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And thanks to Cairistiona for the beta.

Chapter 15: Elrond’s Decision

   When Elrond learned the choice of his daughter, he was silent, though his heart was grieved and found the doom long feared none the easier to endure. But when Aragorn came again to Rivendell he called him to him.

The Tale of Aragorn and Arwen                                                       The Return of the King

~oo0oo~

   It was a perfect summer’s afternoon; the hot July sun blazing high in the cloudless sky, yet the light wind drifting across the moors rendered the day no more than pleasantly warm. It was the kind of day that, no matter where Aragorn was or whatever he was doing, always recalled to him those far off days of the lost summers of his youth; days when he was so unburdened by care, he could while away many a happy hour lazing in the meadows, counting the dragonflies that hovered above the brooks and streams around his home.

     He had been riding since dawn, the magnificent Elven horse effortlessly eating the ground beneath him, but he was in no great hurry. His heart was full of hope and he was content to enjoy the simple pleasures of the sun on his face and the warm breeze in his hair.

   Never, in all his years, had he known such happiness.

   Arwen had finally returned his love. He could still scarcely believe it. The emptiness in his heart that for so long had gnawed at his hope had been replaced by a joy more fulfilling than he had ever dreamt possible. Those few blissful months in Lothlórien had changed his life forever. He glanced at the bare, white band of skin on his finger and smiled at the memory. His mind conjured up images of golden trees upon a green hill, alive with a myriad of tiny flowers. And in their midst was his beloved, her hand in his as he slipped his ring upon her finger. He remembered he had been undecided about taking the Ring of Barahir with him when he first departed from the North to undertake his long journeys. Even in his wildest dreams had he not expected to find such a good use for it.

   But after so many years abroad, he was looking forward to coming home again and meeting with his old friends from his childhood. The Misty Mountains finally lay behind him and gradually the land about took on a familiar appearance. Twenty-three years had passed since last he had ridden this way, yet with every league that brought him closer to Rivendell, those long years spent travelling in distant lands began to recede from his mind and were replaced by a barrage of happy memories from his boyhood. Riding steadily now at an unhurried canter, he could easily be once again a fresh-faced lad of seventeen, enjoying a carefree hunting trip with his brothers.

   Up ahead, the valley of Rivendell slowly revealed its secret presence.  As soon as he reached the borders of his father’s realm, he felt that familiar, but long forgotten, sense of peace and well being that always used to settle upon him whenever he came once more under the benevolent power of Vilya. At the entrance to the valley, he eased his horse back to a walk and began to descend the narrow, twisting path that wound its way beneath the shade of the mighty pine trees. Already, in the distance, he could hear the welcome sound of the cascading waterfalls, and as he breathed deeply of the cool refreshing airs, he caught a whiff of that unique fragrant blend of aromas which, for him, would forever be Rivendell, found as it was nowhere else in all of Middle-earth.

    It was good to be coming home.

~oo0oo~

   As he rode across the bridge, and The Last Homely House stood before him, he suddenly realized that beneath his feelings of excitement at his homecoming, there was a nagging fear that he found he could no longer ignore. He had felt it often of late; it had been hovering at the back of his mind ever since he and Arwen had bound their lives to each other. But so buoyed was he by his love for her, he had refused to acknowledge it and had driven it from his thought. Now it surfaced again and this time it could not be banished.

   His newfound happiness was not without cost. The reality of facing the consequences of his actions would soon be upon him.

   He had not dwelt overly upon his foster father’s possible reaction to his daughter’s choice. Galadriel had been so supportive and encouraging, he had allowed himself to believe Elrond might feel similarly. He was no longer the untried and unworldly youth he had been when they last spoke about Arwen. But deep down, Aragorn feared he would incur Elrond’s wrath for what he had done. Words spoken to him, nearly thirty years ago, returned to haunt him.

  You shall neither have wife, nor bind any woman to you in troth, until your time comes and you are found worthy of it. [1]

    He was quite sure that what, if anything, he had achieved in his life so far would not in Elrond’s eyes make him worthy, and he knew “his time” was nowhere near come. More than that, he had not just bound “any woman” to him, but he had taken in troth, the Lady Arwen Undómiel, the Evenstar of her people. Arwen’s choice was her own to make and she was free to make it. But he, on the other hand, and to his shame, had willfully disobeyed Elrond’s explicit command to him. A shiver ran through him as he remembered Elrond’s words. He wondered how he had ever convinced himself that Elrond would allow him to marry his daughter.

   He guessed Elrond would by now be well aware of the situation; such was the strength of the bond he shared with Arwen. She would conceal nothing from him. Certainly Aragorn was rather hoping he would be spared from making a grand announcement. But while he knew he might thus avoid Elrond’s initial anger, his foster father would, instead, have had ample time to reflect on the matter and consolidate whatever objections he might have to their betrothal.

   Arwen had tried to explain to him what those objections were likely to be. So intoxicated had he been by his love for her that he had paid little heed to them at the time, but now, pulled out of his daydreams by the imminent prospect of confronting cold, stark reality, the enormity of what he required of Elrond stuck him forcibly. Arwen may indeed be free to choose her fate, but by choosing a life with him, she would ultimately be sundered from her father and all her kin forever. That Arwen was prepared to do this, he did not doubt, but he now fully realized what a huge sacrifice he was asking of Elrond.

    Guilt surged unbidden within him to mingle uncomfortably with his rising fear. He was asking his foster family to pay a heavy price for his happiness. It was not for this that Elrond had welcomed him into his home and raised him so lovingly. He was acutely aware of the great personal debt he owed Elrond for his safekeeping during his childhood years. And Elrond had given him so much more than just a roof over his head and food on the table. Much as Aragorn fully embraced his identity as the son of Arathorn, it was Elrond who held the place of a father in his heart.

   But the possibility that his father would ban their union outright was something he had so far only vaguely contemplated. If this was indeed Elrond’s pronouncement, he had given insufficient thought as to what he would do. He did not know if he would he be able to find it in his heart to defy him and still take Arwen as his wife anyway.

  The house was fast approaching. He could delay pondering this question no longer. If it came to this, he wondered if Galadriel would permit Arwen to remain in Lothlórien, or would he have to take her to live among the Dúnedain. That was surely impossible. When he had first left Rivendell and gone to live among his people, he had been shocked to see the conditions in which they lived. He could not ask that of Arwen, who had only ever known the comfort and ease that her rank afforded. Neither, in truth, could he expect her to live estranged from her father in that way. But the thought of losing Arwen now after waiting and hoping all these years, was completely unimaginable for him. Suddenly he was shocked to feel a grip of fear in his stomach such as he had never felt before at the prospect of meeting his father.

    But all such speculation would now have to wait, for he had finally arrived at the courtyard of the house. One of the Elves who worked in the stable came to take his horse, but no one else appeared to greet him. As he dismounted, he nostalgically drank in the sights about him. The house looked just as he remembered it. The roses were in full bloom and the honeysuckle flowered around the porch. Watching the swallows diving in and out of the stable doors, all his years away suddenly melted to nothing. He could almost convince himself he was a young boy again returning from a quiet hack around the grounds on his pony. He half expected to see his mother standing in the doorway, waiting anxiously for his return.

   He took another long look about him, and then he sighed and slowly climbed the steps of the main entrance and made his way down the corridors to his old room. He was tired now from the journey and wished to rest and gather his thoughts before seeking out Elrond.

    He found his room exactly as he had left it; his few cherished possessions from his boyhood still sitting on the mantelpiece, foremost among them, his treasured wooden horses. The room was clean and tidy with freshly laundered linen on the bed and to his joy there was a steaming tub of warm water in front of the fire. On the chest that once contained his fine robes there was a platter of bread and cheese. Beside it, stood a flask of Rivendell’s finest wine. So his homecoming had not been ignored after all. 

   Feeling more at ease, he ripped off his clothes and, with a glass of wine in one hand and a chunk of fresh, crisp bread in the other, he sank gratefully into the tub. The hot water soon worked wonders on his stiff, saddle-sore muscles. He had not done much riding during his stay in Lothlórien and his body had complained bitterly about the long hours he had spent on a horse in the last few days. He closed his eyes and, in spite of his concerns, he began to relax, telling himself that perhaps he was worrying needlessly after all. He was clearly more tired than he realised as he almost immediately drifted into sleep.

   A knock at the door woke him with a start.

   “Come in,” he said, as he struggled for a moment to remember where he was.

    The door opened and Erestor stood it the doorway. “Welcome home, Estel,” he said with a smile. “It’s good to have you back. It has been a long time.”

   Aragorn returned his smile, warmly. As a boy, he had always been slightly scared of Elrond’s chief councilor, but he was genuinely pleased to see him now. “Thank you, it’s good to be back,” he said, truthfully.

   “You look well, child; you are no longer the gangling lad that I remember,” said Erestor as he laughingly took in the broad chest visible above the level of the bath water and the lean, muscular arm hanging over one side of the tub. “I’m sure all Imladris is looking forward to hearing of your adventures. I hope you will keep us entertained for many evenings in the Hall of Fire. But is there any thing else you require for the moment? I see you have found the food and drink I had sent up for you.”

   “This is more than sufficient, thank you,” replied Aragorn. “But I should be glad of news of my father. Is he well?”

   “Well enough, I believe” said Erestor, “though I have seen little of him these last few days. I do though have a message for you from him. When you are refreshed, Master Elrond will be waiting for you in his study.”

   Aragorn immediately started to rise, but Erestor added, “There’s no hurry; please, enjoy your bath first, I expect you are glad of it. We will speak properly later.” Then he closed the door again and was gone.

   Suddenly the bathwater felt very cold and Aragorn felt a chill swept through him. So he had been summoned. He immediately stepped out of the bath and wrapped himself in a towel. Dripping onto the rug, he grabbed a clean shirt from his pack and dressed quickly. Now that the moment had arrived, he wanted it over with.

   He made his way swiftly to Elrond’s study.

~oo0oo~

   Elrond dismissed the scout who had come to inform him that Aragorn was approaching the valley. He settled himself by the window in his study where he had a clear view of the path as it turned towards the house. Here he could watch for his son.  He was deeply saddened that Estel’s long awaited return should be over shadowed in this way. He had missed the boy dreadfully when he left and only the occasional visit from Gandalf had brought any news of him.

   But when he had learned of Arwen’s choice, he had been grieved to his very core. He felt as if his heart was being ripped from his body such was the pain that seized at that moment. That he had long feared this might happen did not make it any easier to endure. At first, he had been able to think of nothing beyond the ultimate sundering that her choice would inevitably bring. He knew only to well the torment that accompanied the Gift of Men. The short span of years given to the Secondborn was a constant source of grief to him. He had already lost his brother to this Doom and, although it was millennia ago, the pain had never left him. Since the destruction of Arthedain, many of Elros’s descendents had spent their declining years in Rivendell. The passing of each of them was a great sadness to all the Elves who dwelt there. And when he first bound Aragorn to his heart, it had cut him deeply that he would someday lose him too. But he had known this from the first, and the fate of Men was beyond his dominion. But to lose his daughter in this way was unbearable for him. Yet, he knew he was powerless to stop it. If he tried, he might drive them both away forever and that he could not bear. Arwen’s happiness positively flowed from her; he did not doubt that her love for Aragorn was real and enduring, but he only hoped it had not blinded her to its consequences. Quite apart from his own suffering, he would not willingly permit his beloved Undómiel to endure the heart break of a separation from all her kin until the very end of Arda.

    Galadriel had clearly given her blessing to their union. He could guess her motives perhaps; there was more at stake here than the personal happiness of his daughter and foster son. But Hope for the Dúnedain rested upon Aragorn fulfilling his destiny; nothing should deflect him from achieving that.

   Elrond had not discussed this matter with anyone, not even his sons. He needed to talk to Aragorn first; if nothing else, common courtesy dictated as much. His initial anger with his son had subsided, though he could not yet find it in his heart to forgive him completely. His own pain was still too raw for that. He was well aware that his son had already loved Arwen for nearly thirty years with little hope that she would one day return his love. Now that she finally did, his actions were perhaps understandable. But although Elrond loved Aragorn no less than he did his own sons, he knew his foster son’s love for his daughter would always now lie between them.

   Elrond was distracted from his thoughts by the sight of a chestnut horse suddenly coming into view; in the saddle, was the tall dark figure of the Ranger. He looked taller, broader than Elrond remembered. “He must have grown in mind as well as stature for Arwen to have turned her heart to him,” he thought, as he watched Aragorn dismount and pass the horse to the stable-hand.

   Elrond had told Erestor to make him comfortable and then send him to see him.

~oo0oo~

   Aragorn paused outside the door of his father’s study and took a deep breath before he knocked. He wished his heart was not pounding quite so fiercely. He reminded himself it was not some servant of Sauron’s beyond the door, but his beloved father. He refused to even entertain the thought that at this very moment it might actually be preferable to be confronting some minion of the Dark Lord. He heard Elrond bid him enter and he opened the door to find his father still sitting by the window. Elrond stood as Aragorn walked into the room and immediately opened his arms to his son.

   “Welcome home, Estel,” he said, smiling. “I have missed you so much.”

   “And I you, Master Elrond,” replied Aragorn, formally, but so grateful was he for his father’s words, that he almost ran across the room into his embrace. Those same strong arms that had comforted him on so many occasions in the past held him tightly now and Aragorn felt the tension drain out of him as he gladly absorbed the unspoken love and forgiveness of his father. He had not realised fully, until now, quite how much he had missed the fortifying compassion Elrond had always offered him so readily. Relieved to his core by the warmth of his welcome, and burdened by his overbearing guilt, he blurted out, “I am so sorry, Adar, I know how much I have grieved you and wish it could be otherwise…”

   But Elrond stopped him there. Before they discussed his daughter, he wanted to build anew his bond with his son, to strengthen it against the harm that he knew was about to befall it.

   “Later, my son,” he said, gently. “Come and sit with me and tell me of your time in the South. Gandalf brings some news, but I have heard nothing for a long while.” He led Aragorn to a seat by the fire and handed him a glass of wine before sitting in a chair beside him. Then he listened with great interest as Aragorn told his tale.

    Much of what he had to tell was new to him. Elrond could not fault his son’s endeavours; he had worked tirelessly and done all that could possibly have been asked of him. Gandalf had told Elrond something of the enormous respect and honour his son had earned in Gondor and Rohan, but still he was amazed at the tales Aragorn had to tell. And as he listened, Elrond looked at him and thought how changed he was. There was a confidence to him and an aura of power that had not been there before. Men already followed his lead and would risk their lives for him. He was fair and strong with all the vitality and vigour of youth, harnessed to a growing wisdom and maturity. It was little wonder that Arwen had been drawn to him.

   When Aragorn’s tale brought him to his arrival in Lothlorien, he hesitated and dropped his gaze, but Elrond motioned for him to continue. And so, for the first and only time, Aragorn talked openly to his foster father about his love for his daughter. Elrond noticed the light in his eyes and the passion, suppressed for so long, in his voice and his heart grieved for his son. He knew what he had to say would come as a bitter blow to him.

   As Aragorn finished his tale, he said, “Arwen’s love has brought me a joy I never expected to find, but the grief that I know our union shall bring you is a stain upon my happiness. I am not so foolish as to expect you to share our joy. Can you ever forgive me, adar, for what I have done?”

   Elrond looked at his son, his heart as open and trusting as when he was a child, and found the remnants of his anger dissolve to nothing. If Aragorn had been born as one of the Eldar, he would have been delighted to welcome him as a husband for his daughter. It was not his fault that Iluvatar, in his infinite wisdom, saw fit to grant differing fates to his Children. He must not blame his son for that which could never be his fault. But he had made his decision and he would not waver now.

   He was silent for a long moment before taking his son’s hand in his. He considered his words carefully.

   “My son, years come when hope will fade, and beyond them little is clear to me. And now a shadow lies between us. Maybe, it has been appointed so, that by my loss the kingship of Men may be restored. Therefore, though I love you, I say to you: Arwen Undomiel shall not diminish her life’s grace for less cause. She shall not be the bride of any Man less than the King of both Gondor and Arnor. To me then even our victory can bring only sorrow and parting – but to you hope of joy for a while. Alas, my son! I fear that to Arwen the Doom of Men may seem hard at the ending.”[2]

   He knew he deserved no better, but Aragorn was completely crushed by his father’s words. He might have asked him to remove a Silmaril from Morgoth’s crown, such was the enormity of the task he demanded of him. Bitter disappointment tore through him and it was as if all the newfound light and joy in his life had been cruelly extinguished.

   Arwen was beyond his reach once again.

   What hope was there now that they could ever be together? His father’s word’s reminded him of the bitter truth that he had been living nothing more than a dream during his time in Lothlórien. There he had been treated like a prince and cushioned from facing the harsh reality which Elrond had so succinctly elucidated. There was no escaping that there a vast chasm between the life he led, as a hired sword who possessed little more than the clothes on his back, and the life he should be leading, as the Ruler of most of Middle-earth. It was a truth he was already only too well aware of, but, in his happiness, had chosen to ignore; a brutal reminder that, for all his high lineage, he had nothing but a broken sword to his name.

    How could he ever hope to bridge the gulf between these two worlds? Surely the task Elrond was demanding of him was insurmountable; it had been beyond any of his forbearers. How could he possibly succeed where they had failed? It would take a greater man than he. At that moment he felt totally worthless and inadequate, and he despaired.

   Elrond, seeing what his decision had done to his son, gently squeezed his hand, but could find no words to bring him comfort. He knew how much he was expecting of him. Aragorn was but a mortal man; he did not have unlimited years to achieve this. If he failed, he would have no heir and there would be no return from the shadows for the Kings of Men. He would be the last of an unbroken line that stretched back through the Ages to the first lords of the Edain. And yet if he succeeded, he would sunder Elrond from his most treasured jewel for ever. Yes, the demand he was making of Aragorn was great, but so too was what he was asking of him.

   The stakes for the outcome of the war with Sauron had just risen dramatically for them both.

~oo0oo~

   They talked together for a while; Elrond asking polite questions about Lothlórien to which Aragorn manfully supplied suitable answers, though all the while doing his best to conceal his breaking heart. He would not burden Elrond with his own grief, any more than he knew Elrond would expose him to his. Soon there was nothing more to say and so he made his excuses and escaped. He fled to the gardens, far from the eyes of the house. He had no wish to speak to anyone, not even his brothers. He wanted only to be alone with his dismal thoughts. He needed time to find a way to live with this crippling blow that had left his dreams shattered and his hope adrift in a sea of despair.

   At length, he found himself wandering under the silver birches where he had first met Arwen on that fateful evening all those years ago. He sat on the grass beneath one of the trees and leant his head against the silver truck. There was a cold numbness in his heart blocking from his eyes the beauty of the summer’s afternoon. When he had left Arwen just a week ago, he had not known when he would see her again, but he had hoped it would only be months. Now all he could think of was that it could be many years, and that thought dismayed him completely. He closed his eyes and allowed his emotions to rage within him, unhindered. He knew he was wallowing in his grief, but, for once, he could not desist from doing so. Always he pushed his own suffering to one side for the sake of the tasks he must do, but this time, he was hurting far too much for that. He had given of himself all his adult life, working tirelessly and doing everything that was asked of him, and more, but now he felt he was fast approaching the bottom of the well. He no longer knew how to refill it.

   It was Arwen who had rekindled his hope. Without her, there was nothing.

   Tears of despair pricked his eyes, as he could not help but give in to the anguish devouring him. He buried his head in his hands as he felt the tears escape and flow down his cheeks as he wept openly. Try as he might, he could not find the strength to be brave and hold them back.

~oo0oo~

   The afternoon drifted into evening, and slowly his mind began to calm and he started to think more clearly. Any rebellious thoughts he had of running away with Arwen were gone. He could not defy his foster father. He knew in his heart that Elrond was right, however much he hated it. Until the Shadow in the East was defeated, there was no real hope for anyone in Middle-earth. It did not prevent other men marrying and raising families, but their efforts would come to nothing if Sauron claimed the West. He knew where his real enemy lay. It was not Elrond.

    Suddenly into his bleak thoughts came the memory of something Arwen had said to him not long before they had parted.

   “Dark is the shadow, and yet my heart rejoices; for you, Estel, shall be among the great whose valour will destroy it.” [3]

   The path by which this might be achieved was hidden from him, but he remembered saying to her that with her hope, he would hope. And there, under the silver birches, he felt it kindle within him once again; faint at first, but growing steadily stronger, slowly stirring his injured heart.

   Hope. It never left him for long.

   He had never given in to despair before and he would not do so now. Not when he had every reason to strive to succeed. Arwen’s hope would nourish him in the years ahead and for her, somehow, he would find a way to fulfill Elrond’s condition. Suddenly the full the meaning of Elrond’s words became clear.

    His father had left the door open for him.

    If he could reclaim the crown, then Arwen would be his. The road was going to be longer and harder than he had first thought, that was all. Yet somehow he knew that whatever challenges life threw at him in the future, however hard and lonely the years ahead, they would be easier to endure now he had Arwen’s love to succour him. He had no doubts that Arwen would wait for him; someday, he would see her again. And although there was still much left unsaid between Elrond and himself, his father still counted him as his son; he still had a home to return to.

   From that first tiny flicker of optimism, a groundswell of determination was steadily rising within him. Slowly, he got to his feet. Of one thing he was certain; he would never reclaim a kingdom sitting idly under a tree.

    He had work to do.

~oo0oo~

   So it stood afterwards between Elrond and Aragorn, and they spoke no more of this matter; but Aragorn went forth again to danger and toil.

The Tale of Aragorn and Arwen                                                        The Return of the King

[1], [2], [3] The Tale of Aragorn and Arwen