Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters of J. R. R. Tolkien, nor any of the various dramatic incarnations thereof. No profit is being made from this work.

Welcome. This story owes a great deal thematically to a modern folk song called "Fast Freight." It was written by Terry Gilkyson and recorded by the Kingston Trio in 1958 on their album The Kingston Trio. Do listen to this if you have the chance — Dave Guard’s solo is warm and plaintive, and the harmony on the chorus will send a chill down your spine and haunt you for quite a while afterward. If you like to listen to music as you read, try this album.

The story is set in Minas Tirith, from one evening in summer to the next, several years after the War of the Ring. That’s all for now. I will most likely return at the end of the story. Good reading!

Moonlight streamed in the window. It fluttered through small, diamond-shaped windowpanes of thick bubbled glass. It gently caressed the curtains — draped elegantly to the floor, sewn of some impossibly soft, sheer material that could catch light and, in a sudden instant, iridesce to delight the eye. It crept across the smooth, cold flagstones of the floor and the thick braided rag rug. It climbed the heavy four-posted bed of dark wood intricately carved and heavy brocaded curtains drawn back to allow the warmth of the summer night to enter. It swept across the light coverlet and the two bodies curled underneath it. One, an Elf lady, was fast asleep, her dark hair spread over the pillow. The other, a mortal Man, lay awake. The moonlight caught his eye and made it glitter.

It was a beautiful night, calm and still. The only sound was the soft breathing of the Queen. Aragorn should have been able to sleep. He had slept in far worse circumstances, rolled in a thin cloak on the hard ground beneath a tree as the wind blew chill about him. He had slept the dreamless sleep of the just in the endless dark of Moria, where the floor was stone and his pillow a rock, where the air was dry and still and fine particles of rock dust hung suspended as they had for years on end. But here, in his large soft bed, beneath a summer coverlet of the finest linen, behind barred gates, armed guards and locked doors, with the woman he loved lying not an arm’s length away — here he could not sleep.

He sighed. He had tried counting backwards from one hundred, and had reached one, still as alert as ever. He had been sorely tempted to go beyond that; a long time ago in Harad, he had been told of the mysterious numbers beyond one which the Haradrim used to perform wizardly feats of calculation, the numbers that began with nothing and got smaller than that. It had been a long time ago, however, and he would have to think about those numbers, and that thinking would certainly not help him sleep. No, counting would not help.

Briefly, Aragorn considered a trip to the kitchens for a mug of warm milk, which he remembered his mother giving him on nights when the sheer living vibration of Imladris had kept her young son from his rest. But that would entail the long trek down to the kitchens and either a lonely time spent fetching and heating the milk if the cooks were asleep or embarrassing questions if someone else was awake. Either way, it would end with another long trek back over stone floors that were always cold, even at the height of summer. The warm milk might have helped, but it didn’t seem worthwhile to get up and find out.

Perhaps he was too warm. Aragorn had spent most of his adult life being too cold, and it sometimes took him a while to realize when the warmth of southern Gondor was getting to be too much for him. He poked his feet experimentally from underneath the bedding. The sensation was pleasant. Perhaps he would feel better if there were a breath of fresh air in the room. Cautiously, so as not to wake Arwen, Aragorn climbed out of the high bed and padded over to the window. He grasped the iron latch and carefully lifted it. The bar slid from its slot with only the faintest click, and the well-oiled window swung open into the night.

There was indeed a light breeze blowing, and Aragorn closed his eyes and let it ruffle his hair, bringing with it all of the night smells of Minas Tirith. There was stone and hay, dog, horse and pigeon. Somewhere, a cookfire had been covered and left to smolder, and the sharp smell of smoke tickled his nose. A honeysuckle vine below the window sweetened the aroma of several middens in the area. The wind was blowing off the Pelennor fields, and it carried faint notes of dark, fertile earth and slowly ripening crops. From still farther away came the barest hint of the sharp, clean scent of the Wild.

Aragorn sat down on the cushioned window seat and breathed his kingdom in. From the dark forested wastes of northern Arnor to the bustling seaside towns along the mouth of the Anduin, he had seen it all, walked it all, and loved it all. He had fought a war for this prize, this jewel of a kingdom. He had undertaken a hopeless, insane Quest, climbed Caradhras and descended into Moria, run across the plains of Rohan and walked the Paths of the Dead for the right to sit here, in this room in the Citadel, on this window seat, with these curtains draped about him.

He smiled to himself as he held up the hem of one drape and examined it closely. The curtains made him think of Arwen, for it was she who had wanted them, who had designed them and supervised their making. He supposed they were pretty enough, but he couldn’t see the use of such thin curtains. Arwen had attempted to explain about how windows needed dressing, but Aragorn privately maintained that curtains, if they existed at all, ought to be heavy and dark to keep winter’s chill out of the room. These were city curtains, decorative privacy screens only. But they were Arwen’s curtains, and he would have them for love of her.

Sitting by the window did make Aragorn feel somewhat calmer. He could look out at the stars and think. Something was bothering him, something small and insistent, nagging at the back of his mind. It was enough to put him off sleep, but not enough to worry him consciously. As he had been taught from earliest childhood, he turned his face to the stars to search for his answers. The stars twinkled gently in the warm night. With the city spread below, they looked small and far away. It always amazed him that the stars, which as far as he knew were the same all over Middle Earth, could look so different from different lands. From the plains of Rohan, the stars seemed to come down in a great shower all around the horizon, almost close enough to touch. In the frozen North, they glittered like ice, and in the deserts of Harad they shone clear and bright as diamonds.

It seemed to Aragorn that the stars over Minas Tirith knew that he was troubled, and it also seemed that they held the answer to his problem. If he gazed up long enough, surely great Elbereth Gilthoniel, the Star-Kindler herself, would deign to whisper at least a hint in his ear. He took a deep breath and began methodically to clear his mind of chattering thought, the better to receive whatever wisdom might come from the stars. As he exhaled all of the events and memories of the past weeks, an image took shape and grew in his mind.

He saw the desolate ruins of Weathertop in late autumn, as the wind was just beginning to howl. In his mind’s eye, he and Halbarad had just met unexpectedly on the hilltop. They had greeted each other warmly and had chosen to celebrate the occasion with a small, cautious fire. There was not much for dinner, but Aragorn had some dried apples, a wedge of cheese that was still mostly good, and a flask of watered wine. Halbarad had produced chewy, spicy morsels of dried venison and some nuts, a welcome treat. Sitting beside the fire, warmed by the food and company, both Rangers had thought themselves Kings of all Creation for one magical evening. It was his favorite memory of Halbarad, and even now it still made Aragorn smile.

What would Halbarad have thought of him now, Aragorn wondered. He had achieved exactly what they had talked about for so many years. He was King of Gondor and Arnor, he had reunited the two ancient realms, and under his leadership, the land had blossomed, growing ever more fertile and productive. This year’s wheat and rye crops looked to be so abundant that Aragorn had ordered the construction of several storage houses within the city walls, so that surplus grain could be kept against siege or famine. The new public pleasure garden of Minas Tirith, a wedding present from Legolas, was becoming famous. People from the surrounding farm villages had started to travel to the city on holidays solely to walk along its pathways and see the strange, exotic flowers that bloomed there. The Reunited Kingdom seemed to be entering a phase of peace and prosperity to rival the ancient days of the old Kings. And yet, something was not right.

Finally, Aragorn relaxed and let down the defenses in his mind. He was ready to accept what his heart had been telling him. He was getting fed up with his role as King and was beginning to want his old life as a Ranger back. And there was something else, buried even deeper. He was terrified of being found out for a fraud. Having spent so many years roaming the Wild had prepared him to win his kingdom, but he had never thought to learn how to run it once it was his. Minas Tirith prospered, but Aragorn had no idea how it was doing that, and he lived in constant, low-grade fear of the day when life would not be so good, and the people would turn to him, their King, for answers, and he would have none to give.

He would sit in Council meetings and listen to his advisors drone on about trade agreements, treaty negotiations and public policy, and he tried his hardest not to show how bored he was or how incomprehensible their natterings seemed to him. Sometimes he wondered if Boromir wouldn’t have made a far better King. Boromir, for all that he was not of directly royal lineage, had been trained to rule, where Aragorn, Heir of Isildur, had not. One day, the people would realize this, and Aragorn could not bear the thought that he would let them down. Far better to tramp alone through the forests, drinking beer alone in a dark corner of the common room of The Prancing Pony and being responsible only for a loosely connected band of mostly self-sufficient men.

He sighed. Those golden days were gone now, and the night was wearing on. In a few short hours, it would be day, and he would have to face the world as King again and pretend that he knew what he was doing. It was hard, and it would be even harder if he didn’t at least try to sleep. He left the window open and padded back to the bed. Arwen had taken advantage of his absence to sprawl diagonally across the bed, taking up his side as well as hers, and Aragorn tried to shove her out of the way without waking her.

This proved beyond him. Arwen blinked sleepily at him. "Estel?" she asked. "Were you up? Is something wrong?"

"I was hot," Aragorn said miserably. "I got up to open a window." Which was true. Arwen gazed at him, her eyes clear and penetrating. They seemed to be waiting for the rest of his answer. Despite the warmth of the night, he snuggled close to her, wanting to feel the presence of the lady for whose sake he had endured so much.

"Arwen," he began tentatively, "are you content?"

She furrowed her brow, puzzled. "Content? With what?"

"With your life. Your mortality. Being Queen of a people not your own. With me."

Arwen smiled. "Of course I am content, dearest. I could have had any husband I desired long before I ever met you. But I have chosen, and I have chosen well."

"Do you ever regret your choice?"

"Why should I do that?"

Aragorn held her closer. "I am not exactly the man you loved in Imladris," he said. "Not any more. I am no longer a Ranger; I am a King. I think differently now. I sleep indoors, in a bed, each night, and I spend far more time at council tables than guarding the land and the people."

"Do you worry that you have grown soft?" As always, Arwen knew exactly how to pierce to the center of Aragorn’s thoughts.

"No. Not quite," he said slowly. "Say rather that I fear the new role I must play in life. I feel myself helplessly adrift, not knowing how to steer the course of this land of mine. Gondor prospers, but I fear that it prospers without me. And I fear the time when at last I am needed, and I will not know how to aid my people." There. He had said it out loud. He had admitted his secret fear, and he could not unsay it.

Arwen was silent for a moment. Then she looked at him solemnly. "Do you remember learning to use a sword?" she asked.

"Yes. What of it?"

"It was hard at first. You jabbed and swung randomly, not knowing how or why you would hit. As you got better, you began to learn the consequences of your actions, and you learned to control those actions to achieve the results you desired. In time, you became so skilled that it seemed that you had always known the thrusts and parries which it took you so long to learn. Then, you were truly a swordsman, and you could never not be one again."

Aragorn regarded his wife in the moonlight. "Are you saying that I must learn to rule as I learned to wield a sword?" he asked.

"Yes."

"But what if there is a crisis before I have learned?" he asked.

She smiled. "Then you will do what children have done from the dawn of time when faced with forces beyond their control. You will grow up quickly." She turned, as if to go back to sleep, but he caught her shoulder.

"Arwen."

"Yes, Estel?"

"Do you ever miss the Ranger you wedded?"

"Never. I never lost him to begin with." And then she cuddled herself into the hollow of his shoulder and was asleep again. Aragorn shifted her to a more comfortable position in his arms and closed his eyes. Talking with Arwen hadn’t entirely cleared the nagging doubts in his head, but it had muted them enough to let him sleep.

As he broke his fast the next morning, Aragorn listened while his secretary reviewed the plans for his day. At the third hour after sunrise, the King would make an official visit to the site where the new royal granaries were being built. Officially, it was termed a Royal Inspection, but it was mainly an occasion to see and be seen, and to lend a bit of royal pomp to the tedious labor of the stonemasons. This duty did not bother Aragorn at all. He had found that he rather liked the common folk of Gondor, and he enjoyed the odd opportunity to pay them brief visits. For their part, they seemed to enjoy the favor of their King and to relish the bit of splendor and ceremony added to their daily routine. The Royal Inspection would last no more than half an hour, so that the King could return to the Citadel for the council meeting at the fourth hour after sunrise.

Aragorn scooped the last bit of cold pigeon into his mouth and left for the stables. When he arrived, Roheryn was saddled and waiting in the stable yard. As his retinue gathered together, Aragorn noticed Arwen’s gray palfrey being led into the courtyard as well. A quick enquiry with one of the grooms revealed that the Queen was to make a similar Royal Inspection of the Houses of Healing. Arwen had cultivated a patch of athelas in her private garden, and had been experimenting with crossing different strains of the herb to improve its potency. Every so often, she would gather a basket of cuttings and bring it to old Ioreth, who would examine the results of the crosses and make suggestions for further experiments. After Ioreth had seen the effects of wild athelas during the War, she had devoured all the available lore concerning the herb, and she and Arwen were fast expanding that particular body of knowledge.

It was already a beautiful morning. It being summer, the sun was already fairly high in the sky, which was a brilliant blue. A soft wind kept the heat at bay. Aragorn felt the tension and the worry of the night before fading away. No one could be unhappy on a day like this one. He swung into the saddle and balanced himself lightly, looking around to see that everyone was in place — the two pages before him, the four minor nobles in charge of the granary project behind him, and two more pages to bring up the rear. Seeing that all were ready, the King gave the signal, and the party trooped out of the stable yard.

They proceeded down a series of covered passageways that led to the palace gates. The Dwarves of Aglarond had fashioned them out of wrought iron in a cunning pattern that matched the mithril on the large gates to the city itself. One of the pages blew a short horn-call to the gatekeeper. The gatekeeper unlatched the gates, and the two sentries outside stood to attention in the presence of the King.

As he rode through the gates, Aragorn took a deep breath, smiled, and gazed at the beauty all around him. Suddenly, his eyes came to rest on a dusty brown heap hidden in a nook against the palace wall. "Halt," he commanded. "What is that, over by the gate?"

One of the sentries moved to investigate. He squatted down by the heap and prodded it gently with the hilt of his dagger. "A beggar, my Lord," he said. "He’s dead."

"What?" Aragorn dismounted and strode towards the sentry. "A beggar, dead in front of the Citadel? Why was he not taken in and given food and drink?"

"I do not know, my Lord," the young guard said calmly. "I could not see him from my post. He must have arrived and died before I took up my watch, for I saw no beggars approach."

Aragorn turned to the nearer of the two pages. "Go, boy," he said. "Find the guard who had this post last night, and bring him to me. I wish to know why any beggar would be denied the hospitality of the King in time of peace." The page scurried away. Aragorn knelt down by the body and peered at it. One of the nobles dismounted and came to stand behind him.

"My Lord," he said, "I feel obligated to point out —"

"Yes?" Aragorn said sharply.

"The Inspection, sire," the noble said. "We will be late. The masons await your presence."

Aragorn sighed. "Tell them I will be delayed," he replied. The noble waited for a few seconds, as if expecting an elaboration, then bowed, mounted his horse and rode off. Aragorn resumed his inspection of the crumpled body.

Whoever he was, he had most likely died of disease or starvation. He could hardly have frozen to death in the summer, and the clawed hand that protruded from the filthy rags did not show the ravages of extreme old age. The summer madness was a common malady among beggars at this time of year, as people gave away crusts of bread made from the last of the previous year’s grain. Perhaps this unfortunate had found hospitality some nights ago, and had filled his grateful stomach with the generosity of a farmer’s wife, hospitality that had turned unwittingly to madness and death.

A look at the beggar’s clothing revealed another mystery. Though torn and filthy, it had once been of exceptional quality. The seams were tight and well reinforced, and had been mended with care more than once. Instead of the light, cracked shoes common to beggars in Minas Tirith, this man had boots, also worn and mended, of a design Aragorn had rarely seen in the South. He sat back on his heels and tried to remember where he had seen boots of that make before. The design bore some Elvish influence, evident in the suppleness of the leather that allowed mending in the Wild, the topstitching that made it harder to get mud inside, and the lacing at the ankles that adjusted the fit of the boot. Aragorn knew that, were he to remove one of the beggar’s boots, he would find it lined with felted rabbit fur. He himself had once had — still had, in fact, in a wardrobe somewhere — such boots, well worn, often mended by his own hand.

A terrible thought struck him. He turned to the sentry, who had been standing silently watching the King’s inspection of the beggar’s corpse. "Your halberd, man," the King commanded. The guard handed it over. Gritting his teeth against the indignity, but wishing to avoid whatever contamination or vermin might be found on this body, Aragorn used the butt end of the halberd to turn the beggar onto his back. He staggered back in shock at what he saw.

Beneath the grime worked deep into every crevice of the face, beneath the sunken features of starvation, beneath the greasy, matted tendrils of hair, was a familiar face. It took Aragorn a moment to recover from the immediate shock of recognition, but it could not be denied. The man who had died alone, a sick, starving beggar huddled in a corner of the wall of the Citadel, was none other than Gofannon of the Dunedain of the North, a former comrade of Aragorn’s during the long years of exile guarding the tattered remnants of the Kingdom of Arnor from the minions of Sauron.

Gofannon had been twenty years older than Aragorn, a seasoned warrior who had taught his young Chieftain much about the ways of life in the Wild. Worn and grizzled before his time, Gofannon had taken Aragorn under his wing, molding him into a commander he could respect. He had showed Aragorn many of the secret ways through the old forests, ways that had proved useful years later when Aragorn had had to guide four hobbits and a pony to Imladris. He had ridden South with Halbarad and had joined the Gray Company, walking the Paths of the Dead and sailing up the River Anduin to win honor on the Pelennor fields. He should have fallen honorably in battle, or died peacefully in a warm bed surrounded by a loving family, not alone as a beggar on the street.

The sound of boots interrupted the King’s silent shock. A young guardsman, presumably the sentry of the previous night, saluted. "My Lord," he said. "You sent for me."

Aragorn turned to look at the lad. "I did. What is your name?"

"Dafyth, my lord,"

"Dafyth. You were sentry here last night?"

"I was."

"Did you watch this man die here, outside the gate?"

Dafyth paled visibly. "He’s dead?" he managed to choke out. "Oh, my Lord, I had no idea he was that sick. My Lord must believe me, had I known, I would never have allowed him to sit there as long as he did."

The King raised an eyebrow. "Am I to understand from this that you allowed a poor, sick, starving beggar to sit all night in the street outside the Citadel? Did you never once think to offer him the hospitality of the King?"

Dafyth’s spine became even straighter. "Do not think ill of me, my Lord; I did offer him such, and he refused the offer."

"He refused?"

"Yes, my Lord."

Aragorn took a step back. He had not expected that. He had never known Gofannon to refuse the hospitality of any house in the Bree-land, no matter how great or how small. It seemed he had indeed been plagued by the summer madness this year. Aragorn looked again at the young guard. Perhaps twenty years of age, he would still have been a gangling youth during the War. Old enough to ride forth as a squire, perhaps, getting his first taste of battle at too young an age. Old enough to remember the terror and the screams, but none of the heroes or leaders of Men. "Did you know who he was?" he asked.

Dafyth looked at the body sadly. "He talked with me a little. He said his name was Gofannon, and that he had been a great warrior once. I was surprised to hear such from a man begging in the street, and I offered to take him inside for a mug of beer in the guardhouse. Three times I offered, my Lord, and he refused. His speech was slurred, and I thought that perhaps I should escort him to the Houses of Healing for the night, but he refused that as well."

Aragorn regarded Dafyth solemnly. "What happened then?" he asked.

"He told me some stories about the olden days, when he lived in the North," Dafyth went on. "He said that he knew my Lord as a lad, begging my Lord’s pardon, and that there had been much change since then. ‘It’s like living in a dream,’ he said, ‘I have to pinch myself sometimes to see what’s around me.’ He said he often fell asleep and dreamed of striding through the forest, only to wake and find himself in the city, and then he was never sure which was the dream and which was reality.

"’Ai, Grandfather,’ I said, ‘you are ill. Come, let me offer you a bed for the night, as one soldier to another.’ But he refused. He said that he had slept under the stars as a young man, and he would do so again, for they alone remained constant. Then he sat down in that corner. I bade him good night, and never again did he speak to me."

Aragorn was silent for a moment. Then he looked up. Dafyth was still there, waiting. "Go," Aragorn told him. "You did well. Take your meal. Raise a mug for him, for he was a fine man and did not deserve this manner of death." Dafyth saluted and marched away. Aragorn knelt down by Gofannon’s body once more.

"Rest well, my old friend," he said. "Dream of the old forests long ago and be at peace." He rose and turned to the nearest of the four pages. "See that this man receives an honorable burial," he said, "for he is of a noble lineage." The page nodded and ran off.

The King walked back to his party. With a heavy heart, he mounted Roheryn. He stared off between the horse’s ears into the middle distance. For a moment, he, too, was back in the cool pine woods near Imladris. A gentle hand roused him from his reverie.

"It is sad when an old warrior sinks so low," said Lord Peredur, a representative of the royal family of Dol Amroth. "There are some such beggars in the city, old men who pine away for the days of their youth. The world moves on, yet they cannot follow. They are too proud to enter the Houses of Healing, and too ashamed to beg. I have seen them at the ateliers of artisans, sweeping the floors so that they might earn their crusts of bread honestly. One cannot help but pity them."

Aragorn nodded. "We must find a way to care for them," he said. "Some form of work, so that they may earn food and shelter. Perhaps something at the granaries, when they are finished. And we must go there now, for I owe the masons there the honor of a Royal Inspection." The King’s procession started again, flags waving gaily in the light breeze on this most beautiful summer day.

Dinner that evening was an unusually solemn affair. Normally, Aragorn relished this time with his wife, enjoying the delicacies provided by the royal kitchens and the sparkling conversation with the love of his life. The meal was, as usual, excellent, featuring the first flush of summer vegetables, new bread, and fish caught in the Anduin that morning. Aragorn had a mug of Barliman’s Finest, direct from Bree, while Arwen preferred a small glass of Dorwinion wine. They ate in silence for some time. Finally, Arwen laid down her knife and fork and turned her brilliant eyes on her husband.

"Ioreth was pleased with today’s batch," she said, a little too brightly. "I do believe we have hit upon the right path to take with our crosses. Why, the scent of this one lasted hours after the leaves were bruised."

"Indeed," Aragorn said shortly. "The scent clings to you even now."

"So you have decided to grace this table with your conversation after all," Arwen said, her voice softening.

"I apologize," Aragorn said. "Perhaps I have been neglectful this evening."

"Say rather. . . preoccupied," Arwen said. "Will you not share your troubles?"

Aragorn buried his face in his hands. Could he share his strange and overpowering mix of emotions with Arwen? Could the sheltered daughter of Elrond possibly understand what had happened this morning? Of course, now that he thought about it, Arwen had also known Gofannon. At the very least, she should have the news of his death.

"I had an unsettling experience today," he began. "As I was leaving the Citadel for my Inspection of the granaries, I came upon what I believed to be the corpse of a beggar. He had died in the night, of the summer madness, just outside the gate."

"Just outside?" Arwen asked. "Was he given no aid or comfort?"

"The guard offered him food and a place to sleep. He refused," Aragorn explained. "But there is still more to this tale. I knew the dead man. He was Gofannon of the Dunedain."

"Gofannon?" The color faded from Arwen’s cheeks. "How came it that Gofannon of the Dunedain should end his days as a beggar in Minas Tirith?"

"I do not know precisely how it came about," Aragorn said. "When last I had word from Gofannon, he had returned to the North. Something must have drawn him back to Minas Tirith, though what that was, I cannot say. He did not send word that he would be returning, and truly I did not know he was here until I saw him dead in the street."

"Something must have gone amiss in his life for it to end thus," Arwen mused. "Perhaps it was my father’s departure from Imladris. Gofannon always held a special place for Imladris in his heart, and it may well be that the sight of Imladris without its lord was too much for him to bear."

"You may be right," Aragorn replied. "Lord Peredur said something distressing to me as well. He said that many of the beggars in the city are simply old warriors who pine away for the world of their youth. They cannot bear to live in the present, and so they waste away in their dreams of the past."

"Do you think that is what happened to Gofannon?"

"I do." Aragorn released a long, shuddery breath. He had come this far in his tale, and now was the time to reveal the secret worry that had nagged at him all day as he smiled at the masons at the granaries and nodded to the lords in council. "Arwen. . . " he began.

"Yes, love?"

"The same thoughts have touched my mind as well. I, too, have pined for the days of my youth, which I will never see again. I, too, have been assailed by doubts concerning my present stature in the world. Day by day I feel myself less able to rule, and day by day the call of the Wild grows stronger in my mind. What is to prevent me from following Gofannon’s dark path?"

Arwen regarded him calmly for a moment. "You have an advantage that Gofannon did not," she said at last. "You have a wife who has learned a little wisdom during her years. Will you hear my counsel?"

"Gladly."

Arwen took Aragorn’s arm and led him out of the dining hall. In silence she led him through the corridors of the Citadel until they came to a particular oak door. Behind the door was a long, winding stair. They climbed this stair together, ascending the endless spiral of stone steps worn hollow in the middle from all the feet that had trodden this path throughout the ages. Aragorn abandoned his weary mind to the repetition of each step, until it seemed that he had always been climbing this tower and would continue to climb forever, with the embroidered hem of Arwen’s gown flowing forever just before his eyes.

Aragorn counted over two hundred steps before losing track. Shortly after that, the winding stair finally came to an end. He followed Arwen out onto a small terrace. They were at the top of the highest tower of the Citadel. From that terrace, they looked down and saw the White City spread out below them, flags waving gently in the evening breeze. The sun was setting in the west, and the last rays of sunlight bathed the city in a rich golden glow that was already fading to deep rose and lilac in the east. Farther out, the Pelennor stretched calm and serene. From his vantage point, Aragorn thought he could just make out the raw new mound where Gofannon had been buried with full honors that afternoon, on the field where he had fought his greatest battle. Still farther out, Anduin rolled toward the Sea. Aragorn strained his eyes in the fading light, and imagined he could almost see as far as Osgiliath.

"This is a beautiful sight," he said. "I should come here more often."

Arwen smiled and leaned over the terrace rail a little. "See," she said. "Down there is my garden."

Aragorn looked. Sure enough, a small sliver of Arwen’s personal garden was visible from the terrace. "I see," he said softly.

"The athelas grows strong this year," Arwen told him. "I think it has finally found its root in this soil. Its leaves are long and shining, and its scent by day rivals the jasmine of Ithilien by night."

"I did not know you were breeding it for scent," Aragorn said, puzzled.

"Such was not my intent," Arwen replied. "But Ioreth and I have found that the scent varies as the different strains are crossed. We have learned much about this herb from its scent. Some varieties have a rich, heavy odor that Ioreth wishes to distill into a perfume. They were the first to take root and grow in my garden. But the healing power of those varieties is lessened. They cheer the senses but do not awaken the body as they should.

"There were other varieties, though, which did not fare so well in the garden. Their leaves were small, and their scent, while still wholesome, was thin and sharp. Their potency varied; some leaves were strong, while others less so."

Aragorn finally cracked a small smile. He was familiar with his wife’s conversational habits, and he was beginning to see where her tale of botanical adventure was leading. "I sense a metaphor in the making," he said gently.

Arwen returned his smile. "Aye," she said. "So there is. Have you had enough counsel, then, oh wise and noble King? Or shall I spin my tale in full?"

"Tell on," Aragorn said. "Tell me what happened when you crossed these two strains of athelas. For that was what you did, was it not?"

"Indeed." Arwen gazed out over the terrace. "I crossed the rich, heavy garden athelas with a strain more akin to the weed which grows wild in the North. The result of that cross is the best plant I have yet grown. It is strong and healthy, and while the leaves are perhaps not as glossy as the garden plant, yet they were larger and stronger than the wilder one. The scent is neither rich nor heavy; it is light and bracing, yet faintly sweet in a way that no other kind of athelas can equal. Its healing virtues, however, are its crowning glory. This last strain of athelas far outstrips either of its parent strains in power. Much more can be done with this herb, I would imagine. It will become a most powerful servant."

"Much good will be done," Aragorn agreed, "and yet I fear that much evil could come of this as well. A powerful servant will in time overcome the master."

"Leadership is a learned art," Arwen said. "The study is endless, and each new day brings with it a new challenge and a new lesson. The mastery of one lesson points the way to mastery of the next. You learned to wield one sword in battle; then you learned to wield a company of swords. You commanded an army; now you are learning to command a kingdom. Each stage is but a way station on the Road."

"It seems that each way station is harder to reach than the one before."

"Perhaps. But you have strength within you, son of Arathorn. In you, the power of the White City and the tenacity and cunning of the Wild are combined. Do not deny either side of your heritage. Rather, blend them together into a greater whole. Be a King, and be a Ranger as well, and Minas Tirith and the Kingdom will prosper for it."

Aragorn stared out over the terrace rail for a moment, then turned back to Arwen. "It is good counsel," he said. "But, truth to tell, I fear it. The wild forests of the North call to me some nights with a power I would not have thought possible. They sing songs of freedom and simplicity. It is a seductive music that calls to me, and I fear I must resist its pull utterly, or else I shall never again find peace on my chosen path."

"Do not fight the call," Arwen said. At Aragorn’s puzzled look, she smiled. "Turn to it, and welcome it into your heart. Acknowledge your love of the wandering life, for it is part of you and will not be denied. Accept the longings of your heart, and then build your dreams upon them."

"As Gofannon could not?" Aragorn murmured. And then there were no more words that he could speak. He sank to his knees on the cool flagstones. Arwen knelt beside him and took her husband in her arms. Whether or not the King of Gondor and Arnor wept for his old comrade there, as the golden breeze of evening caressed the highest tower of the Citadel overlooking the White City, only the Queen ever knew.

After a time had passed, Aragorn and Arwen knelt together on the terrace. Aragorn rested his head against Arwen’s warm shoulder and breathed in her own sweet scent, overlaid this evening with the clean, wholesome aroma of athelas. He listened to the wind singing around the tower and the trees whispering to each other far below. Tilting his head back, he gazed up at the sky all around them, fading to a dim purple. The first stars of the evening had begun to twinkle. Aragorn wondered if Gofannon was spending this night among them, finally getting his chance to explore the stars that he had loved so much in life before continuing his journey beyond the circles of the world.

"Farewell, my old friend," he whispered, then turned his head to breathe Arwen’s athelas-tinged scent once more. It still grew in the Wild, and he was comforted by that, knowing that the world still offered this aid to travelers wounded upon the road. Yet it was also here in Minas Tirith, strengthened and refined to soothe the greater woes of a kingdom. For the first time in many nights, as he rested in the arms of his Queen in their eyrie atop the White City of Minas Tirith, high above the city and the farmland and the wilderness, the King was truly at peace.

END

Many thanks to all who enjoyed this story. It's a slightly different crowd than the last time I posted this, which I like. I enjoy very much reading people's reactions, as you often see things in the story that I do not, and it's neat to see something that I've lived in and gotten comfortable with through new eyes.

In case anyone was wondering, Gofannon died of ergot poisoning. Ergot is a fungus that attacks mainly rye, although other grains have been affected from time to time. Bread made with infected rye flour causes hallucinations and heart problems similar to LSD. Ergot was common in Europe in the Middle Ages, and is thought to be at the root of many outbreaks of mass hysteria, including lycanthropy in Central Europe and the Salem witch craze in America.

That's about it on this end. Thank you once again for reading, and I do hope you enjoyed it.