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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 21: Roheryn

   Their horses were strong and of proud bearing, but rough-haired; and one stood there without a rider, Aragorn’s own horse that they had brought from the North; Roheryn was his name.

The Passing of the Grey Company                                                   The Return of the King

~oo0oo~

   Oh, he would be so glad to be home. This hunt for Gollum was beginning to feel as if it would never bear fruit.  Aragorn wondered how many more weary miles must he drag his aching feet before he finally admitted defeat. In his effort to find this creature, there could scarcely be a rock he had not peered behind or a mere into which he had not delved in all the vastness of Wilderland. Fifteen long years had passed since he and Gandalf first begun this venture. It felt as if they had walked the entire length and breadth of Middle-earth and yet this last trip had been as unrewarding as any previously. And even now, his return to the North was only to be a brief respite, nothing more. They would resume the hunt soon enough.

   “We will go South next time,” Gandalf had said when they parted. Somehow the wizard had managed to impart a measure of enthusiasm into his voice and still achieved a passable imitation of one who retained some hope that their quest may yet end in success. But undeniably, they were both rapidly losing heart. In spite of their long search, there was still no sign of their quarry.

    His long bouts away pursuing this creature had only been punctuated by a handful of brief return visits to Eriador. And, of late, Aragorn found that while absent on these long journeys abroad, he fretted far more about what was happening in his home lands than he had in the past when he was away. Then he had felt able to be gone for many long years without being burdened by the concerns of the North, but beyond the Misty Mountains now it was becoming increasing dangerous. There could be no doubt that the Enemy was on the move; chance encounters with orcs were ever more likely and all the signs were there that war was surely coming. It was a very sobering thought.

    Halbarad and the other captains did a marvellous job in his absence; he could not fault their endeavours in the slightest, but there was no denying the presence of the chieftain made a difference, hard to believe though it was at times. Somehow, it seemed, he still managed to put heart into his men even though, more often than not, he barely knew how to put heart into himself.

     But he would be bringing precious little in the way of comfort for the Dúnedain on this return visit. If he had been unable to persuade his own mother that he was any nearer reaching his goal, what words of hope could he possibly bring to those who still waited with seemingly infinite patience for that elusive light that was forever his charge to find.

    The last time he returned North he had visited the village where his mother had made her home in her final years. But he had not gone to the house.  He had stayed away, afraid to confront his memories and reopen the wound inflicted on his heart the moment he learned of her death. Somehow, he doubted he would be any braver this time. It still grieved him terribly that, for all his endeavours, in the end she had simply lost all hope. His failure to restore the kingdom in her lifetime was a grief and a shame he had no choice but to bear.

   But first he was going home to Rivendell. He was looking forward to the simple pleasures of spending a night in a comfortable bed and eating food he had not had to catch himself. As he trudged along the high moors that led to his father’s house, idly dreaming of warm rooms and cooked meals, he wondered if his brothers would be there and whether Bilbo had finished his translations yet.

   Suddenly, behind him on the path, he heard the gently jangling of many ringing bells. His head whipped round in surprise, but he smiled as he recognised the incongruous sound. He stepped to one side of the path and waited. Sure enough, there soon came into view a great Elven horse, loping along at an easy canter, his rider’s golden hair streaming out behind him. As he approached the lone walker, the horse came to a swift halt.

  “Mae govannen, Dúnadan,” said the rider. He smiled down at Aragorn who was certain the Elf was taking in the state of his attire which was even more dishevelled and mud-stained than usual. He had hunted for this creature in some very unpleasant places. “You have the weary look about you of one who has trudged many long miles by strange paths. Asfaloth, I am sure, would happily offer to carry you the rest of the way to Imladris.”

    The horse snorted as if indicating his agreement.

   “Your timing is appalling, Glorfindel,” laughed Aragorn, stepping forward to pat the horse’s neck. “Would that I had met you some thirty leagues back.”

   Glorfindel’s musical laugh filled the air. “You do not have to accept my offer. Neither of us shall be offended if you prefer to use your own legs to bring you home.”

   “I do not doubt it,” said Aragorn, “but, if Asfaloth will consent to bear me, then gladly do I accept.”

   “I rather thought you might,” smiled Glorfindel as he reached out his arm to aid Aragorn who, rather stiffly, swung up onto the horse’s back. It might not be the most comfortable position to ride, but Aragorn could not believe what a relief it was to take the weight off his tired feet. The horse trotted on at a steadier pace, but Asfaloth carried man and Elf with ease, his footfalls as light and unburdened as before.

   “And where have your travels taken you this time, might I ask?” said Glorfindel as he glanced back at Aragorn from over his shoulder.

   “East, far to the East again, even to beyond Mirkwood. Have you ever been to Rhovannion?”

   “I can not say that I have, nor have I any desire to travel to such inhospitable-sounding lands. Your ways are as strange as ever, Dúnadan. Is this the same business that occupied you the last time you were gone for so long?”

   “It is; and the time before, and the time before that.”

   “Ah! Do I perhaps detect a note of weariness in your voice, my friend?” Aragorn could tell the Elf was smiling, but he was too tired to even attempt to disguise his despair.

   “I fear you do. I can not pretend that my continued failure to find this creature does not sap both my strength and my heart.”

   “Oh, I should not worry unduly about a sapped heart,” said Glorfindel, rather too dismissively for Aragorn’s liking. Mysteriously, he then added: “I have a feeling a cure for that might be at hand.”

    Aragorn was sure he was smiling now. Even though he could only see the back of his head, he was certain that on his face would be that same self-satisfied smirk that always irked him so when they sparred together. It invariably meant Glorfindel had some stroke up his sleeve that he wished his pupil to know was coming but, infuriatingly, not when he was going to deliver it.

    “And as to your strength, Estel, I think you underestimate yourself. I believe you have deeper reserves than you yourself know.”

   Aragorn, with his sore feet and weary muscles, did not think he had any reserves left at all, hidden or otherwise. “I think you forget sometimes that I am not an Elf but a mortal man.” The eternal optimism of this Elf could be a little tiring at times, especially when he was struggling so hard to maintain his own

   “My point exactly,” said Glorfindel, cheerfully. “Do not forget, I was there, Estel, when the tireless men of Hithlum saved Turgon’s host at Rivil and remember, I knew and loved Tuor well. A mighty man was he and you no less so, I deem. It was not for nothing that I made my great sacrifice.”

   It was Aragorn who was smiling now. “You have never been one to turn a conversation to include your own achievements have you, Glorfindel?”

   “As you well know, Estel, barely a night passes when my adventures are not celebrated in the Hall of Fire. I would not wish to appear immodest.”

  Aragorn felt his shoulders shaking with suppressed mirth at Glorfindel’s indignation. The jest was an old one and definitely wearing too thin to be as amusing as he found it, but somehow Glorfindel had always managed to raise his spirits. He could be a hard task master and had been a ruthless tutor, but nothing ever fazed him, which, Aragorn thought, was not to be wondered at in one who has been through death itself.

   Asfaloth’s long strides brought them to the house in seemingly no time at all. Aragorn jumped down when they reached the courtyard and thanked Glorfindel who continued on his way to the stables. It was June and the house looked as lovely and as welcoming as ever. The roses were in bloom and the swallows flitted around the eaves as they busied themselves catching insects for their chicks. Aragorn stood for a moment relishing the welcome illusion of the passing of unchanging years; it was one he felt far too infrequently these days.

   He shook himself back to the present and strode towards the main entrance of the house. As he did so, the door opened and a figure appeared in the doorway, pausing on the doorstep, as if hesitating to come forward to greet him.

   And it was then that he saw her, as she stood for a moment in the porch watching him, the bright sun shimmering on her dark hair, a cascade of light that fell about her shoulders and framed her beautiful face. He stopped, rooted to the spot in disbelief. He had to look again, so convinced was he that his eyes were deceiving him. Here before him was a vision of the unparalleled loveliness that was his Arwen; transformed from being no more than a memory that for so long had filled his waking dreams, into actual flesh and blood that moved and laughed and smiled at him.

   She raced towards him, her face ablaze with joy and her arms reaching for him. In an instant, Aragorn found that everything about him; the house; the courtyard, even the trees and the sky, simply faded away to nothing as everything else was forgotten. He thought his heart would burst out of his body and the rest of him would take flight at the explosion of joy inside him, though for some reason, his legs stubbornly refused to move. Somehow, he managed to open his arms and Arwen flew into them. She was laughing and crying all at the same time and he realized he was doing the same. He clung to her, as if she was a phantom that might vanish again at any moment. So tightly did he hold her, he suddenly feared she would be unable to breathe, but he did not release his grip and, to his absolute joy, beneath the cool silk of her gown, he could feel the real substance of a warm and living woman. Her hair swept against his face and her laughter filled his ears. How he remained standing he did not know; he was shaking so much. At last he stepped back for a moment to look at her properly, still scarcely able to believe she was truly here. Gently, he cupped her chin in his trembling hand.

   “Oh Arwen, my dearest, most beloved, Arwen; it is truly you.” 

   He could barely see her through his tears. She reached up a hand and brushed them lightly from his cheeks, her fingers soft against his weather-beaten skin. He so wanted to smother her in kisses, to taste her, to be totally and completely absorbed into her very being, but instead he was cautious. They had been apart for so long. To his eyes, she looked as lovely as ever, as radiant and as perfect as he had for so long remembered her to be. Yet he could only imagine how he must appear to her; weary, careworn, travel stained, and ageing, a shallow reflection of the man she fell in love with. But as his tears cleared, he gazed upon her lovely face and looked deep into her eyes, and there, in their depths, he saw everything he needed to know.

   Her love for him was as strong as ever.

   Caution abandoned, he did not hesitate. His mouth met hers and in that blissful moment, he poured into that kiss all his longing and his frustration and his love. Arwen met him just as passionately and, as he held her in his arms, a bolt of the purest joy surged through his quaking body.

   How long they stood there, he could not tell, but he was sure he could hear the sound of a throat being cleared behind him. At first, Aragorn ignored this unwelcome intrusion into his happiness. But eventually, he reluctantly looked up and, to his horror, saw Elrond standing there watching them both. Instantly, he was jolted back to reality and immediately began extracting himself from Arwen’s arms.

   “Master Elrond, adar, it is good to be home,” he said, quickly holding out his hand, his embarrassment, he knew, only too obvious as he felt his cheeks turning crimson. He doubted he had ever felt so ashamed in all his life.

   But Elrond smiled at him and accepted his out-stretched hand. “I am glad you are home, my son. Arwen has been here waiting for you these last three months.”

  Aragorn looked sadly at Arwen. “Three months? While I have been trudging the wilds? If I had but known.”

   Arwen took his other hand. “It can not be helped, my dearest,” she said. “Other duties have ever called you. But come, you are here now, let us not waste a moment of our time together.”

   She started to lead him away, but Aragorn was acutely aware of the weight of guilt that always seemed to settle upon him where Elrond was concerned and he hesitated.

   Elrond noticed and said, kindly: “Go, Estel, we can speak later.” But although he smiled, Aragorn did not fail to read the regret in his eyes and he still wavered. Elrond’s only response was to broaden his smile and, ushering them both away with his hands, he silently mouthed: ‘Go!”

   Unable to find any words that could possibly do justice to the whirling emotions inside him, Aragorn apologetically nodded his thanks and allowed Arwen to lead him across the courtyard towards the house.

   “The scouts told us you were on your way here so your bath should be ready by now,” she was saying.” I expect you’re hungry too. Oh Estel, I have waited so long to care for you.”

   Arwen was so excited, her eyes shining and brimming over with love for him, that he all too easily pushed thoughts of Elrond to the back of his mind and followed her into the house. She led him along the corridors and up the stairs to the door of his old room.

   “Go and enjoy your bath while I find you some clean clothes and see about getting you something to eat,” she said as she kissed him lightly on the cheek. “I won’t be gone long.”

   She walked away and, as Aragorn reluctantly watched her go, he realised he had no wish to be parted from her again, not even for a moment. His head was still swimming that she was here at all, but he knew he could only stay in Rivendell for a few days before he would have to leave again. He began to wonder how he was ever going to endure another separation. But no sooner had the dismaying thoughts settled in his mind than he immediately admonished himself for indulging in such melancholy. No good would come of it. He could not stay; it was that simple. Instead, he told himself he was the luckiest man alive; he was going to spend a few days in the company of the woman he adored. What more could any man possibly desire?

   He opened the door to his room and there, as promised, was a steaming tub of hot water. He quickly stripped off his clothes and plunged in. The water was very hot, but he soon became accustomed to the heat and settled down for a good soak. He lay back in the tub and the warm water immediately began smoothing his sore muscles. He closed his eyes and thought of Arwen. He could still feel her kisses on his lips and her arms wrapped around his body. All thoughts of Gollum, and Gandalf and long endless miles, completely vanished from his mind. Right now, he wanted only to think of his beloved lady. But in spite of his excitement, the weariness of his body soon overwhelmed him and before long he drifted off to sleep. The next thing he knew, the door opened and Arwen’s head popped round it.

   “May I come in?” she asked. “I have your clean clothes for you.”

   Aragorn realised, to his pure delight, he had awoken from his dreams only to find he was living through one.

   “Of course,” he said, smiling happily.

   Arwen walked in and, putting the clothes on the chest, came and sat on a stool beside the tub. Suddenly Aragorn was unsure of what to say. They had been apart for thirty-six years, during which time he had dreamt of nothing more than the day he would see her again, but now that she was actually here, he felt a little shy and awkward.  Tentatively his fingers appeared over the rim of the tub and he gently hooked them around hers.

   “I can scarcely believe you are truly here,” he murmured quietly. “For so long have I waited for this moment.”

   She smiled at him sympathetically as her fingers tightened on his. “It will take time for us to find the right words, but, trust me, find them we shall.” Her voice was pure honey to his ears. “You are weary and in need of rest. This is more than enough.”

   He smiled his gratitude. He knew she would understand.

   Then he noticed her eyes had strayed to his hair which she was clearly studying with a certain amount of amusement.

   “I could perhaps do something about that bird’s nest on your head though, Estel,” she said. “Would you like me to help you wash your hair? I would gladly do so.”

   Aragorn could not think of many things he would enjoy more.

   “Thank you, I should like that very much,” he said politely.

   Arwen moved her stool so that she was positioned behind him and picking up the soap, began lathering his hair. She tried to run her fingers down the length of his locks but the strands matted as she did so.

   “Your hair is quite unbelievably tangled, Estel; do you never use a comb when out in the wilds?”

   Aragorn was enjoying the sensation of her fingers in his hair so much he could hardly speak. He found he had to concentrate hard on forming a coherent reply.

   “I confess I do not. When I first went to live in the Wilds, I made an effort to remain presentable, which for some reason amused Halbarad enormously. ‘Pampered Elven princeling’ he used to call me, so I soon abandoned such habits.”

   “He sounds very disrespectful, your Halbarad,” said Arwen who frowned as she encountered a particularly stubborn knot. “He shouldn’t have been so discouraging.”

   Aragorn wondered briefly what she would make of his second-in-command and the easy, comfortable friendship they had enjoyed for so long. He knew perfectly well what Halbarad would make of Arwen.

   He closed his eyes and lost himself to the delicious sensation of his scalp being massaged by the tender hands of his beloved. It was so different from when he was a child and his mother used to wash his hair. He smiled as he remembered the battles they had a bath time.

   “What amuses you so?”

   “I was just recalling how I used to hate having my hair washed as a child.”

   “I’m very relieved I didn’t know you when you were a small boy, Estel. I might not have become so besotted.”

  “So, you are besotted are you?” Aragorn tilted his head back to look at her, the tease in his eyes all too evident, yet Arwen also detected the insecurity underlining his question. She forbore to tease him back; she loved him too much to allow him to suffer for even a moment longer.

   “Yes, my beloved, I am besotted,” she smiled as she kissed the top of his head.

   That was all the encouragement he needed. Their years apart completely melted to nothing and Aragorn could no longer resist reaching up a soapy hand and drawing her closer to him. As their lips met, he said:  “You’re not the only one.”

~oo0oo~

   “I have a surprise for you.”

   “You mean other than you?”

   “Yes, would you like to see it?”

   Aragorn had finished his bath while Arwen prepared him a meal and now he was sitting beside her having lunch, rather formally, around the dining room table. They had been joined by Elrond and Glorfindel who was smirking quite unashamedly, though his pleasure at seeing such joy on the faces of his lord’s children was entirely genuine. The conversation had inevitably turned to the state of affairs in the North. Elladan and Elrohir were away meeting the Rangers at Sarn Ford and yet, as always, they kept their father well informed of events in Eriador. Elrond had just finished telling Aragorn such news as he had gathered about the Dúnedain, when Arwen made her sudden announcement.

   “Yes, of course, I would like to see it, at least I think I would, but will you not give me a clue as to what it is?”

   “No, I shall not. You must come and see with your own eyes. If you have finished, and, if adar will excuse us, we could go now, if you would care to.” She looked pleadingly at her father who smiled and waved them away.

   “Run along, my children,” he said as if they were only seven years old. In spite of his fears for them all, it warmed his heart greatly to see them both so happy.

   Aragorn and Arwen left the dining room together and Arwen led him through the house and out into the courtyard before turning towards the stables. As they walked side by side along the cobbled path, she reached across and took his hand.

   “It is permitted,” she said as she entwined her delicate fingers around his strong calloused ones. “Adar does understand, you know.”

   “I know he does,” said Aragorn sadly. His grief for Elrond had become almost inseparable from his own happiness. “But I would not cause him unnecessary pain or aggravate the wound with constant reminders.”

   “Neither would I,” said Arwen, “though I can not see how it can be otherwise. But perhaps we should decide here and now that while we are in the presence of adar, we shall be as family only, not troth-plighted. We shall not deceive him for a moment, but then we may at least have some hope that we’ll not hurt him any more than we must.”

   Aragorn nodded his agreement; it seemed the very least he could do for his father. But he was distracted from his sober thoughts by Arwen moving closer to him. She was giggling and playful.

   “But adar isn’t here now,” she said as she pecked him on the cheek. Aragorn grinned and tried to kiss her back, but she pulled away from him, laughing. “Come on, you still haven’t seen your surprise.”

   Aragorn had actually completely forgotten all about her gift and was intrigued to find they were nearing the stables. Arwen was obviously so excited about it that he decided not to ask any more questions. He had no wish to spoil her fun with an astute guess.

   “Here we are,” she said as she led him into the magnificent building that housed Rivendell’s horses. The stables were almost as spacious as the house and very nearly as splendid. Over the millennia, the masons of Imladris had carved every available surface. Wild horses galloped across mellow, honey coloured walls, and wrapped themselves around ornately carved columns. Towers and turrets rose from the roof and inside, the stalls were immaculate. The gangway was spotlessly clean and all the brass fittings were gleaming from endless polishing.

   As they entered, rows of noble heads appeared over half doors and alert ears turned towards them. Many of the horses tried to waylay the visitors as they passed, searching hopefully for apples and carrots. Asfaloth was determined not to allow Aragorn to pass at all without being rewarded for his earlier efforts.

   At last they came to an end stall.

   “In here,” said Arwen.

   Surely she was not giving him a horse? But as Aragorn approached the stall, he could hear the sound of a large beast turning through a thick straw bed and a handsome chiselled head appeared over the door. Arwen stood proudly beside a very fine looking steed.

   “He’s yours, Estel. I brought him all the way from Lothlórien just for you. Isn’t he beautiful?” Arwen was beaming and waiting eagerly for his reaction.

   “He is magnificent,” said Aragorn, awed and humbled that she had honoured him with such a fine gift. The horse was indeed beautiful and in fabulous condition. His rich, dark chestnut coat shone with health and vitality; he simply oozed power and presence. Aragorn had never owned a horse like this in his life. He reached up a hand to stroke the soft muzzle. The great horse regarded him with bright, intelligent eyes and his flared nostrils sniffed the man he had been told would be his. Aragorn’s hand moved slowly to the horse’s neck and rested upon the fine, velvet coat.

   “Would you like to ride him?” asked Arwen.

   “May I? But will he take a bit and a saddle. I can not ride Elf style.”

   “Oh Estel, do you think I would give you a horse you can not ride?” Awren laughed at him, teasingly. “I taught him myself to accept both. He also understands commands in both Sindarin and Westron so you will have no trouble explaining what you require him to do.”

   Arwen was so beautiful and flawless, he sometimes forgot that she was also an extremely capable woman. She fetched the saddle and together they tacked up the horse. He tightened the girth and adjusted the stirrups to a length comfortable for his long legs while Arwen saw to the bridle. She led the horse from his stall out into the yard, where Aragorn, whose muscles had been greatly eased by his long soak, leapt easily onto his back.

   “Are you not going to ride with me,” he asked as Arwen made no move to fetch a horse for herself.

   “No, you go on, I’ll catch you up.” Arwen opened the gate into the meadow and watched the horse and rider pass through.

   Aragorn set off at a steady trot, keen to get the measure of the horse before giving him free rein. This was no tired ranger horse, worn from long days and too short nights, but a fresh animal in his prime, corn fed and desperate to be given his head. The powerful beast arched his deep neck, his whole body taut and as pent up as a coiled spring of suppressed energy just waiting to be unleashed. But he submitted willingly to Aragorn’s gentle but firm hold on the reins, though his hind quarters occasionally swung from side to side as he tried to find release from the restraint imposed upon him. The horse was as magnificent to ride as he was on the eye and Aragorn delighted in his playful antics.

   “What is the matter, my beauty? Is this sedate pace not to your liking?”

   The horse snorted and tossed his head, almost ripping the reins from Aragorn’s hands.

  “Very well then, let’s see what you can do.” Aragorn opened his fingers by a mere fraction, only easing his hold on the reins by the tiniest amount, but the horse instantly read the signal and immediately surged forward, leaping away over the grass, his long, bounding strides effortlessly devouring the ground beneath him. Faster and faster they went. Aragorn whooped and laughed out loud for joy at the thrill the ride gave him. The wind caused his eyes to smart and soon he could barely see where they were going, but the great horse had eyes for them both and, in spite of his speed, he sure-footedly picked his way through the fields and the woods that surrounded the house. Aragorn managed to vaguely steer him in a circle and eventually headed back the way they had come though he felt as if the horse could have carried him all the way to Gondor there and then. At last he called a halt, hoping the horse would be as obliging as Arwen believed, for he was not at all sure he had the strength to haul him up by force. But his mount did not gainsay his new master and obediently broke back to a trot and then a walk. Arwen had taught him well.

   Aragorn leant forwards and patted the horse’s neck. He had not even broken into a sweat.

   “Le hannon, mellon nîn,” he said. The horse might not be sweating but Aragorn was glad for a chance to catch his breath. It had needed all his skill to master the animal, but he was delighted with his gift. The horse was everything he could have dreamt of, though he knew he was going to need to spend time with him to establish that easy rapport that only grew out of mutual trust and understanding between horse and rider.

   His eyes scanned the fields as he looked for Arwen and at last he spotted her in the distance, running swiftly to catch them up. He whispered in the horse’s ear.

   “Come, let us meet my lady, I would not have her tire herself so.”

   The horse was more settled now after his gallop and cantered steadily over to Arwen who stopped, puffing slightly and rosy cheeked as Aragorn halted the horse in front of her. She had no need to ask if Aragorn liked his gift. The grin on his face told her everything.

   “You are pleased with him then,” she said, smiling back at him.

   Aragorn jumped down from the saddle. “He is wonderful, Arwen. How can I ever thank you enough?” He took her hand and kissed it.

   Arwen was surprisingly thoughtful. “Well, you can use him wisely and so may he bring you more swiftly to my door. That would be all the thanks I require.”

   “Then that I shall endeavour to do, my lady,” said Aragorn, with an elaborate bow. “Come, let us take him back to his stall. Will you ride with me this time?”

   “Gladly; he will easily carry us both.”

  Aragorn helped steady Arwen as she positioned herself so as to be sitting sideways across the front of the saddle and then he climbed up behind her. The horse walked sensibly now on a loose rein as he sedately carried the two riders along the trails under the tall beech trees that bordered the meadows. The summer air was cooler in the shaded wood and Arwen slipped her arm around Aragorn’s waist and snuggled against him. Her other hand she placed on his as he held the reins. They rode on in silence for a bit, each relishing the unfamiliar closeness of each other’s bodies. Aragorn could not believe how his life had changed in just a few hours. Here he was, deliriously happy, holding his beloved Arwen in his arms where only this morning he had been fighting weariness and despair. As Arwen leaned against his chest and her hair brushed against his face, he could feel himself beginning to tremble; her body was so warm and inviting next to his. Oh sweet bliss, he had never known such delicious torture. He desperately struggled for something to say to distract himself from the tide of desire rapidly rising within him. He was terrified his secret needs would at any moment become all too obvious.

   “This is the second time I’ve ridden pillion today,” he said, quickly, “though Glorfindel did not smell as enticing as you.”

   “I’m very pleased to hear it,” laughed Arwen. “You don’t smell so bad yourself.”

   Aragorn was relieved he had taken such a long time over his bath.

   “What are you going to call your horse, Estel? He will need a name. You can not just refer to him as ‘my horse’.”

   “He will always remind me of you. What would you suggest?”

   “I shall suggest nothing. He belongs to you now; you should decide. But he wants a name don’t you, my beauty? ” Arwen stroked the horse’s neck. The great horse tossed his head and snorted.

   Aragorn realised he had better settle on something quickly. He did not want Arwen thinking he was not suitably appreciative of his gift, but with Arwen’s breath warm against his neck, he was finding it difficult to concentrate on anything so trivial. At last he had an idea.

   “As he is a gift from you, I think perhaps I shall call him ‘Roheryn’, the Horse of the Lady? What do you think of that?” [1]

   “Oh, that’s perfect, Estel. Don’t you think so, ‘Roheryn’?”

   The horse snorted again and that seemed to settle the matter. Roheryn he became.

   As they emerged from under the trees and came once more into the meadow, Roheryn began to jog, anticipating the faster pace that the open grassland would allow.

   “No, my beauty,” soothed Aragorn, laughingly, as he shifted his weigh backwards to try and ease the horse into a walk again. “I will not permit you to go any faster, not with my lady perched so precariously upon your back.” Roheryn seemed to understand and returned to a steady walk.

   “He is a fine horse, Arwen,” Aragorn said. “I could wish for none better.”

   “He is a horse worthy of a king. Why do you think I chose him for you? Even as a colt, there was something special about him. It has long been my hope, Estel, that he may bear you to your destiny and so at last to ours.”

   Aragorn felt his heart welling within him at this expression of Arwen’s continued faith in him, though he dearly wished he felt the same optimism. “The strength of your hope has ever succoured me and fuelled my own,” he said, “though, would that I could see as clearly as do you.” 

   “My hope has never wavered, Estel, nor have I ever doubted you, although I fear your path has become a weary one of late.”

   Oh, how Aragorn longed to open his heart to her, to share his fears and his hopes, to ease his loneliness, but he had no wish to burden her with his own cares. He fell silent for a moment, lost in his thoughts, but then, quite unexpectedly and to his absolute joy, he felt the touch of her mind on his and he realised he had no need to tell her anything. She already knew all that he could possibly say.

   “I wish I could do more to aid you, my love,” she said, her eyes filling with emotion, “but we must be patient a while longer. There is so much that is as yet uncertain. Even adar can not see what lies beyond this growing darkness. But you shall prevail. You must believe, as I do, that our hour will come. If we do not, our hope is doomed.”

   Her arm tightened around his waist and he was suddenly overwhelmed by his love for her.

   “Oh Arwen, I could not bear to lose you.” Aragorn’s voice was choked with emotion.

   She raised her hand to his face and gently stroked the rough stubble on his cheek.

   “I know what it is that you fear,” she said, softly, “but there is no need. I shall never break faith with you or regret my choice, no matter what may come to pass; we are as one now and always will be.”

   His heart soared at her reassurance. He clasped her hand and drew it to his lips, gently kissing her fingers. He took a deep breath and tried his best to settle his raging emotions before they unmanned him completely.

   “Good,” he said, managing to keep his voice deceptively light, “for I should hate to have to give you back this horse.”

   “Oh, Estel, now you are behaving like a brother,” said Arwen as she pulled her hand away. “That was worthy of Elladan and Elrohir.”

   Aragorn laughed with her, but then all humour left him as he spotted the gleam in her eye, a look he remembered only too well from Lothlórien. He felt her hand slide up his arm and around his neck. His head was pulled down so his lips met hers. He could feel her hands caressing his body. He was trembling so much he feared he might fall off the horse, but, as Roheryn plodded steadily on towards the stables, he found himself blissfully adrift in a sea of the purest pleasure.

   Had it been his fate to be called to Mandos’s Halls at that very moment, he could not have died a happier man.

~oo0oo~

3016 Elrond sends for Arwen and she returns to Rivendell; for the Misty Mountains and all lands to the east of them are becoming full of peril and threat of war.

The Tale of Years of the Third Age                                         The Peoples of Middle-earth

[1] Appendix The Silmarillion: Roheryn ‘horse of the lady’, Aragorn’s horse, which was so called because given to him by Arwen.