Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Longing is like the Seed
That wrestles in the Ground,
Believing if it intercede
It shall at length be found.

The Hour, and the Clime -
Each Circumstance unknown,
What Constancy must be achieved
Before it see the Sun!

- Emily Dickinson

July T.A. 2951

The door to Elrond's study stands open. Estel pauses at the threshold, still in his riding clothes, dried sweat and orc-blood on his sleeves. His father—for that is how he thinks of Elrond, though these days he tries to act more formally—sits at his desk, face grave but eyes warm.

"Come in, Estel."

Estel steps inside, muscles aching from the fight. "If this is about the orcs, Elladan and Elrohir—"

"Your brothers have already told me of your valor." Elrond rises, comes around the desk. "But no, that is not why I asked you here. Sit with me."

They take the chairs by the window, where they have spent countless evenings discussing history and lore. But today feels different. There's a weight to Elrond's silence that makes Estel's heart beat faster.

"You are twenty now," Elrond says. "A man grown." His hand moves to a drawer in the side table. "And it is time you knew who you truly are."

"What do you mean?"

"Your father was Arathorn, son of Arador, Chieftain of the Dúnedain before his death. He—you— are descended father to son from Valandil, Isildur's son. Elendil's son of Númenor."

The words land like stones in still water. Estel stares at his foster father. All his certainties—that he was some ranger's bastard, that his mother's silence on the subject of his father meant shame—dissolve at once.

"The Chieftain?" His voice sounds strange to his own ears. "But he died—" The dates align in his head. "Two years after I was born."

"Yes." Elrond opens the drawer and removes something that glints gold and green. "This is the Ring of Barahir. It has passed from father to son since the First Age. It is yours now."

Estel looks at the ring but doesn't move to take it. "Why did you not tell me before?"

"Because I loved you too much to burden you before you were ready." Elrond's eyes hold centuries of care. "Your father and grandfather both died young. We feared the Enemy had discovered that Isildur's line survived in the North. Your mother brought you here when you were two. We gave you a new name, a safe childhood."

"And my real name?"

"Aragorn, son of Arathorn."

The name feels strange. Like clothes that haven't been broken in.

Estel—Aragorn puts a hand to his mouth as he tries to take all of this in. His initial reaction is one of relief and pride. He is not some nobody from nowehere, who must carve out his own path is he is ever to amount to anything. He is the scion of mighty lords and kings, of Lúthien herself.

But as he sits and contemplates, he thinks on all the years where his mother and his father—Elrond—has kept this from him. "Then I am not truly your son."

"You are my son in all ways that matter." Elrond reaches out, grips his shoulder. "And you are also my blood. Through your father's line, you are descended from the Lords of Andúnië, and through them, from Elros my brother."

Aragorn looks up sharply. The implications stack in his mind: Chieftain, heir, king. Each weight threatening to crush him. "The Sword that was Broken—"

"Belongs to your line, yes. Though that time is not yet come." Elrond presses the ring into his hand. "You have been raised in this house to be ready for this moment, whether you knew it or not."

"Ready?" Aragorn almost laughs. "How can I be ready? An hour ago I thought—" He can't finish.

"You are who you have always been." Elrond's voice is gentle. "This changes only what you know of yourself, not who you are."

The ring is heavier than it looks, warm from Elrond's hand. The serpents' eyes catch the afternoon light.

"Ada," Aragorn says, using the childhood name for father that he usually keeps guarded now. "What if I fail?"

"Then you will fail as yourself, not as a false image of what you think you should be." Elrond pulls him into an embrace. "Your father was a good man. But you are my son too, and I am proud of who you have become."

Aragorn holds tight for a moment, then straightens. The ring slides onto his finger as if it was made for him. Perhaps, in some way, it was.

"There is more you must know," Elrond says. "But for now, take time to think on what you have learned. We will speak again at dinner."

At the door, Aragorn turns back. "Does everyone in the house know? Who I truly am?"

"No. Only those who must. Though that too will change now."

Aragorn nods and steps out. His feet carry him automatically toward the gardens. He needs air, space to think. The ring catches on his sleeve, an unfamiliar weight. A real thing, solid proof that everything has changed.

Or perhaps, as Elrond said, nothing has changed at all, except what he knows of himself.

His mother sits by her window, hands folded in her lap, looking exactly as she always has. The sight stops him in the doorway. Everything has changed, yet she is unchanged—the same dark hair threaded with silver, the same quiet strength in her bearing.

"So now you know," she says.

"Yes." The ring feels heavy on his finger. "Now I know."

She says nothing more, just watches him with eyes that have always held secrets. He remembers all the times he asked about his father, all the times she turned away. The questions he learned not to ask.

"Did you think I would shame you?" The words escape before he can master them. "Is that why you never spoke of him?"

"Estel—"

"That is not my name." His voice sounds harsh in the quiet room. "Every time I asked about my father, every time you turned away... I thought you were ashamed. I told myself it did not matter, that you had your reasons. I defended you to others who whispered."

Her hands clench in her lap. "Others who whispered?"

"Does it matter? I was the son of no one, raised on Lord Elrond's charity. What else would they think?" He paces to the window, needing to move. "Do you know what it is to grow up believing yourself unwanted? To make up stories about who your father might be, each one worse than the last?"

"Unwanted?" His mother's voice breaks. "You were everything. My whole world after your father died. When the Enemy's servants killed Arador, then Arathorn two years later..." She rises, reaches for him. "You were two years old. Every shadow held danger. Every stranger could have been the one who would take you from me."

He steps back from her touch. "So you let me believe a lie."

"I let you live." There's a fierceness in her face he's never seen before. "Two chieftains dead in three years. They were hunting our line, Aragorn. Hunting you. What was a child's confusion against his life?"

"I am not a child anymore."

"No." She looks at him as if seeing him anew—a man grown, wearing the ring of kings. "You are not."

The anger drains suddenly, leaving him empty. He sinks into the chair opposite hers. "All those years in Rivendell... was any of it real? Or was I just something to be preserved, protected, like a relic in Elrond's house?"

"Oh my son." She kneels before his chair, takes his hands. The familiar calluses of her fingers ground him. "You were loved. You are loved. By Elrond, by your brothers, by me. That has always been real."

He looks down at their joined hands. "When did you mean to tell me?"

"When you were ready. When you were safe." She touches the ring of Barahir. "When you could wear this without it being a death sentence."

"And now?"

"Now you are a man grown. Strong enough to defend yourself. Wise enough to be cautious." A ghost of a smile crosses her face. "Though perhaps not wise enough to avoid charging those orcs today."

Something between a laugh and a sob escapes him. His mother pulls him into her arms like she did when he was small. He lets himself be held, feeling like both the man he has become and the boy he was.

"Tell me about him," he whispers. "Please. Tell me about my father."

She is quiet for a moment. "He was a good man. Strong, but gentle. He loved to sing, though he had a terrible voice..."

They talk until the sun sets. His mother's words paint a picture of a man he will never know, but whose blood runs in his veins. A father. A chieftain. A legacy he must now live up to.

It is not forgiveness, not yet. But it is a beginning.

The days that follow blur together. Each familiar corner of Rivendell holds new meaning, weighted with histories he half-remembers from lessons he never knew were preparation. Even his own reflection catches him off guard—he looks for changes in his face, some visible sign of this new identity.

In the training yard, Elladan adjusts his stance with the sword. "You favor your right side too much, little brother." The familiar correction stops them both. Elladan's hand tightens on his shoulder. "You are still our brother, Aragorn. That has not changed."

"But you knew." The sword feels heavier today. "All these years, you knew."

"We knew a child who needed protection. Then a youth who needed guidance." Elladan steps back, raises his blade. "Now we know a man who needs to learn to fight like the king he might become. Again."

Their blades meet with new purpose.

The library seems different now. Histories he once read as stories have become family chronicles. He traces his finger down a genealogy, past names that now carry weight: Aranarth, Arahael, Aravorn. His ancestors. His responsibility.

"Your father used to do that exact same thing."

He turns to find Erestor watching him. The old loremaster's eyes are kind. "You knew him?"

"I taught him, as I taught you." Erestor comes to stand beside him at the table. "Though he had not your gift for languages. He preferred the histories."

Aragorn looks back at the genealogy. "Tell me about him?"

"Arathorn was a serious young man when he first came to Rivendell. Determined. But he could laugh. I'm told he was especially less grave when your mother was near." Erestor pulls another book from the shelf. "Here. These are the records of his time as Chieftain. Short though it was, he served his people well."

The rest of the afternoon passes in quiet study, the scratch of his pen marking notes about a father he never knew.

In the Hall of Fire, he hesitates before signing his name to a letter. The name "Estel" feels false now, but "Aragorn" still sits strange on his tongue.

"Having trouble remembering who you are?" Glorfindel's voice holds no mockery, only understanding.

"I am not sure I ever knew."

"Then perhaps that is the gift in all this." The ancient warrior sits beside him. "You have the freedom to decide who Aragorn will be. Your father's son, yes. Isildur's heir, yes. But also yourself."

"And who is that?"

"That is what you must discover." Glorfindel indicates the letter. "Though I suggest you start by learning to write your new name without blotting the ink."

At dinner, he finds himself studying faces, wondering who else knew. Some of the older Elves meet his gaze knowingly. Others seem oblivious to any change. He sits in his usual place, but everything feels shifted slightly, like a familiar room where all the furniture has been moved an inch to the left.

"You are thinking too much," Elrohir murmurs, passing him the wine. "It makes you frown like Erestor."

"I do not—" But he catches his reflection in the goblet and sees the truth of it. A laugh escapes him, surprising in its lightness.

Across the table, his mother smiles. Beside her, Elrond inclines his head slightly. They are giving him space to find his footing in this new world, he realizes. Space to become whoever he will be.

Later, walking in the gardens under the stars, he whispers his new name to himself. "Aragorn, son of Arathorn."

It still feels strange. But perhaps strange is what becoming yourself feels like at first.

Tomorrow he will begin learning what that means.

The birch grove feels different in twilight. Aragorn has walked here a hundred times, but tonight the white trunks gleam like pillars of pearl, the spring leaves whisper secrets in the dusk. His mind is too full—of histories, of names, of fathers dead and kingdoms lost. He finds himself singing without meaning to, an old song learned in the Hall of Fire:

"The leaves were long, the grass was green,

The hemlock-umbels tall and fair..."

Movement catches his eye. Between the silver trees, a woman dances. Dark hair falls past her waist, and her blue dress shimmers as she moves. The world stops.

His voice fails. This cannot be real. He has stepped into song, into legend—or else his mind has finally broken under the weight of all he has learned. For this is Lúthien Tinúviel herself, most beautiful of all the Children of Ilúvatar, who danced among the hemlock flowers in the depths of time.

"Tinúviel!" The cry tears from his throat before he can master himself. "Tinúviel!"

She turns, and time starts again. Her face holds surprise, then curiosity. When she speaks, her voice is clear and present, not the echo of legend he expected. He knows the way elf-maidens move, has danced with enough of them at festivals, but her grace is different - ancient, perilous. When she speaks, her voice is clear and present, not the echo of legend he expected.

"Who are you? And why do you call me by that name?"

He stares, world tilting beneath his feet. Not Lúthien at all, but a woman of flesh and blood. Yet no less beautiful for being real. Heat rises in his face.

"I believed you to be indeed Lúthien Tinúviel, of whom I was singing." His voice sounds strange to his own ears. "But if you are not she, then you walk in her likeness."

Something shifts in her expression—surprise again, but different. Then she smiles, and he forgets how to breathe. She seems to study his face with new interest.

"So many have told me," she says. "Yet none before believed it with such certainty." Her smile widens. "I am Arwen Undómiel, Elrond's daughter."

Elrond's daughter. Of course—he has heard of her, though she has been long away in the Golden Wood. Another piece of his world shifts and resettles. He should introduce himself, but which name? The one he has worn all his life, or the one he is still learning to carry?

"I am E—" He stops, corrects himself. "I am Aragorn son of Arathorn."

Her eyebrows lift slightly at the hesitation. "Ah. The boy who was Estel." Her eyebrows lift slightly. "I had heard you had learned your true name."

"Three days ago." The admission slips out unbidden.

"No wonder you walk in twilight singing of legends." She looks up at the darkening sky. "And I have lost track of time. There is to be a feast tonight, to mark my return from Lothlorien." She turns to him with quiet grace. "Would you escort me back to the house, Aragorn son of Arathorn?"

He offers his arm, conscious suddenly of his plain clothes, of the sword calluses on his hand. She takes it as naturally as if she accepted escort from mortal men every day.

They walk in silence through the gathering dark. At the edge of the grove, light spills from the windows of the Last Homely House. Music drifts down, and voices. The spell of twilight breaks.

She releases his arm with a small nod. "Thank you for the escort. And for the song." The curve of her smile holds something he cannot read. "However incomplete."

Then she is gone, a grey shadow ascending the steps to the house, leaving him alone with the memory of starlight on water, and the fading scent of night flowers.

Aragorn walks through the winding halls of Rivendell as if in a trance, the familiar stone and wood seeming strange and new. His arm, where she placed her hand, burns as though he’s clasped a brand. Each step he takes toward his chambers feels hesitant, as if he might turn back at any moment, yet he forces himself forward.

In his mind’s eye, he sees her again, framed in light beneath the birches, her laughter mingling with the sound of leaves stirring in the breeze. How he thought he was dreaming; how surely no maiden of flesh and blood could hold such beauty, such grace. Yet she is real—and she is Elrond’s daughter.

Only days past, he took pride in his newly revealed lineage. The title of Isildur’s Heir sits heavily upon him, yet with a sense of grandeur. But now, as he thinks of Arwen, that pride fades like smoke. He can lay claim to nothing that would ever place him near her—nothing save the accident of distant kinship. And yet… she smiled. A warm, unguarded smile, as though they have known each other all their lives. He cannot deny the pulse that beats in his chest at the thought.

Reaching his chambers, he shakes himself free of his thoughts and resolves to make himself ready for the feast. He moves toward his chest of belongings, rifling through his usual simple tunics and cloaks until he finds what he’s looking for—the dark blue tunic and silver-threaded cloak he has worn but once before, and even then only because Elladan insisted he look respectable at a gathering. The cloak bears a delicate pattern of stars at the collar, subtle yet elegant. He drapes it over his arm, examining the garment as if it were a stranger to him.

When he puts it on, the formal tunic itches at his neck. Aragorn adjusts it for the tenth time, scowling at his reflection. The Ring of Barahir gleams on his finger, no longer strange there. His hair is freshly braided in the style of the Dúnedain chiefs, though his fingers fumbled with the unfamiliar pattern.

"I have not seen you wear that tunic since midwinter." His mother appears in the doorway. Her knowing look makes him flush. "When you declared it 'too fussy for any practical purpose.'"

"It is a formal occasion."

"Of course." She straightens his collar with practiced hands. "Nothing to do with who else will be at the feast."

He says nothing, which is answer enough.

Aragorn walks with his mother toward the Great Hall, his arm linked through hers, though he barely feels her touch.

The great hall blazes with light. Aragorn finds his assigned place—higher up the table than usual, he notices, closer to where Elrond usually sits with his family. His stomach tightens.

Then she enters, at Elrond's side, and the hall seems to dim around her as the guests all rise. She wears silver and white, her dark hair now bound with silver nets. Nothing like the dancing maiden in the grove, yet just as beautiful; now she bears herself like a queen, her head high, her back straight. He feels his breath catch, the sight of her sealing something in his heart that he hadn’t even known was unsettled.

His gaze lingers, captivated, until he feels his mother nudge him, a gentle reminder of his place. He blinks, lowering his gaze, though he can still feel the warmth of Arwen’s presence in the room, as though the light itself has altered with her arrival.

Elrond makes the formal introductions. Aragorn bows precisely, exactly as protocol demands.

"Welcome to Rivendell, Lady Undómiel."

Her eyes meet his, bright with something that might be amusement. "Thank you...Aragorn, is it not? Son of Arathorn?"

"Yes, my lady." He keeps his face carefully blank, as though this is entirely new information.

"How fortunate to have you return just as our Estel—Aragorn," Elrond smiles as he corrects himself, "takes up his true name and heritage."

"Most fortunate," she agrees. The corner of her mouth quirks up slightly. "I hope you will favor us with song later, Lord Aragorn."

Heat creeps up his neck. She glides away to her seat, leaving him to contemplate the depths of his goblet and wonder if it's possible to die of embarrassment.

Across the table, Elladan catches his eye. "You look warm, brother. Perhaps you should loosen that collar."

Aragorn kicks him under the table. Elrohir snorts into his wine.

The feast continues. Aragorn manages to eat, though he tastes nothing. He is acutely aware of her presence down the table, but doesn't dare look directly. When called upon to speak, he measures each word carefully, trying to sound like someone worthy of his name and station.

It is only later, catching her watching him with that same subtle curve of lips, that he realizes his elaborate pretense has probably just made everything worse.

At least, he consoles himself, he cannot possibly make more of a fool of himself than he already has.

Then again, the evening is still young. He really shouldn't tempt fate by thinking such things.

Sleep eludes him. Aragorn lies in his familiar bed, watching moonlight trace familiar patterns on the ceiling. The formal tunic hangs in its place, a darker shadow among shadows. The Ring of Barahir rests beside his bed—the first night he has taken it off since Elrond gave it to him.

Four days. In four days he has become: Aragorn instead of Estel, heir instead of foster son, chieftain instead of ranger. The names stack like stones on his chest. Arathorn's son. Isildur's heir. Future lord of the Dúnedain.

And now this too—the memory of twilight and dark hair amidst white trees. The way she said his name, amusement dancing in her eyes across the feast table. Aragorn, is it not? As if she hadn't already named him so in the grove.

This is not like his past dalliances with elf-maidens, pleasant as those were. Not like Neniel who taught him the ways of love last summer, laughing and warm in the hay loft. Not like the easy nights spent in Mirdaniel's bed when they both sought comfort during the long winter.

This feels different. Dangerous. Like standing at the edge of a great height, knowing one step could send him falling.

He presses his hands to his face, mortified anew at his own foolishness. Lúthien Tinúviel, indeed. At least he hadn't tried to recite the whole lay...

A snatch of the song returns unbidden: the hemlock flowers tall and fair...

No. He will not think of it. Will not think of her. He has greater concerns now, responsibilities he barely understands. A whole people waiting for him to become someone worthy of leading them.

He turns over, punches his pillow into a more comfortable shape. Closes his eyes firmly.

Behind his eyelids, a blue dress sparkles and curious grey eyes meet his.

It will be a long night.

Chapter Text

July T.A. 2951

Arwen sits in her favorite alcove in the library, a book open but unread in her lap. From here she can see the practice yard where the young heir of Isildur spars with her brothers. Seven days since their twilight encounter, and he has yet to meet her eyes directly.

His sword work is good—better than good. Whatever else the boy may be, he is no coddled princeling. Even now he moves with the fluid grace of one who has spent years learning blade craft from the sons of Elrond.

"Your left guard, little brother!" Elladan calls. Aragorn adjusts instantly, blocking Elrohir's strike.

Little brother. The words catch her attention. Strange to think of her brothers helping raise this mortal child into the young man who now moves with such contained power below.

A cluster of young elf-maidens gathers at the edge of the yard. One of them—Neniel, if she remembers correctly—leans forward with particular interest. Aragorn doesn't notice, focused entirely on his blade work. Or perhaps deliberately not noticing. There's a story there, in the careful way they don't look at each other.

But that's not what holds her attention. It's the shift in him when he thinks no one of consequence watches. The rigid formality drops away, replaced by an easy confidence. This is the youth who walked in twilight singing of Lúthien, not the stiff-necked lordling from the feast.

He distributes his weight wrong on a turn. Elrohir's blade sweeps his feet from under him. He lands hard but rolls smoothly up, laughing.

"Again," he says, and there's joy in it—the simple pleasure of physical challenge, of testing himself against worthy opponents.

Then he catches sight of her in the window. The laughter vanishes. His next series of moves are precise, measured, proper. As if he's suddenly remembered he's performing for an audience.

Interesting.

She has had many compare her to Lúthien over the centuries. Courtiers and poets, princes and lords, all hoping to cast themselves as Beren in their own tale. Their flattery always rang hollow—they saw what they wished to see, not her.

But this youth... he had truly believed she was Lúthien, if only for a moment. Had called out with genuine wonder, not calculation. Then spent the entire feast pretending it never happened.

Pride, she decides. Not arrogance—she has seen enough of that in her years at court in Lothlorien. This is the fierce pride of youth, of one trying to grow into a role too large for him. Yet there's something endearing in his desperate dignity, like a half-grown hound trying to appear fierce.

The bout ends. Her brothers clap him on the shoulder, pull him toward the armory. As they pass beneath her window, she catches a fragment of conversation.

"—feast for the delegation from the Angle tomorrow—"

"—should wear the blue tunic again, it suited you—"

Aragorn's reply is too low to hear, but the set of his shoulders speaks volumes.

Yes, she thinks. Pride. And something else. Something that makes him glance up at her window when he thinks she isn't watching. She feels her curiosity deepen, tinged with the faintest hint of wariness.

She has been approached by mortals before, men stirred by dreams of her, many who have carried the same lineage as this young man. The last thing she wants is another admirer, let alone one so close to her father’s own heart.

But there is something about him that intrigues her. His gravity, his quiet sincerity; perhaps, she thinks, he might possess the fortitude to be different. She finds herself hoping that their first conversation will not be their last, that he might be one with whom she can share more than a fleeting acquaintance.

The feast for the Dúnedain delegation lacks the usual elvish formality. These are Aragorn's people—or will be—and they carry themselves with the practical dignity of those who live close to shadow and danger. Their clothes, though fine, show signs of travel. Their words are measured, careful.

Arwen watches from her place beside her father as Aragorn navigates the complex currents of the hall. Gone is the stiff pride of previous nights, replaced by something more subtle. He speaks to the Dúnedain rangers with careful deference, neither presuming upon nor diminishing his new status. When one grizzled captain mentions serving under Arathorn, Aragorn's questions are thoughtful, focused on his father's leadership rather than his person.

"The boy does well," her father murmurs.

"He has been well taught." She notes how Aragorn smoothly shifts to elvish mode when addressing Erestor, then back to the ranger's more direct speech. "Though I wonder if he realizes how naturally he moves between worlds."

A small commotion draws her attention. One of the younger rangers has taken offense at something Lindir said about mortal music. Voices are raised. Before anyone else can intervene, Aragorn is there.

"Ah, but you should hear Lindir's setting of 'The Fall of Gil-galad' in the ancient mode," he says, one hand casually dropping to the ranger's shoulder. "Though I confess, when I first heard it, I preferred the version sung in the Angle." A swift glance at Lindir. "Perhaps we might hear both, and compare their virtues?"

The ranger relaxes and Lindir, ever diplomatic, expresses interest in learning the mortal version. Crisis averted without anyone losing face.

Interesting, Arwen thinks. He has his father's gift for leadership, Erestor had said. But this seems more. The boy has learned to be a bridge between peoples, perhaps without even knowing it.

Later, she overhears him with a group of younger rangers, men he might have trained with had he been raised among them. The contrast is striking. Here his manner is easier, almost playful. He speaks of growing up in Rivendell without shame or apology, yet makes it clear he considers himself one of them.

"Lord Aragorn," one asks, "is it true you were raised as an elf?"

"I was raised as myself," he answers. "Though I confess, Master Erestor did try to teach me to walk more quietly."

They laugh, tension broken. She notices how he's positioned himself—slightly apart, but not above. Already learning the delicate balance of authority and companionship that leadership requires.

The evening wears on. Wine flows more freely. Someone calls for songs. The hall fills with both elvish hymns and ranger ballads, neither trying to outdo the other. Aragorn joins in both with equal comfort, his clear voice binding the styles together.

"You watch our little brother with great interest," Elladan says, taking their father's empty seat. "Counting his mistakes?"

"Counting his successes, actually." She gestures to where Aragorn stands with the ranger captain. "He handles himself better than I expected."

"High praise indeed from the Lady of Imladris." Her brother's eyes dance with amusement. "Shall I tell him you approve? The poor boy might expire from pride on the spot."

She gives him a quelling look. "You mistake curiosity for approval. It's not often we see someone raised between worlds thus. And given his new position..."

"Ah yes. Pure academic interest. How very like you, sister." Elladan grins. "Though you might warn young Neniel of your scholarly attention. She looks ready to challenge you to a duel."

Arwen glances at the elf-maiden, who is indeed watching her watching Aragorn. "Don't be absurd. I have no interest in disrupting anyone's dalliances." She sips her wine. "Especially not those of children."

"Children?" Elladan laughs. "He came of age two years past, sister. Or had you forgotten how that works for mortals?"

"You know what I mean."

"I do. Though I wonder if you do." At her sharp look, he raises his hands in mock surrender. "Peace! I merely suggest that if you truly wish to study our foster brother's development, you might try speaking with him directly. He has a keen mind, when not thoroughly paralyzed by your presence."

Across the hall, Aragorn laughs at something the ranger captain has said. For a moment, firelight catches his face just so, hinting at the man he might become.

A promising young man, she decides, ignoring Elladan's knowing smile. Nothing more.

The morning sun streams through Rivendell's high windows, warming the smooth wood of the warp sticks in Arwen's arms. She's left her ladies behind in the weaving room, preferring to fetch the materials herself—a small rebellion against the constant attendance that comes with being the daughter of Elrond. The sticks shift precariously as she walks, threatening to spill across the polished floor. One slips. She adjusts her grip, considering whether to set the whole bundle down and begin again.

A shadow falls across the floor beside her. "Allow me to help you, Lady Undómiel."

The voice belongs to the young Lord of the Dúnedain. He stands closer than she expected, his grey eyes intent on her face. There's something in his careful formality that draws forth a smile.

"Thank you." She allows him to take several of the sticks, studying him for a moment. "You have good timing... Estel? Or should I say Aragorn?"

His throat works before he answers. "Whatever name pleases you, lady."

The sound that escapes her is halfway between a laugh and a hum. She absently wonders what happened to that bold minstrel underneath the birches and if she'll ever see that side of him again. A sudden idea forms in her mind. "Then I shall call you Dúnadan." She shifts her remaining bundle as they begin walking. "It seems fitting you should have a name that speaks to your Númenórean heritage, as Estel speaks to your upbringing here."

"No one has called me that before." A smile breaks through his composure, transforming his face into something younger, more natural.

Morning light catches dust motes in its beam as they walk, the air heavy with the scent of old books and spring flowers. "Father tells me you will soon leave us," she says, watching how his shoulders straighten at the mention of his departure. "To take up your duties as chieftain."

"Yes, lady." The words comes out steady, but she sees the slight tightening around his eyes.

"Do you feel ready?" The question rises unbidden to her lips.

He takes his time responding, and she notes how he weighs his words—not with the calculated deliberation of courtiers she's known, but with the careful honesty of youth. "I have been preparing for this all my life, though I did not know it until recently. As to whether I am ready..." The pause stretches between them. "I can only hope that I am."

"From what I have heard, you will take to it well enough." She recalls Elladan's animated description of a recent patrol. "My brothers speak highly of your prowess in battle against the orcs."

Color floods his cheeks. "I have proved capable enough, thanks to Glorfindel's training, and your brothers'."

"Capable enough?" She can't help but arch an eyebrow, remembering Elladan's precise words. "That is not how Elladan tells it. He says you fought like one possessed when you saved him from that orc archer." She watches his composure crack slightly, revealing glimpses of the boy beneath the careful dignity. "Or was that another young Ranger?"

He nearly stumbles, his carefully maintained facade slipping. "I... that was nothing. Anyone would have done the same."

"Anyone?" The warmth in her chest surprises her as she shakes her head. "I have lived long enough to know that is not true, Dúnadan."

They reach the weaving room, where morning light pours through the windows onto her waiting loom. She turns to face him, struck by a sudden solemnity. "The Shadow in the East weighs heavily on my mind," she says quietly, watching his face grow serious. "But it brings me comfort to know that men such as you will be fighting against it."

He bows—too deeply, still trying so hard to be proper—and takes his leave. She watches him go, noting how the sunlight catches in his dark hair, how his shoulders remain straight even in retreat.

Such a serious young man, she thinks. Too serious, perhaps, for one who has barely begun to live. Yet what choice does he have, with destiny pressing so close?

A frown crosses her face. She will speak to her brothers about lending him more aid with the rangers. And perhaps suggest to Erestor that some of those histories might wait for later study.

The library is never truly dark. Starlight falls through high windows, and somewhere an oil lamp burns, throwing shadows among the shelves. Arwen often walks here in the quiet hours, when even most others in the valley have retired to dreams or contemplation.

Tonight she finds she is not alone. Aragorn sits at a reading desk, surrounded by maps and chronicles. His hair is mussed as if he's run his hands through it repeatedly, and ink stains his fingers. He's so absorbed in his reading that he doesn't notice her presence.

She recognizes the volume before him—a detailed accounting of the fall of Arthedain. Not light reading for the middle watches of the night.

"The failures of your forebears will seem no smaller at dawn," she says.

He startles, nearly upending his ink pot. When he sees who it is, he half-rises, awkward formality warring with obvious fatigue.

"My lady, I—"

"Please. There's no need for ceremony at this hour." She moves closer, glancing at his notes. His handwriting is precise, methodical. "You take thorough records."

"I must understand what went wrong." He gestures to the maps, the histories. "How a kingdom that stood for a thousand years could fall into ruin. How my people became wanderers in the wild."

"And have you found your answer?"

"Too many answers. Too many mistakes." He rubs his eyes. "The division of the kingdoms. The great plague. The wars with Angmar. Pride, fear, bad fortune..."

"And knowing these things, what would you do differently?"

He looks up, startled by the question. In the lamplight, she sees past his usual careful mask. This is not the stiff young lord from the feast, nor the capable diplomat from the delegation. This is simply a man trying to understand the weight that has been placed upon his shoulders.

"I would..." He stops, considers. "I would try to remember that a kingdom is not towers and walls, but people. The Dúnedain survived because they learned to protect what truly mattered—their knowledge, their traditions, their bonds with each other." His finger traces a line on the map. "These ruins can be rebuilt. But only if there are still people who remember what they once meant."

Interesting. Not the answer she expected from one so young.

"You surprise me," she says. "Most young lords dream first of military glory, of raising armies and rebuilding fortresses."

"I was raised in this house." The ghost of a smile touches his mouth. "Master Erestor taught me that history is made in libraries as much as on battlefields."

"And what else did you learn in this house?"

"That knowledge must be preserved." He touches one of the ancient volumes with careful reverence. "That some things are worth protecting, even if their worth isn't obvious to all."

She finds herself nodding. "Yet you study these particular histories now. Why?"

"Because I must understand what I'm truly heir to—not just a crown and a name, but centuries of choices, good and ill. I cannot rebuild what I do not understand."

His voice holds no trace of the formal pomposity he sometimes affects. This, she realizes, is the real Aragorn—thoughtful, earnest, surprisingly wise for his years.

"A worthy goal," she says. "Though perhaps one better pursued in daylight hours?"

He flushes slightly. "I couldn't sleep."

"Evidently not." She indicates his scattered notes. "Though I suspect these chronicles offer poor comfort against whatever keeps you wakeful."

"They are not meant for comfort."

"No." She studies him for a moment. "But neither are they meant to be a burden. Your ancestors' choices are not yours, Dúnadan. Learn from them, yes. But do not let their ghosts haunt your dreams."

He looks at her sharply, as if surprised by her use of his name. Then something in his face closes, that careful mask sliding back into place.

"Thank you for your counsel, lady."

And there it is again—that desperate dignity. She almost prefers his scholarly absorption.

"I bid you good night, then." She turns to go, then pauses. "Though if you wish to discuss what you learn here, I knew many of these lords and ladies in life. History books do not always tell the full tale."

She leaves him there among his histories, lamplight pooling around him like a crown.

Chapter Text

August T.A. 2951

Aragorn traces his finger along the carved archway, lost in thought about his impending departure, when soft footsteps break the silence. He turns to find Arwen approaching, her grey dress whispering against the stone floor. In her arms, she carries a package wrapped in cream-colored linen.

"Dúnadan. I hoped to find you here." Her voice fills the empty hall. She steps closer, the bundle held before her.

His pulse jumps at her nearness, at the way the afternoon light catches in her dark hair. The air feels thinner. "Lady Undómiel."

"These are for your journey." She extends the package. "I'm sure the nights can be cold in the Wild."

The linen falls away to reveal several tunics in deep blues and greys, the wool fine and sturdy.

"You made these?" The words come out rougher than intended.

"The reinforcement here," she touches the shoulder seam, "should withstand the weight of your sword belt." Her fingers move to the elbow. "And here, for when you must crawl through the underbrush."

He runs his hand over the precise, even stitches - hundreds of them, maybe thousands. Hours of work, each one a thought for his comfort and safety. The care in every detail makes his chest constrict.

Aragorn forces his attention back to the tunics as Arwen's fingers trace the weave of the fabric.

"The wool comes from the northern flocks," she explains. "It repels water better than any other I've found. Even in driving rain, the inner layer stays dry." She lifts the sleeve to show the tight pattern. "See how the threads lock together? That's what keeps the wind out."

His skin prickles where her hand brushed his. He nods, trying to focus on her words rather than the graceful movement of her fingers across the cloth.

"You'll want to wear the thinner one against your skin," she continues. "Then the middle weight, and the heaviest on top when the weather turns." She demonstrates the layering, and he watches her hands fold and smooth the fabric with practiced ease.

Their fingers meet again as she passes him the stack of tunics. His heart pounds so loud he fears she must hear it echoing off the stone walls. He clutches the garments tighter, anchoring himself to their solid weight.

"Elladan and Elrohir swear by this arrangement when they range north," she says. "The extra padding at the shoulders prevents chafing from their packs. I've added the same to yours." Her voice carries the same concern he's heard her use with her brothers countless times, though in his current state, all he can focus on is the shape of her mouth.

"Thank you, lady." He's proud that his voice remains steady despite the thunder of his pulse. "These are..." Beautiful. Perfect. A treasure beyond price. "...most thoughtful." He clutches this moment close, knowing he'll revisit it on cold nights in the Wild - the afternoon light in her hair, the careful precision of her stitches, the warmth in her grey eyes as she showed him each detail.

Arwen's brow creases as she adjusts the collar of the outermost tunic. "The northern wilds grow treacherous in winter. The snow can blind even the most experienced rangers."

Aragorn's chest tightens at the worry in her voice. She cares, he thinks, warmth spreading through him. Her fingers smooth invisible wrinkles from the fabric, each touch sending sparks through his skin.

"Promise me you'll wear all three layers if your path ever leads you to the Misty Mountains." Her grey eyes lock with his. "The winds there cut like knives."

He nods, unable to form words past the lump in his throat. She's concerned for his safety, for him specifically. Not just as Elrond's foster son or her brothers' friend, but as himself.

Her hand settles on his shoulder, steady and warm through his tunic. "You'll do well out there, Dúnadan. Trust your instincts."

His breath catches at her touch. The weight of her hand anchors him, makes the world narrow to just this moment, just them. He imagines covering her hand with his own, drawing her closer...

"I should let you prepare for your journey." She steps back, breaking the spell.

He watches her glide away down the corridor, the tunics pressed against his racing heart. In his mind, he sees her waiting at the gates when he returns, pride shining in her eyes as he tells her of his adventures. Perhaps she'll greet him with an embrace, or... He shakes his head, trying to clear it, but the image persists - Arwen welcoming him home, her face lit with something more than friendship.

The tunics smell faintly of the herbs she uses to store her thread. He breathes in deeply, already treasuring how the scent will remind him of her during the lonely nights ahead.

Aragorn returns to his chambers to find his mother waiting. She stands by the window, holding something in her hands. As he draws closer, he sees it's one of the wool tunics. The ones Arwen gave him.

His mother's face is carefully neutral. "These are fine work."

"Yes." He moves to his desk, suddenly very interested in organizing his maps. "The Lady Arwen thought they would be useful in the Wild."

"Did she." Gilraen sets the tunic down with deliberate care. "You know I have never interfered in your... associations with elf-maids. But this is different. She is Master Elrond's daughter."

Heat floods his face. "Mother—"

"Let me finish. Whatever dalliance you imagine—"

"It's not like that!" The words burst out of him. He turns to face her, mortified. "How could you think— I would never—"

She studies his face for a long moment. Something shifts in her expression. "Ah. I see." She sinks into a chair. "You fancy yourself in love with her."

"I don't fancy anything."

"Of course you don't." Her voice softens. "I'm sure half the elf-lords in Imladris have been in love with Arwen at some point. And how could they not be? But these feelings will pass."

"This is different."

"Different?" A touch of impatience enters her voice. "Tell me then, how is it different?"

He paces to the window, then back. "Do you remember when you told me stories of Lúthien? How she danced among the hemlock flowers?"

"Estel—"

"Aragorn," he corrects automatically.

"Very well, Aragorn." She speaks with careful patience. "What about Lúthien?"

The story spills out of him—the twilight grove, his certainty he beheld Lúthien herself, the moment she turned and became real. More precious for being flesh and blood rather than legend.

"She gave me a name," he finishes. "Dúnadan. She sees me, mother. Sees who I might become."

"She sees a promising youth." Gilraen rises, touches his arm. "One who might be a bridge between our peoples. And yes, she is kind. Yes, she is beautiful. But kindness and beauty are not love."

"You don't understand. When she looks at me—"

"She looks at you as her father's foster son. As a child that is growing into a young man. Nothing more."

"I am not a child."

"No. But to her?" Gilraen's fingers tighten on his arm. "She has lived near three thousand years. Will live three thousand more, unless..."

"Unless she chooses otherwise. As Lúthien did."

His mother's eyes flash. "Listen to yourself! Do you think you're the first young man to compare her to Lúthien? To dream of being Beren reborn?"

He pulls away from her touch. "I know what I feel."

"What you feel is what every man feels when he first beholds her. It will pass. In time, you'll laugh at yourself for—"

"No." His voice comes quiet but firm. "This will not pass."

"And what do you imagine will come of this then?" His mother's voice turns sharp. "She is so far above you—"

"We share the same bloodline," he says. "Through Eärendil—"

A sound escapes her, something between a laugh and a sigh. "Oh my son." Her voice turns gentle, which is somehow worse. "Arwen is the daughter of Elrond Half-elven, Lord of Imladris. The granddaughter of both Eärendil the Mariner and Galadriel of the Golden Wood." She leans forward. "You should be proud of your heritage, yes. But you are sixty generations removed from Eärendil, and our line has held neither scepter nor crown in a thousand years. We are chieftains of a scattered people, keeping what we can of our dignity in the Wild. Do not delude yourself about our present station."

"Then I will rebuild it," he says, but his voice sounds young even to his own ears. "I will make our line great again."

"Perhaps you will." Her eyes are soft with pity. "But you are not that man yet. And she... she has watched kingdoms rise and fall like leaves on the wind. Do not ask her to look at a sapling and see a great tree."

She looks at him—really looks. Something in his face makes her sink back into her chair.

"Then you will speak to her," she says softly. "And learn what you must learn." She closes her eyes briefly. When she opens them, they shine with tears she doesn't shed. "But remember this: whatever her answer, you are still Aragorn son of Arathorn. Still the hope of our people. Still my beloved son."

He catches her hand, holds it. They stand in silence as the sun sets, mother and son, sharing the weight of what's to come.

Finally she stirs. "The wool tunics are good work," she says. "They will serve you well in the Wild."

He manages a small smile. "Yes. They will."

She leaves him there, among his maps and his dreams. He turns back to the window, touching the Ring of Barahir on his finger.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow he will speak.

He finds her in the birch grove at twilight, just as he did that first time. Perhaps he planned it thus, or perhaps fate has a sense of poetry. The words he rehearsed all afternoon desert him at the sight of her. She stands among white trunks touched gold by the setting sun, examining early spring buds on a low branch.

"Lady Undómiel."

She turns, and for a moment he sees again that first vision—Lúthien among the hemlock flowers. But no. She is herself, and that is better. More real. More precious.

"Dúnadan." Her smile is warm but distant. "You leave tomorrow, I hear?"

"Yes." His heart hammers against his ribs. "But before I go, I must speak with you."

Something shifts in her face—wariness, perhaps. "Must you?"

"My lady—Arwen—" His carefully prepared speech fragments. No matter. The words pour out of him like water. "From the moment I first beheld you, I knew my fate was sealed. As Beren was caught by Lúthien's dance in the forests of old, so was I caught by your beauty in this very grove."

"Lord Aragorn—" She takes a step back.

"Please. Let me finish." He moves forward, caught up in his own fervor, even as he notes the new formality in how she names him, the coolness in her voice. "I know what you must think. That I am young, that this is mere infatuation. But my heart knows its own truth. As Beren dared to love one far above him, so do I dare to love you."

"Do not speak of Beren and Lúthien." Her voice holds steel beneath its gentleness. "They are legend, and long gone from this world. We are flesh and blood."

"Then let us write our own legend!" The words sounded grand in his head, less so in the cooling air. "I will make myself worthy of you. I will rebuild my kingdom, restore my line's glory—"

"Stop." She raises a hand. "Stop." The word comes gentler now. "You speak of things you do not understand."

"I understand that I love you." His voice now holds a terrible pleading note that he did not mean to put there.

"No." Her gaze softens with something like pity. "You love an idea. A dream. I am not Lúthien, Lord Aragorn, and you are not Beren. You are very young, and I—"

"I am not a child!"

"But you are." She says it kindly, which makes it worse. "You speak of love and legend, but what do you truly know of me? Have you asked what I desire? What I dream of? Or have you simply cast me in a role from your histories?"

The words strike home. He opens his mouth, closes it again.

"I had hoped we might be friends." Her lips quirk. "But I see now that was unwise of me."

"My feelings will not change."

"They will." She touches his cheek briefly, like a sister soothing a child's hurt. "In time, you will laugh at this moment. At how grand and desperate it felt."

He steps back from her touch, pride stiffening his spine. "You are wrong. I will love you until the end of my days, be they many or few."

"Then I grieve for you." She turns away. "Goodbye, Aragorn son of Arathorn. May your road be smooth and your duties light."

He watches her walk away, grey dress fading to shadow among the birch trees. The last light catches in her dark hair like stars.

I will prove you wrong, he thinks fiercely. I will become someone you cannot dismiss.

But she is already gone, and the grove holds only silence and the memory of his own foolish words.

Aragorn walks the halls like a man in a fever dream. The familiar corridors of his childhood home seem strange, twisted, as if the rejection has changed not just him but the very stones of Rivendell. His feet carry him without direction until a servant's voice cuts through his daze.

"Master Elrond wishes to speak with you."

The words take a moment to penetrate. When they do, his stomach clenches. Surely she hasn't told her father already? But no - her posture as she walked away spoke of dismissal, not of running to report his presumption.

He finds himself at Elrond's study door without quite remembering the journey there. Knocks. Enters.

Elrond sits at his desk, reading what appears to be a letter from Lothlorien. The evening light streams through the window behind him, catching the circlet on his brow. He looks up, and something in Aragorn's face makes him set the letter aside.

"Ah." A wealth of understanding in that single syllable. "Sit down, my son."

The kindness in his voice is nearly unbearable. Aragorn sinks into the familiar chair, the one he sat in for so many lessons. His hands feel awkward, too large. He doesn't know where to put them.

"When I was young," Elrond begins, "and I mean truly young, not merely young by elven standards - I developed quite the infatuation with one of my Gil-galad's handmaidens." He smiles at the memory. "I wrote her terrible ballads. Absolutely dreadful stuff. I believe I compared her eyes to stars at least four different ways in the same verse."

Aragorn's throat is too tight to speak. This isn't - this isn't at all -

"And my brother," Elrond continues, apparently taking Aragorn's silence for embarrassment, "oh, Elros was even worse. He actually tried to climb up to a lady's balcony to deliver flowers. Fell right into a rosebush." His eyes grow distant. "The thorns were the least of his injuries - his dignity took far longer to recover."

"Father-" Aragorn starts, but Elrond raises a hand.

"What I mean to say is - these feelings are perfectly natural. Especially regarding Arwen." His smile turns wry. "I've lost count of how many young lords - and some not so young - have been struck by her beauty over the centuries. Why, there was a lord from the Havens who actually tried to compose an epic poem comparing her to the evening star. Fifteen hundred lines, if I remember correctly. Quite creative with his metaphors, though his grasp of meter was somewhat lacking."

Aragorn stares at his hands. They're shaking slightly. He clasps them together to still them. "Did she—" He forces the words out. "The Lady Undómiel, did she tell you? Or—did my mother?"

"Your own eyes have betrayed you." Elrond says gently. He stands and comes around the desk to clasp Aragorn's shoulder. "It will pass. These things always do. And you have your duties to focus on now. The Rangers will keep you quite occupied, I expect."

"Yes." The word comes out steady. Amazing how steady, when his chest feels like it's being crushed in a giant's fist. "Thank you for your... understanding."

"Of course." Elrond's grasp on his shoulder tightens slightly. "In truth, my son, I foresee a great fate for you. Your path will be a long one, and I suspect it will be some time until it allows for courtship, or marriage."

Aragorn manages a nod. Elrond gives his shoulder a final pat.

"Now, about your journey tomorrow. I've had some maps prepared..."

Aragorn lets the words wash over him, nodding at appropriate intervals. Let it be true, something in him pleads. Let it pass like a fever, like those others Elrond speaks of. How much simpler that would be, to wake up one morning and find these feelings faded and little more than an amusing memory.

And yet... as he listens to his foster father's counsel about the Angle, he remembers her face in the birch grove, the way the evening light caught in her hair. His chest aches with a pain too deep to be mere infatuation. But still he nods, clinging to Elrond's comfortable fiction like a drowning man to driftwood.

Dawn spreads grey fingers over the valley. Aragorn stands in his chambers, pulling on the new wool tunic. Each movement feels stiff, mechanical. He has not slept.

A knock at his door. His mother enters without waiting for response.

"You didn't come to supper last night."

"I was packing." The lie sits obvious between them. She doesn't challenge it.

Instead, she helps him with his gear in silence. When she straightens his cloak, her hands linger on his shoulders. "You are not the first to feel this pain."

"I am not in pain." Another lie. "I am simply eager to be about my duties."

She says nothing, but pulls him close for a moment. He allows it, though part of him wants to pull away, to wrap his dignity around himself like armor.

The courtyard is mercifully empty save for a few early-rising elves leading out his horse. He had feared—hoped?—but no. She is not here.

Elrond appears as Aragorn checks his saddle straps. "You should have good weather at least until the Angle."

"Thank you, my lord." The formal address feels strange in his mouth, but he cannot bear kindness right now.

Elladan and Elrohir appear, carrying additional supplies. Their faces hold their usual morning mischief—which means she hasn't told them. The realization loosens something tight in his chest. At least his dignity is preserved there.

Soft footsteps on the stairs. Arwen descends to the courtyard, serene as ever. Of course she would come to bid him farewell. Of course she would act as if nothing has changed. Perhaps to her nothing has. The thought hurts him more than he cares to admit.

He bows perfectly, takes her hand with exactly the correct degree of courtesy. His lips brush her fingers in the formal gesture of leave-taking. For one heartbeat he allows himself to memorize this: the warmth of her skin, the faint scent of night flowers that always surrounds her. Then he straightens, locks the memory away with all the others.

"Safe travels, Lord Aragorn." Her voice is kind, normal, unchanged. But the formal address feels like another rejection. Which he supposes it is.

He meets her eyes just long enough to be proper, though it feels like pressing on a bruise. "My lady. Thank you for your hospitality." Each word measured, perfect, giving nothing away.

She inclines her head gracefully and steps back to stand beside her father.

Aragorn swings into the saddle, glad of the height it gives him. Takes one last look at the house where he grew up. At his mother's tight face, his foster father's quiet strength, his foster brothers' cheerful unconcern. At her, standing calm and unreachable as the stars.

The Ring of Barahir catches the dawn light as he takes up the reins. He is Aragorn son of Arathorn, Isildur's Heir, Lord of the Dúnedain. He has duties that will not wait on his heart's healing.

Chapter Text

September T.A. 2951

The Angle rises before him like a challenge. After the soaring grace of Rivendell, the Dúnedain settlement seems to huddle against the earth—sturdy wooden halls, stone watchtowers, defensive walls that speak more of necessity than beauty. His mother's stories had not prepared him for how small it feels. How mortal.

"My lord." A tall man with grey in his beard steps forward. Dirhael. His grandfather, though the word feels strange. The older man studies him with keen eyes that miss nothing—the elvish cut of his clothes, the way he holds himself, the ring of Barahir on his finger. "Welcome home."

Home. He dismounts, lets the word settle. Behind Dirhael stands a woman whose face echoes his mother's, though her hair has gone fully silver. Ivorwen. She moves forward and takes his face in her hands.

"Aragorn," she says, and her voice holds tears. "You have your father's look about you."

He doesn't know how to answer that. Doesn't know how to be a grandson to these strangers who are his blood.

More people gather. He feels their eyes on him, measuring. Whispers follow: "Raised by elves... Elrond's foster son... but look at that stance, pure Dúnedain..."

A man about his own age pushes through the crowd. Tall, dark-haired, with a ranger's weathered face despite his youth. He makes a bow just barely proper enough not to be insolent.

"Well met, cousin. I'm Halbarad." His smile comes easy. "Though I suppose I should say 'my lord' since you're to be our chieftain."

"Please don't." The words come out more fervent than he intends. Halbarad's smile widens.

"As you wish, cousin. Though others might insist on the courtesy."

Dirhael clears his throat. "Come. We've prepared chambers for you in the great hall. Your gear will be seen to."

The great hall. After Rivendell's airy corridors, it feels close, dark. Smoke from the central hearth hangs in the air. Yet there's warmth here too, and history in the worn wooden beams, the faded banners on the walls.

His chambers are smaller than his rooms in Rivendell, but someone has tried to add touches of elegance—fresh rushes on the floor, a woven blanket on the bed, dried herbs hanging from the rafters. His mother's influence, perhaps.

"We'll feast tonight," Dirhael says. "To welcome you properly. For now, rest. Settle in."

They leave him alone. He stands at the single window, looking out over the settlement. People move about their business below—women at the well, men checking the walls, children running errands. His people. The thought catches in his throat.

A horn sounds from the watchtower. Below, a group of rangers rides out on patrol. This is his life now. These are his people. Whatever his heart might wish, he has duties that cannot wait.

He begins to unpack his gear. The wool tunics go into the chest first, wrapped carefully in linen. He will not think about who gave them to him.

The horn sounds again. Time to be their chieftain.

November T.A. 2951

Aragorn blocks Halbarad's strike, spins, catches the follow-up blow. His cousin grins through the sweat.

"Not bad for someone raised on elvish blade-dance."

"You should see my brothers dance." The words slip out before he can stop them. But Halbarad just laughs.

"The sons of Elrond? I've heard tales." He sheaths his practice blade. "I notice you fight more like them in the morning. By afternoon you're picking up ranger habits."

"Is that bad?"

"It's interesting." Halbarad tosses him a waterskin. "You adapt. Useful trait in a chieftain."

Around the practice yard, other rangers are pairing off for their own bouts. Aragorn notes who fights with whom, the subtle hierarchies at play. The Angle runs on complicated loyalties—family ties, old feuds, careful alliances. Different from Rivendell's ancient courtesies, but no less intricate.

A flash of color catches his eye. Three young women have appeared on the walkway above, carrying baskets of mending. The prettiest, dark-haired Nirwen, daughter of one of his father's old captains, keeps casting glances his way.

"Ah," Halbarad says. "I see you've drawn an audience. Again."

Aragorn drinks deeply from the waterskin to avoid answering.

"Nirwen's fair enough to look at," his cousin continues, too casual. "Good family. Strong Dúnedain blood. They say she has her grandmother's gift for healing."

"I'm sure she's very accomplished."

"That's all you have to say? 'Very accomplished'?" Halbarad's voice turns serious. "Listen, cousin. I know you're young for a chieftain. But the line of Isildur—"

"Must continue. Yes. I've heard."

"Then you've noticed how many eligible daughters keep appearing in your path?"

He has. They're all lovely in their way. Strong, capable women of the Dúnedain. Nirwen especially catches the eye, with her proud bearing and quick intelligence. In another life...

But then he remembers starlight on dark hair, eyes that held the light of ages. Remembers his own fumbling declaration, her gentle dismissal. His cheeks burn.

"I have other concerns to see to," he says shortly. "The line will continue in time."

Halbarad raises an eyebrow. "There's a tale there."

"There isn't."

"No? Then why do you look like someone gut-punched you every time the night stars come out?"

Aragorn picks up his practice blade again. "Another bout?"

"Running away, cousin?"

"Tactical retreat."

Halbarad laughs and draws his sword. But as they square off, he adds quietly, "Whatever she did to your heart, it must have been something."

"She did nothing." Aragorn attacks perhaps harder than necessary. "I was young and foolish. That's all."

"Was?"

"Two months ago is still ago."

This time Halbarad's laugh rings across the practice yard. On the walkway above, Nirwen looks up hopefully. She really is beautiful, Aragorn thinks. But her eyes are brown, not grey. Her hair lacks that shimmer of twilight. Her voice doesn't carry the music of—

No. He will not think of these things.

"Come," he says. "Show me that disarming move again."

Halbarad gives him a knowing look but obligingly demonstrates the ranger technique. They work until the sun sets and the stars come out, and if Aragorn practices harder than strictly necessary, well. A chieftain should know all forms of combat.

February T.A. 2952

The great hall fills with smoke and song. After supper, the younger folk gather near the hearth, sharing tales and music as they work—women mending or spinning, men maintaining weapons and gear. Aragorn finds himself drawn into their circle, Halbarad's easy presence smoothing the way.

Nirwen sits nearby, her spinning wheel turning steady and sure. Her voice rises clear and true in a ballad about Elendil's landing. She knows all the verses, even the ones in ancient Adûnaic. Their eyes meet across the circle. She doesn't look away.

"Do they sing this song in Rivendell, my lord?" she asks when the verse ends.

"Sometimes. Though with different words." He hesitates, then adds, "Your Adûnaic accent is excellent."

"My father taught me." Her smile holds no artifice. "He says we must keep the old tongue alive, even now."

"He's right."

"Perhaps..." She glances at her companions, then back at him. "Perhaps you might teach us some of the elvish songs? We hear so few nowadays."

He could. Should, maybe. It would be a way to bridge his two worlds, share something of value. And she asks from genuine interest, not mere flattery.

But then he remembers another voice singing elvish songs in the Hall of Fire. Remembers watching graceful hands at embroidery, dark hair falling forward...

"Another time, perhaps," he says, more curtly than he means to.

Hurt flashes in Nirwen's eyes before she masters it. "Of course, my lord. I should not have presumed."

"No, I—" But she has already turned back to her spinning, shoulders stiff.

Halbarad kicks his ankle. "Smooth, cousin," he mutters.

Aragorn stands abruptly. "I should check the guard rotation."

He feels Nirwen's eyes follow him as he strides out. She deserves better than his confused courtesy, his unintentional cruelty. They all do. These proud daughters of his people, offering friendship he cannot fully return.

The night air clears his head. From the walls, he can see fires burning in distant settlements. His people. His duty. It should be enough.

Tomorrow he will do better. Will learn to be the chieftain they need, even if he cannot be the man they want him to be.

April T.A. 2952

The spring wind blows through Aragorn's hair as he walks with Nirwen on the banks of the Hoarwell.

He has seen much of Nirwen in these past months. It would have been foolish, he thought, to dismiss her out of hand. Young he may be, and still little more than a stranger in these lands, but he has not been brought up in the house of Elrond only to abandon tact and prudence.

So he has sought out Nirwen in the herb gardens, in the healing house, in the Great Hall. He engages her in pleasant conversation, learns more about her. She has a talent and passion for healing. She had two elder brothers, but one of them was slain by wolves three years past. Her favorite flowers are daffodils. Her favorite old tale is that of Idril and Tuor. She is witty. She is kind. She is, nevertheless, not Arwen. The thought galls him, and yet he cannot push it aside. The tunics she made him lie carefully wrapped at the bottom of his chest. He stopped wearing them months ago—the memories they stirred were too sharp, too present—but he cannot bring himself to dispose of them. Sometimes at night, he catches himself remembering the brush of her fingers as she handed them to him, the scent of her hair as she leaned close to show him the subtle patterns in the embroidery.

They walk slowly, talking of healing herbs, the book on Númenor she's reading, the last orc hunt. When he runs out of pleasantries, Nirwen looks at him with an unreadable expression on her face. Then, she looks away and seems to consider something.

After a while she says, "My father speaks of bloodlines and alliances. Your grandfather talks of the future of our people. Everyone has such grand plans for us."

Her directness startles him. He looks at her, then at the river, fumbling for the right words to say. Some politic deflection. Something clever and self-deprecating. Something, anything. But she saves him by speaking again.

"But they will not happen will they?" She looks at him again, a wry smile on her face.

"No." He pauses, then scoffs at his own inarticulateness. He looks at her apologetically.

She nods, as if this is what she expected. "It would be simpler if it could work," she says. "You're kind, and you understand the importance of healing. Not all men do." Her lips curve once more. "And you actually listen when I talk about herbs." Then her brow furrows."But perhaps... there is something about me that displeases you, my lord?"

"No!" It comes out with more vehemence than he intended. "No," he tries again, softer this time. "Any man would be fortunate to have you as his wife. To have your love."

"You mean any man save you?" But the words hold no bite, and all he hears in her voice is genuine curiosity.

"I would be very fortunate," he says, finally. "But you should not waste it on me."

They walk quietly for a while, and then she says, "Whoever she is must be mad to have spurned you."

He laughs; it is a gratifying sentiment. It would be so much easier if he believed it. But he does not, so he says, "I was the mad one."

Nirwen looks at him appraisingly. "How did she ensnare you so?"

He shakes his head. "I wish I knew. Then perhaps I could unsnare myself." They both laugh at that. "My mother, Master Elrond—they say it will pass. But there has been no evidence of that thus far." He surprises himself with his own frankness.

They walk in silence again as she seems to consider his words. He says, "Even if I was not... ensnared, as you say. it would be still be long ere I marry." He looks West, toward where the ruins of Annûminas lie, leagues away. "There are things I must do." He turns toward her and meets her eyes. "I am sorry."

"Don't be, my lord," she says easily. "Hearts cannot be bidden. And I appreciate you being forthright. Now, perhaps, I can persuade my father to stop trying to engineer 'chance' meetings for us."

They smile at each other, and for a moment, he almost wishes that his heart could be bidden. By tacit agreement, they turn, and walk back to the Chieftain's House.

October T.A. 2953

Maps and reports litter the table between Aragorn and his grandfather, shadows from the hearth-fire dancing across sketched territories and hastily scrawled numbers. The winter wind howls outside the Chieftain's house, but Aragorn barely notices it now. Two years in the Wild have taught him the difference between true threat and mere discomfort.

"The orcs grow bolder near Hollin," Dirhael says, tapping a spot on the map. "We'll need to increase the patrols."

Aragorn nods, already calculating how to stretch their limited numbers. The scattered remnants of the Northern Dúnedain are too few, but he has plans, dreams he hardly dares speak aloud. Not just maintaining what remains of Arnor, but rebuilding it. A real kingdom again, not just Rangers in the shadows.

"Speaking of increases." Dirhael's tone shifts, and Aragorn feels his shoulders tense. "There is another matter we should discuss. The continuation of your line."

"Grandfather—"

"Is there some reason you show no interest in marriage?"

Aragorn keeps his eyes on the maps. "Master Elrond has foreseen a great destiny for me," he says carefully. "Because of this, I will not marry for many years yet."

Dirhael studies him, weathered face thoughtful. "Your grandmother has seen something similar in her visions," he admits. "But surely that does not mean there is no woman in the Angle who catches your eye?"

"There are many fair and noble women among the Dúnedain," Aragorn says, the careful phrasing learned in Rivendell coming naturally to his tongue.

His grandfather snorts. "That's a very Elf-like answer."

Aragorn allows himself a small laugh. "I cannot help my upbringing."

"Ah." Dirhael's eyes sharpen. "Then perhaps there is some lady you left behind in Rivendell?"

"None from whom I could hope for marriage." The words taste like ash in his mouth.

"Another Elf-like answer." Dirhael's voice grows gentle.

Aragorn says nothing. The fire crackles in the hearth, and outside, the wind continues to howl.

August T.A. 2955

The orcs died quietly, at least. Aragorn wipes his blade clean, surveying the bodies with grim satisfaction. Six Rangers, moving like shadows in the gathering dusk, had dispatched nearly twenty orcs without raising an alarm. Two years ago, such coordination would have been impossible. Now his men understood his hand signals as clearly as spoken commands, anticipated his strategies, moved as one.

His men. The thought still feels strange sometimes. He glances around at the Rangers efficiently stripping the bodies of anything useful—weapons that could be melted down, information that might prove valuable. All of them are older than him, yet they follow his lead without question. Even his cousin Halbarad, who has quickly become both his closest friend and most trusted lieutenant, defers to his judgment in the field.

Still, as he helps drag the carcasses into a ravine, Aragorn can’t quite silence the voice that whispered: Is this all? Hunting orcs was necessary work, yet he dreams of doing more. Rebuilding towns, reopening old roads, making the North a true kingdom again...

They make camp well away from the battle site, in a hollow sheltered from the bitter Ettenmoor winds. Aragorn shares a tent with Halbarad, as has become their custom. Despite his racing thoughts, exhaustion soon pulls him under.

He is in Rivendell again, watching her dance beneath the birch trees, her dark hair flowing like silk in the wind. But when he steps forward, the trees begin to wither, their silver bark blackening and peeling away. She turns to him with eyes like ice—

"Aragorn." A hand shakes his shoulder. "Aragorn."

He startles awake, hand instinctively reaching for his sword before he recognizes Halbarad's concerned face in the darkness.

"What is it?" he asks, voice rough with sleep. "Are we under attack?"

"No." Halbarad—Hal, as Aragorn has taken to calling him—sits back on his heels. "You were having a nightmare. Talking in your sleep, thrashing about."

"Oh." Aragorn runs a hand over his face. "I'm sorry I woke you."

"No matter." There is an odd glint in Hal's eye, visible even in the dim light. "Though I am curious... who is she?"

"Who is who?"

"Arwen." Hal's voice is gentle, but Aragorn feels as though he'd been struck. "You kept saying that name, over and over."

Aragorn says nothing, his throat tight. After a moment, Hal's expression softens.

"Keep your secrets then, cousin. Though I suppose this explains why you show so little interest in the ladies of the Angle, despite how they sigh after you."

Aragorn manages a small smile at that. "Do they?"

"Don't play innocent. Half the unmarried women between here and Tharbad have set their caps at you." Hal settles back onto his bedroll. "Poor things. They never stood a chance, did they?"

Aragorn lay back down, staring into the darkness. "Go to sleep, Hal."

His cousin's quiet chuckle is the last sound before silence settles over the tent once more. But it is long before Aragorn finds rest again, his mind filled with the memory of dark hair in the twilight, and eyes like stars.

September TA 2956

The common room of the Prancing Pony smells of pipe smoke and ale. Aragorn—Strider here, to the locals—sits in his usual shadowed corner, watching Gandalf pack his pipe with exaggerated care.

"These raids grow bolder," the wizard says around the pipe stem. "Your ranging patterns have kept them in check, but..." He strikes a match.

"But it's not enough." Aragorn takes a pull of his ale. "I know."

"Mmph." Smoke rings rise. "And what does the Strider propose to do about it?"

"You mean besides what we're already doing?"

"I mean exactly that." Gandalf's eyes are sharp under bristling brows. "Though I hear you've done well enough these five years. Your people trust you."

"They trust what I can do for them." Aragorn leans back, affecting the ranger's casual sprawl that works so well in this place. "Keep them safe. Keep the roads clear."

"And is that enough?"

"Should it be?"

The wizard harrumphs. "Don't try that cryptic business with me, young man. I invented cryptic." He puffs his pipe. "You're thinking bigger thoughts. I can tell."

Aragorn studies his ale. Finally: "The kingdom of Arnor didn't fall in a day. It died by inches. Arthedain held longest, but even it failed in the end."

"History lessons now?"

"The foundations remain." The words come faster now, thoughts long held finally finding voice. "The old roads, the tower hills, the weather stones. The blood of Númenor in my people. If we had more than just rangers. If we could rebuild—"

"Rebuild Arnor?" Gandalf's voice sharpens. "That's no small dream."

"I know." Aragorn meets the wizard's gaze steadily. "I know how impossible it sounds."

"Impossible?" Gandalf snorts. "I said it was no small dream. I didn't say it was impossible."

Hope flares in Aragorn's chest. "Then you think—"

"I think," Gandalf cuts in, "that a man who wants to rebuild a kingdom should see how kingdoms work." He peers at Aragorn through the pipe smoke. "When was the last time you traveled south of Bree?"

"South?" Something stirs in him—curiosity, restlessness. "You mean Gondor?"

"Gondor, Rohan... lands where Men still build cities, maintain armies. Where stewards and kings still rule from ancient thrones." Gandalf's voice turns casual. "Educational, one might say. For a future king."

The word hangs between them. King. Not just chieftain. Not just ranger. His father's—Elrond's words during their last meeting ring in his ears. A great doom awaits you, either to rise above the height of all your fathers since the days of Elendil, or to fall into darkness with all that is left of your kin.

"You think I should go south."

"I think you should learn what you can, while you can." Gandalf taps his pipe stem against his teeth. "Thengel of Rohan is a wise ruler. Ecthelion of Gondor likewise. Both could use good men in their service."

"And neither need never know me as anything but a sellsword from the North."

"Precisely."

Aragorn sits back, mind racing. The South. Real kingdoms, real armies. A chance to learn, to grow. To become...

And perhaps, a quiet voice whispers, a chance to forget. To bury certain memories under leagues of road dust. To become someone new, far from starlit gardens and gentle dismissal.

Something must show in his face, because Gandalf's expression softens briefly. But the wizard only says, "Think on it. The road south will still be there tomorrow."

They smoke in silence then, watching the common room's bustle. Finally Aragorn says, "If I went... I would need another name."

"Ah." Gandalf's eyes twinkle. "I'm sure you'll think of something suitable. You seem to collect names like other men collect trinkets."

"Says the wizard of many names himself."

"Precisely why you should trust my judgment on the matter."

Later, walking the darkened streets of Bree, Aragorn lets himself imagine it. Wide open plains, white towers, the chance to see what kingship truly means.

He touches the Ring of Barahir, then deliberately lowers his hand. Yes. Perhaps it is time to walk a new road.

Chapter Text

October T.A. 2951

Arwen's footsteps echo through the empty corridors as she checks the household ledgers. The morning light streams through the arched windows, catching dust motes that dance in the silence. No clash of steel rings out from the practice yard, no shouts of encouragement from her brothers.

She adjusts a crooked tapestry, smoothes a wrinkled tablecloth. The servants have maintained their routines, yet something feels askew, like a painting hung slightly off-center.

In the library, her hand brushes across the high-backed chair where Aragorn spent countless evenings. The leather remains worn smooth on the right armrest where his elbow rested. Between two volumes on the Second Age, a piece of parchment juts out, covered in his precise script. She leaves it untouched.

"The kitchen reports our stores are well-stocked for winter," she tells her father's steward, marking off items in the household book.

At breakfast, Elladan and Elrohir discuss border patrols and hunting parties, their conversation measured and proper. No one teases anyone about falling asleep in their porridge after late-night studies. No eager questions about the First Age interrupt the clink of silverware.

"Pass the jam, sister?" Elrohir asks.

She hands it over, noting how the morning light catches the crystal jar differently now. Everything seems sharper, more defined, as if the soft edges of familiarity have been stripped away.

"The trade delegation from Mirkwood arrives next week," Elladan says, breaking a piece of bread. "Father wants us to review the agreements."

Arwen nods, dabbing her lips with a napkin.

Later, Arwen's needle pierces the fabric with practiced precision. The afternoon sun warms her solar as she works on the new table cloth for the Hall of Fire. Her fingers pause as she realizes the pattern emerging beneath her hands - the same interlocking leaves she'd stitched into his traveling clothes. With a sharp tug, she pulls out the last few stitches and reaches for her thread snips. The white fabric lies blank before her, waiting for a new design. She selects a geometric pattern instead, all clean lines and angles.

The birch grove rustles in the breeze as she walks its familiar paths. White bark peels in delicate layers, like pages of an unwritten book. Her steps slow near the clearing where she first saw him, singing of Lúthien beneath the stars. She quickens her pace, mentally reviewing the preparations needed for next week's trade delegation. The wine cellars need inventory, and the guest chambers require fresh linens.

At dinner, Lord Galdor of the Havens occupies the seat three places down from her father. He speaks of tide patterns and shipping routes with careful eloquence. Arwen's gaze drifts to the empty space, remembering the way another would lean forward with barely contained curiosity, asking questions that bridged elvish lore with human concerns. She straightens her shoulders and turns to answer Galdor's inquiry about the valley's weather patterns.

February T.A. 2952

"We'll need more athelas," Arwen says, examining the depleted stores. The scent of herbs hangs heavy in the healing wing, mingling with the sharp tang of medicines. "And yarrow root."

Her father nods, making a note in his precise hand. They work in comfortable silence, checking supplies, their movements synchronized by yéni of practice. Through the window, Arwen can see the first stars appearing in the darkening sky, their light catching on the waterfalls.

"Has someone in Rivendell caught your eye?"

The question comes so unexpectedly that Arwen nearly drops the pottery jar she was holding. Grey eyes flash unbidden through her mind—earnest, intense. The sudden image startles her even as it fades. Where did that come from?

"No," she says, keeping her voice even. "Why would you think that?"

Elrond shrugs, a graceful movement that reminds her suddenly, painfully, of her mother. "I cannot say exactly. Something in your bearing seems... different."

"I remain content with my current state," Arwen says, perhaps too quickly. "I have no desire to seek a husband." The forcefulness in her own voice surprises her. How many times had they had this conversation over the centuries? Always before she had answered with serene certainty, comfortable in her solitude. When had that serenity developed edges?

"And yet you will still not sail West?"

It is an old question, one she has heard in various forms since her mother's departure. Arwen takes a slow breath, willing herself not to show irritation. "I miss Mother," she says carefully, "but I do not feel the pull of the Sea. You know this, Father."

“A father can still inquire after his daughter’s happiness, surely," he says lightly, the shadow of a smile playing on his lips.

She busies herself with reorganizing the dried herbs, though they need no reorganizing. "I feel an attachment to Middle-earth still. I cannot bring myself to leave it, especially now, with the Shadow growing." Her fingers trace the edge of a ceramic bowl, finding comfort in its solid presence. "I would like to contribute what little I can, like this—helping to heal others."

The last words come out more defensive than she intended. But her father only nods, his ancient eyes full of an understanding that made her want to look away. They return to their work, checking bandages and tinctures, while outside the stars wheel overhead.

Still, as she works, Arwen finds her thoughts drifting to the young Chieftain of the Dúnedain. She wonders how he fares in the Wild, if he has grown into his heritage, if he still writes poetry... She catches herself and firmly redirects her attention to counting bundles of dried lavender.

"We should also replenish the willow bark," she says into the silence, and is grateful when her father simply makes another note and does not press further.

May T.A .2953

Arwen kneels beside the herb beds, checking the new athelas shoots. A shadow falls across the plants, and she looks up to find Gilraen standing at the edge of the garden path.

"These will be ready for harvest soon." Arwen brushes soil from her hands. "Your people brought us the seeds last autumn."

"The Rangers know where the best plants grow." Gilraen's fingers trace the delicate white flowers.

Arwen shifts to make space on the stone bench. "Would you like to sit? The morning sun is pleasant here."

Gilraen settles beside her, smoothing her grey dress. "The gardens were always my refuge when we first came to Rivendell. Everything else felt so strange, but plants grow the same everywhere."

"You've made quite a home of the south corner. Those climbing roses are flourishing."

"They remind me of my mother's garden." Gilraen's smile carries a touch of wistfulness. "She grew them along every wall of our house, no matter how many times my father complained about the thorns catching his cloak."

"Parents and children rarely agree on such things." Arwen picks up her basket of freshly cut herbs. "My father still grumbles about the grape arbor I insisted on planting by the western terrace."

"And yet I notice he never refuses the wine it produces."

They share a smile at that. Arwen sorts through the stems, separating them by type.

Then, her fingers still over the herbs. "Have you had word from your son lately?" The question slips out before she can catch it.

Gilraen's face brightens. "Yes, his latest letter speaks of organizing new patrol routes. The council has accepted most of his proposals. He's finding his way among our people."

"I am glad to hear it." Arwen picks up another bundle of stems.

Gilraen shifts on the bench. "May I speak frankly, my lady?"

"Of course."

"Before he left..." Gilraen folds her hands in her lap. "My son told me of certain... feelings he held for you. I hope he did not importune you. If he did, I apologize."

"No apologies are needed." Arwen sets down her work. "It's true he did make a rather grand declaration."

"He can be impetuous when his heart is moved."

"It surprised me. Until then, he hadn't acted like..." Arwen pauses. "I had hoped we might be friends."

Gilraen's eyebrows lift, as if the notion was a startling one. "Friends?"

Gilraen's reaction makes Arwen think on her own words. Why did she want friendship with him? It's true that she'd enjoyed their quiet conversations in the library, his thoughtful questions about history, the way he'd listen when she spoke of her travels. But there are many others in Rivendell she can speak to, closer to her station and without the burden of boyish awe. Her brow furrows.

"Perhaps," Gilraen says into the silence, "you still could be friends, in time."

"Perhaps." Arwen picks up her basket again, uncertain why the simple suggestion makes her pulse quicken.

April T.A. 2955

Spring brings the scent of new growth to Rivendell's gardens. Arwen walks the paths between the herb beds, gathering plants for her father's healing stores. She's grown to enjoy these quiet morning tasks, the rhythm of seasons marking time's slow passage.

Voices drift from the rose arbor—Mirdaniel and Neniel, sitting with their embroidery in the morning sun. Arwen starts to call a greeting, then stops at the mention of a familiar name.

"—news from the Angle. They say the Dúnadan grows in renown among his people."

"The Dúnadan? Ah, you mean our Estel." Mirdaniel's laugh holds warmth. "I suppose we shouldn't call him that anymore."

"Do you remember him at the summer festival two years ago? Before he learned his true name?" Neniel's voice turns thoughtful. "He was different then. Lighter somehow."

"We were all different then."

Something in Mirdaniel's tone makes Arwen pause behind a flowering bush. She should move on. This is not a conversation meant for her ears.

"You were close to him, weren't you?" Neniel asks.

"For a time." No regret in Mirdaniel's voice, only fond memory. "He was... sweet. Earnest. Different from most mortals who come here. He understood our ways."

"Very different." Neniel's laugh. "Remember how he used to recite poetry in the Hall of Fire? All those old ballads about great deeds and tragic love..."

"And yet he never presumed." Mirdaniel sighs. "Even when we lay together, he remained... courteous. Grateful. As if each moment were a gift he didn't quite deserve."

Arwen's hands tighten on her herb basket. She should definitely move on.

"Something changed, didn't it? Near the end."

"Oh, you know what happened." Neniel's laugh holds fond exasperation. "First he learned of his lineage. I suppose that's enough to make anyone more serious. Then, to make matters worse, he met our Lady Undómiel."

"Yes, that it is the way of it isn't it." Mirdaniel sounds amused. "At least he didn't start composing terrible ballads about her beauty like Lord Handor did that one summer."

"Oh stars, don't remind me! Three months of endless verses about her eyes..."

They both laugh, and Arwen almost moves away. But then:

"Still," Neniel says, "it's rather a waste. He was such pleasant company before that."

"Well, you know how it is once they've seen the Lady. Ruins them for other women entirely." Another laugh. "I suppose we should be grateful he just grew quiet about it."

"Mortals do seem to handle it better than our own kind, don't they? More practice with disappointment, I suppose. Or perhaps their lives are too brief to dwell on the impossible."

"Speaking of practice..." Mirdaniel's voice turns teasing. "Do you remember that night during the harvest festival when he..."

Arwen moves away, feet silent on the garden path. Her basket is only half full, but never mind. She can gather more herbs later.

She finds herself picturing it against her will—Aragorn among the autumn flowers, young and unburdened, his laugh easier then. The image comes too readily, too detailed. She pushes it away.

Behind her, feminine laughter rises from the rose arbor, light and uncomplicated. As love should be, among her people.

June T.A. 2957

Morning light streams through the windows of the breakfast room, catching on the silver settings and making them gleam. Arwen sits with her brothers, enjoying their familiar bickering as they pass dishes back and forth. It feels good to have them home again, even if only briefly.

"The orcs grow bolder," Elladan says, buttering a piece of bread with more force than necessary. "We found three raids within a month's time, closer to settlements than ever before." He grins fiercely. "These at least won't trouble anyone again."

Elrohir shot his twin a quelling look. "The Shadow spreads. Not just from Mordor now—there are whispers of darkness in Mirkwood as well."

"What can be done?" Arwen asks, pushing aside her half-finished plate. These conversations have become more frequent of late, and more urgent.

"What we have always done," Elladan says. "Fight where we can, protect what we can." His eyes brighten with sudden mischief. "But we hear that some seek grander adventures. Your friend the Dúnadan has ridden South."

Arwen's hand tightens involuntarily on her cup. "Has he?" Her voice is even, but the idea of him riding south—farther from Rivendell, farther from her—leaves a strange sensation in her chest.

"Offered his sword to Thengel King of Rohan," Elladan continues, reaching for more bread. "Calls himself Thorongil now." He waggles his eyebrows. "Very mysterious."

She can feel Elrohir's quiet, careful observation. She keeps her voice light. "Why has he gone South?"

"To learn statecraft, they say. The ways of kingdoms and courts." Elladan shrugs. "I suspect he grows restless, protecting only what remains rather than building something new."

"He always did dream large," Elrohir says softly, his grey eyes thoughtful as they rest on Arwen. "Sometimes I wonder if he dreams too large for his own good." He tilts his head. "Did something happen between you two? Before he left Rivendell?"

Arwen shifts in her seat. "Nothing of importance."

"Oh ho!" Elladan leans forward, grinning. "Nothing of importance usually doesn't make you squirm like that, sister dear."

She sighs, setting down her cup. "He had a boyish infatuation with me. One that he confessed just before he left Rivendell." The memory of his earnest face in the grove makes her chest tight, though she couldn't say why. "I put an end to it."

"Did you now?" Elladan's grin widens. "Poor lad. Another one to fall victim to our sister's charms—"

"Elladan," Elrohir says quietly, and his twin subsides, though his eyes still dance.

"Of course I did. What else would I have done?" The words come out sharper than she intended. She softens her tone. "He has likely moved past it by now. Or at least, I hope he has. He has enough burdens without carrying that one as well."

"Hmm." Elrohir's expression remains contemplative. "You know, sister, I don't recall you ever spending much time pondering the feelings of your rejected admirers before." His voice turns gentle. "What makes this one so special?"

"Ooh, yes, do tell," Elladan chimes in, but subsides again at another look from his twin.

She forces a laugh. "He is Father's foster-son, is he not? And beloved in this valley. Of course I would hope for his happiness."

But even as she says the words, she knows they ring hollow. The truth is, she does not know why her thoughts kept returning to him—to his grey eyes and quiet dignity, to the poetry she had rejected, to the friendship they might have had if things had gone differently. She does not know why news of him makes her ears prick, or why she finds herself hoping he has not entirely forgotten her, even as she tells herself she wished he would.

"Of course," Elrohir says, but his tone suggests he hears what she isn’t saying. He exchanges a meaningful look with Elladan, who for once doesn’t press the point.

Arwen takes a deliberate bite of bread, but it has lost its taste. Outside, a thrush begins to sing, its clear notes cutting through the morning air. She wonders, briefly, if there were thrushes in Rohan, and if they reminded him of home.

She shakes her head to clear it, then asks Elladan to pass the honey.

Chapter Text

April T.A. 2957

Aragorn pulls back on the reins, his mount stamping beneath him. Below, Edoras sprawls across the hillside like a lion at rest. Meduseld crowns the summit, its golden roof catching the morning light. The sight strikes him as foreign - no delicate spires or graceful arches here, just proud wooden beams and sturdy walls rising from the grassland. The wind whips his cloak, carrying the sharp scent of horse sweat and sweet grass.

At the city gates, he deliberately drops his shoulders, letting weariness show.

"Who seeks entry?" The guard's spear remains leveled.

"I am called Thorongil." He roughens his voice, lets his northern accent thicken. "Come from beyond the Misty Mountains, looking to serve the Mark if there's need."

The great doors of Meduseld loom before him, carved horses running eternal races across ancient wood. His body wants to fall into the formal bow learned in Rivendell's halls. Instead, he plants his feet wide, brings his fist to his chest in a warrior's salute as King Thengel regards him from the throne. The wooden rafters overhead feel close after years of airy elvish architecture.

"You come far, stranger." Queen Morwen's sharp gaze reminds him painfully of Gilraen. "Tell us of the North."

"Hard country, my lady." He chooses his words with care. "Small settlements scattered wide, threatened by wolves and worse." True enough, without revealing too much. "I learned tracking and warfare there, skills I'd put to use in Rohan's service."

"The northern winters must be bitter," she probes.

"Aye, but they teach endurance." He lets a hint of grimness color his tone, thinking of nights huddled around fires in the Angle's forests. Nothing false in that, though he omits the council meetings and history lessons of his youth.

Aragorn catches the look that passes between queen and king - Morwen's slight nod, the way her fingers brush Thengel's arm. He's seen such silent exchanges before, between Elrond and his counselors, between his grandmother and grandfather. The weight of scrutiny eases from his shoulders.

"Very well." Thengel's voice fills the hall. "You'll join Captain Aelric's éored. He commands our third company, patrols the Eastfold." The king shifts forward. "The captain will determine if your northern skills serve the Riddermark."

Aragorn keeps his face neutral, though his heart lightens. The Eastfold borders Gondor - a chance to learn of both realms at once. He inclines his head, careful to mirror the precise angle of respect he's observed in the guards.

"You honor me, lord."

"See the quartermaster for gear." Morwen's voice carries the crisp accent of Gondor. "Our riders must be properly equipped."

The familiar cadence of her speech stirs memories of tales told in the Hall of Fire - stories of Gondor's glory that now seem closer than ever. But he pushes the thought aside. Here he is Thorongil, a wanderer from the North. Nothing more.

"Thank you, my lady." He brings his fist to his chest again, the gesture already feeling more natural.

The mead hall's warmth wraps around Aragorn like a blanket after the chill evening air. His hand lifts toward his cup - then freezes. Too smooth, too practiced. He watches the rider across from him grab his drink, fingers curled around the vessel like a bear's paw. Aragorn adjusts his grip, letting his movements turn rougher.

A chunk of bread lands on his trencher. He reaches for it, then pauses again. The others tear into their portions with their hands, none of the careful knife work he learned at Elrond's table. He breaks off a piece, deliberately letting crumbs scatter.

"Pass the meat, Thorongil." The rider next to him nudges his arm.

Aragorn hands over the platter, making sure to grip it firmly rather than balancing it on his fingertips.

In the crowded barracks later, pipe smoke hangs thick in the air. A soldier launches into a tale about a tavern brawl in Aldburg, complete with exaggerated gestures.

"...and then the fool tried to punch me, but he was so drunk he hit the wall instead!"

The men roar with laughter. Aragorn forces out a chuckle, though the crude humor feels foreign on his tongue. In Rivendell, entertainment meant poetry and songs of ancient deeds. But there's something freeing in this simplicity - no careful weighing of words, no layers of meaning to decode.

"Your turn for a story, northerner," someone calls out.

"Afraid my tales can't match that one." He lets his voice roughen, dropping the precise diction learned in Elrond's library. "Though I once saw a man wrestle a bear."

The soldiers lean forward, eager for details. Aragorn relaxes into his role, letting Thorongil's persona settle over him like a comfortable cloak. Here, no one expects perfect manners or profound wisdom. He can simply be a warrior among warriors.

October T.A. 2957

Smoke rises in thin wisps against the autumn sky. Aragorn's eyes narrow, picking out details his companions haven't yet noticed - dark shapes moving between the distant buildings, too organized to be farmers at work. His heart quickens, but he keeps his voice steady.

"Raiders. Eight of them, mounted."

Aldor signals the patrol to halt, trusting Aragorn's sight without question now. The grass whispers beneath their horses' hooves as they gather.

Aragorn's mount shifts beneath him, sensing the coming action. He settles the horse with a touch, no longer fighting to match the Rohirrim's easy connection with their steeds. Three months of dawn rides and endless drills have burned new patterns into his muscles.

"Ready!" Aldor's command cuts through the morning air.

Aragorn swings up in one fluid motion, his body moving in perfect harmony with his horse. No trace remains of the stiff northern style that drew snickers during his first weeks.

They thunder across the plain, closing the distance to the homestead. The raiders look up at their approach, scrambling to mount.

"They're breaking right!" Aragorn shouts in Rohirric, his accent pure Eastfold now. "Déorwine, watch the fence line!"

His warning comes just as a raider bursts from behind the barn, sword swinging for Déorwine's exposed side. His fellow rider swerves, blade meeting blade with a clash.

Aragorn's sword flows through the patterns he's learned, different from both elvish grace and northern efficiency. He fights as part of the unit, covering his companions' flanks, never drawing attention with unnecessary flourishes.

When the last raider falls, they dismount to help the shaken family. Aragorn stacks the heavy sod blocks alongside the others, rebuilding the damaged fence. His hands know the way of it now - how to angle the grass side, how to stagger the layers for strength.

Aldor watches him work, nodding with approval. "You've learned our ways well, Thorongil."

The mead hall's warmth wraps around Aragorn as he settles onto the bench. Flames dance in the central hearth, casting long shadows across weathered faces. His muscles ache from the day's work, but the sweet scent of honey-wine and roasted meat eases the tension.

"Then Thorongil spots them - eight raiders, clear as day!" Aldor's voice carries across the table. "While we're still squinting at specks on the horizon."

Aragorn ducks his head, taking a long drink from his cup. The brew tastes of summer flowers and golden afternoons.

"Saved young Déorwine's neck too." Aldor claps the younger rider on the shoulder. "Called out the warning just in time."

"That he did." Déorwine raises his cup. "To Thorongil's eyes!"

The hall echoes with the toast, cups lifting in unison. Aragorn meets their gazes now, seeing acceptance where suspicion once lived.

Guthred, the hall's singer, strikes a chord on his harp. The familiar notes of a victory song fill the air, but he weaves in phrases from the northern ballads Aragorn shared during quiet evening watches. The blend feels right, like the meeting of two rivers.

"Come, Thorongil!" Aldor pulls him to his feet. "Show us that verse about the charging horses again."

Aragorn joins their circle as they stamp and sing, his voice blending with theirs. The words flow easier now, his tongue no longer stumbling over Rohirric vowels. He catches sight of himself in a polished shield - his beard fuller, his skin weathered by wind and sun. The man who stares back belongs here, in this moment, with these people.

The song builds to its crescendo, and Aragorn's deep voice carries the final note alongside his companions. Their arms link across shoulders, steam rising from their cups into the torch-lit air.

August T.A. 2958

The summer night pulses with drum beats and pipe music. Torchlight turns Meduseld's golden roof to living flame. Aragorn accepts another horn of mead from a passing server. The warm buzz in his blood feels good after months of rigid control.

"You earned this celebration, Captain Thorongil." Hilde drops onto the bench beside him, her long golden braid swinging. She speaks his title with the slight irony she always uses, as if guessing it's not quite true. "Three bands of raiders driven from the eastern bounds? The songs will grow tedious with praise."

"I merely followed your father's strategy."

"And executed it perfectly." She drinks deep from her own horn, throat working. When she lowers it, her eyes catch the firelight. "Though you fight strangely sometimes. Not like any rider I've seen."

He shrugs, careful even now. "The North has its own ways."

"So mysterious." She grins. "One day I'll get a straight answer from you."

"Will you?"

"Oh yes." Her knee brushes his under the table. Not by accident. "I'm very determined."

He should move away. Should maintain the careful distance he keeps with everyone. But the mead is sweet, the music wild, and her smile holds no subtlety, no shadows. Nothing like...

No. He will not think of other smiles tonight.

"Dance with me," Hilde says. Not a request.

The drums quicken. Around them, couples whirl in patterns as old as the horse lords. He knows the steps—he's learned their dances as he's learned their warfare, their customs, their ways of being.

"Come on, mysterious stranger." She pulls him up. "Show me what they teach in the North."

Her hand is warm and strong, callused from sword practice. They join the dance, and for a while it's simple—movement and music, the press of bodies, the summer air thick with woodsmoke and possibilities.

Hilde moves with a warrior's grace, sure of herself and her effect on him. When the dance brings them close, he catches the scent of leather and meadowflowers in her hair. Her eyes hold frank invitation.

The music shifts to something slower. Couples draw closer together. Hilde's hand slides up his arm.

"You're thinking too much," she murmurs. "I can see it in your face."

"Am I?"

"Always." She steps closer. "What ghosts chase you, I wonder?"

For a moment he sees grey eyes instead of blue, dark hair instead of gold. Then Hilde's hand cups his jaw, and the vision fades.

"No ghosts tonight," she says, and kisses him.

Her mouth tastes of mead and summer. Simple. Present. Real. He kisses her back, letting the drums fill his blood, letting himself be just a man at a festival with a beautiful woman in his arms.

When they break apart, her smile holds triumph. "There. Was that so difficult?"

He manages a laugh. "Clearly I was overthinking it."

"Clearly." Her fingers lace with his. "Come. I know somewhere quieter."

He hesitates. Looks at their joined hands—hers strong and certain, his rough and calloused. For a moment he imagines a different hand in his.

"Thorongil." Her voice draws him back. "Whatever you're running from? Let it go. Just for tonight."

He meets her eyes. No ancient wisdom there. Just honest desire and the simple joy of being young and alive on a summer night.

Perhaps that's what he needs. Perhaps...

He lifts their joined hands, kisses her knuckles in a gesture that belongs to another life. "Lead on, my lady."

"Don't start with that lordly nonsense." She tugs him toward the shadows beyond the torchlight. "Tonight you're just a man, and I'm just a woman."

If only it were that simple, he thinks. But he follows her anyway.

For tonight, at least, he can pretend.

August T.A. 2958

Dawn creeps over the plains of Rohan. Aragorn stands at the wall of Edoras, watching riders leave for the early patrol. His throat tastes of stale mead and regret.

"Brooding again?"

He doesn't turn at Hilde's voice. Her footsteps are steady behind him, showing no sign of last night's revelry.

"Not brooding. Thinking."

"With you it's the same thing." She comes to stand beside him, not quite touching. After a moment she says, "You won't be at the feast tonight."

It's not a question. He answers anyway. "No."

"Because of what happened? Or what didn't happen?"

Now he does look at her. Her profile is clean and strong in the morning light, beautiful in the way of finely crafted weapons. No artifice, no ancient mystery. Just honest strength and mortal grace.

He should love her. Everything would be simpler if he did.

"You know this isn't..." He stops, starts again. "I cannot offer—"

"Peace, Thorongil." Her smile holds no bitterness. "I'm not asking for promises. Or explanations." She turns to face him. "Though I admit I'm curious. Who is she?"

"What makes you think—"

"Please. I'm not blind. Even lost in pleasure, your eyes saw someone else." Her voice turns wry. "Someone far away, I'd guess. And far above a mere ranger of the North."

His hand starts to rise toward the chain at his neck, then stops. "Hilde—"

"As I said, I'm not asking." She stretches, casual and catlike. "It was a fine night. Let's leave it at that."

But something in her manner shifts, grows serious. "Though I will say one thing. Whoever she is? She must be remarkable indeed, to have such hold on you." Her eyes meet his directly. "I'm not used to losing."

He wants to apologize, but that would cheapen them both. Instead he says, "It does not happen often, I'd wager."

"Never." She grins suddenly. "Well, almost never. I suppose if I must lose, better to a ghost than a flesh-and-blood rival. My pride can bear that."

A horn sounds from the gates. The morning patrol, heading out.

"I should go," she says. "Father will expect me at practice." She steps close, kisses his cheek with frank affection. "Be well, mysterious Thorongil. I hope she's worth all this dignity you wrap yourself in."

She leaves him there on the wall. Below, the patrol thunders past, raising dust in the dawn light. Life goes on, simple and straightforward.

The sun rises over the plains of Rohan. Time to be Thorongil again. To be the quiet captain who serves Thengel well and keeps his secrets close.

But now he knows—no other touch will ever feel quite right. No other smile will ever quite reach his heart.

At least that's settled.

March T.A. 2960

The grey wizard's visits are irregular as wind. Tonight Gandalf sits in Thorongil's quarters, smoke rings rising in the lamplight as he sorts through messages from the North.

"Your mother is well," he says, passing over a carefully wrapped letter. "The Angle prospers under your new systems. And your foster brothers send word of orc movements near the High Pass..."

Aragorn half-listens, eyes moving over his mother's familiar script. After a moment, he asks, trying to sound casual, "All is well in Rivendell then?"

"Ah." Something knowing glints in Gandalf's eye. "The Last Homely House stands as it ever has. As does the Lady Undómiel." His mouth twitches beneath his beard. "It seems her beauty has claimed another victim." Aragorn flushes, but Gandalf continues, giving him no time to deny it. "As it has these… three thousand years or so? I suppose it's all very routine for her now."

Three thousand years. The words settle like stones in Aragorn's stomach. He remembers his grand declaration in the twilight grove—how young he must have seemed to her. How many others must have stood before her in all those yéni? Lords and princes, great warriors and scholars, all offering their hearts with far more to recommend them than a twenty-year-old mortal who had shared three conversations with her at most.

He moves to the window, looks out over the sleeping city. Behind him, Gandalf continues sorting letters, mercifully allowing the subject to drop.

His feelings haven't changed. But perhaps he understands better now why she looked at him with such kind dismissal. Why his declaration must have seemed like a child playing at ancient tales.

They return to discussing orc movements and border patrols. If his answers are somewhat distracted, Gandalf is kind enough not to mention it.

July T.A. 2963

Aragorn stands in the private council chamber, where the morning light streams through high windows, casting long shadows across the rush-strewn floor. The familiar scent of wood smoke mingles with leather and beeswax. King Thengel sits in his carved chair, his silver-streaked beard catching the light as he speaks.

"Your service has proven invaluable, Thorongil. The men respect you. More than that, they follow you. I would have you take command of the eastern marches as undermarshal."

Queen Morwen watches from her seat beside the king, her dark eyes missing nothing. Pride swells in Aragorn's chest at their trust, yet beneath it lies a deeper ache. His mother's last letter sits heavy in his breast pocket, her words about the increasing orc raids in the Angle weighing on his conscience.

"My lord." Aragorn keeps his voice steady, measured. "I am deeply honored by your faith in me. But I must request leave to journey north before I take up my new duties. There are... family matters that require my attention."

Thengel leans forward, the wooden chair creaking beneath him. His weathered hands rest on his knees as he studies Aragorn's face. "Family matters? In all these years, you've spoken little of your people, Thorongil. Tell me of these northern kin who would draw you from Rohan's service."

The question hangs in the air between them. Aragorn feels the weight of Morwen's gaze, sharp as a blade. He has given them years of loyal service, yet shared so little of himself. The silence stretches as he searches for words that will satisfy without revealing too much.

"My family has lived in the North for generations." Aragorn keeps his tone even, his face a careful mask. "Word has reached me of increasing dangers near our settlements. My grandfather grows old, and the burden falls heavily on my cousins." The half-truth slides easily from his tongue, years of practice making the deception smooth.

Queen Morwen shifts in her seat, the silk of her dress whispering against the carved wood. Her dark eyes narrow, and Aragorn feels exposed under her scrutiny. Something in her gaze reminds him of his mother - that same keen intelligence that sees past surface meanings.

"These northern settlements-" Thengel begins, his fingers drumming against the arm of his chair.

"My dear," Morwen's voice cuts through the tension like a well-honed blade. "We cannot fault a man for honoring his blood ties. The northern lands grow no safer than our own borders." She turns to Aragorn, her expression softening.

He meets her knowing look, wondering just how much she has pieced together over the years.

Thengel glances at his wife, his stern expression melting at her touch on his arm. Questions still linger in his eyes, but he settles back in his chair with a slight nod. The silent communication between them speaks of years of trust and partnership.

Relief washes through Aragorn's chest as Thengel raises his hand in blessing. "Go then, with our good will. Return when your family matters are settled."

Aragorn bows low, his dark hair falling forward to shield his face. "You have my deepest gratitude, my lord." As he straightens, he meets Queen Morwen's steady gaze. Her slight smile carries too much understanding, and he schools his features into careful neutrality. The weight of his secrets feels heavier under her shrewd observation. When he returns as Thorongil, he'll need to guard his words even more carefully around her.

In the corridor outside the council chamber, Aragorn's mind already races ahead to preparations. He'll need supplies for the journey north - dried meat, spare bowstrings, healing herbs. He should go to Rivendell first, see his mother, his foster father, and...

He pushes the thought aside, focusing instead on reports from the Angle. The latest messages from Gandalf spoke of increased orc activity near the eastern settlements. His people need their chieftain, not a man distracted by old dreams. Yet even as he catalogs the preparations needed, a small part of him wonders if the gardens of Imladris still bloom as he remembers, if a dark-haired figure might still walk among the birch trees at twilight.

Aragorn shakes his head, forcing his thoughts back to immediate concerns. He must arrange for the transfer of his command, brief his lieutenants on patrol routes, ensure the eastern marches remain secure in his absence. His duties to Rohan cannot be neglected, even as his responsibilities to the Dúnedain call him home.

Chapter Text

Autumn T.A. 2963

The arch of Rivendell's gates rises before him, unchanged after twelve years of absence. Aragorn guides his horse through the entrance, breathing in the crisp evening air. Golden light spills across the valley, catching on the waterfalls and making the windows of the Last Homely House gleam like captured sunsets.

His mount's hooves click against the flagstones as he approaches the main steps. A figure emerges from the doorway - his mother, moving with the same quick grace he remembers, though silver now threads through her dark hair. Behind her, three tall forms appear: Elrond flanked by the twins.

Aragorn swings down from the saddle, his muscles remembering the motion from countless dismounts. His mother's arms wrap around him, and he breathes in the scent of her herb-scented shawl. Over her shoulder, his eyes sweep the assembled group, searching for another face. The space where Arwen should stand remains empty, and his heart performs an odd skip - part relief, part hollow ache.

"Look what the south has done to our little brother," Elladan steps forward, clasping Aragorn's arm. "Those Rohirrim have turned you into one of their golden lords."

"Though your beard could use some attention," Elrohir adds, mirroring his twin's greeting.

Their careful dance around any mention of their sister speaks volumes in its silence.

Aragorn climbs the familiar steps toward Elrond. His foster father meets him at the top, drawing him into an embrace that carries the weight of all their years apart.

The entrance hall wraps around him like a forgotten embrace. Aragorn breathes in deeply - athelas from the healing rooms, leather bindings from the library, wood smoke from the great hearth. His boots echo against the marble floor, each step awakening memories he's pushed aside these past years. A flutter of movement catches his eye and his head snaps up toward the upper gallery. Just an elf carrying scrolls. His chest tightens at his own reflexive search for her.

The great hall glows with candlelight as plates of roasted venison and autumn vegetables circulate. Aragorn describes a successful campaign against raiders near the Westfold, his hands sketching battle formations in the air. But his gaze keeps dragging toward the empty chair three seats down, its carved back a silent accusation. He forces his attention back to his mother's questions about Queen Morwen's children.

"And how do you find the mead halls compare to our wine cellars?" Elladan asks.

"The Rohirrim know how to celebrate victory," Aragorn says. "But perhaps with less refinement."

The servants appear with bowls of honey-poached pears and sweet cream. Aragorn stares at the dessert, remembering Arwen's laugh as she'd caught him sneaking extra portions from the kitchen. He pushes the bowl away, his appetite suddenly gone.

Later that night, in his chambers, Aragorn unstraps his saddlebags, the leather worn smooth from years of travel. The room feels smaller than he remembers. Or perhaps he's grown too large for it, shaped by years of command and battle. His eyes drift to the empty doorway. Fool, he thinks. To imagine she might have waited, might have appeared to welcome him home like some lovesick maiden in a ballad.

The night air carries the scent of pine as he steps onto the balcony. Above, the stars wheel in their ancient paths, unchanged since he last stood here nursing his wounded pride. He remembers that twilight in the birch grove, how young he'd been, how certain of everything. The words echo in his memory: "Then we will write our own legend!" The words draws a wry smile now. What had he known then of love, of sacrifice, of the weight of years?

Aragorn turns back to his chamber, preparing for rest. The bed welcomes him with familiar comfort, yet sleep feels distant. Part of him is grateful she wasn't there today - grateful to postpone the awkward silences, the careful politeness. But beneath that relief lies a deeper ache.

This time will be different, he thinks to himself. He will show her that he has grown, that he can be worthy of her friendship at least. He will not speak of love, will not press his suit. Just to be near her sometimes, to see her smile, to perhaps earn back some of the easy companionship they had begun to build before his ill-timed declaration—that would be enough. It would have to be enough.

The afternoon sun warms Aragorn's face as he walks beside his mother through her small herb garden. Gilraen's fingers brush the sage leaves, releasing their sharp scent into the air. She pauses, her eyes searching his face with an intensity that makes him want to look away.

"You've gained some scars." Her hand lifts, not quite touching the thin white line above his eyebrow.

"A gift from an Easterling blade." He keeps his tone light, though the memory of that night battle still burns clear.

"And here." She gestures to the creases at the corners of his eyes. "These are from squinting across the plains of Rohan, I'd warrant."

"From laughing too, Mother." He bends to examine a cluster of thyme, its woody stems reminding him of meals shared around campfires with his éored.

Movement catches his eye - a flash of dark hair, the sweep of a grey dress on the high balcony. His breath catches. Arwen. She vanishes inside like a shadow at noon, leaving only the flutter of a curtain.

Aragorn forces his gaze back to the herbs, but the moment has already betrayed him. His mother's eyes hold that knowing look he remembers from childhood, when she could read his every thought before he spoke it.

"So the feelings did not pass then." Her words cut straight to the truth he's carried these twelve years.

The lie forms on his tongue - about how he's moved beyond such youthful fancies, how his time in the Angle and in Rohan taught him to see things differently. But he can't bring himself to speak it.

"No." His fingers brush a sprig of lavender, its familiar scent grounding him. "They did not. Though not for lack of trying."

His mother's hand finds his shoulder, a gentle pressure that speaks volumes. No words of counsel this time, no reminder of the vast gulf between mortal and immortal. Just understanding, and perhaps a touch of sorrow.

Aragorn spreads the detailed maps across Elrond's desk, the parchment crinkling under his fingers. The morning sun catches the silver threads in Elrond's robes as his foster father leans forward to study the careful markings.

"The Eastfold remains vulnerable here," Aragorn traces a line along the border. "Thengel has strengthened the garrison at Aldburg, but the raiders find paths through these hills." His hand moves with the certainty of one who has ridden every mile he describes.

"And what of their cavalry?"

"The éoreds are well-trained, disciplined. But their numbers thin as we spread patrols wider." Aragorn moves another map forward, this one marked with troop movements in his own precise hand. The familiar scent of ink and leather bindings surrounds him, so different from the horse-and-grass smell of Meduseld's war room. "The shadow grows bolder. We track larger bands now, better armed."

Elrond's fingers tap the eastern edge of the map. "And here?"

"Mordor stirs." Aragorn straightens, his shoulders square with the authority earned in Rohan's service. "The raids push further west each season. The Rohirrim speak of strange creatures in the night, darker than ordinary orcs."

Sunlight catches the dust motes dancing between them as Aragorn reveals each report, each strategic assessment. His voice carries the measured tone of a seasoned commander, no longer the uncertain youth who left these halls. The maps before them tell a story of growing darkness, each carefully inked symbol representing hard-won knowledge paid for in blood and vigilance.

"Thengel offered me land near the Eastfold," he says quietly. "A horse-breeder's holding, with good pasture."

Elrond's quill pauses over the letter he's writing. "A generous offer."

"Too generous to accept." Aragorn turns from the window. "My path lies elsewhere."

"To Gondor?" Elrond sets his quill aside, studying him with those ancient eyes that seem to see too much. "Ecthelion will not be as quick to trust as Thengel."

"No. But perhaps my service in Rohan will speak for me." Aragorn's fingers trace the rim of his cup. "The Mark's friendship with Gondor runs deep."

"You have learned much of statecraft in these years," Elrond observes.

"What I could." Aragorn moves to the hearth, needing its warmth though the evening is mild. "But Rohan is not Gondor. The Mark's ways are simpler, more direct. In Minas Tirith..." He trails off, remembering tales of the White City's ancient pride, its tangled politics.

"You will find your way there as you did in Rohan," Elrond says.

Aragorn nods slowly. They speak then of more practical matters - trade routes through Dunland, the whispers of darkness from Dol Guldur.

When the conversation draws to a close, Elrond looks at him for a long moment. "The path before you is long," he says finally. "But you are walking it admirably, my son." With that he sheds his businesslike town and smiles, becoming again the father who used to tell him stories before bed.

"Thank you, Father." Aragorn tries to smile back but it doesn't quite reach his eyes.

"Do not brood overmuch on thoughts of politics and strategy, Estel. And do not keep to yourself. I'm sure you spend too much time in solitude in Rohan as it is." Elrond begins gathering his papers. "Join us for supper tonight. I hear Arwen has arranged some sort of special dessert."

Aragorn's fingers tighten imperceptibly on his cup at her name. “Of course, it would be my pleasure.”

Something flickers in Elrond's ancient eyes but he only touches Aragorn's shoulder in blessing before turning back to his letter.

The library lamp burns low. Aragorn looks up from his maps to find Arwen in the doorway, clearly not expecting anyone else to be here at this hour. For a moment they both freeze, caught in memory of another late-night encounter in this place.

She recovers first. "Lord Aragorn. I did not mean to disturb you."

"No disturbance, my lady." He starts to rise, then stops himself from making too formal a gesture. He tries a smile, hoping that it does not look too eager. "I had hoped to find you, Lady Undómiel. Or for you to find me."

Her eyes widen and she takes a slight step back. He sees the alarm in her eyes and realizes that she thinks he will renew his declaration from the birch grove. Is that why she's been keeping her distance? He quickly says, "I have been meaning to apologize—"

"For being in the library?" She relaxes a fraction and a slight smile touches her mouth.

"For my presumption, the last time we spoke." The words come easier than he expected. "I was very young, and very..."

"Dramatic?" The smile deepens just slightly.

"That's a kind way to put it."

"Then I should apologize as well." She moves into the room with that fluid grace he remembers. "Perhaps I was too harsh in my dismissal."

"No." His voice comes quiet but firm. "You were right. I spoke of love when I barely knew you. When I barely knew myself." He meets her eyes steadily. "You were right to refuse such hollow declarations."

Something shifts in her expression—surprise, perhaps, at this evidence of his growth. "I was right, then? All your opinions have changed since those days?"

He doesn't look away. "Well. Perhaps not all my opinions."

The moment stretches between them. Then her eyebrow lifts slightly. "Careful, my lord. That sounds dangerously close to poetry."

"I believe I've learned better than to attempt poetry in your presence."

"Have you indeed?" And there's something almost like playfulness in her tone, which seems to surprise them both.

But then she quietens again, seeming to consider something. When she speaks, her voice is thoughtful. "Tell me truly though, Dúnadan. You are no longer... infatuated?"

"I am not infatuated with you, Lady Undómiel," he says, without hesitation. It is the truth, after all. If, perhaps, not the whole truth.

The tension seems to ease completely from her shoulders then. "Good." She moves to the shelves, selecting a volume with familiar ease. "I seem to recall you had interesting thoughts about the fall of Arthedain, before you decided to become a tragic hero."

"Tragic hero?" Now it's his turn to raise an eyebrow. "I don't remember it quite that way."

"No? Shall I recite your speech about Beren and Lúthien?"

"Please don't." But he's almost smiling now, and so is she.

"Very well. Tell me instead what you've learned of the horse-lords. I hear you've made quite a name for yourself in Rohan."

The conversation turns to safer grounds. Yet something has shifted between them, like ice breaking in spring.

Days pass with the strange rhythm that time holds in Rivendell. Aragorn finds himself encountering her in small moments: passing in the gardens, at meals, in the Hall of Fire. Each meeting grows easier than the last.

"The Rohirrim truly leave their dead in barrows?" She sits with her embroidery in the afternoon sun, while he mends his riding gear nearby.

"With their horses and weapons, yes. They believe their ancestors still ride the plains in spirit."

"Like the oathbreakers in the mountains?"

"No—more like..." He searches for the right words. "More like your people's songs of the Great Journey. A continuing story, not a curse."

She tilts her head, considering this. The motion catches sunlight in her hair, but he's learning to look past such things, to focus on the keen mind behind the beauty.

"You understand them well," she says.

"I try to." He tests the leather strap he's mending. "Though I'm forever missing subtle layers of meaning. Elvish tales circle like spirals, but the Rohirrim's stories drive straight like spears."

"And what of the Dúnedain's tales?"

"Somewhere between, I suppose. Though I'm hardly impartial."

A smile touches her mouth. The same smile that once undid him completely. Now he can appreciate it without losing his thread. Much.

"Hardly," she agrees.

Elladan and Elrohir find them there later, still discussing the differences between elvish and mortal storytelling. His brothers exchange glances he pretends not to see.

"The horse-lords have improved your conversation, little brother," Elladan observes that evening as they clean their weapons.

Aragorn focuses on his sword's edge. "I've learned a few things."

"Clearly." Elrohir's voice holds something between amusement and approval. "Though some things haven't changed."

Aragorn doesn't ask what his brother means. Some silences are safer kept.

The next day he finds a book on his desk—histories of the Éothéod, their migration from the North. Inside, a note in her flowing script: Your perspective on this would be valuable.

He answers with careful scholarship, noting parallels with the Dúnedain's own wandering years. They discuss his observations over breakfast, their conversation drawing others in. He catches Elrond watching them with an expression he cannot read.

"You've grown, young one," Glorfindel tells him later, after a practice bout. "In more than swordcraft."

Aragorn wipes sweat from his brow. "I hope so."

"Mmm." The ancient warrior's eyes are keen. "Though growth rarely changes one's essential nature."

The words follow him through the day, through another chance meeting in the library, another thoughtful discussion. His essential nature. The love he carries, banked now like embers, but no less warm.

He's learning to live with it. If sometimes her smile still makes his heart skip a beat, well. He's learning to live with that too.

Chapter Text

Autumn T.A. 2963

Arwen walks the familiar paths of the healing wing, checking supplies before retiring for the night. The hour is late - most of the valley sleeps, and even the ever-present sound of the Bruinen seems muted. But as she passes the last room, she hears a low voice murmuring in Sindarin.

She pauses in the doorway. Aragorn kneels beside one of the Ranger's beds, grinding herbs with practiced motions. The wounded man's face is drawn with pain, but his eyes follow Aragorn's movements with complete trust.

"...and then Halbarad says, 'Well, it cannot possibly be worse than that time in Bree,' though of course it was." Aragorn's voice is gentle, his hands never stopping their work as he speaks. The Ranger manages a weak laugh that turns into a cough.

Aragorn steadies him with a hand on his shoulder. "Easy now, Dirhaborn. Save your strength for complaining about my storytelling."

She must make some small sound, for he glances up. "Lady Undómiel. I hope we didn't disturb you."

"Not at all." She moves into the room, noting how he's laid out his supplies - exactly as her father would have done. "I didn't realize you were still here."

"The wound reopened." His hands remain steady as he works, but something in his voice suggests he's been here for hours. "The poison lingers."

She draws closer, studying the Ranger's wound. The flesh around it is dark, threaded with black lines. Her breath catches - this is grave indeed. Yet Aragorn's manner remains calm, reassuring.

"I know this poison," she says. "From the mountains?"

"Orc arrows, yes." He nods toward the herbs he's grinding. "I've mixed athelas with---"

"Yarrow root," she finishes, recognizing the scent. "And mallowsweet for the fever."

His eyes meet hers, warming with surprise and something else. "Would you...?" He gestures to the bandages he's preparing.

She pulls up a chair beside him. Together they clean the wound, their hands moving in quiet harmony. She finds herself following his lead - not because he demands it, but because his touch is so sure, so gentle. When he speaks the old healing words over the athelas, the air freshens as if touched by spring winds.

The Ranger's breathing eases. Color returns slowly to his face as the poultice draws out the poison. Aragorn keeps talking softly - more stories of Ranger life, careful to make the wounded man laugh without straining himself. His voice never wavers, though she can see the fatigue in the set of his shoulders.

When Dirhaborn finally sleeps, Aragorn sits back with a quiet sigh. "Thank you for your help."

"You hardly needed it." She begins cleaning up, falling into the familiar rhythm of post-healing work. "I didn't know you had learned so much from Father."

"He is a demanding teacher." A slight smile touches his lips. "But a good one."

"You have his gift," she says softly. "The hands of a healer."

He looks down at his hands - warrior's hands, callused from sword and bow, yet capable of such tenderness. "High praise, coming from you."

"You could have sent for one of us," she says, gathering the used bandages.

"He is my man," Aragorn says simply.

Something catches in her chest at the quiet certainty in his voice. She busies herself with the herbs, aware of his presence beside her, the careful way he arranges fresh bandages for the morning.

"We should check on him before dawn," she says.

"We?"

"Unless you object to my help?"

His smile deepens, touching his eyes. "Never, Lady Undómiel."

"Arwen," she says softly, careful not to wake the sleeping Ranger. When he looks at her questioningly, she adds, "When we are not at council or feast. You need not be so formal."

Something shifts in his expression - surprise, perhaps, or warmth - but he only inclines his head slightly. "Arwen," he echoes.

They work in comfortable silence, falling into an easy rhythm.

The clash of steel draws Arwen's attention as she passes the training courtyard. She pauses at the sight of Aragorn sparring with Glorfindel, their blades catching the morning light.

Aragorn moves with fluid grace, his footwork as precise as any Elf's, yet there is something distinctly mortal in his style—a controlled power he must have picked among the Dúnedain and the Rohirrim. His rolled-up sleeves reveal well-muscled arms, and as he twists to parry a particularly challenging strike, his shirt pulls tight across his chest, showing the play of muscles underneath.

Unbidden, an image flashes through her mind: those arms bare, that chest uncovered, in her bed—

She inhales sharply, startled by the direction of her thoughts. Where had that come from?

Aragorn's eyes meet hers across the courtyard. Something changes in his expression and suddenly his movements quicken, becoming more aggressive. Before Glorfindel can adjust to the shift in tempo, Aragorn has slipped past his guard and sends the ancient warrior's blade spinning from his hand.

She can’t help but smile at the display. Aragorn's answering grin makes something flutter in her stomach.

"Well fought," Glorfindel says, turning to retrieve his sword. He spots Arwen and raises an eyebrow. "Ah, we had an audience."

She lifts her hand in what she hopes is a nonchalant wave, then turns and walks away, maintaining all the dignity she can muster while essentially fleeing.

Her heart is beating faster than it should, and she tells herself firmly it is from the excitement of watching the match. She almost believes it.

They sit in her favorite alcove, afternoon light slanting through high windows. She's explaining something about the healing properties of athelas, a subject she's discussed countless times with countless healers over the centuries.

"But surely," Aragorn says, frowning over the text, "that conflicts with what you said earlier about its use in treating morgul-wounds."

She starts to give her usual answer, then stops. Looks at him more closely.

"You disagree?"

"Not exactly." He meets her eyes directly, something he does more easily now. "But you spoke of your grandmother's methods in Lothlorien. Yet here you suggest..." He trails off, suddenly uncertain. "Forgive me. I shouldn't question—"

"No, continue." She finds herself leaning forward. "You see something I've missed?"

He blinks, clearly surprised by her interest. Then he explains his thinking - how the Rangers have learned to use athelas in the wild, without the power of Elvish sanctuaries. Different methods, but perhaps complementary rather than conflicting.

She considers his words, testing them against centuries of knowledge. "That's... quite insightful, actually. I hadn't considered..."

"Perhaps I-"

"No." She realizes she's smiling. "No, I think you may be right. Though don't let that go to your head."

His answering smile holds no triumph, only shared pleasure in understanding. She realizes something then - he's not simply accepting her words as ancient wisdom, nor challenging them to prove himself clever. He's actually engaging with her thoughts, seeing past her position as Elrond's daughter, as Galadriel's granddaughter, as the Lady of Imladris.

The revelation catches her off guard. How long has it been since someone truly debated ideas with her, rather than just seeking her counsel? How long since anyone looked past her lineage to simply... talk?

"Arwen?" His voice draws her back. "Have I spoken out of turn?"

"No," she says again, softer. "No, you've given me something to think about."

Later, she finds herself returning to that moment. To the simple pleasure of being seen not as an icon of Elvish wisdom, but as someone whose ideas could be respectfully questioned, engaged with, even gently challenged.

She tells herself that's all it is - the novelty of true intellectual discourse. Nothing more.

The great hall of Imladris echoes with many tongues tonight—the liquid sounds of Sindarin, the deep rumble of Khuzdul, the varied accents of Men from the North. Arwen sits beside her father, playing her role as lady of the valley with practiced grace.

She is not watching Aragorn dance with Neniel. She simply happens to notice how well he handles the complex steps of the Elvish measure, how naturally he converses with his partner. Neniel is laughing at something he's said, her hand lingering on his arm.

"The Dúnadan has grown into quite the diplomat," observes Lord Círdan's steward. "See how easily he moves between all the peoples."

Indeed, she has watched him throughout the evening—speaking Khuzdul with the dwarves, discussing trade routes with the merchants of Dale, sharing tales of the Havens with the western elves. Always with that quiet assurance that draws no attention to itself.

The dance ends. Neniel says something that makes him smile—that real smile that transforms his whole face, not the careful one he uses with stRangers. Something tightens in Arwen's chest.

She focuses on her wine cup, only to find it empty. When she looks up again, he stands before her.

"Lady Undómiel." He bows with perfect courtesy. "Might I beg the honor of a dance?"

She should refuse. She has refused countless such requests over the centuries. But...

"You might." She rises, takes his offered hand.

They move into the dance, maintaining proper distance. His hand is warm at her waist, careful, respectful. They turn together in the complicated pattern of steps.

"I'm surprised you remember this measure," she says. "It's not often danced outside Elvish halls."

"The Rohirrim have their own dances, but I try to keep in practice." His eyes meet hers briefly. "I hope my execution meets with approval."

"You've learned well." The words come out more genuine than she intends. Something shifts in the air between them.

She misses a step.

His hand steadies her, so naturally it seems part of the dance. No one else would notice. But she feels the strength in those fingers, remembers watching them grip a sword this morning...

"Are you well, Arwen?"

"Quite." She forces her attention back to the present. Her heart stutters. Ridiculous. Her heart does not stutter.

The dance ends. He bows over her hand, entirely proper. But as she returns to her seat, she feels the ghost of his touch at her waist, the warmth of his palm against hers.

Across the hall, Neniel catches her eye and grins. Arwen lifts her chin, pretending not to notice. Just as she pretends not to notice how her skin still tingles where he touched her, how the hall seems colder now that he's moved away to speak with the dwarf-lords.

She is the Lady of Imladris. She does not moon over dance partners like some maiden at her first feast.

She especially does not watch him for the rest of the evening, this man who moves through her father's hall as if he belongs there, who makes her feel...

No. She will not complete that thought.

Arwen stands at her chamber window, watching the last guests depart. The dwarves singing their walking songs, the men from Dale mounting their horses, the elves from the Havens gathering their supplies for tomorrow's journey.

And there—Aragorn speaking with the dwarf-lord, his bearing confident but not proud. When had that change happened? When had the earnest youth become this assured man who draws others to him so naturally?

She turns from the window, irritated with herself. She has watched countless young lords grow into their strength. Has seen empires rise and fall like leaves on the wind. This fascination with one mortal's development is... unseemly.

And yet.

She finds herself remembering moments from the feast. The way he moved through the crowd, equally at ease with all peoples. His unexpected grace in the dance.

No. She will not dwell on such things.

She crosses to her mirror, begins unbraiding her hair. The familiar motion usually soothes her, but tonight her thoughts keep straying. To the practice yard this morning. To the strength in his hands during their dance. To the way he actually listens when she speaks, sees past her lineage to...

Her fingers tangle in her hair. She rises abruptly and flops onto her bed. It is mere physical attraction, she tells herself firmly. He has grown handsome in these years away, that was undeniable. His tales of Rohan painted such vivid pictures: the young captain in gleaming mail, sword flashing in the dawn as he led his éored into battle. Such images would stir any heart, especially after watching him in the training yard, the way his body moved with such controlled power as he bested even Glorfindel...

She groans, pulling a pillow over her face. This line of thought is not helping.

Besides, the excuse rings hollow even to her own ears. She is no maiden fresh from her first springtide, to be so easily swayed by tales of gallantry or well-formed muscles. She has turned away countless suitors over the long years, some of them renowned warriors, others great poets and singers. None have occupied her thoughts like this. None have made her consider...

Perhaps if I simply lie with him once... The thought rises unbidden. It would not be the first time she's taken a lover to satisfy mutual desire. Among her people, such arrangements are natural enough. But even as the thought forms, she rolls her eyes at herself. He is a Man. He is her father's foster-son. He will be leaving again soon, returning to his duties in Rohan.

And though she believed him when he said he was no longer infatuated with her, there is still something in his eyes when he looked at her—something deep and quiet and carefully contained. It would be cruel to encourage those feelings, whatever they might be. Cruel to give him hope where there could be none.

Better to push these stirrings aside. Better to maintain the easy friendship they had rebuilt. Better not to complicate things further.

These are all excellent reasons, she thinks with satisfaction. So many good, rational reasons not to complicate matters. She need not examine why the mere thought of taking him as a casual lover makes her stomach twist, why the idea of him returning to Rohan afterwards feels like... No. She has her reasons. They are excellent reasons. That is quite enough.

She picks up a book on Elvish horticulture from the bedside table, determined to focus on the fascinating details of soil composition and growing seasons. But in the quiet of her chamber, with only starlight for company, she can admit to herself that she has never had to work so hard to push aside thoughts of someone who she has not even kissed.

Yet, whispers a treacherous voice in her mind. Has not even kissed yet.

She firmly turns another page.

Chapter Text

Autumn T.A. 2963

Sunlight slants through the high windows of Rivendell's dining hall. Aragorn has learned to keep his attention on his plate when she enters, to let his greeting come casual and easy. It's easier now than it was at first.

"The traders brought interesting news from the East," he says as she takes her usual seat. Just as he's learned not to watch for her entrance, he's learned not to notice how others have gradually shifted their morning habits, leaving these seats open, giving them space for their discussions.

"Tell me." She reaches for the bread, and they fall into comfortable conversation about trade routes and politics. He's careful to keep his insights practical, measured—no more grand declarations or romantic philosophies.

But he still notices things. Can't help but notice. The way she turns slightly toward him when speaking, the thoughtful tilt of her head when considering his words. How she's started looking around when she enters a room, as if...

No. He won't read meaning into such things. He's learned that lesson well.

Others come and go. Erestor stops to ask his opinion about some border matter. A healer consults with Arwen about herb supplies. Through it all, their conversation weaves naturally around interruptions, picking up threads as if they'd never been broken.

The morning light shifts, calling them to their duties. As they rise, she says, "I've been meaning to ask what you thought about that account of the Éothéod's migration..."

"Perhaps over dinner?"

"Until then." She moves toward the door, pauses. Her eyes sweep the hall before finding him again. She smiles at him before she leaves.

His heart betrays him with a leap.

No. He shakes his head to clear it. They have friendship. More than he deserved, really, after that first graceless declaration.

Most days, he almost convinces himself it's enough.

The stables smell of fresh hay and leather, sunlight slanting through high windows to stripe the wooden floors. Aragorn has come to check on Færswift, the dappled stallion Thengel had gifted him.

He stops short in the doorway. Arwen stands in one of the stalls, murmuring softly to his horse in Sindarin as she strokes his neck. The stallion, usually wary of strangers, has his head lowered to her touch, eyes half-closed in contentment.

These past days have been... more than he dared hope for. Her ready forgiveness, her growing warmth. Each small kindness was a gift he stored carefully away, knowing they must serve in place of what he truly wanted.

"He likes you," Aragorn says, moving forward.

She turns, unsurprised by his presence. "He is beautiful. A gift from Thengel, Elrohir said?"

"Yes. Though I suspect he gave him to me partly to see if I truly had learned the ways of the Mark." He reaches out to pat the horse's flank. "The Rohirrim judge a man by how he handles his mount."

"And did you pass their judgment?"

"Eventually." He smiles at the memory. "Though not before falling off a few times."

Her laugh is rich and melodic, just as he remembered. "Would you care to ride with me to the falls? The day is fair, and I would hear more of your adventures in the Mark."

How can he refuse? They saddle their horses—Arwen declining any help with practiced efficiency—and ride out into the autumn morning. She sits on her mount with unconscious grace, and as they pick up speed, her skill becomes even more apparent. She moves as one with her horse, anticipating each shift of muscle and change of terrain.

"You ride well," she says.

Aragorn looks over at her comment, catches the slight curve of her mouth.

"High praise from an Elvish lady." He guides his horse around a bend. "I've learned much from the Rohirrim these past years."

"Have you indeed?" She nudges her mare forward. "Then catch me, horse-lord."

She's gone before he can answer, her grey mare flowing like water through the trees. For a moment he just watches, struck by the sight—dark hair streaming, pure joy in her movement. Then he grins and urges his horse after her.

She's faster than he expected. Much faster. Every time he thinks he's gaining, she seems to melt through spaces he must carefully navigate. Her laugh drifts back to him and he thinks: How could I not love her? How could anyone not love her?

But he keeps the words locked safely in his heart, where they can do no harm.

They break from the trees near the falls. She reins in, hair windblown, cheeks flushed. He's never seen her quite like this—wild and free and...

"You seem surprised." That curve of her mouth again.

"I... did not expect..."

"Such unladylike behavior?" But there's no bite in her words. "I love to ride. To really ride, not just the sedate paths near the house." She strokes her mare's neck. "Though it's been some time since I've had the chance."

"The Rohirrim would envy your seat." It's true. He's seen their best riders, their shield-maidens, but none moved quite like this. "You must have ridden far, before..."

"Before my mother sailed West?" She gets a wistful look in her eyes. "Yes. I went to Annumínas often, before its fall. And we would ride to Fornost sometimes, or up into the mountains. But after... well. Father and my brothers grew protective. Understandably so."

The spray from the falls catches sunlight, throwing rainbows. He watches her face, seeing past the usual serenity to something else. Something almost wistful.

"Five hundred years is a long time to stay close to home," he says quietly.

"Is it?" Her smile turns rueful. "I suppose it would seem so, to mortal eyes." She dismounts, leads her mare to drink. "Time moves differently for us, as you know."

He follows her lead, giving the horses their head. For a moment they stand in comfortable silence, watching the falls.

"Still," she says finally. "Sometimes I miss the longer rides. The mountains in spring, the forests in autumn. But I understand why Father prefers I remain close to the valley."

The admission catches him off guard. She so rarely speaks of personal matters.

"The world grows darker," he offers. "They wish to keep you safe."

"Safe." Something flashes in her eyes. "Yes. Though safety can become a cage."

He doesn't know how to answer that. Doesn't trust himself to answer, when she stands there with the wind pulling at her hair, speaking of cages and freedom.

She seems to shake off the mood, turns back to her horse. "But come. Tell me of riding in Rohan. Do they truly learn before they can walk?"

He lets her change the subject, tells her of the horse-lords and their ways. They ride back more sedately, speaking of lighter things. But he finds himself watching her more carefully now, seeing past the serene mask to the spirit beneath. One that perhaps knows more of constraint and longing than he'd guessed.

He tries not to think about what that might mean.

The Hall of Fire glows soft in the deepening dark. Aragorn pauses in the doorway, caught by an unexpected sight: his mother and Arwen sitting close together, heads bent over some piece of embroidery. There's an ease between them he doesn't remember from before.

His mother notices him first. "Ah, there you are. We were just speaking of you."

"Should I be concerned?"

"Always," but Gilraen's smile is warm. She gathers her work. "Though I'm sure the Lady Arwen will forbear to mock you. Much."

"Your mother was telling me of your first attempts at tracking," Arwen says. "Something about following rabbit prints in circles for an hour?"

He groans. "Mother..."

"And now I really must go." Gilraen rises with careful dignity that doesn't quite hide her knowing look. "These old bones need rest."

"You're not old," both Aragorn and Arwen say together, then look at each other, startled.

Gilraen's smile deepens. "Good night, my dears."

After she leaves, they sit in comfortable silence for a moment. The fire paints gold across Arwen's face, reminding him of other evenings, other fires. But he's learned to live with such memories.

"Tell me more of Rohan," she says suddenly. "Not the politics we discuss at breakfast. Tell me of the people, their stories."

He hesitates. "I'm no bard..."

"No?" That curve of her mouth he's coming to know. "I seem to recall certain poetic tendencies..."

"Which I've thoroughly learned to suppress."

"Perhaps too thoroughly." Her voice turns serious. "You tell things well, when you're not trying to impress anyone."

He looks at her sharply, but finds no mockery in her face. Only genuine interest.

So he tells her of the horse-lords—their halls and hearths, their songs of ancient rides. As he speaks, he finds himself falling into the rhythms of their storytelling, the straight spear-thrust of their tales.

"They dream of past glories," he says finally. "But also of what might be again. Of horses running free across rebuilt lands, of..." He stops himself. Once, he would have waxed poetic about his own dreams of rebuilding, of restoration. Now he knows better than to—

"Go on." She's watching him intently. "You were thinking of Arnor."

"I... yes. Though I know how impossible it must sound..."

"Why impossible?" She leans forward slightly. "The foundations remain, you said so yourself. The old roads, the tower hills, the weather stones..."

He stares at her. Those were his exact words to Gandalf, years ago.

"The blood of Númenor runs true in your people," she continues. "Why should the kingdom not rise again?"

"You... take this seriously?"

"Should I not?" That lifted eyebrow he's learned means challenge. "I have seen kingdoms fall, yes. But I have also seen them rise. The question is not whether it's possible, but what price its raising would demand."

He finds himself telling her then—all his careful plans, his studied strategies. She listens with that focus he's come to value, asking sharp questions, offering perspectives from long memory.

The fire burns lower. Around them, others come and go, but they remain absorbed in discussion. He's never spoken of these dreams so fully, never dared hope for such serious consideration.

Finally she sits back. "You have thought this through well."

"But?"

"But nothing." She smiles slightly. "I begin to understand why your line survives. You see clearly, yet you still dream."

Something catches in his chest at her words. At the way firelight turns her eyes to stars...

No. He won't think of such things.

"It grows late," he says, though he makes no move to leave.

"So it does." But she doesn't move either. "Perhaps you might tell me one more tale of Rohan. Something of their spring festivals?"

He begins another story, careful to keep his voice measured, his words plain. But his heart betrays him, warming at her quiet attention, her serious consideration of his dreams.

"Your tales make me almost see it," she says. "The great halls, the festivals, the golden-haired riders." A slight pause. "Did none of these fair horse-maidens catch your eye?"

The question catches him off guard. But there's something almost playful in her tone that makes him answer honestly.

"There was one. Hilde, daughter of a shield-maiden." He keeps his voice carefully casual. "She was... kind to me."

"Just kind?" That lifted eyebrow again.

"Well... she was very understanding."

Something flickers in Arwen's face—too quick to read, gone before he can be sure he saw it.

The fire crackles between them. Neither speaks for a moment.

"Tell me another tale," she says finally. "Something of their winter celebrations?"

He starts again, but something has shifted in the air between them. Some truth neither of them quite wants to examine.

Aragorn's boots crunch on the gravel path as he rounds the corner into the garden. Spring roses climb the nearby trellis, their scent sweet in the morning air. Arwen sits on the stone bench, a leather-bound volume open in her lap.

She looks up at his approach and pats the empty space beside her. The bench feels cool through his breeches as he settles next to her, careful to leave proper space between them.

"What captures your attention this morning?"

"Master Cemendur's treatise on the cultivation of healing herbs." She turns a page covered in precise script. "Though I confess his prose could use some cultivation itself."

"Dry reading?"

"As autumn leaves." Her lips curve. "But the knowledge is worth the effort." She closes the book and turns to him. "What brings you to the garden, Dúnadan?"

Aragorn watches a bee drift between the roses, his chest tight with what he must say. "I leave for the Angle in a sennight."

The words come out before he can consider why he feels the need to tell her. It's not as if she requires notice of his movements. Not as if...

Something flickers across her face—a shadow passing over still water. "So soon?"

"I've lingered here longer than I meant to." They both know this is true. They both pretend not to know why.

"The Angle will be glad of your return." Her voice holds careful neutrality. "Have you told your mother yet?"

"This morning. She pretends surprise that I stayed this long."

"Did she?" That curve of her mouth he's come to know so well. "Mothers can be quite... perceptive."

"Terrifyingly so." He finds himself smiling despite the weight in his chest. "Though she's hardly one to talk about lingering in Rivendell."

He doesn't remember when they moved closer together on the bench, but suddenly he's aware of how near she is. How the sunshine catches in her hair, how her eyes hold starlight...

For a moment—just a moment—her eyes flick to his lips. She seems to lean slightly toward him. His heart stops.

Then she stands in one fluid motion. "I should go. There are preparations for tomorrow's healing work..."

"Of course." His voice comes steadier than he feels.

At the doorway she pauses, half-turns. "A sennight, you said?"

"Yes." His voice is steady, though his chest feels hollow. Seven days to prepare himself. Seven days to leave her behind again. Seven days to master the ache in his throat and the foolish hope that this time, things might be different.

She nods, her expression unreadable. And then she is gone, the sound of her steps fading down the hall. He sits there a long while after, staring at the garden and the roses she left behind.

Chapter Text

Autumn T.A. 2963

Arwen moves the ivory queen three spaces diagonal, then pauses to consider the black horse's response. The garden's shadows lengthen across the marble chess board, pieces catching the late afternoon light. She's played this particular gambit hundreds of times, but today the moves feel different.

Footsteps on the path. She doesn't need to look up.

"What a beautiful set." Aragorn lifts one of the white pawns, turning it in his fingers. The piece looks smaller in his hand than she remembers.

"Yes, it is." She keeps her eyes on the board, though the positions she'd been contemplating slip away.

"Where did you come by it?"

"A gift, from one of Gildor's company." She adjusts a herald unnecessarily. His hand tightens almost imperceptibly around the pawn before setting it back down.

"Would you honor me with a game?"

"Are you up for a challenge then?" Arwen resets the white pieces with practiced movements, each placement precise. The ivory catches the sunlight, smooth and cool under her fingers.

Aragorn settles into the chair across from her. "I may have picked up a few strategies during my travels." His mouth quirks up at one corner as he arranges the black pieces. "Though I doubt they compare to yéni of experience."

The false modesty doesn't mask the competitive glint in his eyes. She's seen that look before, when he spars with her brothers - the careful assessment of an opponent, the quiet confidence. He thinks he can win this.

The game proceeds quickly. He plays well - better than she expected - but she can read his strategies three moves ahead. When she takes his queen with her horse, his eyebrows rise.

"That was masterfully done." He tips his king in surrender. "I see I have much to learn about chess as well as lore."

"You played admirably for someone who hasn't had three thousand years to practice." She begins collecting the pieces, careful not to meet his gaze.

"You're too kind, lady." Aragorn's voice carries a rougher edge than usual as he helps her gather the ivory pieces. His hands move with practiced efficiency, yet she notices how they linger over each figure before placing them in their velvet-lined box.

Arwen traces the delicate filigree on the chess box's clasp. "You wish to know about the set?"

"If you're willing to share the tale."

She hesitates, fingers still on the metal work. "I was quite young then. Only a few yéni old, during the reign of Eldacar - no, Arantar of Arnor." The memory crystallizes slowly, like ice forming on a winter pond. "There was an elf in Gildor's company who began presenting me with gifts. Small things at first - books, carved figurines. I accepted them, not wishing to seem discourteous."

The box's hinges creak as she closes it. "But the gifts grew more elaborate. This chess set appeared after he learned of my fondness for the game. That's when I finally understood his intentions went beyond mere friendship."

Her hands still on the box. "I told him I would not accept gifts given with ulterior motives. He was mortified, apologized profusely. But he insisted I keep the chess set as a gesture of contrition." A small laugh escapes her. "I agreed, though mainly because I couldn't bear to part with such fine craftsmanship. Today I'd likely do the proper thing and refuse."

Aragorn's silence draws her attention. His jaw is set, his fingers drum once on the table's edge.

"I never saw him again after that," she adds quickly, anything to get that look off his face, then catches herself. Why does she feel compelled to reassure him? She busies herself adjusting the box's position, avoiding his gaze.

The silence stretches between them, comfortable yet charged with something she can't - won't - name. Aragorn's mouth opens, then closes. His shoulders tense, and she sees the weight of unspoken words in the way he grips the chess piece too tightly.

She places her hand on his shoulder, feeling the warmth through the fabric of his tunic. The touch steadies them both for a breath, and then she turns away, leaving him alone in the deepening shadows of the garden.

The library holds the day's heat, despite the lengthening shadows. Arwen pauses in the doorway, watching her father sort through the chaos on his desk - maps of the northern kingdoms, letters in various hands, books left open to marked passages. His fingers tap against a weathered tome as he reads, a habit she's seen in him since she was small.

"Father." She moves to the window, adjusting the curtain to keep the late sun from falling directly on the precious documents. "You missed the evening meal again."

"Did I?" He barely glances up. "I've been trying to trace these old border markings. The settlements have shifted so much since-" He breaks off, shuffling through papers. "Where is that treatise on the northern kingdoms?"

"The one bound in red leather?" She scans the shelves behind him. "Aragorn was reading it yesterday in the garden. He wanted to check something about the old patrol routes."

Her father's hands still on the papers. "The garden?" A note in his voice makes her turn. "I thought I saw you both there. Playing chess?"

She keeps her movements precise as she straightens a row of books. "He's quite skilled. Though perhaps not quite ready to challenge you yet."

"Few are." His smile carries centuries of fond memories. "Though he applies himself with such dedication." He shakes his head, pride warming his voice. "The reports I hear... he's become everything I hoped. More, perhaps."

The leather spine beneath her fingers is cracking. She should fetch the oil, repair it before the damage worsens. "He takes his responsibilities seriously."

"Indeed." Elrond rises, coming to join her at the shelves. "I confess, I worried when he first left us. So young, carrying such weight..." He selects a volume, thumbs through the pages. "But seeing him now - the way he thinks, the way he leads. How he's learned to listen, to consider." His voice softens. "I'm glad you two are getting along so well. I always thought if he could just get past that youthful infatuation of his, you would find you have much in common."

Her stomach twists. She turns away to hide whatever might show on her face, but her father is already moving back to his desk.

"Though I still need that treatise," he adds. "The northern boundaries-"

"I'll fetch it." She's moving before the words are fully formed. The door closes behind her with a quiet click.

In the corridor, she leans against the wall, pressing her palms flat against the cool stone. Through the window, she can see the garden where they played chess, the pieces catching the light.

She pushes away from the wall. The treatise will be in Aragorn's chambers, probably on his desk where he left it last night when they were discussing the old roads. Where his hand brushed hers as they traced the fading map lines. Where she found herself leaning closer to see the details, breathing in the scent of woodland and leather that clings to him now...

She turns sharply away from that corridor. The treatise can wait. Her father has managed without it for a thousand years; he can manage another night.

Golden afternoon light streams through the windows. Arwen glances up from her embroidery at the sound of familiar footsteps.

"Your mother tells me you ruined her garden when you were twelve," she says without preamble.

"I was learning to track," Aragorn protests, settling into his usual chair. "The rabbits went through her herbs first."

"Mmm. Not quite how she tells it."

His mock outrage draws a smile from her. These easy conversations have become habit, she realizes. Like the way he automatically hands her the blue thread when she reaches for it, or how she already knows he'll want to hear about the letter that arrived from Lothlorien this morning.

Elrohir finds them there later, still talking.

"If you're not too busy discussing... rabbit tracks," her brother says dryly, "there's a matter requiring attention in the healing wing."

"Of course." She rises, gathering her work. "Though you never did explain how you managed to flood the kitchen gardens as well..."

"Another time." But his eyes say tomorrow.

The next day brings a light rain. She's not looking for him in the library, but she pauses when she sees him frowning over a letter.

"News from the Angle?"

"Halbarad's unique way of telling me I'm needed back." He shows her the page. "Though I'm not sure if he's more concerned about the border patrols or about young Nirwen's imminent marriage."

"Ah, the famous Nirwen." She settles across from him. "Your mother mentioned her."

"Did she?" His tone turns careful.

"Only good things." She finds herself adding, "Though apparently not good enough to keep you in the North."

Something shifts in his face. Then he smiles. "Surely you're not the only one who's allowed to be particular, lady."

The familiar jest feels different somehow. She changes the subject.

The garden paths wind silver in the starlight. Arwen tells herself she's just walking to clear her head, though her feet seem to know where they're going. When she sees his familiar figure by the birch grove, she almost smiles at their shared transparency.

"My lady." He bows slightly, as if they've met by chance. As if they haven't both been finding reasons to walk this way all evening.

"You should call me Arwen still," she says. "Even if it's our last evening for such informality."

Something passes across his face at the word 'last.' But his voice stays steady. "The stars are particularly bright tonight."

"They are." She moves to stand beside him, not quite touching. "Though I imagine you'll see them clearer in the Wild."

"True. But it's not quite the same, is it?" He glances at her. "Seeing them alone."

The words hang between them, heavy with meaning neither of them should acknowledge.

"Tell me again," she says suddenly, "about your dreams for the North. Not the practical plans we discuss at breakfast. The real dreams."

He looks surprised, then thoughtful. "You'll think me foolish..."

"When have I ever?"

"Well, there was that one time in this very grove..."

They both laugh, the tension easing. He tells her then, not of strategies and politics, but of his hopes for his people. Of ancient towers rebuilt, of children growing up without fear, of songs and stories preserved...

She watches his face as he speaks, seeing not the earnest youth who once declared his love, but the king he might become. The man he already is.

The night deepens around them. They should go in. They don't.

"Will you write?" he asks suddenly. "About the healing techniques we discussed, I mean."

"Of course." They both pretend that's all he's asking. "Though Mithrandir may tire of carrying debates about ranging patterns."

"I'm sure he's borne worse burdens."

Their eyes meet. For a moment – just a moment – something sparks between them, bright and dangerous as lightning.

She turns away first. "It grows late."

"Yes." But neither of them moves.

Finally she stirs. "I hope all goes well on your journeys, Dúnadan."

His name feels different on her tongue tonight. Everything feels different tonight.

"Thank you." He hesitates, then adds softly, "For everything. Arwen."

She should go. Should bid him proper farewell and return to the house. Instead she finds herself saying, "I've enjoyed our discussions."

"As have I." His voice holds something she chooses not to hear. "More than I can say."

She looks as Eärendil, bright in the night sky, witness to all the words they're not speaking. All the truths they're not facing.

"Good night," she says finally, and makes herself walk away.

She doesn't look back. Looking back would be admitting something she's not ready to admit.

But she feels his eyes follow her until she's out of sight.

Arwen stands at her window in the grey hours before dawn, watching the courtyard below. Sleep has been elusive, her mind circling like a bird that cannot find its perch. She tells herself she's merely keeping the night vigil, as she often does, but her eyes keep straying to the stables.

When Aragorn emerges leading his horse, something tightens in her chest. His movements are careful, deliberate – trying not to wake the household. She finds herself moving before she's fully formed the thought to do so.

The herb pouch weighs little in her hands as she descends the stairs, but each step feels weighted with purpose she cannot name. The courtyard stones are cool beneath her feet. He's checking the saddle straps, his back to her, and for a moment she almost turns away. Let him go quietly, as he wishes.

Instead: "You mean to leave without saying farewell?"

He turns, and something flickers across his face – surprise, perhaps, or something less easily named. The grey light catches in his dark hair, and she notices with a healer's eye the shadows beneath his eyes that mirror her own.

"I've said all my farewells last night." His voice is carefully neutral, but his hands have stilled on the straps. "And I did not wish to disturb you so early."

"Yet here I am." She holds out the pouch, lets practicality mask whatever other impulses stir beneath her breastbone. "Athelas, dried carefully. And feverfew, for the headaches that plague you after long rides."

"You noticed?"

The surprise in his voice catches at something tender in her chest. "You rub your temples when you think no one is watching." She keeps her tone matter-of-fact, though her hands want to reach out, to smooth the worry from his brow. "The feverfew will help, if steeped properly."

Their fingers brush as he takes the pouch. The touch sends an odd shiver up her arm, like the first hint of winter in autumn air. The herbs' scent rises between them, sharp and clean.

"Thank you." A pause, then: "Arwen."

Her name in his voice sounds different in a way that she's not ready to examine. She looks up at him and finds his eyes on her face, intent in a way that makes her breath catch. Words rise to her lips, though she's not sure what they might be.

Instead, she reaches for his cloak clasp, giving her hands something safe to do. "The Wild will be cold." The metal is smooth beneath her fingers. "Keep this fastened properly."

His hands come up to catch hers, pressing them between his own. They're warm despite the morning chill. "Until we meet again."

"Safe journey, Dúnadan." She allows herself to squeeze his fingers once before pulling away.

Then, before she can think better of it, she leans forward and presses her lips to his cheek. The kiss is swift, light – hardly more than a breath. But something electric runs through her at the contact, and when their eyes meet, she sees her own surprise mirrored in his face.

She turns and walks away, forcing her steps to remain measured, dignified. Behind her, she hears him mount, the soft sounds of horse and rider moving toward the ford. She does not look back, though her lips still tingle with the memory of his skin.

The sun rises, catching the last autumn leaves in gold. She stands in the shadows of the colonnade, watching until he disappears around the river's bend, and tells herself the hollow feeling in her chest is merely the melancholy of parting from a friend.

Chapter Text

T.A. 2965

The morning sun strikes Minas Tirith's walls, and for a moment Aragorn halts his horse. Seven circles of stone rise like steps for giants, white as mountain snow. The Tower of Ecthelion pierces the sky like a spear of pearl and silver. His ancestors built this. His blood rises in his throat.

"Impressive, isn't it?" A merchant pulls his wagon alongside. "First time in the White City?"

Aragorn adjusts his worn ranger's cloak. "The stories don't do it justice."

But they had. Every tale in Rivendell's libraries, every verse of Elendil's landing, every map he'd studied at Elrond's table. The tower catches the light like the jewels in Arwen's hair that evening in the Hall of Fire. He sees himself standing on those high walls, the winged crown on his brow, her hand in his—

His horse shifts beneath him, breaking the dream. Fool's thoughts. There's work ahead, years of it. Maybe decades. He urges his mount forward, joining the stream of traffic through the great gates.

The guards eye his travel-stained clothes, his ranger's gear. Their hands rest easy on their spears, but their eyes are sharp. Good. The Enemy's servants don't always come in obvious shapes.

"Your business in the city?" The gate guard's voice carries the crisp accent of Minas Tirith's upper circles.

"I seek audience with the Lord Steward. I carry letters from Thengel King of Rohan."

The guard's posture shifts slightly. Aragorn keeps his own stance relaxed, unremarkable. Just another warrior seeking service. Not a king's heir who once walked these streets in dreams.

"You'll want the fourth circle." The guard gestures. "The Captain of the Guard can direct you."

The stone streets wind upward, each circle more ordered than the last. The air grows thin. From the third circle, he can see clear across the Pelennor to the Anduin. The river catches the morning light like loose strands of dark hair in firelight—

He tightens his grip on the reins. Focus. Survival means being Thorongil completely. No dreams of crowns. No memories of starlit voices. Just a skilled sword arm from the North, nothing more.

The Captain of the Guard reads Thengel's letter twice. "The Steward will see you when the afternoon council ends." His eyes are sharp, measuring. "You can wait in the antechamber."

The antechamber's windows face east. Somewhere beyond those mountains, the Shadow grows. Here in the heart of his ancestors' city, that knowledge weighs heavier than ever. He touches the ring of Barahir, hidden in his pocket. The metal is warm against his skin.

T.A. 2968

The council chamber's windows face east, toward the Shadow. Morning light falls across the great table where maps of Ithilien lie spread, weighted with bronze markers showing last month's orc movements.

Denethor traces a line along the Anduin. "The raids grow bolder. Here, and here." His finger stops at a crossing. "Yet they avoid the rangers' usual paths."

"They learn," someone mutters.

"Indeed." Denethor's grey eyes fix on Aragorn. "What think you, Thorongil? You've been quiet."

The chamber stills. Five pairs of eyes turn to him, but only Denethor's hold that knife-sharp assessment. Aragorn keeps his posture loose, unconcerned.

"The patterns suggest scouts preceding the raids. See how they probe, then withdraw?" He indicates the markers. "They're learning your rangers' habits."

"Our rangers' habits," Denethor corrects. His mouth tightens. "Though you've said little of your own ranging experience."

"I've traveled widely, my lord."

"So you say. Yet you name no place of birth, no family, no training ground." Denethor's voice stays light, but his eyes are hard as flint. "A man of your blood must come from somewhere."

The silence stretches. Aragorn feels the weight of his secrets like chainmail. He chooses his next words with care. "My father died when I was very young, my lord, and I was taken into another house for fostering. My ranging skills came through necessity."

Denethor's lip curls slightly. "How fortunate that your mysterious fosterers taught you the speech of Gondor's nobility, the bearing of her ancient houses."

"My lord honors me."

Denethor turns back to the maps. "The Ithilien companies need experienced leadership. Since you know so much of ranging, perhaps that would suit your...talents."

A sideways promotion – away from the city, from Ecthelion's growing favor. Aragorn inclines his head, accepting the move in this game of stones. "I am glad to serve wherever Gondor has need."

"Indeed." Denethor's smile doesn't reach his eyes. "Captain Gelmir will show you to your new command. The rangers depart at dawn."

The others file out, leaving them alone. Denethor gathers the maps with precise movements. "A word of counsel, Thorongil. Secrets have a way of casting shadows. Men wonder what lies in those shadows, and why."

"All men have secrets, my lord." Aragorn keeps his voice mild. "Even those who rule."

Denethor's hands still on the parchments. "Is that a threat?"

"An observation only. You're right to guard Gondor's interests. I would think less of you if you did not."

Their eyes meet. For a moment, Aragorn sees the man Denethor could be – a strong ally, a friend even. But that would require truths he cannot share, trust he cannot ask for.

"The rangers are watching for me," Aragorn says, moving toward the door. "By your leave, lord?"

Denethor waves him away, already turning back to his maps. But Aragorn feels those grey eyes on his back, measuring, assessing. Wondering.

The corridor outside is cool and empty. Aragorn lets out a slow breath. Another dance of secrets, another mask to maintain. He finds himself thinking of Rivendell's libraries, of conversations about duty and disguise with one who understood too well the weight of others' expectations.

But those are dangerous thoughts for Thorongil, the nameless captain. He straightens his sword belt and goes to find Gelmir. Ithilien's forests await.

T.A. 2970

The night barely starts to thin when Aragorn catches the first scent of orcs. Calenarth stiffens beside him, catching it too. Below their position, shadows move against shadows – far too many for a simple scouting party.

They'd been waiting for this. Three nights of tracking, of scattered signs leading to this ravine. Now he counts the enemy force: forty, perhaps fifty. More than they've seen this close to the river in months.

Time compresses. He signals the rangers into position, mind already racing through possibilities. The orcs will reach the narrowest point of the ravine in minutes. His men are in place above, arrows ready. A good plan. A careful plan.

Then an orc looks up.

The creature's eyes meet his. For a heartbeat, nothing moves. Then chaos erupts.

"Shoot!" The command tears from his throat as the first orc arrows fly past. His own bow sings, finds its mark. But they're loosing too early, losing the advantage of position—

Focus. See it whole.

The thought comes in her voice, from years ago. They'd been discussing strategy over chess pieces.

He sees it now. The orcs splitting into three groups. The weak point in their own left flank. The opportunity hidden in the chaos.

"Calenarth! Take six men east. Cut off their retreat." His next arrow takes an orc captain in the throat. "Gelmir – with me."

They slide down the ravine's face, using roots as handholds. His sword clears its sheath as his boots hit dirt. The blade catches pre-dawn light, steel glowing cold as starlight.

An orc charges. Aragorn shifts, lets the creature's own momentum add to the killing stroke. Another follows. He moves through them like water through stones, each step placed with precision, each cut serving multiple purposes. Economy of motion. Another lesson from another life.

"The east group's pinned!" Calenarth's cry carries over the clash of steel.

"Push them west!" Aragorn ducks under a wild swing, hamstrings his attacker. "Into the narrows!"

The orcs realize too late they're being herded. Arrows rain from above, forcing them together. Aragorn leads the ground force in a wedge, driving them back, using their own mass against them. Just like she'd demonstrated with the chess pieces – how a smaller force could control a larger one's movement.

An orc blade slices his arm. He barely feels it. Everything narrows to breath and steel and motion. To the space between heartbeats where decisions live.

Then it's over. The last orcs break, flee into arrows. Silence crashes back like a wave.

"Casualties?" His voice sounds strange in his ears.

"Three wounded." Gelmir appears at his elbow. "Nothing grave. You're bleeding, Captain."

Aragorn looks at his arm as if it belongs to someone else. "A scratch." He cleans his blade, sheathes it. "Get the wounded seen to. Then we need to move. There may be more coming."

The men disperse to their tasks. Dawn creeps over the ravine's edge. Aragorn breathes it in, letting the battle-focus fade.

"Captain?" Calenarth again. "That maneuver, with the wedge. I've never seen its like."

Aragorn binds his arm, buying time to choose his words. "An old tactic. I learned it over a game of chess."

"Chess?" Calenarth's eyebrows rise. "Must have been some teacher."

"Yes." Aragorn tests the bandage, satisfies himself it will hold. "She is."

The sun breaks over the trees. Time to move, to track, to guard. But for a moment he allows himself to feel the complete clarity of battle, the way it burns away everything but essence. In that burning, sometimes, he feels closest to her – as if they're both touching the same truth from different sides.

Then duty returns, and Thorongil the captain takes over from Aragorn the man. "Check the bodies for intelligence. We move in ten minutes."

The day's work begins.

Chapter Text

T.A. 2964

The candle flickers. Arwen turns another page, though she's read this passage a hundred times before. The tale of Aegnor and Andreth used to fascinate her – the strange relationship between Elf and Man, the questions of fate and choice. Now the words seem to taunt her.

A footstep whispers on stone. She doesn't need to look up to know who it is – mortal feet have their own rhythm, less fluid than Elven steps.

"You're up late, my dear." Gilraen's voice is soft in the library's shadows.

"Time moves differently for me." Arwen traces the illuminated margin of the page. "Sometimes I forget mortals need more sleep."

"Do we?" Gilraen settles in the chair across from her. "Or do we simply measure its worth differently?" She studies Arwen's face in the candlelight. "That's the third time this week I've found you here after midnight."

"There's much to learn in these books."

"There is. I've noticed you keep returning to the same ones."

Arwen's fingers still on the page. Gilraen doesn't press, just waits. The silence stretches between them like a bridge.

"Did you find it difficult?" Arwen asks finally. "When Arathorn was away ranging?"

"Ah." Gilraen's smile holds wisdom earned through grief. "The first year was hardest. Everything reminded me of him. Even the spaces where he wasn't."

The empty chair at the end of the row seems to draw Arwen's gaze. She forces her eyes back to the book.

"How did you bear it?"

"I had duty." Gilraen's voice softens on her son's name. "And then Estel. And the knowledge that absence doesn't mean ending." She pauses. "I suspect time feels different when you have eternities to measure it against."

"We feel absence too." The words come out sharper than Arwen intended.

"Of course you do. But perhaps you're less practiced at it? When was the last time you truly missed someone?"

The question catches like a hook. Arwen closes the book, careful of its ancient binding. "I should let you rest."

Gilraen rises, adjusts her shawl. The candle flame dances in a draft. Arwen watches it flutter, remembering other conversations in this room.

"Sleep well, Lady Gilraen."

After the mortal woman's footsteps fade, Arwen opens the book again. The same page. The same words. But now they seem to mock her with their story of immortal and mortal hearts meeting across the divide of years.

She blows out the candle. In the sudden dark, the empty chair feels like a wound in the world.

TA 2968

The blank parchment stares up at Arwen. She dips her quill, watches a drop of ink fall back into the well. Another ruined attempt lies crumpled beside her desk.

"My friend—" Too informal? No, anything more formal would be strange after the month they shared. She continues:

"Word has reached us of your service to Rohan and now Gondor. Father speaks highly of your—"

She strikes through the lines. Too distant. Like a report to a subordinate.

A fresh sheet. The quill hovers:

"I find myself thinking of our discussions about the nature of duty, and how it shapes—"

No. Too philosophical. She presses her fingers to her temples, remembering how easy it was to talk with him. How the words flowed like water, each thought leading naturally to the next. Now every sentence feels like a confession. Or a lie.

Another attempt:

"The library is quieter without—"

The quill tears through the parchment.

She starts again. And again. Each version either says too much or reveals nothing at all. The sun moves across her desk as the pile of discarded beginnings grows.

"Captain Thorongil—" Too formal.

"Dear friend—" Too familiar.

"I hope this finds you—" Too ordinary.

Finally she sits back, looks at the waste of parchment, of hours. Of words that refuse to bridge the distance between thought and page.

Mithrandir won't pass through Rivendell for months anyway.

She feeds the attempts to the fire, watching the ink blur and vanish in the flames. Some things, perhaps, are better left unsaid.

The empty parchment she returns to her desk. Just in case.

TA 2971

Maps cover the council table. Elrond traces the line of the Misty Mountains with one finger. "The passes grow more dangerous. The Beornings speak of increased orc activity."

Arwen studies the markers, the patterns they make. Red for enemy movements, blue for allied patrols. Her eyes drift to Gondor's borders. To the marks indicating skirmishes along Ithilien's edge. She turns her gaze away.

"What news from grandmother?" she asks, careful to keep her tone light.

"The Golden Wood stands strong." Elrond's glance is sharp, but she keeps her face serene. "But the Lady speaks of darkness gathering in Dol Guldur. Which Thranduil's messengers confirm."

Glorfindel mutters darkly about Sauron's reach growing long.

"Mithrandir brings better news." Erestor's bright tones cut through the grave silence. "Gondor has strengthened its borders."

"Yes, I hear Estel- or should I say Thorongil- is doing well." Elrond straightens. "He has risen in Ecthelion's favor."

Arwen's fingers tighten on her sleeve. She forces them to relax.

"The Steward would do well to heed his counsel," Erestor says. "Though Mithrandir says his son is less welcoming of our Estel's wisdom."

"The proud rarely welcome change." Elrond rolls up a scroll. "Even when it comes bearing salvation."

The conversation moves on. Arwen watches as the morning light catches the ring on her father's finger. The idea forms like dew gathering on a leaf. Lothlorien. Its timeless peace. Its distance from maps and markers and news from the South.

"The mountain passes," she says. "Are they still safe enough for travel?"

"With proper escort." Elrond studies her face. "Are you considering a journey, daughter?"

"Perhaps it's time I saw the Golden Wood again."

The silence stretches. Outside, a thrush trills its morning song.

"You've only recently returned to us," Elrond says finally.

"Twenty years is not so short." She meets his eyes, steady.

He inclines his head, but something in his face suggests he hears the words she isn't saying. "We will speak of this later. Erestor, the reports from the Angle?"

The discussion turns to border patrols, to ranger movements. Arwen bends over the maps again, forcing herself to focus on patterns and probabilities. Not on the hope that distance might quiet this strange restlessness in her heart.

TA 2971

Evening light pools in her father's study, catching in the crystals that line his shelves – gifts from Celebrimbor, ancient now as the stones themselves. Arwen stands in the doorway, watching him sort through his correspondence. His fingers move with the precise grace she remembers from childhood healing lessons, each movement considered and sure.

He looks up at her soft knock, and his face warms. "Come in, Arwen."

She crosses to his desk, settling into the chair he indicates. The leather is worn smooth from centuries of similar conversations. "You're working late."

"There is always more to be done." He sets aside a stack of papers, giving her his full attention. The gesture is so familiar it makes her throat tight – how many times has she sat here, sharing the quiet of evening with him? "But never too much for you."

"The council discussion today..." She folds her hands in her lap. "About the mountain passes."

"Ah." He leans back slightly. "You're thinking of Lothlorien."

She nods, watches him pour wine into two crystal glasses – a ritual between them since she came of age. The vintage is one they both favor, deep and complex.

"As I said, it is not so long since you've returned to Rivendell." He passes her a glass, his fingers brushing hers.

She cradles the wine, breathes in its familiar scent. "I would see grandmother and grandfather while the roads remain open."

He studies her face over the rim of his glass. "You seem... unsettled of late."

The wine suddenly tastes sharp on her tongue. She sets the glass down carefully. "Do I?"

"A father notices such things." His voice is gentle. "You walk the gardens at odd hours. Your weaving sits untouched."

"Perhaps I grow restless for change." She traces the pattern carved into the arm of her chair – one she knows by heart, having studied it through countless conversations. "Even the Eldar can desire that, can they not?"

"Of course." He sets his wine glass down, and in the silence that follows she hears the distant sound of the falls. "Will you not tell me what troubles you, senya?"

The directness of the question catches her off guard. She looks at him and sees not the Lord of Imladris but her father, concern etched in the set of his mouth, the slight furrow between his brows. For a moment she wants to tell him everything: about the dreams that wake her, about the way her heart beats too fast sometimes for no reason she can name, about how the very air of Rivendell seems to press against her skin these days like an ill-fitting dress.

But she cannot bear to see his face change if she speaks these things aloud. Cannot bear to name them even to herself.

"Nothing troubles me." The lie sits heavy in her stomach. She forces a smile. "I simply miss grandmother and grandfather. Is that so strange?"

He studies her face a moment longer, and she feels again like a child who has disappointed him somehow, though his expression remains gentle. "Of course not." He reaches across the desk, covers her hand with his. His ring is cool against her skin. "You have always found peace in the Golden Wood."

She turns her hand, squeezes his fingers. "As mother did."

Something flickers in his eyes – grief, perhaps, or memory. But his smile remains warm. "When would you wish to leave?"

"A week's time?" She straightens, relief loosening the knot in her chest. "While the weather holds fair."

He nods, reaches for a fresh sheet of parchment. His quill moves across it in familiar sweeps – she used to watch him write letters just like this when she was small, perched on his knee and trying to copy his precise script.

"I will send word to your grandmother." The scratch of his quill is comforting, constant. "Though I warn you, she may try to keep you there indefinitely."

"She will have to contend with how much I miss my father."

He looks up at that, and for a moment she sees past the wisdom of ages to something simpler – just a father who loves his daughter. "The valley will seem quiet without you."

"Then I shall have to bring back stories to fill it." She rises, moves around the desk to kiss his cheek. His hair smells of athelas and evening air – the scent of home. "Thank you, Ada."

"Sleep well, my Undómiel."

She pauses at the door, looking back. He has returned to his writing, but there's a slight smile on his face – the one she remembers from childhood, when she would leave his study having gotten her way about some small adventure. The evening light wraps around him like a familiar cloak, and for a moment she wishes she could stay, could simply be his daughter forever in this peaceful valley.

But the restlessness pulls at her again, and she slips out into the corridor, leaving him to his letters and the quiet of the growing dark.

TA 2971

The books are the hardest to choose. Arwen runs her fingers along familiar spines, deciding which can bear another parting. Which she needs with her in Lothlorien. Her chest of personal belongings stands half-packed, tomorrow's journey waiting.

A volume catches at her hand. She draws it out, lets it fall open to a page dense with annotations. The marginalia is precise, thorough – observations on the fall of Númenor, on the nature of kingship. On duty. His handwriting, clear and strong as the hand that wrote it.

"You needn't go, you know."

Gilraen stands in the doorway, wrapped in her evening shawl. Her face holds the same worry Arwen's seen growing these past months.

"The roads grow more dangerous." Arwen closes the book. "Best to travel while we still can."

"The roads have been dangerous for centuries." Gilraen comes in, settles on the edge of the bed. "You're not sleeping. Barely eating. Something troubles you, and running to Lothlorien will not mend it."

"I am not running."

"No?" Gilraen's voice is gentle. "Then stay. Talk to me. These past months, it's like watching someone fade before my eyes."

Arwen turns to her friend, sees the genuine concern there. The mortal woman has aged these twenty years – silver threading her dark hair, lines deepening around her eyes. So brief a time, yet long enough for such changes.

"I am not fading," Arwen says softly. "Merely..."

"Restless? Lost?"

Their eyes meet. Arwen sinks down beside her on the bed.

"I had another dream last night," she admits.

"The white towers again?"

Arwen nods. "And more. I saw..." She stops. Looks down at her hands.

"Oh, my dear." Gilraen takes those hands in her own weathered ones. "Is it so terrible to care for him?"

Is it? Arwen does not know. To long for someone this much, someone she has only really interacted with for a few months, someone who she has not shared a proper kiss or even embrace with, is absurd, pathetic, unthinkable. But she can no longer deny that she does. Long for him.

Arwen squeezes Gilraen's hands, then rises. Moves to the window. Stars glimmer above the valley, eternal and unchanging. She fixes her eyes on them, on their cold comfort.

"Perhaps in Lothlorien things will be clearer."

"Perhaps." Gilraen looks as if she wishes to say more, but instead she just stands and hugs Arwen, brief but fierce. "Be well, my dear."

After she's gone, Arwen turns back to her packing. The book with his marginalia she leaves on the shelf. But her fingers linger on its spine, just for a moment, before she turns away.

In the morning, she will ride for Lothlorien. For its timeless forests where nothing changes, nothing surprises.

Where, perhaps, she'll find answers to questions she's only now learning to ask.

Chapter Text

Autumn T.A. 2972

The Steward's private study feels warmer than the great hall, despite the evening chill. Maps cover the broad oak table, weighted with bronze markers. Ecthelion stands at the window, his back to the room.

"The men speak of you," he says. "Not just the soldiers. The people in the streets. They say you bring hope back to Gondor."

Aragorn keeps his voice neutral. "They honor me beyond my worth."

"Do they?" Ecthelion turns. Lamplight catches the silver in his hair, the keen intelligence in his aged face. "A captain appears from Rohan, bearing himself like a lord of old. He wins victories, refuses rewards, lives more simply than a common soldier. The people notice such things."

"I serve Gondor. That is all."

"Is it?" Ecthelion moves to the table, studies the maps. "You speak our tongue with the accent of the court, not the provinces. You know our histories as if you learned them at your nurse's knee. You carry yourself like..." He pauses. "Well."

The silence stretches. Aragorn feels the weight of his secrets pressing against his tongue. The ring of Barahir seems to burn beneath his sleeve.

The door opens. Denethor enters, stops short at the sight of them.

"Father. I didn't realize you were... occupied."

"Your timing is perfect." Ecthelion gestures to the maps. "We were discussing the defense of the southern coasts. Captain Thorongil has some thoughts on the corsair threat."

Denethor's jaw tightens. "Does he indeed? How fortunate we are, to have such wisdom from... where was it you said you were born, Captain?"

"I didn't." Aragorn traces a line along the coast. "The corsairs have grown bolder. They probe our defenses, learning our patterns."

"So you've said. Often." Denethor moves to his father's side. "Strange, how you know so much of our enemies. Of our ways."

"Knowledge is a weapon, my son." Ecthelion's voice carries a warning. "One we sorely need."

"And do we know who wields it?" Denethor's eyes fix on Aragorn. "Or to what purpose?"

"To Gondor's purpose." Aragorn keeps his tone level. "Always."

"Pretty words." Denethor smiles without warmth. "But words are wind, and secrets cast long shadows."

"Enough." Ecthelion's hand comes down on the table. "We have work before us. The corsair threat grows."

They bend to the maps. Strategies are proposed, discussed, refined. But Aragorn feels Denethor's gaze like a blade at his back, measuring the distance between appearance and truth.

When he leaves the study, the stars are out.

I serve Gondor, he thinks. But in his mind, he sees starlight on dark hair, wisdom in ageless eyes. Sees a future that makes all this careful maneuvering worthwhile.

If only he knew whether she saw it too.

Midsummer T.A. 2976

Torchlight gilds the feast hall's pillars. Victory songs rise with the wine-warm air – celebration for three raids thwarted, two companies of orcs destroyed, trade routes secured. Aragorn sips his wine slowly, watching the room from his place at the high table.

"Captain Thorongil." Lord Huor materializes at his elbow, daughter in tow. "May I present my daughter, the Lady Haleth?"

She curtsies with practiced grace. Dark hair, grey eyes – the blood of Númenor runs true here. "Captain. Your victory brings great honor to Gondor."

"The honor belongs to the men." Aragorn inclines his head. "I merely pointed them toward it."

"Such modesty." Huor's smile is too careful to be casual. "Haleth has a keen interest in military matters. Perhaps you might enlighten her?"

Aragorn reads the currents beneath the words. Sees the way other lords watch the exchange, measuring possibilities. The way Denethor observes from his father's right hand, eyes sharp over his wine cup.

"Surely there are pleasanter topics for a feast?" He keeps his tone light. "The lady's skill with the harp, I'm told, is remarkable."

A flush touches Haleth's cheeks. "You are too kind, my lord. Though I would rather hear of your travels. They say you've wandered far."

"Not so far." He smiles, remembering other music, other conversations. The way firelight caught in darker hair, the wisdom in older eyes. "And never long enough in one place to learn any instrument well."

"But you must have seen many courts," Huor presses. "Many noble houses."

"None to rival Gondor's." Aragorn rises. "If you'll excuse me – I believe Lord Ecthelion beckons."

He doesn't look back as he makes his way through the crowd. Doesn't need to see Huor's disappointment, or his daughter's poorly hidden hurt. The ring in his pocket feels heavier than usual.

The musicians begin the Lay of Luthien. Aragorn's fingers tighten on his wine cup. The notes pierce through his carefully maintained composure, and suddenly he is twenty again, stumbling through twilit woods, calling out a name from legend.

He makes his way to the balcony, nodding mechanically to lords who try to catch his eye. The night air should help clear his head, but instead the quiet darkness only makes the memories sharper. He sees her still: dark hair falling past her waist, blue silk catching on birch bark, that moment of turning when he thought her Luthien herself. His own voice, young and wondering, breaking the spell of her solitary dance.

His hand rises unconsciously to his cheek, remembering that last morning in Rivendell. The brush of her lips, swift as a bird's wing, gone before he could believe it real. How she had looked afterward, startled at her own boldness, composure settling back over her features like a familiar mask. He had carried that moment with him through five years of service in the South, taking it out in quiet moments like a talisman, wondering if he had imagined the tremor in her voice when she bid him safe journey.

"A courtesy," he mutters, dropping his hand. "Nothing more."

"Captain Thorongil?"

He turns. Finduilas stands in the doorway, her blue eyes bright in the darkness. Something in her direct gaze reminds him of the North, though she has never seen it.

"Lady Finduilas." He bows. "I hope you are well?"

"Better than you seem to be." She moves to stand beside him at the balustrade. "The song troubled you."

"The wine perhaps. The hall was warm."

"Mm." She studies his face. "Who is she?"

The question catches him off guard. "I beg your pardon?"

"The lady. There must be one." Her smile is gentle. "Why else would the famous Captain Thorongil turn away so many eligible matches?"

He cannot help laughing, though it comes out rougher than he intends. "You have found me out."

"Will you tell me who she is?"

"She is..." He thinks of Arwen in the gardens, listening intently to his tales of Rohan, offering her own insights, laughing at his stumbling attempts at humor. How for two brief weeks she had made him feel like more than just another mortal passing through her eternal life. "Far above my station."

"Above Thorongil?" Finduilas raises an eyebrow. "That narrows the field considerably."

"I was not given leave to speak her name."

"Mysterious." She turns to look out over the city. "Why not set such thoughts aside, then? There are many who would gladly return your regard."

His fingers brush his cheek again, chasing that ghost of a kiss. "If only it were so simple. My heart proves inconveniently constant."

He expects mockery, but Finduilas only sighs, a sound full of romantic sympathy. "I hope she knows her fortune, this nameless lady. And that one day your constancy finds its reward."

The sincerity in her voice makes him uncomfortable, too close to hopes he usually keeps buried. "Shall we return inside? Your lord husband will wonder where you are."

She takes his offered arm. "Denethor is deep in conversation about trade tariffs. I doubt he has noticed my absence."

They reenter the hall. The musicians have moved on to lighter tunes, but Aragorn finds himself still hearing echoes of that other melody, that other time. He guides Finduilas back to her seat, then returns to his duties as Captain Thorongil, listening to reports of border skirmishes and nodding at the right moments. The wine cup in his hand stays full.

December T.A. 2979

The models on the table show Umbar's harbors in miniature - every dock, every sea-wall, every defense tower carved in precise detail. Aragorn moves a small wooden ship, demonstrating the approach.

"The corsairs won't expect an attack from the north, not in winter. Their eyes will be on the trade routes."

"Winter storms make the coast treacherous." Prince Adrahil of Dol Amroth strokes his grey beard. "But that same danger shields us from their scouts."

Denethor picks up one of the model ships. "Unless they're warned. One spy, one mistake..."

"We'll move in darkness," Aragorn says. "Small groups, coordinated. Strike their ships before they know we're there."

"And who will lead this raid?" Denethor sets the ship down hard enough to rattle the table. "Who has such experience in secret attacks?"

Ecthelion's eyes move between his son and his captain. The other lords shift uncomfortably.

"The plan is sound," Adrahil says into the silence. "But it needs someone who understands both ships and strategy. Someone the men trust."

"I wonder." Denethor's voice could freeze the harbor itself. "Do the men trust reputation, or merely its appearance?"

"Thorongil will lead the raid." Ecthelion's words fall like stones into still water.

The silence deepens. Aragorn sees the moment's significance in every face around the table. This is no mere tactical decision. This is Ecthelion choosing to trust a stranger over his own son.

"My lord." He keeps his voice carefully neutral. "Lord Denethor's experience with Gondor's defenses—"

"Is needed here." Ecthelion rises. "The city cannot spare both its Steward and its heir. You will take three companies of ships. Choose your captains carefully."

Denethor's hands clench on the table's edge. "Father—"

"The decision is made." Ecthelion turns to Aragorn. "How soon can you sail?"

"A few months to gather supplies and men. We'll need—"

"One month." Denethor cuts in. "If the plan is so urgent, surely speed is essential?"

Their eyes meet across the table. The challenge is clear - either refuse the compressed timeline and appear reluctant, or accept it and risk being underprepared.

"One month will suffice," Aragorn says quietly.

"Good." Ecthelion nods. "Make your preparations. Denethor, a word about the city's defenses..."

Aragorn gathers his papers, acutely aware of the political currents swirling around him. This isn't just about Umbar anymore. It's about succession, about trust, about a father and son growing further apart.

And he's the wedge between them.

In his quarters that evening, he thinks about Arwen. Wonders what she'd make of all this maneuvering, this dance of power and pride. She'd grown up watching her father guide realms and shape alliances - she'd understand the currents beneath the surface here.

He misses being able to talk with her about such things. Their conversations in Rivendell had ranged everywhere - politics, duty, the nature of leadership. She'd understand his discomfort at being used against Denethor, his reluctance to deepen the rift between father and son.

But she'd also tell him to focus on what needs doing. The corsair threat is real, regardless of politics. The raid is necessary.

He turns back to his preparations. Two weeks isn't much time, but he'll make it work. He has to. Too much depends on his success here - not just the raid itself, but everything it represents.

Every victory brings him one step closer to being able to return North. To being able to offer Arwen more than just a ranger's love.

If she even wants it.

December T.A. 2979

"Mithrandir comes!" The cry rings from the walls. Aragorn watches from the courtyard as the grey-cloaked figure makes his way up through the circles of the city. Even from here, he can see how the children run to greet the wizard, and how the old man pretends to be annoyed by their attention.

"Welcome, old friend." Ecthelion rises from the Steward's chair. "Your counsel is ever welcome in these halls."

"Counsel?" Denethor's voice carries clearly. "Or perhaps more cryptic warnings about shadows in the East?"

"Your hospitality overwhelms me, Lord Denethor." Gandalf's eyes twinkle beneath bristling brows. "Though I see your tongue remains as sharp as ever."

Later, in Aragorn's quarters, Gandalf puffs on his pipe. Smoke rings drift toward the ceiling.

"So," the wizard says. "You've managed to make yourself indispensable to the Steward and insufferable to his son. Quite an achievement in such a short time."

"I didn't seek this position."

"No?" Gandalf's eyebrows rise. "Yet here you are, planning secret raids, commanding armies..."

"The corsair threat must be dealt with."

"Indeed." Gandalf tamps down his pipe. "And after that, what new crisis will demand Captain Thorongil's attention? What other duties will bind you here?"

Aragorn moves to the window. Below, the lights of Minas Tirith glitter like fallen stars. "You think I should leave."

"I think," Gandalf says gruffly, "that you're playing a dangerous game. Denethor is proud, yes, and suspicious - but he's not wrong to be. You're a threat to everything he values."

"I serve Gondor."

"Oh, stop being dense." Gandalf sets his pipe down with a crack. "Of course you serve Gondor. But you're also its rightful king, and every day you spend here as Thorongil only makes the eventual truth more dangerous. And more painful."

Aragorn turns from the window. "I can't abandon—"

"Abandon?" Gandalf snorts. "The time isn't right for your return, and you know it. Better to leave while Thorongil's name is still honored. Before Denethor's suspicions curdle into hatred."

"After Umbar, then."

"Hmph." Gandalf retrieves his pipe. "You're as stubborn as your father. But yes, after Umbar will do." His voice softens. "You'll see the White City again, Aragorn. When the time is right."

"If I succeed here. If I can prove—" He stops himself.

"Prove what?" Gandalf's voice sharpens again. "You're thinking of her, aren't you? The Lady Undómiel?"

He stiffens, but he knows that Gandalf can see the truth in his eyes.

"I think of her always." The words come easier than he expected.

"Yes, well." Gandalf stands, tucking his pipe away. "Best get on with this raid of yours then. I wonder - have you considered simply telling her how you feel?"

He scoffs. "I did once. It did not end well." But then he remembers her lips on his cheek. "But... it may be that her views have changed." He shakes his head to clear it. "I do not know."

"Then that's something you should find out, isn't it?" Gandalf grips his shoulder. "Deal with Umbar. Then go North. Some questions can only be answered in person."

After the wizard leaves, Aragorn stays at the window. The city spreads below him, beautiful and treacherous. Everything he's dreamed of, everything he's worked for. Yet now all he can think about is Rivendell, and whether he'll find welcome there when he returns.

Whether she'll be glad to see him, or if he's spent these years cherishing a dream that never had hope.

Only one way to find out. But first, Umbar.

Chapter Text

T.A. 2971

Mallorn leaves whisper overhead, gold against endless blue. Arwen breathes in the familiar air of Lothlorien - unchanged since her childhood, unchanged since before her childhood. Time moves differently here. That's why she's come.

That's what she tells herself.

"Welcome home, granddaughter." Galadriel descends the steps of Caras Galadhon, radiant as starlight. Her eyes see too much, as always.

"Grandmother." Arwen accepts her embrace. "The passes grow more dangerous."

"Yet you crossed them easily enough."

There's a question in those ancient eyes. Arwen turns away, letting her gaze drift up the mellyrn trees to where the afternoon light catches their leaves. Everything here is beautiful. Perfect. Timeless.

She should feel peace.

The welcoming feast unfolds like a remembered dream. Songs she's known since childhood. Wine that tastes of summer. Tales told and retold until they've worn smooth as river stones. Even the faces around her are familiar - the march wardens, the singers, the loremasters.

Haldir raises his glass to her from across the table. She returns the gesture automatically, remembering other feasts, other nights. How easy things used to be.

"You're restless." Galadriel's voice is soft beside her.

"I've been too long in Imladris." The excuse sounds hollow even to her. "Among mortals."

"Any mortal in particular?"

Arwen's cup stills halfway to her lips. "Father sends his love."

"Mmm." Galadriel sips her wine. "The Golden Wood welcomes all who seek refuge. Even from themselves."

"I do not seek refuge."

"No?" Her grandmother's smile is gentle. "Then why do you watch the southern road?"

Arwen realizes she's been staring past the feast, toward the distant mountains. She forces her attention back to her plate. "News comes from many directions."

"It does indeed." Galadriel rises. "Rest, child. The Wood will still be here tomorrow."

Arwen's come to find peace in timelessness. To remember who she is - a daughter of the Eldar, ancient and unchanging as these woods.

So why does even starlight feel different now?

T.A. 2975

The mist clings to the ground between the mallorn trees, transforming the archery butts into ghostly shapes in the pre-dawn light. Arwen's arrows find their marks with mechanical precision, each impact echoing in the stillness. The rhythm of it - draw, release, impact - fills the space where thoughts might otherwise intrude.

"My lady." Haldir's voice carries the proper formality of a marchwarden addressing a noble, but there's a familiar warmth underneath it that speaks of centuries. "I had begun to think you had forgotten your way around our woods."

Her next arrow flies true before she turns. He stands beneath a mallorn tree, the silver bark catching the first hints of dawn behind him. His posture is all careful protocol, but his eyes hold that old spark of mischief.

"Four years pass quickly for our kind, Marchwarden."

"Indeed." He moves with deliberate grace, studying her form as she draws again. "Though I notice you found your way to the archery butts readily enough, while my flet remains unvisited."

The arrow strikes just left of center. A small imperfection, but he notices. He always notices.

"The butts are easier to find. They don't move." She reaches for another arrow, but her quiver stands empty. Without comment, he offers his own - a gesture that carries the weight of a thousand similar moments across the centuries.

"The hour is early for practice."

"The dawn has its particular merits."

"You never sought solitude before." His voice softens, though he maintains the careful distance protocol demands. "I remember a time when you preferred... other pursuits at this hour."

When their eyes meet, the invitation is there, wrapped carefully in layers of propriety and old understanding. It would be so simple to step back into old patterns, to lose herself in something known and bounded.

"Haldir—"

He moves closer, close enough that protocol begins to fray at the edges. "Some things require no explanation between old friends." His fingers brush her arm, light as falling leaves. "And we are very old friends indeed."

She kisses him then, because it is easier than examining why she's really here, what she's really trying to forget. His touch is sure, remembered - a map she has traced a hundred times before in happier, simpler days.

Later, in his flet, dawn creeps across the bed where he sleeps beside her, one arm draped across her waist with casual possession. Everything about this should feel complete. Should feel enough.

A thrush calls from somewhere in the golden canopy. The sound carries her thoughts unbidden to other mornings, other conversations—

She shifts, careful and silent.

"Your mind wanders far this morning." His voice is sleep-rough, though his eyes remain closed.

"The day grows late." She rises and begins to dress, each movement precise and measured. "The Lady will be holding council soon."

"Ah yes, duty calls." He props himself on one elbow, watching her with the same easy affection he has always shown.

She smooths her hair, adjusts her sleeves. "You know how these diplomatic visits can be. Every hour seems spoken for."

His smile holds warmth, nothing more. "Then I shall have to speak for a few hours myself, when opportunity allows."

She inclines her head, allowing a small answering smile to surface. The gesture is perfect, practiced - giving just enough to maintain the pretense while revealing nothing of the hollow ache beneath.

The descent from his flet takes her into the gathering morning. Each step carries her further from the comfort of the known, toward something she cannot - will not - name. Not yet.

T.A. 2976

The morning air carries the scent of niphredil as they ride beneath the golden canopy. Arwen's grey mare Elenya matches the measured pace of her grandfather's stallion. The rhythm of hooves on soft earth fills the comfortable silence between them.

Celeborn watches her from the corner of his eye, the way he has since she was small enough to sit before him in the saddle. The weight of his attention feels like sunlight through leaves - gentle but impossible to ignore.

"You know," he begins conversationally, guiding his stallion closer to her, "I distinctly recall a time when these rides involved considerably more chatter. Stories about your latest adventures, complaints about your brothers' pranks, elaborate schemes to convince me to fund new stables in Imladris..." His eyes crinkle at the corners. "Now I find myself having to supply both sides of the conversation. Quite exhausting for an elf of my advanced years."

Arwen's mouth curves slightly, almost despite herself. "Advanced years? You who just last week challenged Rúmil to an archery contest?"

"Ah! She speaks!" He raises his hands in mock triumph. "And here I was beginning to wonder if some enchantment had stolen your voice. Though that still doesn't explain why my usually lively granddaughter has been wandering about like a shadow these past months." He softens the observation with gentle teasing, but his eyes are keen on her face. "Even your grandmother remarked upon it, and you know how she pretends not to notice such things."

"The morning is too fair for troubles," Arwen deflects, though the words come out less convincing than she'd like.

Celeborn draws his horse closer still, until their legs nearly touch. A shadow passes over his face. "Has Haldir—" The protective edge in his voice suggests he's already contemplating creative uses for the deepest cellars in Caras Galadhon.

"No!" The word comes quick and sharp. "No, of course not." She almost wants to laugh at the idea. If only it were something that simple, something her grandfather could fix with a stern word or a show of authority.

The tension eases from his shoulders, but concern still lines his face. "Then what weighs so heavy? You know you need only ask, and whatever you desire—" He reaches across the space between them to touch her hand, the gesture achingly familiar. How many times has he made the same offer, from her earliest years to now? And how many times has he fulfilled even her most whimsical requests, delighting in her delight?

A painful warmth spreads in her chest. She looks away, swallowing hard. "I miss Mother." Not a lie, not really. She does miss her, with a constant ache that never fully fades. And oh, how she wishes for Celebrian's counsel now, when her heart feels like it might tear itself in two. Her mother would know exactly what to say, how to make sense of these impossible feelings.

"Ah, little one." Celeborn's voice goes soft with shared grief. "As do I. But it will not be so long now, until we all meet again in Aman. A blink of an eye, really, in the count of our days."

The smile starts to form on her face, automatic and dutiful, until the full weight of his words hits her and she feels her stomach twist. Aman. The Undying Lands. Where all her kind will eventually sail, leaving behind the world of Men. Leaving behind...

Elenya shifts beneath her, sensing her sudden tension. She forces her breathing to remain steady, though her heart pounds against her ribs.

"Race you to the stream?" The challenge bursts from her before Celeborn can read anymore in her face. She doesn't wait for his answer, just urges her mount forward into a gallop.

His surprised laugh carries behind her, along with the thunder of his stallion's hooves giving chase. But she has always been the better rider, and for now at least, she can outrun everything - her grandfather's worried eyes, her own treacherous heart, the choice that looms before her like a gathering storm.

The wind whips tears from her eyes as she rides. If Celeborn sees them when he finally catches up, he will blame the speed of their race. He has always been kind that way, her grandfather, willing to let her keep her secrets until she's ready to share them. But she does not know if she will ever be ready to share this one.

T.A. 2978

Fire on water. Smoke against stars. Blood on a sword blade.

Aragorn stands at a ship's rail, flame-light catching his face. Men move around him, urgent shadows in the dark. His voice rises above the clash of steel: "Hold the line!"

An arrow whistles past. He turns—

Arwen wakes with a gasp, heart hammering. The dream clings like smoke, more vivid than any she's had before. She can still smell the sea-salt, the burning pitch.

Beside her, Haldir stirs. "What is it?"

"Nothing." She sits up, pressing her hands to her face. "A dream."

"Must have been quite a dream." His hand finds her shoulder, warm and steady. "You are shaking."

She is. She shouldn't be. It was just a dream, no matter how real it felt. No matter that she can still see every detail, every moment, every—

"Tell me?" Haldir's voice is gentle.

She looks at him, this dear friend who deserves better than half-truths. The flet's gauzy curtains shift in the night breeze. Somewhere an owl calls.

She shakes her head.

"Ah." Just that. He sits up, not touching her now. After a moment: "It was only a dream."

She rises, moves to the flet's edge. The Golden Wood spreads below, perfect and eternal. "It felt..." She trails off, unable to find words that won't reveal too much.

Haldir is quiet for a long moment. Then: "Perhaps you should sleep in your own chambers tonight."

She nods, grateful for his understanding. For not asking the questions she can see in his eyes.

After she leaves, she doesn't return to her chambers. She walks the paths between the mellyrn until dawn, trying to outpace the images that won't leave her. The sound of his voice. The way he moved through the battle like it was a dance he'd practiced all his life.

The owl calls again. She presses her hands against smooth bark, trying to ground herself in the present, in the eternal peace of Lothlorien.

It does not work.

She's spent yéni in these woods, letting time flow around her like water. But now every heartbeat feels measured, precious.

She doesn't let herself finish the thought.

T.A. 2978

Dawn touches the training grounds with pale light. Arwen looses arrow after arrow at the targets while Haldir watches. Each shot is perfect. Each feels empty.

"If you split another arrow, I shall make you fletch replacements myself." His voice aims for lightness but doesn't quite land.

Her hands still on the bow.

"You have been distant," he says.

She reaches for another arrow. Finds her quiver empty.

"Three months since you've come to my bed." He hands her his own arrows, fingers lingering a moment too long. "If something troubles you..."

The arrow flies. Misses the center for the first time today.

"Nothing troubles me." But she can't meet his eyes.

"We could continue as we are," he says quietly. "Nothing need change."

She sets down the bow before her hands can betray her further. "It has already changed."

He moves closer, and for a moment she sees past the careful mask of friendship to something deeper, something that aches. "Whatever haunts you, whatever keeps you awake - let me help."

"Haldir—"

"We are good together. We always have been."

"We were." The words hurt to say. "But I cannot..." She trails off as she fumbles for the words to explain. How can she say that cannot be with him because every time they kiss, she imagines another's lips, ones that she has in fact never touched, never felt on hers.

"Cannot what?" There's an edge to his voice now. "What are you running from, Arwen?"

The morning air feels too sharp in her lungs. Everything in the Golden Wood is exactly as it has always been. That's the problem.

She is not.

"This has to end."

He steps back as if struck. After a moment he says, very carefully, "If that is what you wish."

She nods, not trusting herself to speak.

His eyes search her face. She turns away, unable to bear the hurt she sees there, the questions she can't answer.

"I'm sorry," she whispers.

"As am I." His voice is rough.

As she walks away, leaving him alone on the practice field, she feels the weight of choice settling on her shoulders.

T.A. 2979

Sleep finds her in the hours before dawn. Dreams follow, but not like before - no battles, no blood, no urgent warnings. Instead:

He stands in a glade she knows, yet doesn't know. Light falls around him like water, catching in his dark hair, now threaded with silver at the temples. He wears white and silver, noble as any lord of Tol Eressea. But it's his eyes that hold her - grey as twilight, deep with wisdom earned through long years.

In his hands: elanor and niphredil. Flowers that bloom nowhere now save Lothlorien. He offers them to her without words.

She reaches for them—

Suddenly she is in her bed, heart pounding, as the first light filters through the leaves. There is no more hiding from the truth, no more pretending this is mere fondness or passing fancy. She loves him. The knowledge settles in her chest, sending ripples through everything she thought she knew about herself.

She presses her hands to her face, as if she could push the knowledge back, unmake this moment of clarity. But it is too late. The door has opened, and she cannot close it again.

Her mind drifts back to the dream. Her fingers still feel the phantom touch of the flowers that grow a thousand leagues from anywhere he could be.

Unless...

She sits up sharply, heart thundering against her ribs. Somewhere a bird trills a morning song.

He is coming.

She knows this suddenly, certainly, like she knows her own name. Not today, maybe not tomorrow, but soon. The dream settles into her bones like prophecy, like promise.

Like hope.

Chapter Text

January T.A. 2980

Aragorn stands at the prow of his lead ship as they approach the harbor of Umbar. No corsair has ever expected an attack on their own waters, least of all in the dead of winter. The night is moonless. Perfect.

The winter wind fills their sails. His fleet has timed their approach with the midnight tide, when the watch changes and men grow careless with cold. As they draw closer, he sees the corsair ships crowded in their anchorage, their crews shelter in the warmth of the taverns. They have grown fat on years of successful raids, secure in their belief that Gondor will only ever defend its own shores.

The first warning bells only start to ring after Aragorn's men have already put torch to the nearest ships. Fire blooms in the darkness. More bells join the first, their overlapping peals speaking of confusion rather than coordination.

By the time the corsairs pour out of the taverns, half their fleet is already burning. Those who reach their ships find the mooring ropes cut, the tide pulling the burning hulks out to sea where they cannot threaten Aragorn's vessels.

The Captain of the Havens emerges from his quarters in stolen Gondorian armor, rallying his men. Aragorn sees him clearly in the firelight - a tall man, broad across the shoulders. Their eyes meet across the narrowing distance.

Steel rings on steel. The Captain is strong, but there is fear in his eyes now. He has never faced an attack like this. His men are falling around him, cut down by Aragorn's trained soldiers or trapped on burning ships.

The duel is swift, brutal. The Captain fights with the desperation of a cornered beast. But Aragorn has been trained by elves, has spent decades honing his craft. When the opening comes, he takes it clean - sword sliding between ribs with terrible precision.

The Captain falls. Something changes in the air. The corsairs' resistance crumbles like sand.

Aragorn turns away from the body. A movement catches his eye - another corsair, sword raised. He strikes without thinking. The boy - for it is a boy, no more than fifteen - crumples at his feet. Blood spreads across leather armor cut down to fit narrow shoulders. The sword beside him is notched, well-used. A fighter then, despite his youth. But still a child.

Aragorn closes the boy's staring eyes. His hand trembles slightly - the first time since the battle began.

"Your orders, Captain?" His second appears, face grey with exhaustion. "The men await word to sail for Pelargir."

Aragorn looks north, toward where the White City lies waiting. Ecthelion will expect triumph. Denethor will have his own reception prepared, sharp as a blade between the ribs.

"Bring me parchment and ink."

In his cabin, he writes with care:

My Lord Steward,

Umbar's threat is ended. The corsair fleet burns. Your borders are secured.

When this reaches you, I shall be gone. Other tasks now call me hence, and much time and many perils must pass ere I come again to Gondor, if that be my fate.

Your most loyal servant, Thorongil

When he hands the sealed letter to his lieutenant, his own path is clear. He will not return to Minas Tirith to receive honors for this victory. There are other roads he must walk now, and the weight of this night's work goes with him.

One name ends here. Others wait to be reclaimed.

March T.A. 2980

The Black Gate rises against iron-grey sky, vast and hideous. Aragorn lies flat against sun-baked rock, watching. Three days he's studied its rhythms - the changing of guards, the passage of supplies, the movements of scouts.

Something's changed. More orcs gathering. Commanders shouting in their harsh tongue. A tension in the air that raises the hair on his neck.

Then he sees them. Two riders in black, darkness deeper than night. His heart stumbles in his chest.

Nine there were, Elrond's voice echoes in memory. Nine rings for mortal men, proud and tall...

The Nazgûl turn their hooded faces north, as if scenting the air.

Aragorn eases back from his position, every movement slow and careful. The intelligence he's gathered will have to be enough. Time to—

A horn blast splits the air.

He runs. Behind him, harsh voices raise the alarm. The sound of pursuit follows - heavy boots, the clash of armor, orders bellowed in Black Speech.

An arrow hisses past his ear.

He drops, rolls, changes direction. The rocks here are treacherous, but he's spent days mapping every path. If he can make the river—

A cold shadow falls over him. Something screams, high and terrible.

Iron-shod hooves strike stone behind him. He turns, sword already drawn, as the first Nazgûl bears down on him.

The blade meets black robes. The wraith screams again. Its sword whistles past his throat as he ducks, spins, strikes again.

Pain blossoms in his side. He stumbles, recovers. An orc blade has found him - the wraith was just a distraction.

The second Nazgûl approaches from the left. More orcs behind. They mean to hem him in against the cliff.

No choice. He sheaths his sword and runs for the edge.

The drop isn't as far as it looks. He hits the scree slope hard, slides in a shower of stones. The impact tears his wound wider but he keeps moving. Has to keep moving.

Arrows fall around him. The wraiths' screams echo off the rocks, maddening, terrible. He reaches the bottom of the slope, finds his feet, runs.

The river. He has to reach the river.

The wound burns like ice. Like poison.

Through the haze he sees her, standing among the trees ahead - a vision of starlight and mercy. But when he reaches for her, his hands come away red with blood.

North. He has to go north.

The wraiths' cries fade behind him, but the cold remains. Spreads from his side through his whole body.

He runs.

April T.A. 2980

Time blurs. Day becomes night becomes day. Aragorn follows the river, keeping its voice on his right. Each step costs more than the last.

The wound won't stop bleeding.

He makes himself think through fever. The Nazgûl won't tire. Won't stop. Each time he rests too long, he feels their presence drawing closer - a cold that goes deeper than bone.

His hand finds a tree trunk, steadies himself. The bark feels wrong. Different. Everything feels different here.

How long has he been running?

Blood drips from his fingers. He looks down, surprised. When did he start pressing his hand to the wound? The edges have gone black, spreading like ink in water.

A twig snaps.

He spins, sword half-drawn, almost falls. The world tilts sideways before righting itself.

Shadows move between the trees. No - not shadows. Figures. Armed.

"Hold." The voice comes from everywhere and nowhere. "Name yourself."

Aragorn blinks sweat from his eyes. The figures resolve into grey-cloaked warriors, bows drawn. Their faces... something about their faces...

"I asked your name, stranger."

The speaker steps forward. Tall, fair-haired, bow aimed at Aragorn's heart. There's light in his face that doesn't come from the sun.

Elves.

The realization comes slowly. He's crossed into Lothlorien without knowing it. But can he trust them? The Enemy has many servants, many disguises...

"I am..." His voice cracks. "I am an Elf-friend."

"Many claim friendship." The leader's voice hardens. "Few prove it."

The world swims. Aragorn feels his knees threatening to buckle. With his last strength, he pulls the ring from his pocket, holds it up.

"The ring of the Lady's brother...," someone breathes.

The ground rushes up to meet him. Darkness takes him and he knows no more.