A small boy raced over the marble paved floor of a stately pillared hall towards a Man clad in grey and silver silhouetted against the bright sky of an open porch. The Man turned to meet the running child and Arwen saw that it was Aragorn. He caught the boy in his arms and swung him high, both laughing. Then the little one looked over his father’s head and his eyes met Arwen’s, wide and pale grey with excitement in a soft, still unformed face that would, one day, be the image of Aragorn‘s.

He smiled at her, her little Eldarion, and she smiled back. She was still smiling when she wakened from the dream to find herself lying in Aragorn‘s arms in a strange bed canopied and curtained with hangings of white damask and yellow silk all fringed with gold.

He woke at the same moment and sat up, frowning at the unfamiliar room’s splendid furnishings of ivory and gilt and pale wood gleaming in the dusky light filtering through the heavy curtains over the windows. “Where are we?”

“The Citadel,” Arwen replied, stretching, “the Lady Idril’s apartments.”

“Idril?” Aragorn reached for his boots. “Who is she?”

“I have no idea. She called herself Lady of Gondor and she’s Anarieni, that’s all I know.”

Her husband shook his head in confusion. “It’s hard to believe Denethor would marry again after losing Finduilas. He loved her dearly, and she had given him two sons to carry one the line.” (1)

“Idril would be much younger than he.” Arwen said doubtfully.

Aragorn smiled at her over his shoulder. “I am nigh on three thousand years younger than you, dear heart.”

She threw a pillow at him. “Idril need not be his wife, perhaps she is a kinswoman.”

Aragorn shook his head again, lacing his leather jerkin. “Not if she’s Anarieni.”

Arwen slid off the bed and pulled open the curtains covering the nearest window. It seemed to be a little after midday and the white stone of the City reflected the bright sunlight, filling the room with a cool radiance. As Aragorn finished dressing she idly inspected the objects on a low dressing table near the window. Picking up a heavy gold backed mirror, chased with the sun of Anarion , she turned it over and almost failed to recognize her own reflection.

She stared in near horror at a face somehow thinner then the one that had looked back at her just a few days ago in the tent at Dunharrow. Pale and hollow cheeked and very dirty, with smudges of dark soil, grey stone dust, and brownish stains that could only be dried blood. And her hair! It was as if each individual lock was trying to work itself free of her braid. Some had succeeded and hung lank around her face while the rest to fell in a tangle down her back.

“I look terrible!” she blurted almost incredulously.

Aragorn laughed, and his face appeared next to hers in the mirror. Eyes blue and dancing with amusement, his hands warm upon her shoulders. “You look like a Ranger.” he corrected.

“Dirty and weary.” she agreed wryly. “Well, I don’t suppose Luthien was at her best either after escaping the deeps of Thangorodrim. But at least I can wash my face,” she glanced back at her husband, “and yours too!”

Faces and hands were clean when they emerged at last from the bedroom, but she’d quickly given up trying to comb her hair, sticky as it was with smoke and salt air. It would have to be thoroughly washed - and she shuddered to think of working out the matted tangles. Aragorn’s travel worn leathers and her riding dress were quite beyond help - it would be the fire for both as soon as she found them something else to wear.

The outer chamber was full of Rangers, some sleeping on floor or daybeds, others simply waiting with characteristic patience for further orders. Bread and cheese and cold meats and fruit had been laid out on a table. Arwen loaded a plate and put it firmly into her husband’s hands before taking a small roast fowl for herself and biting into it with a will, she’d seldom been so hungry.

Gimli, Legolas and her brothers were nowhere to be seen but she saw the Anarioni from the Houses of Healing sitting slightly withdrawn in a window seat, dressed now in unadorned black and grey rather than Numenorean armor. He came to his feet as Aragorn‘s eye fell questioningly upon him and bowed.

“My Lord, I am Beregond son of Baranor -” he began.

“Baranor.” Aragorn nodded. “Of course, of the Ancalimonioni. What can I do for you, kinsman?”

The Man seemed, for some reason, slightly taken aback at being so addressed but quickly recovered himself. He took a well wrapped bundle from the corner of his window seat. “I have here the Anor stone, one of the seven palantirs of Elendil. By right it is the property of the King and so I have brought it to you.”

Aragorn looked at the bundle in Beregond’s hands for a long moment, then nodded slowly. “I may have a use for this stone. Keep it for me a little longer, kinsman.” he turned to Arwen. “Let us see what’s been happening in the City.”

Three Rangers, Menelgil, Elledhir and his grandson Adanedhel, followed them through a presence chamber hung with white and gold and scarlet, and a gallery overlooking a terrace facing east then down a flight of stairs and through a lower hall to the outside doors. Aragorn clearly remembered the Citadel well from his days as Thorongil, he led his wife and the Rangers confidently through a confusing labyrinth of narrow stone walled passages and tiny cobbled courts to a sunken door leading to a long corridor beneath the great hall. He opened the door to a small, workroom and frowned in surprise at finding it empty .

After a moments thought he continued through another door and up some steps to a long yard hemmed in by high buildings and piled with baskets and crates and thence through an archway into the Court of the Tree, with its fountain and the silent, black liveried guards standing watch over Nimloth’s dead husk.

Legolas and Gimli were there, in front of the doors to the Hall, along with Prince Imrahil and Arwen’s brothers. “Good morning,” Aragorn greeted them. “I was looking for Hurin -?”

“He has gone out to greet the new levies from Lebennin and the western provinces.” Imrahil answered.

“They are come then? Good.” said Aragorn, pleased.

“Gimli and I were just going to look for you,” Legolas told him. “Gandalf is within, he wants to speak to you before you meet with the Captains.”
****

Arwen had paid very little attention to the appointments of the Great Hall the night before, her attention being on other things. Now she did look and decided that the white and black stonework, though severe, had majesty and a certain beauty. But the out scale statues of ancient kings lining the hall did not please her, being far too stiff and monumental to suit Elvish taste.

Theoden and Halbarad’s bodies had been carried away somewhere but young King Eomer, Halladan and Barahir stood with Gandalf at the foot of the steep flight of black marble steps leading up to the snowy white throne.

“Any news of Frodo?” Aragorn asked the wizard.

He shook his head. “No, nothing.”

Aragorn turned away to hide his emotion. Arwen sat down on the steps to the throne and hugged her knees unhappily, remembering Bilbo’s gentle, rather frail nephew and trying not to imagine all the terrible things that could be happening to him.

Gimli sat himself down heavily in the Stewards’ black chair and filled his pipe. “You’ve seen nothing at all?”

“Frodo has passed beyond my sight,” Gandalf answered bleakly. “The darkness is deepening.”

“If Sauron had the Ring we would know it.” Aragorn said to the monumental statue towering over him.

But the wizard would not be cheered, he shook his head. “It's only a matter of time. He has suffered a defeat, yes, but behind the walls of Mordor our enemy is regrouping.”

Gimli, puffing at his pipe, said “Let him stay there. Let him rot! Why should we care?”

Because ten thousand Orcs now stand between Frodo and Mount Doom.” Gandalf snapped back. Then added with grief and guilt: “ I've sent him to his death.”

Aragorn turned to face the wizard, shining brightly as the luminously white walls of the Hall, radiating the power of his blood and his conviction. “No. There's still hope for Frodo. He needs time, and safe passage across the Plains of Gorgoroth. We can give him that.”

“How?” Gimli wanted to know.

“Draw out Sauron's armies.” Aragorn answered. “Empty his lands. Then we gather our full strength and march on the Black Gate.”

The Dwarf choked on his smoke. Everybody else, including Gandalf, looked at Aragorn as though he’d lost his mind

“We cannot achieve victory through strength of arms.” Eomer pointed out.

“Not for ourselves,” Aragorn agreed. “but we can give Frodo his chance if we keep Sauron's Eye fixed upon us.” directly to Gandalf. “Keep him blind to all else that moves.”

“A diversion.” said Legolas.

Gandalf was unconvined. “Sauron will suspect a trap. He will not take the bait.”

“Oh yes he will.” said Arwen, suddenly understanding what Aragorn intended to do with the Anor stone. “He will not refuse a challenge from Isildur’s Heir.”

Her husband met her eye and smiled. “Sauron will not have forgotten the sword of Elendil.” he agreed. “He will not be able to resist a chance to take it - and me.“

She shivered at the thought, but managed to smile back.

“Our father gave us this very counsel before we rode from Rivendell.” said Elrohir. “We must go on as we have begun. To waver is to fall.”

“I have little knowledge of these deep matters.“ Eomer said simply. “But as my friend Aragorn succored me and my people, so I will aid him when he calls. Rohan will go.”

Imrahil smiled. “The Lord Aragorn is my liege-lord, whether he claim it no, his wish is to me a command. I will go with him even to the Black Gates.”

Halladan and Barahir said nothing. Where their chieftain led the Rangers followed, there was no need to belabor the point with many words.

And Arwen restrained herself, knowing very well that her company on such a desperate foray would be a grief and care to Aragorn rather than a comfort. But even so she could never have let him go without her had she not been sure in her heart that he would return.

Gimli snorted gently. “Certainty of death. Small chance of success.” he shrugged. “What are we waiting for?”

Arwen laughed. “I like your spirit, Master Dwarf.”
****

Aragorn stopped in the doorway of the council chamber with his companions behind him and studied the faces of the Captains standing around the long table, his own masked by that grim and forbidding Ranger look. The Men stared back, dazzled and overawed by the fierce white flame of his spirit shining though the flesh and shabby leathers. Arwen was a little awed herself. Unkempt and roughly dressed as he was, Aragorn was at that moment every inch the King.

She saw Hurin, Angbor of Lindhir and Ciryandil of Pelagir at the table as well as three Men she did not know, two bearing wounds from yesterday’s battle. Quietly Gandalf, Eomer and Imrahil went to take their places behind the last few empty chairs, leaving the great seat at the table’s head for Aragorn.

He hesitated. To take it would be to proclaim his leadership and perhaps precipitate the strife he so feared and had accepted exile to avoid. Arwen, looking at the awestruck faces of the Men at the table, wondered if perhaps he overestimated the danger.

Finally he moved. Flanked by Halladan and Barahir he walked to the great chair and standing in front of it, with his brothers at his back, said to the Captains: “Some of you will remember me as Thorongil. My true name is Aragorn son of Arathorn, Isildur’s Heir and Chieftain of the Dunedain of the North.” his eyes swept the table, bright as molten silver. “I have come in this dark hour not to press old claims but to join Gondor in her war against the common foe. Sauron and Sauron alone is the enemy.” He surveyed again the faces of the Men before him and seemed satisfied he’d made his point. To Arwen’s admittedly unpracticed eye the Captains looked more bewildered than anything else. Aragorn sat down and the other Men followed suit.

There was no place for her at the table. She looked around, saw Pippin swinging his feet in a window seat and took another near him. Her brothers followed and stood on either side of her, with Gimli and Legolas just beyond. The three remaining Rangers stayed silent, and motionless by the door.

Aragorn looked at Gandalf. “My Lords,” the wizard began, “The late Steward spoke truly when he said: ‘against the power that has now arisen there is no victory’ for he had looked into the stone of Anor and not even Sauron can make the seeing stones lie. Yet I do not bid you to despair as he did. Victory cannot be gained by force of arms - this we all know. But there is still hope of victory. What you have heard is true, the One Ring has been found but it is not yet in Sauron’s hands, nor is it in ours. In wisdom or great folly it has been sent away, even into Mordor itself, to be destroyed lest it destroy us. We must at all costs keep the Eye from his true peril. We cannot achieve victory by arms but by arms we can give the Ringbearer his chance.

“Sauron now knows for certain that which he has long feared.” Aragorn continued. “An Heir of Isildur, who defeated him of Old, still lives and the sword that was broken has been reforged. I mean to challenge him, face to face, and to march with whatever following I can gather on the Black Gates.” He smiled grimly. “I am a bait he cannot resist.”

“Sauron fears the King of Men.” Gandalf agreed. “He will send out all his power to defeat and take Isildur’s Heir. And we must walk open eyed into the trap, with courage but small hope for ourselves. Even if the Ringbearer succeeds and Barad-dur is thrown down we still may all perish in black battle far from the living lands.”

“This I deem to be my duty as Elendil‘s Heir.” said Aragorn quietly. “And according to my oath to the Ringbearer - to protect him with my life or my death. But I do not claim to command any Man. Let you choose as you will.”

“I’ll go with you, Strider.” Pippin piped from his window. He was very pale but his eyes and voice were quite steady as he continued: “Sauron thinks I have the Ring. If he sees you have me along he won’t bother to look for it anywhere else.”

Arwen saw Gandalf make a movement of protest, silenced by a sharp gesture from Aragorn. “Good thinking, Peregrin.” her husband said warmly to the Hobbit. ”The sight of the supposed Ringbearer in the livery of Gondor will indeed give Sauron pause.”

Pippin managed a feeble smile in reply then huddled back in his window seat, overwhelmed by the enormity of what he’d just done but not regretting it for a moment.

“The King has spoken.” said Hurin flatly. “Gondor follows, what more is there to say?”

Aragorn shook his head. “No Hurin. I have told you that I demand no allegiance.”

“And yet you have it unasked.” said one of the stranger lords, a tall Dunedain his dark beard shot with silver.

“My lord, my Men did not march for Minas Tirith at the behest of a Captain of Rangers.” said Angbor.

“Nor did mine.” Ciryandil agreed. “We have come to follow and serve the Returned King.

“My very dear and stubborn Lord,” Hurin said with great affection and some exasperation, “what will it take to convince you that the only Man in Gondor like to oppose the return of the King lies dead by his own hand?”

Aragorn rubbed his eyes and Arwen looked at him in sudden concern. The few hours sleep he’d had could only have taken the edge off his weariness. She must try to get him to rest some more once the council was ended.

“We cannot afford division in our ranks, not now.” he said.

“My Lord,” said the bearded Dunedain, “giving us a King to rally around will not make for divisions - far from it!”

“Very well then,” said Aragorn quietly, “I would have chosen to leave this matter to the days of peace, should they come, but if you will have it so then I will declare myself now. In the high tongue of old I am Elessar, the Elfstone, and Envinyatar, the Renewer. Elendil‘s heir of Arnor and Gondor, and by right of blood your King.”

Arwen suppressed an urge to cheer. Her brothers too managed to restrain themselves, though the look they exchanged spoke volumes.

Pippin was less reticent. “How splendid. Congratulations Strider!”

Imrahil laughed. “It is we who are to be congratulated, Master Peregrin. But is ‘Strider’ a fit name for a King?”

“It will be the name of my house, if I live to found one.” said Aragorn with a smile for the Hobbit. “And it will sound fairer in Quenya; ’Telcontar’ I will be, and all the heirs of my body.

‘Hail Elessar Telcontar, King of Gondor!” said Hurin. “And now, what are the King’s commands?”
*****

1. Remarriage is, IMO, both rare and not quite respectable among the Dunedain. One of the few acceptable reasons is to get heirs if the widowed partner is left childless.