The sharp ring of hooves clattering on cobbled stones sent shafts of pain through Aragorn’s aching head as the company entered the courtyard of the citadel.  Grooms and servants appeared from doorways to help weary soldiers dismount and take care of their sweating, stamping mounts. For many minutes confusion surrounded the king as officials converged on him, each clamouring for attention and speaking over the next. He waved them aside impatiently even as he saw Faramir hurry towards him, placating phrases on his lips designed to spare his king the trials of listening to bureaucrats who felt they had been ignored too long in his absence.

Aragorn spared his steward a grateful glance as his eyes strained to make out the window of the room where Arwen would be waiting. She never came to meet him here, saving their reunions for the privacy of their chambers where they were free to express their joy in each other. Arwen. Her name stirred so many different feelings in him he could not begin to sort them. He had been too long away from her. There was so much he needed to say.

A hand caught his arm as he started to walk towards the entrance closest to his apartments, his steps a little too close to a stagger to completely hide. ‘Going somewhere in a hurry, Estel? The Houses of Healing are not that way.’

‘Leave me be, Elrohir,’ Aragorn snapped, catching sight of Elladan watching them from a distance, his face a mask of concern. After the reception he had received last time he voiced his worry it would be a while before the older twin approached him again. He ignored the flash of guilt, turning his attention back to his current tormentor. ‘I am fine. I merely wish to see my wife.’

‘You are sick little brother, I can see it in your face,’ Elrohir corrected him gently, ignoring the angry tone. ‘Arwen can come to you there.’

‘Please,’ he pleaded, hating the weakness in his voice. ‘Please let me see Arwen first in private. The Houses of Healing are no place for her to greet the husband she has not seen in months.’

Elrohir dropped his hand in surrender and stepped back, a frown kinking his forehead as he nodded. ‘Very well, Estel, go to Arwen. But if you do not afterwards come to the healers, they will come to you. I will make sure of that.’

Aragorn gritted his teeth, forcing out an acceptance of his brother’s terms. If he did not agree he had no doubt that Elladan would back up his twin and he would find himself dragged to the Houses of Healing in a manner that in no way befitted a king.  Even after thousands of years of life as lords in their own right his brothers were still capable of displaying a total lack of propriety, or respect for his position, if they believed it was necessary for his continuing health.  To ones so old, even when his hair was grey he would never truly have grown up.

The thought brought a smile unbidden to his lips. Spinning around lest the sudden burst of affection show on his face, Aragorn stumbled. Feeling the movement behind him as Elrohir leaned in to help, and fearing a retraction of the reprieve just granted, he righted himself by a sheer effort of will and continued on his way without looking back.

The corridors of the palace twisted ahead of him as he stepped through the doorway. The rush of cool air soothed his burning skin and, out of sight of the soldiers and servants in the courtyard, he leant wearily against the marble wall, allowing a wave of fatigue to wash over him.  He knew the way he was treating his brothers was wrong but a part of him harboured the desire to keep pushing them away, show them he did not need them, and then perhaps they would not make the choice he feared they would – or was it hoped? – when their time of choosing came upon them. But where then would that leave Arwen, if he deprived her of the comfort of her brothers’ presence to expunge his own guilt?

The quandary made his head hurt even more fiercely. Eyes that were grainy and sore slid closed, and when he opened them again he could not longer banish the blurry haze that had hovered at the edges of his vision for the last hours.

It always came back to Arwen, his most precious of treasures. For many years he had yearned for the day he would become king, even as he dreaded it, for only then would he be united with the other half of his heart. That she would give up her immortality for him had at first frightened him, then supported and succoured him when everything around him was lonely and grim. Yet in all those years of waiting it had seemed a dream that would never come true, a tantalising prize forever out of his reach, and he had blinded himself to the reality of such a sacrifice. And now the day had come, his dream had come true, and because of him this fairest of immortal beings was facing the coldness of mortal death even as he was. What had he done?

With a sigh Aragorn pushed himself off the wall, taking a shaky step towards his destination.  The corridor had become a tunnel, the walls of which were closing in on him at an alarming rate, the light of the window at the end slowly shrinking to a pinpoint. Trailing a hand along the blocks of smooth marble he forced his tired body to put one foot in front of the other, each step taking him that much closer to Arwen.  But at some stage he realised he was not going to make it.

Determined not to collapse in the corridor to be found by the next of the palace staff who passed by, Aragorn felt for the nearest door, his sight already dimming from grey to black. Grasping fingers closed over the cool metal of an embossed handle. Someone’s study, his muddled mind reasoned. Whose? But that question could no longer matter. He just hoped the room was empty, wanting no witnesses to what was promising to be an undignified crumple to the floor. He just needed a few minutes to steady himself, then he would find Arwen.

He pushed. The door swung open and no cries of surprise greeted the king’s stumble into the room. Beautiful darkness surrounded him. Closed shutters blocked out the bright light of the sun and he sighed with relief. He did not even have time to make his way to his own chair before consciousness fled. Pain disappeared as he relaxed into the comforting arms of oblivion.

* * *

News of the return of Gondor’s army preceded the host by several hours, as these things tended to do. Hours ago Elrond had left the company of his daughter and made his way to the Houses of Healing, preparing himself to assist the healers with the dead and wounded that reason dictated would accompany this victorious return. Fear fluttered in his heart that one of his own might be among this number, injured or worse, but no flags of mourning had been reported sighted and he allowed himself to hope. He had already lost too much.

Elven hearing picked up the sounds of approaching men before any other in the halls were alerted. Stilling his desire to rush to his feet and see who came, Elrond remained calmly seated, as befitted the Elf-lord he was. 

The captain who entered first, blood-stained and weary, was known to him on sight but not by name. The man bowed in respect, stepping aside to let his men past, some walking under their own steam, others carried by their comrades. A healer’s instincts prodded him to action, though his heart demanded he wait until the last had passed through the stone arch, and he was deep in concentration treating a nasty arrow wound when his eldest son’s voice penetrated his awareness.

‘He told you he would come here? As soon as he had seen her?’ Elladan frowned, his eyes searching the sea of people. ‘Well he is not here.’

‘Who is not?’ his father enquired, straightening from his work.

‘Ada!’ Elrohir called out, walking swiftly to his side. He looked down at the pale face of the soldier being tended. ‘How is he?’

‘He will be fine,’ Elrond assured him, smiling down at the fear in the young man’s eyes as he turned back to his son. ‘Whom do you seek?’

‘Estel. Has he been here?’

Elrond shook his head. ‘I have not seen him.’ He spoke a few quiet words to the girl who had been assisting him then took Elrohir by the arm and drew him away to a private corner. The turmoil in his son’s shadowed eyes had not escaped him and the fear returned as he asked, ‘Was he hurt?’

The younger twin nodded miserably, his eyes locking onto Elladan’s.  ‘He was,’ his brother stated bluntly as he hugged his father. ‘And it was clear he was sickening from it though he would not let us near him. We would have made him come here first but. . .’ He trailed off, unable to meet his father’s eye.

‘But what?’ Elrond prompted, looking between the two. Identical expressions of pain marred features so similar even those who had known them many years could still be fooled if the twins wished to dissemble – a habit they had not grown out of even yet – and he felt a sensation of dread settle in his heart. ‘What can’t you tell me?’

Elladan turned away, a sob constricting his throat. ‘He nearly died Ada,’ he confessed at last. ‘And even though he did not I fear we have still lost him’