Disclaimer: No profit will be made from these stories. All quotes from the works of J.R.R.Tolkien are reproduced here without the permission of The Tolkien Estate or New Line Cinema. No copyright infringement is intended.

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

And especial thanks to Cairistiona for the beta

A/N  This is the final chapter of ‘Aspects of Aragorn.’ The support and encouragement I’ve received for this story has been simply fantastic so I would like to say a huge thank you to everyone who has been reading, particularly those who have stuck with it to the bitter end! And of course my special thanks go to all those who have been kind enough to leave so many lovely reviews. I’ve truly appreciated every single one of them.

It’s been quite a marathon! I began writing this tale nearly fours years ago simply for my own satisfaction. As my first attempt at writing fiction, it started very tentatively and I never intended it to become what it did and I most certainly had no intention of ever making it public. However, as I soon discovered, these things take on a life of their own and what initially was no more than an interesting exercise to try and define Aragorn’s life in as plausible and faithful a manner as I could from the clues that Tolkien provided, eventually evolved into this 180,000 word epic! Even so, it is only thanks to my wonderful beta, Cairistiona, that this story ever got to see the light of day. Her assistance has been absolutely invaluable and I can never thank her enough for all the help she gave so generously or for finally persuading me to post this story! My thanks also go to Estelcontar, whose long love of Aragorn predates my own and who, as my test reader, offered constant reassurance about the validity of my interpretation of our great hero. I’m most grateful to both of them for all their help since the pleasure of sharing this story with so many has proved a privilege and a joy I never remotely expected when I first put pen to paper. Thank you.

Epilogue: The Tale of Aragorn and Arwen

                                                                                                       Minas Tirith  IV Age

   Barahir put down his quill and carefully blotted the last words he had written on the final page of the manuscript. He sat back in his chair and waited a moment for the ink to dry. The work had been a long labour, requiring much painstaking research, but it was at last complete. The pages would yet be properly bound and the lettering of the title would definitely be improved once the gilders had done their part, but it was still hugely satisfying to finally be able to hold the finished item in his hands.

   All that was needed now was the approval of the King.

   He had been greatly honoured when his Majesty had asked him, in person, to write the piece, though at the outset it had seemed a most daunting undertaking. But the more he had delved into the records and researched his subjects, the more he had come to realise what a rare privilege he had been granted. The matter, though, was very close to the King’s heart and he dearly hoped he would not be disappointed by his efforts.

   He was due to attend an audience with his sovereign that very afternoon. There was no other particularly pressing business requiring their attention; he was only delivering a routine report on the work in the archives, so this would certainly be an appropriate moment to present his work. His majesty had enquired after its progress when last they met and Barahir had assured him it would not be long before it was completed. A few minor details had required some further perusing in the archives, but the ever reliable Thain’s Book had provided the answers he sought. There really was no need to delay seeking the King’s endorsement.

   Barahir meticulously checked the pages were all arranged in the correct order before carefully placing them in a folder which he then secured by tying together the ribbons attached to the hard outer covers. Tucking the folder under his arm, he immediately left his comfortable little house on the Sixth Level, and made his way to the Citadel. It was nearly mid-day but he gave no thought to pausing for lunch. He was both far too nervous and far too buoyed by the joy of accomplishment to consider eating even a morsel.

   It was only a short walk to the King’s residence. He had become a regular visitor there these last few months so he was very familiar with the protocol involved. Usually he was welcomed by his elder brother, the Steward, but he was not in attendance at this time, being busy with his own affairs at Emyn Arnen. Instead he was greeted by the King’s secretary who ushered him though to an ante room where he was expected to await his majesty’s pleasure.

    It was a comfortable room and Barahir waited patently as the minutes slowly ticked by, though it soon became very apparent he had arrived far too early.

   ‘Eager fool,’ he chided himself.

   He tugged at the too tight collar of his tunic. It was a warm June day and he was quickly becoming uncomfortably hot in his stiff formal attire, in spite of the room being kept pleasantly cool by the smooth white marble which lined the floor and walls.

   In truth, he had a tendency to be rather nervous in the company of the King and the longer he had to wait, the more he could feel his anxiety rising. He was, after all, only a humble man of letters, not a politician like his brother. Books and scrolls were his usual companions, the simple, uncomplicated tools by which he plied his trade.

   He forced himself to stop pacing and sit quietly. He was considering leaving and returning again at the due time when suddenly the door opened, and to his surprise, the King himself came forward to greet him. He was dressed casually in loose fitting robes, yet, no matter what his attire, his Majesty never appeared anything less than the mighty and powerful lord that he was, so noble was his fair face and wise his deep, grey eyes.

   “Barahir, how good of you to come,” said the King, smiling. “I do hope you’re here on the matter we’ve been discussing. Let us go outside into the garden; it is far too beautiful a day to remain indoors.”

   Barahir immediately jumped to his feet and bowed his head.

   “Thank you, my Lord King, that would be most agreeable,” he said, hoping he did not sound as anxious as he felt.

   The King was effortlessly regal in his manner and yet was every bit as approachable as his great father was reputed to have been. His welcoming smile always immediately put Barahir at his ease and once he got into his stride with their meetings, he never could remember why he became so nervous beforehand.

   He followed the King through doors that seemed to miraculously open as they approached, and they eventually emerged from the Citadel into in the Fountain Gardens.

   It was an enchanting place, having been designed and nurtured by the Elves in the early days of the Fourth Age when the Firstborn were still regular visitors to the city. Orange blossoms and roses lined the arched walkways, their soft fragrances blending harmoniously with the warm summer air. King and servant meandered slowly down the paths. As they went, the King enquired about the wellbeing of Barahir’s family, particularly his children who were all very young.  Barahir sometimes wondered why so great and important a man should trouble himself with such trifles, yet the King always appeared so genuinely interested that, before he knew it, he always found himself happily telling his sovereign all about the day to day happenings of his household.

   No matter which direction a visitor walked in the Fountain Gardens, all paths eventually converged on the great White Tree that towered above everything else that grew in that place.  Barahir had seen the Tree many times in his life but, every time he beheld it anew, its magnificence still took his breath away. Proud and erect it stood beside the fountain, the living symbol of the United Realms which continued to flourish and prosper under the sure and just rule of their King. Its tall trunk stretched far above them into the clear sky, and its countless white leaves shimmered silver in the bright sunshine, showering the water of the fountain with a myriad of glittering jewels.

    “So, Barahir, is it finished?” asked the King as he and the historian took their seats on the edge of the fountain.

   “I believe it is, my lord,” said Barahir, unable to conceal the fear in his voice as he handed the folder to the King. “I have researched the contents thoroughly and am as confident as I can be of their accuracy, but of course, I defer to your majesty in this.”

   “I don’t doubt the validity of your work,” said the King, “and I’m greatly looking forward to reading it.”

   But the King did not open the folder, nor did he say anything more about the manuscript. Instead, they spent a few minutes talking briefly of other matters concerning the archives. Everything was clearly well in hand there; the Great King during his long life had seen to it that order was brought to all the records and documents in the Realm and so the work of the historians was not as arduous as it had been in the past.

   Yet Barahir could not help but notice that the King often glanced down at the folder in his hands and it was quite apparent to him that his sovereign’s mind was elsewhere. He could only guess that the King was actually more eager to read the work of his scribe than he appeared. And indeed not many minutes had passed before the King brought the audience to an end. Barahir rose and bowed politely before leaving. He was not looking forward to the next few days in the slightest. He would be on tenterhooks the whole time as he anxiously waited to learn whether or not his efforts had brought satisfaction.

~oo0oo~

   After Barahir had left, the King remained seated by the fountain for a long time. He wanted to be alone when he read the work and he knew none in his household, not even his family, would disturb him when he sought solitude beside the White Tree. He stared at the folder lying on his lap. The Tale of Aragorn and Arwen it said on the cover. For a number of years now he had greatly desired that this work be written. Yet suddenly he was reluctant to open the folder.  There was a part of him that longed only to plunge in and devour every word, so that he might once again feel close to the mother and father whom he had loved so much but who were now no longer with him. Yet he was cautious, apprehensive even. He was quite sure that some of the passages awaiting him within the pages of this document would prove very painful to read and the work would inevitable open old wounds in his heart which, even with the ever mounting years, had never completely healed and he was quite sure never would. .

   In his lifetime, the late king had talked to him often of his earlier years which had been so vastly different from his own. He had told him of his long travels and the hardships he had endured. He had talked of the battles he had fought and the many dangers he had faced, as well as the constant fear of living in the shadow of a tyrant like Sauron. It had all been very difficult to imagine for a man who knew none of those things. He himself had grown up in the safety of the Citadel and had never even raised a weapon in anger. His father, on the other hand, had, of necessity, lived by the sword. Yet, in spite of his father’s many tales, the lives of his parents were still a wonder to him. That his mother had accepted a mortal life so as to wed his father was a truly inspirational tale of love and sacrifice. And, as he began to feel his own mortality, he still marvelled at how his father had succeeded in returning the Gift at the end of his days. His mother had told him how greatly at peace his father had been when he departed, as one would have hoped for a man who had lived his life with such honour and dignity. But his mother’s suffering after his death had been heart breaking to witness. Eventually, in his despair, he had acceded to her request to return to Lothlórien. There, she had hoped to find the courage to relinquish her life and so be finally reunited with the man whom she had loved so much. With all his heart, he prayed that this had come to pass.

   During the long years of the Great King’s reign, much had been written about him. He was the greatest hero of the Age, beloved by his people. Songs were still sung celebrating his achievements and the history books were full of the accounts of his great deeds. But the new King had sought something more than this as an epitaph by which future generations might remember his father.  He wanted something that touched upon the inner core of the man, something that would evoke the very essence of this truly remarkable Dúnadan for those who came after, those for whom the Great King would be nothing more than just another figure from the past to be studied in the school room. He wanted words that would make his father live and breathe again in the minds of those who would read of his deeds in the long Ages yet to come so that all might discover for themselves the beating of his great heart. They might better know his courage and the strength of his will that drove him on when others would have long despaired; they might judge for themselves the clarity of his wisdom and their own hearts might be touched by his boundless compassion and selflessness. And at the very heart of his father’s extraordinary life, they might then fully understand the depth of his love for his mother and how, because of that love, he accomplished all that he did and played to the full his part in restoring Middle-earth to the fair and wondrous place it had become.

   The writing of such a work was no simple task, though the King had every confidence that Barahir would pen a worthy memorial. Yet still his hands trembled slightly as he slowly untied the ribbons and opened the folder. He carefully removed the manuscript and, turning to the first page, he began to read.

   ‘Arador was the grandfather of the King…….’

The full tale is stated to have been written by Barahir, grandson of the Steward Faramir, some time after the passing of the King.

Prologue                                                                                    The Fellowship of the Ring

A/N The full version of The Tale of Aragorn and Arwen has never been published.