With Gandalf out of danger and the future somewhat in order, a sense of calm settled over Aragorn, one he had not felt since before the barrow-wights first came upon the Angle. The sense of urgency had passed, knowing his journey over the mountains would come.  Sometimes, as Ivorwen and Elrond both reminded him, the wisest choice was to wait. 

And so he gladly shouldered the tasks of a Chieftain at home, reorganizing patrols with Meldroch and helping his aunts ready their gardens for winter. Gilbarad and his older sister Haleth hung on to his every word, and he took great joy in introducing Elrond to the rest of his extended family. He’d missed the quiet mirth of his foster father more than he could ever say aloud.

They avoided the topic of Arwen, and though Aragorn longed to clear the air, he could not bear to shatter the peace his father’s presence brought to him. Though his yearning for Arwen never dimmed, he knew he had no hope of appearing worthy in her eyes, and any candle he held for her was not worth the pain it caused Elrond. Better for him to think Aragorn’s love five years before was merely youthful infatuation, now ignored and forgotten. Content to leave the matter be, they quickly regained their old, easy way about each other, and Aragorn counted it a blessing.

But the family member he most longed to spend time with was the one he could not see. Adanel made polite conversation with him at mealtimes, but otherwise she studiously avoided both him and Elrond. Aragorn wondered if Nethril had not somehow arranged for her to be separated from Elrond, knowing his grandmother’s dislike for the Lord of Imladris, but decided his cousin was not so politic. Even so, he could not help but feel defensive in the face of his grandmother’s attitude, and protective of his foster father.

“I will never understand it,” Aragorn grumbled. They sat in the healer’s cottage with Ivorwen, helping her mix poultices, and he saw Elrond and Ivorwen exchange a knowing glance. “Before last week, she’d never even met you. What right does she have to cast judgement?” 

“I understand it,” Elrond said lightly. “I remind her of what she lost, when she sent you to Imladris. And there are other matters that have not endeared me to her.” 

Aragorn sighed. His return to the Dúnedain had been so fragile at times, his reintroduction to his blood relatives equal parts joy and pain. How fiercely they all missed him, those years away, while he never knew of their existence. And so he tried to let pointed words against Rivendell roll off his back, a feat that was somehow easier five years ago than it was now.  

“I know. But I cannot even talk to her, it seems.” 

“It will be easier when I return to Rivendell,” Elrond said, “and I wish to do it soon. Gandalf is well enough by now.”

Indeed, the wizard had finally progressed to taking short walks outside the healer’s cottage, though he still leaned heavily on his staff. Ivorwen suggested it might do him good to dine in the Chieftain’s house that evening, and Aragorn left for the house himself, to let Nethril know and make good on his promise to aid with supper some evening. 

He found his cousin alone in the kitchen, a pot of soup already simmering on the hearth. The warm, aromatic smell of stewing meat made his mouth water, and he spied small, round loaves of bread ready to go into the oven.  

“Do we have room for one more?” he asked. “Gandalf is well enough to leave the healer’s cottage.” 

Nethril turned to see Aragorn, her expression carefully guarded, and his heart sank at the shuttered look in her eyes. He had not yet told her of his decision, and he realized suddenly what an awful mistake that had been. Without her, the Angle would likely have fallen apart in his absence. 

“There should be plenty,” she said. 

“Good.” He nodded, and then steeled himself. “Nethril, I…I know we have not spoken of Gondor yet, but…” 

She held up a hand to stop him. “I know. Halbarad told me this afternoon.” 

Silently cursing his gossiping family members, Aragorn bowed his head in an apology. “I am sorry I haven’t spoken with you about it. I do not want to leave you unprepared, if you do not think—“ 

But she shook her head, and stepped forward to take his hands between hers. She drew in a deep breath, as if carefully considering her words, but when she met his gaze, her eyes held acceptance. “You are my liege lord, and my reckless little cousin. I could not ask you to do anything different. If you trust me, my sword is yours, my Chieftain—though let us both pray I never have to use it.” 

Her words washed over him in relief, and he raised Nethril’s hands to kiss them both. Then he gave her a sly grin. “I don’t know. Meldroch says you threatened to challenge him in the ring.” 

“He’s a liar. Please tell me you’ll send him to Swanfleet in Halbarad’s place.” 

“There’s an idea.” Aragorn laughed and hugged her briefly. “It will not be til spring. I want to make sure things are in order here, before undertaking such a journey.” 

“That should be enough time for Adanel to accept it,” Nethril said, and the chill returned to Aragorn’s gut once more. “I take it you haven’t told her?” 

Aragorn shook his head. “I’d like Elrond to be gone, when I do.”

Nethril grimaced and nodded. “Have wine on hand, as well. A lesson I learned from Faelhen.” 

Soon, the yeasty smell of baking bread wafted through the kitchen along with the smell of soup, and Aragorn helped Nethril to set places for six in the little room just off the kitchen. Adanel and Faelhen joined them both just as they started ladling out soup into bowls, and Elrond escorted Gandalf in through the doorway, the wizard still leaning heavily on his staff. Adanel’s eyes narrowed briefly at the sight of Gandalf, but she composed herself so quickly Argaorn wondered if he imagined it. Nethril had outdone herself with the cooking, the stewed mutton soft and flavorful in his mouth. The taste reminded him of Rivendell, with just a hint of saffron, and he wondered if Elrond had brought some spices with him from the valley. 

“This is a grand occasion,” Adanel commented. Her left hand loosely cradled a glass of golden wine. “I cannot recall the last time Gandalf the Grey dined with the Chieftain of the Dúnedain.” 

“It was midsummer,” Gandalf said, his eyes distant from memory. “Arathorn had just wed Gilraen. Arador sat where you sit now—“ he gestured to Aragorn’s place at the head of the table— “and he appeared prouder than any man I’ve ever known. You, dear lady, kept him from serenading us all after the last round of ale.” 

“As it always was.” Adanel smiled, but it was one of a wolf about to pounce. Aragorn watched her warily. “How quickly our fortunes change. You alerted him to the trolls up north that visit, didn’t you? Only, when the time came to hunt them, you were nowhere to be found.” 

Silence descended upon the room. Nethril’s face turned white, and under the table, Aragorn placed a hand on hers to still her. 

“The troll fells are an old hurt, my lady,” Nethril said. “Many of us lost loved ones that day. It does little good to assign blame now.” 

“No, no blame,” Adanel said. “I am merely pointing out that when our grey-robed friend becomes involved, chaos often descends. Something some of us could stand to remember before following him over the mountains.” 

She looked directly at Aragorn, and it was his turn to bite down the first, cutting retort that came to his lips. He paused, taking another deliberate bite of stew before he answered, and met his grandmother’s leveling stare. 

“I do not know what happened on that troll hunt, Grandmother. Still, I—“ 

“No, you do not know. You do not know what happened to Arador, or your father. His sons do.” She gestured towards Elrond with bitter laughter. “They brought my son back with an arrow through his eye and took you to become a child of Elven lords, in a land where great quests and destinies matter more than your own people.” 

“I care little for destiny,” Aragorn said, even as he wondered if that was true. “I care that Sauron builds power in Mordor, that orc incursions grow by the year, and there is a man over the mountains who’s offered forces to command.” 

“Are those incursions anything more than dots on a map to you? These great lords may sit in their halls and make pronouncements of battles to be fought, but they care little for those they leave behind. They do not know hunger from untended harvests, they do not know sickness, they do not know the sight of blood washing through the river. You’ve known these things for five short years, and now you would abandon it? Have you seen your fill of death?” 

It would have been better if she’d slapped him. He stared at her, speechless, and her eyes burned bright with anger. Her wineglass still sat forgotten in her hand, though it shook violently now, and the wedding ring around her finger glinted in the candlelight. 

“I raised your grandson to value death as well as life, Lady Adanel.” Elrond’s soft voice echoed through the room. “Nothing less than need would drive him from the Dúnedain now.” 

“You raised him.” She repeated the words slowly, and turned to face him. “Tell me, Lord Elrond, did you weep when my son died? Or did you simply remove his piece from the board, and put Aragorn’s in his place?” 

“Enough!” Aragorn exclaimed. 

Adanel slammed her glass down on the table.  Wine spilled over her hand with the jolt, and she stared down at it as if transfixed. 

“Yes, it is quite enough. If you’ll excuse me.” 

She pushed her chair back from the table and stalked from the room. Aragorn stared after her, his jaw open in disbelief and hurt, and he quickly rose to follow her. But a hand on his arm stopped him, and when he looked back at Nethril his cousin’s face appeared carven from stone. 

“Do not look at me,” Nethril said quietly. “I rather think she’s right.” 

The rest of the meal finished in an awful, awkward silence. Elrond appeared as serene as ever, but a shadow passed over his eyes Aragorn knew well, and Gandalf looked deeply abashed. Faelhen’s glare cut across all three of them. Aragorn forced himself to finish his bowl of stew, though his appetite had utterly deserted him. At last, when Elrond volunteered to help Nethril clear the dishes, Aragorn slipped out of the room as quietly as he could and stole across the main hall until he reached the stairs. Adanel’s door was closed, but candlelight flickered beneath the crack, and he thought he heard a muffled sob through the thick oaken door. He knocked once, and when there was no answer he pushed the door gently open. 

A blast of cold air chilled him when he stepped inside. Adanel stood beside an open window, staring out to where the barrows arose near the crags, where the Hoarwell and the Bruinen joined into the great river beyond. Snow swirled fiercely in the night sky, and the whistling wind blew flurries inside to dust the dark brown fabric of Adanel’s dress. 

“Valar, it’s freezing in here.” Aragorn hugged himself against the cold and shut the door quickly behind him. He moved to close the shutters, but he stopped at the sight of Adanel. Her long hair had come free of its knot and cascaded in grey waves down her back. Her hand gripped the windowsill, and tears fell freely down her cheeks, her eyes cast out toward the barrows. Fresh guilt and sorrow tore through him—he had never seen her so vulnerable before.

“It’s so quiet when it snows,” Adanel murmured. “Sometimes I think it’s the only time the Angle truly knows peace.” 

“There will be little peace here if you catch cold, and Ivorwen hears why.” Aragorn attempted a lighthearted smile, and took her icy hand within his own. She stiffened, but did not pull away, and she allowed him to lead her slowly back to the bed. She perched on the end of it, and he hurriedly closed the shutters against the final chilling gust of wind. He sat down beside her but could not bring himself to meet her gaze, and stared at his hands like a child instead.

“I am sorry,” he said at last. “I wish I knew what to say, to make things right.” 

She shook her head, and a stray tear fell onto her lap. “You are so like your father. More than anything, he hated causing pain to those he loved. But a Chieftain must act no matter the cost. Did I not teach you that?” 

“You did.” Aragorn drew in a deep breath and looked up to meet her red-rimmed eyes. “But you also taught me to trust those closest to me. Nana, I would not leave while things stand this way between us. You deserve so much more.” 

She sniffed and looked back down at her lap. “I thought that name was for Ivorwen.” 

“It is for both of my grandmothers, whom I could not do without. I have taken that for granted, as of late.” 

“So men do, as they wander far from home. Do not think I have forgotten the burdens you carry.” 

Aragorn nodded, but no further words would come to him. Adanel reached for a handkerchief to wipe at her eyes, and she shivered against the cold. Aragorn took a blanket folded at the end of the bed to drape around her shoulders, and they sat in silence together, the shutters rattling against the wind.  

“I am selfish,” Adanel said at last. “I do not want you to leave because I cannot bear to lose you again. You will be gone longer than you think, and I grow tired of carrying my hope.”

Aragorn exclaimed wordlessly in dismay, but she only shook her head. 

“The house of Aranarth is steeped in sacrifice. I can endure one more. But I ask no less of you.” She took his face between her cold hands, her intense gaze one that had always demanded the best from him. “I need to know, Aragorn, that if you leave you do it for your people, and not chasing dreams of glory or renown. For that has ever been the downfall of kings.” 

He stared into her grey eyes, so like his own, and tried to put aside the dreams that had haunted him for weeks. To put aside Gandalf, Arwen, even Elrond, and anchor his choice in the members of his house.  

“When I was young, even before I knew my name, my mother would tell stories of her people. How they fought and struggled, with little thanks and little hope, to keep their lands free of darkness. How they diminish through the ages, visited by sorrows uncounted. Our grief will only increase, Nana, each year Sauron gains power. I called for the Swanfleet settlements in hope of renewal, but they are one raid away from ruin. If we are to defeat this enemy, we must do more than what we’ve done for centuries. I do not know what I can accomplish in the east, but…if Eru wills it, and Gondor receives the Heir of Elendil, perhaps one day the Angle will know peace. What can I do, but try?” 

Her eyes filled with tears once more, but she nodded. He embraced her tightly, and she rested her chin on his shoulder, a quiet sob escaping her. He ran a comforting hand over her hair, but she only let out an impatient huff. 

“Arador once said I might be less rigid, if I gave way more to tears. Now, it seems I do nothing but weep. Too much sorrow, all these years of your life.”

“I wish you would talk with Elrond. He knows more of sorrow than you think.” 

Adanel snorted. “So Gilraen has tried to tell me.”

Pity for his mother filled Aragorn, along with a sudden longing for her warm, familiar presence. He would need to visit Rivendell one last time, and see if he could try and persuade her once more to return to the Angle. Perhaps Elrond might aid him there. 

“He is no happier with my decision than you are. Truly, you may find common ground.” 

A faint trace of a smile lightened Adanel’s features. “I have little interest in finding common ground with the mighty son of Eärendil. But for you, grandson, I will try.” 

He could only blink in surprise at the agreement, and this time she laughed. 

“Even the most rigid of us can bend, Aragorn. It will be good to remember that, if you are to have that wizard by your side.” 

*** 

They descended the stairs together, Adanel grasping Aragorn’s arm for support, and they found everyone settled in the common room. Faelhen and Gandalf sat over a box of dice, Faelhen’s expression dangerously vindictive, and Nethril and Elrond spoke quietly together beside the fire. They all looked up at the sound of the door opening, and Nethril visibly tensed at the sight of Adanel. 

“Are we interrupting?” Aragorn asked.

“Not at all.” Nethril shook her head. “Master Elrond and I were simply discussing the finer points of the Athrabeth Finrod ah Andreth. ”

“How fitting,” Adanel remarked, and she drew in a deep breath. “May I have a word, my lord?” 

Elrond nodded graciously, and rose to follow Adanel out the door and into the map room. Nethril stared after them both, her jaw hanging open, and looked at Aragorn with faint alarm. 

“Do I need to—“ 

Aragorn shook his head and took the seat Elrond had vacated. “It’s all right, cousin. You have done more than your part to keep the peace, these past days.” 

She shot him a gratified smile before she buried her face in her hands and let out an exhausted sort of groan. He patted her shoulder in consolation before he settled back into his chair, staring into the fire that blazed in the hearth. 

The flames danced merrily before them, and Nethril soon took her father’s lute from where it sat in the corner. She plucked absently at the strings, her fingers moving slowly to trace out a familiar tune, and Aragorn hummed along, not bothering to try and remember the words. Nights like this were precious for their rarity. 

A sharp curse from Gandalf broke them out of their tune, and they glanced over to see Faelhen pocketing a handful of coins in silent triumph. Gandalf shook his head, clearly put out, and levered himself to his feet with his staff. Faelhen murmured something about quitting while ahead and said her goodnights, exchanging a satisfied smile with Nethril before she swept from the room. Gandalf lingered, groaning as he lowered himself into a chair beside Aragorn. 

“The women of this house could charm a balrog out of its flame, and never let you know they play dice better than the Pinesman in Bree.” 

Nethril snorted, and Aragorn arched an eyebrow. “I will not ask what she won from you.” 

“My pride, certainly. I will have to win the rest back, if we hope to stay at any inns next spring.” 

Aragorn chuckled. Nethril resumed her playing, losing herself in a long, complicated ballad, and Gandalf leaned over to speak quietly in his ear. “I hope you know, my dear boy, that I see you as much more than a piece on the board.” 

“I never doubted that,” Aragorn said mildly. “It is my grandmother you must convince.” 

“Yes, I will talk with her in the morning.” Gandalf frowned. “I stayed away from the Dúnedain too long. A mistake I will take care not to repeat in the coming years, no matter how far east we may go.” 

Aragorn nodded, and glanced sidelong at Gandalf. He still appeared weak and frail, dark circles under his eyes and his grey robes hanging loosely on his frame. But the spark had returned to his eyes, the one he recalled so vividly from their first meeting, and curiosity surged through him at the memory. 

“You said you wanted to test if I was ready,” he asked. “How did you know to test me at all? You had no idea the kind of man I was, when you followed the wights to the Angle.”

“Oh, I had an inkling,” Gandalf said. “Did you know they call me the Grey Pilgrim, in some lands? Ever to wander the west, with no lasting home of my own. It is much the same with you, is it not?” 

Aragorn opened his mouth to deny it, but stopped when he glanced out at the common room, which bore more signs of Nethril and Adanel than it ever would him. His grandmother’s spinning wheel lay tucked in the corner atop a rug Nethril had carefully picked out that lay across the flagstones. The haunting melody of her lute echoed in his ears, an instrument he could never hope to learn. A tapestry from Rivendell, depicting Elendil’s arrival at Lindon, was his only mark on the room, woven by his mother and given as a gift when he learned of his name. An ache stabbed at Aragorn, that he must leave this place in the same way he had Imladris, that it would fade as home the same way his childhood had. 

“It is a lonely man who wanders unknown paths and calls the stars his home. Even those will be strangers to you before the end,” Gandalf said. “I would have you walk beside a friend, for a time. One who understands where you come from, and what you have still to do. ” 

He held his hand out, and Aragorn clasped it. 

Somewhere in the next room, his grandmother and his foster father talked their way towards understanding, through their hope that rested in him. He could not fathom what it might take to live up to what they expected of him, to his own impossible standards he had promised himself long ago. But Gandalf’s hand gripped his tight, renewed vitality soaring through him, and Aragorn took it as a promise to them both. He would find the strength within him to meet the days to come.