Small bare toes dig at the wall as chubby arms pull, squirming, lifting sturdy legs...

There! 

He can see now. 

Trees and birds and waaaaay below, the grass and an Elf.  Is it Wohir?  He waves but the Elf doesn’t see. “Wohir!”

A voice from behind him.  “Estel!  Get down from there before you fall!”  Strong arms grab him, pull him close.   She smells like violets, but he is mad.

“I not faww, Nana!  I see Wohir!”

“Hush.  Don’t let me catch you climbing on that sill again, young man!”

But he grins back at the window, remembering Wohir’s wink.

~~~

Hands cup a moody chin.  Stormy grey eyes glare down at two Elves, mounting their horses.

It isn’t fair.

Elladan and Elrohir are going hunting while he has to stay here.  In this moldy old house reading moldy old books about moldy old history.

He wants to fight orcs.

Not read about moldy old dead kings on a moldy old drowned island.

He watches the horses.  Nobody has finer horses, except Glorfindel. 

“I want a horse,” he mutters.  “I want a horse and a sword.  I want to fight.”

Elrohir glances up.  Waves.  Winks.

Estel is unmoved.

It’s not fair.

~~~

Her face is so fair....

Dreaming eyes stare at the stars.  They pale in beauty compared to the light in her eyes. 

He swings a negligent leg, banging it on the stones below the sill.  Leans his head back against the stone casement. 

Has the night always held such beauty?  Such hope?  Such joy?  Has the breeze through the towering pines always held such song?

“Tinúviel, Tinúviel...,” he whispers to the starlight trembling.

He closes his eyes, smiling, seeing her, the lithe-limbed dance of her movements... but even more the glimmer-light of her eyes.

Her face is so fair....

~~~

“All that is fair and beautiful will fall with us, should we fail.”  Troubled eyes search the courtyard, watching.  Four hobbits walk past, heads together, chattering.  His gaze lifts to the sky.  Gil-Estel shines softly over the valley.  “Many long ages have you shone hope’s light for us,” he murmurs.  “Do you now shine on our waning days?”

A hand on his shoulder.  He turns from the window to see the face of his old friend, compassionate and wise.  “Hope is not lost, Aragorn.  Not yet.”

“Gandalf, do you think it likely...”

“Likely?  No.  Possible?  Yes.  Yes, it is possible.”

~~~

Who would have thought it possible? 

He stands at a window, a world away from the one at Rivendell.  A city spreads beneath him, glory bannered and gleaming, white towers strong with hope and bright with peace.

Slender arms encircle his waist.

“Is it all you hoped?”

“Yes... ”

“But?”

“Far too many fell.”   He sees the face of his dearest comrade, still and white, the death hand lying cruel upon his noble countenance. 

The banners blur, the towers suddenly mist-shrouded.  Choked words, aching throat.  “I wish–”

“He knows.”

Steadying breath.  A nod.  “So also does my heart speak; Halbarad knows.”