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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 39: The King of Arnor

Elessar took it up with reverence, and when he returned to the North and took up again the full kingship of Arnor Arwen bound it upon his brow, and men were silent in amaze to see its splendour.

Disaster of the Gladden Fields                                                                  Unfinished Tales

~oo0oo~

  The early morning sun was no more than a sliver of gold crowning the highest of the North Downs and the village nestled in the lee of the hills was still shrouded in mist. Only a few of the villagers were abroad to note the small group of riders who rode along the cobbled road. Several paused for a moment from going about their daily chores to look up and wonder at the strangers, but none recognised the cloaked and hooded figures of their King and Queen.

   The small party rode on through the village and halted their horses before a cot at the end of the lane. Aragorn swiftly dismounted and went to the aid of his queen who slid gracefully from her saddle.  Together they walked up the path towards the humble dwelling. Neither spoke, but as they reached the door, the Queen slipped her hand into that of her husband and he, in turn, gripped hers tightly.

    The Royal Company had been travelling north from the Shire at a leisurely pace, steadily following the meanders of the Baranduin towards its source at Lake Evendim.  The King had called at one or two of the villages along the way, but for the most part, the Company had encountered few of the people of Eriador. He had, however, insisted they visit this particular village. He had not been in these parts for over twenty years and, when he had come here then, he had not done what he felt he should.

   The door to the cot was unlocked. Aragorn hesitated for a moment before raising the latch and walking inside; Arwen followed close behind. The air that greeted them was cold and dank; the house musty from being uninhabited for a long time. By the light of the open doorway, Aragorn glanced around the small, uninviting room. His mother’s chair was still drawn up before the hearth, although it had been many years since a fire had provided any comforting warmth from the grate. The same low table stood beside it that had been there the last time he visited.

   “It is completely unchanged from how I remember it,” he murmured as he looked about him at the few pieces of dusty furniture. Green mould was feeding on what had once been polished wood. Cobwebs hung from every surface.

   “It must have been a cosy room with the fire blazing,” said Arwen coming to stand beside him. Aragorn smiled at her, thanking her for her attempt at cheering him. He knew perfectly well the fire had not blazed as often as it should. The house made a depressing sight. Although he had dwelt for many years in the comfort of the Citadel in Minas Tirith, never, for a moment, had he forgotten how his people lived, but even so, this was not a fitting final home for the mother of a king.

   He wandered through to the kitchen. It was as cheerless as the living room. He had not expected to find any comfort here, but he was unprepared for quite how much it hurt to find the few personal items that remained. There was his mother’s shawl draped over the back of a chair, on a shelf by the dim window, one or two books which he recognised as having come from Rivendell. A cloak hung on the back of the door, a few treasured pieces of crockery still adorned the dresser. All the sadness he had long felt over his mother’s despair welled within him again. He remembered now why he had stayed away all those years ago.

   “I could not persuade her,” he said sadly, more to himself than to his wife. “If I could have given her hope, she might have borne to endure a while longer and perhaps she would have been here now, waiting to travel with us to Annúminas. What joy that would have brought her.”

   “She does know though, Estel, you must believe that she knows.” Arwen took his hand and squeezed it.

   Aragorn nodded. “Little does it matter now. We must all look to the future. My mother gave all her hope for mine. At least, in a few days, I shall finally do honour to her sacrifice.”

   “She would have been so proud of you, Estel. She was so proud of you.”

   “I trust it is so,” he said softly. He stood for a few more moments gazing around the room. He walked over to the window and idly picked up one of the books. It was a collection of poems that his mother had been rather fond of. He smiled at the memory of her reading some of them to him. He put it down and picked up the other, much larger tome. It was a beautiful book, bound in red leather. He opened the cover. There was an inscription on the first page. He immediately recognised the elegant hand of his foster father. His heart raced as he read the words written so many years ago.

   ‘My dearest Gilraen,

   I hope you find this a suitable parting gift. The text within this cover is one of two copies I have had made of ‘A History of the North Kingdom,’ a work painstakingly prepared from various manuscripts in my safekeeping. I deem it fitting that one should go with you now as you return to your people. The long tale of my brother’s line is one of great trial yet I never fail to be moved by the forbearance and dignity of his descendents. Hope has ever dwelt in their hearts and may it be that the Hope we have raised between us will yet find a way to bring light to the Dúnedain in the dark days to come.

   Elrond

   The book was identical to the one Elrond had given to him when he came to Minas Tirth. The original, he knew, was now in The Undying Lands, but he had never known that his mother had a copy. Aragorn turned the pages. It was all there: the glory of Elendil’s great kingdom, the victory of the Last Alliance, the loss of Isildur, the breaking of the Dúnedain into petty tribes, the war with the Witch-king culminating in the death of Arvedui and the demise of the Kingdom. And the struggles of Aranarth to rebuild the war-ravaged land he inherited, no more than a mere foot note in the long descent of his people into the secret, wandering folk they had become.

   It was a beautiful gift and he treasured his own copy, but it was a stark reminder of all that his people had suffered throughout the Third Age. Lost in his thoughts, he continued to flick through the pages, and as he did so, he began to consider that perhaps the wonder was less that his mother had despaired than that he had not. She could not have known with certainty that he would prevail. All the evidence was to the contrary and foresight was often lacking where it was most needed. Who could have foretold that a hobbit would be the salvation of them all? He knew very well that all his own endeavours would have come to nought without Frodo’s sacrifice. And his mother knew nothing of the tenacity of hobbits. But then he had been blessed with the promise of Arwen to drive him ever onwards. If Arathorn had lived, Gilraen’s life might have been vastly different too.

   He sighed and picked up both the books, carefully wrapping them in the shawl that would forever remind him of his mother. He knew he could not change the past and, thanks to that past, the future was one of hope for all the people of Middle-earth. He must be thankful for that and not dwell on what might have been.

   “I will take these with me,” he said before grabbing Arwen’s hand and leading her swiftly across the room and through the open doorway to the guards waiting beyond.

   There was nothing more he needed from that house.

~oo0oo~

   Aragorn savoured the cool airs of the North with unexpected pleasure as he inhaled deeply of the gusts sweeping across the North Downs. There was something quite different about the air in the North that had ever lifted him when he returned there from the far corners of Middle-earth. His homecoming now was no exception. Much as he loved Gondor and Minas Tirith, there was no denying where his heart truly lay.

   He had been gone a long time. Much had happened for the good and the evidence of that was all about him. In places, he hardly recognised the path they were travelling upon. What had once been a rough trodden track was now a broad cobbled road. Occasionally they passed farms and homesteads where there had been none before. He no longer needed to keep an eye trained on the hills for danger though the habits of a lifetime would never leave him. He might have a company of skilled guards about him, but his keen eyes remained as sharp as ever and his hand was never far from Andúril. His lady and his family rode beside him. He would never fail to defend them.

   The journey north had been an exceptionally pleasant one. Aragorn delighted in the companionship of his friends from the Shire and was greatly enjoying getting to know their families. His evenings had become noisy affairs as the harmonious singing of his Elven brothers was often followed by hearty renditions of the tavern songs so beloved by hobbits.  But at last, the Royal Company finally approached Lake Evendim. It was dusk and in the deep grey of evening, Aragorn could only discern a tantalising outline of many buildings away in the distance. He would have to wait until tomorrow to finally see the rebuilt city of Annúminas.

   The Company halted a good furlong from the main gates and the King’s men immediately began setting up the camp. On their long journey from Minas Tirith they had become rather proficient at this task. The Company would remain here tonight so that the King and his family could rest from their journey and prepare to enter the city in the morning. The pavilions were swiftly raised and messengers were sent on ahead with the news that the King had finally arrived.

   The tables had barely been set for dinner when a couple of riders approached the camp from the direction of the city. One was Dírhael. For a man of advancing years, he was still hale, the blood of Aranarth belying his long years as a Ranger. Immediately, Aragorn came out to greet him. Dírhael dismounted and stared in wonder at the man he saw before him.

   So overwhelmed was he by the sight of his grandson as a mighty king that he completely forgot that it was customary to bend a knee when greeting a sovereign. Instead, he grabbed Aragorn into his embrace and held him as if, at any moment, he might vanish into the night and be gone again for more years than he remotely cared to consider.

   After many moments, Aragorn held his grandfather at arm’s length and looked at him kindly. The man had tears in his eyes and Aragorn felt his own emotions welling. He could only guess at the enormity of what this moment meant to Dírhael. His grandfather had assumed command of the Dúnedain on the death of Arathorn and to him had fallen the unenviable role of holding together the failing remnants of their People while he had been nurtured in Rivendell. He had taken up the reins again when Aragorn was absent on his long errantry abroad.  Much of the responsibility for the well being of his people had been carried by this man. He owed him a great deal, yet Dírhael was the one expressing his gratitude.

   “I can scarcely believe you are here, at last,” he said. “For so long, so very long, have I dreamt of this day…” But his words were lost in his throat as he gulped back his emotions.

   Aragorn held him again, tears filling his own eyes. “I know Dírhael, I know. I have missed the North so very much and now that I am back, I shall not leave for a long time.”

   Dírhael, sniffed and wiped his eyes. “Well, I shall hold you to your word and…” But, as he spotted his great grand children standing shyly behind their father, the composure he was so manfully struggling to maintain threatened to leave him completely.

   Aragorn smiled at him with understanding. “Come my friend, let me introduce you to your family and then we have much to talk about.” But as he turned to lead the way into his pavilion, he suddenly noticed the young man who had ridden from the city with Dírhael. There was something very familiar about him.

   “But will you not first introduce me to your companion?”

   “Of course, forgive me,” said Dirhael. “This is Haladan, Halbarad’s eldest son. He works beside me at all times now; in truth, I don’t know what I should do without him.”

   Aragorn felt his heart lurch at this sudden reminder of his dear friend. Yes, he could see the similarity now. He had the same set of his jaw, the same cheekbones and he was very tall like his father, almost as tall as he. Aragorn had not seen Halbarad’s boy since he was a youth, so long had he been away. Even before the War, he had been absent for lengthy periods whilst hunting for Gollum and had missed seeing the families of many of his men growing up.

   Aragorn reached out his hand. “I am honoured to meet you,” he said. The young man looked taken aback at being so approached by his King, but he took Aragorn’s hand and bowed his head.

   “The honour is all mine, my Lord King,” he said. Aragorn looked at him a moment longer. He was so like his old friend, it was quite unsettling.

   “Come, both of you,” he said smiling, and ushering the men towards his tent, “this is going to be an evening to remember and I am eager to hear all the news that you can tell me.”

~oo0oo~

   The news was good.

   The work at Annúminas was progressing well. The King’s Palace had been completed as planned and already the city was thriving. The land about was beginning to prosper again too. Farmers and drovers had returned to the North Downs and the people lived there in peace and without fear. Aragorn was greatly encouraged; it all boded well for the future.

   “And what of my dear grandmother,” he asked at last. “How does she fair?”

   “In truth, not well,” said Dírhael, “but Ivorwen is as stubborn as ever and you would never know that her time draws nigh. She would not have missed your return for all the world so there was no way in all Arda that she was going in the ground while you were yet to formally take up the Sceptre. She’ll be there tomorrow, cheering louder than anyone, you can be sure of that.”

   Aragorn smiled. “I’m glad to hear it,” he said. “I very much look forward to seeing her again.” Turning to Haladan, he said: “And what can you tell me of yourself, Haladan son of Halbarad? According to Dírhael your counsel has been invaluable to him.”

   “I do my best, my lord,” replied the young man. “Dírhael has taught me much but the challenges before us now are different from whose we faced in the past. Yes, we have peace and we are all thankful for it, but with it comes a greater need for order. I sometimes think life was simpler when the rule of law was enforced by the end of a sword, though never would I return to those times.”

   “Nor would I,” agreed Aragorn, “and I very much look forward to hearing more about your work here.”

   Dírhael and Haladan dined with the King that night. Aragorn was fascinated to learn the detail of the functioning of the temporary Council that had managed Arnor’s affairs since the War. It would need to be reordered now that he was taking up residence for a prolonged period. For one thing, Sam, Merry and Pippin would all be taking up their seats on the Council, but nonetheless there was much that he would retain.

   “This Councillor thing, Aragorn,” Pippin had asked over dinner, “what is it exactly that we will be required to do?”

   “Why no more than provide us with the benefit of your great wisdom and vast experience, my dear Peregrin,” Aragorn replied. He smiled to himself at the doubtful look that suddenly appeared on the hobbit’s face though he himself had no doubts about the contribution that all three of his friends from the Shire would make to the governing of the North Kingdom.

   It was a joyful gathering that night. Elladan and Elrohir also had much to discuss with Dírhael, though the elderly man was far more interested in meeting the King’s children.

   “You are blessed with a delightful family, Aragorn,” he said after all three of them had been sent reluctantly to their beds. “Little Gilraen and Celebrían are both the image of their mother, though, I confess, they so remind me of my own Gilraen when she was that age. And Eldarion is a fine lad; I see much of you in him. You must be very proud of them all.”

   Aragorn beamed. “I am, and a day never passes when I do not thank Eru for the gifts he has bestowed upon Arwen and myself.”

   “It truly gladdens my heart to see you so blessed at last,” said Dirhael. “You have waited a long time for the rewards of your labours.”

   Eventually, the two men returned to the city. Apparently all had been made ready for the King’s arrival in the morning, but neither Dírhael nor Haladan was leaving anything to chance. After his guests had left, and the rest of the party had retired for the night, Aragorn sat on alone for a time, quietly enjoying his pipe.

   Dírhael had provided him with plenty to think upon but he had been greatly encouraged by all that he heard. And he had been particularly impressed by young Haladan. He appeared every bit as level headed as his father and completely committed to the continued restoration of Arnor. In the years ahead, he would be glad to have such a man serving on the Council. Lately, he had been giving much thought to the ordering of his Realm and he had decided he needed someone in Arnor to fulfil the role that Faramir performed in Gondor. Already he was beginning to wonder if Haladan might just be the right choice for Chief Councillor. He was young, certainly, but no more so than Faramir when he became Steward or Eomer when he became King. As Aragorn sat enjoying the excellent Longbottom that Sam had given him, he found himself warming to the idea.

   But meeting the son inevitably drew his thoughts back to the father. Halbarad had been much on his mind recently. In part, it was the country they rode through. Every craggy rock, every stream, and every wood seemed to hold some memory of him. Aragorn had not thought to still be so moved after so long, but the dull ache of his loss had unexpectedly returned and that evening, his old friend filled his thoughts.

   He knew that someday he must talk to Haladan of that awful day on the Pelennor. It was not a conversation he particularly looked forward to. He would have to choose his time to broach the matter and then select his words carefully.  He did not know how much the son already knew of his father’s last moments. Someone was sure to have spoken to him. He himself had written to Halbarad’s widow. His words had seemed woefully inadequate and he had omitted most of the detail. She had not needed to know of the pain her husband had endured or of the fear that had filled his eyes.

   Even now, Aragorn was unsure if he could bring himself to tell this young man about everything that had happened; the full wretched horror of how the orcs had butchered his father as they dragged him to the ground while he still valiantly clutched the Standard.  It had only taken moments for Aragorn to be at his side and for the orcs to feel the desperate fury of Andúril, but there had been nothing he could do to help his friend. Immediately he realised that his wounds were too deep and that Halbarad’s remaining time on Arda would only be counted in moments. Aragorn had cradled him in his arms and talked to him as his life had slipped away. What had he said? He could not now recall; nothing of any consequence, of that he was sure; certainly nothing he should have said; there was simply not the time. For a brief moment Halbarad had tried to return the grip on Aragorn’s hand but the effort had proved too much. He had desperately struggled to speak, his eyes pleading with Aragorn to understand, but his words had died with him.

   Aragorn felt tears fill his eyes. He blinked them away. One day he knew he must tell Halbarad’s son all about his father’s last moments. One day, but perhaps not just yet.  

~oo0oo~

   The next morning there was an autumnal chill in the air at first light. The Royal Family rose exceptionally early as there was much to do in readiness for the King’s investiture and for the grand opening ceremony of Annúminas. Aragorn’s daughters could barely contain their excitement and were busily trying to decide which of their dresses were most suitable for the occasion. Arwen gratefully handed over the entertainment of them to their nanny. She herself dressed quickly; glad, today especially, for the assistance of young Elanor Gamgee. The hobbit-lass was rapidly making herself thoroughly indispensable.

   Eldarion however, unlike his sisters, was being very serious and grown up and insisted upon aiding his father as he donned his ceremonial robes and armour.

   “Are you going to wear all the heirlooms of the Dúnedain today, Adar,” asked Eldarion as he peered into the specially made chest which held his father’s most prized treasures. Aragorn had told him the tales behind how they all came into his possession many times, but now that his father was actually going to wear them all and at such a grand occasion at that, Eldarion suddenly found them quite fascinating.

   “Yes, of course,” replied Aragorn as he struggled into his black mail. “This is a very special day, one of the most important since I became king. Today I formally take up the kingship of the North Kingdom. It will be expected that the King should look the part.”

   “But what about your ring? Will Naneth still wear that?” asked Eldarion, as he went to help his father ease the cumbersome mail over his shoulders.

   Aragorn glanced across at his wife who had now joined them and was carefully unfolding his white cloak. He had put that ring on her finger all those years ago and he had no intention of ever removing it.

   “No, my son, the ring of Barahir remains on the hand of your mother.”

  “Oh,” said Eldarion, clearly a little disappointed, “but you’ll wear the Elessar, though, and the Elendilmir too. You must wear that. Are you really going to wear the one you found in Orthanc?” The prospect evidently excited the boy. A few years ago he had gone through a magpie stage when he had collected anything and everything, and he had been intrigued by the tale of the wicked wizard secretly gathering items of great worth, and hiding them in his tower, foremost among them Isildur’s great jewel.

   “May I be permitted to see it, Adar?”

  The shirt in place, Aragorn agreed and delved into the chest. He was glad to see his son showing such interest in the Kingdoms he would one day inherit. There had been a time when it seemed he was interested in absolutely everything except the role that would one day be his.

   Aragorn picked up the small mithril case that Gimli had made for the Elendilmir soon after they had found it in Saruman’s hoard. He carefully removed the great crystal and held it out on its mithril fillet for his son to see. The great jewel blazed with a brilliant light and Eldarion gasped in wonder.

   “It is so much brighter than the other one,” he cried. “May I hold it?”

   “You may,” said Aragorn, smiling at his son. “But handle it with care. It is not for nought that I have yet to wear it myself.”

   “Oh, Adar, you are going to look like a true king of old when you are all dressed up in your finery,” Eldarion’s face was a picture of wonder. In the Citadel at home there was a painting hanging in the Council Chambers of his father standing before the walls of Minas Tirith. It depicted the moment after he had received the winged crown from Gandalf and Frodo. Eldarion had always been awed by how stern and mighty a man his father seemed in that picture. He did not remotely resemble the loving father who played games with him and told him wonderful stories. He had seen his father attired in kingly raiment on many a state occasion, but a coronation was undoubtedly something very special.

   Aragorn returned the jewel to its case and, with Eldarion’s help, finally finished strapping on the black mail.  

   Once it was fully secured, the Queen came and clasped the white cloak about Aragorn’s throat.

   “This cloak really has seen better days, Estel,” she said as she smoothed it over his shoulders. “You really should have permitted me to make you a new one.”

   “And I would have treasured it,” said Aragorn, “but this one served the Kings of Gondor well enough in the past. Had one this fine survived from the North kingdom, I would have worn that in preference on an occasion such as this, but sadly none remains.”

   “It looks very well on you,” said Arwen with a reassuring smile. She then took the Elessar from the chest and pinned the great brooch to his breast.

   “You look truly magnificent, my dearest,” she said softly as she lightly kissed his cheek. Aragorn caught her hand and raised her fingers to his lips; his eyes glowed with the special smile he reserved only for her.

   “Oh, Adar, what about your silver rod?” asked Eldarion, excitedly. “You must have that. May I fetch it?” The lad returned to the chest and carefully lifted out a long velvet roll, inside of which was the Sceptre of Annúminas. He had only ever seen it a few times and knew his father esteemed it very highly.

   Eldarion unwrapped the exquisite Sceptre and breathed out a long low whistle of appreciation. “It is very beautiful,” he said as he admired the delicately sculptured mithril. “It is very old, isn’t it? But I wonder, Adar, it is the oldest of your heirlooms; or would that be the Elendilmir; do you know?”

   Aragorn came and stood beside his son. The boy was growing tall yet he still seemed very young for a fifteen year old, far younger than he had been at that age. But then, neither he nor Arwen had been quite sure of how quickly any of their children would mature, given their unique parentage.

   He considered his son’s question. It was not something he had thought on before but he found he was intrigued.

   “In fact, my son, it is neither,” he said after a moment’s consideration. “I do believe the ring of Barahir to be by far the oldest for it was made for Finrod Felagund while he still dwelt in Valinor. It may be about the same age as the Palantíri which were also made in the long Ages before the Noldor departed from the Blessed Realm. Fëanor himself, no less, crafted them in his workshop.”

   “That really is extremely old,” said Eldarion in wonder, “far older even than Naneth. But surely the Sceptre must be the next oldest. Have I not heard tell in my lessons that it is the oldest work of the hands of Men?”

   “Yes, my son, you have learnt your lessons well,” said Aragorn, smiling at the youthful face that looked up at him; so young and innocent, and so very beloved. “And of the works of Men I do indeed believe it to be the most ancient, made as it was for Valandil, the first lord of Andúnië. But the Elendilmir, I deem to be older as it was made for Valandil’s mother, Silmariën.”

   “I see,” said Eldarion, thoughtfully. “So who was it who made the Elendilmir then?” Aragorn considered this for a moment and realised he did not know.

   “I’m not sure,” he said. “The kings of Númenor were good friends of the Elves on Tol Eressëa in those days so it may well have been a gift from them. The replacement Elendilmir was made at Imladris at the biding of your grandfather. I think it likely only the skill of the Elves could make such a thing.”

   “You could be right, Adar,” said Eldarion. He was frowning and Aragorn smiled to himself as he wondered what was coming next. Instructing his son in his family history was proving to be an unexpected bonus of coming North.

   “After all,” continued Eldarion, with the same considered expression on his face, “it was the Elves who made the Elessar, was it not?”

   “It was indeed,” replied Aragorn. “And that was long ago, before the fall of Gondolin even.”

   “I know exactly when that was,” said Eldarion proudly. “It was in the year five hundred and ten of the First Age. Eärendil was only seven years old at the time and I know he was born in five hundred and three. That’s how I remember.”

   Aragorn laughed. “Well, so long as you don’t forget when Eärendil was born, you will do well enough then!”

   “Oh I know everything Eärendil,” boasted Eldarion. “He is Naneth’s grandfather and she has told me all about him.”

   “Well that is good,” said Aragorn. “You will know then that the Elessar was made for Eärendil’s mother, Idril.”

   “By Enerdhil, the most talented Smith in all Gondolin.” Eldarion beamed as he proudly displayed his knowledge.

   “I see you have been paying more attention to your lessons than your tutors have led me to believe,” said Aragorn, greatly pleased. “So tell me then, my son, if Eärendil sailed to the Blessed Realm with the Elessar in the First Age, how comes it to be in my possession in the Fourth?” Aragorn was very aware that the hour was passing and that the rest of the Company would probably be ready to leave by now, but he was greatly enjoying this conversation with his son.

   “Oh that’s an easy one,” laughed Eldarion. “Gandalf brought it with him from Valinor and gave it to Great Grandmother Galadriel who gave it to her daughter who gave it to Naneth who gave it back to Galadriel who gave it to you.” Eldarion frowned as if pondering this extraordinary chain of ownership. “Would it not have been simpler, Adar, for Great Grandmother Galadriel to have just kept it and given it to you herself?”

   Aragorn smiled at his son’s perfectly reasonable logic and briefly wondered what the Lady of the Wood would have thought of being given such a title. Then Eldarion unexpectedly added. “I wish I could have known Gandalf.”

   “I wish you could have known him too, my son,” said Aragorn. “You would have learnt a great deal from him and he would have adored you.” In all the years he had known the wizard, he had rarely talked of his longing for a son, but Gandalf had known how much this had meant to him and it saddened him that his friend would never know Eldarion.

   Suddenly Eldarion strode over to the doorway to pick up the sword that rested just inside.

  “You mustn’t forget Andúril, Adar. Will you allow me to clasp it to you?” he asked.

   “You may, my son,” said Aragorn. “I would be most honoured.”

   Eldarion carefully carried the sword to his father and took a time to position the sheath just so. He was becoming quite a proficient swordsman himself so he handled this particular sword with great reverence.

   Aragorn waited for the inevitable questions but when none were forthcoming, he said: “Is there nothing you wish to ask me about Andúril?”

   “No, I don’t think so,” said Eldarion as he made sure the famous sword was settled comfortably on his father’s hips. “I know there is nothing much to tell.”

   “How do you mean?” asked Aragorn.

   “Well, I know all about the Shards of Narsil, of course, and how they were reforged to become Andúril. And I know that Narsil was made in the First Age by a Dwarf called Telchar, but no one knows any more than that, do they? I’ve asked you about it before and all you could tell me was that it came into the possession of the lords of Andúnië at some time in the Second Age. It’s not even known who the sword was made for originally.”

   Aragorn had almost forgotten that conversation with his son of some years ago. He remembered feeling as if he had disappointed the boy by not being able to provide a more detailed history of the sword.

   “Well who do you suppose might have been the first owner of Narsil?” he asked.

   Eldarion considered this question most carefully. “Well it is a very long sword so it was not made for a Dwarf or a Hobbit.”

   Aragorn caught his wife’s eye and noticed she was having the same difficulty as he at suppressing her mirth over their son’s reasoning. He had clearly not yet absorbed the fact that hobbits did not feature in any of the tales of the earlier Ages.

   Working hard at keeping a straight face, Aragorn solemnly agreed. “But who then might it have been if not a Dwarf or a Hobbit?”

   “Well obviously, Adar, that only leaves Elves and Men,” said Eldarion as if unable to believe his father could ask such a silly question. His face though was study of concentration. “I wonder if it might not have been an Elf.  Did not Telchar also make the knife that Beren used to cut the Silmaril from Morgoth’s crown?”

   “He did,” said Aragorn. “Curufin son of Fëanor was the previous owner of that blade. Might it be possible then, do you think, that Telchar made Narsil for one of his people?”

   “If he did, it must have been someone very important,” mused Eldarion. “It is no ordinary sword after all.”

   “That it is not,” agreed Aragorn. “But even if this was so, I’m afraid we will never know how it came to be an heirloom of Elendil’s line. There are none who could answer this question for us now.”

   Arwen, who had been listening to the exchange with a measure of amusement, helpfully suggested: “Perhaps the sword was in the possession of some of Curufin’s people in Nargothrond who then brought it with them when they fled to Doriath. From there, the survivors would have taken it with them to the Havens.”

   Grateful for his wife’s assistance, Aragorn added: “it is quite possible that at some point during the War of Wrath it then came into the hands of the Edain who would have taken it with then to Númenor.” He very much hoped this explanation would satisfy his son.

   “But we will still never know for sure?” asked Eldarion, his disappointed still clearly written on his face. “It will remain a mystery for ever.”

   “It will,” said Aragorn with regret, “but it is still the finest sword in all Middle-earth. We must be content with that.”

   Aragorn was suddenly aware of his wife calling to his daughters and realised the hour appointed for their departure to Annúminas  had come.

   “Estel, we really should be on our way,” said Arwen.

   Both girls quickly came bounding in, proudly showing off their finest gowns. They were bubbling with excitement, yet they came rather shyly before of their father. In his severe black armour and his long white cloak, he made an intimidating figure, little did he resemble the man they knew and loved. But as he grinned at them and held out his hands, they raced towards him and playfully leapt into his arms which caused Arwen to admonish them for their unladylike behaviour.

  Aragorn laughed and was totally unrepentant. “Can I help it, my dear, if my daughters are Rangers at heart? Though I confess, I have never seen Rangers this fair or as beautifully attired as my two little treasures here.” As the girls scrambled all over him, he smothered them both in kisses and sent them into fits of giggles.

   “Well, if we are all ready,” said Arwen as she tried unsuccessfully to straighten the girls’ gowns, “perhaps I should send someone to find my brothers.”

   A guard was send swiftly to the pavilion where the Peredhil slept but almost immediately the sons of Elrond popped their heads through the doorway.

   “Estel, we are all waiting for you,” said Elladan.

   “Come in, my brothers. I am nearly ready,” said Aragorn as he gently deposited his daughters on the ground. But as he stood up straight and tall, all levity left him and he became very serious and solemn. He picked up the mithril case containing the great white jewel and handed it to his Queen.

   “Will you, my beloved, do me the great honour of placing the Elendilmir upon my brow?”

   Aragorn knelt as Arwen removed the jewel from its case and came and stood before him There were no trumpets, no fanfares, no cheering crowds to acknowledge the moment when Arwen finally bound the great jewel to the forehead of the King, but Aragorn felt his flesh shiver with the incomparable honour of finally wearing the Star of Elendil upon his brow. This was the moment, every bit as much as wedding Arwen, that he had strived for all his life; a glorious moment surpassing any of those already awarded him. Today, at last, he would come before his own people, in the land of his birth, not as merely their Chieftain, but as their King. Now, Eru willing, may he finally fulfil the role of Envinyatar and renew and restore his people to the honour and the glory they so deserved but of which they had for too long been bereft.

    As he majestically rose to his feet, the jewel flared as a white flame and those present gasped at the wonder of it. Arwen then handed Aragorn the Sceptre of Annúminas, and if Elendil, or any great king from the Eldar days, had ever looked more magnificent than King Elessar did at that moment, none has ever recorded it.

    “Arathorn would have been so proud,” said Elladan in wonder, and Elrohir added: “Today you do great honour to both your fathers, Estel.”

   “Then come, let us make our way to Annúminas,” said the King.

~oo0oo~

   Aragorn and his family emerged from their pavilion into a fair morning. It was an hour passed the dawn and although the bright sun promised a glorious late summer’s day, a cool mist still lingered above the clear waters of Nenuial. The vast lake stretched almost as far as the eye could see and was surrounded by heather topped hills which shimmered purple and gold in the soft morning light. Along the gentle shore, grew many great trees, their leaves just beginning to turn auburn on their tips. Summer was departing more swiftly this far north but Aragorn did not think he had ever seen the place looking more beautiful. He had always loved to come here. The lake teemed with fish and, whenever his travels permitted, it had ever been a joy to him to sit for a time beside the pure mountain waters with a line in his hand. He understood very well why Elendil had chosen to make his home here. Long had he felt there was nowhere more beautiful in all Middle-earth.

   And as the royal party walked along the newly laid road, the full splendour of the new city gradually unfolded before them. Aragorn gasped in amaze. Whatever he had been expecting did not begin to compare with the wonder revealed before him. Even Minas Tirith, rebuilt from the aftermath of war, was but a pale imitation of the glory of Annúminas restored. There, glistening silver in the Northern light, was the rebuilt Palace of the King, every bit as splendid and glorious as it had been in the days of Elendil. The marble for the sheer walls had been hewed from the Blue Mountains by the Dwarves. The Elves of Lindon had lent their skills to the design and sculpturing of the innumerable columns which rose far into the sky. Many banners flew from their masts and there, flying highest of them all, was the Standard of the King, the crown and the seven stars sparkling in the newly risen sun.

   Aragorn was struck dumb with wonder. He had seen the plans, approved the work, secured the funds and received regular progress reports, but nothing could have prepared him for the magnificence of the vision before him. Even Elladan and Elrohir, who had visited Elendil’s palace in their youth, were awed by the incomparable beauty of the new city.

   Dírhael was at the forefront of the reception party as the King walked slowly towards the great mithril gates. A cacophony of trumpets heralded his arrival and as Aragorn came before him, Dírhael bowed and remembered to bend his knee. Aragorn gently raised the elderly man him to his feet. .

   Dírhael’s wide smile reflecting the great joy in his heart as he said: “come, my lord, your people await you.”

    He stood to one side as the King, his family and friends proceeded to walk through the great gates and into the court beyond. A vast sea of faces greeted them. There were people everywhere, looking out of every window, standing on any available ledge, even up on the roofs. Aragorn had no idea there were this many people even living in the North.

   ‘Eriador must be deserted,’ he thought. He had been expecting a solemn ceremony, perhaps with Dírhael saying a few words rather along the lines of those spoken by Faramir before the walls of Minas Tirith. Instead, as the gates opened and he entered into the city, the crowd erupted with joy. Aragorn’s ears rang with the cheering of his people. On and on they cried their approval. Trumpets sounded and the band played but they were completely drowned by the joyful voices of the Dúnedain celebrating the return of their King. Rose petals fluttered down on Aragorn from the very sky itself. He turned to smile at Arwen in amazement.

   Slowly, the Royal procession made its way towards the Palace. Many guards stood solemnly on duty in front of the massed crowds, but as Aragorn walked passed them, he suddenly realised he recognised many of their faces. Here were his fellow Rangers, attired now in the livery of Elendil and honouring their lord. But to Aragorn these were his friends, people who had shared many a danger with him, some had even been members of the Grey Company and had ridden with him on that terrible road through the mountain. They were people he knew and loved. And, for all that he conducted himself with the dignity of his office, as he came before them, he could not resist reaching out a hand or drawing them into his embrace.

    There were women in the crowd also; many were known to him. Some had provided him with a roof over his head in an hour of need, many were mothers and wives of his men, all were cheering their joy, though for some, he noticed, the smiles were mingled were tears. And the children; there were so many youngsters. They cheered and called and waved flags. Theirs were faces unmarked by fear and loss, the true hope of his people and Aragorn’s heart rejoiced to see them. Tears of joy were pouring down his own cheeks now but he did not care. No one cared, their King had come among them and Aragorn was swept along by the great outpouring of love felt for him by every man, woman and child who dwelt in that ancient Realm.

    And somewhere, high in the Palace of the King, an elderly lady gazed down upon the splendour of her dearly beloved grandson. Here was the child she had held in his arms at his naming, now the mightiest and wisest of men in all Middle-earth, a great and renowned King. And, upon his breast, there blazed the green stone that she had seen all those years ago. Her heart bursting with pride and love, she watched as he walked slowly through the city and into the welcoming arms of a People who adored him.

~oo0oo~

…and the might of the Dúnedain was lifted up and their glory renewed.

Of the Rings of Power                                                                                 The Silmarillion