The twins’ voices flitted across his consciousness. He recognised the tone, amusement touched with weary concern. They were discussing him, as usual.

‘Is he awake yet?’

‘Not yet. But he has slept long enough I think.’

Aragorn winced. That was Elrohir, and he sounded . . .malevolent.Still, he did not open his eyes, could not in fact. The sleep that had claimed him on the battlefield was not yet ready to release him, and he had no wish to return to the waking world.

‘Perhaps we should just strap him to his horse for the ride back to Minas Tirith,’ Elladan suggested innocently. ‘Or we could have the guards construct a litter. . .’

Aragorn felt a growl rise in his throat. He would not be carried back to his city like an invalid! His fists clenched on the sheet and he heard a muffled laugh.

‘Come now, Estel, we know you are awake,’ Elrohir urged. ‘Just open your eyes for a moment and we will leave you to sleep. For a while.’

‘Or we will have that litter made,’ Elladan threatened, smiling as he saw his brother’s eyes flicker open.

‘You will not,’ Aragorn corrected him, his voice weak and unsteady.  He tried to frown but the effort merely made his eyes scrunch and start to close again. ‘No litters,’ he repeated more firmly.

Elrohir chuckled at his irritation. ‘We shall see little brother. You have slept for two whole days and you will have to satisfy us that you are fit to be up before we let you on a horse.’

‘Without strapping you on,’ Elladan added wickedly.

In control of his face now Aragorn glared at them, but underneath the joking he could see the real worry he’d caused them. Two days? It had been such a small injury. Thinking of the wound brought the pain to his attention and he grimaced, instinctively reaching a hand to his bandaged side, but Elladan was too quick for him.

‘Don’t touch Estel,’ he berated sternly in his best imitation of his father. ‘You will not disturb the dressing with your fiddling. I will check the wound.’

Aragorn groaned, letting his hand fall away. ‘Now?’

‘Yes now. How else can we determine whether you can ride tomorrow?’

‘We’re leaving tomorrow?’ he asked puzzled. ‘For where?’

‘Where?’ Elrohir raised a surprised eyebrow. ‘Minas Tirith of course. The Easterlings are defeated, Estel. You can go home now.’

‘Home,’ Aragorn murmured, his eyes drifting to Elladan as his elder brother removed the bandages from his side. Those underneath were spotted with blood and the elf sucked in a disapproving breath as he saw. He frowned as he caught Aragorn’s eye. ‘Only you could bleed so much from a scratch, Estel,’ he admonished. ‘No, keep still, it has not stopped bleeding yet.’

‘I am fine,’ he protested as he caught his brother’s eye.

Elrohir snorted, concern sparkling in his gaze. ‘You nearly bled to death and you tell us you are fine?’

‘Fine now then,’ Aragorn amended. ‘And perfectly capable of getting up. Tell me, what has happened these last two days?  You are sure it is over?’

‘Quite sure. Legolas has been tracking the few survivors and they have fled back towards their homeland. It seems your scouts were correct in their belief that this was the last group of any size left in Gondor.  The wounded have been tended to and the dead buried. Your army awaits only your word to return to Minas Tirith.’

‘Then they shall have it. As soon as you are finished, Elladan.’

The older twin muttered under his breath as he secured the bandages in place. Sitting back he fixed his youngest brother with a stern look. ‘You must take it easy, Estel,’ he warned. ‘The wound is not yet healed and may break open again if you are not careful with yourself.’

‘I will be careful,’ Aragorn promised with a grin as he pushed himself up with his elbows, not feeling much like a king. Dizziness clouded his sight for an instant but he refused to let it show. Then after a moment he sat up, swinging his legs out of the bed as he thrust himself to his feet. The movement was too swift, and the world tilted sickeningly. Blood pounded in his head as blackness encroached on his vision and his legs went limp. Strong hands caught him as he fell and lowered him back onto the bed.

‘Careful I said,’ Elladan scolded. ‘Do you remember nothing our father taught you when it is you who are injured? You have lost so much blood you should expect to be dizzy. Now, will you take your time or must I keep you here another day?’

Aragorn growled. ‘You will not keep me anywhere my dear brother. If it has really been two days since the battle then a meeting with my officers is long overdue.  Legolas tracked the survivors you say?’ The twins nodded. ‘Then I must speak with him also.’ He stopped, looking at himself for the first time and scowled at the amusement flickering on his brothers’ faces. ‘Where are my clothes?’

* * *

The journey back to Minas Tirith took several days, and it was a black and painful journey for the king.  As his horse carried him closer to his home his thoughts turned inward and dark and he would not let his brothers or his friends near him. 

His side hurt, the constant travel aggravating the wound, and it was not long before the tightness and heat of his skin alerted him to the onset of fever.  Long years he had cared for himself in the wilds, treating his own injuries, sleeping through the worst of the wound-sickness hidden in thickets or small caves, waiting out his weakness with no one to see.  But now he was a king and nowhere was he given the privacy to deal with his hurts in his own way and his brothers hovered round him as though he were still a child who needed their constant attention. No one could afford for anything to happen to Gondor’s king just as he had been found again, and his sense of suffocation only added to his irritation. Elladan had tried to examine him many times since he had left the twins in his tent, only to be driven back by a stream of invectives that left his brother wide-eyed with hurt and worry. In his opinion Aragorn judged he could make it back to Minas Tirith before his body gave out on him, time enough to get to Arwen before he surrendered to the fever and pain, and he would let her tend him in the privacy of their apartments. Anyone who thought differently would find out what it meant to cross the will of the king.

Arwen. How he longed to be with her again, but his longing was tinged with apprehension that the sickness in his veins magnified until the secret guilt he harboured loomed huge and dark in his dreams and stole his fragile peace.  The White City still lived in a kind of dream since the threat of Mordor had been defeated.  Sporadic celebrations livened the streets as relieved citizens gave voice to their joy in this new freedom and the restoration of the royal house.  His father and brothers had not yet left for Imladris and neither Legolas nor Gimli showed any sign of imminent departure. Even Gandalf was still to be found from time to time, appearing at strange times in strange places much as he had always done. No, it was not real this world he lived in, it was a dream, and like all dreams it would come to an end. When that end came, when her family left at last to return to their home if not yet the sea, would he be enough the keep the light of happiness shining in Arwen’s eyes? And when his subjects stopped celebrating and returned to their lives, could he be a good enough king to fulfil the expectations they had for this new age of Middle Earth. And for himself, so privileged in his upbringing among the elves, how would he survive the passing of such beauty from the land on top of the restrictions placed upon him when the crown of the reunified kingdom had been placed on his head?

Such were the doubts of the new king, but a king is allowed no doubts, so he refused the company of those who knew him well enough to read the troubles in his heart and bore his suffering in silence.