Elrond felt his knees go weak. He sat down hard on the wooden bench at his back and allowed himself a brief moment to compose his breathing before he spoke. ‘Tell me,’ he commanded his sons softly. ‘What has happened?’

They told him, haltingly and reluctantly, of the last few days. By the end Elrond was white as parchment but inside he felt the warm flush of guilt. He should have seen this coming, he had always known it would, but he had never thought Estel would turn from his brothers who were always so close to his heart. It seemed that just as he had locked his emotions away so had Aragorn, and he prayed it was not too late to undo the damage and draw his son back into the fold of his family’s love. The role of a king would be lonely enough without Aragorn isolating himself from the support of those who knew him best. And Elrond knew him well enough to guess that he would view his turmoil as a weakness, a failing, not understanding that so many changes in so short a time would be hard for even the strongest to bear. The fact that they had come on top of the dangers and trials of the recent months would make the transition that much harder. His son was exhausted, and when the body was hurting it was often the spirit that suffered most.

‘Take me to him,’ he demanded when they had finished, getting to his feet. He forced himself to breathe deeply. Elves did not give way to such displays of feeling in front of others. ‘I am sure that Arwen is more than capable of tending him herself,’ he added, taking a firm grip on his emotions. ‘But I would see for myself that Estel is well.’

His sons nodded, happy to accompany their father. They too wished to make sure that their brother was in no danger, and were not a little frustrated that he had once again made them follow through on Elrohir’s threat to send the healers after him.

Hurrying through the corridors it was Elrond whose eyes noticed the door that stood slightly ajar. The twins turned as he stopped and he put a finger to his lips, motioning them to him. He pressed his hand to the door of Aragorn’s study and pushed it open, letting the light fall on the body curled protectively against the desk, eyes closed but far from peacefully asleep.

Elrond could not help the small smile that twitched his lips even as he felt worry clench his heart. So many times when he was growing up he had found his youngest son like this, hiding himself away ashamed of his weakness. Even from a very young age Estel – no he was Aragorn now Elrond corrected himself – had preferred to deal with his own hurts, and it was partly this tendency to disappear when he needed help the most that made his brothers so protective of him. Yet as skilled and capable as he was, this time it seemed he had not been successful.

Kneeling beside his shivering son, the Lord of Imladris placed a gentle hand on his forehead to gauge the fever that burned in his veins.  Then, just as carefully, he eased the sick man to the floor so he could check the injury. The twins watched their father work, and did not speak until he sat back on his heels, his examination complete.

‘It is not so bad,’ he reassured them before they could ask. ‘His body is tired and will need some help to fight the infection but there is no danger.’

‘That is good,’ Elladan replied as he knelt beside his father. He smiled, shaking his head as he reached out to lift his brother. ‘I warned him we would have to carry him.’

Elrond caught his hand. ‘No Elladan. He is the King now. You cannot shame him by carrying him to his bed as though he were a child.’

‘But Ada, he is hurt.’

‘He may be hurt, and he may be your brother, but he is also a king and we can no longer treat him as we once did.’ He sighed at the confusion that greeted his words and held his eldest son by the shoulders, willing him to understand. Why was it so much harder, he wondered, for Estel’s own family to accept this change even though they were of the few who had known it must come?

He looked into Elladan’s eyes and perceived the sense of rejection that was so hurting him. With Aragorn’s ascension to the throne their racial difference, so long ignored, had come suddenly to the fore. They could no longer maintain the illusion of simple brotherhood under the scrutiny of a nation; the new king could no longer be Estel of Rivendell even if he wished.  And despite the human blood that flowed in their veins his sons were still elvish enough to overlook the disparity in the societies of the two races that demanded different standards from those who would rule them. The need for strong leadership in times of war was something the twins understood well enough, but what they could not seem to grasp was that this image had to be maintained beyond the battlefield. Or that the obligation to treat Aragorn thus applied to them also. Here Elrond himself was forced to admit that perhaps he had slipped too easily into the stiff courtesy of one ruler to another, excusing his own cowardice towards his son by hiding behind courtly propriety.

‘The King of Gondor can show his people no weakness, especially in these uncertain times,’ he explained sadly. ‘Or he will cease to be an effective ruler. If Aragorn’s advisors and servants see him coddled by his family – and an elven family at that – they will lose respect for him, and if they do how will he retain his respect for himself? You must try to understand my son, for if we who are closest to him cannot come to terms with this how can we expect Estel to? And he must, or his reign will be a short one.’

As Elladan nodded miserably Elrond turned to Elrohir. ‘Go to your sister and tell her we are caring for Estel and will bring him to her soon. She will understand. Then find Faramir and explain what has happened so he may forestall any panic when the king cannot be found. Tell him alone and make sure he knows there is no cause for concern. When you have found him fetch me some supplies from the Houses of Healing and return here. When Estel can walk we will take him to Arwen and let her care for him in private. That is how he would want it.’

Elrohir left and his eldest stir restlessly. ‘Go and rest,’ he urged. ‘You must be weary. I will stay with your brother.’

‘But you might need me,’ Elladan protested, unwilling to leave.

‘I can cope,’ his father assured him. ‘When he awakes it would be best if we do not crowd him. You know that he does not like that.’ And there is another poison I must draw from him that has nothing to do with this fever, he thought silently. It is past time for us to be father and son once more.

* * *

Alone with his son at last Elrond settled himself for a long vigil. Elrohir had returned minutes earlier with medicines from the Houses of Healing and both his and Elladan’s cloaks. The younger twin had not needed his father to tell him to leave them; he had placed the things quietly on the floor and withdrawn without a word.  So alike in many ways his elven sons were also startlingly different, and Elrohir had always been more sensitive to the unspoken needs of others than his older brother.

Smiling, Elrond picked up the cloaks and folded them under Aragorn’s head. It would spare him some of the discomfort if he insisted on sleeping on the floor. Still, he reflected, the former ranger probably found it easier to sleep on the ground than in the huge soft bed he shared with his wife.

Uncorking the flask Elrohir had brought he sprinkled some herbs into the water and raised his son’s head so he could swallow without choking.  The unconscious man offered little resistance, a clear sign of his exhaustion, and when he was satisfied he had taken enough Elrond laid him down again and moved away, anticipating his awakening.  He had no desire to suffer another bruised and tender jaw because he had scared his son into a defensive reaction, having learned long ago that it was dangerous to startle frightened and hurting rangers. Especially those trained by elves.

The bitter liquid rolling down his throat brought Aragorn out of his stupor. Grey eyes flickered open and Elrond watched the play of emotions flash through them with interest. Panic there was first, and confusion. Where was he, what had happened? Then his hand felt the cold floor, his eyes strained against the blackness of the room and the elf almost felt the ripple of relief that he was somewhere safe and secret, away from his enemies. How many times had his son awoken like this, the father in him wondered, sick and disorientated and all alone in the dark? The thought brought tears to his eyes that had not known such wetness in many a long year. Not since the child had become a man and left the safety of his home to journey into the unknown.

A moment later, as he watched, the relief faded as full awareness returned. For a second he stilled, distressed and wary, then Aragorn turned his head towards the presence he sensed at his side. ‘Father?’

‘I am here,’ Elrond answered softly, moving to his son’s side. ‘You are safe Estel. Sleep now.’

‘How. . .?’

The elf-lord permitted himself a chuckle. ‘How did I find you? Ah, my son, you will have to hide yourself better if you wish to remain hidden these days. And do not forget I have had many years of practise.’ He stroked his fingers over hot skin, soothing the fire with the coolness of his touch. ‘Sleep, rest. When you are well I will take you to Arwen.’

‘Arwen.’ Even spoken in a whisper her name held a note of passion Elrond recognised in himself when he thought of his Celebrian. They were not really so different in the end, father and son. And as the thought of his wife lulled Aragorn towards sleep, heavy eyelids slid closed, ragged breathing evened out and deepened and the pain was washed away in the peace of healing rest.

Yet Elrond found no peace. With nothing to do now but wait he faced his own test of the soul, sitting there in the dark. As his foster-son drifted back into the world of dreams the smile left his face. He could not banish from his mind the image of the way Aragorn’s eyes had tightened, wary and shuttered, as he’d realised where he was, how the relief had faded when he discovered he was not alone somewhere in the wilds but in the citadel of Minas Tirith. Do you fear this place so much, he wondered, is this life truly so abhorrent to you?

Elrond sighed. That Aragorn loved his people well he had no doubt. He had loved them in fact before he had ever known them, before he had known who he was. The stories of ancient Numenor had entranced him as a young child and he had delighted in the exploits of the kings of old, holding tight to pride in his human heritage as a defence against the elven world in which he lived but could never truly be a part of.  Those who did not know him well always thought Estel longed for nothing more than to be an elf, but there were some who knew better. Aragorn was proud to be of the race of Men; rather it was his elven family who were in denial, incapable of accepting the inevitable parting. So when the Heir of Isildur and the Even- Star of the elves met and sealed their doom it had brought this reality crashing home to the ones who loved them most. Aragorn would one day die and with him the last likeness of Luthien in Middle Earth would also fade. It was a long time before Elrond had been able to see this as anything other than a tragedy.

As he watched at his sleeping son Elrond knew that he must not have hidden that pain as well as he’d believed, and that to someone as sensitive to the moods of others as Aragorn was, his distress would have been an accusation he couldn’t answer. He realised too just how long it had been since he had shown this man any other face than that of a stern, forbidding Elf-lord, though his reasons were not as his son had supposed. They had pulled away from each other, hiding behind masks of indifference and detachment to protect themselves from the pain the future would bring. The easy love and trust of his childhood years had disappeared, not gone but buried deep under the unbearable weight of two things; the truth of Aragorn’s bloodline and his love for Arwen.

Oh my son, if only you had been born as any other man, Elrond mourned as he brushed a strand of hair from the burning forehead. I would have spared you these burdens if I could.

Yet it was Elrond himself who had forced Aragorn into acceptance of those very burdens, using his daughter as a spur to push him to claim his birthright. Explanations were long overdue, that despite the words spoken so many years ago in Imladris Elrond would never have denied Arwen the man she loved, just as he could not have denied his foster-son. The grief of loss was something he understood well, an agony he had felt every day since Celebrian departed for Valinor, and he would surrender his only daughter, as much as it hurt him to do so, to spare her the shattering pain of forsaking her love.  Elves were immortal, but other races seemed not to understand what this really meant, conscious every day of their own mortality.  They saw only eternal life protected from the ravages of old age, and rarely stopped to consider what living without death might mean to those who could still lose the ones they loved. If he forced Arwen to accompany him to the Undying Lands even the peace and healing beauty of that place would not heal the wound in her heart. He could not ignore the chance that she might still die. And though remaining here the day would come when her husband passed on, that parting would not be forever and she could follow him in death as she had in life and wherever went the souls of the Second Born in their dying they would always be together.

He only hoped that it was not too late to say these words to the one who needed to hear them. He had to make his son understand, his son who had hidden the breaking of his heart even in the happiest of times, before the pain of it poisoned his soul and caused him to reject the life that was opening up before him. For his daughter’s sake, as much as his own, he had to try.