Aragorn led Elrond back down the well-worn path to the healer’s cottage, though his mind was still back in the kitchen with Nethril, his restless energy returned tenfold. When he'd sent Brécharn to Gondor two years ago, on Adanel's counsel, he'd thought of little beyond gaining a measure of the country's new Steward and its defenses against Sauron. But there seemed a hidden desperation behind Ecthelion's message, a fear that open war against the enemy would come sooner rather than later. The white tower of Minas Tirith still loomed in his dreams, the flames against the banner of the white tree clearer than ever. He thought he'd seen the Chieftain's house aflame, in the dream last night, but Valar only knew if that was more foresight or simply reality melding into the world of dreams. His people would not survive, if Sauron claimed victory against Gondor and turned west to Eriador. The evils that already gripped the barrow-downs and Fornost would spread deeper across the world, and the walls of the Angle would not be strong enough to keep them at bay.

He glanced sidelong at his foster father and chose his next words carefully. “A decision not to take lightly, Ada, but a decision nonetheless. Haven’t you always said foresight is not to be discounted?” 

Elrond appeared mildly affronted. “I am not going to take your side in an argument with my host, Estel. Our primary concern is still Mithrandir. He is out of danger, for now, but will have a long road ahead.” 

Aragorn nodded. They had barely spoken last night beyond brisk words in the service of healing, both of them so exhausted by the time they reached the Chieftain’s house Aragorn could not do more than lead him to his rooms and bid him goodnight. A thousand thoughts swirled through him now, things he’d longed to tell Elrond that he could not trust to letters. But when he turned to his father the words died on his lips, banished by the surreality of his foster father walking beside him. Elrond’s fine blue robes were a stark contrast to the plain, thatched cottages that made up much of the Angle, his beardless face so different from the rough bearing of most Dúnedain. Never before had Aragorn’s adopted family seemed so far apart from the family of his birth, not even in his first years among the Dúnedain, when he’d had to sternly train himself away from comparing the two.

“Aragorn! Aragorn!” He looked up the path to see three small children barreling towards him, two boys and a girl, their delighted shrieks punctuating the air. The fastest one, his young cousin Gilbarad, rushed toward him and collided solidly with his middle. “You’re back!”

“Ho there, little man!” With great effort, he lifted Gilbarad off the ground and tossed him into the air. His breath left him in a solid whumph when he caught the boy, and they both laughed when he set him down on the ground. The other two children followed after their friend and threw their arms around Aragorn, and he reached out to ruffle whatever hair he could reach.

“Oof. You’re getting too big for me to do that. Soon you’ll be as strong as Tulkas himself!” 

“Will you get me an axe, then?” Gilbarad asked eagerly. 

“Swords first,” Aragorn answered with a grin. “Have you been practicing your footwork?” 

“Yes,” Gilbarad said, “we all have. Mama’s been teaching us while Ada’s gone.” 

“I see,” Aragorn said, and noticed a conspicuous absence of anyone watching the children. He looked around for his aunt Erendis, but she was nowhere to be seen. “And does your mother know where you are now?” 

The children looked at each shiftily, guilt briefly crossing their faces, before they each assumed poor masks of innocence. 

“We told her we’d be at my mama’s,” the little girl piped up. “But then—“ 

“You told me you’d be with Erendis.” A cross, harried-looking woman stalked out of a nearby cottage, a homespun shawl wrapped around her shoulders, and the children all froze at the sight. She levied a stern glare at them, though her eyes twinkled, before she turned and curtsied to Aragorn. “Welcome home, Lord Aragorn. I apologize to leave you wrangling these miscreants.” 

He embraced the woman and kissed her on both cheeks. “’Tis the best homecoming I could have asked for, Nelean.” 

“Just wait until you have children of your own.” Nelean’s smile faded as she looked past Aragorn to see Elrond standing a bit removed from them, an expression of mild amusement on his face.  Her eyes widened in recognition, and she turned back to her daughter and her friends in consternation. “Where are your manners, all of you? Have you greeted Lord Elrond?” 

“With great courtesy, Lady Nelean,” Elrond said smoothly, with the faintest wink for the children. Their eyes all widened. “They do the Dúnedain credit.” 

Nelean blushed furiously, before she quickly recovered herself and sank into another curtsey. “It is an honor to meet you, my lord.” 

Elrond bowed in return, and her blush deepened, before she rose and shooed the children back toward her cottage to whines and protests. 

“Off with you, you scamps. I want that firewood pile as high as me before midday!” 

They all groaned but obeyed. Gilbarad dove in for another brief hug to Aragorn before they ran off, Nelean following them with a resigned look. 

Elrond watched the children, a smile widening on his face, and he waited til Nelean was out of earshot before he said to Aragorn, “If only shirking chores was all I had to contend with in your youth. My rose gardens would be flourishing by now.” 

“Ada, please,” Aragorn groaned. “That was one time.” 

“And they never recovered.” Elrond’s eyes danced, and they continued down the path together, the stiffness between them softened. “It is not so long ago you were that size, the joy and terror of Imladris. And now here you stand, a lord among your people, beloved by them. You are a credit to your father’s memory, and to me.”

Aragorn flushed with pride, the warm, familiar feeling of Elrond’s praise sorely missed. “You did not see the years that led to this. It took time to grow into the Chieftainship.”

“But you did it, and you made it your own. I understand now why you have not wished to return to Rivendell.” 

Aragorn stopped at the threshold of the cottage, embarrassment coursing through him. Elrond must know that his duties among the Angle were only part of what kept him away.  “I am sorry, Ada. I would have come, but with things here, I did not know…

“Peace, my son. I did not mean anything by it.” Elrond met Aragorn’s gaze, his clear, ancient eyes filled with warmth, and he took Aragorn’s bearded face between his hands. “Only that I have missed you. Let us cherish the one blessing to come from all this.” 

*** 

Ivorwen greeted them with relief at the healer’s cottage and led them back to Gandalf’s room, where he still slept soundly. Color had returned to his cheeks, and he was no longer hot to the touch when Aragorn when felt his forehead. Elrond took over the more thorough examination, and Aragorn took a seat in a chair near the door. Had circumstances been less grave, he’d have welcomed the chance to learn more of Elrond’s healing arts. He had left Rivendell with his training unfinished, and promised he’d return one day to complete it. Clearly, that day would be delayed for a little while yet.   

At last, Gandalf stirred, his eyes bleary as they registered the Elven lord standing above him. “Am I…am I in Rivendell?” 

“Say rather that Rivendell has come to you, my friend,” Elrond replied. “We knew you could not make it to the Valley in time. As it is, you are lucky you lasted until I reached the Angle.” 

“Ah.” Slowly, Gandalf pushed himself up into a sitting position, but fell back against the pillows. He turned his head to face Aragorn, his face crinkling into a weary smile. “I have you to thank for that, my young friend. It is not often I find my life in such capable hands.” 

“No indeed,” Elrond said, his voice clipped, and Aragorn tensed. He knew that tone, one that preceded the full wrath of the Lord of Imladris, and he suddenly wished he could excuse himself into the next room. 

His examination finished, Elrond crossed over to an end table in the room, where an assortment of liquids and herbs stood. He poured several into a bowl, his motions practiced, and did not turn as he spoke. 

“Tell me, Mithrandir. Do you recall, when you first learned of Aragorn’s existence, how you became greatly offended, and demanded to know why I had hidden him from you all those times you came to Rivendell?” 

“I remember everything,” Gandalf said faintly. 

Elrond whirled around, his expression one of quiet fury, and he gestured forcefully back toward Aragorn. 

“This is why. No sooner do you meet my son than you lead him on a reckless, pointless mission that could have gotten you both killed. Where would the fate of Men be, if Gandalf the Grey had lost his life in an empty barrow of the South Downs?” 

“They would be hounded by houseless spirits, for one thing,” Gandalf answered with some consternation. “Reckless the mission may have been; pointless it was not. These creatures could not be left to expand their domain.” 

“So you bring it to the White Council. Consult with me, Saruman if you must, before you go charging off, placing the sole surviving Heir of Elendil in harm’s way right along with you.” 

“I am quite unharmed, Adar,” Aragorn said mildly, but he fell silent at the withering glare Elrond shot at him. 

“The Chieftain of the Dúnedain cannot shy from danger, this we all know. I prepared you for the sword myself. But both of you should know better than to take unnecessary risks. Why did only three of you ride against such foul creatures, with no—“

“You cannot hide the boy away any longer, Elrond,” Gandalf interrupted. He groaned a bit as he propped himself up higher against the bed, and though sweat had begun to form on his brow he levied a stern glance at Elrond. “Indeed, he has not been a boy for many years. I brought him along because I wanted these lands in better order, before he left Eriador, and I wanted to test if he is ready. He is, more than either of you may realize.” 

“Ready?” Aragorn asked. “For what?” 

Gandalf smiled at him, a hint of wistfulness behind his eyes, before he turned back to Elrond. “Have we not longed for an heir with the mettle to reclaim the kingship in Gondor, to gain victory in the cause against Sauron? Have you not said yourself, many times, you believe Aragorn to be that man?” 

A chill settled over Aragorn, and only with great effort could he bring himself to look at Elrond, who clutched at a bitter-smelling cup so tightly his knuckles turned white. They had not spoken of such things since the disastrous conversation about Arwen, on the eve of his departure from Rivendell, and even then the kingship had not been spoken of openly. Only, “to rise above the height of all your fathers,” words that weighed on Aragorn with every choice he made as Chieftain. 

“’The test will be long and hard,’” Elrond said, in an echo of what he spoke to Aragorn the day he revealed his true name. “Many years will pass before anyone is in a position to defeat Sauron.” 

“Precisely,” Gandalf agreed. “And what do we intend to do in those years, hmm? Sit in our halls and hope for the best? Or bring the fight to him?” 

“It is what the Steward Ecthelion hopes to do,” Aragorn murmured, but then he fell silent. Somehow, Gandalf’s support threw his earlier resolve into disarray, the clarity of his future far more daunting than the abstract. 

The shutters of the window were cracked open, and outside Aragorn could hear the faint laughter of children, likely Gilbarad and his little friends come to find him once more. He thought now of his men in the Swanfleet outpost, which had come perilously close to being overrun the year before, and of Gilbarad's father, his uncle Tarcil, who fought with Dírhael in Fornost against orcs who had come in from the north. Would aiding Ecthelion in Gondor lessen their peril? The image of Nethril in the kitchen swam in his mind’s eye, the distress so clear on her face, and despite all his words that morning he wondered at what kind of leader he was, that he would consider crossing the mountains so readily. 

“You know the dreams that have plagued me, Gandalf, of Minas Tirith and beyond. But if I were to leave, what would become of my people?” 

To this, Gandalf had no answer, and only looked down at his hands clasped before him. Silence pressed in upon the room, the only sound the crackle of logs in the hearth. It was Elrond who spoke at last, traces of grief in his eyes when he gazed at Aragorn.

“You are Chieftain of the Dúnedain, Estel, but your duties spread beyond them. Your father and great-grandfather before you both made great journeys abroad, in the service of their charge. Ever has it been for the descendants of Númenor.” 

“That is has.” A soft woman’s voice agreed, and Aragorn turned to see Ivorwen staring in the doorway. Her greying curls framed the worn lines of her face, her eyes bright with unshed tears. “If you’ll pardon the interruption, my lords. I have something to say to my grandson.” 

Gandalf bowed his head in acknowledgement, and Aragorn stood to face his grandmother. Ivorwen clasped his hands between her own, but he freed one to brush away a stray tear that had fallen down her cheek. 

“You asked me about my foresight, child—this is what I have seen. I had hoped to find some quiet time for us to talk. But your destiny has always been greater than the Dúnedain. It is time for you to take your place in the wider world. Any grief it may cause your loved ones is simply a part of life. We will still be here, when you get back.” 

“I should hope so,” Aragorn said, and he fought against the lump that formed in the back of his throat. “But I will not leave just yet. Not while Ada Dírhael is still abroad.”  

Gandalf cleared his throat softly, though it quickly turned into a hacking cough. “I hope to depart over the Hithaeglir in the spring, son of Arathorn. It would do an old man good to have you ride alongside me.” 

“If you’re well enough by spring,” Elrond said tartly, and he finally approached Gandalf with the foul-smelling brew in his hands. “Yesterday your spirit was one step from Mandos. Rest is what you need now, and a reminder of your own limitations.” 

“I am not the one who started this argument,” Gandalf grumbled, but he drank the potion obediently and settled back against the pillows. “Your wisdom surpasses even the Lord of Imladris, Ivorwen Gilbaradiel.” 

Ivorwen flushed at his words, and Aragorn led her quietly outside into the main room of the cottage. Elrond joined them soon after, looking a bit sheepish, and he placed a warm hand on Ivorwen’s shoulder. 

“Mithrandir is a dreadful patient, but he is right in many things. Aragorn tells me you’ve continued to teach him in the healing arts?” 

“I have,” Ivorwen answered, and her eyes danced in a way that made Aragorn nervous. “Though I imagine he’s been a much better student under me than he was you.” 

Elrond laughed, a sound Aragorn had not heard in years, and he decided he would be most useful serving tea while his foster father and grandmother discovered new ways to torment him. They talked into midday, of herblore and history and nothing of the future, and Aragorn watched them together, his first teacher and his last. His heart tightened, wishing only that his mother was present, and he thought back to Rivendell, of the women he had left behind there and those he would leave behind here. He would need to make amends to them all, before leaving for Gondor.