”.

The sun was shining brightly as Aragorn left the tent, momentarily blinding him. The whole camp was a frenzy of activity. People bustled past him without even acknowledging him in their hurry to get everything ready for departure.

“This night we will fall asleep in soft featherbeds, cousin,” Haldor said as he joined Aragorn in front of his tent. “You clean up nicely, you know.”

Aragorn picked at his tunic and smiled. “I have to, do I not? But I fear that it does not quite fit. My new Steward brought them here himself to make sure that I look presentable. But it seems that I'm either too tall, or too thin. Faramir had an almost apologetic look on his face when he told me that the clothes were Denethor's.”

Haldor made a sound as if he were choking. “How apt for you to be crowned king and enter the city in Denethor's clothes. If he had yet a body, he would be sure to turn in his grave.”

“This is not something to joke about, Haldor,” Aragorn said sternly. “And I am not wearing Denethor's clothing to spite him. Faramir promised to have a seamstress sent over to me as soon as possible.”

“Rather an army of them. By the time your bride arrives, you will have a full wardrobe of expenive garments to choose from.”

Aragorn turned his head away at the thought of Arwen. She had given him a promise many years ago and renewed it the day they parted. There was really no reason to worry about that. He must wait; Rivendell was many miles away, after all. He longed for her and really did not care what or if he wore anything. But then again, it would not be such a good idea to go naked, at least not publicly. That would have to wait until their private meeting. He found himself grinning at the last thought.

“My thoughts, dear friend, are my own. We should rather concern ourselves with my impending coronation. Faramir promised to take care of the particulars, but there is one thing that he does not know. But now let us go inside so that you can help me put on the rest of these clothes. I could not figure out what to do with some of them. And Haldor?”

“Promised,” Haldor chuckled and followed Aragorn to puzzle out the king's clothes.

Aragorn could already hear the soft sobbing before he entered Melian's room. His daughter was sitting on her bed, knees drawn up to her chin and her face buried in her sleeves.

She quickly tried to wipe away the tears (with questionably results), sat up straight and gave him a guileless smile. He red and puffy eyes somewhat spoiled the queenly appearance, though.

The tone in which she had said this made him immediately suspicious. He had been a father long enough to be able to recognise the danger signals of each of his daughters. And this particular daughter was just sending him hers.

“Out of sheer curiosity on my part,” Aragorn answered, “I wondered why you were crying.”

“Of course, Melian, but generally there is a reason. Do you remember when you lost your doll?”

“I am no longer a little girl who lost her doll, Ada. I am a grown woman and my problems are of a more serious nature.”

Which was likely true, Aragorn thought. He could well remember the time he had been twenty. That had been a tough year for him. His daughter had outgrown the rebellious phase and was becoming a beautiful but serious young woman. He wondered what could be ailing her and made a wild guess.

He was startled when she threw herself into his arms and started to sob again. Definitely a man. Aragorn had hoped that it would still be a few years until the matter of love came up and that perhaps Arwen could talk with the girls. Had she not still been his baby girl yesterday? He rubbed her back and waited until her sobs ceased and she could speak again.

“No, I do not think you do. His name is Ælric and he came here in the company of Elfwine. We spent much time together and today I declared my love for him. But this, this... pig only laughed into my face.”

Aragorn felt as if he had been hit into the chest. He stilled his hand and tried to get a look at her. Nobody had the right to hurt his daughter!

“Then he is a fool and not worth shedding a single tear. Do you want me to speak with Éomer?”

“No,” she cried and released him. “I will take care of him myself. He will still rue this day when he is an old man.”

As Aragorn watched her storming away, he felt a bit of pity for the man. Never one to back down, she really was his daughter.

"I think that it is a good thing that we do not celebrate the victory of the Pelennor fields," Aragorn observed.

Arwen looked up from the window seat where she was doing some needle work. "Mm," she replied through closed lips, her needle still pressed between them. Then, "what brings you to that thought now, beloved?"

"Halbarad would have been a hundred years old today, which is, I believe, a bit ironic. He is the only one I know who managed to die on his birthday, which, when one thinks about it, does not really surprise me. He even joked about it while we were still on the Corsair ship. I can see him now, elbows on the rail, and shaking his head while saying, 'Not this year, Estel. Your well-wishes are better spent elsewhere this year. You and I both know that I will not survive, but I regret it not. There is no more honour than to die by your side.' I can still hear his chuckle as he added, 'and look at it this way, dying on my birthday will give you a double reason to remember me on the day.' It would take far longer than the ten years it has been to forget him.

"And I must say that his words proved to be true. I miss him enormously, as you surely do realize. Today even more than on any other day of the year.”

"I see," she answered simply, deciding not to interrupt him and to let him speak what was on his mind.

"Whenever we could, we would celebrate our birthdays together, which are, after all, only fifteen days apart. A beer or a little bag of pipeweed bought for the other would not come amiss, and when we found each other with the whole of the wilds of Eriador between us, we would shamelessly use the erand runners and include a letter or package amongst the reports. We called it the "captains' liberty", it was the one thing we did have, even if we lacked a kingdom." Aragorn fell silent and shook his head. "But now there are no longer small gifts or letters, and there never were grand feasts as would befit a kinsman of the king. Now I can only remember the date as both his birthday and the day of his death."

When he finally fell silent, Arwen nodded and walked over to sit on the arm of her husband's chair. Slowly she began to massage the tight muscles of his shoulders. “So you have a reason to remember the happy years and dwell less on the sad; and maybe then the pain of loss will fade. And maybe mine will fade as well.”

She stilled her hands and Aragorn turned around to face her. When she met his eyes, she saw all the pain that was in his heart. The pain of loss and also the knowledge that in some cases he was the cause of it.

As I leave the Citadel for the last time and make my way toward Rath Dínen, I cannot help but think that I am the author of irony myself. My thoughts turn towards Halbarad, who I will follow by also making my birthday my death-day. I have chosen this day because I thought it appropriate, not, of course, because Halbarad managed to do the same, but because it seems fitting to leave the world on the same date as I entered it. It makes a full round 210 years; and I am content. I have done all I could and left my mark on the world. I have had many friends during the long years of my life, saw them enter my life and some even died in my arms. And now it is my time and I welcome it. Time, indeed, for a meeting at long last beyond the Halls of Mandos.

Éomer cursed and rubbed his aching backside. He was furious, as furious as he had not been in a long time – and that said a lot for a man with a legendary temper who was also the father of an energetic young boy. But in all fairness it had to be said that it was not Elfwine's fault – at least not this time.

He cursed again as he lifted the offending creature out of the chamber pot and threw it unceremoniously onto the floor. The cat landed with its inborn grace on its paws, turned around to face him and, wait, was the feline smirking at him? Were cats even supposed to smirk?

Éomer would not be surprised if this particular cat was the only one that could.

No matter where he put the animal, that audacious cat always managed to find its way back into his quarters. This nefarious feline lady reminded him of the story of Berúthiel and her cats, although this one looked as if butter would not melt in her mouth.

But this time she had gone too far and Éomer would send her into exile, as far away as possible. This creature would never again set a paw into his hall! And Éomer already knew exactly where it would go.

“What do you think about making a nice journey to our Gondorian friends? We have a birthday present to deliver.”

Eldarion's eyes gleamed when he looked into the basked Éomer had just handed him. The cat got up from her blankets and looked curiously at the new surroundings, her gaze finally settling on the new face.

“And it is really mine now?” Eldarion asked, “I have never had a pet before.”

Éomer suppressed a smug grin and settled for a friendly smile. “Of course she is. And what will you call her?”

The little boy bit his lip and looked thoughtful. “Perhaps something in your language. Do you know a nice name?”

For a moment Éomer was tempted to give her an insulting name, but that might make the boy's father suspicious as for the reasons why he had gifted Eldarion with a cat. “We could call her Freya. How would you like that?”

“It means “highborn lady” and fits well for a young lord such as you. Do you want to show her to your father?”

“Oh, yes,” Eldarion cried and was off. In his excitement he did not even notice that Freya had jumped out of the basket and was approaching Éomer.

Aragorn looked up from where he was reading through one of the documents that piled on his desk. It sounded like the wail of Eldarion's new cat Freya, which Éomer had gifted him for his sixth birthday. Hoping that his son was not torturing her again, Aragorn got up and went to investigate.

There it was again, and this time it was louder. The noise was definitely coming from Eldarion's chambers. Aragorn sighed and had already begun to compose a severe lecture concerning the treatment of innocent animals, when he reached the outer door to the boy's rooms. Opening it carefully, he saw Freya sitting in front of it. She looked at him for a few minute, then bolted past him out of the door.

Aragorn was now sure that the noise was not coming from the cat. The feline had taken flight from whatever was the cause of the noise and was probably already as far away as possible.

Aragorn resisted the urge to cover his ears and flung open another door. Then several things happened. The screeching stopped, Elrohir sat up straight from in armchair he had been lounging in, the corpus delicti clattered to the carpeted stone floor, and a small body flung itself at him and hugged his waist.

"Look, Ada, what uncle Elrohir's brought me for my birthday. It's very beautiful and he promised to show me how to play."

Aragorn picked the instrument up from the floor and gave it a close study. It was finely wrought and much work had gone into the intricate carvings.

"Indeed, my son, it is a very beautiful fiddle." He handed the instrument back to his son and addressed his brother-in-law. "But is Eldarion not a bit young to learn such a difficult instrument?"

Elrohir laughed and flipped his hair over his shoulder. "On the contrary, my brother, it is high time that he learns an instrument. And since you neglected his musical education, I will take care of it."

Aragorn snorted but decided not to argue with Elrohir in Eldarion's presence. The potential loss of his authority just was not worth it. That would have to wait until he was alone with the peredhel. He turned back to his son, who was beaming up at him, no doubt waiting to be praised for the first tones he had managed to draw from the fiddle. He had to deliberately resist the urge to tousle the boy's hair. (He had come yesterday and told them in all earnest that now that he was six years old, he was a big boy and too old to have his hair tousled.) He stifled a laugh at that.

"You do well already, but you have to practise for many hours if you want to play as well as the minstrels." Perhaps that would make him think twice about it.

The same procedure

The person that had coined the phrase "it's good to be king" certainly had never enjoyed that position, Aragorn thought while he was standing in the middle of his dressing room. Various noblemen of different ages crowded around him, each holding a single piece of clothing and waiting until it was their turn to pass the item over.

The elderly man that held his tunic, the name had escaped him, bowed low and Aragorn could hear the joints creak when he straightened again and shoved the tunic right into the hands of poor Hithdol, who got a look of confusion on his face that he quickly managed to mask before anyone else could take notice. The majordomo gave Aragorn an apologetic smile and set to awkwardly pulling the sleeves over his arms. Aragorn, who knew from personal experience that any fussing would only prolong the procedure, held himself perfectly still.

"Your majesty," the man spoke but didn't quite meet Aragorn's eyes, "if I may be so bold as to request a bit of your time?"

Aragorn lifted an eyebrow and inclined his head in what he hoped was an indulgent gesture.

"It concerns my daughter, sir."

Aragorn groaned inwardly. He knew perfectly well what was bound to come next; it had, after all, already happened a few times before. And it really was too early in the day to have such a conversation. Only a few words would be enough to drive off all ambitious fathers, but it was not time for that yet. He searched for the right name.

"The lady Morwen?"

A broad grin split the man's face. "Indeed, sir. I feel honoured that you remember her."

Well, it was difficult not to remember her. Her behaviour last night had left no room for debate as to the nature of her intentions. But that was nothing new for him and he had learned to deal with such a situation, which did not say that he relished it. Could they not see that it was friendship that he needed, not people that ruined their backs bowing to him and trying to get him to marry their daughters?

Hithdol had finished with the buttons and Aragorn seated himself in an uncomfortable chair. "I believe that you are leaving for your lands in Lamedon tomorrow?"

"Yes, sir, there are a few things that I have to see to in person. But my Morwen would be delighted to receive your letters."

Aragorn flipped his hand and smiled. "That will not be necessary. But where now is Faramir, Hithdol? He should have been here by now."

"The lord Steward and lord Haldor chose to wait for you in your study to discuss private matters with you this morning, sire," Hithdol answered with a bow.

"Wonderful," Aragorn exclaimed and swept towards the door, "let tea for three and something to eat be brought. And Hihdol, do make sure that we are not disturbed."

Once in the corridor, Aragorn breathed in deeply. He needed fresh air and less people hovering about. He tucked at his collar. And perhaps more comfortable clothing.

The atmosphere in his study was calming. Haldor was lounging in Aragorn's chair, booted feet on the huge desk, while Faramir was standing by one of the great windows.

"You look stressed," Haldor commented, "what happened?"

"An ambitious father happened. He started talking about his daughter before I was even fully dressed. It is more than a mere nuisance."

"You should have listened to me and taken her with you years ago."

"Her?" Faramir asked, "why did you not say that you already had a lady?"

"Because my dear cousin still has unfounded doubts that she might not come after all."

"I do not," Aragorn protested, though he knew that it was true. He had received no sign and the tree in the courtyard was still dead. He went over to a window and looked down at the wakening city below them.
He had dreamt of being King of Gondor for such a long time, but all seemed empty at the thought of reaping the fruits of his labours without her. Dared he hope? It was the only thing he had ever had.

"Now come and sit down and let us enjoy this moment of privacy. It will be over soon enough!" Haldor urged.

And so Aragorn consented and made himself comfortable on the couch before the day would begin in earnest.

"...and long have I wandered by roads forgotten, seeking the house of Elrond, of which many had heard, but few knew where it lay."

Of northlands lost does tell thy ancient tale
So tell me wand'rer fair, what seekst here?
The strangest place, an elf-lord's hidden dale
I cannot find it, know you is it near?
The black haired man watched him with keen grey eye
'Tis north and east of here, this much I know
Must wander many leagues like crows do fly
And so much more for wolves that run below
Canst take the road or go along the stream
But do not count on help in wilderlands
Please ask me not what way do best I deem
For I but know the sword in battered hands.
And Boromir the strong and valiant
Went on alone to meet his journey's end

“Where is Halbarad?”

I ask Barahir as I pass him on my way to our camp not far away from the shattered Gates. We became separated in the heat of battle earlier and I have not seen him since. But now I am in need of his quiet and supportive presence.

Barahir remains silent and I turn to face him. His head is bowed and he will not look at me. Quietly he says,

“I will bring you to him.”

My guts clench when I recall Halbarad's words before the Paths of the Dead.

'My death lies beyond this door.'

Conquest

“Who is she?” Éomer wondered aloud. The feast had ended and now the guests were enjoying themselves with dancing or talking.

“Éomer, there are a lot of females,” his northern friend pointed out, “you have to be more precise.”

“The beauty with the sea-blue dress over there,” the King of Rohan clarified, “what is her name?”

Ah, yes, beautiful indeed, and still unwed. Her name is Lothíriel, Imrahil's daughter. Would you like me to introduce you?”

“Nay, my friend, I am man enough to do that myself.”

Aragorn chuckled. “Yet you think so, but none of your deeds can prepare you for the conquest of a woman;” he lowered his voice, “for their means of fighting are not fair, and before you realize it, they have conquered you.”

'This is and evil door,' Halbrad said, 'and my death lies beyond it. I will dare to pass it nonetheless.'

It was quiet on deck, and the only thing penetrating the silence was the sound of the oars regularly splashing into the water. The former slaves were working hard, but this time out of their free will. If only we had wind to speed our voyage, Halbarad thought, though it was not his personal wish. He looked up at the sky, but the stars were veiled. He rather felt than heard the presence coming up behind him.

"I would never have thought to one day sail into battle, and on a Corsair ship no less," Halbarad remarked when the other had arrived next to him.

"And leave you to face this alone? Aragorn, how long have we known each other? Almost seventy years. By now you should know me better than that. I have no regrets."

"No. Yes. That and more. Thank you for your unfaltering friendship and support even when I gave orders you did not understand. I have never told you how much it means to me. What shall I do without you by my side?"

Halbarad shrugged. "You will live on, become King, marry your lady and have a few wonderful children. You will enjoy friendships, old and new ones."

Aragorn attempted a smile, but it only ended in a grimace. A lone tear fell, but Aragorn did not wipe it away. He stared into the distance. "I am so tired of battle, of speaking of battle and preparing for battle. I am weary of burials and loss, grief and heartache."

He sounded so very sad that Halbarad embraced him, holding the other's body tight. Aragorn returned the embrace and clutched at Halbarad's shoulders. "I know," he said soothingly, "I know you are. But you are almost at your journey's end; there are only a few steps remaining. I know you will not falter now."

Suddenly Halbarad realized that they were both crying. They stayed in the embrace a while longer, glad that they were given the chance of a farewell.

The two rangers stood in front of the White Tree, looking at the dead wood.

Beren motioned at the Fountain Guards. “I wonder why they are here, guarding a dead tree.”

Haldor shrugged. “Perhaps fear of vandalism. A pity we cannot ask them, nephew. I am sweating as I am. With all the black clothing and armour one might wonder at their mortality rate. Heatstroke would not be my choice of death.”

“I am sure Faramir knows, or one of his underlings.” Beren supplied helpfully. He laid a hand on his lips and sneaked passed the tree on silent feet. Haldor put a hand over his eyes and groaned softly, knowing what was coming. His nephew halted behind an unsuspecting guardsman and leaned to the side. “Buh”. The guardsman jumped and made a muffled noise behind the cloth that almost sounded like a shriek.

“What wonderful guards these people are,” Beren remarked to Haldor.

Haldor groaned again. “Tell me, how old are you?”

“Sixty-seven, uncle dearest.” He returned to the other.

“Behave your age.”

Beren laid an arm around Haldor's shoulders. “You have always been so grim, do enjoy yourself. Such ridiculous things are only to be found in Gondor.”

Faramir shot up in his bed, awareness of the waking world coming quickly. It was dark and quiet in the room, but the sound of the voice and the light were still clear in his mind. It must be a True Dream, for he remembered every single word clearly.

Hope had filled his heart at these words. Wherever Imladris was, it might offer new strength to his ever struggling country. Was there another power stronger than Gondor?

“Doom,” Faramir spoke the word out loud. It echoed on the stone walls and reached his ears in a chilling cadence. Was this to be the end of all things they had ever known?

For Isildurs bane shall waken
And the Halfling forth shall stand

Faramir clasped a hand over his heart. The One Ring that the Nameless One had made was thought to be lost forever. And now it had reappeared? Suddenly he remembered Gandalf's last visit to Minas Tirith. He, Faramir, had personally led him to the part of the archives that was normally closed to all except those with special permission. And he had seen what the wizard looked at. A chill that had nothing to do with the temperature overcame him and he shivered. He sat a moment with his arms clutched around himself, trying to calm himself. At last he took a deep breath and sprang out of bed. He had an errand!

The two men clothed in shades of green and brown and cloaked in grey, and thus identifying themselves as the rangers they were, sat at their customary table, unquestioned and incontestably theirs now that people had gotten less suspicious and talked about such things more lightly, and watched the common room.

"The Pony has changed," one said with a nod at the crowded room, where a number of people of Gondorian descent enjoyed their meal. Tomorrow they were off North with those craftsmen that had decided to try their luck where the demand for helping hands was the greatest, for who among the native population had the skill to rebuild a city of stone? None Pelendur thought ruefully as he reminded himself of his own craft, which really was no “craft” at all in the original sense of the word. A trade that was slowly beginning to lose its significance in the new Age of mending and healing. Not quite yet, for now the roads were still unsafe enough for the caravans to need protection. And that meant more coin in a ranger's purse, considerably more if he were ruthless enough where a rich merchant was concerned, in addition to the fixed payment according to rank they all got. But in years to come?

"The fare has gotten more expensive. As have the nights with a lass," the other said gloomily and took a swig of his ale. "I now have to think twice about purchasing certain things."

"You have always had to, Mardil," Pelendur reminded him. "And you cannot begrudge Barley his share of the ‘economic improvement’." He stressed the last two words and rolled his eyes at the odd phrasing. "He has customers enough that are willing to pay the higher prices. It is still a lot cheaper than in Minas Tirith."

"You can hardly compare Bree to Minas Tirith," Mardil grunted. "But I fear for Annúminas's beer prices once the city is rebuilt."

Pelendur shrugged. "I have hopes that Halladan might have mercy with us and supply the butteries of the companies with good, and above all, free ale. And as for the lasses, maybe you should finally settle down. We have been blessed with many a beautiful maiden only waiting for attention."

"'Tis not that. I find myself at loose ends, ever on the move and unsettled, in body as well as at heart. The long watch is over and now I am unsure what awaits us. Somehow it is not what I expected it to be. I do not know." He bowed his head and stared at the contents of his half-empty mug.

"We are still rangers and there is yet enough evil to slay for all of us. I doubt that we will ever find ourselves out of work."

"Hm. But it is not the same. There are now others that do the work that I have always dreamt of doing. The dream of rebuilding what lay in ruins for so long is now realised by other hands."

"I understand," Pelendur said and meant it. "It is not for us to melt our swords and forge a plough. But if we do what is ours to do – to protect those that can rebuild, then the fruits of our labours may grow into the hands of our children and our children's children, if you cared to get some. Have hope." He clapped Mardil on the shoulder, pushed his chair back and stood. "It has only just begun."

Estel sat on his bed, hugging his legs and resting his head on his knees, and mused over the unfairness of life. They were having a feast and he was stuck in his room. It was always the same. You are too young, Elrond said, wait a few years, his mother said, you have to grow some more, the twins said. But how much did he have to grow? The smallest one of the newcomers' company was surely smaller than he; so why was that one allowed to come and he was not? Estel hopped down from the bed and opened the door to his balcony. He could clearly hear the voices raised in song. "Unfair," he shouted and kicked one of the boards. "Estel," came the angry call from his mother in the next room, "come in this instant. It is past your bed time!"

Down below in the garden Bilbo Baggins turned his head, wondering where the voices had come from. Maybe there was another who felt somehow out of place. "Who is there?" He called back. But the only answer he got was the slamming of a door.

The morning dawned brightly and Aragorn stretched lazily in the huge bed. He turned onto his other side and let his hand wander across the mattress in search of his wife's body. She was still asleep, her body warm beneath his touch. He drew her to him and she opened her eyes, gazing out at the world sleepily. The feeling of holding her close was wonderful.

“I think,” a kiss, “I will”, another kiss, “tell them,” his lips moved lover and started exploring her neck, “that I have taken ill,” they had almost reached her breast now, “and must lie abed. Then I will insist that you alone care for me. How does that sound?”

“Slothful, I?” He raised an eyebrow, “never! The things I have in mind require endurance and exertion. You know that bed-sport is actually my favourite sport.

She laughed at that and managed to pin him beneath her light weight. “Well, that is good because for a moment I thought that I had married a sluggard.”

“I am wounded that you would even entertain such a notion. It seems that I must now hurry to prove my worthiness.” Effortlessly he rolled her off him and placed her on the soft sheets so that she came to lay on her back.

Arwen batted her long lashes, a mischievous smile playing around her full lips. “Then by all means, do so. I will not stop you.” She spread her arms and he gladly accepted the invitation.

Arriving at the royal stables, Éowyn found that they were not the only ones that had decided to use the fine day for a pleasure ride. Near the end of the aisle there was Éomer, leaning against a post and deep in conversation with a raven haired woman in a dainty riding costume.

She jerked her chin towards the couple. "Look there," she said to her two companions.

"They use well the days while they can. Very smart of them," Arwen remarked drily. "And all right under Imrahil's nose."

Even as they watched, Éomer leaned forward and kissed Lothíriel full on the mouth.

"You knew of this and did not say anything?" Faramir asked somewhat flustered. "Your brother," he turned to Éowyn, "just kissed my cousin!"

Éowyn shrugged. "So it seems. At least the stables are a bit more discreet than the garden of the Houses of Healing. Not that I cared at that moment."

"I do not think I want to know the particulars." Arwen muttered. "I believe those two make a nice couple, though. And somehow I am not surprised that he chose a Gondorian lady..." she trailed off.

"Why, it is the hair, of course." Arwen smiled benignly as she left the stables, leaving a puzzled Éowyn and Faramir behind.

Arwen stood on the great platform in front of the doors to the Golden Hall, silent and still as a statue. It was hours since the company left, most of them never to return, and they had now disappeared beyond even the keen sight of the Eldar. But she did not care, for the heart needed no eyes. Perceiving her mood, the others had left her in peace.

“I should have gone with them. Spent a few more days in their company,” she whispered. But deep inside she knew that it would only have prolonged the inevitable. And it was better that way; they had taken their leave in peace and away from any questioning eyes. She hugged herself and tried to substitute her slender arms with the protective embrace of her father and failed. Already the feel of his touch had faded to a mere memory.

‘Do not leave me. Not yet,’ she had wanted to cry out even as she knew it to be foolish. Their paths had divided today, never to cross each other again until they had reached their journey’s end – until the world’s end.

‘Was it worth it?’ a little voice, so easily quenched when he was here, asked. And ‘of course,’ her heart answered and meant it. Had she not been to the sea, once, and felt nothing but yearning for the valley of her childhood? Had she not realised, generations of men ago, that her fate’s path did not lie to the west? So was it fate, then, that had made her fall in love with a mortal, or merely coincidence? And what was this love? Reason or trigger for this life-altering decision?

It must be the trigger, she decided, for that meant that no guilt could be placed. That did not mean that the decision was easily made, though, for fate was often cruel and to embrace it took courage. At last the heart had spoken the loudest and she had made that leap of faith. Now she stood here and all was said and done. Everything irreversibly changed. And today was the first day of the rest of her life, as the mortal saying went. And maybe she would begin to understand.

As if in answer to the unvoiced statement that she was mortal now, the wind picked up and blew her unbound hair into her face. It fluttered like a black banner in the storm. She would have to braid and pin it up as was the fashion of men. She was a maiden no longer, after all.

Arwen noticed a few children playing in the courtyard below and sighed. She could not remember when she had last seen children before she had entered mortal lands. Were they not the sign of hope and renewal, men’s own way of achieving immortality? She passed a hand over her belly thoughtfully and wondered if, no: when, it would be her own children that she watched playing. That yearning caught her with a fierceness that was almost overwhelming and she gasped. All this was no longer a far-off dream but realty!

‘Soon. Take heart. Your life is laid out for you; renew, create, heal. Only you can do it,’ another voice said. It was gentle and warming. “You have a people that look up to you. Your wisdom will be needed in the coming years. All will be well.’

Yes, it would be. The knowledge did not relieve the aching in her heart at that final parting, but it was a step towards peace.

Vilwarin's Vignettes by Vilwarin