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To Cairistiona and Estelcontar: my most grateful thanks for their ongoing encouragement and support.

And thanks to Cairistiona for the beta.

Chapter 13:  King of Men

   “It came to pass that when Aragorn was nine and forty years of age he returned from perils on the dark confines of Mordor, where Sauron now dwelt again and was busy with evil. He was weary and wished to go back to Rivendell and rest there for a while ere he journeyed into the far countries; and on his way he came to the borders of Lórien and was admitted to the hidden land by the lady Galadriel.

   He did not know it, but Arwen Undómiel was also there, dwelling again for a time with the kin of her mother. She was little changed for the mortal years had passed her by; yet her face was more grave and her laughter now seldom was heard.”

 The Tale of Aragorn and Arwen.                                                                  The Return of the King

~oo0oo~

   He was tired. He ached to his bones with weariness, but somehow he found the strength to keep placing one foot in front of the other, for mile after endless mile. His progress was slow; it had been over three months since he left Harad. It felt even longer, though he had been only too glad to leave those inhospitable, distant lands behind. His time in the far South had been more difficult and demanding than any he had previously known as most of the people who dwelt there had been openly hostile to this stranger from the North. More times than he cared to remember, a stray knife or flailing sabre had nearly claimed his life. And the constant distrust and suspicion that accompanied him where ever he travelled made him feel more of an outsider than ever.

   He was slowly making his way back to Rivendell where he hoped to find some much needed rest. Travelling alone was wearying. He could rarely relax his guard and sleep became a matter of brief lapses when utter exhaustion prevented him from keeping his eyelids open a moment longer. His feet were sore and his muscles ached, but, in truth, it was not only his body that needed to heal. He had been gone from the North for nearly half his life. During that time he had fought countless battles and had faced and survived dangers beyond those of even his wildest imaginings. He had learned to study the ways and hearts of men and had discovered the good as well as the evil that dwelt there, but he had also seen, and done, much that still haunted him. His efforts had earned him both honour and renown, but the optimistic and eager young man who had travelled with Gandalf to Rohan, to enlist in the service of Thengel, was no more.

   Now he longed only for the friendship of his own people and his home.

    Home!

    Happy memories of his years in Rivendell had succoured and strengthened him through many a hardship, but his childhood now felt distant and remote. He did not doubt the warmth of the welcome he would receive upon his return, but he was not the same man who had left there nearly thirty years ago. His greatest fear now was that he would feel an outsider in Rivendell too, and his joy in the one place closest to his heart would be gone forever.

   He did not even begin to allow his thoughts to stray to the possibility of meeting Arwen again. Barely a day passed when he did not think of her, but he knew he must guard his heart and curb his desire. To do otherwise would only bring him pain and he had no wish to renew his torment over Elrond’s daughter.

    But, in truth, he sought more from his homecoming than a break from his labours and the companionship of his old friends.  He needed to rekindle that unburdened sense of optimism that had come so easily to him as a youth but which rarely flared within him now. But he knew there were no certainties that by simply returning home, he would find what he was seeking.

    And if Rivendell could not restore the fire in his heart, where then could he possibly hope to find it?

   Not in Rohan, not in Gondor, and certainly not in the far South. Always he felt set apart by virtue of who he was and by the secret that he so carefully guarded. He was never able to allow himself to belong anywhere. Even among his own people in the North, who knew him as he truly was and loved him for himself, he could not find the fulfilment and peace for which he yearned. At his core was a loneliness that was slowly crushing his heart and his hope. It followed him relentlessly; and he feared that it mattered not where in all Middle-earth he dwelt, it would always be with him and he would have no choice but to learn to accept it.

~oo0oo~

   He was taking a gamble with his present route. He had left the plains of Rohan behind him and had entered the southern fringes of Lothlórien. He reasoned this was the quickest and probably the safest way to reach Rivendell, but if admittance to the Golden Wood was denied him, it would be a very long trek back to the Gap of Rohan. In part, it was curiosity that urged him to come this way. Here was his chance to see the legendary realm that he had heard so much about as a child. More importantly, if he was allowed into the guarded land, he would find some relief for his tired and aching muscles, if only for a while. He would be safe in the Elven realm and could recover his strength for the still considerable journey to Rivendell.

   Suddenly, out of nowhere, there were three Elves standing in front of him, and three arrows pointing straight at his chest. He stood motionless and waited. It was no surprise to him that he had been caught off guard. Such was their skill, the Elves would have taken him unawares even without this mind-numbing lethargy. As the piercing eyes of the Firstborn studied him searchingly, he became increasingly nervous, though he doubted he could be in any real danger. Perhaps he had dwelt in the company of Men for too long. Slowly he raised his hands; on his finger, worn openly, was the ring that had once belonged to the Lady’s brother.

   One of the Elves finally spoke. “It is not permitted for any to enter the Golden Wood without permission. Who are you?”

   Aragorn considered this question for a moment. Which of the names that accompanied his many guises should he use this time, he wondered. But he knew of no reason to conceal his identity here and so it was with a small surge of joy, that he spoke aloud the name he had kept silent for so long.

   “I am Aragorn son of Arathorn, Lord of the Dúnedain,” he said, with all the dignity he could muster, given how down trodden he knew he must look. On hearing this, the Elves spoke softly among themselves, all the while keeping their arrows pointed straight at him. But then the three sentries suddenly lowered their bows and Aragorn’s fears proved groundless.

   “That is as we thought,” said the first Elf, with a low smile, “though we have seen none of your people in this realm for years beyond count. What brings you to our borders?”

   Relieved, Aragorn replied: “I seek only rest. I am journeying to Imladris, but I have already travelled from far to the South and I am weary.”

   The Elf nodded his understanding. “Give me your sword and we will not turn you away.”

   Aragorn unstrapped his sword belt and gave it to the Elf.

   “Come, it is a long way to the city, but we may yet reach it by nightfall,” he said.

~oo0oo~

   The Elves walked on in silence for most of the day, for which Aragorn was grateful; small talk was beyond him right now. But he was not so tired he failed to notice the beauty of the trees around him. The golden mallorn-trees were larger than any tree he had ever seen in all Middle-earth, and the sight of the huge silver trunks, topped by the golden canopy above, left him awed and enchanted. No wonder there were rumours in Rohan about this place, he thought, remembering the tales he had heard of a sorceress with strange powers who dwelt deep within the forest. He could feel that power; it was all around him, even within the very trees themselves. Already he was aware of his step lightening and some of the burden that increasingly had settled on his shoulders easing a little.

   After nearly a day’s march, they finally came to the city of Caras Galadhon, and hence to the dwelling of Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel. Aragorn found himself climbing a never ending ladder that rose to an impossible height into the largest of the mallorn-trees. Near the top he ascended onto a vast raised platform that reminded him of being on board ship. Here he was guided towards two central figures, who rose to their feet as he walked towards them. They were very tall and were dressed all in white; their heads, one of silver and one of gold, shimmered in the twilight. Familiar though he was with noble and lordly elves, he felt overwhelmed by the presence of these two legendary beings. Galadriel’s beauty was beyond compare and the aura that surrounded her held him entranced. However, he remembered his place and bowed low.

    “Welcome, lord of the Dúnedain,” said Celeborn. “You are far from your home and I see you are weary, but here you shall find rest and refuge whilst you desire it.”

   “Thank you, my lord, my lady,” said Aragorn, still standing meekly with his head bowed.

   Galadriel said nothing, but smiling, she stepped towards him and gently raised his chin with her fingertips so she could look into his eyes. She had heard much about this foster son of Elrond’s. Her grandsons loved him as their brother and could not speak of him highly enough. Looking at him intensely now, she could see the nobility in his lean, pale face. For sure the blood of Númenor coursed through this man’s veins. Even exhausted, there was no mistaking the strength of both his body and mind and yet, as she looked into his dull grey eyes, she wondered if what she saw was enough. He was the Hope of his People, and ever did he dutifully strive to fulfil the expectations laid upon him. But this had been a heavy burden to place upon a young man. She could see the toll it was taking on him. His bold and generous spirit was battered and bruised; he had seen many, maybe too many, of the evils of this world already. It was a hard and lonely road that he travelled and that road was still nowhere near its end. If he faltered the consequences could be terrible.

   He must not fail.

   She looked upon him with compassion and understanding. For him there was no ring of power to aid him; he was just a man and whatever strength he possessed, he needed to find from within himself. Galadriel knew it was time to give him some hope for his own future, something to encourage him in the years ahead when desperation and despair would at times threaten to defeat him. Yes, she could see why Elladan and Elrohir loved and respected him so, but it was what her granddaughter felt for this man that concerned her now.

~oo0oo~

   She decided not to detain him and bid his escort take him to find food and rest. And while Aragorn slept, Galadriel sought out her granddaughter. Arwen had spoken little of the young man, not much more than a boy, whom she had met under the silver birches in Rivendell nearly thirty years ago, but Galadriel had noticed the change in her over the years. Arwen probably had not acknowledged her awakening feelings even to herself. To do so would evoke for her an unenviable dilemma, but Galadriel knew Arwen’s heart would turn towards him now.

   Elrond would be grieved, she knew. But she was sure that in time he would understand, as she did, the importance of a union between Aragorn and Arwen in providing a legacy for all their long labours in Middle-Earth. Whatever the outcome of the approaching war, the Elves’ time in these lands was passing; there would be no victory for the Firstborn. Even if the power of Barad-dûr was destroyed, the future of Middle-earth would belong to Men. If he survived his trials, Aragorn would become king and, if Arwen became his wife, her descendents would have a crucial role in that future.

    Elrond knew this too. Was this not the main reason he had he stayed in Middle-earth these last five hundred years, to harbour and protect his brother’s heirs? He, after all, was free to leave and could have sailed with Celebrían had he chosen to do so. Elrond had waited a long time for this scion of Elros. And unlike the other Chieftains of the Dúnedain, Aragorn was the only one he had raised as his own son. Surely his love for him would temper some of his pain at being sundered from his daughter.

   Galadriel descended the steps to her garden, a favourite haunt of her granddaughter’s at this time in the evening. She knew meddling with the hearts of others could have disastrous consequences, but she was sure the seeds were already sown and nothing more was needed than gentle nurturing. The danger would lie in the reactions of others. She had long ago dwelt in Menegroth and had seen for herself the harm caused when an over protective Elf lord had tried to prevent his daughter from following her heart and marrying a mortal Man. If Elrond was furious, she would remind him to heed the tale of his own ancestors and remember the fate of Lúthien and Beren. But Arwen would make her own decision, and as for Aragorn, she could read his mortal heart so easily. He would never love another, but if Arwen returned his love, it would keep alive hope in his heart through all the dark and lonely paths that he still must tread.

~oo0oo~

   Galadriel found her granddaughter walking alone, aimlessly following the gentle stream that meandered through her garden. She accompanied her for a while. It was a beautiful tranquil evening and a simple joy to wander without purpose by the light of the stars. They talked of many things before she mentioned that an unexpected guest had arrived that evening.

   “We have a visitor in Lothlórien tonight, Arwen.”

   “Oh? Have you received word from Imladris?” Her grand daughter was ever eager for tidings from her father’s house.

   “No, it is not a messenger from beyond the mountains,” said Galadriel. “It is a man who rests within our borders. He has journeyed from the South.”

   “It has never been the custom to permit men to enter our realm,”

   “That is so, but I deemed it right to grant this privilege as he is no ordinary man,” replied Galadriel. “He is the lord of the Dúnedain. You know him as Estel, I believe.”

   “Estel! He is here!” said Arwen in surprise. But she said no more and, lifting her face to the stars, she was silent for a long moment. The gentle light fell softly about her and Galadriel noticed how her eyes shone. And she thought she had never before seen her grandchild looking so fair as she did in that instant.

    Turning back to face her grandmother, Arwen asked simply: “He is well?”

   “He is weary, but yes, well enough. I sent him to rest, but you may meet him in the morning, should you desire it.”

    Arwen was unsure how to reply. She was shaken, and not a little troubled, by the bewildering cascade of emotions that had swept through her at the mere mention of this man’s name. She needed more time to consider this offer.

    “Perhaps,” she said at last.

   Then she fell silent again and when she spoke next, it was of other matters.

   Galadriel smiled to herself. Her granddaughter may have responded lightly to the news, but she had seen the look in her eye and was glad.

~oo0oo~

   In the morning, after Aragorn had bathed and eaten, Galadriel sent a message to her guest requesting that he should visit her in her chamber. He complied immediately, leaving his lodging at once and quickly making his way to her.

   On his arrival, Galadriel was struck by how changed he was from the exhausted man she had met the evening before. The long night’s sleep had eased much of his weariness and many years had fallen from his face. He looked young and fair and, as he stood before her, she noticed how he carried himself with a quiet dignity. Now he seemed to her every inch Elendil’s heir, save for one thing; his travel-stained clothes.  He was dressed in rags, and filthy rags at that. He might be the heir of two kingdoms, but at the moment he clearly possessed nothing but the clothes he stood in.

   It was a small thing perhaps, but she could help him here. Rich and kingly garments, she knew, would not deceive her grand daughter for a moment; Arwen would judge the man beneath the clothes soon enough, but there was no harm in lending him a helping hand. She sent her maid to fetch some of Celeborn’s finest robes.

   She would dress this man as the king he might one day become.

   Turning her attention back to her guest, she asked: “I trust you slept well, Aragorn, son of Arathorn?”

   “Very well, thank you, my lady,” Aragorn replied. “I have not felt so refreshed in a long time.”

   Galadriel smiled a little sadly.

   “It pleases me then, to hear that you were able to find the rest you needed within our borders. I hope you will chose to remain with us for a time. You have been gone from your home for many years and you are, no doubt, eager to return, but, I’m sure, none would grudge you a short break from your labours.”

   Her maid swiftly returned, bearing robes of silver and white and a cloak of grey.

   “Will these do, my lady?” she asked, holding them up for her mistress to see.

   “They will do very well, thank you,” Galadriel replied as she took the clothes from her and laid them on a couch.

   Addressing Aragorn she said: “Your own clothes are very worn and in need of much attention. If you are to rest awhile within my domain, I would have you attired as your station deserves.”

   “My station?” asked Aragorn. “I am a traveller, nothing more; there is no need for you to trouble yourself on my behalf, I assure you.” 

   “If nothing else you are the lord of your people and whilst you are in my realm, I would have you dress as such.” She hoped he wasn’t going to make this difficult. “The needs of the times might require that you disguise your true self, but you have no need of such wiles here. I ask nothing more than to clad you as you would be in your father’s house.” She smiled at him, encouragingly.

  Aragorn had no more desire to argue than he had to be dressed as an elven prince so he bowed his head to signal his acquiescence. Galadriel and her maid then left him alone to change. After they had gone, he stood looking at the robes laid out on the couch. They were of the finest quality he had ever seen. In all his years at Rivendell, he could not recall ever seeing Elrond even dressed in such finery. He tentatively reached out a hand and felt the cloth. The silks were softer than any he had felt before. What grub had worked its magic to produce thread like this. And skilfully sewn into the weave of the silks were countless strands of mithril that glistened in the bright morning light. He knew he would feel uncomfortable, if not a little ridiculous dressed so, but he had no desire to insult the Lady and so he quickly shed his old clothes. He was reluctant to part with them. They were more like comfortable old friends to him now, having lived with him for so long and seen him through so many adventures. Laying them to one side, he carefully pulled on the scrupulously clean, sparkling robes. He was still adjusting the tunic when Galadriel returned.

   “Here, allow me,” she said, as she stepped towards him and helped him straighten it. Then she picked up the cloak and draped it around his shoulders before fastening it at his throat.

   “There, that is better, you look much changed, son of Arathorn,” she said, smiling. “But there are one or two details yet to set right, if you will permit me to attend you.” She pulled up a chair and motioned for him to sit.

   “Come, let me tidy your hair,” she said. “You still look like a vagabond who has stumbled upon another man’s clothes.”

   Aragorn smiled. “Forgive me, my lady, but that is precisely how I feel.”

   Galadriel laughed; a soft joyful sound that at once made Aragorn realise how much he had missed the company of Elves.

  “In that case, we must see what we can do to make you more comfortable,” she said, picking up a comb. Aragorn looked entirely unconvinced, but he sat obediently and allowed the Lady of the Golden Wood to tease the tangles from his hair. She was very gentle and as her long fingers worked systematically through each knotted lock, he had to admit the sensation relaxed and soothed him enormously. When Galadriel was satisfied he had not a hair out of place, she fished a filet from her robe and bound a gem to his brow. Finally she held up a mirror so he could admire the results of her efforts.

   “I look like a king!” Aragorn said in amazement at the regal reflection staring back at him.

   “So you do,” agreed Galadriel, hoping she sounded surprised.

   Then smiling her approval, she led him from her chamber and left him alone to wander under the great trees, where he slowly made his way to Arwen.

~oo0oo~

   “Galadriel bade him cast aside his way-worn raiment, and she clothed him in silver and white, with a cloak of elven- grey and a bright gem on his brow. Then more than any king of Men he appeared, and seemed rather an Elf-lord from the lsles of the West. And thus it was that Arwen first beheld him again after their long parting; and as he came walking towards her under the trees of Caras Galadhon laden with flowers of gold, her choice was made and her doom appointed.”

The Tale of Aragorn and Arwen                                                                  The Return of the King