A/N: Happy New Year, everyone! My apologies for posting this chapter later than promised...I should have known my self-imposed deadline was overly optimistic. But with this, the story is complete. Special thanks to Cairistiona for the pinch-hit beta, and to Zopyrus for her original push to expand this beyond the drabble it started as. 

***

Dírhael took his wife’s hand and kissed her as he glanced back out at the snow beyond their window. “Let us hope, at least, that Halbarad remembers what I have taught him about coping with blizzards. If he had his way they would have been out on patrol even last night.” 

Ivorwen chuckled. “Give him more credit than that, Dírhael! He has never been that reckless. Besides, we are not so ancient that we are the only ones left who remember the Fell Winter. None would have ventured out last night.” 

“And on the note of venturing out,” Dirhael put on his boots, “I am going to brave the cold for the kitchens…see if there’s anything I can scrape together in the way of a late breakfast. Do you want me to bring anything back for you?”

“No, thank you,” Ivorwen winced once more as she slid into bed and under the blankets, “Better that I not test my luck. The tea will suffice, for now.” 

“Well, I won’t be gone long, if you change your mind.” Dírhael closed the door behind him, and turned to see Gilraen approaching at the other end of the hall. 

“Is everything all right?” Gilraen asked with a frown, “I came by earlier, but I heard raised voices…”

“‘Tis nothing worth fretting about,” Dirhael replied. “Were we truly so loud?” 

Gilraen shook her head. “Maybe only in comparison to the Elves. More quiet than mice, when they want to be.”

“Well, we certainly weren’t bothering to lower our voices,” Dirhael said ruefully. “I fear I’ve already robbed your mother of the peaceful morning she needs.”

“How is she? I should have warned her about the Dorwinion, I’ve never seen her like that before…”

“She’ll be fine, Gilraen,” Dírhael reassured her. “A day of rest and that ginger you gave me is all she needs.”

“You did not hear her last night,” Gilraen said doubtfully. “I should have stopped her before things got out of hand…”

But Dírhael cut her off as he pushed her hair back from her face, an old habit of his that had never quite died. 

“You worry too much, my dear,” he said gently. “Your mother takes good enough care of herself every other day of the year. She’ll be fine.”

She sighed. “I suppose you’re a better judge of it than I would be.”

“Trust me, Gilraen,” Dírhael said, “I have survived far worse.”

“That I do not doubt,” she laughed as she took his arm. “Come, let me walk with you—the fresh air will do us both some good.” 

***

“Do you think there are any eel in the Bruinen?” Dírhael asked as they crossed the courtyard. “I might see if I can fry some up for your mother, see if it would help her any…”

“Fried eel?” Gilraen wrinkled her nose. “Ada, where on earth did you pick up such a notion?”

Dírhael drew himself up in feigned indignation. “A taverner in Bree. He said it was the best thing after too much ale. Given his usual state, I count on him as a trustworthy man in such matters.”

“These are the same folk who would have you believe that Tevildo the Terrible is real,” Gilraen laughed. “How is it that you always pick up such absurdities from the Breelanders? Arathorn and Dirlaeg never brought anything back beyond a new folk song or two.” 

Dírhael winked. “They never knew where to look.” 

“Well, I certainly can’t recall ever having any eel here,” Gilraen said, “but it can’t hurt to ask the kitchen maids…they shall know better than I do.” 

The Elves in the kitchens did not, in fact, have any eel, but they had the grace his daughter lacked and did not laugh at him when he told them what he had hoped to use it for. One of the maids recommended boiled cabbage for Ivorwen, a suggestion that Gilraen summarily rejected but that Dírhael made note of for himself in the future. In the end, he and Gilraen filled a basket with bread and some dried meat and took the long way back to their quarters, Gilraen still teasing him about his dubious choices for hangover cures. 

“It seems to be the morning for fathers and daughters,” she remarked as she pointed across the field. Elrond and the lady Arwen were walking arm and arm through the snow. 

“I imagine he must treasure the time he has with her. She does not return to Rivendell often, does she?”

“More so in recent years,” Gilraen replied. “But when Aragorn was growing up she dwelt only in Lórien. Indeed, until her first visit here I barely remembered that Lord Elrond had a daughter.”

“And she returned just in time to capture the notice of Aragorn.” Dírhael shook his head. “The Valar do have an ironic sense of humor.”  

Gilraen groaned. “Mama told you, didn’t she?” 

“Well, you both did a poor enough job of hiding that something was going on. Besides, as she said, we may as well have it out in the open. What’s done is done, and there is little point pretending we have it in our power to change things.” 

“Do you really believe that, Ada?” she gave him a knowing look. “Mama said that you and Aragorn have fought like cats and dogs about the question of his marriage."

“Your mother exaggerates,” Dírhael protested. “We fought once, and that was only after years of him dodging the answers to my quite reasonable questions. I simply reminded him that he had a duty beyond merely protecting our lands and leading our people.”

“He does not need a reminder of that,” Gilraen said as she cleared off the snow on a stone bench and sat down. “I imagine ’tis all he thinks of, most days.” 

“I am not questioning his commitment, Gilraen. Indeed, nothing but his greater duty could have taken him over the Misty Mountains to learn of lands beyond our own. Whatever Aragorn’s destiny may be, it is of greater import than any of the Chieftains that have come before him, certainly in my lifetime. I only wish he would consider the full weight of his choice.” 

Gilraen didn’t answer, merely ran a gloved hand over the snow on the bench. Dírhael noticed that the patterns traced in the stone differed little from the ones she had enjoyed making as a child. 

“Who is acting Chieftain now, with you both gone?” she asked, and Dírhael noted the pointed change of subject. “I did not even think to ask.” 

“Halbarad,” he answered. “Aragorn offered it to your brother first, out of respect, but Tarcil has enough going on with his own family. And Aragorn would much rather have left it to his cousin than anyone else—the two of them have hardly been separated these last few years. Truth be told, I’m glad that Tarcil had the sense to say no. Your brother is a fine warrior, but Halbarad shall prove a better leader than he or I could ever be.”

Gilraen shook her head.

“’Tis things like that that remind me just how long I have been away,” she said. “Even after my last visit, whenever I think of Halbarad I can’t help but picture a troublemaking nine-year-old trying to run away with my son. What was it—he needed a taste-tester for his berry cakes?”

“Which turned out to be more mud than cake, as I recall,” Dírhael laughed. “We truly need you home with us, daughter—there are not nearly enough of us left who remember Halbarad at that age and can put him in his proper place.”

“Still making mischief then, I take it?” Gilraen asked.

“He never stopped,” Dírhael shook his head, “but a better man you will never find. Halbarad is more than ready to lead our people whilst Aragorn is abroad—his father would be near to bursting with pride, if he could see him now.”

“So you do it enough for the both of you,” Gilraen gave a sad smile. “And I’m sure Tarcil does as well. I suppose that’s part of why I cannot see Halbarad as fully grown—when I picture him, I see Dirlaeg instead.” 

 “He favors his mother in looks,” Dírhael said, “and ’tis a good thing, too—things have been hard enough on Finnael. She has never gotten over her husband’s death.” 

“We were all so young,” Gilraen murmured, “how could any of us have gotten over it?” 

Dírhael sighed, thinking back to the difficult years surrounding his grandson’s birth. The celebration of new life had come in the wake of so many deaths…Arador, his own son Dirlaeg…and Arathorn barely three years later…

“Ada,” Gilraen’s voice broke through his reverie. “Can I ask you something?”

Dírhael turned back to his daughter. “Anything, ield-nín.”

“What made you change your mind about Arathorn and me?” 

Dírhael blinked in surprise. If anything, he would have expected this question from his daughter over a quarter century ago.

“What do you mean?”

“You were so against it, at the start,” Gilraen murmured, “I remember hearing you arguing with Mama, one night—the Chieftain’s life was too hard, you said, and you wanted better for your daughter. I was so certain that I’d be doomed to look for another husband, or at the very least wait until I was older.”

“Your mother was very persuasive,” Dírhael said dryly. “Never let it be said I do not listen to the women of my family.” 

“I know,” Gilraen smiled softly, “and I know now that Mama told you of her visions, but—it was more than that, was it not? I have never known you to be swayed by foresight alone.”  

Dirhael sighed. Rarely did he have such weighty conversations with his daughter—Gilraen had always been the easiest of his children to understand, and as such they had never said more to each other than what needed to be said. The subject of her romantic life they had certainly never touched. But he supposed he owed her an answer for that, late enough as it was. 

“I saw how happy he made you,” he said. “The way your face would light up when he came into the room—I have never seen you like that since, save for when you came home to visit Aragorn. Who was I to deny my daughter such fulfillment, no matter what the consequences might be?

“And there are times, even now, when I wonder if I should have stood by my instincts,” he continued, “if it would have kept you closer to us, if it would have spared you pain. But where would that leave us now? We would not be here, certainly. And we would not have Aragorn.”

Gilraen ducked her head to stare down at her hands, folded tightly in her lap, and Dírhael thought he caught a sheen of tears, but when she looked back to meet his gaze her eyes were clear. 

“I wonder, then, if that is how we should be thinking about it,” she said at last. “Who are we to deny his heart? Perhaps Lady Arwen is worth the risk he takes.” 

Dirhael snorted. “I should certainly hope she is, not least for the sake of the half-dozen disappointed women he has left behind in the Angle.”

Gilraen laughed. “My son, the heartbreaker…I suppose I should not be surprised.”

“Life shall certainly be less interesting, now that he is gone,” Dírhael sighed. “Even Halbarad has begun to settle down.” 

“Maybe I will have to return in the spring after all,” Gilraen’s eyes twinkled. “I am not sure how much excitement I can add, but I’m sure you and I can come up with some sort of mischief in their absence.” 

“Do not give me any ideas,” Dírhael said, “you know I shall do whatever it takes to have you come home with us.” 

She kissed him on the cheek. “I know. And that alone will likely prove enough to convince me.” 

She picked up the half-forgotten basket of food for Ivorwen and rose from the bench, but as she started to walk Dírhael remained, staring after his daughter. 

“Gilraen,” he asked, “was it worth it?” 

She stopped and turned.

“Every moment, Ada. It was worth every moment.”