MAP: Also, a map of the seventh circle of Minas Tirith, if you want a visual, can be found at www.tuckborough.net/minastirith.html. Either scroll down or click "City Map" to see the map. It was very helpful. Something of my own creation that is not marked on the map is a long enclosed hallway that connects the second story of the Tower of Ecthelion to the second story of the King's House.

WEATHER: I did weather research by using "The Atlas of Middle-earth" by Karen Fonstad, may she rest in peace, but, using the Long Winter as reference for even snow coming to the south, and my own experience with snow in Malibu, took liberties with the weather.

TIME: The bells in Minas Tirith start to toll at dawn (according to ROTK, Ch 1), which is 6am in that chapter, which is in March. In Cairo, Egypt in mid-March, the dawn is also at 6am. However, in January, the dawn is much closer to 7am in the winter, so it shall be the same in Minas Tirith’s winter. The third hour (three bell tolls) in the winter is 10am, six tolls is 1pm, and the final toll, at dusk, is at the 10th hour in the winter, or near our 5 o clock. This is to give you all a clear picture on the timeframe of the day.

MEDICAL KNOWLEDGE: Is nearly non-existent. So, yes, sorry for any consistencies in that area. Most of it is just based off of my rather awful experiences in which Murphy's Law likes to stick its face in.

A/N: It is supposed to be book-canon, or, well, my version of it, especially my interpretation of some of the characters. Everyone interprets the characters differently, after all. And, while in a book-canon-like world, my writing simply does not match the level of skill of Tolkien's writing. The canon follows the canon set in many of my post-War ficlets in "Tales of Life", but it is not necessary to read those to understand this. Hope you all enjoy.

Title: Just a Cold
Author: Ainu Laire
Rating: PG, K+
Genre: Humor/Action
Warnings: Some language, but nothing too coarse or overdone.

Disclaimer: All recognizable characters, places, and things belong to the Tolkien Estate. All original characters and this little plot belong to me.

A/N: This idea came to me when I had a terrible sinus infection a couple years ago. Aragorn suffers for my sinus infection. I almost feel sorry for him.

Winter, 3020 TA

When he woke up with a slight headache, King Elessar should have taken that as a sign to cancel all appointments and meetings. However, he being one to ignore such trivial symptoms, continued on with the day as any other day. He got out of bed, dressed himself in clothes that were as simple as a king could get away with, and had a quick bite to eat before his very first appointment. That morning he was to meet with the Lord Bavanor of the Masonry Guild concerning some stonework that still needed to be done in the City. Despite the fact that Sauron fell over a year and a half ago, His destruction was still apparent in some parts of Minas Tirith.

The long, tedious meeting left the King feeling worse. His headache had grown quite a bit and he felt a very uncomfortable tickling in his throat. He simply ignored these annoying, trivial symptoms and went down to the council room, one of the larger enclosed rooms within the Tower of Ecthelion. There an important meeting concerning a peace treaty with one of the largest tribes of Harad was taking place that very day. He hoped that once this treaty was signed, other tribes would follow suit.

The first hour of the discussion he handled fairly well. Right after luncheon, however, things went downhill from there.

He was relatively proud of his ability to retain his composure when he was not feeling well, whether it was when he was sick, injured, or irritated. However, this facade he usually managed to pull off so well wavered as his head started pounding harder. ‘Damnable headache.’

“… I am, however, concerned about the… King Elessar?”

Aragorn blinked and focused his attention on the speaker. “Yes, lord?” the King asked.

The Haradric man frowned. “Are you alright, Lord Elessar?”

He nodded, looking slightly puzzled. “I am quite alright, thank you.”

The other man nodded in acceptance, and turned back to the rest of the council. “Now, as I was saying…”

‘Perhaps you are worse off than you believed,’ the thought popped up suddenly. He quickly willed it away and focused all of his attention on the council.

The meeting continued for about half an hour longer before King Elessar realized that he was not processing anything that the people of the council were saying. Once another man of Harad finished his lengthy statement, Aragorn held up his hand. “I believe we have heard enough for now, my lords. We shall continue this meeting tomorrow. Supper shall be sent to you after the seventh hour. Have a good day, gentlemen.” The diplomats of the Haradric tribe and various lords and nobles of Gondor stood up, and with short bows and quiet farewells, left the room.

The meeting room was empty except for one tired and aching King and a quiet lord who stood near the doors, waiting for his liege. When Elessar did not rise from his chair and massaged his forehead instead, the man spoke.

“It does not look as if you are quite alright, Lord Elessar.”

Aragorn looked up at the intruder. “I am perfectly fine, Faramir,” he replied.

‘Liar’, another unbidden thought interrupted his denial. He forced himself not to scowl and mentally chased the nagging words away.

His Steward simply walked over and stood in front of the King. He raised an eyebrow, and for one moment Aragorn was reminded of Elrond. “Are you sure? You do not look well, Aragorn. Perhaps I should send for a healer-”

“No, no, that will not be necessary,” Elessar said quickly. “I just need a bit of fresh air."

"Fresh air?"

"Yes," Aragorn said firmly. "I… I need to see the people."

Faramir's other eyebrow raised. "You need to see the people."

"Yes, I need to see the people." If he were to be honest with himself, he was not quite sure why he needed to see the people, but since he had already started down this path, there was no way he was backing down now. "It has been awhile since I have mingled with the people of Minas Tirith.” Now that he thought about it for a moment, he actually liked the idea.

"Mingle with the people." Faramir's eyebrows were still raised.

"Yes. And stop repeating everything I say." The king stood up and headed towards the double doors that were the only entrance into the large council room.

"So you wish to go outside and see your people," Faramir clarified, following him out of the room.

"Yes." Aragorn turned left into a long hall that connected the Tower to the King's House. Faramir followed.

"Despite the fact that you are ill."

"I am not ill," Aragorn argued. "I just need some fresh air. And look, it is a beautiful day outside." Faramir glanced out of a window they were passing. Despite it being early afternoon, the sky was dark with storm clouds, and it looked as if it was about to rain or snow at any time.

Faramir glanced at the king. "Beautiful day? You jest. I've seen more beautiful days in Mordor."

"Now you are the one who jests," the king pointed out. "And besides, there is some sort of strange beauty in those clouds." Faramir's eyebrows raised once more, which, strangely enough, irritated him. "And for Elbereth's sake, stop looking at me like that. You look ridiculous."

Faramir complied and said nothing, and the king cursed himself. He was usually not one to anger so easily.

‘It only happens when you're sick,' the nagging voice in his head told him. He was tempted to order it to be silent, but if he started ordering his thoughts to be silent and his steward found out, he may just be put in a cell to keep himself safe. Or worse, a sickbed.

Aragorn simply continued down the hall to his home, though to his annoyance Faramir did not leave him alone. “Shall I call for your guard, my lord?” the man asked.

Aragorn cursed to himself again. Faramir only called him by title with that tone of voice- the calm, unemotional, completely diplomatic tone of voice- when they were in a public, formal setting, or when the king was acting unreasonable and irrational. “That will not be necessary,” he responded, making sure his tone was calm and pleasant. “I would like to see the people in anonymity; I want them to be completely oblivious to my presence.”

He nodded pleasantly to the two guards who watched the entrance of the hallway to the house. They saluted as he and Faramir passed. He turned a quick right and made for his chambers.

“Sire, I am not so sure that is a good idea,” Faramir said.

“Do not worry, my friend," the king tried to assure his steward, "I am in my own city. What is the worst that could happen?”

“Do you not remember what happened the last time you went on one of your strolls?” Faramir put in, his words stopping Aragorn in his tracks. “You were nearly killed by those madmen!”

Aragorn shook his head and continued walking. “That was over a year ago, Faramir, and that time I did not tell anyone that I had gone out. I am sure you wasted many valuable hours simply searching the Citadel." He had finally reached his chambers. He nodded to the two guards that stood at its doors, but, as was his wont, opened them himself. He let Faramir in before he closed them. "And besides, if anyone else wanted to kill me, I’m sure they would have tried to do so by now.”

“That is not very comforting,” the Steward muttered. “But what shall I tell the Lady Queen: that her husband has gone off to explore Minas Tirith with no guard, and is ill as well?”

“I am not ill,” Aragorn growled.

“Of course,” Faramir said in a very diplomatic manner. Aragorn shot him a look before reaching into his pocket for a set of keys. He brought them out, quickly found the right key on the ring, and bent down in front of a large trunk. “But truly, my lord, I do believe she would have my head if I let you go-”

“What she does not know will not hurt her,” Aragorn replied.

“Aragorn!” The king grinned to himself as his steward's diplomatic facade broke away. While they had only known one another for less than two years, he knew quite a bit about the younger man, including how to break the frustratingly tough mold of diplomacy he often wore. He opened his trunk, but then turned to his steward, his grin gone and his eyes serious.

“Faramir,” he started, looking at the other man straight in the eye, “do not worry about her, or me. Nothing shall happen. I have just a cold; it is nothing worse than that. However, I need some time to myself. The meetings today left me feeling worse, and I need to clear my head without ten others hovering over me. Please, my friend, you were once a Ranger yourself, and I know you well enough that you get this same feeling from time to time.”

The steward shook his head, and then finally bowed it in defeat. “You know me too well, my friend. I surrender.” Aragorn grinned, but Faramir was not done. “However, if you are not back here by the time the bells ring ten times, I am sending your guard after you. Deal, my Lord King?”

“Deal, my Lord Steward,” Aragorn replied, still grinning. “I shall never have the courage to disobey your will.”

"And do not leave the City, either," he added, ignoring the slight barb.

"Yes, naneth," Aragorn said, raising an eyebrow. Faramir raised one in return, and Aragorn laughed. "Very well, very well, I shan't. Not in this weather, certainly." He finally turned back to his chest, and pulled out an old, careworn coat. "You know, I do believe Arwen wanted to burn all of my old clothing, but I simply could not part with this coat." He then pulled out an old cloak. "Nor this cloak, either. In fact..." He slightly frowned as he looked through the rest of his trunk. "I think Arwen was lying. Quite a bit of my clothing is still here."

"Perhaps she forgot about it," Faramir suggested.

"Perhaps," Aragorn said, the slight frown still on his face. "Or she is waiting for me to forget about these items. Unlikely." He buckled a knife to his waist, and put on the coat and cloak. He doubted that he would need the weapon, but he would rather be safe than sorry.

Faramir smiled as the king pulled up his hood. “You look very much like a scoundrel, I would have you know. Your fellow Northern Dúnedain are better kempt."

Aragorn grinned. "I know." Instead of going out the front door to his chambers, he went through the back way, which led to his private gardens and down various corridors to the front of the Citadel.

“You do realize, Sire, that as King you could simply order the guards to let you pass, correct?” Faramir asked as he followed him out.

“I could,” Aragorn agreed. “But you know how they love to gossip. And I am sure the captain of my personal guard has all of them under his thumb.”

“Ah, yes, Galdir. He is a very persuasive man.”

“Exactly. And within thirty minutes- perhaps closer to ten- he would know of my absence, and despite my wishes, would surely send out every guard in the Citadel to find me. That will ruin the whole purpose of this venture.”

"Of course. But how do you plan on sneaking out, if I may be so bold?”

Aragorn grinned once more. “The same way I did last time.”

***

“You did not.”

“I did so.”

“Truly this is low, Sire.”

“It is.”

“I never knew you would sink to such levels.”

“I’ve done worse.”

“Indeed?”

“Indeed.”

A pause. “So, how many children have you bribed in the past?”

“This is not bribery.”

“Giving a boy a copper to distract the guards is indeed bribery.”

“It is not.”

“It is, though.”

“Is not.”

“I shall not argue with you, Sire.”

“You are no fun at all, Faramir.”

Faramir held back a chuckle when he saw the look on Elessar’s face. “Still, my lord, having children do your dirty work…”

“It is not my dirty work. He is simply distracting the guards.”

If one were to look behind the northeast corner of the Great Hall of Feasts, they would find a most peculiar sight. Huddled together were the King and Steward of Gondor; they may have not recognized the king right away, however, seeing as his old leather cloak covered most of his body, and the hood was up to keep his features hidden. They both watched a son of one of the servants of the Citadel walk up to the two guards at the seventh gate‘s entrance, a new, shiny copper coin in his pocket. Faramir glanced once more at Aragorn.

“I suppose I should not tell an enemy that in order to get onto the seventh level, all you must do is bribe a child to distract the guards?”

“No, you should not,” Aragorn replied lightly. “Alright, there he is. I go now, Faramir; if something goes wrong, distract them.”

“What? Elessar, wait!” But Aragorn was already gone and making his way casually to the seventh gate, his feet making no sound on the new grass that had replaced much of the stone on the seventh level. Faramir groaned, yet did not move from his hiding place. His eyes were ever on Aragorn.

The king strolled southeast towards the gate, ignoring the guards of the Court of the Fountain to his right. Their only job was to guard the White Tree, and so they did not bother him. He knew that they took their job of guarding the Tree very seriously, so their disregard for anything but the flora served Aragorn’s purposes. Besides, if a real enemy ever came through the seventh gate, they would be ready to guard more than the Tree- or so he hoped.

He was close to the entrance when he realized that the guards were sending the boy away and turning their attention back to the gate. He stopped in his tracks and thought about running, but that would not serve his purposes. It would just make him seem all the more suspicious. This was not turning out as he had planned.

He quickly made his way to the closest tower; it was one of the seven towers that surrounded the Citadel. He planted himself on the wall, out of sight of the guards at the gate. He spared a quick glance around the tower to the gate, and found that he was not even one hundred yards from it. He sighed and tried to figure out how to get past them without drawing their attention.

But fortunately for him, Faramir read their gestures correctly. He immediately jumped out of his hiding spot and made south, just barely turning east as he walked. He quickly found himself on the stone path that led to the Court of the Fountain and the Tower of Ecthelion. The steward then turned and walked hurriedly east over to the two guards at the gate. When they spotted Faramir and stood to attention, he slowed his pace, putting on the calm mask of diplomacy. He did his best to keep his glance away from the shadows of the tower to the north of the gate. The steward gestured the guards over to him and they readily left their post, not seeing the hooded man that waited for their departure.

“Lord Faramir,” said one with a short bow. “Is there aught wrong?”

“No, no,” Faramir said quickly, ignoring the figure sneaking his way to the gate. “I was… I was just wondering if there have been any disturbances lately… have there?”

“No, my lord,” said the other with a bow. “All has been quiet, other than a curious boy. But we have not seen anyone worth note.”

“And if we do, we shall inform you immediately," said the other once more. "No one will get past us without our notice.”

As Aragorn slipped through the seventh gate and out of sight, Faramir did his best to maintain his calm, diplomatic facade. If his face cracked, however, the guards said nothing about it.

“Good, good,” he said, quickly gaining his composure. “Well, then, continue with your duty.”

“Aye, my lord,” they said at the same time with identical bows, and then left once more to guard duty. Odd, how guards often did that.

Faramir turned and headed back towards the Tower of Ecthelion, chuckling quietly to himself. He should demote the two of them, perhaps, but then again, they were looking for strangers to come through the gate to the seventh level rather than out of it, and they did that job with enough competence. Besides, the King would have his head if he had to find another way out.

He stopped by the White Tree and made eye contact with one of the guards. Judging by the expression in his eyes, he had seen the whole episode and was quite bemused by it. All of the guards saluted him as he passed, and he acknowledged each of them. He gave the bemused guard a large smile, but turned away towards the Tower of Ecthelion before he could see his reaction.

Once Faramir was inside, he quickly found an empty room. He quietly shut the door, shook his head, and finally burst out laughing.

“For that, my lord, you are in my debt.” With one last chuckle, he exited the room to continue his paperwork while his king got some well-deserved time off.

***

Once Aragorn was on the sixth level and out of hearing from the guards, he burst out laughing. He played with the thought of demoting them and finding guards more aware of their surroundings, but quickly decided against it. The look on their faces when they stopped and questioned him on his way back to the Citadel would be well worth their incompetence. Besides, they made escaping the Citadel much easier for him.

His laughing soon developed into a coughing fit, and he stopped in his tracks and waited for his coughs to subside. Once they were gone, he gently caressed his throat. Perhaps he was coming down with something more than a cold… but no. That was ridiculous. He was a skilled healer; he would know if he had something worse and would be in bed right now if he did. With that optimistic thought in mind, he continued his way down the streets of Minas Tirith.

Had some difficulties with this chapter; I simply ended up scrapping the original premise, which involved some conversation with a teenage boy, and put this in instead. Shortened the story, but I'm much happier with it.

Within the chapter there is a reference to an incident that occurs in the 29th prompt in "Tales of Life", which can be found in my stories, but it is not necessary to read that to understand the chapter.

Chapter Two

It was a cold day, and the threatening clouds above looked ready to burst at any moment. The chilly weather, however, was not something that stopped the townsfolk of Minas Tirith in their everyday business. On the first level of the city, the market was booming. Various vendors called out, children screamed in delight, and both men and women continued doing business. And in this crowd of diverse folk was their king.

King Elessar Telcontar looked at the various booths and all the items they displayed. Many types of food, different types of cloth, and here and there vendors with jewelry and other trinkets showed up. It was the people, however, that especially interested him. Old and young men and women were behind the booths, shouting out at others to come and buy their things. Some vendors even advertised for stores around the first and second levels. Nothing especially interested him, however, and he found himself looking for some peace from the busy market. He hoped a less crowded space would help clear the pounding in his head.

He wandered over to a park, one of the few that the elves had put in the City to give it a bit more greenery. In that spot before the War there was a large assortment of buildings, but they had been so damaged in the fighting that the king simply had the ruins demolished and a park put in its place instead. It was a decision he never regretted. Even in this weather there were a few children playing on the open grass while their watchful parents kept an eye on them from the benches underneath the trees.

Aragorn chose a seat apart from the rest, thoughtfully watching the children romp around on the grass. He smiled as one child started chasing the others in a 'tag' game, running around the grassy area and through the trees. The person who was 'it' tried to tag one of the other children, but was having a difficult time doing so for he laughed as he ran.

Suddenly, Aragorn saw in his mind a dark-haired child running around his private gardens. Chasing her was a boy with the same dark hair. They were laughing as they ran, but before he could see their faces, something collided with his legs.

"Sorry!" the high-pitched apology came from a young boy who had hit him, but he sprang away before Aragorn could say anything. He watched with some amazement the energy these children retained; had he ever that amount of liveliness? He suspected he did, and idly wondered if his own children would have it, as well. Aragorn recalled his vision, and if one or both of the children were his, he believed that they would.

He watched the children for a few more minutes in silent contentment before he realized that his old cloak, as often as it kept him warm, seemed not to doing its job proficiently now. The little nagging voice in his head tried to come back, but the king pushed it away before it could even begin. He was slightly under the weather, but that was it. 'Besides,' he justified to himself as he glanced at other people, coats and cloaks tightly wrapped around their bodies, 'it is truly cold outside.'

He stood up and, careful to avoid the playing children, walked back to the street and mingled once more with the crowd. He wandered for a few minutes, looking for a place that he could possibly get warm in- a tavern of some sort.

Suddenly, as he passed a woman selling flowers, a memory from a year ago came to him. He did not often wander the City in disguise, but he had done so in the past. About a year ago, after a rather unpleasant moment with his wife, he had sought refuge within a tavern and had found himself in the Stone and Sea Inn, a quaint little place on the second level. There he had found good ale and a rather talkative innkeeper that had cheered him up quite a bit.

If there was any place to go, it would certainly be there. With that thought in mind, he immediately started to the inn.

***

By the time he had reached the pub, he was starting to feel worse. His head was pounding harder, his throat felt dry, and, to his great annoyance, he felt as if he were going to sneeze. He simply ignored these symptoms and opened the door to the tavern. A mug of ale would do him well.

He found a place in a corner to sit- the same corner he sat in last time, he noted wryly- and within a minute the barkeeper came over to him.

“Good evening, sir! What’ll you have today?” he asked cheerfully.

“The house brew,” Aragorn said quietly, not wanting to hurt his throat. The barkeeper nodded, disappeared behind the counter and, faster than the king expected, came back with a full mug of ale.

“Anything else for you?” he asked as he set the mug down.

“No, thank-” Aragorn was interrupted by a series of loud coughs, and the other man frowned.

“You don’t sound too well. My wife makes excellent soup. She can whip you up a bowl in no time. And tell you what; I’ll make it on the house. How about it?”

Aragorn was startled by the unexpected generosity. “Thank you, but-”

“Great, I’ll be back in a bit.” With that, the barkeeper scurried off. Aragorn simply smiled to himself and sipped at his mug of ale. The kindness of people, after all the years of war and suffering, surprised and gladdened him.

From his corner he observed the whole room, and remembered why he liked the place the first time he had come there. It was not the largest inn in the City, but it was comfortable and welcoming. There were others scattered around the room who obviously agreed with him. At the counter were a couple of lone men, drinking quietly and deep in thought. Around another table were a couple farmers and merchants who were arguing about the price of goods. In another corner of the room was a group of men who had started early with the merrymaking, though were not completely intoxicated as of yet. It was the group closest to him, however, which especially caught his attention.

Around the table was a small group of older men, exchanging old tales, legends, and obscure information. One of the men, who was rather loud and Aragorn could hear quite clearly, was starting a tale about a legendary captain.

“Well, I don’t remember him all that much; I was a new recruit 'n all, and not that close to him. But I still remember all that was said about him. He was one of Gondor's finest captains. He'd came from Rohan, he did, though afore Rohan no one knows where, 'cause he was definitely not one of the Rohirrim! He was very tall, and had dark hair, and also wore this curious silver star on his cloak. But it was his eyes I remember most: deep and wise, grey and very keen, they were. Though he looked just a few years older than meself at the time, his eyes made him seem ancient. They looked like eagle's eyes, they did… I ‘pose that’s why he was called Thorongil. Eagle of the Star. Now, that Thorongil, he was one with plenty of secrets.”

“Eh, I remember him!” said an older man. “He was that quiet, reserved one, wasn‘t he, Giladan?”

“Aye,” replied Giladan. “He was very quiet and secretive. But secrets or no, he was one fine captain. A stern one, but always fair and just. I still remember idolizing him, 'specially after his success at Umbar. I know the old steward, Ecthelion, really took a liking to 'im.”

“Though his son didn’t,” said the older man with a chuckle.

“Don’t talk no ill about Steward Denethor, Randir,” said the youngest of the old men. “I remember Ecthelion a bit, but Denethor was Steward for most of my life, and he weren‘t so bad of a man.”

“Until he went mad,” Randir muttered.

“Well, afore then!" the younger man insisted. "Besides, I’m sure losing both wife 'n son while running a failing country would drive anyone mad. Would send me to the deep end!”

“Wouldn’t drive the king mad,” Randir put in.

“The king, eh? Well, we don’t know. He hasn’t lost a wife ‘n son yet, now, has he?”

“Even if he did, Corudir, I don’t think he would. He’s a strong man.”

“Hardly a man,” Corudir muttered. “He’s too perfect to be a man.”

“Just because he isn't crazy like Denethor don’t mean he doesn’t have his faults.”

“Name one.”

“Well,” Giladan said thoughtfully as he took a sip of his drink. “He may be a bit too trusting. I’m not sure if I‘m so eager about this treaty with this Haradric tribe. He’s giving in too easily. The Haradrim are nothing but a bunch of lying scum. I bet they would turn their backs on us the first chance they get.”

“That’s for sure,” muttered Randir. “My son didn’t die out there against them savages for nothing.”

“Eh, that‘s not my problem with him,” growled Corudir.

“What d’you mean?”

"Well," Corudir started as he drank from his mug, "he just can't relate to us. He's up there in his big Citadel of his, doing who-knows-what with us. He doesn't know us. He's not even from Gondor! At least Lord Denethor was born here; I don't think he's even been here before he became king."

"He meets with people twice a month to talk about their issues," Randir argued. "If you don't think he relates to you 'n me, why don't you go up and tell him yourself?"

"Have you seen how crowded it is during those days? Everyone and their mother comes to the Citadel those days to talk about whatever's bothering them," he said. "Lords, half the people come just to gawk at him and the Queen!"

"Don't shout!" Giladan said to his companion. "You've drunk too much, old man."

"You're older than I am, you lout," Corudir argued good-naturedly, but lowered his voice. "Besides, King Elessar can't see everything that goes on, even in his own home. The richer folk always end up in the front for a reason, and us poor old soldiers never get a chance to get near him, much less talk with him. I tried twice but ended up moving nowhere. And I missed two days of work for that, too. I'm not trying again unless it changes, which it won't."

Randir simply shrugged and glanced into his cup, but Giladan looked thoughtful. "Well, maybe it'll change. One day." He went to drink from his mug again, but, to his dismay, found it empty. "Bah! Where is that innkeeper, now?" He glanced around the room, and did not see the innkeeper, but did spot one of the lads who worked for him. "Lad! Come here." Once the boy took the cup to refill it, Corudir, weary with the discussion, easily switched topics.

"Where is that barkeep from, anyhow?" he asked his two companions. "I remember this place being abandoned for a long time."

"Anfalas," Giladan responded. "The old barkeep was good, and I miss him. He died a few years before the War, and he had no children- none living, at the least. No one wanted this old place, and it remained empty for a while. But this man from Anfalas, Aearhil, took it last year and cleaned it up. He isn't too bad, either. Ah, thanks lad," he said to the boy who brought him a full mug of ale. He gave him a copper, and once the boy had scuttled off to another customer, took a deep drink from his cup.

“Not too bad at all,” agreed Corudir, taking a swig from his own. “Now that you have more drink, Giladan, continue with your story. Whatever happened to that Thorongil?”

“Thorongil? Oh, yes… well, after Umbar and that successful campaign, the City had a whole celebration planned for him and his soldiers. But according to some of my old comrades who were with him, he just left at Pelargir! Don’t know where he went, but he left, and no one’s seem him since. Wonder what happened to him…”

“Dead, most likely,” Corudir said.

“Well, yes, I s'pose so… it’s been over forty years, hasn’t it?”

“How time flies,” muttered Randir. “I still remember when I was just a boy, looking at the tall soldiers guarding the walls. I actually remember once looking at my father up there and thinking ‘One day, I’ll be like him’…”

And from there the conversation went to a whole other topic. Aragorn frowned to himself as he sat back in his seat and sipped at his ale. That was most certainly very informative, if anything. While he planned no changes with the Haradrim, the news concerning his public meetings was an eye opener to him. He did not know if this Corudir was simply exaggerating or not, but he would certainly look into it himself.

He thought about Thorongil, and stifled a chuckle. Had it truly been forty years already? He still remembered the days that he served Gondor as if it were yesterday. He could not remember this Giladan at the moment, but he most certainly remembered Denethor’s animosity towards him. At first, their relationship had been even what you could call friendly. However, once he was promoted to a captain after only a few years of service, their relationship had grown farther and farther apart. It was truly a pity that they had not been friends; he knew Denethor was a keen and intelligent man, and they had had many common interests. But it just did not work out. He was very glad that he was in good relations with Faramir and, for a short time, Boromir.

His thoughts were interrupted by the clattering of a soup bowl. Startled, he looked up and saw the cheery face of the innkeeper, Aearhil.

“Wife just made it for you. Used her special recipe today; she must be feeling good.” He chuckled. “Women. Always so fickle. Do you have a wife, master… err…?”

“Strider. Just call me Strider,” Aragorn said. The innkeeper obviously did not recall their first and only meeting from a year ago, though he could not blame him; he likely received hundreds of patrons within the last year. “And yes, I do. She is the loveliest of ladies.”

“Yea, my wife’s one pretty woman herself,” Aearhil nodded, a smile playing on his lips.

“I heard that you were not from Minas Tirith, Master Innkeeper,” Aragorn said as he took a sip of the soup. He enjoyed conversing with the jovial man.

“Call me Aearhil,” said the barkeeper, sitting down across from him. “And you heard right; I’m from Anfalas. But after the War was done and everything had calmed down, my wife and I decided to move out here. Took us a long time to get everything prepared, but here we are. I bought this place at a good price, too. All it needed was a little work, and it was good to go. And it was well worth it! Business is good.”

All of a sudden, one of the patrons at the counter called for him. Aearhil rolled his eyes. “Him. He’s never satisfied with the lads, always wants me. D’you need anything else for now, sir?” Aragorn shook his head, and Aearhil smiled and rose. “Well, if you do need anything, feel free to call over me or one of the boys.” With that, the innkeeper turned and hurried over to the patron demanding his attention.

Aragorn smiled to himself and took a spoonful of soup. It was very good and hot, and immediately lessened his headache and soothed his throat. For now, the former Ranger was content to enjoy the small meal and stay in the tavern for a while longer.

Chapter Three

He was working in his office when there was a knock on his door. The guard at the entrance opened the door, stuck his head in, and said, “My Lord Steward, Her Majesty the Queen is here and would speak with you, if you are available.”

Faramir stood up, nodding. “Of course, please let her in!”

The queen entered his study with the flawless grace and dignity that she always possessed. “Good afternoon, my lord.”

“Greetings, my lady,” he said with a small bow. “May I offer you some refreshment?”

“No, but thank you,” she said as the guard closed the door. Once the door was shut, she sent an amused look at the steward. “I am more used to the formality of Minas Tirith, but your door warden is particularly cordial.”

“That he is,” Faramir said with a chuckle. “I’ve known him for years, and he has yet to say my name.”

He offered her a seat by the fire, which she took with a nod of thanks. Once they were both seated, Arwen spoke. “Faramir, have you seen my husband? I have not seen him since early morning, and I heard that the meeting with the Haradrim ended early. He is not in his office, nor in our rooms, and I cannot find anyone who has seen him for at least an hour, if not longer. Do you know where he is?”

The steward knew that this would happen, but he was hoping that it would have been longer until Arwen noticed Aragorn’s disappearance. The king hadn’t yet been out for two hours. It was time to put his diplomatic skills into play; he hoped the queen was in a good mood.

“The king... went out.” He mentally winced to himself. That sounded rather pathetic.

“Out? Out where?” Arwen frowned.

“Into the City.”

“Yes, I would assume so, Faramir. Where?”

‘Curse you for putting me into this position, Aragorn!’ “I... I am not quite sure, my lady.”

Arwen blinked once, and then stared at Faramir intensely. “You do not mean that he went on one of his little... strolls. Alone.”

Faramir was very hard pressed not to wince. “I believe that is what he did, my lady.”

The queen did not sigh, but she looked very much like she wanted to. Or, if not that, find her husband and hit him on the head. “I surely am not the only one who remembers what happened last time he went alone, yes?”

“No, no, my lady, I remember,” Faramir reassured her. He remembered very well- it had been a rather nasty political crisis which could have ended up much worse. “But he was rather adamant and would not be deterred.”

“No, he wouldn’t, would he,” Arwen muttered to herself, frowning at the wall behind Faramir. She suddenly turned her gaze to the man. “But he is ill; he will catch his death in that weather!”

‘How in the world did she know?’ Faramir wondered to himself, but did not try to answer; a wife knew everything there was to know about her husband. And she, of all wives, would likely know very well what her husband tried to hide from her. “He told me he was well,” he tried to support the king.

“If he were dying he would tell you he was well, just to get his way,” Arwen snapped, and then closed her eyes. “My apologies, Faramir; I should not take my frustrations out on you. But I swear, my husband is a stubborn mule, and still as reckless as he was seventy years ago.”

Faramir silently did the math, and then came to the conclusion that the queen was exaggerating. He remembered his younger years, and he was sure that he was not nearly as reckless now as he was then. He had to give his king the same benefit of the doubt. After all, wives were quite prone to exaggerate when worried.

“I am sure he will be fine, my lady,” Faramir said after a moment of silence. “I asked him to be here by the time the bells ring ten times.”

Arwen nodded silently, but said nothing. Ignoring her earlier refusal, the steward brought out two goblets and poured out some wine. Silently he handed the cup to her. She glanced at it, looked at Faramir’s passive expression, and suddenly laughed.

Taking the goblet, she said, “Thank you, Faramir. You are always remarkably cool-headed and patient; you are such a very good friend to Aragorn and I. Thank you.”

“But of course, my lady,” Faramir said, slightly surprised.

She took a sip from the goblet, cleared her throat, and said, “Well, I thank you for listening to my tirade, though you certainly did not deserve it. I am sure my husband used all of his cunning to win you over in this scheme of his.” ‘If only he would be kind enough to let me know!’ she thought exasperatedly. ‘This will certainly have to change.’ Arwen took a long drink from the cup, and then set the goblet down. “Thank you for the wine and the information, Faramir. I shall see you later.”

They both rose and went to the door. He opened it for her, and with a quiet farewell, let her out of the room. Once she was gone, he went back to his desk to continue his work.

‘Well, it could have been much worse,’ he thought. ‘If anything, I’m sure the queen will have some choice words for the king when he comes back.’

***

Aragorn was nearly finished with his soup when Aearhil came back. He took one look at the empty mug, and went to pick it up. “Will you be having a refill, sir?”

He thought about it for a moment, and nodded. He still had a bit more time left, and he was not very anxious to go back outside just yet; it was rather miserable out there. “I would, please.” Aearhil nodded and left to go refill his mug. The king finished his soup and could honestly say that he felt a bit better. A small headache was still lingering on his temple, and his sinuses were still congested, but his throat felt much better.

The innkeeper was soon back, a nearly overflowing mug on his tray. He set the drink on the table, and once more took a seat across from Strider. “Less crowded, now. Weather’s getting worse. Don’t imagine I’ll have many patrons tonight.”

Aragorn glanced around the room. Indeed, the filled common room had emptied a bit. All that were left now were the three old men at the nearby table, a young man at the counter, and a rowdy group of men on the other side of the room.

“Business is usually well?” Aragorn asked, remembering the empty common room he came upon over a year ago.

“Oh, yes. I’ve established myself here and the Stone and Sea Inn is often bustling nowadays. A bit slower during the winter, mind, but I’m still eating, and people still want a good mug o’ ale and, now and then, a place to sleep. I say, setting up in Minas Tirith was the best decision I made.”

Aragorn smiled. “And what do you think of the city?”

“I love it. So many people, though, it was a bit hard getting used to it! But my wife and I, we adapt easily. She misses the sea sometimes, but manages. What about you, err, Strider, was it?" At Aragorn's nod, he continued. "Strider- interesting name. Well, Master Strider, are you from here? You have an accent.”

“I am originally from the north, but moved here after the War,” Aragorn said vaguely.

“Ah, from the north! Say, isn’t our king from the north, from the Northern Kingdom? I cannot remember its name, it’s on the tip of my tongue...” the man frowned in concentration.

“You mean Arnor?” Aragorn asked, smiling.

“Yes, that’s the name! He’s from there, right? Do you know?”

“I do believe the king is from Arnor, yes.”

The innkeeper nodded to himself. “Right, right. You seem to know some about him.”

He chuckled. “No more than any other man does.”

“Ah, well, more than me,” Aearhil chuckled as well, hiding his disappointment. He glanced around the inn to see if any new patrons had showed up, and seeing that none had and that the boys who worked there could handle any orders from the current patrons, turned back to Aragorn. “May I ask you something, Strider?”

“Of course.” Whether he was to answer it fully was a whole other issue. This man, while kind, was one of the most inquisitive people he had ever met- and that was putting it kindly.

“Why do you have your hood up?”

That was a rather unexpected question. But then again, Aragorn figured that nothing should be unexpected with this man- he was as blunt as he was curious. It seemed natural of him to ask such a question.

Naturally he could not answer with the truth, so he said the first thing that came to mind. “It’s a habit of mine.”

Yes, it was a rather poor excuse, but it was nevertheless an excuse.

Whether Aearhil had a response to this answer or not was to be left unknown, for at that moment, a rather boisterous voice broke through the room.

“Drink! I am out of drink!”

Normally Aearhil would let one of the lads- both who were not doing anything- answer the call for more ale. However, the man who had called for it was extremely intoxicated, as were a few of his companions. The ones who were not swaying from side to side did not look as if they were to keep their friends from doing anything stupid; by the rowdy laughter coming from the table, they were rather enjoying the spectacle.

“Excuse me,” Aearhil said quietly, rising from his seat and quickly making his way to the table. He motioned for the elder lad, who was cautiously approaching the drunkards, back behind the counter.

“What will you be needing, sir?” he asked politely.

The man barked the name of a vintage ale, and Aearhil kept his face passive as he replied, “I am sorry, sir, we do not serve that type here.”

“What? Impossible! I just had some, you liar!” The man stood up, and he was easily a head taller and twice wider than the older, thinner barkeep. The moment he was up Aragorn rose, and quietly made his way past the table of old men, who had turned from their conversation to watch the unfolding scene. The young man at the counter looked caught in between intervening and ignoring the situation, while the lads were on the other side of the counter, watching with trepidation.

Aragorn had made his way to the counter without attracting any attention. He casually leaned against it, now very close to the lads. He was bidding his time, only prepared to intervene if this encounter elevated another notch and the innkeeper found himself in a position in which he was unable to handle himself.

The innkeeper held his ground against the larger man, a calm expression still on his face. "I'm sorry, sir, but we do not have that kind of ale here," he repeated. The intoxicated man did not seem happy with that answer, and from his side he pulled out a knife.

The encounter had just elevated another level.

As the innkeeper took a couple steps back, his hands raised at his sides, Aragorn turned to the lads, whose eyes went wide with the sight of the knife. "You," he said to the smaller of the boys, "get back into the kitchen, and stay there until this is over." The boy, sensing the air of authority over the stranger, immediately complied. "And you, lad," he started to the other, "go to the guard station at the second gate. Tell them of the situation and bring the guards here. Go quickly, now!" The older lad complied, not even bothering to grab a coat as he stole into the chilly winter weather.

Once that was taken care of, Aragorn turned his attention back to Aearhil, who was impressively keeping his calm as he slowly backed away. "Please, sir, there is no need for that," he said. "I am sorry we cannot meet your needs, but the Stone and Sea Inn will happily give you another mug of ale of any kind, free of charge."

Impressive diplomacy. Aragorn idly wondered if he had taken lessons from Faramir, but did not let such thoughts linger as the drunkard took the offer as an insult.

"Why would I want something else? I don't want anything else! You're just hiding it from me, aren't you?" It was then that he lunged at the innkeeper.

Time to intervene.

Aragorn was not sure why the part of playing "the hero" seemed to land on him so often; perhaps it was his heritage and legacy, or it may have simply been an innate response to the troubles of the innocent. Whatever the reason, he could not ignore the suffering of others if there was anything he could do to help. And, seeing as he had grown rather fond of the loquacious Anfalas man, there was simply no way he could ignore this now.

Aearhil managed to avoid the drunk easily enough, and the large man fell to the floor. His colleagues laughed at him, but did not look as if they would intervene with the situation at the moment. Before the barkeeper could do much else, Aragorn was by his side.

"Do you know how to use a knife?" Aragorn asked casually.

"For other than chopping up vegetables? Lords, no! I am no soldier."

As he had thought. "Then stay back; even in such a state, an armed man is dangerous."

As Aragorn stepped in front of him, Aearhil frowned. He did not like that his customer- one that he liked quite a bit- was risking his life for him. "Are you armed?"

"I am," Aragorn said simply. "Stay back."

Aearhil thought of protesting, but sense came to him, and he complied. His patron sounded as if he knew what he was doing, and he, well, he had other customers to look after and make sure they were not hurt.

By now the drunken man had picked himself off of the floor. He noticed that a tall, cloaked stranger had replaced the shorter innkeeper. He turned to look for the barkeep, but the tall man spoke before he could focus.

"You have had too much to drink. You should go home, before you hurt someone."

Aragorn realized that the chances of the intoxicated man actually complying were slim to none, but he thought it was worth a shot.

"What?" he slurred. "Go home? Who're you t' order me 'round?"

Aragorn could not help but note the irony.

"Go home," he repeated. "You have had too much to drink."

"How dare you!" the other screamed, and thrust his knife forward. Aragorn easily sidestepped the lunge, drew his knife, and hit the other man on the head with the hilt as he fell forward. The drunk was unconscious before he hit the ground.

Aragorn was hoping that his companions had more sense than he, and that the situation would have ended there and then. Of course, Aragorn was not nearly lucky enough to have that scenario play out.

"He's dead!"

"No, he's-"

"You killed him!"

"I-"

"Get him!"

Aragorn sighed to himself as the four other men at the table came rushing at him. This was not helping his headache in any way.

Thanks for all the lovely reviews! All comments about the characterizations especially made me happy- I am always uncertain in that area. Difficult to do, ya know? ;)

I can’t write fight scenes to save my life. Sorry. XD

Chapter Four

Aragorn went into a defensive position as the four men came rushing at him. From the corner of his eye he saw Aearhil gather up the rest of the patrons and escort them into the kitchen. He was glad that he had thought of that; it was less likely that an innocent would get hurt.

His thoughts were interrupted as the first man came to him. He easily avoided his flying fist, and then ducked the knife of the man right behind him. As he began to rise again, one of the men kicked at the small of his back, sending the king to the floor. Before they could take advantage of his position, he kicked the back of a knee and rolled away as the man reflexively collapsed. He was stopped mid-roll by a chair, and used the wooden piece of furniture to block the lunge of another of the men. The drunken man looked surprised to see the chair, and Aragorn used his bewilderment to push him back. The drunkard stumbled a few steps, tripped, and hit his head on one of the tables on his way down. By the time he hit the floor, he was unconscious.

Aragorn did not bother to look at him again as the other three surrounded him once more. One had his knife out, while another had torn the leg off of one of the chairs and was using it as a bat. The other had gone so far as to draw his sword. And, while the former two looked tipsy (the one with the knife ready to collapse), the man who had drawn his long blade looked quite sober.

He did not have time to think about this rather unfair situation as two of them lunged once more at him.

***

Behind the counter and just in the doorway to the kitchen were Aearhil and the other patrons. Deeper in the kitchen were his wife and the younger lad that worked in the tavern, fright easily readable in both of their eyes.

"What is happening, Aearhil?" the lady asked as she held the young boy in her arms. She held him tighter as she heard someone cry out in pain. A loud thump followed as a body hit the ground. "Someone wasn't just killed, Aearhil? Please tell me someone was not just murdered in there!"

"Strider is fighting off a group of drunks," Aearhil said. "He probably saved my life, him. And no," he added, "no one's dead, just knocked out. He's careful not to kill these ruffians, even if they don't show him the same mercy."

"Someone should help him!" she said incredulously, glancing at her husband and the four others. Her eyes landed on the young man.

"I've never held a sword in my life!" he exclaimed. "I didn't fight in the War."

"If I were fifty years younger, I'd be by his side," Randir muttered, and then sighed. "But I'd only be in the way at my age." His two companions nodded.

"Besides, this Strider seems to be holding his own," Giladan commented as the strangely-named man parried a blow from the left, and then sidestepped another from the right.

"I haven't seen such skill in a long time," Corudir said softly, watching with admiration. "He has experience."

"Experience or not, I hope Berion brings the guards soon," Aearhil's wife said. She winced as yet another cry of pain broke through the area. "Very soon."

The men were not listening to her, however, as they saw one of the fallen thugs start to rise, giving Aragorn a deadly look. "Giladan, I don't think he sees him!" Randir muttered worriedly.

"He's already dealing with two others; I doubt it!" the young man interjected. "What should we do?"

Aearhil quickly thought of a solution. "Get me a mug, and a heavy one!" he commanded. The young man quickly handed the barkeeper a mug. "Here goes nothing," he muttered, and hurled the cup at the drunk sneaking up behind Aragorn.

As the drunk raised his knife to strike him from behind, the mug hit him on the head. He immediately collapsed to the floor, unconscious.

Aragorn and the two others stopped fighting for a moment to look at the newly fallen man. The king was surprised; how in the world did he not detect the man coming from behind him? His pounding head happily provided him with an answer, and he finally had to admit it: he was sick. And, after this little event, he was sure to be in worse shape than before. Wonderful.

He let his thoughts cease as they all spotted the reason for the man’s sudden collapse. Once the mug was seen by his head, it did not take a genius to figure out where it had come from. Both of his opponents started for the counter, ready to take revenge and forget about Aragorn for the time being.

Aragorn, however, would not let himself be easily forgotten.

He rushed forward and shoved the man holding the chair leg into his companion, making all three of them tumble on a nearby table. He quickly pulled himself off of the thugs, and noted with grim satisfaction that the man with the makeshift bat had knocked himself unconscious.

He immediately turned his attention to the last man, who was, for the time being, happy to keep his distance away from him in order to catch his breath. Aragorn was glad for this slight reprieve, all too aware that his head was pounding fiercely once more and that his clogged sinuses were making it more difficult to breathe.

This rest was short, however, as the man charged once more at him. He brought his sword down upon Aragorn, and the Dúnadan parried the blow and stepped away. The other man had a clear advantage with his sword, and Aragorn planned to keep his distance until the guards arrived.

The ruffian, however, had other plans. He approached once again, and made to attack his left side. At last moment, however, he drew a hidden knife from his sleeve and struck Aragorn’s temple with its hilt, making the king stumble backwards. Unfortunately, a turned over chair was right behind him, and before he could steady himself, he fell over.

Aragorn felt more than saw the sword fall down upon him, and it was only his years of battle that saved him from the fatal strike. He rolled over to his right and climbed back to his feet, once more in the defensive position.

As he dodged yet another blow from his opponent, he realized how ridiculously unfair this situation was. He had fought off four other men already, and was fighting a man who was clearly trained in swordplay and clearly not as intoxicated as his companions. Aragorn, however, was already worn down, only had a knife, and- as he had finally admitted to himself- sick. He was not up to his usual prowess, and it was affecting the fight.

He parried the sword once again and took many steps back to give himself some distance from the ruffian. He really wished the guards would hurry and come already.

The Valar finally seemed to take pity on the king, for the tavern door suddenly burst open. A gust of chilly air entered the room as at least half a dozen guards came into the inn. Both Aragorn and his adversary found themselves manhandled into submission. The king did not resist as his knife was taken and he was pushed against a wall; after all, they obviously did not know who the main troublemaker here was. He was slightly amused to note that his opponent was not so willing to give up to the guards, and that it took two of them to hold him against a wall and another to cuff his hands behind his back before he finally stopped struggling.

When he felt one of his own hands being forced into a pair of shackles, he held back the urge to sigh; it was going to be rather difficult to explain this to his wife.

"Wait, wait! Don't arrest him, he saved all of us!" Aragorn heard Aearhil's voice above the rest of the noise. While he could not see him from his view point, he heard the man quickly rush over to him and the guard who was shackling him. "Please don't arrest him, he was protecting us. Without him, I do not know what would have happened."

Another guard nearby heard Aearhil, and asked, "Are you saying that he defended you against all of these men?" Aragorn imagined that he was indicating to all of the men on the ground, but did not try and turn around; while the guard who held him had loosened his grip, he did not want to make any sudden movements until he was cleared.

"Yes, yes. And while they tried to kill him, he did not attack them lethally. Please let him go."

He heard a couple of the guards muttering to themselves, and in a moment, he felt the shackles coming off and the hold on him disappeared. He turned around and took in the scene. Two guards were holding down the conscious ruffian in a chair; the man looked defeated and would not raise his head. The four unconscious men had been gathered up and were lying together on the far side of the room, with two guards watching over them just in case any woke up. One was at the counter, speaking with the rest of the patrons for their side of the story, and the final three were with him and Aearhil.

Aragorn shot Aearhil a look of gratitude, and thanked the guard who handed him back his knife. He immediately sheathed it, glad that the whole fiasco was over. His body was happy that it was done, too, for it felt worse than ever. He knew with certainty that even though he certainly hadn’t been sick before, he was now.

He wiped the sweat off of his brow and brushed a hand through his hair as he tried to ignore his aching head. It was only then that he realized his hood was not covering his features anymore- it must have fallen off during the fight.

He went to readjust it, thankful that none of the guards had recognized him- he was in no mood to explain why he had been in a tavern brawl on the second level.

"My lord!"

'Damn it all,' he cursed to himself as one of the guards focused on him. He doubly cursed when he recognized the man. It was Galerthor, the young son of Galdir, the captain of his personal guard. He was possibly one of the worst people to bump into when he was trying to go about unrecognized. Ai Elbereth, the Powers did hate him.

He deftly ignored the stares of everyone in the room, but did not bother with the hood anymore. He held in a sigh as the young man strode forward, a look of complete bewilderment on his face. As Galerthor bowed before him, the innkeeper frowned in confusion and the rest of the patrons approached, puzzlement on their faces. Suddenly, Corudir gasped, and his face whitened. He obviously had recognized him. This fact slightly bothered Aragorn; he didn't imagine himself that frightening.

"My lord?" Aearhil asked, squinting at Aragorn's face as if he were missing something.

"Aye," said Galerthor. "He is our Lord King Elessar." The young man did not seem to notice the effect his words had on the room, and turned back to the king. "My lord, if I may be so bold, what are you doing here?"

The young man had certainly inherited his father's audacity, Aragorn noted wryly. He simply answered, "I found myself with some spare time, and went out for a stroll." The fact that he was answering to this young guard did not escape his notice, but at the moment, he was trying to ignore his pounding head.

Galerthor looked as if he had many more questions, but he took one look at Elessar's face and immediately became silent. While he knew from personal experience that King Elessar was a decent man, he did not look to be one to trifle with now. The young man suspected that his father did not know where the King was- Galdir simply took his duty too seriously to agree to any idea of the king 'strolling' around the City without a guard, if not a whole contingent.

Aragorn took one last look at Galerthor's face; he knew now that Galdir would be told about this incident. He was rather hoping to avoid that; the man was rather paranoid about his well being, especially after that rather unfortunate incident last year. He pushed thoughts of the next meeting with the captain of the guard aside, and turned his attention to the rest of the guards. Now that he was revealed, he might as well use his rank for some good.

"Lock them up in the cells on the first level; keep them separate from one another, and let no one speak to them. I shall see to them myself a few days from now." The guards nodded, and with a collective "my lord", four hauled the unconscious ruffians out of the inn, while two escorted the lone conscious man out into the cold. He glanced once at Aragorn before turning his head and exiting the room; the king saw anger and fear written over his expression. It was one thing to attack a man; it was another to attack your sovereign lord. And the fact that he had attacked in sobriety while the others had in drunken stupidity made it even worse. He was not yet sure what he would do to them; it all depended on what happened when they met again.

But that was for another time. Six guards and the ruffians left the tavern, leaving behind two guards, including Galerthor, to Aragorn's chagrin. "Where is the boy that I sent for you?" he asked them.

"We left him behind," Galerthor replied. "We did not want him to get hurt."

"When does the lad usually go home?" Aragorn asked Aearhil.

It took a moment for the flustered innkeeper to respond. "He- he leaves an hour after the last bell, my lord. He can have the rest of the day off," he added as an afterthought.

"Where does he live?"

After Aearhil gave his address, Aragorn told the remaining guards to go back to the guard station, where they had left the boy, and to bring him home.

"Keep the explanation simple and clean," he emphasized. "Do not worry his parents overmuch."

The innkeeper's wife rushed out of the kitchen with the lad's belongings, giving them to the guard with thanks. She glanced uncertainly at the king, unsure of how to act. Rather than trying to figure out how to respond to him, she went back into the kitchen to tend to the younger boy, who was still frightened over the events of the afternoon.

When both guards left- Galerthor rather reluctantly, Aragorn noted- he turned back to the five men who were looking at him with mixed expressions. When he focused on them, they bowed, a couple muttering 'sire' under their breaths.

"Please, rise," he said quietly; his throat was really starting to bother him. When they complied, he stepped closer so he did not need to raise his voice unnecessarily. "I am sorry for what has been done to your inn, Master Aearhil," he said, glancing about the disarrayed room. "I shall compensate for any damages done this night."

"That is too kind of you, sir- my lord," the innkeeper said rather hurriedly with another bow. "You need not though, if-"

"I insist," Aragorn interrupted, smiling. "This is a fine establishment, and I would see this place looking its finest. I only ask that you allow me to eat and drink here again."

"Of course, of course!" Aearhil gasped, shocked that anyone would dare to think the alternative. "It is an honor to serve you."

Aragorn slightly nodded in response, not quite sure how to respond. The inn fell into an uncomfortable silence as the conversation died in the air. The king was often good at making conversation, but his thoughts failed him at that moment of time. Aragorn decided to blame this lack of ideas on his cold, which was happily reminding him of its existence in his head, sinuses, and throat.

The innkeeper and his patrons looked just as uncomfortable as he felt, so he decided to do them all a favor and take his leave. It would do him well to get back home and find his bed before his cold developed into something worse. He refused to contemplate the idea that it already may have developed into something worse.

He fished out a few coins in his pocket and held them out to the innkeeper. "For the drink and meal."

"Oh, no, I couldn't-"

"I always pay for any service I use."

"The soup was free, my lord."

Aragorn smiled. "Very well then; for the drink and conversation, as well as a small start to help compensate for your damages." He gently took Aearhil's hand and put the coin in it. "I shall send someone down in the morn to account for all of the damage done. Good night, gentlemen," he said with a small nod. He then put up his hood, went to the door, and walked out into the chilly afternoon air.

Once the door was shut, the inn was completely silent for a moment. Aearhil broke the silence with a cough, and then cleared his throat. "Well. Our lord was... not like what I had expected him to be."

The young man nodded in agreement. "I thought he would be more... well... kingly."

"But he was kingly, young man," Randir said with a grin. "He did what a leader is supposed to do- protect his people. Granted, I don't think many other leaders took the responsibility so literally..."

Giladan chuckled and turned to Corudir. "Did your opinion change, hmm?" The other man simply grunted, a slight frown on his face.

"D'you think he heard me earlier? When I was complaining?"

"Maybe," Randir shrugged. "I wouldn't worry. He seems to be a just man. Maybe he'll look into your problem, eh?"

"We'll see," Corudir said with a shrug. "C'mon, let's get out of here."

"Do come again!" Aearhil called after them cheerfully. The young man followed the old men, amazement still written on his features.

Once the patrons were gone, Aearhil looked at his upturned tavern in dismay. He'd have to close down for the evening; there was simply too much destruction for him to clean up. The thought that the king liked his tavern and was willing to compensate for all the damages certainly made up for it, though.

His wife poked her head out of the kitchen. "Is everyone gone, Aearhil?"

"Yes." He hung a sign that said 'closed' on the front window. "Is the lad ready? I'll take him home."

"Yes, yes." She called out to the boy over her shoulder, and then turned back to her husband. "Was that truly the king, then?"

"Apparently so," he replied, sitting down on one of the many chairs in the room. "I can scarcely believe it. The king, here in my tavern! And what he did for us, too. None of us here could have defended ourselves like that. Those ruffians may have killed us."

His wife nodded solemnly as she glanced around the room. A few chairs and a couple of tables were broken, there was fallen furniture and scattered utensils about, and one of the windows had a large crack in it that was already letting in cold air. "It will be a heavy price fixing this all up," she said with a frown.

"Did you not hear? The king said he'd compensate for all damages," Aearhil said. Relief immediately flooded her features.

"Well, bless him," she said. "He's much better than I could have ever hoped." The boy then emerged from the kitchen. He looked at the disarrayed room with shock, and paled at the bloodstains that dotted the room.

"Come, dear, do not worry," the innkeeper's wife said when she saw his expression. "The men who did this are gone and are not coming back here. Everything will be back to normal soon. Come now, Aearhil will take you home now."

Aearhil grabbed his own coat and gave his wife a quick kiss on the cheek. "Lock the door behind me; I'll come through the back.

She nodded, and Aearhil escorted the boy out into the frigid air before quickly closing the door behind him. The innkeeper's wife went into the kitchen and found some old rags that she could use to start cleaning up. The king may compensate for damages, but that would not get the bloodstains off of the floor. She then went to work, hoping to get the inn up and running by the morrow. Circumstances or not, business must continue.

The final chapter. Right after this chapter is a few notes on the extreme changes that took place over the original story, as well as a small deleted scene.

Thank you very much all for your input. Because of some great feedback from this site, this last chapter is about two pages longer than it originally was when I first started posting the story. Not all questions are answered, but I hope the ending is satisfying, nonetheless.

Chapter Five

Most of the time Aragorn did not mind the snow. Granted, he preferred to be inside when it was snowing, but even then, if he was properly equipped, the snow was not too bad at all.

Now, however, was not a good time for snow. However, since the Powers did not care much for his opinion, the clouds still decided to burst open and unleash a torrent of snow onto Minas Tirith. The snowfall was not yet too heavy, and his vision was not too hampered by the weather, but the speedy winds thought it would be terribly amusing if they kept blowing his hood off and snow into his face and hair.

His body, too, was not happy with its circumstances. While he was sure it was cold enough to freeze the Anduin, his sinuses were not dry and were still happily clogging his nostrils. His head was pounding once more with his heart, and he was relatively sure he couldn't shout right now to save his life. Arwen was not going to be happy with his condition right now. Nor Faramir, now that he thought about it.

He pulled his hood up once more as the wind knocked it off his face again. This time, however, he held it there instead of burrowing his hands into his cloak. Better his hand is frozen than his face, after all.

The king slowly made his way up to the seventh level. On the third level he felt someone watching the back of his head. When he turned around to investigate, he saw nothing. Blaming the feeling on post-battle wariness, he continued his way up.

By the entrance of the fifth level, he was certain that someone was following him.

Aragorn slowly drifted closer to the side of the street, where those who braved the storm were more likely to walk. He strode into the thicker crowd until he quickly ducked behind the corner of a building. There he waited.

After a moment, he saw exactly what he knew he would see. Stopping near his position were three guards of Minas Tirith; even in the blinding weather he could make out one of them to be Galerthor. He muttered a curse under his breath; had he told Galerthor to trail him? He had not. He explicitly had given orders to take the other boy home, which should have been enough time for him to lose the guard. Galerthor likely stayed behind and picked up two more guards along the route.

But of course he did not listen. Galdir hardly listened when it came to this topic, either, and Galerthor was a spitting image of his father when it came to his well-being. 'But you cannot blame him,' the voice of reason suddenly said. 'After all, he had just seen you in a tavern brawl.'

Aragorn grudgingly realized that this thought was logical. Nonetheless, he did not like that the young man had broken his order. He certainly would not willingly give him and his colleagues a body to follow, if anything.

The king watched as the guards looked in the crowd for him, obviously did not see him, and then split up to find him again. When he could not see any of them around, Aragorn casually made his way back into the crowd and went the rest of the way to the seventh level.

To his utter amusement, the guards at the seventh level gate took one look at him, thought him a ruffian, and barred his way. When he said the password, he let down his hood and let them see his face. His original thoughts at the beginning of this venture were correct- whatever happened in the City, it was worth the trip just to see their expressions when he came back.

He would never forget the identical looks of bewilderment, disbelief, and horror upon their faces as they realized who he was.

Aragorn gave them a brief smile and passed by, mildly cheered by the thought that they would be racking their minds to figure out how the king had gotten through the only exit off the seventh level without their notice.

He went past the Tower of Ecthelion and headed straight for his home. He greeted the guards at the door, acting as if he did not feel like he had just been hit in the head with a boulder, and went inside. Despite how terrible his body felt, he could not curl up in bed quite yet; he knew he had some unfinished business to wrap up.

So the king went to the closest person nearby, a rather bored looking individual busy inspecting a tapestry on the wall, and sent him to tell Faramir that he was back. If said individual was surprised by the king's disheveled appearance, he kept his surprise in check. At this point in time, Aragorn did not care all that much anyways.

After this he headed up to his rooms. Once there, he did not change but rather sat down at a desk and wrote a few important things concerning tomorrow. He would be rather surprised if this cold went away during the night, so he planned to postpone certain events until another day, including the continued meetings with the Haradrim. Aragorn was determined to finish all of this before he changed; once he was in warm clothes, he would be hard pressed not to fall asleep on his feet.

A brief flicker of uncertainty passed through his mind as he thought about the Haradrim. He did not want to postpone this meeting, but his body would certainly not allow such political banter on the morrow. It was begging for a bed for the next day. He had to grant it that, if he wished to continue business as soon as possible.

'You should have rested sooner,' the small voice said in a rather I-told-you-so tone. Aragorn knew that this voice of reason in his mind was correct. That did not, however, mean that he wasn't tempted to bash the obnoxious voice against a hard surface. He may have gone through with the action at this point in time if such a thing were actually possible.

If anything, the Haradrim had to wait. He would compensate their patience one way or another- perhaps with a small amount of gold, or a fruit basket.

Once these few areas of business were completed, he folded the letters together and went to the front door. He planned to give the letters to one of his guards, who would then give them to his secretary; the secretary would take care of the rest.

Right as he reached the double doors, they were suddenly opened as his queen strode into the room.

If Arwen was at all surprised by his appearance, she did not show it. Rather she ignored Aragorn's state of being altogether and focused on the letters in his hands. "What are those?" she asked.

"Letters," he answered. She raised an eyebrow in disbelief, and so he clarified, "For my secretary, concerning tomorrow."

"Ah," was all she said in reply. Aragorn handed the letters to one of the guards at the entrance, gave him brief instructions, and quietly shut the doors.

He had expected her to erupt once the doors were shut, but she did the exact opposite. Arwen gazed at him, her eyes cold and calculating. He fought the urge to sigh; all he wanted was to collapse into his bed at the moment, but it looked as if he would face the wrath of his wife first.

"Arwen, I-"

"No, Aragorn, I do not want to hear it," she interrupted. "I do not want to hear why you look as if you been through battle. I do not know why you thought it would be a good idea to go out in this weather when you woke up this morning sick. And don't deny it, husband, I know when you are ill," she added when he looked as if he were to reject the allegation. "All I want to know is why you did not tell me. I thought I had more respect from you."

Aragorn's irritation faded into guilt. "Nay, Arwen, I have much respect for you! You know that I would never have you feel like that intentionally."

"Then why do you not tell me of these things?" she rebutted. "We have been married for over a year now, and have known one another for scores of years, yet you still cannot confide in me in such a matter!"

"It is not that," he insisted.

"Then what is it?" she challenged.

"I- I just... I just do not want you to worry," he said with a sigh. He collapsed onto the couch, more out of pure exhaustion than exasperation. He gently rubbed his throat as it protested against his talking so much, but otherwise ignored it. Arwen's hard expression faded slightly, but it was obvious to him that she wanted an explanation. And she deserved one.

"After- after what happened last time- I feared that you would worry if you knew I was away, alone," he said. "I just do not want you to worry."

"I worry even when you are with many of your men," she said gently, sitting down beside him. "I know you can handle yourself, but it is a dangerous world out there, even in this Age. Besides," she said with a small smile, "you worry when I am away from you, too."

"How can I not?" Aragorn asked. "When you go to visit Emyn Arnen- not even my best men are enough! One hundred would not be enough!"

"Exactly," she said. "Yet at least you have the comfort of knowing where I am going, and when I'll be back," she pointed out, raising an eyebrow. "I worry less when I know these things, too."

"Of course," he responded, shaking his head. "I have been a fool!"

"You have been," Arwen agreed, but smiled. "But we are all fools at times." She took his hand in hers and gently rubbed his calloused palm. "While I would prefer you wouldn't wander the City alone, I know you well enough to know that you need your moments that you are not king- even if it is only for a couple of hours. And while I do worry," she added, "I trust your skill. Though perhaps not your ability to know when to rest," the queen added sardonically, glancing over his body.

"I do know I need my rest now," he said, his voice now down to a whisper. "I have had an interesting day."

"An understatement, surely," she said, glancing him over once more. "You should have rested today, Estel. You look terrible."

"I feel terrible."

"Well, then, off to bed with you," the queen said with a small laugh. Aragorn smiled, and they rose together off of the couch. "No bath?" she asked, glancing him over again.

"Not tonight; I am afraid I would fall asleep in the tub," he said. "Or at least in the wait for hot water." He dragged himself into the adjourning room, the master bedroom, and his wife followed. There he slid off his coat and jerkin and kicked off his boots. Arwen watched him silently.

When he pulled off his shirt, the queen drew her breath in surprise. "Estel, what happened?" she asked, shocked by the large bruises dotting his back.

Aragorn sighed as he pulled on a nightshirt. He did not wish to discuss it now, but he would not leave his wife with no answer. "I went to a tavern on the second level. Unfortunately a group of ruffians thought to harass the defenseless innkeeper. I stepped in, and they were not happy."

"Oh, Aragorn," she said with tight lips. He was too tired to figure out if she were more agitated or worried. As he crawled into bed, she asked, "What happened to them?"

"I sent a boy to get the guards," he muttered. "They're locked up on the first level. The inn was a terrible mess, though. I'll compensate."

"Surely they will, as well?" Arwen asked, sitting on the side of the bed. Aragorn could barely keep his eyes open now. "It is their fault, after all."

"Yes, of course, of course," he replied. "Heavy fine to pay off the damages." He caressed his throat once more. "There is more to say, so I shall tell you about when my throat is not so sore, if you would permit it."

"Of course," Arwen replied. "Sleep, my love."

"Yes, I have much to say. Meetings, and Thorongil, and compensation."

"Indeed." She had not understood a word he said. He was much too tired to give decent conversation at this point of time. "Well then, good night, my scruffy Dúnadan," she said, giving him a quick peck on the lips. He returned the kiss and within a moment was in a deep sleep.

Arwen stared at her husband's face, her eyes growing tender as she took in his features. She lightly played with a couple strands of his hair and gave him one last kiss before she left the room.

'Men: you cannot live with them, and you cannot live without them,' or so Éowyn had once told her. How true she was.

She heard her husband cough in his sleep in the room next door. Despite how terrible he felt this evening, she knew what he would say in the morn: that it was just a cold.

Just a cold, indeed.

A side note on Aragorn and Arwen: The thought that two people, while dearly in love with one another, did not have serious issues with one another after marriage when they rarely saw one another throughout their betrothed years is, IMNSHO, laughable.

Here is a little bit more about the original premise of this story and how it came to be.

I was 15 or 16 at the time, and I got a terrible sinus infection that lasted for over a week, maybe up to two. It was from this rather miserable feeling that the story was born from. Many of the original symptoms in the first chapter, especially with the pounding headache, were written when my head felt as if it were going to crack open at any time.

Now I did not respect canon/realism back at 15-16 as much as I do now. The original premise of the story is a bit embarassing to recall now, but it did involve complicated yet unrealistic chains of gangs running the lower levels of the City (think of how gangs controlled major cities in America back in the 19th and earlier 20th centuries) with the upper classes being completely oblivious to the circumstances. When I think about Aragorn and Faramir, and certainly some other competent men of the city council, I do not think "oblivious", so I did not like it when I rewrote the story.

Anyways, Aragorn going into the tavern was in the original, as was the three old men plotline and most of their conversation. Aearhil was also part of the original story. The rowdy drunks, however, were much more important, much more intelligent, and admittedly less drunk than they are now. The written part of the original premise ended when these unsavory folk discovered who Aragorn really was. The original would have continued with rather nasty plotting and the like. In the end, the whole situation seemed rather improbable- almost impossible- so I scrapped it and made it into a simple, almost humorous bar fight. I'll blame Hollywood on that account; they make bar fights look like a fun time ;)

Also in the original Aearhil had two daughters who would have played a minor role. One of the daughters had a 'lover', for lack of better term, who Aragorn had met earlier in the second chapter when he was exploring the city. That whole plot was scrapped; the young man was completely deleted from the picture, and Aearhil is now (from what the readers know) childless.

In the original, Faramir and Arwen had a lesser role, but both of their roles were obviously expanded.

I came back to the story just before I turned 18 and worked on it until it was posted at the end of April, 2008.

While I deleted the whole of the original Chapter Two (which was awful, anyways), I do have a deleted excerpt from chapter three that didn't quite fit in with the rewrite. So here it is now, for your enjoyment. It remains unedited from when I wrote it two years ago. It makes me wince when I read it.

Aragorn is speaking with Aearhil in the tavern.

"But truly, Strider, though meeting all of these people has been great, I`m most interested to see the King."

"Indeed?" Aragorn said, doing his best not to smile.

"Yep. I mean, this man helped take down the Dark Lord and has brought Gondor back to its glory days! He must be extremely powerful. I've heard he's a just, yet kind man. Do you know anything about him?"

"A little," said Aragorn with a small smile that he could not hide.

"Really? What do you know about him?"

Aragorn gave a small shrug. "Just as much as every other man knows about him."

"Oh," Aearhil said, looking a little crestfallen. His mood immediately changed back, and he smiled. "Well, I`m sure I'll see him
one of these days. Can't hide in that big Citadel of his all the time."

"No, he cannot," Aragorn said, holding back a chuckle.

"I'd like to see his family too. I've heard his wife's a beautiful lady. And an elf. Imagine that, eh? D'you know if he has any
children?"

"Not yet."

"Really? That's surprising. He's been on the throne for a couple years now… thought he'd have at least one by now."

Aragorn looked down in his soup bowl and did his best not to laugh. However, he could not prevent a large smile splitting his face. "One day he shall have an heir," he managed to say without bursting into laughter.

"Well, he has to, seeing as he is the King… people wouldn't want the line to die like that, would they?"

"Indeed not." Before the man could continue with his rambles, Aragorn put a gold coin on the table. "For the ale and soup."

"Oh, I cannot accept that much-"

"I insist. I enjoyed the conversation. Thank you, master Aearhil." Aragorn stood and gave a small bow to the innkeeper.

Thanks again for reading! I hope you all enjoyed. I hope to have my next fic up by summer 2008.