An arm slid around Ishbel Butterbur's waist and
somebody planted a firm kiss on her cheek. She gave a
little shriek, startled rather than frightened - she
was in her own kitchen after all - turned, and
shrieked again, much louder. "Beomann!"   

Her eldest son grinned and had just enough time to
give her another kiss and say, "Hello, Mum." before
the kitchen door thumped open and a couple of potboys,
one Big and one Little, charged in, followed by the
Butterbur's youngest daughter Lusey, and finally the
Innkeeper himself.  

It took Barliman Butterbur two looks to recognize
the Ranger with an arm around his wife as his eldest
son. "B-Beomann?"  

"Himself! Hello, Dad."   

After that things were a bit of a whirl; a lot of
hugging and a few tears, then the potboys were chased
out and Lusey went to fetch her sisters and brothers
and the reunited Butterbur family sat down to a large
if untimely tea in the best parlor, leaving the Inn to
run itself.   

It was good to have the family all together again.
Barliman Butterbur told himself, looking at the faces
around the table. He'd have to enjoy it while he
could, the children were growing up.   

Beomann'd already flown and their pretty Peggy,
with her bright blue eyes and reddish curls, would be
next now she was of age, *and* had half the young
fellows in town making sheeps' eyes after her. Then
it'd be nineteen year old May's turn, and finally his
little Lusey's. though she was not so little now
she'd turned sixteen. Gerry was begining to shoot
up too, just as Beomann had at fourteen. But at
least Toby and Brandy were still little boys, happily
digging into the berry tarts, and making themselves
red and sticky with the juice.   

Their mother remained serenely unaware of the mess
they were making of her good linen tablecloth, her
attention entirely on her eldest. "You've lost
weight," Ishbel complained, eyeing him frowningly,
"Don't they feed you?"  

Beomann swallowed a mouthful of bread butter and
jam. "Oh yes, but the Dunedain have different customs;
no proper breakfast, no tea. *And* they don't take
what I'd call a decent interest in dinner or supper
either. Downright discouraging it is." shook his head
sadly. "I've been trying to civilize them but it
doesn't seem to be taking."  

The boy'd lost the last of his puppy fat, his
father thought a little sadly, and there were lines on
his face that hadn't been there before. Surely he
couldn't have grown taller? It was a bit of a shock
seeing his Beomann in Ranger leathers, complete with
short bow and long sword, and what's more wearing them
like he was used to them.  

"Are you sure you're Gerry?" Beomann was asking his
younger brother. "What happened to the roly-poly
little strawhead who made my life a misery?"  

"He grew up." Barliman answered. "Become a real
help to me he has."   

Beomann gave him a sharp look, and Barliman knew he
hadn't quite managed to hide the sadness he was
feeling. The hero-worship shining in Gerry's eyes told
him plain as plain he'd be losing his second boy to
the Rangers as well, just as soon as he got the
chance.  

"Three whole years you've been away!" Ishbel
scolded. "With naught but an occasional letter, and
not a word of warning to let us know you were coming!"  

"I didn't know myself until five days ago," Beomann
explained. "No point in a letter when I'd get here at
the same time it did - if not before."   

"You're on a mission then?" Ishbel asked with a
curious combination of disappointment and worry.  

"That's right." he grinned. "A mission to Bree as
it happens." that made them stare, Toby and Brandy
even forgot about their sweets. "The King is coming
home at last," Beomann explained, "and not above time!
Which means the realm is finally going to be put on a
proper footing. Gil thought there should be somebody
at Annuminas to speak for Bree." quickly. "Not that
the King would do anything to hurt us, it *is* old
Strider after all, but how's he to know what we want
unless there's somebody there to tell him?"  

"That's true." Barliman agreed slowly. "I'll call a
meeting of the Masters of the Town and you can put it
to them."  

Beomann nodded acceptance and changed the subject.
"You know, sometimes I think nobody here in the North
is what I thought they were - not even us Butterburs."  

Barliman frowned. "Now, what do you mean by that,
son?"  

"You know that good farm Grandad said we'd had at a
place called Upwood, down south before the Great
Dying?" His father nodded and Beomann smiled wryly.
"Turns out it wasn't a farm at all but a manor. Five
hundred acres, twice what old Oakapple owns,(1) with a
big stone house and a bit of a village around it."  

Barliman blinked, then recovered himself. "Well
that's a surprise, but then Longbow - Belegon - did
say our ancestors had been knights."  

"I know," Beomann agreed, "I just hadn't thought
through what that meant." Turned suddenly somber.
"They've got records of the Plague at Tol Ernil -
that's where Belegon lives - the last lord of Upwood
was a Sir Ludo Butterbur. Seems he was friends with
the Prancers who ran the Pony in those days and sent
his little son and daughter to stop with them when the
Sickness reached Cardol. Everybody who stayed behind,
Ludo, his lady, the villagers, all died."  

Nobody said anything. Most of the Big folk of Bree
were descended from those who'd come north, fleeing
infection in the days of the King, and the memory of
that horror still lingered in fireside tales.  

"When the plague had burned itself out a Dunedain
knight who'd been friends with Ludo, collected what
money there was, the plate and her ladyship's jewels
and brought them to the children in Bree. But, as you
know, they never went back. Heribert Butterbur married
old Prancer's eldest daughter and took over the Pony
when he died instead." Beomann shrugged. "I guess we
must have spent or sold all Ludo's treasure long ago."  

Barliman's eyes went over his son's shoulder. "Not
quite all."  

Wife and children followed his gaze to the rows of
silver dishes and cups and platters and bowls and
tureens on the big oak dresser, each piece delicately
etched with a sprig of butterbur.  

It was Ishbel who finally broke the silence. "I
remember I used to wonder when I was first married how
the Butterburs could ever have afforded such a thing,
and what they'd wanted it for as it just makes the
food go cold the faster." added hastily at her
husband's look. "Not that it isn't very beautiful to
look at!"  

Mollified Barliman smiled forgivingly, turned back
to his eldest. "Well that's a surprise all right, son,
but it was all a very long time ago and's got nothing
to do with us now."  

"Well, not quite." Beomann said. "It's good land,
Upwood, and still ours Belegon says, and I thought
with three younger sons to provide for..."  

"Mmm." his father looked thoughtful. "Far is it?"  

"Not very - twenty odd leagues or so."   

Barliman reflected ruefully his son's ideas of
what was 'far' had changed sommat. Still, twenty
leagues wasn't an impossible distance now the Road was
safe.  

It's not much more than a mile off the Greenway,"
Beomann was saying, "not a bad place for an inn I'd
say, now we're starting to get traffic from down
south."  

"Mmmmm..." said his father.
************************************  

1. The biggest landowner in the Breeland.

 "What kind of delegation did the Rover have in
mind?" Phil Goatleaf wanted to know.

"That's for us to decide." Beomann answered. "I
thought two from each village, one Big one Little, to
give everybody a say."

The Masters of the Town, heads of Bree's leading
families, seated around the big table in the Pony's
best parlor exchanged looks and nods. That made sense.

"But what are we going to say?" Little Ted Tunnelly
asked almost plaintively. "What exactly *do* we want?"

Barliman had been rather wondering about that
himself.

"A charter guaranteeing the Breeland's traditional
rights and liberties." Beomann said promptly. "We had
one under the Old Kings, and I'm sure Strider won't
mind confirming it. But we might want to change a few
things - customs are different these days." He pulled
a battered packet of papers out of a pocket, unfolded
and shuffled through them. "Take this for example -"

By the time the meeting ended Barliman was feeling
a trifle managed, and was sure his fellow Masters felt
the same. Not that everything Beomann had proposed
hadn't made perfect sense, no question but the boy was
dead right not just about the charter but about the
changes. It was just Breefolk weren't used to settling
important matters so briskly.

Normally the Masters would argue a bit, go home to
mull things over for a week or so, meet again to argue
some more, spend another week thinking it over, and so
forth until a consensus formed and the decision made
itself.

"I know." Beomann said when his father pointed this
out to him. "That's one of the reasons we need a
charter. It's not the way the Dunedain do things."
grimaced apologetically. "I guess I did kind of rush
you all, and I'm sorry for it, but we don't have time
for the usual way. Not if we want our delegation to
make it to Annuminas in time to welcome the King."

And no doubt he was right about that too.
***

Barliman Butterbur wasn't at all surprised when his
fellow Masters named him to represent the Big Folk of
Bree, it was just good sense. He'd travelled more than
any of them, if only to the Shire and the Angle, and
he had a son serving with the Rangers.

But he was more than surprised, indeed absolutely
flabbergasted, when Ishbel announced she would go too.
His Missis had never set foot beyond the Forgotten Inn
in all her life, nor wanted too, but now here she was
intending to go all the way to Annuminas. And she
wanted to bring their entire brood of children with
them as well!

Barliman'd expected his Ranger son to pitch a fit
at the very suggestion but Beomann took it quite
calmly. "Why not? It'll do the kids good to see a bit
of the world, and the Road is safe."

"You're sure of that?"

"Certain sure." Beomann answered confidently. "The
Wild's still a bit chancy, and probably always will
be, but with the Line back in place and the patrols
moving again the family'll be as safe on the Road as
they are in Bree."

Of course the minute they heard Ishbel was going
all the other wives wanted to come too, and their
children began teasing to be brought along as well.
Beomann never turned a hair. "The more the merrier."
he said, and: "It's not like we don't have plenty of
room for guests."

So it was a sizeable party that finally set out for
the ancient capital three days later. The Butterburs
alone had a carriage and a wagon, six horses to pull
them and Bob and Hob from the stables to look after
the horses. Old Nell to ride herd on the boys when
their mother couldn't. And Goodie, one of the upstairs
maids, because she was May's best friend and a good,
hardworking girl who deserved a treat.

Ted Tunnelly represented the Hobbits of Bree, and
he had his wife, his four younger children, two
servants, a wagon and a string of riding ponies with
him. Mr. Gummidge and Little Mr. Underhill from
Staddle, Mr. Cloverleaf and Little Mr. Delver from
Combe, and Mr. Elmwood and little Mr. Mossback from
Archet were similarly encumbered. All in all nearly
eighty men, women and children together with six
carriages, twelve wagons and more than fifty horses
and ponies were on their way to Annuminas.

It all seemed a bit much to Barliman, but Beomann
remained unperturbed so his father shrugged off his
own misgivings and saved his worrying for what would
happen after they got to the city.

As it happened the journey proved every bit as
smooth as Beomann had predicted. Toby and Brandy
claimed to have spotted a wolf once, slipping along
through the brush beside the road, but Barliman caught
his oldest son's smile and put it down to the boys'
active imaginations.

Every so often as they rolled slowly along, or made
camp for the night a Ranger or two or four would
materialize out of the Wild to exchange a quiet word
with Beomann before disappearing again, paying no
attention to the rest of the party beyond a civil nod
if one happened to catch their eye.

Beomann never introduced his fellow Rangers, nor
passed on what they told him. Barliman guessed they
were things he either wouldn't understand or would
rather not know and asked no questions. Nor did any of
the others, probably for the same reason.
****

"Not what I'd call welcoming!" Ishbel said
disapprovingly.

"Downright forbidding if you ask me." her husband
agreed.

The cavalcade from Bree had come to a ragged halt
just under the eaves of the Enchanted Forest with
everybody staring apprehensively up at tall gates of
black iron, wrought in the shape of tangled leafless
trees, looming over them between a pair of dark stone
towers bristling with iron spikes.

Beomann blew a long, mournful note on a horn, then
lowered it to grin almost mischiveiously at his
mother. "They get more cheerful as you go along. This
is called the gate of Winter. It's meant to look
bleak."

"In that case whoever made it did a good job!"
Ishbel snorted.

"You must be sure to tell him so if you meet him."

Ishbel gave him a startled look, then forgot
whatever she'd meant to say as the gates opened
smoothly and silently before them.

The Breelanders' carriages, wagons, horses and
ponies filed reluctantly inside, passing under tall,
bare black trees. Suddenly a Hobbit child on a pony
veered off the road to touch one.

"It's not real!" he exclaimed in surprise. "It's
made of iron."

"Gilpin you come back here this instant!" an angry
Hobbit mother ordered pre-emptorily.

"They're magic!" Toby breathed, round eyed.

"Yes, but not dangerous." Beomann assured him, one
eye on their worried parents. "Just about everything
in Annuminas is more or less magic, but not in a way
that'll hurt us."

The Breelanders found the bronze and copper 'Gate
of Autumn' far more pleasing.

"Why this one's actually pretty!" Peg told her
brother.

"I told you they'd get nicer." he grinned again.
"Wait till you see the Gate of Summer!"

The gates of pure gold adorned with flowers and
fruits of precious stones temporarily silenced the
entire company. They marched along under the
glittering boughs of golden trees for some minutes
before Lusey finally found enough voice to whisper:
"Are those *real* jewels?"

"Absolutely." her brother answered.

Barliman cleared his throat. "Seems a bit
wasteful."

Beomann nodded. "I think so too, but Elves and
Dunedain don't - and it is very pretty to look at."

"Be just as pretty with glass." Barliman said
stubbornly.

"I've said that too." his son answered. "But Dan
claims Dunedain could see the difference."

Barliman blinked. "How?"

Beomann shrugged. "They see better than we do,
almost as well as the Elves. Likely glass wouldn't be
as petty to them."

The silver 'Gate of Spring' while not exactly
anti-climatic did not overwhelm the way the Golden
gate had, but: "There *is* a city at the end of all
this, isn't there?" Barliman asked impatiently as the
Breelanders found themselves on yet another stretch of
road, this time flanked by silver trees glistening
with jeweled leaves and blossoms.

"Nearly there." Beomann answered tranquilly. "Just
one more gate to go."

"Oh my." Ishbel said weakly. Barliman couldn't find
his voice at all and stunned silence reigned behind
them.

The gateposts of the last gate were a pair of
trees, hundreds of feet high, one of silver with
clusters of pearl blossoms; the other of gold dripping
with drooping bunches of glittering topaz flowers.

"This is called the Gate of the Two Trees," Beomann
said helpfully. "There's a long story behind it -"
looked thoughtfully at his parents; "- but I won't
trouble you with it now."

It was questionable whether they heard even that
much for at that moment the silver and golden gates,
adorned with images of sun and moon, swung open
revealing the Golden City of Elendil in all its
splendor.

It was just after sunset and the golden glow behind
the Evendim Hills was echoed by the shimmer of gilded
domes and spires. Below these, in the shadowed streets
and parks, cool blue lights twinkled into being like
early stars, mirrored in the waters of innumerable
channels and pools.

"Welcome to Annuminas." said Beomann.

 Lusey leaned dangerously far out of the carriage
window to catch at her brother's cloak as he rode
alongside. "Beomann, are those *Elves*?"

He glanced over at the circle of sleander, dark
haired folk sitting in the park they were passing,
singing under the new stars, and smiled. "They
certainly are. High Elves out of Lindon or Rivendell
by the look of them."

"Oh!" Lusey subsided, overwhelmed.

Windows of colored glass glowed like jewels in the
tall white buildings. Silver-blue globes shone like
little moons in the trees lining the road illuminating
the many different kinds of folk below: Dark High
Elves and fair haired Wood Elves, Dwarves glittering
with golden ornaments, and tall Rangers dressed like
lords and ladies of Old but with the familiar grim
closed faces.

The Elves and Dwarves scarcely spared the
Breelanders a glance but the Rangers invariably fixed
those pale, piercing eyes of theirs upon the caravan
until it'd passed.

"What are they *staring* at?" Ishbel finally
demanded of her son.

"They don't mean to be rude, Mum," Beomann
answered, "it's just their way. You remember how
Strider and Gil and the rest used to sit in their
corner and watch the Common Room."

"I didn't like that either." his mother grumbled.

"You have to watch every minute in the Wild."
Beomann explained. "It becomes a habit. Like I said;
they don't mean anything by it, they can't help
themselves."

The palace appeared at the end of the avenue,
golden light pouring from open doors to mingle with
the silvery illumination of the Elf lamps, shimmering
over the statues and fountains and colored pavements
of the great square.

Barliman swallowed. "Is that where we're going?"

Beomann shook his head. "No, I found a place you'll
like much better."
***

From the outside it looked just like the other
grand houses they'd passed. Tall and white with lacy
galleries of fretted stone overhanging the street and
windows inlaid with designs in colored glass. But once
inside -

"Oh! this *is* nice." Ishbel beamed, her husband
smiled and the rest of the Breelanders relaxed
visibly.

The hall was large and grand but it was a grandeur
not unlike their own best parlors, or the big houses
of the Breeland gentry. The walls were panelled with
squares of oak, some carved with clusters of serrated
leaves and acorns, and hung with landscapes of woods
and fields and a few portraits of people not unlike
themselves though more grandly dressed.

There was a long, heavy table in the center of the
black and white checked floor, and straight backed
chairs and sideboards against the walls, all lit by
honest yellow lamplight with good green velvet
curtains shutting out the eerie magical city outside.

"I thought you'd like it." Beomann smiled. "Lady
Ellian says this house was especially decorated for
visitors from Cardolan in the days of the King." he
turned to Mrs. Tunnelly. "And there's a wing with
Hobbit sized rooms facing the garden."

The house was at least as big as the Pony, if not
bigger, and their numerous company just filled it
comfortably. The Hobbits' wing wasn't quite big enough
to accomodate all the Little Folk but Beomann said the
overflow'd only have to make do with Big Folk
furniture for that one night, as more Hobbit sized
furniture would be found for them in the morning.

The house had clearly been designed to accomodate
several seperate households with big common rooms for
dining and the like on the ground floor and the rest
of the building divided into suites that included a
parlor or two, several bedrooms, closets, storerooms,
and a pantry. There was a big kitchen on the ground
floor and a half dozen smaller ones on the upper
floors and in the Hobbits' wing.

The house had a stableyard large enough to hold all
their animals, carriages and wagons on one side. And a
garden fenced by fancifully wrought ironwork on the
other. A strip of grass behind sloped down to a wide
channel of clear water, with white stone steps
descending to a lamplit quay. The front galleries
overlooked a broad avenue lined with other grand
looking houses, the great tower of the Palace rising
above their gilded domes.

"Now I see why you weren't bothered when half the
Breeland decided to make the trip." Barliman told his
son as the bustle of settling in subsided.

Beomann shrugged. "I guessed Mum'd want to come,
and of course if she did -"

"All the other wives would too." Barliman finished.
"Just as well they did. The eight of us would have
rattled round this great place like pips in a dried
apple."
****

Three strange ships materialized out of the
gathering dusk gliding from the Gwathlo mouth to
intercept the King's flotilla. The crew of the royal
galley and the Men of the King's guard tensed at the
sight of them.

"Beat to quarters." the Shipmaster ordered. "And
send a Man to the masthead to identify their colors."

"They are warships out of Mithlond." a low-pitched
voice said gently. The Master started, turned to find
the King had somehow appeared at his elbow. "Sent as
additional escort, we are entering dangerous waters."

The Shipmaster looked uncertainly at the oncoming
ships. Sleek, low to the water, grey as mist. "Elves?"
he asked uncertainly.

Elessar shook his head. "Dunedain. As the Elves
dwindled my people took on the task of defending the
northern coasts from the black fleet out of Tol Fuin."

At that moment the oncoming ships unfurled their
sails and they belled out in the fresh evening breeze,
grey as twilight and ensigned with the rising moon of
Isildur.

The three strange ships took up stations in an
arrowhead formation ahead of the flotilla. The King
stood watching them, breathing the smoke of sweet
galenas - a curious habit he shared with the Wizard
Mithrandir and the Halflings - while everybody else on
deck stared covertly at him.

Even after three years the Gondorim had not quite
accustomed themselves to having a King again. Or maybe
it was *this* King with his elusive ways and habitual
silence, that disturbing air of sheathed power and his
curious combination of reserve and familiarity that
they could not get used to. He was intimidating - and
fascinating. An enigma to be revered, even worshipped,
but not understood.

Aragorn knew he was being watched of course,
however discreet his people tried to be about it, but
stayed on deck a few more moments anyway. Perhaps if
he let them look their fill eventually the stares
would stop. Though after three years he was begining
to give up hope of it.

When he could stand it no longer he turned and went
into the stern house, sensing without seeing or
hearing the sudden relaxation of those he left on
deck. Sighed in frustration.

*What am I doing wrong?*

Instead of going back to the great cabin, where his
wife, daughter and attendants awaited him, he lingered
in the gallery, refilling his pipe. He felt the need
for a little privacy, to think.

He wasn't at all happy about the continuing
distance between himself and his Southern subjects.
He'd expected awe, knowing the Gondorim's near worship
of the memory of their Kings, and a certain amount of
apprehension. But he'd also expected time and
familiarity would ease both - only they hadn't. And he
couldn't think why. Certainly his people in the North
had never been either awed or frightened of him.

He grimaced. His Dunedain were going to be very
unhappy with him, and he had no doubt they would let
him know it in no uncertain terms. It would be
interesting to see what his Gondorim made of the
manners of the North.

 Lusey Butterbur awoke to warm, cedarwood scented
darkness. She lay for a moment in sleepy bewilderment,
unable to remember where she was or how she'd come to
be there, then the whole long journey to the magical
city of the Kings came back in a rush and she sat up,
pulling open the bedcurtains.

There it was, the princess's room she'd chosen last
night, with its oaken panelling and heavy, richly
carved chairs and tables brightened by blue velvet
cushions and silver fringed covers. *1

The bedcurtains were so thickly embroidered with
spring flowers in all the colors of the rainbow that
you could barely see the thick blue silk beneath, and
lined with soft felt so light wouldn't shine through
them.

She was looking straight at a large needlework
tapestry almost covering the far wall. The girls in
green dancing hand in hand under the trees were nearly
lifesized and looked astonishingly real. Some were
tall and beautiful with long dark hair that fell
straight down their backs or at most waved a little.
But there were other, shorter girls with curly brown
or fair hair and rosy cheeks. And one, the third from
the end, could almost have been Lusey herself.

The window nearest the bed had half its curtain
looped back and the lattice with its inlays of colored
glass pushed open to let in the air. It was also
letting in birdsong, the soft plash of water and a
warm golden light that made Lusey wonder just how late
she'd slept and scramble hastily out of bed.

She pulled back the other half of the curtain,
pushed the window lattices all the way open - and
gasped. Gilded domes and spires glowed under the
morning sun filling the air with a lambent golden
light. The blue waters of the canal below her window
sparkled with sunlit reflections, like chips of gold
leaf. The grass bordering it was a richer, more
brilliant green than any grass Lusey'd seen before,
and the stone of steps and quay shone like sunlit
snow, golden white.

The plashing was being made by the oars of a large,
heavily laden barge rowing slowly up the canal to moor
at their landing. Several Men clad in long clothes of
white and grey or white and yellow climbed out and
began unloading small sized furniture. One was
Beomann, another was a Hobbit.

If she'd been at home she'd have grabbed a shawl
and rushed right downstairs to see what they were
about. But she wasn't at home. Instead she threw up
the lid of her leather travelling trunk and dug out
her best walking out dress. Determined to at least try
to live up to her surroundings.
***
It felt like they were being assailed from all
sides. Just as Beomann and the young Men with him
started carrying Hobbit furniture in the back way a
bevy of young Women, carrying baskets of flowers, came
in the front. Breelanders, many of them half dressed,
came down the big staircase to gawk and Little Folk
popped out of the downstairs doors to inspect the new
furniture. The whole lot of them milled about the big
center hall, all talking at once and getting in each
others' way.

Barliman Butterbur was accustomed to bustle and
confusion - but now he felt overwhelmed. Probably, he
decided, because unlike the Pony he wasn't quite sure
what should be done about any of it.

Fortunately Beomann was sure and began briskly
sorting them all out. "Dad, you remember Dan. And of
course you know Trotter here."

Barliman blinked rather blankly down at the Hobbit.
He was dressed in the same odd sort of clothes as
Beomann, but white and yellow rather than white and
grey, and of course he was wearing boots - the only
Hobbit he'd ever seen go shod. "Yes, indeed. How'd ye
do, Mr. Boffin." There'd always been whispers that the
Boffins out on Combe Edge were thick as thieves with
the Rangers - but nobody'd really believed it. Not a
fine old family like that. Granted Shirefolk were
peculiar but not that peculiar! Only it seemed they
were.

Trotter's mouth quirked a little, as if he was
reading Barliman's mind, (or more likely his face).
"Very well thank you, Mr. Butterbur." he said civilly
enough. "Sorry for all this confusion, we'll get out
of your way as soon as we can." his glance fell to his
own eye level. "And who is going to tell us where to
put the things?"

"I will." all four Hobbit Matrons chorused, then
glared at each other. Trotter rolled his eyes and
headed for the door to the Little Folk's wing.

"And this," Beomann resumed, unperturbed, "is
Emelin, Luithlin, Moredhel, Sorcha and Keina."

Three of the young Women were tall, sleander
Rangers, one with golden hair. She and a dark haired
girl were dressed in shades of green, a silver brooch
incised with four curious looking letters pinned at
their throat.*2 The other girls wore pewter- and
silver-grey and their brooches were shaped like a bird
with a star on its breast. Two of them looked
different from both Rangers and Bree folk; tall but
fuller of figure, with honey colored skins and dark
brown hair and eyes.

"Maybe some of our girls could help with the
flowers." Beomann suggested pointedly.

The three Butterbur daughers; Peg, May and Lusey,
Goodie their maid, the two Cloverleaf girls; Blossom
and Bird, and Tibby Gromwell, (Old Elmwood's
granddaughter) had been standing in a bunch, listening
and staring at the strangers. Now they blushed and
hastily came forward to relieve the other girls of
part of their burden.
***

The downstairs part of the house had a huge dining
hall and several parlors, big and small, all furnished
with flower bowls of glass or gilt or painted china
that needed filling. The girls seperated into twos and
threes and set to work.

Lusey found herself partnered with one of the
strange dark girls. Her name was Sorcha. "You're not a
Ranger?" she ventured cautiously as they entered a
small parlor with wide windows looking out on the
canal and painted walls.

"Well I don't ride on errantry of course -" the
other girl began, then "Oh! you mean I am not
Dunedain. That is so, my people come from the
highlands of the far north in the shadow of the Great
Mountains."

"But-but that's where the Witch folk live!" Lusey
blushed as the other girl looked at her. "Or so our
stories say." she finished lamely.

"Your stories are right." Sorcha answered, a little
grimly. "The Witch folk of Angmar are close kin to
mine. But *my* ancestors fought on the side of the
Elves and the Edain in the ancient wars, while
*theirs* served Morgoth - the first Dark Lord.

"When the Kings returned to Middle Earth we
remembered our old alliance and befriended them - and
the Men of Angmar remembered their old enmity and
assailed us both."

"So you're Kings' Folk too." Lusey said, very much
relieved.

"Just like you." Sorcha agreed.

Lusey finished arranging the flowers in a china
bowl and put it back on the deep window sill. "Do you
live here?"

"Oh no, we are just visiting - like you." Sorcha
added a few snowdrops to a gold figured bowl and
considered the effect a moment before explaining:
"Emelin and Luithlin are in the service of the Lady
Ellian. Moredhel, my sister Keina and I serve the Lady
Aranel."

"I know Aranel, but who's this Lady Ellian? No
offense meant," she added hastily, "I'm just a little
confused."

Sorcha gave her a kind, if slightly patronizing,
smile. "Lady Ellian is the King's aunt and guards the
Evendim hills in the absence of her mother, the Lady
Ellemir."

"I know her too, we used to call her Nightcrow -"
the other girl's eyebrows lifted. "Well she wouldn't
tell us her real name." Lusey said defensively. Then,
trying to sort it all out: "she's the King's
grandmother and Gil and Aranel's too...so Lady Ellian
is their mother?"

Sorcha shook her head. "Aunt." hesitated a moment,
saw the Bree girl's eyes were fixed attentively upon
her and continued: "The Lady Ellemir and Arador
Dunadan had three children. Their elder son was
Arathorn, the King's father, but he is dead and so is
his wife, the Lady Gilraen."

Lusey nodded, rapt. Genealogical lore was bread and
butter to her and she was well accustomed to tracing
out the complex rammifications of the Butterburs and
other Breelanders.

"Captain Gilvagor and our Lady Aranel are the
children of Ellemir and Arador's younger son, Armegil,
who was slain many years ago along with his wife and
many other folk when Arnost was burned."

"So Nightcrow lost both her sons," Lusey said
slowly. "That's sad."

"It is." Sorcha agreed. "The Lady Ellian is now her
only living child."

"Where does Longbow, I mean Belegon, fit in?" Lusey
wanted to know. "I remember Beomann saying he was
related to the King too."

"Captain Belegon is Lady Ellian's grandson."

"Grandson!" Lusey's eyes opened wide. "Why she must
be terribly old then! And Nightcrow - I mean Lady
Ellemir - even older!"

Sorcha smiled wryly over. "Ellian is one hundred
and thirty-eight, and my Lady her mother one hundred
and eighty-eight. Old even by the measure of the
Dunedain."

"Oh my!" Lusey got her breath back. "Why they must
have dozens of grandchildren and great grandchildren
between them!"

"Not dozens." Sorcha said, rather sadly. "The
Dunedain have fewer children than your kind or mine,
and marry very late by our measure."

"Ellian had but two children before her husband was
slain by Trolls. The elder, her son Belecthor, was
Belegon's father but he fell in the War of the Ring.

"He had also a daughter, Angwen, who is Warden of
the South Downs since her husband also fell and her
son is not yet of age. She has four children, and
Captain Belegon three - so far."

"And then there is the Lady Beruthiel, Ellian's
daughter. Her husband died many years ago but she also
has three children; twin sons and a daughter recently
wed."

"So many widows!" Lusey said, hushed.

"Yes," Sorcha agreed soberly, "many widows, and many
orphans." then put back her shoulders and smiled
determinedly. "But no more. We have a king again and
there will be peace in the realm once more." her smile
took on a wry cast. "Eventually.
**********

1. Lusey has in fact chosen the chief state bedroom of
their suite, her parents and the others prefering the
smaller, less ornate chambers meant for junior family
members and attendants.

2. Green is Ellian's color, and the brooch is engraved
with her cipher as a badge.

3. Grey is Aranel's color, and the bird bearing a star
her device, a reference to her foremother Elwing

The North Kingdom was remembered in the histories
of Gondor as a poor and precarious realm which had
declined rapidly after Elendil's death. Its Dunedain
population steadily dwindling as they were assailed by
Wild Men, and fragmented into minor princedoms
decimating each other in endless dynastic quarrels.
Until finally the last, sad remnant was all but
anihilated by Angmar nearly a thousand years before.

The few surviving Dunedain in the North were said
to be a rustic folk. Brave and hardy but primitive,
living after the fashion of the Fathers of Men before
the Eldar taught them wisdom, forgetful of their high
heritage.

King Elessar and his Rangers had given lie to the
latter tale at least. Soon the Gondorim who had
accompanied him north would have a chance to judge for
themselves the accuracy of the rest.
***

There were nine ships in the King's flotilla. The
first carried the King's Grace, his Queen and their
little daughter, also their Royal Guard and a numerous
retinue of attendants, although modest compared to the
state kept by the Ship-Kings of Old.

Three vessels carried skilled artisans; builders,
stone masons and the like recruited to help rebuild
the fallen fortress cities of the north. Together with
their wives, children, apprentices and servants.

And the remaining five ships carried each a
company of soldiers, four hundred strong, to assist
the Rangers of the North in clearing the Lost Kingdom
of enemies and establishing its borders.

Hirgon of Minas Tirith, captain of the second
company, stood at the rail of his ship along with most
of his Men watching the green coast of the gulf of
Lune glide past. Two dots of white, twinkling like
stars against the misty green caught his eye. He
continued to watch them and as the ships drew nearer
they slowly resolved into colossal figures carved of
shining stone. Statues of Kings, like those that
guarded the Argonath, their crowned helms overlaid
with mithril and gold that glittered in the sun, as
did the star and mountain of the Kings of Numenor
emblazoned upon their shields.

The colossi stood on either side of the opening to
a wide channel leading inland. The King's ship turned
into it, and one by one its consorts followed.

"Who are they?" Hirgon's old sergeant asked,
staring up in awe as they passed beneath the colossi's
shadow, "Elendil and Isildur?"

"No." the captain answered, voice muted with
wonder. "These must be Tar-Minastir and Tar-Ciryatan.
The Kings who built the first permanent havens for the
Men of Westerness in Middle Earth. And this must be
the canal leading to Ost-en-Dunhirion."

"But surely that city and its harbors would have
long since fallen into ruin!" his young kinsman,
Angrod, one of his lieutenants protested.

"Apparently not." said Hirgon.

Behind the Kings the canal widened into a great
pool, almost a lake, with three tall columns of
weathered stone at its center. Two greenish blue and
one, somewhat higher, of greenish grey. All the Men
recognized this at once as a fane dedicated to the
Lords of the Sea, for the like stood in the harbor at
Pelargir, and touched brow, lips and heart in reverent
salute as their ship rowed past.

The channel was wide enough for two great galleys
to pass abreast, oars fully extended. And its green
banks were lined with pillared and towered villas
surrounded by orchards, gardens and parklands. Hirgon
could see tall Men and fair Women walking their
grounds, and the occasional horseman or carriage on
the road behind. It seemed a strangely civilized and
peaceful landscape to find in a long fallen realm. One
that could scare be equalled anywhere in Gondor.

Suddenly his sergeant clutched at his arm.
"Captain, look there!"

The white battlemented walls of a city rose before
their ship's prow, pierced by many gates standing open
to a steady traffic of Men and animals, carts and
carriages. But the canal entered the city beneath a
great stone arch framed by two trees carved in high
relief and with the mountain and star emblazoned in
gold and silver upon the high keystone.

They passed beneath it, the splash of oars echoing
off the stone walls of the short tunnel, to emerge
into a bustling harbor that put poor, half ruined
Pelargir to shame.

The canal curved away, north and south, its outer
shore lined by white stone warves with tiers of
warehouses, counting houses, sailors' inns, ships
chandlers and the like rising above them to the city
walls. The inner bank was thick with the rich houses
of merchant lords and shipmasters some extending on
piers over the water, each with its quay, and flights
of water steps running up into the city between them.

The King's ship had turned northward, the rest of
the flotilla following in its wake, manuevering with
care between grey ships of all sizes, and numerous
small boats darting between the two shores. Soaring
bridges, high enough for ships in full sail to pass
beneath them, spanned the distance from the gates in
the outer wall to the inner shore.

Ships and bridges, warves and streets were all
thronged with Men whose height and coloring proclaimed
them to be of the pure blood of Westerness in far
greater numbers than their kin from the south had
expected, or indeed ever seen gathered together
before.

Hirgon, his sergeant and Angrod exchanged
bewildered looks. "Forgive me, my lords both, but this
looks like no lost nor fallen kingdom to me!" said the
sergeant.

"Nor to me either." Angrod agreed. "Far from
needing our aid it seems they could have spared far
more to us than a mere thirty knights."

"And King Elessar himself." Hirgon reminded them.
But he was troubled too. Why had so little aid come
from the North? Was the memory of their wrongs at the
hands of Meneldil and Mardil so bitter as to shut the
hearts of all but the most magnaminous of the Northern
Dunedain to the need their kin? And if so - what kind
of welcome could he and his Men expect?
***

The young folk of Bree and their Ranger hosts sat
on the green bank of the canal behind the Breelanders'
guest house, eating bread and cheese and fruit,
feeding crumbs to the swans and getting better
acquainted.

"So many Rangers!" May exclaimed, looking at the
people passing over a nearby bridge.

"A lot more than we realized," her brother agreed,
"but many of the people here in Annuminas are Dunedain
from Lindon, the Elvish country over the Blue
Mountains." she looked her puzzlement and he
explained. "You remember how we always thought the
King's Folk had either died or gone to live with the
Elves? Well we weren't altogether wrong. A lot of
them, having no homes to go back to after the last
war, did settle in the High Elven kingdom of Lindon
and have been there ever since."

"But have always considered themselves exiles and
guests and are very glad to be able to come home at
last." said the fair haired Ranger girl, Emelin.

"Only Lindon belongs to us now too." said Beomann.
"The last Prince turned the whole country over to the
Dunedain, lock, stock and barrel!" grinned. "You
should have seen Gil's face."

Lusey blinked. "You mean the Elves *gave* their
kingdom to the Rangers! But why?"

"Because most of them have sailed west to the
Bright Land," her brother answered, "including all
their royalty. But *our* royalty - Strider, Gil and
the rest - are descended from the great Elven Kings of
Old and so are their natural heirs now all the full
blooded Elves are gone."

"Not to mention the fact that there are now far
more Dunedain in both Lindons than Elves and it is
they who've defended the coast and Havens all these
long years as the Elves couldn't be troubled to!"
Sorcha's brother Conegund, a handsome swarthy skinned
young Man with a burning eye, put in acidly.

Beomann's Ranger friend Dan shook his head. "You're
too hard on them Con." to the Bree girls. "Elves, or
rather the High Elves of the West, make poor warriors.
It's not that they're cowards but they instinctively
shun strife, hiding behind walls of spells -"

"Or the arms of Men." said Conegund.

"That too." Dan agreed calmly. "The work has to be
done, better it be done well by those best suited to
it than poorly by those who are not." glanced sidelong
at the Easterling. "Look what a mess the Noldor made
of the Old Wars."

"And remember who paid the price of their folly."
Con retorted. "The problem with the Dunedain," he
continued to the girls, "is they're far to generous
*and* soft hearted for their own good. It's a wonder
they've managed to survive as long as they have."

"But..but they have their magic." Lusey ventured.

"True." the Easterling conceeded. "And their long
lives and all kinds of arts and knowledge we have not.
Yet for all that don't you start thinking your folk or
ours are any less than the Dunedain, Miss Lusey."

"Now you've done it." Beomann told his sister
resignedly.

Conegund grinned at him, and continued with the air
of a Man mounting a favorite hobbyhorse: "Measuring
your folk or mine by the Westerners is like measuring
cattle against horses or sheep against cattle."

"We're the horses." Dan told Emelin.

"I suppose I can live with that." she said.

"Strong and spirited but far too loyal and brave
for their own good." Con agreed. "We Men of Rhudaur
are cattle -"

"You don't remind me at all of a cow." May told
him.

He grinned again. "I'm not talking about your
little Milch cows now, Miss May, but the fierce auroch
of the northern hills."

"Nigh on twice as big and very nasty." Beomann put
in.

"And willful and hard to control." the Easterling
added, with some satisfaction.

"We're the sheep." said Beomann.

"Oh, now I resent that!" May glared at Conegund.

He laughed. "Miss May have you *ever* tried to make
a sheep go where he does not want to go, or take his
fleece from him? Meek and mild they may seem while
grazing quietly upon the hill but they are both
stubborn and fierce when interefered with."

"Just like us Breefolk." Beomann grinned.

"Exactly like." His friend agreed.

"Well, I guess that's not so bad then." May
conceeded.

"Good," Con smiled at her, "I wouldn't like to have
so pretty a lady angry with me."

May blushed pink. Her brother gave Conegund a look
of undisguised astonishment and opened his mouth to
speak.

"Beomann," Dan said warningly, "this is a good time
to keep quiet."

"Yes." May agreed with some emphasis.

Beomann looked from one to the other, and very
wisely followed their advice.

The King stayed only a few days in Ost-en-Dunhirion. His Grandfather Dirhael, Warden of the Tower Hills, had matters there well in hand. The Dunedain of Lindon had returned to their old home in great numbers bringing the ancient city back to life with a will Aragorn feared would be lacking in their kin over the mountains.  

And so he departed with his queen and a small retinue for the Shire. As his company neared its borders he saw three small figures on ponyback coming to meet them, one in the black and silver of a knight of Gondor; one in the colors of Rohan; and one in ordinary Hobbit clothes. Smiling he raised his hand for a halt, then rode forward alone to greet his
friends.

"My word, Strider," Pippin called as they came into
earshot, "it looks like you've brought half of Minas
Tirith with you!"

The King laughed. "This is only a tithe of my company,
but I sent the others on ahead to Annuminas by the Sea
Road."(1)

"Thank goodness for small favors." Pippin
answered." These are more than enough to go on with!"

"Indeed, I have my doubts about taking even this
many Men through the heart of the Shire." Aragorn
admitted as the Hobbits reined in before him.

"My dear Aragorn, our folk have got dinners and
pageants planned for you and yours from Greenholm to
Frogmorton." Merry told him. "Disappoint us and we'll
revolt or something!"

"I wouldn't care to risk that." the King conceeded
with a smile. "It's good to see you again my friends."
leaned down to grip first Pippin's hand, then Merry's,
and finally -

"Sam?"

The remaining Ringbearer looked up at him with
tears in his eyes. "He's gone, Strider, he's left us."

"I know. I'm sorry, Sam, I did my best but -"

"What are you talking about?" the Hobbit interupted
indignantly. "Why if it weren't for you he might never
have woken up at all!"

"And if it weren't for you he would have died in
Mordor." Aragorn pointed out gently. "We are but
mortals, Sam. It's not our fault Frodo needed more
than it was in our power to give."

Sam sighed. "When you put it like that...but I miss
him."

"And old Gandalf too." said Pippin as sadly. "He
didn't visit all that often, but there was always the
chance of him dropping by for a day or two - and now
there isn't."

"Gandalf had finished the work he'd been sent to
do." Aragorn said quietly. "Naturally he wanted to go
home."

"Just like we wanted to come back to the Shire
after we'd done what we set out to do." Sam nodded.

"Who knows," said Merry, "maybe he's got a Mrs.
Gandalf and a whole tribe of little wizardlings
waiting for him over sea!"

Aragorn and Sam laughed. Pippin frowned. "That
couldn't be - could it?"

"Not children I think." the King answered, "But a
wife or sweetheart is not impossible."

"Speaking of sweethearts, did you know Sam here is
married?" Merry wanted to know.

"No I had not heard. Congratulations, Sam. I look
forward to meeting the Ringbearer's lady."

"He's been sweet on Rosie Cotton ever since they
were both in their tweens." Merry explained.

"And strangely enough she was sweet on him too."
put in Pippin.

"Unfortunately for her, Sam here never could scrape
up the nerve to actually pop the question." Merry went
on.

"Until the night we all went down to the old Green
Dragon." Pippin continued. "All of a sudden, in front
of everybody, our Sam gets up goes over to Rosie at
the bar, gives her a kiss and walks out the door with
her on his arm!"

Merry grinned. "Forget Cirith Ungol, forget Mount
Doom, *that* was the bravest thing our Sam ever did."

"Which is just what Mr. Frodo said." Sam admitted,
red about the ears but grinning too. "Along with 'It's
about time!' and 'What took you so long?'"

"Hmmmm." said the King eyeing Merry and Pippin
thoughtfully. "We'll see how forward you two are when
you fall in love. You may get your own back yet, Sam."
***

The dignitaries of Greenholm, a village in the far
downs on the very edge of the Shire, stood on a wooden
platform decorated with flowers and ribbons. Three
portly, middle-aged Gentlehobbits with a pretty little
Hobbit girl clutching an immense bouquet beside them.
All four looked scared to death.

The Little Folk lining the sides of the road were
equally intimidated, staring round eyed at the
silvered armor and jewels of the Big Folk on their big
horses and quite forgetting to wave their flags or
cheer.

This wouldn't do at all. Aragorn signalled for his
escort to hold back, reached over to take Arwen's hand
and they rode side by side up to the dignitaries on
their platform.

"Wu-welcome to the Shire, King Elessar." the oldest
and fattest of them stammered. "And Queen
Uh-Undomiel."

"Thank you," Aragorn answered in his broadest
country accent. "my wife and I are very happy to be
here."

The Hobbit blinked, startled at hearing such homely
language from the regal figure in front of him. "As
happy as we are to have you I hope." he answered in a
sudden rush of fluency and confidence. "This is the
finest thing to happen to the Shire in my time. We're
right glad to have a King again. It'll be good to
finally get some law and peace here in the North."

"I will do my best to give satisfaction." Aragorn
replied with a bow. "Mr. -?"

"Oh, sorry sir. My name's Bolger, Fastolph Bolger
of Greenholm.(2) And this is Mr. Harald Hornblower,
and Mr. Rollo Faraway, all at your service, sir."

"At yours and your families." Aragorn replied
returning their bows. "And who is this young lady?"

"This is our little Violet," said Mr. Hornblower.
"Give the lady the flowers, sweetheart."

The little girl came to the edge of the platform
and held her armload out to Arwen, losing several in
the process.

"For me? Thank you, Violet, but I don't think I can
hold so many. Why don't you take this one back, and
this one and this one too." the Queen smiled, doing
her best to imitate her husband's accent, as she
quickly detached several flowers and returned the
little posy to the child.

Violet's eyes lost their glassiness and she beamed
happily, showing the gap of a missing front tooth.

The watching Hobbits, recognizing their cue,
cheered and waved their flags with a will.

Aragorn, glancing covertly around, was pleased to
see the Little Folk now gazing at the Big with
curiousity and delight in the unfamiliar trappings,
their initial nervous awe quite gone. His Gondorim
were smiling too, clearly charmed by the Hobbits, and
as a consequence looking much less intimidating.

It was eleven leagues from Greenholm to Michel
Delving, with crowds of Hobbits at every crossroad,
hamlet and wayside inn. The town itself was literally
bursting at the seams with what looked to be at least
half the population of the West Farthing come to see
the new King and his Queen.

A much larger delegation of dignitaries awaited
them outside the Town Hole headed by the Mayor of the
Shire, an immensely fat Hobbit named Will Whitfoot.
Beside him was a dignified figure in a suit of
miniature Numenorean armor ensigned with the Seven and
One stars of the North Kingdom, with a sword at his
side and a thin gold circlet on his head, who looked
uncannily like an older and heavier Pippin. (3)

"Welcome to the Shire, Dunadan." he said with a
bow.

Aragorn smiled. "Thank you, Perehir. It's good to
see you again." (4)

Pippin looked in astonishment from his father to
the King. "You two know each other?"

"I've ridden with the Rangers in my time," Paladin
answered, "like all the Thains and their heirs before
me."

"I didn't know that!" his son sputtered. "Nobody
told me!"

"You weren't old enough yet to be told - or so I
thought." to Aragorn. "I hope Peregrine gave
satisfaction, sir."

The King smiled. "He did indeed."

Pippin could only goggle at them both but Merry's
eyes narrowed. "I thought Uncle Paladin understood a
little more than he should, and my father too!" Looked
up at the King. "I suppose you know him as well?"

"We have met." Aragorn conceeded.

"You might have said so!" Merry glared up at his
friend and King, who smiled.

"Would you have believed me? You didn't believe I
was Gandalf's friend after all."

"Well yes but still..." Merry grumbled.

"As I told you at the time, I wasn't about to risk
telling you all about myself until we knew each other
better." Aragorn reminded him. "And by that time we
had more urgent things to talk about than my
acquaintance with your families."

"He's right you know." said Pippin. "I mean you
can't really expect poor Strider to start going on
about our fathers while we're dodging Crebain,
freezing in the snow or running from Orcs now can
you?"

"I suppose not." Merry conceeded, but grudgingly.
******************

1. A road joining the three port cities of Dunhirion,
Mithlond and Tarcillion on the Lune.

2. Grandfather of Elanor Gamgee's future husband.
Grandson and namesake of the Fastolph Bolger who
married Pansy Baggins, Bilbo's great aunt, Frodo's
great-great aunt.

3. This is the formal regalia of the Thain, having
been given to Marcho by Argeleb II when he was granted
the lands of the Shire in return for his oath of
allegiance. This is the first time it's been worn, or
even seen outside of the Tooks' hoard, since the dark
days of the Fell Winter when Isengrim, eldest son of
The Old Took, donned armor and sword to lead the
Shire-muster against the invading White Wolves. Old
Gerontius himself wore the circlet at the subsequent
victory banquet.

4. Perehir: 'Halfling Lord'. The name, or rather
title, by which the Thains are known to the Dunedain.

As the King continued his progress across the Shire
he left the East Road at Waymeet to visit Tuckborough
and the Great Smials of the Tooks.

Pippin was hurrying down a twisty back passage of
the Smial, on his way to the Great Door, when he
almost ran down a cluster of visiting cousins. He
recognized young Bandobard and Hildibard of the North
Cleeve Tooks right off, but it took him a moment or
two to place the fair haired girl in the gold
'broidered bodice and full blue silk skirts.

"Diamond?" he gasped. "When did you get so pretty?"

She tossed her head but he could see she was
pleased. "I don't look any different then I ever did,
Peregrine Took."

"Oh yes you do." he said with conviction. "Either
that or I've been stone blind all my life!"

"You've just never seen her in skirts and with a
clean face before." Hildy assured him.

Diamond stuck her tongue out at her brother, then
turned back to Pippin. "You look pretty too - handsome
I mean," she said a little shyly. "just like one of
the King's knights."

"I am a King's knight."

Bandy and Hildy snorted their disbelief but Diamond
looked at him uncertainly with big, cornflower blue
eyes. Surely he couldn't have failed to notice those
eyes?

"Really, truly? You're not just funning me are you
Pip?"

"Really, truly. You can ask the King."

And she did too, stepped right up next to her
father, Bandomere Took, when he was presented gave old
Strider one of her straight looks and said; "Pippin
told me he's one of your knights, sir, is that true?"

"Absolutely true." he answered promptly. "Knighted
by my own hand on the field of battle for his
bravery."

"What's this?" Paladin gave his son a sharp glance.
"I don't remember you mentioning that, my boy."

Aragorn looked at him too, eyes twinkling. "Really,
Sir Peregrine, modesty becomes a knight but there are
limits."

"Well...er...there was such a lot to tell, I guess
I kind of forgot a few details." Pippin stammered.

"Saving your King's life is a detail?" Strider
asked, eyebrows rising.

"Er...um..."

"You must tell us all about it, sir." Paladin said
firmly. "But not standing out here at the door."
***

The great door and the ceiling of the passage
behind it was high enough for even the King and his
tall knights to walk upright. It led straight into the
hill to the Thain's Hall, a vast chamber with vaulted
ceiling upheld by eight stout pillars carved like tree
boles, lit by late afternoon sunlight coming in small
round windows high above and augmented by many lamps.
The walls were panelled with polished oak cut from
their own forest and the long tables spread with white
linen cloths and set with with the best gold edged
china and all the silver plate.

As a boy Pippin had thought the hall the biggest
and grandest room in Middle Earth. And he was still
proud of it even after seeing the splendid halls of
Minas Tirith, Edoras, and Rivendell. It was as fair as
any of them - in its own way - and it was theirs.

They had had special chairs made for the King and
Queen. His had a eagle carved on the back and hers a
swan. The other Men and Women had to make do with
benches a bit too low for their long legs, but didn't
seem to mind.

Aragorn and Lady Arwen sat in the middle of the
upper table with Eglantine, Lady Took, on the King's
right and the Thain on the Queen's left. Pippin
himself was sitting next to his mother and, thanks to
the convoluted rules of Hobbit etiquette, had Diamond
almost exactly opposite him.

"Now then," said Paladin, after everybody was
seated and the first course served, "what's this about
my son saving your life, Dunadan?"

"It was in the final battle before the Black
Gates." Strider began. "And for Pippin to have chosen
to march with us was in itself an act of great courage
for he was risking far worse than clean death in
battle. The Enemy knew his Ring was in the hands of a
Hobbit and by misfortune had caught a glimpse of your
son in a magic crystal and taken him for the
Ringbearer. His creatures were under orders to bring
Pippin to him alive."

Every Hobbit at the table shivered at the thought,
including Pippin himself. "I was terrified." he said
quietly. "But I wasn't risking anything you weren't
too, Aragorn, and old Gandalf as well."

"We were vastly outnumbered and soon all but
overwhelmed." the King continued. "I was attacked by a
Stone Troll and worsted. It had me pinned to the
ground, its foot on my chest, when suddenly it toppled
over dead and I saw Pippin on its back pulling his
sword from its neck."

"I remembered how Legolas killed the cave troll in
Moria." Pippin explained. "It was all bent over you,
Strider, I just ran up its back and stabbed my sword
into the gap between its helmet and its armor and down
it went. I was very surprised." at himself, but mostly
at the Troll for dying so easily.

"I owe your son my life." Aragorn told his father
seriously. "And will not forget that debt - ever."
Then glanced at Pippin with a glint in his eye. "Not
that I wasn't pretty surprised myself."

Pippin grinned back, mostly at the memory of the
two of them goggling at each other over the Troll's
body, then snuck a look across the table at Diamond.

She was staring at him, those big blue eyes
shining. His father was looking at him too through
tears of pride. Pippin's own eyes went hastily to his
plate. His face was burning but he'd never felt
happier in his life.
***

Mrs. Rose Gamgee of Bag End was an important lady
in Hobbiton, mistress of the Hall and wife to the
biggest land owner around. But even after nearly a
year of it, she wasn't quite comfortable with her new
status and at this moment especially found herself
desperately wishing she were still no more than Farmer
Cotton's girl.

"Don't look so worried sweetheart," Sam murmured
out of the corner of his mouth. "you'll like old
Strider."

"The King you mean." she answered a little edgily.

"He is the King." Sam agreed, looked at her
seriously with those steady hazel eyes. "But he's also
my friend."

She tried to smile. "Then I'm sure to like him."

He returned her smile and went back to watching the
Bywater road.

They were standing in the market square in front of
the Green Dragon with her parents and Sam's old Gaffer
behind them and the rest of Hobbiton and folk from the
surrounding countryside crowded round the edges of the
square or up on the turf roofs of the inn and shops,
all eyes eagerly fixed on the road.

There was a murmur of awe and excitement as they
finally caught sight of the King's company riding
towards them. Rosie's throat closed. Big Folk on even
bigger horses and all glittering with armor, jewels
and whatnot - oh dear!

They reined in at the edge of the square and a very
tall Man in a great white cloak with a jewel
glittering like a star upon his brow dismounted and
came towards them on foot, followed by a very
beautiful lady all in pale green like springtime.

"So this is Hobbiton." the King said, smiling down
at Sam. It must be a remarkable place to have produced
three such heroes."

"Two heroes anyway," Sam corrected, "and a whole
lot of ordinary folk too."

She looked at him in astonishment. There he stood,
her shy, diffident Samwise, smiling easily up at this
great Man like he were no more than her brother Tom or
his cousin Hal - just another friend. Then Sam turned
to her. "This is my Rosie."

And the King knelt down in front of her and took
her by the hand. "I'm very glad to meet you, Mrs.
Gamgee."

She looked into a pair of wide grey-blue eyes that
reminded her suddenly and sharply of Mr. Frodo's. Sad
eyes that had seen far to much of things nobody should
have to look at, wise eyes, and very kind. Her fear
vanished, she could no more be afraid of this Man than
she had been of Mr. Frodo, for all his strangness.
"I'm very glad to meet you too, sir. Sam's told me so
much about you."

The King smiled at her and stood to take the lady
in green by the hand. "And this is my wife, Arwen."

Rose curtsied. "How do you do, ma'am?"

"Very well thank you, Mrs. Gamgee." the Queen
answered in a lovely, gentle voice. Smiled radiantly
down on her. "I am enjoying our visit so much. The
Shire is a truly beautiful country."

Rosie beamed in return. "You must see our garden,
we have the finest in all the Shire, me being married
to the best gardener there is and all."

"Rosie!" Sam nudged her, embarrassed, then looked
back up at the King. "This is Mr. and Mrs. Cotton,
Rosie's parents. They bowed, tonge-tied, and the King
and Queen bowed back - imagine that!

"And this is my old Gaffer - that is my father, Mr.
Hamfast Gamgee."

The King went down on his knee again, this time in
front of the Gaffer. "I am honored to meet the father
of so brave a hobbit."

Sam's Dad's mouth worked a bit before he could make
words come out. "Er..thank you kindly, sir. I..I can't
say I understand exactly what my Sam's done, but Mr.
Frodo did say he'd been a great help to him in his
troubles and that's good enough for me."
***

The King's attendants set up a big tent with a
black and silver banner flying over it for him, and a
number of smaller ones for themselves in the Party
field.

"I'd put you and m'lady up in the best bedroom but
you'd have a terrible time with the doorways and
whatnot. Old Gandalf always did and you're both taller
than he was - is I mean." Sam told the King as they
sat on the green bank above the field with Merry and
Pippin, smoking their pipes.

"We've both slept much rougher than this in our
time, Sam Gamgee." Aragorn answered. Smiled down at
him. "But I insist on a tankard of Green Dragon beer.
After all I've heard from these two," a nod towards
the two young Hobbits, "I must try it for myself."

"Whatever you say, Strider." Sam looked up at the
sleander, blossom laden branches shading them. "The
Lady's tree is doing well isn't it?"

"Very well indeed." the King looked at it
thoughtfully. "You must be a great gardener indeed
Samwise Gamgee, Gil-Galad himself couldn't make
Mallorn grow this far north."

"It was the soil the Lady gave me along with the
seed, I think." Sam said, embarrassed at the
compliment.

"Folk come from miles around just to admire it."
Merry told the King. "Pippin and I like to come and
look at it too. It reminds us of old times."

"The last good time." Pippin agreed softly. "Before
- everything."

"Before we lost Boromir." said Merry, and blinked
back tears. "It's funny, we didn't know him for very
long - just a few months - but I still miss him. A lot
more than I miss some I've known longer truth be
told."

"You went through much together," Aragorn told him
gently. "and he taught you much." a gentle smile.
"He'd be very proud of how well you learned those
lessons."

"I hope so." Merry said quietly. Beside him Pippin
sniffled.

There was a little silence. Then Sam, conscious of
his duty as host, said with slightly forced
cheerfulness: "What about Gimli and Legolas, have you
any news of them, Strider?"

"I've seen a great deal of both as it happens." the
King replied. "Legolas has brought a great host of
Elves down from Greenwood the Great to settle in
Ithilien and help Faramir and his Rangers clear it of
the Orcs and other evil things that survived Sauron's
fall. And Gimli brought a company of Dwarf craftsmen
to repair the city walls and forge for us new gates of
mithril and steel." Aragorn glanced sidelong at his
small friends. "And I've heard he's begun keeping
company with a lady."

All three Hobbits gaped. "A lady dwarf?" Merry
asked after he got his voice back.

"Of course. He has been talking with King Eomer
about establishing a Dwarf settlement in the
Glittering Caves. It seems the lady is also interested
in the project. Whether she is interested in Gimli as
well I am not yet sure."

"My goodness." Merry shook his head. "You and Sam
seem to have started a trend, Strider. Who will be
next I wonder?" Fortunately nobody was looking at
Pippin, and so didn't see him blush.
***

Meanwhile, on the other side of the hedge, Rose
Gamgee sat on a little patch of lawn surrounded by
flower beds, watching baby Elanor pull daisies apart
and having a nice gossip with the Queen of the West.

"Are you coming to Annuminas with Sam, Rosie?"
Arwen asked.

"Well, I'd like too but I don't want to leave our
Ellie for so long."

"Bring her along." the Queen suggested. "It'll be
an easy journey, and she'd be company for my Aredhel."

"Oh," Rosie looked at her in surprise. "you have a
little girl too?"

Arwen nodded, "Almost exactly the same age as your
Little Flower. We brought her north with us but I
thought the crowds and excitement would be to much for
her and so sent her on to Annuminas with the rest of
our people."

Rosie nodded her understanding. "Well I won't say
I"m not tempted, ma'am. Truth to tell I'm a little
nervous about letting Sam out of my sight, afraid
he'll go off on some other mad adventure if I'm not
there to remind him of his responsibilities."

The Queen smiled. "I don't think that's likely,
Rosie."

"Well no, not really but I do worry about Sam
sometimes."

Arwen stopped looking at the baby and turned those
deep blue eyes on the mother with such a concerned
look on her face that Rosie was encouraged to
continue.

"The Gaffer may not know what Sam did, but I do.
Sam told me some of it, and Mr. Frodo a lot more. He -
he was afraid Sam might have the same trouble he did
someday. He said if I was ever worried I should go to
you and the King, you'd be able to help."

"Sam seemed quite himself to me," the Queen said
with a little frown. "Has he been troubled or
depressed lately?"

"Oh no, nothing like that." Rosie assured her
hastily. "He has nightmares from time to time but I'd
call that natural enough considering what he's seen."
Arwen nodded agreement. "If anything's worrying him
it's me. He sees me watching him, and of course he
doesn't like it, but I can't seem to help myself." bit
her lip. "I don't want him to have to sail away like
poor Mr. Frodo."

"I don't think that's at all likely, Rosie, not as
long as he has you and this Little Flower here." the
Queen said firmly. Hesitated, then went on. "I'm sure
Frodo didn't mean to worry you, but Sam was a
Ringbearer too - though only for a short time. And
though he didn't take the harm Frodo and Bilbo did, he
did not escape unscathed."

"But what does that mean?" Rosie demanded, suddenly
on the verge of tears. "How is he hurt?"

"In the spirit." Arwen answered gently. "Not so
gravely that he cannot love and be happy here in
Middle Earth, he scarcely feels it now. But when he is
old, if he should be left alone.." she hesitated
looking for words.

"You mean if he should outlive me." Rosie said
matter-of-factly.

The Queen smiled, a little ruefully, at the
Hobbit's bluntness. "Yes. Then he might begin to feel
the hurt and need help. And he will have it, I promise
you, even to sailing into the West as Frodo and Bilbo
did."

Rosie thought about that, nodded. "Good enough. All
right, I'll try not to worry any more. Thank you,
ma'am."

"You are very welcome, Rosie."

Unlike Ost-en-Dunhirion the equally ancient city of
Tarcilion on the upper Lhun was in ruins, very like
Gondor's own ancient capital of Osgiliath. Tarcilion
too had been walless and built on both sides of a
river - the Eithel Uial, a tributary of the Lhun
running down from the Evendim Hills rising high and
rugged to the east.

But unlike poor, dead Osgiliath the northern city
was green with growing things; trees, climbing vines
and a riot of flowers. When they stopped to make camp
those court ladies and waiting gentlewomen who hadn't
accompanied the Queen used the last hours of sunlight
to pick flowers in the ruins, coming back with baskets
full of roses, lilies, snowdrops and other garden
favorites run wild, and even some Elven flowers;
elanor, niphredil and lissuin.

"Every house seems to have had its own garden."
Edhellos, Angrod's sister, told him as she sat between
her brother and Hirgon by the fire in front of the
Captain's tent after the evening meal. "And there were
parks and orchards too, right in the middle of the
city. Lady Telperien says the Arnorim always built
their cities so - they'd picked up the practice from
the Elves."

"Along with their fondness for fountains and
channels of water." Hirgon agreed, thinking of Minas
Tirith with its few, small, high walled gardens in the
sixth circle and the citadel.

Edhellos frowned. "What we really didn't understand
was why Tarcilion was in ruin while Dunhirion and
Annuminas are whole. When we asked the Lady she said
all their cities had been abandoned after the last
Witch War but the Elves of the Havens and of the Lake
had cared for those two while the others were left
prey to time and pillagers."

"But why abandon their cities?" her brother wanted
to know.

"We asked her that too." Edhellos swallowed,
suddenly uncomfortable. "She just smiled, the way they
do, and said it was safer so."

Both young men knew what smile she meant. A small,
grim, wintery curve of the lips seemingly common to
all the Northern Dunedain - even the King - which
tended to put a quick end to any conversation.

Not, Hirgon reflected gloomily, that the King's
Rangers were easy to talk to at any time. Silent and
unapproachable as a Fountain Guard on duty the lot of
them. Invariably polite, but in a distant, formal way
that made them seem more like the Fathers of Men of
Old than people belonging to this Age of the world.
And with a razor edged alertness that looked
uncomfortably like mistrust.

Two score or so of them, grim and watchful and
slightly disapproving, haunting Minas Tirith like
ghosts of the Numenoreans of Old had been unnerving
enough. But now here they were; surrounded by
thousands of Northern Dunedain and every one of them
as stern and silent as the King's Rangers - Men and
Women both.

Following King Elessar through the streets of
Dunhirion under the eyes of an attentive but perfectly
silent crowd was an experience Hirgon would not soon
forget. they'd been pleased to see the King, He was
sure of that much, for they'd looked far less grim
than usual, and he'd even spotted a few fleeting
smiles here and there. But they neither shouted nor
waved, just stood there still and composed as figures
in an ancient relief, watching. Hirgon grew less and
less happy at the prospect of spending the next five
or ten years among these eldritch folk the more he saw
of them.

A voice spoke quietly, just behind them. "You keep
poor watch." almost before it had finished Hirgon and
Angrod were on their feet swords drawn and leveled at
the throat of the tall, hooded figure that had
materialized out of the night. "On the other hand your
reflexes are excellent." the figure continued,
amusement rather than alarm in his voice. Spread his
empty hands in sign of peace, and as they slowly
lowered their swords, reached up to put back his hood.

Hirgon and Angrod froze, as did Edhellos and the
Men nearby, siezed by an astonishment that was not far
from fear. Minas Tirith had once been Minas Anor, seat
of the Young King Anarion. After his death his son
Meneldil had filled the city with his father's image.
Hirgon's company was made up of city men who'd grown
up seeing that face everywhere, carved in stone or
graven in metal, and were now confronted with it on a
living Man.

The Ranger, for so his worn green leathers
proclaimed him to be, raised the unervingly familiar
winged brows quizzically as his wide deep grey eyes
touched them one by one, registering their reaction
but clearly not understanding it. "I am Gilvagor son
of Armegil. I apologize for my unmannerly greeting. It
was a less than courteous welcome for guests and long
lost kinsmen."

"Not to mention that you might have gotten yourself
run through. What were you thinking, Gil?" two more
Rangers formed out of the shadows; one a typical
Dunedain the other of quite a different kind. Nearly a
head shorter than his companion and far stockier, with
curling light brown hair and hazel eyes fixed
reprovingly on the first Ranger.

Who smiled at him with a quick, startling warmth
that reminded the watching Gondorim of their King. "It
was indeed foolish of me, but then I am often foolish
as you know only too well." to Hirgon. "My companions,
Beomann son of Barliman and Danilos son of Dirhavel.
We have come to guide you on the road to Annuminas."

"I think I could find the way." said a dry voice,
and the Lady Telperien walked through the parting
guardsmen, her silver grey gown glimmering, to face
Gilvagor across the watchfire. She was a tall lady,
taller than most Men, but not this one.

He smiled at her. "Of course you could, Berya, but
I was impatient to see my new sister and needed an
excuse." (1)

The Lady returned the smile. "Then stop annoying
Aragorn's guardsmen and come see her."

Edhellos followed Telperien and the Rangers back to
the Royal Pavillion, puzzling over Gilvagor's words.
Clearly he was some kin to the King but how could he
be the little Princess' brother?

Certainly they looked enough alike to be brother
and sister, or even father and daughter. Entering the
nursery wing of the great tent they discovered the
little Princess Silmarien (2) sitting in the middle of
a richly colored Numenorean carpet playing with a
collection of carved and painted animals from the
widely famed toy market of Dale, a present from her
father's Dwarf companion Gimli.

She promptly transfered her intent gaze from the
toys to her visitors. Her eyes were the same deep blue
as the Queen's but in shape and setting and the soft,
slanting brows above them they were identical to her
'brother's'.

He knelt on the carpet before her. "Hello, Aredhel,
I am Gilvagor." a hint of mischief entered his voice.
"You are most welcome, sweetheart, we've had to wait a
long time for you."

"Which was her parents' fault - not hers." Lady
Telperien observed.

Her kinsman grinned up at her. "Aragorn's fault you
mean. Arwen would have willingly wed and given us an
heir long ago."

"Gil," that was the un-Dunedain Ranger, "if
Strider's your double first cousin, as we Breelanders
reckon it, how can his daughter be your sister?"

"Because he is my foster father as well as my
cousin." Gilvagor explained. And Edhellos suddenly
realized who he must be.

Before the Council of Gondor had let their newly
returned King march off to almost certain death at the
Black Gate they had taken care to establish he had an
heir; a near cousin, the son of Elessar's father's
brother and of his mother's sister, and his own
adopted son. The name of this prince, formally
proclaimed heir at Elessar's coronation, was
Elemmacar, which in the High Tongue had the same
meaning as Gilvagor, 'Swordsman of the Star'. His
unexpected likeness to Anarion was a potent, and oddly
reassuring reminder, that the Isildurioni were
descended from the Kings of Gondor as well as of
Arnor.
***

It took the long train of riders, horse litters,
and sumpter wagons a full three days to get from
Tarkilion to the first gate. As long as it took
Beomann to cover the distance on foot these days. Of
course his own folk had been just as slow, but he
hadn't expect anything else from them. But, rather
unfairly, he kept expecting people who looked like
Rangers to act like them too - and the Gondorim
didn't.

Not only did they crawl along at a slow walk but
they started quite late in the mornings, took a long
break at midday, and then insisted on stopping to set
up camp, a prolonged process, hours before dark.
Beomann was begining to wonder if the King might not
beat them back to Annuminas for all he was going the
long way round through the Shire.

It was but three in the afternoon when they reached
the first gate, at the edge of the Evendim Hills, but
not even Beomann thought they should press on. They'd
never make the first wayhouse before dark - and not
even Rangers travelled by night in the Evendim Hills,
not even on the Road.

Those who weren't busy setting up camp, the ladies
in waiting, Guards officers, craftmen's children and
the like, slowly gathered in front of the closed gate.
Staring up at the gigantic arch of black marble, set
in a cleft between two hills, with the phases of the
moon inlaid in pearl above great marble doors
decorated with stars of adamant. Judging by the tone
of their murmurs the Gondorim had never seen anything
quite like them before.

Recognizing the two officers who had nearly
skewered Gil Beomann sauntered closer. "The west gates
were made for Elendil by the Dwarves of Belegost." he
offered. They turned to stare and he continued; "This
is the Gate of Night, there are two others, the Gate
of Twilight and the Gate of Sunset."

"They look ominous." the younger of the two said,
after a moment.

"Don't they just." Beomann agreed ruefully. "And
you should see the Gate of Winter on the other side -
every bit as bad if not worse. Sometimes I think
Elendil just didn't want company."

Both Gondor Men blinked at him, as if slightly
shocked, though Beomann couldn't think why.(3)

"Er..you're not Dunedain are you?" the elder asked
hesitantly.

Beomann shook his head. "No. I'm a sheep." more
blank looks. "Sorry, that's a joke. Not a very good
one. Seriously I'm what we here in the North call
'Runedain' an Eastern Edain, one who didn't go to
Numenor. My people are descended from the Second
House, the ones who didn't follow Haldad over the
mountains into the lost Westlands, and maybe some who
came back after it sank."

"Oh, I see." the officer said, plainly enlightened.

"We weren't too friendly to Elendil at first, not
like the folk in the Midlands and the Down country."
Beomann continued chattily. "Made a lot of trouble for
him when he was building the Greenway - the
North-South road that is. But he won us over in the
end and we've been King's folk ever since."

"Ah." then the elder officer blinked. "But wait,
you say you are descended from the Forest folk who
preyed on the timber cutters out of the shipyards of
Lond Daer?"

"That's us." Beomann agreed cheerfully. "You
Numenoreans surely did give us plenty of reason to
dislike you in those days. All thousands of years ago
now of course, nobody can hold a grudge that long."

The two Gondor Men exchanged looks. "I have heard of
some who can." said the elder.
*******

1. Telperien is the Quenya name of Aragorn's cousin
and foster sister Beruthiel. See 'The Last Homely
House' and 'Rangers of the North' by this author,
(adv.)

2. 'Silmarien' is Aragorn and Arwen's daughter's
Quenya name, under which she is formally known in
Gondor. 'Aredhel' is her Sindarin name, used by her
parents and other kin.

3. Gondorim don't make jokes about the revered
ancestors. That's part of their problem....

The Enchanted Forest began on the other side of the
Gate of Night. The ground had been cleared for a bow's
length, (a Numenorean bow's length) on either side of
the road which was further protected by two rows of
tall taniquelasse trees with silvery bark and clouds
of large hand shaped leaves, pale green above and
white below. Centuries of leaf-fall lay in drifts
beneath the trees and on the white stone of the road;
rose red, primrose, ivory and fire orange.

Gil had stationed Dan and Beomann on either side of
the gate to repeat the same warning over and over
again to each party that passed through; "Don't leave
the road for any reason. There are things in the wood
left over from the Dark Years, and some from the Great
Dark before the Sun and Moon. But don't be afraid, as
long as you stay on the road you are safe."

"But will they listen?" Beomann had wondered
pessimistically when Gil assigned them the task.

"I think so." he'd answered grimly. "They have
spent their lives on the border of the Land of Shadow
and know only too well the tricks and deceptions of
the Enemy."

Certainly Beomann saw no doubt or question in any
of the Gondorim's suddenly paling faces, eyes darting
nervously to the dark verges of the forest behind the
protective screen of the Elven trees.

They moved faster than had been their wont as well,
and the midday break was shortened from three hours to
one without Gil needing to ask.

"Even so we will not make Annuminas before
nightfall." he told the Captains of the Guard
Companies as the rest of the train ate their uneasy
meal. The Men exchanged worried glances. "But we will
reach one of the protected wayhouses with time to
spare," Gil continued reassuringly, added ruefully,
"though we have a far larger company than it was built
to hold. Still there should be room enough for the
Women and children, and we Men will keep a careful
watch." smiled suddenly. "We are, all of us, only too
accustomed to bad nights in dark places."

Beomann saw uneasiness give way to determined
answering smiles from the Guardsmen and turned away to
hide his own grin. Good old Gil. Hadn't he once
inspired a huddle of Breelanders to stand their ground
against Barrow Wights? Putting heart into experienced
soldiers was child's play in comparison.
***

The big stone wayhouse had more the look of a
fortress than an inn with its narrow, high set windows
and corner towers. The ground for a bow's shot all
round was enclosed by a ditch and earthen rampart with
the dark forest trees crowded right up against them.

As Prince Elemmacar had feared the house was barely
large enough for the Women and children, even with the
stables, storehouses, yard and enclosed garden all
pressed into service. The animals were picketed on the
side nearest the road with the bulk of the wayhouse
between them and the forest and the tents of the Men
filled the remaining ground.

The Prince stationed three sentries every fifty
feet on the rampart itself and behind it had kindled a
ring of bonfires, also fifty feet apart each with a
watch of twenty men around it.

Siriondil, Captain of the First Company, observed
these preparations with some alarm. "My Lord, you seem
to expect an attack in force."

"I fear it," the Prince answered grimly, "so many
Men will be a sore temptation to the Houseless."

Siriondil exchanged a stunned look with Hirgon,
then said cautiously. "Houseless, my Lord, you mean
the spirits of dead Elves?"

The Prince nodded. "Dark souls who serve the
Shadow. There are many of them caught in the trammels
of the Forest. Unbodied they have little might, not
even the power of terror that our own Dead wield, at
least not against Men. But not all are bodiless, and
they have their allies among the Forest's other
prisoners, the beasts and even the trees."

"That's encouraging." Hirgon muttered, a little to
loudly.

The Prince heard and gave him a smile like the
King's in its sudden radiance. "Fear is their chief
weapon, and a blunt one against Men who survived the
Pelennor Field and the Black Gate."
***

It was the seventh hour of the night when a sentry
on the rampart caught a glimpse of light moving
through the woods. "Hist, look there!"

All three Gondorim peered into the dark under the
tangled trees. The light came closer, emerged from the
wood and three breaths caught.

A tall figure, luminous with his own light, pale
hair shining on his shoulders, clad in glimmering
white, stood on the far side of the ditch with a small
band of other Elves, every one fair as the moon and
stars on a cloudless night, at his back. Bright eyes
looked up at the Men on the rampart as their owners
smiled and beckoned.

But these were soldiers of Gondor. Strongly as the
desire to obey that summons was they remembered their
orders and stood fast. The senior of them, Hirgon's
sergeant, fumbled for the horn at his belt with leaden
fingers.

Then a black arrow clove the air beside his head
and buried itself in the broad breast of the lead Elf.
But instead of falling he changed suddenly, horribly;
withering into a gangling near skeleton with dead
white hair, clad in dirty rags.

The thing uttered a shriek of rage, or
disappointment echoed by his followers, now as
hideously changed as he, and all turned and fled into
the shadows under the trees.

The sergeant blew his horn, then turned to see who
had fired the arrow. The stocky, brown haired Ranger
stood there, a second arrow nocked on his short black
bow, eyeing the Gondor Men with approval.

"Gil was right about you folk," he said, "you do
know all the tricks."

Before the sergeant could scrape up an answer to
that Captain Hirgon had arrived, and the Northern
Prince with him.

"They just cast their lure." the Ranger reported
crisply. "I put an arrow in one. They know they've
been found out."

Elemmacar nodded, eyes on the trees. "Call your Men
up, Captain."

The sergeant blew another call on his horn, and this
time it was taken up by others down the rampart. A few
moments later the Men who had been watching by the
fire below, joined them on the flat top of the grassy
bank and the quarter of the company who were awake
assembled below and behind them. Torches were lit and
hung from iron posts spaced along the rampart, dyeing
the Gondor Men's armor and the blades of sword and
spear red-golden.

There was a breathless pause - then things came out
of the Forest, surging across the ditch and up the
outer slope of the rampart: small, knarled, wood
goblins with huge, palely glowing eyes; great black
cats, bristling and snarling; and tall, cadaverous
undead in the decaying remains of ancient armor
wielding jagged, broken blades.

The archers had time for only one volley before the
enemy was upon them and then it was cold steel against
the grasping arms and gnashing teeth of the goblins,
the swift razor sharp claws of the cats, and broken,
time blackened swords wielded by skeletal hands. But
swords proved of all too little use against the
mummified flesh of the revenants.

Hirgon was but one who found himself locked in
seemingly hopeless combat against an undead foe who
took killing wounds without a flinch. The Man gave
ground reluctantly, trying to hew the sword arm from
his enemy's body but his strokes blocked by a riven
shield.

Then, unexpectedly, the undead stiffened and fell
forward, body disintigrating into dust as it hit the
ground, and *something* fled shrieking into the night
under the trees.

At that same moment the entire enemy force,
goblins, cats and undead, suddenly turned and fled
leaving the Men battered and breathless, but
victorious. And Hirgon found himself looking over the
crumbling, empty armor of his erstwhile foe at the
Ranger Beomann calmly resheathing his sword.

"How?" He panted.

"Magic." the other replied with a quick grin. Then
more seriously. "Ranger swords are spelled to slay
such things. I take it you don't get many undead in
the South?"

Hirgon shook his head. "Is it otherwise here in the
North?"

"Oh yes." Beomann said grimly. "What with Wights
and Swamp Walkers and Houseless we're just crawling
with the things."

"That makes good hearing." the Gondor Man said
drily.

The Ranger's eyebrows lifted slightly. "From what I
hear your part of the world isn't exactly clover and
cream either."

"True enough." Hirgon conceeded. But he was
begining to wonder what sort of place this Lost Realm
truly was with its shining white cities, and its
ruinous ones. Its haunted forests and its silent
guarded folk.

Rosie almost changed her mind about going to
Annuminas when she learned the final leg of the
journey would be by boat up the Brandywine river - and
who was supplying the boats.

"The King of the Lake? You mean the Lake in the
Haunted Wood?" she exclaimed, memories of a hundred
frightening fireside tales setting her heart
a-pounding.

Even Sam looked nonplussed when she turned to him
for help. "I supose you know what you're doing,
Strider." he said doubtfully to the King. "But the
Forest and Lake of Evendim have an evil name in the
Shire."

"Lorien too had an evil name." Elessar reminded
him. "The King of the Lake, Celebros, is grandson to
Celeborn and Galadriel."

"Oh!" Sam relaxed at once. "The Lady's own
grandson? Well then he must be all right." Turned to
Rosie. "You remember, sweetheart, I told you how kind
Queen Galadriel was to us."

She nodded, still a little dubious.

The King of the Lake arrived, with his boats, at
twilight. He was very tall with long silver hair and
clad all in white and grey bedewed with crystal beads
and freshwater pearls. Yet for all his eldritch looks
he had a brisk, practical way to him that seemed
almost Hobbit-like and put Rosie at her ease almost in
spite of herself.

"I am told Hobbits are none too fond of boats -" he
began, then interupted himself to smile at Mr. Merry
and the Master as they opened their mouths to object;
"excepting of course for Bucklanders!" before
continuing: "But I think you'll find our barges as
steady underfoot as dry land. And far more comfortable
than five or six days hard riding."

The boats themselves proved much larger than
Rosie'd expected, with high swan's head prows and
stern cabins screened by silken curtains and made
comfortable with cushions and carpets. And they were
indeed steady underfoot as promised, not jigging or
bobbing or cutting any of the other capers she'd heard
tell of. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad after all.

They left from the Bridge of Stonbows just after
first breakfast. There were six other Hobbits sharing
a boat with herself and Sam and the baby: Mr. Pippin,
the Took and his Lady; and Mr. Merry and the Master
and Mistress of Buckland. There were also a score of
fair haired Elvish rowers in silvery grey and green,
and three pretty Elf ladies to look after the
travellers' comfort.

Rosie wasn't used to being waited on and wasn't
quite sure she liked it. It was a bit of a nuisance to
have to constantly ask for what she wanted instead of
doing for herself. But Elves or no she was sure the
serving women wouldn't appreciate her doing their work
for them any more than she would have liked customers
drawing their own half-pints back when she was a
barmaid at the Green Dragon.

At first she worried a little about the rowers, it
looked like such hard work. But they didn't seem to
find it so, singing cheerfully in their strange but
beautiful language as they rowed. And then Rosie
noticed that only about half of them were working at
any one time - the others resting on their oars - and
stopped troubling herself.

Little Elanor ranged the boat at will on her
unsteady baby feet. Rosie soon saw there was no danger
of her falling overboard, the sides were high and
there were always at least half a dozen sets of eyes
on her. Elanor was fascinated by the Elves and they
didn't seem to mind her crawling into their laps or
tangling their long hair around her little fingers any
more than the Big Folk had minded her getting
underfoot on the trip to the river.

Sam and Merry and Pippin sat in front of the cabin
smoking and reminiscing about a river journey they'd
taken during the War while the Master listened
interestedly, the Thain dozed, and Lady Took and the
Mistress gossiped about family matters.

Rosie watched the riverbanks go by. Through the
screen of reeds and willows to the west she saw a
patchwork of fields and little woods, farmhouses, (no
holes because the land near the river was low and
marshy) the occasional hamlet and sometimes small
groups of Hobbits come to gape at the King and his
company. But on the east bank there was nothing but
tall grass, scrub and stands of tangled trees, deary
and sad.

They stopped at nightfall and made camp on the
western bank. A delegation came out from the nearby
village of Dwaling to make the usual speeches and with
the usual small girl to give a bouquet to the Queen.
Afterwards the local Hobbits hovered curiously at the
edges of the encampment watching the goings on, and no
doubt wondering what Rosie was doing among all the
great folk - as did she.

She'd have expected the Thain and the Master to
feel home, being pretty grand folk themselves in their
way, but her Sam was just as easy which surprised her
until she remembered he'd spent months living among
Men and Elves after he and Mr. Frodo came back from
the Dark Land. Seemed like she was the only one
feeling like a fish out of water.

They had dinner in the great tent with King Elessar
and Queen Undomiel. The King of the Lake was the only
non-Hobbit guest. "And how do you like boating now,
Mistress Rose?" he asked her with a smile.

"It was very pleasant." she answered politely. "But
my little Elanor is in a fair way to be spoiled by
your folk, m'Lord, what with the sweets and the
baubles and being let to do exactly as she pleases."

"Elves always indulge children shamelessly - as I
know from personal experience." said King Elessar.
"Let us hope your little flower inherits her father's
level head."

"She has his stubborness anyway." said Rosie.

Sam, sputtered, nearly choking on a mouthful. "And
what about her mother?" he demanded when he could
talk. "It's not me who's had her own way in everything
from the day we married!"

"Which is exactly as it should be." the Queen told
him. Then: "I hear Sam made you wait long and weary
years for him, Rosie. Just as my husband did to me."

"Well he certainly took his time about asking,"
Rosie admitted, "and me doing everything but hang a
sign around my neck to show I was willing!" curiously.
"Was King Elessar as bad?"

"Worse." said the Queen, with a sly, sidelong look
at her husband. "I had to ask him. *And* he turned me
down!"

"I humbly confess to having been a sore trial to
Arwen before our marriage." said the King with a dry,
sideways glance of his own. "And she means to see that
I pay for it!"

"Rosie too." said Sam ruefully.

"And serves you both right it does!" said his wife.
***

They were off again just after sunup. Gradually the
fields and farmhouses on the west bank petered out,
giving way to heathland and The Hobbits had just
finished lunch when the boat passed a stone marking
the northern limit of the Shire. Now they were truly
in the Wild.

The land rose steadily after that and the river
narrowed, becoming a deep channel between high banks
topped by stands of huge old oaks and hemlocks.
Looking idly up at the east bank Rosie suddenly saw
what seemed to be a tall figure, hooded and cloaked in
green, standing among the trees, leaning forward
slightly to look down on them.

Her heart gave a little jump of surprise and she
told herself not to be silly, it was probably just a
trick of the light on a broken stump or some such. But
still she strained her neck to keep it in sight as
long as she could - but couldn't make up her mind.
There was a jut of something dark over the figure's
shoulder that might have been a bow, but surely a Man
would have moved - at least turned his head!

She watched the riverside carefully after that. If
she hadn't she'd never have seen the Woman. this time
she was certain it was no trick of the light or odd
shaped stump. She could see the delicate pale oval of
the Woman's face and the flutter of her long dark
hair. She too wore a green cloak, a white hand holding
it at her throat.

"Sam." she tugged at his sleeve. "Sam, I just saw a
Woman on the bank watching us go by, and before that I
think I saw a Man."

Her husband didn't seem surprised. "Rangers most
likely. Strider's folk, the people of the Old Kings.
They live in the Wild."

She blinked. "They do? I didn't know that."

"You weren't meant to." said the Thain. "They've
been in hiding ever since the end the the Witch Wars."

"But that's all changed now." said Mr. Pippin.
***

Just before sundown they came to a great stone
bridge spanning the river in a single arch, lined with
broken pillars that must have once supported a roof,
and with crumbling towers at either end.

A landing place had been cut out of the steep bank
on the eastern side with a stone stair climbing up to
the roofless ruin of a big stone building on the high
ground above.

There were four Men dressed in worn green leather,
armed with swords and bows waiting for them in the
ruin's courtyard. Men with the same dark hair and
clear cut features as the Gondorim but a bit taller.
In fact their leader was the tallest Man Rosie had
ever seen, topping the King by nearly a head, taller
even then the Elvenking.

"Belegon!" Elessar exclaimed as he embraced him
"Well met, Nephew, but what are you doing here?"

"Waiting to meet your baggage train and guide them
through the Gates." the Man replied.

The King's eyes glinted. "Surely too simple a
matter to require the personal attention of the
Captain of the South."

The Man smiled, transforming his grim, rather sad
face. "I wanted to see you and it made a good excuse.
We've missed you, Uncle."
***

The four Rangers joined the company in the Royal
tent for dinner. And afterwards sat with the King, Sam
and the other Hobbit men, smoking and talking about
affairs here in the North.

The Hobbit ladies remained inside, entertained by
the Queen and the Elvenking. But Rosie overheard
enough of what the men were saying to be more than a
little disturbed. The Wild it seemed was an even more
dangerous place than she'd been always thought.

The gentlemen in attendance and the Queen's ladies
seemed bothered by what they were hearing as well. And
by the look of the Rangers, even by the ruin they were
camped in.

"They are seeing now at first hand what Gondor's
stubborn pride did to their kin in the North." the
Queen explained quietly.

Mistress Esmeralda and Lady Took seemed to
understand that but Rosie didn't. "What did they do?"

"They refused to accept Aragorn's ancestor Arvedui
as their King and so kept the Dunedain realms
divided." Arwen answered. "Which caused Isildur's
Heirs and their people to go into hiding, to ward off
further attacks from the Dark Lord, and let their
cities and monuments fall into ruin - like this
wayhouse."

"But - all that happened long ago." Rosie argued.
"It's not fair to blame folk for what their ancestors
did once upon a time."

The Queen smiled. "I agree with you, Rosie. The
Gondorim have suffered terribly themselves, and born
their troubles as bravely as their kin here in the
North. But now the Realms are reunited and a new Age
is begun. Time for old griefs and old feuds be laid to
rest."

"I doubt it'll be that simple, Ma'am," said the
Mistress, speaking from her own immense experience of
family quarrels and grudges.

"I fear you're right, Esmeralda." sighed the Queen.

The Gate of Twilight was much like that of night
save that it was made of grey stone, polished to a
silken finish, rather than black. Beyond it the forest
changed from a threatening tangle of darksome trees
knarled with age, smothered in underbrush and kept at
bay by a wide sward and files of Elven trees to an
open wood of well spaced ash, birch and beech, slim
and wand straight, supporting a rustling canopy of
green with little glints of golden sunlight flashing
through, growing right up against the road.

"This is the Elven wood." Beomann told Hirgon.
Pointed to a mossy track winding away between the grey
and white boles: "That's the path to Rhuath Uial, the
palace of the King and Queen of the Lake."

Soon after they saw the lake itself, sparkling in
the sunlight, and the fair white villas surrounded by
gardens and orchards, and little towns and hamlets
built upon its shore. To their left the forest changed
again, now to dark, well grown trees of pine and
hemlock with the tended look of a park or hunting
close rather than a wild wood.

At nightfall they left the road to claim the
hospitality of the two nearest villas and the little
town in between them. The folk dwelling there seemed
quite unperturbed at the invasion, though housing so
many guests strained their resources to the limit,
conducting themselves with the silent efficiency and
intimidatingly perfect manners characteristic of the
Northern Dunedain.

The company started again at the second hour of the
morning and by the seventh had reached the Gate of
Sunset. It was of red stone and emblazoned with the
sun and curling chasings like sunset clouds all in
culurin(1) and gold. As with the two earlier gates it
seemed to open of itself, without touch of mortal
hands, to reveal to the dazzled Gondorim a view right
out of a pageant of the Elder days.

A splendid city stood on the shores of the Lake,
its domes and towers sheathed in pure gold that
glittered and flashed in the bright afternoon
sunlight, surrounded by green townlands dotted with
farms and and walled pleasure gardens, all cupped by
dark wooded hills

And, directly in front of them at no great distance
from the Gate three ladies, tall and beautiful with
dark hair streaming unbound down their backs, sat
their grey horses in the middle of the road.

She in the center wore a night blue mantle winking
with stars over the black and silver of the Kings, and
a star of adamant blazed upon her brow. The lady to
her left was cloaked in dark and shining green over a
gown of scarlet and gold and was crowned with a
garland of golden holly leaves. And the lady on the
right had a spotless white mantle over her glimmering
robes of white and silver, with a circlet of mithril
glittering upon her long black hair.

The royal ladies, they could be no less, were
attended by a bevy of women clad in white or blue or
green and by a body of knights, some threescore
strong, cloaked in the same colors. Their winged
helmets like, and yet unlike, those worn by the
Fountain Guards; more graceful in design with the
wings set snug against the head rather than fanning
out. Their armor glittered brightly and pennants of
white and black flew from their spears.

The cavalcade ground to a halt. Beomann looked at
the stunned faces of Hirgon and his Men and was
satisfied. However grand they might be down south they
clearly had nothing to match Annuminas the Golden.

Gilvagor went to greet his kinswomen. "A bit much
wouldn't you say?" he murmured to Ellian in her starry
cloak.

"We must do honor to our new niece and credit to
our King." his aunt replied coolly, but with a glint
of humor in her eye.

"Not to mention make up for the poor impression you
must have given them." Aranel added drily, luminous in
her white.

"I'm not sure what kind of impression I've made."
Gilvagor admitted ruefully. "They're too polite to
say."

"Stiff with etiquette as Barahir said." observed
the lady in green, Aragorn's foster sister Region. "No
doubt you've shocked them silly with your unroyal
ways."

"Very likely." he agreed. "Well come and give your
greetings to our little princess."
****

The King's barges did not stop at sundown of their
fourth day on the river but continued on as dusk
deepened, the stars came out, and a thin new moon rose
in the east. It was between dinner and suppertime by
Rosie's stomach when their boats passed between two
high bluffs and out onto a wide, still lake.

Reflected stars danced on the dark surface of the
water and the western shore, directly ahead, was
jeweled with lights of silver-blue and green-gold.

"Those are our dwellings," one of the Elven maids
told the Hobbits, "the Dunedain have their city and
townlands on the southern shore."

Then they rounded the point and saw Annuminas
glimmering white and gold, like a city of moonlight,
against the dark hills behind. The entire lakefront
was lit up bright as day and the marble piers crowded
with people. Rosie saw Big Folk, both Men and Elves, a
few Dwarves and then she saw some Little Folk and
tugged excitedly at her husband's arm.

"Look, Sam, Hobbits! but surely they can't live in
such a place?"

"Nobody lives in Annuminas anymore, though the
Dunadan means to change that." Thain Paladin told her.
"Those must be Hobbits from Bree or the River Villages
come to see the King."

Whoever they were it comforted Rosie to see some of
her own kind among all these strange and grand folk
and made her feel a little less out of place. To her
delight their barge headed directly for the pier with
the Hobbits. There were Men there too, but of a
different kind than the Dunedain; not so tall and
brown haired and homely looking in their country
clothes.

"I say, that can't be Old Butterbur can it?" Mr.
Pippin said suddenly.

"Surely not." said Mr. Merry.

"It certainly looks like him." said Sam.

As the Elves helped them ashore and began unloading
their baggage a plump Man with a bald head and bushy
side whiskers came forward to greet them. "Welcome to
Annuminas m'Lord Thain, m'Lady Took and Master and
Mistress Brandybuck."

"I don't believe it." said Mr. Merry. "Whatever are
you doing here, Mr. Butterbur?"

"I came with a delegation of folk from Bree to see
the King," the Man answered, "and to tell the truth I
don't quite believe it myself." he glanced down the
waterfront to where the King and Queen were being
welcomed by a number of tall, grandly dressed, dark
haired folk who looked to be kin. Shook his head a
little, muttered "Who'd a' thought?" under his breath
then turned briskly businesslike. "You're to stop with
us, Little Masters and Mistresses, we've got a nice
Hobbit-sized cottage at the bottom of our garden all
fixed up for you."
****

Aragorn had never in his life seen all his kin
gathered together in one place, nor was he seeing it
now - not quite. Belegon and the twins Ellenion and
Ereinion were missing but everybody else from Aunt
Ellian to Belegon's new twins was there to welcome
him. Including his little Aredhel, cradled in
Beruthiel's arms and stretching out small hands to her
parents, voicing both welcome and reproach in her
barely intelligible baby speech.

"But where is my mother?" Ellian asked.

He tore his attention away from his daughter with
an effort. "I asked Grandmother to stay in Gondor. I
fear our enemies might try to take advantage of my
absence. Should that happen her advice will be of
great value to Prince Faramir."

Ellian nodded, accepting his answer. And why not?
it was true enough if not the whole truth. Telling
that would mean going into plans and policies he knew
would be deeply objectionable to his kin - and to his
people in the North. He had no intention of spoiling
his welcome and his ensceptering with anger and
strife, there would be time enough for that
afterwards.

"Belegon and your horse train should arrive
sometime tomorrow." Aunt Ellian was saying. "We will
have the ceremony the day after that, unless you have
some objection?"

"None at all." Aragorn answered.
***********

1. Culurin is a red-golden alloy created in Aman by
Feanor's father-in-law, a famous smith.

 Annuminas was the final riddle, a city Atanatar the
Glorious would have envied hidden in the heart of a
Dark haunted forest, beautiful and untouched by time.
But nobody lived there, the houses were filled with
Dunedain, a tall swarthy Easterling folk, stocky brown
haired 'Runedain' like the Ranger Beomann, not to
mention Halflings, Elves and Dwarves in some numbers,
but there were no shops, no taverns, no workshops. All
these folk were but visitors come to see the King.
Annuminas had been abandoned, just like ruined
Tarcilion, but why?

   Hirgon was brooding over the mystery in front of a
grand but empty guild hall when he saw the King pass
by, with the Queen beside him and the little Princess
in his arms but no other attendants. Scarcely able to
believe his eyes Hirgon followed at a discreet
distance, watching Elessar and Undomiel stop to chat
with passers-by who seemed astonishingly unperturbed
at having their King come among them in such an
informal way.

    Hirgon remembered that Elessar had once tried
walking though the lower circles of Minas Tirith
during the rebuilding - to the agonized embarrassment
and dismay of his new subjects. The Northerners
however seemed to take it as a matter of course, and
for the first time Hirgon understood why the King had
done such an unaccountable thing - he had simply been
following the practice and custom of his Northern
realm. And it had never until that moment occured to
Hirgon, or he suspected any other Gondorim, that the
Northern Kings might have traditions of their own,
very different from those of Gondor.

   A surprising number of his people seemed to be
personally acquainted with the King, and all treated
him with the same easy familiarity as his Rangers did
back in Gondor. The Dunedain among them, and the tall
dark Easterling folk, showed an especial delight in
the little Princess.

   Once Hirgon chanced to be close enough to hear what
a Man in Ranger leathers was saying to the King, in
the usual low pitched voice Ranger voice, as he
chucked Princess Silmarien under the chin.

   "At last someone to carry on the Line! And high
time too, Dundadan."

   "So I have been told, repeatedly." the King
answered drily.

   "It's not *my* fault." the Queen said primly, and
the Man grinned at her.

   "No indeed, my Lady!" a sly, sidelong glance at
Elessar. "We know very well who is to blame."  

   The King heaved a sigh. "And I will be hearing
about it, from my people as well as my wife and kin,
for the rest of my life."

   "Even Kings must pay the price of their follies."
the Ranger answered lightly, shocking Hirgon to the
core, but Elessar just laughed.

   "I've been told that more than once as well."
****
  
   Innocent of the ways of courts Barliman Butterbur
saw nothing odd in the King of the West paying a call
on his subjects, and if he was a bit nervous and
overawed at first the feeling quickly passed.

   For all his grand clothes the King was still
recognizably the Strider Barliman'd known all of his
life - Only better humored and more approachable, as
all the Rangers had become since the War now that they
didn't have to worry about keeping their secrets
anymore.

   After greetings and introductions the official
delegation from Bree settled themselves on the gallery
overlooking the canal to share a convivial pipe with
their King who started the conversation by assuring
them there would be no trouble at all about confirming
their charter.

   "I'm fond of Bree myself," he said. "and don't want
to see it change. Except for the better if that's
possible."

   "Gandalf said you'd feel like that about it."
Barliman remembered. "And I think I speak for us all
when I say it's a great relief to us to have a King
who knows our ways."

   Hearfelt nods of agreement all along the row of
Breelanders.

   "Thank you." said the King "I hope to give
satisfaction to all my peoples here in the North."

   "By the by, sir," from old Gummidge of Staddle,
"just what is your proper name? Some say Aragorn and
others say Elessar and I can't seem to get the right
of it."

   "It's both." the King answered readily. "It's the
custom of my family to give two names; one for
everyday and one, in the old High Elven language, for
best. Aragorn is the first and Elessar the second." he
smiled at them. "I have also taken the surname
'Telcontar' which means 'Strider' in the Elven tongue
for myself and my House."

   "Oh." was all Barliman could think of to say.

   "I'm afraid it wasn't meant as a compliment when we
called you that, sir." Ted Tunnelly admitted.

   "I know." said the King. "But I find I've become
rather fond of the name over the years."

   Barliman took a deep breath. He'd said it to Gil
and to Belegon, and he should say it to Strider - to
King Aragorn Elessar - too. "We Breelanders are right
sorry about the way we've acted towards you and the
other Rangers over the years, sir. Believe me we
wouldn't have treated you so badly had we no known the
truth. And we hope there are hard feelings."

   "None at all." answered the King firmly. "We wanted
your folk to think us rogues and vagabonds - for our
safety, as well as yours. I won't say your scorn
didn't sting sometimes, but we never blamed you for
it."

   Which was exactly what Gil and Belegon had said. No
doubt it was true, and made Breelanders feel a bit
better. But it didn't change their determination to
make up for their former bad behavior in way that they
could.
****

   There was no formal procession of recognition as
there had been for Elessar's coronation in Minas
Tirith. The morning of the day set for his
ensceptering his people gathered expectantly in the
great terraced square before the palace, and at the
windows, balconies and even on the roofs of the
buildings overlooking it.

   The delegation from Bree had a place reserved for
them near the front where they'd have a good view of
the proceedings and the Butterburs had just settled in
their places when Beomann came out of the palace by a
small side door to join them.

   He was almost unrecognizable in a splendid black
surcoat embroidered with stars and a broken sword in
silver thread over a pale grey tunic bordered with
more embroidery in silver and black.

   "Is that real silk?" Peg demanded, feeling the
sleeve.

   "Probably, I didn't ask." her brother answered.
Then to his parents. "Won't be long now."

   A fanfare of trumpets proved him right. The great
golden doors of the palace swung open and two files of
guardsmen armed with spears and clad in black surcoats
embroidered with crowns, stars and trees over silvered
mail, trooped out to the music of invisible trumpets
and flutes, and lined the steps down from the doors. A
moment later another line of Men emerged, six of them
one after the other, four in black surcoats, one in
white and one in green, each carrying banner that
matched the device on his coat. They descended the
stair to stand, three to a side, at its foot.

   "Those are the banners of of the Royal Family."
Beomann explained to his kin.

   The music swelled in a second fanfare and a tall,
sleander lady in a wonderful gown of black and gold on
the arm of an even taller swarthy Man in scarlet and
black came out the door and down the steps to stand
beneath a black banner ensigned with a golden eagle
and silver stars.

   "Oh look at that *dress*!" Peg whispered excitedly.

   Beomann smiled at her. "You haven't seen anything
yet."

   A second even taller lady, in black and green under
a magnificent mantle of gold cloth brocaded with
eagles and suns emerged next, between a pair of even
taller Men, as alike as two peas, both dressed in blue
and black all encrusted with gold. They joined the
others under the eagle banner.

   "That's Lady Beruthiel, the King's cousin, and her
children." Beomann told his family.

   The rest of the Royal Family followed in ones, twos
and threes: First a pair of young girls holding hands
and pretty as flowers in their gowns of pale green and
white. Then two Men, not much older, in black and
white glittering with silver embroidery. And finally a
lady in a green and silver gown beneath a black and
silver mantle. All took their places under a black
banner ensigned with a small star and a large white
flower.

   "That's Belegon's sister Lady Angwen and her
family." said Beomann.

   Belegon himself was next, looking taller than ever
in his long robes of green and gold and trailing black
velvet mantle. With his golden lady all in shining
white on his arm and his little boy, dressed like his
father, by the hand. They went under a black banner
with a bow and quiver and a star.

   A lady, not quite so tall, and all in dark green
glittering with gold and silver and red jewels came
out alone and took her place under the green banner
with its white and silver tree and stars.

   "And that's Belegon's mother, Lady Region." said
Beomann.

   Then came Aranel, who the Butterburs had known as
Lightfoot, dazzling in a silver gown, holding her son
by one hand and her daughter by the other, both
dressed entirely in white. Theirs was the white banner
with its black sword surrounded by stars.

    And finally her brother Gilvagor, as grand as she
in black and grey and silver, took his place to the
right of the steps under a black banner ensigned with
stars and a broken sword.

   There was another fanfare and the King and Queen
appeared, hand in hand. She sparkling in white robes
covered with crystals of adamant, and he all in black
velvet girded with silver beneath a glistening white
mantle. Both wore a large white jewel set like a star
upon on their brow. They descended the steps to the
first terrace, bowed and curtseyed to the crowd, who
bowed and curtseyed in return, then turned to face the
still open door.

   Lady Ellian came out, her night blue surcoat and
mantle powdered with glittering stars, with a collar
of adamant stones around her neck and another upon a
thin fillet above her her brow. On either side of her
was a tall Elven lord, each the mirror of the other
even to his robes of grey, violet and silver and the
the great metal casket in his hands.

   "Those are the Queen's brothers, Elladan and
Elrohir." Beomann whispered because the musicians had
suddenly fallen silent.

   Ellian advanced to the edge of the uppermost step,
opened her mouth and sang in a clear, strong silvery
voice beautiful fluid words meaningless to the
Butterburs yet which somehow put a picture in their
heads of a bright fruitful island suddenly overwhelmed
by a great, dark wave.

   When she ended the Dunedain and some of the Men of
Rhudaur in the crowd sang the last line back to her in
thunderous chorus.

   "That's a verse from the Atalante," Beomann
whispered, "telling how Westerness was drowned in the
sea."

   She sang again, and this time the listeners saw
ships scudding before a terrible storm to land on a
grey shore. Once again the last line was sung back by
the people.

   "And that's about how Elendil, the first King, made
it back to Middle Earth in his ships." whispered
Beomann.

   Surprisingly, after all that singing, the Lady fell
into plain, spoken Westron. "The generations of
waiting are ended. The prophecy has been fulfilled.
Come Elessar Envinyatar and recieve the scepter of
your fathers'."

   The King climbed the steps and knelt at his aunt's
feet. She turned to the Queen's brother on her right
and took from his open casket a heavy silver rod
tipped with the delicately wrought figure of a soaring
gull, and put it into Elessar's hands, raised and
kissed him and set him beside her on the top step.

   Then she cried out in a strong voice: "Aiya Elessar
Telcontar Envinyatar, Arataro i Numende, Taro Arannore
ar Ondor; Aragorn Arathornion Edhelharn, Ar-Tor i
Annui, Aran Arnor ar Gondor; Behold Elfstone the
Renewer, High King of the West, King of Arnor and
Gondor!"

   He looked gravely down on his people and sang a
short verse that didn't make any pictures but made the
Butterburs feel peculiar just the same.

   "Out of the Great Sea to Middle Earth I am come."
Beomann interpreted quietly. "In this place will I
abide, and my heirs, unto the ending of the world!"

   And the people sang back the last line: "Sinome
maruvan ar hildinyar tenn' Ambar-metta!" sending
chills down the spine.

   Then Elessar gave his scepter to his aunt and
smiled down at the Queen. She mounted the steps and
knelt before him. Turning to her other brother the
King took a second scepter, this one twined and tipped
with jeweled flowers, from his casket and placed it in
his wife's hands then raised her up, kissed her and
brought her to stand beside him.

   "Aiya Undomiel Perelda, Aratari Numende, Tari
Arannore ar Ondor; Arwen Elrondien Gil-Aduial,
Ar-Toril Annui, Ris Arnor ar Gondor; Behold Arwen
Evenstar, High Queen of the West, Queen of Arnor and
Gondor!"

   Queen Undomiel didn't sing anything, just smiled
down on them as the people applauded her.  

   A man in the silver armor, black cloak and
fantastic winged helmet of the King's Gondor guard
came out of the crowd with the little Princess in his
arms, climbed the steps and gave her to her father.

   "And here is my heir," the King proclaimed,
"Aredhel Aragornien, daughter of Elfstone and
Evenstar!"

   That got cheers from the normally reticent Rangers
and some laughter too. The Butterburs, applauding with
the rest, wondered why.
****

   At the King's coronation three years ago the
Gondorim had been surprised but touched when he'd sung
the words Elendil spoke after escaping the ruin of
Numenor, taking it as an expression of homecoming by
the long exiled King.

   Now Hirgon saw it had in truth been part of that
Northern tradition none of them had ever imagined
existed. And recognized the words true meaning and
intent: A renunciation of the temptations of
Valinor and immortality and acceptance of Man's mortal
destiny in Middle Earth. A resignation Gondor had
never completely achieved.

   But all else was forgotten, drowned in dismay, when
Elessar proclaimed his little daughter his heir. The
Gondorim exchanged appalled looks as their Northern
kin applauded. Much as they loved their Princess none
of them had ever dreamed the King would regard her as
his rightful successor!

   The law of Gondor forbade the accession of a ruling
Queen. So far Elessar had always yielded to them in
matters of law and custom, but would he this time, and
what would happen if he didn't?

 "Not only isn't Prince Elemmacar at all upset at
being displaced in the succession he seems actually
happy about it." Hirgon and Angrod looked their
disbelief. "Either that or he's good enough an actor
to fool not just me but the King." Edhellos finished
defiantly. And that of course was impossible,
Elessar's insight was already legendary in Gondor.

   "Even if Silmarien is Heir in the eyes of all the
North, including the rightful heir male, she still
would not be acceptable to Gondor." Hirgon worried.

   "We should have expected this," said Angrod,
"didn't Elessar give Anorien and the constableship of
the Northern Fortresses to the Lady Idril? not to
mention seating her and the Princess of Ithilien and
Queen Undomiel on his Council."

   "Clearly he has very different ideas of what is due
the ladies than we." Hirgon agreed.

   "Can you blame him with with such a grandmother?"
Edhellos demanded.

   Hirgon smiled wryly. "We have a strong grandmother
too," he reminded his cousin, "but however much she
may have run Grandfather, and still runs my father, we
would never dream of making her steward or chancellor
of our demesne."

   "Maybe Elessar is more honest than we." said
Edhellos, then shrugged. "I think you are distressing
yourselves over nothing. The King and Queen are like
to have other children, including a son to displace
Silmarien which will satisfy everyone."

   "If he follows the law of Tar-Aldarion." said
Hirgon. "But what if he cleaves to the law of
Tar-Ancalime? Then Silmarien will remain Heir in his
eyes no matter how many sons the Queen bears."
****

   As in Gondor the rest of the day, once the formal
ceremonies were over, was given over to feasting and
merry-making lasting far into the night. There were no
pageants or masques such as those made by the lords
and burgesses of Minas Tirith but there was music and
singing, dancing and games.

   Elves and Dunedain performed plays of the War of
the Elves and Numenor against Sauron, the Foundation
of the Realms in Exile and the Last Alliance.(1) And
after nightfall there were magnificent illuminated
displays, most on themes the Gondorim didn't
recognize, save for one depicting the fall of Baradur.

   The King's table stood not in some grand banquet
hall but on the upper terrace of the palace square
surrounded by a hundred or more others, enough to
feast the entire temporary population of the city. And
the King did not stay upon his throne at the high
table but moved among his subjects, sitting and eating
familiarly among them.

   He had done that in Minas Tirith as well, leaving
his place at his coronation banquet to talk and drink
with those at the lower tables. In the festive
atmosphere it had passed as a gracious condescension
on his part. But to him it had been no such thing,
Hirgon now realized, just the normal courtesy of the
North. For the first time it occured to him to wonder
if perhaps their new King sometimes found his Southern
subjects as unaccountable as they frequently found
him.
****

   The day after the coronation in Minas Tirith had
been given over to a lengthy ceremony in which the
greater and lesser Lords of Gondor paid homage to
their new King. The Northerners however had long ago
sworn oaths to Elessar as their Chief and had no need
to repeat them. Instead the King and Queen appeared on
their thrones to accept congratulations and hear
petitions.

   It would have been hard to imagine anything less
like the chill, austere grandeur of Gondor's Hall of
the Kings than Elendil's Great Presence Chamber. It
was round, and entered through four tall golden doors
north, south, east and west. The walls were painted
with landscapes of lost Numenor between gilded
pillasters wrought in the form of mighty laurinque
trees, their interlacing boughs of golden leaves
framing oval windows beneath the great dome. This was
night blue and studded with Elven crystals, flickering
like stars, set in the constellations that had shone
above Westerness.

   A dais rose in broad low steps at the center of the
Chamber, and from it seemed to grow a giant,
glimmering silver tree. Its fragile, rustling leaves
filled the air with soft, chiming music. Light from
the windows reflected off silver and gold to create a
beautiful mingling of moon and sunlight unlike
anything the Gondorim had ever seen before.

   At the foot of the Tree, facing east and shaded by
a graceful bough, stood the silver chair of Elendil.
Its high back was wrought in the form of the Kings'
winged crest and set with Elendil, and the North
Kingdom's, device of seven and one stars.  A second
chair had been placed, one step down, for the Queen.
It too was silver and twined with jeweled flowers like
her scepter.

   People entered from all sides through the open
doors and mingled, talking quietly, as they waited.
The sharp rap of a chamberlain's staff of office on
the marble paved floor cast a hush over the great
chamber and turned everybody towards the east door to
see not the King, but the Ringbearer with his pretty
little lady on his arm.
****

   At first Rosie was so dazzled by the starry ceiling
and great glittering tree that she barely noticed the
people. Then she lowered her eyes and saw Big Folk,
Elves, Dwarves and even Hobbits all bowing and
curtseying in their direction. She looked over her
shoulder, expecting to see the King and Queen, but no
one was there. Looked in bewilderment at Sam and saw
he was bright red from brow to chin and ear to ear.
Only then did she realize all these grand folk were
bowing to *him*.

   He gave her a little tug and they started across
the floor towards the dais with its silver tree,
people parting before them like they were royalty. It
seemed a very long time before they reached their
places, one step up on the central dais, just below
the King's throne, and everybody finally straightened
up and looked away.

   Rosie knew all about the quest, as she'd told the
Queen, but she'd always thought about it in terms of
what it had done to poor Mr. Frodo and even to Sam.
Never until this moment had it truly come home to her
that Mr. Frodo had saved Middle Earth. And Sam, her
Sam, had helped him to do it. She shot an almost shy
sideways look at her husband, whose face was gradually
returning to its normal color, feeling a little awed
and very proud.

   The chamberlain rapped the floor again and this
time it was the King and Queen, wearing the same grand
robes as yesterday and carrying their scepters,
followed by members of the Royal Family. Once again
everybody went down in bows and curtseys, except Sam.
Rosie, standing uncertainly next to him, didn't know
*what* to do.

   King Elessar came to the foot of the dais and
looked straight at them with a glint that might have
been laughter in his eyes.

   "I'm not bowing!" Sam told him.

   He smiled. "So I see, well done, Ringbearer." then
*he* bowed! and Sam bowed back. Rosie hastily
curtseyed.

   Elessar and his Queen climbed the steps to their
thrones. Their long white mantles, hers glittering
with diamonds, curled around their feet as they turned
to face the people. And their relations took up places
on the steps of the dais or just below it.

   "Welcome," said the King, his voice pitched to
carry clearly to the farthest reaches of the Great
Chamber. "Welcome, Men of the West and of the East,
long sundered kin and friends of old. Welcome all to
the Court of Annuminas." He and the Queen sat down on
their thrones and the presentations began.
***

   A Dwarf with gold threads braided into his jet
black hair and beard and gold and silverwork
encrusting his clothes, attended by several others
almost as richly attired, bowed before the throne.

   "Hail Aragorn Edhelharn Dunadan, Friend of the
Dwarves. It's good to see a King of Men back on the
throne after all this time."

   Elessar rose to bow back. "Hail Curumaith, Lord of
Belegost, Friend of Men."(2)

   Hirgon and the other Gondorim in the crowd
exchanged startled looks. Surely Belegost, the ancient
city of the Dwarves, had been destroyed at the end of
the First Age in the ruin of Beleriand?

   "I thank you for your good wishes." the King was
saying, "And your people for the aid they have given
mine over the long years."

   "Just returning the favor." the Dwarf-Lord said,
rather less formally, then grinned up at Elessar. "You
folk do have rare gift for trouble!"

   There was a rustle of amusement among the Dunedain
in the audience, and some rolling of eyes among the
Men of Rhudaur.

   The King's eyes twinkled. "All too true. And
fortunate we are to have such friends to help us out
of it."

   The Lord of Belegost, with a final bow, gave way to
another delegation of Dwarves. These were all red
haired and somewhat less richly dressed, and seemed
far less at ease.

   Elessar, still on his feet greeted them warmly.
"Hail Phazgan son of Tamruzor, Lord of the Firebeards.
Hail and most welcome. Without your aid the Southern
March might have fallen."

   The Dwarf leader, bowed. "Hail Aragorn Edhelharn
Dunadan, of the blood of Elu Thingol." he straightened
and said awkwardly. "Three Ages of the world is long
enough to hold a grudge - even for Dwarves."

   "More than enough." the King agreed. "The fault was
upon both sides, and both paid a bitter price for it.
It is best forgotten."

   "We agree." said the Dwarf. "And therefore the
Firebeards of South Mountains offer their
congratulations on the restoration of the North
Kingdom and their friendship and alliance if you'll
have it."

   "I will gladly, and thank you right heartily for
it, Friend of Men." the King replied with another bow.

   His people applauded, and the Dwarves bowed back
before melting into the crowd. Hirgon had the distinct
impression that something momentous had just taken
place. But he had no idea what.
************

NOTES

1. Dunedain/Elven Theatre is somewhat similar to that
of Ancient Greece. Scenery is non-existent - the stage
is set by a narrator or chorus, a highly trained Bard,
who also gives any necessary backstory and indicates
the passage of time.

   Action takes place off-stage. Onstage the
characters describe what they did and how they felt
about it. The emphasis is on the beauty of the
language. Costuming too is elaborate and exquisite.
Music and dance are often part of the presentation. 

2. The 'Broadbelts' of Belegost: Unlike Nogrod
Belegost survived the ruin of Beleriand, though not
without damage. The Broadbelts fought in the War of
Wrath and continued to have good relations with the
Noldor of North Lindon afterwards. Sindarin has been
their 'outer speech' since the First Age 'Curumaith'
is a Sindarin name meaning 'skilled hand'.

3. The Firebeards were the Dwarves of Nogrod. Though
their city was destroyed, it stood where the gulf of
Lune is in the Third Age, their mines and lesser
settlements in the southern Ered Lindon survived. The
remaining Firebeards, haunted by guilt over the ruin
of Doriath and nursing their grudge for the massacre
of their army at Rathloriel, kept very much to
themselves through the Second and Third Ages. They
carefully avoided the Sindarin Elves of Harlindon,
ruled by a descendant of Elu Thingol, and later the
Dunedain who were as well. However they had trading
relations with the Runedain of Eriador, and later the
Men of Cardolan and Rhudaur. Their outer speech is
Westron and their names are untranslated Adunaic.

   During the War of the Ring Lassarion Eluchil, Lord
of Harlindon, went to the Firebeard's city and so
persuasively argued the folly of clinging to old
grudges in the face of so dire a common danger that
they agreed to march with his small force to the aid
of the Dunedain of Cardolan.

   The something momentous Hirgon senses is Aragorn
and Phazgan's finally and officially laying to rest
the ancient feud between the Firebeards and the
descendants of Elu Thingol.

The King remained standing if front of his throne and the Queen rose too as the Dwarf delegation was succeeded by a tall, silver haired Elven lord with a lovely rose-gold tressed Elf-lady on his arm. Both were

clad in white beneath their long dark grey mantles glimmering with crystal stars and both crowned with diadems of interwoven leaves wrought of mithril and gold.

"Welcome Celebros, King of the the Lake, and Queen Arianlos." Elessar said formally. Then descended the steps of the dais to give the Elf-King a warm kinsman's embrace, as Undomiel embraced Queen Arianlos.

"Welcome home." said Celebros. "It's good to see lights on the southern shore again."

"There are few things sadder than an abandoned city." added his Queen.

"I agree." said Elessar.

The King and Queen of the Lake gave way to a tall golden haired Elf, dressed all in green with a chain of emeralds and pearls around his neck and a light silver circlet on his brow.

"Welcome Lassarion Eluchil, Lord of Harlindon." said Elessar, and embraced him too before then handing him over to his Queen for a similar greeting.

Lassarion's eyes twinkled as they went from one to the other. "Not just a King but a Queen and royal heir as well! And may I say it's about time?"

"Why not, everybody else has." said the King resignedly as another ripple of amusement passed over the Northern Dunedain and their allies. The Gondorim exchanged glances and wondered just what the joke was. Lassarion went to stand near the red bearded Dwarves.

Then a hush fell over the crowd as it parted to allow a small procession to approach the throne. At its head walked a tall Elf woman with a cascade of ice white hair falling past her knees over a mantle of snowy swans feathers. She wore a delicate silver crown wrought in the form of swans wings and a gown of silver cloth and was followed by twelve dark haired Elven ladies each crowned with a circlet of silver feathers and clad in a swanfeather cloak.

The lady bowed to Elessar who returned it. “Welcome, Isfin.”

The Gondorim in the crowd exchanged incredulous looks: No, it couldn’t be.

The white haired Elf-lady glanced at Queen Undomiel and smiled mischievously at the King. “I won’t say it.”

“For which I am most grateful!” Elessar replied with fervor. Once again a ripple of laughter passed over the northerners. Then he turned serious. “And also for your aid during the war, thank you, Isfin.”

“You’re welcome.” she said. “But it was the least we could do. It was all our fault - as usual.”

“I think Sauron deserves some of the discredit.” Elessar said dryly.

“Perhaps a little.” she conceded. Kissed the King’s cheek and joined the watching crowd.

The next delegation to approach the throne was made up of Hobbits and headed by an older male who looked remarkably like Sir Peregrin, wearing a thin golden circlet and beaming all over his face.

“My lord King, the Hobbits of the Shire offer their congratulations, welcome and allegiance!”

“Thank you, Perehir.” Elessar replied. “I and all the Free Peoples owe a debt that can never be repaid to the Hobbits of the Shire; to the Ringbearers Frodo Baggins and Samwise Gamgee, to Sir Meriadoc Brandybuck Nazgul Bane and to Sir Peregrin Took Troll Bane.”

The Hobbits’ lord literally glowed with pride, and Hirgon remembered that not only was he Sir Peregrin’s father but near kin to both Frodo and Meriadoc.

“In token of this debt,” the King continued, “I give the lands between the Brandywine and the Far Downs, known as the Shire, to the Thain and his folk to hold free from tax or service until the Ending of the World.”

Men, Elves and Dwarves applauded enthusiastically. When the noise subsided the Perehir bowed. “We are honored, Dunadan, but that offer of allegiance still holds. We’ve got a debt to repay too, you know, for the protection your folk have given ours these long years.”

“I accept of course.” said Elessar, eyes glinting. “I am not such a fool as to reject the alliance of so puissant a people!”

The Perehir snorted a little but seemed pleased none the less by the compliment. He and his fellows bowed again and gave way to a mixed delegation of Hobbits and short, brown haired Runedain dressed in the odd Halfling style.

The balding Man at their head bowed rather jerkily then said loudly and a little too fast: “Your Majesty, the people of the Breeland present their compliments, congratulations and fealty to the High King, and to her Majesty too, of course.” He finished and heaved a huge sigh of relief at having gotten it all out.

“We thank you kindly for your good wishes, Master Butterbur.” Elessar replied, and Hirgon noticed his accent had changed to match the Breelander’s.

Another group of Men and Hobbits followed, representing the River Villages, whatever they were. Who gave way in turn to a delegation all of Men led by an elder with faded ginger colored hair who seemed much more at ease than either Mr. Butterbur, or the Villages‘ spokesman had been..

“The Men of the Angle are proud to offer their love, loyalty and service to the King.” He said, firm and strong, looking Elessar straight in the eye.

“The King is proud to accept.” he answered. “And to give his love, and loyalty, and protect in return for all the days of his life.” then, to the Gondorim’s amazement, Elessar descended the steps of the dais and took the head of the delegation into a kinsman‘s embrace.

The Man returned it, eyes filling with tears. “I just wish my father could have lived to see this day.” he choked.

“So do I, Osbert.” the King agreed sadly, kissed his cheek and let him go.

Hirgon was bewildered. Was this Runedain Man somehow kin to the King, and if so how? Certainly none of the Northerners seemed to see anything startling about the exchange. (1)

A company of tall, swarthy Easterners approached the throne, clad in barbaric finery of furs and supple dyed leathers and massive golden jewelry, their leader faced the King squarely. “My Lord, long ago a promise was made by your fathers to ours.”

Elessar smiled. “I remember it well. You wish to claim it now, Borgil?”

“Seems like the right time, with the Great Enemy defeated and the Northern tribes in disarray.” the Man answered confidently.

The King nodded. “I agree. We will need the shield and bulwark of Rhudaur if we are to restore the North to what it once was. But even were that not so, even if Arveleg had not given his word to Borlas, still I would gladly grant any boon the Rhudaurim asked of me in gratitude for their loyalty and service all these long years.”

Borgil was clearly well pleased by Elessar’s words. “Whatever else may be said of my folk we are at the least true to our salt.”

“And that is no small thing.” said the King.

A nervous looking Runedain abruptly detached himself from a huddle of Hobbits and his own kind, stepped up to the throne next to Borgil - then was seemingly struck speechless.

Elessar smiled encouragingly. “Yes, Will Greenroot?”

The Man turned red to the hairline but managed to stammer: “Well, Strider - I mean your Majesty! - back when Borgil’s people had their kingdom, my folk had one too - but of course you know that -” he shot a pleading look, not at Prince Elemmacar but at the squire standing behind him. Beomann Butterbur came down two steps of the dais to stand next to his fellow Runedain.

“What Master Greenroot is trying to say is he and his folk humbly petition the King’s Grace for the restoration of their ancient kingdom of Cardolan.” the squire said firmly.

Greenroot glowed with relief, pulled a handkerchief from his sleeve and mopped his forehead. “Yes, that’s it exactly. Sorry, Strider, I’m not used to this sort of thing.”

“Neither am I entirely.” the King reassured him, and Hirgon noticed he was using the country accent again. “No need for court manners, Will, just say your piece.”

“You see the thing is, Strider, we’ve got all sorts of new folk moving in - people from the South mostly.” the Man confided. “It’s not that they’re not welcome you understand, but how are they to know the land belongs to us if all they see is Wild? If we have a King then we can just send them to him and he’ll tell them where they can settle and where they can’t with no ill feelings on either side, if you follow me.”

“I do.” Elessar assured him. “I think it’s an excellent idea, Will.” continued briskly: “I summon you both, with whatever others you see fit to bring, to attend our council tomorrow at the third hour - that’s nine o’clock by your measure, Will - where we will settle all to your satisfaction.”

And that, apparently, was the end of the presentations for the King came down from the dais and began talking quietly with the Easterners, Squire Beomann and Master Greenroot.

The rest of the royal family also descended to mingle with the crowd, and Elves, Men, Hobbits and Dwarves all relaxed and began to talk. The leaves of the Tree chiming musically as they moved in the tiny drafts made by the movement and voices of the people below.

*****

1. Osbert Attmead is the son of Oswald Attmead, a childhood friend of Aragorn’s, (see ’The Last Homely House’ adv.). Oswald, who was the same age as Aragorn, died a few years before the WR at the age of eighty-four.

Rosie was standing on the lowest step of the dais, watching the Big Folk mill about, when a familiar voice said behind her: “Rosie Cotton, whatever are you doing here?”

She turned at once, decidedly startled. What would old Malkin, the Big-Folk herbwoman, be doing here? And found herself looking at the white haired Elf queen. “Mal - kin?” the name ended with a gulp.

“That’s right.” the Elf said calmly in that familiar voice. Then grinned in a way that was also very familiar; “Of course you’ve never seen me all got up for best before.”

Rosie subsided rather abruptly onto the next step up. “But - but you’re an *Elf*, you can’t be old Malkin!”

“Oh yes I am.” she answered, settling comfortably on the steps next to Rosie. “Come now, don’t tell me you haven’t heard of the Queen of Elf-Hill and her habit of wandering in disguise?”

Well of course Rosie had, in bedtime stories when she was a little girl. She’d never been silly enough to believe them, and even if she had she certainly wouldn’t have expected a queen of the Elves to get herself up as a ragged old herbwoman in order to drink tea and gossip with the goodwives of Hobbiton! Bewilderment and dismay abruptly gave way to anger. “Well that’s a fine thing! Lying to us, tricking us!”

“Rosie, be reasonable, if I appeared in the Shire looking like this,” the Elf spread her arms displaying feathered cloak and silver gown, “you’d all hide under your beds until I’d gone!”

That was so obviously true that Rosie had to laugh, her brief anger slipping away.

“Now then,” said Malkin, “what brings you to Annuminas?”

“I came with my husband.” Rosie replied, and blushed at the smile that spread over the face that was growing more and more familiar the longer she looked at it.

“So Sam popped the question at last, did he, and high time too! I’m glad to hear it, Rosie, a good wife and a family are just what he needs after all he’s been through.”

“That’s what Mr. Frodo said.” Rosie agreed. “Sam needs - not to forget exactly - but to put aside all the terrible things he’d seen and done and learn how to be happy and peaceful again. And I’m just the one to help him do it.”

Malkin sighed. “It’s a pity there was nobody east of the Sea who could do as much for poor Frodo. But then he had suffered even more than your Sam.”

That was true. Sam hadn’t wanted to see it, of course, but Rosie had soon realized that Mr. Frodo had gone too far beyond himself to ever be able to settle back into the comfortable life of the Shire. “He wasn’t really a Hobbit any more.” she agreed quietly.

“That’s one way of putting it.” said Malkin.

“Rosie?” This time it was Sam’s voice, and the note of incredulity in it was perfectly understandable. He would scarcely expect to find his wife having a comfortable chat with a strange Elf.

“It’s Malkin, Sam.” Rosie explained, perhaps slightly incoherently. “Old Malkin the herbwoman, but she’s really an Elf.” turning back to the Elf-queen. “What’s your right name again?”

She smiled. “Isfin. You wouldn‘t know it, Rosie, but I’ll bet Sam does.”

He certainly seemed to, his eyes had gone round as saucers. “Feanor’s daughter?” (1) he asked in disbelief, then with sudden comprehension: “Of course, that’s why you said the War was your fault. What’s ‘is name who made the Rings would have been your - your -”

“Nephew.” she finished for him, sighed. “Poor, foolish Celebrimbor. You’d think the Darkening of Valinor would be enough to warn anybody against trusting strange Maiar bearing gifts, but we Feanori seem to be incorrigibly credulous.”

“Not all.” said a mild voice, an Elf man joined their group. He had broad shoulders and light brown hair and seemed somehow less intimidatingly grand than the other Elves Rosie had seen.

“This is my husband, Enerdhil.” said Malkin, or rather Isfin. “My dear, the Ringbearer and his lady; Rose Gamgee.”

The Elf bowed to them both. Rosie gave the queen a reproachful look. “Malkin said her husband was a smith.”

“And so I am.” Enerdhil said serenely, sitting down next to his wife.

Rosie looked puzzled. “But you’re a king -”

“That I am not.” he said briskly. “My Lady here lost her kingdom long before we were wed. I have never claimed to be more than the common craftsman I was born.”

“A most uncommon craftsman.” said Isfin.

Rosie stared at him. “I never thought of that,” she said, amazed. “but of course there must be Elves who work for a living like regular folk. You can‘t *all* be kings and queens and magicians and the like.”

“Any more than all Hobbits are gentlefolk and heroes.” Enerdhil agreed with a smile. “But they don‘t sing songs about us commoners, just the kings and queens and magicians.”

“I seem to recall a certain simple craftsman having a song or two to his name.” Isfin said mildly. (2)

Her husband smiled at her. “Only because I went and got myself mixed up in the affairs of the Great. Not unlike you, Master Gamgee.”

“Isfin,” yet another new voice joined their conversation, this time it was Beomann Butterbur’s, “Himself’s asking for Gilfanon, do you know where he’s got to?”

She shook her head. “I haven’t seen him since we arrived.”

“Try looking up.” Enerdhil suggested gently.

Hobbits, Man and Elf-queen did so. For a moment Rosie didn’t see anything but the starry ceiling and the boughs of the Tree, then she spotted a tall, white clad figure already high in the branches and climbing higher.

Beomann gaped, then gasped: “Idiot! What’s he think he’s doing?”

“Taking at look at the ceiling,” I would guess. “Enerdhil said calmly. “It is his work you may recall, no doubt he wants to see how it’s weathered the long years.”

Beomann shook his head. “I just hope he doesn’t break anything - off the Tree I mean.”

“Don’t worry, he won’t.” said Enerdhil.

***

Aragorn was talking with Gilvagor, Borgil’s younger son Boromir, the Dwarf-lord Curumaith, some of his fellows, and a couple of the Firebeards when Beomann rejoined them.

“I’m afraid Gilfanon is temporarily unavailable.” he said dryly. The others looked at him questioningly and he added; “Look up.”

All did, and laughed. “Typical.” said Gilvagor, shaking his head.

“With all due respect, sir,” Beomann said to Aragorn, “I am *not* following him up there.”

“No need.” the King assured him. “He’s got to come down eventually - I think.” and Men and Dwarves shared another chuckle.

Not far away Hirgon was being enlightened by the Lady Region, the King’s foster sister. “Then it is the same Isfin as in the old stories then, the daughter of Feanor and Queen of Dor-Winnion?”

“Of course.” said Region, calmly as if there were nothing at all unusual about having a First Age Noldorin Exile as a neighbor. “She’s lived in East Lindon since Beleriand foundered.” she looked at him questioningly. “Surely you remember her part in the Last Alliance?”

“Yes, but that was long ago.”

Region nodded. “Even as the Elves measure it. The White Lady, like Elrond Half-Elven, is an old friend and ally of our people and our house. We know her well here in the North.”

“We had few Elves near us in the South,” Hirgon admitted, “and those we knew have long since sailed West.”

“Isfin says she will never return to Aman.” Region answered. “Her memories of the Blessed Land have been spoiled by the Rebellion and the Darkening and the Kinslaying. And her father and brothers are gone and will not return. I must say I‘m glad of it, a world without Elves would be too sad to bear.”

Hirgon, who had grown up in a world without Elves, or Dwarves, looked around him at Elves, Dwarves and three different kinds of Men - not to mention Halflings! - chatting familiarly together and shook his head in a sort of amazement . It was almost as if by sailing North they had sailed back into the Elder Days when the peoples had been near allies and the world filled with wonder.

Arwen Undomiel perched on the arm of the Silver Chair of Elendil talking to her kin; Celebros, Arianlos and Lassarion. And to Nolwen of Amon Geleidh, one of Isfin’s ladies, who was sitting in the Queen’s chair. (3)

“But whatever gave you the idea of approaching the Firebeards?” Arwen asked Lassarion.

He smiled ruefully. “Sheer desperation. I knew my force lacked the weight to be of real help to the Dunedain, and there are no better heavy infantrymen than Dwarves.” he shrugged. “Sauron was strengthened by divisions between his enemies. It seemed to me high time to end this one. After all Thingol was as much to blame as the Dwarves for what happened.”

“You believe the story the Lord of Nogrod told Beren?” Arianlos asked interestedly.

“Luthien did.” Lassarion answered. “And it seems likely enough, we all know the effects of Dragon gold.”

“It was not the gold,” Nolwen said quietly, but with certainty. “it was the Silmaril. The Great Jewels always fired covetice in the hearts of those prone to that fault.”

“How can that be?” Arwen frowned. “They were filled with the light of the Trees and hallowed by Varda herself, their influence should have been for good.”

“But obviously it wasn’t.” Nolwen answered dryly. “First they corrupted my Lord Feanor and his sons, and later the Lord Thingol and the Dwarves of Nogrod.” she raised a hand as Arianlos started to protest. “I do not say any of these were guiltless, but the Jewels spoke to their weakness and made it grow into a madness that consumed them.

“The light of the Trees was a hoarded blessing.” she continued quietly. “When the Valar chose to keep it selfishly for themselves rather than sharing it with Middle-Earth they tainted it with the sin of covetice. And from that came all of the mischief.”

“But the Silmaril didn’t corrupt everyone who held it.” Arwen protested.

Nolwen smiled. “Beren had only one treasure, there was no room in his heart for another. For him and for Luthien the Silmaril was naught but a beautiful bauble. For Dior it was the memory of his parents and a sacred trust. And for Elwing too it was a trust to be guarded and given up to the one for whom it was meant. They had no covetice in their hearts and so the taint of it on the Jewel did not affect them.”

“The Doriathrim and the Nogrodrim had been friends for years uncounted,” Lassarion said quietly, “I cannot believe they would have fallen out so merely of their own will. Dragon gold or Silmaril some outside power moved them to that final quarrel, of that much I am sure. And that being so to continue to blame the Firebeards and the Firebeards alone for the bitter end of our friendship is clearly unjust.” he shrugged again. “Besides it was all a very long time ago.”

Nolwen laughed. “That’s the Man in you.” she told him. “They are more forgiving than either our people or the Dwarves, or maybe just more forgetful.”

“Not all.” said Arwen dryly.

“The Dunedain are too long lived.” said Nolwen. “Long life means long memory. I remember Urin saying that though he himself had reason to be grateful for it, the greater span granted to the descendants of the Elf Friends was a mistaken gift. As usual he was right.” (4)

“I have heard many Dunedain say the same.” Arwen admitted. She turned to Arianlos. “What of your uncle?” she asked, unconsciously lowering her voice. “Did he sail with my father?” (5)

Feanor’s granddaughter smiled faintly. “Of course not,” she answered just as quietly. “though both Elrond and Gandalf tried to persuade him.”

“And Mother and me, and the rest of her children as well.” said Arianlos’ brother Gilfanon joining their circle.

“And you were not tempted?” Arwen asked.

He stared at her with exagerated dismay. “Have you gone daft, Cousin? Me, in a timeless, changeless land with no one to talk to but Elves - and High Elves at that!” he shuddered histrionically. “I’d be madder than my grandfather in a century.”

“You are madder than your grandfather.” said Celebros.

“Yes, but in a much more entertaining way.” his brother by marriage replied, then continued more seriously: “I don’t know if it was Gandalf’s own idea or the Valar’s but both should have known better. Feanori do not belong in Aman, you’d think the Rebellion would have taught them as much.”

“I certainly would.” Nolwen agreed.

“By the way,” said Celebros, “Aragorn was asking for you earlier, Brother.“

“Was he? I’d better see what the King wants, I do hope it‘s something interesting.”

“I think you will find it so.” said Arwen.

****

“How is the ceiling?” Aragorn asked politely. The Dwarf lords and Boromir had been called away by Borgil of the Rhudaurim, leaving only Gilvagor and Beomann with the King.

“Sound enough for the most part,” Gilfanon answered, “but Alcarinque is a little loose in its setting, I’ll see to it later.” He smiled. “We can’t have stars falling on the heads of the King’s courtiers now can we?”

“Certainly not.” Aragorn agreed. “Gilfanon, we are ready to begin the work of rebuilding the old fortress cities; as you had a hand in the building of Fornost I assumed you would be interested in helping to restore her.”

The Elf’s face brightened. “Very much so!” then he frowned. “You don’t mind a few changes I hope, I have some ideas.”

“Not within reason.” said the King.

Gilfanon’s eyebrows went up. “And what is that supposed to mean.”

“It means,” Gilvagor answered, “that he wants the City finished in this Age of the World - so none of your tricks!”

“And just what do you mean by that?” the Elf demanded.

“I think he’s probably talking about the way you tore down Minas Sul three times, secretly at night, during its building.” Beomann said helpfully.

“I never did!” Gilfanon said indignantly, then added: “Besides I’d had a better idea. And anyway it was only twice. Elendil always did exagerate.”

“Watch him.” said Aragorn to Gilvagor.

“I will.” his cousin answered fervently.

****

1. Isfin, daughter of Feanor, is of course totally AU. She is mentioned in an unfinished story called ‘A Maid of Elven Tirion’ which so far has only one chapter. Her kingdom of Dor-Winnion was in eastern Beleriand and took its name; Land of the Maidens, from Isfin herself and her twelve maiden attendants, (the same twelve who accompany her now). She befriended the Edain and those who lingered in Estolad were her vassals. She also tried to restrain her brothers, with little success. After the youngest, Amras, who she had done her best to protect from the Doom was slain by his own brothers’ men as he helped defend the Havens of Sirion Isfin washed her hands of Maedhros and Maglor, now the only survivors and passed over the Blue Mountains into Eriador, settling on an outlying hill, now known as Amon Geleidh, Hill of the Noldor, or simply Elf-Hill, where she still lives with the surviving Feanorians.

2. Enerdhil, Isfin’s husband, takes his name from the maker of the Elfstone, (in one of Tolkien’s versions) but is also AU. He was chief artificer of Gondolin and led the House of the Hammer. The songs Isfin mentions are about his great feat of slaying a Balrog during the final defense of Gondolin. Readers of the Lost Tales will recognize elements of the story of ‘Rog’ head of the House of the Hammer of Wrath, in this. Unlike that tale Enerdhil and some of his craftsmen manage to survive the battle and escape with the other refugees down Idril’s secret way.

3. Celebros is the son of Elured, the elder of Elwing’s twin brothers, and Lassarion the great grandson of Elurin who was the younger. Like Arwen both count as Half-Elven. Unlike her they have not been offered the Choice which is unique to the heirs of Earendil and Elwing. However because of their high percentage of Elven blood they can basically live as long as they choose, until the weariness of the world becomes to much for them - as has happened to Lassarion’s mother and grandparents. Elured endured the long years for the sake of his wife Lorellin but was slain in the WR and his soul has presumably passed beyond the Circles of the World.

Arianlos is the eldest of the four daughters of Isfin, and so sister-daughter to the Sons of Feanor. You can imagine how thrilled Elured and Celeborn were with Celebros’s choice of wife! ;-) but then falling in love with controversial spouses seems to run on both sides of the family!

Nolwen is a much older and far wiser Davne from ‘A Maid of Elven Tirion’ and one of Isfin‘s twelve companions. Her contention that the light of the Silmarils was tainted is original to me, (as far as I know) and admittedly subversive.

4. Urin son of Turin is also an AU Sil character of mine. He is mentioned in a couple of other stories; ‘Rangers of the North’ and ‘The Awakening’. After the War of Wrath he went east over the mountains rather than west to Numenor, and a number of the Edain followed him. He had a powerful philosophical influence on the remaining Feanori, Elrond Half-Elven, the Runedain of the Downlands and Weather Hills and later the Dunedain of the North.

5. Arianlos and Arwen are talking about Maglor, who the Second Age Elven emissaries Morinehtar and Romestamo discovered working against the Shadow among the Men of the East. Though persuaded to visit his sister and daughter in the West Maglor has asked that his identity be kept secret. This is not difficult as he has changed beyond all recognition, being both blind and aged like a Mortal Man by his trials.

‘Covetice’ BTW is not a mispelling but an archaic form of the word ‘covetous’. Anyway the Professor uses it, so I can too! ;-)

The time of reckoning had at last arrived, Aragorn thought wryly, looking at his relatives gathered in the Queen’s parlor. Aunt Ellian was talking to her grandchildren, Belegon and Silevril and Silevril’s husband Glindur, seated in the Queen’s chair of state, which was no doubt contrary to strict Gondorian protocol but here in the North age had its privileges. Gilvagor stood by the windows, shaking his head over something the twins, Ereinion and Ellenion, were telling him. And Arwen was listening attentively to advice and anecdotes on childrearing from Beruthiel, Region, Belegon’s wife Finduilas, Aranel and Angwen. Aragorn himself had been talking to Nienor, Halbarad’s daughter, giving her news of her brothers. Now he conducted her to a chair near Aunt Ellian, and sat down himself. The others caught the signal and gathered round, taking their places on the chairs and couches grouped before the empty hearth.

Aragorn turned first to Gilvagor. “How much did Beomann have to do with the Cardolanrim’s petition?”

His young cousin smiled wryly. “Quite a lot. He’s spent much of his time over the last year or so pointing out the advantages of a Kingdom to Men and Hobbits worried about the new settlers.”

“He’s right though,” Belegon put in mildly, “the new people from the South are more likely to respect the formal authority of a King then the wishes of hardscrabble villagers. And they can’t be expected to understand about clan territories and resting fields and the like.”

Aragorn nodded. “A thought that had occurred to me as well. We can and should welcome our Southern kin to settle here in the North, but on our terms.” he smiled at Belegon. “I’m sure I don’t need to tell you who I intend to name as King of Cardolan.”

“No indeed.” Belegon said resignedly. “I know the land and the people and I am of the Royal House. I am the obvious choice.”

“It’s just a name.” Gilvagor offered consolingly. “It will be no different from being Captain of the South.”

“It will be very different.” Aragorn corrected firmly. He expected trouble on this point. His people and his kin were reluctant to abandon their accustomed ways, nor did they see any good reason for doing so. That would have to change. “Why do you think I am rebuilding Cardol? I intend Belegon to live there, once it is fit for habitation, and to keep a King’s state.”

“Yes I see,” said Region, “if we are to convince the Southerners we are kingdom and not a rabble we must look like a kingdom.”

“Exactly.” Aragorn agreed with a smile for his foster sister. “Besides the Rhudaurim expect their City to be rebuilt and a King to be installed there as in the Old Days, it would be unjust not to do as much for the Cardolanrim.”

“And you will make your court at Fornost as of Old?” Gilvagor asked.

Now they came to it. “No.” Aragorn said quietly. “You will.”

“You intend to make Annuminas the High King’s seat again?” Aunt Ellian frowned. “I am not sure that is wise Aragorn. The arguments that led Amlaith to abandon Elendil’s City for all but ceremonial usage still hold good. It is too remote, you will be isolated from the rest of the Kingdom, especially the Marches.”

“I agree.” her nephew replied. “Annuminas will remain a City of ceremony and the meeting place of the Kings of the North. And it will be my residence when I am in Arnor, but I mean to make Gondor my chief seat.” There, it was out.

For a moment all simply stared at him, not believing their ears, then Nienor cried; “You can’t do that, Aragorn, Arnor has always been the High Kingdom!”

“We have not fought the Shadow this thousand years to end up subject to the South!” Gilvagor said fiercely, a dangerous light smoldering in his eye.

“I do not mean to make Arnor subject to Gondor,” Aragorn snapped back, stung, “or Gondor to Arnor for that matter. Each Kingdom will have its own council and its own law just as in Elendil’s day. Gilvagor, you will be King of Arthedain and my viceroy here in the North-”

“Do not think to bribe me with a throne!” Gilvagor blazed.

Aragorn’s own temper stirred. “I expect you to obey your Chief, Captain!”

“Boys!” Aunt Ellian said sharply.

Her two nephews glared at each other a moment more, then took careful breaths and with visible effort let go of their anger.

“It is not a bribe, Gilya, I need you to stand as my deputy, as you always have.” Aragorn said quietly.

“I am sorry, Father,” Gilvagor answered as softly, “I shouldn’t have said that, I know better.” his voice broke, sounding now grieved rather than angry; “But why?”

“Yes,” said Aunt Ellian, “why, Aragorn? you must have good reasons for this decision of yours, share them with us.”

“Gondor needs me more than the North.” he answered.

“That’s not true.” said Gilvagor. “The South has done very well without a King for a thousand years.”

“She has not.” Aragorn answered emphatically. “She has done very ill indeed. She is sick to the heart, devastated by her long wars, and surrounded by foes. I cannot abandon her.”

“But you can abandon us.” Gilvagor said bitterly.

“Not abandon.” Arwen said quickly, before Aragorn’s temper could surge again. “We mean to spend time here in the North. Not much at first perhaps, but more later once affairs in Gondor are settled. But for now her state is precarious and requires Aragorn’s chief attention. Sauron is fallen but Gondor still has powerful enemies in Rhun and Harad.”

“We are not exactly lacking in powerful enemies ourselves.” Gilvagor pointed out grimly. “Evil didn’t die with Sauron. There are other powers and freed from his domination they will grow stronger.”

“But we have powers of our own with which to meet them.” Aragorn answered. “And we need not now work in secret.”

“This is the Age of Men,” Arwen argued softly. “now we are the stronger. But in the South it is our fellow Men who threaten us, not fading powers from the Elder Days.”

“Fading perhaps, but not quite gone, not yet.” said Gilvagor. “It may be you are right, Aragorn, but I cannot say I like this decision of yours. And our people will like it even less.”

“I know it well.” Aragorn agreed wryly. “And I expect to hear about it in no uncertain terms.”

That got a general smile. The peoples of the North were nothing if not plainspoken, nor did they hesitate to speak their minds even to the highest.

“And what of my mother?” Aunt Ellian asked. “What does she think of this policy of yours, Aragorn?”

“She was not pleased.” he answered steadily. “But now that she has seen Gondor she understands the necessity.”

“Very well,” said Gilvagor, resigned but not reconciled, “if I am to be King of Arthedain then who will you give to the Rhudaurim for their King?”

“The next in blood, according to Rhudaurian law,” Aragorn smiled. “your sister’s son.”

“Daeron?” Aranel said, startled. “But he is just a child. Surely Ereinion or Ellenion would be the better choice.”

“No.” said Beruthiel’s elder son firmly. “The Princes of the Angle have always been subject to the Lords of the Marches, it would not do to overturn that.”

“The Lords of the Marches have been masters in their own house for years uncounted.” Aragorn agreed. “Borgil is sincere in his request for the restoration of their ancient Kingdom but it would come hard to him to obey rather than rule at his age. And that makes a child King ideal. By the time Daeron is of age Borgil will be old and ready to give over affairs to younger hands. And Borogund, his son, having had no expectation of rule will feel no deprivation.”

“That is well thought of.” Aunt Ellian nodded. “Borgil will no doubt appreciate the arrangement - all the more if he guesses the reason for it.”

“I hope so.” said Aragorn. And then went on to tell them the rest of his plans.

***

Beomann Butterbur knew the moment he opened the door that something was seriously wrong. Gilvagor swept past him into the apartment wearing the frozen expression that meant he was holding in one of those rare, but frightening flares of royal wrath. He seated himself at the desk, pulled parchment and inkwell to him, dipped his pen and began to write in swift, slashing strokes.

Beomann poured a cup of wine and put it on the desk near his hand. “You know, Gil,” he managed to say quite casually, “it would be a lot more comfortable if you’d just shout and throw things when you’re angry like regular folk.

Gilvagor’s eyes came up, and after a heart stopping moment the chill stare relaxed into a rueful smile. “No doubt. Unfortunately my upbringing won’t allow it.”

“What did the King do?” his squire asked, nerves unclenching. Fronting an angry Isildurion never gets easy, no matter how often one does it.

“I like the quickness of your conclusions.“ Gilvagor said almost lightly, picking up the cup. “Why should Aragorn be the cause of my bad temper?”

“Because you were fine when you left for the big family council.” Beomann replied. “Now you’re not. So what’s Strider done?”

His master hesitated a moment, then shrugged. “You’ll hear about it at the council tomorrow, there’s no reason not to tell you now. The King, in his wisdom, has decided to make his seat in the South.”

Beomann blinked, then frowned. “He can’t do that.”

“He can, and means to, and may even be right to do so.” Gilvagor answered with an edge to his voice, “but that doesn’t mean I have to like it!”

His squire shook his head. “He can’t do it.” he repeated. “It’s not right.”

Gilvagor sighed, anger beginning to ebb. “He has his reasons.”

“I don’t care. We‘ve got first claim on him, he‘ll have to change his mind.” Beomann’s own temper was rising even as his master‘s fell. “If you’ll excuse me, sir, I’d like to take the chance to tell him so.”

Gilvagor looked at him startled, then laughed. “A true battle of giants! But I fear Aragorn is even more stubborn than you, my squire. Nevertheless you may try if you like.”

***

Aragorn heard the knock at the bedchamber door and the brisk country voice asking to “See the King’s Grace if he‘s awake.” and put down the papers he’d been reading. “Beomann?” at his nod the esquire blocking the door stepped aside and the Breelander came in, the light of battle in his eye. *Gilya’s told him.*

“I’d like a word with you, sir, if you please.”

“Of course.” Aragorn rose from his chair to greet his guest.

Beomann glanced around. As the King had not yet submitted himself to the lengthy and elaborate ceremony of preparing for bed the chamber was rather full of esquires and gentlemen attendants waiting to do their duty.

“In private.” the Breelander said firmly, took his King by the arm and steered him into a window embrasure at the far end of the room.

Aragorn wished briefly but earnestly that he could see the looks on the faces of his Gondorian attendants then gave his entire attention to Beomann.

“You can’t do it, Strider.” the Breelander told him, and Aragorn noticed he’d learned the Ranger trick of pitching his voice to reach no farther than the ears it was meant for. “I don’t care what the situation is down South. Gil’s been doing your job on top of his own for nigh on five years now, it’s enough and too much. You’ve got a duty to us and it’s past time you got back to it!”

*I thought that was it.* It didn’t really matter to Beomann where Aragorn chose to keep his court, it was the burden he was putting upon his younger kinsman that the Breelander objected too, like the loyal squire he was.

“They tell me you’ve spent a lot of time in Cardolan,” he answered, “you must have heard enough from the new settlers to have a pretty good idea how bad things are in the South.”

Beomann bit his lip. “It’s not exactly feasting and dancing up here either.” he pointed out.

“I know that too. And I know that I have asked more of Gilvagor than I should,” Aragorn smiled bleakly, “and have done since he was younger than you. Circumstances gave me no choice.

“The Kingdoms in Exile are too far apart to be ruled directly by one Man, as Elendil learned long ago.” he continued quietly. “If I had a kinsman who knew and was known in Gondor I could make him my vice-regent in the South and take up my own seat in Fornost or Annuminas. But my kin know and are known only in the North and so I must entrust Arnor to them and wear the crown of Gondor myself.

“But I don’t mean to ride away tomorrow, Beomann. I will stay a year, or two, or as long as is necessary to put the realm in order and see my young kinsmen firm seated on their thrones. Will that content you?”

Beomann let out a breath. “I suppose it’ll have to.” He looked unhappy. “It sounds like plain common sense when you put it like that. But it doesn’t seem fair for the South to get you after throwing the Kings out in the first place.”

“That was long ago, and they have more than paid for it.” Aragorn answered.

The Breelander sighed again. “That‘s true too, from all I hear tell.”

Aragorn showed his visitor, still disatisfied but resigned, out himself. He closed the door gently behind Beomann, then turned to gauge the reaction of his Gondorim. The iron discipline of their strict etiquette held - but barely. It didn’t take any great perception to detect the shock, incredulity and indignation seething behind those proper masks.

The King carefully hid his own amusement. “I am ready to retire now.” he said as blandly as if nothing unusual had happened. Which indeed it had not, by the standards of the North.

“I don’t quite understand why Strider wants Ted and me at this council of his.” Barliman Butterbur said to his son over an early breakfast.

“To represent Bree.” Beomann explained patiently. “We’re part of the realm now, that means we get a say in its affairs.”

Barliman and Ted Tunnelly exchanged dubious looks. Bree didn’t want outsiders meddling in her affairs, so it stood to reason those outsiders wouldn’t appreciate Bree meddling in theirs.

The council was held in a large circular room on the second floor of Elendil’s tower. A huge, round table carved of deep blue stone and inlaid with a mosaic map of the Northlands stood at its center with dozens of chairs ranged around it.

There were a good number of Rangers present, Barliman recognized Gil and Aranel, Belegon and their Aunt Lady Ellian, as well as Beomann‘s friend Dan. And the Easterner Borgil was there too with some of his folk, including young Connegund. And Men of the simple country kind as well like that Osbert Attmeade from the Angle, and Will Greenroot from South of the Road. And a mort of Hobbits: the Thain and young Mr. Pippin, Master Saradoc and Mr. Merry, and Samwise Gamgee, as well as strangers from the River Villages and the south country. And some Dwarves and Elves including the King of the Lake. And some of the Southland folk the King had brought with him.

They all milled around for a bit; the Rangers looking grim as usual, the Easterners pleased and excited, and the other country folk as nervous as Barliman felt. The Dwarves stood in separate clumps, not talking to anybody. But the Elves chatted easily among themselves and with the Rangers like it was a party. And the Southlanders stared at everybody as if they’d never seen their like before.

Finally, right as a bell somewhere tolled three times, Strider came in with the Queen and people began finding seats at the table. “Here, Dad,” Beomann materialized at his shoulder, “you and Ted sit here.”

Barliman found himself placed next to a strange Ranger, a few seats down from Gil, with Lady Aranel on Ted’s other side and the Easterner Borgil beyond her. Then more Rangers and Osbert Attmeade, still more Rangers, Belegon, Will Greenroot and a Hobbit dressed in the same rough clothes, yet more Rangers, then a Man and Hobbit from the River Villages by the looks of them. The Shire Hobbits sat nearest the King and the Elves and the Dwarves were all on the other side of the table, to the left of the Queen.

A lot of people were left standing; the Southlanders behind the King, Beomann and Dan behind Gil, Connegund and the other Easterners behind Borgil, and even more Rangers behind the seated ones.

When everybody was settled in their place Strider began to talk: “In Days of Old the Kings were advised by a Great Council made up of all the peoples under his rule so, following their example, I have summoned you all to advise me on how best to rebuild the North.”

Barliman just hoped the King wasn’t counting to hard on Bree for advice. Building kingdoms was a bit out of his league - and old Ted’s too.

“Long years ago King Arveleg swore to restore the Kingdom of Rhudaur. Now, at last, that promise can be kept. Borgil son of Borondir, I am minded to name my nephew Turamarth son of Ingloron, Heir of Urin and Prince of Endorien King of Rhudaur. If he is acceptable to your people.”

Borgil blinked, plainly startled. “Young Daeron?” then recovered himself. “Your choice is acceptable to us, Dunadan, he is of the Line of Isildur on his mother’s side. But he is too young to reign.”

“That is so.” Strider agreed. “You, my Lord of the Marches, must serve as his regent and protector of the realm until King Turamarth is of age, which will be no easy task. I give the land and people of Angmar to Rhudaur as a free province under the High King‘s law.” there was a stirring around the table and Borgil frowned.

“That will come hard, Dunadan. I’d rather serve them as they served our folk back in Argeleb’s time.”

Strider smiled at him. “You are a far better Man than that, Borgil. There was a time when all Men served the Shadow. My fathers and yours came back to their right allegiance. The Hill Men will do so too - in time.”

Borgil smiled wryly. “Now I see why you give us Urin’s heir for our King.” then he sobered. “They will betray your trust, Dunadan.”

“No doubt some will.” the King agreed calmly. “But others will not. It is a risk we must take.” he turned his head slightly. “Captain Ingold.” one of the Southern officers, encased in steel under a silver edged black cloak, stepped forward. “Lord Borgil, I am placing the Captain and his company under your command. I trust you have no objections?”

The Easterner looked amused. “With the Northern tribes and the Orcs of Mount Gram and Gundobar on my hands I am ready to welcome any help that is offered.”

“You’ll have ours as well, Borgil.” the black haired Dwarf Lord Curumaith told him and smiled grimly. “We’ll not leave Durin’s birthplace in the hands of Orcs.”

“Or leave it to Men to retake it.” said the redheaded Dwarf next to him.

“Thank you, Lord Phazgan,” said the King, “but we will need your help in clearing Moria, I would ask you to leave Gundobar to the Broadbelts.”

The Dwarf thought about it for a moment then nodded. “Very well. We might as well finish what we started.”

“Will Greenroot and Swithun Delver.” Man and Hobbit started a little as the King turned to them. “I would give the scepter of Cardolan to my kinsman Belegon son of Belecthor of the House of the Great Bow, Prince of Carnarthon, if that is acceptable to you.”

It took Mr. Greenroot a moment to unravel this. “You mean Longbow?” the King nodded, eyes glinting amusement and the Man gave a sigh of relief. “Well why didn’t you say so? Yes, he’ll suit us fine.”

“Belegon,” the King continued, “I am giving the Enedwaith to Cardolan.” Longbow didn’t seem at all pleased at having his territory doubled. “We cannot have the Gwathuirim raiding the South Road and interfering with the rebuilding of Cardol and Tharbad. They have been in a chastened mood since the disastrous end of their alliance with Saruman there will never be a better time to conciliate them.”

“Or to try to.” said Belegon dryly. “Even Elendil failed with the Gwathuirim, but I will try”

Strider called another one of those outlandish King-folk names. “Captain Belegorn.” and a second Southland soldier stepped forward. “Belegon, I am sure you will find good use for the Captain and his company.”

“Indeed I will.” Longbow agreed and smiled at the Man, who blinked almost as if dazzled..

Amazing the change a smile made, Butterbur reflected, Rangers looked like entirely different Men when they did it. Pity they didn’t do it more often.

“The land of Hollin was Elven land of old and its lordship devolves by right upon Elladan and Elrohir, sons of Elrond Half-Elven.” the King continued. “Elladan will be warden of the land north of Hollin Ridge subject to the scepter of Rhudaur. And Elrohir lord of Hollin south of the ridge under the scepter of Cardolan.”

“The Gwathuirim *and* Moria!” Belegon exclaimed. “Thank you very much, Aragorn.”

“You will have my help with Moria.” said Elrohir.

“And ours as well.” put in Phazgan.

“And King Eomer’s aid with the Gwathuirim.” said Strider, then continued; “I would like to see Hollin re-peopled. Osbert,” the Man from the Angle looked up. “your folk are in the best position to do so, North Hollin is just across the Loudwater.”

Attmead looked interested. “Is it good farmland?”

“I have no idea.” Strider admitted and looked at the Queen’s two brothers who shrugged helplessly.

“The land near the river is fertile enough.” said an Elf farther down the table. “but it grows less so as you get closer to the mountains. Pasture rather than farmland I would say.”

Osbert raised his eyebrows. “Now how would you be knowing that, Gilfanon?”

“I spent time in Hollin when I was young and my kin dwelt there.” the Elf replied. “And I remember there were gardens along the river and hunting parks in the highlands.”

Osbert grinned. “Handy having friends thousand of years old isn’t it?”

“Sometimes.” said the King, several of the other Rangers including Gil, and the Dwarf Curumaith in rough chorus. And a grin flashed its way round the table briefly lighting up the usually grim Ranger faces.

“I have brought with me stone masons, carpenters and other craftsmen from Gondor to begin the work of rebuilding the ancient cities of Fornost and Cardol,” Strider continued, “and to raise a tower and fortress of guard upon Amon Sul as in the Old Days. Lord Curumaith and Lord Phazgan have promised to send us wrights to help with the work, as have the Elves of Amon Geleidh and Imladris.”

“Don’t worry,” Curumaith assured his fellow Dwarf in an all to audible whisper, “Deep Elves aren’t like Wood Elves, you’ll get along fine.”

Another grin, in fact a near chuckle, circled the table.

“I trust so,” said the King straight faced. “But if not we Men are accustomed to keeping the peace between our Elder Kin. Barliman Butterbur,” the innkeeper jumped, “I hear from Gilvagor that you have undertaken to keep the builders supplied with food and other necessities. Thank you.”

“Er, you’re welcome.” he managed to stammer. “It‘s no trouble, all in the way of business - and Bree can always use a bit more custom.”

Strider nodded politely then, to Barliman’s relief, turned his eyes to a silver haired Ranger sitting just beyond the Shire Hobbits. “The Lindons are now part of Arthedain, Grandfather, those parts of South Lindon inhabited by Men will be appended to the Principality of Dor-en-Dunhirion.”

The old Ranger - Strider’s grandfather? how old did that make him? - nodded acceptance. And the King continued. “North Lindon will be a new lordship under the wardenship of Ciryandil son of Aerindur.” and the Ranger next to Barliman bowed his head.

The King paused to take breath and Beomann, standing behind his father, muttered “Here it comes.” Here what came?

“Gilvagor,” Strider said, “you are still next in blood after my daughter and my chief lieutenant and deputy. To you I give the scepter of Arthedain and the viceregency of the Northlands.” the Ranger next to Barliman stiffened and down the table Borgil frowned darkly at the King. “Annuminas will be the High King’s seat here in the North but Gondor must be, for now, my first home.”

“What!” Borgil surged to his feet red with outrage. “Arnor is the High Kingdom and always has been!” Osbert Attmead looked pretty upset too, but the Rangers didn’t move a muscle or say a word.

“I have a responsibility to my people in the South no less than to you in the North.” The King replied, a steely edge to his voice. “Sauron is fallen but Gondor is still threatened by the kingdoms of Harad and Rhun. I accepted the crown of Gondor would you have me break faith with her?“

Borgil wavered a little under that grimly piercing gaze, but not much. “Elendil appointed deputies to rule in Gondor.”

“So would I had I any kinsman who knew and was known in the South as were Isildur and Anarion.” Strider answered. “But my kin are known only in the North therefore I must trust the North to them and take up the rule of Gondor myself.” he softened his tone. “I do not mean to make the Kingdoms of Arnor subject to Gondor, nor Gondor to the North either. Both realms will be governed by their own laws and their own councils as in the Days of Old and I will be High King equally over both. When Gondor is secure the Queen and I will be able to spend more time here at Annuminas but for now the Southland needs my presence.”

“Borgil,” the Man, stymied but not mollified, looked at Gil who continued gently: “I don’t like it any better than you do, but Aragorn is right. This is how it must be, at least for now.”

Borgil sat down, face still thunderous, and the Easterners behind him looked no happier. The Rangers on the other hand looked exactly as they always did - so why did Barliman feel twitchy, like there was a storm coming?

***

Hirgon found himself appointed to the service of the new King of Arthedain which promised to be uncomfortable duty as he was in no doubt at all about the mood of his Northern Kinsmen. Hirgon was Dunedain himself with the usual high temper - and the usual strict training in controlling it - so it wasn’t at all hard for him to gauge the degree of anger the Northerners were keeping tightly leashed. However the laws of hospitality held and the Arnorim were as formally and distantly polite as ever to their Southern kin. The Gondorim’s discomfort was chiefly due to guilt. The enormity of King Elessar abandoning his own loyal Northerners for the Kingdom that had denied him and his for so many long centuries had never occurred to any of them - until now.

In fact, Hirgon thought bitterly, not one of them had spared any thought at all for the North or the Dunedain who lived there - as usual. They had simply assumed Elessar would make Gondor his home and chief concern. By now he had heard and seen enough to realize the Northern Dunedain’s troubles were at least as bad as their own. Did Gondor really have a greater need for the King than the Lost Realm?

Elessar apparently thought that they did. The Arnorim respectfully disagreed - and made their feelings known in no uncertain terms. The Southerners were shocked, even offended, by the freedom and familiarity with which the Northerners treated the King but a little envious too, for all that they had firmly repulsed Elessar’s attempts to establish a similar relationship with them.

Perhaps, Hirgon thought bleakly, they dared not let the King come down off his pedestal. For if they ever allowed themselves see him as a Man rather than a legend come to life, they would have to face their own guilt for the hard and bitter years he’d passed in hiding, hunted by the Dark Lord, with the burden of Kingship but none of the power.

Gondor wasn’t ready for that. Even when she’d acclaimed Elessar King she had admitted to no fault. She wanted to pretend the thousand year denial of the throne to the true King had never happened, and Elessar was magnanimous enough to let her. But Hirgon knew such self deception couldn‘t last. Gondor had always prided herself upon her honor. Sooner or later her own conscience would force her to face the past - and pay for it.

****

Aragorn stationed himself in the King’s Square before the Palace, as the custom was, to hear the petitions and protests of his people - and there were plenty of the latter! He sent a group of complainants away, unconvinced but thoughtful, and turned to find Gilvagor at his shoulder.

“Feeling a bit beleaguered?” his foster son asked, a glint of slightly malicious amusement in his eye.

“Not at all.” Aragorn answered dryly. “It makes a refreshing change. When my Southern subjects are offended with me I have to guess why, they’d never dream of telling me.”

Gilvagor arched a brow. “That must be uncomfortable.”

“Very.” Aragorn agreed grimly. “Not to mention maddening at times.” he shrugged wearily. “Either the Anarioni enjoyed playing guessing games - or they didn’t care what their people thought.”

“Of course we have rather let standards slide these last centuries.” Gilvagor pointed out mildly. “Perhaps our people have not always been so forward.”

“Oh yes they have, or so my wife says. The Men of the North always spoke their minds to their lords, back to Elendil himself.”

Gilvagor laughed. “Perhaps it is the Runedain influence.”

“Perhaps,” Aragorn agreed. “If so I hope they influence my Gondorim as well.”

The hall of the Breelanders’ house was full of people; tall King‘s Folk in their rich velvets and silks -Strider and Gil and assorted attendants -then the eight envoys from Bree and finally their wives and families all crowded in the corners and lining the stair and gallery. Three copies of the new charter lay on the long center table, one in High Elvish; one in regular Elvish and the last in good old Westron, all beautifully written and illuminated.

Barliman Butterbur stood frowning down at the last, giving it one final read over. “Which of these new kingdoms did you say we were in again?”

“Mine, Arthedain.” Gil answered, then laughed at the look on his face. “I promise, you will scarce notice the difference.”

“I am hoping that he will.” Strider said quietly.

“Me too.” said Beomann with emphasis.

Gil grinned at Barliman and shrugged. “See how I am overmatched! Very well, I promise whatever difference you see will be for the better.”

Beomann nodded approval. “Bree will still run her own affairs, Dad, that’s what the charter is for.”

Changes, Barliman thought gloomily, nothing but changes. Still, as long as Bree herself was let alone...

Strider took the golden pen one of his knights handed him and put his names in Elvish letters on the first charter. “This is for the archive here in Annuminas.” he explained, then moved on to the second to sign another set of names Barliman couldn’t read. “This one is for Gil to keep at Fornost.” finally he came to the last document and wrote ‘Elfstone the King’ in plain letters. “And this copy is for Bree.”

Strider handed the pen to Gil who surprised Barliman by writing ‘Gil the Rover’ under the King’s signature before moving back to put Elvish names to the other two. Then it was Barliman’s turn.

Holding the pen he looked uncertainly at the unintelligible first charter. “Just sign your name as you usually would.” Gil said. So he put his plain ‘B. Butterbur’ on all three parchments. Then it was Ted’s turn, and after him the other envoys.

There were a few more words and courtesies before Strider and Gil took themselves off along with all their folk and the Elvish charters, leaving the Breelanders clustered around their own copy. “The Tree and Star is the seal of the High Kingdom.” Beoman told his father, pointing to a blob of black wax at the bottom of the parchment. “and here next to it is the Star of the North Kingdom. This cipher here is the King‘s personal seal, and the star and sword is Gil‘s.” The King’s was in green wax and Gil’s in blue and at the very end was another green seal. “And this,” Beomann said, touching it with a proud finger, “Is Bree’s seal; the Hill and Sun.”

“I didn’t know we had a seal.” Barliman said in surprise.

Beomann grinned at him. “Me neither. But we do - and there it is.”

His father looked at the Hill and Sun stamped there next to the signs of Kings and Kingdoms. “Seems Bree was a pretty important place in the Old Days.” he said slowly.

“Very important.” Beomann answered firmly. “And she will be again.”

But Barliman’s thoughts were running in another direction. ’ There’s always been a Bree - Kingdoms or no Kingdoms. Maybe Gil’s right, maybe it won’t make such a difference to us after all - except for a bit more custom from respectable people on the Road which is all to the good.’

Father and son gave way to other Breelanders wanting a close look at the new charter and moved together towards the open front door. “So what happens now?” Barliman asked.

“Well we still have to hold the enscepterings for the under-kings; Gil, Belegon and little Daeron.” his son answered. “After that everybody goes home and gets to work. I’ll escort you lot back to Bree, then Gil and I will travel up to Norbury to start the rebuilding and Belegon will do the same down at Sudbury. The King’s going to be moving around, seeing to things, probably pass through Bree any number of times. And they’ll be plenty of traffic between the Angle and the Shire and the new cities. Lots of custom for the Pony, and the Forsaken too.”

“That’ll be fine.” Barliman said, and meant it. He was beginning to get his head around this new order of things and had just about decided it wouldn’t be so bad after all.

Beomann grinned. “And don’t be surprised if Conn pops up one day soon. He’s sweet on May - Hill and Wood alone know why!”

Barliman looked at his eldest in dismay. Now there was an awful thought. What if his May should take it into her head to marry young Conn? Not that he didn’t seem a nice enough lad but he’d take her off to some outlandish place leagues and leagues away and they’d never see her again!

Then a second thought, almost as unwelcome, struck him; what if Beomann brought one of those solemn, silent Ranger girls with him when he came home for good? Not that the Rangers hadn’t turned out to be decent enough folk in their way but Barliman didn’t fancy one for a daughter-in-law - and he knew Ishbel wouldn‘t!

“Changes.” he said aloud. “Naught but changes.”

“I know.” Beomann answered sympathetically. “But don’t worry, Dad, Bree‘ll stay Bree. Maybe a little richer and little less lonely but that‘s all.” he looked out, over the roofs of the houses, at the golden domes of the Palace glowing against the blue sky and squared his shoulders with an almost Ranger-like look of grim determination on his face.

“Still a lot to be done before the North is back as it should be. But we’ve made a good start.” then he flashed a smile at his father. “And it‘ll be a fine thing to have a King and Kingdom again, Dad. You‘ll see.”